Wednesday, 30 October 2019

RANTS: BOOK LEARNIN' AND LIFE LEARNIN'




From a 1954 short story, “5,271,009”, by Alfred Bester in Twenty Years of the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, 1970):
    
     “I am bad,” Mr. Aquila said in a voice chilling of desperation. “I am rotten. There is no place in my home that can tolerate me. And there are moments, unguarded when my sickness and my despair fill my eyes and strike terror into your waiting souls. As I strike terror into you now, Yes?”
     Halsyon nodded again.
     “Be guided by me. It was the child in Solon Aquila that destroyed him and led him into the sickness that destroyed his life. Oui. I too suffer from baby fantasies from which I cannot escape. Do not make the same mistake. I beg you. …Time to make up your mind, old bourbon and soda. Which will it be? Old face or pretty face? The reality of dreams or the dream of reality?”

In the story we meet Mr. Aquila, who we learn is actually the Devil. He visits the artist Halsyon and offers him a choice: He can either accept life as it is and make the millions of decisions human beings typically make during the course of their lives—decisions based on a clear understanding of himself and his place in the world—or he can continue to lead a life of self-deception and childish fantasies. In other words he has the choice to see who he is—warts and all—or to carry on being blissfully ignorant.
The fantasies Halyson* employs to delude himself are common to many of us. For example, he fantasizes that he is the last man alive on earth, or the last fertile man, or he daydreams about going back in time while retaining his knowledge of the future, or he imagines a future where he fights heroically against injustice and is martyred for his efforts (with a happy ending of course), and so on. It is an inner life and a belief system that shields him from having to make hard choices.
The Devil asks Halsyon to choose an “old face”, one suitable for someone who grows old and experiences the struggles of life, and who lives honestly and directly without illusions—or he can choose a “pretty” face, instead. He must decide whether to live in the hard scrabble, real world as a fully-formed adult, with all the difficulties and pain that entails or to remain in the comfortable—but ignorant—world of his dreams and childish illusions. Either way, he will have no memory of meeting Mr. Aquila.
In the end Halsyon chooses the “hard way” of living, making the “2,635,505th” decision of his life, or just over half of the allotted choices left to him in his life, as the story’s title suggests.  

Bester’s tale reminded me “Old Women” by M. John Harrison, a short story from his collection Things That Never Happen, written in 2002. The story reworks Wilde’s “The Portrait of Dorian Grey,” and it is told through an unnamed narrator who, like Halsyon, has never ‘grown up’. The narrator lives his life as a ‘wannabe’—a wannabe writer, academic, lover, friend, neighbour and just about any role you can name. His ‘bête noir’ is Ashman, a friend from university, who is an actual writer. He is envious of Ashman, even as he is critical of everything the man has accomplished. Ashman lives his life, dedicated to his craft, and as a consequence, he is older, shabbier, worn down by life and living. He has an “old face”, as Mr. Aquila would have it. This contrasts with the narrator who has kept himself apart from life’s rigors, and retains an unnaturally youthful appearance (and immaturity).
By the story’s end the narrator has run afoul of his older landlady, who is in love with him. She reacts with anger when he refuses to commit to her as a lover or even as a friend. He remains equivocal, aloof and yet available, and their relationship only serves to confuse and torment her. We see that any relationship he forms will be unsatisfying, even harmful, to others. He is an empty vessel, a cracked cup of no use to anyone. Self-absorbed as always, we leave him at the story’s end musing about how he thought he was older than he actually was….

* “Halyson”, I assume is Bester’s play on the word “halcyon”, which, according to Merriam-Webster is “characterized by happiness, great success, and prosperity: golden—often used to describe an idyllic time in the past that is remembered as better than today; the halcyon days of youth,” which is in keeping with Halyson who lives a life of unreality and self-deception.    

...........
 I was at the laundromat today and a chap began a conversation about the recent antics of the American president. We talked a bit about whether Trump would win in 2020. I said I thought he would be re-elected, and the conversation turned to his concerns about the future and what it might hold for his grandchildren. He said he was worried about whether they would have good paying jobs, a stable society and so on. I agreed that in the future, jobs and security such as we had growing up would be less available to them; life would indeed be harder and more precarious. As I left, I made a joke, saying that I hoped Trump wouldn’t start WWIII before he crashed the economy.
……….

I had written about the above two short stories some time ago, and they came to mind as I reflected on my conversation with the man in the laundromat. The importance of the choices an individual makes in life is clear from the outcomes of both stories. So, too, in life. But care and caution, deliberation and determination are necessary to make choices that allow us to fully realize lives that are worth living. The problem is these qualities often are underutilized when we come to make those serious decisions that shape such things as our relationships, our work, or our futures.
As he was watching his laundry spin, the man, a retiree from Sudbury, mentioned he felt, “young people these days” want everything right away; they’re impatient, and can’t ‘spend the time to make the dime.’ He has a point, but young people—all of us, really—learn from our society, from its values and priorities. And, naturally, we have taught our children how to live in the world we thought was coming down the pipe. It’s just that it's turning out not to be the one we ordered.

That said, I’m generally optimistic about future generations. I think the hard times ahead are being recognized more and more by youth today, and they’re starting to think about what to do about it. And I don’t mean designing new apps. I think they will become realists, pragmatists, builders of community, and people who will sort out their problems cooperatively—because there will be an increasing need for all of us to get along. I think diplomacy and developing skill-sets that facilitate individuals and groups to negotiate and respect one another will be valued in the future because, frankly, the alternative is too terrible to contemplate. These last couple of centuries, in many instances, have been venues for developing attitudes and practices on just how not to get along with each other and with Mam Gaia. That must change or we’re toast.
I’ll leave it for now, though there is more to say on this important topic. [I’d put an emoji here, but I hate the fuckers! Ed.]

Cheers, Jake.

“I just have one word for you—prunes!”

BOOK REPORT: THE OCEAN AT THE END OF THE LANE BY NEIL GAIMAN



Just a short note. I finished  Neil Gaiman’s fantasy novel in one reading last night (it’s quite short) and got a real kick out of it. I won’t say too much about the plot, but it involves a man returning to his childhood home to attend a family funeral. He leaves the service to visit a neighbour who lived down a lane by a small pond. There, he recalls the time when he had just turned seven years old, and begins to remember things he hadn't thought of in decades. I liked Gaiman’s descriptions of childhood, and noted he had a number of strange and slightly quirky elements to his tale, but the story seemed pretty straight forward, and I wasn’t sure if I would continue reading. Then there is an event that disturbs the relative tranquility of the boy’s life and inexorably, with an ever-quickening  speed, as if caught by a strong undertow, you are pulled into the story and into an ever-stranger world. Parts of it are page-turners where you simply must find out what is going to happen next! There are layers of myth and mystery that are gradually revealed, and by the novel’s end you are reminded that reality may be much more of a stranger than you care to admit....
Well done!

Cheers, Jake.  




Saturday, 26 October 2019

RANTS: WHAT’S GOING ON WITH RT?



"Russia! Russia! Russia!"
I just wanted to write a short note on something I’ve noticed over the last few months. I live in Ontario, Canada and for my television addiction I have one of the major cable providers as my pusher. Service is fine, reception great, etc., etc. I’ve even mastered the menus and PVR. So, all is good-good—waaay too expensive, but that’s another post. My beef, today, is about one particular station: RT (that’s Russia Today, for all you comrades out there.) I don’t know if anyone else has this problem, but I often find RT’s volume is set at least 1/3 lower than the rest of the stations and now and then there is this flickering of the signal that causes the screen to go blank for a second or two.
At first, I thought it was age catching up to me, and that I was going deaf or blind or something. But no, I notice there are no similar problems with any of the other stations, sound-wise or visually. It’s just with RT. My first thought was that RT must be operating with outdated Soviet era-tech, and just wasn’t up to the high standards of my cable provider; the whole East meets West interface-thingy must be a little wonky. (It's no wonder they lost the Cold War!) Then another possibility occurred to me: the wonkiness might be because CIA spy-bots are monitoring the mind-warping propaganda emanating from Moscow’s media machine.
I tried wearing a tin-foil hat and lined the walls of my apartment with thick coats of lead paint, but nothing seemed to help. RT’'s volume was indeed lower than the rest and its picture still flickered. Now, I don’t want to seem paranoid or anything—or any more paranoid than I am already—but is it possible that news programs, TV stations, websites, social media forums, etc. which offer alternative information and points of view  that are different from “main-stream media” are being discouraged by the powers that be, are being de-platformed,  or secretly interfered with or even shut down? Are western gremlins attacking the Kremlin?
Naw! That’s nutts! Who ever heard of such a thing in this age of mass communications? Information about anything is open-sourced and open to everybody, right? Censorship is so old-school. Still, my signal problems persisted. At first, I thought to complain to Hi I’m Dave—my Cable Provider representative, but I thought: Where will my complaint go? Whose desk might it land on? What processes might that stir up? Would it get to the point where I could be anally probed for what I know about something?  Was I being watched right now by cameras hidden in my PVR? Oh, my god! I panicked. (Q: “Siri, am I alone, right now?” A: “There are approximately one hundred and twenty billion-billion earth-like planets in this iteration of space-time; so no, you're not alone.”)
Mixing tranquilizers with alcohol, I mulled over the possibilities and what, if anything, I could do about finding out whether CSIS or CIA Security-bots were surveilling me. As long as I had RT on my scroll-menu, with its Moscow mindset a mere button-push away, they would be watching, for they did not approve of those pesky Ruskies, it seemed. So, after more pills, some pizza and the better part of a bottle of Jack Daniels, I came up with a plan.
In the early morning hours, when RT shuts down for maintenance (or to data-mine our souls), I took my tool box out to the street where the old-fashioned cable box was still in use. If there were any national security trolls in the system, they’d be there, I reasoned. I used a Robertson screwdriver #5 to remove the rusted outer covering. With my military-grade flashlight, I delved into the inner workings of the box. Lo and behold, behind wiring and transistor blocks I discovered a mouse—a robot mouse with horrid, red, beady eyes! It sat astride the connection that led into my house, and I knew its tail was a WiFi antenna.
I must have tripped an alarm because, almost immediately, the mouse started to give off a warning noise that grew louder and louder. The only thing I could think to do was get a pair of wire cutters and snip off its tail. I did it and the mouse began to vibrate. Within a minute there was the smell of burning plastic and a thin trickle of smoke came out its cindered eyes. It was dead.
I quickly put the cable box cover back on and went inside. I fell asleep and woke up to RT on at full volume. There was some show on about "Russia Gate", and the presenter was saying it was important we shouldn’t believe everything we see or read. He said we should be skeptical and check our sources, ask questions, keep an open mind, and get a variety of opinions before making up our minds on things like internet trolls and the like...and then the picture went black and the volume dropped....OMG! The security-bots were back! Don't think! Quick! It's time to grab our tinfoil hats, comrades!

Cheers, Jake.

“I can’t think for myself.
I'll need someone to confirm that, please.
Hello?”