Ah, the classic book synchronicity. It's a repeating phenomenon, I've learned, often involving two random books read back-to-back -- yet containing the precise same things.
The books, this time, were The New Alchemists by Dirk Hanson, and Cosmic Trigger by Robert Anton Wilson, read in that order (arbitrarily, out of a pool of over a dozen recently-bought books). The formats and subject matters of these books could not have been more different, one being a clinical retrospective on the burgeoning computer industry, the other a personal memoir of drug trips, bizarre "coincidences," and their possible implications. Yet, they contained several parallels.
1) Both detailed the life and career of Nikola Tesla, sometimes in overlap.
2) Both quoted Timothy Leary.
3) Both mentioned Thomas Edison.
4) And last, but far from least: the books both outlined RCA's Spectra-70 computer, even mentioning, specifically, how it was discontinued. (To my knowledge, I did not know of the Spectra computer beforehand, or that RCA had ever dabbled in the trade.)
I bought the books on two separate occasions, several hundred miles apart, without prior knowledge of either's existence. Then, I Just Happened to read them back-to-back.
(Also, as implied, this is not my first such experience, nor is it the tenth.)
(Furthermore, it bears mentioning that, just hours before reading the part of Cosmic Trigger in which the Spectra-70 was mentioned, I had the thought of, I need a significant synchronicity, since I haven't blogged of one for so long. This, too, is not the first such time I've had such ask-and-ye-shall-receive.)
(And, more: In The New Alchemists, one chapter detailed how computers were, at the time, being groomed for speech recognition (the book was written in 1981). On the very same day I read this, literally hours apart, I received an old newspaper clipping from my father, completely randomly -- which detailed how computers were being groomed for speech recognition (the paper was from 1984). I had not discussed anything from the book with my father, nor has he ever given me clippings from decades-old newspapers before.)
(Did I mention that Cosmic Trigger was primarily about just such synchronicities?)
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query books. Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query books. Sort by date Show all posts
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Friday, September 9, 2016
The Book-Synchro Returns
For those unfamiliar, allow me to recap.
The "book synchronicity," as I've dubbed it, is, categorically, as follows: I'll read of something in a given book -- usually a rare, new fact previously unknown to me -- and then, very soon after, I'll read of that same thing a second time, in my next sequential book. Usually, said books will have been purchased totally randomly, and read in a similar fashion; likewise, the books will be completely different (subject matter, author, type, etc). Another common component of these incidents: I'll have been Compelled, in a special, illogical way, to buy the books in question, and similarly motivated to read them when I do. Thus, a typical, patternistic reading-synchro would involve me being Compelled, for no particular reason, to buy several books, at different time periods, and then read them randomly, perhaps after they'd been sitting in my stack for weeks or months or longer, just waiting for me to get that illogical green-light to at last crack them open -- only to find that the two books will contain notably similar facts, mentions, or themes, and with a precision and nature that would render such recurrences highly unlikely (sometimes shockingly so, as to be of astronomically low probability).
To see what I mean, browse some past examples, why don't you.
Now, I've experienced some good, convincing book synchronicities, and plenty of them, such that I've stopped blogging these incidents unless they are truly exceptional.
Case in point.
This one breaks somewhat from the typical book-synchro pattern, in that the incident's first ingredient was a newspaper rather than a book. And, also somewhat unique, the paper came to me, and for free. As it were, the paper was in a supermarket I frequent, though not for sale; rather, it was lying atop a cooler, just beyond the checkout. When I passed, the paper Jumped Out at me, demanding my attention, in that special way typical of Compellings. So I stopped and picked it up, finding myself holding a week-old copy of The Wall Street Journal (from August 23rd, 2016). It would seem that some considerate soul had left it on the cooler after reading it through, to be recycled as is customary. Though not much of a Wall Street Journal-type, I proved to be the paper's savior from that lonely cooler (after I checked with a cashier that, indeed, the paper was fair game rather than just a misplaced for-sale copy). I had little interest in WSJ subject matter, of course, but interests don't factor into Compellings.
That night, we come to this incident's first synchronicity: While reading through this paper, I came across an article that mentioned the recent acquisition of a company called Syngenta, which I had never before heard of in my life. And then, approximately a half-hour later, when reading through my current book at the time (Fast Food Nation, as it were), I came to a section on GM foods, in which it mentioned the company Syngenta.
A classic book-synchro: my learning of something for the first time in my life, in some randomly bought- and read piece of reading material, and then, a short time after, encountering that same thing elsewhere, despite the sources being entirely different in subject matter (and time of purchase, and about everything else). It's only more notable that, in this case, the original source was a cast-off, week-old newspaper, involving news and information for which I had no logical need, and picked up totally on instinct in an equally random place.
But that was just the start. (Remember: the blog-worthy ones gotta be truly exceptional, these days.)
Next up, Exhibit B: the vitamin book, Planet Heal Thyself.
Here, we must rewind several weeks (remember, also, that my book-synchro books are often acquired weeks or months apart). This part, too, comes with a twist: instead of randomly buying this book, I got it for free, unexpectedly, when buying a vitamin supplement. When considering the supplement, I hadn't seen a sign for a free book; I learned of this bonus only upon checking out (the supplement was on sale, too, and I even had a coupon -- my lucky day!). The complimentary book, called Planet Heal Thyself, was about vitamins and minerals and the like, but I wasn't much drawn to it at the time, so it went in my stack, where it would sit for the next few weeks, while I entertained more-attractive books. Only after finishing Fast Food Nation (the book that first echoed Syngenta, thus instigating the whole mess) was I Compelled to read the vitamin book.
This too followed the pattern, with the book just seeming to glow amongst its brethren in the stack, saying Pick me! Pick me! in that special way I've come to recognize.
That brings us to the second synchronicity. Within the first few pages of the vitamin book, it mentioned a website, "23andMe," where one can have their DNA analyzed for various things. I'd never heard of this site before, and despite previously having no real interest in exploring my DNA, I was Compelled to write it down and visit it. However, as it turned out, I didn't get around to actually looking up 23andMe until a few days later, in a fit of determination to clear my desk of notes and other I'll-do-it-laters. Similarly, on the same evening, about thirty minutes later, I got around to finishing that curious copy of the WSJ I'd started reading the other night (I do this, picking through a section or two of a newspaper at a time). In the paper's final section, I came to an article about genetic testing, which mentioned a website where the public can be tested for various genetic conditions: 23andMe.com.
This recurrence, too, fits the book-synchro pattern, doubly so: first, I'd originally learned of the site just days before; and, second, I re-encountered it in the paper less than an hour after actually visiting the site. (And, keep in mind: the paper's mention of 23andMe was in the last, innermost section, totally concealed and out of view when I'd initially snatched up the paper and even after I'd read the first few sections -- so it's impossible that I could've been subconsciously influenced by it, in even the most subtle and imperceptible of ways).
Exceptional yet? Apparently not, because two days later, it happened all over again.
Same deal: another randomly bought book (a heady historical title called DNA USA, this time), read as randomly, just after finishing Planet Heal Thyself -- and, sure enough, this one, too, mentioned the 23andMe website. So, after somehow remaining ignorant to 23andMe for the several years of its existence, I suddenly bumped into it three times within a matter of days, from three sources that couldn't have been more random and misdirected (and, as it were, adhering to the pattern established by dozens of past incidents, which cranks up the notability factor exponentially).
For this third one, though, I can foresee an obvious rebuttal: Weren't you already thinking of genetics and the like when you began reading a book with "DNA" in the title? Ah, a good point, Watson, because this scenario would indeed suggest some subconscious influence in my choice of reading material. Except, here's the thing: I'd bought the DNA USA book before reading Planet Heal Thyself and the unexpected copy of The Wall Street Journal -- that is, before I'd ever first read of Syngenta and 23andMe in the others (and even before I'd come to the relevant part of that first, initial book, Fast Food Nation). As it so happened, just a couple days prior to my receiving the paper on charity, I'd picked up the DNA USA book from a thrift store, despite having a good, full stack of unread books back at home -- being Compelled to buy it, illogically yet distinctly, as is prominent with these things.
So, yeah ... exceptional.
The "book synchronicity," as I've dubbed it, is, categorically, as follows: I'll read of something in a given book -- usually a rare, new fact previously unknown to me -- and then, very soon after, I'll read of that same thing a second time, in my next sequential book. Usually, said books will have been purchased totally randomly, and read in a similar fashion; likewise, the books will be completely different (subject matter, author, type, etc). Another common component of these incidents: I'll have been Compelled, in a special, illogical way, to buy the books in question, and similarly motivated to read them when I do. Thus, a typical, patternistic reading-synchro would involve me being Compelled, for no particular reason, to buy several books, at different time periods, and then read them randomly, perhaps after they'd been sitting in my stack for weeks or months or longer, just waiting for me to get that illogical green-light to at last crack them open -- only to find that the two books will contain notably similar facts, mentions, or themes, and with a precision and nature that would render such recurrences highly unlikely (sometimes shockingly so, as to be of astronomically low probability).
To see what I mean, browse some past examples, why don't you.
* * *
Now, I've experienced some good, convincing book synchronicities, and plenty of them, such that I've stopped blogging these incidents unless they are truly exceptional.
Case in point.
This one breaks somewhat from the typical book-synchro pattern, in that the incident's first ingredient was a newspaper rather than a book. And, also somewhat unique, the paper came to me, and for free. As it were, the paper was in a supermarket I frequent, though not for sale; rather, it was lying atop a cooler, just beyond the checkout. When I passed, the paper Jumped Out at me, demanding my attention, in that special way typical of Compellings. So I stopped and picked it up, finding myself holding a week-old copy of The Wall Street Journal (from August 23rd, 2016). It would seem that some considerate soul had left it on the cooler after reading it through, to be recycled as is customary. Though not much of a Wall Street Journal-type, I proved to be the paper's savior from that lonely cooler (after I checked with a cashier that, indeed, the paper was fair game rather than just a misplaced for-sale copy). I had little interest in WSJ subject matter, of course, but interests don't factor into Compellings.
That night, we come to this incident's first synchronicity: While reading through this paper, I came across an article that mentioned the recent acquisition of a company called Syngenta, which I had never before heard of in my life. And then, approximately a half-hour later, when reading through my current book at the time (Fast Food Nation, as it were), I came to a section on GM foods, in which it mentioned the company Syngenta.
A classic book-synchro: my learning of something for the first time in my life, in some randomly bought- and read piece of reading material, and then, a short time after, encountering that same thing elsewhere, despite the sources being entirely different in subject matter (and time of purchase, and about everything else). It's only more notable that, in this case, the original source was a cast-off, week-old newspaper, involving news and information for which I had no logical need, and picked up totally on instinct in an equally random place.
But that was just the start. (Remember: the blog-worthy ones gotta be truly exceptional, these days.)
Next up, Exhibit B: the vitamin book, Planet Heal Thyself.
Here, we must rewind several weeks (remember, also, that my book-synchro books are often acquired weeks or months apart). This part, too, comes with a twist: instead of randomly buying this book, I got it for free, unexpectedly, when buying a vitamin supplement. When considering the supplement, I hadn't seen a sign for a free book; I learned of this bonus only upon checking out (the supplement was on sale, too, and I even had a coupon -- my lucky day!). The complimentary book, called Planet Heal Thyself, was about vitamins and minerals and the like, but I wasn't much drawn to it at the time, so it went in my stack, where it would sit for the next few weeks, while I entertained more-attractive books. Only after finishing Fast Food Nation (the book that first echoed Syngenta, thus instigating the whole mess) was I Compelled to read the vitamin book.
This too followed the pattern, with the book just seeming to glow amongst its brethren in the stack, saying Pick me! Pick me! in that special way I've come to recognize.
That brings us to the second synchronicity. Within the first few pages of the vitamin book, it mentioned a website, "23andMe," where one can have their DNA analyzed for various things. I'd never heard of this site before, and despite previously having no real interest in exploring my DNA, I was Compelled to write it down and visit it. However, as it turned out, I didn't get around to actually looking up 23andMe until a few days later, in a fit of determination to clear my desk of notes and other I'll-do-it-laters. Similarly, on the same evening, about thirty minutes later, I got around to finishing that curious copy of the WSJ I'd started reading the other night (I do this, picking through a section or two of a newspaper at a time). In the paper's final section, I came to an article about genetic testing, which mentioned a website where the public can be tested for various genetic conditions: 23andMe.com.
This recurrence, too, fits the book-synchro pattern, doubly so: first, I'd originally learned of the site just days before; and, second, I re-encountered it in the paper less than an hour after actually visiting the site. (And, keep in mind: the paper's mention of 23andMe was in the last, innermost section, totally concealed and out of view when I'd initially snatched up the paper and even after I'd read the first few sections -- so it's impossible that I could've been subconsciously influenced by it, in even the most subtle and imperceptible of ways).
Exceptional yet? Apparently not, because two days later, it happened all over again.
Same deal: another randomly bought book (a heady historical title called DNA USA, this time), read as randomly, just after finishing Planet Heal Thyself -- and, sure enough, this one, too, mentioned the 23andMe website. So, after somehow remaining ignorant to 23andMe for the several years of its existence, I suddenly bumped into it three times within a matter of days, from three sources that couldn't have been more random and misdirected (and, as it were, adhering to the pattern established by dozens of past incidents, which cranks up the notability factor exponentially).
For this third one, though, I can foresee an obvious rebuttal: Weren't you already thinking of genetics and the like when you began reading a book with "DNA" in the title? Ah, a good point, Watson, because this scenario would indeed suggest some subconscious influence in my choice of reading material. Except, here's the thing: I'd bought the DNA USA book before reading Planet Heal Thyself and the unexpected copy of The Wall Street Journal -- that is, before I'd ever first read of Syngenta and 23andMe in the others (and even before I'd come to the relevant part of that first, initial book, Fast Food Nation). As it so happened, just a couple days prior to my receiving the paper on charity, I'd picked up the DNA USA book from a thrift store, despite having a good, full stack of unread books back at home -- being Compelled to buy it, illogically yet distinctly, as is prominent with these things.
So, yeah ... exceptional.
Thursday, September 3, 2015
The Pituitary Gland
Just what exactly does the pituitary gland do?
I asked myself this yesterday, while shopping for a pituitary glandular supplement that supposedly helps one's pituitary function. I was curious ... but not enough to actually look it up.
However, in less than a day, I would be enlightened on the subject.
A couple weeks ago, I totally randomly found a totally random novel, for free, at the dump: Relic by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child. Then, yesterday (the same day I'd pondered the pituitary gland), after reading several other books in the meantime, I decided to start reading my dump-novel, as randomly as I'd found the thing, from a selection of over a dozen others (other books in general, not dump-books; I'm not that lucky).
Now skip to today, when, several chapters into Relic, my eyebrows raised: it outlined exactly what the pituitary gland does, in a conversation between two characters.
I'd never before read of this gland's function, and then, after randomly deciding to read a book I've had for weeks (instead of the generous selection of other appealing books at my disposal, I might add), I Just Happened to start this one and, thus, encounter the information I sought -- answering my question, asked less than a day prior.
I call these type of incidents "question-and-answers," for reasons obvious.
I asked myself this yesterday, while shopping for a pituitary glandular supplement that supposedly helps one's pituitary function. I was curious ... but not enough to actually look it up.
However, in less than a day, I would be enlightened on the subject.
A couple weeks ago, I totally randomly found a totally random novel, for free, at the dump: Relic by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child. Then, yesterday (the same day I'd pondered the pituitary gland), after reading several other books in the meantime, I decided to start reading my dump-novel, as randomly as I'd found the thing, from a selection of over a dozen others (other books in general, not dump-books; I'm not that lucky).
Now skip to today, when, several chapters into Relic, my eyebrows raised: it outlined exactly what the pituitary gland does, in a conversation between two characters.
I'd never before read of this gland's function, and then, after randomly deciding to read a book I've had for weeks (instead of the generous selection of other appealing books at my disposal, I might add), I Just Happened to start this one and, thus, encounter the information I sought -- answering my question, asked less than a day prior.
I call these type of incidents "question-and-answers," for reasons obvious.
* * *
The synchronicity didn't stop there, however.
Remember why I was wondering about the pituitary gland in the first place? Because I was contemplating the purchase of a glandular supplement, made, unglamorously, from the raw glands of pigs and/or cows. So, it could be said that, in buying and ingesting these pills, I would, technically, be dining on the glands of said animals (which are extracted directly from their brains, as it were).
Now, the kicker: the culprit of the Relic book, as it turned out, is a creature that feeds on pituitary glands.
This, just after I'd bought a supplement which, once taken, would render me a pituitary carnivore ...
When I'd never read of such a creature before, ever ...
And I'd had all those other books to choose from, with this one's cover and blurb advertising nothing of pituitary cuisine ...
Just like so many other times, in identical pattern and timing and ...
Etcetera. Etcetera.
There's more to this incident, if you can believe it. But I'll just stop here.
Thursday, January 7, 2016
The Book Synchro, Re-revisited
Once again, I must share a reading synchronicity, thus revisiting a thoroughly visited phenomenon.
Actually, "revisit" isn't quite right, because I've already touched upon this particular flavor of synchronicity several times. In fact, I've devoted so many posts to it, even inventing a word like "re-revisit" isn't right, either. No. Poke through this blog, and you'll find it riddled with book- and reading-synchro posts, with a new one coming each time the phenomenon evolved or shifted or complicated -- so many I can't even insert a clever little link to point you to them.
Well, it's happened again: I've experienced the newest iteration of the book synchro. And though I'm hesitant to add another book-synchro post to the stack, I must, for this last one was a whopper.
Actually, "revisit" isn't quite right, because I've already touched upon this particular flavor of synchronicity several times. In fact, I've devoted so many posts to it, even inventing a word like "re-revisit" isn't right, either. No. Poke through this blog, and you'll find it riddled with book- and reading-synchro posts, with a new one coming each time the phenomenon evolved or shifted or complicated -- so many I can't even insert a clever little link to point you to them.
Well, it's happened again: I've experienced the newest iteration of the book synchro. And though I'm hesitant to add another book-synchro post to the stack, I must, for this last one was a whopper.
* * *
Picture this, if you will: you sit down to read a book, and things in it start to happen. The book describes your surroundings. Echoes your thoughts. Corresponds with stuff happening to other people, even. Surreal, right? Right. It would, really, leave you quite unhinged, were you not ready for it (or even if you were).
But it's also impossible, too. Right ...?
Wrong.
Yes, that scenario is exactly what I've experienced -- or, at least, in the book synchro's latter incarnations. The phenomenon started out quietly enough, albeit not unnotably so (nor much less surreal): I would, say, read of the exact same, unlikely things in two random books, back to back, when the chances of such a recurrence were incredibly low (and there were no outward indicators of the books' contents, or any parallels of subject matter, or anything else that might have resulted in such a coincidence). Or, later on in the timeline, the phenomenon might've become a little more active and dynamic, such as reading exactly what I'd just then been thinking, in the back of my head (in a separate, independent chain of thought that was in no way related to the text). Or, later still, to send me deeper into this particular rabbit hole, the book might echo the speech and actions of those around me, visible and nearby but in no way connected to my book (or connected to me at all, beyond being in my proximity).
But these were all just coincidences, right? Even though they were hugely unlikely, and even though they happened again and again and again (and again), dozens of times and in the same basic, coherent pattern -- all just coincidence. Because, Mr. Garrison, that sort of thing is, simply, impossible.
But, I repeat: wrong. It is possible, and it has happened to me, a great many times. And, likewise, the book synchros (and all kinds of other, similar incidents) continue to happen for me, daily.
But, enough of the old "is it or isn't it real?" debate. Nothing I can say will convince the unconvinced (which, to be fair, is how it should be, considering that I am without objective evidence and can only give my word as to these events' reality -- got to show discernment, and be healthily skeptical, after all). So, let's just move on to the latest string of incidents, those which have demanded this post.
Shall we?
* * *
It started routinely enough, if mind-bending synchronicities can be at all routine.
A few days ago, I sat down to read, and almost immediately, as if on a switch, I started getting the hits: one sentence after another, echoing my reality in some respect, be it random thoughts or something I'd recently been thinking, or unlikely topics of inquiry I'd been exploring just hours or minutes earlier, or something going on across the street just right there-that-wow! Etcetera. But, at this point, not too big a deal (can you believe that I've really gotten used to this sort of thing ...?).
Soon, however, things got interesting.
First, there was just more: more echoes, more frequency, more parallels. But then it all graduated in intensity, as well as in timing, with things coinciding in a "perfectly synchronistic" fashion that is as impossible to describe as it is to consciously orchestrate. Next, as I read on, experiencing this rheostat-esque intensification like a passenger on a shuddering aircraft, I noticed a qualitive difference in the incidents, with the echoes and such beginning to overlap and intertwine, as to gain a multidimensional character that, also, I haven't the words to convey.
And that was just in the morning.
Fast forward to that afternoon, at lunchtime, when I sat down to read again, and had the "storm" repeat itself. By the time I'd finished eating and closed my book, the text had been spitting out a running commentary of what was, more of less, happening in my head and immediate environment. Right as I thought of getting some extra coffee, then decided against it because Starbucks double-brews their drip coffee and, thus, would be too much caffeine -- "too much coffee," reads the book. A long, random chain of thought that ended in my thinking of "1999" by Prince, and its lyric "the sky was all purple" -- "beginning to purple the sky," reads the book. Etcetera, etcetera, again and again, until even my sky-high tolerance for wow was in danger of being reached.
At the storm's tail end, the phenomenon even gained some irony, when the book's narrator began questioning his sanity and whether his experiences were objectively real (because the guy in the book had been presented with irrefutable proof of psychic experiences) -- when I'd been thinking that exact same thing (down to the same terminology, "objectively real"), in regards to this very phenomenon. More echoes, sort of. (Irony, or mockery?)
Oh, and the name of this particular book? Stir of Echoes. And what was it about? A man who experiences all kinds of weird, "impossible" stuff and has to reconcile with it. (And did I know this the day before, when I'd felt so strongly Compelled to buy it at a thrift store, totally randomly, like all the other book-synchro books ...?)
Yes, surreal. Surreal indeed.
* * *
"But surely it stopped there?" you say. I mean, after all, even the guys in books like Stir of Echoes get a break after such a crescendo of their impossi-weirdness. Right? Right ...?
No, didn't stop there.
The next day, the same thing happened, for the most part. If anything, the phenomenon just kept intensifying, for it not only continued through the rest of Stir of Echoes, but right on into the next sequential book I started on (plus a random magazine I read in between the two). And, throughout, it was the same deal: stark, explicit reflections of my inner and outer reality, coming in big, minutes-long bursts that left my head spinning. Dozens of individual "echoes," each wow-worthy enough to merit its own blog post.
"Living dream" says nothing, friends. Nothing at all.
All in all, these reading-synchro whirlwinds happened for three
sequential days, spanning several books and other assorted reading
material, and all following nearly the same pattern. On the fourth day,
when this long-winded meta-incident finally ceased, it wasn't without
another note of irony: it stopped only when I began expecting the
phenomenon, anticipating a repeat when I sat down to read that day.
Oddly, a part of me knew that would happen -- and was expecting that, too, as to add yet more irony to the stew (along with some humor).
Oddly, a part of me knew that would happen -- and was expecting that, too, as to add yet more irony to the stew (along with some humor).
* * *
Good thing I'm just a guy on the internet, though. Just another faceless voice making fantastic claims without a shred of proof.
Yes, good thing. Because books just don't behave that way, thank God.
Saturday, April 27, 2013
4/27/13: 'Cosmic Trigger,' Part Two
First, the context: last fall, I read the book Cosmic Trigger by Robert Anton Wilson. This triggered (no pun intended) several remarkable synchronicities, detailed in this post.
Now, the latest: the synchronicities involving this book did not stop there.
For starters, there turned out to be several subsequent synchronicities related somehow to Cosmic Trigger in the week after 11/15/12, when I made the original post on it. The first were some striking similarities between it and the next sequential book I read, Neuromancer, where there were various concepts shared between the two (floating space colonies, amongst others) even though the books couldn't have been more different and were bought separately and read in completely random order. Also, there was the classic: I learned a new term in Cosmic Trigger, having never seen it before in my life, and then read the exact same term in Neuromancer (when the books were bought and read randomly, etc, etc). Similarly, I was introduced to a Zen proverb in Cosmic Trigger ("There is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is"), having never before seen it in my life, etc, etc -- and then, in the second sequential book I read after Cosmic Trigger (11/22/63 by Stephen King), it contained the precise same proverb, this happening within the space of a week.
However, as notable as these recurrences were, they were nothing compared to the latest.
This new wave started last month, when I decided to eBay a bunch of books I'd bought and didn't see myself reading again. One of these was Cosmic Trigger. It took a month and several re-listings to sell, but sell it did, earlier this week. When I fetched the book to ship off, I looked at the cover artwork, and in doing so noticed the Sirius constellation there (because Sirius, and the author's real-life synchronicities surrounding it, is an integral part of the book). Except, I didn't just notice it, but Noticed it, in a loud, distinct way, as if the cover were blank but for it. I've come to associate this phenomenon with things I'll soon be seeing again.
I wasn't wrong: just an hour later, I encountered Sirius again.
It came in the form of another book, Half Asleep In Frog Pajamas by Tom Robbins. I had started reading Frog Pajamas just the evening before I went to ship off Cosmic Trigger and noticed the Sirius constellation on its cover, so I was only several pages in when I sat down to read Frog Pajamas the afternoon in question. On just the second page I read, there it was: Sirius, mentioned for the first time in the book. And, not only did Frog Pajamas refer to Sirius, but it referred to the mystery surrounding the African Bozo tribe's unexplained knowledge of Sirius -- when this was also mentioned in Cosmic Trigger. This was notable in itself, considering that 1) I read this section of Frog Pajamas just an hour after packing up Cosmic Trigger and Noticing its Sirius constellation, and 2) I'd been sitting on Cosmic Trigger for nearly five months before deciding to sell it, and, similarly, been sitting on Frog Pajamas for over a month after I bought it. Yet, these two completely unrelated occurrences coincided within the space of an hour.
Of course, these two books were bought randomly and read randomly, etc, etc. Likewise, I had no prior idea what Frog Pajamas was about, and had never heard of the book until I bought it randomly at Goodwill because it was a Tom Robbins, and the book had no external indicator of anything regarding Sirius or Cosmic Trigger. Etc, etc.
But, still, it was not over. Far from it.
As I read more of Half Asleep In Frog Pajamas, I would find that Sirius was a central theme of the book -- exactly like Cosmic Trigger, the book I packed up just an hour before I came to Frog Pajamas' first Sirius reference. As it were, I actually sold Cosmic Trigger on the very day I started reading Frog Pajamas; I just wasn't able to ship it that day, therefore having to wait until the next, therefore enabling me to see the Sirius constellation just before I got to Frog Pajamas' first Sirius reference, etc, etc, E T C.
Seeing this, I thought: At this rate, the damn book's going to mention Robert Anton Wilson [Cosmic Trigger's author] by name.
The next day, Frog Pajamas mentioned Robert Anton Wilson by name.
I laughed madly when I saw it, feeling like a combination Nostradamus and Woody Allen. Not only did Frog Pajamas literally, explicitly name Robert Anton Wilson, it also mentioned Timothy Leary and a couple other people who were featured in Cosmic Trigger.
There's more, actually. But do I really need to say any more?
Now, the latest: the synchronicities involving this book did not stop there.
For starters, there turned out to be several subsequent synchronicities related somehow to Cosmic Trigger in the week after 11/15/12, when I made the original post on it. The first were some striking similarities between it and the next sequential book I read, Neuromancer, where there were various concepts shared between the two (floating space colonies, amongst others) even though the books couldn't have been more different and were bought separately and read in completely random order. Also, there was the classic: I learned a new term in Cosmic Trigger, having never seen it before in my life, and then read the exact same term in Neuromancer (when the books were bought and read randomly, etc, etc). Similarly, I was introduced to a Zen proverb in Cosmic Trigger ("There is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is"), having never before seen it in my life, etc, etc -- and then, in the second sequential book I read after Cosmic Trigger (11/22/63 by Stephen King), it contained the precise same proverb, this happening within the space of a week.
However, as notable as these recurrences were, they were nothing compared to the latest.
This new wave started last month, when I decided to eBay a bunch of books I'd bought and didn't see myself reading again. One of these was Cosmic Trigger. It took a month and several re-listings to sell, but sell it did, earlier this week. When I fetched the book to ship off, I looked at the cover artwork, and in doing so noticed the Sirius constellation there (because Sirius, and the author's real-life synchronicities surrounding it, is an integral part of the book). Except, I didn't just notice it, but Noticed it, in a loud, distinct way, as if the cover were blank but for it. I've come to associate this phenomenon with things I'll soon be seeing again.
I wasn't wrong: just an hour later, I encountered Sirius again.
It came in the form of another book, Half Asleep In Frog Pajamas by Tom Robbins. I had started reading Frog Pajamas just the evening before I went to ship off Cosmic Trigger and noticed the Sirius constellation on its cover, so I was only several pages in when I sat down to read Frog Pajamas the afternoon in question. On just the second page I read, there it was: Sirius, mentioned for the first time in the book. And, not only did Frog Pajamas refer to Sirius, but it referred to the mystery surrounding the African Bozo tribe's unexplained knowledge of Sirius -- when this was also mentioned in Cosmic Trigger. This was notable in itself, considering that 1) I read this section of Frog Pajamas just an hour after packing up Cosmic Trigger and Noticing its Sirius constellation, and 2) I'd been sitting on Cosmic Trigger for nearly five months before deciding to sell it, and, similarly, been sitting on Frog Pajamas for over a month after I bought it. Yet, these two completely unrelated occurrences coincided within the space of an hour.
Of course, these two books were bought randomly and read randomly, etc, etc. Likewise, I had no prior idea what Frog Pajamas was about, and had never heard of the book until I bought it randomly at Goodwill because it was a Tom Robbins, and the book had no external indicator of anything regarding Sirius or Cosmic Trigger. Etc, etc.
But, still, it was not over. Far from it.
As I read more of Half Asleep In Frog Pajamas, I would find that Sirius was a central theme of the book -- exactly like Cosmic Trigger, the book I packed up just an hour before I came to Frog Pajamas' first Sirius reference. As it were, I actually sold Cosmic Trigger on the very day I started reading Frog Pajamas; I just wasn't able to ship it that day, therefore having to wait until the next, therefore enabling me to see the Sirius constellation just before I got to Frog Pajamas' first Sirius reference, etc, etc, E T C.
Seeing this, I thought: At this rate, the damn book's going to mention Robert Anton Wilson [Cosmic Trigger's author] by name.
The next day, Frog Pajamas mentioned Robert Anton Wilson by name.
I laughed madly when I saw it, feeling like a combination Nostradamus and Woody Allen. Not only did Frog Pajamas literally, explicitly name Robert Anton Wilson, it also mentioned Timothy Leary and a couple other people who were featured in Cosmic Trigger.
There's more, actually. But do I really need to say any more?
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Sometime in '09: Big Tits
The library is a magical place, for me at least. I rarely have any idea what I'm looking for when I go in, so I more often than not end up with a couple random books. And this undefined day in 2009 was no different: I walked in, and arbitrarily roulette-wheeled myself two books, Coldheart Canyon by Clive Barker, and China Bride by Henry Luk. Well, that's not entirely true: China Bride was random, a result of it incidentally occupying the very end of a row, but the Clive Barker was a tad less so. I'd visited the C's in pursuit of another author whose name escapes me, and, disappointed, I happened upon the teeny collection of Barkers the library held, thus inspiring my selection.
Anyway.
I left with the two books, and started into them that afternoon, beginning with China Bride. The moderately short novel was the saga of a wealthy Hongkonger who imports his busty American wife to the region. The Hongkonger -- or Konger, if you will, I like the word, has a plosive feel to it -- becomes kidnapped, and adventure ensues. Long story short, his bride, from which the book's namesake is derived, winds up miraculously tagging along with the tactical unit sent to derail the Bad Guys, and the thrilling climax involves her exposing her massive chest to save Hubby's life, an uninspired though not unoriginal ending. (And I'm sorry to spoil the gripping denouement to any potential readers of the fantabulously unknown book, but it's central to my tale.) I finished the book in two days, and though unimpressed with the writing (English is not Mr. Luk's first language, so I have to cut him some slack), I enjoyed its naked portrayal of Hong Kong, a place I will most likely never set foot upon in my mortal life.
Anyway.
Next came Coldheart Canyon. I won't go into the premise of the book, as, being Clive Barker, it's more convoluted than is germane to the story at hand, but here's its relevant nugget: there is a female character in the book, with a prodigious chest, and the climax of the story involves -- drum roll -- her exposing her outsize mammaries to save the day.
Now, I don't know, exactly, how many books inhabit the adult fiction section of the Watauga County Public Library, but I have no doubt it's in the thousands. And though I'm miserable at math, it doesn't take an Einstein to grok the chances of choosing, at random, the two whose climaxes involve the utilitarian exposure of well-endowed women.
Make of it what you will.
Anyway.
I left with the two books, and started into them that afternoon, beginning with China Bride. The moderately short novel was the saga of a wealthy Hongkonger who imports his busty American wife to the region. The Hongkonger -- or Konger, if you will, I like the word, has a plosive feel to it -- becomes kidnapped, and adventure ensues. Long story short, his bride, from which the book's namesake is derived, winds up miraculously tagging along with the tactical unit sent to derail the Bad Guys, and the thrilling climax involves her exposing her massive chest to save Hubby's life, an uninspired though not unoriginal ending. (And I'm sorry to spoil the gripping denouement to any potential readers of the fantabulously unknown book, but it's central to my tale.) I finished the book in two days, and though unimpressed with the writing (English is not Mr. Luk's first language, so I have to cut him some slack), I enjoyed its naked portrayal of Hong Kong, a place I will most likely never set foot upon in my mortal life.
Anyway.
Next came Coldheart Canyon. I won't go into the premise of the book, as, being Clive Barker, it's more convoluted than is germane to the story at hand, but here's its relevant nugget: there is a female character in the book, with a prodigious chest, and the climax of the story involves -- drum roll -- her exposing her outsize mammaries to save the day.
Now, I don't know, exactly, how many books inhabit the adult fiction section of the Watauga County Public Library, but I have no doubt it's in the thousands. And though I'm miserable at math, it doesn't take an Einstein to grok the chances of choosing, at random, the two whose climaxes involve the utilitarian exposure of well-endowed women.
Make of it what you will.
Sunday, September 22, 2013
9/21/13: Independent Events
"There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies, and statistics."
We've all seen the quote, it's certainly made the rounds -- but that makes it no less true. Statistics are rascally things. They seem to prove an argument or point, when they could, in reality, harbor hidden flaws which render them invalid -- but only if you look closely. On the surface, they can appear every bit sound. And, considering the surface is where the examination of many people begins and ends, we see the potential for abuse.
When I first read of the term "independent event," as used in the context of probabilities, it dug up my grievances with statistics all over again. When an event is classified as "independent," probability-wise, it means that it has no connection to any past events, as to be free from influence on its probability -- but what if there is a connection between these events, it's just not obvious or known? Say, some hidden, unseen force which connects events with no overt connection? Then, the statistical reality will differ from actual reality, because that connection is not expressed within the probability's calculation. This is one way in which statistics can achieve their deceit.
As it were, I was introduced to the probabilistic concept of independent events in a book: This Book Does Not Exist. Though I'd understood the concept for life or close to it, I'd never, until then, been aware of its formal term. So the book was educational for me, however I disliked the concept's rigidity.
I read of "independent events" in the afternoon, finished This Book Does Not Exist that evening, then moved on to another book that night.
My new book was a random investment book sent to me by a friend, in the same shipment as This Book Does Not Exist. The two books are very different, one being about investing in stock-market index funds, the other being about paradoxes and other logical head-scratchers. Yet, this investment book I started contained a paragraph on none other than ... independent events, used in a probabilistic context.
After being unaware of the formal concept of independent events for all my thirty years, I was exposed to it in two back-to-back books, read entirely randomly (and sent to me as randomly by my friend). A classic book-synchronicity, as has happened to me many times.
But here's the clincher: the synchronicity demonstrates the limitation of the traditional definition of "independent events." On the surface, the recurrence of the concept between the two books would appear every bit to be a chance coincidence, though a somewhat unlikely one. Only when the context is considered (that I'd never before known the term, and that I've experienced enough nearly identical "coincidences" involving random books read back-to-back to establish a distinct pattern of phenomenon) do we see the potential for some connection in the term's recurrence, albeit an obscure, hidden, unknown connection.
The recurrence of "independent events" wasn't an independent event, it seems. The irony.
We've all seen the quote, it's certainly made the rounds -- but that makes it no less true. Statistics are rascally things. They seem to prove an argument or point, when they could, in reality, harbor hidden flaws which render them invalid -- but only if you look closely. On the surface, they can appear every bit sound. And, considering the surface is where the examination of many people begins and ends, we see the potential for abuse.
When I first read of the term "independent event," as used in the context of probabilities, it dug up my grievances with statistics all over again. When an event is classified as "independent," probability-wise, it means that it has no connection to any past events, as to be free from influence on its probability -- but what if there is a connection between these events, it's just not obvious or known? Say, some hidden, unseen force which connects events with no overt connection? Then, the statistical reality will differ from actual reality, because that connection is not expressed within the probability's calculation. This is one way in which statistics can achieve their deceit.
As it were, I was introduced to the probabilistic concept of independent events in a book: This Book Does Not Exist. Though I'd understood the concept for life or close to it, I'd never, until then, been aware of its formal term. So the book was educational for me, however I disliked the concept's rigidity.
I read of "independent events" in the afternoon, finished This Book Does Not Exist that evening, then moved on to another book that night.
My new book was a random investment book sent to me by a friend, in the same shipment as This Book Does Not Exist. The two books are very different, one being about investing in stock-market index funds, the other being about paradoxes and other logical head-scratchers. Yet, this investment book I started contained a paragraph on none other than ... independent events, used in a probabilistic context.
After being unaware of the formal concept of independent events for all my thirty years, I was exposed to it in two back-to-back books, read entirely randomly (and sent to me as randomly by my friend). A classic book-synchronicity, as has happened to me many times.
But here's the clincher: the synchronicity demonstrates the limitation of the traditional definition of "independent events." On the surface, the recurrence of the concept between the two books would appear every bit to be a chance coincidence, though a somewhat unlikely one. Only when the context is considered (that I'd never before known the term, and that I've experienced enough nearly identical "coincidences" involving random books read back-to-back to establish a distinct pattern of phenomenon) do we see the potential for some connection in the term's recurrence, albeit an obscure, hidden, unknown connection.
The recurrence of "independent events" wasn't an independent event, it seems. The irony.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
7/1/14 - 'The Roots of Coincidence,' Part Two
Just days ago, I composed a long-winded entry on a synchronicity involving The Roots of Coincidence, a book about synchronicity. Well, apparently I spoke too soon, for a sequel incident occurred today.
It started last week, when I read The Roots of Coincidence. Involving quantum physics to some extent, the book briefly outlined Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle, that koan-like concept which states that there exists a relationship between subject and object, so that, basically, the observer affects the observed (and vice-versa). Though I was not unmet by the Uncertainty Principle, I did have a minor revelation upon reading of it in The Roots of Coincidence: I drew a parallel between the Principle and human perception, for the first time. Because of the subjective nature of perception, no two people perceive the same object in the same way, so that, practically speaking, they are seeing two different objects, each in the respective mind's eye of the observer -- a perfect demonstration of Heisenberg's Principle, as it were. Perhaps this parallel isn't so mind-blowing to other folks, but for me, it struck me deeply, for it wedded a bizarre physics concept to real-life experience, placing it in living terms that I could understand. In any case, my little insight stuck with me, vividly so, the way any well-rounded understanding will adhere to the mind and gel into everyday thinking.
Then, just days later, the whole thing recurred.
The recurrence came knocking today, while I was reading another book: The Petting Zoo by Jim Carroll, the next sequential book I read after The Roots of Coincidence. In one scene, two characters are discussing perception and empathy, and Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle comes up in their dialogue -- synchronicity strikes! I found the incident somewhat notable: after going months (years?) without reading of the Uncertainty Principle, I read of it in two books, back to back -- books which, as it were, couldn't have been more different or random, one being a forty-year-old nonfiction head-scratcher about coincidence and synchronicity, and the other being a modern novel about an artist living in New York City. What are the chances that I would randomly pick these two wholly disparate books to read (one purchased online after I'd been putting it off for almost a year, the other an unfamiliar book bought for no logical reason from Goodwill a month prior), only to find them referencing the same physics concept? (And never mind that this fits the pattern established by dozens of prior incidents, where my choices of reading material seems to reflect each other in subject matter ...)
Unlikely? Yes. However, the recurrence of the Uncertainty Principle was only the first part of the incident. The second was a whole other ballgame.
The second part of the recurrence: not the Uncertainty Principle, but the comment, by one of the Petting Zoo characters, that the Uncertainty Principle was just like human perception -- exactly what I'd thought when reading The Roots of Coincidence. Dig it: not only did the Uncertainty Principle recur between two different books randomly read by me, but the latter echoed, in the exact same context and similar wording, the minor revelation I'd had regarding the Principle and its parallels with human perception. If the chances of the Principle's original recurrence were somewhat low, I can't fathom the chances of my thoughts regarding the Principle recurring.
Now, I must wonder: is this a common comparison, perhaps well-known to academia? Is it routinely pointed out by professors to their students, that Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle can be understood in terms of human perception? Perhaps it is, and I'm just ignorant of it, so that it comes as a surprise for me to see that precise sentiment echoed in a book. But even were it common, even to the point of being cliche, what are the chances that I would see it recur in this manner, in a second, random book, days later, back-to-back with that which originally led me to make the comparison for the first time in my life ...?
As I've said many times before, I'm no mathematician. However, it seems to me the chances of this two-tier incident would be astronomically low. The first, original recurrence seems about as likely as having a bag of money fall from the sky and land at your feet; with the second part taken into consideration, however, it seems about as likely as the bag of sky-money having a note inside with your name on it.
Regardless, the incident succeeded in making me laugh.
Sunday, February 26, 2017
More Ask and Ye Shall Receive (Faster and Faster)
Recently, I had a distinct thought: I need a new book.
Approximately a minute later, I found a book, abandoned on a random park bench.
Sound incredible, perhaps impossible (or, perhaps fictional?) Wait'll you read the circumstances in which this occurred ...
Approximately a minute later, I found a book, abandoned on a random park bench.
Sound incredible, perhaps impossible (or, perhaps fictional?) Wait'll you read the circumstances in which this occurred ...
* * *
First, the context on my latest ask-and-receive adventures (in case you don't see the post immediately below this one).
As for the circumstances of the event itself, this "receipt" occurred on a pleasant winter afternoon in a city park -- a city which, as it were, I did way too much walking in, for I ended up irritating an irritable knee, leaving me unable to walk even the short distance back home. Thus, I was forced to seek out a bench, on which I collapsed and then began calling up a ride on my phone.
Halfway through, however, I stopped: I needed a new book. About to finish my current read, I needed a new one lined up. And, I needed it before I retired for the evening (gotta have my reading material, as breath).
Need a new book, I thought then. I'd planned on stopping for one on the way home, but were I to hail a ride, a stop-off wouldn't be possible (unless I wanted to pay for two rides, and just complicate the whole thing in general).
With that, I decided to try walking again, if only to a bus stop. After all, my knee had spontaneously healed up in the past, after a short rest. And so I got up, walked several feet ... and promptly winced in pain as my knee screamed out, refusing to go further.
Ultimately, I made it only as far as the next sequential bench.
And it was there that I "received": when I began to sit down, something was in my way, occupying my intended bench-space. Of course, it was a book -- and not only a book, but one that actually appealed to me, of an appropriate length and type, and of a subject matter that engaged me at this particular time (I'm really picky about my books, with my tastes changing from day to day ...). And, it bears mentioning: this book, though resting just one bench down as I'd done my silent "asking," was completely invisible to me then, being tucked out of sight behind the second bench's arm rest -- such that I couldn't possibly have seen it and been "tipped off" to its presence, even subconsciously in my peripheral vision.
In this blog's previous post, I'd said my ask-and-receives were getting faster. Well, apparently this quickening process isn't yet finished.
* * *
But wait, there's more (as there almost always is with my synchronistic experiences).
The next day, it happened again, almost exactly the same: while walking down a random street, needing to stop randomly to sip some water and adjust my bags, I sat on a random bench -- only to find another book preceding me there. Just like the first one, less than 24 hours earlier. Déjà vu, big time.
Though, it wasn't exactly the same, for this time my discovery was not asked for; instead, I just ... found another book. All the same, it still makes me wonder: was this also a synchronistic incident, just of another kind? That is, perhaps rather than being a second "ask and receive"-type of incident, this one was, simply, a recurrence of yesterday's discovery of a book left randomly on a bench -- as a typical, "normal" synchronistic recurrence, one that just happened to "echo" a respectively different synchronicity.
Then again, maybe this repeat was just chance, however unlikely (is this a common practice, leaving books on benches for others to find? I mean, I've done it myself, setting out books in conspicuous places after I've finished them, in bread-on-the-waters fashion; but I had no idea others did this). But, to again go the other way, I'll say this: in all my life (and in the many flat surfaces I've graced with my rear end), I've never once found a book on a bench ... and then it happened twice, less than a day apart.
* * *
Oh, and just so there's no confusion: yes, this really happened. Proof? I have none, beyond my word (of an anonymous internet blogger, no less); but, then again, I pass along my experiences for informational purposes only. This post, like everything I write here, comes with the standard disclaimer: take it or leave it, believe it or don't, for what it's worth (whatever it's worth).
Thursday, December 14, 2017
... And the Book-Thematics Continue
A quick follow-up to my last post, about my recent book-thematic incident involving Kafka's Metamorphosis.
It happened again. And, this time the circumstances were even more improbable.
In short: instead of forgetting my book and being forced to grab one randomly from the internet, I finished one unexpectedly and was left without a replacement or a place to buy one, after which I eventually unearthed one from a random mound of trash along a random city street in the middle of the night -- yet, it turned out to be as synchronistic and life-echoing as the first one (and, as I would discover, quite a good read, too).
My rambling 12/6/17 log entry describes it best (and is oddly appropriate, given the sheer craziness at play), so I'll let it speak for itself, verbatim:
It happened again. And, this time the circumstances were even more improbable.
In short: instead of forgetting my book and being forced to grab one randomly from the internet, I finished one unexpectedly and was left without a replacement or a place to buy one, after which I eventually unearthed one from a random mound of trash along a random city street in the middle of the night -- yet, it turned out to be as synchronistic and life-echoing as the first one (and, as I would discover, quite a good read, too).
My rambling 12/6/17 log entry describes it best (and is oddly appropriate, given the sheer craziness at play), so I'll let it speak for itself, verbatim:
"[...] It started yesterday when the fasting book proved to be shorter than I'd expected, and thus left me finishing it at dinnertime last night and not having a replacement lined up for lunch today, and so last night I'd gone searching for either a free book somewhere, or one thrown away as trash, or a book store -- and, in the end, all I found was a trash book, and at the end of a hugely random search that I won't bother trying to detail other than that it contained a lot of Compellings, and eventually me getting lost and having to double back through several blocks of the city several times -- and then, at the end of this headspinning ordeal, I Just Happened to come to a big pile of 'someone moved out of their apartment'-type of mounds of trash, in which was a big bag of books, and in which I found this "Short Eyes" book (which, besides being notable itself given the chances of getting any books from random trash, this one was actually one I had on my list that I wanted to read, after hearing about it somewhere several months ago -- a little ask-n-receive in itself, pretty much standout quality in itself). So then, just like the Kafka book from last week or whenever that happened, I ended up reading this ridiculously random, couldn't-have-been-less-likely "Short Eyes" book at lunch today, yet it managed to echo not only my life/thoughts in longwinded thematic/parallel fashion, but also to echo a bunch more of those small in-the-moment thought/environmental events -- just so incredible and living-dream, even after it had happened before, haha."
* * *
And then the next day, it happened again, identical in nature and insane unlikelihood, but now involving a random eBook I'd downloaded years ago, partially read, and then abandoned ... only to return to it out of simple necessity on 12/7, and find it to echo my life and circumstances and surroundings at that particular date and time.
Another befittingly messy log entry:
"[...] And today was identical even in the book being yet another 'ridiculously/impossibly random book read only because of finishing one without having another one ready,' this time, after my looking for a book or a bookstore or even a good magazine to read on the way to lunch and finding nothing, I found myself looking through my Kindle, even though logic would say this was pointless since all the books on there were logically ones I'd already read. Except that I did finally come across one (Compelled to keep looking despite all appearances/logic) that I'd totally forgotten about, a book I'd read the first chapter or two of and then decided I couldn't keep going with it at the time, but still left on there, unfinished. So I ended up reading this random old ebook, and even the chapter I chose to start at was totally random, with my having no memory of where I'd left off (the Kindle had since reset the reading position for some reason) -- and yet, despite all these layers of randomness, it still managed to echo all sorts of things that had happened last night, this morning, and also several small 'in the moment'-type incidents during lunch (such as my coming to 'he was halfway out the door' precisely as a man randomly walked through the double sliding doors directly in front of my table at the market I was eating at, not only echoing the 'out the door' but also the 'halfway,' since the man was going through the first of two doors/halfway out, etc). Again incredibly notable despite its subjectivity/subtly, for all kinds of reasons ..."
* * *
I will again bid the reader to make of this what they will. But, after a triple play like this, I gotta admit: it's hard not to lean toward the obvious conclusion.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
3/30/13: Seizures
You put a wallet in the jaws of a seizing person, if you didn't know.
I, for one, was ignorant of this trick -- until last week, when I read the Chuck Palahniuk novel, Invisible Monsters. I'd heard of putting sticks or other hard objects in there, but never a wallet. Makes sense, considering not everyone keeps a stick on hand.
Immediately after finishing Invisible Monsters, I started reading a new book: One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest (because in 1962, I wasn't alive). And, wouldn't you know, this book also mentioned putting a wallet in the jaws of someone having a seizure.
After going twenty-nine years without knowing of this practice, I'd read of it in two sequential books, bought separately and read in random order.
But that's not the kicker: not only did the respective books each depict a wallet in the mouth of the seizing person, they depicted sex with said seizing person. Yes, sex with a seizing person. One book had the wallet in the mouth before intercourse rather than after, but still.
Probably the world's only two books involving sex with the seizing, and I read them back-to-back. Where's my prize?
(Wait, hasn't this happened before?)
I, for one, was ignorant of this trick -- until last week, when I read the Chuck Palahniuk novel, Invisible Monsters. I'd heard of putting sticks or other hard objects in there, but never a wallet. Makes sense, considering not everyone keeps a stick on hand.
Immediately after finishing Invisible Monsters, I started reading a new book: One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest (because in 1962, I wasn't alive). And, wouldn't you know, this book also mentioned putting a wallet in the jaws of someone having a seizure.
After going twenty-nine years without knowing of this practice, I'd read of it in two sequential books, bought separately and read in random order.
But that's not the kicker: not only did the respective books each depict a wallet in the mouth of the seizing person, they depicted sex with said seizing person. Yes, sex with a seizing person. One book had the wallet in the mouth before intercourse rather than after, but still.
Probably the world's only two books involving sex with the seizing, and I read them back-to-back. Where's my prize?
(Wait, hasn't this happened before?)
Monday, February 3, 2014
2/3 - Book Synchronicity 2.0
The "book" synchronicity. It never fails at grabbing my attention. Read a new, obscure word for the first time in my life, in some random book I bought months ago, and then read the same word in my next sequential book, also bought and read randomly.
I've detailed several of these on this blog, and experienced many, many more. But yesterday, the phenomenon came with a twist.
V.S. Naipaul and Indira Gandhi, two Indian folks of a certain fame. Not knowing India and its figures, I'd never heard of these people until I read of them in a book, In Spite of the Gods: The Rise of Modern India, which introduced me to both of them within the course of a day's reading. Then, approximately 12 hours later, I encountered these names again, in a separate, unrelated book -- pretty unlikely. When all variables were taken into consideration (including the fact that the recurrence fit the distinct pattern I'd seen established over several years), the incident appeared to defy any reasonable chances of happening.
A classic book synchronicity, right? Wrong.
See, the second book that I encountered the names in came to me in the most remarkable of ways, different than even the accidental-on-purpose fashion which usually characterizes these incidents. Rather than the names recurring in a book I read, they arrived in a book I hadn't read.
The book, a paperback copy of Such a Long Journey by Rohinton Mistry, was given to me some years ago in a free box of books from a family member. For whatever reason, the book didn't interest me, and so it went on my shelf, where it would stay. I'd never opened this book, or so much as read its back cover. Maybe the cover image turned me off, I don't know; but the point is this: I had no idea what was in or on this copy of Such a Long Journey, nor did I have any plans to find out. The book was an ornamental fixture on one of my shelves, collecting dust.
So, when I needed a book to hide some money in, this one fit the bill.
Why was I hiding money in a book? I was putting together a "go bag," a backpack filled with clothes and other necessities, to be grabbed in the event of an emergency, whenever one might need to "go" in a hurry. One of the ingredients for a bag is some cash; another is a book, for something to do. So I put the two together, naturally. Went I went to choose a book from my bookshelf, my hand went, randomly, to Such a Long Journey. Recognizing it as one of those castoff books that I'd never read, I figured it was as good as any. So I put my emergency cash cleverly inside, then stuffed the book into my finished go bag.
Another ingredient of a good go bag: some food. This is what would instigate the synchronicity.
I regularly eat the food and water stored in my go bag, and immediately replace it, to keep it fresh. A couple weeks ago, I was overdue for this changing of the guard -- however, as it so happened, I didn't immediately eat the food. Either my menu wasn't friendly to the nuts and seeds in the go bag, or I was just too plain lazy to unpack the bag and dig out its food. Regardless, I didn't get around to it until yesterday -- the day after I read of V.S. Naipaul and Indira Gandhi for the first time in In Spite of the Gods.
When I unpacked my go bag, I had to take out my cash-filled copy of Such a Long Journey.
This time when I saw the book, it grabbed me. I don't know why: just as it had fallen flat and uninteresting on me years before, it struck me as interesting yesterday. So, as is natural when interested in a book, I turned it over and read its blurb -- which mentioned two Indian names, V.S. Naipaul and Indira Gandhi.
Had I read the book's blurb when I first got it, there would be no synchronicity. Had I read it two weeks ago, when the emergency food was overdue for replacement and before I read In Spite of the Gods, the synchronicity would be much less notable, since reading two new names, two weeks apart, could foreseeably be chance. But by "discovering" Such a Long Journey when I did, it recurred those two, specific, new names to me within a twelve-hour time frame, upgrading the unlikeliness to synchronicity levels.
Upon recognizing the names as those I'd been introduced to just a half-day before, I laughed out loud.
And that's not all: I got not only a new entry in my synchronicity log, but another book about India, to read when I finish In Spite of the Gods. I don't know enough about India to be familiar with two of its figures, but after reading these two books, perhaps that will change somewhat.
I've detailed several of these on this blog, and experienced many, many more. But yesterday, the phenomenon came with a twist.
V.S. Naipaul and Indira Gandhi, two Indian folks of a certain fame. Not knowing India and its figures, I'd never heard of these people until I read of them in a book, In Spite of the Gods: The Rise of Modern India, which introduced me to both of them within the course of a day's reading. Then, approximately 12 hours later, I encountered these names again, in a separate, unrelated book -- pretty unlikely. When all variables were taken into consideration (including the fact that the recurrence fit the distinct pattern I'd seen established over several years), the incident appeared to defy any reasonable chances of happening.
A classic book synchronicity, right? Wrong.
See, the second book that I encountered the names in came to me in the most remarkable of ways, different than even the accidental-on-purpose fashion which usually characterizes these incidents. Rather than the names recurring in a book I read, they arrived in a book I hadn't read.
The book, a paperback copy of Such a Long Journey by Rohinton Mistry, was given to me some years ago in a free box of books from a family member. For whatever reason, the book didn't interest me, and so it went on my shelf, where it would stay. I'd never opened this book, or so much as read its back cover. Maybe the cover image turned me off, I don't know; but the point is this: I had no idea what was in or on this copy of Such a Long Journey, nor did I have any plans to find out. The book was an ornamental fixture on one of my shelves, collecting dust.
So, when I needed a book to hide some money in, this one fit the bill.
Why was I hiding money in a book? I was putting together a "go bag," a backpack filled with clothes and other necessities, to be grabbed in the event of an emergency, whenever one might need to "go" in a hurry. One of the ingredients for a bag is some cash; another is a book, for something to do. So I put the two together, naturally. Went I went to choose a book from my bookshelf, my hand went, randomly, to Such a Long Journey. Recognizing it as one of those castoff books that I'd never read, I figured it was as good as any. So I put my emergency cash cleverly inside, then stuffed the book into my finished go bag.
Another ingredient of a good go bag: some food. This is what would instigate the synchronicity.
I regularly eat the food and water stored in my go bag, and immediately replace it, to keep it fresh. A couple weeks ago, I was overdue for this changing of the guard -- however, as it so happened, I didn't immediately eat the food. Either my menu wasn't friendly to the nuts and seeds in the go bag, or I was just too plain lazy to unpack the bag and dig out its food. Regardless, I didn't get around to it until yesterday -- the day after I read of V.S. Naipaul and Indira Gandhi for the first time in In Spite of the Gods.
When I unpacked my go bag, I had to take out my cash-filled copy of Such a Long Journey.
This time when I saw the book, it grabbed me. I don't know why: just as it had fallen flat and uninteresting on me years before, it struck me as interesting yesterday. So, as is natural when interested in a book, I turned it over and read its blurb -- which mentioned two Indian names, V.S. Naipaul and Indira Gandhi.
Had I read the book's blurb when I first got it, there would be no synchronicity. Had I read it two weeks ago, when the emergency food was overdue for replacement and before I read In Spite of the Gods, the synchronicity would be much less notable, since reading two new names, two weeks apart, could foreseeably be chance. But by "discovering" Such a Long Journey when I did, it recurred those two, specific, new names to me within a twelve-hour time frame, upgrading the unlikeliness to synchronicity levels.
Upon recognizing the names as those I'd been introduced to just a half-day before, I laughed out loud.
And that's not all: I got not only a new entry in my synchronicity log, but another book about India, to read when I finish In Spite of the Gods. I don't know enough about India to be familiar with two of its figures, but after reading these two books, perhaps that will change somewhat.
Saturday, November 28, 2015
11/27/15: Negative Ions
Negative ions. They're good for you, if you didn't know.
These days, you hear a lot about this stuff. There are ionizer gizmos that plug into wall outlets and renew the air, and those big, pink, warmly glowing salt lamps that are seen ubiquitously in health food stores and head shops. Also, there are the "detox foot baths," which, supposedly, work their magic by ionizing the body directly, via the feet.
Me? I'm a foot-bath guy.
Say what you will about them (and, yes, there's plenty of controversy over the practice, like any health gadget that's attracted miraculous claims), but I personally have found, through relatively objective personal experimentation, that these foot baths do in fact exert a real and positive effect on the body (or, at least, on mine). And, likewise, I've determined that this effect does seem to stem, in some way or another, from the induction of negative ions, for I've discovered markedly similar effects from other supposed means of ionizing oneself (salt caves, ocean air, and earthing/grounding, for instance). Consequently, I enjoy a foot bath from time to time, and am always rewarded with a general pick-me-up of some fashion.
So, that's how I came to be sitting down to a foot bath today.
Upon putting my feet in the soak, I was struck with the thought: Negative ions. It just hit me, in every sense of the term, as if remembering the very concept after a long time. And, I guess, that was sort of true: after a year or so of my discovering the foot baths, and my subsequent research of negative ions, I hadn't really given them much thought. Today, however, I did. For some reason.
Negative ions. The words were etched across my mind as I began my latest podiatric ingestion of the things.
Naturally, I cracked a book just after the bath began, to pass the half-hour, as is my custom for these sessions. As it were, today's selection was The Snow Leopard, by Peter Matthieson, a first-person account of one man's physical and spiritual journey through the Himalaya mountains in 1973. It's one of those famous classics that, somehow, I'd just missed up until now (so many books, so little time, you know). In fact, I only learned of the book's fame after buying it; at the time I'd stumbled upon it, The Snow Leopard was a totally random purchase, a library discharge in fact, which just announced itself to me and demanded to be bought. So, blindly, I'd paid the quarter for it and been on my way, after which it joined my towering stack of unread books (where it would remain until, just two days ago, over a month afterward, I'd felt Compelled to choose it for my next read ...).
Two pages into my reading, I gave pause: "... there are recent speculations that negative ions, which seem to be positive in their effect on animals and plants ..."
I did a double-take. First, because my unexpected pondering of Negative ions still lay across my mind, having occurred literally a minute or so beforehand. Second, because I'd had to turn the page to expose this passage -- that is, I couldn't possibly have subconsciously read it in my peripheral vision, thus ruling out psychological suggestion of some kind. It brought about that synchronistic sense of "echo" which characterizes these experiences, literally making me stop and blink like a cartoon character.
But then, third, there was the book itself: I wasn't reading a health journal, or even one of those duplicitous supplement advertisements disguised as such -- nothing where one might expect to encounter talk of negative ions. Instead, my book was about a pilgrim struggling through rugged country on a wildlife expedition (written nearly forty years ago, nonetheless, before the whole negative-ion craze was even a twinkle in the internet marketer's eye).
I smiled, in muted wonder: synchroshocked again.
It persisted through the rest of my foot bath, like the icing on a very surreal cake.
These days, you hear a lot about this stuff. There are ionizer gizmos that plug into wall outlets and renew the air, and those big, pink, warmly glowing salt lamps that are seen ubiquitously in health food stores and head shops. Also, there are the "detox foot baths," which, supposedly, work their magic by ionizing the body directly, via the feet.
Me? I'm a foot-bath guy.
Say what you will about them (and, yes, there's plenty of controversy over the practice, like any health gadget that's attracted miraculous claims), but I personally have found, through relatively objective personal experimentation, that these foot baths do in fact exert a real and positive effect on the body (or, at least, on mine). And, likewise, I've determined that this effect does seem to stem, in some way or another, from the induction of negative ions, for I've discovered markedly similar effects from other supposed means of ionizing oneself (salt caves, ocean air, and earthing/grounding, for instance). Consequently, I enjoy a foot bath from time to time, and am always rewarded with a general pick-me-up of some fashion.
So, that's how I came to be sitting down to a foot bath today.
Upon putting my feet in the soak, I was struck with the thought: Negative ions. It just hit me, in every sense of the term, as if remembering the very concept after a long time. And, I guess, that was sort of true: after a year or so of my discovering the foot baths, and my subsequent research of negative ions, I hadn't really given them much thought. Today, however, I did. For some reason.
Negative ions. The words were etched across my mind as I began my latest podiatric ingestion of the things.
Naturally, I cracked a book just after the bath began, to pass the half-hour, as is my custom for these sessions. As it were, today's selection was The Snow Leopard, by Peter Matthieson, a first-person account of one man's physical and spiritual journey through the Himalaya mountains in 1973. It's one of those famous classics that, somehow, I'd just missed up until now (so many books, so little time, you know). In fact, I only learned of the book's fame after buying it; at the time I'd stumbled upon it, The Snow Leopard was a totally random purchase, a library discharge in fact, which just announced itself to me and demanded to be bought. So, blindly, I'd paid the quarter for it and been on my way, after which it joined my towering stack of unread books (where it would remain until, just two days ago, over a month afterward, I'd felt Compelled to choose it for my next read ...).
Two pages into my reading, I gave pause: "... there are recent speculations that negative ions, which seem to be positive in their effect on animals and plants ..."
I did a double-take. First, because my unexpected pondering of Negative ions still lay across my mind, having occurred literally a minute or so beforehand. Second, because I'd had to turn the page to expose this passage -- that is, I couldn't possibly have subconsciously read it in my peripheral vision, thus ruling out psychological suggestion of some kind. It brought about that synchronistic sense of "echo" which characterizes these experiences, literally making me stop and blink like a cartoon character.
But then, third, there was the book itself: I wasn't reading a health journal, or even one of those duplicitous supplement advertisements disguised as such -- nothing where one might expect to encounter talk of negative ions. Instead, my book was about a pilgrim struggling through rugged country on a wildlife expedition (written nearly forty years ago, nonetheless, before the whole negative-ion craze was even a twinkle in the internet marketer's eye).
I smiled, in muted wonder: synchroshocked again.
It persisted through the rest of my foot bath, like the icing on a very surreal cake.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
7/13/13: Say What?
It was lunchtime. I was eating at the table while reading. People around me were talking.
Halfway through lunch, the book I was reading reached a chapter on the psychology of abusive relationships.
Meanwhile, the people around me began conversing about the psychology of abusive relationships.
I had not spoken a word about what I was reading, nor could the conversing people have read it.
As I reached the chapter's end, which summed up why someone in an abusive relationship might choose to remain in such a relationship, one of the conversing people asked, "Why would someone stay in a situation like that?" These two coincided so perfectly, I couldn't help but burst out laughing.
(Some fun facts about this incident:
1. It was by total chance I was reading this book at all. I had bought a used Kindle, and it had come to me preloaded with several books. It was one of these books I would be reading when the conversation occurred, and I had just started reading it the afternoon in question.
2. After I made it known to the conversing people that their conversation had just mirrored perfectly the text I was reading at the precise time their topic turned to abusive relationships, one of the people said, "Oh, like Patty Hearst, right?" Seconds later, on the very next page of the book, it mentioned Patty Hearst by name -- not too notable, considering this was on the same subject being discussed, but still.
3. The morning before this happened, I'd been editing a chapter of a book I'm writing, which made repeated mention of the "rose-colored glasses" phenomenon. Then, when I started reading the Kindle book at lunch that afternoon, it made mention of the "rose-colored glasses" phenomenon.)
Halfway through lunch, the book I was reading reached a chapter on the psychology of abusive relationships.
Meanwhile, the people around me began conversing about the psychology of abusive relationships.
I had not spoken a word about what I was reading, nor could the conversing people have read it.
As I reached the chapter's end, which summed up why someone in an abusive relationship might choose to remain in such a relationship, one of the conversing people asked, "Why would someone stay in a situation like that?" These two coincided so perfectly, I couldn't help but burst out laughing.
(Some fun facts about this incident:
1. It was by total chance I was reading this book at all. I had bought a used Kindle, and it had come to me preloaded with several books. It was one of these books I would be reading when the conversation occurred, and I had just started reading it the afternoon in question.
2. After I made it known to the conversing people that their conversation had just mirrored perfectly the text I was reading at the precise time their topic turned to abusive relationships, one of the people said, "Oh, like Patty Hearst, right?" Seconds later, on the very next page of the book, it mentioned Patty Hearst by name -- not too notable, considering this was on the same subject being discussed, but still.
3. The morning before this happened, I'd been editing a chapter of a book I'm writing, which made repeated mention of the "rose-colored glasses" phenomenon. Then, when I started reading the Kindle book at lunch that afternoon, it made mention of the "rose-colored glasses" phenomenon.)
Monday, January 11, 2016
This Is What A Living Dream Looks Like
A few days ago, I started reading a book, The Ashes of Waco, by Dick J. Reavis. A recounting of the 1993 Waco incident, in which "David Koresh" and a group of associates burned to death in their compound, the book describes Mr. Koresh as a gun-toting, beer-drinking Messiah, who smokes cigarettes and "plays a mean guitar," and possesses an encyclopedic knowledge of the Bible and like books (and, by his own description, was the Lamb of Revelation, capable of reading God's book of the seven seals).
I read that colorful description on January 8th specifically. As it were, it was the first time in a while that I'd encountered anything involving such a worldly Messiah -- if not the first time ever. Not the most common breed of Christ, that.
The next day, the 9th, I received an email: I had a new Twitter follower, a "Bodie Myers." Upon opening the email, I was met with the avatar and mini-bio screenshotted above.
Guns. Beer. Guitar. Books. All elements of that unlikely, Koreshian Messiah were present, recurring in less than 24 hours.
I don't know Mr. Bodie Myers (assuming this individual is male). But I'll send him/her my thanks, all the same. Besides synchroshocking me, your Twitter follower-ship gave me one hell of a laugh.
Friday, June 27, 2014
6/27/14 - 'The Roots of Coincidence' (aka Double Whammy)
This post, while containing a synchronicity, and concerning a book about synchronicity, is not a synchronicity post. Rather, it's about a certain type of vindication.
It all started with a book.
The original book, as it were, was of my own creation: Synchronicity: One Man's Experience, which I wrote in the fall of 2013. As the title suggests, the book recounts my experiences with the phenomenon known, more or less accurately, as "synchronicity." Ironically, at the time I wrote this book, I was largely unread on the subject; in fact, the only formal reading I'd done was Carl Jung's monumental paper on the phenomenon. I did, however, have several synchronicity books noted for further reading, if and when I got the inkling to research others' experiences.
One such book was The Roots of Coincidence, by Arthur Koestler.
I don't remember where I first read of Koestler or his book, or why it struck me enough to take interest. Somehow, though, I ended up with a bookmark for its Amazon listing. Lazily, I ignored it for some time, and then, when I did finally follow up on the book, I found it to be far more expensive for my tastes (being an older book, out of print and without an eBook version, prices were inflated accordingly). From there, I checked eBay and Amazon from time to time, hoping to snag a reasonably priced copy, but time and again, no such cheap copies were to be had. I bid on an auction once, but lost out to someone with richer blood.
Thus, The Roots of Coincidence stayed a perpetual presence in my file of bookmarked titles -- until last week.
One night, in a moment of idleness, I again noticed the Roots of Coincidence bookmark, and its stubborn refusal to disappear from my list of must-read books. So I made another halfhearted browse -- and this time, lo and behold, turned up a low-priced copy on eBay. I snatched it up at once, then at last deleted the bookmark, feeling to be crossing off some difficult station from a bucket list. And it was after this, within two days, that the synchronicity occurred: I came across, in the unrelated book I was reading at the time, a quote from none other than Arthur Koestler. The quote, which was placed randomly in the book (to correspond with a loosely relevant story), involved something called "holons," something I'd never heard of before in my life.
I read the Koestler quote just two days after ordering The Roots of Coincidence, after putting it off for nearly a year. Funny, I thought, sniffing the synchronicity to come. I got fifty bucks that The Roots of Coincidence will Just Happen to be the source of Koestler's quote regarding holons.
Sure enough, The Roots of Coincidence does indeed contain the quote I'd read in the wholly random and unconnected book I'd Just Happened to be reading two days after placing the order (that book, a collection of travel stories I'd checked out randomly from the library, bore no overt mention of Koestler or holons on its cover or blurb, the quote occupying only a small space 400 pages in). And yes, I do count this as a solid incidence of synchronicity, considering that I ordered the Roots book just two days before reading of its "holons" for the first time in my life; and, furthermore, I consider this a rather notable synchronicity, due to the fact that it fits perfectly the pattern established by the dozens upon dozens of similar incidents I've experienced. And yes, I rather enjoyed the irony added by the book's subject matter, for The Roots of Coincidence is, after all, about synchronicity (though, this is not the first time I've experienced synchronicities surrounding a book about synchronicities, nor is it the second time). However, as interesting and enjoyable as this incident is, it is not what inspired me to write this post.
Instead, I was moved to blog about this experience due to what Koestler's book contained.
That is to say, The Roots of Coincidence reinforced my own experiences, and in a somewhat objective, verifiable fashion. More or less, Koestler echoed what I wrote in Synchronicity: One Man's Experience. Not only was there a general repetition of the same underlying patterns and phenomena I experienced and then described, but Koestler and his references also reached many of the same conclusions as in my book, at times with the same wording and models of action -- all of which I was unaware of until reading The Roots of Coincidence over the last couple days, only after I'd written my account and speculated on what it might mean. Sometimes, there is no better confirmation than seeing one's thoughts and experiences corroborated by a complete stranger, decades in the past (which goes double for subjects as speculative, mysterious, and empirical as synchronicity).
And it was this, in the end, that I enjoyed most about my purchase of The Roots of Coincidence: not the highly improbable "coincidence" it triggered, nor the laughter incurred by same, but instead the simple-but-rare vindication I experienced upon seeing the essence of my experiences recounted in a forty-year-old book I'd read only after the fact. That feeling can't be bought, or it would cost a fortune if it could.
It all started with a book.
The original book, as it were, was of my own creation: Synchronicity: One Man's Experience, which I wrote in the fall of 2013. As the title suggests, the book recounts my experiences with the phenomenon known, more or less accurately, as "synchronicity." Ironically, at the time I wrote this book, I was largely unread on the subject; in fact, the only formal reading I'd done was Carl Jung's monumental paper on the phenomenon. I did, however, have several synchronicity books noted for further reading, if and when I got the inkling to research others' experiences.
One such book was The Roots of Coincidence, by Arthur Koestler.
I don't remember where I first read of Koestler or his book, or why it struck me enough to take interest. Somehow, though, I ended up with a bookmark for its Amazon listing. Lazily, I ignored it for some time, and then, when I did finally follow up on the book, I found it to be far more expensive for my tastes (being an older book, out of print and without an eBook version, prices were inflated accordingly). From there, I checked eBay and Amazon from time to time, hoping to snag a reasonably priced copy, but time and again, no such cheap copies were to be had. I bid on an auction once, but lost out to someone with richer blood.
Thus, The Roots of Coincidence stayed a perpetual presence in my file of bookmarked titles -- until last week.
One night, in a moment of idleness, I again noticed the Roots of Coincidence bookmark, and its stubborn refusal to disappear from my list of must-read books. So I made another halfhearted browse -- and this time, lo and behold, turned up a low-priced copy on eBay. I snatched it up at once, then at last deleted the bookmark, feeling to be crossing off some difficult station from a bucket list. And it was after this, within two days, that the synchronicity occurred: I came across, in the unrelated book I was reading at the time, a quote from none other than Arthur Koestler. The quote, which was placed randomly in the book (to correspond with a loosely relevant story), involved something called "holons," something I'd never heard of before in my life.
I read the Koestler quote just two days after ordering The Roots of Coincidence, after putting it off for nearly a year. Funny, I thought, sniffing the synchronicity to come. I got fifty bucks that The Roots of Coincidence will Just Happen to be the source of Koestler's quote regarding holons.
Sure enough, The Roots of Coincidence does indeed contain the quote I'd read in the wholly random and unconnected book I'd Just Happened to be reading two days after placing the order (that book, a collection of travel stories I'd checked out randomly from the library, bore no overt mention of Koestler or holons on its cover or blurb, the quote occupying only a small space 400 pages in). And yes, I do count this as a solid incidence of synchronicity, considering that I ordered the Roots book just two days before reading of its "holons" for the first time in my life; and, furthermore, I consider this a rather notable synchronicity, due to the fact that it fits perfectly the pattern established by the dozens upon dozens of similar incidents I've experienced. And yes, I rather enjoyed the irony added by the book's subject matter, for The Roots of Coincidence is, after all, about synchronicity (though, this is not the first time I've experienced synchronicities surrounding a book about synchronicities, nor is it the second time). However, as interesting and enjoyable as this incident is, it is not what inspired me to write this post.
Instead, I was moved to blog about this experience due to what Koestler's book contained.
That is to say, The Roots of Coincidence reinforced my own experiences, and in a somewhat objective, verifiable fashion. More or less, Koestler echoed what I wrote in Synchronicity: One Man's Experience. Not only was there a general repetition of the same underlying patterns and phenomena I experienced and then described, but Koestler and his references also reached many of the same conclusions as in my book, at times with the same wording and models of action -- all of which I was unaware of until reading The Roots of Coincidence over the last couple days, only after I'd written my account and speculated on what it might mean. Sometimes, there is no better confirmation than seeing one's thoughts and experiences corroborated by a complete stranger, decades in the past (which goes double for subjects as speculative, mysterious, and empirical as synchronicity).
And it was this, in the end, that I enjoyed most about my purchase of The Roots of Coincidence: not the highly improbable "coincidence" it triggered, nor the laughter incurred by same, but instead the simple-but-rare vindication I experienced upon seeing the essence of my experiences recounted in a forty-year-old book I'd read only after the fact. That feeling can't be bought, or it would cost a fortune if it could.
Thursday, August 13, 2015
Autobiography of a Yogi
A month or so ago, a friend of mine recommended a book, Autobiography of a Yogi. It was the first I'd heard of this book in my life.
Being a habitual heeder of random recommendations, I bought the book.
I planned to read it, really; but you know how plans go, especially when it comes to books. That is to say, I got sidetracked by other books (perhaps "seduced" is more like it). So, weeks went by, and the yogi book went unread, for all its appeal.
Until today, when I finished a long, very un-yogic how-to book. With that, I thought, decisively, that it was time to read about the yogi.
Before I could start it, however, I had to take some trash to the dump.
Yes, there is a synchronicity lurking in this story, as anyone who's read this blog could guess: that very same day, I randomly came across a copy of none other than Autobiography of a Yogi, there at the dump, in a little area called the "Swap Shop" where folks can leave stuff that someone might want. However, there's more to the incident than the simple coincidence of my finding a copy of the book I was intending to read.
A battery led me to it.
That battery. It had been kicking around for years, going with me through several moves, without ever being thrown away. A cheap, non-alkaline double-A, it had always escaped disposal because, like any battery, you don't just toss it in the trash; at my local dump, the dead batteries have their own special bin, which requires its own special few steps from the dumpsters, which, therefore, required me to separate the battery from its fellow garbage. Too much to ask, it would seem. Annoyance is the best deterrent, indeed.
But I digress. Back to the book.
I decided to at last get rid of the battery, is what happened. I was going through some stuff; I happened across this ancient dead battery; I was going to the dump anyhow. And so I took it with me, despite the tremendous/miniscule effort required to do so. It brought a rush of power and accomplishment; if I could get rid of this battery, I could do anything.
Then I forgot about it.
Wrapped up in disposing of the normal trash and recyclables, I very nearly left the dump without tossing the battery. On top of being distracted with the other trash, I was also in a big rush, trying to get to a doctor's appointment. In fact, I was in such a rush that I neglected my usual visit to the Swap Shop to see if any interesting freebies awaited me there. Only as I'd gotten back in my car and started driving away did I remember the battery; and only because it had been spared disposal for so long did I take the time to stop, get out, and march it over the bin.
As it were, the battery bin was right next to the Swap Shop. So I stopped in, after all.
And there I found the book -- the very one I had decided to begin reading that day, after weeks of neglect. And, of course, it was the second time in my life I'd come into contact with Autobiography of a Yogi in any way, just like dozens of other remarkably similar incidents ...
I left the Swap Shop copy of the book where it lay. Someone else could grab that one; I already had mine.
Being a habitual heeder of random recommendations, I bought the book.
I planned to read it, really; but you know how plans go, especially when it comes to books. That is to say, I got sidetracked by other books (perhaps "seduced" is more like it). So, weeks went by, and the yogi book went unread, for all its appeal.
Until today, when I finished a long, very un-yogic how-to book. With that, I thought, decisively, that it was time to read about the yogi.
Before I could start it, however, I had to take some trash to the dump.
Yes, there is a synchronicity lurking in this story, as anyone who's read this blog could guess: that very same day, I randomly came across a copy of none other than Autobiography of a Yogi, there at the dump, in a little area called the "Swap Shop" where folks can leave stuff that someone might want. However, there's more to the incident than the simple coincidence of my finding a copy of the book I was intending to read.
A battery led me to it.
That battery. It had been kicking around for years, going with me through several moves, without ever being thrown away. A cheap, non-alkaline double-A, it had always escaped disposal because, like any battery, you don't just toss it in the trash; at my local dump, the dead batteries have their own special bin, which requires its own special few steps from the dumpsters, which, therefore, required me to separate the battery from its fellow garbage. Too much to ask, it would seem. Annoyance is the best deterrent, indeed.
But I digress. Back to the book.
I decided to at last get rid of the battery, is what happened. I was going through some stuff; I happened across this ancient dead battery; I was going to the dump anyhow. And so I took it with me, despite the tremendous/miniscule effort required to do so. It brought a rush of power and accomplishment; if I could get rid of this battery, I could do anything.
Then I forgot about it.
Wrapped up in disposing of the normal trash and recyclables, I very nearly left the dump without tossing the battery. On top of being distracted with the other trash, I was also in a big rush, trying to get to a doctor's appointment. In fact, I was in such a rush that I neglected my usual visit to the Swap Shop to see if any interesting freebies awaited me there. Only as I'd gotten back in my car and started driving away did I remember the battery; and only because it had been spared disposal for so long did I take the time to stop, get out, and march it over the bin.
As it were, the battery bin was right next to the Swap Shop. So I stopped in, after all.
And there I found the book -- the very one I had decided to begin reading that day, after weeks of neglect. And, of course, it was the second time in my life I'd come into contact with Autobiography of a Yogi in any way, just like dozens of other remarkably similar incidents ...
I left the Swap Shop copy of the book where it lay. Someone else could grab that one; I already had mine.
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
12/25/12: The Brothers Karamazov
I'm an uncommon breed of writer: one who is miserably unread. No, not that sort of unread; there are plenty of those writers (though I'm one of that kind too). I, simply, have not read a great many books, even those classics which are considered required reading for anyone who dare spin a tale. My ignorance has both pros (I am without the dogmas and conventions of my better-read compatriots) and cons (my writing is often rejected because I don't adhere to common dogmas and conventions), as well as some in-betweens (I get to think my ideas are original, until I read them in something printed fifty years ago).
This is why I was unmet by The Brothers Karamazov.
Dostoevsky. I knew the author purely in name, and only then amongst a gaggle of other Eastern European-sounding -stoys and -ovskies and -shevs, which seem to have embedded themselves in intelligentsia like Cyrillic insects. They'd bled into one, for me, to the point of facelessness. After today, however, this -ovsky has separated himself from the pack.
It started this morning, while I was waiting for my brother's family to arrive here for Christmas dinner. I took this time to read my current novel, David Lodge's Thinks, in which I came across the following line: "If there is no God, all is permitted, said one of the Karamazovs." I was unfamiliar with the quote, for the reasons stated, though I could gather that this "Karamazov" was a literary figure of some kind, well-known enough to be referenced only vaguely. Still, the passage stood out to me, for its fallacious logic if nothing else.
Some minutes later, I received a knock on my door: my brother's family had arrived.
I promptly forgot about Thinks and this mysterious Karamazov, thanks to a rather delicious turkey dinner. Soon after, however, when the gift exchange began, I remembered rather quick: my brother had bought for me The Brothers Karamazov, the name of which I instantly recognized. My jaw dropped rather comically.
After I'd checked the quote in Thinks, then confirmed that it did in fact originate from the book I'd just been gifted, I shared with my brother how, just minutes before his arrival, I'd encountered a passage from the very book he'd bought for me, and how it had stood out to me significantly enough for recognition. We laughed, and returned to the subject throughout the afternoon, speculating on the chances.
(Sidenote: As it turned out, my brother had chosen The Brothers Karamazov based on a string of unlikely coincidences, not unlike that which its purchase produced. First he'd seen the book featured in an old movie he'd happened to watch, and then, soon after, he saw the book promoted by three separate celebrities on three separate occasions. It had made enough of an impact on him that he felt, illogically, that he must buy that specific book for me as a Christmas gift.)
This is why I was unmet by The Brothers Karamazov.
Dostoevsky. I knew the author purely in name, and only then amongst a gaggle of other Eastern European-sounding -stoys and -ovskies and -shevs, which seem to have embedded themselves in intelligentsia like Cyrillic insects. They'd bled into one, for me, to the point of facelessness. After today, however, this -ovsky has separated himself from the pack.
It started this morning, while I was waiting for my brother's family to arrive here for Christmas dinner. I took this time to read my current novel, David Lodge's Thinks, in which I came across the following line: "If there is no God, all is permitted, said one of the Karamazovs." I was unfamiliar with the quote, for the reasons stated, though I could gather that this "Karamazov" was a literary figure of some kind, well-known enough to be referenced only vaguely. Still, the passage stood out to me, for its fallacious logic if nothing else.
Some minutes later, I received a knock on my door: my brother's family had arrived.
I promptly forgot about Thinks and this mysterious Karamazov, thanks to a rather delicious turkey dinner. Soon after, however, when the gift exchange began, I remembered rather quick: my brother had bought for me The Brothers Karamazov, the name of which I instantly recognized. My jaw dropped rather comically.
After I'd checked the quote in Thinks, then confirmed that it did in fact originate from the book I'd just been gifted, I shared with my brother how, just minutes before his arrival, I'd encountered a passage from the very book he'd bought for me, and how it had stood out to me significantly enough for recognition. We laughed, and returned to the subject throughout the afternoon, speculating on the chances.
(Sidenote: As it turned out, my brother had chosen The Brothers Karamazov based on a string of unlikely coincidences, not unlike that which its purchase produced. First he'd seen the book featured in an old movie he'd happened to watch, and then, soon after, he saw the book promoted by three separate celebrities on three separate occasions. It had made enough of an impact on him that he felt, illogically, that he must buy that specific book for me as a Christmas gift.)
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
8/25/09: The Library, Part Deux
I've mentioned previously the magical nature of my local library, as well as my habit to raid the fiction section and grab books at random. This incident was a repeat of that, loosely. Let me explain.
First, let it be known that I enjoy Stephen King. There. I said it. I like Stephen King. Very much. But please don't pen me as a fanboy, as in, someone who likes Stephen King because he's Stephen King, much in the way Bantam likes Dean Koontz. Sure, King is a good storyteller, with strong characterization and a nice, no-nonsense narrative that lets the story do its thing; but what draws me to him again and again is the humor laced throughout his writing. There's a charm to it, and that's something both unteachable and inimitable, and a barometer of true-to-the-heart writing, in my opinion.
Anyway.
I have eclectic reading tastes, but every few months or so, I'll get a hankering for some King, no different than a craving for salty foods. So, I've been working through the man's massive catalog that way, devouring a novel or two here and there in between exploring new authors. And near the end of August, I got one such hankering, so I hit up the library (it's not so much that I'm a cheap bastard -- which I am, admittedly -- but that Mr. King probably has enough folding-green to wipe the asses of a small nation). I browsed through their little contingency of King's work, and bemusedly chose Dolores Claiborne, its cover dominated by the cheery image of a morose woman staring down a well, presumably at you, mwahahaha. And though I knew I wanted some King, I chose this novel entirely at random, from about twenty possibles.
Here's a synopsis (and, again, my apologies for spoilers): The book is one big confessional from Ms. Claiborne, an underprivileged Mainer who justifiably murdered her husband during a solar eclipse. And now the part material to my incident: Tucked in the nitty, gritty, slang-ridden narrative, there's an incongruous scene in which Ms. Claiborne hears a woman's discarnate voice saying something or other, which is not explained in the novel.
So.
I read the book, which was satisfying, what I'd come to expect when opening a King novel; and then returned it a couple days later. Upon doing so, however, I found my appetite was not yet satisfied (it was King-sized, you could say, and, yes, I really just said that), so I checked out a second selection, Gerald's Game, this one, too, pulled at random from a pool of twenty or so King novels I haven't read. I'll skip right to the point, here: In Gerald's Game, you find out the source of the bizarre voice Dolores Claiborne hears in her only-loosely connected novel.
And I happened to get the two of them, back to back, without any foreknowledge of King's little Easter Egg. Now, the odds weren't quite as high as the hit I outlined in my "Big Tits" post, but I think the "coincidence" at least bears mentioning.
First, let it be known that I enjoy Stephen King. There. I said it. I like Stephen King. Very much. But please don't pen me as a fanboy, as in, someone who likes Stephen King because he's Stephen King, much in the way Bantam likes Dean Koontz. Sure, King is a good storyteller, with strong characterization and a nice, no-nonsense narrative that lets the story do its thing; but what draws me to him again and again is the humor laced throughout his writing. There's a charm to it, and that's something both unteachable and inimitable, and a barometer of true-to-the-heart writing, in my opinion.
Anyway.
I have eclectic reading tastes, but every few months or so, I'll get a hankering for some King, no different than a craving for salty foods. So, I've been working through the man's massive catalog that way, devouring a novel or two here and there in between exploring new authors. And near the end of August, I got one such hankering, so I hit up the library (it's not so much that I'm a cheap bastard -- which I am, admittedly -- but that Mr. King probably has enough folding-green to wipe the asses of a small nation). I browsed through their little contingency of King's work, and bemusedly chose Dolores Claiborne, its cover dominated by the cheery image of a morose woman staring down a well, presumably at you, mwahahaha. And though I knew I wanted some King, I chose this novel entirely at random, from about twenty possibles.
Here's a synopsis (and, again, my apologies for spoilers): The book is one big confessional from Ms. Claiborne, an underprivileged Mainer who justifiably murdered her husband during a solar eclipse. And now the part material to my incident: Tucked in the nitty, gritty, slang-ridden narrative, there's an incongruous scene in which Ms. Claiborne hears a woman's discarnate voice saying something or other, which is not explained in the novel.
So.
I read the book, which was satisfying, what I'd come to expect when opening a King novel; and then returned it a couple days later. Upon doing so, however, I found my appetite was not yet satisfied (it was King-sized, you could say, and, yes, I really just said that), so I checked out a second selection, Gerald's Game, this one, too, pulled at random from a pool of twenty or so King novels I haven't read. I'll skip right to the point, here: In Gerald's Game, you find out the source of the bizarre voice Dolores Claiborne hears in her only-loosely connected novel.
And I happened to get the two of them, back to back, without any foreknowledge of King's little Easter Egg. Now, the odds weren't quite as high as the hit I outlined in my "Big Tits" post, but I think the "coincidence" at least bears mentioning.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
2/29/12: Leap Year
My word ledgers. Past posts have described this valuable tool, which, rather than a book of words that I've defined so that I may broaden my vocabulary, has become more of a Tarot or I Ching.
Example, today.
Exhibit A:
Two days ago, I finished studying one such ledger and then picked up a new one, it featuring a nifty string bookmark (why don't all books have these?). When I went to open it for the first time, I instinctively did so from this bookmark, which was set in its middle, randomly, from when I'd last gone through it.
Even though I wanted to start it from the beginning, I went with this funky middle placement. It felt very Right, in the distinct, characteristic way I've come to identify with these things.
Exhibit B:
Last night, I went to dictionary.com and noticed a little thing on their front page asking if you knew the word for inserting a day in a calender, which I did: "intercalate." Everyone knows that (everyone who reads my ledger, at least).
I clicked through the question, and it led to the definition for "intercalary." Close enough.
Exhibit C:
A maximizer, I read my ledgers over meals. This morning was no different. Halfway through my breakfast, however, I gave pause, on "intercalate."
On February 29th.
In a 200-page ledger containing a few thousand words.
When, two days ago, I'd started the ledger and opened it halfway, at the "wrong" place.
Example, today.
Exhibit A:
Two days ago, I finished studying one such ledger and then picked up a new one, it featuring a nifty string bookmark (why don't all books have these?). When I went to open it for the first time, I instinctively did so from this bookmark, which was set in its middle, randomly, from when I'd last gone through it.
Even though I wanted to start it from the beginning, I went with this funky middle placement. It felt very Right, in the distinct, characteristic way I've come to identify with these things.
Exhibit B:
Last night, I went to dictionary.com and noticed a little thing on their front page asking if you knew the word for inserting a day in a calender, which I did: "intercalate." Everyone knows that (everyone who reads my ledger, at least).
I clicked through the question, and it led to the definition for "intercalary." Close enough.
Exhibit C:
A maximizer, I read my ledgers over meals. This morning was no different. Halfway through my breakfast, however, I gave pause, on "intercalate."
On February 29th.
In a 200-page ledger containing a few thousand words.
When, two days ago, I'd started the ledger and opened it halfway, at the "wrong" place.
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