Things I don’t understand: math mostly; the balancing equations of chemical reactions; physics in general; energy and its transformation from, say, sound into electrical currents and back into sound; frequencies carrying sound and light. These are various systems of logic, ideas I cannot easily see. I’m told I could understand these things if I studied them more closely, more patiently, with greater care. And I do understand some of their concepts; but I am too distracted, thinking instead of the way increasing pressure on the body does in fact lead to disorder; the way I like words commingling with lines and shapes to create meaning; the patterns created by circuit boards. Even the schematic legends pull me into them, not so I can read their attached diagrams but so that I might find some metaphor for the body.

The body is a system of proof, I think. I trust that it knows things my brain does not.* When my voice catches in the middle of conversation; when I misspell or misspeak or make a mistake in a letter; when my face creases and tenses and contorts as I try to untangle some personal whatever. These are little proofs: my body reminding me that there is something else, another layer of thought, another stratum to consider.

I’ve been rustling through my dad’s archives over the past few days, in search I think of some kind of spark, an electricity, something to propel me out of whatever brain or body I’m inhabiting. There are hundreds of schematics and flowcharts from his years as a chemical engineer. The diagrams are beautiful; so too are the charts describing each symbol’s meaning. I’ve found a few slide rulers: sticks with hairlines and scales used for quick multiplication or division.

I find myself more interested in the history lodged in these objects and papers more than their inherent meaning. Happening upon an article about personal computers which my dad underlined and noted in the margins good point has infinitely more meaning to me than understanding the flow of natural gas through the plant he worked at. These notes, marginalia, signatures, handwritten letters and reports are evidence of his self, his former self, his 22-25 year old self. Even his old signature, when he still signed with his middle initial “T” for Thomas, his confirmation name, suggests something to me about time and change.

But back to the objects. They are lovely, aren’t they? Old and bent and dusty with skin cells or whatever. There are conversion books which have been opened hundreds of time, annotated and splayed on tables. I can see this from where the binding splits a little, where the book naturally opens even now. Paper has memory.

I don’t know what to make of these images yet, this giant box I have with his old things. There is something about logic and the miscellaneous kinds of proofs we perceive and believe. Something also about the thin layering of history over each year. And so for now I leave you with these pictures, these objects and their silent stories.

*[Updated] This thought about the body containing some kind of inherent truth is not exactly mine, at least not wholly. See also Ander Monson.

I’ve lately been thinking about codes: coded languages, references, obfuscations, secret messages embedded in prose like winks to readers. Well actually I’ve been thinking more about electricity than codes but perhaps there is a relationship. For one, an obvious one, to think through a code (a question of logic, maybe) is to spark synapses, which are a kind of electricity. Electricity of the body. Also there is something about language, a code or several codes, and the way messages are transmitted: over the telephone, through texts and emails, through live video streams. How sort of rare it becomes to see the lines of someone’s face, where skin wrinkles or folds, to see and hear and feel the breath of a body near you.

To think and talk about electricity is to also consider magnetism: electrical currents generate magnetic fields: the earth is a magnet: maybe our bodies are magnets or certainly there is magnetism between us, between two bodies. And then too magnets help us navigate, direct us toward.

The coded languages of computers, of programs, are possible because of magnetism. Little zeroes and ones etched into metal platters within our shiny laptops and desktops. Before magnets though, programs were punched into paper and whirred through machines, read by giant computers behind locked doors. I rarely think about transmission as I type or even as I code but yes these pixelly letters are also something else. (And what I wonder is lost in these layered translations?)

My dad began coding programs in the 70s, in high school and then college; kept the sheets of paper containing his logic, his equations, which is what these images are. My favorite is the last: comprised of a guide for building flowcharts of programs. Like before my dad would write a program, he’d draw out exactly each step using these shapes, another code. And here we see decisions are diamonds, connectors are circles, communication links are like lightning bolts.

Think Quarterly is an online journal published by Google to talk about what’s happened, happening and going to happen in the digital world. In this latest issue (and the first I’ve seen), leaders in the industry offer insights about tech. Of course, much of the writing talks about what’s going on at Google specifically, and everything feels pretty Western-centric, but each author often discusses context too. From a design standpoint, the site is rather beautiful and intuitive to use. The type is simple and clean and considered. I enjoyed reading it and thought I’d share my favorite thoughts.

1. Have a mission that matters. [Susan Wojcicki]
2. Look for ideas everywhere. [Susan Wojcicki]
3. The local and personal is becoming more important in our interactions with technology. [Dennis Woodside]
4. People received about 110 messages a day during work last year. [USA Today]
5. If you know something other people don’t, it’s your job to teach people and give back to the community. [Dennis Crowley]
6. Previously, seniority and experience were traditional table stakes for innovation. Today, young people have the advantage. Look for knowledge in new places. [Allison Mooney]
7. Innovation requires different modes of thinking: stimulation, reflection, collaboration and play. [Kursty Groves]

[Illustrations by Maggie Li and Matthew Richardson.]

Lately the idea/role/pursuit of authenticity has been on my mind. Like what is the relationship between spectacle and authenticity and what do we (as individuals, as a culture) value more? Or, what do we say we value versus how we behave? And then, how does this relate to creative acts? I’m speaking in the abstract here. But think about, say, design firms who position themselves as Green or Sustainable. In what ways? Is it enough to use buzz words? How do we determine the extent to which they are actually behaving in sustainable ways? (I’m using this example because of some eco-critical texts I recently read (for instance, Rebecca Solnit’s essay All the Corners are Alive, from this book).

So I think I’ll begin an irregular, open-ended series on Authenticity. And to begin, let’s link to some discussion going on over at Essay Daily. This semester, two classes (one led by Ander Monson in Arizona, one by John D’Agata in Iowa) are reviewing essays nominated for the Essay Prize. And a week or two ago they looked at that video by the Gregory Brothers, Bed Intruder. I’m not linking to it because I found it deeply problematic in ways too lengthy to talk about here (email me). But the Autotune above by writer/thinker Daisy Pitkin and a conversation with her led to the questions: what happens when spectacle becomes [a replacement for the] authentic? Has it always been? What does authentic even mean?

Anyway, these are just some questions I’ve been mulling over. Next time, I’ll go into a more interrogated discussion. At the very least, listen to this super badass essay/song written by Daisy.