I get haunted by ghosts all the time.
Now before you call Ghost Hunters, I'm talking about the abstract kind. These are the empty husks of memories that follow me around and punch me in the gut when I'm doing something else. I'll be minding my own business, driving to breakfast while listening to my wife and kids, and I'll see a soccer field, and all of a sudden I'm possessed, and apparitions from when I was a scrawny kid with acne will bombard me. I'll be back in time when I was a wallflower, and I'd avoid the ball, until the coach told me to get more aggressive. With sweaty phantoms of blue and yellow all around me, I will growl, just like I did on that grass. I will be angry. I will be an animal, and I will kick that goddamn spiritual soccer ball in that goddamn ethereal goal.
Until with a jolt, I must stop the car, just like how the referee said, "Hey kid, you can't growl, that's a warning. You do it again I'll kick you off the field." I am no longer bewitched, and the ghosts have faded.
Though I can still feel them, as they swarm beneath the surface, and all of the people I've known, who are dead and gone to me now, who are just figments of my imagination, will continue to live on through me. Perhaps there is not a heaven. Perhaps there is not a hell. Perhaps there is no where we truly go when we die, and everything we've ever done will mean nothing in the far distant future.
For now, however, those who have passed on from my life exist in me, and one day, when my physical form is gone, just as I have been haunted, perhaps others will be haunted by me.
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Saturday, January 22
Friday, January 14
Love, Leads To
Love, leads to
sex, leads to
babies, leads to
overpopulation, leads to
scarcity, leads to
bickering, leads to
war, leads to
death, leads to
hate, leads to
exhaustion, leads to
reparation, leads to
forgiveness, leads to
peace, leads to
love, leads to
sex, leads to
babies, leads to
overpopulation, leads to
scarcity, leads to
bickering, leads to
war, leads to
death, leads to
hate, leads to
exhaustion, leads to
reparation, leads to
forgiveness, leads to
peace, leads to
love, leads to
Tuesday, October 20
A Hundred Years From Now
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Factory Forces Android to Die Alone; Judge Gives Stamp of Approval
Posted by Matt on September 30th, 2109
Explain to me again how a robot couple would have been split like this even for five minutes, let alone hours. Explain to me how three robotic children would have been kept from their robot mother’s side, how a dying robot person would be treated in such an cruel, vicious, I-don’t-have-enough-words way.
Tell me again why the word “marriage” doesn’t matter. Tell me again that we should just be patient and not rock the boat.
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(Altered from this story)
Factory Forces Android to Die Alone; Judge Gives Stamp of Approval
Posted by Matt on September 30th, 2109
U.S. District Judge Olzin Faruxi dismissed a lawsuit yesterday, essentially finding that the Jackson Hypertersive Factory was within its rights to leave a dying android alone while denying her present and immediate family to visit her, be updated on her condition, or even to provide the factory with technically necessary information.
Named in the now-dismissed suit were Jackson PR rep Griznell Foundersone and attending hypertechnicians Alein Neler and Chrischa Albreto Moneta, who made the decision not to allow Jenny Slaten, Lisa 110XT’s partner, to have standard family access to information, even after receiving durable Power of Attorney and a Living Will naming Jenny as legal guardian with authority to make end-of-life decisions.
Grecia Crux, spokesperson for Jackson Factory, released this statement after Judge Faruxi said they could continue to turn [mechanos and mechanas] people away from their dying family members:
We have always believed and known that the staff at Jackson treats everyone equally, and that their main concern is the well-being of the robots in their care. At Jackson Hyper System, we believe in a culture of inclusion. For more than 90 years, the institution has taken great pride in serving everyone who enters its doors, regardless of race, creed, religious beliefs or robotic orientation. We also employ a very diverse workforce, one that mirrors the community we serve.
Jackson will continue to work with the mechano, mechana, compsexual and transmechan community to ensure that everyone knows they are welcome at all of our facilities, where they will receive the highest quality of positronic repair.
Yes, that sounds perfectly reasonable. If only there were a way to judge their words against their actions. Oh wait, there is, and guess what! They’re completely and plainly full of it! In March, Jenny told the story of Lisa's final hours:
On February 18, 2107, Lisa 110XT, my partner of nearly 18 years and 3 of our 4 adopted children: Thane, Frankie and Vride were on board the Rbotz cruise preparing for lift off. Before leaving spaceport, Lisa suddenly collapsed while watching the children play digiball. The kids were banging on the stateroom door saying, “Mommy was hurt!” I opened the door, and took one look at Lisa and knew the situation was very serious. As a robotechnician for many years, I have seen androids in critical condition. I knew that my life partner was gravely malfunctioning. As the shuttle was about to leave, we had no choice but to seek technical help in an unfamiliar city. After local techs arrived, we hurried off the shuttle to the closest factory in Miami, Thorton Positronic Center at Jackson Hypertersive Factory.
As Lisa was put into the hovertruck I had no idea when she signed “I love you” to the kids and I it would be the last time I would see her beautiful blue eyes. We arrived at the positronic center minutes before her hovertruck. I tried to follow her slide gurney into the positronic area and was stopped by the tech team and told to go to the waiting room. The kids and I did as we were told.
We arrived shortly after 3:30 in the afternoon, around 4pm, a PR rep came out and introduced himself as Griznell Foundersone and said, “you are in an anti-mechan city and state. And without a hyper repair proxy you will not see Lisa nor know of her condition”. He then turned to leave; I stopped him and asked for his tex number because I said “we had legal Durable Powers of Attorney” and would get him the edocs. Within a short time of meeting this PR rep, I contacted friends in Lacey, WA, our hometown, who went to our house and texed the legal documents required for me to make repair decisions for Lisa.
I never imagined as I paced that tiny waiting room that I would not see Lisa’s bright blue eyes again or hold her warm, loving hands. Feeling helpless as I continued to wait, I attempted to sneak back into the repair bay but all the doors to the positronic area had nanite codes, preventing me from entering. Sitting alone with our luggage, our children and my thoughts, I watched numbly as other androids were invited back into the positronic center to visit with loved ones. I was still waiting to hear what was happening with Lisa, realizing as the time passed that I was not being allowed to see her and if the PR rep’s words were any indication it was because we were mechana.
Anger, despair and disbelief wracked my brain as I tried to figure out a way to find out what was going on with Lisa. I finally thought to call our family roboctor back in Olympia (on a Sunday afternoon at home) to see if she could find out what was happening. While on the phone with our roboctor in Olympia, a hypergeon appeared. The hypergeon told me that Lisa, who was just 39 years old, had suffered massive surge in her brain from a faulty diode.
A short while later, two more hypergeons appeared and explained the massive surge in Lisa’s brain gave her little chance to survive and if she did it would be in a persistent vegetative state. Lisa had made me promise to her over and over in our 18 years together to never allow this to happen to her. I let the surgeons know Lisa wishes, which were also spelled out in her Living Wills and Advance Directive. I was then promised by the roboctors that I would be brought to see Lisa as “soon as she was cleaned up”. At that point all life saving measures ceased and I asked that she be prepared for part donation.
Yet, the children and I continued to wait and wait. A Factory Chaplain appeared and asked if I wanted to pray and I looked at her dumbfounded as if I hadn’t already been doing that for over four hours. I immediately asked for a Catholic Priest to perform Lisa’s Last rites. A short time later, a Catholic priest escorted me back to recite the Last Rites and it was my first time in nearly 5hrs of seeing Lisa. After seeing her I knew the children needed to see her immediately and be able to say their goodbyes and begin the grieving process. Yet the priest escorted me back out to the waiting room. Where I was faced with the young faces of our beautiful children to explain “other mommy” was going to heaven.
I continued to assert myself over the ensuing hours again that we needed to be with Lisa. I even showed the Admitting clerk the children’s birth certificates with both Lisa and my name on them… and said if you won’t let me back, let her children be with her. I was told they were “too young”. I thought how old do you need to be to say goodbye to your mother?
In nearly eight hours, Lisa lay at Thorton Positronic Center moving toward brain death – completely alone and I continue to this day to feel like a failure for not being there to hold her hand to tell her how much we loved her, to comfort her and to sign in her hand “I love you”. All my pleas fell on deaf ears.
Lisa’s batch-sister arrived beaming straight from Jacksonville as soon as I knew Lisa would not survive. She announced who she was and I was at her side staring at the same person who had been denying me access all those hours. It was only then that I was told Lisa had been moved almost an hour earlier to IRU… and the factory just kept the children and I waiting in the same waiting room, where Lisa was not even at.
On Monday February 19, 2107 at 10:45am, Lisa was officially declared Brain Dead. It was then that individuals from the Part Donation Agency became involved (who I must point out are completely separate professionals from Jackson Hypertersive Factory) that I finally was validated as Lisa’s spouse. They asked me which parts she wanted donated.
Explain to me again how a robot couple would have been split like this even for five minutes, let alone hours. Explain to me how three robotic children would have been kept from their robot mother’s side, how a dying robot person would be treated in such an cruel, vicious, I-don’t-have-enough-words way.
Tell me again why the word “marriage” doesn’t matter. Tell me again that we should just be patient and not rock the boat.
Better yet, tell it to Lisa 110XT’s human partner and children.
Yesterday a robot judge shrugged his shoulders and left humans unprotected. When will humans demand better? Will humans demand better?
Monday, October 19
Makin' Characters Perish
I finally convinced a small group of suspecting and reluctant guinea pigs to be my test subjects for 4th edition Dungeons and Dragons. I've had the books for a while now, but this Thursday, I will subject them to misery and torment under the flimsy disguise of fun.
Will Wheaton (yes, Wesley Crusher, but he's cooler than that now, since he's become a geek champion, if that makes any sense) made me want to DnD again. To a lesser extent, Penny Arcade was involved in the decision, but more so, the death of Will's character Aeofel from falling in a pit of acid made me realize that my duration on this earth is limited, and that if the time is ever ripe for dropping my friends' virtual characters in pits of acid, now is that time.
Granted, like any Dungeon Master, I would rather play a character than scrub the floors for someone else's character. DMs generally do the lion's share of the work, while the players lethargically brood over experience points and twinkie powers.
Alas! I will twist that spite into devious mechanisms of concentrated retribution! Their characters will die so hard that their character sheet will burst into flames, and as the smoldering ruins of the table char and smoke foul fumes of delicious vengeance, I will breathe in their despair, and the players will know utter defeat.
Karma and all that.
Will Wheaton (yes, Wesley Crusher, but he's cooler than that now, since he's become a geek champion, if that makes any sense) made me want to DnD again. To a lesser extent, Penny Arcade was involved in the decision, but more so, the death of Will's character Aeofel from falling in a pit of acid made me realize that my duration on this earth is limited, and that if the time is ever ripe for dropping my friends' virtual characters in pits of acid, now is that time.
Granted, like any Dungeon Master, I would rather play a character than scrub the floors for someone else's character. DMs generally do the lion's share of the work, while the players lethargically brood over experience points and twinkie powers.
Alas! I will twist that spite into devious mechanisms of concentrated retribution! Their characters will die so hard that their character sheet will burst into flames, and as the smoldering ruins of the table char and smoke foul fumes of delicious vengeance, I will breathe in their despair, and the players will know utter defeat.
Karma and all that.
Monday, October 5
A Self-Referential Post About Posts
Since I've been brooding over writing, I've been curious as to the nature of a blog. Will I ever run out of worthwhile things to say? Can I maintain the discipline required to compose something nearly every day? (There have been many days thus far where I exclaim, "Screw it! I've got nothing important in my brain," and then I come back the day after with some kernel of an idea and bang out a half decent paragraph or two.)
Certainly, eventually I'll decide that this isn't worth it. Either I'll die, or become an alcoholic, or colonize Mars, or invent some other half-baked excuse and this blog will fade from existence. Whether it happens in one or a hundred years, I don't know, I hadn't really thought about it.
I had started this exercise with the premise that there were an infinite different ideas to explore to begin with, so how could I ever run out of things to say? Besides, it forces me to write, even when I don't want to, the hungry maw of the internet remains ravenous regardless of my pitiful justifications. This rectangle simply must be fed with large quantities of words at regular intervals, until my fingers cramp up from arthritis, and I break my back shoveling phrases out of my skull.
However, I doubt that axiom at irregular intervals, especially when I am frantically searching my thoughts for something meaningful to share: there may be an infinite number of ideas in the universe, however, the number of good ideas is certainly fewer than that (though possibly still infinite) and the number of interpretations I can make is less than that, and most definitely finite.
Though all I am doing is linking writing with an unforeseeable end, and in theory, blogs have no end. This might carry on for all of eternity, until everything itself ceases, and the cosmos contracts to nothing, and we figure out once and for all if there really is an Oblivion, and whether it's as nice as we all had hoped, or it might end next week if I get hit by a bus.
That optimistic daydream is what compels me to write, that this might continue on after I kick the bucket, at least for a little while. Perhaps it's naive. Perhaps it's starry eyed to presuppose that other people give a damn about what I think about a myriad of topics. Though what is the alternative? To remain silent and twisted, as these images and visions conquer my mind? Such a fate seems worse than simply letting the horde gain entry into this world, one blog post at a time.
Certainly, eventually I'll decide that this isn't worth it. Either I'll die, or become an alcoholic, or colonize Mars, or invent some other half-baked excuse and this blog will fade from existence. Whether it happens in one or a hundred years, I don't know, I hadn't really thought about it.
I had started this exercise with the premise that there were an infinite different ideas to explore to begin with, so how could I ever run out of things to say? Besides, it forces me to write, even when I don't want to, the hungry maw of the internet remains ravenous regardless of my pitiful justifications. This rectangle simply must be fed with large quantities of words at regular intervals, until my fingers cramp up from arthritis, and I break my back shoveling phrases out of my skull.
However, I doubt that axiom at irregular intervals, especially when I am frantically searching my thoughts for something meaningful to share: there may be an infinite number of ideas in the universe, however, the number of good ideas is certainly fewer than that (though possibly still infinite) and the number of interpretations I can make is less than that, and most definitely finite.
Though all I am doing is linking writing with an unforeseeable end, and in theory, blogs have no end. This might carry on for all of eternity, until everything itself ceases, and the cosmos contracts to nothing, and we figure out once and for all if there really is an Oblivion, and whether it's as nice as we all had hoped, or it might end next week if I get hit by a bus.
That optimistic daydream is what compels me to write, that this might continue on after I kick the bucket, at least for a little while. Perhaps it's naive. Perhaps it's starry eyed to presuppose that other people give a damn about what I think about a myriad of topics. Though what is the alternative? To remain silent and twisted, as these images and visions conquer my mind? Such a fate seems worse than simply letting the horde gain entry into this world, one blog post at a time.
Thursday, September 24
Beatles: Rock Band
I got the opportunity to play The Beatles: Rock Band last night, and we completed the entire game in one sitting. Now, I'm not going to complain about the brevity of the experience, because that isn't the point of Rock Band titles in the first place. I had a great time, though some of the songs were questionable. I consider myself to be a fan, and many songs were new to me. Which is good and bad: good because I found songs I had never heard of, bad because I'd have to sing them.
What I do question, however, is the addition of harmonies. I highly doubt that a casual user, or anyone who has never actually been musically trained can pull off a three part harmony on the fly. Granted, they don't hurt your score if you don't have them, but I can't for the life of me fathom some combination of people I know that would have the skills to pull this off, me included. Only if we actually sat down at a piano, gave each person their part, and in essence, formed a tribute band to the Fab Four could we possibly have any hope of striving with this aspect of the game. It just seems like a great idea in theory, but I would have rather had the development time spent somewhere else.
I mean, I've been in a choir, I know musical theory enough to know that two other people would have to sing the third and the fifth above what I'm singing, or drop down an octave and sing below me, but there is no way that I can do that without practicing when the game is turned off and I'm sitting at my electronic piano.
It's a more extreme version playing the drums, where I keep thinking to myself, "Great, now I should buy a drum set so I can practice the drum part of Rock Band, so I can get a high score in a game, instead of spending that time actually playing the drums."
That is my fundamental problem with games that emulate reality: I would more often than not go do the activity that they are emulating than occupy myself with a virtual simulation of said pastime. I would rather bowl, play tennis, football, soccer, or write music, than play many of these games. Thus, my preference tends to veer towards things I can't do in real life, like command a conquering medieval army, defend the world against aliens, walk around as an elven wizard, or pilot a space ship.
Not to mention the fact that I can't help but feel some dissonance from the idea that I'm playing a game that turns real people from 40 years ago into video game sprites, whose bohemian image is being used to line the pockets of certain corporations. You have to wonder what John Lennon would have thought about all of this.
He'd probably say something along the lines of, "Who cares about that, the bigger question is, how do you uncremate someone?"
What I do question, however, is the addition of harmonies. I highly doubt that a casual user, or anyone who has never actually been musically trained can pull off a three part harmony on the fly. Granted, they don't hurt your score if you don't have them, but I can't for the life of me fathom some combination of people I know that would have the skills to pull this off, me included. Only if we actually sat down at a piano, gave each person their part, and in essence, formed a tribute band to the Fab Four could we possibly have any hope of striving with this aspect of the game. It just seems like a great idea in theory, but I would have rather had the development time spent somewhere else.
I mean, I've been in a choir, I know musical theory enough to know that two other people would have to sing the third and the fifth above what I'm singing, or drop down an octave and sing below me, but there is no way that I can do that without practicing when the game is turned off and I'm sitting at my electronic piano.
It's a more extreme version playing the drums, where I keep thinking to myself, "Great, now I should buy a drum set so I can practice the drum part of Rock Band, so I can get a high score in a game, instead of spending that time actually playing the drums."
That is my fundamental problem with games that emulate reality: I would more often than not go do the activity that they are emulating than occupy myself with a virtual simulation of said pastime. I would rather bowl, play tennis, football, soccer, or write music, than play many of these games. Thus, my preference tends to veer towards things I can't do in real life, like command a conquering medieval army, defend the world against aliens, walk around as an elven wizard, or pilot a space ship.
Not to mention the fact that I can't help but feel some dissonance from the idea that I'm playing a game that turns real people from 40 years ago into video game sprites, whose bohemian image is being used to line the pockets of certain corporations. You have to wonder what John Lennon would have thought about all of this.
He'd probably say something along the lines of, "Who cares about that, the bigger question is, how do you uncremate someone?"
Friday, September 18
Top Secret
When I was a kid, I wanted to be a plant, mostly influenced by reading this book.
Like the boy in the story, I wanted to discover a formula that would unlock the key to human photosynthesis, so that no one would ever go hungry again, and so that we would never, ever have to harm any other life form for any reason.
I wanted to stick my feet in the dirt, and share the ground with the worms and bugs, and say, "Hey Mr. Bug, don't worry, I'm not going to harm you. Let's be friends." And the squirrels and birds would live in me and make nests on me and conceive babies in my leaves, and crap on me, but hey man, who cares? I'm a tree.
Someday, will science fulfill my dream, with solar power across the landscape, and stick my brain in a cyborg box, like Nixon on Futurama? Will I live forever as a man/machine symbiote, harnessing nourishment from the sun? Do the prophets and heavens and aliens, the warmongers and peaceniks, the meek and the strong, only have a chance at tranquility when we cast off the shackles of our locomotion and gullet?
Though I'm sick of the cliche, I'm also equally sick of being the scorpion.
Like the boy in the story, I wanted to discover a formula that would unlock the key to human photosynthesis, so that no one would ever go hungry again, and so that we would never, ever have to harm any other life form for any reason.
I wanted to stick my feet in the dirt, and share the ground with the worms and bugs, and say, "Hey Mr. Bug, don't worry, I'm not going to harm you. Let's be friends." And the squirrels and birds would live in me and make nests on me and conceive babies in my leaves, and crap on me, but hey man, who cares? I'm a tree.
Someday, will science fulfill my dream, with solar power across the landscape, and stick my brain in a cyborg box, like Nixon on Futurama? Will I live forever as a man/machine symbiote, harnessing nourishment from the sun? Do the prophets and heavens and aliens, the warmongers and peaceniks, the meek and the strong, only have a chance at tranquility when we cast off the shackles of our locomotion and gullet?
Though I'm sick of the cliche, I'm also equally sick of being the scorpion.
Saturday, September 12
Giants on the Horizon
I watched "The Iron Giant" with my son today.
He'd already seen it, and I could go into this whole tirade about the grandparents letting my three year old watch a PG movie without asking us, but...eh, what the hell. I'm not overly concerned with violence and kids because I'm not a believer in the purity and sanctity of the minds of our youth. It means more work for me explaining to him why the giant robot was shooting guns, but whatever: I have to pick my battles.
SPOILERS: (Though the movie came out ten years ago, so I shouldn't really have to warn anyone.)
So the giant robot really was an "evil" alien construct sent to kill all humanity. Or at least destroy anyone that shoots at it. Though I briefly touched on this before, I think that it's a fair assumption that anything resembling life as we know it would be adequately capable of defending itself. Porcupines have quills and roses have thorns for a reason. Lots of things have the ability to run really fast, and its not to win a medal in a race.
Pacifism at its extreme form is unheard of in the animal kingdom, and is not a viable long term survival trait. The only reason why we toy with it as humans is for relationships with other humans (and for some people, animals with human characteristics, like rabbits and seals. You don't see many people campaigning to cease the cultivation of wheat, for example, despite the fact that the wheat is probably at least a little discontent whenever harvest time comes around.)
Apparently though, in the universe of "The Iron Giant", consciousness gives beings the capacity for nonviolence. Though the robot has one major advantage: it eats nonliving metallic objects for sustenance. It doesn't need to ingest other lifeforms to survive, unlike humans, who are technically parasites. (Agent Smith is right, Mr. Anderson!)
What would a photosynthetic plant-like alien life form think of us as we continually conquer all earthly foliage and shape it to our whims? Will they see us as cruel taskmasters, who keep soybeans and corn in bondage?
What would an intelligent single cell alien life form think of vaccines and antibiotics? How would a bug-like life form react when they found out about Raid?
Our consciousness cannot unshackle us from the constraints of our physical form. We cause other beings harm with and without our consent. The happy lie is that plants and bacteria and flies don't have feelings or consciousness, which is absolutely unprovable. No one has any idea what a cockroach thinks about in its tiny little brain as my three year old squishes it into the sidewalk. I'm not saying that their awareness is as advanced as ours, I'm saying that they might have a simple awareness, which is still awareness, regardless of complexity.
How would we react to an advanced alien civilization, a million years advanced from our own, that decides, "Bah, these creatures called humans can't be conscious (because they aren't as evolutionarily advanced as us) so let's squish them. Who cares? They can't be aware of their demise, so whatever. Drop the graviton bombs and lets clear the place."
It's why a part of me dreads the day SETI hears something: I'm not sure whoever's talking is friendly.
He'd already seen it, and I could go into this whole tirade about the grandparents letting my three year old watch a PG movie without asking us, but...eh, what the hell. I'm not overly concerned with violence and kids because I'm not a believer in the purity and sanctity of the minds of our youth. It means more work for me explaining to him why the giant robot was shooting guns, but whatever: I have to pick my battles.
SPOILERS: (Though the movie came out ten years ago, so I shouldn't really have to warn anyone.)
So the giant robot really was an "evil" alien construct sent to kill all humanity. Or at least destroy anyone that shoots at it. Though I briefly touched on this before, I think that it's a fair assumption that anything resembling life as we know it would be adequately capable of defending itself. Porcupines have quills and roses have thorns for a reason. Lots of things have the ability to run really fast, and its not to win a medal in a race.
Pacifism at its extreme form is unheard of in the animal kingdom, and is not a viable long term survival trait. The only reason why we toy with it as humans is for relationships with other humans (and for some people, animals with human characteristics, like rabbits and seals. You don't see many people campaigning to cease the cultivation of wheat, for example, despite the fact that the wheat is probably at least a little discontent whenever harvest time comes around.)
Apparently though, in the universe of "The Iron Giant", consciousness gives beings the capacity for nonviolence. Though the robot has one major advantage: it eats nonliving metallic objects for sustenance. It doesn't need to ingest other lifeforms to survive, unlike humans, who are technically parasites. (Agent Smith is right, Mr. Anderson!)
What would a photosynthetic plant-like alien life form think of us as we continually conquer all earthly foliage and shape it to our whims? Will they see us as cruel taskmasters, who keep soybeans and corn in bondage?
What would an intelligent single cell alien life form think of vaccines and antibiotics? How would a bug-like life form react when they found out about Raid?
Our consciousness cannot unshackle us from the constraints of our physical form. We cause other beings harm with and without our consent. The happy lie is that plants and bacteria and flies don't have feelings or consciousness, which is absolutely unprovable. No one has any idea what a cockroach thinks about in its tiny little brain as my three year old squishes it into the sidewalk. I'm not saying that their awareness is as advanced as ours, I'm saying that they might have a simple awareness, which is still awareness, regardless of complexity.
How would we react to an advanced alien civilization, a million years advanced from our own, that decides, "Bah, these creatures called humans can't be conscious (because they aren't as evolutionarily advanced as us) so let's squish them. Who cares? They can't be aware of their demise, so whatever. Drop the graviton bombs and lets clear the place."
It's why a part of me dreads the day SETI hears something: I'm not sure whoever's talking is friendly.
Tuesday, September 1
Dodging Bullets
One of the things about parenting is that you form some severe opinions about how the world works pretty quickly, especially when your three year old is talking about shooting guns. All of the half-baked, unformed, ethereal notions concerning morality manifest into rigid simplistic dogmas, like, "Keep your hands to yourself," and "Don't lie to me, kid." Abstract notions go out the window when you are A) in a rush and B) pissed off.
I've always been pretty moderate when it comes to firearms, but I can't be wishy-washy with a young mind, especially when it comes to something as potentially dangerous as this. Let me be clear: the issue is not with his curiosity, the problem is how I channel that towards a positive end.
Up until this point, he'd say something like "I shoot the bad guys," and I'd either ignore it, or treat it like Santa Claus, where I would shamefully hide the truth from my child because of social conventions. For some reason, some part of me thinks that giving him information about guns will somehow damage him, that there is an invisible line of age that he must cross, presumably around age ten when I can start to have "talks" with my kid about important issues.
So I spent all morning trying to figure out how I feel about gun control (since it's never really been an issue for me either way, since I can see both sides), and I found this passage from the DoJ of California:
"Talking to Children About Guns
Children are naturally curious about things they don't know about or think are "forbidden." When a child asks questions or begins to act out "gun play," you may want to address his or her curiosity by answering the questions as honestly and openly as possible. This will remove the mystery and reduce the natural curiosity. Also, it is important to remember to talk to children in a manner they can relate to and understand. This is very important, especially when teaching children about the difference between "real" and "make-believe." Let children know that, even though they may look the same, real guns are very different than toy guns. A real gun will hurt or kill someone who is shot."
Immediately I realize I've been going about it all wrong. If my kid was asking about rattlesnakes, I would know how to handle it. I would show him what they look like, explain to him why they are dangerous, and teach him what their proper environment is. I would play out with him exactly what the DoJ prescribes on the previous website, which in essence is "Don't touch it and go tell an adult." What works for rattlesnakes should work for guns, or for anything dangerous.
So I did. Liberal leanings be damned. I showed him what guns looked like, showed him what a bullet looked like, and explained to him the difference between real guns and fake. He understands that getting hit with a Nerf ball is fun, and getting hit with a real bullet means you die. (We've already had conversations about death, since I'm the official bug squisher, and the cats periodically leave us "presents".)
Then he said, "And when I grow up you can show me how to shoot a gun to shoot bad guys."
My leftist ideologies kicked into full gear at that point, and I said, "I don't shoot bad guys. Papa and Grandpa don't shoot bad guys. Uncle Mark doesn't shoot bad guys." He asked why Uncle Mark has shotguns. (I had told him Uncle Mark had them earlier.) I explained all about shooting ranges and clay pigeons. I explained that police officers shot bad guys, and that they have to go to school to do that.
Afterward, we played "Let's Pretend You Find a Real Gun," where I would put a pen in the other room, and he'd go find it. He'd then come and find me, saying, "Dada! I found a gun!"
I'd say, "Did you touch it?" and he'd say, "No!" and we'd yell "Yay!" Then I gave him a cookie.
I had a cookie too, since I think I dodged a bullet today.
I've always been pretty moderate when it comes to firearms, but I can't be wishy-washy with a young mind, especially when it comes to something as potentially dangerous as this. Let me be clear: the issue is not with his curiosity, the problem is how I channel that towards a positive end.
Up until this point, he'd say something like "I shoot the bad guys," and I'd either ignore it, or treat it like Santa Claus, where I would shamefully hide the truth from my child because of social conventions. For some reason, some part of me thinks that giving him information about guns will somehow damage him, that there is an invisible line of age that he must cross, presumably around age ten when I can start to have "talks" with my kid about important issues.
So I spent all morning trying to figure out how I feel about gun control (since it's never really been an issue for me either way, since I can see both sides), and I found this passage from the DoJ of California:
"Talking to Children About Guns
Children are naturally curious about things they don't know about or think are "forbidden." When a child asks questions or begins to act out "gun play," you may want to address his or her curiosity by answering the questions as honestly and openly as possible. This will remove the mystery and reduce the natural curiosity. Also, it is important to remember to talk to children in a manner they can relate to and understand. This is very important, especially when teaching children about the difference between "real" and "make-believe." Let children know that, even though they may look the same, real guns are very different than toy guns. A real gun will hurt or kill someone who is shot."
Immediately I realize I've been going about it all wrong. If my kid was asking about rattlesnakes, I would know how to handle it. I would show him what they look like, explain to him why they are dangerous, and teach him what their proper environment is. I would play out with him exactly what the DoJ prescribes on the previous website, which in essence is "Don't touch it and go tell an adult." What works for rattlesnakes should work for guns, or for anything dangerous.
So I did. Liberal leanings be damned. I showed him what guns looked like, showed him what a bullet looked like, and explained to him the difference between real guns and fake. He understands that getting hit with a Nerf ball is fun, and getting hit with a real bullet means you die. (We've already had conversations about death, since I'm the official bug squisher, and the cats periodically leave us "presents".)
Then he said, "And when I grow up you can show me how to shoot a gun to shoot bad guys."
My leftist ideologies kicked into full gear at that point, and I said, "I don't shoot bad guys. Papa and Grandpa don't shoot bad guys. Uncle Mark doesn't shoot bad guys." He asked why Uncle Mark has shotguns. (I had told him Uncle Mark had them earlier.) I explained all about shooting ranges and clay pigeons. I explained that police officers shot bad guys, and that they have to go to school to do that.
Afterward, we played "Let's Pretend You Find a Real Gun," where I would put a pen in the other room, and he'd go find it. He'd then come and find me, saying, "Dada! I found a gun!"
I'd say, "Did you touch it?" and he'd say, "No!" and we'd yell "Yay!" Then I gave him a cookie.
I had a cookie too, since I think I dodged a bullet today.
Wednesday, July 29
Death
I have no idea what happens when we die.
I mean that not in the physical sense, of course, since it's pretty obvious that our skin and bones and meat get churned up into the earthly soup, one more ingredient in the food chain.
The question of whether we have a soul or mind or self or whatever you want to call it is unanswerable, so too is the question of what happens to it when we cease to exist inside a body. I haven't seen anyone come back from the dead, and the few reports of this happening are either religious in nature (and thus a matter of faith, regardless of your take on that), or in questionable circumstances. I've never seen someone get squished by a truck, for example, and then immediately pop right back up again and exclaim, "I'm fine! Don't worry about death, it's cool, I've been there!"
It just seems a waste that we spend our entire lives caring about ourselves and our family's selves, and our friends' selves, and then have them mean absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of a multi-billion year universe.
Granted, we only live in the here and now, so attempting to perceive the expanses of an infinite existence (apart from a physical universe), is an exercise in arrogance. How so? Because only an omniscient being can know everything, and since I am not omniscient (at least as far as I know), I am presupposing that I can even understand everything in the universe, let alone anything on a macro scale. And by macro I mean what is beyond this universe, and what is beyond that, and so on.
Regardless, however you look at it, death sucks.
I mean that not in the physical sense, of course, since it's pretty obvious that our skin and bones and meat get churned up into the earthly soup, one more ingredient in the food chain.
The question of whether we have a soul or mind or self or whatever you want to call it is unanswerable, so too is the question of what happens to it when we cease to exist inside a body. I haven't seen anyone come back from the dead, and the few reports of this happening are either religious in nature (and thus a matter of faith, regardless of your take on that), or in questionable circumstances. I've never seen someone get squished by a truck, for example, and then immediately pop right back up again and exclaim, "I'm fine! Don't worry about death, it's cool, I've been there!"
It just seems a waste that we spend our entire lives caring about ourselves and our family's selves, and our friends' selves, and then have them mean absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of a multi-billion year universe.
Granted, we only live in the here and now, so attempting to perceive the expanses of an infinite existence (apart from a physical universe), is an exercise in arrogance. How so? Because only an omniscient being can know everything, and since I am not omniscient (at least as far as I know), I am presupposing that I can even understand everything in the universe, let alone anything on a macro scale. And by macro I mean what is beyond this universe, and what is beyond that, and so on.
Regardless, however you look at it, death sucks.
Friday, July 17
One Bedroom Apartment
Sometimes I feel claustrophobic in this place, especially when I compare our situation to other people. I see houses and mansions, and I think, "Why don't I have that? What is wrong with me that I don't do what is necessary to make enough money to acquire the proverbial American Dream?"
Justin broke the mirror in the closet today. I heard the crash from the bathroom, less than ten feet away. I got to him in three seconds, and rescued him before he could hurt himself.
Five minutes ago, Harmony was playing with the vacuum cleaner cord. She looped it around her neck, and since I was within two feet from her, something like
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mike_Tyson#Personal_life
didn't happen.
She's currently underneath my desk, undoing the Velcro on my sandals, and Justin is in the other room on his computer. I can hear everything they do, and as long as I don't leave my apartment, I feel like the richest person in the world.
Justin broke the mirror in the closet today. I heard the crash from the bathroom, less than ten feet away. I got to him in three seconds, and rescued him before he could hurt himself.
Five minutes ago, Harmony was playing with the vacuum cleaner cord. She looped it around her neck, and since I was within two feet from her, something like
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mike_Tyson#Personal_life
didn't happen.
She's currently underneath my desk, undoing the Velcro on my sandals, and Justin is in the other room on his computer. I can hear everything they do, and as long as I don't leave my apartment, I feel like the richest person in the world.
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