Master, It's Alive

I'm currently about halfway through Frankenstein. It really is a book that's far ahead of it's time, and tackles serious issues like bioethics and the moral responsibilities of a creator. Back when it was written very few really thought that it would ever be possible to bring life into previously inanimate matter - but now? Now it's uncomfortably close to home. Issues like cloning and genetic engineering have blurred (if not actually crossed) lines that we previously considered immutable. Shelley was clear concerning whether or not we should stray into the 'playing-God' field and I'm inclined to agree with her, but she doesn't stop there. Once we have given in to temptation (as mankind invariably does) there are consequences and we will have responsibilities, the like of which we've never had to deal with. Yes, men and women have been creating new life since our species was born, but that's not quite the same as the clinical construction or fundamental alteration of living beings wholly other than ourselves. Building creatures and infusing them with life puts us in the role of Creator, not ex nihilo, but the next thing to it. And that's where it gets sticky. In the self-centered worldview held by much of the world (too many Christians included) if we make something, it's ours to do with it as we like. I made my sandcastle and I can smash it if I want to. The point stressed by Shelley is that if we make someone, then we have duties that we must perform to and for them. To rule, to guide, to teach and to love. To be the supreme authority forever (under God) of our creature and to be answerable for their actions. To accept responsibility for all the myriad consequences of such an enormous act. And if we choose neglect our duties? We will (intentionally or not) make monsters who will terrorize us by their deeds and torment us with regret by virtue of their very existence.

Drama in the Church

After thoughtful deliberation while dusting chiropractic equipment, I came to the conclusion today that the play that I've been writing for our church to use at Christmas is 'inappropriate considering the intended audience'. Which is stink because I really liked the idea and where it was heading - but, on reflection, it was going require a bit too much intensity and scenes that might have disturbed both children and the elderly alike. I may still finish it (it would be worthwhile to) but I find it difficult to accomplish things when I can't see them moving towards a specific goal. So the hunt is on yet again. I have (finally) exhausted Dramatix after finding the last four years worth of plays there. New material doesn't seem to get added very often,  and more lengthy and/or serious works are in short supply. I have one idea up my sleeve, but it's a longish shot and if it falls through that's it. Ah well. Something always comes through.

Drama has, for many years, been a vibrant part of the ministry in our congregation. And while it may be controversial among a select few, I believe that drama can be a powerful weapon for the Church. Like a weapon it can be used wisely or foolishly, depending on the character of those who wield it. Some use it like a club, smacking people left and right with glib maxims and morals. Others are more skilled but their hearts are in the wrong place, so they end up hurting others and themselves or at best strive uselessly against phantom foes. But those who are called and guided by God, have studied and applied themselves to their art, and love the God-given gift of stories can use it to instruct, to heal, and to uncover one more of the limitless, wonderful aspects of our Creator.

The Devil You Know

I've begun reading Frankenstein, and though I'm only a few chapters in I am thoroughly enjoying this Father (or Mother) among science fiction novels. I've yet to get into the meat of it, but one comment that the narrator made caught my eye today. He spoke of his belief that a guardian angel attempted to steer him away from what would eventually cause his ruin, but also that the good guardians efforts were ineffectual because Fate (who had evidently decreed the mans demise) was so much stronger. Theologically that's unsound in the extreme, but this is SF not a commentary on the New Testament, so we'll leave that for the time being.

What I would like to know is why men have believed in Fate since ancient times. There's no solid proof really of the existence of fate/destiny, and looking at history (past and recent) there's little to indicate that it has been dictated by anything more than the sum of human choices and natural laws. I'm not saying that is necessarily the case - many things are other than what they seem - but where on earth did anyone get the idea from in the first place? I can only offer hypotheses. It's possible that mankind realised (against all odds) that there is a larger plan to our history, and then translated that feeling into the most simple version of the idea: everything is predestined and laid out by an insensible and immovable force. Or maybe people just wanted to escape responsibility and regret. If only I'd . . . Ah, but if Fate rules, then whatever you do makes no difference. This can be a horribly depressing thought if you imbibe it, but it's also a powerful painkiller - an attractive choice in a world of pain. Perhaps it was just the lesser of two philisophical evils. Those who didn't believe in Fate generally looked to Chaos as the ruler of their universe - and while dear old Chaos is certainly a bit more exciting than stolid Fate, we tend (in spite of protests to the contrary) not to like surprises. There is a proverb that is particularly deeply rooted in the human psyche: Better the devil you know . . .

Hnau

Tonight I was sitting around a blazing brazier with a couple of friends, drinking Milo and relaxing, and then almost without thinking I looked up. It's a perfectly clear night, and the stars were out in full force. The stars have always been special for me - why, I don't know and probably never will. For others it's the moon, or the sunset, or sunrise. But if asked to pick my favourite natural light there wouldn't even be a moments hesitation. Even when they're dim and partially clouded I feel as though I'm gazing at good friends whom I haven't yet met.
One can't help but wonder occasionally - Is there anyone like me out there? (Spare us your smart comments, Mat. I saw them coming.) They might not look like us, but would they be hnau? For those who haven't read Lewis' Space Trilogy (read it) that means moral beings. Would they live in perfect accord with each other and their Maker, or would they be tragically self-flawed like us? What could we learn from beings wholly other than ourselves? In the end there really is no way of knowing, but it is tantalising to contemplate. Would we even accept them if we found them (or they found us)? It's a question that many insightful SF writers have posed; different scenarios have been explored, but let me put this to you: we didn't do so well at home. When two or more races or cultures came together it generally devolved into a cutthroat competition of 'who can exploit who'. Weaker peoples have been wiped off the globe, or marginalised even to this day. God forbid that we should ever encounter another species of hnau less powerful or canny than ourselves. And perhaps it wouldn't be smart to wish, either, to meet a radically advanced species. They would have to be wise and benevolent indeed not to take one look at us and erase Earth from the landscape of the galaxy in disgust.

Sound Gardening

It was commented over and over during the editing process Oh, it'll be alright with the music. In other words the footage was fair to cruddy, but with music behind the images it would become acceptable. And nine times out of ten, that was exactly what happened. Music is crucial to almost any video production, not to mention an integral part of most peoples lives. But when studied scientifically it appears to be nothing more than a combination of noises that have some relation in tone and rhythm. Why then does it affect us so powerfully? It has no survival value, primary or secondary, unlike so many other things we enjoy (food, sleep, sex, even sport). For thousands of years humans have been crafting tunes to soothe their minds, entertain their lords and worship their gods. Music is hardly a 'flash in the pan'. Maybe it's that we're trying to create structure and sense in a world that can seem so random. Like gardening, but with sound instead of vegetation. Your typical English garden, for example, has no practical use whatsoever - it's just a bunch of non-fruiting plants and trees arranged in geometrically precise shapes. No practical use, no; but the straight lines and tidy curves give us a feeling of control and, therefore, equilibrium. If we have something to hang on to for a second, then we're able to keep our feet. What's sad is that more and more music today is reflecting (and enhancing) the idea that we've lost our footing. If this is true then it should be acknowledged, yes, but not advanced and certainly never glorified. When a generation prides itself on its lack of understanding and control, one cannot but fear for their children.

Glory & Weakness

I came home tonight very tired - and the only work I'd done had been sitting down for four hours. Editing this afternoon, but a little more frustrating than last time - a fair bit of effort for just a wee bit of result. I've found this can 'take it out' of one more efficiently than a hard days labour. You can push past incredible amounts of physical fatigue, but when mental fatigue sets in there's not a lot that you can do.
Which raises an old question: isn't mental tiredness a physical phenomenon? Do all our thoughts, emotions, memories, etc begin and end in the brain, or is our grey matter merely the facilitator of our mind and soul? Materialists hold that all thought is just the sum total of chemical reactions in our brain. If this theory is entertained though, we have no way of determining any truth or fact and we (including the materialists) could be as clueless in regard to reality as the The Matrix made us out to be. Those who believe that the body is primarily the dwelling place for a spirit are not bothered by such logic-bending concepts, but they have their own set of problems. By manipulating a persons brain it is possible to alter their choices, their emotions and yes, even their memories. If the spirit chooses, thinks and remembers then why is it so directly influenced by the brain? Again, I don't have the answers. I do believe (as stated in my last post) that humans are flesh and spirit combined, but I haven't the slightest clue how they interface. However I do think that the role of the body in making up our 'selves' has been downplayed by most religions, including Christianity. Maybe the Gnostics have left a mark on our faith after all. All matter is evil, they said. Only spirit is good. Bodies are to be despised, and the spirit exalted. No. Our bodies will expire, and therefore are not so important on the eternal scale. But while we have them, they are our glory and our weakness. Remember: angels long to see with our eyes.

Amphibians

It's a winter Saturday night, and in New Zealand that means Rugby. In fact I am, as I write, keeping half an eye on the TV which is screening a surprisingly close game between the All Blacks and the Springboks. Someone I was talking to today dresses in black every game to support the Kiwi boys - in front of his television at home. There are special people in this world. What I find so fascinating though, is that humans not only enjoy to play sport (I can understand that) but they also love watching it. We're riveted by a few guys running back and forth across a field smacking a ball around. Wars have been started over soccer games.
I suppose it's the 'living vicariously' thing again. We don't get to do it ourselves, but we can at least watch somebody else doing it. We love conflict (when removed by several degrees) and sport is conflict at its most tangible, barring battle. It's amazing actually, the similarities between war and sport. The main difference is that hardly anyone dies on a playing field. Apart from that, it's not too hard to see why sheltered lords and officials in past centuries have regarded war as a game. Excusable, no; understandable, yes. But spite of efforts to make us PC and genteel, sports like rugby remind us of where we've come from and (when we play them) build in us the character to continue on into the future. Long may contact sports live, and may they never be hijacked by virtual equivalents. For we are amphibians: body infused with spirit, and what one does affects the other. We were not made to be disembodied minds; when our body grows soft, so does our soul. But tonight I'll just watch the experts.

Word Games

Today we finished off shooting the promo; only editing is left now. We'll be using none of the original audio track, just music in the background, which makes it a far simpler job. The only glitch we encountered with that is that when you're not going to be using the recorded sound, you feel free to chat away about whatever while the camera's rolling. Under normal circumstances this is fine; however there was one problem: our boss wants all of the footage we filmed - raw. It was surprising how many times I had to censor what I had been going to say or wait till the red button was off before making certain comments. Not that the remarks were obscene or even generally offensive - it was more the fact that they were . . . topical. Inappropriate considering the possible audience.
It wasn't too difficult to make the switch though, probably because I (and many others) do it live almost every day. When conversing with those we don't know so well we're constantly adjusting and altering the first thoughts that came to mind to say. Some have said that this is cowardly and they may be right. But it seems necessary to interpersonal survival. If you always said what you wanted to, or even spoke with a uniform level of frankness across your social spectrum, well - it doesn't take a visionary to see what would come next.
So with my conscience relieved, I've gone on to meticulously hone the art of live conversation editing. Cut this, shade that, blur the next thing. It's quite fun, almost like a low error margin type sport. Mess up once and you may live, twice and you've probably had it. There are different skill levels too, based on the person one is conversing with: all the way from Very Tolerant to Hyper-Sensitive. As in all good sports/games higher stages should not be attempted by novices unless it's absolutely crucial.
So many people do extreme sports for a thrill then trudge their way through intermediate life waiting for the next high. Why not try something you can do every day, 12-18 hours a day, 7 days a week?

Eternal Smoko

My friend and I needed some 'on-the-job' boat building footage for the promo we're working on, so yesterday we popped down to the marina and dropped by a site we'd been referred to. Not being tradesmen ourselves we made the critical mistake of coming at 10:00 - smoko time. Arriving just as the workers were getting in their vans (smoko back at the shop) we hailed one of them and inquired when they were likely to be back. 10:20, he replied. Fair enough, a man needs his smoko. We figured that we'd see them again around 10:30, so we picked up a few random marina shots in the meantime. 10:30, no one arrives. 10:40, still no boat builders. 10:45. At this point we deduced that pie-eating and fag-smoking are vital and intrinsic elements of boat building; but while we were supposed to provide a well rounded view of the industry, we came to the conclusion that that type of thing might not be exactly what our employer had in mind. We headed off to shoot a sparkie at work, deciding that if we came back 40 minutes or so later they might have graduated from table to tiller. 11:30. Back to the marina. I scanned the work area. Nobody's working on the boats . . . I mentioned. Sometimes facts are so obvious that they just have to be spoken. My friend looked to the side. Hey there's somebody. And indeed there was a somebody - a body who was busily packing his van. An brief conversation with the body confirmed our cynical deep-rooted suspicion that Nah, I'm just heading off for lunch, eh. The other fullas might still be there. Just as we pulled into the next site a vanload of fullas pulled out and headed off down the road.
I've decided to convert to Hinduism. If I rack up enough good karma maybe I can come back as a boat builder.

The Right To Kill

I had an interesting discussion with a friend today about justifiable killing. It started off as a few casual comments about a movie and a TV show. The two weren't linked by much, except that each included what would be legally termed "murder", and torture. Unusual? Obviously not. But what did make it a bit different was that these acts weren't the work of some nasty villian or a few thickheaded thugs but instead were carried out (without remorse) by the protagonists - characters whom, like it or not, the audience automatically cheers for. And we're not talking about some sicko indie productions here, these are mainstream, designed for serious mainstream consumption. They are both quite popular. The contrast between the two is the way they treated the killing. Now I've already talked about the portrayal of violence in film/tv; I'm not going there today - so just hang with me.

One (as far as possible) refrained from judging the protagonist. He did horrible things to combat horrible people, and that was that. What they did . . . was monstrous he says at one point - And they created a monster another character shoots back at him. Is terrorism a morally viable tactic when fighting Nazistic regimes? The filmmakers purposely leave it grey. Conversely the other production is unequivocal about who holds the moral high ground: the Die Hard/Ransom style main character. Sure he kills and tortures people - but all to save lives. And he only does it to bad guys anyway.

My friend, though uncertain if he would have the wherewithal to carry it out himself, was quite certain that if placed in a situation where brutal/lethal violence was required to save lives he would be morally justified in resorting to it. I was much more doubtful. I know it's a cliché, but where do you draw the line? Legally, it's easy. Looking at it from any other angle though, it's anything but easy. Conundrumic, messy and dangerous would be better terms perhaps. And while you can say the above filmmakers just copped out by refusing to make a definite judgement on their character and his deeds, let me ask you this: what else should they have done? Drawn their sword and cut the Gordion Knot as Alexander did almost three millenia ago?

Aristotle taught his prize pupil well in pragmatic diplomacy and relational skills - but one gets the idea that Alexander might have daydreamed through 'Moral Ethics'.

 

Fact-Fudging

Well, I'm back. I briefly contemplated not writing a post today just to peeve you all - but then I remembered that I work and play alongside most of my readers, so antagonising them further may not be a smart option.

In short, yes I did have an awesome time up there. And yes I probably will be doing their diploma course next year. By Friday I was wondering where the week had gone; I had so much fun! I learned heaps too. And basically as soon as I got back (ie. today) I was straight into a real-life work situation making a promo video. So I'm reaping rewards already.

But one of the things that really caught my attention while I was away had nothing to do with my course (or did it?). Last week an otter escaped from Auckland Zoo. Just the kind of cutsie event that seems to catch the mind of journalists worldwide - one has to wonder occasionally about the mental status of people who think we should be fed on a steady diet of inane nothingness coupled with bloody carnage. Anyway, back to the otter. Jin the otter took off on a sightseeing trip of Auckland and environs, and was only recaptured after several days of searching. At least, everyone thought that the critter in question was Jin, until they got the escapee back behind bars. They discovered then that it was not Jin, (who was apparently still safe in the zoo) but an entirely different animal. Simple mistake, no big deal. So one would think. Except that all news programs and papers are still maintained that it was Jin. That was their story, and they were jolly well going to stick by it. Most of the public is none the wiser, and I only found out the discrepancy because I talked to someone who worked at the zoo - they weren't supposed say anything either. Okay, so who cares about the identity of some random otter? Not me. But the thing I do find worrying is that the media (by and large) knows that it's fibbing. They just don't want to own up to getting it wrong. But of course they'd never treat an important issue like that. Yeah right. They would be more likely to continue hoodwinking the public if something significant was at stake; if they're worried about minor embarressment is there any question that they'll cover their butts when it's 'big time'? I suppose it was a bit naive of me to be surprised by the incident, but surprised I was. How much fact-fudging goes on? Frankly I haven't a clue, but I fear that it's more than we'd like to imagine.

Farewell For A Week

I'm writing this post while feverishly trying to print off all the photos I need for my Southseas course that starts Monday up in Auckland. Because I'm leaving tomorrow. Am I excited? Not really, I'm afraid. [Pauses to try and find another B&W photo to print, as all colours are running very low. Finds one of a city (London?) decimated by bombing.] It's probably tiredness from finishing the comps. Part of it though is the fact that I [stops to place print on dinner table] don't often get excited at all until I am actually doing the thing. Enthusiastic anticipation doesn't seem to be in my personality package. [Goes to Harvey Normans and buys new colour cartridges. Ouch.]

Okay, that break was longer than intended. I'm dead knackered now, and feel like one of those Polar explorers sitting in a freezing tent, praying that I don't go to sleep because I know if I do I'll never wake up. This is not a night for a deep philosophical post.

I'll not be posting for a week. At least, I don't think so. If the opportunity presents itself, well we'll see.

Sorry to bother you all with my half-brain drowse-drugged writing. "It seems a pity, but I don't think I shall be able to write any more . . ."

Eye of the Beholder

On one of the online forums that I regularly participate in, someone posted the following: "Who can decide what is lovely and what isn't? Isn't Beauty in the eye of the beholder?" A common saying, a common sentiment. But is it, like many common proverbs, absolute tripe? I say it is.
This idea springs from a larger theory which holds that there are no absolutes (not even tripe) and that all truth is relative and personal. That may be true for you, but that's not my truth they say. Truely? You see, even the most hackneyed of phrases points out the patent absurdity of the concept. If nothing is objectively true, then we have no way of knowing whether that is true or not. Some call that circular reasoning. I call it idiocy. Okay, so let's assume that people like Solomon, Socrates, and Jesus Christ weren't insane, and actually could have been onto something. Just for arguments sake. If there is such a thing as a solid, objective, 'break-your-bones-on-it' truth, then there's no room for Well you know, that pristine waterfall is lovely for you, but I find beauty in the mutilated bodies of children. Extreme, but not absurd - sadly. If there is a Truth, then artists who shunt paint onto canvas with their eyes shut are deluded fools, not abstract geniuses. If beauty is real and not a figment of each of our imaginations, then singers who scream filth tonelessly until they begin to cough up blood are not the largely misunderstood equals of those who master Mozart.
We know, deep inside at least, that some things are true and beautiful, and that others aren't. We are all hardwired for truth whether that fits with our personal tastes or not. Some have buried that instinct, stomped on it, stabbed it and tried to anull it forever. But (oh, triumph) it will never die.

No Good Thing . . .

Last night I performed my programme to a medium sized audience in a hall that was smaller than I remembered. About a quarter of those in attendance were my friends, a fact which was not lost on me. Bless all of you that came; it made a difference. And I won. Yes, after all the okay I'll do it again because it's good for me but I really don't want to preparation I did come away with the prize. One thousand dollars and a beautiful cup. Honestly, I'm not sure which I was happier about. It would make a nice fable, with the moral: work hard and you'll recieve your reward. The only problem is that this is often not the case. A better saying would be "work hard and you'll have a better chance of reward". But this doesn't sound particularly inspiring or idealistic, so it'll never make it into Aesops canon. You can work your butt off and then fail miserably. Or (nearly as bad) you can perform spectacularly, and then get slighted or completely overlooked. That's life.

I still believe though that hard work does make a difference. At times it may not make the critical difference, but it does do something. And who are we to judge what difference it makes? We've got our noses smashed so close into the muck of life that we can't see the Mountain for the mud. There's not much we can do about that - we're small and that's that. However we can remember that though everything looks chaotic down at our relatively microscopic level, there is a bigger picture. When matter and time have passed away we may see it. And then we will know that no good thing has been in vain.

The twisted cords and knotty fibers that we contend with from day to day will be revealed as tiny parts of a lovely and poignant tapestry that stretches from pre-genesis to eternity. And when we see it, there will be only one response possible: My God, how great Thou art.

Faux Pas

Today I was practicing dear Richard (performance coming up on Thursday) and as I came to a point where I had to shakily sit down in a chair I leaned on its arm . . . and the chair leaned too. This had the consequence of making me lean a bit further than I had intended to; all the way to horizontal, in fact. (Wooden floors are hard when met with speed.) Fortunately this took place at the best possible time ie. Richard being at his most insecure and despairing. So I thought, Well at least that was dramatic; I'm sure I can make some mileage out of it. Raising myself on one arm I announced: "I shall despair". The thing worked so well (if I do say so myself) that I was tempted to try it again next time - but in the end I decided that it might lack the 'naturalness' that blessed the first incident.

How often are we forced to craft something useful out of a faux pas? Myself, about every day. We all (or those of us not falling under the category of "saints" or "demi-gods") seem to bumble our way through life like trolls at a tea-party. A wrong word here, a forgotten appointment there, a missed opportunity somewhere else. We make mistake upon mistake, and as we're concentrating on how to fix one we make another. It would be laughable (perhaps it still is) if it wasn't so sad. What can we do about it? Well just to "stop mucking up" is a bit of a tall order for me, I'm not sure about anyone else. I can think of only two possible alternatives: 1. Give up. Just keep banging and crashing your way through life, because you can't stop. 2. When you mess up, try to make something out of it. Don't lie there in a defeated lump, sniveling "I failed!". Yes, you did. Got that out of your system? Good, now see what you can do with it.

We will continue to fall on our faces - but as Gandalf said, "This is not the end."

Without A Script

Well, first class of the Speech and Drama Competitions for me tonight; the Impromptu Speech - feared by many and mastered by next to none. One minute to think about the topic, three minutes to talk. While I've not come close to mastering it, the discipline no longer strikes the fear into my heart that it used. It was quite pathetic really, I'd be doing a practice speech at my teachers house and I would literally shake and sweat from nervousness. I regularly had to use tissues to mop my face afterwards. If I managed to cobble anything coherent together in my half-panic it was by pure chance, let me assure you.

They say that the most prevalent fear in society is speaking in front of people. I've never had a problem with that actually, but the fear that has plagued me for years is that of speaking to a group off-the-cuff, without a script to hide behind. This is still a problem to some extent, in that I'll often carefully (mentally) script a telephone conversation that I'm about to have if I don't know the callee. I'm not quite sure when I aquired this hang-up, because when I was young I would routinely bowl up to complete strangers and start a conversation with them. Once I apparently told someone who was pulling on a ciggy that smoking was bad for them, and that if they didn't stop they'd die. Amazingly (or perhaps not) they quit. The power of words when we believe them, eh?

So how did I go from a quivering puddle of sweat and jelly to someone who is okay with "speeching" on the spur of the moment? One word: Practice. If you do it over and over again, you begin to realise that really it's not so bad after all, and maybe you only need to break a little sweat this time.

It's like boxing - when you start you're radically concerned that you're going to get hit, so you are very defensive (or frantically aggressive, depending on your personality). After a while you learn that you are going to get hit, and that yeah, it does hurt - but mostly not that bad. And there's always a chance to give it back.