Culture, an Analogy

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“The ultimate hidden truth of the world is that it is something that we make, and could just as easily make differently…” – David Graeber 

Many years ago I had a sort of epiphany about what culture is, and how it works. At the time I chose to not write it down, in part due to my own laziness, and in part to see if it was a genuinely good idea. I often have ideas that fail to make it the full light of day before imploding. Such is the nature of creativity. The impulse is kind, but its offspring are not always lasting or well-thought. 

Over the years my little analogy grew to reflect changes in the outside world. I saw arguments in politics over the culture wars (which, far from being a recent phenomena, dates back to the beginnings of recorded history), I saw massive changes in the media that artists use (from vinyl to CDs, from DVDs to streaming, and from AOL to the targeted social media we have today), and I saw every day recommendations (over books or screen time, or the value of letting a child play outdoors), and they all struck me as somehow being connected.

The question remained: How? How are these seemingly disparate elements connected? My answer is the stone.

The evidence for my analogy comes mostly in the form of observation. I have no formal education into the nature of culture, and in fact have barely scratched the surface in terms of research. All of what you read comes from a simple yet central idea. What if all the things that humanity argues about were just variations on the same thing? What if this thing was something that grew over time, evolved as it were. Ideas battling it out with other ideas until eventually one was the victor. After all, we no longer argue over the divine right of kings, or assume that mental illness comes about from demon possession. Why is that? What made those changes happen? It was cultural, sure, but how? How does culture work? How does it evolve? 

It was in attempting to answer those questions that this analogy came into being.

…

The Stone

Imagine if you will, a massive wheel of stone that is hundreds of miles wide and perhaps equally as large in diameter. The stone travels slowly over a large flat plain, completing a single revolution once per year, so that the part which is currently at the very top will be on the top again in precisely 365 days. The weight of this stone is crushing, destroying everything in its path. Behind it is a transformed landscape marking its passage that goes back for millennia. The stone is almost inconceivably large, and is unstoppable in its rotation. 

Upon the face of this stone are people. We will call them sculptors, though they go by many different names: Artists, writers, painters, dancers, singers, songwriters, chefs, architects, musicians, scientists, etc. They are of all shape, sizes, color, nationality, and religion. Each day these sculptors work upon the surface of the stone, battering and hammering into the hard face with their tools. Their goal is to affect the stone in such a way that when it reaches soil below it will use its massive weight to stamp an impression into the dirt that will last year after year beyond its passage. Some sculptors work singularly, some work in large groups. The work is hot, heavy, and dangerous. The very top is the safest place to work, and that is where you’ll find most of the sculptors, but the stone remains underneath that area for only a short time. Those that wish to influence a particular section beyond that short moment, must invent ropes and pulleys and other contraptions to hold themselves to the ever rotating surface while they work. If you start too early you’ll discover that the stone, fresh from compacting the soil, is embedded in a thick layer of dirt. If you stay too late upon the other side you risk the very real chance of being crushed by your own work. Every year the stone in its undying rotation creates hundreds if not thousands of casualties. The price for inattention is high.

All of humanity is deeply interested in what the sculptors do, but the vast majority do not live upon the stone. Either they find the work disinteresting, too dangerous, or perhaps they have some other reason. Instead, most people live in the impressions left behind by the passage of the stone, for as the stone moves it leaves behind vast buildings made of compressed soil, some so large they become massive unending cities. Also left behind are sculptures, and trees, comfortably shaded benches to sit upon, toys for children and adults, pools, and roads, auditoriums, and churches, and cathedrals, cars and trains, musical instruments of every style, and vast platforms that twist and swirl for dancers to perform upon.  All that is needed is a little bit of scrubbing, and a little bit of digging, and the impressions from the stone can be made livable. Don’t like the house you’re in? Wait a year and try the next version. Hopefully, the architect up on the stone will listen to your requests. Of course, you can always pay them, for many of the sculptors are paid by the people below to create things for their use. Not all sculptors are paid. Some work for the joy, or desire. Some for the notoriety. It is said that one sculptor, by the name of Jesus, hit a crack in the face at just the right moment that it caused a massive avalanche of stone to fall. You can still see the impression of his work today. Some claim this Jesus was buried in the rubble of his own creation, and popped up, alive and healthy, three days later on the other side. His own work sheltering him from the weight of the stone. Alas, no one can travel back that far in the stone’s wake and check. 

This, then, is our culture. The stone. It is both something that concerns us all, and yet is something we can also contribute to. It is the most democratic of mediums, although some groups do in fact limit who among them can work its surface. Some people by hammering away find great success, but the vast majority of sculptors do not. Most know of the stone only by the impression it leaves behind. Some live so far from the stone that they have never seen its motion. By now, the entire surface of the stone has been marked by humanity, much of it for thousands of rotations. That doesn’t mean one cannot go in and try to reshape any area they desire, but the stone is hard, and the work is difficult, and there might be just as many sculptors wishing to carve the stone in the entirely opposite direction. The battle is the work, and the work is the battle, and all of us, all of humanity, are affected by the outcome. 

Deep in Rewrite land

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I’ve been deconstructing the first part of Mind The Slice, which is a slow and deliberative process. Part of it is replacing the first several chapters of the novel, starting it closer to the core action.
Lilah, of course, as opinions on this. I thought it would be fun to write a prologue in her voice, and she really ran with the ball. I don’t know if this is going to make the final cut, but I love how she has no fucks to give.



Prologue

Someone told me once what a prologue was. Honestly, at first I thought they were joking. Like why the fuck do you need to write about a story before the story? That’s just dumb. Can’t you just write it right to begin with?

But then they explained it was more about voice, and tone, and I was all, “Voice? Oh honey, I got this one.”

So here’s my fucking prologue.

None of you know what its like to be me. None of you. You think you know what the world is like, sitting there is your safe little houses with plenty of food to eat, and nothing to worry about. Do you know what its like to not eat for a week? Do you know what it’s like to hear the sound of helicopters and know down to your bones that someone around you is going to die? Do you know what its like to sleep out in the cold without blankets or coats because your house just got bombed, and all your belongings are buried under tons of concrete?

See, I know what your world is like. I lived in it too, up until your President decided that people like me couldn’t be trusted, and kicked my family out. I’ve been to your schools, shopped in your malls, I’ve seen your Christmas lights, I’ve gone trick-or-treating, I’ve been to your national parks. I was there, I had it all, I thought it was mine as well, but then it was taken from me, swapped for a country in the middle of a civil war, and all because my family worshiped Allah. 

I know what it’s like to be you, but you don’t know what it’s like to be me.

Did you think I started to hack for fun? Oh no. I turned to crime because there was nothing left for me to do. You saw to that. You and your people. So don’t go giving me that bullshit about being a criminal. YOU MADE ME ONE. I would have been happy pretending like I was one of you, but you decided that wasn’t enough. You’re the ones that made sure I couldn’t join your little club, so don’t go fucking crying to me when you have to hear what I have to say. You sent me down this path, mother fuckers. You made me what I am.

The only time you think about people like me is when you bomb us. And yes, you totally fucking bomb us. Don’t think we don’t know? Are you so lost in your own special world to not realize you paint your names and serial numbers on the outside of your ordinance? Sure, some of the bombs come from Russia, and even some from North Korea or even Iran, but we can read that shit too. Like you’re the only ones with access to goggle translate.

Discounts, discounts, everyone over there is looking for a discount. Well let me tell you something, dis-count, this count. I count too. 

I have dreams, I have desires, I am going to write my own path, and you cheap-assed mother fuckers are not getting in my way. I will go behind you, or over you, or around you, or THROUGH you, but you are not going to stop me. No sir. Not no more. I’ve had enough of your set backs. I am moving forward, and you ain’t gonna slow my roll. I am miles above, beyond you, inside you. You cannot stop me because I am in you. I have hacked into your systems, I am deep inside your code. You can’t get to me without first getting to yourself, and you can’t handle that. You can’t deal with your own criminal ways. You don’t want to hear it.

You hate me because I force you to deal with your own shit, and you cannot stand that.

But don’t you worry about me none. I’m gonna be just fine. You wanna know why? Just like you can’t deal with your shit, you also cannot stay mad at yourself either. There always another meal to eat, another tv show watch, another discount to buy at your stores, until you bury yourself so much cheap crap that you don’t hear our screams.

Well guess what, mother fuckers? Someone gave me a microphone, and you’re gonna hear me now, because I am LOUD.

The perfect day

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I don’t know if there is such thing as a perfect day, but for me it would have to start with a spring day in Los Angeles.

Today was one of those days. Highs in the upper 60s, so not quite shorts-and-t-shirt weather (unless you’re working in the sun). but close enough. Also cool enough at night to wear a proper coat, which is an issue with LA and the warmer parts of the year. Often it is so hot that wearing any kind of jacket, even at 2:00 in the morning, is just too much.

Beyond the fashion limitations of my adopted home town, what I like about this time of year is the newness. The expectations. I saw people in their late 20s or early 30s moving into apartments today, and I enjoying seeing their hopes and aspirations made real. It’s not a dream any more when you pack up everything you own, stuff it into a moving van, and drive for hundreds of miles. Shit just got very real. And I deeply appreciated their realness manifested in my city. It didn’t hurt that it was the perfect day for it.

I have some wonderful memories from the time when I realized I was actually going to make it in LA. I could really do this thing. Moving to LA had not been easy for me emotionally, although physically it could not have been smoother. I literally moved in with my best friend. Still, there was a while where I wasn’t sure if my LA experiment was going to work, or if I would be forced to go back to Fresno, tail between my legs. In a very real sense, making it here was a sign of independence, as if I had unlocked some kind of adult achievement. I can’t recall a specific time that this happened, it was more like a slow realization, that likely took place over many years, but still I would like to associate this feeling with Spring anyway, and so I do.

There comes a moment in a person’s life when their future begins to eclipse their past. I don’t mean that in some kind of a motivational poster sense. This isn’t me trying to make you feel better. This is a thing that happens when your negative thoughts are eventually overcome, and then subsumed, by positive ones. Perhaps the negative thoughts are drowned, except (at least in my experience) the damn things don’t always stay dead. Still, it is a weird thing to wake up one day and realize you are happy. Not for any particular reason, just that you are not longer unhappy.

And I think this is one of the things that Spring does for me. I am suddenly warm, for no reason I can ascertain. It’s just that I wake up one morning and know that shorts will be a better fit for the day instead of pants. And at no point, while I’m running around doing errands–like going to the grocery store or the library, do I feel the chill of Winter. And it is this part that is important. I am no longer cold, which to my brain translates almost directly as “I am no longer unhappy.”

Not every Spring day is perfect for this. Some are too hot, some are too cold, but every once in a while one comes along–like that girl discovered in the story about the three bears–that is just right. Today was that day for me, and I am exceedingly happy.

For a little over 10 years now I’ve been working on being an overnight sensation. So far it’s been bupkis. Nothing. Zip. I have this feeling things are starting to change. Don’t know why, I just do. Mind you, I have zero evidence for this. People are not suddenly running to buy my shit. Still…we’ll have to see.

Time will tell, as they say.

In the mean time, I have a few stories I am working on, and they are by far the best I have ever written. My novel, which I broke into a trilogy, has just completed a minor rewrite. There are a few areas that needs some finessing, and I don’t quite know how to fix them yet, but I can feel the solutions to them coming along, like ghosts whispering in my dreams. Hopefully they will arrive soon.

In any case, I remain busy. Something will eventually break.

Spring is here.

On visiting the elderly

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We have a neighbor who was old when we moved here 21 years ago. She is 99 now, and on the last part of her journey. I got to visit with her today. It was very strange, and a little sad. I swear the clock ticking on the wall sounded like it was counting out her last moments. Still, it was nice to hold her hand, and listen to her wisdom. She worried many times what to do about her pigs that she left behind when her family had to follow the retreating Germans out of Ukraine in 1944. She had 3-4 cows, two nice horses, and two pigs. All of them they had to give away. It greaves her still. She had to leave the house when they slaughtered the pigs. The sound was too much for her. She also had to leave her 6 month old baby son behind when the left because as he was very sick. They were afraid he would not make it. Rightly so. After the war she told me some days she and her husband would work hard all day for a slice of bread. She didn’t see her son again until the 90s.

Sonya is now bed-ridden, with round the clock care. One of her caretakers was happy to be upbeat about God and her purpose in life; nattering on about stupid bullshit. “Oh, but there is a plan. God is not through you with yet.” That kind of thing.

After the caretake left, and Sonya told me the same thing she had said to the caretaker, “Life is not fair,” I didn’t argue with her, but agreed, whole-heartedly. Life is unfair, there is struggle at every turn. That’s how it is.

Sonya’s face is now puffy, her body is shriveled, and every breath a damp sounding wheeze. Just drinking a sip of water through a straw was exhausting for her. Her memory is not so good either. I had to tell her four times how Teri (my wife) is doing, and three times how our son is doing. I don’t mind. I gave a slightly different answer each time. She liked the longer ones. Sonya didn’t want to hear that Teri was fine, what she wanted was to hear all the stupid little things that we are filling our life with at this current moment. When you are near the end of your time, hearing about other peoples minor dramas is apparently calming.

When you think about it, this makes total sense. Sonya is stuck in a bed, with a mind that she cannot rely upon any more, and a body that is so reduced that getting a shower, or sitting in a wheel chair outside in the sun so your hair can dry is the highlight of your week. Otherwise, life is just sitting in a room, with four walls that have got to feel like they are closing in, and a clock that keeps ticking, and ticking. The rest of the world now carries on without you. You can only live it vicariously, via briefs glimpses through your bedroom window, or the short visits of neighbors and friends. This is remarkably similar to how we treat prisoners.

If I was in her shoes, OF COURSE, I would be saying life is unfair. It is unfair. That doesn’t mean we can stop and cry like children, we still have to keep moving, but I’m not going to lie to a woman who has faced far more dangers than I ever will, and I certainly am not going to deny her experience because it is uncomfortable, or goes against my religion.

Let me tell you, old people can be very real. Shut up and pay attention. Your turn will come along soon enough, if you are lucky to live that long.

From the Writing Desk, My Beautiful Amador County

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Occasionally I will work on the weekend on a previous story, refining or fixing. This one My Beautiful Amador County had received a lot of work in a rewrite and then sat fallow. I picked up it just for fun and soon was lost in it. The language at the beginning was pretty rough, but once I hammered that out the rest seemed to flow. It still chokes me up at the end even though this is the slowest burning story I have ever written. Fucking Harry takes forever to get to the point, but he is eloquent. Here is is talking to Reginald Pike, who is about to seek his revenge on the richest guy in town.

“Think about it, dear Harry. How does one harm a rich man? If you punch him in the nose, you only end up in jail–for the laws and judges support men like him above all others, save perhaps the elders in the Church. If you burn down his mansions, he’ll simply build more–and if he’s insured then he’ll likely turn a tidy profit in the process. You cannot starve such a man, you cannot harm him. Perhaps you might shoot him, but where is the revenge in that? He dies with as much wealth as he had when he lived. You cannot steal from him, he simply has too much–there is no thief so expert that he could compete with his great pile of capital. No, the only way to harm such a man is to remove from him all of his wealth. But it has to be turned over voluntarily. You cannot take it from him, he has to give it to you. In essence, you have to hang him, but by a noose that he has tied himself.”

My Beautiful Amador County is a story about, high finance, revenge, found-friendships, and what “family” means to those who have been cast from their own. LGBT friendly.

From the Writing Desk

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Work on my next novel “Fight From The Inside” (aka Mind The Slice 2) is moving along at a healthy pace. This is how my work ended yesterday.

Note: this is slightly spoilery for MTS, and is entirely unedited. The person speaking, Amethyst, is looking over the data from something that happened near the very end of MTS, and they are NOT happy.

Here it is:

And then there was the data from the Gap Sampler. Apparently one of the two impossible pair-bounds had destroyed the device, and all the data within it. This was bad as the connection data from the machine would have been highly valuable in terms of verifying how tight they connected to each as, and how well they thought.

As it stood, Amethyst wasn’t even sure which half of the pair had destroyed the machine. Whoever they were, they had been quite thorough, going so far as to remove the delicate data cartridges from the Gap Sampler and atomizing them using a large piece of solidified quartz. Amethyst has seen the photos. It was an impressive amount of destruction, almost as if they had been trained to cover their tracks. 

The last half of that last sentence in interesting. It was a total surprise. I hadn’t even had that thought, right up until I typed it. And then, oh boy, the implications: This, ladies and gentlemen, is what you call a plot point, seen in it’s natural wild state. I’m going to have a lot of fun letting Amethyst chase it down. They will too.

Update, March 2023

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March is here, and with it is spring. Spring has always been my favorite season. I should probably specify, Spring in general. The March version of Spring I find by-and-large a little too cold and wet for my tastes. Late March, as in after the equinox, offers a much nicer version of Spring. The days will be warmer and longer, and the nights not as cold.

March is also the month my sister Laura was born. For a long time she was the only person I knew born in this month, so naturally every time the month rolls around I am reminded of her. That doesn’t mean I’ll get a present to her in time this year, let’s not got too carried away. Even though it’s still many weeks away, a big happy birthday to her.

My goal when I started 2023 was to have my novel Mind The Slice out in Beta by the time I turned 60 at the end of January. I missed that date by about a week, so not bad. Already I’ve received notes from quite a few people. If you’re following along, then please keep reading. I’m still several weeks to a month our from starting those edits. Maybe even longer. The suggestions have been super helpful.

Beyond tuning up MTSl, I’ve been speedily working on its follow up, MTS2. That’s what has been taking up most of my writing time each morning. So far I really like how it’s developing. I have much to learn before MTS2 can be finished, so I’m already getting books for my research. Topic include: Why humanity is so fucked up; the basics of the Cognitive Behavioral Therapy process; and a few shortcuts into the history and culture in some random places on the planet. So far it look like I have one character from Lagos, and another from some undetermined part of China. Germany and France are also on the list, but that might change. Only the first two places are somewhat set. The rest will probably be laid down as needed.

I know how many humans I’m dealing with for the first third of the novel, but until I have all the issues laid down I’m not sure about all of their origins. I often have to write a chapter to find out about them. Oh, I know in a general sense, but its not until I sit down and write about a person that I learn all the small details that makes them come alive.

For me the process is a bit like driving across the country. If you were going from Los Angeles to Texas, you don’t need to know the specific address of your hotel when you first start off. Heading east is good enough. It’s only as you get closer that you need to know things more specifically; what part of state is the town in, which off-ramp do you take, which street is it on? It’s only when you are within blocks of your hotel that you need to looks at street numbers. In much this way, I write a story, starting from general to specific, letting the story and characters play out, and then going back and adding detail as necessary.

So far I know that MTS2 starts with 6 people, plus an extra (our girl Lilah), all packed on a space ship going to somewhere. Various robots are also along for the ride. I knew roughly where they were headed, but didn’t realize they were accelerating well over 40gs until I needed to stop and find a website for calculating distance, time, and speed. In the final novel this will feel natural, because it will come up in a natural way, but at the time I was writing it was an entire surprise, which meant I had to go back and edit a few previous sentences to make the unknown suddenly become cannon. Basically my job is to come up with problems and then walk my characters though them (or around them, or under them).

Speaking of problems, I’m also going back though some old stories, as I hinted at last week, with the idea of cleaning them up or otherwise making them useful. Little Miss Free Market is one of them, but there are a few more that I will go over in the next couple of months. If MTS2 starts to slow I’ll just jump on those. I’ve got lots of idea, far more than I have time to write, but good ideas that will make an excellent story are rare and need to be cultivated.

That’s it for now. There is much going on behind the scenes, and my work life is going though some big changes. Nothing scary, just a slight change up of clients, which is a constant for me. As an accountant once told us, “The freelance lifestyle is not for those who cannot handle a little chaos in their finances.” After 30 years of this I’m well acquainted with the ups and downs. Thanks to my wife (who manages the money for our circus) things remain nice and smooth.

Until next time.