I'm sure there's some part of the moth
that knows it's all futile,
and yet he can't help but return, to batter,
batter, batter his fine body against
whatever this membrane is, that keeps him
from the light, from the singularity
that calls him with a song he feels
deep in the seam between his senses.
With each wingbeat shedding more of his dust,
his essence, until he finally succeeds
in losing himself entirely.
Or maybe it's more like the oyster, with a grain
of the merest thought beneath her tongue
unable to think anything else, until
her work is done, and it has been mulled
and mused over, in enough quiet and darkness,
that one ill-fitting thing, that burr in her soft flesh,
until it is layered over, with strata of meaning
she herself never knew it had.
I just wanted you to know: this is what I'm mumbling
those nights when I take my notebook from the shelf,
to rework a poem in yet another color of ink:
Be as courageous as the martyred moth,
as meticulous as the patient oyster.
Mark Aiello
Sunday, January 04, 2009
Thursday, January 01, 2009
Culinary Harm
I am a long-serving member of the Manhattan dining brigade. And as a member of that favored regiment, I have become accustomed to a relatively high standard of culinary achievement. I will therefore admit that my personal ability to walk to some of the best dining halls in our nation has probably made me prejudiced and unfit to render some of the judgments found below.
The occasion for my culinary comments has been a recent, long road trip during which I dined at some well-known eateries of a type commonly found within a half-mile of nearly any Interstate exit between Maine and San Diego.
Obvious to any traveler is that the roadside restaurants are many and are almost always outposts of the same few national chains. This is not in itself a fault. Similarity across a nation is just another word for "culture". In France, every town has its kiosk, cafe and brasserie; in Great Britain, the pub and betting parlor. So if there is anything negative to say about the sameness of American roadside dining, it must be of its nearly uniform awfulness.
I will briefly comment on just a couple of the offending establishments, confident they stand in for most of the rest.
Earliest on the trip came an encounter with Chili's. I can note it but briefly, as I doubt I want to recall it in much detail. I will admit I was expecting it to be mainly Mexican or Tex Mex. But I detected a lack of chilis and instead a preponderance of laminated, spiral-bound menus (which, I have learned, is a bad sign). I believe I may have ordered something crumbly or cubed wrapped in a tortilla. I cannot recall its flavor except that it had little. My daughter fared worst, having ordered fettucine al fredo with shrimp. This was more or less a dish of hot milk. The worst insult was that one could tell the basic quality of all the foodstuffs--the chicken, the shrimp, the beef--was low. That they were indifferently prepared, and served with stultifying sauces with tired, wrinkled bread, only accented the suspicion that one had been cheated. Is it true this chain started as a popular beanery? I wish it could go back to its roots.
Applebees presents itself as a funky, Tiffany-lamped hangout where, perhaps because the posters are all sort of crooked, a movie star may at any moment elect to put in an appearance. Again, we ordered from laminated, spiral-bound, colorful menus with lots of beauty-shots of burgers and shrimp. My four tiny bacon-cheddar burgers were served on four tiny, stale buns. The cheese was not melted. The fries (were they fries?) were neither crispy nor soft inside but kind of raspy and difficult to swallow. One of us ordered a salad which was passable except for the sad sludgy dressing of a type we could not identify. Here the insult came with the bill: they charged us as if we had dined at a real restaurant.
We enjoyed a good breakfast at a place I considered unlikely: The Cracker Barrel. If you like grits and eggs and bacon (I do), choose this place over all the others. The only problem with Cracker Barrel--and maybe it was only because it was located in the South--was that the management had posted a large sign in the entry hallway stating their commitment to serving all races and creeds without discrimination. I have to admit this made me feel less comfortable under the gaze of some of the older, more serious-looking diners of whom I am certain were adults in the days of Medgar Evers and on the dark day when Doctor King was murdered.
Most of the time, we made our way to McDonald's. This is because McDonald's is terrible, but in a way we have become accustomed to, and also because they don't charge very much. Finally, it is important to note I have a weakness for the Big Mac.
--Renaissance
The occasion for my culinary comments has been a recent, long road trip during which I dined at some well-known eateries of a type commonly found within a half-mile of nearly any Interstate exit between Maine and San Diego.
Obvious to any traveler is that the roadside restaurants are many and are almost always outposts of the same few national chains. This is not in itself a fault. Similarity across a nation is just another word for "culture". In France, every town has its kiosk, cafe and brasserie; in Great Britain, the pub and betting parlor. So if there is anything negative to say about the sameness of American roadside dining, it must be of its nearly uniform awfulness.
I will briefly comment on just a couple of the offending establishments, confident they stand in for most of the rest.
Earliest on the trip came an encounter with Chili's. I can note it but briefly, as I doubt I want to recall it in much detail. I will admit I was expecting it to be mainly Mexican or Tex Mex. But I detected a lack of chilis and instead a preponderance of laminated, spiral-bound menus (which, I have learned, is a bad sign). I believe I may have ordered something crumbly or cubed wrapped in a tortilla. I cannot recall its flavor except that it had little. My daughter fared worst, having ordered fettucine al fredo with shrimp. This was more or less a dish of hot milk. The worst insult was that one could tell the basic quality of all the foodstuffs--the chicken, the shrimp, the beef--was low. That they were indifferently prepared, and served with stultifying sauces with tired, wrinkled bread, only accented the suspicion that one had been cheated. Is it true this chain started as a popular beanery? I wish it could go back to its roots.
Applebees presents itself as a funky, Tiffany-lamped hangout where, perhaps because the posters are all sort of crooked, a movie star may at any moment elect to put in an appearance. Again, we ordered from laminated, spiral-bound, colorful menus with lots of beauty-shots of burgers and shrimp. My four tiny bacon-cheddar burgers were served on four tiny, stale buns. The cheese was not melted. The fries (were they fries?) were neither crispy nor soft inside but kind of raspy and difficult to swallow. One of us ordered a salad which was passable except for the sad sludgy dressing of a type we could not identify. Here the insult came with the bill: they charged us as if we had dined at a real restaurant.
We enjoyed a good breakfast at a place I considered unlikely: The Cracker Barrel. If you like grits and eggs and bacon (I do), choose this place over all the others. The only problem with Cracker Barrel--and maybe it was only because it was located in the South--was that the management had posted a large sign in the entry hallway stating their commitment to serving all races and creeds without discrimination. I have to admit this made me feel less comfortable under the gaze of some of the older, more serious-looking diners of whom I am certain were adults in the days of Medgar Evers and on the dark day when Doctor King was murdered.
Most of the time, we made our way to McDonald's. This is because McDonald's is terrible, but in a way we have become accustomed to, and also because they don't charge very much. Finally, it is important to note I have a weakness for the Big Mac.
--Renaissance
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Holidays and New Year
I visited my relatives in Miami this Chrismas. My husband, two kids and I drove there and back. On our way there, an enormous sheet of ice flew off a truck and hit our car in Virginia. We spent the night in NC and the next day, in Georgia, noticed the gauge in the dashboard indicated the engine was very hot. It was December 23rd and staying in a hotel would have been out of the question. We exited out of I-95 and into what looked like a very shady neighborhood, pulled into a gas station where repair men were called to help us out.
Two toothless men with very thick southern accents showed up, it was almost impossible to understand what they were saying. They looked at our car and asked us to follow them to their repair shop which was an enormous junkyard about a half a mile away. At the entrance there was a dog, pictured above, that barked furiously until he realized we weren't scared. He watched us roam around taking pictures for awhile and then decided to take a nap.
The two men told us the cooling system had been damaged - most likely by the impact when the ice hit the car - then poured a sealant into the engine. They asked for $45 dollars and sent us off, telling us maybe we'd make it all the way to Miami. It was already getting dark and the thought of our car breaking down halfway was a bit scary.
But we made it alright, arrived at our hotel at 2 am that night. During our stay, the weather was warm and sunny, and the family reunions even more so. Miami is a place where Starbucks can't compete with all the great little restaurants and "cortadito" shops where Cuban coffee abounds. We got the car fixed and returned to NYC energized by a lot of love, interesting and lively conversations, and the fun we had. We'll hold on to all that for a long time.
All the best from us at The Tempest for 2009,
Luchy
Sunday, December 28, 2008
The genius
demands quiet.
He shouts down ten stories at the jackhammers,
shakes his fist at the crosstown bus.
Call him too late and he won't answer;
too early,
and you'll wish he'd never picked up the phone.
These are his requirements:
a pot of Earl Grey, six pencils (sharpened),
one blue ballpoint, a pad
of college-ruled notepaper, a bowl
of rice pudding, with a tablespoon.
No television.
No radio.
He never begins until almost midnight,
and then he'll stalk barefoot and mad-haired
until the garbage trucks snort and grumble in the street
and he crumples up half-sonnets and
aborted triolets to throw at them.
Don't you dare bang your broom on the ceiling.
And don't waste words reminding him of the days when poems leapt
from his pen so quickly that he would write in subway cars
and at deli counters, and even if you jostled his elbow
or poked your umbrella in his back
you couldn't stop him from scorching page after page
with hymns of fire and the pink tragedy of a winter sky.
Mark Aiello
He shouts down ten stories at the jackhammers,
shakes his fist at the crosstown bus.
Call him too late and he won't answer;
too early,
and you'll wish he'd never picked up the phone.
These are his requirements:
a pot of Earl Grey, six pencils (sharpened),
one blue ballpoint, a pad
of college-ruled notepaper, a bowl
of rice pudding, with a tablespoon.
No television.
No radio.
He never begins until almost midnight,
and then he'll stalk barefoot and mad-haired
until the garbage trucks snort and grumble in the street
and he crumples up half-sonnets and
aborted triolets to throw at them.
Don't you dare bang your broom on the ceiling.
And don't waste words reminding him of the days when poems leapt
from his pen so quickly that he would write in subway cars
and at deli counters, and even if you jostled his elbow
or poked your umbrella in his back
you couldn't stop him from scorching page after page
with hymns of fire and the pink tragedy of a winter sky.
Mark Aiello
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Gone are the Days of Careful Foreshadowing
Three quarters of the way through this blog post, I will get to the point of the post. I am telling you this now so that you keep reading the post until that point, and then I will hope that my main point will keep you reading until the end, when I will tell you once again what I have told you.
Actually I am not sure if the above will hold true. But I do know I have noticed that the older a book is, the less likely it is to have a "prologue" or an italicized section designed to give you a reason to read the first 250 pages, or a first chapter that seems to come from a different, more piquant story than the one you soon begin to read; until you realize that the chapter you just read actually comes from somewhere in the middle of the book.
Seems like this is a crutch for the modern writer. Does it mean the moderns are less skillful? I am not one to say (or at least not one to write). But I do know I have a tough time imagining Flaubert needing to spill a few beans about Madame Bovary at the beginning, only to spill the rest of them later.
Movies have indulged in this for quite some time--or anyway, it seems they started doing it before authors took it up. Maybe that's because movies have long been made for a busy audience--folks who don't have that much time and who need to be reassured that, if they spend some time on this story of yours, they will be rewarded later.
Gone are the days of careful foreshadowing: when, just by telling the tale very skillfully, the author was able to convey a sense of what was to come. Here are the days of blunt propositions: step right up--have a peep inside! We won't disappoint!
We get bored so easily today. We feel left out and lonesome if we discover ourselves reading a book that has not already given us every reason to believe we will have made good use of the time we've spent. The prospect of having spent an hour alone, risking the failure of our reading investment, seems to shame us into leaving books closed that have not early made us secure.
--Renaissance
Actually I am not sure if the above will hold true. But I do know I have noticed that the older a book is, the less likely it is to have a "prologue" or an italicized section designed to give you a reason to read the first 250 pages, or a first chapter that seems to come from a different, more piquant story than the one you soon begin to read; until you realize that the chapter you just read actually comes from somewhere in the middle of the book.
Seems like this is a crutch for the modern writer. Does it mean the moderns are less skillful? I am not one to say (or at least not one to write). But I do know I have a tough time imagining Flaubert needing to spill a few beans about Madame Bovary at the beginning, only to spill the rest of them later.
Movies have indulged in this for quite some time--or anyway, it seems they started doing it before authors took it up. Maybe that's because movies have long been made for a busy audience--folks who don't have that much time and who need to be reassured that, if they spend some time on this story of yours, they will be rewarded later.
Gone are the days of careful foreshadowing: when, just by telling the tale very skillfully, the author was able to convey a sense of what was to come. Here are the days of blunt propositions: step right up--have a peep inside! We won't disappoint!
We get bored so easily today. We feel left out and lonesome if we discover ourselves reading a book that has not already given us every reason to believe we will have made good use of the time we've spent. The prospect of having spent an hour alone, risking the failure of our reading investment, seems to shame us into leaving books closed that have not early made us secure.
--Renaissance
Woods for the words below
I looked among my pictures for an image of snow that would go with JC's beautiful post below but I think this one is the most fitting.Luchy
Friday, December 19, 2008
ALL POETS ARE THIEVES!!!
Snow is falling here in the Northeast, not blanketing the streets but slowly drowning them. Do you have a mind for winter? Francois Villon, that fine French ruffian-poet once asked, "Ou les neiges sont d'antan?"("Where are the snows of yesteryear?") They are here today, those snows. Does the snow resemble an assembly of angels, atmospheric confetti, a cosmic grammar assault, with commas, semi-colons, and question marks whizzing about and down? Think of any literary description of snow and invent something even more clever. Take that idea, remove it from your mind, and place it on a warm surface so it melts and is never known. After all, snow is not a symbol or invested image; snow is erasure, the dissolver of material, the begetter of the unknown, the unknowable, the dissappeared. J/C
Thursday, December 18, 2008
On Art - trA nO
Jim Dine once said: "My real ancestors are artists of the past. I am comforted and excited and soothed and inspired by them." For those of you that love art, making it, viewing it, thinking about it, its history, here are some thoughts from various artists throughout time and around the globe.
Luchy
Art is dangerous and if it is chaste, it isn't art.
-Pablo Picasso
Look at nature, work independently, and solve your own problems.
-Winslow Homer
Art disturbs, science reassures.
-Gino Severini
There is no 'must' in art, because art is free.
-Wassily Kandinsky
If a man devotes himself to art, much evil is avoided that happens otherwise if one is idle. -Albrecht Durer
The ugliest spectacle is that of artists selling themselves. Art as a commodity is an ugly idea..The artist as businessman is uglier than the businessman as artist.
-Ad Reinhardt
Follow the masters! But why should one follow them? The only reason they are masters is that they didn't follow anybody.
-Paul Gaugin
The exhibition has now become no more than a bazaar where mediocrity spreads itself out with impudence. The exhibitions are useless and dangerous..they ought to be abolished.
-Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres
When we are no longer children, we are already dead.
-Constantin Brancusi
Between my head and my hand, there is always the face of death.
-Francis Picabia
Personally, I believe very much in values of savagery; I mean: instinct, passion, mood, violence, madness.
-Jean Dubuffet
What am I in most people's eyes? A nonentity or an eccentric and disagreeable man..I should want my work to show what is in the heart of such an eccentric, of such a nobody.
-Vincent Van Gogh
Just as Leonardo da Vinci studied human anatomy and dissected corpses, so I try to dissect souls.
-Edvard Munch
The job of the artist is to deepen the mystery.
-Francis Bacon
Art does not reproduce what we see. It makes us see.
-Paul Klee
Why do people think artists are special? It's just another job.
-Andy Warhol
Things are not difficult to make; what is difficult is putting ourselves in the state of mind to make them.
-Constantin Brancusi
Luchy
Art is dangerous and if it is chaste, it isn't art.
-Pablo Picasso
Look at nature, work independently, and solve your own problems.
-Winslow Homer
Art disturbs, science reassures.
-Gino Severini
There is no 'must' in art, because art is free.
-Wassily Kandinsky
If a man devotes himself to art, much evil is avoided that happens otherwise if one is idle. -Albrecht Durer
The ugliest spectacle is that of artists selling themselves. Art as a commodity is an ugly idea..The artist as businessman is uglier than the businessman as artist.
-Ad Reinhardt
Follow the masters! But why should one follow them? The only reason they are masters is that they didn't follow anybody.
-Paul Gaugin
The exhibition has now become no more than a bazaar where mediocrity spreads itself out with impudence. The exhibitions are useless and dangerous..they ought to be abolished.
-Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres
When we are no longer children, we are already dead.
-Constantin Brancusi
Between my head and my hand, there is always the face of death.
-Francis Picabia
Personally, I believe very much in values of savagery; I mean: instinct, passion, mood, violence, madness.
-Jean Dubuffet
What am I in most people's eyes? A nonentity or an eccentric and disagreeable man..I should want my work to show what is in the heart of such an eccentric, of such a nobody.
-Vincent Van Gogh
Just as Leonardo da Vinci studied human anatomy and dissected corpses, so I try to dissect souls.
-Edvard Munch
The job of the artist is to deepen the mystery.
-Francis Bacon
Art does not reproduce what we see. It makes us see.
-Paul Klee
Why do people think artists are special? It's just another job.
-Andy Warhol
Things are not difficult to make; what is difficult is putting ourselves in the state of mind to make them.
-Constantin Brancusi
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
A Shoe-in for the Low Point
Last Sunday, as all the world now knows, an Iraqi journalist at a news conference threw first one, then the other of his shoes at President Bush's head.
Smirking, Bush ducked both times and later said "So what?"
No doubt comics the world over felt a week's worth of material had been written for them, and "the Arab street" has made the journalist a folk-hero. But for any American who cares what the world thinks of his/her country, the act becomes--once the chuckling has died down--a deep humiliation. Worse is the clear sense that Bush was asking for it (having invaded the journalist's nation on a liar's dare).
Perhaps more wretched than any of that is the apparent fact that Bush neither understands the sadness of the moment (not for him but for his country), nor cares.
"So what?"? Is that the best you can come up with? Having been subjected to the worst insult an Arab can throw, you, Mr. President, as the representative of your people, can offer no more reflection nor care than "So what?"?
How many years of good will and intelligence will the next President have to muster before the damage to our national image can be repaired?
It is all of a piece, sadly for us all. You're doing a heckuva job, Bushie.
--Renaissance
Smirking, Bush ducked both times and later said "So what?"
No doubt comics the world over felt a week's worth of material had been written for them, and "the Arab street" has made the journalist a folk-hero. But for any American who cares what the world thinks of his/her country, the act becomes--once the chuckling has died down--a deep humiliation. Worse is the clear sense that Bush was asking for it (having invaded the journalist's nation on a liar's dare).
Perhaps more wretched than any of that is the apparent fact that Bush neither understands the sadness of the moment (not for him but for his country), nor cares.
"So what?"? Is that the best you can come up with? Having been subjected to the worst insult an Arab can throw, you, Mr. President, as the representative of your people, can offer no more reflection nor care than "So what?"?
How many years of good will and intelligence will the next President have to muster before the damage to our national image can be repaired?
It is all of a piece, sadly for us all. You're doing a heckuva job, Bushie.
--Renaissance
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
ALL POETS ARE THIEVES!!!
As the economy begins to plummet (oh wait, the recession began last December, according to lazy, late-in-thinking market analysts), it is important to invest in wishful thinking on a grand scale. A utopian scale even. Since it's imperative that we preserve the present for posterity, we need to establish a historical record that will appeal to the senses and sensibilities of our descendents. And how best can we enable them to savor the immutability of corporate culture's mendacity and predatory boorishness? The arts, of course.
Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could get the federal government to bail out the arts instead of the corporations? With the hyper-infusion of financial endowments, we could elaborate a multi-media expose of our present conditions. What about WALL STREET: THE MUSICAL? Garage rock bands touring with names like "Day Trader," "Powder Blue Shirts," and 401Kaput"? Perhaps we could get Bill Viola to do a video piece entitled "Autoworkers and Helicopters." Just think of it: Video pornography could inaugurate a series entitled "My Nasdaq is Up!," a sensual and exceedingly idealistic melding of erotica and market trends.
Already, as of this writing, I'm landscaping an abandoned lot in preparation for a sculpture garden which will contain a statue of King Midas in the midst of projectile vomiting (a geyser of sewage water will be propelled through the statue's mouth at the opening and closing of the stock market each day).
Perhaps we could have Spielberg or Scorsese do a blockbuster film called GREED? Wait, that was made over eighty years ago, five years before the Wall Street crashed, burned, and greatly depressed. Well, perhaps they could shoot a re-make. What better way to reflect the Hegelian, hellish cycle of history? J/C
Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could get the federal government to bail out the arts instead of the corporations? With the hyper-infusion of financial endowments, we could elaborate a multi-media expose of our present conditions. What about WALL STREET: THE MUSICAL? Garage rock bands touring with names like "Day Trader," "Powder Blue Shirts," and 401Kaput"? Perhaps we could get Bill Viola to do a video piece entitled "Autoworkers and Helicopters." Just think of it: Video pornography could inaugurate a series entitled "My Nasdaq is Up!," a sensual and exceedingly idealistic melding of erotica and market trends.
Already, as of this writing, I'm landscaping an abandoned lot in preparation for a sculpture garden which will contain a statue of King Midas in the midst of projectile vomiting (a geyser of sewage water will be propelled through the statue's mouth at the opening and closing of the stock market each day).
Perhaps we could have Spielberg or Scorsese do a blockbuster film called GREED? Wait, that was made over eighty years ago, five years before the Wall Street crashed, burned, and greatly depressed. Well, perhaps they could shoot a re-make. What better way to reflect the Hegelian, hellish cycle of history? J/C
Monday, December 15, 2008
Hudson, Dec 08
Last week, on Thursday, there was an ice storm in upstate NY and western MA. It lasted an entire day and left thousands of people without power and everything covered in ice.
On Sunday, I went into a patch of woods across from my house and shot ice against the sun.
Luchy
Sunday, December 14, 2008
A red poem
I will ask you once more to count the days
back to the one when we fell, burning,
into the strange atmosphere of this world
where the weight of every object is wrong
and the distances between everything are fickle.
The night rain falls like sofas and anvils
and in the morning mountains have sprung up
in impossible places towards the horizon.
Our clocks here spin like the eyes
of cartoon characters struck on the head,
in our laboratory where none of the devices
do much but beep, and click, and beep.
Look up – to arrive we had to bisect
that lurid sky, swarmed with the very stars
that guarded the night of your birth,
though now they've been turned on their sides
and made false to even themselves. It is too bad,
but we are here and this will always
be the world where you held your neck out patiently
and let me taste your cupric skin
while we clenched each other inside our failing machine
and wondered what was howling
and banging at the hatch all night.
No matter – this is the mission we flew on,
and where we fell to, you and I, and perhaps
either one of those vicious suns, or maybe
the heat of our craft burning behind us
will scorch the shadows of us holding hands
forever and away across the rusted sand.
Mark Aiello
back to the one when we fell, burning,
into the strange atmosphere of this world
where the weight of every object is wrong
and the distances between everything are fickle.
The night rain falls like sofas and anvils
and in the morning mountains have sprung up
in impossible places towards the horizon.
Our clocks here spin like the eyes
of cartoon characters struck on the head,
in our laboratory where none of the devices
do much but beep, and click, and beep.
Look up – to arrive we had to bisect
that lurid sky, swarmed with the very stars
that guarded the night of your birth,
though now they've been turned on their sides
and made false to even themselves. It is too bad,
but we are here and this will always
be the world where you held your neck out patiently
and let me taste your cupric skin
while we clenched each other inside our failing machine
and wondered what was howling
and banging at the hatch all night.
No matter – this is the mission we flew on,
and where we fell to, you and I, and perhaps
either one of those vicious suns, or maybe
the heat of our craft burning behind us
will scorch the shadows of us holding hands
forever and away across the rusted sand.
Mark Aiello
Saturday, December 13, 2008
ALL POETS ARE THIEVES!!!
A day late and a decade early: Fridays and Tuesdays are the normal days of operation for this realm of rants, chants, and thieving poets but this last month of 2008 has me prancing on a peninsula of pain in the rain (alas, not in Spain). Forgive the slippage, but perhaps it was intended...my person was gravitating toward this day in history, the occasion of lexicographer Samuel Johnson's death in 1784 at the age of 75. Doctor Johnson's English Dictionary (the first!) came out in 1755 and it is a masterly museum mosaic of words, archaic and useful, and definitions at once perceptive, polemical, comical, and droll. Several years ago Ashgate Press published a selection, nicely edited by Jack Lynch. On this Saturday, I urge you, dear Reader, to pick up any edition of Johnson's Dictionary and read in and around it for your pleasure. Yes, read a dictionary for pleasure! It sounds like a put-on but put paid to that sentiment, Reader. You will enter this dictionary with a delight that just doesn't come from thumbing through thesauruses, examining encyclopedias, gleaning grammar books, or dipping into other dictionaries. In memory of Dr. Johnson and meaning, get thee to his Dictionary now! J/C
Skilled at Photoshop?
In the age of Photoshop, so-called "photographic evidence" has all but lost its power to prove anything more than the digital dexterity of its presenter. And in the case of a borderline crank subject like the study of UFOs, it has simply made for some very cute, very silly pictures of obviously home-made, very carefully photographed models of craft pretending to be evidence of who-knows-what.And then there are pictures like the above, which to a skeptic like myself (who also happens to have made a living for a time being really pretty good at Photoshop), presents an intriguing prospect. The photograph and its companions were allegedly taken at Green Bay Wisconsin in 2007 and can be found at www.ufoevidence.org.
There is every possibility the photo is doctored, so let us begin with that premise. However, it would have required the skills of someone who is at once truly masterful (Hollywood level at least) at creating verisimilitude--take special note of flares of light ovetaking thin branches as the craft apparently "moves" during the exposure; truly motivated to deceive the public into belief that the sighting really took place; and truly inept or truly not interested in gaining notoriety or payment for the deployment of their considerable skills.
And yet, if we take the position that the photo must be doctored, because of course UFOs are not UFOs at all, but always a hoax, then what are we saying? We are making several assumptions about human character and skill that begin to equal or surpass in their collective unlikelihood the possibility that something inexplicable (to wit--an Unidentified Flying Object) was recorded by a photosensitive device behind some trees in Green Bay not long ago.
The rest is for us to ponder.
--Renaissance
Thursday, December 11, 2008
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