Throwin down the guantlet

Yes, mes cheres, I am telling you this moment that I am doing this. For those of you who may not be familiar with the concept, it is quite simple. Merely write a novel in the space of a month. Namely: November. (see the National Novel Writing Month website)

Now this is gonna be a draft, you see. Editing and polishing come later. My goal, as I'm stating it here - loud and clear: 30,000 words by Last of November. Today is already the third, so I'm starting late. BUT I already have a plan and a story idea. I just gotta write it. And Write it, I intend.

Today: Because it's already Nov. 3, I will write 3,000 words. Off I go. Wish me speedy spewing.

Electronic Book Burning? Not in my country.

Alan Kaufman's accusation (appearing in the October,2009 online issue of Evergreen) that E-books and other new technologies have been quietly carrying out a final solution against traditional books has generated some buzz on the internet recently. Yes. Kaufman is very specific in his language. He describes "a silent corporate Krystallnacht decimating the world of literacy."

He hits all of the horrifying and expected notes of the apocalypse of the printed page:

1. Corporations control what people read on their Kindles. The New York Times reported July 19, 2009, that Amazon.com remotely removed certain books from Kindles everywhere. Apparently ignorant of the irony, Amazon.com removed copies of George Orwell's "1984" and "Animal Farm". The Times story reported that Amazon.com indicated there was some conflict of rights that forced them to "recall" those editions and maybe that's true. Nevertheless, the action sent chills across the publishing world straight to defenders of free press and free speech: Corporations can and will control what we read on our electronic book readers.

2. Google wants to digitize and thereby control the world's books. The BBC reported September 3, 2009, on an agreement between the internet giant and the US Author's Guild and The Association of American Publishers to allow Google to scan books - some still under copyright protection - for the stated purpose of creating a searchable database of literature. Many observers fear that allowing this to happen will grant Google an unassailable monopoly on the world's publishing industry and by extension, the Marketplace of Ideas. The story noted the argument by some that Google should be allowed to proceed simply because they can:

"Google deserves to benefit from having taken the risk of digitizing books when the project's legal status was uncertain and that Google, unlike Microsoft and Yahoo!, has invested millions of dollars in the project and is committed to pushing forward."

3. Ray Bradbury's grim noir, "Fahrenheit 451", depicts a world in which books are burned and life is cheap (see my comments elsewhere in this blog). In Bradbury's dark world, the job of a fireman is to find and burn houses where contraband books are found; there is an endless, abstract war being fought somewhere; and people seek escape through drugs and devices that resemble our own flat screen TVs and IPods.

4. Heinrich Heine's prophetic words: "Where they burn books, they will, in the end, burn human beings too." Heine, a German Jewish poet (1797-1856), wrote those words, according to Wikipedia, in a poem about the buring of the Koran during the Spanish Inquisition.

These points have horrifying implications. Corporations DO want to control what we read; what we think; what we buy. AND they will if we let them.

However, I find Kaufman's rhetoric deeply troubling: "The book is fast becoming the despised Jew of our culture. Der Jude is now Der Book." Equating the Holocaust with capitalist advantage and progress of technology is demeaning to Jews and a disingenuous analogy. I should say here that Kaufman is a Jew. So am I, by the way. Corporations don't seek out and burn books because they are books. Not in my country they don't - not while I live.

Yes. I do agree with him that for the giant corporations that publishing now represents, books ARE little more than a vehicle to generate capital. Corporations burn books because they are inconvenient; because they may lose money; because they may cause people to think for themselves. Corporations, as any good stock holder will tell you, have only one moral imperative: To generate capital by any reasonable or legal means as spelled out in their corporate charter; to serve the interests of the stock holders. By that definition, a book is no more than the proverbial pound of paper - and it burns at exactly 451 degrees Fahrenheit.

Or pound of flesh, as Heine would have it. In my country, we live and die by the Bill of Rights - Freedom of religion, free expression, free press, free association, etc. We viscerally defend these protections against government infringement. Indeed, perhaps it is time to extend these protections against corporate infringement as well.

I suspect that Kaufman missed the key message in Bradbury's "Fahrenheit 451". It is the same mistake that I suspect many of my students made when I taught that book as a high school English teacher - and in that mistake lies a kernel of hope.

That is this: Heine's quote is NOT an accurate representation of the theme of Bradbury's book.

The accurate theme in Bradbury's book is this: Governments or corporations burn will books - and by extension, people - because people let them. If people are indifferent or apathetic to what happens around them, governments and corporations will do as they please. You want to save a book? Pick up a pen - write to someone with your complaints. Buy a book. OR dare I even suggest it: READ a book?

I've said it before and I'll say it again: Maybe we should rename the :"Bill of Rights". Let's call it "The Bill of Responsibilities." Because if we don't defend the vision of the world that we want to live in, someone else will impose THEIR version of the world on us.

"When you have eliminated the impossible...

...Whatever remains, however improbable must be the truth."

That little paean to Okham's Razor was given to us by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective - whose creator, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was born 150 years ago today - May 22.

The very first Sherlock Holmes novel "A Study In Scarlet" opens with the introduction in a chemistry lab of Dr. John Watson to Holmes.

"You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive," Holmes immediately concludes.

Of course the Afghanistan to which Holmes refers is the 1878 campaign of the British Empire to secure its colonies in South Asia - notably India. Watson had served briefly as a medical doctor and was discharged after taking a bullet to the shoulder.

But exactly how Holmes deduces Watson's history as he shakes his hand for the first time is the very first mystery.

It's a mystery that we've had 122 years to puzzle out.

At the same time, in the opening pages of "A Study In Scarlet," we meet Holmes having just perfected a chemical test that detects the presence of blood.

Forensic science actually does have a test like that - You can see it used all the time on CSI. It's a presumptive test for blood called the Kastle-Meyer test. It can determine that a substance is either 1. Not blood or 2. Probably blood.

Of interest, the Kastle-Meyer test works in a manner very nearly described by Holmes in "A Study In Scarlet" published in 1887. According to Wikipedia, Kastle-Meyer was first described in 1903.

This tells us two things: First, by the time Kastle-Meyer came in to general use by police labs, the mystery-reading public had already seen its like in the pages of detective fiction.

Second: Conan Doyle had somehow encountered the idea at least 16 years before. And though he had himself been a medical doctor by training, it seems rather far fetched to suppose that he dreamed up the idea of the test - else we would remember him today for something other than his greatest creation.

More likely, Conan Doyle had encountered the idea for the test during his research for his novel at a time when the test was unproven. Likely he prodded along its acceptance in forensic science labs, though.

Of course, we really don't need a discussion here about the contributions to crime fiction that Conan Doyle made. Deductive reasoning prompts us at a murder scene to ask about motive and opportunity. Inductive reasoning allows us to put assemble the clues and form a hypothesis about whodunit.

And by the way, Sherlock Holmes never speculated that master of crime fiction cliches: "The butler did it...."

Happy Birthday, Arthur Conan Doyle!!

American Minhag

Edmund Bletchley glanced at the clock on the table next to his bed as he rifled through the dwindling number of socks spaghettied in his sock drawer. He was going to be late (again) if he didn’t hurry. He found two socks that appeared to match, sniffed them to make sure they were clean, and deciding that they were, offered thanks to the Creator of the Universe for helping him make shiddock – a match – of two socks: Baruch Hashem.

Bletchley pulled the black, woolen fabric over his feet and wondered - as he did everyday - whether it was appropriate to involve the most Supreme to help him find his footwear. “Of course,” he further mused, “if it were that big of a deal, maybe next time, the Author of Everything would grant him the care to match his socks when he got them out of the dryer to begin with.” . . . But that seemed far less likely.

Why I hate Freak Season

Freak Season in Cincinnati: From my office window, I look out over the bleak grey street running between the bleak grey buildings, underneath the bleak grey sky. Think Frank Miller graphic novel turned film noir with all the drama of stale bread. You get a monochromatic backdrop - Cincinnati is grey from late November to mid-February - inhabited by bleak people shuffling along like zombies that have been disposessed of all their caffeine. I hate this time of year.

Its supposed to be the holiday season: Christmas tree lights blur in the drizzling rain and wreaths that don't really smell like pine. Lights that are cold-lit white and fuzzy. Sort of like little blobs of day-glo cotton candy.

Christmas carols blurt from all the stores - like commercial jingles inviting people to come spend money that - especially this year - they don't have. I especially like the remakes of old classics - the ones that have an upbeat, pop-tempo. The ones that remind us how little time there is to shop and how much there is to do before year's end. Every one seems to be freaked out.

Stress is high this time of year. Who really finishes all the things on their wish list of noisome tasks in time to enjoy the holiday? Relationships end.

Gawd, this is depressing. Sounds like a Chris Isaak song - the soundtrak for that Frank Miller movie/stale bread drama thing.

I wanna go buy presents for all the people I don't talk to anymore - and all the ones I do. I wanna go buy toys for my daughter - watch her smile warm entire rooms. I wanna go light some candles of my own - the kind with bright orange flames that are warm and certain - the kind that promise there is gonna be another one tomorrow night to brighten the dark.

The 700 Billion Clue

Dear Senator:

I would like to applaud the concerns that various Senators have about this great transfer of wealth from Main Street to Wall Street, but I am mad as hell about enslaving my children to Bush debt – the current “Wall Street 9/11” - plus the Iraq War - plus the Bush tax cuts.

No one has discussed the additional - additional burden on tax payers that inflation would bring if the Treasury printed up $700 billion more and threw it around.

Unemployment has been rampant AND real wages have NOT increased. But money will continue to be cheap to borrow. That just means that real people will be tempted to borrow more to pay for their ever-more-expensive, basic needs.

This stinks: Bush Republicans asked us to throw pallets stacked with cash at the Iraqis and now Iraqis won't take responsibility for their own country. Now, Bush Republicans want us to throw pallets stacked with cash at Wall Street, and "hope" they take responsibility for their actions?

Why can't we use pallets stacked with cash to rebuild this Great Nation of our very own? Oh yea. Because conservative Republicans HATE non-rich people.

Respectfully,

Brian L. Meyers.

Aware.... but not afraid

I let my daughter - she's 7 - go for her first hike by herself in the woods behind Grandma's house. I used to play in those woods when I was a kid. Now, it's her turn.

Ok, so you are thinking "what sort of weirdo lets his little daughter go play in the woods? Didn't you ever read Red Riding Hood?" Or, what if she got lost?

Well, I did arm her with a compass and an emergency whistle and taught her how to use both. I packed her a snack and made sure she wore a hat. Hey, she's a girl scout and needs to learn to be prepared. If she gets lost in the woods for a couple of hours, big deal, right? Anyway, a kid needs to learn to be aware but not afraid.

Oh pooh. We've been so inundated by cheesey television dramas like CSI and Criminal Minds that we' actually believe there must be psycho killers behind every dammed tree. Or maybe our fear is a leftover from our humble protestant-pilgrim heritage - you know the one that gave us Arthur Miller's "The Crucible"? Taught us to fear the forest because therein lurks Ole' Scratch or the big bad wolf?

Anyway, did I mention, that I tracked her the whole way? That she was never more than 100 yards away from me - even though I couldn't see her the whole time. Well, eventually, she doubled back and caught me watching her. Her disappointment of "Daddy! Why did you follow me? I wanted to be by myself." Was replaced by fascination: "How did you find me?"

"Well, babygirl," says I. "Remember when I taught you about following deer tracks? or dog tracks? or raccoons? Well, it also works for tracking little kids." The trails were indeed muddy that day from all the rain we've had recently. Made my job that much easier - it was kind of a game.

She insisted I show her the tracks she had made. "Lift your foot," I replied.

Anyway, the scariest thing in the woods is her daddy. And I've told her that. But remember, that's no comment about my own delusions of grandeur - I'm not a soldier, stalker or psycho. I'm simply a fiercely determined parent. I know those woods. There is really very little in the suburban greenbelt to be afraid of except maybe poison ivy, a few non-poisonous snakes, and the neighbor's dog.

Although, come to think of it, I did hear a howl that was vaguely canine. It sounded improbably like a coyote or wolf. But it was midday, and the call wasn't repeated or answered. I wasn't concerned. My daughter didn't hear it. Maybe it really was the BBW to come huffin' and puffin' . . .

It's regrettable that kids don't get to play in the woods much anymore. That parents are too frightened to let them. I am proud that my daughter is fascinated by the natural world. It's a hallmark of a curious, creative mind.

Heisenberg is coming to Passover

Passover is upon us once again. This year, Heisenberg is coming to Passover and he has changed my thinking on the Jewish holiday.

In years past, I thought that the Passover Seder, the ritual meal, was mystical. The Seder is comprised of fourteen mini-rituals which, if assembled well, comprise a mystical experience.

The mini-rituals of the Passover Seder include matzo, the famous four questions, four glasses of wine and the telling of the Exodus story - best remembered by the movie starring Charlton Heston as Moses. Heston, by the way, died yesterday at his home in Beverly Hills. He was 84.

The word Seder in Hebrew means order. The mini-rituals come in a particular order: Number 1, bless the wine. Number 2, ritual washing of the hands. Number 3, dip the parsley in salt water. Etc. The word Seder also means order in the sense of making order from chaos.

After all, doesn't the very idea of "ritual" suggest some sort of order imposed?

If your family is like mine, order from chaos is a Herculean task (oops, did I just make a reference to something Greek?) If your family is anything like mine, there are children squirming in their seats; Uncle Bob always gets impatient to get on with it (when is it time to eat?); the last glass of wine never gets finished because peoples' attentions wane after all the eating and drinking; and by the way, "who has the Afikomen? - Can't finish the Seder without it."

Pursuing the mystical satisfaction of that perfect Seder requires zealous devotion - a fiery passion best given to younger people than I. When my daughter was born, that mystical pursuit was subordinated to thinking about how I would teach her - of not forgetting that kids being kids necessarily brings us back to the world from ritual meditation.

Heisenberg? Oh yea. Almost forgot. Enter Heisenberg. The traditional heroes of the Passover story are Moses, his brother Aaron, sister Miriam and the prophet Elijah- for whom we open our doors and pour a fifth glass of wine.

This year, I would like to also pour a glass for Werner Heisenberg. He wasn't, by the way, a Jew. He did win a Nobel Prize for physics in 1932 for his work in quantum physics. In 1926 he published a paper which introduced his Uncertainty Principle.

The Uncertainty Principle states, very simply, that the act of observation (of an electron for example) might change the behavior of that which is being observed. In other words, because of the interplay between the light needed to see an electron and the electron itself, the course of the electron might change. Heisenberg concluded that the location, speed and direction of an electron at any point can be described accurately by a matrix of possibilities rather than a single certainty. Hence, electrons orbit in "clouds". Hence, the Uncertainty Principle.

Heisenberg's theory wrecked empirical science - even if he did clarify the confusion of parents (just exchange the word "children" for "electron" in that last paragraph and it will make sense). Heisenberg, after all, had seven of them (kids, not electrons).

That is, despite all of our intent to impose order on the universe by describing it through experiment and observation, there are mysteries we still must fudge. That sometimes we simply cannot make order out of that which we observe.

I might add that my friend Charles Darwin was likely trying to impose order on his observations about the immense diversity of life when he developed his theories of evolution.

Anyway, the pursuit of the perfect Seder - imposing perfect order on the universe is at best, uncertain.

I don't mean to diminish the majesty of Passover or the meticulousness of Darwin's thinking when I say that I find it comforting that despite our best efforts, there is only so much we can do to impose order on our world. Heisenberg gave us scientific permission to be awed by the mysteries in our universe, despite our best efforts to solve them. We must still try to solve them. That is our nature. And they must still continue to elude us. That is just nature.

Happy Passover.

The parable of the traveling rock

I walked into the Divey Diner in downtown Moody. I gotta latte and sat down uninvited across from a girl who was reading a travel guide for Sophia, Bulgaria.

She looked up, startled by my forwardness. "Just a minute," I said. "If you are about to set off on your travels, take this with you." She was really cute and apparently preparing to see the world.

"I would like to give you this. This rock. To take on your journeys." It was a pebble - polished agate, like they used to make marbles out of.

She accepted it reluctantly with a raised eyebrow - clearly expecting explanation. My explanation was this:

This rock has two meanings. Carry it with you always.

First, let it symbolize kindness. Always be willing to accept kindness in the manner it was intended. As you travel through this world, you will meet people who are able and willing and perhaps even eager to show you kindness and hospitality. Sometimes, the help they offer is something you really need. Sometimes, a weird piece is the last piece you need for the puzzle. Never be afraid to accept it with gratitude and grace.

I traveled in Japan for 10 months. That was near on 15 years ago. I met a fellow on the train in Tokyo - an American. From California. He was on some sort of exchange to volunteer with the Japanese Diet (congress). Not only did he offer to let me sleep on his couch for two weeks, but he eventually put me in touch with the guy I roomed with until it was time to leave Japan.

The girl and the pebble: The pebble has a second meaning. Maybe it comes with a hidden obligation. Like an anchor that has a cable attached. Like kharma. It may become a heavy burden. After all, why would anyone wanna carry around some old rock that some guy in a coffee shop is willing to unload for nothing?

If that becomes the case, recycle it. If the pebble is a burden, do not set it down. Do not throw it away. Instead, give it away: Offer it as a gift to someone else. Maybe it's the last weird piece of their puzzle.

Offer them what ever help or wisdom you might have - and the rock along with it. For it is a traveling rock and if it is offered in kindness, perhaps one day it may find its way back to you.

[ED: Yea, just watch out it don't come back to you by way of a fast pitch.]

Forty is the new 15

I dreampt last night that I visited Disneyworld. In my dream, I met a woman and her college-aged daughter who was hoarding those mini-bottles of alcohol - the kind they serve on airline flights. The girl was going to take her stash back to school.

"Gosh," I said. "I haven't done that in... uhm... 20 years. (Has it been that long?)"

I don't think I ever really hoarded mini-bottles of alcohol, but it was my dream. But it was nearly twenty years ago when I was at college; when I was fascinated by alcohol.

Forty is the new fifteen. I've been pressing that argument for the past three months. It usually results in a smile - followed by a look of incredulous incomprehension - followed by a smirk.

But saying that being 40 of today is like being a kid again is not only missing the point, but it's feeding into the cult of youth. You know the one that says you gotta be young to be fresh and cool.

Packaged luncheon meat is still fresh and cool when it's in its 20s.

But I"m not luncheon meat. Older guys have wisdom and it's no good to pretend to be a kid. And anyway, who would wanna be?

Instead, let me suggest that 40 is the new 40. Doesn't have to mean I'm an old fart, just that I've aged - well as is the case.

Here lies one whose name was writ in water

It has been brought to my attention that John Keats might object to my indictment of his masculinity in the previous post.

I would just like to make clear that my comment was made in the purest sense of crotchetiness and cynicism based on my own condition of having been recently diagnosed as chronologically challenged.

Of course, such was not a condition the great poet himself ever reached. Keats died young of the great twin wasters of poets and thinkers throughout history: Poverty and tuberculosis. I have already surpassed him in age but not in achievement.

Furthermore I, of all people, being one of very few individuals who has had his name writ on the rosters of both boy scouts and girl scouts, as well as the roster of un-reformed English majors, is in no position to comment on Keats except in jest. Something the man might appreciate. In the final tally, my own masculinity is in no danger from my circumstances, nor is Keats from my comments.

Of course, you don't need my opinion of Keat's poetry, for I have nothing of merit to note. Except for this: Let me state for the record that not enough people read Keats anymore and the world is made plainer and sorrier for it.

In the meanwhile, dear reader, if you recognized the obvious spoof on Keats "Ode on a Grecian Urn," thank an English teacher.

I would just like to take a moment to say....

Rapsberries to Keats "Ode on a Grecian Turn": "Beauty is youth, youth is beauty. That is all ye know on earth and all ye need to know." Hubris to be sure, but the youth of today would have us believe it.

Raspberries I say!

I wrote the above on the occasion of my older brother's birthday. Now that I've joined the legion of Over 40's, I would like to say for the record that Keats is a pansy.

I wish I knew everything now that I knew then.

Being 40 is gonna be an awesome time. I am older to be sure, but wiser and still able - still full of spit and vinegar - ok, so I hafta watch the heartburn now. And only one box of girl scout cookies in a sitting - ok. ok. ok. cholesterol, yea I know - two cookies then. One? Exercise?

Forty is gonna be awesome. You get to do things you've never done before - I'm not quite sure what those things are - but I get to do them.

The little green faery

"The little green faery" It's a common moniker for Absinthe, a distillate potion flavored with a variety of spices including wormwood, which kinda rolls off the tongue like "graveyard dust".

Absinthe is also commonly shunned in many places because it has a reputation for taking consumers down very dark roads indeed. Van Gogh, Oscar Wilde, and Hemmingway were well known Absinthe drinkers and, well, look what happened to them.

I have a little green faery and it's NOT Absinthe. It's Better. Safer. It is, however, hypnotic and absorbs my attention. In some respects, it tames my attention from the need to wander. It's called IPod nano - Green (of course). I recently acquired it (thanks, mom and dad) and I love it.

Finally, I can think and work - concentrate, even - with out all the petty intrusions and distractions from the environment. AND there is nothing like wearing an IPod that says to people "Go away and don't bug me - I'm tryin' to get something done here."

That includes a certain annoying, little, internal editor who bugs me about the propriety of every single written word. He is now drowned out by the dulcet guitar riffs of the Cure or the Rolling Stones and the steady rap-tap-tap of the drum trap saying get back on task.

My little green faery now lives in my shirt pocket. You should get one. An IPod. They are hip. Hoppin'. And very cool.

Your guide book to the spirit worlds?

Graham Hancock's latest book, SUPERNATURAL, requires a very open mind - open like a barn door - to entertain the central premise: That plant derived psychedelic drugs might have provided the vehicle for ancient shamans - and modern joes - to travel to other planes of existence and have encounters with cosmic personalities.

Furthermore, he explores a thread common to stories of UFO abductions, encounters with fairies and other small folk, and shamans of ancient cultures who could travel to the spirit world in search of medical knowledge.

Remember Washington Irving's story of Rip Van Winkle? The lazy man who went hiking in the Catskills and encountered the little people? He drank with them and ended up sleeping for twenty years. When he finally awoke and returned home, his wife was dead and his children grown.

If Hancock is to be believed, Irving's story is similar to a phenomenon which has been plaguing humanity for more than 40,000 years and which may be responsible for the origins of modern religions and for other bizarre or mystical happenings.

However, you can enjoy Hancock's work without necessarily buying into his findings. He is a former reporter for The Economist and brings to his work all of the healthy habits of traditional journalism: curiosity, careful reporting and some measure of healthy skepticism.

It just so happens that he chooses really weird subjects to write about. He has written a number of controversial titles including THE SIGN AND THE SEAL, a search for the Ark of the Covenant - which by the way, he did not find; and FINGERPRINTS OF THE GODS, which explores the mysteries of the ancient pyramids.

I like Hancock's books. They remind us that there ARE indeed mysteries left in the world. Furthermore, they provide a counterpoint to the equally fantastic, orthodox fairy tales too often spoon-fed us. It may well be that we don't want to believe Hancock only because his fairy tales are different from the ones we've heard before.

on the eve of four decades....

Ok, just one moment for blushing sentimentality. It is the eve of my birthday, after all. Forty. Believe it! In honor of the occasion, I have one reservation (well, two if you count dinner). I promise renewed vigor on the blog front. So tune in here, folks, for commentary on all things great and small. Cheers!

THE PLANET TILTING SWIFTLY

Madeleine L'engle, 88, author of the Newberry Award winning book "A Wrinkle In Time", died Thursday in Connecticut.

L'Engle whose work is an inspiration because it bends the imagination as much as it bends time and space, wrote more than 60 books.

"A Wrinkle in Time" is the first of a series of four books in which Meg Murray and her telepathic little brother, Charles Wallace, must learn to tesseract - warp the fabric of space and time - to rescue their missing father.

I'm older now. It's been several years since I've read "A Wrinkle in Time". My imagination is more fleeting than fleet anymore; more mired than nimble; more interested in stretching a paycheck than stretching time and space.

Summer has gone as well. Gone also are the old fashioned summer days when you could lay in the cool grass, stare up at the clouds in the sky and make an ant crawl the distance of a blade of grass stretched between your hands.

If the grass is stretched out straight, the ant has a longer way to go. If you bring your hands together, making a wrinkle, a ripple in the grass blade, the ant has not so far to go.

This is how L'Engle described a "tesseract" - bending space and time to make a long journey short.

The passage of time is a long journey made short, and we never notice - Not until something is taken from us.

Then all we can do is wonder.
L'Shenah Tova Tikatevu - Be inscribed in the Book of Life for a good year.