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Sometimes you catch yourself forgetting something you’d have sworn you couldn’t ever forget. Another time the most important thing will slip its moorings and demote itself to trivial. But then sometimes you’re reminded, the thing reasserts itself, on all channels, in stereo. Jacques-Yves Cousteau’s The Silent World came out in 1956, just after my graduation from high school.
I sat dumbfounded. I’d been moved by Chaplin, by La Strada, sure I liked the movie heroes (and sex pots); but this was something else, something magical, mystical, beautiful off the scale of beauty. Years later, decades later, I saw a lot more footage by Cousteau, read books by him, about him, learned that nearly everybody on his team was some sort of a great man, abundant with courage, adventure, genius: Louis Malle, James Dugan … (And did you realize that Cousteau invented some of the equipment necessary for scuba diving?
I had a leg up over many another because we’d had a fish tank when I was a kid. Eventually if filled with green murk, only a couple of guppies survived the universal eat-off — that was timed with when my father was out like a light, drunk. But before that it was a beautiful tropical fish tank: with angel fish, and neon tetras, kissing gouramis and clown loaches. I watched mesmerized for hours, days, years.
Today when I fish (a great deal of the time), no matter how beautiful the lake may be that day, while my eyes may be on the surface and above the surface, my mind is beneath the surface: I’m trying to picture what the bass may be doing there, laying in ambush. I’m a killer killing killers.
And I try to picture my lure, its rate of descent, its movement, vibrations below water …
I’m a killer killing killers.
(Actually, I release nearly all of my catches, try not to hurt them, lave their wounds when I make a mistake (or when Mr. Largemouth makes a mistake).)
Then Cousteau’s work was on TV, in National Geographic: everybody and his brother made gorgeous underwater films. BBC, and everybody’s sister, made science shows: lions, polar bears … By God then David Attenborough of the BBC, a great man in a half a dozen respects, started writing and narrating his own shows and books, gorgeous coffee table books!
Tell me, is there anything more gorgeous that this aged fey English school boy crawling around among the gorillas: one false signal and his back is broken!
I read everything by Cousteau, I read everything by Attenborough. I see all the shows I know about (despite watching next to no TV, ‘cept for tennis), I watch the Attenborough shows again and again: life, birds … oceans … I don’t need a complete list of credits to see: once again, however great the genius in charge is, he ain’t the only one: a committee of great guys.
My diction is ordinary English: but one of the great guys was a fabulous gigantic blond, talking about murdering the sea floor: Now I can’t remember: was she a Cousteau colleague? or a David Attenborough colleague? Cousteau was first, Cousteau has to be the greatest; but David Attenborough came second, learned every step of the say.
I name at least one Attenborough colleague: Martha Holmes!
BBC, The Blue Planet
This is the greatest of all film! Journalism, science at its best.
One thing I love about watching aquatic patterns and aquatic life patterns, shoals of fish, for example, is how succinctly chaos patterns are exemplified. Wave behavior, like cloud behavior, the behavior of fish in a bait ball, is unpredictable, non-linear. If it’s predictable it needs a far more sophisticated understanding of things than humans evinced until recently.
Consider these two types of graph: linear; chaotic:
Crash of ’29
Lorenz Attractor, chaotic graph
I’ll come back in a minute and tie this with love. In a word: female responsiveness, male orgasms … are chaotic, nonlinear. Love thus is infinite!
Love is infinite!
It’s easy to tell when the whore is faking: her pretend response will resemble the market, not the weather.
Ah, but the genius whore would fool us all, would fool Shakespeare. if she had a Mandelbrot generator in her consciousness.
No matter how well I know the girl, no matter how much I love her, I’m bewildered by her: every time!
2016 01 03 Isabela Rossellini paid a great tribute to Davie Attenborough in her great Green Porno, but a TED guy recently caught the great TV don in a misstatement: an important error of category: Sir David called the blue wale the largest creature. (I wasn’t sure of that: I’d heard of some fungus whose underground body covered acres.) The TED guy then showed a giant sequoia, measured it, “weighed” it: the champ.
Statements should routinely be made humbly: ways to make mistakes get reinvented daily.
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