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Kevin Kelly is a writer and senior brain at Wired magazine. I first came across him by reading his essay "Scan this book!" in one of Jeff Shafer's issues of New York Times Magazine that was sitting on the dining room table in 329 last spring. I was inspired to go back and look up this article after realizing that it had significantly implanted itself in a central part of my brain--I think I've referred to it in about 25 conversations since the time I read it.
In "Scan this book!", Kelly explores the meaning and ramifications of Google's ongoing project to digitize all books. Here is my html version of the article, which is really a travesty considering the (characteristically) beautiful layout and accompanying photography from the magazine version. It's probably worth searching out a physical copy at your local library. (It will be found in the May 2006 issue).
He's got other technology-related essays on his personal website and some shorter stuff on his blog.
Here is one such short piece that I will recommend: "The Rise and Fall of the Copy"
As they have done for me, his writings may very well force you to edge topics you may have formerly relegated to the category "irrelevant sci-fi inquiries" into your everyday perspective on the world.
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Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. says:
"Whom you would change you must first love, and they must know that you love them."
"Whom you would change you must first love, and they must know that you love them."
A feeling of existential dread
The most recent chapter in my ongoing Philip Glass infatuation, I just picked up the Fog of War soundtrack from the library. Nothing ground-breaking, just more of the same old quality Glass.
I thought I'd pass on the following note from Errol Morris, the film-maker, that is found in the liner notes:
"How do you write music for a story that encompasses the 20th Century...? A story that also combines elements of caprice and destiny. And at its center a story that asks whether war is inevitable, unavoidable, part of human nature. This is my third collaboration with Philip Glass, and I cannot think of who else could have written the music. I once told Philip that he creates a feeling of existential dread better than anyone else I knew of. And this is a movie filled with existential dread. I like to think of it as music for the apocalypse, where the apocalypse is not so much the end of the world but just more of what we've seen before, more of the same."
I am reminded of how good of a movie that was. A fantastic example of the impression that a truly artful documentary can make.
I thought I'd pass on the following note from Errol Morris, the film-maker, that is found in the liner notes:
"How do you write music for a story that encompasses the 20th Century...? A story that also combines elements of caprice and destiny. And at its center a story that asks whether war is inevitable, unavoidable, part of human nature. This is my third collaboration with Philip Glass, and I cannot think of who else could have written the music. I once told Philip that he creates a feeling of existential dread better than anyone else I knew of. And this is a movie filled with existential dread. I like to think of it as music for the apocalypse, where the apocalypse is not so much the end of the world but just more of what we've seen before, more of the same."
I am reminded of how good of a movie that was. A fantastic example of the impression that a truly artful documentary can make.
Conversion
Conversion means death. A person or thing loses all meaning and life in one frame of reference to be born new in an alternate universe. The former world still exists in all of its reality, but a passer-by in that world finds only a bluish corpse remaining where there was once a life.
Whereas the Word, Logos, might refer to either the spoken or the written word, in my little theological box it has only been known to refer to the written word, that is the word that has been canonized, frozen in time, the word subject to detached discussions about context and intent.
An oral tradition seems rather attractive right now; will that is still breathed into a word-y, practically useful existence but not yet butchered on the pages of a book; will converted into a more fluid, lively word.
Jean Vanier wrote from personal experience about the natural process of institutionalization that occurs in every wave of communal energy and excitement. Meaningful movements always come about in resistance to a current, dead order but they always end up institutionalizing: Expressionism. Punk. The Jesus People. Every counterculture. Every business that comes into success by effectively serving a group of people only to end up serving nothing but the bottom line.
The predictability of the emotional highs of Pentecostal worship sets off my internal inathenticty alarm. I can understand how many people are bothered by the fixed-ness and non-emotionally-dependency of more traditional liturgical forms, but institutionalizing communal energy and always-escalating cathartic releases seems like a bit of an oxymoron to me.
Why is my future will so resistant to my present will? Why do all my desires burn out so easily? Recording thoughts in a journal (or blog) becomes my vain, sometimes frantic attempt at rigor-mortisizing the present state of mind into something durable, something capable of exerting its force beyond the next hour.
Optimists always look for some degree of practical change in the process of institutionalization. Though it is sad to see the underground become overground, they always look for the transformation and evolution of the larger system. But it's hard for me to see. I'm not ready for the death of what exists now.
The Word is alive. Does it always have to die in order to become active?
Whereas the Word, Logos, might refer to either the spoken or the written word, in my little theological box it has only been known to refer to the written word, that is the word that has been canonized, frozen in time, the word subject to detached discussions about context and intent.
An oral tradition seems rather attractive right now; will that is still breathed into a word-y, practically useful existence but not yet butchered on the pages of a book; will converted into a more fluid, lively word.
Jean Vanier wrote from personal experience about the natural process of institutionalization that occurs in every wave of communal energy and excitement. Meaningful movements always come about in resistance to a current, dead order but they always end up institutionalizing: Expressionism. Punk. The Jesus People. Every counterculture. Every business that comes into success by effectively serving a group of people only to end up serving nothing but the bottom line.
The predictability of the emotional highs of Pentecostal worship sets off my internal inathenticty alarm. I can understand how many people are bothered by the fixed-ness and non-emotionally-dependency of more traditional liturgical forms, but institutionalizing communal energy and always-escalating cathartic releases seems like a bit of an oxymoron to me.
Why is my future will so resistant to my present will? Why do all my desires burn out so easily? Recording thoughts in a journal (or blog) becomes my vain, sometimes frantic attempt at rigor-mortisizing the present state of mind into something durable, something capable of exerting its force beyond the next hour.
Optimists always look for some degree of practical change in the process of institutionalization. Though it is sad to see the underground become overground, they always look for the transformation and evolution of the larger system. But it's hard for me to see. I'm not ready for the death of what exists now.
The Word is alive. Does it always have to die in order to become active?
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