Truth & Fiction

A few minutes ago I was watching an episode from the new series of 'Dr Who'. For those not familiar Dr Who, it is possibly the cheesiest bit of sci-fi ever to hit television screens. Everything from aliens to special effects is super-low-budget and looks it, and the acting is kitsch standard at best. And yet, somehow, I was drawn in. Yes, I admit it, I wanted to know what was going to happen next when watching Dr Who of all things. I was able to suspend my disbelief even in face of glaring . . . err . . . cheesiness that was practically shouting out This is fake! My mom, on the other hand, quickly dismissed the whole thing as silly nonsense (which it is really) and wanted to switch to a documentary. If it's not happening to real people then Mom doesn't want to know about it. It makes a great difference to her whether the person actually did this or that. Whereas if someone can (even for the smallest moment) make me believe that they did such and such, or that this or the other thing happened, then I'll buy it. That's why I don't like biographies Okay, it really happened, but who cares? Couldn't you have told the story better? and she doesn't like fantasy It's not real - everybody knows there's no such thing as elves! And (I have to admit) we need both types. There is an important place for plain-vanilla realists - society would still be in the stone age without those kind of thinkers. They probably invented the wheel while my sort were daydreaming about heroes, gods and monsters. There is something to be said for the 'gods and monsters brigade' though. The work we appreciate (and produce) may have no 'living value' (i.e. it doesn't clothe, feed or shelter us) but I submit that good stories (and good Art as a whole) are one of the things that give value to living. Sure, we don't need Art - physically at least. We could get along just fine, but we'd be functioning on one level - seeing things in black and white instead of colour. Of all the futuristic dystopias I've read of, it's the robotic utilitarian ones that scare me the most.

Employed?

I've just come back from one of my cleaning jobs - it seems that life, whether I'm well or not, must go on. There are floors to be vacuumed, window sills to be dusted, and as grannies are fond of saying, The sink won't clean itself. How inconsiderate of it. A cleaner is (for better or worse) one of those people that you notice when they don't turn up. Unlike your average office worker, boat builder or run-of-the-mill politician - in those type of jobs it could be weeks (almost) before someone realised that 'Bob' was piking, and not merely taking an extended smoko. It makes me wonder occasionally about our unemployment statistics. Our rate of unemployment in New Zealand is one of the lowest in the world and the Government is very proud of the fact - but how many of those 'employed' people are really contributing something valuable to society? It's all well and good that they are doing something but it might also be wise to take into account what exactly they are doing and if they are really doing much of it. Not to mention whether they're doing a good job. If even half of the working populace was working diligently at something really worth doing, how much time and labour would that save? Ah "they" say but we'd run out of jobs. Really? Okay, I'll buy that. Then labour would be freed up to enhance the infrastructure of developing countries. Then pastors wouldn't be heading five different ministries and preaching on Sundays. Then CEOs wouldn't be running around making sure that desks have been cleaned. Then we could quit worrying about our road maintenance problems and start working on easier ways to travel.

We move so slow because we're spread so wide. There's a lot of sludge going on - it's unnecessary, unhelpful and to a certain extent it's even harmful. And while Fascist governments have in the past tried to eliminate this effect by trying to eradicate select people groups, it's never worked. Because it's not the colour of ones skin that causes problems. It's the colour of ones heart.

Circumstantial Evidence

I had a conversation today that strayed from whatever it was we were supposed to be talking about onto the subject of 'flashbacks'. For those not familiar with the term, a flashback (in movie terms) is a scene that is inserted into the narrative of a film that takes place before most or all of the other events that are shown. It's used for exposition, to explain back-story, or just to tell the audience something important that the screenwriter/director couldn't work into the timeline of their story.

Don't you sometimes wish that you could flash-back to see someone you know well at a critical time in their life? Not to be voyeuristic, but to begin to unravel a wee bit of what makes them tick. Other people are continually rubbing us up the wrong way because (surprise) they're different to us - not only because they were born unique, but also due to the fact that each one of us has lived through a unique set of circumstances that's molded and tempered our minds irreversibly. We all have quirks and glitches - but they're in different places. If we could understand a little more of what's gone into peoples personality packages, we might be inclined to be a bit more tolerant. Yes, your old neighbour is a grump - but his wife died a year after they married. Yeah, that kid is a little snot - but he's never heard of his dad and his mum's an abusive alcoholic. Not excuses - just partial explanations. We all have choices to make, but for some (and to varying degrees this true of everyone) the odds are bad, the dice are loaded and the deck is stacked. Trying rise above those kind of circumstances is well nigh impossible. But not quite. Before you throw up your hands in despair and declaim I am the product of my environment! consider this: you may well be - but do you have to be? Life is ugly, nasty and very strong - but like all the giants in the storybooks he can be beaten.

Emmys Disease

The Emmys showed up on TV just as I was preparing to write this post. The first shot I saw was a quick one of the crowd - and from that I knew instantly what I was watching. I wasn't expecting it to be on, in fact I was aware that it had happened (in real time) but had thought that was that. Apparently not. So how did I know? There is no group of people that look quite like TVs top of the pops. Except perhaps for Hollywoods A-listers, but I would've recognised more of them. All of the Emmy-goers looked so plastic, so shiny, so pretty on the outside and hollow at the heart. We're all familiar with the trend, but do we ever stop to question it? Why are they like that? Is it just the fact that they're all ridiculously affluent? Or has working in an imitating industry conditioned them to merely 'imitate' life instead of really living it? Whatever the cause it's scary, because these shell-like people live in my home, yours, and those of millions of others. And by example and attrition many of us are becoming more like them. The worst part about it is that it's not some huge conspiricy to sap life from the heart of the world - they're largely unaware of their own state and I doubt they'd spare a thought to how they might affect the rest of the world. They don't realise that they're sick, and therefore won't take medicine and don't worry about infecting others.

Some would say that the whole medium is corrupt, just drop it, pull the plug, etc. Yeah, that's the easy way out. Save yourselves - perhaps. The harder way (and the better, in my opinion) is to not give up on a grossly ill organism but instead to try to treat it - one small bit at a time.

Pen vs Sword

I was talking with my sister today about the old high school debate question: Which is mightier, the pen or the sword? When I first was asked this (at the approximate age of 7) I exclaimed The sword of course! I mean, if I had a sword and you had a pen - I was interrupted by my questioner (a teen who had just learned about it that day) as he explained a few of the complexites of the issue. I eventually understood what he was getting at, but came away from it still feeling that swords were better.

In the succeeding years I learned (properly) the differences of the two, and what they stood for. I also learned (subconciously) that the correct (read: fashionable) answer to the question was The pen, of course! However, might that not be jumping to conclusions a little quickly? That the pen is immensely powerful no one contests, but should we hand it the victory so quickly just because it is the (metaphoric only) underdog? Now I'll admit straight off that I'm advancing my argument via the pen, so that's a couple of points on that side of the blackboard already. I am able to use this particular pen though only because I am not in opposition to any sword. If I was, and the sword was steadfast and ruthless enough, I would be disarmed in a matter of days or even minutes. It can happen. It does happen. And when a sword cannot snuff out a pen completely, it has a more insidious recourse. It can twist a pen. I'm aware that pens are perfectly capable of twisting all by themselves, but sometimes this is not the case. Think of the Chinese press (and indeed Google search site). Think of the old Soviet film industry. The pen is made to take it's place: a humble lackey of King Sword. Understand that I'm talking merely in pragmatic terms here. This has nothing to do with what is right or wrong, only what works. On those terms I wouldn't discount the sword so lightly as our high school teachers have. As so often happens, as I gain more understanding I am beginning to return to the wisdom of childhood: Swords are more than a match for any pen - and anyway (all metaphor aside) they're cool.

Perception Filtering

Have you ever looked at a familiar word after you'd written it and thought "That can't be the way it's spelled"? Somewhere in the tangle of your conciousness you know that it's silly to second guess the fact that aisle is spelled with an s in the middle. You've written this word hundreds of times and yet, as you stare at it, it just seems wrong. A minute later some switch flicks and you can't believe that you were ever able to doubt. Your perspective has changed - and the world as you know it is remolded.

We do not (for the vast majority of the time anyway) see the world as it is, but rather as we have learned to see it. Everything that is even slightly abstract or theoretical is subject to our interpretation. And we love to trick ourselves. There's a lot of pain, hurt and confusion out there (although there are those who would disagree even with that) so we construct channels, barricades and pitfalls to prevent as much of it as possible from reaching us. It never works completely but practice makes almost perfect, and some people have discovered how to numb out or explain away everything that they come up against that doesn't fit into their customised paradigm. No group or individual is exempt or above this self-inflicted disease. Some individuals appear to be more free than others; usually those who realise that they are subject to 'perception filtering'. What can be done? Well, just acknowledging that you do 'it' too is a start. After that one can begin, piece by cemented piece, to chip at the barriers that one has carefully constructed and as real light trickles in, start to accept truth (all truth) as strong medicine that pains us when we take it but, in spite of that, will eventually make us supple and strong.

Dry Mind

There are times when my mind feels like a dried up withered old stick - I scratch around for thoughts, but all that I can find is empty cracks and meaningless echoes. This is one of those times. At other moments my mind resembles a clear spring, or a dark tropical rainforest burgeoning with life. It shifts between stages sometimes gradually, sometimes swiftly, always imperceptibly. I'm not sure if all of these states are natural or not - I do know that there are pros and cons to each of them. The 'withered-stick' mode seems, at first glance anyway, to have less benefits than the others - but what it does afford is a (relatively) bone-clean clinically disinterested view of the world. Not a good place to live (you'd starve) but a valuable place to drop by once in a while. It strips away layers of varnish and paint to reveal the mottled, but genuine, wood. If people stay there they become twisted cynics; if they refuse to vist they evolve into null-brained romantics or fanatics.

Some people reading this won't have a clue what I'm talking about, and will be clicking their tongues and saying Yep, he's done it this time. He's gone right over. That's okay. Just think about it for a wee while, and you might get it. But some will have been there, and known it, and will know from experience that it's not the most pleasant place to be (in fact, pleasant would be one word you could not apply to it) but as the Good Book says, "There is a time for everything".

Slowdown Sickness

Last night as I was in the throes of editing my short film I could feel myself sliding irreversibly towards a nasty cold. The soreness at the back of my throat, the garlicy taste of my breath, the pressure on my inner ears - all familiar signs. In spite of that I worked with my editor until almost midnight, wanting to finish the project before any more delays ensued. I did leave it all but finished (certainly my job was done) at the end of the night, but I think I'm paying for my doggedness today. This one seems a wee bit nastier than your ordinary 'garden variety'. I should've seen it coming, really. Every time I slow down and begin to relax thinking the job is done, one them nabs me - which isn't really very relaxing. In fact it's less refreshing (and certainly less fun) than moving ahead at full steam. I suppose that I could try for the easy solution - just never slow down. But I have a feeling that that one catches up with you eventually and when it does it won't be the common cold that comes knocking on your door. It's funny how our bodies know when we can't afford to stop and just carry on in the face of all odds - until, task accomplished, they sputz out like a car that should've died years ago. Makes me wonder if our bodies were designed to be completely immune to disease of any sort - after all we can achieve this for relatively long periods of time. If we were a bit stronger, a bit purer, a bit more 'in synch' than any of us currently can be, would it be possible to remain in perfect health for our entire lives? Or forever?

But while many (most recently illusionist David Copperfield) claim to have found the healing and regenerating waters of The Fountain of Youth, such a goal is now beyond us completely and we'd be wiser to better our lives within the approximate bounds of our allotted "three score and ten" than to take aim at phantoms and, missing, be left with less than nothing.

A People Lost

Today the final stage of a tangi [funeral] for the late Maori Queen was broadcast live on national television for over six hours non-stop. Many dignitaries from New Zealand and the wider Pacific paid their respects, gave tributes, and shared memories. It was an impressive affair, laden with ceremony and tradition. The Maori people have a rich cultural heritage, and it has not been forgotten. In spite of this however, they're not doing so well in society overall. They have the highest rates of poverty and crime in this country, and the most health problems - the life expectancy for Maori men is a third-world-standard 55 years. Somewhere along the line they have been damaged, and have developed a new culture of the worst kind. The Government is pouring out cash and funding left-right-and-center (much to the disgust of many non-Maori New Zealanders) to try to counter this - but money only fixes technical glitches. This goes far deeper. The cause? I'm not going to try to nail that down - it's way too complex for an easy answer - but I don't think that the "European take-over" is the primary problem. Because they were once a strong people, culturally, spiritually, morally - not so long ago. The slow dawn of their decline is still within living memory.

They are, unfortunately, not unique in these respects. There are many cultures and peoples who seem to have lost their purpose and hope. What can be done for them? Nothing, I'm afraid. They must take action themselves - embarking on a quest that, if successful, will bring them in time to the foothills of the designs of God.

Did You See Me?

I was discussing a favourite play of mine with a friend the other day, and I recalled a part that's always stuck with me for some reason. One character questions another Did you see me, before I spoke to you? The other responds that of course he did, he passed by a few feet from her. No, insists the girl, I didn't say notice. Did you really see me? Would you have remembered me a minute later?

We do it every day, walking by or even talking to people without really seeing them. They leave no imprint on our minds or hearts and if we were to notice them again sometime later we wouldn't recognize them. Part of it is possibly a safety mechanism, preventing our minds from overloading, but a large part of it can be put down to carelessness and a self-centered M.O. Our thoughts are elsewhere and we don't care who or how they are, even though we ask them. They don't affect or infringe on our lives, so we conveniently exclude them from our knowledge of Existance. Life is too messy, our subconcious habits say, to concern yourself about anything that doesn't harm or help you. That's basic animal talk. We (especially we in 'comfortable' societies) should have moved beyond that long ago. But no, we remain in the old ditch, passively refusing to allow anyone outside of our sphere to become 'alive' to us. We lose much by this but more importantly others, who may need what only we are able to give, can lose their only chance of hope, love, or even redemption.

An Old Giant

Someone remarked to me today that a body had been found in Wellington harbour. Tongue in cheek he added, They were dead. I smiled and went back to what I doing. Of course they were dead, I thought. They were referred to as 'a body'. Even without context it would be obvious that the person in question was deceased. It wasn't them really - it was just their body. Everyone (as far as I'm aware) thinks like this, not just religious folk who believe in an afterlife. The funny thing is, most people in New Zealand don't think that humans (or anything else) consist of anything more than the sum of their physical elements. Materialistic humanism has reached deep, but hasn't quite penetrated to the centre of our psyche. Far down in our guts (whether we care to admit it or not) we know that when a person dies what we're left with is just an empty shell; no one (or very, very few) could tell themselves that a corpse is a person (like anyone else) that has merely stopped functioning.
It's hardly a matter for supernaturalists to crow about though - materialism is becoming feeble and will soon (I believe) die. Insinuating itself into the vacuum left by the demise of a powerful (but short lived) worldview is an old giant: Pantheism. The adherents of the current brand of this ancient belief system embrace the supernatural without acknowledging any power outside of themselves. God is all and all is God. They will borrow elements from any religion but cleave to none. Humanism is hard and strong, but brittle. It endorses our selfishness, but tries to squash too much of what we know to be true. Pantheism, on the other hand, absorbs blows, melts softly past rigid defenses, and gently smothers opposition with half-truths. It is the old enemy, almost forgotten, that we must probe anew - rediscovering its tactics and weak points, and adjusting our strategy accordingly - before its grip becomes a stranglehold.

The Dying God

I've been reading Tennessee Williams 'Sweet Bird of Youth'; his style isn't my favourite to begin with (though I enjoyed 'The Glass Menagerie') but this play in particular I found singularly depressing. It's not just the fact the characters all fail to find what they're seeking ('Ros. & Guil. Are Dead' is similar in that respect) or even that they've seen better days - the thing that gives it a twist of dead hopelessness is the fact that all the featured characters (and indeed the play itself) idolizes 'youth'. It's all very well to worship youth, but before long you will discover that it is a dying god - and unlike Osiris, Balder and countless other dying gods this one does not rise again.

Western culture (which now dominates much more than just the West) reveres, and makes exorbitant sacrifices to, this transient deity. Respect for the aged, acknowledgement of tradition, and valuing people for more than their superficial qualities are all smouldering on the altar. At one end of the spectrum we see the absurd burgeoning of beauty treatment products. At the other, euthanasia raises its ugly head. We have become obsessed, as Tolkiens Numenoreans were, with holding on to youth - we clutch desperately at vitality in the face of (or because of?) knowing no good reason to go on living.

The world is full of adults refusing to leave the nursery - shunning the sight of Age because of whom it serves. Only a very brave man or a simpleton does not fear Death. But in a perverse quest to cheat both Age and Death, many have indeed died - long before their hearts stopped beating.

K.I.S.S.

It is the deep breath before the plunge. The iconic line from Tolkiens classic describes fairly accurately my position right now. It seems that there is nothing else to do but to await the hordes of time-eaters that are marching inexorably toward me. Ah well, there's nothing for it but to enjoy the space I have.
Today I was trying to find an alternative way to make a camera sway fluidly. I tried using a ziplock plastic bag earlier, with somewhat regrettable results. I was considering using a mates soft water container - not an ideal method, but I couldn't think of anything else. Then my sister mentioned that perhaps a hot-water bottle would work. Oh, you reckon? Hmm, yeah it might . . . Of course it's the perfect solution and should have been the first I thought of. It's not the first time that I completely missed the most obvious option.
It seems to be a one of those things that humans struggle with almost universally. We search around for creative, clever and complex ways to solve problems when something simple, quick and usually inexpensive will do. Things turn up in the simplest of places; you go looking for them all over, but all the time they're right there . . . said a character the play 'The Phoenix'. Do we, like that character, sometimes miss them because we wish to? Because the easiest way doesn't make us look sophisticated enough. Or because, in the midst of a complicated world, we forget that Life wasn't created to be a obstacle course/trip to the dentist. It is like that sometimes, but maybe not as often as we think.

The Waiting Game

I booked my restricted driver license test today. About jolly time too; legally I could've taken it almost five years ago. But what with one thing and another I never got around to getting the practice I needed in order to pass it - really, I just kept putting it off. Now though I'm beginning to feel the pinch of not being able to drive a car, and have finally shifted my A into G and got rolling. Then I'll have to remember to not put off a defensive driving course (which chops six months off the mandatory waiting period between restricted and full).

Procrastination is a funny thing: you know that you have to get thisorthat done, but it's so much easier to do it tomorrow than start today. The problem is that the old saying is quite true: Tomorrow never comes. In the end you generally have to expend much more effort and energy, you are more inconvenienced, (and more stressed of course) than if you just did it ahead of time. It's not all bad though. Some people (myself included) work best under pressure, and produce their finest work when shoved into a corner. Give these people space, time and no set schedule, and they'll fritter away these extra resources until crunch moment. It's very hard to help them, and perhaps it's best not too: maybe they were made to be like that. I have a suspicion though that at least some of it comes from a lack of discipline and motivation. AKA Laziness. I don't want to do it now (or anytime in the future, for that matter) but when I have to I suppose I will.

Oddly enough, the issue of whether or not the 'put-it-off-till-the-last-moment' strategy is a good one tends to be as hotly contended a subject at dinner tables as religion or politics. Idealist: Procrastination is lazy. Pragmatist: Procrastination works for me. Wholistic Realist: Go for it if it's your thing, but if you fail remember: you dunnit to yourself.

Creation Ex Messo

Today I watched a couple of 'behind the scenes' featurettes - the type that almost no DVD comes without nowadays. It strips the finished film down to reveal it as the product of pixels and pulleys, stunt-doubles and green screens. After that, I got on the phone to organise the lighting for my own film project; aiming to enhance the look of the footage with high powered garden lights. It's all so prosaic, so unromantic, so ordinary - and yet somehow it doesn't detract from the magic of the final result. Not for me anyway, others may feel different. I can analyze and appreciate how this or that effect was achieved - and then get involved in the story at ground level when the lights go down and the reels are rolling.

Creation, said the owner of Jurassic Park, is an act of sheer willpower. And as such is a messy one. Often things don't look normal, tidy or even under control. Beginning stages only seem promising in hindsight. At the time everyone (including, sometimes, the creator) is thinking What on earth are you doing? Why don't you do something useful? Because it doesn't look nice and it's hard work and it sure doesn't seem like you're going anywhere. But that is the reality we have to accept if we're ever to do anything truly worthwhile in this life. If you just go for the flash-bangs that's all you're going to get - a second of pretty lights and then dust and debris. If you decide to build a lighthouse, on the other hand, you'll be years at brick and dirt before even a spark reaches the summit. But when it's ready, the flame will become a beacon in the darkness - a guiding light to those otherwise disoriented and without purpose.

Praise the Living

Today I went to a funeral - a beloved grandfather-figure passed away just a few days ago. There were a few tears, but more laughter as we remembered the life of a person who was (in the words of one speaker) "a real hard case". Family and friends  praised and commemorated him, as his body lay abandoned in a casket at the front of the church.

It was good for all of us to have the time to say goodbye properly - after all, funerals honour the dead but they are primarily for the living. Don't you ever wish though that you could have your funeral before you died? I mean, everyone thanks you and praises you and says how grateful they are and they tell funny stories about your life - but you're dead. One would, I'd imagine, be preoccupied with a different set of priorites. But while we're on Earth we do like to be honoured and appreciated, and contrary to the opinion of many it is good for us. People become egotists when no one values them, and they're left to puff themselves up. If we had more funerals for living subjects, there probably wouldn't be as many untimely deaths to mourn. Our society is familiar with the concept of 'celebrating life' but we all too often neglect to 'celebrate a life' until it's too late. Never underestimate the power of honour and praise. Flattery will degrade the recipient and eventually come back to bite you, but if you "give honour where honour is due", the consequences are unforseeable - and always good.

Truth-Hiders

Results came through for eBalderdash this morning. I'm currently at a second-equal placing, which I'm fairly please about at this stage. Later on I'll be fussy about being first. If you're not familiar with the Balderdash board game, it (basically) involves each person making up a fake definition for a word, then everyone votes for the one they think is the right answer. eB is just an online version that I'm playing with a few friends. It's a lot of fun, because you get to fabricate baloney and get people to fall for it - all without a guilty conscience.
In life however this doesn't stay within the bounds of a game. It's a way to survive, to advance yourself, and to keep others in the dark. Some people have become so good at it that it comes as second-nature to them; they can flip off a strategic remark or comment that's completely false and/or misleading without thinking. Perhaps the most frustrating of these 'truth-hiders' though is the type that are so insecure that they constantly veil the meaning of their words - so that nothing is quite as it seems. It's done to keep you on the back foot, to ensure you are weaker than they are, and is also an effective tool for guarding the speaker from any real response. After all, how can you make any sort of intelligent reply when you're still trying to figure out what exactly it is that you are replying to? I do pity these people; most of them have been tragically wounded emotionally. But I mostly pity them when I sit back and think about them in general, as a whole. It's difficult to sympathise with anyone when they're standing in front of you dodging, shuffling, evading, and refusing to meet you on open ground.

What's In A Name?

Well FB's 'go for it or burn out' motto seems to have worked for me - and I haven't burned out yet. Just as well, I can't afford to. But I now have a script, a cast, a shooting date and a good source for obtaining a camera, mic and also possibly music. And a title! Ah dear, that's been far more problematic than I expected for such a simple thing. After much brain cudgeling I came up with the incredibly banal, mediocre and generally 'bleh' name "Blood Money". A few hours and a quick Google search later I discovered that at least ten other productions had also gone under this name. So that one went out the window. Fortunately yesterday while walking to the bus I came up with a rather more original (and appropriate) title. A tiny thing, but it makes a big difference to the way people perceive your film from the opening second.
Names play a huge part in the way we view one another too. Especially in an age where you may get to know a person (remotely) fairly well without ever physically meeting them. Screennames (whether the owner thinks about it or not) say a huge amount about the people behind them. Take for example fantasia_kitty, Cymru, EasternMarshes, whereartthoudog, and #JON B 'ERE! (All of which I personally have come across) They all have chosen a different flavour (some we may find more tasteful than others) that influences the way we see them and even (dare I say it) treat them. Don't think that this is restricted to the online world of avatars and pseudonyms either. How many peoples lives have been irrevocably changed merely because they held names like Bertha, Zippa, Clyde or Amindi-Loola? If they ever intended to run for high level political posts (or become otherwise exposed to the limelight) would they alter their name? I think they would. If they didn't, they would, all too likely, feel the pang of rejection as the shallow horde of society cast them out as 'frumpy' or 'weird'. So think twice before you choose a new screenname, and please for goodness sake think three times before you name your kids - you may love "Matilda Gertrude", but you're not the sorry begger who has to live with it.

Suppressed Genius

Last night I was watching a program about the human brain, and was stunned to discover that 'super-mind' conditions are not caused by abnormal growth of the brain, but rather the suppression of certain areas. Let me explain. A man is born with a condition that doctors say will cause him to be socially dysfunctional and mentally retarded for life. In his childhood he seems to live up to these expectations, failing miserably both academically and relationally. But then his parents started to notice things. At seven he memorised a whole encyclopedia and all the state highway routes in the U.S. He remembered every word of every book he read. And could make any calculation concerning prime numbers you cared to throw at him - dead accurately every time. He is now famous because of the movie based on his life: Rain Man. So okay, he was super-intelligent on one level - but talks and walks funny and has difficulty interacting with people. A trade off; not unusual in human physiology. There are other cases though. Another man had a head injury in the late seventies and can now remember, without thinking, what the weather was like every day since and (here's the scary part) is beginning to remember the weather from before his accident - without trying to. He has never been caught out or proved wrong when asked about the weather details of any day after his brain was 'damaged'. And he isn't socially retarded or weird or . . . anything. He seems like a perfectly normal guy until he tells you what colour shoes the seventeenth lady he saw at Savemart on the 26th of August 1982 was wearing. Here's the thing: his brain is not larger or working harder than ours; it's the same size and working less. Some mechanism that causes us to forget minor incidences is not functioning properly in this guy, and he's coping. He's not burdened by the weight of a billion memories - he (quite literally) remembers what meals he ate 753 days ago like you and I remember how to ride a bike. The motions of leaning and twisting and pushing and pedaling don't load or clutter our minds. They are just there for us, subconsciously, when we need them. Were we originally designed to live like that? What would our society be like if we recalled everything in that fashion? Worse, better, or just . . . different?

Easy, Convenient, Impersonal

I've just got off the phone. I've been plastered to it for the last hour or so. Unfortunately this is no longer a rare occurrence. Last year my all time record for longest telephone conversation probably would've come to just a few minutes. I'm generally not the super-chatty type face-to-face, and I tend to be even more laconic on the phone; however I am becoming acquainted with the benefits of this nifty device. Occasionally you do need to have good old powwow with someone, and email or even IM won't suffice. Of course, talking to them in person is always preferable, but not always possible.
If you were to pick one machine that has changed more peoples lives than any other, you'd be hard pressed to pass up the telephone. Dear Mr Bell probably had no idea how much this invention would revolutionize society. It allowed the popularization of remote communication - hitherto the exclusive domain of those who understood special signals (smoke, flags, Morse). Post-phone however, anyone who knows how to talk and can fiddle with a few basic dials/buttons can converse (real time) with Aunt Josephine on the other side of the Atlantic. (Why one would want to is an entirely different matter) It has brought us closer together and also (ironically) driven us further apart. Where before we might've made the effort to pop down to such'n'suches place to discuss whatever, we now just hop on the phone. Easy, convenient, - and slightly impersonal. This can (and if it can, it will {humans!}) be pushed to an extreme. I know one guy who, when picking someone up, would call the person at their house while sitting in his car in their driveway! And while it hasn't made us the socially dead robotic clones that early scientifiction writers warned against, the telephone is as dangerous (and as worthy, despite its familiarity, of our careful respect) as any other machine. Perhaps more.

Ghouls

"Integrity without knowledge is weak and useless. Knowledge without integrity is dangerous and dreadful." So remarked Samuel Johnson in the 18th century. There could hardly be a more timely warning for our age. In a world in which groundbreaking discoveries have almost become passé, and Mans knowledge (and hence capability) is making quantum leaps by the decade, we'd be wise to remember that a one sided coin can cut deep.
Our race has an insatiable desire to learn and discover - and that's as it should be. It is our rightful part to conquer mountains, tame beasts, create new wonders and understand the laws of the universe. But that is not all. We must also keep our word, care for the weak, follow our conscience regardless of the consequences and love all people. If we neglect this, our learning will not be vain - oh no, much worse. It will be wielded by the strong against the weak, the weak against the weakest, and equals against each other. Without integrity we will be merely the highly evolved animals that the scientists tell us we are. Animals don't have a conscience - they rule and are ruled by intimidation and fear. It works, to a point. But give them the mind of a man, and you will see them turn into a cruel and savage hobgoblin; a heartless ghoul that will mercilessly consume resources at the expense of any that get in its way. Sound familiar? When a human manages, after much pain and difficulty, to sever its moral integrity from its intelligence and cunning, it becomes the invincible monster of nightmares: coldly advancing no matter what you throw at it.

Depth of Focus

It's monsoon season. Just a week or so ago I discovered The Big Mountain Short Film Festival. Well, I thought, why not make something for it. Then I realised on Monday that the deadline is September 1st. Some people (the sensible sort) would've dropped the idea right there. But no. So far I have no camera, no mic, no cast, no location, and no script. One water cooler bottle is about all I've managed to scrounge up (Don't ask). I am well on the way to all of those things but it's just that none of them have been actually secured yet. Which is a wee bit disturbing at times.
One of the hardest things for me to keep in mind during times like these is that if it doesn't work out the world won't fall to bits. Things would turn out exactly the same as if I'd never heard of the festival - which I almost didn't. No one will die, my life won't fall flat, and no thunderbolt will strike from above to punish me for my failure. On the other hand, there does seem to be some merit to the 'nose to the ground' mentality. We get things done much faster (and perhaps better) when we are utterly focused on one project. I sometimes wonder if it's possible to take a middling course. I certainly haven't managed to find the way, and (at best) can only switch back and forth between the two.
Now - speaking of (almost) utter focus, I'm off to work on the script. By the way, sorry about the reruns earlier in the week; I've been having some problems with the system.

Droughts & Monsoons

If life is a river, then it sure has unpredictable flood seasons. Has anyone else ever noticed (or is it just me) that life doesn't really flow along - it spurts like a psychotic garden hose connected to a gammy pump. There are some times when it's interminably sluggish, and others when it's a mission just to keep from wetting yourself. Erm. . . metaphorically speaking. And you can never plan or adjust for it. When things are trundling along at snails pace it's difficult/impossible to take advantage of the slack to lessen the frantic times ahead. Because you can't see them coming, and only a seer could trace their origins. As for when they come - forget trying to strategize. Most of the time you're just trying to hang on and not fall off. Life seems to be a string of droughts and monsoons.
I wonder if there's a reason for this. I believe there's is a reason for almost everything (and with all due respect, Douglas Adams can stick his randomness theories up his nose); I don't think this would be one of the exceptions. Here's my guesses. Theory #1: This is not as universal as I think it is, and is just a product of my unique circumstances. (Possible but unlikely - I know too many others who've experienced the same). Theory #2: Someone's just messing with us for the hang of it (I know, burn him at the stake - but haven't you ever, even for a moment, been tempted to think it?). Theory #3: The ebb and flow of the circumstances of humanity is somehow widely networked so that when one thing goes off, a dozen others follow the leader (Esoteric, but possibly not impossible). Theory #4: There is something big and very obvious that I have completely missed, and my readers are scanning this post with heads cocked sideways eyes squinted and mouths slightly open wondering exactly how stupid I really am (Painfully likely).