The midterm election acted as a closed mental floodgate, holding Americans in an emotional, intellectual thrall long enough so that politicians and our democratic system could focus us on a reality in which elected officials represent specific things, like taxing too little or too much; opposing Trump enough or not enough. During the process many people felt they were making decisions about critical matters. On day 2 the floodgate held, as the midterm results defined our central reality.
But on day 3 the floodgate opened and stored-up real life poured in: A man undone by hatred killed 12 people and himself in a Thousand Oaks bar; the next day a fire of unprecedented destructive force erupted a few miles from the bar, ending the dreams and lives of many and sending shockwaves through millions of people in California and the world.
But we did not vote on gun control in the midterm, or policy regarding the multitude of isolated, despairing people who live as time bombs among us. We did not vote on development in fire zones, or effective moves on climate change.
For the rest of today and in the days to follow the floodgate will remain open and real life will pour in unrelentingly. Very little of this real life will have been voted on.
My sense is that some of the war potential that has been stored in multiple locations around the world will soon be realized. There will be provocations about everything from Brexit to Gaza. War is the ultimate distraction, so distracting that if it happens now, no one will notice that war was not discussed in the midterm, and we did not vote on it.
Are there decent alternatives to what we call democracy? The word itself has sacred status. No one questions democracy. I'm not going to question it either, except to ask whether we have it.
Let's keep our concept of democracy, but realize that it's an attempt rather than a fait accompli, and try to make it more real. We can do that by inserting into our political vocabulary terms reflecting our immediate situation: genetic engineering, artificial intelligence, automation, mass displacement and unrest, total surveillance, total control. If the national election in 2020 does not recognize what is actually happening to us, we will not have a democracy even in a theoretical sense.
[Update, 1/8/25: I hate being right (not).]
Thursday, November 8, 2018
Wednesday, November 7, 2018
Midterm journal - Day 2, Results
Today everyone is falling into their proper categories. Here are three common ones (I'm in the second):
1. People who are empowered and joyful that the Democrats took the House.
2. People who are somewhat relieved that the Democrats took the House but are constrained by a sober reflection: The basic uncertainties about humanity's current direction remain uncertain, and would have remained uncertain even if the Democrats had also taken the Senate. People in this category tend to see our elections as correctives for mistakes that came out of previous elections, but not necessarily as correctives for anything else.
3. People who accept Trump's tropes and believe they are in a spiritual war against evil. They will rejoice in the saving of the Senate and vilify the new House.
No one has been vanquished; the battle lines are sharpened. There will be much noise ahead.
The word democracy was coined by the ancient Greeks to denote rule by slave-owning wealthy males. In our culture, democracy means rule by politicians and consultants, who pick the terms and definitions for the rest of us. Trump usurps the consultant role and uses his own terms and definitions. With the terms provided, our democracy can connect us to immediate matters like taxes and social policy and give us some impact. Unless it produces the proper terms, however, our democracy will give us no impact on matters like war and peace, or rewriting our genetic code, or replacing human judgement with machine intelligence. Those questions, unless terms are provided, will be addressed behind closed doors as if there were no such thing as an election.
It's almost as if we are expected to project our lives onto a video game called Democracy, where everyone is battling about economics, ethnicity, gender, religion morality and the future, fielding candidates and holding elections. It can be an exciting game, but when you look up from the screen, you encounter your life. Your actual life. The video game is not real.
1. People who are empowered and joyful that the Democrats took the House.
2. People who are somewhat relieved that the Democrats took the House but are constrained by a sober reflection: The basic uncertainties about humanity's current direction remain uncertain, and would have remained uncertain even if the Democrats had also taken the Senate. People in this category tend to see our elections as correctives for mistakes that came out of previous elections, but not necessarily as correctives for anything else.
3. People who accept Trump's tropes and believe they are in a spiritual war against evil. They will rejoice in the saving of the Senate and vilify the new House.
No one has been vanquished; the battle lines are sharpened. There will be much noise ahead.
The word democracy was coined by the ancient Greeks to denote rule by slave-owning wealthy males. In our culture, democracy means rule by politicians and consultants, who pick the terms and definitions for the rest of us. Trump usurps the consultant role and uses his own terms and definitions. With the terms provided, our democracy can connect us to immediate matters like taxes and social policy and give us some impact. Unless it produces the proper terms, however, our democracy will give us no impact on matters like war and peace, or rewriting our genetic code, or replacing human judgement with machine intelligence. Those questions, unless terms are provided, will be addressed behind closed doors as if there were no such thing as an election.
It's almost as if we are expected to project our lives onto a video game called Democracy, where everyone is battling about economics, ethnicity, gender, religion morality and the future, fielding candidates and holding elections. It can be an exciting game, but when you look up from the screen, you encounter your life. Your actual life. The video game is not real.
Tuesday, November 6, 2018
Midterm journal - Day 1
The weeks leading up to today's midterm election have been bizarre for me and the other 200 odd telepaths in the LA area (no pun intended). We've been communing lately to share stress stories. Our most common observation is that in crowded public places there has been an unusually persistent and so far indecipherable static emitted by almost all the randomly passing heads. It sounds something like a snake hissing, suggesting that people are feeling threatened in unexpected ways, that long familiar paths forward have become confused, ambiguous. What does this have to do with the midterms?
I'm not sure, so I've decided to start a journal today, November 6, 2018, the day of the midterm, and to write something here every day until it becomes clear what the midterm election means.
Tomorrow's post, of course, will reflect the results of the election. Who knows what they will bring?
For today, I note that it's mostly Trump bouncing around in people's heads as they vote, as if Trump's downfall or triumph will decide the fundamental questions facing our species: Will we or should we continue on as the same species, with the same specs, or should we let biotechnology change us? If AI surpasses us in all mental activities, will there be any further point to human intelligence? If so, what sort of intelligence will it be? Will the earth remain habitable for traditional humans? Should humans have one more world war before they go extinct?
A Trump victory would not give reason to take heart for anyone concerned with these questions, but Trump didn't cause the problems the questions address. They have been ignored by politicians before him. That is not surprising when you consider that the United States government and its constitution do not regard ultimate questions of this sort as within their purview, because they were not urgent when the country was founded. They are urgent now.
I'm not sure, so I've decided to start a journal today, November 6, 2018, the day of the midterm, and to write something here every day until it becomes clear what the midterm election means.
Tomorrow's post, of course, will reflect the results of the election. Who knows what they will bring?
For today, I note that it's mostly Trump bouncing around in people's heads as they vote, as if Trump's downfall or triumph will decide the fundamental questions facing our species: Will we or should we continue on as the same species, with the same specs, or should we let biotechnology change us? If AI surpasses us in all mental activities, will there be any further point to human intelligence? If so, what sort of intelligence will it be? Will the earth remain habitable for traditional humans? Should humans have one more world war before they go extinct?
A Trump victory would not give reason to take heart for anyone concerned with these questions, but Trump didn't cause the problems the questions address. They have been ignored by politicians before him. That is not surprising when you consider that the United States government and its constitution do not regard ultimate questions of this sort as within their purview, because they were not urgent when the country was founded. They are urgent now.
Wednesday, July 18, 2018
Covert conversation
My friend Robert the Telepathic Gila
Monster taught me how to adjust my biorhythms so I can estivate. This
is the best summer I've ever had, lying in the cool sand under a rock.
But my slumber was disturbed last week when the airwaves came alive with the promise of a telepathic bonanza. I speak of course of the two-hour secret conversation between U.S. President Donald Trump and Russian President Vladimir Putin in Helsinki. Knowledge of the contents of that conversation might help answer the question tormenting everyone: What is Trump doing?
The excitement that woke me from shaded bliss began in what I used to consider my private ethernet, where I communed with the souls of non-telepaths at will, before I discovered that I share this space with a few of my kind, surviving remnants of a telepathic culture that once, before the age of language, stalked the earth in great numbers. These days we Teles get by as best we can, playing coffee houses and clubs- or, if things get desperate, cruise ships- so when an opportunity like the Trump/Putin Secret Meeting pops up, we jump on it!
The Monday meeting was announced on Sunday, so Teles had only one day to get in shape for the epic hack. I spent all Sunday practicing advanced techniques, like Intereferometric Selection Relay, and Integral Diffraction Disambiguation, which had served me well in the days when I had to match the NSA's continually evolving defenses (keep reading).
I and my colleagues did not know what sort of defenses to expect in Helsinki. We probed and found credible reports of a new Russian weapon that could turn the immediate space enclosing Trump and Putin into a black hole, from which no information could escape, leaving even telepaths with nada. This method would of course destroy the two leaders as well as contain all information, but the Russians, so we gathered, have discovered something they call Molecular Rebound Reintegration, which will, they believe, throw back in time- to the original point of origin of its pre-black hole reality- simulacra of the two leaders, visible and seemingly real to everyone, which will operate in local time, saying and doing everything that the originals would have said and done had they not become subatomic soup. At this time we have insufficient evidence to confirm that Putin and Trump have been replaced by simulacra.
On Monday at 2:00 p.m. western time, I and most of the world's surviving telepaths focussed our vestigial talent on the matter at hand, barely needing CNN droning in the background or similar prompts for guidance, because the two leaders were clearly delineated in space and time by the worldwide attention itself, which gave us a sort of GPS route to them, as if the need for attention that drove these men had become their greatest vulnerability.
As anticipated, we encountered an impenetrable field as we attempted to track Putin and Trump when they entered the room for their private conversation. The field did seem of black hole strength, judging by the nothing that came out of it. Fortunately one of our newly reunited group (a high school physics teacher from Visalia) had a brilliant idea. He may explain it in a journal someday; I'll just note that he called his technique Reverse-Echo Anticipatory Manifestation (REAM), which, he explained, "captures" interactive simulacra from the molecular rebound and (before they revert to quark stew in .006 of a nanosecond) induces them to reveal their future dialogues.
The resulting readout was distorted by several fields it had travelled through on its way out of the black hole, garbling some parts, which I've filled in using context. More intriguingly, at least one of the fields seems to have operated as a sort of cosmic editor, taking the original meanings and converting them into analogues from the deepest mythologies of the human or possibly reptilian mind. You be the judge. This transcript should keep us guessing for a while.
Enjoy your summer! Harry the Human
Transcript of the secret conversation between U.S. President Donald Trump and Russian President Vladimir Putin in Helsinki on Monday, July 16, 2018:
T: Sweet tidings, Putey, from the land of abandon!
P: Greetings, Donny! Did you do your history homework?
T: Yes, Putey! Russia without a tsar is like a village without an idiot- Haw Haw!
P: Indeed, Donny! A tsar without Russia is like a balding man with half a wig!
T: Touche! No one can beat you, Putey, my man!
P: We are such stunning
successes, Donny!
T: I could tell you stories, Putey...[unintelligible]...and they stand at the gates, howling.
P: Let them howl, Donny! They have been out-thought.
T: We out-thought them, didn't we, Putey? We out-think everybody, every time. We are two-three steps ahead!
P: It is a joy; I shall bring an offering to the Female Creator of the Universe to show no hard feelings...[unintelligible]....
T: They howl at the gates.
P: Yes...I hear them.
T: Let them howl! For we know, Putey, that in one week the reasons for the howling and the very howling itself will be remembered only, if at all, as mere passing sound, like someone in another car honking at someone, like someone's thought blending into the wind.
P: You are a poet, Donny, my friend! Imagine, a world run by poets!
T: Would everything have to rhyme?
P: They howl at the gates, Donny.
T: Then come, let us show them....
P: Yes, let us show them....
T: ...that we are two-three steps ahead and we don't care who howls.
P: Your bard said it best: "He who laughs last laughs loudest," great words though they don't rhyme.
T: We laugh last, Putey!
P: Yes, Donny, after the world's final gasp, one sound will ring out: our laughter!
T: Damn, Putey, you are a poet!
End of transcript
Wednesday, January 3, 2018
The Lord of Twinby Manor
Elizabeth Hortense exited the carriage, stepping onto the small platform placed below her foot by a liveried servant. She was almost dizzy with delight at her freedom after the eight hour journey. Once on the ground, she got her first look at Twinby Manor.
"Oh, Auntie, look at the size of it!"
Behind her lumbered Aunt Pauline, bedevilled by pains after the ordeal of travel.
"I imagine it's tough to clean."
Aunt Pauline and Elizabeth gazed at the two hundred year old manor, still in the hands of the original family: the Masterlies.
Servants collected the luggage and escorted the two ladies up the path. As the house loomed, Elizabeth felt a cold dread at its gothic implications. A sign hidden in the shrubbery until needed read, "Buy tickets here." She had heard the family fortune was in decline.
In the vast foyer, the women looked over the vaulted ceiling, and at the dim oil paintings along the broad staircase: stern old men, no doubt the family patriarchs.
A servant approached Elizabeth and announced, "His Lordship will see you now."
As Aunt Pauline moved to accompany her niece, the servant said gently, "Excuse me, Mrs. Denby, his Lordship wishes to converse privately with Miss Hortense at this time. Nelson will assist you to your room and make you comfortable."
Nelson hopped to and escorted the somewhat flustered Aunt Pauline up the stairs. To her chagrin and puzzlement, Elizabeth felt her heart suddenly race. She could not remember a time when someone of importance wanted to talk to her only.
"Follow me please," said the first servant,"his Lordship is in the library."
Elizabeth compliantly followed the servant, marvelling at how far she'd come from her modest roots in Duluth, Minnesota. Her family were in the meat-packing business, with few pretensions to refinement, let alone nobility. Then one day, six months ago, the postman delivered a letter from the law firm of Parsons & Mackenzie Ltd. informing the family that, due to a distant connection- on the Hortense side- Elizabeth was heir to a fortune in jewelry from one of the Masterly scions who had died at age 94, Ebenezer Masterly. Ebenezer had bequeathed Twinby Manor to his nephew, the current Lord Masterly, and directed that the jewels go to the nearest female relation. A two year search revealed that Elizabeth was that person.
The servant stood beside a tall open door out of which came the strange smell, not just of books, but of old books...books that people now dead wrote...about a world now gone.
Elizabeth shook her head briefly to remove whatever spell had been cast upon her. The servant stood motionless and she gathered that she was to enter the library alone.
She stepped inside and her eyes immediately rose up the fifteen foot high bookshelves, crammed with tomes that reeked of empire. Elizabeth's world was more immediate, more practical. She had received good grades in school and now studied accounting at the local community college, hoping to join her father's company with, perhaps, Fred, her boyfriend, who was working on a degree in agriculture.
She liked a neat and tidy world, but over these books she perceived a haze of dust, obscuring whatever jewels lay within.
Then as her eyes headed down she saw the broad, tall back of a man, seated at his escritoire, seemingly intent on his work.
Elizabeth waited, wondering if she was supposed to announce herself. In fact she was a bit impatient, what with the dust and lack of clarity. Some moments passed, and then, without turning around to look at her, still finishing his letter, the man spoke:
"Good afternoon, Miss Hortense. Please pardon this informal introduction- I need only finish this matter and I will give you my full attention."
"Well, I'm sure you needn't bother...." Elizabeth began, wondering why she was not permitted to rest in her room before meeting this rude fellow.
Before she could complete her thought the man cast down his pen and stood, revealing his six-foot-three, trim frame, and as he turned around and beheld the five-foot-two Elizabeth, his face, stern and relentless, for a moment formed a smile and took on a pleasant glow, augmented by golden locks of curly hair cascading down his forehead and around his ears.
Elizabeth's anger of the moment before seemed to evaporate as she grappled with a new set of emotions, and one overriding question: How would she deal with this man?
"Forgive me, Miss Hortense, I am Lord Masterly, heir to all you see, except of course the jewels you have come to collect."
"Very pleased to meet you, Lord Masterly," she responded crisply, determined to put this man, with his strange airs, into a more docile frame of mind. "And now if you don't mind, I would like to be shown to my room so that I may freshen up."
Lord Masterly looked appraisingly at Elizabeth before nodding and, she thought, smiling slightly. Not for the last time she was piqued by his superior affectations.
The End
"Oh, Auntie, look at the size of it!"
Behind her lumbered Aunt Pauline, bedevilled by pains after the ordeal of travel.
"I imagine it's tough to clean."
Aunt Pauline and Elizabeth gazed at the two hundred year old manor, still in the hands of the original family: the Masterlies.
Servants collected the luggage and escorted the two ladies up the path. As the house loomed, Elizabeth felt a cold dread at its gothic implications. A sign hidden in the shrubbery until needed read, "Buy tickets here." She had heard the family fortune was in decline.
In the vast foyer, the women looked over the vaulted ceiling, and at the dim oil paintings along the broad staircase: stern old men, no doubt the family patriarchs.
A servant approached Elizabeth and announced, "His Lordship will see you now."
As Aunt Pauline moved to accompany her niece, the servant said gently, "Excuse me, Mrs. Denby, his Lordship wishes to converse privately with Miss Hortense at this time. Nelson will assist you to your room and make you comfortable."
Nelson hopped to and escorted the somewhat flustered Aunt Pauline up the stairs. To her chagrin and puzzlement, Elizabeth felt her heart suddenly race. She could not remember a time when someone of importance wanted to talk to her only.
"Follow me please," said the first servant,"his Lordship is in the library."
Elizabeth compliantly followed the servant, marvelling at how far she'd come from her modest roots in Duluth, Minnesota. Her family were in the meat-packing business, with few pretensions to refinement, let alone nobility. Then one day, six months ago, the postman delivered a letter from the law firm of Parsons & Mackenzie Ltd. informing the family that, due to a distant connection- on the Hortense side- Elizabeth was heir to a fortune in jewelry from one of the Masterly scions who had died at age 94, Ebenezer Masterly. Ebenezer had bequeathed Twinby Manor to his nephew, the current Lord Masterly, and directed that the jewels go to the nearest female relation. A two year search revealed that Elizabeth was that person.
The servant stood beside a tall open door out of which came the strange smell, not just of books, but of old books...books that people now dead wrote...about a world now gone.
Elizabeth shook her head briefly to remove whatever spell had been cast upon her. The servant stood motionless and she gathered that she was to enter the library alone.
She stepped inside and her eyes immediately rose up the fifteen foot high bookshelves, crammed with tomes that reeked of empire. Elizabeth's world was more immediate, more practical. She had received good grades in school and now studied accounting at the local community college, hoping to join her father's company with, perhaps, Fred, her boyfriend, who was working on a degree in agriculture.
She liked a neat and tidy world, but over these books she perceived a haze of dust, obscuring whatever jewels lay within.
Then as her eyes headed down she saw the broad, tall back of a man, seated at his escritoire, seemingly intent on his work.
Elizabeth waited, wondering if she was supposed to announce herself. In fact she was a bit impatient, what with the dust and lack of clarity. Some moments passed, and then, without turning around to look at her, still finishing his letter, the man spoke:
"Good afternoon, Miss Hortense. Please pardon this informal introduction- I need only finish this matter and I will give you my full attention."
"Well, I'm sure you needn't bother...." Elizabeth began, wondering why she was not permitted to rest in her room before meeting this rude fellow.
Before she could complete her thought the man cast down his pen and stood, revealing his six-foot-three, trim frame, and as he turned around and beheld the five-foot-two Elizabeth, his face, stern and relentless, for a moment formed a smile and took on a pleasant glow, augmented by golden locks of curly hair cascading down his forehead and around his ears.
Elizabeth's anger of the moment before seemed to evaporate as she grappled with a new set of emotions, and one overriding question: How would she deal with this man?
"Forgive me, Miss Hortense, I am Lord Masterly, heir to all you see, except of course the jewels you have come to collect."
"Very pleased to meet you, Lord Masterly," she responded crisply, determined to put this man, with his strange airs, into a more docile frame of mind. "And now if you don't mind, I would like to be shown to my room so that I may freshen up."
Lord Masterly looked appraisingly at Elizabeth before nodding and, she thought, smiling slightly. Not for the last time she was piqued by his superior affectations.
The End
Monday, October 30, 2017
Blame Theopompus for Herostratus!
The National
Geographic History magazine always provides engaging perspective, as in The Temple Of Wonder by Francisco
Javier Murcia (Nov/Dec/'17), which relates that the legendary Temple of
Artemis at Ephesus (in Asia Minor), one of the original Seven Wonders of the World, was burned to the ground in 356
B.C., not by an enemy religion or empire, but by one man named
Herostratus. Murcia writes that Herostratus "confessed under torture
that he had only started the fire because he wanted his name to be known across
the world for having destroyed this most famous of buildings."
Herostratus is a
familiar type today: a man (they are mostly men) so desperate to be noticed
that all other considerations - such as the grief and pain of others- are
dismissed.
The need to be noticed, however, is not the motive we look for in today's mass vandals and killers. The motive we look for is hatred. That is why we have been unable to figure out, for instance, the motive of the man who killed 58 people in Las Vegas on October 1. There were no online hate rantings in his internet record, no obvious incidents in his life that expressed particular types of rage. It might be that rage was not the dominant motivator for this man. Could his motive have been the same as Herostratus'? Did he anticipate a posthumous world in which his name would be broadcast to humanity for weeks and weeks, then recorded with his deed for posterity?
The need to be noticed, however, is not the motive we look for in today's mass vandals and killers. The motive we look for is hatred. That is why we have been unable to figure out, for instance, the motive of the man who killed 58 people in Las Vegas on October 1. There were no online hate rantings in his internet record, no obvious incidents in his life that expressed particular types of rage. It might be that rage was not the dominant motivator for this man. Could his motive have been the same as Herostratus'? Did he anticipate a posthumous world in which his name would be broadcast to humanity for weeks and weeks, then recorded with his deed for posterity?
The Ephesians
recognized the problem and, unsuccessfully, attempted a solution:
The Ephesians tried
to punish [Herostratus] by publishing a decree that his name be wiped from all
records. But their efforts were in vain. Theopompus, a historian of the
time, wrote down the story of Herostratus and helped preserve his name to this
day.
Theopompus should be the patron saint of journalism. In its pursuit of ratings, the media gives today's Herostratus's exactly what they want. No one is too undeserving to be transformed into a notorious icon. Consider the pastor of a small church in Florida, who in 2010 burned a Koran. His action was filmed by reporters (whom he had summoned) and broadcast to every country in the world, repeatedly, for weeks- a grossly disproportionate response to the event, considering the discord it generated.
At this point I must apologize to the reader for an abrupt change of tone, following a visit from my companion Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster (his show-name) who trudged into my study a few minutes ago and
started a telepathic conversation:
Harry, I think you
should extend your discussion of media induced violence to include manipulation from
third parties who want to start wars. The media didn't promote the Koran burner just to bump ratings.
Robert, you were reading my thoughts outside my house before you came in. You know I don't like that.
Sorry, I can't help it. Gilas consider it impolite to bar other gilas from their thoughts.
Don't you have any secrets?
What kind of question is that? I'm supposed to say we have no secrets? If I had a secret, I certainly wouldn't tell you.
Robert can be exhausting, but I felt he had a point about my thesis. Media portrayal of international relations is critical for every nation's foreign policy. We should be as sensitive to third party influence on media as we are to elected officials taking bribes.
I had an idea.
Robert, in the interest of cross-species understanding, I'm inviting you to collaborate with me on the ending of this piece. Do you think I have enough supporting evidence for my thesis, which is that media promotes mass murder by making the perpetrators famous?
I thought the thesis was that every time someone builds a temple, someone else wants to tear it down.
That's a related thesis.
Must every element in the piece relate to one thesis?
Yes.
The human race has OCD!
Robert, I'm just asking you how you think I should end this piece.
End it? You've boxed yourself in with typical human juvenilia like "thesis," "beginning, middle and end," and all that. Why must a collection of thoughts end, and why must it stay focused on one "thesis"? What a waste. In gila communication, every segment of thought is its own thesis. Every thesis relates to every other thesis. Maybe I'd understand your way if gilas communicated in writing, but we're not interested in it. We find your writing, and in fact your human language, unnecessarily complex and circuitous.
That's really nice,
Robert. I'm happy for you and all the wise gilas. I am writing in
human style though, so I'm not just going to conclude with some random idea.
That's another thing, continued
Robert, tenacious as ever, Why does your concept of "random"
have a negative connotation? Every event is random. The universe is random. What's the point of the concept?
Ok, ok, we'll try it your way! As a trans-conscious experiment, I will end on a gila inspired random note. How about a quotation?
Go for it.
I thought for a while, googled on my computer, then found what I thought was a suitably random quote from French novelist Michel Houellebecq:
Good binds while
evil unravels. Separation is another word for evil; it is also another word for
deceit.
I gave Robert a look.
Is that random enough
for you, Robert?
You're getting
there, he
conceded.
Tuesday, September 19, 2017
Hillary Clinton's new book
The book is one of the things I discussed with Betty the Coyote Creator Goddess, Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster and a surprise guest at a new group I was invited to join: Trans-Consciousness Only, for those desiring to understand the subjective consciousness of beings alien to themselves for reasons other than to eat them.
It had been a long time since I'd been invited to anything so exclusive, and I jumped at the chance. Robert came by last week to congratulate me on my acceptance and to inform me that the next meeting would be on new moon, which was last night.
Right on schedule, 9:00pm, Robert showed up at my shack and led me into the dark desert. We trudged among rocks, gullies and brush for about twenty minutes, when finally I spotted an orange glow flickering beyond a large boulder. Rounding the boulder I beheld the group, seated around a small but determined fire: there were Betty and Robert, of course, but also a tall, lean figure, with a shock of white hair and a long white beard, holding a wooden staff across his lap as he studied me over the fire.
Betty greeted me first with, "Welcome, Harry!," showing her brilliant white teeth, and Robert spat dismissively (gila saliva is toxic) into the fire.
Betty said, "Harry, I'd like to introduce you to Gandalf," gesturing to the gaunt and grizzled figure to her left.
"What?"
In retrospect that was a rude question, but it's not every day you meet a fictional character. I stared at "Gandalf." He did indeed conjure up the beneficent and powerful wizard in J.R.R Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. Gandalf: the redemption of the old man.
He leaned forward and extended a long arm. We shook hands and the contact felt like I was reading about it in a book.
Gandalf spoke warmly, "Hello, Harry! I've been following your journey."
"Really?"
I took a seat to Gandalf's left. With Robert to my left, the circle was complete.
"I know what you're thinking, Harry," Gandalf said, staring into the fire, "You're thinking I'm fictional, so what is going on? By the way, I know I'm fictional, that my existence and all my attributes are made up and arguably not real."
"Arguably?"
"Harry," Betty interrupted, "What if I told you that, strictly speaking, you are not real either, you too are fictional?"
"Meaning?"
"Start with a fact you already know: Your conscious inner-world is an artifact of your brain, a fiction."
"Let me ask you this, Harry," said Robert, "Aren't I made up in a sense? You haven't been bothered by that."
"Well, I...uh...."
Gandalf laughed, "Harry, if you weren't a five-foot-nine human I'd call you Hobbit-like. You are so simple in your needs, you want everything to follow unbreakable rules...."
"Hey, " I asked, hoping to change the subject, "where is Murray the Anointed One? [see below]. Shouldn't he be here?"
Betty answered, "He's not really the social type, Harry. It's awfully difficult to get anyone interested in being the Anointed One these days, by the way."
"You sure got a gem with Murray," Robert said, "I wouldn't anoint him with Vaseline."
Betty moved us forward, "OK, shall we begin? I should explain, Harry, that each of us picks topics we feel need to be discussed, either from the subjective world of humans, or others. Watch us for a while and perhaps you'll throw in a topic."
"I have a topic," said Robert, "Modern media and its impact on the evolution of hive-humans."
"Robert, if I could interrupt briefly," said Betty, "on the subject of 'media,' since information in our society is spread so differently than in Middle-earth, I'd like to explain to Gandalf that humans today are extraordinarily isolated from each other, almost as if the species were evolving from individual thinkers in small groups to semi-aware hive workers under central control. Ancient humans were flush with their world, receiving information directly from it and responding directly back. Today, information about the world and its human governance comes to most humans electronically, from distant centralized sources. The flow of information is one-way; there is no interaction, no affecting of the world by the human recipient of 'the news.' Since humans don't deal with the world directly, they are cut off from each other."
Robert said, "Yes, and this is why few individual humans have any opportunity to influence the destiny of their species. Decisions are made by people no one sees who control the electronic information centers. The decisions are jump-started into public reality by actors playing leaders who recite lines that, while approaching the sorts of things that a voter might say, do not deliver the goods, or they deliver the wrong goods. Consider war, the inevitable outcome of humanity's perennial refusal to face reality and figure itself out. War will now be handed to you on a platter, as if you ordered it, by breathless politicians and news anchors, though you did not order it. I must say this sort of horror is absent from gila society, where any able individual can move the whole body."
I sighed (inwardly) at Robert's gila-centric universe. The group lapsed into silence. Finally Betty looked up and asked, "Does anyone else have a topic?"
"I do," I ventured, "I've been reading Hillary Clinton's new book. What strikes me is how stunned she was by her loss. She had made plans for an extravagant inaugural under a symbolic glass ceiling, and she still expected those plans to be carried out as late as election eve. When Trump won it felt to her like being hit by a truck, with a concomitant lack of comprehension."
"Speak English, please, Harry," said Robert.
Betty looked benignly at the rude reptile. "Robert, I bet you taste good. But, to deal with your needs, I'll paraphrase what I believe Harry meant. Clinton does not understand why she lost. She is quite candid at least about that, and the admission strikes me as unusual."
Robert spoke again: "It is unusual for a public figure to admit to not understanding something. My question is, why actually did she lose?"
I said, "Here's what I see: Clinton promoted an agenda of liberal policy, of legislation allowing abortion and gay marriage, a more generous welfare state, etc. What she saw in her opponent was an antithetical agenda that valorized selfishness and long- suppressed anti-social emotion. That agenda, according to the polls, was adhered to by about 30% of the electorate, so Trump should have lost. What Clinton lacked, however, was understanding that the beneficiaries of the liberal agenda do not comprise everyone. She did not know that millions of people feel neglected and abused in spite of or by the liberal agenda. Hillary Clinton did not know that the liberal agenda, by itself, is no more able to solve the current American malaise than the conservative agenda."
"Then what kind of agenda would help the American malaise?" asked Robert.
I answered: "An agenda about things that are actually happening, like the AI and bioengineering revolutions that threaten to drive humans extinct."
Silence reigned again as we drifted into personal thoughts.
Finally Gandalf spoke, "On the subject of war, I find it ironic that, especially in the 1960's, the anti-war population made up much of the fan base of Lord of the Rings, which is, of course, a war story, among the most violent you'll ever read."
"How do you account for that, Gandalf," asked Betty.
"I walked down Telegraph Avenue in 1969 one summer day (it's remarkable easy for fictional characters to pass as real in Berkeley), and I heard people say they liked Lord of the Rings because you can tell the good guys from the bad guys. You certainly can! Tolkien's bad guys are twisted and sadistic. His good guys, emphatically presented in the movie version, are beautiful and virtuous beyond words. Who would follow a grotesque fiend into battle when you've got elven lords and transcendent fairy queens (not to mention my humble contribution). Poor humanity! Outside your fiction, you have to follow the most avaricious and deceptive of your kind, while potentially wise leaders scurry for cover."
Again we became quiet, staring into the fire and exploring our thoughts. After a while Betty asked, "Has anyone seen a movie lately?"
As it happens," I said, "Robert and I saw a movie at the Lancaster Cineplex last week [I hide Robert in my jacket when we go to movies]. We usually watch National Theater Live, but it was not on. We were restless and decided to see a 'chick flick': Home Again, starring Reese Witherspoon."
"Excuse me, Harry, " said Gandolf, "Please define 'chick flick.'"
"A chick-flick is a movie designed to entertain women. Men often do not like them for that reason: they cater to women at the expense of the male view."
"The movie demonstrated a world of dysfunction," Robert added.
"I would have to agree," I said.
Betty said, "Harry, tell us about the movie."
"Sure. The Witherspoon character, Alice, is a forty year old mother who can't stand her older husband, a successful filmmaker, because he is stuck on himself and an asshole. She moves with her children to L.A. where she lives in her father's upscale house (he is a successful movie director living in New York, who is also stuck on himself and an asshole). A chance encounter in a bar leads to four young and handsome guys, budding filmmakers, living for free in Alice's guest house. In return, one of them makes love to her and the other three cook and take care of her kids. Thus, 'chick flick.'"
"Amen," said Robert.
"The poignant part," I continued, "is the treatment of Alice's ex, who shows up at the house unexpectedly, desiring to reconcile with her. Although, true to chick flick requirements, his overall presence suggests a selfish asshole, there are glimpses of empathy when he seriously tries to figure out what to do, how to love. In the end, though, he's an asshole and loses. She wins, banishing the ex and keeping the four boys for sex and child rearing duties. Your heart will soar...my ass."
It felt strange to be spilling my guts on such a subect in front of this motley crew. To change the focus I looked at Gandolf and asked, "What do you make of modern gender travails?"
Gandolf answered, "Middle Earth is not immune to such travails."
Silence ensued as we pondered Gandolf's response.
Robert broke the silence with, "I couldn't stand the movie."
"He sure couldn't," I confirmed, "I thought Robert was having a seizure. He doubled up and wouldn't speak until we were in the car. He took the film as the final indictment of human gender relations."
"What was the problem, Robert,?" asked Betty.
Robert looked us over. "Humans avoid reality, so they lack rational norms for heterosexual concepts. When it's time for me to mate with a gila female, I go into a frenzy of passion; I forget my own mind and can think of nothing but sticking something into something, and then it's over. I don't have to figure out the 'other,' thank god. I can go back to sticking other things into things, like sticking bird eggs into my mouth."
Betty, the only female present, flashed her white teeth. Gandalf poked the fire with his staff. Robert spat.
Silent minutes passed. Finally Betty said, "If there are no more topics then, shall we call it a night until next new moon?"
All agreed.
It had been a long time since I'd been invited to anything so exclusive, and I jumped at the chance. Robert came by last week to congratulate me on my acceptance and to inform me that the next meeting would be on new moon, which was last night.
Right on schedule, 9:00pm, Robert showed up at my shack and led me into the dark desert. We trudged among rocks, gullies and brush for about twenty minutes, when finally I spotted an orange glow flickering beyond a large boulder. Rounding the boulder I beheld the group, seated around a small but determined fire: there were Betty and Robert, of course, but also a tall, lean figure, with a shock of white hair and a long white beard, holding a wooden staff across his lap as he studied me over the fire.
Betty greeted me first with, "Welcome, Harry!," showing her brilliant white teeth, and Robert spat dismissively (gila saliva is toxic) into the fire.
Betty said, "Harry, I'd like to introduce you to Gandalf," gesturing to the gaunt and grizzled figure to her left.
"What?"
In retrospect that was a rude question, but it's not every day you meet a fictional character. I stared at "Gandalf." He did indeed conjure up the beneficent and powerful wizard in J.R.R Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. Gandalf: the redemption of the old man.
He leaned forward and extended a long arm. We shook hands and the contact felt like I was reading about it in a book.
Gandalf spoke warmly, "Hello, Harry! I've been following your journey."
"Really?"
I took a seat to Gandalf's left. With Robert to my left, the circle was complete.
"I know what you're thinking, Harry," Gandalf said, staring into the fire, "You're thinking I'm fictional, so what is going on? By the way, I know I'm fictional, that my existence and all my attributes are made up and arguably not real."
"Arguably?"
"Harry," Betty interrupted, "What if I told you that, strictly speaking, you are not real either, you too are fictional?"
"Meaning?"
"Start with a fact you already know: Your conscious inner-world is an artifact of your brain, a fiction."
"Let me ask you this, Harry," said Robert, "Aren't I made up in a sense? You haven't been bothered by that."
"Well, I...uh...."
Gandalf laughed, "Harry, if you weren't a five-foot-nine human I'd call you Hobbit-like. You are so simple in your needs, you want everything to follow unbreakable rules...."
"Hey, " I asked, hoping to change the subject, "where is Murray the Anointed One? [see below]. Shouldn't he be here?"
Betty answered, "He's not really the social type, Harry. It's awfully difficult to get anyone interested in being the Anointed One these days, by the way."
"You sure got a gem with Murray," Robert said, "I wouldn't anoint him with Vaseline."
Betty moved us forward, "OK, shall we begin? I should explain, Harry, that each of us picks topics we feel need to be discussed, either from the subjective world of humans, or others. Watch us for a while and perhaps you'll throw in a topic."
"I have a topic," said Robert, "Modern media and its impact on the evolution of hive-humans."
"Robert, if I could interrupt briefly," said Betty, "on the subject of 'media,' since information in our society is spread so differently than in Middle-earth, I'd like to explain to Gandalf that humans today are extraordinarily isolated from each other, almost as if the species were evolving from individual thinkers in small groups to semi-aware hive workers under central control. Ancient humans were flush with their world, receiving information directly from it and responding directly back. Today, information about the world and its human governance comes to most humans electronically, from distant centralized sources. The flow of information is one-way; there is no interaction, no affecting of the world by the human recipient of 'the news.' Since humans don't deal with the world directly, they are cut off from each other."
Robert said, "Yes, and this is why few individual humans have any opportunity to influence the destiny of their species. Decisions are made by people no one sees who control the electronic information centers. The decisions are jump-started into public reality by actors playing leaders who recite lines that, while approaching the sorts of things that a voter might say, do not deliver the goods, or they deliver the wrong goods. Consider war, the inevitable outcome of humanity's perennial refusal to face reality and figure itself out. War will now be handed to you on a platter, as if you ordered it, by breathless politicians and news anchors, though you did not order it. I must say this sort of horror is absent from gila society, where any able individual can move the whole body."
I sighed (inwardly) at Robert's gila-centric universe. The group lapsed into silence. Finally Betty looked up and asked, "Does anyone else have a topic?"
"I do," I ventured, "I've been reading Hillary Clinton's new book. What strikes me is how stunned she was by her loss. She had made plans for an extravagant inaugural under a symbolic glass ceiling, and she still expected those plans to be carried out as late as election eve. When Trump won it felt to her like being hit by a truck, with a concomitant lack of comprehension."
"Speak English, please, Harry," said Robert.
Betty looked benignly at the rude reptile. "Robert, I bet you taste good. But, to deal with your needs, I'll paraphrase what I believe Harry meant. Clinton does not understand why she lost. She is quite candid at least about that, and the admission strikes me as unusual."
Robert spoke again: "It is unusual for a public figure to admit to not understanding something. My question is, why actually did she lose?"
I said, "Here's what I see: Clinton promoted an agenda of liberal policy, of legislation allowing abortion and gay marriage, a more generous welfare state, etc. What she saw in her opponent was an antithetical agenda that valorized selfishness and long- suppressed anti-social emotion. That agenda, according to the polls, was adhered to by about 30% of the electorate, so Trump should have lost. What Clinton lacked, however, was understanding that the beneficiaries of the liberal agenda do not comprise everyone. She did not know that millions of people feel neglected and abused in spite of or by the liberal agenda. Hillary Clinton did not know that the liberal agenda, by itself, is no more able to solve the current American malaise than the conservative agenda."
"Then what kind of agenda would help the American malaise?" asked Robert.
I answered: "An agenda about things that are actually happening, like the AI and bioengineering revolutions that threaten to drive humans extinct."
Silence reigned again as we drifted into personal thoughts.
Finally Gandalf spoke, "On the subject of war, I find it ironic that, especially in the 1960's, the anti-war population made up much of the fan base of Lord of the Rings, which is, of course, a war story, among the most violent you'll ever read."
"How do you account for that, Gandalf," asked Betty.
"I walked down Telegraph Avenue in 1969 one summer day (it's remarkable easy for fictional characters to pass as real in Berkeley), and I heard people say they liked Lord of the Rings because you can tell the good guys from the bad guys. You certainly can! Tolkien's bad guys are twisted and sadistic. His good guys, emphatically presented in the movie version, are beautiful and virtuous beyond words. Who would follow a grotesque fiend into battle when you've got elven lords and transcendent fairy queens (not to mention my humble contribution). Poor humanity! Outside your fiction, you have to follow the most avaricious and deceptive of your kind, while potentially wise leaders scurry for cover."
Again we became quiet, staring into the fire and exploring our thoughts. After a while Betty asked, "Has anyone seen a movie lately?"
As it happens," I said, "Robert and I saw a movie at the Lancaster Cineplex last week [I hide Robert in my jacket when we go to movies]. We usually watch National Theater Live, but it was not on. We were restless and decided to see a 'chick flick': Home Again, starring Reese Witherspoon."
"Excuse me, Harry, " said Gandolf, "Please define 'chick flick.'"
"A chick-flick is a movie designed to entertain women. Men often do not like them for that reason: they cater to women at the expense of the male view."
"The movie demonstrated a world of dysfunction," Robert added.
"I would have to agree," I said.
Betty said, "Harry, tell us about the movie."
"Sure. The Witherspoon character, Alice, is a forty year old mother who can't stand her older husband, a successful filmmaker, because he is stuck on himself and an asshole. She moves with her children to L.A. where she lives in her father's upscale house (he is a successful movie director living in New York, who is also stuck on himself and an asshole). A chance encounter in a bar leads to four young and handsome guys, budding filmmakers, living for free in Alice's guest house. In return, one of them makes love to her and the other three cook and take care of her kids. Thus, 'chick flick.'"
"Amen," said Robert.
"The poignant part," I continued, "is the treatment of Alice's ex, who shows up at the house unexpectedly, desiring to reconcile with her. Although, true to chick flick requirements, his overall presence suggests a selfish asshole, there are glimpses of empathy when he seriously tries to figure out what to do, how to love. In the end, though, he's an asshole and loses. She wins, banishing the ex and keeping the four boys for sex and child rearing duties. Your heart will soar...my ass."
It felt strange to be spilling my guts on such a subect in front of this motley crew. To change the focus I looked at Gandolf and asked, "What do you make of modern gender travails?"
Gandolf answered, "Middle Earth is not immune to such travails."
Silence ensued as we pondered Gandolf's response.
Robert broke the silence with, "I couldn't stand the movie."
"He sure couldn't," I confirmed, "I thought Robert was having a seizure. He doubled up and wouldn't speak until we were in the car. He took the film as the final indictment of human gender relations."
"What was the problem, Robert,?" asked Betty.
Robert looked us over. "Humans avoid reality, so they lack rational norms for heterosexual concepts. When it's time for me to mate with a gila female, I go into a frenzy of passion; I forget my own mind and can think of nothing but sticking something into something, and then it's over. I don't have to figure out the 'other,' thank god. I can go back to sticking other things into things, like sticking bird eggs into my mouth."
Betty, the only female present, flashed her white teeth. Gandalf poked the fire with his staff. Robert spat.
Silent minutes passed. Finally Betty said, "If there are no more topics then, shall we call it a night until next new moon?"
All agreed.
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