I like the corner coffee shop, "Donna's Sunrise Smile", for a number of reasons. One is that it's a moderately successful independent place. Call it a lingering touch from my Durance, but since I fought my way free from my Keeper, I've gotten used to things being a lot less... predictable.
Also, the place is much larger than most people would believe. You wouldn't think that a five-story apartment building in a crowded city could do that, but Donna has somehow managed it.
The most important reason that I like the place is that, in exchange for a few interesting herbs (and instruction on proper use, storage, effects and warnings), Donna and the supervisors also pass along news from a few of my other Lost contacts... as well as anything strange they notice.
Like today.
"Wyatt," Donna said, using the mortal name I had adopted. "Jenny and Marcus both told me that someone had been by earlier this week with a picture that looked like you."
I frowned into my mug, sipping a new concoction with a trace of fennel in it. "Women?" I asked, suspecting I already knew the answers. "Subtly overdressed for the neighborhood? Lots of tasteful makeup?"
She raised an eyebrow. "How did you know?"
There was no simple way to explain, and she deserved to stay out of this mess as much as possible. "It's complicated." I managed a reassuring gesture around another sip of the liquid sunrise from my mug, then looked her in the eye. "I've not knocked anyone up nor committed any crime," I told her, speaking the truth. She picked up on it, and a bit of tension eased out of her expression.
"But I do know things that they would rather keep... under wraps." I knew better than to say, "... in the family." Donna would connect the dots to create a picture that was incorrect, but not completely inaccurate.
She blinked.
I pulled out a small bag made of rough blue paper, the top rolled shut. "Buglewort blossoms," I explained, setting it on the counter and nudging it toward her. "I've doublechecked to make sure that each one is exactly that."
She took the bag. "Isn't that supposed to be for cleaning wounds or as a sedative?"
"These are some more of my specials," I said, emphasizing the last word. "They work like guarana, in case you run low of that." I went on to give her the usual brief description of dosage, effects, durations and warnings. "I may have to skip town," I said, wrapping it up. "They shouldn't bother you too much after that."
I could practically feel her curiosity flaring at me as she copied down the information on the side of the bag with a felt-tip pen and stowed the bag in a cupboard labeled, "Donna's". I finished the brew, wishing that I could swallow all my worries and mistakes so easily.
"We'll miss you," she said. "Especially your 'specials'. Damned if I can figure out where you keep getting them."
"Fellah's got to keep a few surprises," I told her, managing a half-smile. "But I do have a few other friends in the hobby. Might be able to send you a few things now and then, for old time's sake."
She nodded, then gave me a pensive look. "Just take care of yourself, okay? You're a decent man, and those are as rare as..."
I tried, really, but I couldn't help myself. "Sasquatch sightings?" I offered.
She nodded, a surprised but approving grin spreading across her face. "Y'know, I think I like that better than hen's teeth," she said, seeming to taste the words for a moment. "At least there are grainy pictures and somewhat inexplicable footprints of those."
I laughed and got up, leaving some money for my coffee on the counter. While Donna turned to focus on a new customer, I rolled a pair of twenties inside a one-dollar bill and dropped the tube into the tip jar.
Now, all I had to do was figure out how to get my family's investigators off my trail.
-----
Suppose that you find yourself in the witness protection program. Suppose that you had to avoid all of your usual hobbies, associates, and whatnot. What would that entail?
Take a look at your life and think about all of it. What you do, where you go, who you talk to, and all of that. What is truly unique and therefore identifiable about your life? What would be the hardest thing for you to give up? It's a really interesting exercise, especially in the Internet Age when virtually any conceivable hobby (and a few that seem inconceivable) has a web-presence... and internet usage can be tapped from uncountable different points on the connection.
* World of Warcraft? No more. Gonna give up your level 50 character and start from scratch? I don't think so.
* Facebook? Nope. Too easy to become a fan of all your old favorite stuff, even if you use a new username and different userpic.
* Chat rooms? Nope. Again, it's not enough to use a different username, you've got to steer completely clear of every chatroom you've ever used.
* Local sports games? Sorry. Pick a new team. Better yet, pick a new sport.
* Favorite vice? Kick the habits, friend. All of them. If you've got a favorite mixed drink, you'd better never order it. If you've acquired a taste for a special blend of tobacco, you'd better get used to never smoking it again, either.
What else would you have to give up? What vices would you allow yourself to pursue if your usual ones were taken away, with a warning that the people *hunting* you will kill you if they find you?
(Notes describing the building the coffee shop is in for future reference)
The top floor is studios, the floor below that is one-bedrooms, the floor below that is two-bedrooms. The ground floor has the customer area, the kitchen and customer bathrooms. The whole first floor was once a single and rather spacious apartment, but now Donna only lives in half of it. The other half holds cramped but serviceable employee lockers and bathrooms. The basement holds what has to be at least a couple of weeks' worth of supplies at any given time filling most of the space. The business office is also down there, but the last room is where the magic happens: Donna has somehow picked up what amounts to a fully-functional coffee and tea research lab, and the skills to use it to full effect.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Excitement and what I'm missing
While traveling through my hometown on a relatively mundane errand, I happened to notice a subtle indication that there was a portal to the Hedge in the vicinity. My errand could wait while I investigated further. To mortal eyes, it was merely a fenced-in vacant lot, with various pieces of junk scattered here and there. A pile of broken shipping pallets and what might have been furniture at one point pushed against a utility pole, the shadow hiding a gap in the cyclone fence. It took a few moments glancing at the wreckage to spot it: a battered but still whole trash can lid balanced on top of a large, bald truck tire. I fished out a piece of paper and a pen, pretending to copy down the name of the property management company offering the land parcel for sale or rent, in reality making notes about the portal. When had it appeared, I wondered, and where would it lead?
-----
I'm reading through Timothy Ferriss' "4-hour workweek" in an effort to figure out why my life feels like I've become an NPC waiting for some adventure to need a pushing-40 slacker as a human shield or victim or other tragic placeholder. Aside from the rather interesting notion that most of the boring parts of people's lives can be subcontracted, Mr. Ferriss offers the idea that the exciting activities and goals we dismiss as impossible or impractical or otherwise too expensive are usually nothing of the sort. The trick is to figure out the most practical steps necessary to achieve them. For example, suppose that my goal is to not only own a Phoenix 1000 luxury sub, but to make it pay for itself. As this vessel starts at $78 million USD, that would probably be a wise way to go.
The trick, then, would be to figure out who would benefit from access to such a vehicle and why. The Monterey Bay Aquarium might be one option, for exploratory and research purposes. Another might be any of the various private agencies that offer tours of San Francisco from the bay, for a tourist attraction like no other currently available. A third might include various businesses who need to monitor and occasionally inspect or repair underwater facilities, such as pipelines, cables or bridges. And other options may arise during the research phase. While it's easy to imagine all manner of illegal usage for such a vehicle, such as smuggling narcotics in or criminals out of the area, they are not a business avenue I would ever pursue.
Anyway, the next step would be to research the legalities of the situation and arranging a business charter, at least getting the relevant pieces of the puzzle onto paper. U.S. Subs offers such a thing, for a starting price of $25,000.00.
At this stage, I would have to actually do some research and consult with experts. Where else to go? Should I involve the investors-to-be prior to buying the business plan, or after?
The point that Mr. Ferriss makes is that it is not, in theory, completely unreasonable for me to own my own luxury submarine. It is simply a matter of composing a plan and adjusting it as I go along. Which, in turn, suggests that very little, if anything is completely out of reach for purely economic reasons; they remain on the far side of a properly-researched and -initiated plan.
Now that I wish to become a published author by the end of 2009 (if not sooner), I suppose that I will have to focus on a plan to achieve this. The first step, of course, will be regular writing, to simply get in the habit of doing so. I've kept journals, of course, as well as two other blogs, but that will only sustain me for a short period. Similar, in its way, to using a kick-board while learning to swim; the tool is useful during the early stages, but must be abandoned when it is no longer needed. Daily writing, no matter what, for at least the next month is my goal at this point.
Wrapped around looking for "regular" employment, of course...
-----
I'm reading through Timothy Ferriss' "4-hour workweek" in an effort to figure out why my life feels like I've become an NPC waiting for some adventure to need a pushing-40 slacker as a human shield or victim or other tragic placeholder. Aside from the rather interesting notion that most of the boring parts of people's lives can be subcontracted, Mr. Ferriss offers the idea that the exciting activities and goals we dismiss as impossible or impractical or otherwise too expensive are usually nothing of the sort. The trick is to figure out the most practical steps necessary to achieve them. For example, suppose that my goal is to not only own a Phoenix 1000 luxury sub, but to make it pay for itself. As this vessel starts at $78 million USD, that would probably be a wise way to go.
The trick, then, would be to figure out who would benefit from access to such a vehicle and why. The Monterey Bay Aquarium might be one option, for exploratory and research purposes. Another might be any of the various private agencies that offer tours of San Francisco from the bay, for a tourist attraction like no other currently available. A third might include various businesses who need to monitor and occasionally inspect or repair underwater facilities, such as pipelines, cables or bridges. And other options may arise during the research phase. While it's easy to imagine all manner of illegal usage for such a vehicle, such as smuggling narcotics in or criminals out of the area, they are not a business avenue I would ever pursue.
Anyway, the next step would be to research the legalities of the situation and arranging a business charter, at least getting the relevant pieces of the puzzle onto paper. U.S. Subs offers such a thing, for a starting price of $25,000.00.
At this stage, I would have to actually do some research and consult with experts. Where else to go? Should I involve the investors-to-be prior to buying the business plan, or after?
The point that Mr. Ferriss makes is that it is not, in theory, completely unreasonable for me to own my own luxury submarine. It is simply a matter of composing a plan and adjusting it as I go along. Which, in turn, suggests that very little, if anything is completely out of reach for purely economic reasons; they remain on the far side of a properly-researched and -initiated plan.
Now that I wish to become a published author by the end of 2009 (if not sooner), I suppose that I will have to focus on a plan to achieve this. The first step, of course, will be regular writing, to simply get in the habit of doing so. I've kept journals, of course, as well as two other blogs, but that will only sustain me for a short period. Similar, in its way, to using a kick-board while learning to swim; the tool is useful during the early stages, but must be abandoned when it is no longer needed. Daily writing, no matter what, for at least the next month is my goal at this point.
Wrapped around looking for "regular" employment, of course...
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Possibilities and choices
Today's bit of fortune-telling is courtesy of "The Silicon Valley Tarot", an online reading of which is available at the Steve Jackson Games website. The thus-far-unnamed Hedge-hunter may well find himself on a character sheet sometime soon...
-----
Instead of an oddment, today I have found a Hollow, a portion of the Hedge that someone... or several someones... claims as their own. Ranging in size from a small campsite to a sprawling estate, these areas are rarely unoccupied, and certainly wasn't in this case. The motley of Changelings had set up a camp drawing on the images of a traveling circus of mdoest size. After talking my way past their embarrassed lookouts (easing their discomfort with a few extra goblin fruit I keep for such occasions), their leader insisted that I accept the wisdom of their "seer". Imagine my surprise when, after ducking into a six-sided pavilion tent, I found myself facing a pasty-faced Wizened in a lab coat, manipulating what could only be an actual Babbage Engine.
The somewhat androgynous person turned from the machine to face me, adjusting the lenses on his (her?) goggles. "Come to consult the machine?" she (he?) inquired. The voice gave no clue as to gender; I set the issue aside as irrelevant.
"Your colleagues in the rest of the motley insisted that I speak with you," I said.
The "seer" nodded and gestured at a worn Aeron chair. As I settled myself, the seer opened a large, portable bookcase and extracted a bundle of worn, blue-tinted punch-cards tied with what looked like magnetic tape. The seer untied the cards and presented them to me in the usual manner for Tarot cards. "Meditate on your question. Shuffle the cards, choose three, and hand those to me," were my instructions.
Having made my indecipherable choices, the seer ran them through the Engine and informed me of the results.
"First is the Firewall. Protection, fortification, civility, courtesy, protocol. You're well fortified against the barbarian hordes." It took me a moment's thought to realize that this seer drew upon the symbols of mortal technology. It made a certain amount of sense, given the technological bent to most of the decorations, and definitely piqued my interest for the rest of the reading.
"Next is the Flame War. Two pedants, locked in mortal combat, scorch each other with fiery words. Angry, aggrieved, they wield their righteous furies in rhetorical joust. Insult, invective, profanity - they will stop at nothing until one or the other is humiliated or banished. Quibbling, hair-splitting, dogmatism, nitpicking." I considered whether any of my colleagues or contacts back at my primary Freehold would meet this description and made a few mental notes.
"Last is Encryption, inverted. Beware of subterfuge, ignorance. Things are going on behind your back. Can you afford not to know?" I sighed. My forays into the Hedge and research into oddments were, by and large, meant to keep me out of the idiotic games that the Courts played endlessly. While this particular symbol was hardly unusual for anyone who was involved at all in any Freehold, the fact that it was brought to my attention did not cheer me.
The seer approached a chalkboard and began to scrawl with a singularly noisy piece of yellow chalk. "Jet-set betrayals," the seer said, after a moment's calculations. "Is that a Chateau Margaux you're pouring there, or is it your life's blood? The plusher it gets, the deeper the grave. You may be saved, but you'll have to wash dishes."
I carefully recorded the seer's words in a notebook, then gave my thanks. The rest of the motley thanked me for my visit, offering a few words of advice about the most recent goings-on in the Hedge and the location of a nearby portal back to the mortal world. Perhaps it was time to return to the Freehold for an extended period?
-----
Instead of an oddment, today I have found a Hollow, a portion of the Hedge that someone... or several someones... claims as their own. Ranging in size from a small campsite to a sprawling estate, these areas are rarely unoccupied, and certainly wasn't in this case. The motley of Changelings had set up a camp drawing on the images of a traveling circus of mdoest size. After talking my way past their embarrassed lookouts (easing their discomfort with a few extra goblin fruit I keep for such occasions), their leader insisted that I accept the wisdom of their "seer". Imagine my surprise when, after ducking into a six-sided pavilion tent, I found myself facing a pasty-faced Wizened in a lab coat, manipulating what could only be an actual Babbage Engine.
The somewhat androgynous person turned from the machine to face me, adjusting the lenses on his (her?) goggles. "Come to consult the machine?" she (he?) inquired. The voice gave no clue as to gender; I set the issue aside as irrelevant.
"Your colleagues in the rest of the motley insisted that I speak with you," I said.
The "seer" nodded and gestured at a worn Aeron chair. As I settled myself, the seer opened a large, portable bookcase and extracted a bundle of worn, blue-tinted punch-cards tied with what looked like magnetic tape. The seer untied the cards and presented them to me in the usual manner for Tarot cards. "Meditate on your question. Shuffle the cards, choose three, and hand those to me," were my instructions.
Having made my indecipherable choices, the seer ran them through the Engine and informed me of the results.
"First is the Firewall. Protection, fortification, civility, courtesy, protocol. You're well fortified against the barbarian hordes." It took me a moment's thought to realize that this seer drew upon the symbols of mortal technology. It made a certain amount of sense, given the technological bent to most of the decorations, and definitely piqued my interest for the rest of the reading.
"Next is the Flame War. Two pedants, locked in mortal combat, scorch each other with fiery words. Angry, aggrieved, they wield their righteous furies in rhetorical joust. Insult, invective, profanity - they will stop at nothing until one or the other is humiliated or banished. Quibbling, hair-splitting, dogmatism, nitpicking." I considered whether any of my colleagues or contacts back at my primary Freehold would meet this description and made a few mental notes.
"Last is Encryption, inverted. Beware of subterfuge, ignorance. Things are going on behind your back. Can you afford not to know?" I sighed. My forays into the Hedge and research into oddments were, by and large, meant to keep me out of the idiotic games that the Courts played endlessly. While this particular symbol was hardly unusual for anyone who was involved at all in any Freehold, the fact that it was brought to my attention did not cheer me.
The seer approached a chalkboard and began to scrawl with a singularly noisy piece of yellow chalk. "Jet-set betrayals," the seer said, after a moment's calculations. "Is that a Chateau Margaux you're pouring there, or is it your life's blood? The plusher it gets, the deeper the grave. You may be saved, but you'll have to wash dishes."
I carefully recorded the seer's words in a notebook, then gave my thanks. The rest of the motley thanked me for my visit, offering a few words of advice about the most recent goings-on in the Hedge and the location of a nearby portal back to the mortal world. Perhaps it was time to return to the Freehold for an extended period?
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Ranting about polls, not politics
Sorry, no oddments this time. I get the feeling that the Hedge itself has paused to sup on all the strangeness that the mortal world is generating during this 24-hour period.
Okay, let’s look past the politics for just a moment and look at these polls. I’m more likely to get a straight answer about Google’s page-rank algorithm, but I want to know who decides how to call each state as on this “board”. Take a look at these cropped screenshots from MSNBC.com, taken as quickly together as my fingers could manage.
Okay, let’s look past the politics for just a moment and look at these polls. I’m more likely to get a straight answer about Google’s page-rank algorithm, but I want to know who decides how to call each state as on this “board”. Take a look at these cropped screenshots from MSNBC.com, taken as quickly together as my fingers could manage.
Frankly, this North Carolina shot strikes me as the most honest of the three. It shows that McCain and Obama are neck-in-neck, with 84% of the precinct results reported. 16% of the precincts remain, and it’s certainly possible that the lads will be scrapping for every one of those precincts.
Here’s one I just don’t understand. It gives Arkansas to McCain, with 55% of the results, as opposed to Obama with 43% of the results. All right so far, but the fact that 29% of the precincts have reported the results doesn’t seem to matter. Pause for a moment and review the previous example, then look at this Arkansas score again, and then explain how these two judgements can be posted on the same page from anyone, let alone on MSNBC.com.
To be fair, here’s one giving New Mexico to Obama with 56% and McCain with 43%... but only 12% of the precincts have reported! I may not have had stellar success when I was trying to learn statistics, but when 88% of a state’s precincts have not reported their results, exactly how can it be “called” for either side?
And, of course, the one that tops them all. As you can see, California is being handed to Obama with no results at all officially reported! What is going on here?
The math is clearly not on the side of the people running this board.
Unfortunately, publicity and page counts are. I mark this as just one more example of how poorly educated most U.S. citizens seem to be…
Full disclosure: I live somewhere in California. I very much wished to avoid declaring an allegiance to a political party before the election, because I feel that part of the election procedure violates the concept of a "secret ballot". I did vote for Obama, and I'm pleased as punch to have an end to the Republican nightmare in Washington. I'm also pleased to be alive on the day when the United States sheds its last vestigial racism where it really counts: putting an African-American into the White House.
Now, let's see how well Obama follows through on his promises...
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Credit where it's due
The "photo" attached to my blog is just one of several examples of the intersection between how I wish I looked, a costume I might someday be able to assemble, and a bit of how I actually look. My beard's a bit fuller and my hair only recently got trimmed to approximately this short length in the back; it's normally a bit more visible around the base of my skull. Overall, though, you could print out a picture of this character's head and my friends and relatives might see the resemblance. Or not.
The image is a sample of a 3D character called "Dark Guardian", available for purchase through Daz3D. Search for the specific phrase, or the general theme of Steampunk if you'd like a few other interesting things to play with. The Dark Guardian is a variation of the "C.I.S. Operative for M3" figure, created and likely copyrighted by Lourdes Mercado
http://www.daz3d.com/i.x/shop/artistlist/-/?artist=5635
The intellectual property rights in this instance are a little fuzzy, as far as I can tell, but I figure that as long as I'm not generating any money off the usage, nor am I costing the copyright holders any money, I should be safe.
Bringing my interests in 3D art into play, I wish very much that I had the time, equipment and skills to work on CGI. Daz3D has done a bang-up job in creating a graphics program and business model that brings the software and subsequent tools to the masses in a reasonably priced package, along with open forums for users to swap tips and finished products. G'wan over and look over the galleries, then look through the 3D Software section. Hint: Daz 3D is Free, no charge, nothing. Bryce, Carrara, Hexagon and Mimic will set you back a bit, but the whole shebang will give you the kind of CGI tools and toys that most Hollywood effects houses could use very well.
The image is a sample of a 3D character called "Dark Guardian", available for purchase through Daz3D. Search for the specific phrase, or the general theme of Steampunk if you'd like a few other interesting things to play with. The Dark Guardian is a variation of the "C.I.S. Operative for M3" figure, created and likely copyrighted by Lourdes Mercado
http://www.daz3d.com/i.x/shop/artistlist/-/?artist=5635
The intellectual property rights in this instance are a little fuzzy, as far as I can tell, but I figure that as long as I'm not generating any money off the usage, nor am I costing the copyright holders any money, I should be safe.
Bringing my interests in 3D art into play, I wish very much that I had the time, equipment and skills to work on CGI. Daz3D has done a bang-up job in creating a graphics program and business model that brings the software and subsequent tools to the masses in a reasonably priced package, along with open forums for users to swap tips and finished products. G'wan over and look over the galleries, then look through the 3D Software section. Hint: Daz 3D is Free, no charge, nothing. Bryce, Carrara, Hexagon and Mimic will set you back a bit, but the whole shebang will give you the kind of CGI tools and toys that most Hollywood effects houses could use very well.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Hollywood's greatest fear: truth?
My fiancee and I just got finished watching "The TV Set", written by Jake Kasdan. She put it in our Netflix queue because it looked funny, and because I'm toying with becoming a scriptwriter. We both thought that it was an interesting meditation on how a writer's idea for a t.v. series gets pecked to death by ducks, which in this case means that the network executives extract, piece by piece, as much originality and genuine humanity from a television series as they can. Perhaps the defining lines in the movie are uttered by Sigourney Weaver's character: "You can't be too original. Too original scares me." My memory's fading in my old age, so those may not be the exact quotes spoken or subtitled in the film, but the essence of the sentiment is clear: network executives only allow small doses of originality into their schedules.
In one sense, it's understandable, even traditional. Quite a lot of Hollywood's earliest films were based on classic theatrical plays (I don't know how many times Romeo & Juliet has been remade, but it's probably in the hundreds at the minimum... and that's only counting the versions in English...) for the very reason that everyone knew the stories. And even when television first came out, quite a lot of the early stuff was simple and unchallenging fare like comedy variety show acts or big-band shows. (I can't find quick answers to the question online right now; write in with your links and references!)
In another sense, however, it's a sad commentary on the entertainment industry and the audience. I'll not insult any special forces operatives or anyone on "the 100 richest people in the whole wide world" list, but I will say that I don't like to watch television shows about people whose lives are like mine. Worrying about whether to pay the rent or the utilities or the medical bills this month? Been there, done that. Forced to stick to a lousy job working as a subordinate to someone who couldn't find their... uh, coccyx with a map and a compass? Got the t-shirt. Utterly uninterested in attending a high school reunion? Yup. And yet, the vast majority of network television shows right now are built around those very questions.
"Hmmm, is that so?" I felt my cheeks tighten as I matched her gaze. "Let's consider that for a minute. You're afraid of originality outside of a fairly narrow yet poorly-defined comfort zone. Not enough originality and the network's ratings suffer. You're pretty much stuck between a rock and a hard place, aren't you? Your entire thought process focuses on advertising and moving product. You are not concerned with telling a story. You are only concerned with making sure that the viewers Don't Touch That Dial! Even though history clearly shows that original product holds the lion's share of box office profits throughout the lifespan of the movie industry. I'll tell you what: you let me worry about getting the story told and I'll let you worry about marketing it, okay?"
In one sense, it's understandable, even traditional. Quite a lot of Hollywood's earliest films were based on classic theatrical plays (I don't know how many times Romeo & Juliet has been remade, but it's probably in the hundreds at the minimum... and that's only counting the versions in English...) for the very reason that everyone knew the stories. And even when television first came out, quite a lot of the early stuff was simple and unchallenging fare like comedy variety show acts or big-band shows. (I can't find quick answers to the question online right now; write in with your links and references!)
In another sense, however, it's a sad commentary on the entertainment industry and the audience. I'll not insult any special forces operatives or anyone on "the 100 richest people in the whole wide world" list, but I will say that I don't like to watch television shows about people whose lives are like mine. Worrying about whether to pay the rent or the utilities or the medical bills this month? Been there, done that. Forced to stick to a lousy job working as a subordinate to someone who couldn't find their... uh, coccyx with a map and a compass? Got the t-shirt. Utterly uninterested in attending a high school reunion? Yup. And yet, the vast majority of network television shows right now are built around those very questions.
"Hmmm, is that so?" I felt my cheeks tighten as I matched her gaze. "Let's consider that for a minute. You're afraid of originality outside of a fairly narrow yet poorly-defined comfort zone. Not enough originality and the network's ratings suffer. You're pretty much stuck between a rock and a hard place, aren't you? Your entire thought process focuses on advertising and moving product. You are not concerned with telling a story. You are only concerned with making sure that the viewers Don't Touch That Dial! Even though history clearly shows that original product holds the lion's share of box office profits throughout the lifespan of the movie industry. I'll tell you what: you let me worry about getting the story told and I'll let you worry about marketing it, okay?"
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Memories, moods, habits, and a multi-billion-dollar industry
This oddment seems more similar to lichen than more familiar vegetation. It is usually found on the parts of parent vegetation closest to the ground and therefore easily ignored. The basic structure resembles vegetation like strawberries or mundane spider-plants: small pockets of slightly more dense material connected to the next by miniscule stalk-like runners. No two examples of this particular oddment are precisely alike in terms of coloration, scent, or other details, but certain types can be grouped by general 'theme'. Unlike invasive lichen encountered in the mortal realm, this oddment family does not actively infest nearby vegetation; rather, their presence (especially different types combining in the same oddment) can radically alter the emotional connotation of any adjacent oddment, and removing them can be a daunting task for even the most experienced oddment-cultivator.
In the most recent issue of Wired [citation to follow when I get around to it], I found an article discussing the corporate interpretation of the phrase "better living through chemistry". In essence, the article focuses on one person's backlash against the "Prozac Nation" mindset, which proclaims any and all non-"up" moods to be anathema to the American Way... and therefore represent a potential market for goods and services. You may glance at your bulk-mail folder and assume that various pharmaceuticals intended for more intimate situations are the end-all and be-all of the companies responsible for such things, but apparently anti-depressants have been at the top of the industry's best-seller lists for the past five years or so. The subject of the article goes on to assert that certain "down" moods are just part of the human condition, and must be treated through the older methods of communication with one's fellows and honest introspection with oneself.
Figure that we still need expert opinions to determine when we're outside of this range, as well as establishing where this general range is for each of us. Figure that the pharmaceutical industry will not be able to provide us with chemical help for all of life's bumps and bruises and little disappointments... as well they should not. Figuring out that stuff on our own, or failing to do so when or as quickly as we may individually desire, is still something that can't be taken away from us. I may well wind up wishing to become an account in a blood bank (free lobotomy as part of the deal), but if I'm going to end up in such a state, I want to go into it all at once and of my own volition, rather than one capacity for emotion at a time.
Even if, for example, my capacity for regret is chemically damped, the rest of my life (of which my body is only a manifestation) will not stop providing the sources for regret, and it will simply show up elsewhere. A crude proof of this is available through basic research into various documented psychological illnesses with physical manifestations; when the body and/or mind are injured but the patient refuses to seek treatment, the symptoms worsen until the patient can no longer ignore them. Consider an individual whose capacity for anger has been chemically damped; the patient is no longer subject to raging physical abuse of his or her loved ones, but neither can they be motivated to change their circumstances by receiving abuse in turn. The anger response is simply not available, to the patient's detriment.
As any artist worthy of the name will tell you, emotions are not lights. While one can be visibly angry or visibly sad, the emotions are not only highly variable in strength, but change with little apparent provocation (at least in the eyes of those who are unfamiliar with the emotions and the person experiencing them). It will be a long time, if ever, before a mere pill can truly save us from ourselves on that level.
In the most recent issue of Wired [citation to follow when I get around to it], I found an article discussing the corporate interpretation of the phrase "better living through chemistry". In essence, the article focuses on one person's backlash against the "Prozac Nation" mindset, which proclaims any and all non-"up" moods to be anathema to the American Way... and therefore represent a potential market for goods and services. You may glance at your bulk-mail folder and assume that various pharmaceuticals intended for more intimate situations are the end-all and be-all of the companies responsible for such things, but apparently anti-depressants have been at the top of the industry's best-seller lists for the past five years or so. The subject of the article goes on to assert that certain "down" moods are just part of the human condition, and must be treated through the older methods of communication with one's fellows and honest introspection with oneself.
Figure that we still need expert opinions to determine when we're outside of this range, as well as establishing where this general range is for each of us. Figure that the pharmaceutical industry will not be able to provide us with chemical help for all of life's bumps and bruises and little disappointments... as well they should not. Figuring out that stuff on our own, or failing to do so when or as quickly as we may individually desire, is still something that can't be taken away from us. I may well wind up wishing to become an account in a blood bank (free lobotomy as part of the deal), but if I'm going to end up in such a state, I want to go into it all at once and of my own volition, rather than one capacity for emotion at a time.
Even if, for example, my capacity for regret is chemically damped, the rest of my life (of which my body is only a manifestation) will not stop providing the sources for regret, and it will simply show up elsewhere. A crude proof of this is available through basic research into various documented psychological illnesses with physical manifestations; when the body and/or mind are injured but the patient refuses to seek treatment, the symptoms worsen until the patient can no longer ignore them. Consider an individual whose capacity for anger has been chemically damped; the patient is no longer subject to raging physical abuse of his or her loved ones, but neither can they be motivated to change their circumstances by receiving abuse in turn. The anger response is simply not available, to the patient's detriment.
As any artist worthy of the name will tell you, emotions are not lights. While one can be visibly angry or visibly sad, the emotions are not only highly variable in strength, but change with little apparent provocation (at least in the eyes of those who are unfamiliar with the emotions and the person experiencing them). It will be a long time, if ever, before a mere pill can truly save us from ourselves on that level.
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