Balls and Walnuts
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Monthly Archives: September 2005
Adventures in story space
Hands up, people: who out there understands Hilbert space?
Karen, if you wave your arm any more vigorously it’s going to fall out of its socket. Good heavens, you’re not in high school anymore. Show some dignity.
For the rest of you (other than my quantum mechanically ept* wife), Hilbert space is a mathematical concept which has great utility in quantum mechanics. Here’s the relevant bit from Wikipedia:
In quantum mechanics for example, a physical system is described by a complex Hilbert space which contains the “wavefunctions” that stand for the possible states of the system.
There. Doesn’t that help?
Let me bring this down to earth before I lose every last one of you. I believe there is a theoretical story space which is a fictional analog to Hilbert space. In other words, there’s a ‘space’ out there where all stories exist side by side. Mathematically, the story space S is defined thus
Let me ask an easier question: any Jorge Luis Borges fans out there? (At the very least, Gabriele should be waving her hand.) Do you remember his story, “Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote”? Here’s a quick reminder from enotes:
In the form of a scholarly article, it tells of one Pierre Menard, a French symbolist recently deceased, who had undertaken the absurd task of rewriting Cervantes’ Don Quixote as a product of his own creativity.
This story — as well as a few others in Borges’ stable — convinced me that Borges believed in story space. Pierre Menard didn’t want to write just any Don Quixote; he wanted to write THE Don Quixote, word for word. Imagine picking up a grain of sand, then tossing it down again, not just on any beach but on any random beach in the world. Picking out that same grain of sand is considerably more likely than accomplishing Menard’s task.
What’s the point? Well, we’re not plucking just any story out of story space. We want the good ones, the ones that are entertaining, that perhaps bear a kernel of truth, that convince us we’re a little bit better for having read it. But — and here’s the real point — near every good story, there exists an infinite number of close cousins, some of whom are even better.
The trick, I think, is to never lose sight of this fact. To use “A Pirate’s Dilemma” as a silly example, I could have made Jack Sparrow the villainous British agent. Instead, I chose to leave Jack as a red herring** and put Hugh Grant in there instead. I did that because I thought it would be funnier, but I know, I have complete faith, that I might have pulled something even better out of idea space. I don’t know . . . it boggles the mind what I might have done with Margaret Thatcher in that role.
To continue with the sand analogy, I look at storytelling much as I look at beachcombing. I don’t pick up every interesting piece of flotsam I find on the shoreline, only the ones which appeal to my own peculiar sense of aesthetics. That’s the original story idea, but it doesn’t have to stop there. With my imagination, I can picture a stone, a shell, a bit of bone that’s even cooler than the one in my hands.
Folks with far more publication experience than I have pointed out that you eventually have to stop editing and call it a story. Otherwise, you risk spending your life wandering the beach, picking up one piece of crap, tossing away another, perennially dissatisfied.
Even still, sometimes it’s fun to take that ‘finished’ piece of driftwood and wonder how it might be different. Better.
D.
*You know — the opposite of inept.
**For you folks who aren’t crime novel buffs, a “red herring” is a distractor, something to divert the protagonist’s attention from the truth.
Inmates in Charge of the Asylum?
Is this for real? Or just some weird prank? From the Gainsville Sun:
Gov. Bush & his mystical buddy
After more than an hour of solemn ceremony naming Rep. Marco Rubio, R-West Miami, as the 2007-08 House speaker, Gov. Jeb Bush stepped to the podium in the House chamber last week and told a short story about “unleashing Chang,” his “mystical warrior” friend.
The rest of the article is here.
The things I’ll do fer love
A Pirate’s Dilemma: Part the Last
This here tale be poorly suited for young ‘uns and Puritans. Ye’ve been warned!
The beauties hoisted yer ill-fated Cap’n upstairs like a sack o’ bullion. I could scarcely credit me fortune, but me self-congratulations were a mite premature. And that warn’t the only thing premature. When they dunked me in a claw-footed tub o’ suds and washed me proper, I made a right fool o’ meself, I did.
“Damnation,” said I. “I suppose that’s what ye get fer years of abstinence.”
Arumba, the Nubian, pressed some vile grog to me lips and bid me drink. “For strength, Cap’n. We have plans for you.”
That they did, I tell ye. Once that bitter brew passed, I swooned, and felt meself borne up again by their fine strong arms. And then I felt no more.
When I came to, Maria of Cordoba and Mai Poon, me Cathay princess, were ministering to me rusty equipment. Oui Oui the Parisian was doing unspeakable things to me teak leg, and Arumba was pressing her ample bosom to me parched lips. Me head swam like some dark leviathan twenty-thousand leagues deep, yet I had the sense of others in the room, scurrying to and fro like hungry bilge rats.
Above me moans, I heard Stella’s voice. “Where is it?”
And another voice, a masculine voice, but not terribly so. “Damn it, woman, search again.”
Blast! I knew that voice. One of Her Majesty’s finest, an agent of the Crown. And a right ponce, too. I recalled that this one had a long history of consorting with beauties of the evening.
It all made sense. The malt vinegar bottles on the tables downstairs weren’t for feminine hygeine — they were for fish and chips. And the ferns and calla lilies weren’t for me rival, Jack Sparrow. Oh, no, me bucko.
The Jolliest Roger had taken to servicing Her Majesty’s fleet.
“Infernal limeys!” I cried, but with Arumba’s plump endowments in me face, it came out, “Mm, mmphms!” I struggled to rise, but the double-dealing vixens had bound me hands and foot.
“Step aside, ladies,” said that infernal Britisher, Randall Richards. I felt a cold draft of air on me nether regions as me beauties shoved off me rudder.
“Ye have me at a disadvantage, Randy Dick.”
“Indeed,” said the fop. “I would know where you keep the key to your lockbox, Captain Wood.”
“Ye’ll get it over me dead body, ye limey bastard.”
He gave me a waggish smile. “Have it your way. Stella? Waterboard him.”
Waterboard? I count meself a student of the torturing arts, yet I had not heard such a thing. But me ignorance would soon be cured.
Stella hove into view, that great glorious mountain of flesh I’d once called me own true love.
“Nothing personal, Cap’n. It’s just business.”
Buck naked, she straddled me face.
“One more time,” said Randy Dick. “You have stolen bullion from Her Majesty’s Ship The Drake. We’ve searched your ship, and haven’t found the bullion or the key to your lockbox. That leaves only one conclusion. Stella? Sit.”
The mistress of the Jolliest Roger settled herself, sealing off me grizzled mouth and nose with her plenteous booty. I struggled for air, all in vain. When I thought meself a goner, she stood.
“Well, Captain?” said Dick.
I gasped, coughed, spat. “Is that the best ye can do? That be heavenly.”
Randy Dick stroked his hairless chin, pondering me fate. “A hard case, this one,” he said. “Let’s try some softer torments, shall we?”
“Oui Oui,” said Stella. “Give him The Special.”
The Special. Something about the way she said those words shivered me timbers. But I found little to fear, at least at first. Oui Oui gave me rudder the Parisian treatment, as it were, and I figgered I could stand such torture for a year or more before I’d crack.
I spent me load of shot, but Oui Oui kept going.
“Damn it girl, stop!” said I. “I ain’t yer personal mess hall!”
“Oui Oui can suck the rind off a watermelon, Cap’n,” said Stella. “I beg you to reconsider before you lose your last coat of varnish.”
True enough, the pleasures of Paradise had given way to an infernal ache. What a way to meet me maker!
“Enough,” I cried. “Ye’ve unmanned me, ye dastardly succubus.”
“You may stop, Oui Oui,” said Randy Dick. “Where’s the key, Captain.”
“Ye’ll have to look where the sun don’t shine.”
And that be me story, mates. I lost The Drake’s hoard to these scurvy scoundrels, but at least I got them to do what no beauty had never done before. Arrr, not even Mrs. Morning Wood.
Shenanigans at the Jolliest Roger
A Pirate’s Dilemma, Part the Second
Old Stella had made some peculiar changes to the Roger, I tell ye true. I remember well a time when a seaman like yers truly could grab a pint of grog, settle into one of Stella’s leather-backed chairs, and put his peg up on an oaken barrel. And a fine bar she stocked, arrrr.
I tarried at the threshold. “Stella, what’s become of the place? Where’s me bar? Where’s me fine old leather chairs, and barrel to rest me peg a spell?”
“Times have changed, Cap’n. See that hunk of brass? That’s an espresso machine. Now I can steam milk like the pros –”
“You always steamed my milk like a pro, Stella dear.”
“Kind of you to say, Cap’n. My new clientele likes lots of glass and stainless steel –”
“Avast! What be those plants on the tables, and hanging off yer beams?”
“Calla lilies, Cap’n. And those be ferns.”
“Stella, Stella. What sort of godfersaken house of ill repute are you runnin’ these days? And what be that on the table — malt vinegar? Stella, I like me lasses to smell like lasses –”
But I had no chance to finish, for at that very moment the beauties appeared, floatin’ down the stairs like visions of Earthly delight. Frenchies and Spaniards, jade-bedecked vixens from Cathay and the finest Nubian princesses. “Oooh la la, it’s Captain Morning Wood!” cried one, and “Can I sit on your lap?” cried ‘tother, and “May I please polish your peg leg?” cried a third.
They surrounded yer blighted hero and whisked me to a table. While Stella plied me with her finest rum (she’d saved me a pint, bless her heart), they begged me fer stories of courage and adventure on the high seas. But before long, I came to know their darker purpose.
“Cap’n,” said the Nubian, a fine lass with a high breast, two of them in fact, “is it true you shipped with the legendary Jack Sparrow?”
“Oooh!” the others did cry out in their feminine ecstacies. “You knew Jack Sparrow? What’s he like? Tell me, tell me please!”
“Ay, ’tis true,” I said most mournfully. “I knew Jack Sparrow. I shipped with the Perrier-drinkin’ scoundrel.”
Aye. At last it made sense: the cafe lattes, the calla lilies, the ferns. Jack Sparrow — that bilge-sucking, eyeliner-bogarting blaggard — Jack Sparrow had come to town and fouled me beloved Jolliest Roger.
“Jack Sparrow is not the man ye think he is,” I said to a chorus of soulful moans. “One fact I’ll give ye, one fact to prove that Jack Sparrow is a right poor excuse for a pirate. Here ’tis: that craven swab don’t even know his alphabet like a rum seadog.”
“Huh?” said me gorgeous beauty from Cathay.
“I tell ye true, Mai Poon, or Rita Cosby taint a man. Ol’ Jack Sparrow, he confuses his M’s for his Arrrs.”
“Como?” said Maria of Cordoba.
“Si, si, Maria. One day we made to board one of Her Majesty’s privateers. ‘Look ye, Jack Sparrow,’ I said. ‘Have ye ever seen a stouter mizzenmast?’ ‘Mmmm,’ he replied. Mark ye! A yummy Mmmm, not a right manly Arrrr.”
I gazed upon a sea of beautiful but sadly blank faces, I did.
“That poxy hunk of shark bait wasn’t looking at the mizzenmast, ye sex-addled dames. He was looking at me bosun’s rudder! And by rudder, understand I be speaking metaphorically.”
These flowers of femininity met me revelation with general consternation. I began to fear me willy would stay dry for another long turn at sea, but then Stella arrived, bless her soul.
“Girls, girls! The Cap’n isn’t here for your pleasure.”
Stella’s lasses needed no more encouragement. With a great whoop, they spirited me onto their fine, soft shoulders, and hauled me bodily upstairs to their den of exotic pleasures.
“Fair winds!” cried me good hostess Stella. “And, girls, don’t forget. The Cap’n has been at sea a very long time. Before you get intimate, you had better swab his poop deck!”
Here be yer pirate romance. Arrr.
A Pirates Dilemma, Part the First
Taint easy being grizzled as a cockswain’s dungbie, I tell ye, and me with a leg o’ teak from the knee down. The eye patch don’t help at all, neither. Of late, it seems I can only wet me beak in the back end of a cackle, or in the bunghole of a portside beauty with fewer eyes than me. Imagine me surprise, mates, when I stirred meself one morning and found not one but two beauties casting hopeful eyes on me sorely underused mizzenmast.
But I be gettin’ ahead of meself. Name is Wood, me friends. They calls me Morning Wood, on account o’ I rise before the cock crows and I be barking orders before the sun peeps out her shiny eye. We’d just taken a fine haul, having scuttled Her Majesty’s ship The Drake off the Ivory Coast, and I was of a mind to give me men some much needed shore leave. And, truth be told, I longed for a fine young maiden of indiscriminate tastes to shiver me timbers right well.
We put anchor at the Port of Sassandra. So many bronze beauties lined up at the docks, I figured I had to be in Davy’s grip to be this close to Paradise. Old Stella herself met me at The Blinkered Eye — that be right, Stella of the Ivory Coast’s most famous house o’ ill repute, The Jolliest Roger. Stella had so many rolls of flesh, twas said she could satisfy the whole Spanish Armada with nary a risk to her honor.
“Ahoy, Wood!” she cried. It tickles her fancy to talk like a pirate, it did. “Is that a hornpipe in your pocket, or do you be glad to see me?” Sadly, she ain’t too good at it.
“Darlin’, how would you like a ride on the Cap’n’s Fo’c’s’le?”
“That be a fine proposal, Wood, but I’ll do you one better. I have me some new blood, I do, and I’d be honored if you’d inspect the merchandise.”
“Inspect the merchandise? What do you take me for, woman, a common water-clerk? I be here to find meself a good time –“
Old Stella sighed. “I meant, how would you like to get laid? Really laid? Not just a roll in the hay with my pet sheep.”
I was as stunned as if I’d been clogged on the head by sodden oar.
“You mean it, woman? A real dame, one of the human persuasion?”
“Two X chromosomes and all, Cap’n.”
That one went over me head, but I liked the sound of it all the same.
Watching the Train Wreck
I’ve been watching the HBO miniseries, Rome, but I have mixed feelings about the program.
For starters, Rome compares poorly to I, Claudius which is an all-time classic in my opinion. I, Claudius was a sharp satire on government and human frailty while Rome plays it straight and relies too heavily on sex and nudity to maintain interest.
The main problem for me, though, is watching the collapse of the Roman Republic; it’s far too close to present-day America. I don’t claim to have any formal training in Roman history but I do have some interest in the subject.
In many ways, we are very close to Rome. Western culture is a direct descendent of Rome but the U.S. seems to have more in common with it than the rest of the world.
Rome was an Etruscan-dominated monarchy which was alleged to be morally corrupt. The Romans claimed they revolted against the Etruscans for reasons of piety, patriotism, civic virtue, etc. The revolution resulted in a type of representative democracy which favored the aristocracy while giving a limited voice to the plebians. In some degree, this is reminiscent of the Puritans in the Colonial Era and the American Revolutionary War.
In any case, Rome grew to dominate its neighbors. Her armies brought home plunder in the form of gold, slaves, and tribute. Rome conquered Egypt, whose farmers could bring in two crops per year. The grain surplus fed the Roman populace. Slaves from conquered nations fueled industry like oil does today.
Rome’s greatest rival was Carthage, which was eventually defeated in the Punic Wars. For Carthage, one could liken it to the USSR.
After the defeat of Carthage, Rome grew far more prosperous and its aristocrats became incredibly wealthy. The vast majority of Roman citizens lived in poverty with high unemployment rates. They survived on a welfare system underwritten by war conquests and aristocrats who bought votes and support with their wealth. The people were pacified with bread and circuses, not unlike Monday Night Football and American Idol.
Traditional Roman virtues decayed and sexual mores loosened. Divorce rates skyrocketed and lawyers became wealthy as Roman citizens constantly sued each other in civil lawsuits. Government corruption and cronyism was rampant.
In a society like Rome which based its power on military conquest, reverses on the battlefield created fear and panic in their people. This made Roman society susceptible to ambitious aristocrats who sought more and more wealth and power. Generals battled each other and civil war raged for decades. Eventually, the senatorial ranks were decimated until there was little opposition to a monarchy/dictatorship which could provide stability to a war-weary country.
Are we there yet? No, Bush is too incompetent. The U.S. military wouldn’t follow him in a coup to topple the government. Who will follow Bush? In the aftermath of an economic breakdown, a demagogue could seize power by promising to reform government corruption.
Bush isn’t the fascist we should fear. It’s the competent fascist who comes after him that scares me.
Your morning blast from the past
This is my favorite photo of me and Jake. We took it at my parents’ fiftieth anniversary celebration in Las Vegas — about six years ago, I think.
Cute kid, eh?
D.
Passing notes
Before I get rolling, Karen has written about the Gretna, Louisiana atrocity-in-progress over at her blog. Now, on with our regularly scheduled blathering.
We had a saying in residency: “You’re either in this hospital working, or you’re in here as a patient. Either way, you’re here.” Point being, no time off for illness.
In five years of training, I only missed one day, and that only because I had food poisoning and couldn’t bring a barf bag with me on rounds. Well, I suppose I could have, but the other residents frowned upon that degree of obsessive dedication. In any case, at L.A. County Hospital we functioned in a perennial state of “swamped”. If you stayed home, someone else had to do your work, someone who already had too much work of his own.
Now that I’m out of that zoo, I have no excuse for not taking better care of myself. Office patients can be rescheduled, ya know? But, no. I had to go into work, because . . . ah, who knows.
I still eat fast, too, which made sense during residency (you never knew when the ER might call) but makes absolutely no adaptive sense nowadays.
Thanks, everyone, for your thoughts & best wishes. I’m a little better today, but not much.
I tend to get political on the weekend, which means I get depressed, too. For you non-Americans in my crowd: we’re indoctrinated from kindergarten with a slew of nationalistic ideas. America is the greatest nation, and we’re great because of the freedoms we enjoy, the freedoms our country symbolizes, the freedoms our military defends. You have to find out about the atrocities on your own: the genocide of Native Americans; My Lai; Andersonville (a Confederate POW camp); the LONG history of black oppression, from Day 1 to the present; the firebombing of Dresden. Robber barons of every generation raping the underclass. Iraq. New Orleans.
There’s so much evil out there now, I don’t know where to start. If I were Christian, I could only conclude that Dubya is the Antichrist. Tell me I’m wrong.*
But, hey. This is a humor blog (sometimes). So, for your pleasure, consider the following:
I have it on good authority that this image is a fake, a clever bit of photoshopping. However, there’s a good deal of confusion as to what Dubya really wrote in that note. Thanks to close questioning of eyewitnesses, I have narrowed down the list of possibilities to the following.
1. I’m bored. Can I go home now? Wah!
2. Condi: there’s the Colombian ambassador. Think you can score me some blow?
3. I never been in a room with so many nigras. Nothing personal, Condi.
4. How many of these here ambassadors are Republicans, anyway?
5. The Iranian ambassador keeps staring at me. He is so dead.
So . . . have you folks heard of any other possibilities?
We’re watching one of my all time favorite movies right now: Men in Black. Awesome script, great special effects, and every actor was on his/her game. Nothing sucks in this movie, not a single damned thing.
Watching Vincent D’Onofrio’s alien bug reminds me of something Karen showed me on Arachnopets yesterday: a series of photos and messages from a guy who lets centipedes crawl on his hands. Now, I know a lot of you are terrified of spiders, but I’m here to tell you that spiders ain’t got nothing on centipedes. Centipedes are far more aggressive than most spiders, and their venom is WAY more painful.
If you don’t like creepy-crawlies, do not, repeat DO NOT view this link. I’m telling you, we’re talking Major League Formication, got it? But those of you with creepy-crawly loving kids, you’ll score points for coolness if you let them look at these photos.
Have a great weekend, y’all, and thanks again for your kind thoughts.
D.
*Yeah, when I get published, I am definitely going to have to get me an apolitical blog.
Addendum: I’m not the only one who thinks Bush is Eeeevil. This guy has written the book on the subject. For example: by several separate numerological systems, Bush’s name adds up to 666. So there!
Gretna, Louisiana
I was reading about the situation in Gretna, a predominately white city next to New Orleans. In order to keep the “violent and dangerous darkies” from contaminating their pure city, they’ve set up a roadblock manned by armed police officers. Effectively, they prevented thousands of New Orleans residents from escaping a flooded hell.
As bad as this may seem, Gretna was not the only city to block escape routes. Other cities have blocked roads as well.
There was a similar situation in the Great Mississippi Flood. Communities on opposing sides of the river could see the rising water begin to threaten their levees. Each side knew that if the levee broke on the opposing bank, the river would flood the other town. Their community would be saved.
Both sides formed armed groups and patrolled the levees. As far as I know, no one purposefully destroyed a levee.
So, in today’s America, would we break our neighbor’s levee?