August 11, 2005

What Really Happens?

I have always been fascinated with the stories we tell. You see, the brain is built, it's hardwired, to look for patterns. When we're confronted with something that doesn't make sense to us, whether it's out of our realm of experience or just unrecognizable at first, we try to fit it into a pattern.

That's why even people who hate to be categorized and put into little boxes, tend to try to categorize other people (or at least various traits). Some suppose that this is also the reason that autists tend to do things in patterns or look for patterns. After all, there's evidence to suggest that autists are simply not getting various stimuli as quickly as other people, which means that much of their time is at a different pace from the rest of the world, explaining why they start looking for patterns. I mean, if you had to sit still for an hour waiting for something with nothing else to do, don't you eventually start looking for patterns on the wallpaper, the floor, whatever?

This desire to look for patterns that we all have is probably the root of my love of stories. I like hearing the same story from two separate people and then figuring out the divergences and why the paths diverged. An example: I've been to numerous friends' houses when the whole family gets together to discuss the good old days. Invariably, an event is narrated which everybody remembers, except for the parent. Why doesn't mom remember the terrible gash from the time Johnny thought he could tow a bale of hay with his Huffy? Well, to Mom, it was probably one of a hundred times that Johnny did something crazy with his bike. For Johnny and siblings, it might be memorable because it was the first time Lucy was involved in one of his schemes or because all the kids had a bet on whether or not Johnny would make it or hurt himself.

There's a comic book, actually, a series of graphic novels called Brooklyn Dreams by J.M. DeMatteis that I just love. It's the story of one guy who's trying to recapture one of the pivotal times in his life. He says something about telling the reader a story that's a story, but still true. I'll mangle the quote now, but I'll correct it when I get home from work tonight, "Let me tell you lies more accurate than truth."

In other words, you might be able to tell the bare, objective facts of a story and not ever come close to the truth of that story. On the other hand, you can tell a story whose details only remotely relate to the actual factual event, but still tell more truth than the bare factual version. Why? Because it's all about patterns and nuance.

All of this lead up is to tell you to check out the Bulldog Manifesto's post today.

Many of us are still striving to find the patterns and the truth behind 9/11. I'm not so sure that this article has "the" answers, but it does let us look at some of the patterns in ways that we might not have looked before.

My question to everyone is this:
I was watching FoxNews at work (it was the only station we could get) and at one point, they announced there was one plane in the U.S. still unaccounted for. A few minutes later, there was a plane headed to D.C. A few minutes later, fighters were scrambled in the direction of that plane.

Then nothing.

Quite a while later, the last plane crashes in Pennsylvania.

Months later, the government decides that in case such a situation ever happens again, the Air Force can be authorized to shoot down one of our own commercial planes in order to avoid another 9/11 catastrophe.

Does anyone else remember fighters scrambled to intercept that last plane?

"Lies more accurate than truth."
What does that mean to you?

What really happens to anyone ... how do we find those truths?

Posted by Red Monkey at 10:01 AM | Comments (1) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | Stumble

August 9, 2005

The Speed of Dark

I just finished reading this book by Elizabeth Moon called The Speed of Dark, a really interesting look at a future not too far away and a man named Lou Arrendale. Lou works at a company where he is employed to "find patterns."

As it turns out, Lou is one of the last generation who is an autist. By the time Lou was born, there are wonderful educational techniques which enable people with autism to interact and socialize with the world more like the high-functioning autists of today. But, not long after Lou is born and learning through these new methods, a new treatment for autism is discovered -- correcting the issue and making those who've had the newest treatment normal (or nearly so - we get some intimations that their social interactions are a touch off, but no more so than the typical insensitive person).

What I found fascinating about the book - besides the wonderful writing and really vivid characterization - was the similarities between geek culture and the culture that Moon created around these folks with autism.

Lou and the other folks like him at his work, enjoy a small gym where they can go to calm themselves down. There's a small trampoline and a treadmill; there's classical music to help them get into a project or calm down; there's lots of colorful spinners in Lou's cubical which help him focus himself on his pattern finding projects.

Geek culture has some similarities, I think. Our jobs often involve either a creative process or programming process (sometimes both) that the higher ups generally don't even pretend to understand. And most true geeks that I know have at least a few toys (action figures, cars, PVC statues or minis, LEGOs, Star Wars and/or Star Trek, Nerf!!!). They have these toys to keep them creative, to keep them focused, to keep them sane under pressure - even though others may think them childish or simply silly.

And, of course, there are a lot of geeks (not all, by any means) whose social skills are still not very great. A great many geeks would prefer to do away with some of the niceties of social interaction and just "say what you mean." We see a lot of this in the book, too. Lou often thinks to himself about various common social phrases and has to think through both the literal meaning and then what he knows the social meaning of the phrase or act is. And he constantly asks himself if it wouldn't just be simpler to say what you mean instead of these weird social codes. You can still see the "damage" that autism has caused in Lou's interpretation of social cues, where he has a fundamental confusion over why people do some things that's not even seen in geeks.

But the parallel is there.

And, of course, there's been a lot of news coverage and research lately into the creativity and ... well, the geekiness of high-functioning autists. How they get into art or music or computers or pure math.

Just makes me wonder ... how many "diseases" or disorders are out there where the diagnosis is only quantifying a segment of a continuum? Does talent in one area cause a deficit in another? Or does a deficit in one area cause a talent in another?

If we know the speed of light, why don't we know the speed of dark?

Posted by Red Monkey at 12:35 PM | Comments (0) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | Stumble

July 31, 2005

You Can't Be Careful on a Skateboard, Man

I wrote earlier this week about learning to waterski and mentioned that had also done a little skateboarding.

The first skateboard I had was actually a hand-me-down that I found in my grandparents' garage in Oklahoma City. I adored going through my grandparents' garage - they had such cool stuff. I found old radios and would stay in the garage, setting them all on top of each other ... some leather encased, some bakelite, some plain old transistors and metal. That was my spaceship.

But one day, when digging through all of the interesting stuff in their garage I came across something I'd never seen before. It was a piece of flat wood with these funky axles on the bottom of the board and some metal wheels - just like my roller skates. The top of the board said Sidewalk Surfer in red and showed some little foot icons. Cool.

I set it down on the ground and carefully stood on it. Shifted my weight and made it move. Whoa, this was weird! Used my left foot to push a little and the thing just zoomed on the ultra smooth and ultra slick concrete in the garage. Wicked!

I trot into the house with it and ask Grandma what it is. "I don't know, that's your aunt Sandy's. I think it's a skateboard. She doesn't use it anymore, you can play with it."

Mom flips out - "Ma, ma, that looks dangerous, she can't play with that."

"Oh Sharon, leave her alone."

I hurry outside before an edict can be made, but Mom comes to the door and shouts out after me, "First time you fall off that thing, it's going in the the trash!"

Damn. I dart off the little front porch and put the skateboard down on the sidewalk, pointing to the steep driveway. Right foot at the front of the board. Left foot push. Rest the left on the board's back edge when not pushing - I didn't find out until the debut of the Tony Hawk video games that this was called goofy-footed. Figures.

I'm pushing down the sidewalk and then I hit the seam in between squares. The board stops. I don't. But I keep running and I don't skin my knees, so that doesn't count as falling off. Mom huffs and goes back in the house.

I know from my metal-wheeled roller skates that the only way to get over things like sidewalk cracks and seams is to go fast. But how can I go fast on this thing without falling off? I fell all the time when I was learning to rollerskate. I mess around with the skateboard for a little while on that short expanse of sidewalk, running off the board when it looks like I'm going to fall. This is now officially boring. What else can I do on it?

So, I sit down and point myself down the driveway, turning the board at the last possible second and ending the ride dumped in the grass. Again, if you sit on the board and tumble into the grass, it doesn't count as falling off. Mom's rules are often arbitrary and unnecessary, but I have already learned how to work the system to my benefit - at least to some extent. No scrapes = keep playing.

That skateboard eventually came home with me, but I didn't get a skateboard I could really play around with until a few years later. The shape of the board hadn't changed a whole lot - it was still skinny, but now it had a little bit of a tail at the rear which angled up. And the front end now narrowed to a point.

Best of all the wheels were now some kind of funky plastic! My cousin Tanya kind of laughed at how enthralled I was over this chunk of old plastic that she didn't really play with, so she tossed it at me and told me I could have it.

Mom re-issued the edict: "First time you fall off it, it's going in the trash."

So, I played with that one in my room, where she wouldn't know if I fell off or not. I learned to do a 180 spin and but I couldn't quite get the 360.

I had at least two more skateboards before I moved out of the house and I had seen a couple of freestyle contests on TV, including one where people only did flatland tricks - like the stuff I tried in my room. Somehow they'd flip the board and stand on the side of it - one guy even did all sorts of stuff with two skateboards, a foot on each board!

Today, I still ride skateboards. I can't do many tricks because every time I try to ollie (make the board jump), I can still hear my mom's voice, "First time you fall off that thing, it's going in the trash." She was well-known for making edicts like that and carrying through. My favorite red baseball cap that I'd gotten at Disney World when I was seven was the first thing she'd thrown away. It still haunted me as a teenager. I'd worn that Donald Duck baseball cap to school for hat day against one of her edicts. When I got home from school, she asked where it was because she knew I'd taken it to school. When I finally handed it to her, she threw it in the kitchen trash. I was about nine at the time. The reason she didn't want me to wear it to school? Because she thought the other kids would make fun of me for wearing a Disney character at such an old age.

I know she can't throw away my skateboard now. But I'm still so cautious. I don't want to fall off it. I have a World Industries board, a mountain board (big knobby wheels and a handbrake for going "off-roading"), a long board, a stow-board, an antique 60s style metal wheeled board, a 70s plastic piece of crap, a Pivot (a board with no wheels but it balances on a pivot point so you can practice your balance). (And a snowboard, too.)

I would still rather practice skateboarding in the house because over the years my mind and body have become convinced that I won't get in trouble or get hurt skateboarding in the house.

You can imagine this does not go over well with my other half ... or, to be honest, with any of the four cats and two miniature dachshunds, either.

I keep trying to replace that old Mom tape with one from Stephen King's book, It. "You can't be careful on a skateboard, man." And you can't. Riding a 'board is all about taking risks, throwing your body weight around, moving your center of gravity and above all, experimenting. It's a sport, an activity, that promotes the idea that you have to fail a LOT of times before you succeed. And I think that's a valuable lesson for anyone to learn.

One of these days, I'm going to learn to ollie and kickflip and the rest of the basic flatland tricks. One of these days I'm going to quit hearing Mom's voice and I'm going to be able to finally stop letting that hold me back.

I hope it's soon. I'd like to have a little less of the Hogwart's Hufflepuff in me and a little more of Griffyndor.

Meanwhile, I have my Tony Hawk Tip Tricks DVDs and my Tony Hawk video games. I study how to do the ollie. And I do still take out the longboard for downtown surfing and the mountain board for a couple of good spots in the Potato Creek State Park.

But I'm going to learn to ollie. One of these days.

Posted by Red Monkey at 3:57 PM | Comments (4) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | Stumble

July 28, 2005

My Grandfather-in-Law

I learned how to waterski when I was a teenager. I was probably about 14 or 15 and my cousin Tanya invited me out to Lake Whitney for a bit over the summer. It took me a while to get the hang of leaning way back while being pulled rather forcefully forward. I enjoyed it. I didn't even panic when I saw the stick, I'm telling you it was a stick in the water and it was NOT wiggling sinuously through the water. I ran right over that stick (and was really relieved that I didn't fall down anywhere near there).

But I learned to love water-skiing with my grandparents-in-law on Lake Tenkiller in Oklahoma.

Let's see, this takes a little bit of explaining. My mom's sister is Aunt Sandy. She married Uncle Bryan. His mom and dad weren't technically related to us, right? Well, I figured if they were Aunt Sandy's mother-in-law and father-in-law, they were my grandparents-in-law.

My grandparents and my grandparents-in-law both moved from bigger cities in Oklahoma out to Cookson, which was just a post office station on the lake. The nearest real town was Talequah, capital of the Cherokee Nation -- and Uncle Bryan's family is part Cherokee.

At any rate, C.B. (my grandfather-in-law) and his wife Florence loved to take the boat out on the lake. I was just beside myself when they asked if we'd like to go out on the lake with them and to waterski with them as well. I was ecstatic. The Mizes, Uncle Bryan, and my sister and I would pile into the boat for a day on the lake. It wasn't long before it was my turn to waterski.

I couldn't get up.

I couldn't figure it out. I'd been waterskiing before. I knew how to get up. But I just couldn't manage it. I thought for sure I'd lost my chance and someone else would ski next. But C.B. was really patient with me. He kind of frowned for a moment and said in that soft and yet commanding voice, "Why don't you use my skis? They're a little heavier in the back and I think you'll be able to get up better on those."

I think I got up on the first try with his skis. I was so excited that I stayed right in the wake of the boat and just tried to ride as long as I possibly could.

Every time I'd tried to do anything even remotely related to what we now call extreme sports, my mom would put the brakes on me. When I got my first skateboard, she told me that the first time I fell off of it, it was going in the trash and there wouldn't be another one. I became a careful skateboard rider (notice I didn't say skateboarder - you can't actually be a careful skateboarder because you have to take risks to learn any tricks at all). I tried a few tricks on my bike, but that was quickly squashed as well.

So, I was trying to waterski the same way I did every other cool sport -- careful. Of course, waterskiing carefully is not really a lot of fun. I mean, it can be interesting and it's still good exercise. But it does get kind of boring.

The next time C.B. took me out waterskiing, he told me he wanted me to leave the wake. He encouraged his kids to experiment with tricks when they were younger and he even told me that he still had a pair of their trick skis that I could work my way up to, if I wanted.

If I wanted?!?!?

I didn't know any adults that encouraged reckless behaviour like that. I was ready to try everything at once.

Of course, long years of having to be ridiculously careful made it a little bit difficult for me to really be very reckless, but I did learn to leave the wake, to go side to side. I even learned to really love waterskiing on days that the lake was a bit choppy. I skied tandem with C.B. and even started trying to feel my way into small jumps.

The last summer I got to spend time on Lake Tenkiller, I had to miss the last waterskiing trip of the year. If I'd known then that would be my last time to waterski, and more importantly, the last time I'd get to spend any real amount of time with C.B. and Florence, I'd have moved mountains to go out on the lake with them instead.

The next summer I was living on my own, working full time and it would be at least a dozen years before I would be able to afford to take more than two days off in a row.

While we were swimming in the lake one day that last summer I spent there, Florence and I were talking and she said she'd always wanted to play the accordian. I promised myself that one day, I'd save up enough money and buy her one. Every time I passed one in a music store or an antique store, I'd stare at it wistfully, sigh and walk past. I never did get the money together to get one for her before she died. I still think of her every time I pass one.

Two years ago, I rode with my Uncle Bryan and his two boys from Ohio to Texas for my sister's wedding. We passed through the Lake Tenkiller area on the way down and had an evening's visit with C.B. before driving the rest of the way to Dallas. On the way back, we spent some more time with C.B. before driving back home.

He sold the lake house not too long ago ... it was really too big, too isolated for him any more. All of the kids were grown and had grown children, his wife was gone. He moved back to the city.

At the beginning of this July, his heart started giving him problems again. Uncle Bryan flew down to Oklahoma City to be with him, make sure he was doing all right and had the care he needed.

He had surgery either late last week or early this week. Day after surgery he was doing great. Sitting up in bed, eating a sandwich, talking, joking.

And the next day he died.

Posted by Red Monkey at 2:40 PM | Comments (0) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | Stumble

July 26, 2005

Recovered Memory

When I was at the Shedd Aquarium the other week, I was entranced with the seahorses. I've always loved them, but I know a lot of fish enthusiasts who just despise the things. For a long, long time, I had a dried seahorse that was one of my special kid-possessions. I don't know when I finally lost it or got rid of it, but I remember still having it as a teenager - it probably went in the great purge of summer '84.

And then, yesterday, I suddenly remembered back to when I was two or three - Dad had an aquarium with a seahorse in it. I could clearly remember sitting, utterly spellbound. There are no lights on in the house except the almost blue glow of the aquarium light. My mom is sound asleep in my parents'room (dad's at work) and I'm watching the seahorse bob in and out of the plants in the aquarium. Three of the sides are just covered in plants, but the center of the aquarium's front is open. More plants sparsely spot the middle of the aquarium and I'm sitting on my knees, the nasty 70s shag carpeting leaving red imprints in my kneecaps, watching as he bobs around. I could stay there all day.

When Mom finally wakes up, she shuffles into the den with her lit cigarette and startles when she sees me. "What are you doing in here in the dark?"

I don't answer. It's between me and my seahorse.

I don't remember when the seahorse died -- I assume the dried one I had was probably that same one from Dad's aquarium. The aquarium was probably emptied when we moved. I didn't see it come out again until Dad decided to put it in my room and fill it with minnows so he could go fishing and always have live bait.

Funny. I haven't thought about that in ages and ages, even though I've always said that I liked seahorses. I didn't remember that right after seeing the seahorses at the Shedd. Took a few days and it suddenly just popped into my head, kind of out of nowhere. But now, it's so clear. I can't remember much of anything about the house, the room that we were in ... just the aquarium and "my" seahorse.

Weird how that works.

Posted by Red Monkey at 6:13 AM | Comments (1) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | Stumble

July 24, 2005

For Diane

Long ago, when the people were still new in this world, Coyote came up to his brother Wolf and said, "Brother, why must they sicken? They struggle hard to please this world, but their efforts only bring some pain and sickness even when they honor the earth as they should. Can't we at least take away sickness from them?"

Wolf did not look up from his work, but answered, "Sickening serves to remind them that everything in this world is fleeting. If they do not have this reminder, they grow lax and think they have all the time in the world for their own cares. Sickening reminds them to take care of each other so that someone is there to take care of them during their need."

Knowing how wise Wolf was, Coyote determined to watch the People further and find some way to help them. He watched how they struggled to raise crops and to hunt. Their days and months revolved around gathering necessities to keep them fed. He returned to Wolf and asked, "Brother I understand why they must sicken and see that you are right. But must they also toil so hard and so long just for nourishment? Surely we can help them and provide their food for them."

Again Wolf did not look up from his work. This time, he was silent for a long time until Coyote began to get restive, his bristle-tail twitching with the strain of trying to be patient. "If they do not work to stay alive, Little Brother, they quickly forget the beauty and harmony in this world and their walk becomes unbalanced and eventually destructive."

Coyote thought about this for a while and said nothing more to Wolf. After a time, he went back to the People, watched them suffer with sickness and with war and then returned to Wolf again.

"Brother, I have seen how those who do not stay connected to the earth and strive to call forth nourishment from her do destroy that which they no longer understand. But the People's lives are so short and filled with pain. Why can't their lives be long like ours? Why must they die?"

Wolf paused for a moment in his work, but did not look at Coyote. "It is to remind them that life is precious, brother. When it is fast and short, they value it more and treasure each other."

Coyote sat with his brother for some time and then, as his brother continued in his work, Coyote turned and walked to where Wolf's cubs were playing. He observed them at play for a while and then, without warning, struck a cub down with one great swipe of his paw. The others, shocked, were silent and then began to howl at their still brother.

Wolf came quickly and stood in horror at his dead cub and looked in astonishment at his brother. "What have you done? Why would you do such a thing? Why?"

Coyote finished cleaning his paw and said deliberately, "If the People must remember that life is precious, a treasure, you should also feel what death means."

---

I don't recall what American Indian tribe this myth belongs to or where I first read it. I'm sure I've mangled the details a bit, but it's always stuck with me. Some tribes, particuarly Navajo, believe that Coyote is a very sinister trickster and while this story does have its sinister aspect, Coyote is essentially arguing to make people's lives easier.

I think it's telling that Wolf cries "Why" on the death of one of his children. Most of us wonder the same thing at the ending of any life that comes suddenly, sometimes those that come slowly, and particularly those that come premature.

Posted by Red Monkey at 11:54 PM | Comments (2) | Storytelling: She was, of course, supposed to be sleeping. | Stumble