The concept of the day is: Palimpsest.

(So, at first, it sounds like a combination of bad-sounding words, eg pimple, cyst, limp. But the concept transcends such crude evocations, oh ye of base humor.)

The traditional definition of palimpsest, as given by The Visual Thesaurus, is "a manuscript (usually written on papyrus or parchment) on which more than one text has been written, with the earlier writing completely erased and still visible". An expansion of this definition is anything on which a new piece of work is put on top of the old, with the old one still existing. For example, a lot of painters would re-use a canvas without taking the old painting off (or, famously, shitty painters will paint over a master's painting, not knowing its worth or in hopes of smuggling it). You can do some sort of x-ray to a painting to figure out if there's a different picture underneath. That's also a palimpsest.

The furthest expansion of this definition is any one thing that has intentional or built-in layers of complexity and meaning. Each level is distinct and looks different, but all levels are contained within the same message/thought/material. An awesome example of this is in Carl Sagan's novel Contact, in which (teeny tiny spoiler) an alien message is received that initially seems to be just a repeating string of prime numbers. This is how the message is received through radio equipment. However, when they filter it through a television screen, they find it contains copies of broadcasts from earth--dumb sitcoms, Hitler's speeches, random stuff. Later, they analyze it through different software, and it is pages and pages of unfamiliar symbolic language. In yet another interpretation, it is a set of 3-D blueprints for the building of a machine. All contained in one signal. That is a sweet sweet palimpsest.

Distinct and different layers composing a whole. I think it's a good way to understand a number of complex things.

Alex's girlfriend Hk is a live-in nanny for a baby. Her host parents are super into strategy board games (they have a library of hundreds from all over the world, and they master them); once a month (every other week?) they host a huge games night when they invite all their friends over, and they have three or four different games going at one time, and they usually play at least two or three in a row, late into the night. I went this last Saturday--it was super fun. I like strategy gaming, and it's way better when everybody is really into it and discusses moves and gets snarky.

Note: I really like the use of the word 'hex' as a short for 'hexagram' ("So, you can place your settlements at any hex junction...").

When we were done with our game, we observed another table. They were playing a game called Attika--sort of about building, resources, and placing. There were two boards, the resources board and the map. The resources board (each player has one) explains how much it costs to build things, and how the things you build affect each other (eg, building a quarry makes it cheaper to build a tower close to your quarry; housing a ship takes two green and one blue resource, etc.). You need to work within chains of building--you should build this before this, and so on. The map is in the center, and expands with gameplay. There are resources sort of randomly placed all over it, which you can use to build things cheaper in that place. There's also movement strategy that entails offense and defense.

So as Alex was sort of explaining the game to me, it was obvious how the resources board must affect how and where you build and place things on the map. Two distinct mappings and guides of one idea of strategy and motion. I indicated comprehension: "Yeah, like:" placing my two hands flat next to each other (to represent the boards), lifting one over the other and shifting it as though aligning one idea with another, "--like a palimpsest." He nodded.

And earlier today I was dozing at my parents' house. I was asleep/awake in that way when you can semi-consciously, semi-coherently contemplate getting up, but you physically can't, really. Your thoughts are unordered but understandable; you can hear things, but everything is just sliding past your sleeping mind. There were many many distinct layers to my stream of consciousness; at any one point I would be thinking in monologue, hearing a song, hearing what somebody said, hearing what some other part of my mind is saying, watching an event/fantasy, emoting and thinking about my emotion, and hearing my parents in the kitchen. At one point in my sleep, I conceived it as a palimpsest, and visualized it as many clear screens, stacked on top of each other, each with its own moving picture.

In the car home I figured: I was essentially asleep and dreaming on the couch, but I retained a shred of awareness that enabled me to distinguish between layers. I think dreams are simply all those layers perceived as one undifferentiated thing; that's why they seem to possess a different language. It's thinking, meta-thinking, and perception all in one. Waking is simply a mode of mind where we distinguish between layers.

Perhaps that's why we need sleep. In waking, we are constantly separating parts of ourself from other parts of ourself, when as humans, we exist as one undifferentiated being. We need to allow ourselves time to put ourselves back together, to not be separate from ourselves. That's why you go insane when you don't get enough sleep for a long time--your consciousness fragments. You die after about 10 days without any sleep; isn't that interesting? You die of lack of sleep before you die of lack of food. Of course, left to your own devices, you couldn't die of l-o-s; you'd pass out. Someone would have to be constantly prodding you awake.

Ha. I'm always reminded of these thoughts when I've been depriving myself of sleep. Time to put myself back together again. Come hither, king's horses... and king's men.

12:31 a.m. 2004-03-08�