Notes

But there are a sort of Saints meet to be your companions, in another manner, but that they be concealed.  You must therefore make yourself exceeding virtuous that by the very splendour of your fame you may find them out.  While the wicked are like heaps of rubbish, these few jewels lie buried in the ruins of mankind: and must diligently be digged for.  You may know them by their lustre, and by the very desire and esteem they have of you when you are virtuous.  For as it is the glory of the sun that darkness cannot approach it, because it is always encompassed with its own beams; so it is the privilege of Holy Souls, that they are always secure in their own light, which driveth away devils and evil men: and is accessible by none, but lovers of virtue.  Beginners and desirers will give you the opportunity of infusing yourself and your principles into them.  Practicers and growers will mingle souls and be delightful companions.  The sublime and perfect, in the lustre of their spirit, will show you the Image of Almighty God and the joys of Heaven.  They will allure, protect, encourage, comfort, teach, honour and delight you.  But you must be very good, for that is the way to find them.  And very patient to endure some time, and very diligent to observe where they are.

Centuries of Meditation 1:82
Thomas Traherne
(1636-1674)

In mathematics, many number-theory proofs stipulate "if the Riemann hypothesis holds". The Riemann hypothesis would seem to most non-mathematicians to be a rather esoteric thing, surely not something that supports much of modern mathematics. In very simple lay terms, it states that there is a particular pattern to the way prime numbers are distributed on the number line. Of course, it states this in a much more precise way, in the arcane language of number theory. But that's the gist of it.

Philosophy also has a stipulation, although usually not so clearly stated. It is "objective reality". You don't get far without stipulating objective reality. Of course, there is solipsism, the belief system that says that you are all that exists; that everything is the product of your mind, your imagination. Sure, it is an internally consistent belief system, unassailable. I find it very unsatisfying, and while I recognize it, I don't embrace it. I doubt that it has any true adherents, especially sane ones.

Most of us accept that there exists an objective reality, one each of us perceives, albeit differently. We believe that there is something real, in which we participate. Each of us believes that others consider us to be part of reality, and vice-versa. This is what I mean when I say "objective reality". It is this that I stipulate, usually implicitly, here explicitly.

Each of us is different, and part of that difference is our place within reality. We exist at different locations and times. Further, our senses are different -- we see things differently; feel, smell, hear things differently. Within our separate heads, we construct models of reality, based upon what we sense, so our models are different.

We use language to communicate, and in that communication, we rely upon some commonality between our respective models. As we communicate, those models adapt to each other, and in doing so become more similar. That, essentially, is what the word "communication" means.

Karla is a friend, and one of the founders and shining lights of Harpers Hall.

I really don't know how it happens.  At some point I find a new tune playing in my head.  Then I think, "This sounds like Karla." (Or whomever, that's just what happened with this one.)

When I go to write it down, I may make some changes, but the gist of it remains.

I found this poem a decade ago, and the "feel" and "shape" of the music grew around it. I finally got around to writing it down, and contacted the author, who kindly gave me permission to use the poem. So, here's "Flocking":

Silence broken by stifled cry
wells tear in sympathetic eye.

 Deep within wherein are kept the secret salves,
retrieve the one, the only one,
that will ease the passing.

 For do dreams daily die, each one
so fragile, yet they butterfly the sun,
and in the hurricane of life are thrown down on the stone ground.

 Zeal sky glows fear upon the hatred earth,
and peace is not.
Chill darks, and ruin-hued clouds frown dismay upon the ashes.

 Dreams that die
mortal and quicken the ashes.

 Do not the ashes call forth?

 Do not the ancient songs flow to now and ever?

 For are there not dreams, yet?

 Wash the bitter from the sympathetic eye.
The dream does not forever die.

My older son has a song, as I mentioned in a previous post. This is his song.

Leslie lives in Malone, New York. I was introduced to Leslie by Kim (previous post, q.v.) on tha Intarwebs. It seems that Kim was posting in her blog about some of the quirks of Malone (like a third of its population is convicted felons or something like that), and Leslie was with the Malone Chamber of Commerce. Anyway, Kim posted some stuff in the Intertubes and Leslie found it and joined the discussion, in Malone's defense. Soon afterward, Leslie decided to leave the Chamber of Commerce, but we shouldn't go all post hoc, ergo propter hoc about it. Unlike Kim, Leslie does have birthdays, so I gave her this tune for one of them.

My internet friend Kim lives in Malone, New York. She keeps a blog at http://thedarwinexception.wordpress.com where she documents her life and the lives of her neighbors. Kim is a champion knitter, often winning prizes at the county fair. She does not have birthdays, so I gave her this song for one of her unbirthdays.

This is the song that came into my head and attached itself to my younger son, Joey. It's been his song since he was a baby, and it remains his song. I don't know how it happens, it just does. "Sapphire Eyes" is Cathy's song, and Jeremy, my oldest son, has a song, too, but I have not ever written it down. I should do that.
 
Anyway, this is Joey's song. It's the "bop-bop" song because when I sing it, the first two phrases go "Bop-bop, bop-bop-e-bop". (The remainder of the lyrics are "da da-da da da da da-da da" and so on.)

Each year the harp group I'm in holds a retreat near Pescadero, California. The retreat is just that, a get-away. It is not a conference; there is no schedule, there are no seminars, no classes. There is poor cellphone reception, no television, no internet. It is just a gathering of friends, most of whom play harp. In 2008, I composed this piece while there. The title, while evocative, is just a title.