Alex Mathews

Alex Mathews – writer, bared naked dude blah blah blah

Mysterium Conundrumz

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I think sometimes in an effort to amuse ourselves, it is very easy to lose sight of what truly inspires us to come to the circus in the first place. Even as I undertake to write about today’s subject, I am treading the border of deadly earnestness and the urge to ridicule. It’s so easy to ridicule, especially when you get to work with the kind of material I like to use. Let’s start with Mickey Hart, who could be laughed at for all the wires he hooked up to his head, and for all the drums he likes to bang on, or for his enthusiasm for music and rhythm and life. I don’t know why it is that passion is somehow fodder for ridicule, but it is. I know that for me, I am afraid of my passion, so I undermine it. I think I do that because I’m afraid to risk all that exuberance on something truly meaningful to me for fear that someone spits on it. Or worse, laughs at it. So sometimes I live a quiet life, and I invent false passions just to test the waters. And I make fun of other people to protect myself from potential attacks. So when I trot out Mickey Hart, you can be sure that I have thrown caution to the wind, and I am going to unleash.

mickey hart, neurology, grateful dead

Grateful Dead drummer Mickey Hart wires his brain to see the music in his head

Let’s forget for a moment that Mickey has an actual alter ego for the stage named Drumbohead, and he wears a red nose and gets near children. Let’s bypass the fact that he would insist that he learn to play ashiko, bendir, bhodran, djembe and dhol drums (my favorite) in their native habitats with only the masters. Let’s give him some latitude when he’s wiring his brain to an Imax theater so senior citizens can watch his thoughts. He’s an artist. They’re supposed to be eccentric. Let’s just allow a man to have passions without denigration, however amusing it might be.

Mickey Hart impressed me when he donned a t-shirt that said, ‘God Is Sound,’ which makes even more sense if you are a drummer, because they are really loud and make the ground shake. It is likely the first known musical instrument was the human voice, and the music created from it was linked to man’s effort to imitate the sounds of his environment—to literally sing along with life. After the voice, the clapping of hands was introduced to affirm rhythm. Music is born of the human urges to assimilate and pay homage to the whole of creation, to find its rhythm and play with it. The cultural, anthropological and spiritual significance of music is worth your awe. Drums are the oldest instruments around, dating back to about 165,000 years ago, while the flute didn’t come for over another 120,000 years. The drum, after it evolved from beating on logs with sticks and bones, became a crafted instrument where a membrane was stretched over a surface, and these were animals and round structures, suggesting both the primal and the intellectual evolution of man. The beating of drums was an expression of dominance, a means of communication, a tribal function and a shamanistic endeavor. We have killed food. We will go to war. We are dancing in our tribal village, for the mating rites of spring are upon us. A child is born. An elder has gone to the great beyond. We need magic for the harvest and hunt. Beat the drum.

It is this knowledge, more born in your blood and heart than in your mind, that Mickey Hart carries with him. The beating of a drum is a sacred and simple thing. The notion that we can tune into the pulse of life, and listen to creation, is often lost in the hook of bubble gum pop, but it does still circulates through our culture nonetheless. Mickey has decided to listen to the sounds that are around us, and the heaviest of these rhythms is the One, the sound of creation, the Big Bang. In the digital age, sound and waveforms are reduced to binary data—ones and zeros, compiled in a certain way to produce audio output. We are able to listen to the sounds of anything that can be interpreted as a data set, and Mickey Hart has taken the data from the light and electromagnetic waves in the universe that scientists know to be the echo of the Big Bang, when all of our known world was essentially puked into space from an infinite void. This sort of thing sparks in me the urge to find meaning in life, to find order and structure in enormous chaos and entropy, and to reconcile philosophically with It. When you sonify something, the resulting waveform will either be noise, or it will possess some form of musicality. The human ear is adept at finding patterns and order in sound. So, does the Big Bang have an order or pattern or melody? The Big Bang has always, thanks to people like Mickey who put odd truisms on t-shirts, called to mind the act of creation from Genesis. It was a story I made my mom tell me over and over as a child, because as I discover with my own child, we are naturally curious about the origins of our world, and we are equally baffled by its design. The idea that God spoke from the void, that he created light from darkness, that he divided the firmament, and then added earth and a dude with one missing rib—these are certainly tales that offer some attempt to explain creation and the design of creation in a way that addresses our natural inclinations to be curious about the phenomenon of our world. As I developed a taste for world religions and comparative literature, I was always struck by the similarity of these stories and beliefs. If we follow the Christian trip, the Septuagint offers the logos, or word of God as the beginning of everything. The word was made flesh and here we are, digging our internet and fighting for ideological dominance. There was once nothing but darkness and silence—and this Being spoke, or sang, or chanted Om, or busted out with some cosmic dervish dance, or beat on a cosmic hollow log with an equally cosmic stick—and all that lies before you was made real. The Big Bang is as close as scientists can come to this idea, or at least we can all be in the same neighborhood. So when Mickey Hart wants to listen to what that moment sounds like, and maybe beat his drum to that rhythm, that first beat, he isn’t someone I would make fun of for it.

The album I believe he used the sonification of creation as inspiration for was called Mysterium Tremendum, which is Latin for the tremendous mystery of life. This is the Great Mystery, the thing that inspires so much awe that we are both terrified to go close to it, and yet drawn to it like a moth to a flame. I am compelled to amplify that another reference to the mysterium is used by Carl Jung, whose seminal work about the interplay of opposites and the concept of psychic wholeness was called Mysterium Coniunctionis. His main thrust pertained to the art and science of alchemy, where for him the transformation of base metals into gold was a metaphor for the transformation of the soul to a fully actuated and individuated being. The soul struggles for oneness and identity in a world of dualism, and Jung was interested in the coniunctio, or the union of dualism and opposites. Much like the creation of opposing forces like light and darkness, heaven and earth, the psyche is best adapted when the opposing forces within us are both appreciated, incorporated. The shadow benefits from light, or bringing that which is unconscious to the light of consciousness. The logos as the sound of creation is what brought forth life, as much as it brought forth duality from a silent void. Creation brings forth the interplay of spirit and matter, and the dilemma that such a situation imposes on the soul of man is the basic foundation of the human condition. If you look at it right, that is what Hart is listening for, and he knows it. The more smutty aspect of the logos is now in common use as the identity of major corporations, but the idea is the same. Like man, corporations have a need to be associated with symbols of totality. The quest for identity is an ever pervasive phenomenon. The coniunctio, for Jung, was the marriage of opposites that form a whole. You know, like those t-shirts with the yin and yang symbol. Jung also re-coined from Heraclitus the term enantiodromia, which is the principle that an abundance of one force will tend to produce its opposite. Rich becomes poor. The sacred becomes profane. The symbol of such a concept is embodied by the ourobouros, the serpent that eats its tail. Of further interest is that Mickey Hart claimed that in the Drums sequence at any Grateful Dead concert, the entire purpose of the exercise (apart from creating space to go to the bathroom or roll a fatty) was to have the drumming encircle the arena like the ourobouros. But of course, if you are a self-respecting Deadhead, you know all this already. Coincidentally, Grateful Dead lyricist John Perry Barlow gave a Ted Talk about enantiodromia in Hamburg. The implications are vast for all sorts of things like monotheism and how we view our world, and for Barlow, how the internet is causing an enantiodromia in the way people are imbued with the right to have knowledge. The abundance of ignorance is bringing about the opportunity to disseminate knowledge, and Barlow is a digital civil rights advocate, to ensure that information is free. For me, the point is all about how life itself, the Mysterium Tremendum, begins with massive creation, but brings with it a separation from the void, creates simultaneously an innate yearning for the divine and insatiable hunger for, and aversion to the awe of all creation—the urge for oneness in a dualistic and separate-from world. But I digress. This is what happens when you stare into the mysterium. But as Barlow evangelizes, we all have a right to know.

The question as to why I would attempt to connect all of these thoughts speaks more about my passions, perhaps, than the legitimacy of my assertions. I don’t want to convey that these ideas are connected without any real foundation. They do speak to my personal trip, and my personal passions, but I do think the relevance is valid and not unreasonable. The coinciding of these ideas, and these characters, is all part of the rhythm born from that first downbeat. In alchemical terms, Jung spoke of the Opus Magnum, or the Great Work of the initiate to create the lapis lazuli, or Philosopher’s Stone (the true gold), a symbol of oneness, and a return to godhead if you will. The efforts of all the aforementioned people have actual practical application. Jung’s Analytic psychology, Barlow’s digital frontier and Hart’s experiments with rhythm all have practical, pedestrian utility. They are not just ethereal abstractions. Hart has taken the concept of sonification and the healing power of music, and put it to work against real afflictions like alzheimer’s, heart disease and other illnesses. When the mind and body is sick with ailments like depression, anxiety, disease, malaise and malignancy, it is a bad rhythm that has taken up a drum inside our souls, beating away. Hart has sonified these things and has heard the cacophony of their music, and has ideas that it might be possible to bring good rhythm to bear on the problem for healing. This is his current opus.

I digress more. We are in peril. If there is any validity to the idea of the enantiodromia, the abundance of forces are heading toward their opposite. Humanity plunges toward inhumanity. Life itself will be fine, but humanity is unconsciously hell bent on its own destruction. It is for us each to perform our own personal opus, and to do so with the intention that these works bring forth light. The sound of creation is singing, and I want to listen and dance and teach my child to hear it, too. These sounds, the ones that you can hear if you listen, can help us get back into the rhythm. Might it be possible to heal if we listen for the secret, search for the sound?

You Sweet Little Softcore Pretender

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john lennon, grateful dead

Cleaning up the Lennon star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame

Today’s intended blog was completely derailed by the news of John Lennon’s star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame being desecrated by someone who inscribed the words to ‘Deal.’ They wrote “it cost a lot 2 win and even more 2 lose. U and me got to spend sum time,” along with a bunch of hippie type drawings of mushrooms and flowers and peace signs. This of course gives Deadheads a bad name, as if we needed help in that respect. I can’t help but wonder how the vandals got all that copy on the star in the first place. Did they use a fine point sharpie? Sidewalk chalk wouldn’t have bonded to the gaudy glass and marble shiny stuff they use for those things, but it seems it took a whole lot of hullabaloo to purge the piece of tribute from the taint of it all. Of course this episode has Beatles fans in a frenzy, and Deadheads bowing their heads in shame. And the blog is spoiled, because today I wanted to discuss blowjobs and Jerry Garcia, not separately mind you, but together as one thing. The inspiration came from my virtual friend at Thoughts on the Dead, who has entered into a series of posts about bad Dead Art, and his latest offering is this rendering of Garcia as Saint Jerome. Jerry clearly would have hated this, and as TotD asserts, he was a human bean, imperfect and vulnerable to all sorts of bad things, including the propensity to want to have his knob polished. This perked me right up, for I had never really considered Jerry Garcia as anything but asexual, and the idea of him receiving fellatio was novel. I will confess, I have thought about the sexual antics of Jerry Garcia from time to time, for when you are as obsessed with the Grateful Dead as I am, it sort of has to wind around to those types of thoughts from time to time, you know, when the well runs dry and the emptiness of man’s infinite desire plagues me. But the truth is, the Grateful Dead were more asexual than most rock and roll bands. When the portions of sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll were passed out by the divine, the Dead took two helpings of drugs, sometimes three.

So some schmoe defaces the star of John Lennon’s tourist spot on Hollywood Blvd., and my whole rap about Jerry and my yearnings to know more about the darkest recesses of his sex life converge with what I know about John Lennon’s sex life, and pretty much my whole day is filthy with things I don’t want to know. So, of course, I must share them with everyone within reach. When I read the news today, oh boy, I was reminded of the bit in the unauthorized biography of Linda Lovelace where she was summoned by the penultimate submissive male, John Lennon, to demonstrate the prowess of her infamous deep throat. She claimed (or the guy writing the unauthorized bio claimed she told him) Lennon’s penis had head cheese, and did not smell very good at all. This is what I now have in my mind when I consider the man who penned ‘Imagine.’

hell in a bucket, grateful dead

Bobby and a duck with a slave collar

So anyway, the Grateful Dead were never really a sexy band. Bobby Weir, of course, was the closest thing they had to that, and Pigpen was raw sexuality; probably too much, in fact, but he left early without much of a liver, so Bobby had to carry the torch. Which of course brings me to the video for ‘Hell in a Bucket,’ for it is the strangest attempt to fit the formulaic mold for a sexy rock video that was ubiquitous in the 80′s. But it features the Grateful Dead, who shouldn’t be doing music videos at all, because they are too cool for that kind of pop culture nonsense. Or maybe they aren’t cool at all, and that’s why there should be no theatrical interpretation of this music in the 80′s MTV style. But wait, they did it, and they did it in Salvador Dali meets Helmut Newton meets PT Barnum style. Initially, the thing is a joke, and one that makes you uncomfortable like when granny isn’t sitting properly and you see her panties. But I have decided just today that this thing is genius, and it’s worth a complete exegesis (but I will spare you that for now). Jerry is of course as disinterested as he could possibly be without actually falling asleep, while Bob Weir is Don Johnson (which wasn’t even cool in the 80′s) with a kinky duck. I’m telling you, you must really consider the circus. There’s all kinds of sex in this thing. Sex is everywhere. The ravenous Catherine the Great gets a cameo. Phil gets tongue. Bobby gets chained up and whipped and somehow comes out on top because if he can’t dance he’ll crawl. And Jerry, he just stays cool at the bar, with a laid back chick in a slave collar waiting for him to finish being a bad ass mutherfucker on his Tiger. I don’t feel so alone in my Z-rated mind anymore.

But I can’t talk about that stuff today because some wookie defaced the star of the Beatle. Kids today. Enjoy the ride, kid.

I Don’t Like Mondays

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Prison rape. Gang rape. Forcible drowning in piss. How ’bout a school shooting, too? No, this isn’t an attempt to draw certain kinds of traffic to the blog. It was the happenings in the Sept. 10, 2103 premier of Sons of Anarchy. I was told by so many people to avoid watching television, and to stay away from pop culture as a subject matter, but both are really hard to avoid. I don’t even try to resist television. I try really hard to avoid pop culture, though. But man is it hard to do.

In 1979, Bob Geldof penned, “I Don’t Like Mondays” with the Boomtown Rats, a song about a 16-year old girl named Brenda Ann Spencer, who went to school and killed two adults and injured eight children in San Diego. The song title was taken straight from Spencer’s explanation of why she did it. Back then, this was the sort of incident that was a fringe oddity, perhaps worthy of an Irish new wave band’s song. It helps to contextualize and file away such a disturbing event, perhaps. My response was to approach the faculty at my son’s school. I asked my son’s teacher if she watched television.

“In the classroom?” she asked with appropriate alarm. I could see she assumed I was the head of the local Kill Your Television chapter.

“No, at home.” She looked at me as though I was hitting on her, or I had asked about some intimate detail about her sex life. “Did you see Sons of Anarchy last night?” I continued.

“No, I didn’t. Is that a good show?” She stepped back a foot, waving her wedding ring.

“There was a school shooting in it. It was really disturbing. Please tell me why you think that won’t happen here.” I knew I had crossed over at this point.

“Oh, well we have drills we do for things like that, and the gate’s are locked most of the time.”

“But this was a student. Would you be able to see if a student here was exceptionally disturbed?” This is why television is bad for you. It depicts reality but people sometimes think it is reality.

“Well, we have great counselors here,” she said.

I think I was particularly disturbed by the show because the school uniforms were too similar to the ones my son sports. And plus, these shootings are happening all the time. I actually asked the head of the school to review with me the security measures in place to keep a crazed gunman off the campus. I did it apologetically, adding that it’s so strange that we have to worry about this nowadays. So, the lunches… are they any good? Does every classroom have a smartboard? And by the way, how many snipers are positioned on the campanile?

The subject of violence has basically become webbed into the fabric of political and social discussion, and truly, that makes it a subject I try to stay so far away from, mostly because once a topic becomes socialized and politicized, that’s when all the idiots come out of the woodwork. And yet, here I am. And it goes to the top ten lines of discussion on American society today, where elections are decided on a candidate’s ability to pander to his constituents the best. Gun control, violence, taxes, sexual morals, health care, corporate greed and foreign policy (read: violence on a larger but more acceptable scale). Pick a side.

If you take any relevant social issue, and attempt to solve it, you will have to travel the vine to the causes. Infant mortality, for example. Without any stats or research, I would guess that our infant mortality rate would be improved by ensuring that pregnant people take care of themselves while pregnant, along with improving certain environmental factors, and then by possibly making sure that pregnant people have a nice place in which to give birth. The vine is going to take us to the main points that drive any election: poverty, education, health care. Recently, a guy named Michael Brandon Hill went to shoot up a school in Atlanta. He was, of course, a quiet and friendly guy until the silicone chip inside his head got switched to overload. I was astounded by the fact that people held to the idea that this guy was fine until they started messing with his meds. He was fine when he tried to set fire to his family. He just needed more aderall. For a country that complains about its health care system, we sure love to give drugs to people.

And the video games. The week following the SAMCRO debut, Rockstar Games released Grand Theft Auto V, which grossed $800 Million on the first day. They will likely sell 25 Million units of a game that will, presumably, encourage 25 million people (mostly males in school-shooting age demographic) to kill hookers and policemen with video game impunity.

Following the vine may get difficult, like uncoiling all the wire behind the tv console, but parenting seems like a good place to start. I can do that. But I can only do it for my children. I have to hope that the other parents do it, too.

Fuck, I don’t like Mondays.

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