Tag

resonance

Anaik
In Editorial

The magic of enthralling prose

The enchantment of resonance visualized

Sketch July 2018

(5 min read)

“The best stories and novels lead the reader not to an explanation, but to a place of wonder. How do we know that? Because the books and stories and poems that mean the most to us are the ones we want to read again, to re-experience and reconsider.”

— Peter Ruchi, A Muse and a Maze

The intangible qualities of our favorite books is something most of us don’t have to think much about. But if we’ve been lucky enough to experience what Ruchi describes as “a place of wonder,” how do we repeat the experience? How do we find that place of wonder again?

My best guess is that these kinds of books and stories — the ones that lead us to a place of wonder — come across our radars in tragically random fashion.

Algorithms determining our wonder

In some ways, the question of “the best stories and novels” is answered for us. It has to be. Tens of thousands of new books are published each year (is the number knowable?) Thanks to the democratization of publishing, those numbers are sure to grow exponentially.

And I’m not forgetting that many of us obtain our knowledge — discover a sense of wonder — almost exclusively on alternative channels (hello Google, Youtube, Wikipedia, Netflix and other existing, national, and still-in-development monolithic challengers).

Because there’s so much noise in the datasphere — all that noise on all those different channels — we get really good at:

  • blocking out most of the noise (cave-man-era interruption-marketing noises)
  • skimming through the noise (whether daily or weekly or on an as-needed basis) in search of frequencies meaningful to us personally
  • getting a bit “lucky dip” about the frequencies worthy of our time and attention

Because there’s so much to skim through, we have no choice but to rely on word-of-mouth and happenstance, returning to a few reliable sources, media outlets and cultural curators, but mostly leaving it up to algorithms to decide what we might be interested in on those multiple channels.

Explainers, elucidators, enchanters

Cultural curator Maria Popova has devoted a great deal of time and energy seeking out those kinds of “books and stories and poems that … we want to read again, to re-experience and reconsider.”

In one particular infographic published on Brainpickings.org, she created what she called a visual taxonomy to “dismantle the magic of enthralling prose” especially in regards to science writing, where she proposes “the stakes are even higher” because “the standards of truth and beauty are such that the precise and the poetic must converge in order to yield both comprehension and enchantment.”

Infographic credit: Maria Popova

 

Popova first defines in those outer rings, the important foundational requirements for an effective transference of knowledge:

Explainers make information clear and comprehensible. Good textbooks are the work of good explainers.

Elucidators go beyond explanation and into illumination — they transmute information into understanding …

 

Then she gets to the golden chalice, the glowing core, of the characteristics of certain kinds of writing:

 

Infographic fragment: Maria Popova

Enchanters do all of the above, but go beyond the realm of knowledge and into the realm of wisdom. They don’t work merely toward superior levels of understanding, but toward a wholly different order of meaning…

She expounds:

 

Enchanters bend the beam of illumination through a singular lens that furnishes something richer and greater than the sum total of knowledge — a kaleidoscopic view of previously hidden layers of reality, or an integration of previously fragmented insights and shards of awareness. The result is nothing less than a firmer grasp of one’s place in the universe, producing in turn a transcendent enlargement of being.

It seems that Popova is proposing that we — at least some of the time — would rather be enchanted than merely informed or even equipped.

My theory, from ten years of dedicated reading and seeking and searching, is that while we appreciate explanations and elucidations, while we’re delighted by novelty and moved by the emotional (in books and other media) a good many of us would swim in a heartbeat towards a frequency that spoke of “a transcendent enlargement of being.”

It lights up all the best parts of our brains.

So long as it’s from a trustworthy source.

We long to enter into a state of wonder, guided by an artist or innovator who has invested a great deal of emotional labor to create something worthy of our time.

 

But how do we even begin to “dismantle the magic of enthralling prose”?

How do we even begin to untangle the wildly subjective nature of our unique receptivity to different signals? And the difference between our own receptivity and that of our reader’s?

How do next-level communicators enhance their unique frequencies with the magic of resonance and nuance?

And why even try to unravel these things?

I have been asking some really big, audacious questions for the past few years as my personal literary pilgrimage evolved into something much bigger than myself.

Some of the research has led to observations similar to the above, that books that come across our radars can fulfill needs for explanation (good) and elucidation (great) or enchantment (good plus great, and much more).

And because my research has been around big idea nonfiction (not solely science writing) as well as reader-focused nonfiction — this is one way I’ve come to visualize the good and the great frequencies:

But the stakes are higher. It’s easier than ever to get lost in the noise.

So what of enchantment?

What of wonder?

How might we evolve our understanding of “the magic of enthralling prose”?

How might we harness even more resonance to connect with those we seek to serve?

Big questions that might take a lifetime to explore.

(This is the fourth in a twenty part introductory series exploring the intersection of frequency, resonance and nuance, first published on Medium.)

Anaik
In Editorial

Ravenous beasts among us

Celebrating the ones who are hungry, hungry, hungry

Dublin resident Niamh Sharkey’s charming story explores absurdity and tension in delightful balance. Image source: Candlewick Press.

(4 min read)

In 2003, author and illustrator Niamh Sharkey published a picture book titled “The Ravenous Beast,” a lighthearted tale about the insatiable appetites of several species.

Transformed into a five minute animation by Candlewick Press, the creatures strut around boasting that they’re “hungry, hungry, hungry.” Large and small, they meet on a grassy hillside and set out to prove themselves by consuming items like houses, boats, castles and tents and everything in between.

There’s even a whale in there (you can see her at minute 3:47) who consumes a number of things, including an entire sunken pirate ship.

In a recent spring-cleaning, I came across the book again and remembered how much my children had enjoyed this story when they were little, especially the lyrical repetition at the end of each animal’s ravenous feast, a variation of the Ravenous Beast’s initial declaration:

Gobble it up! Swallow it down!
Now THAT’S what I call hungry!

Now THAT’S what I call hungry

I’ve spent over a decade on a kind of literary pilgrimage, looking for hungry people who are a bit like the ravenous creatures of Sharkey’s creation.

Not in a predatory or competitive sense.

But in a hungry, hungry, hungry sense. )See how words fail me here? I’m still trying to articulate this.)

I found some of them too. In the pages of books, mostly. But elsewhere as well. Writer’s festivals. Creative conferences. Streaming TED talks.

These people are not your average hungry.

We all know what it feels like to be hungry on many different levels

 

Oh, they know all about the pyramid of need — the basic physiological hungers for the necessities of survival, the driving urge to secure those necessities in any way possible, and once secured (or maybe whether or not secured) the nagging hunger to find belonging, respect, and some kind of meaning.

But the hungry, hungry, hungry people I was particularly looking for — the ones I found in the pages of books, mostly, but elsewhere as well — their hunger drives them far beyond the base of the self-centered pyramid of need.
Hungry, hungry, hungry

Maybe they’re just the lucky ones.

I don’t know.

I don’t think so.

I don’t think the hungry, hungry, hungry ones are immune to physiological deficits at the base of the pyramid. To regular needs for food, sleep, oxygen, intimacy, and homeostasis.

Mortality bites, sooner or later.

No amount of wealth can protect us from terminal disease, in the end.


Enchantment. Meaning. Art.

So yeah, these are not super-humans who never suffer illness, longing and loss.

They’re subject to mortality, disease, accident, heartbreak — just like the rest of us.

But it seems like they’ve learned to channel their hungry, hungry, hungry into the creation of enchantment.

It seems like there are some people — regular mortals living among us — who have learned to channel their hungry, hungry, hungry into the creation of meaning.

It seems like there are some people — again, just regular mortals — who have learned to channel their hungry, hungry, hungry into the creation of art — whether transcendent, dramatic or ludicrous.

You’re sending signals to me

Maybe that’s you. Maybe you’ve channeled your hungry, hungry, hungry into enchantment. Meaning. Art. Maybe you’re trying to do that right now.

There’s something else about these hungry, hungry, hungry people. Something that I noticed in over a decade of searching for them.

They send out signals.

All day, every day, in the cacophony and cognitive dissonance that makes up the cultural landscape of our global village, you’re sending signals into the datasphere.

Singing into the voide
Salvation. Light. Lullaby.

They might not always be the loudest signals.

They might not always be the most obvious signals.

But to a certain kind of individual, receptive to that particular frequency, they sound like salvation.

To a certain kind of individual, teetering on the edge of the abyss, they sound like light.

To a certain kind of individual, alone in a crowded city, they sound like the hum of a lullaby from the divine mother herself.

Getting hungry enough

All day, every day, in the cacophony and cognitive dissonance that makes up the cultural landscape of our global village, there are some frequencies worth listening for above the others.

And if we listen long enough and hard enough, if we’re hungry enough, then …

perhaps, perhaps …

we’ll hear those frequencies that guide us towards what we’re most hungry for.

Perhaps, perhaps we’ll be able to join the ravenous beast and say…

Now THAT’S what I call hungry.

(This is part three in a twenty part introductory series exploring the intersection of frequency, resonance and nuance, first published on Medium.)

 

 

Anaik
In Editorial

Waving to the whales

Celebrating creatures gifted with senses we lost or never attained

A cetacean breeching(7 min read)

Wherefore, for all these things, we account the whale an immortal in his species, however perishable in his individuality. He swam the seas before the continents broke water. … If ever the world is to be again flooded, like the Netherlands, to kill off its rats, then the eternal whale will still survive, and rearing upon the topmost crest of the equatorial flood, spout his frothed defiance to the skies.

— Herman Melville, Moby-Dick

Long since Melville’s epic from 1861, the modern romantic symbolism of cetaceans has worked its way into humanity’s collective imagination. There are an increasing plethora of books, movies, documentaries, artistic depictions and — thanks to the refinement of underwater photography —awe-inspiring and intimate glimpses of these creatures.

In late 2012 I stumbled across a book at the library, Floating Gold (published June, 2012), about the adventures of journalist and biologist Christopher Kemp, in his year-long search to discover ambergris.

Whiteboard sketch informally titled “surfing the dip” by Anaik Alcasas
An entry in my private journals, dated 19th March 2013, said the following:

…I feel like mother nature speaks to us, and [if] only [we] truly listen, then we’ll hear the messages she’s trying to tell us.

I discover metaphors in nature that help me to process and understand and even cope with the circumstances of life.

I have just been learning more about the mysteries of the sperm whale and in the process have hit upon an entire vein of gold (or in this case ambergris — gold of the sea) that has sparked new personal growth and writing inspiration.

Many writers and thinkers know that when the universe sends us signals, it’s something worth paying attention to.

So it’s no surprise, searching for the word “whale” in that year’s electronic journal, that cetaceans show up on the radar again. Several times.

In fact, I began to see cetaceans everywhere — magazine articles, Youtube videos, nature docos, other books.

I was especially interested in Sperm Whales in particular, in this moment in time. This from the journal entry dated Wednesday, 10th April 2013, recounting a road trip from 2012 where they again showed up on the radar:

The Sperm Whale is the largest toothed mammal, and also has the largest brain. He’s found in every ocean of the world.

He’s pretty much a global nomad and an apex predator, both. Of all the whales, he is the only one with a throat wide enough to physically swallow a man. So it’s possible Jonah [of legend and lore] became intimately acquainted with one of them.

Scientists don’t really know what the fluid inside the sperm whales ample forehead is for … they hypothesize sonar, or pressure-regulation for the deep diving, or heating …

I was visiting Australia’s capital, Canberra, last year on a family road trip, and visiting my family’s hands-down favorite science museum in this country — Questacon. We ran around on a pretty quiet day, and were lucky enough to be there in time for a talk …

Turns out Sperm Whales dive down [2100 metres or more] under the surface … where their favorite food — squid — like to hang out. But — check this out — Sperm Whales can and do dive down much farther and deeper, literally plunging into the dark[est] depths, and — get this — NOBODY KNOWS WHY THEY DO IT.

Could it be that this, largest-brained and largest-toothed giant of the sea, has an intimate acquaintance and appreciation of the stillness and silence of the dark depths?

What does he gain from diving so deep? We can only hypothesize…

I love it that we have made dizzying advances over the last century in transportation and technology, invention and innovation, and yet we are still so clueless about the habits and biology and brains of this one giant of the sea.

I think the mystery that is the Sperm Whale, is a lesson in itself. Our ignorance about this magnificent creature humbles us.

We strive so hard and so fast to cover distance, to gain ground, but perhaps the sperm whale is trying to teach us that diving deep and luxuriating in being lost in the darkened depths, will bring un-fathomed benefits to our souls.

That same year, my parents gifted me with a book titled “The Great Sperm Whale” for my birthday because I was babbling about it so much (thanks Dad! Thanks Mum!)

Written by artist and cetacean-obsessive Richard Ellis, the Moby Dick quotation placed at the beginning of this article opens Ellis’s book. Later, on page xiv, after recounting his many decades of cetacean research, writing and artistry, Ellis shares a timeless gem from writer and naturalist Henry Beston.

Beston was reportedly considered one of the fathers of the modern environmental movement and the only person said to have influenced the writing of Silent Spring author Rachel Carson. Here’s Beston in his own words:

We need another and a wiser and perhaps a more mystical concept of animals. … In a world older and more complex than ours they move finished and complete, gifted with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations, caught with ourselves in the net of life and time, fellow prisoners of the splendour and travail of the earth.

— Henry Beston

So I suppose you might say the love affair with cetaceans has gone on for years, collectively and also personally, and there are more stories and journal entries. But why even share this now?

The symbolism of Frequency: a fairytale — a creative piece I shared recently — does go into metaphorical territory. If it’s not obvious already, it soon will be. Frequency: a fairytale was an attempt to begin “waving to the whales” I’ve admired from afar for so long.

But before the deep dive into some multi-year research regarding 52Hz songsters and the frequency, resonance and nuance of their songs, I wanted to give a nod to the real-life majestic beasts, the gentle giants, the wise ones of the ocean.

Before the deep dive into the unique resonance and frequencies of big-hearted communicators who are saying and singing things few others are saying and singing, I wanted to pause a moment to celebrate the real-life whales — all the species of cetacean — occupying our oceans and reminding us through their majesty to protect and cherish this planet.

I especially wanted to celebrate the unique loners among them like 52 and the white whale Migaloo and his buddies — who capture our hearts and our imaginations so well.

“Godfather of coral” Charlie Veron released a scientific memoir titled A Life Underwater in 2017, to celebrate over 50 years of scuba diving that continues to transform the world’s understanding of coral reefs. An informative, surprisingly funny and also moving work by a master of underwater pattern recognition , Veron draws correlations from decades of underwater observations of reefs the world over. He was publishing warnings about the dangers of coral bleaching decades before others added further resonance to the dire condition of our oceans through multi-media storytelling.

And, because the universe is faithful to send us consistent signals, it should come as no surprise that the godfather of coral sat down beside me on a beach-side park bench in August of 2017, just as the Byron Bay Writer’s Festival was kicking off. What began as an innocuous conversation about visiting from other cities for the festival turned into a lively conversation about the Great Barrier Reef, whales, conservation, traveling the world, and what it might take to get the word out regarding his exhaustive and continuing work identifying corals of the world.

So it seems fitting to close this article with the godfather of coral’s own unexpected encounter with a whale, as told in his book, A Life Underwater:

Diving on the outer face of Tijou Reef [the outer face of the entire northern Great Barrier Reef] was memorable for another, absolutely extraordinary reason. A couple of us were down about 20 metres or so when we were hit — there’s no other word for it — by a blast of the deepest and most intense sound imaginable, as if we were in front of the biggest pipe of a giant organ. The same thing happened again the following year. I had no idea what it could possibly be until, many years later, I talked to a researched who worked on whale sounds. He said it would have been a whale, probably a sperm whale, checking us out, doubtless because they hadn’t come across divers before. I’d never heard of this happening to anyone else, and nor had he. Maybe most whales today know about scuba divers and ignore them? The answer still eludes me.

 

(This is part two in a twenty part introductory series exploring the intersection of frequency, resonance and nuance, originally published on Medium.)