The Ghost in the Machine - Or Where Are We Going, Part 2

Our lives are increasingly being lived virtually.  As well as a literal, we also leave an electronic footprint.  In the younger generation this dual life is even more strongly realised.

For those of us who have taken part in the internet revolution, it feels strange to think that moving forward there are two versions of yourself - the 'real' you, and the virtual you.  Sometimes I think of the 'virtual me' that I have left as a computerised echo across the World Wide Web.  In my virtual life, I have taken part in many conversations and debates online.  I've shot the breeze, reacted to the issues of the day, told stories, argued, joked around, played my favourite music, lost my temper, made friends, made enemies and flirted. 

Indeed, if the diaries of such as Samuel Pepys have caused such fascination with their snapshots of 17th century life in London, what will it be like for future generations to look back at us?  As the first 'cyber generation', I would imagine that we will have a certain hold over the imagination by default.

If future generations chose, and as technology advances, I would imagine they would be able to make a perfectly serviceable facsimile of my virtual self, warts and all, that they would be able to interact with if that was their fancy.  For all I know I may have just given one of my descendents that very idea! I can only hope that my simulacrum will offer a modicum of entertainment.

We have seen films such as The Matrix, Total Recall and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (among many, many other movies and books) play with the idea of living in an artificially constructed world, and now we stand at the shoreline of that virtual universe, and the watermark is slowly rising as we witness the digitization of existence.

I wrote Where Are We Going part 1 some thirteen or fourteen years ago for a website I hosted that has long been consigned to the virtual dustbin (thank you AOL).  In this blog I speculated that one day the last 'physical' human would download themselves into a Universe contained within a subatomic cube that would then be cast adrift and float through the cosmos (if it was small enough it perhaps could  even survive the theoretical Heat Death of the Universe, thus granting us immortality).  When I look around I see we are well on course for that possible future.

I can imagine the horrified thoughts that may be coursing through the mind of a reader as they contemplate this future, trapped in a pseudo reality where you will never feel the wind upon your face or watch a sunrise and stuff like that - but the way I look at it as long as uncontrolled human interactions remain a part of your world, there will always be something there to stop you getting bored.  Besides which life, and how it is lived by that time, will have evolved to such an extent we can't know or judge what those cats will be finding groovy.

And if they get that bored they can always talk to my ghost!

Once More With Feeling - Or A Moan About Writer's Block

I've always envied those that can create prolifically.  Creatively I'm what in football terms is called a 'confidence player'.  i.e. a player for which certain things, psychological and sometimes physical, have to be in place before they can produce (including the famous 'arm round the shoulder', which is usually provided by the manager/coach, and accompanied by words that will indulge the confidence player's ego).

Of course, writing is not football, and it's very difficult to define what those 'certain things' might be, in creative terms, unfortunately.  For myself, engendering creativity is almost like an engine that needs a different combination of actions applied to it every time before it will 'kick start' (there's kind of an idea in there already I guess...).  The good news is that once it belches out an idea, and that light bulb clicks on, I feel compelled to scribble down whatever it's told me I should be writing about.

One day, perhaps, science will derive the mathematical formula that is behind the human creative spark.  I have mixed feelings about this prospect.  On the one hand harnessing this force could give us a very powerful tool in the advancement of knowledge and all kinds of progress.  On the other hand, would it make us any more ethical, any more moral?  At the worst I suppose it could speed us down the road to extinction as we come up with ever more creative methods of destruction.

The other reservation I have about the 'mathematical formula of creativity' is just the feeling that some mysteries should remain mysteries.  There is nothing logical I can give to justify this feeling, other than a need to believe that there is still some magic in the Universe.

Getting back to what (to the best of my knowledge) inspires me to write, I would say vision and feeling.  A vision comes to you, and it is accompanied by the feeling that the vision gives to you.  Recently, I collaborated on plotting a story based upon this picture:

The person who collaborated with me suggested that although I was making plenty of suggestions as to the concepts and the course of the story, I wasn't putting much 'feeling' into it.  At the time I did kind of dismiss the criticism as a bit girly (hope my collaborator doesn't mind me putting it in those terms if she's reading...) but upon reflection I find the criticism may have been valid.  I suppose it was down to the affect that the picture had on me, ultimately.

So is there a 'creative fuel' that can be guaranteed to supply both the 'vision' and the 'feeling'?  For me, there is: music.  Not every piece of music of course.  just certain pieces and at certain times.

And so I'll close this blog with an example of a song that has had precisely this affect, and screamed at me "I am a story waiting to happen".

Will I ever write that story?  Maybe.

If you listen to this song and get a 'vision and a feeling' then you have my commiserations - because there's something in your mind that works in a similar way to mine.

 

Message in a Bottle

What is your #MessageToVoyager ? Post a message or video to .. @NASAVoyager !

Here is the invitation I was given.  Give a message to the human made object that is the furthest away of all the objects that humanity has conspired to engineer.  A message from a fleeting life on the Pale Blue Dot that our Greatest Explorer has left behind, and will never see again.

So here goes:

"Have a great time!  I want photos!  And if you encounter any robotic super races that want to turn you into an unstoppable force of destruction bent on finding your creator, please go in the opposite direction."

All the Best

Jez

That's Me in the Corner - That's Me in the Spotlight...

There's a person I'm connected with on Twitter - you could say this person has an impestuous temperament.  But my Twitter timeline is always livened up by what they have to say.  Today this person, among all the other random 140 character pronouncements, made a declaration.

"I've just had an epiphany.  There is no God."

"That's pretty heavy," I responded.

"I know, right?"

This exhange got me thinking.  It was pretty strange to share such a moment with this person in such a way, and it shows how the world is changing.  Before the dawn of social networking, such an epiphany would have been an intensely personal and private life changing moment.  Now such an utterence is lost among the flow of updates that are announced to the world on a semi-regular basis.

"Went to the shops"

"Fed the cat"

"Rejected the concept of a Universal Creator"

"Listened to the new Red Hot Chili Peppers album (it's kicking!)"

"Jim's behaving like a right idiot at the minute"

etc

etc

The question I asked myself is, are we trivialising such moments by letting them escape in the flow of updates, statuses and random musings?  Have they become banal because of this?

I decided the answer was no.  Why?  Because the way these moments come and go is a reflection of the way life is really lived.  We have these thoughts.  We make these decisions, and then we do something else.  Whatever thoughts go through our mind, and whatever happens, when these moments have gone, we carry on.  We just get on with it.

Why? 

Because there's nothing else we can do.

"Remember life is strange
And life keeps getting stranger every day."
Procession, New Order

Exert From the Dream Diary - Part 2

I dreamed I was watching a movie where this guy is fighting some kind of battle in an alternative universe.  You could tell it was another universe by the way the movie was shot in a kind of sepia colour.  Anyway, I believe I enjoyed it, and it had lots of car chases, which is always good.

I was at my parents' house and I stood up and looked out through the front window at the estate where I grew up.

I saw a nuclear explosion.

"Look Vanessa," I said to my little sister, pointing at the nuclear explosion, "it's a nuclear explosion!"

As I spoke the top of the mushroom cloud detached itself from the nuclear explosion and came crashing down into the road outside my parent's house.  It looked like a bunch of giant mushrooms tied together with mud.  "Oh dear," I thought, "radioactive waste.  I'd better tell somebody".

I made my way through to my parents' kitchen where my mother was pottering about.  "Mom", I began to say, "Mom..."  I gave up and headed upstairs towards my bedroom.  On the landing I could see my father pottering about.

Radioactive waste was tearing holes in the roof of the house now, though I seemed to be more worried about that fact that the roof would now leak water when it rained than the fact that the holes were caused by radioactive waste.

But my friends were on their way to pick me up as we were going for a night out, so I walked into my room and opened my wardrobe to pick out an outfit.  I picked this very strange gold, yellow and red silk tunic with a zig zag button fastening pattern, and as I put on the tunic I felt very confident that I would look very smooth in my outfit.

I walked downstairs, looked in the mirror and recoiled in horror, as I realised the tunic did in fact make me look like Ming the Merciless from Flash Gordon.

I stomped back upstairs to find there was some guy sitting cross legged in my room.  He was burning joss sticks and rolling a joint, and I appreciated the fact that the burning incense warmed the room and compensated for the holes in the roof that had been torn open by the radioactive waste.

"Look at this outfit," I said to him in a dismayed tone, "it's not me at all!"

The guy looked me up and down and agreed.  "Someone's taken you for a right mug, pal!" he said in a heavy welsh accent.

Exerts From My Dream Diary

Dream 1
I was on my way to the football match. I was on a minibus, which was taking the strangest and most random route to the game.  We raced down cobbled streets, through buildings and down river banks.  Eventually we reached the stadium of Aston Villa FC and I disembarked.  Aston Villa’s stadium, Villa Park, looked nothing like I remembered, but I did not feel any concern.  I made my way to my seat.

It was difficult to concentrate on the football match, for more than one reason.  For a start there seemed to be many attractive ladies at the match.  For another reason, there were two guys sitting next to me who were having a loud conversation.  One of them had blond hair and seemed very angry, and he ranted and shouted a lot.  His colleague had black hair, was very cool and detached and had a European accent (could’t quite place the country).

Although the blonde haired guy seemed very angry about something, he appreciated the more laid back view of his friend.  At one point he asked his friend, “do you believe in God?”
“Hmm… Interesting…” said the dark haired guy.

I was quite annoyed by their conversation.  Deep meaning philosophical conversations aren’t meant to be had at the football, I thought, they are meant to be had at the pub.  I got up and left.

The journey home from the match was even more random than the journey to the game, and the minibus was speeding through a small picturesque village.  I could feel the fear of the driver, who was terrified that the bus would crash into a wall.  But suddenly we burst onto a river bank, and the driver lost control, and we tumbled into the dark, cold water.

I recovered and swam away from the bus, now being pursued by a herd of swimming cows.  Fortunately for me, the river was contained within high walls, like a reservoir, and I was able to hang on to a vine that grew from one of those walls as the herd of cows swam past.

I watched one of the cows, a brown cow with a big fat cow body, climb over the wall.  As it did so, we regarded each other solemnly.


Dream 2
There was a town in Alaska where all they did was have sex.  They had sex as often and with as many people as possible.  There was even a totem pole standing at the boundary of the town, featuring scenes that were a bit like the Karma Sutra, including scenes of mass orgies.  One of the girls who lived in the town had picked up a boyfriend, but he had no idea about her lifestyle.  A guy is making a documentary about this situation and is driving out to meet the boyfriend to break the bad news to him. 

“How could he not know about the way his girlfriend lives?” says the documentary maker, “There’s even a totem pole outside the town with all of those depictions!”

When the boyfriend hears the news he is very upset, as you would expect.  The rest of the documentary follows him around as he attempts to cope with the way things are.  The documentary maker grows more sympathetic towards him as time goes by.

At one point, in his frustration, the boyfriend grabs a microphone and sings a song.  Here are the words:

F*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f***ck,
F*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f**ck fuggidy f***ck…

Terror Christmas

The old man wiped the blood away from his mouth and prepared to do battle again.

His white beard was stained red, and underneath his red jacket, he could feel the pain of fresh bruises; the result of blows to his body by his enemy. Wearily, he dragged himself to his feet.

St Nicholas, or Santa Claus - just two of the names by which he was known - painfully drew himself up and faced his foe. He and his would-be assailant were on the roof of a small bungalow in a remote part of Greenland. Santa had become stranded here when he had suddenly lost control of his sleigh, which had fallen from the sky like a wounded comet, presents flying in all directions. In the chaos that had ensued, the reindeer that drew Santa’s sleigh had bolted - with Rudolph, their leader unable to control them - and now Santa faced the wrath of the anti-Christmas Hobgoblin.

It was this goblin that now grinned at his injured enemy, its fangs glinting, as it flexed its distended sinews in preparation for the final kill. "Come on Santa," it hissed as it pointed its talons towards the saintly present giver, "Where’s your claws?!"

Quick as a flash, it raked its own claws across Santa’s plump stomach, and the old man’s red uniform was stained a deeper red by his blood. Santa coughed more blood and cursed himself for allowing an ambush like this to happen. All these years, safe in the magical protection of his sleigh, and that of his workshop – they had made him careless. He had taken his own safety in the power of Christmas for granted; and now he was paying the price. Hence, a demon from the edges of reality, which pray on what is good and pure, having sensed his vulnerability, had attacked. And now he faced the possibility that the magic of Christmas would die.

Here.

Now.

With him, this night.

Santa peered through the driving snow, attempting to spot his antagonist.

Suddenly he felt the gut wrenching sensation of the goblin's claws as they again cut into his stomach. Red fluid sprayed across the roof, instantly freezing in the sub-zero temperatures. As he fell and slid down the steep bungalow roof, Santa saw a huge black shape, blacker even than the ebony sky, rising over him. There was a throbbing in his head, and even though his enemy did not did not apply the finishing blow as yet, his vision was blurring and he knew the end was near.

Unconsciously, he reached into his pocket.

Wait.

A silence hung in the air. No sound could be heard except the howling wind. The goblin prepared to make the final killer lunge. He had temporarily lost sight of the old man, but no matter. Soon his triumph would be complete. Just time for some final gloating.

"Hey, Christmas", he snarled. "There’ll be no presents for the kids this year!"

The goblin stopped and listened. No reply. The wind howled again. The goblin looked around him, taking in the empty white landscape, haunted and desolate against the black sky.

"Little Johnny won’t get his train set, because Santa’s lying dead on some godforsaken roof!" snarled the goblin. "What do you think of that, Christmas?!"

Suddenly, the goblin found itself face to face with the old saint. Santa’s teeth were gritted, and his eyes were burning with fierce determination as he snarled in reply. "That’s FATHER Christmas to you, PUNK!!"

With a yell he charged the hobgoblin, which was so startled it was knocked off its feet. Falling together, they crashed against the tall, soot encrusted frame of the chimney, which rose from the snow-covered roof to become almost invisible against the black sky. Santa recovered quickly, drew himself back and punched the goblin in the jaw. The demon grunted but was unhurt. Yet it hesitated, giving the old man enough time to spring backwards and recover his balance on top of the roof. For a moment the protagonists faced each other in the swirling snow.

The goblin sneered and bared its fangs. It had to finish the old man soon, before the midnight hour struck, and the onset of Christmas would give him power. Slowly, and threateningly, it unfurled the viscous claws in one of its hands; then it bared the talons in its other -

What the hell is this!?

Slowly, a look of disbelief etched into its features, it brought forth the small object that Santa had pushed into its paw during their last scuffle. It was a brightly coloured package, all tied up with ribbons. The demon gaped, and looked up at Santa; who returned its stare, his eyes almost bulging.

And the demon roared with satanic laughter.

"Trying to buy me off with presents old man?!" it guffawed, "this is the last present you’ll ever give-"

But the monster was forced to stop speaking, because at that moment a premonition filled its thoughts; a premonition that filled it with dread.

Something was coming.

And a second later, the unmistakable sound of sleigh bells drifted down to them, tantalizingly playing above the howling wind.

Horrified, the goblin jutted its face towards the sky; it knew that sound. "No!" it screamed "not yet!" 

But it was too late.

Because across the sky it came, trailing stars in its wake.  And the air was filled with the sound of bells, reindeer hoofs, magic and child-like wonder. Santa’s sleigh had returned.

Within a second it was overhead, swooping towards them and dwarfing the tiny cottage on which they stood. The reindeer called out, "Father!" as they roared overhead.

Instantly Santa produced a grappling hook that fired a steel cable into the underbelly of his slay. "See? What did I tell you", he yelled above the snow, the wind and the sound of the sleigh, "It’s FATHER Christmas – get it right!"

"You’ll be Father DEADmas in a minute!!" roared the demon as it sprang forward to make the final kill – too late.

Santa was already sky-born, the magnetic reel at the end of the cable drawing him towards the departing sleigh. The hobgoblin howled in anguish as it crashed against the roof and fell towards the deep snowdrifts that clung to the side of the bungalow. With lightening reflexes it dug its long claws into the edge of the roof to arrest its fall.

Slowly, grudgingly, it drew itself up to stare after the departing sleigh.

A horrible feeling of disappointment settled over the demon. The greatest opportunity it could have hoped for was within its grasp, and it had failed.

How could it fail to kill a weak old man? How could it not complete the job it started? It had reckoned without Santa’s surprisingly viscous fighting spirit, sure, but all the same, this should have been an easy job. And now it would never get a better chance to fulfill its function, which was to destroy what was good in this world.

It sighed with demonic regret as it again brought forth the small package Santa had pushed into its hand as a distraction. And all it had to show for its efforts was this lousy –

Wait a minute.

It frowned and shook the package. Was it making some kind of ticking noise –

The darkness in that remote, northern territory was suddenly subsided by the blinding light and fury of a huge explosion.

The Yuletide Sleigh, which had previously been streaking away from the scene at the speed of sound, halted and wheeled around to face the inferno.

What had once been an isolated bungalow was now a volcanic inferno, as the demon that had attempted to destroy the personification of Christmas was dispatched violently back to hell.

Rudolph, the head reindeer, regarded the fire for a moment, the flames reflecting in his eyes, and seeming to bring a response from his glowing nose. Then he rose above the other reindeer and turned to face his master.

"Father", he said gravely, "Father Christmas, what have you done?"

"What I had to do", replied Santa Claus without hesitation. He wiped more blood away from his mouth, though his body was already healing under the magical protection of his sleigh. "That creature was evil incarnate. It could not be allowed to continue its incursion on this reality."

He sighed and sagged in his seat; "though I realise that I’ve crossed a line that was drawn for me thousands of years ago. There may be repercussions from this night."

He looked Rudolph in the eye and sighed again, "God help us my friend," he intoned sorrowfully, "God help us one and all."

Then he took up the reins and his tone changed. "Come my children, "he roared, "There is no time now to ponder on what is past. The children are waiting for their presents. Let’s fly!"

And the magic sleigh streaked towards its destination as the spirit of Christmas spread across the land.