Nelson Lowhim's Blog, page 127
March 30, 2014
[OM] On the new news paradigm.
Also titled: On Bill Maher's notes on the news.
I've just watched and listened to Bill Maher's New Rules (from, I believe the earlier part of this month—March 2014) and I want to discuss something that has been going around: the hatred for the new paradigm of news: that people are only seeing what they want, and a second matter on the lack of journalists bringing down the level of news.
I'll put the latter one aside after saying this: that it's not immediately obvious that news has suffered wholly since the advent of the Internet. Sure it's hard for them to make money (On this subject of modern day changes, the matter of paying the original content owners is something everyone must address. I see a lot of—could it be what I farm?—content being provided by professors, who would appear to be somewhat cushioned from the same monetary constraints as those outside—I'm not sure if that isn't a problem) but it appears that some do, and that to see a drop off in "the news finding things that are worthy" requires a rosy view of the past.
Journalists too are subject to many influences. By being allowed access to higher levels of power, I would say that they are corrupted and won't out the hand that feeds them unless they see a real reason to. In other words the positive of having a steady stream of information—itself suspect on many levels—has to be outweighed by the chance of making it big with an outing story... How many real controversies were uncovered before as opposed to now? I haven't seen evidence that it has become worse. We now speak on subjects that the mainstream media won't touch, but plenty of bloggers will. In fact, I have more or less cut most of what is considered mainstream news from my list (more on how to read the news here).
But the only real way to judge this matter is to take a survey of what happened in the past, what was left covered or was uncovered by mainstream sources versus the results of modern day Internet sources (bloggers and the like). And my only consideration (not well thought through, I must admit) for change in this realm would be to separate news media from other conglomerates by law.
Regarding the former topic, the "echo chamber" for both sides: the Internet powers that be are exacerbating this by further enabling them. Readers will now get a news piece only because it's been algorithmically said to be what people like them clicked on (though this is already happening because people are actively seeking out the sites that agree with them, the veritable echo chamber). And so it goes.
The scare is that this will only further polarize an electorate that hardly understands one another and that doesn't care for the other view, and not having the other view only further makes it so that people never hear what both sides of the coin will look like. I'm not saying that both sides of the coin exist in all situations, but surely something can be agreed upon? In a democracy shouldn't a large proportion be at least listened to?
Perhaps we need to somehow let people know that it's all right to have fruitful discussions on the Internet and to allow people to speak an opposing view. It's not easy. And one wonders what to do with comments. There has been some controversy as to whether sites should cut them, as Popular Science did, for it does feel like it goes against the grain of our democratic ideals. But read this link. It makes a very powerful case. What does one do when you know comments influence, right or wrong, and people are willing to pay for that influence? (and I won't lie that no matter how inane comments are, I will read them over and over)
I might have more questions than answers here, but I will attempt to add more as information comes in.
I've just watched and listened to Bill Maher's New Rules (from, I believe the earlier part of this month—March 2014) and I want to discuss something that has been going around: the hatred for the new paradigm of news: that people are only seeing what they want, and a second matter on the lack of journalists bringing down the level of news.
I'll put the latter one aside after saying this: that it's not immediately obvious that news has suffered wholly since the advent of the Internet. Sure it's hard for them to make money (On this subject of modern day changes, the matter of paying the original content owners is something everyone must address. I see a lot of—could it be what I farm?—content being provided by professors, who would appear to be somewhat cushioned from the same monetary constraints as those outside—I'm not sure if that isn't a problem) but it appears that some do, and that to see a drop off in "the news finding things that are worthy" requires a rosy view of the past.
Journalists too are subject to many influences. By being allowed access to higher levels of power, I would say that they are corrupted and won't out the hand that feeds them unless they see a real reason to. In other words the positive of having a steady stream of information—itself suspect on many levels—has to be outweighed by the chance of making it big with an outing story... How many real controversies were uncovered before as opposed to now? I haven't seen evidence that it has become worse. We now speak on subjects that the mainstream media won't touch, but plenty of bloggers will. In fact, I have more or less cut most of what is considered mainstream news from my list (more on how to read the news here).
But the only real way to judge this matter is to take a survey of what happened in the past, what was left covered or was uncovered by mainstream sources versus the results of modern day Internet sources (bloggers and the like). And my only consideration (not well thought through, I must admit) for change in this realm would be to separate news media from other conglomerates by law.
Regarding the former topic, the "echo chamber" for both sides: the Internet powers that be are exacerbating this by further enabling them. Readers will now get a news piece only because it's been algorithmically said to be what people like them clicked on (though this is already happening because people are actively seeking out the sites that agree with them, the veritable echo chamber). And so it goes.
The scare is that this will only further polarize an electorate that hardly understands one another and that doesn't care for the other view, and not having the other view only further makes it so that people never hear what both sides of the coin will look like. I'm not saying that both sides of the coin exist in all situations, but surely something can be agreed upon? In a democracy shouldn't a large proportion be at least listened to?
Perhaps we need to somehow let people know that it's all right to have fruitful discussions on the Internet and to allow people to speak an opposing view. It's not easy. And one wonders what to do with comments. There has been some controversy as to whether sites should cut them, as Popular Science did, for it does feel like it goes against the grain of our democratic ideals. But read this link. It makes a very powerful case. What does one do when you know comments influence, right or wrong, and people are willing to pay for that influence? (and I won't lie that no matter how inane comments are, I will read them over and over)
I might have more questions than answers here, but I will attempt to add more as information comes in.
March 29, 2014
To keep the thoughts here (with excerpt)
Another short piece as I finish up the final epic story about labyrinths. This one is short and meant to be an interview scrounged up from the archives of a distant intelligence apparatus of a distant Empire
Read below and enjoy!
There was once a reason for fighting. I no longer have that reason. Why? You may ask. Well, I’ll tell you. And I assure all my friends that it’s not a matter of cowardice... [Breathes for a few seconds, staring at his trembling hands] And no, it’s not my bones, my old joints that act like demons when I wake up, or sit or stand in any position for too long. No, it’s none of that. But it doesn’t surprise me that some young buck such as yourself would think that about his elders. In my day we definitely didn’t talk down to our elders, no matter how useless they were. And I assure you that I’m not useless. [Booms in the background] You hear that? Artillery. Used to be that they'd hold back on such things near civilians, but that was only for appearances anyways. [He sniffles, wipes his face and nose with his sleeve] Man. One really gets misty-eyed just remembering the past... Used to watch my grandma stare at the tree in front of our house in the city, like a statue. I always wondered how that was. But you get old, young one. You get old and suddenly memories are as strong as the real thing. And the real thing is your body falling apart, your eyesight useless, your hearing nothing but a whine. You stop experiencing, and you need memories to keep you sane. And you look back with fondness. You try and form memories, and suddenly you’ve done just that. Of course, I ain’t going to boast, but I’m sure I’ve done more than most. Hell, I did more than most by the age of 10. You see, we have family in The city, most of them left Northern Ireland. But my mom and I, and my older sister, were left to fight it out in Belfast. Well, my mother wasn’t leaving. And she warned both me and my sister that we were to do good in school and not make trouble. You know the type. I love my mother, but she was working class assured that moving up to middle class was the only way to make happiness in life. Basically she’d bought in on all that tripe and propaganda made by types who wish to see no violence on their manicured lawns. Not that I blame her. It wasn’t all just her believing tripe on the TV and on shows. No, it was also the loss of our pa. Died when we were 5. I would always see ma staring at his crumpled picture. Only evidence, besides us, that he ever lived. [Sniffles, bites lip and taps metallic hand on his chin] Our pa, Christ I haven’t the faintest memory of him any more, he was shot up by some SAS types. Murdered, I’d say, but I’m not sure about the circumstances behind his death so I won’t speculate. Though given what those Empire bastards were capable of, it’s fair to side on murder. SAS especially. Always doing something outside the realm of human. And I don’t mean that in a bad way. Well, memories of my dad are limited. Especially now. Hell, I’m not even sure that there’s much in here. [He taps his temple] But there are shadows of a gruff man talking to my ma, of a man yelling at my ma, and her giving it back. But that could all have been made up. It could also have been that she was talking to his friends. Left overs from the cell that got blasted. Or maybe all my memories of him were merely tales whispered to me about him from my ma. This was only when she was drinking. When she was sober, she hardly spoke of him. As if mentioning him would lead us, me, down the same path… All I have of him is this. [He leans over, the popping of his joints loud and apparent—he raises his eyebrows when others flinch to this noise—and pulls from his pocket a photograph. It’s a color photograph of a young man and woman. The man seems grim, and the woman shining in smiles] This is it. Funny looking at your pa and seeing him as always younger than you. That’s how he stays. Makes me wonder about the only the good die young saying. Don’t it? [Looks up, his eyes misting over, then looks down at the photograph] I mean, I used to think that it was a matter of only the good people being taken down by the evil and more treacherous people of this world. Or, to give you a wartime situation: when one faces the guns of an enemy only the ones with kind hearts will sacrifice themselves for their friends. The cowards will survive and live on in the world. But nowadays I wonder about this, and I think that maybe this isn’t what the saying means. Perhaps it means that those who die young are filtered through the prism of time by those who survive and that with that prism of nostalgia the image of those who died young will be more and more glorified. Or maybe it’s just that the young don’t have time to sell out their ideals and they are indeed deserving of their accolades when they die young. [Coughs, shifts in seat, holds his side and grimaces in pain] I’m rambling now. You tend to do that when you get old. Not much time left, so I suppose one tends to spew all the thoughts in the mind, trying to beat death. But back to my pa. My ma, when sober, never told us a word about him. So who’s to say her drunk words were any more truthful. You could tell she loved him. Pained her to realize that whatever future she had imagined with him was gone forever. That he had left her in this world alone. And you could see that anger thrown at us at times. Especially when either of us acted in the slightest like him. [Shakes his head] Not that I blame her. With kids in the neighborhood getting caught up with the fight against the Empire, there wasn’t much else to do for her but try and purge that. I know she didn’t want to lose us too. But even then… why tell us nothing about our father? Like that’s going to push away fate? For me, all it made me do is want to be more like him, and the less I knew, the harder I wanted to be something I didn’t know. But she tried. God bless her soul. In those times, though, every single boy becoming a teen ended up helping out the rebels. When those old friends of my father came about there was always a tension. And as soon as any of them talked to me or my sister, my ma would be yelling in full volume and beating their chests and pushing them out the door. She had a temper on her, my ma. [Leans his head back and smiles with his eyes closed] Can’t help swallowing a little shit when you’re swimming in it, though. When I was eight, I remember waking up in our little basement apartment. It was spring, and raining outside, and that building of ours was moldy and dripping. You could hear the bangs of the pipes as people tried their luck with the running water. I stood up in my bed. My sister slept in the same room, though my mother had finally found me a separate army cot to sleep in. My sis had been crying about having to sleep with her brother even though she was a woman. I crept out of bed. I remember it like it was yesterday. That metal cot threatening to creak, and me trying my hardest to not make a sound. Breathing only when it was necessary. I could hear the distant throttling of trucks. Then the sound of tracks grinding up the road into gravel. We always had soldiers patrolling in our neighborhood, but we’d been spared most of the fighting and the sound of raids. No, our apartment was mainly women and children, and that spared us. Then I heard boots sprinkling themselves across the road. I had to see. I was out of our room. In the hallway I pressed my ear against my ma’s door. Nothing. I made my way to the living room window. It was one of those half windows with a slit to see the feet of the world passing by. I could see the trucks and soldiers across the street. There were search lights too, and barrels of guns, and they were all pointed at our building. I was little, and youth like that means no fear of knowledge. I ran into the hallway. I could see some shadows outside the door. I froze. Part of me wanted to stay there and watch. Another part of me—the one that had heard about how the Empires, cause this is who was about to attack our apartment building, loved killing kids then planting guns on them, or telling the world that the terrorists did it—said to hide. Thank God the latter won out. There was a crawlspace with an entrance underneath the stairs. I may have been the only one to know about its existence. And I kept it well hidden with a handful of boxes in front of it. I ran under the stairs, shifted the boxes and crawled in. I almost screamed with a furry creature ran over my foot—I was barefoot, mind you—but that was nothing. The bang was absolute. I have no idea why they would go and blow up our front door, it was the only thing that kept our building relatively safe from the thieves of the neighborhood, and we would have gladly opened it for them. But no. They blew it up. [Shakes head and nods at a glass of water on a table across. Once he has it, he sips it and sighs] Shook me to my core. Always heard explosions before. Even the big car bombs that shook the earth. But it’s quite another thing to be near one. My ears popped and instinctively, I started to climb up that space. Couldn’t see anything. But I could feel those cold, dripping pipes. And up I went. I could hear boots from through the wall. But it wasn’t much. Then, below me, a light shone around blindly. Thank good I moved. I heard some mumbles, then the light went out. They must have figured it was too small to hide anyone. But I was scared now. I knew something bad was happening. Funny how you can tell. I climbed higher. My heart was bouncing around, and by now my arms were hurting. I wanted to cry, I wanted to hold my ma, but fear only kept me crying. At this point, I was hearing the sound of doors being kicked in. Some far, some near. And the gruff yells of men. I was sure that was the Empires, at this point, just being the bullies we’ve always known them to be. [Shakes his head] I should say that even at that point, knowing my pa had been killed by Empires and all, didn’t necessarily mean that I hated them through and through. My ma wanted me to work hard at school and head out to Big City to get a job. So her reply to any of my questions on the Empires was to be measured about them. Like I said, middle class ethics. She was hoping to mimic the middle class and by some sense of fairness on the part of occupiers she hoped that I would be as Empire as I could be. As long as it gave me some level of comfort in life. You get it? So I knew the stories, but I also knew that they might have had a tough time of being there. That they had nothing but bad and worse choices. I was a smart lad, I was able to see that. So remember that. I finally came to a wall that had a wide crack in it. I peered in. It was an unlit room. I strained my eyes to see any figures, but there was nothing. Yet those little hairs on my skin told me to watch. [Shifts again in his seat. Stares blankly at a space in front of him. His jaw pops as he grinds his teeth] Horrid thing for a little boy to see. For as much as I wanted to be a man then, and I was a strong little bastard, smart too, smarter than all my teachers, male or otherwise, seeing that kind of thing always turns you a little off. And then I just took it. Thought that was how a man took it. But man was I wrong. This wasn’t for a kid like me. A kid. That’s what I was. [Breathes in heavily. Closes his eyes] I remember the grip on my bladder and balls. I was staring at a black room, with maybe the occasional scurries of rats across the floor, and in the distance, echoing up the crawlspace were the shouts and yells, screams of women. Gruff replies of men. It was like a nightmare. Though to be fair, the screams didn’t last. If that means anything. Any kid with sense would have gone back home. But how little sense I had. Then there was a loud explosion right in front of me. That flash almost blinded me. The dark room had an open door, and a hallway beyond that. I could only see the flashlights occasionally hit the wall of the hallway. Shadows grew. I thought I saw a shape move in the room. But that didn’t matter. There was a loud shriek. A woman screaming. You could tell she was being pushed around. Where is he? Asked a man. He didn’t sound like he wanted to hear screaming. She continued to scream, then a slap silenced her. There were some gruff voices, then furniture, pots and pans being thrown about. Then the screams started back up. Suddenly the boots grew louder. I pulled back from the crack as the lights flashed into the room. I leaned back in; the screams were right in front of me. Man, did I want to pee. I was leaning against a pipe and the wall, pretty comfortable, but I felt my legs shaking, my wrists too. Like there was no more energy in my mind, and thus no more in my muscles. And I wanted to drink as much water as possible, my throat too dry to even swallow. And as little as I knew then, I knew that leaning forward wouldn’t be something I would ever recover from… That I would no longer see anything in the world in the same way… So I leaned forward. [Shrugs, acts sheepish] What else can you expect from a kid? Christ. The stupidity that a child must be. I never understood that. You know? I mean how did our species survive this long by allowing our men to be such sons of bitches? Stupid… Ah, there I go again. I leaned forward. I saw the room’s light on, now. The woman was being held with one long arm by a soldier. These weren’t the normal soldiers, they were dressed in black, and they had rolled up their sleeves. I could see tattoos on all of them. Skulls. They were evil, I knew it. The hand holding down the woman, occasionally shaking her, was full of these skulls. All the soldiers wore face masks. Shaped like skeletons, they were. [Shifts when there seems to be an unbelieving cough] Christ, you kids. You don’t believe me, do you? [Laughs. Sucks in saliva in a loud and rude manner] That’s life for you. You live too much of a real life and most people will never believe you. It was true. They wore these masks, most of them. And the woman in a corner, the other soldiers, about ten of them, were around a man. He wore a white shirt and black undershorts. He had green eyes, this man, and they gleamed with pure hatred for the men. His hair, that half reddish-brown clomp on his head was being held by one. His arms tied behind him, he was at their mercy. They had him on his knees, and every time he shifted they punched him. They were asking him questions, but he, a mouthful of blood by this point, he only spit and cursed at them. I was watching, and I felt an immense sadness for the man. He was caught, wild eyed. And in that I could see a something about honor in him. Something about an undying spirit, but I also was certain that it was hopeless. That the soldiers, with their laughs and taunts, were only questioning him to see him fight back. And they too knew that his fight was hopeless. What does a child do with that sort of scene in front of him? Does he accept it for what it is? How can he? How could I? Think about it for a second. And christ, why did I watch? The woman was reduced to whimpering, her night dress torn now, and she used one hand to keep her breasts out of sight of the soldiers. There was something of a pack of wolves about them, and though I was a kid, I knew that if she let the night gown down, let her breasts be seen, that they would have devoured her. In a worse way than the man. And they taunted him, punched him. Over and over. Kicks. Barrels to his chest. One barrel thrust broke his teeth. I remember the blood on the floor. Red, mixed with that dusty concrete that made up the apartment building. Small cracks that spit up powder and ants. But here it was filled with red. A veritable river. Sad, really. I stared at the river whenever that man’s spits grew too panful to watch. I have seen such things. Not so bad. Without the sense that there wouldn’t be an ending. Kids in school would do this, surround a kid and taunt him until he cried. But that never lasted more than a few minutes. The tears weren’t meant to be his last. And the man broke. I don’t know how long I had been in that position, my muscles cramping up, my joints full of pain, but he broke. The shouts of determination quieted. And the woman said something. The soldiers laughed. Punched the woman, and the man. And the man broke. Hard thing to watch a man break. Never one to like it. Even now. Even in my most prolific days I never cared too much for such things. And as a kid it was a horrendous mixture of things. I mean, at the end of the day, the worst things we’ve been through, isn’t about the things themselves, but what they do to us, how they crawl or blast through our skin and bones and mind and leave you nothing but an animal, reacting to a subconscious that’s screaming that you’ve gone too far, that this isn’t the best thing to watch. I stared, and the man almost whimpered. The soldiers laughed. Though I’m certain I saw at least one who shifted like he didn’t like it either, but what does it matter? He was one of them. The man started to shake after this. Uncontrollable tremors. I wanted to scream through the wall. I wished I had a gun. I wanted to kill them all. The soldiers were really digging this. They laughed and brought the man to his feet. They taunted his woman with barrels threatening to tear off her nightgown. And my heart, bleeding in my mouth by this point, froze. The man was next to his woman and she held him. Then he pushed her away. Screams. I looked away. I had to. Shots. More shots. Then the men said something mean. I heard whimpering, though I’m not sure, because the drips of the pipes seemed ever louder. And the boots of the soldiers herded out of the room. Then silence. Beautiful silence. Only the taste of blood in my mouth. My heart beating so loud that I was sure it was echoing through the crawlspace. There was the light of the crack. I moved my head. There was only a red floor and an outstretch arm. My head was too tight to comprehend what was going on. And it were as if my skull was tightening around it. I made my way down. The sound of tracks and trucks in the distance didn’t concern me. Being found didn’t concern me either. I wanted to be shot. It would have been a relief. I crawled back into my apartment. And lay back to bed. “Where did you go?” my sister asked. I closed my eyes. I didn’t, couldn’t tell her. And that’s how it starts to weigh on you, isn’t it? One secret from someone you love, and the world starts to shear in places you never thought possible. Even that morning, I woke up, having slept, but that troublesome sleep, and that was the first time I experienced that. But I heard whispers, my ma and my sister were conferring. They rarely did that. I tried to hear. All I heard was my sister telling her that I had gone missing for a long time. When I walked into the kitchen, I could feel their eyes. Pity. I’d been expecting anger of some sort, but all I got was pity. That hurt more than anything else. And it only strengthened my resolve to hold my secret. So my mother asked, and I lied. Said I never left the apartment. Mind you, up until that point lying turned me red, made me squirm. But then and there I was full of verve. I was trying not to think about the previous night, and in fact I had managed to hide the images from myself. Christ. What a kid. To think one can forget. If only. Well, now it’s easier. But not for a kid. That’s how it goes. And I thought then I had it beat. But I didn’t think that being able to lie without all the other actions that normally came with it was an issue. My mother stared at me, then let it be. [He opens his eyes. They seem wet but dry as well. He points at a bottle. A young boy, out of the shadows hands it to him. He drinks from it. The smell of alcohol drifts around. He closes his eyes, then holds his back. Then grimaces] The neighborhood was alight with rumors. No one really knew what was going on. It was almost funny. And that was another thing that died. Until that point I’d believed every word that came out of any adult’s mouth. But then and there I knew how little they knew. First some people didn’t even know that someone had died. They speculated that it was just to scare them. Some of them argued that the police, like the newspapers said, had found a cache of weapons. There were pictures of artillery shells. Most people were horrified with this. After all, now our idyllic neighborhood would be targeted, and there would be a reason. Wouldn’t there? That was the worst of it. And that made me rethink my entire view of these people I once held in esteem. And there I was, near the bus stop, and I asked them what if it was to kill someone. And they laughed and called me a kid. Pity again. And I felt like I’d crossed into another realm. Even at school there was hardly a peep of truth. Some kids raised their hands and asked our teacher what it was all for. And he just hemmed and hawed like there wasn’t anything worse to talk about. In the end he mumbled something about the police and military needing to go in and do something to clean up the neighborhood. The city. The country. I bit my tongue hard enough to draw blood. Some of the kids were all for the military. The others said that they were more than happy that the military was there, while others said that they were merely angry that they had been disturbed. Something about working people needing sleep. And the teacher hummed and nodded his head and stroked his chin, and I knew then that there was nothing that I could learn from him. Not in this realm (and at that point was there another realm that mattered. Not to that little boy I was, and not to even me when I grew older). I bit my tongue even harder. And I also noticed then that the kids who parroted the adults—those who knew so little—tried to sound the most knowledgeable and they were the ones the teacher tried to listen to the most. I let this sit at the bottom of my heart as I watched the neighborhood slowly forget that anything happened. And soon they were talking about something else, and the kids at school were soon on to the next story, in this case a kid in third grade was eating dirt. I went back up to that room. After everyone had forgotten. It was the top floor, and the door had been recently fixed. Unlocked. I walked inside. Not a thing. I made my way to the room. Empty. Clean. I saw the crack where I’d spied on the pitiful couple. And as clean as the place was, there was still the ghosts of what had happened. I could smell it, and I could feel it pry into my mind and my muscles. I knew that this was something evil. That ground on which blood spills is ground fertile for spirits. Yeah, laugh at me now. And maybe I should be laughed at. But you need to see such places. Especially in silence. The things that are whispered in your ear. Of course there’re ghosts. [Shivers and slowly rubs his arms. Boy brings him a blanket. He grips it with his teeth and pulls it over his body] This will also happen to you when you’re old. I left that apartment. There were two other people on that floor. I knocked on both doors. One was an old couple. Old as me now, I suppose. And they said they hadn’t heard anything. I believed them. They could barely see me. And the next door. Well, they had seen something. But they shrugged, then watched me as if I was some sort of abhorrent creature who had nothing but trouble to make. Guess they were right, in the end. But what’s so wrong about trying to remember those who had passed? And then I realized. Yes even at that age. I realized that was what power, empire, what have you, can do. It can make you disappear and make it hard for anyone to talk about you, and soon you will be forgotten. That was what happened. Over and over. And it was that simple. That realization knocked the air out of my lungs. Almost fell down the stairs. But I managed, and I survived. Nothing worse than for a kid to realize everything is a crystalized lie, and that if he lets anyone know he knows, then he’s done for. So I pushed my head into books. Books from school, of course, but also books that weren’t allowed. I had to learn everything about the world that there was to learn. There was no stopping me. My ma didn’t seem too concerned, as she was proud of my academic achievements. And what child wouldn’t be? But I needed to learn. So after school, I would sneak off. I knew where the people who didn’t talk nicely about the Empire lived. They were in the alleys, and in the basements of bars. They were the men I’d seen evicted from my apartment. They were the link to my father. The first time I wandered into an alley, there were several men huddled behind a garbage can. A knife was pulled on me. Easy, it’s just a kid. Looks old enough, why’s he spying? Kid, why you spying. I ain’t. Bold bastard, ain’t ya? I ain’t scared of ya. It’s Roger’s boy. They all fell silent. What you want son? Asked an older man with flecks of gold teeth. He seemed worn, but potentially violent, and his voice crackled like a truck idling. What are you doing? It’s rude to ask son. He smiled. More gold teeth. I looked over my shoulder. You knew my pa? That seemed to settle everyone. They looked down at their feet. The old man too. We knew him. How did he die? Silence. Road noise. A plane flew far above. I could feel my heart bouncing around and making its way to my mouth. Why did I want to know? I was scared just thinking about it. I felt my knees go weak. Some of the men grumbled. We can’t let him know, his ma’ll kill us. Well, he has to know. Christ, what if the same happens to him. Will you live with it? The old man raised his hand for silence and stepped forward. I remember thinking that I was truly on my way to becoming a man and becoming something more than what I had ever been, and I felt proud. And I knew that I was scared, but that was part of it. Surely I knew so little and thought so much. The old man, I remember he smelled like cigarettes. No alcohol, though, so I got to thinking that he was the brains of the operation. It was like everyone was holding their breath. Your old man. He was shot. A battle. He was helping drag a friend to safety. Sniper got him. He died right away. I nodded. These men, this old man, may have been relegated to the alley of our town, but they knew so much more than everyone else. The shopkeepers, the teachers. Everyone. You know what happened in my building a few months ago? I asked, and was surprised that my voice didn’t tremble. The old man studied my eyes. Not sure. The police came in and shot a man. I think his woman too. I watched. They make you watch? I was hiding. They shot him after he begged. And my head felt lighter, like I had just released a heavy pack, and I felt happy too, that there was someone I could talk to about all this. The old man placed his hand on my shoulder. He seemed sad, and I wanted to tell him it was okay. Sorry you had to see that son. I held my breath. You shouldn’t be here. You ma would be mad. I didn’t want to bad mouth my ma, even though I wanted to. This isn’t what your pa would want. He seemed intent of getting me out of sight. No one else knows. Now my voice did tremble. The old man nodded his head and stood up. Why did they shoot him like that? It’s how they work. And do we work like that? Silence Do you? I didn’t realize that my voice was yelling. We try. I didn’t know what that meant. But it calmed me down.
Read below and enjoy!
There was once a reason for fighting. I no longer have that reason. Why? You may ask. Well, I’ll tell you. And I assure all my friends that it’s not a matter of cowardice... [Breathes for a few seconds, staring at his trembling hands] And no, it’s not my bones, my old joints that act like demons when I wake up, or sit or stand in any position for too long. No, it’s none of that. But it doesn’t surprise me that some young buck such as yourself would think that about his elders. In my day we definitely didn’t talk down to our elders, no matter how useless they were. And I assure you that I’m not useless. [Booms in the background] You hear that? Artillery. Used to be that they'd hold back on such things near civilians, but that was only for appearances anyways. [He sniffles, wipes his face and nose with his sleeve] Man. One really gets misty-eyed just remembering the past... Used to watch my grandma stare at the tree in front of our house in the city, like a statue. I always wondered how that was. But you get old, young one. You get old and suddenly memories are as strong as the real thing. And the real thing is your body falling apart, your eyesight useless, your hearing nothing but a whine. You stop experiencing, and you need memories to keep you sane. And you look back with fondness. You try and form memories, and suddenly you’ve done just that. Of course, I ain’t going to boast, but I’m sure I’ve done more than most. Hell, I did more than most by the age of 10. You see, we have family in The city, most of them left Northern Ireland. But my mom and I, and my older sister, were left to fight it out in Belfast. Well, my mother wasn’t leaving. And she warned both me and my sister that we were to do good in school and not make trouble. You know the type. I love my mother, but she was working class assured that moving up to middle class was the only way to make happiness in life. Basically she’d bought in on all that tripe and propaganda made by types who wish to see no violence on their manicured lawns. Not that I blame her. It wasn’t all just her believing tripe on the TV and on shows. No, it was also the loss of our pa. Died when we were 5. I would always see ma staring at his crumpled picture. Only evidence, besides us, that he ever lived. [Sniffles, bites lip and taps metallic hand on his chin] Our pa, Christ I haven’t the faintest memory of him any more, he was shot up by some SAS types. Murdered, I’d say, but I’m not sure about the circumstances behind his death so I won’t speculate. Though given what those Empire bastards were capable of, it’s fair to side on murder. SAS especially. Always doing something outside the realm of human. And I don’t mean that in a bad way. Well, memories of my dad are limited. Especially now. Hell, I’m not even sure that there’s much in here. [He taps his temple] But there are shadows of a gruff man talking to my ma, of a man yelling at my ma, and her giving it back. But that could all have been made up. It could also have been that she was talking to his friends. Left overs from the cell that got blasted. Or maybe all my memories of him were merely tales whispered to me about him from my ma. This was only when she was drinking. When she was sober, she hardly spoke of him. As if mentioning him would lead us, me, down the same path… All I have of him is this. [He leans over, the popping of his joints loud and apparent—he raises his eyebrows when others flinch to this noise—and pulls from his pocket a photograph. It’s a color photograph of a young man and woman. The man seems grim, and the woman shining in smiles] This is it. Funny looking at your pa and seeing him as always younger than you. That’s how he stays. Makes me wonder about the only the good die young saying. Don’t it? [Looks up, his eyes misting over, then looks down at the photograph] I mean, I used to think that it was a matter of only the good people being taken down by the evil and more treacherous people of this world. Or, to give you a wartime situation: when one faces the guns of an enemy only the ones with kind hearts will sacrifice themselves for their friends. The cowards will survive and live on in the world. But nowadays I wonder about this, and I think that maybe this isn’t what the saying means. Perhaps it means that those who die young are filtered through the prism of time by those who survive and that with that prism of nostalgia the image of those who died young will be more and more glorified. Or maybe it’s just that the young don’t have time to sell out their ideals and they are indeed deserving of their accolades when they die young. [Coughs, shifts in seat, holds his side and grimaces in pain] I’m rambling now. You tend to do that when you get old. Not much time left, so I suppose one tends to spew all the thoughts in the mind, trying to beat death. But back to my pa. My ma, when sober, never told us a word about him. So who’s to say her drunk words were any more truthful. You could tell she loved him. Pained her to realize that whatever future she had imagined with him was gone forever. That he had left her in this world alone. And you could see that anger thrown at us at times. Especially when either of us acted in the slightest like him. [Shakes his head] Not that I blame her. With kids in the neighborhood getting caught up with the fight against the Empire, there wasn’t much else to do for her but try and purge that. I know she didn’t want to lose us too. But even then… why tell us nothing about our father? Like that’s going to push away fate? For me, all it made me do is want to be more like him, and the less I knew, the harder I wanted to be something I didn’t know. But she tried. God bless her soul. In those times, though, every single boy becoming a teen ended up helping out the rebels. When those old friends of my father came about there was always a tension. And as soon as any of them talked to me or my sister, my ma would be yelling in full volume and beating their chests and pushing them out the door. She had a temper on her, my ma. [Leans his head back and smiles with his eyes closed] Can’t help swallowing a little shit when you’re swimming in it, though. When I was eight, I remember waking up in our little basement apartment. It was spring, and raining outside, and that building of ours was moldy and dripping. You could hear the bangs of the pipes as people tried their luck with the running water. I stood up in my bed. My sister slept in the same room, though my mother had finally found me a separate army cot to sleep in. My sis had been crying about having to sleep with her brother even though she was a woman. I crept out of bed. I remember it like it was yesterday. That metal cot threatening to creak, and me trying my hardest to not make a sound. Breathing only when it was necessary. I could hear the distant throttling of trucks. Then the sound of tracks grinding up the road into gravel. We always had soldiers patrolling in our neighborhood, but we’d been spared most of the fighting and the sound of raids. No, our apartment was mainly women and children, and that spared us. Then I heard boots sprinkling themselves across the road. I had to see. I was out of our room. In the hallway I pressed my ear against my ma’s door. Nothing. I made my way to the living room window. It was one of those half windows with a slit to see the feet of the world passing by. I could see the trucks and soldiers across the street. There were search lights too, and barrels of guns, and they were all pointed at our building. I was little, and youth like that means no fear of knowledge. I ran into the hallway. I could see some shadows outside the door. I froze. Part of me wanted to stay there and watch. Another part of me—the one that had heard about how the Empires, cause this is who was about to attack our apartment building, loved killing kids then planting guns on them, or telling the world that the terrorists did it—said to hide. Thank God the latter won out. There was a crawlspace with an entrance underneath the stairs. I may have been the only one to know about its existence. And I kept it well hidden with a handful of boxes in front of it. I ran under the stairs, shifted the boxes and crawled in. I almost screamed with a furry creature ran over my foot—I was barefoot, mind you—but that was nothing. The bang was absolute. I have no idea why they would go and blow up our front door, it was the only thing that kept our building relatively safe from the thieves of the neighborhood, and we would have gladly opened it for them. But no. They blew it up. [Shakes head and nods at a glass of water on a table across. Once he has it, he sips it and sighs] Shook me to my core. Always heard explosions before. Even the big car bombs that shook the earth. But it’s quite another thing to be near one. My ears popped and instinctively, I started to climb up that space. Couldn’t see anything. But I could feel those cold, dripping pipes. And up I went. I could hear boots from through the wall. But it wasn’t much. Then, below me, a light shone around blindly. Thank good I moved. I heard some mumbles, then the light went out. They must have figured it was too small to hide anyone. But I was scared now. I knew something bad was happening. Funny how you can tell. I climbed higher. My heart was bouncing around, and by now my arms were hurting. I wanted to cry, I wanted to hold my ma, but fear only kept me crying. At this point, I was hearing the sound of doors being kicked in. Some far, some near. And the gruff yells of men. I was sure that was the Empires, at this point, just being the bullies we’ve always known them to be. [Shakes his head] I should say that even at that point, knowing my pa had been killed by Empires and all, didn’t necessarily mean that I hated them through and through. My ma wanted me to work hard at school and head out to Big City to get a job. So her reply to any of my questions on the Empires was to be measured about them. Like I said, middle class ethics. She was hoping to mimic the middle class and by some sense of fairness on the part of occupiers she hoped that I would be as Empire as I could be. As long as it gave me some level of comfort in life. You get it? So I knew the stories, but I also knew that they might have had a tough time of being there. That they had nothing but bad and worse choices. I was a smart lad, I was able to see that. So remember that. I finally came to a wall that had a wide crack in it. I peered in. It was an unlit room. I strained my eyes to see any figures, but there was nothing. Yet those little hairs on my skin told me to watch. [Shifts again in his seat. Stares blankly at a space in front of him. His jaw pops as he grinds his teeth] Horrid thing for a little boy to see. For as much as I wanted to be a man then, and I was a strong little bastard, smart too, smarter than all my teachers, male or otherwise, seeing that kind of thing always turns you a little off. And then I just took it. Thought that was how a man took it. But man was I wrong. This wasn’t for a kid like me. A kid. That’s what I was. [Breathes in heavily. Closes his eyes] I remember the grip on my bladder and balls. I was staring at a black room, with maybe the occasional scurries of rats across the floor, and in the distance, echoing up the crawlspace were the shouts and yells, screams of women. Gruff replies of men. It was like a nightmare. Though to be fair, the screams didn’t last. If that means anything. Any kid with sense would have gone back home. But how little sense I had. Then there was a loud explosion right in front of me. That flash almost blinded me. The dark room had an open door, and a hallway beyond that. I could only see the flashlights occasionally hit the wall of the hallway. Shadows grew. I thought I saw a shape move in the room. But that didn’t matter. There was a loud shriek. A woman screaming. You could tell she was being pushed around. Where is he? Asked a man. He didn’t sound like he wanted to hear screaming. She continued to scream, then a slap silenced her. There were some gruff voices, then furniture, pots and pans being thrown about. Then the screams started back up. Suddenly the boots grew louder. I pulled back from the crack as the lights flashed into the room. I leaned back in; the screams were right in front of me. Man, did I want to pee. I was leaning against a pipe and the wall, pretty comfortable, but I felt my legs shaking, my wrists too. Like there was no more energy in my mind, and thus no more in my muscles. And I wanted to drink as much water as possible, my throat too dry to even swallow. And as little as I knew then, I knew that leaning forward wouldn’t be something I would ever recover from… That I would no longer see anything in the world in the same way… So I leaned forward. [Shrugs, acts sheepish] What else can you expect from a kid? Christ. The stupidity that a child must be. I never understood that. You know? I mean how did our species survive this long by allowing our men to be such sons of bitches? Stupid… Ah, there I go again. I leaned forward. I saw the room’s light on, now. The woman was being held with one long arm by a soldier. These weren’t the normal soldiers, they were dressed in black, and they had rolled up their sleeves. I could see tattoos on all of them. Skulls. They were evil, I knew it. The hand holding down the woman, occasionally shaking her, was full of these skulls. All the soldiers wore face masks. Shaped like skeletons, they were. [Shifts when there seems to be an unbelieving cough] Christ, you kids. You don’t believe me, do you? [Laughs. Sucks in saliva in a loud and rude manner] That’s life for you. You live too much of a real life and most people will never believe you. It was true. They wore these masks, most of them. And the woman in a corner, the other soldiers, about ten of them, were around a man. He wore a white shirt and black undershorts. He had green eyes, this man, and they gleamed with pure hatred for the men. His hair, that half reddish-brown clomp on his head was being held by one. His arms tied behind him, he was at their mercy. They had him on his knees, and every time he shifted they punched him. They were asking him questions, but he, a mouthful of blood by this point, he only spit and cursed at them. I was watching, and I felt an immense sadness for the man. He was caught, wild eyed. And in that I could see a something about honor in him. Something about an undying spirit, but I also was certain that it was hopeless. That the soldiers, with their laughs and taunts, were only questioning him to see him fight back. And they too knew that his fight was hopeless. What does a child do with that sort of scene in front of him? Does he accept it for what it is? How can he? How could I? Think about it for a second. And christ, why did I watch? The woman was reduced to whimpering, her night dress torn now, and she used one hand to keep her breasts out of sight of the soldiers. There was something of a pack of wolves about them, and though I was a kid, I knew that if she let the night gown down, let her breasts be seen, that they would have devoured her. In a worse way than the man. And they taunted him, punched him. Over and over. Kicks. Barrels to his chest. One barrel thrust broke his teeth. I remember the blood on the floor. Red, mixed with that dusty concrete that made up the apartment building. Small cracks that spit up powder and ants. But here it was filled with red. A veritable river. Sad, really. I stared at the river whenever that man’s spits grew too panful to watch. I have seen such things. Not so bad. Without the sense that there wouldn’t be an ending. Kids in school would do this, surround a kid and taunt him until he cried. But that never lasted more than a few minutes. The tears weren’t meant to be his last. And the man broke. I don’t know how long I had been in that position, my muscles cramping up, my joints full of pain, but he broke. The shouts of determination quieted. And the woman said something. The soldiers laughed. Punched the woman, and the man. And the man broke. Hard thing to watch a man break. Never one to like it. Even now. Even in my most prolific days I never cared too much for such things. And as a kid it was a horrendous mixture of things. I mean, at the end of the day, the worst things we’ve been through, isn’t about the things themselves, but what they do to us, how they crawl or blast through our skin and bones and mind and leave you nothing but an animal, reacting to a subconscious that’s screaming that you’ve gone too far, that this isn’t the best thing to watch. I stared, and the man almost whimpered. The soldiers laughed. Though I’m certain I saw at least one who shifted like he didn’t like it either, but what does it matter? He was one of them. The man started to shake after this. Uncontrollable tremors. I wanted to scream through the wall. I wished I had a gun. I wanted to kill them all. The soldiers were really digging this. They laughed and brought the man to his feet. They taunted his woman with barrels threatening to tear off her nightgown. And my heart, bleeding in my mouth by this point, froze. The man was next to his woman and she held him. Then he pushed her away. Screams. I looked away. I had to. Shots. More shots. Then the men said something mean. I heard whimpering, though I’m not sure, because the drips of the pipes seemed ever louder. And the boots of the soldiers herded out of the room. Then silence. Beautiful silence. Only the taste of blood in my mouth. My heart beating so loud that I was sure it was echoing through the crawlspace. There was the light of the crack. I moved my head. There was only a red floor and an outstretch arm. My head was too tight to comprehend what was going on. And it were as if my skull was tightening around it. I made my way down. The sound of tracks and trucks in the distance didn’t concern me. Being found didn’t concern me either. I wanted to be shot. It would have been a relief. I crawled back into my apartment. And lay back to bed. “Where did you go?” my sister asked. I closed my eyes. I didn’t, couldn’t tell her. And that’s how it starts to weigh on you, isn’t it? One secret from someone you love, and the world starts to shear in places you never thought possible. Even that morning, I woke up, having slept, but that troublesome sleep, and that was the first time I experienced that. But I heard whispers, my ma and my sister were conferring. They rarely did that. I tried to hear. All I heard was my sister telling her that I had gone missing for a long time. When I walked into the kitchen, I could feel their eyes. Pity. I’d been expecting anger of some sort, but all I got was pity. That hurt more than anything else. And it only strengthened my resolve to hold my secret. So my mother asked, and I lied. Said I never left the apartment. Mind you, up until that point lying turned me red, made me squirm. But then and there I was full of verve. I was trying not to think about the previous night, and in fact I had managed to hide the images from myself. Christ. What a kid. To think one can forget. If only. Well, now it’s easier. But not for a kid. That’s how it goes. And I thought then I had it beat. But I didn’t think that being able to lie without all the other actions that normally came with it was an issue. My mother stared at me, then let it be. [He opens his eyes. They seem wet but dry as well. He points at a bottle. A young boy, out of the shadows hands it to him. He drinks from it. The smell of alcohol drifts around. He closes his eyes, then holds his back. Then grimaces] The neighborhood was alight with rumors. No one really knew what was going on. It was almost funny. And that was another thing that died. Until that point I’d believed every word that came out of any adult’s mouth. But then and there I knew how little they knew. First some people didn’t even know that someone had died. They speculated that it was just to scare them. Some of them argued that the police, like the newspapers said, had found a cache of weapons. There were pictures of artillery shells. Most people were horrified with this. After all, now our idyllic neighborhood would be targeted, and there would be a reason. Wouldn’t there? That was the worst of it. And that made me rethink my entire view of these people I once held in esteem. And there I was, near the bus stop, and I asked them what if it was to kill someone. And they laughed and called me a kid. Pity again. And I felt like I’d crossed into another realm. Even at school there was hardly a peep of truth. Some kids raised their hands and asked our teacher what it was all for. And he just hemmed and hawed like there wasn’t anything worse to talk about. In the end he mumbled something about the police and military needing to go in and do something to clean up the neighborhood. The city. The country. I bit my tongue hard enough to draw blood. Some of the kids were all for the military. The others said that they were more than happy that the military was there, while others said that they were merely angry that they had been disturbed. Something about working people needing sleep. And the teacher hummed and nodded his head and stroked his chin, and I knew then that there was nothing that I could learn from him. Not in this realm (and at that point was there another realm that mattered. Not to that little boy I was, and not to even me when I grew older). I bit my tongue even harder. And I also noticed then that the kids who parroted the adults—those who knew so little—tried to sound the most knowledgeable and they were the ones the teacher tried to listen to the most. I let this sit at the bottom of my heart as I watched the neighborhood slowly forget that anything happened. And soon they were talking about something else, and the kids at school were soon on to the next story, in this case a kid in third grade was eating dirt. I went back up to that room. After everyone had forgotten. It was the top floor, and the door had been recently fixed. Unlocked. I walked inside. Not a thing. I made my way to the room. Empty. Clean. I saw the crack where I’d spied on the pitiful couple. And as clean as the place was, there was still the ghosts of what had happened. I could smell it, and I could feel it pry into my mind and my muscles. I knew that this was something evil. That ground on which blood spills is ground fertile for spirits. Yeah, laugh at me now. And maybe I should be laughed at. But you need to see such places. Especially in silence. The things that are whispered in your ear. Of course there’re ghosts. [Shivers and slowly rubs his arms. Boy brings him a blanket. He grips it with his teeth and pulls it over his body] This will also happen to you when you’re old. I left that apartment. There were two other people on that floor. I knocked on both doors. One was an old couple. Old as me now, I suppose. And they said they hadn’t heard anything. I believed them. They could barely see me. And the next door. Well, they had seen something. But they shrugged, then watched me as if I was some sort of abhorrent creature who had nothing but trouble to make. Guess they were right, in the end. But what’s so wrong about trying to remember those who had passed? And then I realized. Yes even at that age. I realized that was what power, empire, what have you, can do. It can make you disappear and make it hard for anyone to talk about you, and soon you will be forgotten. That was what happened. Over and over. And it was that simple. That realization knocked the air out of my lungs. Almost fell down the stairs. But I managed, and I survived. Nothing worse than for a kid to realize everything is a crystalized lie, and that if he lets anyone know he knows, then he’s done for. So I pushed my head into books. Books from school, of course, but also books that weren’t allowed. I had to learn everything about the world that there was to learn. There was no stopping me. My ma didn’t seem too concerned, as she was proud of my academic achievements. And what child wouldn’t be? But I needed to learn. So after school, I would sneak off. I knew where the people who didn’t talk nicely about the Empire lived. They were in the alleys, and in the basements of bars. They were the men I’d seen evicted from my apartment. They were the link to my father. The first time I wandered into an alley, there were several men huddled behind a garbage can. A knife was pulled on me. Easy, it’s just a kid. Looks old enough, why’s he spying? Kid, why you spying. I ain’t. Bold bastard, ain’t ya? I ain’t scared of ya. It’s Roger’s boy. They all fell silent. What you want son? Asked an older man with flecks of gold teeth. He seemed worn, but potentially violent, and his voice crackled like a truck idling. What are you doing? It’s rude to ask son. He smiled. More gold teeth. I looked over my shoulder. You knew my pa? That seemed to settle everyone. They looked down at their feet. The old man too. We knew him. How did he die? Silence. Road noise. A plane flew far above. I could feel my heart bouncing around and making its way to my mouth. Why did I want to know? I was scared just thinking about it. I felt my knees go weak. Some of the men grumbled. We can’t let him know, his ma’ll kill us. Well, he has to know. Christ, what if the same happens to him. Will you live with it? The old man raised his hand for silence and stepped forward. I remember thinking that I was truly on my way to becoming a man and becoming something more than what I had ever been, and I felt proud. And I knew that I was scared, but that was part of it. Surely I knew so little and thought so much. The old man, I remember he smelled like cigarettes. No alcohol, though, so I got to thinking that he was the brains of the operation. It was like everyone was holding their breath. Your old man. He was shot. A battle. He was helping drag a friend to safety. Sniper got him. He died right away. I nodded. These men, this old man, may have been relegated to the alley of our town, but they knew so much more than everyone else. The shopkeepers, the teachers. Everyone. You know what happened in my building a few months ago? I asked, and was surprised that my voice didn’t tremble. The old man studied my eyes. Not sure. The police came in and shot a man. I think his woman too. I watched. They make you watch? I was hiding. They shot him after he begged. And my head felt lighter, like I had just released a heavy pack, and I felt happy too, that there was someone I could talk to about all this. The old man placed his hand on my shoulder. He seemed sad, and I wanted to tell him it was okay. Sorry you had to see that son. I held my breath. You shouldn’t be here. You ma would be mad. I didn’t want to bad mouth my ma, even though I wanted to. This isn’t what your pa would want. He seemed intent of getting me out of sight. No one else knows. Now my voice did tremble. The old man nodded his head and stood up. Why did they shoot him like that? It’s how they work. And do we work like that? Silence Do you? I didn’t realize that my voice was yelling. We try. I didn’t know what that meant. But it calmed me down.
March 28, 2014
[OM] On keeping people away for 10000 years and more
Do not trespass: How one keeps people away from a site for 10k, perhaps 100k years? The original article is here. And some of the warnings are here.
This is the problem facing scientists who are trying to cover/bury and keep covered radioactive nuclear waste. This is, to say the least, a very unique situation. How would youkeep people (assuming you can keep out the elements and so forth) away for 10000 years, or perhaps longer?
Having a mere sign (with the currently universal—though I'm not sure how universal—radioactive sign being used with black on bright yellow) or making certain that the site is part of blueprints and all maps of an area won't cut it as you must assume that no language will last that long (even in a best case scenario it will be thoroughly different). And as far as regional governments there would be, in such a time period, enough revolutions and change of guards that there wouldn't be any sense of continuity.
To further make a point in this matter one need only look at the past 10000 years in any other area (though one needn't assume that the past 10k years will be exactly the same as the next 10k years, after all the alphabet was only recently invented, so that in of itself would change a lot) and it should become clear that even with the invention of the written language one can't assume a certain amount of continuity. Even with something like the Internet, there would need to be a way to make sure that with each change of programming language and the real language this vital piece of information is somehow stored.
But let's assume that doesn't happen. So how to do it? How to make sure that one way or another people will stay away (well aware that some people might see signs to stay away as signs to enter—in the worst case of assuming reverse psychology ever)?
I'm assuming current technologies. I'm assuming that anyone entering and opening or retrieving any of these radioactive items will be causing more than harm to themselves (if they were to bring this back to the world), and thus their wounding or possible death would be better than them getting inside and back out (or is this too harsh an assumption?).
I'm assuming limited power. One could, of course, envision a situation where through nuclear, or some renewable source, there would be some power for the defenses (but for clarity's sake I will assume a either a series of systems that would or would not work with this). And finally I'll assume a single entrance to a deep hole as the main setup here. This hole may well be filled with concrete, but what happens when someone decides to blast through that? I'll also assume that no one else finds this to be a perfect setup and copies it to merely keep people away from other treasures. Once that happens it would almost surely render this system worthless.
The first thing would be physical barriers for access to the outside, above-ground entrance/top. Of course a simple and tall wall with the signs in all major languages (and symbols like the radioactive sign and scientific signs and periodic tables to help convey this) to keep out while providing all information to let people know what's inside will help. These signs can be intermittently placed elsewhere to serve as reminders (and in case one gets knocked down, there will be another one near by and so forth).
What next? A maze wouldn't work as that would only result someone climbing over that. The first thing would be a series of statues, made of some durable material, that will be a series of humans and animals (all nude) in various states of happiness and health, yet as they get closer to the entrance, they will grow emaciated and have faces of despair (hopefully still pretty universal, though who knows what turns culture will force us through), before falling down, crawling and finally dying and turning into skeletons, then some level of dust. The main point of this is to at least convey to people in something other than scientific or written terms that the place that you are closing in on is dangerous.
To add to this visceral feeling, there must also be a sound. One could add increasing amount of wind chimes, as well as several holes (perhaps more reliable) which would make noise when wind comes through. But how to guarantee wind? On at least one part there could be a shaft which would have differentiated temperatures and thus allow for the moving of wind. But this would require a permanent source of power to maintain this (I'm not sure if this could be maintained with a cool chamber beneath the ground and one above) and we cannot assume it would work.
Finally, the place would need a variety of traps of increasingly debilitating abilities. Some would merely drop a person (we're assuming no landing space for airborne vehicles, forcing most to go on foot) and break a foot. But the closer they get the more likely there would be trips, and booby traps resulting in immobilizing or death. Since we are also aiming against people dropping in from the air, this would be a sphere of traps to make sure everyone has to go through it. It hasn't been lost on me that the sphere wouldn't be allowed to stick too far above ground. After all, keeping people somewhat unaware of this place would be part of the fight. So a sphere would be something mostly underground.
If we have a constant power source, I would have robots with some level of AI, made to chase large living objects around. But this, even if the power source problem is solved, wouldn't be a very good system to rely upon. One would need to rely on these to stay functioning for too many centuries.
Finally, on the tunnel down to where the waste is, there needs to be some level of barriers that cannot be simply drilled through. And if someone can get through them (blasting) there needs to be, in addition to horrendous traps, backup doors closing in on any holes.
This last part will be the hard to implement as well. We can have the barriers, but how to enforce it? No barrier is permanent. At the least these should be earthquake proof, to hope that they will work as needed. Also, there should be multiple fake tunnels, leading people own the wrong shaft etc. There can't be infinite, however. If someone is intent of getting to the center of all this, it appears that they just might and that there is no thorough solution to this matter.
Nevertheless, this is still an exercise in imagination, and I already see the flaws in my design.
So what are your thoughts on creating the 10000 year keep out sign? What flaws does mine have? I'm sure there are better ideas out there. Anyone have one?
I will update this as more ideas come to mind. Also, if any one has anything they want to add, please do.
This is the problem facing scientists who are trying to cover/bury and keep covered radioactive nuclear waste. This is, to say the least, a very unique situation. How would youkeep people (assuming you can keep out the elements and so forth) away for 10000 years, or perhaps longer?
Having a mere sign (with the currently universal—though I'm not sure how universal—radioactive sign being used with black on bright yellow) or making certain that the site is part of blueprints and all maps of an area won't cut it as you must assume that no language will last that long (even in a best case scenario it will be thoroughly different). And as far as regional governments there would be, in such a time period, enough revolutions and change of guards that there wouldn't be any sense of continuity.
To further make a point in this matter one need only look at the past 10000 years in any other area (though one needn't assume that the past 10k years will be exactly the same as the next 10k years, after all the alphabet was only recently invented, so that in of itself would change a lot) and it should become clear that even with the invention of the written language one can't assume a certain amount of continuity. Even with something like the Internet, there would need to be a way to make sure that with each change of programming language and the real language this vital piece of information is somehow stored.
But let's assume that doesn't happen. So how to do it? How to make sure that one way or another people will stay away (well aware that some people might see signs to stay away as signs to enter—in the worst case of assuming reverse psychology ever)?
I'm assuming current technologies. I'm assuming that anyone entering and opening or retrieving any of these radioactive items will be causing more than harm to themselves (if they were to bring this back to the world), and thus their wounding or possible death would be better than them getting inside and back out (or is this too harsh an assumption?).
I'm assuming limited power. One could, of course, envision a situation where through nuclear, or some renewable source, there would be some power for the defenses (but for clarity's sake I will assume a either a series of systems that would or would not work with this). And finally I'll assume a single entrance to a deep hole as the main setup here. This hole may well be filled with concrete, but what happens when someone decides to blast through that? I'll also assume that no one else finds this to be a perfect setup and copies it to merely keep people away from other treasures. Once that happens it would almost surely render this system worthless.
The first thing would be physical barriers for access to the outside, above-ground entrance/top. Of course a simple and tall wall with the signs in all major languages (and symbols like the radioactive sign and scientific signs and periodic tables to help convey this) to keep out while providing all information to let people know what's inside will help. These signs can be intermittently placed elsewhere to serve as reminders (and in case one gets knocked down, there will be another one near by and so forth).
What next? A maze wouldn't work as that would only result someone climbing over that. The first thing would be a series of statues, made of some durable material, that will be a series of humans and animals (all nude) in various states of happiness and health, yet as they get closer to the entrance, they will grow emaciated and have faces of despair (hopefully still pretty universal, though who knows what turns culture will force us through), before falling down, crawling and finally dying and turning into skeletons, then some level of dust. The main point of this is to at least convey to people in something other than scientific or written terms that the place that you are closing in on is dangerous.
To add to this visceral feeling, there must also be a sound. One could add increasing amount of wind chimes, as well as several holes (perhaps more reliable) which would make noise when wind comes through. But how to guarantee wind? On at least one part there could be a shaft which would have differentiated temperatures and thus allow for the moving of wind. But this would require a permanent source of power to maintain this (I'm not sure if this could be maintained with a cool chamber beneath the ground and one above) and we cannot assume it would work.
Finally, the place would need a variety of traps of increasingly debilitating abilities. Some would merely drop a person (we're assuming no landing space for airborne vehicles, forcing most to go on foot) and break a foot. But the closer they get the more likely there would be trips, and booby traps resulting in immobilizing or death. Since we are also aiming against people dropping in from the air, this would be a sphere of traps to make sure everyone has to go through it. It hasn't been lost on me that the sphere wouldn't be allowed to stick too far above ground. After all, keeping people somewhat unaware of this place would be part of the fight. So a sphere would be something mostly underground.
If we have a constant power source, I would have robots with some level of AI, made to chase large living objects around. But this, even if the power source problem is solved, wouldn't be a very good system to rely upon. One would need to rely on these to stay functioning for too many centuries.
Finally, on the tunnel down to where the waste is, there needs to be some level of barriers that cannot be simply drilled through. And if someone can get through them (blasting) there needs to be, in addition to horrendous traps, backup doors closing in on any holes.
This last part will be the hard to implement as well. We can have the barriers, but how to enforce it? No barrier is permanent. At the least these should be earthquake proof, to hope that they will work as needed. Also, there should be multiple fake tunnels, leading people own the wrong shaft etc. There can't be infinite, however. If someone is intent of getting to the center of all this, it appears that they just might and that there is no thorough solution to this matter.
Nevertheless, this is still an exercise in imagination, and I already see the flaws in my design.
So what are your thoughts on creating the 10000 year keep out sign? What flaws does mine have? I'm sure there are better ideas out there. Anyone have one?
I will update this as more ideas come to mind. Also, if any one has anything they want to add, please do.
March 23, 2014
And
While you wait for some more pieces, here's another great post from out there in the internets. On the reasons why it seems (for some of us) that our nation so easily falls into the same ruts over and over. Mull it over. 
March 22, 2014
A great article on Veteran PTSD
I have to commend Rose for another great post (and check it out as soon as you can); this one concerns veterans and their adjustment to back home. Rose is doing research on the matter and in this post attempts (doing a masterful job, I might add) to tackle the specific lack of assimilation to civilian life when veterans return. One can think of this when veterans see people worrying about things that seem to be trivial, and perhaps even shallow. Now, whether this is a valid complaint is not the argument; it simply remains that many veterans find it hard to adjust because of this reason.
This, of course, is one of many such avenues (or variables in a complex formula, if you will) that Rose is looking into. I wish him luck (or perseverance, which seems like it should be more helpful) in his endeavors. But for all of you out there, check it out as soon as you can!
This, of course, is one of many such avenues (or variables in a complex formula, if you will) that Rose is looking into. I wish him luck (or perseverance, which seems like it should be more helpful) in his endeavors. But for all of you out there, check it out as soon as you can!
March 19, 2014
Just to note
I want to thank John for the great review on The Struggle Trilogy. For a short time (until 2014 April 02nd) use NH85B as a coupon for 50% off the ebook, at this link HERE.
That's it for now. Enjoy!
That's it for now. Enjoy!
Read the news (how to)
On Reading the News in the Internet Age
Any intellectual worth his salt, any citizen of any democracy/republic, or anyone who wishes to see the world as true as can be must come across the issue of how to read the news (though to be fair, there is some value in only reading the news to stay in tune with the currents of your fellow man). I'm referring to how one can gather the best news possible without being misled.
I'm not sure about other people but I'm very concerned with this issue. Recently, while discussing geopolitics (or at least as it pertained to the then occurring invasion of Ukraine by Russia, where it's so easy to see the drum rolls of 'power' being touted in favor of proper analysis, as if the memes of tribalism are that much stronger than rational thinking) with some friends over dinner, I came upon this issue of information.
I live in New York, and most self-respecting liberals here get a lot of their news from the New York Times (NYT), a fine newspaper which covers many points of view. But should it be the only thing one reads?
No. Let me explain. The first time I had an inkling that the news could be incorrect was as I was coming into my teenage years. I believe I was mulling over whether or not history was set in stone and whether what was happening in my life was not. In other words, previously I had the view that what was written in history books was true as anything, while (after hearing the rants and the complaints of my grandparents and my parents about newspapers and what they contained) newspapers didn't seem to be as true, and in fact seeing people contest them (such as the letters to the editor section) only furthered my distrust of them.
But as I walked through each step of collecting news versus history, I realized that there weren't any differences. That to gather news one needed eyewitnesses and that, outside of natural events, it was hard to fathom something more ephemeral. I made the connection that history was merely old news. That it wasn't much more than someone going in the past to see what people said then.
This rocked my pre-pubescent world. If what was taught wasn't true then what could I do? I decided to mistrust all that I read. But this proved to be nearly impossible. I couldn't judge for myself what was true, even if I was mistrustful, and I didn't have the background necessary to weigh it against anything (all I had was a few conflicting upbringings; I had the American text books I was reading, as well as my knowledge of what I had learned about certain hotspots in the world when I lived outside the States—for example in Israel; there couldn't a more different view of that conflict than from inside the States to outside it... this only further deepened my mistrust).
So I did something very anti-intellectual; I decided to go with what my parents were reading. I trusted that they knew something, and so I decided to trust The Economist as well as a few other magazines (some right leaning, some left leaning).
I should point that another intellectual stream was running strong in my life at this point, and that was the stream of the assimilation. Mind you I was in the middle of a small town in Michigan, thus this stream ran strong. And I was coming to love my adopted country. Therefore American triumphalism ran through my veins, in that it considered American points of view above all else.
In the face of these two lines of thought, I decided to accept them and developed a sort of distrust for a lot of what passed as the mainstream media, while accepting fully the narratives that those very same media spouted. It required much less thinking. And I'm sad to say that I completely fell for this siren song.
Then 9-11 happened. And the drums for the Iraq War started to beat. It was, in my circles, hard to find dissenting voices, and most of them sounded shrill. Being a vivid reader of The Economist, I was sure I had all the facts.
So I joined up. Infantry. A few years later I was certain that I had been fooled (though it would be easy enough to say that I allowed myself to be fooled). I was furious (see the main reason that outside of wanting to know what's going on in certain parts of the world that I mainly refuse to read The Economist). My time in Iraq also taught me that it was all too easy to see the media for the viewpoints of interests that it tends to be, as well as the fight for eyeballs. It will always be those two things above all else.
And so here I am, after that dinner, wondering how best to put my views on news reading to paper. In the end I've reverted to my previous views that the young me had: that it's impossible to read unbiased news. News is nothing more than bias-propaganda and a veiled attempt to garner more eyeballs. Even when it tries hard to be impartial it can be nothing more than a continuation of whatever narrative a nation has (note that I'm not just saying that it's an American thing, this is true of all countries), as well as the interests (powerful or otherwise) in those countries. The need for advertisers makes sure of this.
So what's a person to do? Surely one cannot make it through life avoiding all news. For then you would be forced to listen to others' views which are in turn influenced by the news. No, the best way to deal with this is to read as many conflicting reports about a matter. And that doesn't mean to just listen to a newspaper that's supposedly giving you both sides of the view. I mean you need to read from several different newspapers or news outlets (see if they're subsidiaries of something larger, because if they are, then there's not much chance that they are all that different). Listening to one will invariably make you subject to that newspaper's whims and, being that it's an entirely human endeavor, mistakes.
Therefore listen to or read many. And to that end, listen and read to as many from different nations and different geopolitical blocks as you can (there's an idea for a proper app or algorithm to create stories with these combinations in mind). Time is limited in today's world, but surely you must have time to at least add the newsfeed (a reason the Internet is great) of one American then British news outlet (BBC, the Guardian). And then go farther to another non-Anglo source (Spiegel is another). And go even farther to a non-Western source. Aljazeera, or perhaps an Indian new outlet. There are plenty of non-Western ones with English outlets.
And when these outlets tell the news, beware of any national narratives that could influence their objectivity (or where they're getting their money from and what other pies these moneyed interests have their fingers in). And finally, know some history (with just as many viewpoints). You will see a pattern developing that will allow you to, with imperfect information (because that's what all news ends up being), extrapolate into the darkness of what is not known. Or even to see a lie for what it is. This also allows you to rise up above whatever current is sweeping up rational discourse. See that the powerless don't have as many avenues to fire off their own propaganda and will be viewed as the more evil. See that occupiers call all who rise up terrorists. See the world for what it is and this will increase your chance of not being swindled.
It would be great if someone could trace all the money sources for even the News outlets I've mentioned, this would allow us to make sure that there are no duplications in that department. If more information is found, then I will surely list that here.
Any thoughts? How do you read the news?
March 6, 2014
And so it goes.
Here we are: this is a short, though more of a flash fiction piece than anything. Also, it's about life and not about anything else.
Soon I'll add another story:
Funny thing happened when I was out and about in my little neighborhood here. I was shopping for a few pieces of wrapping paper and I noticed a woman, large, being followed by an elderly woman. The younger woman kept telling the older one to leave her alone. The older one, with an African accent, didn't even consider these requests. She kept following the woman, saying something which I could barely catch. And besides I was busy, so I did a double take but saw that the younger woman seemed to have the situation in control. Of course my mind rolled through the multiple scenarios. It could be that they knew each other, that one perhaps was mistaken about knowing the other. It could have been many things. Was she harassing the younger lady for money? I walked to the check out line, not thinking about the odd couple, but rather the wrapping paper in my hand and the miles it must have traveled to get to this store and furthermore the poor worker at the factory who created it. The dank smell of diesel engines idling flew in as the automatic doors nearby slid open.
In front of me I saw the old lady still harassing the younger one. The old lady seemed more stooped over than before. When the younger one, apparently at her wits end, turned and yelled loud enough for everyone to at least turn for a second, the older lady only leaned away, looked up to the ceiling and went back to harassing the younger woman. That reaction didn't seem right. She must have known the younger woman (or be absolutely crazy) because her reaction wasn't frightened of the bigger woman; it was assured, in the sense that she had dealt with this before. I moved closer to hear. The older woman was asking about someone with a girls name. Saying that she was going into a life of trouble. The younger woman, paying at the cashier now, rolled her eyes and looked up. I know, I know. But what do you want me to do? I'm too busy mom.
The older woman did the same reaction, sighing heavily. There was a definite love in her eyes. She leaned in and continued on talking. This time the younger woman didn't seem so angry. They left the store. I came up to the cashier and fished out my wallet. There were only a few things that I could think of that would result in a mother following her adult daughter into a store and talking to her. They seemed, in a way, to be talking past each other. Perhaps it was the obvious cultural differences. I knew the burden that the daughter must have had allowing competing memes at home and away to take up her time and energy. The other possibilities, the reasons the mother was so adamant, filled my chest with an odd sadness.
The wake of the mother-daughter leaving was like any normal wake of even the craziest things in NYC. People went back to being completely normal. Perhaps the craziness should be attributed to the people who ignore rather than the ones who feel? I stepped out into the rattling road of a subway and even more idling trucks. I walked home, keeping the wrapping paper close at hand.
Soon I'll add another story:
Funny thing happened when I was out and about in my little neighborhood here. I was shopping for a few pieces of wrapping paper and I noticed a woman, large, being followed by an elderly woman. The younger woman kept telling the older one to leave her alone. The older one, with an African accent, didn't even consider these requests. She kept following the woman, saying something which I could barely catch. And besides I was busy, so I did a double take but saw that the younger woman seemed to have the situation in control. Of course my mind rolled through the multiple scenarios. It could be that they knew each other, that one perhaps was mistaken about knowing the other. It could have been many things. Was she harassing the younger lady for money? I walked to the check out line, not thinking about the odd couple, but rather the wrapping paper in my hand and the miles it must have traveled to get to this store and furthermore the poor worker at the factory who created it. The dank smell of diesel engines idling flew in as the automatic doors nearby slid open.
In front of me I saw the old lady still harassing the younger one. The old lady seemed more stooped over than before. When the younger one, apparently at her wits end, turned and yelled loud enough for everyone to at least turn for a second, the older lady only leaned away, looked up to the ceiling and went back to harassing the younger woman. That reaction didn't seem right. She must have known the younger woman (or be absolutely crazy) because her reaction wasn't frightened of the bigger woman; it was assured, in the sense that she had dealt with this before. I moved closer to hear. The older woman was asking about someone with a girls name. Saying that she was going into a life of trouble. The younger woman, paying at the cashier now, rolled her eyes and looked up. I know, I know. But what do you want me to do? I'm too busy mom.
The older woman did the same reaction, sighing heavily. There was a definite love in her eyes. She leaned in and continued on talking. This time the younger woman didn't seem so angry. They left the store. I came up to the cashier and fished out my wallet. There were only a few things that I could think of that would result in a mother following her adult daughter into a store and talking to her. They seemed, in a way, to be talking past each other. Perhaps it was the obvious cultural differences. I knew the burden that the daughter must have had allowing competing memes at home and away to take up her time and energy. The other possibilities, the reasons the mother was so adamant, filled my chest with an odd sadness.
The wake of the mother-daughter leaving was like any normal wake of even the craziest things in NYC. People went back to being completely normal. Perhaps the craziness should be attributed to the people who ignore rather than the ones who feel? I stepped out into the rattling road of a subway and even more idling trucks. I walked home, keeping the wrapping paper close at hand.
February 27, 2014
Best Books of the 21st Century
(27.2.2014) It's hard to claim a book is either "The one" or will even be talked about in ten years, let alone fifty or a hundred, but one must at least swing for the books that one cares about (or believes will make posterity—whoever they are—somewhat happy or sufficiently sad). Some might say wait a few years (I've heard that one must wait at least 20-30 years to properly judge a book), but there will be time for that later.
The date has been added so that should anything change, I will add a new date and put it at the bottom.
In the mean time, below the jump is a list of books which I have found to be disturbing in a sense, and as these usually bring about some dissonance in me I assume that they will stick in others' heads as well. Please feel free to add any you believe are missing from this list.
What a journey this book has been. At times it may drag, but still the author is aiming (and it's easy to see how hard he's trying) to make a global book. Does he succeed? In many ways he does. When the book drags, it's only because the author is taking us down to the sewers of life and showing us what it's like. And throughout it all we know he has the talent to talk about Mexico and its missing women as well as the Eastern Front during WWII. Like I said, I'm not entirely sure about the author's motives, but they don't lack for ambition. And with that said I've thought on this book a lot and expect to revisit it, if only to tackle the themes he has written about.
The Dream of the Celt
Though written about the previous century, this book is a perfect study of a man, and Empire, and the dignity of people over the wont of power or lust of money. Still a very relevant topic for today.
The Road
Written in McCarthy's Biblical style (perfect for a book such as this), this book is about the end of times, and is beautifully written, never divulging too much information. The relationship between the man and his son is a perfect frame for survival.
The Iraqi Christ
A short story collection by one of the most promising writers of our time. How does one tackle the disparate and varied story of the Iraqis? This book comes damn close to that. Enjoy (or suffer through) this book.
Train Dreams
Beautiful. Nothing more can be said.
I'jaam
A 1984 for a different time and place. Quirky in some ways; no easy feat for so harsh a subject.
1Q84
Are there more? Surely there are. Add some, and I will do likewise with time.
A fairy tale. For our times?
The date has been added so that should anything change, I will add a new date and put it at the bottom.
In the mean time, below the jump is a list of books which I have found to be disturbing in a sense, and as these usually bring about some dissonance in me I assume that they will stick in others' heads as well. Please feel free to add any you believe are missing from this list.
What a journey this book has been. At times it may drag, but still the author is aiming (and it's easy to see how hard he's trying) to make a global book. Does he succeed? In many ways he does. When the book drags, it's only because the author is taking us down to the sewers of life and showing us what it's like. And throughout it all we know he has the talent to talk about Mexico and its missing women as well as the Eastern Front during WWII. Like I said, I'm not entirely sure about the author's motives, but they don't lack for ambition. And with that said I've thought on this book a lot and expect to revisit it, if only to tackle the themes he has written about.
The Dream of the Celt
Though written about the previous century, this book is a perfect study of a man, and Empire, and the dignity of people over the wont of power or lust of money. Still a very relevant topic for today.
The Road
Written in McCarthy's Biblical style (perfect for a book such as this), this book is about the end of times, and is beautifully written, never divulging too much information. The relationship between the man and his son is a perfect frame for survival.
The Iraqi Christ
A short story collection by one of the most promising writers of our time. How does one tackle the disparate and varied story of the Iraqis? This book comes damn close to that. Enjoy (or suffer through) this book.
Train Dreams
Beautiful. Nothing more can be said.
I'jaam
A 1984 for a different time and place. Quirky in some ways; no easy feat for so harsh a subject.
1Q84
Are there more? Surely there are. Add some, and I will do likewise with time.
A fairy tale. For our times?
Best Books of the 20th Century
This post will be constantly updated, but I'm going to list the best (to be defined here as books that seem to have lasting import and which have depth, ie speak to a large portion of humanity and the fragility within us all) books, IMHO, of the previous century (yes, it's an arbitrary time period to choose, but I'll use it for now. Probably best to think of human time in epochs, with major changes involved... not for now, however). I won't rank them, though I'll try and give at least a few reasons for them, and keep the ones closest to my mind up top. As usual (and if my taste in books over the past decade are any indication) I will change and drop certain books whenever needed. I'll try to keep those that have dropped out, for whatever reason, at the bottom with that in mind. And you're more than welcome to add your own two cents.
MC=protagonist
Invisible Man:
When I first read this book in high school I'm not sure I completely appreciated it. I read it a second time and was absolutely taken by this riveting read. The MC's tale of woe is a beautiful but haunting story about an African American man who moves from the South to New York. Simply great, as I've said. As a writer there is a heavy use of symbolism adds another layer to appreciate, yet this book has a twisted tale which I couldn't help but love.
Ficciones:
Ficciones (English Translation)
Here we have a book of shorts. Not usually a fan of shorts; rarely a fan of collections. But this is one that I read all the way through and enjoyed on almost every single level. I still go back just to parse what has been written. It is said that Borges writes bland characters. I disagree. If he is guilty of one thing that is writing characters who represent too much in us and others. No, these stories are a delight and a source of many of my ideas.
The War of the End of the World:
An epic book about the previous century. But a necessary one nonetheless. Haunting. Tragic. A tale that takes almost every view into account. This is the story of hope crushing up against larger uncaring forces, and yet behind them all are small people trying to find their dignity. From this book, I now have the impetus and blueprint on how to tackle epic struggles that I will write on in the future.
Petals of Blood
A tale from East Africa. Kenya to be exact. Here Ngugi manages to tell the tale of independence and the people who lost as a result of lies told. Beautiful and haunting. Reading this allowed me to see how one interweaves hope and social narratives.
The Secret Agent.
Probably my favorite book by Conrad. This book, read by me towards the end of my time in the military helped bring to focus the daily life and the downright silliness of a state's fight to be good. Or at least appear that way. Some people say that they don't need fiction, that only non fiction could ever suffice. This was the first fiction book I read after dedicating myself to non fiction for almost half a decade. Never again. A story like this highlights too much to ever want to stick to non fiction.
Slaughterhouse Five
What an amazing book. Vonnegut survived the Dresden bombing, and what he had to see afterwards haunted him forever. This book, written as scifi, though it's seems to defy classification. Written in a wry voice and with a humor that only Vonnegut can bring to such a horrific topic. Here is a book that will stick to your brains.
All Quiet on the Western Front
What a story. WWI. I really can't add to this except that the books claim of being the best book about war ever is hard to refute. Perhaps the best book about modern warfare. Reading about the horrors of this war, from the side that lost, is not to be missed.
The Leopard
A story about a Sicilian aristocratic family coming to grips with a changing time. Nothing horrific happens. The world just slowly changes around them, and there's nothing they can do...
MC=protagonist
Invisible Man:
When I first read this book in high school I'm not sure I completely appreciated it. I read it a second time and was absolutely taken by this riveting read. The MC's tale of woe is a beautiful but haunting story about an African American man who moves from the South to New York. Simply great, as I've said. As a writer there is a heavy use of symbolism adds another layer to appreciate, yet this book has a twisted tale which I couldn't help but love.
Ficciones:
Ficciones (English Translation)
Here we have a book of shorts. Not usually a fan of shorts; rarely a fan of collections. But this is one that I read all the way through and enjoyed on almost every single level. I still go back just to parse what has been written. It is said that Borges writes bland characters. I disagree. If he is guilty of one thing that is writing characters who represent too much in us and others. No, these stories are a delight and a source of many of my ideas.
The War of the End of the World:
An epic book about the previous century. But a necessary one nonetheless. Haunting. Tragic. A tale that takes almost every view into account. This is the story of hope crushing up against larger uncaring forces, and yet behind them all are small people trying to find their dignity. From this book, I now have the impetus and blueprint on how to tackle epic struggles that I will write on in the future.
Petals of Blood
A tale from East Africa. Kenya to be exact. Here Ngugi manages to tell the tale of independence and the people who lost as a result of lies told. Beautiful and haunting. Reading this allowed me to see how one interweaves hope and social narratives.
The Secret Agent.
Probably my favorite book by Conrad. This book, read by me towards the end of my time in the military helped bring to focus the daily life and the downright silliness of a state's fight to be good. Or at least appear that way. Some people say that they don't need fiction, that only non fiction could ever suffice. This was the first fiction book I read after dedicating myself to non fiction for almost half a decade. Never again. A story like this highlights too much to ever want to stick to non fiction.
Slaughterhouse Five
What an amazing book. Vonnegut survived the Dresden bombing, and what he had to see afterwards haunted him forever. This book, written as scifi, though it's seems to defy classification. Written in a wry voice and with a humor that only Vonnegut can bring to such a horrific topic. Here is a book that will stick to your brains.
All Quiet on the Western Front
What a story. WWI. I really can't add to this except that the books claim of being the best book about war ever is hard to refute. Perhaps the best book about modern warfare. Reading about the horrors of this war, from the side that lost, is not to be missed.
The Leopard
A story about a Sicilian aristocratic family coming to grips with a changing time. Nothing horrific happens. The world just slowly changes around them, and there's nothing they can do...
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