Author: L.E. Hansen

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Consciousness Again

“Consciousness cannot be accounted for in physical terms. For consciousness is absolutely fundamental. It cannot be accounted for in terms of anything else.”

― Erwin Schrödinger

Posted by Einstein Physix   BASIC PHYSICS

Isn’t he a handsome-looking dude? I don’t know much about him except for the cat-going-into-the-box-and-how-will-it-come-out? bit. I did know someone in Iowa City who had a cat named Schrödinger but that was a long time ago. The cat was black. I thought of it as the intellectual’s version of a cat named Bob.

I’ve been dining none stop on Irish soda bread since the bakery has started up with it again. I still don’t understand why it can’t be made year round. Maybe you have to move to Ireland. Anyway, it makes me sincerely grateful for March 17. And to think I used to appreciate the date solely for the green beer, and drunken Irishmen giving a parade. And let me tell you, you’ve not lived until you’ve been in Chicago for St. Patty’s Day. The craziness starts the night before. The hangovers on the day-of are the only thing that tame the day-itself down.

What all of that has to do with Schrödinger I don’t know, unless it’s because he became a naturalized Irishman. Maybe that was because he liked the bread. Or the beer. Or both. I rather doubt it about the beer as I’m quite certain it will hamper consciousness itself, while on its way to silencing the voices of song.

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Happy Birthday

Believe it or not, on the the actual day of birth I’ve made this post of our dear friend John Steinbeck.

Posted by Poetic Outlaws

“To be alive at all is to have scars.” – John Steinbeck, born on this day in 1902. That is one year before me mum was born.

There seems to be somewhat of a renaissance of Steinbeck’s work, his novels, East of Eden and Grapes of Wrath both making best-books lists this year. Of course Of Mice and Men always makes it on a list of the best.

I remember reading the book when I was a teenager. I also remember coming to the part in the novel where someone put vaseline on his hand and wears a glove over it. I asked Mother what that meant. Well, she said, it’s not very nice. OK then. Thanks for the help, Mom. And that, in a nutshell, is the extent of my sex education.

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In History—February 19

On this date in history FDR ordered Japanese Americans into internment camps. Two-thirds of those imprisoned were American born. This took place from 1942 to 1946.

The government began arresting and incarcerating Italian Americans also, and this before we had even joined the war, and long before February 19. Then Italian Americans came to fight in the war while at home their families were arrested, jailed or beaten. 

Growing up in that Catholic school called Blessed Sacrament we learned to call Italians Wops, Japanese Japs, and Germans Krauts. Long after 1941.

And on this day in 2002, 22 years ago, Joel Lawrence Pinker died. At some point in the evening it occurred. I felt some monstrous grasp reaching into my body and tearing my heart out through my chest. And that was it. Done. I didn’t learn until the following day that he was gone but I was not surprised. The evening before I wondered what I would wear to work the next day. On the day when they would tell me that my son had died.

Joel with dinosaur

This is a photo of a card that the girl sent to me for one of the boy’s birthdays after he was here no longer. It looks exactly like him. And he loved dinosaurs in those days. The days when he was young.

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The Kid’s Visit

The kid was here so we did a swap of items for her to take with her move to Portugal and for me to have here until my days wind further down. Down and out. Of course most of the things I am passing on are actually from my mother and father or from the children’s childhoods. I didn’t think to take a photo of the books we had from the 1892 copyright edition of Character Sketches from Romance Fiction and Drama, so I’ll copy from the internet. They look much the same as ours do, all being quite old and from the same publisher, Hess.

Some samples from the books are on a slide, above. These are published on the internet and are available from various sellers, some of them quite expensive, likely dependent on the condition. (One always hopes for virtuous reasons.) In any case, mine were obtained free of charge from a friend’s uncle Herman when he died many years ago.

Throughout their childhoods the girl and the boy enjoyed looking through the volumes with me, oohing and aahing at the photos and the stories. Although antiquated and attic do come to mind. Memories of youth and enjoyment are measured through the pages along with pressed flowers left behind by the two old men who once knew the pages fresh. We found an old playbill from the early 1900s written in German, a directive on how to properly open a book, and the crumbling leaves from an iris to name a few of the treasures therein. We had as much enjoyment from the written language of the stories and descriptions as from the photos. It was so easy to enter into that past, that time, both theirs and ours. The books now left with her, to travel to another country with memories safely enclosed.

Amongst the treasures returned to me to stay behind is the baby dish from the World War II era that had been mine. There was no reason for the kid to keep it, hence its return. While this too is loaded with memories—they are mine—of no consequence to others. Perhaps there is a monetary

value but that is not the point of the articles being exchanged. Hence the dilemma spoken of earlier in a blog writing about my mother’s dishes. It’s just a thing. It’s just a thing that sparks memories and love. But only with certain people. And that is its real value.

So where do these things go, where do they go from those of us who want to travel lightly, to empty our suitcases before we take our last breaths? Or best of all, spend as many years as possible unencumbered, free from baggage to travel lightly with Spirit rather than weighted by possessions that possess? I don’t think our possessions define us, but maybe they do.

In the end it was a lovely visit but did I end up with more possessions than I gave away? Did she?

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Jimmy Dean

Happy Birthday! And another repeat performance. Yet another loss. How we might have enj0yed him through the years. Not to be.

“The acting of James Dean is more animal than human. For this reason, it is unpredictable: what will happen next?” Francois Truffaut, Cahier du Cinema

“Jimmy may have had crabs, but he also had durable charisma.” Kenneth Anger, Hollywood Babylon II

Born on this day: cinema’s bongo drum-playing quintessential doomed 1950s bad boy, James Byron Dean (8 February 1931 – 30 September 1955) – one of the most lusciously photogenic actors of all time. Pictured: portrait of Dean by Roy Schatt, 1954.

Posted by Lobotomy Room.

Someone once said that Dean was not at all the same person off camera. You would not know what you had until the camera made love to him. And indeed it did. It made him larger than life. Someone else once said upon meeting him you knew he was doomed. He was just plain too much and too small for this world. It was impossible to sustain.