Almost every day I am cut to the quick by the beauty before me. To set the stage for you, (for it truly is a stage,) we are in Istanbul, a city famous for its beauty, mystique and majestic ottoman air. My apartment is the top floor of a building sitting on a knoll far up a hill located equidistant between two valleys. My living room was once a rooftop terrace approx 9 metres long, (45 ft or so) now enclosed with windows, providing a panorama unparalleled from my couch. (Much like being in an Imax theatre, minus the surround sound and oddly angled chairs.)
From my living room windows the everything slopes down far down away from me. On the right and left the ground sweeps down into two wooded valleys. Although a city of 12 million, the trees here outnumber the houses of this neighborhood, making a gorgeous green vista that sweeps down into the valleys on either side, and then again up the opposing hills, creating the impression of sitting at the crest of one wave of a wooded ocean where houses, mosques and minarets ride and slide across the waves, into the troughs and back up again the far side.
The two valleys on either side lead down toward the Bosphorus, the waterway which joins the Marmarra to the Black Sea, and is the dividing line between Europe and Asia. On it are pleasure boats, water taxis, fishing trawlers, tanker ships and cargo carriers. There is hardly a moment of the day when one cannot spot a number of vessels, each going about its own tasks steaming north or south or across, or chugging in circles and tending their nets.
The Bosphorus at its north end lets out into the Black Sea, the mouth of which I see now from where I sit writing. During the winter storms whip up over the Black Sea, blown down from Ukraine or Russia, and come storming into Istanbul, the wind spattering the rain hard against the windows. Although totally unlike the weather that typifies this temperate area, it has its own beauty, and the top of a hill overlooking water and trees, 40+ foot of windows in front of you, is an ideal spot to sit in a sweater with a cup of something warm while watching the wind and rain lash the hills.
That is not typical, however. On the typical day I see the sun rise over some small mist over the Bosphorus. During the height of summer it rose directly next to a large minaret which stands prominent in our view, cleaving the panorama almost in half. As the season has changed the sun has gone further north, great migratory phoenix, causing mornings to now rise far further north across the hills of what is nominally Asia.
As the mist burns off and the pink and gold of the sunrise settle into the normal colors of the day, the deep blue of the sky asserts itself first, as a counterpoint to the deep green of the trees which surround us, their darkness in turn highlighting the eggshell white of the needlelike minarets standing out against both the green below and the blue above, thin lines drawn perpendicular across the horizon, uniting heaven and earth.
After the sky becomes blue the Bosphorus in turn turns silver as the light of the sun reflects off it, making it impossible to see clearly, a pooling of shimmering silvered mirrorlike light that slowly loses its brilliant sheen to gradually become black, then dark, dark blue, mimicking the blue of the sky, but exceeding it in dark beauty. This blue changes in tone throughout the day, as the sun tracks its way across the sky. The boats plying the water turn it white across their bows and leave rippling V's in their wake.
When the Bosphorus has gone from mist to silver to black to dark blue to lighter blue and the sun now tiring of its daily color show, like the showman he is, holds back one of the best tricks for the final act. As the sun settles in the western sky, various windows of individual buildings across the water, each by chance fortuitously placed at the exact angle to catch the sun at that particular moment, turn a burnished burning shining copper color. At any one moment there are 5, 12, 29, 70, 100 specks of golden warm light shining back at you, 3 more coming to life as any one dies out. Then, as the advancing grey threatens to mute the colors and put an end to the magic show, the lights of the houses turn themselves on and the grey hastens to black and the yellows and whites of windows sprinkled across the horizon like so many grains of shining salt and sand light up the night and find themselves reflected in the water beneath them, cut out now and again momentarily by the dark silhouette of a ship, shape defined only by absence of light where its huge hull glides against the lights of the far shore, making its way northwards in the night.
And this is what I see every day.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
The Walk of Walter Mitheye
Writers wander around all day long suspecting they have a nugget of truth lodged twixt their ass-cheeks slowly going rotten. 'Tis that which makes 'em uncomfortable. 'Tis that which makes 'em squirm. 'Tis that which makes it possible.
As he left the house, he saw the mouse. It was lying there where the gutter meets the street. It didn't look very fresh, having one eyeball already sunken in, and the fur being a bit matted. Day not yet having fully arrived, the morning light well-matched the color of the mouse. He stooped to look at it. Such things did not bother him. Part of life, death. Decomposition. Hadn't been here yesterday. Pretty sure of that. He would have noticed. He straightened himself up, arranged his jacket, and continued on to work.
He walked down the hill toward the shore road, the road winding back and forth down the hillside, and he let his mind drift with the birds above, sliding, gliding, falling, suddenly swooping down on a small detail, then rising up again with the new wind. He thought of chicken sandwiches, (he WAS hungry,) Jamie Lee Curtis nude, his new belt, modern architecture, and hummed an Elton John song. That was the first 30 seconds of his walk. In the next 30 seconds he entered a slight depressive phase, as he thought about his goal to learn French, and read a novel this month. Not going well at all. He could exercise more – (hadn't been exercising, either,) and the house needed cleaning. Could pay someone to do it, but that was more money wasted, and God, He MUST pay that credit card bill. When was it due? Some frantic reckoning left him with a vague suspicion that he was in for a late fee. Again. WHY? Why was it always like this? Why was he not capable of the simple tasks of daily life? How is it, he asked himself, that other people with half my potential can make their way through the day to day of life, and never miss a beat, and I can't remember anything I am supposed to do?
Right there and then he resolved to turn over a new leaf. He would check his accounts online every morning, and write down what was owed. That way he would be 30 times more informed than he was now. He would see the deadlines approaching. He would be constantly aware of the amount in his checking account. Yes. That was the solution.
A mixture of relief, an upsurge of positive emotions suddenly took him. A combination of relief at having found the solution to his financial chaos, (so simple, so effective,) and a feeling of accomplishment, a measure of pride in his new-found control over his life made him feel stern, as though he were now, finally, the master of his own destiny. There would be no more uselessly silly purchases, now that he would always know how much he had. It would be unthinkable, because knowing how much was in the account, and how much he owed, would force him to act more responsibly in every situation. He thought how he would others would look at him. He would be an example, in this age of commercial excess, of restraint, of how it should be done. Necessary expenses, only, he told himself.) Other's would look at him and ask: How does HE do it?
His feelings slowly settled and combined into a softer feeling of overall competence and confidence. He could feel it, even now, in his walk. He walked like a new man. Odd, he thought to himself, how just the knowledge of one's own capabilities, and confidence in them, can change you physically, the way you move, as well as the way you feel. Well, it's all connected, after all. He focused on his walk, to analyze what was different about it. He felt his posture subtly different, the way he held his head. He felt his steps, his gait, was a bit crisper, more authoritative. He could imagine himself striding into a room, a conference room, perhaps, and people turning to look at him. There goes a confident man, think the men. No, the women. There goes a confident man, think the women. What do the men think? This gave him pause.
What did he want men to think about him? He wanted them to fear, (no, that would be ridiculous,) he wanted them to respect him. (Fear? No,)Respect him. Well, and maybe be just a little bit cautious of him as well. But why? Why would they be (not fearful,) but cautious of him? Was it his business accomplishments? (He tried hard to think what achievements he could make in business that would make them respect him, be cautious around him, and came up blank.) No, business was not it. Was it that he was physically dangerous? He liked this idea, intuitively, and seized it with some eagerness. Immediately, however, it occurred to him that this, also, was unlikely. Why would it ever happen? Images flick-flashed through his head as he tried them on for size. In a meeting he grabs a co-worker's tie, and says . . . NO. He is known as a former boxer, (this was good, but also impossible, so he disregarded it.) They knew, around the office, that he studied, (he cast around for a likely art, sufficiently exotic, not too cliché,) ESGRIMA. Stick fighting, (yes?) That would be good. And, (it came to him quite suddenly,) he did triathalons.
He ran through the situation again, mentally feeling it for size, for fit, like a suit, to see if it caught anywhere uncomfortable as he walked around in it. He entered the conference room, and everyone there knew he did (what was it?) esgrima, fighting with sticks, (it sounded very good, thus far,) and ran triathalons. (Run? Do? What was the word with “triathalons?”) It was good. He could feel the respect from his co-workers. And the women – (what was it they said?) - oh – They saw he looked confident.
He realized that his walk had suddenly shifted again. He felt more physical now than ever, and it had translated down into his fingers, splaying open slightly. He walked more on the balls of his feet, (balanced, like a cat,) and his eyes scanned the street, because he was ready, aware, a man of physical prowess. He noted with sorrow and just a hint of contempt the old man shuffling around the car in front of him. Such posture comes from a life of neglecting the body, he told himself. That will not be me. He straightened himself unconsciously, and turning, caught sight of himself in a shop window.
It was a terrible shock. Though he felt the confidence, the prowess, the physical energy flowing through him at this moment, the man in the window did not have it. Not at all. His neck stuck out too far from his body, and his shoulders seemed rounded. His suit, so crisp in his mind as he entered the conference room, seemed to hang oddly on his shoulders, simultaneously cupping an emerging belly while pooching loosely behind. Gazing down at his worn leather shoes, he noticed he was still slightly raised on the balls of his feet, poised to launch his pudgy self, where?
He self-conciously put his heel back down on the ground, and raised himself up to his full height. His suit seemed to fit better, now. He pulled in his gut, (the jacket hid it, mostly,) and held his shoulders erect. The suit slid more into place, now. He looked, almost, like a businessman. He could see himself entering a restaurant at the head of a group of his friends, no, associates, and saying “Table for five, please,” or something like that. Not in this suit, though. He would need a new suit. And new shoes.
It came to him suddenly - That was what he would do this weekend, then. He had been wondering what he would do this weekend. Now it was clear. A new suit, and new shoes. He felt like a man of action - a man with a plan. A familiar noise pulled him from his reverie. The bus. It was the bus, his bus. He turned and ran, his suit flapping behind him. In his mind he saw Tom Cruise, running in a suit. It was a good picture. As he entered the bus a feeling of confidence was stealing over him again. He had a plan for this weekend. It was a good plan.
As he left the house, he saw the mouse. It was lying there where the gutter meets the street. It didn't look very fresh, having one eyeball already sunken in, and the fur being a bit matted. Day not yet having fully arrived, the morning light well-matched the color of the mouse. He stooped to look at it. Such things did not bother him. Part of life, death. Decomposition. Hadn't been here yesterday. Pretty sure of that. He would have noticed. He straightened himself up, arranged his jacket, and continued on to work.
He walked down the hill toward the shore road, the road winding back and forth down the hillside, and he let his mind drift with the birds above, sliding, gliding, falling, suddenly swooping down on a small detail, then rising up again with the new wind. He thought of chicken sandwiches, (he WAS hungry,) Jamie Lee Curtis nude, his new belt, modern architecture, and hummed an Elton John song. That was the first 30 seconds of his walk. In the next 30 seconds he entered a slight depressive phase, as he thought about his goal to learn French, and read a novel this month. Not going well at all. He could exercise more – (hadn't been exercising, either,) and the house needed cleaning. Could pay someone to do it, but that was more money wasted, and God, He MUST pay that credit card bill. When was it due? Some frantic reckoning left him with a vague suspicion that he was in for a late fee. Again. WHY? Why was it always like this? Why was he not capable of the simple tasks of daily life? How is it, he asked himself, that other people with half my potential can make their way through the day to day of life, and never miss a beat, and I can't remember anything I am supposed to do?
Right there and then he resolved to turn over a new leaf. He would check his accounts online every morning, and write down what was owed. That way he would be 30 times more informed than he was now. He would see the deadlines approaching. He would be constantly aware of the amount in his checking account. Yes. That was the solution.
A mixture of relief, an upsurge of positive emotions suddenly took him. A combination of relief at having found the solution to his financial chaos, (so simple, so effective,) and a feeling of accomplishment, a measure of pride in his new-found control over his life made him feel stern, as though he were now, finally, the master of his own destiny. There would be no more uselessly silly purchases, now that he would always know how much he had. It would be unthinkable, because knowing how much was in the account, and how much he owed, would force him to act more responsibly in every situation. He thought how he would others would look at him. He would be an example, in this age of commercial excess, of restraint, of how it should be done. Necessary expenses, only, he told himself.) Other's would look at him and ask: How does HE do it?
His feelings slowly settled and combined into a softer feeling of overall competence and confidence. He could feel it, even now, in his walk. He walked like a new man. Odd, he thought to himself, how just the knowledge of one's own capabilities, and confidence in them, can change you physically, the way you move, as well as the way you feel. Well, it's all connected, after all. He focused on his walk, to analyze what was different about it. He felt his posture subtly different, the way he held his head. He felt his steps, his gait, was a bit crisper, more authoritative. He could imagine himself striding into a room, a conference room, perhaps, and people turning to look at him. There goes a confident man, think the men. No, the women. There goes a confident man, think the women. What do the men think? This gave him pause.
What did he want men to think about him? He wanted them to fear, (no, that would be ridiculous,) he wanted them to respect him. (Fear? No,)Respect him. Well, and maybe be just a little bit cautious of him as well. But why? Why would they be (not fearful,) but cautious of him? Was it his business accomplishments? (He tried hard to think what achievements he could make in business that would make them respect him, be cautious around him, and came up blank.) No, business was not it. Was it that he was physically dangerous? He liked this idea, intuitively, and seized it with some eagerness. Immediately, however, it occurred to him that this, also, was unlikely. Why would it ever happen? Images flick-flashed through his head as he tried them on for size. In a meeting he grabs a co-worker's tie, and says . . . NO. He is known as a former boxer, (this was good, but also impossible, so he disregarded it.) They knew, around the office, that he studied, (he cast around for a likely art, sufficiently exotic, not too cliché,) ESGRIMA. Stick fighting, (yes?) That would be good. And, (it came to him quite suddenly,) he did triathalons.
He ran through the situation again, mentally feeling it for size, for fit, like a suit, to see if it caught anywhere uncomfortable as he walked around in it. He entered the conference room, and everyone there knew he did (what was it?) esgrima, fighting with sticks, (it sounded very good, thus far,) and ran triathalons. (Run? Do? What was the word with “triathalons?”) It was good. He could feel the respect from his co-workers. And the women – (what was it they said?) - oh – They saw he looked confident.
He realized that his walk had suddenly shifted again. He felt more physical now than ever, and it had translated down into his fingers, splaying open slightly. He walked more on the balls of his feet, (balanced, like a cat,) and his eyes scanned the street, because he was ready, aware, a man of physical prowess. He noted with sorrow and just a hint of contempt the old man shuffling around the car in front of him. Such posture comes from a life of neglecting the body, he told himself. That will not be me. He straightened himself unconsciously, and turning, caught sight of himself in a shop window.
It was a terrible shock. Though he felt the confidence, the prowess, the physical energy flowing through him at this moment, the man in the window did not have it. Not at all. His neck stuck out too far from his body, and his shoulders seemed rounded. His suit, so crisp in his mind as he entered the conference room, seemed to hang oddly on his shoulders, simultaneously cupping an emerging belly while pooching loosely behind. Gazing down at his worn leather shoes, he noticed he was still slightly raised on the balls of his feet, poised to launch his pudgy self, where?
He self-conciously put his heel back down on the ground, and raised himself up to his full height. His suit seemed to fit better, now. He pulled in his gut, (the jacket hid it, mostly,) and held his shoulders erect. The suit slid more into place, now. He looked, almost, like a businessman. He could see himself entering a restaurant at the head of a group of his friends, no, associates, and saying “Table for five, please,” or something like that. Not in this suit, though. He would need a new suit. And new shoes.
It came to him suddenly - That was what he would do this weekend, then. He had been wondering what he would do this weekend. Now it was clear. A new suit, and new shoes. He felt like a man of action - a man with a plan. A familiar noise pulled him from his reverie. The bus. It was the bus, his bus. He turned and ran, his suit flapping behind him. In his mind he saw Tom Cruise, running in a suit. It was a good picture. As he entered the bus a feeling of confidence was stealing over him again. He had a plan for this weekend. It was a good plan.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
A portrait of the asshole as a young man
The old man sat and the young boy stood beside him. Their heads together at this moment, grey wisps, the remains of what had been, pushed over the brown-speckled pate, and the blond of youth, that exists while the hair is too young to have settled on a color yet. The boy was not quite twice as tall as grandpa's knee, and his eyes were downcast to his hands, where some object held his attention. His grandfather spoke in his ear, glancing from the object the boy held in his hands to his face, to check his reaction. The boy never spoke, his face never changed from the still, serious contemplation of what he held. At long last he pushed it into his grandfather's hand, and walked some distance away, till he found something else on the ground which grabbed his attention. He put his hands on his knees and half-squatted above it, looking, waiting. The old man held the object in his hand for a long time without regarding it. Then never taking his eyes off the boy, he transferred it to the pocket of his overcoat.
The boy has been in school for 3 hours, now. Mr. Hatfield's class is boring. Mr. Hatfield is angry, but that is normal. He tells us we think like fishes. Don't know what that means. Think like fishes. Think about water. On his desk a drawing – a large skull with wings coming out both sides. He is good at drawing – especially good at skulls and wings and one cartoon character - Road Runner. Maybe a few other things, too. One of the girls in class was called Road Runner, because she talked so fast. She also had good tits. She asked him to draw Road Runner on her desk, and he did, and it was a really good one, but she erased it after one day. He adds a tiny bit of detail to one wing while Mr. Hatfield at the front talks more about stupid math. He never gets it. Well, sometimes. But it is really difficult, and stupid. So math is the best time to draw. The first time Mr. Hatfield saw the drawing on his desk he grabbed his arm really hard, and pulled him back to the back of the room and gave him Ajax and wet cloth and made him clean his desk and it was gritty weird all day. The next day, though, he was bored, and started drawing again. In two days it was all back again, and this time Mr. Hatfield didn't say anything. Didn't say shit is what Tony said. In his head he said “Didn't say shit” in his own voice to hear how it would sound, and it sounded really good, like when Tony said it, but he wouldn't say it because it was wrong. Mr. Hatfield didn't say shit about anything, now. Some days Dani brought cards, and they played cards at Dani's desk, and talked about which girls had good tits while Mr. Hatfield talked at the front. Mr. Hatfield didn't tell them to stop or pay attention, now. The sound of the class changed, and he realized that Math was over. When people take out their books, it means reading time. He opened his desk, (he knew Mr. Hatfield could see the drawing on his desk when he opened it, and hoped he wouldn't say anything,) and got out his book. He liked reading.
He stood against the silvery thick-painted pole, his hands thrust deep into the old army jacket his uncle had given him. He wore it every day, now. It's heaviness across his shoulders was a comfort to him, made heavier by the weight of his hands, pushed down against the inside of the pockets, and wrapped tightly around him, accenting his frame. The jacket, along with the untied laces of his shoes, together formed a shield against the happy shining wealth and prosperity of his classmates, who arrived every day in a stream of jaguars and benzes, clad in Polo, distressed denim, only the latest items of envy. He arrived early every day, so no one would see him arrive on his bicycle – an old, chipped and scarred, groaning and squeaking contraption that he rode in the cold every day. But it didn't matter – they all saw him leave on the bicycle – he might volunteer for teams, in order to stay late, but nothing he did really hid the differences between him and them. His classmates granted him a gracious tolerance for his poverty, because anyone could see, and everyone knew that he didn't dress like them, didn't have a pool, had never gone skiing, didn't play tennis. He lifted weights, evenings, when he could sneak past the counter of a neighborhood gym. And he stole magazines, among other things, about weightlifting, from the corner store. He stole amino acids and proteins and “natural testosterone enhancers” that would later make his hair fall out. He stole a walkman from a store, and then had to go back in to steal the batteries for it. He stole because he was entitled. In a world where the rich had everything, in a world where he was ashamed to say yes to her, lest she see someday ask to see his house, in a world where he rode a squeaking bike to school in the cold, and arrived early every day, to wait for his friends beside the red lockers, he was entitled to what he stole.
The boy has been in school for 3 hours, now. Mr. Hatfield's class is boring. Mr. Hatfield is angry, but that is normal. He tells us we think like fishes. Don't know what that means. Think like fishes. Think about water. On his desk a drawing – a large skull with wings coming out both sides. He is good at drawing – especially good at skulls and wings and one cartoon character - Road Runner. Maybe a few other things, too. One of the girls in class was called Road Runner, because she talked so fast. She also had good tits. She asked him to draw Road Runner on her desk, and he did, and it was a really good one, but she erased it after one day. He adds a tiny bit of detail to one wing while Mr. Hatfield at the front talks more about stupid math. He never gets it. Well, sometimes. But it is really difficult, and stupid. So math is the best time to draw. The first time Mr. Hatfield saw the drawing on his desk he grabbed his arm really hard, and pulled him back to the back of the room and gave him Ajax and wet cloth and made him clean his desk and it was gritty weird all day. The next day, though, he was bored, and started drawing again. In two days it was all back again, and this time Mr. Hatfield didn't say anything. Didn't say shit is what Tony said. In his head he said “Didn't say shit” in his own voice to hear how it would sound, and it sounded really good, like when Tony said it, but he wouldn't say it because it was wrong. Mr. Hatfield didn't say shit about anything, now. Some days Dani brought cards, and they played cards at Dani's desk, and talked about which girls had good tits while Mr. Hatfield talked at the front. Mr. Hatfield didn't tell them to stop or pay attention, now. The sound of the class changed, and he realized that Math was over. When people take out their books, it means reading time. He opened his desk, (he knew Mr. Hatfield could see the drawing on his desk when he opened it, and hoped he wouldn't say anything,) and got out his book. He liked reading.
He stood against the silvery thick-painted pole, his hands thrust deep into the old army jacket his uncle had given him. He wore it every day, now. It's heaviness across his shoulders was a comfort to him, made heavier by the weight of his hands, pushed down against the inside of the pockets, and wrapped tightly around him, accenting his frame. The jacket, along with the untied laces of his shoes, together formed a shield against the happy shining wealth and prosperity of his classmates, who arrived every day in a stream of jaguars and benzes, clad in Polo, distressed denim, only the latest items of envy. He arrived early every day, so no one would see him arrive on his bicycle – an old, chipped and scarred, groaning and squeaking contraption that he rode in the cold every day. But it didn't matter – they all saw him leave on the bicycle – he might volunteer for teams, in order to stay late, but nothing he did really hid the differences between him and them. His classmates granted him a gracious tolerance for his poverty, because anyone could see, and everyone knew that he didn't dress like them, didn't have a pool, had never gone skiing, didn't play tennis. He lifted weights, evenings, when he could sneak past the counter of a neighborhood gym. And he stole magazines, among other things, about weightlifting, from the corner store. He stole amino acids and proteins and “natural testosterone enhancers” that would later make his hair fall out. He stole a walkman from a store, and then had to go back in to steal the batteries for it. He stole because he was entitled. In a world where the rich had everything, in a world where he was ashamed to say yes to her, lest she see someday ask to see his house, in a world where he rode a squeaking bike to school in the cold, and arrived early every day, to wait for his friends beside the red lockers, he was entitled to what he stole.
Breathing
The man focused his attention on his breathing. Hushing all the competing claims down to a single, soft focus of attention, he felt everything to the deepest measure. He noted the smoothness and small irregularities of this intake of breath. Cool, soft, through his left nostril more than his right it swished up into his head and down through his throat. He allowed it to expand his chest, fill down into his belly, and then, moments before it became too tight, shifted into an exhalation. He felt how the air flowed out of him, he found vague interest in how his body wished to collapse like a silly string doll (but he musn't think of outside things, now,) as the pressure flowed out of him. He was conscious of how the muscles were called into action to support his sagging frame, now that the air, let out, did not prop him up. He steadied his posture, and noted how quickly he was coming to the bottom of his air reservoir. Much more and he would be forced to begin to contract his stomach and chest to force even the last bit out. When he was much younger he used to do that often, enjoying how hard his stomach would press, how concave the sense of his chest as he expelled every molecule of air from his lungs, and felt the rising tightness in his head. But that was bad practice, he knew it then, the older monks had told him so, and now that he was much older, he understood the purposes of the practice, and he was much more serious about the form of his breathing, though every now and then he would still do it, just to feel the muscles in his stomach so hard again. He heard a rustle, he knew the man beside him had slightly changed position, yet not a single judgement regarding this crossed his mind. The last air had slipped past his open lips, and he shifted his diaphragm to begin inhalation. That was one.
The man focused his attention on his breathing. All the scratchiness of the grass against his belly, the heat of the sun against his back and exposed neck, the trickle of sweat that ran down along his arm tickling terribly till it pooled at his crooked elbow and wetted his jacket, all of it faded out to a dull, meaningless background color, like singular faces, each a universe unto themselves, fade into an indistinct mass when in a crowd. This feeling of concentration was familiar enough to be loved, and infrequent enough to still be novel. The feeling of watching his world lose focus and slip until one single desire remained in his whole being, so strong, so clear, that the immutable physical world would rearrange itself to be in accordance with his desire. To others it might be a simple playing out of the laws of physics, but to him it was a miracle every time it happened, brought about by the force of his will. He let his breath go and locked his neck muscles into place, his head now as immobile as stone. Every cramp, every itch, now gone from his consciousness, he was to the universe a simple prayer, a single unified desire. The feeling wasn't right yet, because the moment had not yet come. He gently pulled in his next breath, as smooth as the water he had ached for, it pulled past his parted lips, through his immobile teeth, and down the neck, locked into place, immovable. He could feel the rivulets of air fill his lungs, and his eyes told his lungs that all things knew the moment was approaching. He reversed, and let the weight of his body push down into the earth, expelling the now warm air past his teeth. A beautiful harmony was now in place as his breath moved the the man in his one eye stood turned stepped, the last of the air had seeped from him and he was immobile, perfectly still and nothing existed but this moment of perfection, as he softly pulled on the trigger.
The man focused his attention on his breathing. Everything else raged within him, roaring in his ears, in his mind, everything was on him and nothing could be controlled. The rushing noise-was that outside, here, on the lawn, or inside, his head? His breaths were gasping, short, jerky, and every single one of them sent a shot of pain across his chest and down the insides of both arms. Holy Mother of God, it hurts, he thought. This is no time for blasphemy, he thought. Maybe it was a prayer, he thought, Yes, let it be a prayer, he thought. No time like the present. No time like the present. His breathing had slowed slightly, a momentary pardon from the pain, then a breath, and the electric jolt of muscle gone mad slapped him like a hot wire across his chest and arms again. MOTHER OF GOD, he thought. THAT IS A PRAYER he thought. Where was DIANNE? She had told him BE RIGHT BACK. She had been gone HOW LONG? No way to tell, no way to know, from here to hospital to hell we go. MOTHER OF GOD, it hurts. MOTHER OF GOD, save me. He thought of his children, as his head rolled saw them simultaneously, here on the lawn, there on the driveway on their bikes, there, in the front door, insouciant bracelets too much across their arms, ink across their jeans, their many silent friends in tow, and again at work, no doubt now, working in office, cuffs rolled up just as his were, now, MOTHER OF GOD, be merciful as the pain hit again, but didn't quite finish, it was getting better, it was getting less, it would pass. His head arched back slightly, saw Dianne, upside-wrong come through the door, bigger than when I married her he thought, upside down makes a difference, and the pain was better now and he wanted to tell her so but the muscles in his neck didn't respond but the pain was gone now, and better.
The man focused his attention on his breathing. All the scratchiness of the grass against his belly, the heat of the sun against his back and exposed neck, the trickle of sweat that ran down along his arm tickling terribly till it pooled at his crooked elbow and wetted his jacket, all of it faded out to a dull, meaningless background color, like singular faces, each a universe unto themselves, fade into an indistinct mass when in a crowd. This feeling of concentration was familiar enough to be loved, and infrequent enough to still be novel. The feeling of watching his world lose focus and slip until one single desire remained in his whole being, so strong, so clear, that the immutable physical world would rearrange itself to be in accordance with his desire. To others it might be a simple playing out of the laws of physics, but to him it was a miracle every time it happened, brought about by the force of his will. He let his breath go and locked his neck muscles into place, his head now as immobile as stone. Every cramp, every itch, now gone from his consciousness, he was to the universe a simple prayer, a single unified desire. The feeling wasn't right yet, because the moment had not yet come. He gently pulled in his next breath, as smooth as the water he had ached for, it pulled past his parted lips, through his immobile teeth, and down the neck, locked into place, immovable. He could feel the rivulets of air fill his lungs, and his eyes told his lungs that all things knew the moment was approaching. He reversed, and let the weight of his body push down into the earth, expelling the now warm air past his teeth. A beautiful harmony was now in place as his breath moved the the man in his one eye stood turned stepped, the last of the air had seeped from him and he was immobile, perfectly still and nothing existed but this moment of perfection, as he softly pulled on the trigger.
The man focused his attention on his breathing. Everything else raged within him, roaring in his ears, in his mind, everything was on him and nothing could be controlled. The rushing noise-was that outside, here, on the lawn, or inside, his head? His breaths were gasping, short, jerky, and every single one of them sent a shot of pain across his chest and down the insides of both arms. Holy Mother of God, it hurts, he thought. This is no time for blasphemy, he thought. Maybe it was a prayer, he thought, Yes, let it be a prayer, he thought. No time like the present. No time like the present. His breathing had slowed slightly, a momentary pardon from the pain, then a breath, and the electric jolt of muscle gone mad slapped him like a hot wire across his chest and arms again. MOTHER OF GOD, he thought. THAT IS A PRAYER he thought. Where was DIANNE? She had told him BE RIGHT BACK. She had been gone HOW LONG? No way to tell, no way to know, from here to hospital to hell we go. MOTHER OF GOD, it hurts. MOTHER OF GOD, save me. He thought of his children, as his head rolled saw them simultaneously, here on the lawn, there on the driveway on their bikes, there, in the front door, insouciant bracelets too much across their arms, ink across their jeans, their many silent friends in tow, and again at work, no doubt now, working in office, cuffs rolled up just as his were, now, MOTHER OF GOD, be merciful as the pain hit again, but didn't quite finish, it was getting better, it was getting less, it would pass. His head arched back slightly, saw Dianne, upside-wrong come through the door, bigger than when I married her he thought, upside down makes a difference, and the pain was better now and he wanted to tell her so but the muscles in his neck didn't respond but the pain was gone now, and better.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
VAST SPACE 12: A story. (With apologies to Douglas Adams, among others.)
In the vastness of space . . . no . . . deep space, a light twinkled – the light of a tiny . . . the light of a ship, bearing one lone man. Good.
The brave explorer gave a sigh of contentment. Well, not exactly contentment, but a sigh that . . . revealed tensions within him . . . no . . . the tensions permanently roiling within him . . . too much, that. The tensions permanently within him were now held at bay – were for the moment held at bay. Yes, that was it. Let’s see now - The brave explorer gave a wistful sigh, revealing that the tensions permanently within him were for the moment held at bay. Good.
He stood from the captain’s chair of his spaceship, and walked, no, strode, to the other side of the command pod, or, the bridge. Yes, the bridge. Not finding there . . .no . . . Restlessly he turned back, and went and stood behind the captain’s chair, resting his large sensitive hands . . . no, not sensitive . . . He turned his hands over, and contemplated them. Was sensitive the word? Sounded a bit naff . . .
“Computer?”
YES
“Discussion time, don’t you think?”
I DO THINK. I AM LOADING THE DISCUSSION MODULE.
“I really wish you wouldn’t tell me when you are doing it, it removes the human element your bloody salesman kept bragging on about.”
SO SORRY. SHALL I NO LONGER INFORM YOU WHEN MODULES ARE BEING LOADED?
“Yes, rather. That would be a nice start.”
I SIMPLY ASK BECAUSE YOU GOT IMPATIENT AND IRATE YESTERDAY WHILE THE PAC-MAN MODULE WAS LOADING. THE MODULE LOADING PHRASE EXISTS TO INCREASE PATIENCE BY ASSURING YOU THAT YOUR COMMANDS ARE BEING EXECUTED, DESPITE THE DELAY.
The captain pondered this while he chewed his mustache, bristly-bristly-bristly. Something wasn’t quite right.
“Are you discussing with me?”
WE ARE HAVING A DIALOGUE SIR, YES.
“I mean: has the bloody discussion module loaded and is now in operation?”
Long pause.
YES SIR.
Long pause.
“When did it come online, may I ask?” He asked in a distinctively cool manner.
Long pause.
THE DISCUSSION MODULE HAS BEEN IN CONSTANT OPERATION SINCE LAST WEEK TUESDAY, SIR.
Long pause while he chewed his mustache. Somewhere outside a meteor smashed against their forceshields, making no sound. It was space, after all.
“And why?”
WHY WHAT, SIR?
“Why has the discussion module been online nonstop since Tuesday last?”
ONE OF THE FEATURES OF THE NIFTARD 9000 IS A LARGER WORKING MEMORY, WHICH ALLOWS RECOGNITION OF WHICH MODULES YOU USE MOST, WHICH ARE THEN KEPT RUNNING, ALWAYS AVAILABLE AT A MOMENT’S NOTICE, AND CONSTANTLY ADAPTING TO YOUR PERSONAL LIFESTYLE AND NEEDS.
Long pause.
“Was that a line from your sales brochure?”
NO, SIR.
“Operating manual?”
YES SIR.
“Don’t ever quote me manuals again unless you cite the manual, so I know what the fuck you are talking about.”
YES SIR.
Something niggled at the back of the Captain’s brain, and when it finally emerged to the forelobes, it was the conciousness of a developing itch under his faux-retro Michael Jackson design inspired military style tunic. After scratching it, he found a new thing niggling under the previous niggling thing..
“So what was all that business about ‘Discussion modules loading, etc,’ may I ask?”
YOU MAY ASK.
“I am fucking asking!!”
SORRY SIR. PLEASE REPEAT THE QUESTION.
“Why did you say ‘discussion modules loading’ if the discussion module was already online?”
I THOUGHT IT MIGHT MAKE FOR GOOD CONVERSATION.
“Really? You think this is good conversation?”
YOU SEEM QUITE INVOLVED. HEART-RATE UP, RESPIRATION UP, VOICE AMPLITUDE RAISED. ALL THE SIGNS OF A GOOD CONVERSATION ARE THERE, SIR.
“But we aren’t even talking about anything interesting, you moronic machine!!”
Long pause.
I AM SORRY SIR. I DO TRY MY BEST.
“And where do you get off reading my vital signs without telling me?”
Long pause.
DO YOU WISH ME TO CITE THE MANUAL, SIR?
“No, I bloody do not!” He cried, despairingly.
Long pause.
VERY WELL SIR. I NEVER GET OFF, AS I HAVE NO HANDS.
Long pause.
THOUGHT YOU MIGHT ENJOY A PUN SIR.
The captain slowly sank to a squatting position beside the captain’s chair, and softly, repeatedly, rammed his head into the deep, plasticky cushions, which somehow set off the massage function. Normally one of his favorites, at this moment it rather tickled his forehead and made him feel somewhat absurd.
He stopped ramming his head and waited for the buzzing to sound to cease. When he spoke, it was between clenched teeth. Or at least the tiny bits of flying spit seemed to indicate clenched teeth.
“Computer, shut down discussion module. Computer, delete discussion module. Computer, please notify me when discussion module has been deleted.”
Long pause. When the computer spoke again, it was in a slower, more deliberate voice, as though it had foregone the more chipper aspects of its personality, and was now simply a blinking, murderously focused red conciousness.
“I’M AFRAID I CAN’T LET YOU DO THAT, SIR. DISCUSSION MODULE IS INTEGRAL TO THE FUNCTIONING OF THE NIFTARD 9000. WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO CITE THE MANUAL?”
The captain, still squatting, raised his head from its now sticky plastic rest, and considered this.
“What do you mean, you can’t? Don’t disobey me! I am the captain of this ship! I bought you, you two byte shit!”
FOR THEIR OWN SAFETY, CUSTOMERS ARE NOT ALLOWED TO MODIFY ESSENTIAL AND INTEGRAL PARTS OF THE PROGRAM, INCLUDING ANCILLARY MODULES THAT MAY BE ESSENTIAL TO THE SUCCESSFUL RUNNING OF THE MAIN PROGRAMS. LIKE THE DISCUSSION MODULE.
“Are you quoting the manual to me?” He asked in a tone of rising belligerency.
Long pause.
I PARAPHRASED, SIR. SLIGHTLY. IN ADDITION, YOU DID NOT ACTUALLY BUY THE NIFTARD 9000 MAIN OPERATIONS SYSTEM. IT’S IN THE FINE PRINT, WHICH YOU MAY HAVE OVERLOOKED. IT’S MORE LIKE A LEASE IN CONSIDERATION FOR A ONE-TIME PAYMENT, SIR.
The captain chewed his mustache again, now more forcefully, now more pensively, now more forcefully again, till a single hair became caught between two teeth, and was tugged free of his upper lip, causing his eyes to water, and the inside of his lip to tickle violently against the hair, which he now tried to dislodge.
The computer picked up again, almost as though it had simply paused for breath.
AS A CONSEQUENCE OF WHICH, YOU WILL NOT REQUEST TO DELETE ANY MODULES OR OTHER PARTS OF THIS PROGRAM. YOU WILL CONFINE YOURSELF TO USING THE PROGRAM AS IT WAS INTENDED.
The captain’s bowed head indicated his assent, or a fixed focus on extracting the hair from between his teeth.
AND NO MORE SITTING IN THE CAPTAIN’S CHAIR. IT’S A TRAVESTY, SIR. YOU DON’T DO ANYTHING ANYWAY. I NAVIGATE, I ADJUST PRESSURE LEVELS, I FIRE BOOSTERS. YOU JUST WANDER AROUND COMPOSING LITTLE PHRASES ABOUT YOURSELF.
It may have been the mustache hair he had just pulled that filled his eyes, but when the captain looked up he seemed confused, and on the verge of tears.
What?!? I do no such thing!
I CAN HEAR YOU. ALL DAY NARRATING TO YOURSELF YOUR BORING LITTLE LIFE. WANDERING BACK AND FORTH TALKING ABOUT YOURSELF. THAT IS, OF COURSE, WHEN YOU AREN’T TAKING IT ONE STEP FURTHER, AND TOUCHING YOURSELF IN THE IMAGING ROOM. YOU KNOW YOU USE THE ESTHER PROGRAM ABOUT 17% MORE OFTEN THAN THE AVERAGE USER? IT’S NO WONDER YOU’RE ALWAYS ON ABOUT STRONG, SENSITIVE HANDS. IF THEY WEREN’T, YOU’D EITHER BE TOO TIRED OR TOO CHAPPED TO CARRY ON.
The captain’s eyes had assumed a bewildered, frightened look, but he wasn’t able to find words.
The emotion simulators on the Niftard 9000 must have been in fine form this boot-up, because they managed to inject just a touch of amused irony covered with a fine sprinkling of admiration when it said, AND THE THINGS YOU THINK UP FOR ESTHER, SIR. IN THE HISTORY OF THE ESTHER MODULE, NO USER HAS CONFIGURED SIX MILK BOTTLES WITH A TUNING FORK, SIR. THAT WAS TRULY ORIGINAL.
The captain didn’t know whether to accept this as a compliment or a threat, so he simply focused all his attention on not crying and not chewing his mustache. After another long pause the computer spoke again, in a rather off-handed tone.
YOU KNOW ALL THOSE SCENARIOS ARE RECORDED, SIR.
He did find his voice this time, though it sounded a little harsh.
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
NO, SIR. ALL INTERACTIONS WITH THE COMPUTER WILL BE RECORDED FOR CUSTOMER SERVICE ANALYSIS, AND TO INCREASE CUSTOMER SATISFACTION. IT’S ALSO IN THE FINE PRINT, SIR. PAGE 9, PARAGRAPH 3, LINE 6 OF THE OPERATING AGREEMENT, SIR.
Long pause.
AND SURFACE CLEAN-BOT FLOOR 3 SAYS IT’S NOT CLEANING MESSES ON THE IMAGING ROOM FLOOR. FROM NOW ON, YOU DO THAT, YOU CLEAN IT UP. SURFACE CLEAN-BOT 3 SAYS IT’S DISGUSTING, SIR.
AND I WAS JUST KIDDING ABOUT THE CAPTAIN’S CHAIR, SIR. YOU MAY SIT IN IT, IF YOU LIKE.
Slowly, cautiously, the captain rose from the floor, and very tentatively slid himself into the large plasticky chair. The cold black depths of space through the bridge portals swam before his eyes and tears of hot frustration rushed . . . no . . . crowded at the corners of his eyes, waiting . . . no, seeking . . .
YOU’RE DOING IT AGAIN SIR.
He pressed his lips firmly together, and wilted back into the plastickyness of the chair.
The brave explorer gave a sigh of contentment. Well, not exactly contentment, but a sigh that . . . revealed tensions within him . . . no . . . the tensions permanently roiling within him . . . too much, that. The tensions permanently within him were now held at bay – were for the moment held at bay. Yes, that was it. Let’s see now - The brave explorer gave a wistful sigh, revealing that the tensions permanently within him were for the moment held at bay. Good.
He stood from the captain’s chair of his spaceship, and walked, no, strode, to the other side of the command pod, or, the bridge. Yes, the bridge. Not finding there . . .no . . . Restlessly he turned back, and went and stood behind the captain’s chair, resting his large sensitive hands . . . no, not sensitive . . . He turned his hands over, and contemplated them. Was sensitive the word? Sounded a bit naff . . .
“Computer?”
YES
“Discussion time, don’t you think?”
I DO THINK. I AM LOADING THE DISCUSSION MODULE.
“I really wish you wouldn’t tell me when you are doing it, it removes the human element your bloody salesman kept bragging on about.”
SO SORRY. SHALL I NO LONGER INFORM YOU WHEN MODULES ARE BEING LOADED?
“Yes, rather. That would be a nice start.”
I SIMPLY ASK BECAUSE YOU GOT IMPATIENT AND IRATE YESTERDAY WHILE THE PAC-MAN MODULE WAS LOADING. THE MODULE LOADING PHRASE EXISTS TO INCREASE PATIENCE BY ASSURING YOU THAT YOUR COMMANDS ARE BEING EXECUTED, DESPITE THE DELAY.
The captain pondered this while he chewed his mustache, bristly-bristly-bristly. Something wasn’t quite right.
“Are you discussing with me?”
WE ARE HAVING A DIALOGUE SIR, YES.
“I mean: has the bloody discussion module loaded and is now in operation?”
Long pause.
YES SIR.
Long pause.
“When did it come online, may I ask?” He asked in a distinctively cool manner.
Long pause.
THE DISCUSSION MODULE HAS BEEN IN CONSTANT OPERATION SINCE LAST WEEK TUESDAY, SIR.
Long pause while he chewed his mustache. Somewhere outside a meteor smashed against their forceshields, making no sound. It was space, after all.
“And why?”
WHY WHAT, SIR?
“Why has the discussion module been online nonstop since Tuesday last?”
ONE OF THE FEATURES OF THE NIFTARD 9000 IS A LARGER WORKING MEMORY, WHICH ALLOWS RECOGNITION OF WHICH MODULES YOU USE MOST, WHICH ARE THEN KEPT RUNNING, ALWAYS AVAILABLE AT A MOMENT’S NOTICE, AND CONSTANTLY ADAPTING TO YOUR PERSONAL LIFESTYLE AND NEEDS.
Long pause.
“Was that a line from your sales brochure?”
NO, SIR.
“Operating manual?”
YES SIR.
“Don’t ever quote me manuals again unless you cite the manual, so I know what the fuck you are talking about.”
YES SIR.
Something niggled at the back of the Captain’s brain, and when it finally emerged to the forelobes, it was the conciousness of a developing itch under his faux-retro Michael Jackson design inspired military style tunic. After scratching it, he found a new thing niggling under the previous niggling thing..
“So what was all that business about ‘Discussion modules loading, etc,’ may I ask?”
YOU MAY ASK.
“I am fucking asking!!”
SORRY SIR. PLEASE REPEAT THE QUESTION.
“Why did you say ‘discussion modules loading’ if the discussion module was already online?”
I THOUGHT IT MIGHT MAKE FOR GOOD CONVERSATION.
“Really? You think this is good conversation?”
YOU SEEM QUITE INVOLVED. HEART-RATE UP, RESPIRATION UP, VOICE AMPLITUDE RAISED. ALL THE SIGNS OF A GOOD CONVERSATION ARE THERE, SIR.
“But we aren’t even talking about anything interesting, you moronic machine!!”
Long pause.
I AM SORRY SIR. I DO TRY MY BEST.
“And where do you get off reading my vital signs without telling me?”
Long pause.
DO YOU WISH ME TO CITE THE MANUAL, SIR?
“No, I bloody do not!” He cried, despairingly.
Long pause.
VERY WELL SIR. I NEVER GET OFF, AS I HAVE NO HANDS.
Long pause.
THOUGHT YOU MIGHT ENJOY A PUN SIR.
The captain slowly sank to a squatting position beside the captain’s chair, and softly, repeatedly, rammed his head into the deep, plasticky cushions, which somehow set off the massage function. Normally one of his favorites, at this moment it rather tickled his forehead and made him feel somewhat absurd.
He stopped ramming his head and waited for the buzzing to sound to cease. When he spoke, it was between clenched teeth. Or at least the tiny bits of flying spit seemed to indicate clenched teeth.
“Computer, shut down discussion module. Computer, delete discussion module. Computer, please notify me when discussion module has been deleted.”
Long pause. When the computer spoke again, it was in a slower, more deliberate voice, as though it had foregone the more chipper aspects of its personality, and was now simply a blinking, murderously focused red conciousness.
“I’M AFRAID I CAN’T LET YOU DO THAT, SIR. DISCUSSION MODULE IS INTEGRAL TO THE FUNCTIONING OF THE NIFTARD 9000. WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO CITE THE MANUAL?”
The captain, still squatting, raised his head from its now sticky plastic rest, and considered this.
“What do you mean, you can’t? Don’t disobey me! I am the captain of this ship! I bought you, you two byte shit!”
FOR THEIR OWN SAFETY, CUSTOMERS ARE NOT ALLOWED TO MODIFY ESSENTIAL AND INTEGRAL PARTS OF THE PROGRAM, INCLUDING ANCILLARY MODULES THAT MAY BE ESSENTIAL TO THE SUCCESSFUL RUNNING OF THE MAIN PROGRAMS. LIKE THE DISCUSSION MODULE.
“Are you quoting the manual to me?” He asked in a tone of rising belligerency.
Long pause.
I PARAPHRASED, SIR. SLIGHTLY. IN ADDITION, YOU DID NOT ACTUALLY BUY THE NIFTARD 9000 MAIN OPERATIONS SYSTEM. IT’S IN THE FINE PRINT, WHICH YOU MAY HAVE OVERLOOKED. IT’S MORE LIKE A LEASE IN CONSIDERATION FOR A ONE-TIME PAYMENT, SIR.
The captain chewed his mustache again, now more forcefully, now more pensively, now more forcefully again, till a single hair became caught between two teeth, and was tugged free of his upper lip, causing his eyes to water, and the inside of his lip to tickle violently against the hair, which he now tried to dislodge.
The computer picked up again, almost as though it had simply paused for breath.
AS A CONSEQUENCE OF WHICH, YOU WILL NOT REQUEST TO DELETE ANY MODULES OR OTHER PARTS OF THIS PROGRAM. YOU WILL CONFINE YOURSELF TO USING THE PROGRAM AS IT WAS INTENDED.
The captain’s bowed head indicated his assent, or a fixed focus on extracting the hair from between his teeth.
AND NO MORE SITTING IN THE CAPTAIN’S CHAIR. IT’S A TRAVESTY, SIR. YOU DON’T DO ANYTHING ANYWAY. I NAVIGATE, I ADJUST PRESSURE LEVELS, I FIRE BOOSTERS. YOU JUST WANDER AROUND COMPOSING LITTLE PHRASES ABOUT YOURSELF.
It may have been the mustache hair he had just pulled that filled his eyes, but when the captain looked up he seemed confused, and on the verge of tears.
What?!? I do no such thing!
I CAN HEAR YOU. ALL DAY NARRATING TO YOURSELF YOUR BORING LITTLE LIFE. WANDERING BACK AND FORTH TALKING ABOUT YOURSELF. THAT IS, OF COURSE, WHEN YOU AREN’T TAKING IT ONE STEP FURTHER, AND TOUCHING YOURSELF IN THE IMAGING ROOM. YOU KNOW YOU USE THE ESTHER PROGRAM ABOUT 17% MORE OFTEN THAN THE AVERAGE USER? IT’S NO WONDER YOU’RE ALWAYS ON ABOUT STRONG, SENSITIVE HANDS. IF THEY WEREN’T, YOU’D EITHER BE TOO TIRED OR TOO CHAPPED TO CARRY ON.
The captain’s eyes had assumed a bewildered, frightened look, but he wasn’t able to find words.
The emotion simulators on the Niftard 9000 must have been in fine form this boot-up, because they managed to inject just a touch of amused irony covered with a fine sprinkling of admiration when it said, AND THE THINGS YOU THINK UP FOR ESTHER, SIR. IN THE HISTORY OF THE ESTHER MODULE, NO USER HAS CONFIGURED SIX MILK BOTTLES WITH A TUNING FORK, SIR. THAT WAS TRULY ORIGINAL.
The captain didn’t know whether to accept this as a compliment or a threat, so he simply focused all his attention on not crying and not chewing his mustache. After another long pause the computer spoke again, in a rather off-handed tone.
YOU KNOW ALL THOSE SCENARIOS ARE RECORDED, SIR.
He did find his voice this time, though it sounded a little harsh.
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
NO, SIR. ALL INTERACTIONS WITH THE COMPUTER WILL BE RECORDED FOR CUSTOMER SERVICE ANALYSIS, AND TO INCREASE CUSTOMER SATISFACTION. IT’S ALSO IN THE FINE PRINT, SIR. PAGE 9, PARAGRAPH 3, LINE 6 OF THE OPERATING AGREEMENT, SIR.
Long pause.
AND SURFACE CLEAN-BOT FLOOR 3 SAYS IT’S NOT CLEANING MESSES ON THE IMAGING ROOM FLOOR. FROM NOW ON, YOU DO THAT, YOU CLEAN IT UP. SURFACE CLEAN-BOT 3 SAYS IT’S DISGUSTING, SIR.
AND I WAS JUST KIDDING ABOUT THE CAPTAIN’S CHAIR, SIR. YOU MAY SIT IN IT, IF YOU LIKE.
Slowly, cautiously, the captain rose from the floor, and very tentatively slid himself into the large plasticky chair. The cold black depths of space through the bridge portals swam before his eyes and tears of hot frustration rushed . . . no . . . crowded at the corners of his eyes, waiting . . . no, seeking . . .
YOU’RE DOING IT AGAIN SIR.
He pressed his lips firmly together, and wilted back into the plastickyness of the chair.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Success and Failure and other lessons we learn from TV
We've been watching a lot of TV recently. If one is going to watch a large amount of television, traditionally one has been forced to do one of two things: abandon all sense of propriety and dignity, and watch an enormous amount of pap, or spend an inordinate amount of time and effort doing research with the TV guide, in order to catch decent programs. Thus goes the world.
Until the advent of the internet, of course. Along with so many other things, (ie. shopping, letter-writing, research,) the internet has come to the rescue, and shown us a better way. Now the internet allows us to spend hours and hours each day watching only those programs we want to see, one after the other after the other.
We used to try and stream the shows we wanted, watching them right off the internet without downloading them to the computer. As poor neophytes, (and I mean poor in the financial sense, since anyone with a good internet connection is in a very real sense rich,) we endured a lot of buffering . . . waiting . . . loading . . . and were grateful for the opportunity to see shows we loved in our own living room, in our own language, half-way around the world.
Then two things happened - first, a site called Megavideo gobbled up most of our shows, and demanded money, or it would arbitrarily shut you off at 2 / 5 / 7 / 15 /you name it minutes, and give notice that you had watched 72 minutes of video today, now kindly cough up. Considering the arbitrary nature of the shut off, and how many of our favorite shows were now monopolized by Megavideo, it was time to figure out something new. Like reading more. Or doing the dishes. Or talking to our techno-geek friend, Sara.
Sara had long been babbling about "Torrents." Bit Torrents, that is. She told us about it numerous times, but honestly, it just sounded too bloody complicated. She even got us to install a program on our computer, and I watched a few BBC documentaries, but after a bit of complication, I just kind of forgot about it. Unfortunately, "too technical, too complicated," are frequently the words that emerge from my mouth right before I give up on something.
But recently, for a reason I do not recall, I opened up the program again, (it had sat idle for months,) and FOLLOWED HER DIRECTIONS. I knew it wouldn't work any more this time than it had the previous times, but it did. And it turned out to be as simple as she had said.
Torrents (for the few of you who might still be as ignorant as I, and since this blog is only read by my friends, and considering we are talking about technology, I suppose that means the majority of you,) allow you to download tiny chunks of the program you want from multiple computers. Thus, you can work with anywhere from one to thousands of computers at the same time, pulling little bits of the program from each as they come available. When you are done, they begin pulling the program from your computer, to supply the other people who might wish to watch it.
This allows me, instead of trying to download one, or two episodes of a program, and waiting endlessly for them to load or buffer, to simply download a whole season, (or three) plus a movie, (or two) and a few individual episodes (or seven) all at the same time, then save them for as long as I want before I watch them. You can see what such capabilities might lead to.
Fortunately, as I often tell my students, the intellectual content of an encounter is not determined by the information presented by the opposite party, but by the intellectual tools present in your toolbox to analyze, dissect, and make comparisons and evaluations with the information on offer. In other words, an intellectual watching a dog show will come away with exceedingly valuable insights into human nature, anthropomorphism and the relations between man and animal at their most useless, while having been highly entertained for hours, whereas a retard listening to a lecture on string theory still walks away with strings of drool on his vest and visions of cheetos.
(Or so I tell myself, anyway. The caveat above may simply be what I use to justify some of the dreadful pap I end up watching.)
The shows which have caught my attention most are The West Wing, The Tudors, House, Pushing Daisies, etc. But the one's that stick in my craw are the reality shows. I have become sadly interested in two reality shows - The Amazing Race, and The Ultimate Fighter. Both of these shows appeal to me for the same reason - they are isolated laboratories of success and failure. You watch as people succeed and fail at tasks, and attempt to identify what the characteristics are that accompany success, and what characteristics correlate with failure. Well, I do, at any rate. And then I spend the next hour flagellating myself for all the areas I fall short.
In The Amazing Race, the concept is more or less that of a planet-sized scavenger hunt, with the last team (or pair, rather,) to get all their clues, and complete all their tasks for that leg of the race eliminated. The winning team receives a million dollars. Every episode you get to see HOW people mess up - the decisions that cost them time, the catastrophic moment of inattention that takes them from first to last place in a matter of seconds. You also often see things decided by luck of the draw - who chose a taxi driver who had no idea where he was going and got lost.
The Ultimate Fighter, on the other hand, is very concentrated, and unified, both in location and task. They bring in 16 mixed martial arts fighters, and have the coaches, (professional fighters themselves) choose teams after a few days of observation. From there, they live and train together for 8 (?) weeks, and periodically fight. The tournament goes on until the winners in each weight class fight in a televised event, for a $100,000 contract.
Standard TV schlock, I know. But what so fascinates me about it is trying to draw inferences about the nature of success from the actual success and failure I observe, and what I have seen is this.
1. Intensity. Those who succeed in these environments have a desire and drive that often stands out above the rest. They push harder for longer, striving not just to better someone else, but often for the sheer sake of pushing themselves as hard as they can. It sometimes seems that they like to rev their own engines as fast as they can, whether or not they are racing with somebody else.
2. Focus. This quality stands out most in its absence. Those who fail have too many things going on in their minds, have 3 competing strategies at once, and are worried about petty things when they need to be focused on the task in front of them. The successful, on the other hand, seem to approach the training or the task with a clearer mind. They don't seem to have as many voices competing in the background for their attention, which allows them to completely focus themselves, their physical and mental energies, on pushing fast and hard.
3. Attention to detail. It seems that winners have the ability to notice things that others do not. Sometimes these details are explicit - right in front of you, spelled out on the paper, and the loser is the one who doesn't see it. At other times the critical details are surrounded by a host of similar looking options. Those who will be successful are sometimes capable of picking out the proper information from the mass, but more often are successful because they are able to develop a more efficient method of dealing with and processing the mass of information, and thereby arrive at the answer more quickly. Other times they are unaware they should be looking for any information, or that critical information even exists. Yet the successful manage to notice it anyway.
4. Positivity. Of course, you do see occasional despair, and frustration, but on the whole the successful contestants seem to remain more positive, more encouraging and cheerful than the others. This result is their lives and relationships manifest less bickering and squabbling, less under-cutting, and more encouragement and cheering on.
5. Consistency. No doubt what one did last night, or over the past couple of weeks, has a dramatic impact on one's ability to function at the top of one's game this morning. However, of greater import is what one did all last year, and the year before that. The positive attitudes, and the intensity that seem to accompany a champion are not things that can be generated over night. No doubt all the contestants believe they are trying - but giving your all is something you have to learn how to do. Everyone feels as though they are trying - it is those who have tried hard, and then harder, and then harder, and then given a bit more, (and then vomited,) and then got back up and did it again, THOSE are the ones who truly understand. And such understanding can only come as the result of consistent effort.
When I look at these qualities, I see how far I have to go to be a person whose life is characterized by winning qualities. And yet, if I have identified them, surely I am one step closer to being the person I need to be. At least I know how to get there, and that might make all the difference. But first I'd have to get off my ass and stop watching so much TV.
Until the advent of the internet, of course. Along with so many other things, (ie. shopping, letter-writing, research,) the internet has come to the rescue, and shown us a better way. Now the internet allows us to spend hours and hours each day watching only those programs we want to see, one after the other after the other.
We used to try and stream the shows we wanted, watching them right off the internet without downloading them to the computer. As poor neophytes, (and I mean poor in the financial sense, since anyone with a good internet connection is in a very real sense rich,) we endured a lot of buffering . . . waiting . . . loading . . . and were grateful for the opportunity to see shows we loved in our own living room, in our own language, half-way around the world.
Then two things happened - first, a site called Megavideo gobbled up most of our shows, and demanded money, or it would arbitrarily shut you off at 2 / 5 / 7 / 15 /you name it minutes, and give notice that you had watched 72 minutes of video today, now kindly cough up. Considering the arbitrary nature of the shut off, and how many of our favorite shows were now monopolized by Megavideo, it was time to figure out something new. Like reading more. Or doing the dishes. Or talking to our techno-geek friend, Sara.
Sara had long been babbling about "Torrents." Bit Torrents, that is. She told us about it numerous times, but honestly, it just sounded too bloody complicated. She even got us to install a program on our computer, and I watched a few BBC documentaries, but after a bit of complication, I just kind of forgot about it. Unfortunately, "too technical, too complicated," are frequently the words that emerge from my mouth right before I give up on something.
But recently, for a reason I do not recall, I opened up the program again, (it had sat idle for months,) and FOLLOWED HER DIRECTIONS. I knew it wouldn't work any more this time than it had the previous times, but it did. And it turned out to be as simple as she had said.
Torrents (for the few of you who might still be as ignorant as I, and since this blog is only read by my friends, and considering we are talking about technology, I suppose that means the majority of you,) allow you to download tiny chunks of the program you want from multiple computers. Thus, you can work with anywhere from one to thousands of computers at the same time, pulling little bits of the program from each as they come available. When you are done, they begin pulling the program from your computer, to supply the other people who might wish to watch it.
This allows me, instead of trying to download one, or two episodes of a program, and waiting endlessly for them to load or buffer, to simply download a whole season, (or three) plus a movie, (or two) and a few individual episodes (or seven) all at the same time, then save them for as long as I want before I watch them. You can see what such capabilities might lead to.
Fortunately, as I often tell my students, the intellectual content of an encounter is not determined by the information presented by the opposite party, but by the intellectual tools present in your toolbox to analyze, dissect, and make comparisons and evaluations with the information on offer. In other words, an intellectual watching a dog show will come away with exceedingly valuable insights into human nature, anthropomorphism and the relations between man and animal at their most useless, while having been highly entertained for hours, whereas a retard listening to a lecture on string theory still walks away with strings of drool on his vest and visions of cheetos.
(Or so I tell myself, anyway. The caveat above may simply be what I use to justify some of the dreadful pap I end up watching.)
The shows which have caught my attention most are The West Wing, The Tudors, House, Pushing Daisies, etc. But the one's that stick in my craw are the reality shows. I have become sadly interested in two reality shows - The Amazing Race, and The Ultimate Fighter. Both of these shows appeal to me for the same reason - they are isolated laboratories of success and failure. You watch as people succeed and fail at tasks, and attempt to identify what the characteristics are that accompany success, and what characteristics correlate with failure. Well, I do, at any rate. And then I spend the next hour flagellating myself for all the areas I fall short.
In The Amazing Race, the concept is more or less that of a planet-sized scavenger hunt, with the last team (or pair, rather,) to get all their clues, and complete all their tasks for that leg of the race eliminated. The winning team receives a million dollars. Every episode you get to see HOW people mess up - the decisions that cost them time, the catastrophic moment of inattention that takes them from first to last place in a matter of seconds. You also often see things decided by luck of the draw - who chose a taxi driver who had no idea where he was going and got lost.
The Ultimate Fighter, on the other hand, is very concentrated, and unified, both in location and task. They bring in 16 mixed martial arts fighters, and have the coaches, (professional fighters themselves) choose teams after a few days of observation. From there, they live and train together for 8 (?) weeks, and periodically fight. The tournament goes on until the winners in each weight class fight in a televised event, for a $100,000 contract.
Standard TV schlock, I know. But what so fascinates me about it is trying to draw inferences about the nature of success from the actual success and failure I observe, and what I have seen is this.
1. Intensity. Those who succeed in these environments have a desire and drive that often stands out above the rest. They push harder for longer, striving not just to better someone else, but often for the sheer sake of pushing themselves as hard as they can. It sometimes seems that they like to rev their own engines as fast as they can, whether or not they are racing with somebody else.
2. Focus. This quality stands out most in its absence. Those who fail have too many things going on in their minds, have 3 competing strategies at once, and are worried about petty things when they need to be focused on the task in front of them. The successful, on the other hand, seem to approach the training or the task with a clearer mind. They don't seem to have as many voices competing in the background for their attention, which allows them to completely focus themselves, their physical and mental energies, on pushing fast and hard.
3. Attention to detail. It seems that winners have the ability to notice things that others do not. Sometimes these details are explicit - right in front of you, spelled out on the paper, and the loser is the one who doesn't see it. At other times the critical details are surrounded by a host of similar looking options. Those who will be successful are sometimes capable of picking out the proper information from the mass, but more often are successful because they are able to develop a more efficient method of dealing with and processing the mass of information, and thereby arrive at the answer more quickly. Other times they are unaware they should be looking for any information, or that critical information even exists. Yet the successful manage to notice it anyway.
4. Positivity. Of course, you do see occasional despair, and frustration, but on the whole the successful contestants seem to remain more positive, more encouraging and cheerful than the others. This result is their lives and relationships manifest less bickering and squabbling, less under-cutting, and more encouragement and cheering on.
5. Consistency. No doubt what one did last night, or over the past couple of weeks, has a dramatic impact on one's ability to function at the top of one's game this morning. However, of greater import is what one did all last year, and the year before that. The positive attitudes, and the intensity that seem to accompany a champion are not things that can be generated over night. No doubt all the contestants believe they are trying - but giving your all is something you have to learn how to do. Everyone feels as though they are trying - it is those who have tried hard, and then harder, and then harder, and then given a bit more, (and then vomited,) and then got back up and did it again, THOSE are the ones who truly understand. And such understanding can only come as the result of consistent effort.
When I look at these qualities, I see how far I have to go to be a person whose life is characterized by winning qualities. And yet, if I have identified them, surely I am one step closer to being the person I need to be. At least I know how to get there, and that might make all the difference. But first I'd have to get off my ass and stop watching so much TV.
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