Saturday, November 7, 2020

four years

The idea behind this
Almost destroyed the idea behind this
Democracy is fragile. 
Handle with care.

Friday, December 8, 2017

The Andy Weir Algorithm

After turning the last page of Artemis, I was left wondering who -or what- Andy Weir actually is. Is he truly the smiling picture of the software engineer on the back flap who created his own sci-fi sub-genre with The Martian and taught us about growing potatoes on Mars? Or is he a piece of software himself? An elaborate computer algorithm designed to generate books after the user fills in a few required fields:

Protagonist (Male/Female): ___________

Protagonists's scientific discipline/major skill: ______________


Number of scenes involving an airlock: ____

The truth is, I don't care. It doesn't make "his" formula any less enjoyable but if you are looking for something original you won't find it here. He's a bit like AC/DC; they have been recording essentially the same album for the past 43 years, but fans still line up to buy the "new" one because the lyrics might be different and, you know, they rock.

Questions of originality aside, this book is surgically designed to be a blockbuster motion picture starring Nazanin Boniadi. So if, like me, you are the kind of person who enjoys telling your friends how the book was better than the movie, reading this now will put you three to five years ahead of that obnoxious curve. You can also impress people with your newly acquired knowledge of welding metal in the vacuum of space. AC/DC fans love that kind of thing.

Sunday, November 26, 2017

A Boy and his Canoe

Slipping back into the multiverse of Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy is like sipping on a warm and soothing cup of English breakfast tea on a rainy afternoon. Readers unacquainted with Pullman's earlier work should not despair, as the events of La Belle Sauvage take place many years before Lyra starts spying on the headmaster of Jordan College in The Golden Compass. If you haven't had the pleasure of meeting Lyra yet, this is a wonderful introduction. As long as stinky baby nappies don't bother you...

This book takes us back to the fictionalized alternate universe of London where Lyra and her deamon Pantalaimon are defenseless babies under the care of nuns. Pullman does a wonderful job of focusing on rolling, pastoral storytelling, while at the same time giving the reader a sense of sweeping events moving just out of sight. We meet Malcolm Polstead, a kind, curious boy who helps out at his family Inn just down the road from the Abby where Lyra is sequestered.

In the first half of the book we find the perfect balance of the mundane and the fantastical. As events propel Malcolm to take the role of guardian to baby Lyra, an otherworldly flood transforms the rural English countryside. Throughout the latter half, the spirit of Conrad's Heart of Darkness winks at us while our heroes are swept down a river in a desperate fight for survival. It is breathless stuff, with just the right seasoning of mysticism and Pullman's signature hook that will pull the reader, wide-eyed through to the other side.

Wednesday, January 18, 2017

Karma Bad. Andie Macdowell Good.

Let's talk about death and reincarnation. A common trope in Buddhism used to express the never ending energy cycle of life, death and rebirth. What you get reborn as is entirely up to the karmic investments you've made. Help out at a homeless shelter? Maybe you get to be a sleek, wild stallion in your next life. Punch a grieving widow in the solar plexus on Black Friday because she grabbed the last half-priced waffle iron? Welcome to your new career as Kanye West's toe fungus.

Or maybe you are like Harry August; born in 1919 on the bathroom floor of a train station, killing your mother in the process. It's not the ideal way to start your life but you manage, thanks to the saintly kindness of your adoptive family. The good news is you were born after that nasty world war, that statistically speaking, you probably would have died in. Annnnnnd....Germany annexes Austria.

Turns out you are pretty good at fixing stuff, so you manage to avoid being on the business end of Nazi machine guns by being too valuable as an aircraft mechanic. When the war is over you go on to lead a modest life and die of natural causes just before the turn of the new millennium.

Not bad. You managed to get through World War 2 without killing anyone and you always tipped the paper boy. You're probably looking at a nice songbird or something for your next go-round....Annnnnnd.....What the hell? You're back on the bathroom floor in 1919. You're Harry August again and you remember EVERYTHING.

You're not alone. There are a whole bunch of people who hit the reset button every time they die. They even have their own club that they invite you to join. They have a rule though, and it's a pretty big one: Even though you know exactly how the next 80-odd years are going to play out, you are not allowed to interfere with major historical events. Because really bad shit can happen if you do. They found out the hard way.

After reading this book I couldn't help wondering what I would do with my life if I was granted a mulligan every time I died. I would probably be a little more Bill Murray from the movie Groundhogs Day than Harry August. Sure, you could eventually learn dozens of languages, become obscenely rich, and master the most complex disciplines in the world but how awesome would it be to drive a Chevy pickup off a cliff and learn everything about Andie Macdowell?

Monday, January 16, 2017

Feeling Bad about Laughing

At the heart of Paul Beatty's hilarious novel lies a simple thought experiment: Could you prove that racism in the United States is still alive and well by bringing back segregation?

 After the election of the first black president there was a suggestion that we had evolved into a post-racial world. A belief that all of the seeds planted by the civil rights movement had borne righteous fruit and very soon the colour of your skin and the country of your origin would be irrelevant in this great democracy of ours.

Then we woke up on the morning of November 9th, turned on the news and discovered that we were just a tad too optimistic about the state of the world.  The idea slowly dawned on us that maybe racism isn't just the hallmark of the intellectually inferior mind. Maybe it is something we are all guilty of. The elephant in the room of our collective conscious as we drive through the bad part of town.

The bad part of town in this case is an agrarian suburb of Los Angeles called Dickens, where our nameless narrator is home schooled on a diet of unconventional psychology served up by his father. Dickens itself stands in as an effective metaphor for our ill-conceived ideas of a post-racial world. When our hero makes it ground zero for the reintroduction of segregated schools, buses and drinking fountains it is not outrage that greets him, but a sense of civic pride, a sense of order and a relief from the pressure of pretending that intolerance is a thing of the past.

My feelings for this book are tangled up with my feelings about the upcoming Donald Trump presidency. I laugh because on some level it is very funny and absurd. Then I think about the very real consequences and I feel bad for laughing.

Friday, November 11, 2016

How the Light Gets in

It's Remembrance Day in Canada, the wind is howling through my windows and I am trying very hard not to cry. I wish I could tell you that the tears I am fighting are born of patriotic pride and memories of sacrifice because that's what today is supposed to be about, right? I wish I could tell you that I spent hours constructing some kind of meaningful Facebook post about not taking freedom for granted because it isn't free and the blood that paid for it and all that loss and I'm sorry I can't.

A man who is the physical embodiment of everything I loathe in human nature has just been elected President of the United States and a man who represented everything I cherish most -quiet thoughtfulness, passion and sensitivity- has just passed away. I can't help but feel that we are on the cusp of entering a new Dark Age. An age of anti-intellectualism. An age of ugliness. Leonard Cohen fought on the front lines of that war. He fought for me. Today I choose to remember him.

Leonard Cohen was a poet. He was a lover. He was a slave to song and vice.  He wrote aching, messy and simple explorations of truth. That's what drives poets, you see, this search for capital "T" Truth. It is an acknowledgement that the human condition is far more complex and deep than the great avatars of capitalism would have us believe. We are not plunderers. We are explorers. Our own hearts are the edges of a map labelled with "here there be monsters".

Donald Trump is a lie. He is the antithesis of poetry. He is a game show host who's greatest accomplishment was telling the contestants, with a self-satisfied grin, that the game is rigged. He perpetrated one of the most diabolical acts of hypocrisy in modern history by convincing people that a man who has never done one minute of public service,  never given a single dollar to a real charity, has never been poor, hungry or tired from hourly wage-work is a champion for the dispossessed. Convinced people that a man who looks down from a golden penthouse in New York City cares about the plight of the man who opens the door for him. Convinced people that he is going to change a system that he, himself, has profited so monumentally from. His ascendancy is the sad, unintentional consequence of racism, inequality and fear. He is what happens when we reject love. He is what happens when the terrorists win.

It is windy and cold here on the last day of the week.  The sun is trying in vain to break through. Could there be a day more pregnant with pathetic fallacy than this one? All of the haunting bagpipes and solemn expressions of people standing rigid and chilled at cenotaphs. Holding their children, trying to stay warm and dry and suitably deferential. Is it just the past that passes before their eyes? Is there any acknowledgement that we may have just collectively taken a few steps down the same road that led to those cold statues and walls filled with the names of dead young people?

The word "Change" has been spoken so often lately it has lost all meaning. It has been spat onto dirty rustbelt carpets by people who still love the idea of a country that is as much of a fairytale as the reality television they drink themselves to sleep in front of every night. It has been promised by the lords on high, fat and bellied up to a table heavy and plentiful with the fruits of someone else's labour. It will all trickle down, they say, like the grease running down their chin, lapped up by the starving dogs waiting at their feet.

Poets change things. Art and beauty change us. Leonard Cohen spoke of the crack in everything. It's how the light gets in. I need a little light right now, Mr. Cohen. Because I sense a change coming.

Friday, October 21, 2016

The Futility of Fighting for Freedom

I was only three months old the day Saigon fell to the People's Army of Vietnam. Much too young to comprehend the images on television of helicopters landing on the rooftop of the U.S. embassy carrying the champions of democracy and heroes of capitalism safely away from the evil communist victors. My newly minted brain couldn't handle context and complexity so I did what most people of my generation did; concocted a one-dimensional dark fairy tale version of this war. It wasn't hard, the Hollywood propaganda machine was more than happy to supply me with the American narrative. It went something like this:

Helicopters and damaged men. The rattle of M-60's and the creeping terror of an unseen enemy. The Viet Cong were demons spawned in the darkest jungles of Indochina where they perfected the arts of torture and interrogation. What chance did Willem Dafoe have, really?

It turns out he had a much greater chance of survival than the average Vietnamese civilian. Over 600,000 non-combatants lost their lives -many in extremely brutal fashion- as the war surged through Laos and Cambodia. Ten years before American audiences watched the death of Sgt. Elias, gnashing their collective teeth in impotent rage, Vietnamese refugees poured into the United States. For these "boat people" the war never really ended. Forcibly evicted from their own country they landed on the shores of the nation that promised to protect them only to be enslaved by a Capitalist system with baked-in inequality and prejudice.

The nameless narrator of Viet Thanh Nguyen's novel is our tour guide through these turbulent times. A tour guide with a very unique perspective. He is a communist sleeper agent, educated in America and embedded as a close advisor to a South Vietnamese General. He is a self described "man of two minds", with the gift and curse of seeing events from multiple perspectives. It is through his eyes that we see the true tragedy of this war and the hypocrisy of it's architects. The North Vietnamese saw themselves as freedom fighters liberating the downtrodden from the oppression of Capitalism and foreign corruption. That didn't stop them from throwing thousands of people into reeducation camps after the war and implementing destructive policies of mandatory agrarian labour. The allies charged with beating back this communist aggression weren't much better. They routinely used CIA sponsored torture techniques to route out communist agents and when they realized they couldn't compete with the Army of North Vietnam in the arena of jungle warfare they decided to kill the jungle. The chemical defoliant they used poisoned the landscape for generations.

The Sympathizer injects something badly needed into the Vietnam narrative: Sympathy. With a deft hand Nguyen guides the reader down the rain sodden roads of history and makes us feel something for everyone involved. It all culminates with a baptism through pain which reveals a universal truth to both the narrator and the reader: The concept of freedom is fluid, and fighting for it is ultimately futile.