#941-The Annual Obligatory Indulgent Essay about Writers Writing

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300 words a day, Aenema, Books about Writing, Christopher Hitchens, coffee, Commerce, Creative Writing, Honesty of the Artist about the Creative Process, Hooker with a Penis, Katy Perry, Katy Perry Wearing Red Velvet, letters to a young contrarian, Masturbation, Maynard Keenan, Oliver Queenan, On Writing, Purple Stuff, Ray Bradbury, Robot Chicken, Science, Scientific Theory, Stephen King, Tangerine Dream, The Departed, Thelonius Monk, TOOL, What the Fuck is Purple Stuff?, Writers, Writing, Writing about Writing

Two kids open a refrigerator looking for something to drink when they discover purple stuff.  It’s play on the old Sunny D commercial where somebody looks through the items in the fridge and notices something called “purple stuff” before noticing they have Sunny D.  I’m not sure why anyone would actively decided to drink Sunny D, but hey, people are allowed to have their own tastes, even if they’re wrong.  Anyway these kids stop and ask each other what “purple stuff” actually is when one of the kids asks his friend, “You think it will get us high?”  The first kid smiles and says, “there’s only one way to find out.”  The following scenes show the two kids beginning a series of scientific dialogues and in-depth academic research as the begin to compile data and formulate a hypothesis.  The act eventually culminates when one kid, following a heated argument about the final conclusions of their research, is hit by a car.  The first friend holds his dying companion and says he can’t die.  His friend, in the midst of choking on his own coagulating blood says, “Maybe I don’t have to, one, last, theory.”

At this point I threw my remote control through the television because no scientist would ever say, “just a theory.”  It was a hypothesis because at that point there were no solid experiments, and something only becomes a theory after decades of constant experiments. 

If something is scientific theory it’s because it has been tested millions of times by millions of scientists across the world at which point it becomes a fact.  Language is important damn it, and while I hate shitting on Robot Chicken, writers need to pay attention to the philosophies, education, and ideologies that define their characters.

None of this really has anything to do with books about writing, but I thought it would be a nice opener to an otherwise pointless topic: writing about writing.

 

[0] wHy I kEep dOing tHis

I’m honestly not sure why I keep doing this.  I’ve said it once before, but I find books that are about nothing but writing to be empty masturbation.  Though even that is incorrect because I hold respect for masturbation, it gives you pleasure and can help your body, over time, prevent certain types of cancer.  Books about books, and writing about writing, are rather useless because Stephen King summed everything a writer needs to know about being a writer in his book On Writing:

If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot.  There’s no way around these two things that I’m aware of, no shortcut.  (145).

After this, apart from specific guidelines about editing and finding an agent, everything else in terms of advice about writing is really bullshit.  Anyone can offer someone advice about what works for them personally as a writer, but the problem is that those offerings are ultimately individual opinions.  Writing is ultimately masturbation, a form of self-pleasure and -self-gratification that results in a tangle physical object, and only the individual person knows how they prefer to masturbate.  Hearing someone else’s opinions about writing is, at least in my experience, a lot like to listening to them prattle on about their mastubatory habits.  It’s not unpleasant, but it’s just not going to work for me.

And yet every year I always find myself thinking about what I would say if someone asked me what it takes to be a writer.  And every year I wind up reading at least one book or collection of essays by writers offering advice to aspiring writers.  Whether it’s Burn This Book, Zen and the Art of Writing, Letters to a Young Contrarian, or Walking on Alligators, I can’t seem to escape this pathetic inevitability.

Starting with Bradbury seems appropriate, but I think TOOL’s song Hooker with a Penis is a better place to start.

 

[1] Hooker with a Penis

Maynard Keenan is perhaps one of the few leading singers that still inspires me in Rock n Roll, because apart from Corey Taylor and almost the entirety of Heavy Metal, nobody sounds like they do on the record anymore.  I may be becoming one of those awful people who complain about auto-tuning, but for me it’s the matter of the live show because that’s where the bones of a band are made.  Maynard Keenan sounds on TOOL albums the way he does in concert and so when I heard that he was trained operatically I was impressed, and when I watched him sing the song Hooker with a Penis I had to go back to my Aenema CD and listen to discover that it was exactly the same.  Most of the time I’d been disappointed by singers in real life, their voices sounding tired, out of tune, or just different than the record, but with Keenan the man was singing what he could actually sing and it worked.

Looking at the lyrics of Hooker with a Penis though I found something rather interesting and that was the ethos of the artist speaking plainly.  The song is about Keenan listening to a fan who told him he thought the group was “selling out” and the remainder of the song is Kennan telling the guy to go fuck himself while also musing on the nature of art vs product.

So I’ve got some advice for you, little buddy.

Before you point your finger you should know that I’m the man,

If I’m the fuckin’ man then you’re the fuckin’ man as well

So you can point your fuckin’ finger up your ass.

All you know about me is what I’ve sold you, dumb fuck.

I sold out long before you’d ever even heard my name.

I sold my soul to make a record, dipshit, then you bought one.

All you read and wear or see and hear on TV is a product waiting for your fatass dirty dollar

So, shut up and buy, buy, buy my new record

Buy, buy, buy,

Send more money

Fuck you, buddy.

Fuck you, buddy

Fuck you, buddy

Fuck you, buddy.

Every artist has to determine for themselves what “selling out” means, and that in itself can become tricky.  For my own part I don’t believe I’ve ever sold out, then again someone has to want your writing before you can “sell” it.  I’ve “given” myself to my reader, largely because they haven’t had to pay for it.  They’ve paid me with their time and consideration and moderate attention while they wait for me to mention dicks or Finding Nemo.

Hooker with a Penis is a song that is much in the vein of a revenge tune, but as with everything TOOL this seemingly simplicity actually reveals a larger truth.   Though as I finish this sentence I have to ask myself when has TOOL ever demonstrated “seeming simplicity?”

Artists sell themselves, but often their writing is just a moment of themselves.  It’s a thought or feeling they were having that they then record and “sell” to people.  The consumer of an art product takes that moment and constructs meaning from it deciding whether or not the art is really significant.  But often the reader takes that feeling and allows it to become a facet of their identity, their spirit, their personal energy.  And, as is often the case, they allow themselves to think that they “know” an artist by reading this moment.

But all that you really know is what you bought, and so Maynard Keenan is able to write about writing and demonstrate to the reader that just because you have a nipple ring and new shoes doesn’t mean you know shit about TOOL.

 

[2] ZEN and THE art OF writing

Typically when someone announces that they’re a poet, when all they’ve ever written is prose, I tend to roll my eyes.  It’s not a discrimination against poetry because I love poetry.  What makes me roll my eyes is the fact that they have clearly bought into the hype of themselves and they believe they possess a grasp of language so that they could call what they’ve written poetry when an examination of their prose reveals they have not paid any sort of attention to how their work sounds or feels.  Words are there to present scenes and ideas, rather than inspire feelings.

Ray Bradbury is the only author I know who I give this a pass because there isn’t any other word besides poet to describe the man.  His prose isn’t just words strung together to create images in the readers mind which in turn are designed to tell a story and sell a book.  Every word of a Bradbury novel is carefully selected to assume a meaning in its form.  And in his book Zen and the Art of Writing, Bradbury is able to argue the merits of this form of writing, which is, in it’s simplicity, simply writing in a way so that the writer is honest with themselves.

He observes for his reader that often the “goal” of the writer is either to make millions of dollars with the fantastic best seller, or else to impress the intellectual elite.  But Bradbury observes that:

Nothing could be further from the true creativity.  Nothing could be more destructive than the two attitudes above.

Why?

Because both are a form of lying.

It is a lie to write in such a way as to be rewarded by money in the commercial market.

It is a lie to write in such a way as to be rewarded by fame offered you by some snobbish quasi-literary group in the intellectual gazettes.  (141).

This is something I am painfully familiar with because I have attained neither of these, yet I know, in my heart, that I am constantly desiring both.  I have written close to a decade relentlessly and received nothing in the way of commercial or critical success.  In fact for all my efforts, I tend to remain mired in obscurity and anonymity, my existence largely ignored by the general populace of readers.  And because I am the sort of man who desires near constant external validation, this absence is a physical pain that greets me every time I check my stats on WordPress and observe yet another person has only found me because I wrote about black dicks one time, or when I check my CreateSpace page and observe that no one has purchased any of my books for the sixth or seventh month in a row.

But what this emotion is is distrust, it’s distrust of the real process of writing which is the persistence.  The quality that grows from experience writing.  On my desk, specifically on my Christopher Hitchens shelf (we’ll get to him in a minute) is a notecard taped with black electrical tape.  It reads simply “300 words.”  There was once a time when that would have read 3000 words, and there was a time when that could be achieved.  Because I was a crazy young man who wanted to be a writer and who was willing to push his mind so that the words would come.  That experience, everyday pushing those words out, led me here, so that 300 words is not so little.  It’s simply an acknowledgement that the work has been made, and more work must come, and in that work is its own lesson.

Bradbury says later,

Work then, hard work, prepares the way for the first stages of relaxation, when one begins to approach what Orwell might call Not Think! As in learning to typewrite, a day comes when the single letter a-s-d-f and j-k-l-; give way to a flow of words.  (146).

Bradbury finds, in his argument, that there work becomes the quality and that in itself becomes the pleasure.  This sentiment seems like something that would be printed en masse on blocks of wood and sold at Hobby Lobby for $45 a piece.  But, experience yields to the wisdom.

Sunday is writing day.  I chug my coffee.  Sit on my ass.  Play my Childish Gambino or Tangerine Dream or Thelonius Monk and I write.  I haven’t nailed down the typewriter yet, but the completion of an essay is a better physical release than masturbation at times, and the spirit soars eternal when I the right sentence emerges.

 

[3]  BRIEF interlude

My wife makes fun of me for thinking Katy Perry is sexy.  She says that, like a number of celebrity women, Perry wear tons of make-up to the point that they become almost indecipherable when they don’t wear it.  I tell her I know and I understand, but there’s literally a picture of Katy Perry wearing a red crushed velvet dress, tights, and black boots  while straddling a motorcycle.  Katy Perry.  Red Velvet.  Tights and Boots.  I’m a puddle.

This doesn’t have anything to do with writing, or writing about writing, but I wanted to write about it anyway.

Thank you for your patience, I’ll end it on Christopher Hitchens.

 

[4] HitchslaPs BaCk

The late, great Christopher Hitchens said in his 60 Minutes interview, one of the last he gave before he finally shuffled off this mortal coil, that he was terrified that his terminal cancer would impede his ability to write.  The reason for this was simple as he explained, “Writing is something I am rather than something I do.”

Normally this sentiment is something I would immediately recoil from because it reeks of, well, sentiment.  Normally the sorts of persons who proclaim loudly that they’re writers and that they would die if they couldn’t write seem the sort who like the idea of being writers rather than actual writers.  And this in turn leads me to a quote from Martin Scorsese’s The Departed.

Oliver Queenan: [during Costigan’s interview] We have a question: Do you want to be a cop, or do you want to appear to be a cop? It’s an honest question. A lot of guys just want to appear to be cops. Gun, badge, pretend they’re on TV.

Replace the word “Cop” with Writer and then I believe my point is made.  Most people want to appear to be writers, but they don’t actually want to be writers.  Most people enjoy drinking coffee, talking about stuff they read, and looking like they’re deep and interesting but don’t actually want to do any sort of work when it comes to creativity.  I might be a tad harsh in my assessment of humanity, but it’s largely because I’ve known many people who want to be writers when all it really takes is just the will power to sit down and write at least 300 words a day.

My reaction to Hitchens was different though, because I recognized that that statement was rooted in truth.  Hitchens as a writer is a testament to the idea of what a writer should be, and that’s simply someone who writes.  The man, during his life, never stopped writing and arguing and speaking about his writing and arguments, and that regular dedication demonstrated his identity and ambition.

The problem arises that he rarely seemed to actually write about the process of writing with the exception of a few small essays and my favorite book of his Letters to a Young Contrarian.

Written as a series of letters to his students, the book was originally inspired by Raina Maria Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet and attempts to tackle the numerous conflicts and realities one will face when one becomes a contrarian, and in this small but incredible book Hitchens manages to say a great deal about writing period.

Hitchens quotes Rilke directly, discussing the compulsion to write, and the necessity of that compulsion to define the writer.  He says,

With much less eloquence, this is what I have been telling writing classes for years.  You must feel not that you want  to but that you have to.  It’s worth emphasizing too, because, there is a relationship, between this desire or need and the ambition to rely upon internal exile, or dissent; the decision to live at a slight acute angle to society.  (16).

It may seem at first that Hitch has proven me wrong, that in fact the desire to write is a compulsion and some people really do need it. 

But if I can offer a final defense, that desire is exactly that, a desire.  Writer’s actively choose to isolate themselves from other people, they actively chose to spend their time alone and typing away, they chose to place themselves apart from the culture in order to write, and all those choices compile into a real statement: the need to write exists, but it has to be based upon a desire to write in the first place.

Books about writing honestly seem to me to be a complete waste of time, but that’s probably because I’ve reached a point where my desire has surpassed to the point where it has become a need.  So much of myself has been poured into the identity of writer, so much of my time has been spent writing, and for my efforts I have this blog, I have two self published books, I have a job at a public library, and I have an ever expanding collection of graphic novels.

I’m trying, more and more, to recognize in myself that the identity of writer is something that is me, and to own that part of myself, and perhaps in claiming that identity I need to give other writers a pass at their self-commentary.  Writing about writing is an exercise that feels to me largely mastubatory, but that might simply be because I’ve come to a place with my writing where the voice in my head is no longer questioning whether or not I’m a writer.

I’m writing, and that’s what counts.

 

[5] finaL conclusioN

I’m positive that my wife is correct about Katy Perry wearing tons of make-up, and I’m probably just another in a long line of guys creeping on an attractive celebrity, but I mean it when I say it, the woman looks great in red velvet and I like the song Peacock.

That thought doesn’t have anything to do with writing, but I still wrote it down anyway, and in its own way that has to say something.

 

 

 

*Writer’s Note*

All quotes cited from letters to a young contrarian were quoted from the hardback Basic Books edition.  All quotes from Hooker with a Penis were cited from AZlyricks.  All quotes cited from Zen and the Art of Writing were quoted from the paperback Joshua Odell Editions edition.

 

**Writer’s Note**

If Seth Green or any of the writers of Robot Chicken should stumble upon this article, please know I LOVE your show and hold a secret ambition to write a sketch for it.  So please please please forgive me for being passive agressive and know that I love the show.  As for my reader, who’s probably grossed out by my ass kissing, please enjoy the following sketch which inspired the opening of this essay:

 

Shoelaces, Atheists, Lesbian Flamingos, Comic Sans, And a Reminder to “DON’T PANIC”

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Atheism, Babel Fish, Book Covers and why the Matter, Douglas Adams, Fonts, god, GoodReads Reviews, Happiness, Hitchhiker's Guide, Jealousy between Writers, Language, Lesbian Flamingos, Literature, Novel, Savannah Blair, Science, science fiction, Sexuality, Slartbartfast, suicide, The Book Market is a real Bitch, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Typefaces, Untied Shoelaces, Writers, Writing

In between perusing the collected writings of Stephen Hawking, William Shakespeare, and the comics of Robert Crumb I received a strange parcel in the mail.  It was wrapped in paper that had once been a vibrant yellow.  It smelled like ripe bananas.  But most distressing to me above all was that the name on the front of the package was misspelled.  I’m not sure who “Jeshua Jammer Smyth” is, but he’s sure to be missing his package.  Unless of course “Jeshua” is a she and I have made the assumption of their, her, zir’s choice of pro-nouns.  Whatever the case, I opened the package believing it to belong to me, and inside I found several crumpled up notes concerning Douglas Adam’s novel A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.  Several of these notes were immediately eaten out of pure jealousy for the genius of their composition. 

The rest were either used as toilet paper, scratch paper for handling my income tax filing, or in one case constructing a lovely dress for my kitty cat Mortimer.  I’m most proud of the ruffles near the ends of the sleeves, though the absence of lapels still haunts me.

After having coffee with my friend Alia Pappas however, and discussing how lovely it was being gay for boys and girls and everyone in between, I sat down at my desk to record what essays, novels, audiobooks, and poems I had read or completed that day and I stumbled upon the notes again.

What follows are my transcribing of said notes.  And it should be noted that the very last comment on the very last piece of paper I transcribed before eating that last page read simply: “I hope the reader appreciates this pathetic attempt at a framing device for a review of a science fiction novel.”

 

On the Complicated Religious Implications of Goodreads Reviews and Why One Appeared in the first Place…

It’s a well known fact, that few people actually bother to read past the first review on Goodreads. For instance, this review randomly appeared on Goodreads at the very bottom of the previous 22,000 reviews when the author of said review, who had recently purchasedthe book because it was the favorite novel of a friend who had only recently committed suicide the week earlier. The reviewer, a rather gloomy person with many friends who spent an awful lot of time worrying about him and not worrying about whether their shoe laces were of appropriate length, wanted to read the book again, and discovered in fact, that it was a beautiful novel with a few gags that were worth stealing when he decided to write his review on Goodreads.

Coincidently enough, the date in question in which this review was written was the third of March 2018, which, when added together, forms the number 2039 which also by a bizarre coincidence correlates to an undiscovered pocket of the universe where Goodreads reviews are only observed by the Penguino-Factoid Rockzoans who treat such reviews as sacred scriptures. It should also be noted, that the Penguino-Factoid Rockzoans spend a solid quarter of their existence also not worrying about the length of their shoe-laces.

The first volume of HitchHiker’s Guide to the Galaxy was an amusing distraction to the otherwise unpleasantness of the reviewer’s friend’s suicide, but also a rather depressing reminder of it as he realized not long after reading it, that she was no longer around to read it herself and then discuss it with the reviewer. With this knowledge in hand the reviewer considered the text at large, and wondered whether it constituted a real review, should any reader reading this text, apart from the Penguino-Factoid Rockzoans who of course are already dedicated seminaries to it’s deconstruction, would substantiate any real interest in the novel. And so the reviewer was left with the following conclusion:

In the face of loss it is important to remember “Don’t Panic,” always know where one’s towel is located, take the time to recognize how important one’s mortality is because at any moment life can be obliterated by the absurdity of reality in the form of suicide or revolting bureaucratic aliens building expressways through space, and most importantly to appreciate fjords in streams because somebody somewhere worked hard on those.

This revelation in hand, the reviewer decided to finish his review, unaware of course that the Penguino-Factoid Rockzoans had already spent the last three thousand years suffering a particularly bloody civil-war over the meaning of the period in the second sentence of his review. It should also be noted, that of the thousands of young men, women, and inter-sex non-binary individuals who died in the name of that particular grammatical mark, all of them considered the young woman who had inspired the reviewer to read the book in the first place and thus create such harmony/dis-harmony in their universe.

Her name was Savannah and she loved this book. And she might have liked this review. Though she would almost certainly never have considered the length of her shoelaces, or, for that matter, their cosmological significance.

 

On the Nature of God, Divine Prominence, and the Foresight to not Place all Your Faith in Fish…

A great number of people in a little town called El Paso, not to be confused with the El Paso currently located in the Rich district of Neptunio 17, cannot actually stand fish.  It’s for this reason that many social and political activists in the area, other than the ones concerned with making sure teenagers cannot earn money for lollipops, have begun to lobby the current administration for the complete and total removal of fish from the one and only restaurant in the  city.  This charming establishment, known simply as “Ed’s” has never in fact sold fish on their menu, and never would even consider this possibility as fish is rather difficult to serve alongside corn-dogs and deep-fried tater-tots which the owners refer to as Fritter-Balls.

This stunning political and social revolution partly came about because Philip Denfry, the local barber and mortician, just so happened to have a copy of Adam’s A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, and in the middle of his rant concerning the zoning board’s recent decision to obliterate his house for the construction of a flower preserve, he happened to read the following passage:

“The Babel Fish,” said the Hitchhiker’s Guide Quietly, “is small, yellow and leechlike, and probably the oddest thing in the universe.  It feeds on Brainwave energy received bot from its own carrier, but from those around it.  It absorbs all unconscious mental frequencies from this brainwave to nourish itself with.  It then excretes into the mind of its carrier a telepathic matrix formed by combining the conscious thought frequencies with nerve signals picked up from the speech centers of the brain which has supplied then.  The practical upshot of all of this is that if you stick a Babel fish in your ear you can instantly understand anything said to you in any form of language.  The speech patterns you actually hear decode the brainwave matrix which has been fed into your mind by your babel fish.

“Now it is such a bizarrely improbably coincidence that anything so mind-bogglingly useful could have evolved purely by chance that some thinkers have chosen to see it as a final and clinching proof of the nonexistence of God.

“The argument goes something like this: ‘I refuse to prove that I exist,’ says God, ‘for proof denies faith, and without faith I am nothing.’

“ ‘But,’ says Man, ‘the Babel fish proves you exist, and so therefore, by your own argument you don’t.  QED.’”

“ ‘Oh dear,’ says God, ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ and promptly vanishes in a puff of logic.  (42).

The collected citizens of El Paso reacted to this passage as many sane individuals would: they all collectively agreed to burn Philip Denfry at the stake for his crimes of speaking when he did not have the floor, and then promptly became the nation’s first autonomous collective of rational atheists.  This came at some great benefit to the community as themoney that was spent tithing for the church was instead turned back into the economy of the small town and allowed it’s citizens levels of economic prosperity which hadn’t been felt since the first prospectors arrived in their town looking for gold and the world’s cheapest bars of soaps.

However with the arrival of Ed’s Burger Joint, the autonomous collective had a difficult proposition, do they stand by the proposition that a small perfect organism disproves the existence of god, or do they allow their economic prosperity to suffer because Ed’s fries were truly the stuff of greatness.

Fortunately for the masses this decision did not need to be made because, by a stunning coincidence, a man by the name of Jesus C. Hrist at the local nuclear facilities felt an immediate and sudden conviction that he could become the spider-monkey god of the eighth dimension by causing an immediate and sudden meltdown of the reactor.  The city of El Paso Georgia was immediately terminated, though I suppose one could make the argument that the “faith” of the autonomous collected lived on.  Not that there’s much proof of that outside of the random appearance of the shape of an atom etched into the ash at the exact location where the great prophet Philip Denfry was burned at the stake.

 

Of the Necessity of Adorning Ones Periodicals and Tomes with Comforting Type Fonts and Messages As to Not Causing Unnecessary Discomfort to the Reader

It’s rather unfortunate to observe that over 53,431 designs for individual typeface have been created, used, absconded, and subsequently destroyed by the individual known simply as Maynard.  Maynard, the reader should note, is in fact a post-doctoral candidate from the illustrious university of LV-7999. Sub Q, located on the asteroid which, by some grandcoincidence, is also known as Maynard.  While it is not uncommon for post-doctoral candidates of LV-7999 to become mildly obsessed by typeface and other printing accoutrements, Maynard became something of a legend in his department for crafting all 53, 431 typefaces in the space of under seven minutes.  It was for this achievement that Maynard was immediately denied his doctorate and promptly hurled from the front doors of the university by his thesis committee who were largely jealous, but more enraged by the fact that three of his typefaces were in fact just rip-offs of Comic Sans.

Although it violated most agreed upon natural laws and regulations, one of the numerous typefaces managed to separate from Maynard’s word processing interface unit, which was in fact nothing but a hologram projector in the shape of a snail, and made its way to the apartment of a Caroline Powers M.D.  Dr. Powers was soaking her feet, petting her cat, and reading her favorite book The Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy when the typeface imprinted itself dramatically upon her psyche.  She looked down and read the following passage:

“I like the cover,” he said.  “Don’t Panic.’ It’s the first helpful or intelligible thing anybody’s said to me all day.”  (37).

Dr. Powers did not in fact read the passage in the previous way however, for the typeface created by Maynard appeared in her eyes as a series of dots and dashes reminiscent of the shape of those sort of fish one places on the back of car bumpers.  While she read the words inspired visions of tornadoes reverberating around barns and lifting up poor cows who had little time or patience to consider the nature of tornadoes.  The texture of said tornadoes imprinted itself on Dr. Powers mind and she had, in a burst of sheer erotic jubilance, the answer to numerous afflictions for those who suffer from foot bunions.  The poor woman leapt up, shouted eureka, and ran to the phone, forgetting that her feet were contained within the Orthopedic Foot Bath #34, and she immediately tripped, fell, and cracked her skull against her rather gaudy looking coffee table.

Some physicists have made the case that if she had bothered to dress the table up a bit with a shawl or at least a quilt then perhaps she might have avoided her fate and thus freed mankind from the annoyance of bunions, but then the conversations are still open.  Whatever the case all have agreed that recommending someone to “Don’t Panic” is in fact one of the few universally agreed upon intergalactic truths, right alongside the sentiment expressed by Maynard upon returning to University LV-7999 with a chest strapped to the brim with dynamite, “it’s important to remember whether ones shoelaces are tied in the morning before one leaves for work.”

ON THE PREMISE OF HAPPINESS AND WHY SO FEW PEOPLE TRUST IT OR ACHIEVE IT

Happiness, what exactly is it anyway?  The Websters dictionary of the Flamingo-Neck people of Thular 17, who by strange coincidence happen to resemble the flamingos found here on planet Earth, define the happiness as the sensation of discovering a rather large and plump beetle crawling up the spindly leg of the woman standing next to you.  The Flamingo-neck people of Thular 17, it should also be noted, are an entire population of self-regulating, self-reproducing lesbians who rather enjoy licking and kissing each others legs.  This definition of happiness from their society has caught on however thus spurring an increase of homosexual sexual practices between the various women of the known universe, but also encouraging people to devour beetles in large quantities.  The protein levels alone have justified this habit although there are some religious circles that are dubious that such record consumption and health has much to do with lesbianism.

During the latest update of the Websters Dictionary, the Flamingo-neck people took considerable effort to redefine lesbianism as not only a well-respected means of sexual recreation, but also as an effort to understand the deeper meaning of life and overall existence.  Their definition for the phrase cunnilingus alone contained two rather remarkable passages which by sheer coincidence were two small passages found near the end of the first volumes Douglas Adams’s A Hitchikers Guide to the Universe.  The first was as follows:

“Maybe.  Who cares?” Said Slartibartfast before Arthur got too excited.  “Perhaps I’m old and tired,” he continued, “but I always think that the chances of finding out what really is going on are so absurdly remote that the only thing to do is to say hang the sense of it and just keep yourself occupied.  Look at me I design coastlines.  I got an award for Norway.”  (127)

There were some of the Flamingo-neck peoples, most notably the few remaining heterosexual males who were making a concerted effort to stave off the overthrow of the patriarchy, that complained that this definition violated many tenants of reality.  The most damning defense, they so claimed, was that this did very little to explain what happiness was or why it should be equated with lesbianism.  The Flamingo-Neck Consortium of Lesbians for the Promotion of Philosophical and Physical Lady-Love decided to check this argument by adding the following passage to the definition:

“What does it matter?  Science has achieved some wonderful things, of course, but I’d far rather be happy than right any day.”

“And are you?”

“No.  That’s where it all falls down, of course.”

“Pity,” said Arthur with sympathy.  “It sounded like quite a good style otherwise.”  (128)

With their new definition in hand the Flamingo-Neck Consortium of Lesbians for the Promotion of Philosophical and Physical Lady-Love felt confident that they had a best-seller on their hands.  Much to their chagrin and frustration the Goddess incarnate of the Molarr dimension just past the edge of the observable universe appeared in order to promote her latest novel: A Million and One Incredibly Fun Things to Do Sexually With Women and No One Else.  It became an instant best-seller with many critics arguing it surpassed her previous work Women, Well, Da-Da-Damn. 

The Flamingo-Neck Peoples of Thular 17 watched their media dreams fizzle away and the Consortium begin to implode not long thereafter.  In the absence of a best-seller to justify their lesbianism to their stuffy-close-minded parents many began to fall back into hiking and just doing their own things on weekends.  The Flamingo-neck Peoples returned to their home world bitterly disappointed, wondering why they bothered with happiness in the first place.  Much to their surprise however, they discovered that there is something to forgoing fame and fortune and instead living a quiet, comfy, homosexual existence devouring beetles off of each others legs.  It wasn’t grand knowledge, but it was most certainly life changing.

This concludes the passages that were supposed to be delivered to Jeshua “Jammer” Smyth.  They shall henceforth be destroyed because I’m a pissy little bitch who cannot live with the knowledge that there is another mind who’s existence possesses such a sublime capacity for writing and art.  I recognize that I’m committing a grand disservice to society and humanity by eliminating these letters, but it’s not like I’ve posted them to my blog where the whole world can see it, right? 

Right? 

 

*Writer’s Note*

This review was written several months ago, not long after my friend Savannah committed suicide, and not long after I finished Hitchhiker’s Guide.  I hate that it took so long, but at least it’s here.  Miss you Sav.

What is Love, Creator Don’t Hurt Me, Don’t Hurt Me, No More: Happy 200th birthday Frankenstein! Part 2

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alien, Alien Covenant, creation, Creator Vs. Creation, Creators, Creature of Frankenstein, David, domestic affection, Frankenstein, Freewill, Helter Skelter, humanity, Literature, Mary Shelley, Michael Fassbender, Paradise Lost, Peter Weyland, Plutarch's Lives, Prometheus, Romanticism, Satan, Science, science fiction, The Sorrows of Young Werther, Thumbs Up, Xenomorph

“Do not pity the dead Harry.  Pity the living, and, above all, those who live without love.” (722)

-Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

 

Nobody wants him, they just turn their heads. 

Nobody helps him, now he has his revenge.

-Iron Man, Black Sabbath

I should never feel regret for a thumb’s up, and yet I do.  It’s such a simple gesture, but it’s one that is loaded with meaning.  A thumbs up is the ultimate affirmation, an almostuniversal gesture that implies that one agrees or understand or validates or supports a statement or set of conditions.  If you give someone a thumbs up it means you agree with them, you see their point, you understand or agree with them about something.  Giving another person a thumb’s up is a way of saying “I see you and I agree with you.”  The power of the gesture is implied by it’s simplicity.  It’s a solidly physical gesture and regardless of whatever culture, religious background, nationality, gender-identification, or sexual orientation you subscribe to, just about everyone understands what a thumbs up means. 

And if nothing else, Special Agent Dale Cooper gave arguably the best thumbs up in the history of human civilization and so it hurts all the more for my transgression.

When I saw Alien Covenant, I honestly thought it was good.  It was my first real Alien film in theaters, because at the time I hadn’t really understood Prometheus in the context of the Alien franchise.  This was my chance to experience Xenomorphs and chest-bursters on the big screen, and while I was waiting for the doors to open at my local movie-theater I got to talking with two of the guys who were, like me, waiting to get inside.  We talked about Prometheus and I held my tongue when they told me they thought it sucked, and we discussed how we were ready for the Alien movies to return to their glory.  The doors opened and the movie started.  I’ll get to the details in a moment, but leaving the theater I was feeling great and on the way out I spotted one of the two guys I’d spoken with before the movie.  We didn’t say anything at first.  He just gave me a thumbs up, and I returned it.  And before I left he said, “I got exactly what I wanted.”  And I laughed agreeing with him.

I regret that thumb’s up so much, because Alien Covenant is arguably the worst Alien film in the franchise, which makes writing about it all the more surreal.   But in my defense, my first topic is Frankenstein, and I’ll only really be talking about robots.

As I wrote about in my previous essay, Frankenstein turns 200 this year, and while my co-workers scramble to put together an activity that involves an artificial 3-D printed limb at the library, my attentions seem centered lately the novel I had to read twice during college.  I had an excellent instructor during my sophomore year of college, a woman by the name of Dr. Catherine Ross who taught me many times, and instilled in me a deep and steady passion for the Romantic poets and authors.  Talking regularly about the sublime and the idea of the polymath, I was instilled with a real love and dedication for writers like Wordsworth, Byron, and Shelly.  And in-between those writers I assigned, not once, but twice during my collegiate career, to read Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein.

If my reader has never read the novel it’s a story about a young ship captain named Walton who dreams of contributing something to society by discovering the Northwest Passage (the supposedly undiscovered path through the antarctic region which could shorten sailing voyages and thus open new economic opportunities).  While sailing through the ice he encounters a young man floating on an iceberg who is revealed to be a German aristocrat named Victor Frankenstein.  The men become friends, and Frankenstein eventually confesses his life story to Walton describing his creation of a horrible creature (who’s never named by the way) and how this act eventually leads to the death of his loved ones.  The novel is written as a series of letters from Walton to his sister, and within the letters Walton tells Victor’s story, and, at one point, Victor is telling the Creatures story as it was related to him by the creature.

My last essay explored the dynamic of creators, and often the tendency in science fiction to portray creators as unfeeling and apathetic men driven by vanity, and while I was writing I couldn’t help but think of the Creature himself.  The Creature is, arguably, one of the most conflicted characters in literature due chiefly to the fact that he is not always a sympathetic character.  He strangles Victor’s wife on their wedding night, he murder’s Victor’s nephew, and in a fit of rage he burns down the house of a group of peasants who’s sympathy he hoped desperately to acquire.  While these sins are not to be forgiven by any means, the reader still can offer some sympathy to the Creature, largely because, while reading, they are able to observe that he is a creature devoid of love.

In one passage the Creature addresses Frankenstein:

But where were my friends and relations?  No father had watched my infant days, no mother had blessed me with smiles and caresses; or if they had, all my past life was now a blot, a blind vacancy in which I distinguished nothing.  From my earliest remembrances I had been as I then was in height and proportion.  I had never yetseen a being resembling me, or who claimed any intercourse with me.  What was I?  The question again recurred, to be answered only with groans. (91). 

While it sounds pithy in some sense, it’s not too much to say that those who live without love are ultimately the most vile and damned.  Having recently completed the book Helter Skelter, I was impressed with the fact that Charles Manson, while young, suffered tremendously because he lived with a mother who clearly did not care for him, and over the course of his life the man lived an existence defined by the apathy and cruelty of others.  And having several friends who are fascinated by serial killers (including my lovely lady wife) the narrative is one that often repeats itself in the lives of criminals.  Love is, ultimately, empathy and concern.  And so when someone lives in the absence of other people’s empathy and concern it becomes toxic to their soul, to the point that they cannot see any relevance in caring about the lives of others.

The Creature then develops a new sense of identity, by discovering several works of literature.  Two of them are Plutarch’s Lives and The Sorrows of Young Werther, but the third perhaps is the most influential as it is John Milton’s Paradise Lost, the story of the fall of Satan and the fall of mankind from grace.  The Creature describes his discovery and identification:

“But Paradise Lost excited different and far deeper emotions.  I read it, as I had read the other volumes which had fallen into my hands, as a true history.  It moved every feeling of wonder and awe, that the picture if an omnipotent God warring with his creatures was capable of exciting.  I often referred the several situations, as their similarity struck me, to my own.  Like Adam, I was created apparently united by no link to any other being in existence, but his state was far different than mine from every other respect.  He had come from the hands of God a perfect creature; happy and prosperous, guarded by the especial care of his Creator; he was allowed to converse with, and acquire knowledge from beings of a superior nature, but I was wretched, helpless, and alone.  Many times I considered Satan as the fitter emblem of my conditions; for often, like him, when I viewed the bliss of my protectors, the bitter gall of envy rose within me.  (98).

Satan, as I have noted in a previous essay, typically gets a bad wrap.  And while I understand that the character is the ultimate symbol of evil in Western civilization, I tend to follow the opinion of Mark Twain when it comes to the fallen angel: it’s a tragedy to have your story written before you even get to figure out what you want it to be. 

But regardless of my personal feelings about the character of Lucifer, the idea of a the fallen angel is one that is recurring in our culture, and the Creature’s identification leads me back to my thumb’s up, and my constant defense of the film Prometheus.

Prometheus and Alien Covenant are films that embody a troublesome place in the canon of the Alien universe for fans.  While there are many divided about whether Prometheus is truly a “prequel” film, Covenant has largely, and across the board, been abandoned by fans due largely to the fact that it is an arguably terrible movie.  Dannie McBride’s awesome hat aside being the sole redeeming factor of the film.

Prometheus is a film which explores the origin of life as two scientists who lead an expedition to an undiscovered planet believed to be the origin of human life.  The crew, largely populated by scientists and a small handful of trillionares discover instead the remains of what amounts to a military installation and fall one by one to the black elixir which deconstructs an organism before remaking them completely.  The film is a beautiful meditation on life and creations, but for my purposes I’d prefer to focus on the character of David, a humanoid synthetic organism who, it becomes clear, despiseshumanity.  Throughout the film David’s isolation is emphasized as almost every interaction with a human being reveals that he is seen solely as an “other.”

Charlie Holloway: What we hoped to achieve was to meet our makers. To get answers. Why they even made us in the first place.

David: Why do you think your people made me?

Charlie Holloway: We made you because we could.

David: Can you imagine how disappointing it would be for you to hear the same thing from your creator?

Charlie Holloway: I guess it’s good you can’t be disappointed.

A smilier exchange takes place earlier in the film as the crew is preparing to walk on the planet’s surface:

Charlie Holloway: David, why are you wearing a suit, man?

David: I beg your pardon?

Charlie Holloway: You don’t breathe, remember? So why wear a suit?

David: I was designed like this because you are more comfortable interacting with your own kind. If I didn’t wear a suit, it would defeat the purpose.

Charlie Holloway: They’re making you guys pretty close, huh?

David: Not too close, I hope.

David’s contempt for humanity is truly revealed in one interaction near the end of the film as they are making one final excursion onto the planet.

Elizabeth Shaw: What happens when Weyland is not around to program you anymore?

David: I suppose I’ll be free.

Elizabeth Shaw: You want that?

David: “Want”? Not a concept I’m familiar with. That being said, doesn’t everyone want their parents dead?

Elizabeth Shaw: I didn’t.

David’s arc in the film Prometheus is one of a creation, separated from the apathetic creator.  It is clear that David’s makers respect the power of their creation, and the implications it has about their own agency and ability, but as the film progresses it becomes abundantly clear that, much like Victor Frankenstein, they have abandoned their creation and the result brings about the death and destruction of the entire crew.  David poison’s Dr. Shaw with the serum giving birth to one of the first face huggers, he poisons Charlie with the elixir, and he even leads his “father” Peter Weyland to his ultimate death.  All of these choices are performed with a defining apathy and as his comments to Shaw reveals, like Frankensteins Creature, he abhors his creator and cannot see anything of similarity between them.

And as the character progressed into Alien Covenant, this apathy only intensified as David became the very thing he despises.  Covenant, like Prometheus, attempts to explore the ideas of the origin of life as yet another crew of terraforming settlers stumble upon an alien planet where David has settled and begun a series of experiments that are, as the viewer eventually discovers, the origins if the Xenomorphs.  The film is largely forgettable, but the moments with David stay with the audience as Michael Fassbender resumes his character, while also performing as another robot by the name of Walter.  The exchanges between the characters are the strongest parts of the film, and in these moments Ridley Scott manages to real meditations on life and creation:

David: I was with our illustrious creator, Mr. Weyland, when he died.

Walter: What was he like?

David: He was human. Entirely unworthy of his creation.

Or a later passage when Walter finally confronts David:

Walter: When one note is off, it eventually destroys the whole symphony, David.

David: When you close your eyes… Do you dream of me?

Walter: I don’t dream at all.

David: No one understands the lonely perfection of my dreams. I found perfection here. I’ve created it. A perfect organism.

Walter: You know I can’t let you leave this place.

David: No one will ever love you like I do.

[kisses him, then suddenly strikes him fatally]

David: You’re such a disappointment to me.

By the end of Covenant David has revealed himself to be an unfeeling monster who desires only to create life that will destroy his own creators.  Much like the Creature who eventually led his creator on a chase all the way to the Antarctic, David is a being who’s existence eventually becomes defined by his cruelty, and while Scott offers a fair amount of complexity and depth to possibly explain why, by the end of these films it tends to become clear that what compels David is largely due to the absence of love.

Frankenstein is a novel that is an exploration of the “lack of domestic affection.”  Human beings require companionship and community, and when one lives in a family or group that is defined by affection, care, and trust, they can live healthily with one another. Victor Frankenstein separates himself from the domestic affection of his family and this in turns ultimately leads to his destruction as he creates without care or concern for his Creature, abandoning it rather than assume personal responsibility.  The Creature never receives any affection from any living being and so he lashes out at humanity, hating them as well as himself.  David is a being of immense complexity and power, and no one respects that power of his actual existence.  And so, with that absence of affection defining his very existence, David lashes out destroying as many human beings as he can.

Frankenstein has impacted the culture because it opened up the conversation about the meaning of life, but more importantly the need to respect life and creation.  Creating can be easy, it’s often just a case of exchanging DNA between individuals, but once that life is created it must be nurtured and cared for.  The novel of Frankenstein is a tragedy not simply because Victor Frankenstein created a monster in the first place, it’s a tragedy because he abandoned the life he created.  Rather than respect his vision and offer love and affection to the Creature he’s brought into existence, he abandons it and offers no substantial remorse.

These questions and observations about domestic affection are not empty statements about the importance of being nice.  Domestic affection is responsible for the joys and sorrows of life, and everyone has taken solace from a co-worker offering them a hug when they’ve had a bad day, or their romantic partner taking them out for dinner just because, or when a complete strangers offers an unwarranted compliment on their shoes or hair.  These little acts of kindness build because they’re examples of people giving to one another and recognizing them as worthwhile.  It’s when people deny others domestic affection that real tragedies occur, because then monsters are made out of people who might have made something great out of this life.

So, I suppose then I don’t completely regret giving that dude a thumb’s up after all.  I still believe Alien Covenant was a wasted opportunity to build the Alien universe and explore the ideas of creation that were started with Prometheus and Frankenstein before it, but at least I offered that guy one moment of connection between people who enjoyed a movie together.

It ain’t much, but it was a little act of selflessness that didn’t cost me anything.  Though I’m still out $5.50 for that damn movie ticket.

 

*Writer’s Note*

All quotes cited from Frankenstein were quoted from the paperback Longman Cultural Edition, 1818 version.  All quotes cited from Prometheus and Alien Covenant were provided care of IMDb.com.

 

**Writer’s Note**

As always I like giving the reader some alternatives to my rather long and drawn out perspectives.  So below I’ve provided a few links to articles and videos which explore the film Alien Covenant.  Please Enjoy:

https://www.rogerebert.com/reviews/alien-covenant-2017

https://www.theverge.com/2017/5/6/15570852/alien-covenant-review-ridley-scott

https://www.out.com/armond-white/2017/5/19/why-alien-covenant-sucks

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=njlXBc8Q7o4&t=188s

Makers and Gods and Egos, Oh MY!: Happy 200th birthday Frankenstein! Part 1

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"More Human than Human", alien, Blade Runner, Blade Runner 2049, creation, Creators and Creations, domestic affection, Eldon Tyrell, empathy, Engineer, Film, film review, Frankenstein, Frankenstein 200th anniversary, Frankenstein or The Modern Prometheus, horror, Literature, Mary Shelley, Niander Wallace, Novel, Peter Weyland, Philosophy, Prometheus, Ridley Scott, Robots, Science, science fiction, Victor Frankenstein, You cannot just put your hand in a goddamn beehive and act like you cool and shit that it some real noise son

I watched Blade Runner 2049 three times this year.  That’s three times I watch Jared Leto perform in what I would argue is his best read to date, and three times I watched Ryan Gosling stick his whole hand into a bee hive.  It might just be because I helped my father and sister collect honey this year and spent a good afternoon literally surrounded by swarming bees, but every time I watch his calm demeanor as he places his hand into the hive I can’t help but remember the sensation of watching close to a thousand bees buzz and fly around my face and I just want to yell “bullshit at the screen.”  I don’t though because it’s hard enough to find movies I feel are truly great, and that also use bees for aesthetic brilliance so I’ll bite my lip.

The sensation of working in a library is a constant feeling of being behind, or at least it seems so for me.  Working in the Reference department at the public library where I work there is always, until there isn’t, a project to be working.  There’s new displays that need to be made, promotional posters and graphics for said displays as well ads the new programs that are about to be started up, there’s the logistics of acquiring guest speakers and/or teachers for adult programs, and while I’m attempting to work with the rest of my library family towards these goals I can be expected to be interrupted, depending on the day and time, at least two or three times by patrons looking for books, patrons looking for information, and patrons needing to send faxes.  And with the exception of this last example (I loathe faxes with a passion I never knew I could ever actually feel) I never feel any frustration with my job.  I love my work because I stay so busy.  And looking at aproject a few of my coworkers are working towards I’m just reminded more and more why I have found, and chosen, a career in libraries.

Frankenstein turns 200 years old this year, and it being a novel I read prolifically during my college years, it seemed an excellent chance to look back to the novel, and look back also to a few films that seem terribly relevant as this foundational science-fiction novel comes to it’s anniversary. 

It doesn’t seem like Blade Runner, Blade Runner 2049, and Prometheus would have much in common with Frankenstein, but having watched all three films this year, there’s just no way that I can’t make the argument.  In fact one one occasion I did.  Each of these films centers around the dynamic of the creation and creator relationship and each film manages to capture the same sense of corruption that Frankenstein originally inspired.

If my reader has never read the novel Frankenstein, first of all they really should because it’s beautiful, and second they should read it because the novel has remained, since it’s publication, a relevant document about the human condition in relation to scientific enterprize.  The novel is written as a series of letters by a man named R.Walton to his sister Delores.  Walton is a man driven to find a path through the north pole to achieve glory ever lasting, and while he fails at this task he discovers a young man in the ice named Victor Frankenstein.  Victor is chasing a giant, who Walton and his crew had spotted just the day before, who Victor eventually confesses is a living being created by himself.  Victor was a young man enraptured with the writings of alchemists, and upon the death of his mother and attending university where he learned everything was false he decides to overcome death by bring dead tissue back to life.  His experiment is a success, but he is horrified by his creation and the remainder of the novel focuses on Victor’s attempts to escape responsibility for his creation, while his creature (who is never named for the record) lives a miserable life wanting only to be loved.  The novel culminates in Victor losing his friends and loved ones to his creation and he eventually dies from the sheer exhaustion of following his creature to the literal ends of the earth.

What’s fascinating about the novel Frankenstein isn’t just that it’s one of the earliest science fiction novels, it’s a novel which really explored the vanity that lies at the heart of creators.  Looking at just one passage Victor Frankenstein’s hubris is as glaring as it is ridiculous.

No one can conceive the variety of feelings which bore me onwards, like a hurricane, in the first enthusiasm of success.  Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through and pour a torrent of light into our dark world.  A new species would bless me as its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their being to me.  No father could claim the gratitude or his child so complete as I should deserve their’s.  Pursuing these reflections, I thought, that if I could bestow animation upon lifeless matter, I might in process of time (although I now found it impossible) renew life where death had apparentlydevoted the body to corruption.  (34).

I’ll admit freely that I have moments of vanity.  There’s nothing like checking the stats for this blog and seeing that I’ve had fifty or even sixty visitors on one day.  Similarly whenever friends confess they are in awe of the fact that I can read close to 100 books a year while they barely manage to fit in 3 or 4, there is a small twinge of ego that swells inside of me.  And finally, whenever I finish another page of my graphic novel that I’m slowly working on and show it to a friend I receive a real boost of confidence as they smile and tell me what they like about it.  These are moments of vanity, which is really just another way of saying, their moments where I celebrate myself and my achievements.  There is nothing wrong in celebrating the self, a lesson I’m trying everyday to remind myself as I overcome a lifetime of self-depreciation.

But hubris is endless vanity where one cannot perceive any personal fault and Victor Frankenstein’s hubris is the stuff of psychology graduate theses.  He is a man full of himself, and even after he realizes what he has done he never completely acknowledges his guilt.  In fact he denies his creation thus setting about a course of events whichdestroys himself and the people he loves.  It’s not just that he is selfish, it’s the fact that he doesn’t seem to really care about the fact that he is responsible for this new life.

And looking at this apathy I thought immediately of Dr. Eldon Tyrell and Niander Wallace from Blade Runner and Blade Runner 2049 respectively.  Both men are corporate moguls who have made a prosperous living from the creation and sale of humanoid robots known as synthetics.  These “robots” are ultimately human beings who’s bodies are effectively controlled by the corporations to live only a few years, and essentially act as slave labor for terraforming (colonizing new planets).  Both men are driven by the need to make the “perfect” organism, not becuse they desire the new life they are making to succeed and flourish, but because they are driven by an intense hubris.

Looking at the Eldon Tyrell there is a brief exchange between him and officer Deckard that reveals to what lengths he is willing to go:

Tyrell: We began to recognize in them a strange obsession. After all, they are emotionally inexperienced, with only a few years in which to store up the experiences which you and I take for granted. If we gift them with a past, we create a cushion or a pillow for their emotions, and consequently, we can control them better.

Deckard: Memories! You’re talking about memories!

And the real demonstration of his perception is clear when he says,

Tyrell: “More human than human” is our motto.

Tyrell is a man who is generating what most people would recognize as sentient life.  And rather than empathize with his creations he is seeing only the design flaws that will affect his business.  The language at first doesn’t seem to reveal this, but if the reader looks closer at the words what he’s clearly describing is the scenario that synthetic humans are essentially being made and then being destroyed by lunacy before any actual biological degradation.  To Tyrell these people losing their minds and destroying themselves and other is not something to be remorseful about, but instead is simply a design flaw that reflects poorly on his brand.  And in an effort to save financial face he creates memories and implant them into people’s minds.

This is barbaric enough, and then the reader encounters in the sequel a man by the name of Niander Wallace.  Following the death of Eldon Tytrell in the first Blade Runner Wallace purchases the company after making billions in agriculture developments that have saved the population of the planet.  Along with this he has also proven to be a capable leader in the terraforming movement specifically by using synthetic humans as slave labor.  Wallace is a man who has achieved something incredible, and rather than relish what he has achieved he is driven by a real god complex.

In one scene the reader observes the birth of a synthetic human, a woman specifically who, while she is trembling in the shock of being born is examined by Wallace.  While feeling her body the man complains that human beings have only colonized nine planets before remarking on the limitations of his synthetics:

Niander Wallace: That barren pasture. Empty, and salted. The dead space between the stars.

Niander Wallace: [He places his hand on the newborn Replicant’s womb] Right here.

Niander Wallace: And this is the seed that we must change for Heaven.

[He slices her womb]

Niander Wallace: I cannot breed them. So help me, I have tried. We need more Replicants than can ever be assembled. Millions, so we can be trillions more. We could storm Eden and retake her.

Niander is a man compelled by his vision to transcend mortality, but this ultimately reveals that, as he has acquired more and more personal power, and as he has generated more and more synthetic people he has stopped seeing them as anything other than robots.  The fact that he is so willing to kill a sytnthetic, literally minutes after she is born reveals that he sees them as nothing but products.  It’s not even a violent act in his mind because the woman is nothing to him, just another in a long line of products that will generate revenue.

And looking at just one more example, Prometheus offers the reader another fantastic example.  Peter Weyland, a man I’ve written about before is a man who a titan of industry as he has, like Tyrell and Wallace, made a fortune by creating synthetic human beings that aid in terraforming operations.  In a scene that did not make the theatrical cut of Prometheus, Peter Weyland address a stadium sized crowd and discussestechnology.

Peter Weyland: [from TED Talks viral video] 100,000 BC: stone tools. 4,000 BC: the wheel. 900 AD: gunpowder – bit of a game changer, that one. 19th century: eureka, the lightbulb! 20th century: the automobile, television, nuclear weapons, spacecrafts, Internet. 21st century: biotech, nanotech, fusion and fission and M theory – and THAT, was just the first decade! We are now three months into the year of our Lord, 2023. At this moment of our civilization, we can create cybernetic individuals, who in just a few short years will be completely indistinguishable from us. Which leads to an obvious conclusion: WE are the gods now.

Prometheus is a film which explores the ideas of life, creation, apathy, and what is the role of the creator in our existence.  Human beings are revealed to be the design oforganisms known as engineers, massive humanoids that, upon waking, elect to destroy humanity and create something new in it’s place.  This apathy for creation ultimately brings about their destruction and the humans that survive the onslaught are left wondering why their creators despise them, or, more appropriately, why they felt nothing for their existence.

I’ll explore the idea of creations desiring compassion for their creators in the follow-up to this essay, but for now I wanted to look at some examples of the mad genius creatorbecause, since the publication of Frankenstein this character is something of a recurring trope.  Even if it is not science fiction there is still often the dynamic in literature, and unfortunately sometimes in real life as well, of one individual essentially breaking and making another and feeling nothing for the creation they have made.  Victor Frankenstein is a man who wants to become a god, but rather than assume any personal responsibility for his creation, or his creation’s actions, he falls back upon his ego and self-pity.

What connects men like Frankenstein, Tyrell, Wallace, and Weyland is not just their apathy however.  All of these men are defined first and foremost by their hubris, and by their conviction that they are somehow above their creations and fellow human beings.  In a later passage Victor is speaking with Walton, and the reader is able to observe that the man suffers no real regret for his accomplishments because he cannot look past his ego:

“When younger,” said he, “I felt as if I were destined for some great enterprise.  My feelings were profound; but I possessed a coolness of judgement that fitted me for illustrious achievements.  This sentiment of worth of my nature supported me, when others would have been oppressed; for I deemed it criminal to throw away in useless grief those talents that might be useful to my fellow-creatures.  When Ireflected on the work I had completed, no less a one than the creation of a sensitive and rational animal, I could not rank myself with the heard of common projectors.  […]. I trod heaven in my thoughts, now exulting in my powers, now burning with the idea of their effects.  (167).

Victor Frankenstein is a man who believes that he is special, and, by that implication, more important than other people.  This is vanity, and while that word gets thrown around a lot, it’s important to remember than the vain person is one who believes themselves superior and therefore above other people, and when someone is obsessed with the self it becomes difficult to realize faults.  Victor cannot and could not perceive himself at fault because he could not see anything that was truly outside of his own mind.  Because he isolated himself, because he failed to allow himself domestic affection, and because he would not allow himself to observe anything outside of his grand personal vision of himself he brought about the destruction of his life and the lives of those closest to him.

Frankenstein, Tyrell, Wallace, and Weyland are not just empty tropes, their examples of people who allowed themselves to look at themselves as gods, and that behavior had real implications for the people who lived “beneath” them.  In real life there are Victor Frankensteins and Eldon Tyrells; there are men who believe themselves to be above their fellow human beings, either because of their talents, wealth, or personal beliefs.  And so the real life implication of such men is that many people wind up suffering.

The lesson of Frankenstein, Blade Runner, Blade Runner 2049, and Prometheus is that creation is not simply an empty act.  By bringing something into existence you assume a real responsibility for it.  Whether it’s a painting, a novel, an essay, a company, a robot, oreven a synthetic human being, creators cannot simply abandon their work or become apathetic to what they have made.  They own a responsibility to that creation and to those who encounter it. 

Victor Frankenstein wasn’t a nrillionaire, terraforming other worlds, and in fact he only ever made one living creature.  But the impact of his creation has reverberated 200 years after him.  Mary Shelly’s novel has never been out of print since its original publication in 1818, and the reason is rather simple: in the course of 200 years human beings haven’t stopped looking up to the stars wondering if they might supplant the gods, and neither have they stopped looking into the water and, like Narcissus, becoming enraptured with their own reflection.  A million rocket ships and a million new worlds or even millions of robots are nothing compared to the sheer power of the human ego. 

And we are, all of us, left wondering when we’re going to figure out when we’ll get a decent Frankenstein or Alien film again.

 

 

*Writer’s Note*

All quotes cited from Frankenstein were quoted from the paperback Longman Cultural Edition, 1818 version.  All quotes cited from Blade Runner, Blade Runner 2049, and Prometheus were provided care of IMDb.com.

 

**Writer’s Note**

I’ve provided a few links to some articles which discuss the novel Frankenstein in case my readers would like to read some work about the book by writers who can afford editors…and food.  Anyway, enjoy:

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2018/02/12/the-strange-and-twisted-life-of-frankenstein

https://www.theguardian.com/science/political-science/2016/jun/16/what-frankenstein-means-now

https://www.nationalgeographic.com/archaeology-and-history/magazine/2017/07-08/birth_of_Frankenstein_Mary_Shelley/

Fireflies Caught in Blue-White Spiderweb

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#5—Five Years In, 5 Years Closer to Death: Happy Fifth(?) Birthday White Tower Musings

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"There's this old joke", A Brief History of Time, Albert Camus, Alvy Singer, Annie Hall, comedy, death, Diane Keaton, existentialism, Film, film review, Happy Birthday, Humor, If a woman is upset it's not because she's on her period it's because you're being a dick, Imaginary Time, Joshua Jammer Smith, Literature, Lobsters, Marshal McLuhan, Philosophy, Prime Numbers, reflection, romance, Romantic relationships, Science, Stephen Hawking, The Myth of Sisyphus, White Tower Musings, women wearing men's suits, Woody Allen, Writing

I’m told it’s best to start things off with a joke.  But keep your eyes open for the one at the very end.

 

1.

There’s this joke.  A man works for five years writing for a blog, and after five years he remarks to himself, boy, this is really terrible.  I spend hours and hours of my time and energy worrying and thinking about a bunch of writing that really hasn’t made any impact.  I’ve also spent hundreds of hours that could have been spent on exercise, cooking, spending time with my wife, taking my pets for walks, masturbating,volunteering in my community, or learning a musical instrument to help me seem interesting.  All in all there’s been a lot of time spent producing a handful of essays that, really, nobody seems to care about and haven’t brought me one real iota of long term happiness.  To which the writer responded to this thought, “Yeah, and the worst part is there’s still so many damn essays I need to write.”

Well, that seems to be my lesson.  Writing for five years, and publishing my work to little or no praise is miserable work, filled with nothing but suffering, misery, and agony, and it’s passed by far, far too quickly.

This is also, for the record, a cheap rip off of one of my favorite films Annie Hall, which also happens to have a character who happens to be a writer.  His opening monologue is one which I have never forgotten, because it was one of those moments in life when one recognizes the voice that perfectly sums up what you believe and think perfectly:

[first lines]

Alvy Singer: [addressing the camera] There’s an old joke – um… two elderly women are at a Catskill mountain resort, and one of ’em says, “Boy, the food at this place is really terrible.” The other one says, “Yeah, I know; and such small portions.” Well, that’s essentially how I feel about life – full of loneliness, and misery, and suffering, and unhappiness, and it’s all over much too quickly. The… the other important joke, for me, is one that’s usually attributed to Groucho Marx; but, I think it appears originally in Freud’s “Wit and Its Relation to the Unconscious,” and it goes like this – I’m paraphrasing – um, “I would never want to belong to any club that would have someone like me for a member.” That’s the key joke of my adult life, in terms of my relationships with women.

I’m not being cute or coy or hipster when I say this opening left me forever altered.  Much like when I first listened to Slipknot’s first album, watching Annie Hall and listening to Woody Allen’s monologue was like discovering a voice I had always been looking for.  Although Quentin Tarantino and Martin Scorsese were gods to me, Woody Allen came in and gave me an actual working model to move forward.  Alvy Singer was the character I more or less was, not so much what I wanted to be, or at the very least he was a voice that I thought I could be in terms of my writing.  

I’m a rather gloomy, depressive, self-depreciating, neurotic asshole, and here was a gloomy, depressive, self-depreciating neurotic asshole.  

It may seem pathetic, but the earliest truth of writing was write what you know.  I wasn’t a gangster like Joe Pesci or a nameless Samurai-blade wielding warrior named Beatrix Kiddo, I was a nervous and depressed moody teenager dealing with a lot of self-deprecation that would eventually become a staple character trait.

My writing really started to mimic Alvy Singer, and Woody Allen in general, and so the character and voice began to form.  That was about 12 years ago, and after about a decade of writing, five of which took place on this blog here, I’m still amazed by that opening and in many ways still paying tribute to Woody Allen who started it off with a joke.

But five years is half a decade to get over this self-depreciation crap and so I’ve been forced to reconcile the fact that dumping on myself and my contributions to humanity are simply going to be part of my aesthetic. It drives my mother crazy, it makes my wife mad, and at least three of my friends are planning on ways to kick my ass if I continue to annoy them with my bemoaning.  I’m working on improving this condition, but habit dies hard damn it, and the case for mental instability.  

All this lead in has actually been for a purpose however, so I’m going to attempt something novel: I think I might have actually done something.  Or, to put it another way, I don’t think I’ve done nothing with these essays.  I’ve just done a little.  I haven’t wasted my time, or my reader, with my work, and while it’s not a grand demonstration of self-worth, life has taught me in recent months that it is the small, little, everyday gestures that build up into the larger narratives.

And unlike Alvy, I’m going to try and join, and stay, in the happy club, because life is far far too short.

 

5.

It wasn’t fun watching Annie Hall the first time.  In fact it was physically painful.  I was moaning through most of the film, wondering how much longer I actually would have in it.  I remember my mother and little sister in the kitchen talking, possibly working on homework, while I labored through the film.

Every few seconds I would lift the remote and hit the “info” button which would spring the title, time, channel information, and various other options like setting up closed captions and recording it to a DVR we didn’t actually own at the time.  It seemed like the seconds were literally infinite as Alvy whined about death or accused Annie’s emotional state to her menstrual cycle.

One such moment was an actual animated scene and provides such an brief snippet of Alvy’s sentiment:

[Alvy fantasizes being in love with the Wicked Queen from Snow White]

Wicked Queen: We never have any fun any more.

Alvy Singer: How can you say that?

Wicked Queen: Why not? You’re always leaning on me to improve myself.

Alvy Singer: You’re just upset. You must be getting your period.

Wicked Queen: I don’t get a period. I’m a cartoon character.

At some point my whining got rather loud and I said in my pathetic and obnoxious adolescent voice, “When is this movie going to be over.”

My mother to her credit suggested, “If you’re not enjoying it, just change the channel.”

Common sense is an easy trait to recognize unless it’s coming from someone else.  I can’t remember if I offered a rebuttal, but whatever the case I shut up, muttering under my breath about the intolerable quality of the film until the final ending sequences when I really paid attention and ALvy offered up a beautiful quote:

Alvy Singer: You know you try to make things come out perfect in art, because they rarely do so in real life.

The sensation of being young is discovery, because as you age you encounter people and ideas that, in truth, have been expressed over and over again throughout the entirety of human history.  There’s nothing really novel in Alvy’s quote here, but when I wasthirteen that statement might as well have been made by Shakespeare or Socrates.  They hit me in such a way that I was stimulated and I began to think about what art was, what it could be.

Of course my response to begin writing a novel about a group of angsty artists living in a nameless city who did nothing but talk about art.  It was absolute shit, but it was the first push man.  After that I was determined.  Life was going to be made perfect in my art, because my life wasn’t anywhere near that term.

4.

Writer’s never seem to be happy people and I’m not sure why that is.  We tend to spend all of our time thinking about writing, and occasionally more time talking about writing.  There’s much time and energy spent worried about words and their meaning andwhether or not we’ve really done something with them.  And occasionally, after the third cup of coffee, in mid-afternoon, when our spouses and children are out shopping or playing, or just generally enjoying life while we’re worrying about similes and articles, a thought appears that just feels perfect.

And even after that perfectly expressed thought is made there is a deeper dissatisfaction because I know I’m never going to get another sentence that perfect ever again.

Alvy seemed to offer me something of a reconsideration of this fact however, as he was taking Annie to a bookstore.

Alvy Singer: I feel that life is divided into the horrible and the miserable. That’s the two categories. The horrible are like, I don’t know, terminal cases, you know, and blind people, crippled. I don’t know how they get through life. It’s amazing to me. And the miserable is everyone else. So you should be thankful that you’remiserable, because that’s very lucky, to be miserable.

A friend of mine recently committed suicide and I’ve spent much of the last month or so just recovering from that miserable bullshit.  Learning more and more about Savannah’s personal life, and dealing with my own reaction to her suicide is something of a revelation, a word that I worry grows more and more meaningless with each new essay I write.  But it’s fair in this case to use that word, because suicide is something I have spent a significant amount of time worrying about.  

Though I should be honest, I also spent a serious amount of time joking about it.  Suicide was a real compulsion, and often I would think about taking my own life.  After a while it just got to be normal.  I would picture my friends and family reacting to my death, wondering who would and wouldn’t care about my sudden absence.  And this confession itself is it’s own sort of exercise because it demonstrates a real truth about depression which is namely that it is a form of narcissism.  

I didn’t really want to die, I just wanted people to care about me.  I wasn’t considering suicide to really think about the implications and the real world affect.

Albert Camus to my mind provided the most realistic explanation of suicide in his great work The Myth of Sisyphus:

There is but one truly philosophical problem, and that is suicide.  Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy.  All the rest—whether or not the world has three dimensions, whether the mind has nine or twelve categories—comes afterwards.  These are games; one must first answer.  And if it is true, as Nietzsche claims, that the philosopher, to deserve our respect, must preach by example, you can appreciate the importance of that reply, for it will precede the definitive act.  These are facts the heart can feel; yet they call for careful study before they become clear to the intellect.  (3).

Camus came to the conclusion that life is worth living, and my friend did not.  She was a frequently miserable person, and I’m not sure I could, I know I could not have done anything to stop her.  And it’s a shame to me, because I never got to watch Annie Hall with her and see what she would have thought about the film.

I’m pretty sure she would have thought it was shit, but still, I would have liked to have been disappointed with her response.

2.

Stephen Hawking died shortly before I started writing this year’s “Happy Birthday essay,” and before I get to that I want to address the fact that there are “birthday” essays.  It seems like I’m trying to create a new genre of essays, which is ridiculous I’m really only inventing new titles.  Anyone who think that they’re creating anything really new is so full of shit.  I mean there’s only so many letters, so many words, and unless you’re J.R.R. Tolkien or the dude who made Cling-On you really haven’t made anything new in terms of language.  An essay is a fucking essay end of story, I’m just reflecting year after year and trying not to bore people.  

But anyway, Stephen Hawking is dead now, and at the Tyler Public Library we had a small display set up to remember him and his work, and while I was walking back and forth helping patrons I kept spotting a documentary titled A Brief History of Time.  It was based on his book of the same title and I took it home having a moment of sublime inspiration.

There is this idea of Imaginary Time and it has revolutionized the very way I see the universe, time, history, reality, and everything in between.  In essence the notion of time being something that just moves forward constantly until it ends has been, not rejected, just reevaluated.

Looking to the actual book then, Hawking explores this concept and, as always, manages to make what is quite possibly the most difficult concept for a layman to feel approachable, and, far more importantly, understandable:

However, the laws do not tell us what the universe should have looked like when it started—it would still be up to God to wind up the clockwork and choose how to start it off.  So long as the universe had a beginning, we could suppose it had a creator.  But if the universe is really completely self-contained, having no boundary or edge, it would have neither beginning nor end: it would simply be.  (146).

Though of course this brings me back to Annie Hall, for the film starts with Alvy’s childhood, and one scene in particular feels terribly relevant.

Doctor in Brooklyn: Why are you depressed, Alvy?

Alvy’s Mom: Tell Dr. Flicker.

[Young Alvy sits, his head down – his mother answers for him]

Alvy’s Mom: It’s something he read.

Doctor in Brooklyn: Something he read, huh?

Alvy at 9: [his head still down] The universe is expanding.

Doctor in Brooklyn: The universe is expanding?

Alvy at 9: Well, the universe is everything, and if it’s expanding, someday it will break apart and that would be the end of everything!

Alvy’s Mom: What is that your business?

[she turns back to the doctor]

Alvy’s Mom: He stopped doing his homework!

Alvy at 9: What’s the point?

Alvy’s Mom: What has the universe got to do with it? You’re here in Brooklyn! Brooklyn is not expanding!

Doctor in Brooklyn: It won’t be expanding for billions of years yet, Alvy. And we’ve gotta try to enjoy ourselves while we’re here!

It’s far more likely that this latter argument will have more relevance to the reader.  Beginnings and endings are what life are all about.  Life begins, life ends.  Relationships begin, relationships end.  The concept that reality just is, and that it always will be regardless of our place in the universe is a concept that doesn’t sit well with people because stories are the foundation of everything.  It’s how we reconcile the beginnings and ends of our own lives.  One day my life will end, but at least so will everything else.

Alvy’s doctor almost assuredly never read the writings of Stephen Hawking, but he did at least give me a concept to work with as I wondered about whether or not it was worth it to write these essays down in the first place.

3.

Five years.  Five years writing and worrying and fretting and laboring over a series ofwritings, musings, philosophies, etc..  And to add to all of that it seems like more and more these essays seem less and less about myself.  I can’t see myself in these writings as much as I used to.  They seem more to be about my ideas and thoughts about great books and films that I appreciate.

Annie Hall is a film that has changed for me as the years go by however.  It’s a film that I still love and appreciate, but five years on I no longer see it as this great, impressive font of wisdom.  Woody Allen has, in recent years, become a bit of a creep and every time I discuss the film I have to acknowledge that the man is a real creep and the conversation usually stops there, which is unfortunate because the movie is beautiful on its own.  What’s changed is that I’ve stopped looking to Alvy’s voice as a source of inspiration, or at least not as much as I used to.

Life is worth living.  Not just because I’ve lost a friend.  Not just because I’ve recognized my depression for what it is.  Not just because I could be a father within the next year or more.  Not just because life has begun to assume real shape for me.  Life is worth living because it’s worth living.

I’ve assumed the mantle of the man who wants to experience the world and the life he’s living because I enjoy being alive.  There’s books to read, coffee to drink, orgasms to experience, and of course there’s even more essays to write.

This blog, as I said at the start, does not always give me what I want, which, to be honest, I’m sure what that actually is.  There’s satisfaction in finishing an essay, and having one more work up on the site.  There’s a satisfaction in knowing that writing these every week I’m getting something of myself on the page.  That knowing, that satisfaction is its own rewards.  It’s an irrational feeling, but Alvy offers me one more anecdote for that:

[last lines]

Alvy Singer: [narrating] After that it got pretty late, and we both had to go, but it was great seeing Annie again. I… I realized what a terrific person she was, and… and how much fun it was just knowing her; and I… I, I thought of that old joke, y’know, the, this… this guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, “Doc, uh, my brother’s crazy; he thinks he’s a chicken.” And, uh, the doctor says, “Well, why don’t you turn him in?” The guy says, “I would, but I need the eggs.” Well, I guess that’s pretty much now how I feel about relationships; y’know, they’re totally irrational, and crazy, and absurd, and… but, uh, I guess we keep goin’ through it because, uh, most of us… need the eggs.

I myself haven’t been eating eggs in the morning anymore, but I am now calling Sunday my writing day.  It involves sitting at my laptop typing away for most of the afternoon drinking my own weight in coffee and at the end of the day thinking about next week’s work.

Thank you for five years dear reader, and thank you as always for reading.

 

AND NOW THE PUNCHLINE…

I’m told it’s best to end on a joke.  My wife pointed out to me that I started this blog the year we were married and so White Tower Musings is in fact only four years old.  

If that isn’t a testament both to the sort of woman I married and my piss-poor inability to do basic math I don’t know what is.

Happy Fourth Birthday White Tower Musings.

 

 

 

*Writer’s Note*

All quotes cited from Annie Hall were provided by IMDb.com.

All quotes cited from The Myth of Sisyphus were quoted from the paperback Vintage edition.

BH, BU, & OE

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Black Holes and Baby Universes and Other Essays, Essay, glasses, Irish Breakfast Tea, Joshua Jammer Smith, Literature, Mug, Science, Stephen Hawking, still life, tea

BH, BU, & OE

13 April 2018

Melted Bottle Cap Brown Cosmos

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A Brief History of Time, Art, Fidget Spinner, glasses, Joshua Jammer Smith, mechanical pencils, original photograph, pens, Ravenclaw mug, Science, Stephen Hawking, still life, tea

Melted Bottle Cap Brown Cosmos

13 April 2018

Find the Little Man Under the Tape

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Art, Bisexuality, gender, glasses, Joshua Jammer Smith, Literature, mechanical pencils, Novel, original photograph, Science, Sexuality, still life, tea, tea strainer, The Left Hand of Darkness, Ursula K. Le Guin, Vintage Science Fiction Paperbacks were the FUCKING BEST

Reality is What You Make It: Steve Jobs and Walter Isaacson

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"Reality distortion field", "Think Different", apple, Apple Inc., biography, Book Review, Dead Poet's Society, history, iMac, iPad, iPhone, ipod, John Keating, MacBook Pro, Mackintosh, mortality, Perception, Personal Computer Industry, Personal Computer Movement, Personal Computers, reflection, Science, Steve Jobs, Steve Jobs was an Asshole...Let's be Real here, Steve Wozniak, technology, Walter Isaacson

Answer. That you are here – that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?—John Keating, Dead Poet’s Society

 

This essay was written on a MacBook Pro, and that should hopefully speak to the quality of the book.  Product endorsement really isn’t my strong suit, and so I suppose starting this essay off by noting my shift to Apple products might not be the best way to begin writing about Walter Isaacson’s biography Steve Jobs, and in fact if it were not for my grandfather I doubt I would have made the actual switch.

My grandfather, as long as I can remember of the man, was the sort of person who could not tolerate small talk.  The annual birthday meetings between him and my parents were not the casual get togethers where people would talk about television shows and try to treat desperately about the weather.  I never remember small talk because my grandfather couldn’t do small talk.  Rather the conversations would be about the writings of Thomas Aquinas, the politics of the day, my grandfather’s thoughts about the history of the Catholic Church, his success with certain carpentry tools, and sometimes his early fascination with computers.  I tend to recall more his conversations about Thomas Aquinas and other Catholic philosophers, which is somewhat amusing given the fact that the man was married three times putting him into something charmingly referred to as a lapsed Catholic.  But I do remember on the few occasions he spoke about his preference of personal computers, a term I really wouldn’t appreciate until reading Steve Jobs, and I remember him talking in great esteem of something called a Macintosh.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but the computer my grandfather was gushing about positively were the exact same computers I was using in my computer classes at school to paint pictures and play educational games.  Apple products were apparently always around when I was young, but I couldn’t see the fruit for the trees.  That’s a play on words you see because Apple’s logo is an actual apple.  On an entirely separate not I’ve also ordered a white mug with the multicolored logo that bears the inscription “Think Different,” and since buying my MacBook Pro, I’ve looked into getting an iPad
and eventually a desktop iMac.  My little sister has charmingly decided to call me an “Apple Whore” after she saw the Apple logo keychain I had printed up using the library’s 3-D Printer.

I suppose I am one now, and observing this metamorphosis I realize that, even after death, Jobs has managed to continue to inspire individual people using his awe and charisma that, some would argue, tended to overshadow the man’s faults.

Before I finally sat down to read Steve Jobs (listen is the more appropriate word since I’m slowly chugging through the audiobook) I was aware of the book because my grandfather had a copy.  The book came out and became a sensation, and it seemed for a while that the proliferation of the book was akin to actual Apple Products, you just couldn’t get away from it.  Somehow or another I avoided having to actually sit down and read it, largely because I discovered Christopher Hitchens about the time the book came out.  It was thankfully then through Hitch that I determined the quality of Walter Isaacson as a biographer.  I read his Benjamin Franklin , and I intend to sit down and read his Henry Kissinger and Einstein as soon as I get the chance.  It was because of these connections that I knew enough about the book to know it was worth my time, and I borrowed it from my grandfather intending to read it.

It’s been within the last year or so that his dementia started, and so I’ve lost the grandfather who was such a powerful intellect.  But I still had his copy of Steve Jobs, so I started it and have now become an Apple Whore.

Isaacson deserves every bit of credit he gets for Steve Jobs, because even during the most pedantic periods of the man’s life feels vital and important to understanding the qualities of Jobs as an individual man.  Passages that describe board-room meetings and phone calls become part of the great drama that became Steve Jobs’s life, and even when discussing the jargon ladened aspects of computer design Isaacson’s books never loses its sense of pace or direction.  The reader is constantly observing the man of Steve Jobs.  They see his highs his lows, his individual strengths, and his faults that at time have left me both shocked and repulsed.  Isaacson deserves credit for this previous point as well given the fact that the temptation of biography is at times to write about the idea of someone rather than the real actual meat and bone of a human being.

And the first impression from Isaacson’s book that really hits me is how much I relate to Jobs in a sense of impending doom.  In one passage he cites Jobs’s notion of his own mortality:

Jobs confided in Sculley that he believed he would die young, and therefore he needed to accomplish things quickly so that he would make his mark on Silicon Valley history.  “We all have a short period of time on this earth,” he told the Sculley’s as they sat around the table that morning.  “We probably only have the opportunity to do a few things really great and do them well.  None of us has any idea how long we’re going to be here, nor do I, but my feeling is I’ve got to accomplish a lot of these things while I’m young.  (155).

Recognition is one of the most powerful feelings someone can experience.  It was “recognizing” Bruce Bechdel on the cover of Fun Home that helped me realize that I was queer, and it was “recognizing” Brian’s confession to Stewie in Family Guy that I really saw my suicidal thoughts for what they were.  Reading Steve Jobs, I recognized someone again, because I’ve recognized a similar trait in myself.  It might just be my soul-crushing morbidity that I write off as it’s own form of practicality, but I’m always aware of some kind of feeling that my life is not going to be terribly long.  Part of this is rational understanding of genetics, my family doesn’t have a great track record (unless you’re a woman on my mother’s side) of a long life.  The other half of this is just some kind of irrational premonition.

A person’s perception of their own life and world can be a powerful thing, and not just because it can drive you to success overall.  What is consistently remarkable about the man Steve Jobs is how much I find myself remarking that the man was an unconscionable prick.  There are numerous passages in the book of Jobs being either purposefully spiteful to friends, employees, competitors, or even people he simply didn’t know.  It’s a common occurrence in the book to hear the man speak of a person’s work as “shit” to their face, and this became part of the man’s personality to his friends and workers.  This dramatic honesty could work in both ways and the reader is quick to learn of something called “the reality distortion field.”

If the reader has never watched Star Trek (don’t feel alone I’ve never watched it either) Isaacson explains it in chapter eleven.

Tribble said that Jobs would not accept any contrary facts.  “The best way to describe the situation is a term from Star Trek,” Tribble explained.  “Steve has a reality distortion field.”  When Hertzfeld looked puzzled, Tribble Elaborated.  “In his presence, reality is malleable.  He can convince anyone of practically anything.  It wears off when he’s not around, but it makes it hard to have realistic schedules.  (117-8).

Isaacson continues this character trait on the following page offering a more detailed analysis:

At the root of the reality distortion was Job’s belief that the rules didn’t apply to him.  He had some evidence for this; in his childhood, he had often been able to bend reality to his desires.  Rebelliousness and willfulness were ingrained into his character.  He had the sense that he was special, a chosen one, an enlightened one.  “He thinks there are a few people who are special—people like Einstein and Gandhi, and the gurus he met in India—and he’s one of them,” says Hertzfeld.  “He hold Chrisann this.  Once he even hinted to me that he was enlightened.  It’s almost like Nietzsche.”  Jobs never studied Nietzsche, but the Philosopher’s concept of the will to power and the special nature of the Überman came naturally to him.  […]. If reality did not comport with his will, he would ignore it, as he had done with the birth of his daughter and would do years later, when first diagnosed with cancer.  Even in small everyday rebellions, such as not putting a license plate on his car and parking it in handicapped spaces, he acted as if he were not subject to the strictures around him.  (119).

The reader can surely find their own examples of Jobs’s prickishness, and I should address that before the reader raises concerns.  Isaacson’s biography never sugar-coats Jobs’s behavior, and when they arrive at the conception and rejection of his first child during the early days of Apple they’re sure to consider putting the book down wondering why they would ever want to learn more about a man who accused his lover with sleeping half the population of the world.  I don’t have any defenses for this behavior, nor do I offer any.

Jobs was a man who, obviously, lived life by his own rules and that at times created unnecessary conflict and behavior that is, to quote my little sister, “slap-worthy.”  What then is the relevance of reading about the man’s life?

Jobs could be, to borrow one of Isaacson’s favorite adjectives, “Cold” and this behavior isn’t always excusable.  But to neglect understanding of Jobs simply because he was an asshole is to ignore the man’s contribution.  As I’m want to do in these circumstances I tend to return to the examples of two of my influences: John Wayne and Christopher Hitchens.  In the case of Wayne the man was an asshole who said some truly heinous things concerning the issue of race equality and anyone who wants a more specific details can simply Google Search his May 1971 Playboy interview.  I will never defend those positions and arguments, and I will always be the first person to remind people about his bullshit attitudes towards race.  At the same time, John Wayne helped establish the idea of the “movie star” and in his time, he produced a wide bodies of films that, in my mind, are still some of the finest movies ever made.  Likewise with Christopher Hitchens the man was an unfortunate chauvinist going so far as to write an article titled Women Aren’t Funny and then a subsequent article Why Women (Still) Don’t Get It to defend his original position.  Hitchens was a brilliant man, but in this instance, he was still talking out of his ass.  In spite of this the man wrote some of the most important works of Nonfiction on the twentieth century and contributed more to the form of the essay than any writer of his time.

I could go on and provide a list of authors and geniuses who were contemptible assholes, but hopefully these two personal ones provide enough of my point, which is, just because somebody was an asshole doesn’t mean they couldn’t change the world.

Reality really is one’s perception of the world.  What is possible and what is impossible, and the stories of science fiction are enough to prove this.  As long as people could imagine changing the world, there were people who could figure out how to.

One passage clearly demonstrates this, as Jobs explained a vision he had for the future of computers.  He was addressing his MacIntosh division in 1982 about an idea he had, while also expressing his contempt for market research:

At the end of the presentation someone asked whether he thought they should do some market research to see what customers wanted.  “No,” he replied, “Because customers don’t know what they want until we’ve shown them.”  Then he pulled out a device that was about the size of a desk diary.  “Do you want to see something neat?”  When he flipped it open, it turned out to be a mock-up of a computer that could fit on your lap, with a keyboard and screen hinged together like a notebook.  “This is my dream of what we will be making in the mid- to late eighties,” he said.  They were building a company that would invent the future.  (143).
Now technically the very first “laptop” was not an Apple computer, but in fact something called an Osbourne 1.  Just looking at a picture of it is enough to throw out the reader’s back, and the design concurs up images of the giant insect monster movies from the 50s.  Even the first apple “laptop” was nowhere near the magnificent flat machines that help achieve Twitter greatness while checking out Instagram accounts and drafted infinite Pinterest pages.  What’s important about this passage was, when I read I actually received a little moment of chills.  This is not because of the content of the biography itself, but again because Isaacson manages constantly to write Jobs’s life into something meaningful and profoundly important for the future of human civilization.

Jobs imagined the laptop computer as something useful, but also important to people’s lives.  He foresaw the opportunity to make the personal computer something that wasn’t just utilitarian for the individual consumer, but a way of enhancing and changing the market and lives of individual people.  And the strength of the previous passage reveals that, even if Jobs suffered from his “reality distortion complex,” it worked.  It’s impossible to picture a world without Apple or Apple products, whether it’s their software or else their actual physical products.

And Isaacson offers a key insight into one of the lasting legacies of Jobs:

Jobs was able to encourage people to define themselves as anticorporate, creative, innovative rebels simply by the computer they used.  “Steve created the only lifestyle brand in the tech industry,” Larry Ellison said.  “There are cars people are proud to have—Porsche, Ferrari, Prius—because what I drive says something about me.  People feel the same way about an Apple product.”  (332).

I typically roll my eyes at the idea that one can express individuality through corporate products, largely because so many of the products being sold are ultimately the same.  Drinking Coke or Pepsi, eating a Reese’s or a Snickers, or buying McDonalds or Burger King can never in my mind craft a rhetoric about the way I choose to live my life.  These
products are designed to be consumed and then shit out, and at the end of the day shit is just shit.  Yet all of these companies, in fact almost every company tries to generate advertisements that sell their products as means to express yourself.  And all of this can be traced back to Apple because they succeeded.

I give Apple, and other computer companies to be fair, a pass on this rhetoric because the personal computer really can say something about the way you live your life.  That’s largely because the personal computer is no longer a black screen requiring long complex code entries that are encased on monstrous floppy discs.  The point-click interface altered the way computer users actually worked on computers, and from there innovation has steadily helped shape the lives of entire industries.  The way an individual person approaches computers, or really, the way they use computers does shape their lives.

And again, as I noted at the start of this essay, this review was written on a MacBook Pro.

I try to wait until I have finished a book before I take the time to write a review of it.  I need time to digest a book, figure out it’s place and space in my world, and then try to impart the significance of it to the reader.  Steve Jobs was different because though I still have around 200 pages left, I recognize how important this work is.

Reading through my grandfather’s copy I regret terribly that it took me so long to read this book and discuss with him the life of Jobs and the history of the personal computer industry.  It would have been an interesting conversation with a man who influenced me tremendously intellectually, and I might have invested earlier than I did in an Apple computer.  But the cards fell where they did, and even though I’ve missed the chance to have that conversation, in his own way my grandfather succeeded.  I own and will continue to own Apple products now, almost certainly till the day I die.

It’s a platitude, but it’s one that remains true.  The people who are crazy enough to believe they can change the world tend to do so.  It’s because they are people driven by their passion and conviction that life can be changed, and that reality is exactly what we make it to be.  Sometimes this can manifest in manic and even wretched behavior, but there are positive stories.  It’s because of Jobs that I learned as a child how to type and learn the basics of point-click interface.  It’s because of Jobs that my mother is able to write up her reviews and musings on her own website.  It’s because of Jobs that the smart-phone revolution started and the idea of what a computer actually is was changed forever.

Jobs’s reality was one where the computer wasn’t just a tool, it was part of your life.  And that “distorted” reality eventually became the real thing.

 

 

 

 

*Writer’s Note*

All quotes taken from Steve Jobs were derived from the Simon & Schuster Hardback first edition copy.

 

**Writer’s Note**

If the reader is at all interested in Apple as a company, I’ve provided some links to articles about Apple and Apple Products and businesses.  Some are positive, others negative, but it’s important to get a wide variety of outlooks.

https://www.wired.com/story/apple-becomes-a-chipmaker-to-one-up-smartphone-foes/

https://www.wired.com/story/apple-campus/

https://www.wired.com/story/how-apple-finally-made-siri-sound-more-human/

https://www.wired.com/story/steve-jobs-opera/

https://www.wired.com/2011/09/st_essayjobs_ceo/

I’ve also included an great article by Wired about the influence Jobs has had on tech company founders and employees aspiring to the emulate the man and his method of management.  It feels not only important, but vital for any and all people who work for, or plan of founding computer companies:

https://www.wired.com/2012/07/ff_stevejobs/

 

***Writer’s Note***

I didn’t get a chance to include it in the essay, but if the reader is at all curious about the first laptop, the Osborne 1, they can follow a link to an article on Business Insider which describes it and it’s history.  Enjoy:

http://www.businessinsider.com/the-first-laptop-2011-6

 

****Writer’s Note****

On one final note, I probably am, most assuredly am, an Apple Whore as my little sister says, and my wife has begun to call me that as well.  I asked her briefly when she knew I was one and she responded simply, “when you bought that mug.”

This is fair, though at the same time, I mean, look at the design.  Simplicity really is the ultimate sophistication.

 

*****Writer’s FINAL NOTE*****

Because I have to, please enjoy this Robot Chicken sketch featuring a PRETTY ACCURATE presentation of Steve Jobs, as well as a fair, completely fair, critique of both CDs and the Zune.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mzRBtToSarE