sdbo / thoughts

Welcome to the future

Today, I feel genuinely that technology is starting to stop being technology in the best possible way. My feelings are that up until very recently we’ve been bombarded by artifacts of technology: screens and processors, programs and databases. I like these things, but they’re not what I want in my life.

Today, I own a magic window that displays maps of the entire world, finds recipes, plays movies, becomes a Go board. Instantly. I have worldwide telepathy able to effortlessly send messages to people across the room or the planet. I’m writing words that are both visible anywhere on the globe and will likely be permanently archived for the foreseeable human future.

Tablet, cell phone, internet. These words don’t matter.

Really, I’m just after the super powers.

The more things shift toward that side of the equation, the happier I’ll become. It doesn’t have to be technology, though I think technology is cool. I’m also very comfortable with magic. This is the future, after all.

Futurism

The thing Apple seems to know better than any other company that exists today is pretty simple:

This is the future

What that means is that our science has far outstripped our culture — it always does — and that there is an incredible arbitrage between them. Apple is selling us something out of a dream people had back in the 70s. Something real, physical, beautiful, impeccable.

And one better, it looks even more fantastic than the things people dreamed of in the past.

So what is there to learn?

There’s an immense arbitrage between the our cultural understanding of the untouchable things that define the future and the fact that science and technology have slowly moved into the position to build those things.

The LHC was straight out of the future. I think it’s humanly impossible to look at it without being awed by its sheer alien nature. It’s perhaps one of the few things that humans have built and yet still must be in awe of.

The iPad is also straight out of the future, but it’s so slick and cheap that you already can imagine one looking beautiful on your coffee table. You can buy the future, affordably, and have it shipped to you. It’ll be at your door in a week. Real, living, breathing future.

Apple is the only company that seems to have figured this out, really. If you tap into that cultural arbitrage, you get to sell real, working magic.

… became a statistic.

I despise this phrase. It is used to invoke the unbelievable, impersonal namelessness that being one in a large number carries. At the same time, though, it shores all of the true human concern that those statistics are seeking to support and suggests that there’s just another nameless casualty gone by instead of an effort to turn away these eventualities. It’s a denouncing of the herculean effort borne by those who work to improve our world.

It’s a call to the postmodern notion of being truly alone and unhelped while facing a cruel infinite world of harm. Actually it’s not even postmodern, it’s pure Lovecraft.

Besides, statistics are agglutinated summaries — at best you’re becoming a tiny, tiny influence upon a statistic.

Addict

I’m addicted to the mindbend. I spend inordinate amounts of time seeking out things that I don’t just not understand but fully cannot twist my head around enough to get at them. Philosophy and language both are happy pastimes, and I’m always on the lookout for more.

But really I feel it’s deeper than that. I’m enticed to look at things through other people’s eyes, or while standing on my head, or from the street, or atop a building. I’m addicted to the change in point of view. The catch twenty-two that says we only ever get to behold some tiny percentage of what there is to see. For every experience we live we only feel the things our own prejudices and biases let us. That no matter how many things you try, each brief glimpse only scratches the surface of what is really there.

When you change your mind, you get to relive all of that again. Be surprised again. Think things are funny for a first time. Relive the precious state of not-knowing. Wu.

The best is seeing something from inside another’s head. Strapping on their faded converses or leather thongs or silk shoes or bare calloused feet. I think this is why I want to travel, why I want to teach, why I’m incurably romantic.

At the same time though, we might be defined by our biases. So where am I?

I am the one who is hiding child-like wonderment at the rain or the sound of a violin. But I’m also the one orating self-obsessed diaries to empty electric halls. I should get out more.

Another old story: Perfectly Fair

Jonathan pulls his hat lower to hide his face. He doesn’t belong here. He huddles his jacket closer, starts to turn away… but he’s caught. The sound of faint melodic laughter. He turns slightly and leans back his head, hoping to catch a glimpse of the world beyond his hat brim. Across the street he sees dancers and mothers and lovers and children. Sounds of joyous music and strains of pleasant conversation. Smells of fresh food, sweat, and the sweet air of liveliment. You can see it in his eyes; he is young, happy, and ignorant again. He cannot help but straighten up a bit, crack the slight smile. He remembers home, family, comfort, safety, happiness… and then hunger hits him in the stomach like the kick of a horse, or a speeding car. He doubles over, dropping his fantasy and watching it shatter against the pavement of reality like a glass picture frame. Slowly, he straightens again. Suffering worried looks from those nearby, he calmly reaches up and pulls his hat lower. One fantasy dies, so he replaces it with another. Perfectly alone he trudges off. People look at him with concerned stares… some quietly offer him food. He hears the ghostly whispers, and ignores them. He is returning to the world that hurts and starves but is perfectly “fair.” Something about his face catches your eye. In the light, it’s impossible to tell, shimmering slightly, maybe. It could almost be a tear. Almost.

Keep walking. That’s all you can really do. You’re just a passenger on your own train through life. You’re in for a ride if you stay with that train, but if you stop for a bit, sightsee, well then, the train is gone for good. Maybe if you’re lucky you can catch up with it later by taking a shortcut. Maybe I’m taking a metaphor too far. It’s not my point anyways. I don’t remember when I found my hat. I think I bought it, probably for real cheap, but I don’t remember. It’s tattered and brown with dirt. It’s flimsy in some spots, and stiff with grime in others. But it’s my hat. My refuge. You can always just snug down the brim, cut out the light. And soon, cut out the sound. Then the world. The only companion I need is my loneliness, and for that, I have my hat. I remember when I first needed my hat. It’s hard to believe it was two years ago… I’m not even sure, maybe it was longer. Sometimes I feel that I left yesterday. I was prepared then. I was confident. I knew what I was doing. It’s funny how unprepared, unconfident, and unknowing I was. I could laugh now, but I’ve forgotten how. Either way, I left. I was free. It’s funny what free is. I felt so liberated. I knew now that I could do whatever I wanted and nothing would hold me back. I ran from the old world and into the new. I ran. Left the restrictions, but left the safety. I could survive just fine. I was certain! I was an idiot. I went to the city. It’s where the desperate go. Those seeking a fortune or seeking food and shelter. You can find it there. It’s not that bad of a life, living off the refuse of something so rich. A city defecates of gold if you know where to look. Of course, even golden excrement only lasts so long under the onslaught of prospectors. Funny way to think of it. Each street bum is searching through miles and miles of useless stuff for that one thing, whatever it may be, that’ll brighten his day. Really changes your perspective on “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” Of course, I had no plans on living that kind of life. I landed a job. Nothing fancy, nor high paying. Not particularly interesting or engaging. I can hardly remember what it was now… something about a shop, I think. Either way, the important part was that this job paid in a few ways. For instance, it offered board in the upstairs storage area. Small and plain, but I actually liked it. With what money remained on my reduced pay heck, I made my offering to Uncle Sam. What that left me bought food and had a bit left over. Not a half bad life, I supposed. Just look outside. Human refuse and refuse humanity schlepped together till there is hardly a difference. My tiny room seemed a palace of endless and exquisite wealth. It had a window. Eventually, I got “promoted.” I learned that this is a tricky method to make you work more without really increasing your pay. I fell for it. Prestige can mean a lot when you have nothing else, and I already lived at the store. I took it in stride. I puffed out and held myself with minimal pride. I was Moving Up. After a time, tough to say how long, as usual, I chanced a return. No warning, no nothing. I just grabbed a bit of money, applied for a short leave, and headed off. I wish I had never gone. Sure, there was acceptance. I was home again. They offered a room and dinner and really to stay as long as I wanted. I spent 5 minutes there and knew exactly how long I wanted. I left in the middle of the night. Snuck out just as I had the first time. But I’ve digressed, I’m sure. I had a point to all this and it got buried in the details. I’m notorious for that, so you need to learn to keep moving on. Keep walking, Just as I said originally. I’ll never stop. I have too much ambition. Having no drive, or preparedness, or care can’t stop me. I’ll walk till my legs fall off. I glance up, my eyes, trained the hard way, swipe across my surroundings. The beast in my stomach growls warningly, but then curls up for a bit and take a nap. I feel my pocket, and decide that perhaps I should accommodate it. I tug down my hat again, and trudge off for the nearest grocery store. Perhaps some fruit would be nice. I could hold a truce with my hunger, I’ll feed it something nice from time to time provided it leaves me alone. No matter how far I pull my hat down, my friend Hunger wont go away. Nor will my heavy heart. It’s been so long since I smiled. I try it just to see if I remember.

It was to be cold that night. Jonathan had heard the report so he’d brought his heaviest jacket along. He pulls it tighter, and compulsively takes his hat down another notch. The effect is almost immediate. He glides into the surroundings and seems to disappear. A wind takes up some paper and blows it about forming tiny twisters. Traffic flows on the road to the left: the living blood of a City. People move. Ideas move. Money moves. It flows in and past so fast that you can touch but the faintest edge. But that’s okay. It’s amazing how far you can go just by skimming off a little bit.

September 2004

(I was 16. This essay won some minor award in a writing competition, I believe. Today I’m just not sure why.)

I Thought This Was So Clever Just 3 Years Ago: Diatribe

Corruption in America is reaching, stretching out to a new high. Never before have the sacred institutions held so close to heart been so violently ravaged by the pale forces of ignorance and carelessness. Brace yourself, for I speak not in hyperbole; today it is simply frightful the level of disregard for the immutable laws of grammar and punctuation. This author personally spends endless nights dreading the direction the world is headed when entire sentences can be flown off without a single full stop. It leaves one shivering.

Consider quickly a curt comparison. Has it really been so long since the impeccable traditions of grammar and punctuation were strong in the blood of men? This first example is a lovely, expansive and exquisitely beautiful passage from the esteemed Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles. List closely to his lucid prose.

“Under the trees several pheasants lay about, their rich plumage dabbled with blood; some were dead, some feebly twitching a wing, some staring up at the sky, some pulsating quickly, some contorted, some stretched out—all of them writhing in agony except the fortunate ones whose tortures had ended during the night by the inability of nature to bear more.”

Ah, any ear of even the slightest distinction would resonate with the peaceful beauty of Hardy’s words. His subject-verb agreement is simply delicious, his modifiers placed with precision. Atop that, he dared to reach the epitome of style by using not one but two of the more tricky punctual symbols, a semi-colon and dash, with thoughtless grace. Society would do well to look to him as not only a literary but a moral idol, but, alas, the insurmountable difficulty of human irrationality has turned us from this noble goal.

Consider now, instead, a more “modern” rendition of the above. The author, wishing to remain unnamed, was barely able to coerce the potent imagery into the fractured language of choice. Conclusively, I’d give the rendition a 9 for effort, but mostly out of pity.

“under teh trees wuz phesents!! … lol … they wer chilln with there tizight fethers (ROFL!) bt omg ewww there fethers wer all bloody!!!1 … l8r, i thotz mayb they were dead!!!! and twitchy…… i mean WTF!!?!1 its like, i dunno, they like couldnt tkae nemore that nite!”

If analysis of this passage were even feasible, it’d still not be worth the minute amount of effort it might take to reject it on all fronts. Faced with this breed of incompetence in the young, it is simply foolish to be optimistic about the future, it will clearly be nothing at all similar to the world of today.

Any respectable and informed person should ask now why, why now are those great friends to language, the period, the comma, the semicolon, now forsaken? For what reason does my good friend Mr Exclamation Mark let himself be so abused? It brings me nearly to interrobangs in my fits of anger and confusion, buffered only by the slim satisfaction of an understanding comprehensive to the richness of the English language and disdainful of the uninitiated.

This author, speaking from not research but instead a careful eye and wit determines the cause best to be attributed to smaller things than the normal culprits of a immediate satisfaction society and an electronic forum which hasty writing can be praised within. It is my opinion instead that the fallocy inflicted upon linguistic understanding is fostered entirely by the invention of the keyboard. It is a far cry from the safe haven of pen and ink, where handwriting and patience were taught just as readily as the ABCs and the advanced uses of passive voice within parallel structure necessitated by increasingly complex sentence structure – all of which necessary to youngsters in preparatory schools. Indeed, even the typewriter straddled the edge between patience and carelessness by its annoying inability to erase mistaken strikes with ease. No, only now with the growing popularity of typing, typing in the sense of an electronic keyboarding device and its respective computational box, does language degrade. Only now when one can expectorate a flurry of glyphs and send it merrily across the globe, ten-thousand miles, in less than the bat of an eyelid has the coordination between the brain and the tongue grown so tenuous. Personally, this author cannot see why anyone would even partake in the use of such a terrible invention. Under no circumstances should one type what can more readily be written.

But alas! These are the days we now live in – a world uninhibited by those fading traditions and ceremonies. No longer does the pen mean what it used to – a measure of respect, a tool of a subtle trade, or a sword balanced tenderly in the fingers of an artist, ready to strike and parry the blows of wit drawing thin dark gashes across an unbroken field of purity.

So, in closing, I leave you with this. Today, some might think that a minor gramatical slip, a split infinitive, a comma splice, a mere disjointed tense, is something truly insignificant – an artifact of a time before fancy vacuum tubes and wires could mimic the subtleties of communication – but they are most certainly incorrect. It is clear to me, as it is to any who really listen to the language of the world, that precision in grammar and punctuation are clearly the defining factors of a balanced mind – one so capable of writing something cogent, something worthwhile, something remarkable.

March 2006.

(I used to just love double satire.)