Nothing is so contagious as example; and we never do any great good or evil which does not produce its like.
~ François de la Rochefoucaulds(French classical author, 1613–1680)

In his book “Snow Crash” (1992), Neal Stephenson envisions a world where even the workers who produce the programs that process and make meaning out of information become elements of information themselves: devoid of meaning, interchangeable and, above all, precisely delineated. The protagonist represents the ultimate progression of commoditisation of the discrete containers of meaning.

This process can be seen to have started when Claude Shannon released his seminal paper “A Mathematical Theory of Communication” in 1948; the same year a similarly seminal book “Cybernetics” was released by Norbert Weiner. Shannon’s paper addressed a model that display how information — that is, the units of a message — were transmitted between a sender and a reciever, taking into account the channel of the transmission and the addition of noise or entropy to confuse the message, but ignoring the idea of feedback. Weiner sought to address this missing element of Shannon’s model by considering how the machine “[used] the results of its own performance as self-regulating information” (Roszak, 1994, 9) and how it made changes to itself to reflect this.

This feedback was to become a key element in understanding cybernetics: the idea that machines could become sentient, that they could, eventually, replace humans. If a machine could self-teach — which is what feedback allowed it to do — it might not need human intervention at all to complete a task it was assigned to. Thus, the machine would replace the human in the work place to our great destruction.

Seventy years after the publication of Shannon and Roszak’s works we can see that the machine has not replaced the human: rather a symbiosis has developed between human and machine. Given the historical links between weaving and the computer (see Essinger, 2007) it is not suprising that the machine would become weaved into the fabric of our society and that the model of mechanical information transference Shannon discussed would come to be applied to human communication also.

However, this model of information comes at a loss, taking away meaning from communication. Information Theory, like all mathematics — and for that mater computing — breaks down information into discreet bits, without loaded meanings. It is not until Information Theory is considered in conjunction with the power of symbolism that meaning is restored.

:: References::

Fred Dretske (1981). The Pragmatic Dimension of Knowledge. Philosophical Studies 40 (3).
Essinger, James (2007) Jacquard’s Web : How a Hand-Loom Led to the Birth of the Information Age. Oxford: Oxford University Press
Roszak, T. (1994). The Cult of Information. A Neo-Luddite Treatise on High-Tech, Artificial Intelligence, and the True Art of Thinking (pp. 3–20). Berkeley: University of California Press.
Stephenson, N. (1992). Snow Crash (pp. 261–269). London: Penguin Books.

The Oxford English Dictionary categorises both aesthetics and morality as sciences: respectively they are “the science [that] treats the conditions of sensuous perception” and “ethical wisdom: knowledge of moral science.” However, Schellekens (2007, 13) asserts that “to philosophise about questions in Aesthetics or Morality is first and foremost to reflect upon and scrutinize value. Aesthetic and moral value, perhaps more than any other kinds of value, answer to our sense of what we consider to be of genuine importance in life, the kind of persons we want to become, and what aims we deem truly meaningful.” This would lead to the understanding that if a science is a body of known truth, of which Aesthetics and Morality are branches thereof, that there is an implicit truth is the values expressed through the visual or poetical reflection of what a society finds ultimately important.

Otto Rank’s statement – cited by Marvell (2003, 34) – that “all morality is but aesthetics” can be understood with the above knowledge to reflect a view that the morality – the “ethical wisdom” – is equal to aesthetics in importance as a branch of a greater science. That as Marvell himself concludes, “aesthetic sense plays a greater role in the cultural and scientific [and one could add, moral] descriptions of our world than is usually acknowledged.”

In the study of the social development of humanity, it is often expedient to break up the timeline into arbitrary developmental eras or Ages. These eras (such as the Iron Age, the Nuclear Age or the Digital age) are most often centred on a development that is seen to indicate a major shift in the direction of humanity’s development (the introduction of smelting, the theoretical and then actual splitting of the Atom, the development of the computer). In a sense, eras are defined by changes to the zeitgeist – the way that humanity looks upon and discusses itself.

Marvell (2003, 44) asserts that one of primary definers of these eras are the imaginaries that humanity uses to define limits to the unnatural cataloguing of progression. These imaginaries encapsulate the dialogue that filters all conceptual thought through a singular well-understood concept (for example, in the technological age the brain is seen as an organic computer) as well as the vision of the past, present and future.

Like all dialogues, imaginaries are culturally bound (Marvell, 2003, 45). They are informed by the morality of the culture and inform the science and aesthetics of that culture. For example, the Amish “Ordnung” – formal, but unwritten, rules – include a restriction on the use of technology that may impact on the community’s ability to live a life in line with the New Testament teachings. (“Ordnung”, 2010) As such their worldview does not include imaginaries that would be common to their non-Amish neighbours, imaginaries such as space travel or even ‘the city’.

Similarly, aesthetics and morality are innately personal: Hinde (2008, 7–9) argues that a sense of morality can come neither from culture nor from an external truth and thus must come from the individual. As such imaginaries, even as a shared dialogue, are also innately personal in truth and understanding and this explains how people from apparently identical cultural backgrounds can fail to find meaning or shared meaning in the imagery of an eras imaginaries. In this way an imaginary is also a reflection of the self, the ego.

As such it can be seen that an “imaginary” is a reflection of the morality and aesthetics of not only the zeitgeist but also the ego, and the values these branches assign to truths of the mother science inform the development, or lack thereof, of other branches of the sciences.

::: References :::

“aesthetics” The Oxford English Dictionary. 2nd ed. 1989. Oxford University Press.
“morality” The Oxford English Dictionary. 2nd ed. 1989. Oxford University Press.
“science” The Oxford English Dictionary. 2nd ed. 1989. Oxford University Press.
Ordnung. (2010). In Encyclopædia Britannica. Retrieved August 09, 2010, from Encyclopædia Britannica Online: http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/930389/Ordnung
Hinde, Robert A. (2008). Bending the Rules: Morality in the Modern World. Oxford University Press ISBN: 9780199218981
Marvell, L. (2003). Following the Digital Imaginary. Photofile, 68, 44–47.
Schellekens, Elisabeth (2007). Aesthetics and Morality. Continuum. ISBN: 9780826485243

The princess was fond of tying ribbons through her long chestnut hair and Emyr, the prince from the kingdom to the South, liked her so she was always in good supply of ribbons.

The princess from the kingdom by the coast – like most of the princess in that area – was a witch. Lleucu was not a powerful witch, but she carried the air of possibly becoming one once she sorted out the pimples and grew into her crown a little. This is important to know, because no person in their right mind slights a soon to be powerful witch queen.

Emyr did not like Lleucu – mostly because Angharad hated her – and when they were both sixteen, rejected her not so subtle hints to have him offer her marriage. This turned out to be a very bad idea and although she took it with good grace to his face, Lleucu began to plot his down fall.

It took a year for her plans to fall into place, and within that year Emyr’s father’s fortunes fell making it necessary for him to marry as soon as possible. There was a great deal of fuss made over who he should marry, but really there was no better choice than the girl of his dreams: their kingdoms were side by side and Angharad’s father was rich enough.

At Angharad and Emyr’s engagement ball Lleucu presented Emyr with a small package to give to his intended on her behalf: “I can not deliver it myself,” she said, “for she will not talk to me, but every young woman deserves a beautiful thing.”

Emyr dutifully presented the package to Angharad, saying it was from him because they both hated Lleucu. Angharad unwrapped the small box to find a plain but beautiful hair ribbon within. It was cobalt blue with gold edging. By coincidence the colours matched her dress and she commanded Emyr to plait the ribbon into her hair straight away.

As he began a silence fell across the room as the crowd watched. With each twist of her hair Angharad winced, though Emyr’s plaiting was as gentle as could be. She felt as though her dinner disagreed with her. But as the last twist of hair and ribbon fell into place Emyr was thrown away by a powerful kick from the hind legs of an enormous chestnut mare. Lleucu had tricked them both.

“Oh dear!” the witch explained. “Was that that ribbon? Oh curses, it appears Angharad will have to remain a horse and you will have to marry me.

“Nonsense. Off with her head,” Emyr’s father cried.

Lleucu turned on her smoothest voice and turned to Emyr. “But dear prince, if you unknot your beloved’s hair for more than an hour surely you both shall die. Unless you were to take her place, of course. I leave you your decision to make and your kingdom to ruin.” And with that Lleucu charged out of the hall.

Angharad’s father did not take his only child’s transformation well and within a month was on his death bed. Emyr called upon all of the wise men of all the lands and the lawyers too. It was decided that unless she was a human in her kingdom for half of every month Angharad could not be Regent. It was further decided that a horse could not marry a man, no matter his personal preferences and the kingdoms would remain separate.

A plan was devised. Each second evening, Emyr would unplait Angharad’s hair and then she entwine the ribbon in his own within the allocated hour so that the princess might rule her kingdom and they might each find another suitor.

However, on the first evening, the moment they caught sight of themselves holding each other in the mirror, moments before Emyr blew out into a silky white charger, they knew there was no other person either could love. For a year and a month and a day they kept up their switch and swap routine, taking their time as humans to bravely and fairly rule their respective kingdoms whilst spending the evenings riding the other through the forest that straddled the two kingdoms.

Meanwhile, Lleucu took a prince from a kingdom in the far north as husband and Prince Regent. He was a dullard and Lleucu found he did not satisfy her.  When she learnt that Angharad and Emyr’s strange rule she sent the prince to deliver a message of war to the monarchs.

“Take this message to Caerblodeu and return to me when you have done so. But there is a strange curse in those lands. Be sure you do not take ribbon, nor thread from anyone there, otherwise you shall surely die.” Huw was well aware of his wife’s growing power and pledged to himself not to forget her admonition.

He set off the same day and travelled over many mountains, each day forgetting a little more of what he was told.

One day, Emyr was riding the princess through the forest when he came across a small hut in a clearing. Light filtered down through the leaves casting green light across the ruin. Across the clearing he spotted a tall, dark man to whom he was not acquainted.

“Ho, who goes risks their life by hunting in the Forest of Angharad?” the prince called to the stranger.

“I am no poacher,” the stranger called back, “I am Huw ap Hywel, Prince of the kingdom by the coast, riding to Caerblodeu to see Lord Emyr with a message from my Queen.”

Emyr and Angharad both knew that Lluecu had taken a prince from the far North as her husband, and they knew that he was quite dumb and did not know of their fate. Angharad whinnied in excitement at the opportunity for revenge.

“I am one of the Lord’s messengers,” Emyr lied, “let me take the message for you.”

“I can not, for my queen’s command prevents me. However, may I have your assistance for free passage?”

Emyr pointed down to the ribbon that snaked through Angharad’s mane. “If my steed will let you take the ribbon from her mane and tie it in your own hair you may freely pass. No man shall hurt you when you are thus adorned.”

Huw and Emyr both dismounted and Huw approached the prince and princess carefully. The horse did not shy though and he reached up to take the ribbon, she bowed her head. He quickly loosed the ribbon and stopped to admire it. There was a disturbance in the forest.

“Quickly,” Emyr urged, “tie it in your hair or else the peasants shall assume you are attacking me.” Huw for his life so he reached behind him and tied his hair into a simple pony tail. As he did he could feel the muscles in his arms grow stronger but before he had a chance to realise what was happening, he found himself on four legs and with a bit in his mouth.

Huw then realised what had happened, remembering too late his wife’s admonition to not take ribbon from anyone in the kingdom he visited. Emyr and Angharad then rode Huw home and were married the next day.

Every one of us has times when we need to know things will get better. My declaration is that that is precisely what the gospel of Jesus Christ offers us, especially in times of need.

Thirty years ago last month, a little family set out to cross the United States, every earthly possession they owned packed into the smallest trailer available. No money, an old car, they drove exactly 34 miles up the highway, at which point their beleaguered car erupted.

The young father surveyed the steam, matched it with his own, then left his trusting wife and two innocent children—the youngest just three months old—to wait in the car while he walked the three miles or so to the southern Utah metropolis of Kanarraville, population then, I suppose, 65. Some water was secured at the edge of town, and a very kind citizen offered to drive back to the stranded family. The car was attended to and slowly—very slowly—driven back to St. George for inspection.

After more than two hours of checking and rechecking, no immediate problem could be detected, so once again the journey was begun. In exactly the same amount of elapsed time at exactly the same location on that highway with exactly the same pyrotechnics from under the hood, the car exploded again. Now feeling more foolish than angry, the chagrined young father once more left his trusting loved ones and started the long walk for help once again. This time the man providing the water said, “Either you or that fellow who looks just like you ought to get a new radiator for that car.” He didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry at the plight of this young family.

“How far have you come?” he said. “Thirty-four miles,” I answered. “How much farther do you have to go?” “Twenty-six hundred miles,” I said. “Well, you might make that trip, and your wife and those two little kiddies might make that trip, but none of you are going to make that trip in that car.” He proved to be prophetic on all counts.

Just two weeks ago, I drove by that exact spot. For just an instant I thought perhaps I saw on that side road an old car with a devoted young wife and two little children. Just ahead of them I imagined that I saw a young fellow walking toward Kanarraville, the weight of a young father’s fear evident in his pace.

In that imaginary instant, I couldn’t help calling out to him: “Don’t you quit. You keep walking. You keep trying. There is help and happiness ahead.” Some blessings come soon, some come late, and some don’t come until heaven. But for those who embrace the gospel of Jesus Christ, they come. It will be all right in the end. Trust God and believe in good things to come.
Read the full talk here.

Standing on the platform of Subiaco station with the cold wind blowing in from the tunnel mouth reminded me off being back at St Paul’s tube station and having the strong contrast of the comparatively fresh wind blowing on my face as trains passed through the tunnels that zig zag just below the city surface. It made me want to go back and spend more time there.

Im not sure what it is the draws me to London so much. It’s not as if living there would be much different to living in Perth, other than maybe a longer commute to work because, although I might be able to afford holiday accommodation in the old city, in certainly wouldn’t be able to rent there. There is an abundance of things to do on the weekends though: there’s always a new museum or a market to explore. I might bore of it in time but at least for a while the novelty of having new adventures available every weekend would sustain having to slog through a week of work to afford whatever dive we could find to live in.

There is always the option of living and working in somewhere like Oxford or Bath and taking day trips into the city on weekends. Though it would be a matter of finding a place I could feel as comfortable as I did in the city because even the day trip from Oxford back to London felt like coming home. I felt instantly comfortable there as soon as we cleared Customs and got on the train in the basement of the airport. It felt surpassingly familiar to wander around Hyde Park or to climb the big stair case at the British Museum. And shopping, despite the weird shop name and unfamiliar currency did not put me out as much as the strange Christmas we spent in Hartington.

Staying at St Brainless was almost as homely, but only because of the fact it was us and Fizz and Bree treating the place like a big rambling house rather than a transitory bed for the night like St Paul’s was. And its not realistic to plan on living in a Norman Castle.

There is one other thing to take into consideration: not living in the Greater London area would deprive me of that joyful experience of standing on a Tube platform and feeling the wind as a train approached.

We visited Leamington Hastings, which is where the last Truslove to be born in England before the emigration to Perth started, was born. I found two gravestones tucked up right against the front corner of the church. They were both in very good condition, though Ann’s was better. I can only imagine this is because hers was more protected from prevailing rain. The inscriptions on the stones read:

In memory of William Truslove; husband of Ann Truslove; who departed this life Jan 10th 1841; (indistinct) 71 years
Im memory of Ann Truslove; wife of William Truslove who departed this life August 22nd 1854; (indistinct) 85 years.

These dates don’t match any of the data we have at the moment so Im quite interested to work out how (if) these two fit in.

We then went on to Dunchurch, got lost trying to find parking and by chance stumbled across the location where the Gunpowder Plot was hatched. You all know of course my birthday is Guy Fawkes Day. There were a multitude of stones just inside the churchyard gate, again tucked into a corner.

One of them had a tree growing out of it to the point where the stone looked as though it was leaning upon it. However, it was firmly rooted in place and read:

Sacred to the memory of Susannah wife of Henry Truslove who died March 10th 1816 aged 44 years

This would be Susannah Dunkley, my Great to the power of 5 Grandmother. It was fantastic to find the burial place of one of my direct line ancestors. I get the feeling she might of been the person who would be happy to now be a massive tree.

The other stone read:

To the beloved memory of John Truslove of Cawston, who died September 5th 1840,aged 76 years
Ann Truslove wife of the above died June 23rd 1860, aged 81 years
Ann Truslove daughter of the above died November 13th 1868, aged 59 years
Frederick Lawrance son of John Lawrance of Cawston died July 29th 1845, aged 10 years
James Lawrance of Cawston died April 18th 1875, aged 76 years
Mary Lawrance wife of the above died October 26th 1889, aged 85 years

I can only assume the Lawrance family were good friends of the Trusloves to be allowed to share their burial place but six people in one grave is quite astounding really.
There was another stone too indistinct to make out anything other than something that looked like it was truslo but no other information could be gained from it.

Update: I found John, Ann and Ann of the second gravestone. John’s New FamilySearch number is K2GM-8XT and his wife and daughter are already attached. It appears Ann the elder’s maiden name is Barnwell. Still working on those Lawrances.

I believe that there is an existence that extends beyond this life, not only into the future but also into the past; that I am an eternal being that is capable not only of returning to God but of becoming one. I believe that my wife and I can go on to become the parents of souls just like my own heavenly parents (and for that matter, I guess, heavenly grand parents).

I believe these heavenly relations live on a rather large planet by the name of Kolob (I don’t care where, I just know it exists). I believe I will return to this place for a judgement when my mortal life is over.

I know that I’m starting to sound like a Scientologist but that is my point. All of us believe some thing that seems completely unbelievable. The Scientologists for example believe in a self-fulfilling universe – that exists because we say it does. Conversely, believers in the greater sciences hold that the universe is held together by strands of a form of matter that doesn’t exist in a perceivable way but that they spend millions of dollars to search for.

Julia Sweeney put it best when describing her first experience talking to Mormon missionaries: “I initially felt really superior to these boys, and smug in my more conventional faith. But then, the more I thought about it, the more I had to be honest with myself. If someone came to my door and I was hearing Catholic theology and dogma for the very first time, and they said, “We believe that God impregnated a very young girl without the use of intercourse, and the fact that she was a virgin is maniacally important to us and she had a baby, and that’s the son of God,” I mean, I would think that’s equally ridiculous.”

Often people confuse the how of this existence with the why. It is easy to say that the world exists because there was a big explosion that threw the seeds of all forms of matter out of nothingness, and while this explains how the universe exists, it does not explain why.

I believe I was put in this Earth for a reason. I know that I am not perfect but as a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints I believe that we are here to be tested. Whether we are plagued by addictions that wear away at our relationships and own well being or just that we struggle not to be opinionated and snobbish, we each have our own burdens to bear. For some, that burden is a belief in nothing at all.

The end result of Sweeney’s challenge of faith was to take a stance that there could not be a God. How she came to that conclusion is an article – and a best selling off-Broadway show — all of it’s own, but she symbolises the very crux of what I’m trying to get at.

Im not here to mock, but I struggle to find how people fail to have faith at all. Maybe its because there are so many complex and unbelievable things in this world that is easy to shut down and lose the ability to perceive any of them as true. Or perhaps it is simply because they have invested so much faith in the hows, they forget to wonder about the whys. Perhaps even, because the truth hurts, the truth defeats itself. Because the truth is that we are here, at the end of the day, to suffer and learn of pain – so we can appreciate joy and happiness when it comes.

I simply wish that people would take the time to think about the why. Even if they do not end up subscribing to faith of any kind, I think it damages us not to ponder that, the most important of questions.

Mumford and Sons found fame in Australia due to significant airplay of Little Lion Man, possibly the most accessible of tracks on their album Sigh No More. However, a listen to the full album and you quickly realise that this is a highly polished band that have an obvious obsession for their music.
Many have labelled the album as healing, a descriptor I whole heartedly agree with. With a guitar, banjo, keyboard and bass drum, they produce a full rich soundscape that could not easily be produced with a full orchestra. Swelling harmonies that pull at the heart strings sit along side stinging Banjo riffs that make you want to get up and do a crazy dance on a peak hour commuter train. Marcus Mumford has a smooth tone and a angry growl that can make you think only of Mumford as an vengeful devil making a deal with someone’s soul. The religious overtones of the album add a dimension of truth and commitment that pulls you closer to the artists’ own struggle with balancing love and faith.
All in all the band’s first album shows they have a special something to deliver to the clumsily named rock-folk-pop field that can only mature with time.