|Bean pods in the shade in the bike bike lane|
|Crunch of mesquite pods, buzz of cicada, rising monsoon humidity, back in the embrace of summer again|
|A pointer, a signifier, signage unneeded yet helpful: the dog bark is over there to the right|
|Dying century plant, symbol of mortality and aging in the desert|
If I had been able to see the future back then, for example, and had run into the right advisor, I'm confident I would now be in Online Poetry Law, working with Internet poets on copyright and publication issues, fighting for the rights of the digital bards out there who need a voice and a friend in court.
|Tree uprooted in recent storm beside the bike lane|
I've become highly sensitized to the techniques of rhetoric, marketing, eristic, and the stratagems used to win arguments by those for whom winning is mostly everything, and I find the methods highly unsatisfying. A quick read of Schopenhauer Art of Controversy will lay bare the more egregious and common methods. Nasty and common eristic does not sate me. I want to know. I want to be convinced by facts and data of answers which bleed truth.
|Scottsdale Bike Stop, hidden in the corner of the Green Belt and Thomas Road, a good spot for bike culture|
|Bicycle locking points (I think) at the Scottsdale Bike Stop (parts missing? metal thieves?)|
I want to know. I still yet have some things to attend to this summer which will preclude a normal blogging schedule. Some pleasant, some not so pleasant, some familiar and typical, some unfamiliar and strange. Some which I don't yet actually know. It's the state of not-knowing, but needing, I think, which compels us to fall back on argument, on tried and true debate methods used either on ourselves in our interior monologs or on different-others in the desperate attempt to cross the divide from here (not knowing) to there (knowing). But getting older has taught me this: if someone asks where that 80% of the light in the universe that's missing has gone, I feel bold and comfortable to reply: I don't know. I want to know, but I do not.
At this point, it's my preference for a scientist, or for that matter a poet-client of mine in an online legal matter, to show me glimpses of what might be the answer, shaded with uncertainty and doubt, but with hints of rightness, of correctness, via data or a metaphor, of pointing in what might the the right direction, instead of some bold and confident authority blaring in tedious forms of debate, of rhetoric, of marketing and eristic, The Answer.
My answers may be in my actions. On a bike ride, listening to the cicadas singing their summer songs, sounds a bit like truth to me, at times, on some hot afternoons in the shade of the mesquite trees, crunching my tires through the dry pods. I'm hoping for a more frequent blogging schedule sometime soon. Perhaps before the cicadas end their songs. We'll see. Ride on.