If you’re reading this review, you most probably belong to the group of people this book is targeted to: surfers of the net with accounts on multiple social networks, members of the “church of Google” (as Mr. Carr describes it in the book), all-around internet addicts but with the kind of soft addiction that hardly gets noticed, like drinking alcohol or thinking in clock time.
Actually, The Shallows makes many analogies on how the Internet has and will physically change our mind based precisely on the way clocks and even maps rewired the way we think — more mechanical, more abstract, more scientific. In the Web’s case, it’s also more up-to-date, more social, more ___ . You fill in the blanks with your favourite hip word used to describe how we’re all connected 24/7, how we’ve all got access to instant gratification/information, etc. I won’t trumpet the Web’s success in this review.
Marshall McLuhan, a pioneering media studies academic often referenced in the book, said that “our tools end up numbing whatever part of our body they amplify. When we extend some part of ourselves artificially, we also distance ourselves from the amplified part and its natural functions. […] Today’s industrial farm worker, sitting in his air-conditioned cage atop a gargantuan tractor, rarely touches the soil at all–though in a single day he can till a field that his hoe-wielding forebear cound not have turned in a month. When we’re behind the wheel of our car, we can go a far greater distance than we could cover on foot, but we lose the walker’s intimate connection to the land.” How would these analogies transfer to the information age? Which parts of us have been amplified as well as numbed by the Web? Are we conscious of these changes? Is it possible to really be aware of them when they have made us?
People gained a lot by inventing writing, books, maps, clocks, but always lost something in the process. Even though a lot is said about what was gained from the evolution of information technology throughout the ages (I should know that a lot is said, I studied cultural technology and communication!), there is little discussion in respect to what was lost with every new development. The human capacity for memory has definitely been one of the biggest sufferers: a punch from writing, a second one from printing, a kick from multimedia… The stab to the vital organ, however, is definitely coming from the Web. I don’t want to sound technophobic, I’m obviously far from it, but that doesn’t and shouldn’t stop me from observing my own loss of memory and ability to focus as it is being outsourced to the Web and related technologies, realising that my concentration, brain, interests and personaliy are being formed by the Medium Of The Most General Nature. If the Web proves to be the really great change it has already successfully shown and promised it shall further be, then there must be at least some discussion about which parts of us are most threatened by this new sacred technology and whether or not we should, in fact, duly sacrifice them for it.
The Shallows isn’t a perfect book but it does an excellent job of showing the darker side of what we’ve grown to love or use so much we never even think about (when was the last time you thought that writing and reading isn’t “natural” the same way speaking is?) In doing so, the book is quite fascinating. What it brings forward ought to be discussed this very moment, in the shaping years of this new technology, for change has never been this dramatic, so quick, what’s at stake has never been so important and far-reaching — both the potential liberating benefits as well as the dangers. I don’t have much hope there will actually be any discussion; just have a look at all other areas of importance and how great we’re doing with those. I do however appreciate that there is at least some pondering going on on what being human means and how the recent developments have changed this question as well as the questioners themselves.
I realise that people from antiquity all the way to more recent years have always welcomed the respective changes with similar scepticism. Socrates thought that writing would bring forgetfulness to the soul; the radio, it was feared, would kill books forever. Nevertheless, “we’re still here”, one might say, usually adding “better than ever”. We forget, of course, that there is no way of knowing what we used to be capable of. We can’t know what the human mind was before the universal adoption of every change, the same way we can’t know what a language sounded like in the days of old. Neither can we perhaps stop these changes from happening. But what we at the very least can do is talk and think about them. Be aware of them. The Shallows helps in that respect and therefore deserves the 5 stars.
If you haven’t been distracted from Facebook or some other flashy website away from this review already, do also have a look at the book’s review by The New York Times.
I hadn’t cleaned up my hard disks in over 3 years. I hadn’t put any kind of effort in trying to organize my downloaded and created data. I had four “Downloads” folders, all moved around when their size had filled their respective disks up like oversized dinners, three “Torrents” folders similar to 3 overflowing buckets under a leaky roof, various backup and transfer folders I hadn’t even touched since I had created them…
What a mess.
I’ll have you know I used to be very anal about the organization of my folders. Somewhere along the way this changed, along with too many other things to count. I think the fact that I’ve lost about 4 hard disks worth of data, some of it easily replaceable, some of it unique, helped me get over the illusion that digital organization can in any way be meaningful or productive, if meant for long-term archiving. After years of having the impression that whatever I put into little digital boxes would stay there, at some point I stopped thinking that any of this mattered. I started organising my data the way I do in the physical world: not by association and relevance, but by chronological order. Folders became little photographs of my past downloading activity, clumped together like mushrooms under trees. Trees whose branch would have months, periods, important events and other flashbulb markers of time carved on their barks.
Suddenly then came Dafni and had a look at the mess I realised that by having 15 folders with downloaded music not propertly filed and organised, I only made it harder for me. When would the day come, when the “New Music” folder would join the ranks of my older music? Was it really new anymore after having sat there for more than 2 years?
I emptied my cardboard boxes. I threw them out. As much as I didn’t feel 100% comfortable with it, I put my newer data together with my old. I’ve crossed the Rubicon. I’ve pulled down the Wall. Now I have 200GBs free, all of my music is in the same place and a collection of movies I had forgot I had downloaded. It’s like suddenly discovering many pimples in the same place, eagerly waiting to be popped, or being returned many books at the same time you never remembered you had lent out.
Not bad.
Fast-forward to another three years, I’m sure I still won’t have listened to the same music I hadn’t touched before, and of all this movie collection I’ll have watched a tiny fragment, forever believing that one day, things will be different.
Hadn’t posted something like this in some time. “The limits of my language mean the limits of my world”, said Ludwig Wittgenstein not that long ago, relatively speaking. “The limits of my pop culture are the limits of my world” he might have said today. Thanks Garret for the link.
xkcd is one of my favourite web comics. Not that I’m following a whole lot of others; it’s just on the top of a smallish stack. That said, the humour can be very hit or miss depending on the reader’s mastery of the niche subject in question each time. The über math geek jokes fly right over my head but every so often I might be able to understand some of the not-too-obvious computer/internet or somewhat less specific science jokes. This can be very gratifying, therefore I think I can envision the satisfaction one feels when they get the joke, when most others wouldn’t. In that sense there most definitely is something for everyone in xkcd, even for those who could only leniently ever be called geeks.
As far as the specifics of this collection of strips go, the selection isn’t bad, though it is a bit outdated by now. I should also note that I can’t for the life of me understand the meaning of the extra sidenotes printed in red throught the book. It would be not at all unfitting of mr. xkcd if he had put them there just to troll readers and make them feel stupid. No biggie though: see above.
Overall I’m giving this 4 stars because I think the web presentation suits the material better, not to mention there’s always access to the entirety of the content. But I wouldn’t want to give the impression that I’m complaining, no no: if there ever was an experience worth having, smartphones and laptops barred, reading xkcd on the loo would be it.
“I don’t know why I find it intensely erotic to stand naked before an open fridge, but I do. Maybe it’s something to do with the expectation of a hunger soon to be satisfied, maybe it’s that the spill of light on my body makes me feel like a professional stripper. Maybe something weird happened to me when I was young. It is an alarming feeling, mind, because all those assembled food-stuffs put ideas in your head you’re on the rise. Stories of what you can do with the unsalted butter on ripe melons or raw liver, they crowd your head as the blood begins to rush.
“I spotted a big slab of Red Leicester and pulled off a piece with my hands. I stood there chewing for some time, buzzing with happiness.
“Thas was when the idea came to me, full born.
“The force of it made me gape. A mashed pellet of bread fell from my open mouth and at once the blood flew upwards to the brain where it was needed, leaving my twitching excitement below with nothing to do but shrink back like a started snail.”
No wonder this man can write so eloquently and wittily about penises. It’s a great thing it’s not just them he can write like that about.
Stephen Fry is some sort of homo universalis: a modern day Leonardo Da Vinci, only much funnier. He’s an actor, a humourist, a TV show preseneter, a walking encyclopedia, an activists for gay rights, a linguist… an intellectual all around. I had no idea he was a writer on top of all that but it comes as no real shock. One can’t resist but nod silently, in contemplation and agreement to Mitchell & Webb’s “who doesn’t want to be like Stephen Fry?”.
Imagine my surprise when I found out that the book I had picked from Politeia, just because it had “Stephen Fry” and “History” written with large playful letters on the cover where it also had a picture of a cat, had to do with WWII and alternate history. I was thrilled! It’s been some time since I last read a 500-page book in less than 10 days. It was a good page-turner, not too memorable or original, but for a lover of good alternate history and for one that wouldn’t turn down well-written science fiction, it was rather good.
I know that the best part of such stories, at least for me, is finding out the little details of the “fictional” worlds that have branched out differently. Therefore, I shall not disclose anything but what’s necessary to whet your appetite: if Hitler had never been born, how can we be sure that the evil he was responsible for would have been equally prevented? Would Rock & Roll have ever been born? Would Orwell live to write 1984? What would the computers look like in 1996 — the year the book was written? Stephen Fry in his signature cerebral style includes real historical tidbits on many personalities of the past as well as science and cultural background that make the thing more believeable. It seems only right that a man with a broad range of interests such as himself would be the perfect candidate to write such a demanding genre as alternate history.
I’ll roll this review up leaving you with this: at one point of the book, the protagonist decides that the format of a novel is not enough to convey the action; the book promptly switches to telling the story by means of being a film script, only to switch back when the heavy action’s suddenly over:“I fade from Hollywood screenplay format to dull old, straight old prose because that’s how it felt. That’s how it always feels in the end.
Το Animasyros μπορεί να έγινε πριν ενάμισι μήνα σχεδόν όμως μόλις τώρα βρήκα την όρεξη να συνθέσω ένα ποστάκι για τα ωραία πράματα που είδα εκεί. Ίσως να είναι επειδή αυτές τις μέρες βλέπω πολύ animation! 🙂 Περιλαμβάνονται ταινίες πρωτοεμφανιζόμενες, συμμετοχές στο διαγωνιστικό αλλά και επιλογές από αφιερώματα. Ετοιμαστείτε να σας κάνω τον browser σκατά!!
Silhouette animation με ξεκάθαρο οικολογικό μήνυμα και περιβάλλοντα που θυμίζουν video game – με την καλή έννοια. Από την Ισπανία με αγάπη και guay factor.
Τι είναι αυτό που κάνει τους ανθρώπους λιγότερο ή περισσότερο στρεσαρισμένους; Πολύ πετυχημένο.
Σε έναν κόσμο όπου αντί για κεφάλια όλοι οι άνθρωποι έχουν γραμμόφωνα και τηλέφωνα, κατα τη διάρκεια του Μεσοπολέμου, ο ιάπωνας γραμμοφωνο-κέφαλος πιανίστας πρωταγωνιστής πάει στη Βενετία για να σπουδάσει σύνθεση μαζί με τη γάτα του που παίζει όμποε και γκο (!). Δεν νομίζω ότι χρειάζεται να πω κάτι άλλο για να σας πω ότι αυτή η ταινία μου κέρδισε την καρδιά. Είναι και από την Αυστραλία, μπουτουγού. Μια ταινία που πολύ θα ήθελα να υπάρχει ολόκληρη κάπου εκεί έξω…
Stop-motion με ένα ψάρι-τενόρο που θρηνεί τον επερχόμενο του χαμό στο τηγάνι. Πρώτο βραβείο στο Animasyros 5.0.
Seven days in the Warsaw ghetto. Ο τίτλος τα λέει όλα.
Άλλη μια παραγωγή εξ Δανιμαρκίας. 12 ζωγραφιές τη μέρα (1 δευτερόλεπτο κίνησης) για τρία χρόνια. Απίστευτη ιδέα!
Paths of War. Εξαιρετικό 3D το οποίο θα μπορούσε να είναι λίγο πιο μικρό σε διάρκεια. Αξίζει σίγουρα πάντως να το δει κανείς — απλά πείτε μου αν έχετε δει καλύτερα animated dogfights.
Στις προβολές όλοι το βαρέθηκαν αυτό εδώ — λογικό, αφού δεν είχε υπότιτλους και λέει την ιστορία ενός τύπου που αναπτύσει κάποιου είδους εγκεφαλική διαταραχή. Τρέχα γύρευε, πού να καταλάβουν… Από τις πιο συνταρακτικές ταινίες που έχω δει, από αυτές που καταφέρνουν να σε βάζουν για τα καλά στο μυαλό ενός ψυχασθενή που μέρα με τη μέρα χάνεται και περισσότερο — and what a disturbing experience it was indeed (μεταφραστές, think fast: disturbing ή unsettling στα ελληνικά. Δεν μπορώ να βρω κατάλληλη λέξη) . Κανονικά, είναι μεγάλου μήκους (κοντά ~60 λεπτά) αλλά αξίζει. Συνέντευξη με τον Don Hertzfeld εδώ.
Παλιό (1994) αλλά διαχρονικό. Δεν το ήξερα πάντως. Είναι από αυτά τα «σας προκαλώ να μην γελάσετε βλέποντας το». Εμπρός, σας προκαλώ. Δείτε το και προσπαθήστε να μην γελάσετε.
ΚΑΙ σε αυτό σας προκαλώ να μην γελάσετε. Αλλά αυτό είναι ένα αποσβολωτικό, καταπληκτικό μείγμα cyberculture, καφρίλας, political incorrectness στο φουλ, αυτοπαρωδίας και ευρηματικού randomness (καινούργιο challenge για τους μεταφραστές που μπορεί να μας διαβάζουν, αυτή η λέξη). Όχι για όλους.
“Based on a true story”, είπε σε όλους μας ο Patrick καθώς μας απευθύνθηκε στο Θέατρο Απόλλων της Σύρου (και μετά τον γνώρισα και στο afterparty. Και μπορώ να τον καταλάβω, γιατί κι εμένα όλη αυτή η ιστορία μου φάνηκε γνώριμη… πολύ γνώριμη…
Το Handshake και το Drink να αναφέρω σε αυτό το σημείο ότι είναι εξ ολοκλήρου ζωγραφισμένα στο χέρι. Κι εδώ υποκλινόμαστε και λέμε, φίλε, όταν μεγαλώσω και γίνω animator, θέλω να κάνω τα παιδιά σου, θελω να μου δείξεις την τέχνη, θέλω να συνεχίσεις να είσαι το mancrush μου, oh forget it!
Και τέλος αυτό για το οποίο παραμίλαγα:
Ο τύπος πήγε από τη Λισαβόνα στις Αζόρες και έφτιαξε φιλμάκι animation βασισμένο στα σκιτσάκια που έκανε στο σημειωματάριο του. Το τρέιλερ απλά δεν φτάνει, όπως και για πολλά από τα παραπάνω, να περιγράψει το μεγαλείο. Όχι μόνο Ταξιδιώτης με Τ κεφαλαίο και εραστής της περιπέτειας αλλά και καλλιτέχνης. Πολλά θα είχε να πει για σένα ο Nietzsche, αγαπητέ δημιουργέ.
Well, this time the blue moon just happened to be in August. Everyone started going bananas over how that one was going to be this August’s large moon, nevermind all the talk over whether it would actually be blue or not.
Just to make things clear at this point: August full moons aren’t larger than the rest of the year’s full moons, contrary to the widely believed fact (no less by yours truly until fairly recently) — the proximity cycle doesn’t coincide with the luminosity/phase cycle. In fact, it was only this May that the full moon happened to be the same day as that month’s perigee. Anyway, I digress.
Museums and archaeological sites were open for the night, couples everywhere were enjoying their romantic night out, people were outside cherishing their last days of summer wondering what was so special about this moon in particular.
In another realm, a digital one, the Scythian discovered the five sylvan sprites, fought with the Bright Moon Trigon, jammed along with Jim Guthrie, all the while feeling a hand guiding her actions. A hand belonging to a person who hadn’t had a gaming experience so moving and intense in quite some time.
If you ask me years from now what I was doing on this day of the blue moon, I’ll probably remember the Scythian’s adventures in the world of Superbrothers: Sword & Sworcery EP under the bright moon of ambiguous actuality.
I find that this experience speaks tons about how much and how quickly our digital and our physical lives have already blended… and beyond a shadow of doubt will continue to do so to spectacular, terrible, unimaginable levels.
Spoilers ahead:
Jamming with Jim Guthrie, the game’s composer:
Battling the unimaginable geometry of the Bright Moon Trigon:
How many were there of your parents? 2. Of your grandparents? 4. Of your great-grandparents? 8. Of your great-great-greandparents? 16.
How many generations until we reach 64? Only 7, going back roughly 150 years, if we assume that every birth comes 20-25 years after the last. At 10 generations back, not too long before the Greek Revolution of 1821, this number reaches 512. If we go another 10 generations back and touch the early 16th century, when the Ottoman Empire was at the peak of its power with Suleyman the Magnificent at its reins, when America had just started being conquered by the Spaniards and when Michelangelo Buonarroti was sweating under the ceiling of the Capela Sistina, the number of your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandparents alive at the time will have already exploded to 1,048,576. At this rate, of course, and if we take into account that we humans have existed as a species for over 100,000 years (even if we steer clearly away from counting our humanoid ancestors, and before them the Common Ancestors, and before them some obscure mammals, and before them some synapsid and his lot and the beat goes on), it doesn’t take long to reach trillions of individuals and beyond, extraordinary numbers that humanity never saw, even if we put all the homo sapiens that ever lived in its history and prehistory together! To be exact, it’s said or theorised (which doesn’t count as much if you get down to it) that all of us are descended from a small group of homo sapiens that survived the last Ice Age. The answer to this apparent mystery is that there has simply been a lot of incest around — incest that we would probably not even count as such. If my great-great-great-greatgrandfather from my mother’s side was the brother of my great-great-great-great-grandmother from my father’s side, it wouldn’t remotely count as incest, etc.
Our genealogy is as mysterious and magical as is our history: we know, we can know so little about it, that we easily fill in the rest using our imagination’s colourful palette. As we do with anything unknown and mysterious, that is to say with everything.
The matter is definitely a chaotic mess. I shall incist however on the initial number. 7 generations, 64 ancestors. It seems to me like the perfect combination of control and proximity: were it larger it would soon be out of control and any form of sense of closeness to those distant ancestors would be lost; any smaller and we would lose most of the magic and complexity lying therein. Not to mention that 7 and 64 are nice, round, culturally powerful and significant numbers that please the eye, our aesthetics, and that thing deep inside of us that complains when a frame is crooked or that makes us wait observantly for the split second in which the green and red lighthouses at the entrance of the port will synchronise their flashes of different frequency.
Let us cut to the chase. In my experience, when talking nowadays about genealogy we use two terms: trees and families.
As usual, I have my objections.
Fernando Chamarelli -- http://www.galleryad.com/art/archives/art/backroom/fernando_chamarelli_pangea/
The idea of using trees to describe a family when we ourselves are the trunk, as in the image above, seems strange to me. Family trees would be OK in the representational sense if we were the trunk, our roots were the ancestors and our branches and leaves were our descendants. I have never, however, seen such a tree being used for this purpose.
Next is the family, the surname. There’s something of the question “where do you come from?” nesting in their use. It took me years to understand that this question is generaly translated as “where’s your father from” and to tell you the truth, I’m not at all sure whether “from Australia!” has been the answer that all who have asked me have wanted to know, despite the almost unbearable honesty of the reply. I was born, raised, and live in Nea Smyrni, Athens, Greece, after all!
Perhaps this is happening for the same reason surnames sport certified name of origin characteristics; tell me your surname so I can tell you who, or at least where from, you are. That’s certainly half the truth — or to be exact, much, much less than half of it: only men in the genealogy share the surname, with women losing themselves in this mixture like salt in water. Many family trees even study their family’s history not based on the people but on the name, especially in older times and in noble dynasties, trying to find everyone that shares that name and are relatives or descendants, without however giving much notice to the women that joined, and still do, the family, perhaps only because of the sheer necessity of the matter. Besides, I believe it’s relevant that in much of history, definitely in Christian and Muslim history, men wanted sons so that their family as reflected through their name could endure throughout the ages.
Thus I wanted to portray the above and more in some creative and imaginative way. What I ended up with is this (as you must have noticed at the top of the article):
Why mandalas?
Mandalas are radial, symmetrical shapes, symbols of wholeness, cyclicity and at the same time of the moment, the greatness and insignificance of the now, at least in the context of the philosophy that gave birth to them, Hinduism and later Buddhism. Carl Jung was deeply inspired by them: he used to ask of his patients to draw mandalas and he later used the results as aids for his diagnoses. He believed that within the symmetry and the shapes there was a sequence to be found, a meaning to be discovered behind the use of the various drawings that they comprised. The uniqueness that emerged was, he believed, the essence of the individual him-or herself.
This clean-cut geometricity indeed has something soothing and wholesome about it; I can’t describe it any other way. Furthermore, the concepts of repetition and expansion and the one significant centre fit genealogy like a glove.
The symbolisms behind genealogy under the prism of the mandala are many and will vary depending on the person. The ones I choose, the connections I discovered that I found inspiring, are the below:
Man-woman equality
Any given great-grandmother is just as important as any given great-grandfather…
Devaluation of the surname.
Because, someone, somewhere, could have been a woman, and then I’d have a different surname, which I’d cherish as much as the one I have now…
…even if I’ve inherited my surname from that great-grandfather.
Disconnection of family history with surname history.
64 ancestors, 64 names (except if we have the cases of knowing or unknowing incest mentioned above). Only one prevails. Why?
Those 64 people your existence connected 170 years after their birth, are all equally responsible for your existence today.
Emergence of local roots and emmigration. Abolition of national false pride.
If I filled in my own mandala, one quarter of it would have lots of “Smyrni”/”Izmir” in it, which would soon dissolve in the depths of Turkey (and who knows where else… the city was the “New York of the Eastern Mediterranean” at its time, after all). Another half of it would have “Australia” writtern all over it but even that would turn into England, even Wales if my sources are correct, the further back I went. Again, who knows what else.
Who knows what 64 parts of the world I’m from?
Is one born or does one become Greek? Hm… Good question. My father got his Greek citizenship after he had lived in Greece for more than 20 years — what is he, Australian or Greek? Similarly, many 2nd generation immigrants, young and old, choose to be Greek because they were born and grew up in Greece. Their children — the 3rd generation– will probably search for the roots their grandparents abandoned by force, while they themselves will by then be indistinguishable from “normal” Greeks. This has happened countless times in Greece’s history. Before the Albanian emmigrations of the early ’90s, there had been many others, centuries ago. The same holds true for the Asia Minor Greeks who were treated like Turks when they first arrived to the shores of Attica and Macedonia but are now bragging about their “macedoniality”, even if their ancestors haven’t been living in Macedonia but for 2 or 3 generations (Google Translate is acceptable for this page), from 1922 onward. On the contrary, they might cut their emmigratory personal history short or forget it altogether as they prefer feeling descendants of Alexander than “merely” Greeks from Pontus, Asia Minor, Capadocia etc. Besides, the national sentiment must stand high and proud against the menacing FYROMites, North Macedonians or what have you… Just remember that those Macedonians might be more Macedonians than the Macedonians. Not descendants of Alexander or some other pitiful misguided conclusion, mind you, no: more Macedonians than the Macedonians because maybe their family has been living in the general region called Macedonia for centuries. Have I come across as wanting to be controversial? Mission accomplished!
Naturally, it’s not just Macedonians, Albanians, Pontians or other more recent immigrants that have decided that Greece should be their home country. Vlachs, Arvanites, North Epirotes, catholic Greeks of Syros (and other catholic islanders) and many others who were and are some of the greekest of Greeks, are now treated as minorities in the Greek state which is trying so hard to retain its purity and its Single Story. In vain of hatred, discrimination and national complexes, we all sacrifice eachother’s family tradition. We have no IDEA of our history and thus we believe the first simplistic fairytale we come across. THAT’s what national identity is about: leveling out and simplification. It’s a goat herder’s pen with the minimum common denominator of historical ignorance as its criteria. It comes as no surprise then that being historically ignorant we learn to disrescpect and even hate, again and again, generation by generation, all that is different — a deviation with which we might have common roots or even be descended from, more or less. Wise were the words of George Bernard Shaw: “Patriotism is, fundamentally, a conviction that a particular country is the best in the world because you were born in it.”
A better understanding of our individual family history can help us be a little more sceptical when dealing with simplified and kitsch national stories. It might help us see that our home town or country is of course very important when it comes to our identity but is not more than a point in time and space which is significant to us just because it is our own. In the age we are going through, let us not allow oral history, that of pain, emmigration, pain, co-existence and complexity be lost under the weight of national epics.
Never allow others to force your roots down your throat: discover them on your own.
The roots are tangled, the past is mysterious and complex.
Of course, the above isn’t at all easy to pull off. The more back we go, the more difficult –in a gemetrical progression– it becomes to keep track of everyone! Perhaps in future generations, now that we record everything, it will be easier for our great-great-great-great-great-grandchildren (if we of have any, that is, for there’s also the problems of aging population and infertility…) to find us. The cases, however, of people who are alive now and know where the ancestors of their great-grandparents were from, are few and far between. We can rarely go back more than a single century, let alone two or three. This mystery, as forbidding as it might feel, is just as worth it to embrace and accept. In the example mandalas this is clear: the 7th generation is appropriately mixed up and it becomes more obscure(?) and harder to keep track of. But that’s just the way it is.
As you set out for the Past…
Creative freedom.
I think it’s very important for us to be able to colour all aspects of life and beautify them as each one of us sees fit, for us to be free to create even with and on the simplest of things.
Mandalas don’t have too many rules and they are simple enough. I don’t believe that any special kind of artistic inclination is needed for anyone to fill in their own genealogical mandala exactly the way they like.
By far the toughest part of making our genealogy into a mandala will be to give it a soul and substance, for it to be a work as beautiful as it might be complete with meaning, a piece of cultural representation that will satisfactorily represent its own story.
I put my trust in us.
Here is a blank mandala in the circular shape of the second image. Print it out or open it on Photoshop and…
…happy creations!
Colour me, draw on me, fill me in, make me yours...
The Shallows: How the Internet Is Changing the Way We Think, Read and Remember by Nicholas G. Carr
