Nelson Lowhim's Blog, page 122
January 24, 2015
Science and Art
A few years ago I thought of something about randomizing certain parts of art and seeing if something beautiful could come up. In other words, one could randomize (with a die or, a smarter way would be with a algorithm) aspects of a painting. A simple one would start at a point and go in 8 directions from a point (using the center of a circle and assigning numbers to each direction and off you go!—you can see it clearly here except that this isn't random but pi being mapped out). One could also randomize the colors or, even, the length or the width of the line (in the previous link, it's easy to see why it's preferable to see a specific color for a specific direction. For pi, it allows us to look for a pattern a little more easily—and see there is none). Thus allowing one to create a great amount of art. At random, of course.
Here's another example of this sort of art representing specific concepts. Again, one can do it at random, or one can manipulate it in many different ways. Having it represent something people know seems like a very wise way to go about it. I still lean towards the random, only because it represents an artistic attempt at the old thought experiment of how long would it take a 1000 monkeys typing to come up with Shakespeare, or something similarly powerful? Here our monkey is random.
And the randomness doesn't have to start at a single point. It could be done in many different ways. For example one could assign a point on the canvas (x,y axis) at random, the direction (note that the direction could also be as close to infinite as possible), the width, the length... well, one could go on forever with the kind of variables that one could manipulate (type of brush stroke, raise of paint and so forth).
Though I thought of the idea, it doesn't seem especially original. In the Dea Beacon museum I saw something where a man had written instructions for lines, that were similar to the one above. It's not hard to think in a derivative fashion and have a computer come up with those instructions (and carrying them out, incidentally). Wouldn't that be some kind of different art? Where each museum that wants to show something, gets a code and a printer (or a poor artist, who would have to paint a million instructions out, if not more) and put up something completely different from what the previous museum puts up. In other words, they would be focusing on the code, not the art itself, whatever it would create, or hopefully create. One can see numerous ways to illicit something from the viewers of such art (place the randomness on the outline of a world map and see if people understand that it's random or think that it's actually representative of one social economic factor or another).
Why am I talking about such a random topic? Well, the idea of our new technology affecting us is nothing new, nor is it new that it will affect our art, sooner or later. The thing which I think many people are focusing on, is how exactly it's going to change the art world (to include narratives, my own world) because there is an ongoing seismic shift with the process of telling a story (even more so about getting paid for it).
I discussed this with a friend of mine on the edge of that oh so busy Union Square. He discussed numerous ways to tell a story. He first focused on the visual: that one could have a story told while being in the midst of the story itself (you would be using virtual reality goggles, thus changing many aspects of the current, see from one view only, movie format). That led me to think on the current manner of narratives: plays in (some part of Brooklyn, I believe) where a person is in a room and thus gets to participate by being in it (instead of separated from it, though I don't think that they have actual parts in the play) and seeing it from only one angle (one room). To see the rest of the story, then, one must go and see the play again in a different way.
Not revolutionary, but original nonetheless. These are the ideas being plotted around the world, as people see the need for new narratives. And I too am feeling that push. I love the novel, think it does a lot. But has its time come to pass? Not that text-based narratives are over, but rather that the style of novels as we know them is. I mentioned hypertext fiction earlier. Fractal writing, as I call it. I will soon put up an example. But what do you think is the future of text-narratives? Are we done with looking into one author's imagination?
Technology is surely going to change it (even the author-reader relationship) whether we like it or not. Some people see every single representation of a new text-narrative as something horrendous, perhaps even a sign of disintegration that no one wants to face up to. But I am now more certain than ever that technology will change the novel and text-narratives for the better. And these discussion are why: everyone is moving forward with their ideas.
As we can see from the first two links on Science and Art, where they are using more and more varied visual representations of scientific representations (or in my fanciful thinking, one where randomness would be represented), there are many ways that technology will change this medium (big data being represented would be another one). As it will do the same for text-based ones.
More to come on this topic. But until then, what are your thoughts.
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Here's another example of this sort of art representing specific concepts. Again, one can do it at random, or one can manipulate it in many different ways. Having it represent something people know seems like a very wise way to go about it. I still lean towards the random, only because it represents an artistic attempt at the old thought experiment of how long would it take a 1000 monkeys typing to come up with Shakespeare, or something similarly powerful? Here our monkey is random.
And the randomness doesn't have to start at a single point. It could be done in many different ways. For example one could assign a point on the canvas (x,y axis) at random, the direction (note that the direction could also be as close to infinite as possible), the width, the length... well, one could go on forever with the kind of variables that one could manipulate (type of brush stroke, raise of paint and so forth).
Though I thought of the idea, it doesn't seem especially original. In the Dea Beacon museum I saw something where a man had written instructions for lines, that were similar to the one above. It's not hard to think in a derivative fashion and have a computer come up with those instructions (and carrying them out, incidentally). Wouldn't that be some kind of different art? Where each museum that wants to show something, gets a code and a printer (or a poor artist, who would have to paint a million instructions out, if not more) and put up something completely different from what the previous museum puts up. In other words, they would be focusing on the code, not the art itself, whatever it would create, or hopefully create. One can see numerous ways to illicit something from the viewers of such art (place the randomness on the outline of a world map and see if people understand that it's random or think that it's actually representative of one social economic factor or another).
Why am I talking about such a random topic? Well, the idea of our new technology affecting us is nothing new, nor is it new that it will affect our art, sooner or later. The thing which I think many people are focusing on, is how exactly it's going to change the art world (to include narratives, my own world) because there is an ongoing seismic shift with the process of telling a story (even more so about getting paid for it).
I discussed this with a friend of mine on the edge of that oh so busy Union Square. He discussed numerous ways to tell a story. He first focused on the visual: that one could have a story told while being in the midst of the story itself (you would be using virtual reality goggles, thus changing many aspects of the current, see from one view only, movie format). That led me to think on the current manner of narratives: plays in (some part of Brooklyn, I believe) where a person is in a room and thus gets to participate by being in it (instead of separated from it, though I don't think that they have actual parts in the play) and seeing it from only one angle (one room). To see the rest of the story, then, one must go and see the play again in a different way.
Not revolutionary, but original nonetheless. These are the ideas being plotted around the world, as people see the need for new narratives. And I too am feeling that push. I love the novel, think it does a lot. But has its time come to pass? Not that text-based narratives are over, but rather that the style of novels as we know them is. I mentioned hypertext fiction earlier. Fractal writing, as I call it. I will soon put up an example. But what do you think is the future of text-narratives? Are we done with looking into one author's imagination?
Technology is surely going to change it (even the author-reader relationship) whether we like it or not. Some people see every single representation of a new text-narrative as something horrendous, perhaps even a sign of disintegration that no one wants to face up to. But I am now more certain than ever that technology will change the novel and text-narratives for the better. And these discussion are why: everyone is moving forward with their ideas.
As we can see from the first two links on Science and Art, where they are using more and more varied visual representations of scientific representations (or in my fanciful thinking, one where randomness would be represented), there are many ways that technology will change this medium (big data being represented would be another one). As it will do the same for text-based ones.
More to come on this topic. But until then, what are your thoughts.
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January 20, 2015
An Amazing Video Game
I’ll be the first to admit that my video gaming skills are far below the average (as it were, it would seem that I should be one of those who would watch rather than play the damn sport/job) with my hand-eye coordination and speed below most people twice my age. Perhaps I need to stick to downing some vitamin B tablets, or perhaps I should stick to board games such as go and shogi. But I have a knack for running away from where most evidence points. Recently, I visited a website of suspect makeup, wanting to unload my handful of bitcoins, and I started to play what was a most interesting video game. The last time I played any games—Turok, GoldenEye and Mario 64—was on the old Nintendo system of a previous millennium. I would eventually bore of these games. This game, however, kept my interest. You play a character who has just crashed onto an unknown planet, memory gone, and needs to survive.
Period.
There is no perfect end, there is no drive towards something better. There are local aliens of middling technological abilities, but that doesn’t matter as you are limited to a new level of physics and new elements. Bit by bit you make choices: you travel in whichever direction you want, and for the most part the world ignores you. You are limited by human necessities; you need water and food, you need to talk to the locals, who all have their own issues.
Meanwhile, you slowly learn your own history, and the history of what/where you came from, as you see and learn about the pieces of the craft you jettisoned from, that locals keep as prizes from the sky. Since you have no idea about the local politics, let alone the rivalries, you must be careful about who you trust, about what actions you can trust, if that. You have the choice of being friend or foe or neutral to all you meet, of being a great man or a not so great man (almost everyone you meet allows you to have a certain amount of missions to help and gain help, though there are certain tribes or groups you will come across who will give you the shirt off their backs; yet use them too much and they fall into disrepair and die of hunger, or other such ailments, or they learn not to trust when you break promises, or simply are taken over by another group). And all that you do resonates. Act violent (it turns out that you’re quicker/more powerful here... that you’re nothing short of a super-being) and too many people start conspiring against you.
There is some element of allowing evil to happen. I’ve played this game all the way through a handful of times already: it’s that addicting and the story/world changes each time. The biggest turning point (or decision making point) that I seem to come up against is the choice of, assuming you make friends here on the new planet, helping the people, or fighting your own people when they finally come to this planet, albeit in massive ships as numerous as the Spanish Armada. Turns out that you find out that you were part of a recon unit, sent out here to scout the place for precious materials. And it turns out that you can stab your new friends in the back, or help them to fight.
Either way you are considered a traitor. And even if you should pick the double agent route (hedging bets, or perhaps you’ve decided to pretend to be friendly to your people and sabotage them or vice versa to the new people), you have no guarantee of not being a traitor to at least one side. There is talk of some players choosing not to pick a side. But, as in most cases with humanity, this has not worked out. These players claim that, even if they have died (thus not surviving, the main point of the game), they have achieved something, that perhaps that idea will live on in the game itself, through the other characters you’ve come in touch with.
That seems a little childish, if you ask me. Even if the game, assuming the battle is still on, allows you to watch after you’ve died, I have yet to hear of influencing the outcome with one’s own martyrdom. Or at least it appears that, given the multiple branches from similar actions, that no one can say that with any great certainty that any meme in life will give certain results. And the rules of the game are rules of the game: survive. Why add to it?
Another great feature: once you’re finished can be watched via a camera (you can edit this, if you’re so inclined) as in a movie. It’s not a great movie, but it works, and is probably better than most movies out there (it runs at half an hour, so it’s not too much time lost, if you want to give it a try). On Youtube, you see hours and hours of these movies being put together (people making the wrong decisions and setting up harder obstacles than is needed just to have a climax, just to have the three parts to a movie, just to have pretty much everything). There is even talk of the possibility that one will be nominated as an animated movie for an award in the future.
The AI of the world is truly the greatest aspect of this game, and shows how well designed it is. There is minimal “hive” thinking amongst the people or individuals you come across—or no more than is realistic. All of them are given certain ways to think and react, and from the moment you set foot on the planet this changes. This in itself is amazing.
That the game only truly ends when you die (old age or sickness or something violent), also makes it unique in many ways. It was initially available with one life alone. But when that didn’t work, too many complaints, they added a handful more.
There is a contest, among a few players, about who can become the oldest character. They claim that this is the best way to play the game, simply learning enough to stay old. They have gone on quests to find a fountain of youth (rumors that I’m sure the game makers have started to increase interest in the game itself).
The controversy of what one is meant to do at the end of the game, meant to have accomplished, is both the games strongest and weakest point. How can one say that a game about merely surviving is any good? And it’s not like WW where one gets stronger and stronger. There is a mortal limit to your strengths, and to gain any more strength, there is no miraculous tech (though it doesn’t hurt it’s usually short lived because the knowledge travels fast), but rather an organization that you must create and allow to become powerful. This will, of course, challenge other organizations, and, again, you will perish in a bloody war if you grow too powerful, because the game follows reality (a rather human one, it must be admitted): that which is divided must unite and that which is united must fall.
There are rumors that the next game will continue from the last point of the best rated movie made about this first game. I wonder whether they're giving too much power to these games. I also wonder about rumors that the next world will allow you to play multiple generations (unless you die before reproducing), because it will detract from some strengths of this game.
That being said, I highly recommend this game to everyone out there.
The End
Hard to sometimes point to the inspiration for any given story or idea. Here it's easy: it was Borges and his fantastical writings.
Ficciones is a great start. Nothing I write comes close, but it's easy to see when something I write is a derivative (or a hapless integral of a couple stories of his or a couple ideas of his) of a story of his.
Enjoyed the writing? Here's a tip jar!
Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
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Period.
There is no perfect end, there is no drive towards something better. There are local aliens of middling technological abilities, but that doesn’t matter as you are limited to a new level of physics and new elements. Bit by bit you make choices: you travel in whichever direction you want, and for the most part the world ignores you. You are limited by human necessities; you need water and food, you need to talk to the locals, who all have their own issues.
Meanwhile, you slowly learn your own history, and the history of what/where you came from, as you see and learn about the pieces of the craft you jettisoned from, that locals keep as prizes from the sky. Since you have no idea about the local politics, let alone the rivalries, you must be careful about who you trust, about what actions you can trust, if that. You have the choice of being friend or foe or neutral to all you meet, of being a great man or a not so great man (almost everyone you meet allows you to have a certain amount of missions to help and gain help, though there are certain tribes or groups you will come across who will give you the shirt off their backs; yet use them too much and they fall into disrepair and die of hunger, or other such ailments, or they learn not to trust when you break promises, or simply are taken over by another group). And all that you do resonates. Act violent (it turns out that you’re quicker/more powerful here... that you’re nothing short of a super-being) and too many people start conspiring against you.
There is some element of allowing evil to happen. I’ve played this game all the way through a handful of times already: it’s that addicting and the story/world changes each time. The biggest turning point (or decision making point) that I seem to come up against is the choice of, assuming you make friends here on the new planet, helping the people, or fighting your own people when they finally come to this planet, albeit in massive ships as numerous as the Spanish Armada. Turns out that you find out that you were part of a recon unit, sent out here to scout the place for precious materials. And it turns out that you can stab your new friends in the back, or help them to fight.
Either way you are considered a traitor. And even if you should pick the double agent route (hedging bets, or perhaps you’ve decided to pretend to be friendly to your people and sabotage them or vice versa to the new people), you have no guarantee of not being a traitor to at least one side. There is talk of some players choosing not to pick a side. But, as in most cases with humanity, this has not worked out. These players claim that, even if they have died (thus not surviving, the main point of the game), they have achieved something, that perhaps that idea will live on in the game itself, through the other characters you’ve come in touch with.
That seems a little childish, if you ask me. Even if the game, assuming the battle is still on, allows you to watch after you’ve died, I have yet to hear of influencing the outcome with one’s own martyrdom. Or at least it appears that, given the multiple branches from similar actions, that no one can say that with any great certainty that any meme in life will give certain results. And the rules of the game are rules of the game: survive. Why add to it?
Another great feature: once you’re finished can be watched via a camera (you can edit this, if you’re so inclined) as in a movie. It’s not a great movie, but it works, and is probably better than most movies out there (it runs at half an hour, so it’s not too much time lost, if you want to give it a try). On Youtube, you see hours and hours of these movies being put together (people making the wrong decisions and setting up harder obstacles than is needed just to have a climax, just to have the three parts to a movie, just to have pretty much everything). There is even talk of the possibility that one will be nominated as an animated movie for an award in the future.
The AI of the world is truly the greatest aspect of this game, and shows how well designed it is. There is minimal “hive” thinking amongst the people or individuals you come across—or no more than is realistic. All of them are given certain ways to think and react, and from the moment you set foot on the planet this changes. This in itself is amazing.
That the game only truly ends when you die (old age or sickness or something violent), also makes it unique in many ways. It was initially available with one life alone. But when that didn’t work, too many complaints, they added a handful more.
There is a contest, among a few players, about who can become the oldest character. They claim that this is the best way to play the game, simply learning enough to stay old. They have gone on quests to find a fountain of youth (rumors that I’m sure the game makers have started to increase interest in the game itself).
The controversy of what one is meant to do at the end of the game, meant to have accomplished, is both the games strongest and weakest point. How can one say that a game about merely surviving is any good? And it’s not like WW where one gets stronger and stronger. There is a mortal limit to your strengths, and to gain any more strength, there is no miraculous tech (though it doesn’t hurt it’s usually short lived because the knowledge travels fast), but rather an organization that you must create and allow to become powerful. This will, of course, challenge other organizations, and, again, you will perish in a bloody war if you grow too powerful, because the game follows reality (a rather human one, it must be admitted): that which is divided must unite and that which is united must fall.
There are rumors that the next game will continue from the last point of the best rated movie made about this first game. I wonder whether they're giving too much power to these games. I also wonder about rumors that the next world will allow you to play multiple generations (unless you die before reproducing), because it will detract from some strengths of this game.
That being said, I highly recommend this game to everyone out there.
The End
Hard to sometimes point to the inspiration for any given story or idea. Here it's easy: it was Borges and his fantastical writings.
Ficciones is a great start. Nothing I write comes close, but it's easy to see when something I write is a derivative (or a hapless integral of a couple stories of his or a couple ideas of his) of a story of his. Enjoyed the writing? Here's a tip jar!
Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
htmltextmobile
January 11, 2015
Why I write part x
A cold and slushy day out there. Just had some coffee to warm me up, and now I'm looking to tackle another day full speed. The mass demonstrations in France seem to have inspired the world. The acts of violence carried out there have been horrific. More horrific, of course, is the lack of insight, or willingness to look at history for an explanation. Instead what we get is: there is no excuse (read: explanation, because apparently many are still infants unwilling to even look at explanations? Or are scared of them, or of adding context? Since when has this atomized view or perception of the world been the standard? I think I missed something, so please do add something in the comments if I am) or there is no time to think this through. This is simply wrong. That it is wrong is obvious to most. That it is a mere grain of sand on a beach of black and white sand is also the point. To not be willing to step back seems to be the what those who want a singular action want. In other words, it's an manipulation of the international psyche.
France, of course, has its own special history. Yes, that includes a very harsh secularism, and it also includes colonialism and neo-colonialism. Now, if in response to this you think defensively, in other words, you think: does that mean two individuals of nihilistic quality should be applauded? Well, then, friend, you simply are too far gone (like the perpetrators of this attack) for a discussion. Or is that not what's wanted here? I suppose I'm not sure. I will say that those who find safety in groups (on the internet, as in real life, I'm of the thought that these aren't groups, but rather mobs—for they're acting like it) are simply following the herd and, again, not thinking this through. Yes, yes, I know: there is strength in platitudes. But I yearn for a different world.
Nevertheless, what my thoughts lingered on was the need for multiple moralities as well as multiple narratives within one book (from culturally different people). That, indeed, is what I've wrestled with in the past. I won't say that I've perfected it, but I will try to come to some grips with a way to do so. I've been reading about hypertext fiction and am of the thought that this, or something like it, will possibly be one of the better ways to show this world (or a fake one) in such a fragmented way. To that end, I will try to get up an ebook that attempts this, but for now I'll look into other books to learn. And in the next few weeks I'll also put up something on this blog that attempts to create a world through hypertext. I will start short, but look for it soon.
Be safe out there, everyone.
Enjoyed the writing? Here's a tip jar!
Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
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France, of course, has its own special history. Yes, that includes a very harsh secularism, and it also includes colonialism and neo-colonialism. Now, if in response to this you think defensively, in other words, you think: does that mean two individuals of nihilistic quality should be applauded? Well, then, friend, you simply are too far gone (like the perpetrators of this attack) for a discussion. Or is that not what's wanted here? I suppose I'm not sure. I will say that those who find safety in groups (on the internet, as in real life, I'm of the thought that these aren't groups, but rather mobs—for they're acting like it) are simply following the herd and, again, not thinking this through. Yes, yes, I know: there is strength in platitudes. But I yearn for a different world.
Nevertheless, what my thoughts lingered on was the need for multiple moralities as well as multiple narratives within one book (from culturally different people). That, indeed, is what I've wrestled with in the past. I won't say that I've perfected it, but I will try to come to some grips with a way to do so. I've been reading about hypertext fiction and am of the thought that this, or something like it, will possibly be one of the better ways to show this world (or a fake one) in such a fragmented way. To that end, I will try to get up an ebook that attempts this, but for now I'll look into other books to learn. And in the next few weeks I'll also put up something on this blog that attempts to create a world through hypertext. I will start short, but look for it soon.
Be safe out there, everyone.
Enjoyed the writing? Here's a tip jar!
Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
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December 20, 2014
Why I write: When Gods Fail
Spoiler Alert
This was going to be a post on why I write, (perhaps with an extension to why it was that anyone writes) but as I thought about what it was I write, and I thought about what it was about the reaction to what I write (negative, usually; though we have a tendency to remember the negative) and I decided that, instead of writing about the muse and the process, I should think carefully on why I wrote the specific books that I wrote and what my intentions were. For some reason when a reader calls out my intention as horrendous or as indicative of a flaw in my personality, I feel like I should respond. Not directly. But I should make a stand.
One of my books with the most negative reviews is When Gods Fail—the first book in the series (those who read past the first one tend to enjoy the next two). I should mention that they usually circle around the fact that the story is too dark, is horrid, in fact, and that the author has some sort of sickness, or that this view of mankind is too horrendous to be worthwhile. That the book is dark (the entire series is, in fact) goes without saying. That is the whole point of the series. I was sick of reading and watching too many TV and Book series with the same hagiography on whence we came [1]. Let me tackle that point first: that the series is about a man, a normal man, who, in a land without laws, in a land with only the rule of survival, turns evil. I’m not sure how outlandish this is. Many seem to think it too far out. I wholeheartedly disagree (this is not an opinion). If one is to look at history, current events, they’ll know that this happens to humans in times of complete duress.
Look, I’m not being cocky (though there is some defensiveness); I too started a story about a man who helps to build up the world, who slays the evil and makes it all right. But that’s been done before (Lord knows that I’d find more readers that way). And my first job, as an artist and a writer, is to show society the dark side [2], if only to show what is possible if we are not vigilant.
Every record of civilization is also a record of barbarism
And thus, in Gods Fail, Tom moves into the world and though he strives for something better, he ends up being something much worse than he ever envisioned because of the empirical choices available to him, because the basis of his previous identity were all tied up in barbarism (unknown to him). Therefore the man’s individual struggle takes a turn for the worse because his house is, no matter how beautiful, built upon something other than what is claimed.[3] Hence, he falls. But it doesn’t end there, for that’s the first book alone. No, from there he must be redeemed. And that, dear reader, is the real point of this post-apoc story: what do humans do when their past is steeped in blood? Is there a way forward? Of course there is, and whitewashing the past isn’t something I consider an answer.
Tom, over and over, realizes what it is he must do, and he too cannot hide in the past, cannot change it for something that it is not (no rationalizing will set someone free here). Will he find it? Of course, that is the true question. For all that he’s done in the previous books, the third book has him carrying out his bravest act. And from there where does he go? Does he fall again? That’s the question, and I hope that all of you are willing to read the answer this spring.
##############
[1] It’s more than that: there were several editor voices telling me to stalk in the land of the horrid is a fool’s errand. That those who do so will definitely not gain a readership. The Road, that modern version of hopeless post-apocalyptic fiction, even has some good (albeit an open ending). How can the world you picture not have good come out? Again, look at reality and let that soak in. I’m not sure that I can say anything else about that except that one should read as much as they can with as much focus on the facts: the good do not always win, and anyone thinking otherwise is not paying attention.
[2] I’ll rely on James Baldwin, here, that the artist’s relationship with their society (a lover’s relationship, to be certain) is to be that person who calls them out on their illusions, and to that end if someone wants to read about happy endings, or striving or something about the world being the world that it is not, then read another author. You will rarely find that in my books, and if you do, consider it a moment of weakness on my part as an artist.
[3] A matter of contention, I’m sure. But it’s not some odd view of the world of some veteran. No, it’s based on reading combined with experiences overseas. There is nothing to be said for those who believe in some teleological view of the world. Again, there is good in the world, but to be blind is something else. It will rarely be found in what I write, this blindness (though I too will be subject to the same forces as others).
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This was going to be a post on why I write, (perhaps with an extension to why it was that anyone writes) but as I thought about what it was I write, and I thought about what it was about the reaction to what I write (negative, usually; though we have a tendency to remember the negative) and I decided that, instead of writing about the muse and the process, I should think carefully on why I wrote the specific books that I wrote and what my intentions were. For some reason when a reader calls out my intention as horrendous or as indicative of a flaw in my personality, I feel like I should respond. Not directly. But I should make a stand.
One of my books with the most negative reviews is When Gods Fail—the first book in the series (those who read past the first one tend to enjoy the next two). I should mention that they usually circle around the fact that the story is too dark, is horrid, in fact, and that the author has some sort of sickness, or that this view of mankind is too horrendous to be worthwhile. That the book is dark (the entire series is, in fact) goes without saying. That is the whole point of the series. I was sick of reading and watching too many TV and Book series with the same hagiography on whence we came [1]. Let me tackle that point first: that the series is about a man, a normal man, who, in a land without laws, in a land with only the rule of survival, turns evil. I’m not sure how outlandish this is. Many seem to think it too far out. I wholeheartedly disagree (this is not an opinion). If one is to look at history, current events, they’ll know that this happens to humans in times of complete duress.
Look, I’m not being cocky (though there is some defensiveness); I too started a story about a man who helps to build up the world, who slays the evil and makes it all right. But that’s been done before (Lord knows that I’d find more readers that way). And my first job, as an artist and a writer, is to show society the dark side [2], if only to show what is possible if we are not vigilant.
Every record of civilization is also a record of barbarism
And thus, in Gods Fail, Tom moves into the world and though he strives for something better, he ends up being something much worse than he ever envisioned because of the empirical choices available to him, because the basis of his previous identity were all tied up in barbarism (unknown to him). Therefore the man’s individual struggle takes a turn for the worse because his house is, no matter how beautiful, built upon something other than what is claimed.[3] Hence, he falls. But it doesn’t end there, for that’s the first book alone. No, from there he must be redeemed. And that, dear reader, is the real point of this post-apoc story: what do humans do when their past is steeped in blood? Is there a way forward? Of course there is, and whitewashing the past isn’t something I consider an answer.
Tom, over and over, realizes what it is he must do, and he too cannot hide in the past, cannot change it for something that it is not (no rationalizing will set someone free here). Will he find it? Of course, that is the true question. For all that he’s done in the previous books, the third book has him carrying out his bravest act. And from there where does he go? Does he fall again? That’s the question, and I hope that all of you are willing to read the answer this spring.
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[1] It’s more than that: there were several editor voices telling me to stalk in the land of the horrid is a fool’s errand. That those who do so will definitely not gain a readership. The Road, that modern version of hopeless post-apocalyptic fiction, even has some good (albeit an open ending). How can the world you picture not have good come out? Again, look at reality and let that soak in. I’m not sure that I can say anything else about that except that one should read as much as they can with as much focus on the facts: the good do not always win, and anyone thinking otherwise is not paying attention.
[2] I’ll rely on James Baldwin, here, that the artist’s relationship with their society (a lover’s relationship, to be certain) is to be that person who calls them out on their illusions, and to that end if someone wants to read about happy endings, or striving or something about the world being the world that it is not, then read another author. You will rarely find that in my books, and if you do, consider it a moment of weakness on my part as an artist.
[3] A matter of contention, I’m sure. But it’s not some odd view of the world of some veteran. No, it’s based on reading combined with experiences overseas. There is nothing to be said for those who believe in some teleological view of the world. Again, there is good in the world, but to be blind is something else. It will rarely be found in what I write, this blindness (though I too will be subject to the same forces as others).
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December 15, 2014
Why I write: 4 Things to consider for the Ministry of Bombs
With everything I write, I write to evoke thought in the reader, to change their angle on the world, to change their accepted truths (whether I achieve this, remains to be seen). Now, I understand that most writers would frown upon this, that they would even say that fiction is not to be used as such, and when it is, it’s weaker for it. So be it. I disagree. And the fact that many who say this write the kind of fiction that does not speak to me only goes to further my beliefs. Furthermore, I’m also crossing another line I’m not supposed to: I’m reacting to reviews (on my book) that I’ve read and that seem to miss the main point of what I’ve written (I know, I know, the writing is less important than the reading, and once it's been written, it's out of the author's hands...).1. The cover
To begin with: the title and the cover are meant to make you, the reader, think. It starts with the name itself. Ministry of Bombs (MoB). Of course this barb is being launched at multiple departments of our foreign policy. Mainly, though, it's a play on the 1984 novel's "Ministry of Love"; soul of doublespeak and a way to subjugate all its people to a surveillance state. It is this allusion that made me choose Ministry instead of Department of.
The cover also has the so called sign of the Ministry (implied or otherwise) and has a skull as well as a recycle sign manufactured into bombs. Again, this is a play on reality. I could have very well have redone a DOD seal, or the NSA seal, but that would not have the same effect. The point of all this was to show the department’s needs for creating bombs and bombs over and over again, creating and fighting out enemies for this is what Empire was meant to do.
2. Thriller genre assignment.
I used to like thrillers. Da Silva and the lot of them (I do like John Le Carre, and there may very well be others I'm missing; I hope not). I was a teen and even in my early twenties when I liked them. I hate their simplicity now. I see them as nothing but an apparatus that prays for the status quo. Sure, we all want simplicity every now and then, especially when it comes to entertainment after a hard day’s work. But to perpetuate the views of the powers? No. Not now, not ever will I be a part of that.
That being said, it’s a thriller only in a more basic sense of the word. Thus, when you approach this book, dear reader, you should keep that in mind: I’m speaking of the manner in which you view the world. If all views of the world that are touted on the news and by various news officials are ones you whole heartedly agree with, then there is but no choice but for you to either hold your breath or to move on—I have nothing for you.
3. No black and white (there is no record of civilization which is not also a record of barbarianism. Also the granular B&W seen when zoomed into a story does not take away from the gray of the entire situation…)
I used to think that, given all the people I know in the world, that the grayness of everything is not something I should point out as the world is full of cruel state and non-state actors. But I have no more patience for it. We all play a part in this world, and if you are a citizen of a democracy and you want to leave a better world for those who will come, not a worse one, then you must make a statement because your silence only emboldens criminals to act in your name.
And part of that is not playing into the world view that the powers require you to believe so that they can continue to act with impunity. In that sense, MofB understands that anyone, if they’re good at propaganda, can find a true story that highlights the black and white they want to show. But this is true of the any side. What a writer must do is, in my opinion, is absorb the entire picture and, while making an interesting story, spit out what is akin to the truth (the subconscious of the world). Because only fiction can stretch the mind and make everyone see the gray that exists in the world.
4. Parody of trope
MoB is meant to be, in some respects, a parody of everything the thriller holds in esteem (read: that it’s meant to play on those ideas) because, remember, good propaganda has a grain of truth to it. That the ending has seemed “unlikely” to many only goes to show how ingrained the normal endings are (save the day, the world is better, a little whiter and a little less black!). Again, it was important to me to not only show the world as close to reality as it is, but to do so while tackling tropes and hagiographies of national security apparatuses prevalent in thrillers. Too much for one writer to take on? Maybe.
It is with that thought I leave, you reader, with the choice of reading the book (or if you’ve read it, to tell other readers to join in) or walking away. It won’t be easy. But you must step away from all learned habits when you do so. You must.
Thanks again for reading. Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
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To begin with: the title and the cover are meant to make you, the reader, think. It starts with the name itself. Ministry of Bombs (MoB). Of course this barb is being launched at multiple departments of our foreign policy. Mainly, though, it's a play on the 1984 novel's "Ministry of Love"; soul of doublespeak and a way to subjugate all its people to a surveillance state. It is this allusion that made me choose Ministry instead of Department of.
The cover also has the so called sign of the Ministry (implied or otherwise) and has a skull as well as a recycle sign manufactured into bombs. Again, this is a play on reality. I could have very well have redone a DOD seal, or the NSA seal, but that would not have the same effect. The point of all this was to show the department’s needs for creating bombs and bombs over and over again, creating and fighting out enemies for this is what Empire was meant to do.
2. Thriller genre assignment.
I used to like thrillers. Da Silva and the lot of them (I do like John Le Carre, and there may very well be others I'm missing; I hope not). I was a teen and even in my early twenties when I liked them. I hate their simplicity now. I see them as nothing but an apparatus that prays for the status quo. Sure, we all want simplicity every now and then, especially when it comes to entertainment after a hard day’s work. But to perpetuate the views of the powers? No. Not now, not ever will I be a part of that.
That being said, it’s a thriller only in a more basic sense of the word. Thus, when you approach this book, dear reader, you should keep that in mind: I’m speaking of the manner in which you view the world. If all views of the world that are touted on the news and by various news officials are ones you whole heartedly agree with, then there is but no choice but for you to either hold your breath or to move on—I have nothing for you.
3. No black and white (there is no record of civilization which is not also a record of barbarianism. Also the granular B&W seen when zoomed into a story does not take away from the gray of the entire situation…)
I used to think that, given all the people I know in the world, that the grayness of everything is not something I should point out as the world is full of cruel state and non-state actors. But I have no more patience for it. We all play a part in this world, and if you are a citizen of a democracy and you want to leave a better world for those who will come, not a worse one, then you must make a statement because your silence only emboldens criminals to act in your name.
And part of that is not playing into the world view that the powers require you to believe so that they can continue to act with impunity. In that sense, MofB understands that anyone, if they’re good at propaganda, can find a true story that highlights the black and white they want to show. But this is true of the any side. What a writer must do is, in my opinion, is absorb the entire picture and, while making an interesting story, spit out what is akin to the truth (the subconscious of the world). Because only fiction can stretch the mind and make everyone see the gray that exists in the world.
4. Parody of trope
MoB is meant to be, in some respects, a parody of everything the thriller holds in esteem (read: that it’s meant to play on those ideas) because, remember, good propaganda has a grain of truth to it. That the ending has seemed “unlikely” to many only goes to show how ingrained the normal endings are (save the day, the world is better, a little whiter and a little less black!). Again, it was important to me to not only show the world as close to reality as it is, but to do so while tackling tropes and hagiographies of national security apparatuses prevalent in thrillers. Too much for one writer to take on? Maybe.
It is with that thought I leave, you reader, with the choice of reading the book (or if you’ve read it, to tell other readers to join in) or walking away. It won’t be easy. But you must step away from all learned habits when you do so. You must.
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December 11, 2014
On the origins of Computer Codes as Literature
It's rare in life that one admits, to the public, and even less often, to oneself, that they were wrong. And not wrong as a matter of oversight or luck, but because of ignorance. Last week I mentioned, in a review, the writings of Algo. An author who has managed to include in his writings computer-code-like writing, as well as computer codes themselves. I won’t deny that I thought these algorithms to be somewhat overdone. And I didn’t even take a moment to try them out. They were mixed, of course, and the code notes accompanying them were enough to allow even a marginal computer literary person the ability to understand them (I should go even further to point out that Algo came up with pseudo code whereby he had prose that represented something like code that ‘called’ other tidbits of ‘prose’ from a library; this is not what I’m referring to, as that was fine). But I didn’t take it a step further and carry out the code the way it was intended. In other words, I wallowed in my ignorance and didn’t think twice on it.Last night I received a harried text telling me what I'd missed out on. I moved in to investigate and what I found out was that Algo didn’t come up (or even perfect) with the idea of telling stories through algorithms. That honor belongs to a subset of poets who started a movement a few years ago. There is no official title to their group. None that I’ve heard. Some have called them a derivative of the flarf poetry movement (something they both bristle at, and indeed they do seem like two distinct movements). Myself, after all my experiences with them, I’ve come up with a name for them: the crawlers.
The start of the Crawlers is quite the story. A student was, a few years ago, kicked out of college in New York. No record exists of why (I even talked to the dean, and she said, with great disgust, that they had no room for “that kind”, that they were an institution of higher learning, created to make the country better, people like that student—poets, she said disgustedly—are either parasites, or at best a piece of lace on the chair. I left, certain that I had interviewed the wrong person), but the student of math and computer science was dumped out of his dorm room (a possible hacking scandal might have been the reason: the day before he was kicked out, someone hacked the college’s website and placed the following banner: “College is for kissing rich kids’ asses in hopes of a job”. Which sounds like the silly sort of analysis only a freshman can muster). A poor orphan from the hinterlands of America, he started to live inside the city’s churches that would accept him (not for long, both he and organized religion stood at odds with each other) and public libraries he could hide in. One day he befriended a man on 5th avenue. The ex-student stole the man’s laptop. Luckily for him, it was never reported or remotely shutdown.
He burrowed his way into an abandoned subway station somewhere between 1st and 14th. There, alone, he wired into an ethernet line and thought about what it was he wanted to do in life. He swore off hacking and decided that he needed to focus on the beautiful aspects of humanity. And that’s where the first poems, made through codes, were created. The basic idea was this: that all one needed was code (however random, and indeed, at its inception it was mostly random code, looking for things like: top twenty sentences with the word Obama in it, or America and hunt in it and so forth) and one could create amazing works this way.
I want you to think about that for a second. This code (with minimal help) created poetry. Myself I’m impressed with what it is they are aiming and trying to do.
But like all founders of groups of lasting import, the ex-student lost control of the group, the idea (though he would always remain its figurehead). At first it was simply a matter of diversity: there were people who preferred to get their poem lines from comments, or comments on a right wing or left wing blog, or headlines only, or headlines from other countries translated through google, or essays, or Facebook posts, or Facebook posts from women or white women or tweets… well you get the idea; the internet is full of text, and they manipulated it as they desired.
When the group reached ten or so people, there appeared the first major rift. It wasn’t much, at first, but a pair wanted to create something like poems from before (they were, this group, let’s call them the crawlers, cocky enough to designate a Before Code (BC) and Apes Deconstructed (AD) for the moment the movement started), in other words, to manipulate the sentences or phrases grabbed from the Internet after the code had “harvested” them. This didn’t sit well with many of the others. The whole point, they said, was to care about the code. That the code was what mattered, no after the matter manipulation by humans could be allowed. The pair argued that it was about the result. But then another schism was created: some said it was not about the code, but that the text from the Internet in its original form that was sacrosanct. Words were exchanged, and the little utopia beneath the streets of New York was split.
There ended up being two groups, at the end of that day (it was this one issue that rose above the rest): one that claimed the text was not to be rearranged, only grabbed from the internet, and one that claimed it was the final poem that mattered. Later, the original group (I’m assuming that the ex-student was head of this group, and that was that the Internet text was sacrosanct) would split, as would the first splinter. Each grew, gained followers and further split along the lines of whatever argument was pertinent at the time. There were many:
The issue of code being the only manipulation, that those who did any hands-on rearranging with the text or the order of the text were not being true to the original intention and were quite possibly computer-disinclined (a swear word at the time) would be a background radiation that would spike at random times and split groups irrevocably. Others, code-fundamentalists, claimed that it wasn’t what the code spat out that mattered but what the code looked like.
After some time, the diversity about where the text was gathered became an issue. Some people claimed it should be from one place only, some said two, some said n, and some from wherever it was possible. Splits ensued.
The Turing shift is still an ongoing one today (similar, but stemming from different ideas, to the “beauty of the poem over the code” argument that I mentioned earlier): some people think that what is spit out should not be any different from what a human can write. Others claim that they are beyond that old and silly idea of copying humans. The time of humanity is over and to accept the future is to discard that antediluvian idea that is the Turing test (the immediate counter point to this is that the text is already being grafted from the internet, land of human text, so why the pretense?).
Realism resulted in one of the most bloody debates. It could have been a matter of jealousy; some of the poets were gaining fame, gaining money, while others were not; the realists, in the end, had found the most commercial route and were mocked for it; secretly everyone wanted their fame and it was proven as many groups collapsed and joined the realists. Some said that it was a vile group, these realists, that wanted nothing more than to destroy the diversity that had been created in the underground lair. There soon (I forget which specific group had it first, but it was to spread to some of the other groups too; for the most part the code fundamentalists would stay out of this—only further inflating their thought that their way was easily the best—and many other fights because they had strict rules, but they also tried less and had less followers) came a small war in this underground garden. The realists claimed that their point was to graft as much as they could from the internet as to show something of significance (show something of importance in the world, or highlight something about it that most people don’t know, or just take part in the cultural conversation), not random lines (some of them became prose writers in this sense) or even just beautiful or interestingly juxapositioned lines. The resultant civil war created numerous injuries. It created a detente (no one wanted the cops coming around) that still simmers today.
I cannot ignore the personal in all this. Some rifts occurred after lovers were stolen, and these were the longest lasting. Therefore actions that would seem inconsequential to outsiders resulted in breaking up of groups and tit for tat revenge schemes (all under the banner of some ideal, such as the ones above).
The latest fad is creating code that writes code that can learn from its mistakes and make more and more creative and beautiful poems. This one has just started. When I visited this dark underground lair—stinking of sewer runoff and burning fossil fuels and wood—I found checkpoints and narrow alleys. Men and women with torches and machetes stood guard. Each time I had to shift my way to a new group, I went through the same process of being patted down, of being asked inane questions that seemed to come out of a government manual. Some were nice about it, apologetic, telling me they had people to the latest infiltration of their group’s space (which seemed a little melodramatic, as I’d been to war zones and this wasn’t that). But others were rough, angry.
As far as the code that writes code that writes poems, I heard many who were against the idea: some said it would make them redundant. Others said it wasn’t feasible—had you seen what it created? And wasn’t this whole endeavor about literature, about humanity, about humans? What happens when that’s ripped out? While others still said code writing code wasn’t enough. There needed to be more degrees separating humans from code. That exact degree was being debated fervently while I was there. And you could see it in the tension in the air. Everyone’s eyes darted about. They couldn’t afford another outbreak of ideas as they were tired of fighting. Many were reverting to the fundamental code group, hoping to at least find peace (if everyone else followed).
Many were worried about the police. Certain that they were being paid by higher powers to come and destroy all that they had created. That somehow ‘natural’ poets above were paying the cops off to silence them. That even the NSA wanted a piece of what they were doing. Or perhaps didn’t like the competition. When I asked if they were really making that much money (them or the natural poets), they looked at me like I had been duped and said it wasn’t about money, it was about ideas. I decided that, given the fervor, it wouldn’t make sense to argue with them. I left the lair with relief. The fear in the air was strong and I wondered how it was when it was just starting out, when it was actually just about ideas.
The police, when I talked to them a few days later, mentioned that they had only recently come to find out about this lair and that they were thinking about raiding it if something violent happened. But for the most part they had better things to do than mess with idiot poets. More disgust on that captain’s face. And the place was starting to stink. People, tax paying people, who lived above were complaining of a stench that seemed to be just lingering in the air. I can’t have that, can I? The captain said. I empathized with him. I wasn’t sure if the lair was sanitary. All it would take was one bug and they would be wiped out.
Nevertheless, there is hope, and the sense that the future will be with these poets. The movement has surely come of age and might reach a higher level of expression soon enough. All it needs is a little light. Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
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The start of the Crawlers is quite the story. A student was, a few years ago, kicked out of college in New York. No record exists of why (I even talked to the dean, and she said, with great disgust, that they had no room for “that kind”, that they were an institution of higher learning, created to make the country better, people like that student—poets, she said disgustedly—are either parasites, or at best a piece of lace on the chair. I left, certain that I had interviewed the wrong person), but the student of math and computer science was dumped out of his dorm room (a possible hacking scandal might have been the reason: the day before he was kicked out, someone hacked the college’s website and placed the following banner: “College is for kissing rich kids’ asses in hopes of a job”. Which sounds like the silly sort of analysis only a freshman can muster). A poor orphan from the hinterlands of America, he started to live inside the city’s churches that would accept him (not for long, both he and organized religion stood at odds with each other) and public libraries he could hide in. One day he befriended a man on 5th avenue. The ex-student stole the man’s laptop. Luckily for him, it was never reported or remotely shutdown.
He burrowed his way into an abandoned subway station somewhere between 1st and 14th. There, alone, he wired into an ethernet line and thought about what it was he wanted to do in life. He swore off hacking and decided that he needed to focus on the beautiful aspects of humanity. And that’s where the first poems, made through codes, were created. The basic idea was this: that all one needed was code (however random, and indeed, at its inception it was mostly random code, looking for things like: top twenty sentences with the word Obama in it, or America and hunt in it and so forth) and one could create amazing works this way.
I want you to think about that for a second. This code (with minimal help) created poetry. Myself I’m impressed with what it is they are aiming and trying to do.
But like all founders of groups of lasting import, the ex-student lost control of the group, the idea (though he would always remain its figurehead). At first it was simply a matter of diversity: there were people who preferred to get their poem lines from comments, or comments on a right wing or left wing blog, or headlines only, or headlines from other countries translated through google, or essays, or Facebook posts, or Facebook posts from women or white women or tweets… well you get the idea; the internet is full of text, and they manipulated it as they desired.
When the group reached ten or so people, there appeared the first major rift. It wasn’t much, at first, but a pair wanted to create something like poems from before (they were, this group, let’s call them the crawlers, cocky enough to designate a Before Code (BC) and Apes Deconstructed (AD) for the moment the movement started), in other words, to manipulate the sentences or phrases grabbed from the Internet after the code had “harvested” them. This didn’t sit well with many of the others. The whole point, they said, was to care about the code. That the code was what mattered, no after the matter manipulation by humans could be allowed. The pair argued that it was about the result. But then another schism was created: some said it was not about the code, but that the text from the Internet in its original form that was sacrosanct. Words were exchanged, and the little utopia beneath the streets of New York was split.
There ended up being two groups, at the end of that day (it was this one issue that rose above the rest): one that claimed the text was not to be rearranged, only grabbed from the internet, and one that claimed it was the final poem that mattered. Later, the original group (I’m assuming that the ex-student was head of this group, and that was that the Internet text was sacrosanct) would split, as would the first splinter. Each grew, gained followers and further split along the lines of whatever argument was pertinent at the time. There were many:
The issue of code being the only manipulation, that those who did any hands-on rearranging with the text or the order of the text were not being true to the original intention and were quite possibly computer-disinclined (a swear word at the time) would be a background radiation that would spike at random times and split groups irrevocably. Others, code-fundamentalists, claimed that it wasn’t what the code spat out that mattered but what the code looked like.
After some time, the diversity about where the text was gathered became an issue. Some people claimed it should be from one place only, some said two, some said n, and some from wherever it was possible. Splits ensued.
The Turing shift is still an ongoing one today (similar, but stemming from different ideas, to the “beauty of the poem over the code” argument that I mentioned earlier): some people think that what is spit out should not be any different from what a human can write. Others claim that they are beyond that old and silly idea of copying humans. The time of humanity is over and to accept the future is to discard that antediluvian idea that is the Turing test (the immediate counter point to this is that the text is already being grafted from the internet, land of human text, so why the pretense?).
Realism resulted in one of the most bloody debates. It could have been a matter of jealousy; some of the poets were gaining fame, gaining money, while others were not; the realists, in the end, had found the most commercial route and were mocked for it; secretly everyone wanted their fame and it was proven as many groups collapsed and joined the realists. Some said that it was a vile group, these realists, that wanted nothing more than to destroy the diversity that had been created in the underground lair. There soon (I forget which specific group had it first, but it was to spread to some of the other groups too; for the most part the code fundamentalists would stay out of this—only further inflating their thought that their way was easily the best—and many other fights because they had strict rules, but they also tried less and had less followers) came a small war in this underground garden. The realists claimed that their point was to graft as much as they could from the internet as to show something of significance (show something of importance in the world, or highlight something about it that most people don’t know, or just take part in the cultural conversation), not random lines (some of them became prose writers in this sense) or even just beautiful or interestingly juxapositioned lines. The resultant civil war created numerous injuries. It created a detente (no one wanted the cops coming around) that still simmers today.
I cannot ignore the personal in all this. Some rifts occurred after lovers were stolen, and these were the longest lasting. Therefore actions that would seem inconsequential to outsiders resulted in breaking up of groups and tit for tat revenge schemes (all under the banner of some ideal, such as the ones above).
The latest fad is creating code that writes code that can learn from its mistakes and make more and more creative and beautiful poems. This one has just started. When I visited this dark underground lair—stinking of sewer runoff and burning fossil fuels and wood—I found checkpoints and narrow alleys. Men and women with torches and machetes stood guard. Each time I had to shift my way to a new group, I went through the same process of being patted down, of being asked inane questions that seemed to come out of a government manual. Some were nice about it, apologetic, telling me they had people to the latest infiltration of their group’s space (which seemed a little melodramatic, as I’d been to war zones and this wasn’t that). But others were rough, angry.
As far as the code that writes code that writes poems, I heard many who were against the idea: some said it would make them redundant. Others said it wasn’t feasible—had you seen what it created? And wasn’t this whole endeavor about literature, about humanity, about humans? What happens when that’s ripped out? While others still said code writing code wasn’t enough. There needed to be more degrees separating humans from code. That exact degree was being debated fervently while I was there. And you could see it in the tension in the air. Everyone’s eyes darted about. They couldn’t afford another outbreak of ideas as they were tired of fighting. Many were reverting to the fundamental code group, hoping to at least find peace (if everyone else followed).
Many were worried about the police. Certain that they were being paid by higher powers to come and destroy all that they had created. That somehow ‘natural’ poets above were paying the cops off to silence them. That even the NSA wanted a piece of what they were doing. Or perhaps didn’t like the competition. When I asked if they were really making that much money (them or the natural poets), they looked at me like I had been duped and said it wasn’t about money, it was about ideas. I decided that, given the fervor, it wouldn’t make sense to argue with them. I left the lair with relief. The fear in the air was strong and I wondered how it was when it was just starting out, when it was actually just about ideas.
The police, when I talked to them a few days later, mentioned that they had only recently come to find out about this lair and that they were thinking about raiding it if something violent happened. But for the most part they had better things to do than mess with idiot poets. More disgust on that captain’s face. And the place was starting to stink. People, tax paying people, who lived above were complaining of a stench that seemed to be just lingering in the air. I can’t have that, can I? The captain said. I empathized with him. I wasn’t sure if the lair was sanitary. All it would take was one bug and they would be wiped out.
Nevertheless, there is hope, and the sense that the future will be with these poets. The movement has surely come of age and might reach a higher level of expression soon enough. All it needs is a little light. Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
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December 5, 2014
Best books of 2014
Now, if anyone knows, last year I started my best books read in the year 2013. Now I'll try to add best books read in 2014 to that list. As all people know, this doesn't mean that the book was published in this year. Merely that it was something I read this year and enjoyed. I'm of the opinion that books—the good ones especially—more than any other story-telling form, tends to be more timeless. Thus my stance against the idea that books should only be considered from one year. A very odd sentiment indeed. So without further ado, I present the best books I've read this year:
This list will reflect that need and wont to find out more through the essay. But there is fiction as well, mind you. Without further ado, here it is:
An American Album: 150 years of Harper's Magazine. This collection is beautiful, and brings to mind a time capsule. From Melville to Woolf, to Porter to Baldwin it perfectly encapsulates the spirit of literature (American, of course) and as you move through time, you can feel yourself attached to the history and to the minds from across time. It also (it's a mixture of fiction and essays) manages to convey all real political and humane senses from the times, as well as reaching out to today. I highly recommend this, if only because of its ability to cast a wide net (you'll find something you like, most likely).
Notes of a Native Son by Baldwin. I only read this because I loved his novel (see below). I sensed from that piece of fiction that he had something more to say. That he was full of energy and perhaps anger. And when that was combined with his eloquence, I had to read his essays, and they seemed like they would have some great insight. It did. The title essay and "The Stranger in the Village" have some of the most incisive, heartfelt, and wry words ever put to paper. It was inspiring in many ways too. As a writer I was moving towards including more essays in my repertoire (the fictional kind, or the non-fiction that turned into fiction) and this book invigorated that idea. Read it. I highly recommend it.
Eichmann in Jerusalem: a Report on the Banality of Evil. Not much to say about this classic. It's well thought out (not without it's holes, and one should definitely read the counter points to what she says here) piece on what evil is. Mainly, it's a joy to read Arendt and gain access to her thought process. It is this that inspires one to at least think outside the normal track.
A Universal History of Iniquity. I'm a huge Borges fan, so reading this was a no-brainer. It's even more concise than his other works, and perhaps a little less fantastical. But it's worth the ride. And as a writer I always find some inspiration in his words.
Heart of a Dog. This is a short and perhaps bitter book by Bulgakov. If The Master and Margarita is too long to get into. It shows how sometimes one cannot change the heart of a.... Just give this one a try.
A Canticle for Leibowitz. One of the best sci-fi books of our time. Spanning several thousand years, the book centers around a post-apocalyptic world where monk hold on to the treasures of the past (us, now) and try to build something. Sure, you might think that nuclear wars ending all seem a little too 60s or 50s, but I think the book is still relevant to today. It simply does an amazing job of showing the strengths and weaknesses of humanity.
The Son. This book has been over looked, I think. Not exactly easy to digest, it has some hard angles to look through as it goes from one century to another following a Texas family from the time of the Comanches to now. A great writer, Meyer at least attempts to grapple with the tougher questions facing us today.
No Longer at Ease. The second in Achebe's Things Fall Apart Trilogy. This is a perfectly written (so concise it hurts) story about the fall into corruption of one man. Try it. The prose will melt and you can finish this in a few days.
We. A precursor to 1984, this book has a badge of honor as being the first book the Bolsheviks banned. Perhaps not as elegant as 1984, it does at times seem more universal. The writing can lend a sense of being lost. The world painted is horrific. Worth a read as it's still relevant today.
Go Tell it on the Mountain. I was inspired to read this book when I saw a quote by Baldwin mocking his government for their reaction to the Palestinians. I knew then that such a contrarian would at least have bold words (better than most these days, isn't it?). I was not disappointed. In fact this book will be added to my greatest of the 20th century list soon enough (it has to sit a little more).
The Sorrow of War. The Vietnam war as told from the other side. Raw to the point of excess. Can't say much more than that. But it should be read for the experience alone. Subscribe to my mailing list for free stories not available elsewhere* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
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This list will reflect that need and wont to find out more through the essay. But there is fiction as well, mind you. Without further ado, here it is:
An American Album: 150 years of Harper's Magazine. This collection is beautiful, and brings to mind a time capsule. From Melville to Woolf, to Porter to Baldwin it perfectly encapsulates the spirit of literature (American, of course) and as you move through time, you can feel yourself attached to the history and to the minds from across time. It also (it's a mixture of fiction and essays) manages to convey all real political and humane senses from the times, as well as reaching out to today. I highly recommend this, if only because of its ability to cast a wide net (you'll find something you like, most likely).
Notes of a Native Son by Baldwin. I only read this because I loved his novel (see below). I sensed from that piece of fiction that he had something more to say. That he was full of energy and perhaps anger. And when that was combined with his eloquence, I had to read his essays, and they seemed like they would have some great insight. It did. The title essay and "The Stranger in the Village" have some of the most incisive, heartfelt, and wry words ever put to paper. It was inspiring in many ways too. As a writer I was moving towards including more essays in my repertoire (the fictional kind, or the non-fiction that turned into fiction) and this book invigorated that idea. Read it. I highly recommend it.
Eichmann in Jerusalem: a Report on the Banality of Evil. Not much to say about this classic. It's well thought out (not without it's holes, and one should definitely read the counter points to what she says here) piece on what evil is. Mainly, it's a joy to read Arendt and gain access to her thought process. It is this that inspires one to at least think outside the normal track.
A Universal History of Iniquity. I'm a huge Borges fan, so reading this was a no-brainer. It's even more concise than his other works, and perhaps a little less fantastical. But it's worth the ride. And as a writer I always find some inspiration in his words.
Heart of a Dog. This is a short and perhaps bitter book by Bulgakov. If The Master and Margarita is too long to get into. It shows how sometimes one cannot change the heart of a.... Just give this one a try.
A Canticle for Leibowitz. One of the best sci-fi books of our time. Spanning several thousand years, the book centers around a post-apocalyptic world where monk hold on to the treasures of the past (us, now) and try to build something. Sure, you might think that nuclear wars ending all seem a little too 60s or 50s, but I think the book is still relevant to today. It simply does an amazing job of showing the strengths and weaknesses of humanity.
The Son. This book has been over looked, I think. Not exactly easy to digest, it has some hard angles to look through as it goes from one century to another following a Texas family from the time of the Comanches to now. A great writer, Meyer at least attempts to grapple with the tougher questions facing us today.
No Longer at Ease. The second in Achebe's Things Fall Apart Trilogy. This is a perfectly written (so concise it hurts) story about the fall into corruption of one man. Try it. The prose will melt and you can finish this in a few days.
We. A precursor to 1984, this book has a badge of honor as being the first book the Bolsheviks banned. Perhaps not as elegant as 1984, it does at times seem more universal. The writing can lend a sense of being lost. The world painted is horrific. Worth a read as it's still relevant today.
Go Tell it on the Mountain. I was inspired to read this book when I saw a quote by Baldwin mocking his government for their reaction to the Palestinians. I knew then that such a contrarian would at least have bold words (better than most these days, isn't it?). I was not disappointed. In fact this book will be added to my greatest of the 20th century list soon enough (it has to sit a little more).
The Sorrow of War. The Vietnam war as told from the other side. Raw to the point of excess. Can't say much more than that. But it should be read for the experience alone. Subscribe to my mailing list for free stories not available elsewhere* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format htmltextmobile
December 1, 2014
The best fractal story for winter
Winter is here. The leaves, having long given up their mobility, now decay in the gutter, smashed together into an ugly pulp—probably hinting at something about ourselves—those pumpkin spice lattes are tasting a little less delicious, and the cold weather is always something of a shock. The early nights, exacerbated by that horrid invention of Franklin’s, only further push the idea that an end of some kind is near. What to do then? Well, I find solace within books.
And lately I’ve been obsessed with an author I found in a used book store out in the Bronx, before I left. The store wasn’t found on Google maps, wasn’t even advertised at street level, unless a rusty 5x5 inch sign on the second floor counts as an advertisement. An old lady who was helping to take my passport photo in her shop a few blocks away was chattering to me about the unfortunate man down the street who was only dealing a little drugs and fell in love with the wrong woman. Woman fell afoul of him and immediately ratted him out.
The old lady stared at me trying to judge my reaction, but since I gave her none she smiled—teeth looking crooked enough that one knew she had never even graced America’s middle class—and asked what it was I did. A writer, I told her, and (instead of giving me that stare that I’m usually torn down with) she immediately hustled me out into the bright road and to the bookstore, owned by the same ratted-by-ex-girlfriend-man who was just out on bail.
Of course, as I was being pushed up stairs and through doors with no semblance of belonging to commercial establishments, I wondered if I should have turned and taken on the woman because, for all I knew, she could be leading me into an ambush. And, though I had only five dollars in my pocket (it was all I had), I didn’t particularly want to go hungry for a day. All the while she chattered, mainly conspiratorial talk about how everything in the world was a conspiracy; it was the kind of talk I’ve tended to find in poorer neighborhoods because, well, those with bad luck and no luck end up here and also because the world is in conspiracy against them. Her chatter—some of it circled around women being wolves and men being hyenas—didn’t help soothe my worries.
But, the moment I walked into the thin bookstore, used books all around, reggaeton blaring, the smell of old paper fighting off decay, I knew then that the old woman, whatever her quirks, must have, at some point in her life, had her way with men because she’d read me perfectly. This was a place I loved, would love without hesitation.
Before I could turn and thank her, the door behind me slammed and I found myself face to face with Omar, who politely turned down the music. Omar, I found out, was a recent convert to Islam from the Dominican Republic. He started this store when his grandfather died and bequeathed him both the books and the love of them. So, around the city he goes, in his time off, and finds books that truly define the world—you’ll find not a single genre book here, he claimed in a thick Bronx-Dominican slang—and either clarified or muddied the debate, depending from which angle you came at the world. He was, because of his recent troubles with the woman who ratted him out, very close to losing everything, including this store. He said all this, ending every sentence with a smirk that I couldn’t interpret.
How much weed, I asked and almost had a heart attack when he told me the piddling amount. I thought it was decriminalized, I said. And he looked at me, like he knew I wasn’t from there. Sorry for the bookstore, I stammered and noticed a picture on the wall behind him. That her? Yeah he said, sadly.
She looked like the kind of woman you would leave a photo up of, even after she just destroyed your life. Damn, I said. He nodded as he stared at the photo which was beside an artistic poster: two white pawns posed in front of a chained up, battered, black queen, as another white pawn took a photo of them; behind was a toppled black king—the white king and queen standing over him and laughing; and the rest of the black pieces were being lead away in chains; the two bishops being the exception as they were hanging from scaffolds. Omar saw me examining the poster—maybe with a sneer on my face—and explained that in his youth he had dabbled with creating a smart computer chess program—not just some simplistic search tree pruner—and this poster was the only tangible thing he created during that time. I didn’t know what to say; the poster stuck in my throat like a twig, and I wasn’t sure why.
A young man broke the silent spell as he hustled out from the back of the bookstore and pushed past me without so much as a word. The door slammed behind him as he left. Omar explained that it was the help, or former help. A good kid, but he was someone who was going to fall hard in this life. That he worked hard but had a knack of thinking about the big picture a little too much and then stopping all work and hurtling himself at some windmill or another.
I smiled politely, thought of asking if it was worth it—the woman, that is, I cared not a wit for the rebellious young man—and instead asked if I could take a look around. He nodded and went back to reading Borges. It was here, at the bottom of a shelf that was located in a dug out part of the floor (the floor was only loosely one, as the cement and earth interchanged with each other at random points). You know when you pick a book and, even though you have no knowledge of the writer or book, you know you have to have it? That was this book. Omar nodded his approval.
I loved it. The novel, if the term could be applied, was filled with arrows and interchangeable characters and memes of characters or how a certain item came into being. Flooded with footnotes and the idea that the world could be contained in a single book, and that if it were to be contained, it could only be done so in a none linear way (I’m speaking now of the way sentences are arranged on the page not a plot) and a fragmented way as most people take this world. Thus Algo used multiple fonts and sizes and colors in trying to get this across. There were also multiple languages, to include machine and higher level programming. Not understanding that was part of, as Algo saw it, life. I’m not sure, even to this day, what the point of the story was: I think it was about a young girl living in the city of the Bronx and, her mother sick, going to find her grandmother and get help, as the hospital was out of the question. But the story wasn’t the point of the book. It was what Algo was trying to accomplish.
As a writer, I was impressed and inspired, though the limitations of paper made reading the book troublesome to say the least. Algo, it was said, felt the same way and was working on using new mediums to better achieve what he wanted. I found out about his short story on a webpage. It was meant to be a fractal story that, at the very least, was infinite, or rather, fractal. I recommend you visit it, just google the author.
The skeleton of the story is something short and sweet: again it was about a girl traveling. There was a bridge to cross, and at each end of the bridge there sat her nemeses. One a group of school bullies, the other the monster in her dreams. Short and sweet. A mixture of hard realism and fantasy. This, however, wasn’t what made it the story that I’ve been lost in for the past few weeks. For, should one care and roll their mouse over a noun (usually, verbs too had some function like this), they would find some hovering text explaining the story of that item or action or what it was doing there and so forth. In that text itself was more text to roll a mouse pointer over and so on ad infinitum. You could follow a story about the monster and its family, or the bullies and their families and the people related to that and so on and so on (I have yet to come to repeating text or a set of text without more text that hovers over it). You could do none of that and still get a beautiful short story out of it all.
I think that Algo has finally achieved what he wanted. If one follows a strand long enough they will find an epic. They will find all of human history. This is not a series of random clicks, as it would be if you went to a Wikipedia page and kept clicking random links. No, the curation here is obvious, it shows the deft hand with which Algo has created these inter-correlated stories. I’m not sure when this story (stories) of Algo’s will end (does it have an end? Is the author working on it as we speak? Making the infinite possible?), but I recommend anyone interested in literature (the future of it, the application of it to the new mediums) to take a look. Enjoyed this? Want more?Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
htmltextmobile
And lately I’ve been obsessed with an author I found in a used book store out in the Bronx, before I left. The store wasn’t found on Google maps, wasn’t even advertised at street level, unless a rusty 5x5 inch sign on the second floor counts as an advertisement. An old lady who was helping to take my passport photo in her shop a few blocks away was chattering to me about the unfortunate man down the street who was only dealing a little drugs and fell in love with the wrong woman. Woman fell afoul of him and immediately ratted him out.
The old lady stared at me trying to judge my reaction, but since I gave her none she smiled—teeth looking crooked enough that one knew she had never even graced America’s middle class—and asked what it was I did. A writer, I told her, and (instead of giving me that stare that I’m usually torn down with) she immediately hustled me out into the bright road and to the bookstore, owned by the same ratted-by-ex-girlfriend-man who was just out on bail.
Of course, as I was being pushed up stairs and through doors with no semblance of belonging to commercial establishments, I wondered if I should have turned and taken on the woman because, for all I knew, she could be leading me into an ambush. And, though I had only five dollars in my pocket (it was all I had), I didn’t particularly want to go hungry for a day. All the while she chattered, mainly conspiratorial talk about how everything in the world was a conspiracy; it was the kind of talk I’ve tended to find in poorer neighborhoods because, well, those with bad luck and no luck end up here and also because the world is in conspiracy against them. Her chatter—some of it circled around women being wolves and men being hyenas—didn’t help soothe my worries.
But, the moment I walked into the thin bookstore, used books all around, reggaeton blaring, the smell of old paper fighting off decay, I knew then that the old woman, whatever her quirks, must have, at some point in her life, had her way with men because she’d read me perfectly. This was a place I loved, would love without hesitation.
Before I could turn and thank her, the door behind me slammed and I found myself face to face with Omar, who politely turned down the music. Omar, I found out, was a recent convert to Islam from the Dominican Republic. He started this store when his grandfather died and bequeathed him both the books and the love of them. So, around the city he goes, in his time off, and finds books that truly define the world—you’ll find not a single genre book here, he claimed in a thick Bronx-Dominican slang—and either clarified or muddied the debate, depending from which angle you came at the world. He was, because of his recent troubles with the woman who ratted him out, very close to losing everything, including this store. He said all this, ending every sentence with a smirk that I couldn’t interpret.
How much weed, I asked and almost had a heart attack when he told me the piddling amount. I thought it was decriminalized, I said. And he looked at me, like he knew I wasn’t from there. Sorry for the bookstore, I stammered and noticed a picture on the wall behind him. That her? Yeah he said, sadly.
She looked like the kind of woman you would leave a photo up of, even after she just destroyed your life. Damn, I said. He nodded as he stared at the photo which was beside an artistic poster: two white pawns posed in front of a chained up, battered, black queen, as another white pawn took a photo of them; behind was a toppled black king—the white king and queen standing over him and laughing; and the rest of the black pieces were being lead away in chains; the two bishops being the exception as they were hanging from scaffolds. Omar saw me examining the poster—maybe with a sneer on my face—and explained that in his youth he had dabbled with creating a smart computer chess program—not just some simplistic search tree pruner—and this poster was the only tangible thing he created during that time. I didn’t know what to say; the poster stuck in my throat like a twig, and I wasn’t sure why.
A young man broke the silent spell as he hustled out from the back of the bookstore and pushed past me without so much as a word. The door slammed behind him as he left. Omar explained that it was the help, or former help. A good kid, but he was someone who was going to fall hard in this life. That he worked hard but had a knack of thinking about the big picture a little too much and then stopping all work and hurtling himself at some windmill or another.
I smiled politely, thought of asking if it was worth it—the woman, that is, I cared not a wit for the rebellious young man—and instead asked if I could take a look around. He nodded and went back to reading Borges. It was here, at the bottom of a shelf that was located in a dug out part of the floor (the floor was only loosely one, as the cement and earth interchanged with each other at random points). You know when you pick a book and, even though you have no knowledge of the writer or book, you know you have to have it? That was this book. Omar nodded his approval.
I loved it. The novel, if the term could be applied, was filled with arrows and interchangeable characters and memes of characters or how a certain item came into being. Flooded with footnotes and the idea that the world could be contained in a single book, and that if it were to be contained, it could only be done so in a none linear way (I’m speaking now of the way sentences are arranged on the page not a plot) and a fragmented way as most people take this world. Thus Algo used multiple fonts and sizes and colors in trying to get this across. There were also multiple languages, to include machine and higher level programming. Not understanding that was part of, as Algo saw it, life. I’m not sure, even to this day, what the point of the story was: I think it was about a young girl living in the city of the Bronx and, her mother sick, going to find her grandmother and get help, as the hospital was out of the question. But the story wasn’t the point of the book. It was what Algo was trying to accomplish.
As a writer, I was impressed and inspired, though the limitations of paper made reading the book troublesome to say the least. Algo, it was said, felt the same way and was working on using new mediums to better achieve what he wanted. I found out about his short story on a webpage. It was meant to be a fractal story that, at the very least, was infinite, or rather, fractal. I recommend you visit it, just google the author.
The skeleton of the story is something short and sweet: again it was about a girl traveling. There was a bridge to cross, and at each end of the bridge there sat her nemeses. One a group of school bullies, the other the monster in her dreams. Short and sweet. A mixture of hard realism and fantasy. This, however, wasn’t what made it the story that I’ve been lost in for the past few weeks. For, should one care and roll their mouse over a noun (usually, verbs too had some function like this), they would find some hovering text explaining the story of that item or action or what it was doing there and so forth. In that text itself was more text to roll a mouse pointer over and so on ad infinitum. You could follow a story about the monster and its family, or the bullies and their families and the people related to that and so on and so on (I have yet to come to repeating text or a set of text without more text that hovers over it). You could do none of that and still get a beautiful short story out of it all.
I think that Algo has finally achieved what he wanted. If one follows a strand long enough they will find an epic. They will find all of human history. This is not a series of random clicks, as it would be if you went to a Wikipedia page and kept clicking random links. No, the curation here is obvious, it shows the deft hand with which Algo has created these inter-correlated stories. I’m not sure when this story (stories) of Algo’s will end (does it have an end? Is the author working on it as we speak? Making the infinite possible?), but I recommend anyone interested in literature (the future of it, the application of it to the new mediums) to take a look. Enjoyed this? Want more?Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
htmltextmobile
The best fractal story for winter
Winter is here. The leaves, having long given up their mobility, now decay in the gutter, smashed together into an ugly pulp—probably hinting at something about ourselves—those pumpkin spice lattes are tasting a little less delicious, and the cold weather is always something of a shock. The early nights, exacerbated by that horrid invention of Franklin’s, only further push the idea that an end of some kind is near. What to do then? Well, I find solace within books.
And lately I’ve been obsessed with an author I found in a used book store out in the Bronx, before I left. The store wasn’t found on Google maps, wasn’t even advertised at street level, unless a rusty 5x5 inch sign on the second floor counts as an advertisement. An old lady who was helping to take my passport photo in her shop a few blocks away was chattering to me about the unfortunate man down the street who was only dealing a little drugs and fell in love with the wrong woman. Woman fell afoul of him and immediately ratted him out.
The old lady stared at me trying to judge my reaction, but since I gave her none she smiled—teeth looking crooked enough that one knew she had never even graced America’s middle class—and asked what it was I did. A writer, I told her, and (instead of giving me that stare that I’m usually torn down with) she immediately hustled me out into the bright road and to the bookstore, owned by the same ratted-by-ex-girlfriend-man who was just out on bail.
Of course, as I was being pushed up stairs and through doors with no semblance of belonging to commercial establishments, I wondered if I should have turned and taken on the woman because, for all I knew, she could be leading me into an ambush. And, though I had only five dollars in my pocket (it was all I had), I didn’t particularly want to go hungry for a day. All the while she chattered, mainly conspiratorial talk about how everything in the world was a conspiracy; it was the kind of talk I’ve tended to find in poorer neighborhoods because, well, those with bad luck and no luck end up here and also because the world is in conspiracy against them. Her chatter—some of it circled around women being wolves and men being hyenas—didn’t help soothe my worries.
But, the moment I walked into the thin bookstore, used books all around, reggaeton blaring, the smell of old paper fighting off decay, I knew then that the old woman, whatever her quirks, must have, at some point in her life, had her way with men because she’d read me perfectly. This was a place I loved, would love without hesitation.
Before I could turn and thank her, the door behind me slammed and I found myself face to face with Omar, who politely turned down the music. Omar, I found out, was a recent convert to Islam from the Dominican Republic. He started this store when his grandfather died and bequeathed him both the books and the love of them. So, around the city he goes, in his time off, and finds books that truly define the world—you’ll find not a single genre book here, he claimed in a thick Bronx-Dominican slang—and either clarified or muddied the debate, depending from which angle you came at the world. He was, because of his recent troubles with the woman who ratted him out, very close to losing everything, including this store. He said all this, ending every sentence with a smirk that I couldn’t interpret.
How much weed, I asked and almost had a heart attack when he told me the piddling amount. I thought it was decriminalized, I said. And he looked at me, like he knew I wasn’t from there. Sorry for the bookstore, I stammered and noticed a picture on the wall behind him. That her? Yeah he said, sadly.
She looked like the kind of woman you would leave a photo up of, even after she just destroyed your life. Damn, I said. He nodded as he stared at the photo which was beside an artistic poster: two white pawns posed in front of a chained up, battered, black queen, as another white pawn took a photo of them; behind was a toppled black king—the white king and queen standing over him and laughing; and the rest of the black pieces were being lead away in chains; the two bishops being the exception as they were hanging from scaffolds. Omar saw me examining the poster—maybe with a sneer on my face—and explained that in his youth he had dabbled with creating a smart computer chess program—not just some simplistic search tree pruner—and this poster was the only tangible thing he created during that time. I didn’t know what to say; the poster stuck in my throat like a twig, and I wasn’t sure why.
A young man broke the silent spell as he hustled out from the back of the bookstore and pushed past me without so much as a word. The door slammed behind him as he left. Omar explained that it was the help, or former help. A good kid, but he was someone who was going to fall hard in this life. That he worked hard but had a knack of thinking about the big picture a little too much and then stopping all work and hurtling himself at some windmill or another.
I smiled politely, thought of asking if it was worth it—the woman, that is, I cared not a wit for the rebellious young man—and instead asked if I could take a look around. He nodded and went back to reading Borges. It was here, at the bottom of a shelf that was located in a dug out part of the floor (the floor was only loosely one, as the cement and earth interchanged with each other at random points). You know when you pick a book and, even though you have no knowledge of the writer or book, you know you have to have it? That was this book. Omar nodded his approval.
I loved it. The novel, if the term could be applied, was filled with arrows and interchangeable characters and memes of characters or how a certain item came into being. Flooded with footnotes and the idea that the world could be contained in a single book, and that if it were to be contained, it could only be done so in a none linear way (I’m speaking now of the way sentences are arranged on the page not a plot) and a fragmented way as most people take this world. Thus Algo used multiple fonts and sizes and colors in trying to get this across. There were also multiple languages, to include machine and higher level programming. Not understanding that was part of, as Algo saw it, life. I’m not sure, even to this day, what the point of the story was: I think it was about a young girl living in the city of the Bronx and, her mother sick, going to find her grandmother and get help, as the hospital was out of the question. But the story wasn’t the point of the book. It was what Algo was trying to accomplish.
As a writer, I was impressed and inspired, though the limitations of paper made reading the book troublesome to say the least. Algo, it was said, felt the same way and was working on using new mediums to better achieve what he wanted. I found out about his short story on a webpage. It was meant to be a fractal story that, at the very least, was infinite, or rather, fractal. I recommend you visit it, just google the author.
The skeleton of the story is something short and sweet: again it was about a girl traveling. There was a bridge to cross, and at each end of the bridge there sat her nemeses. One a group of school bullies, the other the monster in her dreams. Short and sweet. A mixture of hard realism and fantasy. This, however, wasn’t what made it the story that I’ve been lost in for the past few weeks. For, should one care and roll their mouse over a noun (usually, verbs too had some function like this), they would find some hovering text explaining the story of that item or action or what it was doing there and so forth. In that text itself was more text to roll a mouse pointer over and so on ad infinitum. You could follow a story about the monster and its family, or the bullies and their families and the people related to that and so on and so on (I have yet to come to repeating text or a set of text without more text that hovers over it). You could do none of that and still get a beautiful short story out of it all.
I think that Algo has finally achieved what he wanted. If one follows a strand long enough they will find an epic. They will find all of human history. This is not a series of random clicks, as it would be if you went to a Wikipedia page and kept clicking random links. No, the curation here is obvious, it shows the deft hand with which Algo has created these inter-correlated stories. I’m not sure when this story (stories) of Algo’s will end (does it have an end? Is the author working on it as we speak? Making the infinite possible?), but I recommend anyone interested in literature (the future of it, the application of it to the new mediums) to take a look. Enjoyed this? Want more?Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
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And lately I’ve been obsessed with an author I found in a used book store out in the Bronx, before I left. The store wasn’t found on Google maps, wasn’t even advertised at street level, unless a rusty 5x5 inch sign on the second floor counts as an advertisement. An old lady who was helping to take my passport photo in her shop a few blocks away was chattering to me about the unfortunate man down the street who was only dealing a little drugs and fell in love with the wrong woman. Woman fell afoul of him and immediately ratted him out.
The old lady stared at me trying to judge my reaction, but since I gave her none she smiled—teeth looking crooked enough that one knew she had never even graced America’s middle class—and asked what it was I did. A writer, I told her, and (instead of giving me that stare that I’m usually torn down with) she immediately hustled me out into the bright road and to the bookstore, owned by the same ratted-by-ex-girlfriend-man who was just out on bail.
Of course, as I was being pushed up stairs and through doors with no semblance of belonging to commercial establishments, I wondered if I should have turned and taken on the woman because, for all I knew, she could be leading me into an ambush. And, though I had only five dollars in my pocket (it was all I had), I didn’t particularly want to go hungry for a day. All the while she chattered, mainly conspiratorial talk about how everything in the world was a conspiracy; it was the kind of talk I’ve tended to find in poorer neighborhoods because, well, those with bad luck and no luck end up here and also because the world is in conspiracy against them. Her chatter—some of it circled around women being wolves and men being hyenas—didn’t help soothe my worries.
But, the moment I walked into the thin bookstore, used books all around, reggaeton blaring, the smell of old paper fighting off decay, I knew then that the old woman, whatever her quirks, must have, at some point in her life, had her way with men because she’d read me perfectly. This was a place I loved, would love without hesitation.
Before I could turn and thank her, the door behind me slammed and I found myself face to face with Omar, who politely turned down the music. Omar, I found out, was a recent convert to Islam from the Dominican Republic. He started this store when his grandfather died and bequeathed him both the books and the love of them. So, around the city he goes, in his time off, and finds books that truly define the world—you’ll find not a single genre book here, he claimed in a thick Bronx-Dominican slang—and either clarified or muddied the debate, depending from which angle you came at the world. He was, because of his recent troubles with the woman who ratted him out, very close to losing everything, including this store. He said all this, ending every sentence with a smirk that I couldn’t interpret.
How much weed, I asked and almost had a heart attack when he told me the piddling amount. I thought it was decriminalized, I said. And he looked at me, like he knew I wasn’t from there. Sorry for the bookstore, I stammered and noticed a picture on the wall behind him. That her? Yeah he said, sadly.
She looked like the kind of woman you would leave a photo up of, even after she just destroyed your life. Damn, I said. He nodded as he stared at the photo which was beside an artistic poster: two white pawns posed in front of a chained up, battered, black queen, as another white pawn took a photo of them; behind was a toppled black king—the white king and queen standing over him and laughing; and the rest of the black pieces were being lead away in chains; the two bishops being the exception as they were hanging from scaffolds. Omar saw me examining the poster—maybe with a sneer on my face—and explained that in his youth he had dabbled with creating a smart computer chess program—not just some simplistic search tree pruner—and this poster was the only tangible thing he created during that time. I didn’t know what to say; the poster stuck in my throat like a twig, and I wasn’t sure why.
A young man broke the silent spell as he hustled out from the back of the bookstore and pushed past me without so much as a word. The door slammed behind him as he left. Omar explained that it was the help, or former help. A good kid, but he was someone who was going to fall hard in this life. That he worked hard but had a knack of thinking about the big picture a little too much and then stopping all work and hurtling himself at some windmill or another.
I smiled politely, thought of asking if it was worth it—the woman, that is, I cared not a wit for the rebellious young man—and instead asked if I could take a look around. He nodded and went back to reading Borges. It was here, at the bottom of a shelf that was located in a dug out part of the floor (the floor was only loosely one, as the cement and earth interchanged with each other at random points). You know when you pick a book and, even though you have no knowledge of the writer or book, you know you have to have it? That was this book. Omar nodded his approval.
I loved it. The novel, if the term could be applied, was filled with arrows and interchangeable characters and memes of characters or how a certain item came into being. Flooded with footnotes and the idea that the world could be contained in a single book, and that if it were to be contained, it could only be done so in a none linear way (I’m speaking now of the way sentences are arranged on the page not a plot) and a fragmented way as most people take this world. Thus Algo used multiple fonts and sizes and colors in trying to get this across. There were also multiple languages, to include machine and higher level programming. Not understanding that was part of, as Algo saw it, life. I’m not sure, even to this day, what the point of the story was: I think it was about a young girl living in the city of the Bronx and, her mother sick, going to find her grandmother and get help, as the hospital was out of the question. But the story wasn’t the point of the book. It was what Algo was trying to accomplish.
As a writer, I was impressed and inspired, though the limitations of paper made reading the book troublesome to say the least. Algo, it was said, felt the same way and was working on using new mediums to better achieve what he wanted. I found out about his short story on a webpage. It was meant to be a fractal story that, at the very least, was infinite, or rather, fractal. I recommend you visit it, just google the author.
The skeleton of the story is something short and sweet: again it was about a girl traveling. There was a bridge to cross, and at each end of the bridge there sat her nemeses. One a group of school bullies, the other the monster in her dreams. Short and sweet. A mixture of hard realism and fantasy. This, however, wasn’t what made it the story that I’ve been lost in for the past few weeks. For, should one care and roll their mouse over a noun (usually, verbs too had some function like this), they would find some hovering text explaining the story of that item or action or what it was doing there and so forth. In that text itself was more text to roll a mouse pointer over and so on ad infinitum. You could follow a story about the monster and its family, or the bullies and their families and the people related to that and so on and so on (I have yet to come to repeating text or a set of text without more text that hovers over it). You could do none of that and still get a beautiful short story out of it all.
I think that Algo has finally achieved what he wanted. If one follows a strand long enough they will find an epic. They will find all of human history. This is not a series of random clicks, as it would be if you went to a Wikipedia page and kept clicking random links. No, the curation here is obvious, it shows the deft hand with which Algo has created these inter-correlated stories. I’m not sure when this story (stories) of Algo’s will end (does it have an end? Is the author working on it as we speak? Making the infinite possible?), but I recommend anyone interested in literature (the future of it, the application of it to the new mediums) to take a look. Enjoyed this? Want more?Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
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November 28, 2014
A few things as we move through to the end of the year
Hello all my readers. Again there has been silence on my part, and again I can only say that the next book is still being worked upon and will be out as soon as possible. If you are subscribed to the email, you will have received a snippet, not of the book, but of a short story that inspired it. The idea I'm wrestling with is more complicated than previous ones because it doesn't only include the worldviews of humans (previously I've written from the point of different people around the world). Sci-fi, certainly, but that I think will be very relevant, if reality doesn't take over. Rest assured, nonetheless, that a book will be out soon (and if you want something to read until then, I recommend that you sign up for the newsletter and get some more works that won't be available elsewhere). Enjoyed this post?Then Subscribe to my mailing list* indicates requiredEmail Address * First Name Last Name Email Format
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