Juggling.

I am up too early in the morning, juggling
in my head.

This is what researching complexity does to you  - you find yourself with two many balls spinning around in your brain.





Fuck it.

I dropped an F word.

I have diminished responsibility.

Sorry.

Some of those balls have been thrown into the air by others.

Stop it, stop it, bloody stop it.

There it is.

I dropped a B word.

It's your fault.

There are too many of them now.

All at once.

Damn.

I dropped a D word.

I keep trying, but I need to practice more to keep it up.

"Cheers."

Damn that Nietzshe.

What was it Sarah was saying the other day?

She had dream dialogues with a dead German philosopher.

Well as long as he left her to sleep and he didn't wake her up.

I am beyond dreaming.

I am regretfully awake.

At half past four in the morning.

I woke up to go and paste the juggling photo on a conference presentation.

That's what was keeping me up.

Up till midnight transcribing a conversation with a young teacher in a bar.

What was it that he said at the beginning of the dialogue?

"Cheers."

Then the conversation went on for another fifty two minutes.

"Cheers."

I have done eleven minutes of transcription.

It took me an hour.

"Cheers."

So here I am.

I have all these bloody balls in my head.

Some of them are nodes on networks - people, stories, discourses, smartphones, classrooms.

Others are spread out over time.

Others you need a zoom lens to see and study.

I have turned into some sort of biologist with a microscope.

I have turned into some sort of naturalist in a hide listening to bird song, watching a fox, watching an owl, watching a boar eating acorns, watching me, watching me.

I keep my head low, I wear camouflage for fear that I will disturb the wildlife.

Is this my bloody hide?

It will get me skinned.

Touches of sense?

Touches of madness rather.

It was Waldrop that set it off.

Well he dropped a bloody ball.

Well God...you have to blame somebody.

And muggins here picked it up.

And now it's spinning around in my head.

At dawn.

At.

At.

"The edge of chaos, the constantly shifting battle zone between stagnation and anarchy, the one place where a complex system can be spontaneous, adaptive and alive."
Mitchell Waldrop.

That's where I find myself at four forty eight in the morning.

At the edge of chaos.

I size it up.

I keep my eye on the ball.

I am clearly alive.

This is spontaneous.

I suppose this is some sort of  adaptive action.

I am alive.

But uncomfortably awake.

But, Mitchell did say "battle zone"... 

Desperation.

November 13th 2015.

Some die.

I am missing them.

I am missing them.

I am missing my friends out there.

In no particular order.

They keep popping up in my head.

Where's that juggling gif that I made?

There it is.

I thought it would come in some day.

It's a bit rough.

It will do.

Blimey, why did I choose those pictures?

I can't remember.

I am missing my friends out there.

In no particular order.

Terry, Kevin, Sarah, Wendy, Maha, Mia, Ken, Keith, Ron, Alan....uncle Tom Cobbley et al.

I could go on.

I'll be back.

Online....Offline, I have been juggling.

Incommunicado.

Concentrating on getting those balls up.

I have been juggling.

Stop throwing me bloody balls!

I already have too many.

I know they are juggling too.

My friends...that is.

I have been juggling.

But not here.

Not visibly.

I am juggling now.

On paper.

In my head.

Silently.

I am looking forward to having more play time.

No. I am looking forward to less solitary games.

Too many balls in my head.

I have been quiet quite a while.

The conference presentation is almost ready.

I am almost ready.

Learning on the edge of chaos...

Trying to map a route with/through complexity ain't easy.

It ain't easy.

It won't go in straight lines.

There are too many curve balls to catch.

Sod it.

That's my limit.

There's those students to throw a few balls to.

They can juggle too.

For me, for them, for you.

We all drop off eventually.

I am hoping this will help me drop off.

For an hour and forty minutes.

What was it that Nietzsche was saying?

NOT your citizen

Not your citizen

Are

Prisoners of sorry states 

of affair$.

Am

SORRY.

DAMN sorry children are

dying of hunger Mama

drowning in Med Mama,

disintegrating in Mosul D-A-D-A 

DAMN
FAKE 
NEWS
ARSEHOLE

Not your citizen

Have rights - 

all 3 of them

Not your citizen

have wrongs all

More than 3 of them.

Not your citizen
have friends
in far off places.

"So much of how I think about this is the "idea" of a Commons in the good world ... that doesn't always exist. I want it to exist. I know that such thinking is ridiculous in the face of reality. But I keep at it, finding pockets of people I can call friends in a networked Common that does not have one home, nor should it. I know such metaphors fail as soon as you look closely. I cling to the friends and thinking partners anyway."

Kevin

Beyond the cell

My friend 
AND

Fellow Prisoner

View my Flipboard Magazine.

Not your citizen

LORDY

Here our cell.

HEAR OUR CALL 
OH LORD

Not your citizen

“I am not an Athenian or a Greek, but a citizen of the world."

Socrates

[As quoted in Plutarch's Of Banishment]”

A Free MAN

Spring flowers.

"It is good to love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is well done.” 

― Vincent Van Gogh

FELT. 

FLOWER. 

FIELD.

FENCE.

FARM.

FELDGANG.

"It's the greenest spring that I can ever remember. It's just incredible right now. It's stunning. You walk outside when it's sunny and it's like O-M-G! W-T-F! And then there are no words...."

Terry Elliott.

OPEN

@Bali_Maha "I pretty much do most things for love, from a place of love." @Bali_Maha https://t.co/YalsagK5ML

— Simon Ensor (@sensor63) May 20, 2017

CARE

Maha Bali

LOVE

bell hooks.

BOND

FRIEND

"This could be part of story...when you ruminate."

Terry Elliott.

Terry, Maha, Kevin, Sarah, Laura, Mary Ann, Wendy, Suzan, Bruno, et al.

SPRING

@telliowkuwp @MaryAnnReilly @sensor63 @dogtrax @wentale @NomadWarMachine (No translation required) pic.twitter.com/aveiu6mM1b

— laura ritchie (@laura_ritchie) May 19, 2017

OPEN 

STORY.

Candide.

“I have wanted to kill myself a hundred times, but somehow I am still in love with life. This ridiculous weakness is perhaps one of our more stupid melancholy propensities, for is there anything more stupid than to be eager to go on carrying a burden which one would gladly throw away, to loathe one’s very being and yet to hold it fast, to fondle the snake that devours us until it has eaten our hearts away?” 

Voltaire, Candide: or, Optimism

It was a comment of Daniel Bassill that set it off:

"I've followed Simon's posts for about half a year now and they are 'wide ranging'. Mine are more focused. If we have a problem, how do we solve it? Who needs to be involved?" 

I thought about that term 'wide ranging.' 

I felt downbeat at first:

"Daniel is right, wide-ranging, rambling,I should be more focused."

Then I thought back to an old school report.

"Simon clearly has his ups and downs." (or words to that effect)

Christ, every little thing makes me feel down beat at times.

It occurred to me that what for others appears 'wide ranging' is in fact for me focused.

I map mostly feeling.

@tutormentorteam i am stopping rowing :-) pic.twitter.com/ih0zXos7lz

— Simon Ensor (@sensor63) August 22, 2016

I am at times all at sea. 

And then I hit dry land.

If I have a problem, I attempt to solve it.

When it remains unsoluble, I find that difficult to accept.

It gets me down, unreasonably.

Being alternatively sensitive and insensitive is a fierce mixture.

If I feel, I attempt to write for better and for worse.

Writing keeps me grounded.

I write to thrive or to survive.

Sometimes when I am not writing I am barely surviving.

Sometimes when I am not writing I am absolutely thriving.

Sometimes I thrive and barely survive the same day.

I try to figure out who doesn't need to be involved.

If I am feeling my way around in the dark, this place can be a last resort.

I was a humourless wreck in the early hours.

I struggled to keep afloat.

Beating about the bush.


I struggled to keep afloat.

Yesterday afternoon:

I couldn't have been more focused.

Seasonal Amnesia.

I couldn't have been more focused.

I was wrighting my ship.

I was digging for good humour to keep me going.

The amnesia wasn't a joke.

To fight it I found humour.

There was no other path forward.

@sensor63 @EatcherVeggies @WarwickLanguage @telliowkuwp @taniatorikova @NomadWarMachine @makle1 a comic response ... pic.twitter.com/aBGB5cB9vk

— KevinHodgson (@dogtrax) August 22, 2016

There was no other path forward.

Kevin helped me lighten up.
Tania helped me lighten up.

https://t.co/XkpH0j2UqQ https://t.co/MUJxmbugua

— Tania Sheko (@taniatorikova) August 22, 2016

Terry helped me lighten up.

Summer is over. Oh so over. #wkueng100 pic.twitter.com/k6qfNPHBll

— Terry Elliott (@telliowkuwp) August 22, 2016

If there is any sense in this 'digital half-life existence' it is you, a company of full-life friends.

You pull me back up.

There are times when I am too deep under.

I am sorry. I go away and find a hole for shelter.

You are not alone, nor are they. @dogtrax @sensor63 @EatcherVeggies @NomadWarMachine https://t.co/5yIrn0pARk

— Terry Elliott (@telliowkuwp) August 18, 2016

I thought back to Daniel's comment.

I remembered the work that I had done.

I remembered the grief that drags me down.

I remembered the priority that I be well.

It was that which Daniel's comment brought me.

I shall attempt to row less and sail more, to wait for a fair breeze, to batten down the hatches when the storms unfurl.

I yearn for calm.

Oh fuck it. Oh shut it.

Surf your waves of sarcasm Simon.

I sit down and listen. 

Let the others take out their oars.

My youngest daughter is reading a favourite book.

"Peace at last."

Nothing else matters.

Say 'how' and die.

“I hate reality but it's still the best place to get a good steak.” 

Woody Allen

Not being John Wayne.

Nobody ever asked me to play John Wayne.

I got to be Indians quite a lot.

Indians said 'How' and died.

Not a Western.

The missionaries were those ones clothed in black and white photos looking a lighter shade of grey.

The Indians were those ones clothed in black and white photos and a loin cloth looking a darker shade of grey.

The missionaries were vaguely heroic, this much I had learnt from stories of David Livingstone in Africa.

I was never quite sure what to make of the Amazonian Indians.

They were aphone and alien.

They looked sort of scared.

I was never quite sure how I would play being an Amazonian Indian.

Did they say 'how'?

I suppose they probably died.

I never really thought about it.

I had never seen Amazonian Westerns.

Being John Wayne.

I was between jobs, an actor.

That always made doing crap jobs a liveable fantasy.

I suppose it would not have been liveable if they had not been short enough to be the between.

It was always a miracle to me that the person on the end of the line would actually sign a contract as a result of me burbling away at him for three minutes about how advertising could work for him.

The contract, signed, was a proof of existence, a sort of message from the other side.

Perhaps, I hadn't been in contact with the spirit world after all.

Telesales is real...really.

Not being John Wayne.

I sort of knew that my parents had not actually ceased to exist when I was at boarding school.

Their weekly letters, I suppose, were supposed to be proof of a deep attachment.

I was deeply attached.

I was not actually sure whether to be happy or to cry.

I became aphone.

They became aphone.

I have proof that they have ceased to exist now...of sorts.

They still talk to me.

Maybe I am in touch with the spirit world.

I am still deeply attached.

Maybe Amazonian Indians are in touch with my parents too?

Not being John Wayne.

I used to change my name.

Nobody used to challenge my alias.

I was another.

......


I am another now.

I am insaisissasable. (oh dear I can't spell that b. word)

I can't think of another word for NOW.

French will have to do.

I am not what you imagine.

I am not what I imagine.

I am not John Wayne.

I am not a missionary.

I am not an Indian.

I have no proof of my continuing existence.

I live in a spirit world.

I will be your Indian.

No!

Really!

Indians say 'How' and then they die.

Footnotes.

This piece was inspired by many close distant friends and two  great blog posts linked here:

Autumm Caines.

A Sort of “In Love”: What is it About Play?

Maha Bali

Because Virtual is also Real. What's authenticity anway?

I wanted to copy a quote via Catherine Cronin here for future reference. (can't remember why).

“The internet does not produce a new kind of identity, but has instead been instrumental in raising awareness that identities were more multiple, culturally contingent and contextual than had previously been fully appreciated.”

Ah yes, now I do...