Aristide and Lorenzo discuss cognitive learning
Aristide, A teacher, sighing.
In learnéd question am I taken with the measures of the mind. There seems too little space for musings brief as well as recall's lengthy histories. In close embrace such elements must joust, and find their mettled patinas dilute. Be it that the mind’s a finite store which cannot bone-cased walls extend? Is it but a cup scarce saved from overflow as drop by drop each thought brims full?
How does the white-beard sage full 'membrance of his greener follies keep? That one so aged can peer through Chronos’ veil and call on learning’s distant countenance? This query deep and murky lies, I cannot see beyond my eyes.
But sooth, Lorenzo arrives. Perchance he may bear a fresher crop from wisdom’s ancient grove. Greetings, Lorenzo. How goes the day?
Lorenzo, also a teacher
By heaven’s will, all is well, Aristide. I see by visaged shades you mourn the passing of the light. A good day?
Aristide
Fair, though trouble’s snatching fancies bind my brow with strangest thoughts. My mind unloosed seems cast upon a darkened sea of toothéd waves. My very breath is caught.
Lorenzo
Unmesh thy pounding brow, brave Aristide! There is a simple truth beyond the gloom of apprehension, pray, lighten your mind and share with me the burden of your detention.
Aristide, shaking her head
Wouldst thou might take this discomfort from my lacking wits and haul it, wrap’d in scholar’s silk and so enfeebled to Carlton pool wherein to sink it fathoms deep, for I am lost.
Lorenzo
But hist! Speak not such calamies! Perforce must I demand as jury that your penanced thoughts be set in greater light. Tell me what troubles you.
Aristide, thinking about learning techniques in her undergraduate class today.
Remember then t’ was by your own desire that on this subject will I speak, nor bind me not to silence when thy own thoughts cry folly in the echo of my words. (pauses, marshalling her thoughts)
How does the puling babe from out his mother’s learnéd womb decant the ways of men? And when are dimple-cheeked young maids full cognisant of older miens, that change and flow in keeping with the time? There is no rule, nor can be by accord, for all must come to learning by and by.
And by the rising of each searing sun will knowingness be scorched within, until the very thoughts of action and of chance be rendered into deepest charring ruts. There seems no rule to this but that of common visitation.
Yet should knowledge fruit full flavour only in the presence of its own, how doth the seed remember itself a tree? Upon what branch does memory take up the rein, or is each leaflet grown anew each day until the wearied sap of life descends into the earth? How does the morning’s leaf recall the evening’s bud?
Are memoried phantoms built within a place of chance, or chance a place where phantoms rest in thought? What unseen practice wraps the crumbs of whole experience as one? I cannot beckon every modest fact, yet hold an entire vision in a thought. How does this resolve?
In composition’s art do we recall, associated scenes bound by learning’s cabled vines to other views of worth.
In place of prior claim shall I givest this a name and call such fellowship schema, for by schemes are all great stories told.
Am I amiss, Lorenzo, or does reason balance such an argument?
Lorenzo
Yup.
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