"For a few to be immortal, many must die."
Before the Occupy movement made the news, a movie made the same point. That the 1% of people in the world have more than the 99% put together; and that just doesn't make sense.
In Time does what a lot of science fiction does. It takes a topic that the world is dealing with and finds a way of making a point in a way that entertains. What Star Trek made a career of doing, this movie recreated.
And it did so with a premise that is simplicity itself: What if we used Time as money?
In a few ways, this movie has a better premise than a plot, but that's true of a lot of sci-fi movies. We spend time enough exploring the world that we're being presented with that we forget that the characters living in them don't see it as anything special.
What if we used Time instead of Money?
In Time paints the picture of a world where nobody is over twenty five. You do not age, you do not die of old age. Instead, you are given a clock. Everyone has a thirteen digit clock on their arm, always there. And that clock counts down, second by second. When your clock hits zero, you simply... stop. In the poverty stricken parts of town, you find bodies of people who ran out of time, and nobody stops to dwell on it, because they can't spare the seconds.
This clock, is your currency. You can add time to your clock, or eliminate some of it. And this is the currency of the world. A cup of coffee can cost you four minutes of your life, your power bill a few hours. If you are willing to part with a day of your life, you can have a nice bottle of wine, if you beg for help you might get a few minutes here and there. When you get paid at the end of the day, you get another 24 hours, win a lucky poker hand and you can get more. Lose too many hands, and you leave the poker table feet first.
People in real life have tied their whole living to their money; this movie just eliminates the need for an ATM.
But what absolutely floors me about this movie, is that this world is not at all different from our own. The majority of people are still dirt poor; living, (literally) from day to day, hoping they can scrape together enough to make it to tomorrow, as the cost of living rises on them, and there's nothing they can do. Meanwhile the proverbial 1% at the top of the chain can have centuries to live, not caring how long anything takes, or how desperate others are; because they have all the time they could ever need.
Naturally, the premise is so much fun to explore, and you will do so long after you leave the cinema. The movie itself follows a poor working class man named Will Salas, played pretty well by Justin Timberlake, as he goes about his life. Early in the movie he meets a rather wealthy man who has more than a century to live, and is disgusted by it. Naturally, when your actual lifespan can be stolen from you the way your wallet can be stolen in the real world, flashing a century around to a bunch of people who count their future in hours is a dangerous prospect.
Our hero rescues this wealthy man from his own 'suicide-by-crime', and is rewarded, with a gift of the whole century. Suddenly free of his 24 hour death sentence, Salas starts moving up in the world, suddenly one of the 1%.
Naturally, this idyllic 'ending-to-eternity' story cannot last, and he draws the attention of the Timekeeper, a cop that monitors the give-and-take of this currency in the world; who begins hunting him. He is helped by the inevitable love-interest of the story, Sylvia Weis, played by Amanda Seyfried.
The character of Sylvia is an interesting one, as a bored socialite that literally is born with eternal life ahead of her, and is uninterested in spending all eternity terrified of dying by accident, as all her circle are. The two of them go on a Robin Hood style crime spree, taking from the rich and giving to the poor, who embrace the fact that somebody is literally giving them longer to live.
Its an interesting exploration of old questions. If you never had to lose anything, how far would you go to play it safe? If you suddenly had an extra year to live, would you spend that year living any differently? If you suddenly got given everything you could ever want, would you be willing to share it? Is it wrong for a few people to have everything, if it means many people have nothing. These are questions that people have to face in real life, and they are retold in this movie, as all the best sci-fi movies do.
But what makes this movie good are how the little touches make it so realistic. Poor people always run everywhere, because seconds count. Rich people go everywhere surrounded by security, and play everything ultra-safe, refusing to so much as go for a swim, or take a long jump, paranoid about the notion of death since they never have to face it themselves.
And thus the world of this movie, background from the main movie plot, is disturbingly like ours. The struggling people in poverty can't so much as leave their home for a holiday because they cannot afford to waste the time, and when costs go up, it can be fatal to them; while the Uber-Rich have more than they or their children or their grandchildren could ever hope to use; and are totally paranoid about losing it.
You can view it as a typical action flick, and in a way it is, but take a look at their world and ask yourself how it applies to ours. In Time does what a lot of science fiction does. It takes a topic that the world is dealing with and finds a way of making a point in a way that entertains.
In Defence of 'Signs'...
When Signs came out, the majority of the reviews were negative. In the years that followed, the average in reviews has improved. (At least on IMDB). But one thing that keeps coming back, again and again is the criticism that...
SPOILER ALERT
...it's an Alien Invasion story where the Invaders get killed by water. If you want a good straight up Invasion movie, go to Battle: LA. This movie is something else entirely. This movie is a story about faith. The Alien Invasion is just the backdrop.
The Characters:
The father, Graham Hess: a former clergyman, who lost faith after the death of his wife to a car accident and thus left the church.
"People break down into two groups when the experience something lucky. Group number one sees it as more than luck, more than coincidence. They see it as a sign, evidence, that there is someone up there, watching out for them. Group number two sees it as just pure luck. Just a happy turn of chance. I'm sure the people in Group number two are looking at those fourteen lights in a very suspicious way. For them, the situation isn't fifty-fifty. Could be bad, could be good. But deep down, they feel that whatever happens, they're on their own. And that fills them with fear. Yeah, there are those people. But there's a whole lot of people in the Group number one. When they see those fourteen lights, they're looking at a miracle. And deep down, they feel that whatever's going to happen, there will be someone there to help them. And that fills them with hope. See what you have to ask yourself is what kind of person are you? Are you the kind that sees signs, sees miracles? Or do you believe that people just get lucky? Or, look at the question this way: Is it possible that there are no coincidences? "
SPOILER ALERT
...it's an Alien Invasion story where the Invaders get killed by water. If you want a good straight up Invasion movie, go to Battle: LA. This movie is something else entirely. This movie is a story about faith. The Alien Invasion is just the backdrop.
As a sci-fi geek who has seen/read enough Alien stories to be judgmental about them, I was really pleased with this movie. The narrative as a whole is a brilliant piece of storytelling.
This movie, is about faith. If you pay attention to what the characters say between the chills and 'Ack!' moments, then you'd get a better feel for the brilliance of the script. Here it is:
The Characters:
The father, Graham Hess: a former clergyman, who lost faith after the death of his wife to a car accident and thus left the church.
His brother, Merril Hess: A baseball player, who moved in with his Brother and his kids after his sister in law died.
The son, Morgan: Crushed by the loss of his mother, and heavily asthmatic.
The daughter, Bo: The youngest of the household, and holds an interesting quirk of pathologically never finishing a drink of water.
Be advised, there are MAJOR spoilers from this moment on. Very last warning.
The Plot:
There's a moment in the movie, when Graham the former Reverend and his brother Merrill are watching news coverage of fourteen UFO's in the middle of the night, and Merrill makes a comment about it being the end of the world. Graham says it's possible. What follows is a monologue that I love, and have memorized, and quoted on a number of occasions. Read it carefully, because it so neatly defines the movie:
"People break down into two groups when the experience something lucky. Group number one sees it as more than luck, more than coincidence. They see it as a sign, evidence, that there is someone up there, watching out for them. Group number two sees it as just pure luck. Just a happy turn of chance. I'm sure the people in Group number two are looking at those fourteen lights in a very suspicious way. For them, the situation isn't fifty-fifty. Could be bad, could be good. But deep down, they feel that whatever happens, they're on their own. And that fills them with fear. Yeah, there are those people. But there's a whole lot of people in the Group number one. When they see those fourteen lights, they're looking at a miracle. And deep down, they feel that whatever's going to happen, there will be someone there to help them. And that fills them with hope. See what you have to ask yourself is what kind of person are you? Are you the kind that sees signs, sees miracles? Or do you believe that people just get lucky? Or, look at the question this way: Is it possible that there are no coincidences? "
The house this family lives in is at the center of the action. The Aliens come in stages. First they form crop circles everywhere, to mark their landing zones. One of these crop circles is formed less than eighty meters from their home.
Next come single members of their invasion force, probing and such. Some of them sniff around their town. Anyway, I'm not going to get into the big worldwide signs of impeding attack. This is meant to explain the point of the storytelling:
During these early stages, the backstory is told.
First is the car accident that took Graham's wife. The town Vet fell asleep at the wheel, and hit her as she was walking. The car pinned her to a tree and gave Graham long enough to say goodbye to his wife. Her last words were: "Tell Merril to swing away". Her brain was shutting down and she was delirious.
Next, Merril's story: He's a baseball player, and holds the record for the most strikeouts, because he always swung as hard as he could, no matter what anybody said, also giving him the longest home run record. The Bat is still mounted on the family room wall.
And finally, comes the Invasion. The Aliens want the humans themselves, and use ground attacks. it seems they spray poison in small doses at close range, and people die.
The Aliens land their troops, putting their home right in the middle of the march. They flee to the basement, but the boy is injured. His Asthma kicks in big-time, leaving him nearly dead. They wait out the War going on outside.
The biggest and most hated point from most reviewers, is the way the Aliens were defeated. It seems that water is like acid to them. This makes the invasion quick, but disastrous for them, and humans stand triumphant as the family comes up out of the basement, only to find that one alien was left behind in the retreat, and hiding in their house, where he quickly takes the boy hostage, spraying him with the poison, as they fight him down.
As the alien is defeated, the boy seems to miraculously escape the Alien's spray, as the Asthma is treated, ensuring his survival.
The Point Of The Film:
Now, what we have here are a staggering series of coincidences:
1) We have, the death of his wife. Her last words would be burned into his memory, and they are "Tell Merrill to swing away."
2) We have, the brother, who was fantastic enough to have a baseball bat conveniently mounted on the wall, ready to use to fight the alien, but because he had no subtlety, he was here at home instead of on tour with the big leagues.
3) We have, the little girl, with a pathological refusal to finish a glass of water, making every room in the house full of half-full glasses of water when the alien strikes.
4) We have, the aliens themselves, who are horrifyingly weakened, to the point of death, by water, and who spray poison on their victims.
5) And we have, the boy, the former Priest's only son, who spent the night in the basement gasping impossibly for air through an asthma attack, so that when the Alien sprayed him, his lungs were closed, so no poison got in, and he was easily revived with asthma medication, while Merrill beat the alien into the water glasses with the baseball bat.
"See what you have to ask yourself is what kind of person are you? Are you the kind that sees signs, sees miracles? Or do you believe that people just get lucky? Or, look at the question this way: Is it possible that there are no coincidences?"
This is not a scifi movie in the strictest sense. This is not an invasion story in the strictest sense. This is a movie about faith. About losing it, about finding it, and in the end simply wondering if the reason things sometimes work out is mere chance, or something more.
This movie feeds us these clues in bits and pieces, and I've had to explain the ending to almost everybody else I know who's seen it. But it makes sense to me, and I am constantly blown away by the skill with the writing.
"What Did You Do This Week?"
Why do we enjoy for ourselves what we never say out loud?
I remember back in kindergarten, the class would file in on Monday morning, the teacher would say good morning and we would all drone back a 'Good Morning Mrs Phillips' in a unified monotone, somehow all of us knowing how to say it in perfect toneless unison without ever having been taught how.
The teacher would ask us what we did over the weekend, and without exception, the answer would be "Nothing."
In reality, in the space of a weekend, I would be helping my mom in the kitchen, making a favorite meal while she taught me how to chop and measure and stir. I stood alone against hordes of enemies, saving the masses of cuddly animals from soulless robotic overlords. I visited friends and shared tales of conquest and victory afterward, competed in two-player and spent an hour crowing and dancing around in triumph as I thoroughly smashed my friend's record, which had stood unbroken for a whole two months. The day away from home was round out as we went about plotting the downfall of the adult kingdom so that kids could rule the world and outlaw vegetables and homework.
But when asked, at school, "What did you do this weekend? The answer was always "Nothing."
And hey, if I told them that I helped cook dinner and played videogames with my friends, who would care?
Now I'm all grown up, 25 going on 70.
What did I do last weekend?
I built myself a new bird-net frame over my veggie patch. Lettuce and garlic and tomatoes and herbs always taste better when they’re fresh grown, and I like growing them myself rather than having to go to a supermarket.
I made lasagna. One of my favorites, but still an art to perfect. The key to a good lasagna for me, is the Bolognese sauce, so I made that in a slow cooker they day before. Homemade garlic bread is a good side, with a sort of icy-crush fruit and ice-cream cocktail for dessert.
I followed up on several threads of discussion thanks to the wonders of the internet, discussing with people all over the world topics like music, books, food, climate change, politics, entertainment and religion. People I never met, and do not know coming together to express strong viewpoints on things as simple as what was enjoyed most about a particular movie, and as complicated as how bookstores and music stores are now in the same boat thanks to the expansion of emergent technologies, and how these things may be a problem to individuals, but a great progression to the world.
I watched and tried to follow along with several online videos about how to play a guitar, lasting a full twenty minutes this time before my own acoustic guitar strings made my fingers hurt too much to keep going. Still can’t pull a chord change to save my life.
We do things, but we never think of it as doing things.
We make plans for the future, but never seem to get around to actually carrying any of them out. So when we actually start a project or invest out time and effort in something new, something that we have never done before, we rarely bring it up that often, because it's just for us. Something that we spend our time on, just a day in our lives. Ours and nobody else’s, because we never really talk about it do we?
Maybe I'm alone in thinking this, but it feels like the things that we spend time on, the things that truly interest us, the things that we invest ourselves in and count as a part of our day, we hate to share, as though somehow they would mean little to any other who heard about them.
So. I put it to you.
What did you do this week?
I remember back in kindergarten, the class would file in on Monday morning, the teacher would say good morning and we would all drone back a 'Good Morning Mrs Phillips' in a unified monotone, somehow all of us knowing how to say it in perfect toneless unison without ever having been taught how.
The teacher would ask us what we did over the weekend, and without exception, the answer would be "Nothing."
In reality, in the space of a weekend, I would be helping my mom in the kitchen, making a favorite meal while she taught me how to chop and measure and stir. I stood alone against hordes of enemies, saving the masses of cuddly animals from soulless robotic overlords. I visited friends and shared tales of conquest and victory afterward, competed in two-player and spent an hour crowing and dancing around in triumph as I thoroughly smashed my friend's record, which had stood unbroken for a whole two months. The day away from home was round out as we went about plotting the downfall of the adult kingdom so that kids could rule the world and outlaw vegetables and homework.
But when asked, at school, "What did you do this weekend? The answer was always "Nothing."
And hey, if I told them that I helped cook dinner and played videogames with my friends, who would care?
Now I'm all grown up, 25 going on 70.
What did I do last weekend?
I built myself a new bird-net frame over my veggie patch. Lettuce and garlic and tomatoes and herbs always taste better when they’re fresh grown, and I like growing them myself rather than having to go to a supermarket.
I made lasagna. One of my favorites, but still an art to perfect. The key to a good lasagna for me, is the Bolognese sauce, so I made that in a slow cooker they day before. Homemade garlic bread is a good side, with a sort of icy-crush fruit and ice-cream cocktail for dessert.
I followed up on several threads of discussion thanks to the wonders of the internet, discussing with people all over the world topics like music, books, food, climate change, politics, entertainment and religion. People I never met, and do not know coming together to express strong viewpoints on things as simple as what was enjoyed most about a particular movie, and as complicated as how bookstores and music stores are now in the same boat thanks to the expansion of emergent technologies, and how these things may be a problem to individuals, but a great progression to the world.
I watched and tried to follow along with several online videos about how to play a guitar, lasting a full twenty minutes this time before my own acoustic guitar strings made my fingers hurt too much to keep going. Still can’t pull a chord change to save my life.
We do things, but we never think of it as doing things.
We make plans for the future, but never seem to get around to actually carrying any of them out. So when we actually start a project or invest out time and effort in something new, something that we have never done before, we rarely bring it up that often, because it's just for us. Something that we spend our time on, just a day in our lives. Ours and nobody else’s, because we never really talk about it do we?
Maybe I'm alone in thinking this, but it feels like the things that we spend time on, the things that truly interest us, the things that we invest ourselves in and count as a part of our day, we hate to share, as though somehow they would mean little to any other who heard about them.
So. I put it to you.
What did you do this week?
'Lux Aurumque'
I've spoken before about how the internet is an ultimate forum. No names, no questions asked, you count as much as anyone else and no judgments are made till they see what you can do.
This guy, took it in a direction I wouldn't have thought of.
Presenting:
Eric Whitacre's Virtual Choir, performing: "Lux Aurumque"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7o7BrlbaDs
I've never heard of him before now, but he's done something amazing here. I don't know if he did it all himself or had a tech team, but he does great work.
Something like this has been done with Audio Dramas. You don't need your actors in the same room like the old recording studios that brought you Radio Theater back in the 40's and 50's.
I've heard it done with audio dramas, but never with video. It's an amazing time to be a geek.
What's truly amazing is not the sound, or the method, but the fact that these people would never have met each other, and probably wouldn't notice or care if they passed each other in the street now.
This guy, took it in a direction I wouldn't have thought of.
Presenting:
Eric Whitacre's Virtual Choir, performing: "Lux Aurumque"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7o7BrlbaDs
I've never heard of him before now, but he's done something amazing here. I don't know if he did it all himself or had a tech team, but he does great work.
Something like this has been done with Audio Dramas. You don't need your actors in the same room like the old recording studios that brought you Radio Theater back in the 40's and 50's.
I've heard it done with audio dramas, but never with video. It's an amazing time to be a geek.
What's truly amazing is not the sound, or the method, but the fact that these people would never have met each other, and probably wouldn't notice or care if they passed each other in the street now.
Dear Reggie
Dear Reggie.
You remember how we met? I know you were there, but I don't think I ever told you how we got put in the same room. Maybe you never thought about it, but really, it's one of those bizarre circumstances. I mean think about it, you were in the waiting room of a veterinary Clinic, and I didn't have a pet.
This is where I come in. A few years before this, I had been diagnosed with a chronic illness that made my life one of enforced isolation. It made school impossible, it made work impossible, and as both parents worked, I basically wore a path from my room to the TV to the bathroom and back again and listened to the clock tick until someone got home. I was actually starting to be interested in daytime television. A Bad Sign.
Which brings me to the day we met.
We actually met through my father. My dad, was working on the security systems at University of Sydney. The University campus had a whole bunch of things open to the public. Various computer labs, the Cooking classes let their professional kitchens get hired out, the Veterinary Courses had a working clinic...
In this last, was you.
So then, one day, I got a phonecall out of the blue. It was my dad, calling from work. "Would you like a cat?"
You poor thing. I know, you're proud and fussy as all like you are, but that was the first thought that came to me at the time. You were the proverbial Kitten who became the Cat. Already full grown, donated to the clinic. Our eyes met through a glass box about the size of a large fish tank in the Vet Clinic waiting room, and a name tag with the words "Free to a good home" taped on the glass.
I don't know who came before me, but cat's aren't known for fear and shyness, so it must have been tough. You were such a (pardon the phrase) fraidy-cat when we first met that one had to wonder what they'd been putting you through for your first eight lives.
I had to admit, I was worried. I was more or less confined to my apartment, and you were... not. A part of me was trying to decide how I'd manage keeping you if you made a fuss about getting outside. I was pretty high maintenance back then.
And amazingly, so were you. We were made for each other that way.
We brought you home and you vanished under a chair for two weeks. The food we left for you was gone in the morning, and we kept filling the bowl again. By week three you dared to come out and sit on the floor in the same room as us. If the TV ever had a sudden noise, or somebody sneezed, there would be a blur of tabby and we wouldn't see you for an hour or two.
It's nice to know that I won you over, sweetie.
And once I did, I suddenly became aware that I wasn't getting you off my bed/lap/chair/blankets with a crowbar.
You have been companion and friend, and for some reason, never showed any interest in the world outside the apartment, which worked for us just fine. Especially for me. It was nice having a fellow heartbeat around. For a lot of life, that cat was the only other heartbeat there was.
I didn't think you'd survive the next move, interstate. You were so jumpy back then. I was sure you'd hate to fly. I should have known better. You got over the stress of the flight the second you discovered that a ground floor house had more sun. You liked the extra sun during the summer months, I liked the furry foot warmer during the winter.
I read a story once about Dickens' Cat, who would start alerting him if he was up too late. Many a night I'd sit at this computer too long and a pair of paws would come up from the floor and start scratching lightly at my knee, a little furry alarm letting me know it was time to warm up the bed for the more important creatures still awake.
All things good must end however. As you can probably tell from the sappy sentimental prose, that time has come with you, Dear Reggie.
Whatever else I can say, I know we did right by you Reggie. We lose the things we love. That's a fact. That's why we find new things to love. That's survival. And we loved you for a good long time. And we won't forget that feeling.
Or the cat hair. A legacy that will last far longer than anything else you had to your name. You touched us all with the part you played in our lives. Every time I put on any set of clothing, or sit on any flat surface in the house, I know that you'll be touching me still.
Love
The whole family.
We don't know how old she was when we found her. There was no record of that. She was scheduled to be put down if nobody saved her from that box in a clinic, and instead she spent another near decade with us in a family of people who loved her to bits.
RIP. And thank you for the company Reg.
You remember how we met? I know you were there, but I don't think I ever told you how we got put in the same room. Maybe you never thought about it, but really, it's one of those bizarre circumstances. I mean think about it, you were in the waiting room of a veterinary Clinic, and I didn't have a pet.
This is where I come in. A few years before this, I had been diagnosed with a chronic illness that made my life one of enforced isolation. It made school impossible, it made work impossible, and as both parents worked, I basically wore a path from my room to the TV to the bathroom and back again and listened to the clock tick until someone got home. I was actually starting to be interested in daytime television. A Bad Sign.
Which brings me to the day we met.
We actually met through my father. My dad, was working on the security systems at University of Sydney. The University campus had a whole bunch of things open to the public. Various computer labs, the Cooking classes let their professional kitchens get hired out, the Veterinary Courses had a working clinic...
In this last, was you.
So then, one day, I got a phonecall out of the blue. It was my dad, calling from work. "Would you like a cat?"
You poor thing. I know, you're proud and fussy as all like you are, but that was the first thought that came to me at the time. You were the proverbial Kitten who became the Cat. Already full grown, donated to the clinic. Our eyes met through a glass box about the size of a large fish tank in the Vet Clinic waiting room, and a name tag with the words "Free to a good home" taped on the glass.
I don't know who came before me, but cat's aren't known for fear and shyness, so it must have been tough. You were such a (pardon the phrase) fraidy-cat when we first met that one had to wonder what they'd been putting you through for your first eight lives.
I had to admit, I was worried. I was more or less confined to my apartment, and you were... not. A part of me was trying to decide how I'd manage keeping you if you made a fuss about getting outside. I was pretty high maintenance back then.
And amazingly, so were you. We were made for each other that way.
We brought you home and you vanished under a chair for two weeks. The food we left for you was gone in the morning, and we kept filling the bowl again. By week three you dared to come out and sit on the floor in the same room as us. If the TV ever had a sudden noise, or somebody sneezed, there would be a blur of tabby and we wouldn't see you for an hour or two.
It's nice to know that I won you over, sweetie.
And once I did, I suddenly became aware that I wasn't getting you off my bed/lap/chair/blankets with a crowbar.
You have been companion and friend, and for some reason, never showed any interest in the world outside the apartment, which worked for us just fine. Especially for me. It was nice having a fellow heartbeat around. For a lot of life, that cat was the only other heartbeat there was.
I didn't think you'd survive the next move, interstate. You were so jumpy back then. I was sure you'd hate to fly. I should have known better. You got over the stress of the flight the second you discovered that a ground floor house had more sun. You liked the extra sun during the summer months, I liked the furry foot warmer during the winter.
I read a story once about Dickens' Cat, who would start alerting him if he was up too late. Many a night I'd sit at this computer too long and a pair of paws would come up from the floor and start scratching lightly at my knee, a little furry alarm letting me know it was time to warm up the bed for the more important creatures still awake.
All things good must end however. As you can probably tell from the sappy sentimental prose, that time has come with you, Dear Reggie.
Whatever else I can say, I know we did right by you Reggie. We lose the things we love. That's a fact. That's why we find new things to love. That's survival. And we loved you for a good long time. And we won't forget that feeling.
Or the cat hair. A legacy that will last far longer than anything else you had to your name. You touched us all with the part you played in our lives. Every time I put on any set of clothing, or sit on any flat surface in the house, I know that you'll be touching me still.
Love
The whole family.
We don't know how old she was when we found her. There was no record of that. She was scheduled to be put down if nobody saved her from that box in a clinic, and instead she spent another near decade with us in a family of people who loved her to bits.
RIP. And thank you for the company Reg.
The Machine Is Using Us.
I was chatting with a friend of mine a few days ago, about how the Internet and new media and such were supposed to create something of a global information/entertainment renaissance.
She quoted Steve Wozniac. One of the men who helped to start the PC revolution with the founding of Apple. He said: “Our first computers were born not out of greed or ego, but in the revolutionary spirit of helping common people rise above the most powerful institutions.”
She told me that quote and said:
“I want to get that optimism back so badly. I just don't know how. If we could somehow have, like, a two-week moratorium on stupid.”
Well, I can't speak to the stupid, but I can speak to the disillusionment.
The fact is, that dream came true. The time of the powerful institutions are over. What few the stock market crash didn't kill outright, are being starved to death by people's natural ability to find what they want for free.
The Internet is the ultimate forum. No names, no prejudices, no race, no questions asked. You arrive, you speak your piece, you go, other people comment.
The first computers were made as an intellectual exercise. At the time, a guy with a slide rule was faster. Computers were a technology looking for a use.
The first internet was born out of impatience of academics. The internet was made as a forum for colleges to pass around information, then somebody started typing about something else and you couldn't lay phones lines fast enough.
The powerful institutions have now lost their grip through sheer force of volume. And I'm not talking about torrents. I've never used a torrent in my life.
Most of the money from book sales goes not to the authors or the printers but the publishers. Most of the money from Album sales in music stores go, not to the bands, but to the record labels.
Who pays a grand for cable TV when Hulu is there? Nobody cares about High Def that much. Most of my bandwidth is taken up with Audio dramas and short films now. There's nothing good on TV anymore. So when I look for something to entertain me, I go looking for Audio dramas and short films on Youtube. I haven't seen the inside of my local Blockbuster in months. Haven't needed one. My computer and my MP3 player are my personal entertainment unit.
http://audiodramatalk.com/
Kindle book sales this past Christmas outpaced actual book sales for the first time. Amazon gets a small fee, the author gets a much higher percentage.
Look at this guy:
http://craphound.com/?cat=5
My dad raves about this guy. He put it all up for free, and the quality got him noticed. Somebody offered to print. Most of the fans went and bought the hardcopy, because they already knew they'd enjoy it. I have a PDF, and a hardcover version of some of his good stuff which I found in a secondhand store. A whole ebook library plus a hardcover of my favorite. The whole set cost me less than a meal at McDonalds.
I haven't bought a new book in ages. There's a book exchange up the road from my place. I buy a bunch of books second hand and trade them in there for store credit. I trade in more books later to get credit back. An extra five bucks at a swap meet or a garage sale and I boost my credit line. The library and PDF downloads of novels written by people who could never have been published a year ago make up the numbers. I haven't spent more than $20 on books in years. A lot of authors are putting their books up as Ebooks, and are getting widely read and getting money off it, without ever having to sign on with a publisher.
The publishing houses have realized that their day is over.
A lot of rock bands are publishing their music online at a much cheaper rate for a paypal donation, they cut out the record label completely.
http://www.garageband.com/charts
http://www.jamendo.com/en/
I haven't spent money in a record store for almost five years. Why would I need to? The radio puts out the new stuff and most of that I don't like. A few music publishing sites let you buy track by track for a 99c instead of albums as a whole for $30, which works for me because I hardly ever enjoy all the songs on an album.
My MP3 player is filled (not counting audio dramas and podcasts) with indie music from these sites which is made freely available under creative commons. And these indie performers? They put up on their profiles where they live, and all the coffee houses or private clubs that have live music playing check these places too. Most of them contact a performer and arrange a booking. They can do that in faith because they've already heard the music.
Don't get discouraged by the impossible amount of stupid in the world. Smart is there. It just takes a little effort to find. For every great story I read online? There are two hundred that I get a page into and skip. For every great Independent music album I download? There are about twenty albums I listen to and delete because it's so impossibly bad, or at least not my taste.
For every future Pulitzer writer penning blogs now? There are a hundred see-spot-run's. For every future U2? There are 340 bands of teenagers jamming on their guitars in garages until their moms tell them to shut up.
And for every thoughtful, considered opinion piece, there are fifty flames.
The potential has always been there, but it takes a lot of effort to find it.
She quoted Steve Wozniac. One of the men who helped to start the PC revolution with the founding of Apple. He said: “Our first computers were born not out of greed or ego, but in the revolutionary spirit of helping common people rise above the most powerful institutions.”
She told me that quote and said:
“I want to get that optimism back so badly. I just don't know how. If we could somehow have, like, a two-week moratorium on stupid.”
Well, I can't speak to the stupid, but I can speak to the disillusionment.
The fact is, that dream came true. The time of the powerful institutions are over. What few the stock market crash didn't kill outright, are being starved to death by people's natural ability to find what they want for free.
The Internet is the ultimate forum. No names, no prejudices, no race, no questions asked. You arrive, you speak your piece, you go, other people comment.
The first computers were made as an intellectual exercise. At the time, a guy with a slide rule was faster. Computers were a technology looking for a use.
The first internet was born out of impatience of academics. The internet was made as a forum for colleges to pass around information, then somebody started typing about something else and you couldn't lay phones lines fast enough.
The powerful institutions have now lost their grip through sheer force of volume. And I'm not talking about torrents. I've never used a torrent in my life.
Most of the money from book sales goes not to the authors or the printers but the publishers. Most of the money from Album sales in music stores go, not to the bands, but to the record labels.
Who pays a grand for cable TV when Hulu is there? Nobody cares about High Def that much. Most of my bandwidth is taken up with Audio dramas and short films now. There's nothing good on TV anymore. So when I look for something to entertain me, I go looking for Audio dramas and short films on Youtube. I haven't seen the inside of my local Blockbuster in months. Haven't needed one. My computer and my MP3 player are my personal entertainment unit.
http://audiodramatalk.com/
Kindle book sales this past Christmas outpaced actual book sales for the first time. Amazon gets a small fee, the author gets a much higher percentage.
Look at this guy:
http://craphound.com/?cat=5
My dad raves about this guy. He put it all up for free, and the quality got him noticed. Somebody offered to print. Most of the fans went and bought the hardcopy, because they already knew they'd enjoy it. I have a PDF, and a hardcover version of some of his good stuff which I found in a secondhand store. A whole ebook library plus a hardcover of my favorite. The whole set cost me less than a meal at McDonalds.
I haven't bought a new book in ages. There's a book exchange up the road from my place. I buy a bunch of books second hand and trade them in there for store credit. I trade in more books later to get credit back. An extra five bucks at a swap meet or a garage sale and I boost my credit line. The library and PDF downloads of novels written by people who could never have been published a year ago make up the numbers. I haven't spent more than $20 on books in years. A lot of authors are putting their books up as Ebooks, and are getting widely read and getting money off it, without ever having to sign on with a publisher.
The publishing houses have realized that their day is over.
A lot of rock bands are publishing their music online at a much cheaper rate for a paypal donation, they cut out the record label completely.
http://www.garageband.com/charts
http://www.jamendo.com/en/
I haven't spent money in a record store for almost five years. Why would I need to? The radio puts out the new stuff and most of that I don't like. A few music publishing sites let you buy track by track for a 99c instead of albums as a whole for $30, which works for me because I hardly ever enjoy all the songs on an album.
My MP3 player is filled (not counting audio dramas and podcasts) with indie music from these sites which is made freely available under creative commons. And these indie performers? They put up on their profiles where they live, and all the coffee houses or private clubs that have live music playing check these places too. Most of them contact a performer and arrange a booking. They can do that in faith because they've already heard the music.
Don't get discouraged by the impossible amount of stupid in the world. Smart is there. It just takes a little effort to find. For every great story I read online? There are two hundred that I get a page into and skip. For every great Independent music album I download? There are about twenty albums I listen to and delete because it's so impossibly bad, or at least not my taste.
For every future Pulitzer writer penning blogs now? There are a hundred see-spot-run's. For every future U2? There are 340 bands of teenagers jamming on their guitars in garages until their moms tell them to shut up.
And for every thoughtful, considered opinion piece, there are fifty flames.
The potential has always been there, but it takes a lot of effort to find it.
There's No World, That Compares.
Where else could there be a frenzied swordfight, while only yards away, there’s a ballet?
You’ve crossed swords with this fiend before, there’s none that can match him, except for you, and it’s a duel between knights that will decide the fate of two kingdoms…
The ballerina has her own stakes. People have crossed the globe to see her dance. Her performance is exquisite, bringing the most jaded in the audience to tears…
Something stops the dance. Something interrupts the duel. Dinner’s on the table.
You sheathe your sword. She bows before the audience. You go in. She goes next door.
You can’t really complain when you see the meal laid out before me. It’s a spread that Genghis Khan would have given up the globe for. It’s a feast that an Iron Chef would give his right lung to have prepared. Each dish a work of art, each taste magical, layered with endless subtleties and spices. The main course is some great animal, hunted with such awesome skill and precision. In the jungles outside you can hear the others of it’s kind howling for revenge, daring you to come and face them.
But you cant. The dishes need to be washed.
They are clean, and the window over the sink shows the dimming sky. There’s something there, something coming out of the clouds. Planes. War planes. Here they come! The strike is starting! Sure enough! There’s the SAC alarm. You’ve gotta get to your plane. Thousands of lives are in the balance. Hundreds of planes are massing, a veritable cloud of fighters. You have to get up there! You have to get ready!
But you cant. You’ve got homework to do.
It’s the most tedious thing you have ever done. How you get through it you’ll never know, but you finally drop your pen and sit back in your chair. Your eyes stray to the clock. It’s nighttime.
A grin splits your face. Perfect.
You wander into your room, the very picture of casualness. You reach under your bed and draw out a mask. It fits over your face like a second skin as you go to the window. It’s three stories to the ground, but gravity doesn’t apply to you. It’s meaningless, it doesn’t exist.
Below you the city continues in blissful ignorance of your watchful gaze. If they knew you were there, those three men would never have tried to rob the bank.
If they knew you were so fast they wouldn’t have wasted the effort of trying to shoot you.
If they knew you were so strong they wouldn’t have fought so futilely.
There’s more to do. People need help.
But you cant. It’s bed time.
---------------
Whenever I have writers block I look out my bedroom window. There are two kids across the street, and every day their front yard, to them, is a new land. A place of mystery. Kids can see everything in nothing, and I think we lose something when that…that second-sight fades. It’s not a game to them, it’s real.
Everyone I know tells me to get my head out of the clouds and stop daydreaming, but I cant, and for that matter, I don’t want to. I turned on the six o clock news tonight, and the first story: a car bomb that killed 90 people, the second: Iran's Nuclear Program, the third: Bush-fires getting close to homes.
Why can’t I get my head out of the clouds? Because the clouds are preferable. There are no rules, no constraints, no boundaries and most importantly, no consequences. We can fight and never lose, we can live and never feel sad, we can have friends that never betray us, family that never leaves.
My grandmother told me that I spend too much time in fantasy, and then she picked up one of those Victorian-era romance novels. It’s all a fantasy. It’s all illusion, but where they read the world they want, Imagination is not bound to a page, and always becomes something new. Play it out in your mind, then rewind and adjust ad infinitum until perfect.
In that place, that only dreamers and children can reach, every tragedy is one that gives no pain; every problem has the perfect solution. Those of us who can see the world that way are never bored, and never alone. Dreamers and shapers who can see anything from everything. Those of us who can are the people that become writers, artists, philosophers and poets, and on occasion crazed paranoid schizophrenics, but still…
How does the song put it? “If you want to view paradise simply look around and view it. Anything you want to do it. Want to change the world? There’s nothing to it.”
In a world like this where kids are growing up faster, becoming jaded in a world where they have to be to be prepared, I hope that even adults can keep some of that second sight.
Those who have it live in a world with a ten-foot wall around it, and those who don’t only have eight foot ladders.
You’ve crossed swords with this fiend before, there’s none that can match him, except for you, and it’s a duel between knights that will decide the fate of two kingdoms…
The ballerina has her own stakes. People have crossed the globe to see her dance. Her performance is exquisite, bringing the most jaded in the audience to tears…
Something stops the dance. Something interrupts the duel. Dinner’s on the table.
You sheathe your sword. She bows before the audience. You go in. She goes next door.
You can’t really complain when you see the meal laid out before me. It’s a spread that Genghis Khan would have given up the globe for. It’s a feast that an Iron Chef would give his right lung to have prepared. Each dish a work of art, each taste magical, layered with endless subtleties and spices. The main course is some great animal, hunted with such awesome skill and precision. In the jungles outside you can hear the others of it’s kind howling for revenge, daring you to come and face them.
But you cant. The dishes need to be washed.
They are clean, and the window over the sink shows the dimming sky. There’s something there, something coming out of the clouds. Planes. War planes. Here they come! The strike is starting! Sure enough! There’s the SAC alarm. You’ve gotta get to your plane. Thousands of lives are in the balance. Hundreds of planes are massing, a veritable cloud of fighters. You have to get up there! You have to get ready!
But you cant. You’ve got homework to do.
It’s the most tedious thing you have ever done. How you get through it you’ll never know, but you finally drop your pen and sit back in your chair. Your eyes stray to the clock. It’s nighttime.
A grin splits your face. Perfect.
You wander into your room, the very picture of casualness. You reach under your bed and draw out a mask. It fits over your face like a second skin as you go to the window. It’s three stories to the ground, but gravity doesn’t apply to you. It’s meaningless, it doesn’t exist.
Below you the city continues in blissful ignorance of your watchful gaze. If they knew you were there, those three men would never have tried to rob the bank.
If they knew you were so fast they wouldn’t have wasted the effort of trying to shoot you.
If they knew you were so strong they wouldn’t have fought so futilely.
There’s more to do. People need help.
But you cant. It’s bed time.
---------------
Whenever I have writers block I look out my bedroom window. There are two kids across the street, and every day their front yard, to them, is a new land. A place of mystery. Kids can see everything in nothing, and I think we lose something when that…that second-sight fades. It’s not a game to them, it’s real.
Everyone I know tells me to get my head out of the clouds and stop daydreaming, but I cant, and for that matter, I don’t want to. I turned on the six o clock news tonight, and the first story: a car bomb that killed 90 people, the second: Iran's Nuclear Program, the third: Bush-fires getting close to homes.
Why can’t I get my head out of the clouds? Because the clouds are preferable. There are no rules, no constraints, no boundaries and most importantly, no consequences. We can fight and never lose, we can live and never feel sad, we can have friends that never betray us, family that never leaves.
My grandmother told me that I spend too much time in fantasy, and then she picked up one of those Victorian-era romance novels. It’s all a fantasy. It’s all illusion, but where they read the world they want, Imagination is not bound to a page, and always becomes something new. Play it out in your mind, then rewind and adjust ad infinitum until perfect.
In that place, that only dreamers and children can reach, every tragedy is one that gives no pain; every problem has the perfect solution. Those of us who can see the world that way are never bored, and never alone. Dreamers and shapers who can see anything from everything. Those of us who can are the people that become writers, artists, philosophers and poets, and on occasion crazed paranoid schizophrenics, but still…
How does the song put it? “If you want to view paradise simply look around and view it. Anything you want to do it. Want to change the world? There’s nothing to it.”
In a world like this where kids are growing up faster, becoming jaded in a world where they have to be to be prepared, I hope that even adults can keep some of that second sight.
Those who have it live in a world with a ten-foot wall around it, and those who don’t only have eight foot ladders.
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