I'm not a true Japan-Geek, largely because I never got into manga. I do, however, enjoy anime (at one time daily, now occasionally). Just finished watching Sword Art Online (SAO), which thematically fit in nicely after having read both Ready Player One and Snow Crash not too long ago. All were quite good.
I think we are way more than the 7 years out that SAO kind of implies, but the idea of a small MRI-like device that can read directly from the brain isn't crazy far out sci-fi. Writing to the brain, on the other hand, is--even disregarding the unsettling aspect. It isn't very likely...at least not any time soon. Our senses are amazing input devices and electromagnetic fields just aren't. Yes, you could conceivably create interference patterns that would target one region or another, but the brain is immensely complex and the patterning would need to be orders of magnitude more complex, and that is ignoring the power necessary to stimulate any activity at that target site. It is far easier to project an image and build a suit that provides haptic feedback than it would be to do a wireless Matrix.
So I find the haptic-feedback system from Ready Player One to be the most likely sense-enveloping VR of the group (yes, I know, Snow Crash is audio/visual only, but the laser drawing on the eyeball is also pretty out there).
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
Thursday, April 18, 2013
So My Assumptions Were Off
Having not read as far in as I've watched the Song of Fire and Ice, I had assumed that house Lannister's wealth was based on lots of land and farming. I guess it is just based on digging yellow metal out of the ground. As such, I've got to agree with MattY on this: not the richest family.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
I've Got a Hypothesis
I think that recessions bring about better creativity and a desire for more competent "art" by the general public, where economic boom times leads to lots of crap. Mostly I associate this with music, but after reading this article I think it may apply to movies as well.
With music, my working hypothesis was that when times are good younger people (i.e. middle school, high school, and even elementary) have more disposable income and free time and are driving the entertainment industry, and that in rough times, that group's purchasing power decreases by the most and the main consumers are people in their 20s and 30s.
I think something similar may be happening with movies. People are not sending their kids to theaters every weekend, so the pop garbage that tends to dominate isn't drawing the crowds and repeat viewers that it would have five years ago. If the movie-going crowd becomes older and better educated, it could follow that their taste would be better quality films.
Of course I also think that there is a secondary aspect, call it the "misery loves company" theory. The films doing surprisingly well are not happy romps or clear-cut good vs. evil with no ambiguity thrill rides, but are movies that show flawed humans and difficulty and suffering. If the real world is depressing then escaping to some utopic world for a few hours may just make the real one seem even worse upon return. Seeing challenge and difficulty--overcome or not--in an escape can make a depressing reality somewhat less so.
With music, my working hypothesis was that when times are good younger people (i.e. middle school, high school, and even elementary) have more disposable income and free time and are driving the entertainment industry, and that in rough times, that group's purchasing power decreases by the most and the main consumers are people in their 20s and 30s.
I think something similar may be happening with movies. People are not sending their kids to theaters every weekend, so the pop garbage that tends to dominate isn't drawing the crowds and repeat viewers that it would have five years ago. If the movie-going crowd becomes older and better educated, it could follow that their taste would be better quality films.
Of course I also think that there is a secondary aspect, call it the "misery loves company" theory. The films doing surprisingly well are not happy romps or clear-cut good vs. evil with no ambiguity thrill rides, but are movies that show flawed humans and difficulty and suffering. If the real world is depressing then escaping to some utopic world for a few hours may just make the real one seem even worse upon return. Seeing challenge and difficulty--overcome or not--in an escape can make a depressing reality somewhat less so.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Words that Fail the Heart
Two beats so close to seem as one
She stares, a question asked, a winsome look
He starts, then stops
Hesitancy ends the turn of phrase
Wondering at what's been lost
For fear of what could not be gained
Conversation renews but less
Fading now
The stuttering beat of his heart now one of loss
He wishes he had spoken
He fears for what would be
His heart beat catches in his throat
That refuses to pass the words it wants
Words he knows have failed him
"I love you"
The beating tries to choke out
There she goes
His friend.
His heart's pain.
It's revenge to come when he's once more alone.
She stares, a question asked, a winsome look
He starts, then stops
Hesitancy ends the turn of phrase
Wondering at what's been lost
For fear of what could not be gained
Conversation renews but less
Fading now
The stuttering beat of his heart now one of loss
He wishes he had spoken
He fears for what would be
His heart beat catches in his throat
That refuses to pass the words it wants
Words he knows have failed him
"I love you"
The beating tries to choke out
There she goes
His friend.
His heart's pain.
It's revenge to come when he's once more alone.
primal
friend lover confidant
those words the ghost he seeks
that one's diaphonous visage in his head
his mind melds so with hers
his heart he opens forth
his body she won't touch
he loves
he leaves
he cries
friend and confidant so true
lover not to be
he screams to the cold night
those words the ghost he seeks
that one's diaphonous visage in his head
his mind melds so with hers
his heart he opens forth
his body she won't touch
he loves
he leaves
he cries
friend and confidant so true
lover not to be
he screams to the cold night
Monday, August 31, 2009
Trapped
"4 am," he said out loud. Then laid back down astride oddly placed pillows; his sheets in bunches.
He had gone to bed at 11 and now was waiting for some semblance of the fatigue he felt turning hie eyes red to drive his brain to shut itself down. Three and a half hours until he had to be up again, maybe another 15 minutes if he didn't wash more than his hair.
What was it this time? He couldn't even clearly remember. There was no focus left. He had spent the past six hours trying to clear the conversation and its repercussions from his head, and the mix of thought, video and fantasy he had driven himself to engage in to clear out the other thought had done nothing to help him sleep. It had confused things. He wondered if he should dig it up again.
"No use," he said as he sat up. Tears came to his eyes as he reconciled to say what he needed. He wouldn't call. Waking her up for this was not nice. She had work to and there was no sense in ruining both of their slumbers.
He sat down in front of the computer punching the monitor button to turn it on. The box didn't sleep. As the screen flickered to life he opened the document he had been working on for some time now. He would make little changes here and there now and then. Time for a new paragraph.
It continued in such banal fashion for a while. Though he considered himself as such, he was not smart. No one would confuse his works with those of a competent writer. And yet, in five hours time, he would be the cause of salvation for the world as it would be...for the survivors.
Martin Trapper: the first person to die of the strange disease that would be named "Traps," and in whose tissue would be found an antiviral that stopped it. His girlfriend would die of the disease three hours after him. She had never cheated. She would have regretted not doing so if she had had a chance.
He had gone to bed at 11 and now was waiting for some semblance of the fatigue he felt turning hie eyes red to drive his brain to shut itself down. Three and a half hours until he had to be up again, maybe another 15 minutes if he didn't wash more than his hair.
What was it this time? He couldn't even clearly remember. There was no focus left. He had spent the past six hours trying to clear the conversation and its repercussions from his head, and the mix of thought, video and fantasy he had driven himself to engage in to clear out the other thought had done nothing to help him sleep. It had confused things. He wondered if he should dig it up again.
"No use," he said as he sat up. Tears came to his eyes as he reconciled to say what he needed. He wouldn't call. Waking her up for this was not nice. She had work to and there was no sense in ruining both of their slumbers.
He sat down in front of the computer punching the monitor button to turn it on. The box didn't sleep. As the screen flickered to life he opened the document he had been working on for some time now. He would make little changes here and there now and then. Time for a new paragraph.
It seems to me as though my life has turned again for the worst. She hates me and is only staying with me until she can find someone better. She sounds exasperated when she says she loves me. She got off the phone and went to hook up with some guy. I know it...
It continued in such banal fashion for a while. Though he considered himself as such, he was not smart. No one would confuse his works with those of a competent writer. And yet, in five hours time, he would be the cause of salvation for the world as it would be...for the survivors.
Martin Trapper: the first person to die of the strange disease that would be named "Traps," and in whose tissue would be found an antiviral that stopped it. His girlfriend would die of the disease three hours after him. She had never cheated. She would have regretted not doing so if she had had a chance.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Ode on the POTUS Departing
would that i could
forgive the conceit
that favors action with inadequate knowledge
but i can't
so i won't
i'll just lambaste the dope
who should have learned some while he was in college
forgive the conceit
that favors action with inadequate knowledge
but i can't
so i won't
i'll just lambaste the dope
who should have learned some while he was in college
Thursday, June 19, 2008
The Storm
Five hours outside. Over a hundred degrees. By this time he felt as though he was radiating more heat than the sun was beating into him. "It was supposed to rain, damnit!" he cursed under his breath.
At thirty five and after spending more than ten years doing a bit more beer than exercise he was not the same spry young man who had been drafted by the Cubs out of high school and spent five years playing in Des Moines.
He had never made the big league, and a motorcycle accident had wrecked his arm near twelve years back. So he got a tract of land and dug in.
The land was cheap. He grew vegetables. Some he ate and others went to farmer's markets. He had married his high school sweetheart at age 20. Regretted it at age 21. She left him, then came back, then threatened to leave on a regular basis for the next nine years. They had no children. She was gone now.
"Damn bitch never appreciated how hard I work," he muttered and flung a spade full of dirt over his shoulder.
It landed, scattered, in the vicinity of his pile. A few small clumps bounced of a pair of white sneakers.
The man stopped. He set the tip of the spade at the bottom of the hole he had been digging and guessed the depth to be a bit over four and a half feet.
"Good enough for what it's for," he said and climbed out.
Standing up he noticed that the air had changed. There was a bit of a breeze and it smelled damp. He scanned the skies and could see that a line of clouds had taken up residence to the west. A squall line. So it was going to rain after all.
"Hmph," he grunted and scanned his small field and its withering crops, "looks like you're gonna get the drink you need after all."
He smiled, then turned his attention back to the job at hand.
Bending over, he grabbed the sneakers and lifted them up. The feet inside and legs attached rose as well. The ankle length sun dress slipped down to the woman's waist exposing her legs. A pasty white color that nearly matched the cotton of her panties and was in stark contrast to the tan of her face and arms.
He locked his arms around her ankles and walked backwards, dragging her unceremoniously. Her dress worked its way upward, first exposing her white, round belly, then the underside of her bra, where it stopped, her breasts preventing the indignity from becoming any greater.
When the distant couple came astride the hole--her grave--he stopped and released her legs. They fell, her right foot overhanging the maw. He put his hands on his hips and looked down at her.
He tried to remember the good times. They seemed so distant. They had been in love, he supposed. He wanted to believe that it had been more than teenage lust. He didn't know. In the end it had been an accident, but he had caused it. She had been riding him for not getting the well pump running and when he jumped up to yell back he caught his leg on the coffee table and tumbled into her. They both went down but she had been under him and her head struck the wall coming down. Her neck broke. There was no blood.
They would blame him, he decided. So he chose this path. Dig, bury, tell anyone what asks that she finally made good and run off. He placed his boot against her hip and shoved her in.
The first drops of rain struck his cheeks above and hers down below. He hastily started to fill in the hole.
Each raindrop struck heavily, sparse at first but getting more frequent. The sun was gone and the light was fading fast despite it being just three in the afternoon.
He shoveled faster.
Only an elbow, bent upward from the short violent tumble, remained visible. It vanished then reappeared as the rain stepped up its attack.
His pile was turning to mud but he kept at it.
The hole was three quarters full and the rain was comming down in sheets.
He slopped in the last shovels-full. He was drenched. The hole was topped by a pool of mud.
The rain had created mini-rivers between the planted rows. He dropped the shovel, spread his arms and looked up at the cascading watter.
The torrent continued.
He wept. His tears washed away as quickly as they could form in the corners of his eyes.
Then he heard it. A crack. Loud and close. Lightning does not strike in the middle of the rain, only the edges. He knew this. It couldn't be...
A large branch of the sycamore had broken and fell. It was unrelated to the storm. Just a coincidence. It struck him on the head. He fell unconscious, landing face down in one of the mini-streams that were nourishing his crops. His heart pumped. His chest and stomach moved in and out, replacing the air in his lungs with water and mud. His heart pumped faster, trying to get more oxygen. His lungs were inundated. His heart raced, became erratic, then stopped. Signaling in his brain continued for a bit, then slowed, then stopped.
The next day his nearest neighbor came by to check on him. Then came an ambulance, then the police. His wife's body was discovered, and the coroner's report came back: both had drowned.
At thirty five and after spending more than ten years doing a bit more beer than exercise he was not the same spry young man who had been drafted by the Cubs out of high school and spent five years playing in Des Moines.
He had never made the big league, and a motorcycle accident had wrecked his arm near twelve years back. So he got a tract of land and dug in.
The land was cheap. He grew vegetables. Some he ate and others went to farmer's markets. He had married his high school sweetheart at age 20. Regretted it at age 21. She left him, then came back, then threatened to leave on a regular basis for the next nine years. They had no children. She was gone now.
"Damn bitch never appreciated how hard I work," he muttered and flung a spade full of dirt over his shoulder.
It landed, scattered, in the vicinity of his pile. A few small clumps bounced of a pair of white sneakers.
The man stopped. He set the tip of the spade at the bottom of the hole he had been digging and guessed the depth to be a bit over four and a half feet.
"Good enough for what it's for," he said and climbed out.
Standing up he noticed that the air had changed. There was a bit of a breeze and it smelled damp. He scanned the skies and could see that a line of clouds had taken up residence to the west. A squall line. So it was going to rain after all.
"Hmph," he grunted and scanned his small field and its withering crops, "looks like you're gonna get the drink you need after all."
He smiled, then turned his attention back to the job at hand.
Bending over, he grabbed the sneakers and lifted them up. The feet inside and legs attached rose as well. The ankle length sun dress slipped down to the woman's waist exposing her legs. A pasty white color that nearly matched the cotton of her panties and was in stark contrast to the tan of her face and arms.
He locked his arms around her ankles and walked backwards, dragging her unceremoniously. Her dress worked its way upward, first exposing her white, round belly, then the underside of her bra, where it stopped, her breasts preventing the indignity from becoming any greater.
When the distant couple came astride the hole--her grave--he stopped and released her legs. They fell, her right foot overhanging the maw. He put his hands on his hips and looked down at her.
He tried to remember the good times. They seemed so distant. They had been in love, he supposed. He wanted to believe that it had been more than teenage lust. He didn't know. In the end it had been an accident, but he had caused it. She had been riding him for not getting the well pump running and when he jumped up to yell back he caught his leg on the coffee table and tumbled into her. They both went down but she had been under him and her head struck the wall coming down. Her neck broke. There was no blood.
They would blame him, he decided. So he chose this path. Dig, bury, tell anyone what asks that she finally made good and run off. He placed his boot against her hip and shoved her in.
The first drops of rain struck his cheeks above and hers down below. He hastily started to fill in the hole.
Each raindrop struck heavily, sparse at first but getting more frequent. The sun was gone and the light was fading fast despite it being just three in the afternoon.
He shoveled faster.
Only an elbow, bent upward from the short violent tumble, remained visible. It vanished then reappeared as the rain stepped up its attack.
His pile was turning to mud but he kept at it.
The hole was three quarters full and the rain was comming down in sheets.
He slopped in the last shovels-full. He was drenched. The hole was topped by a pool of mud.
The rain had created mini-rivers between the planted rows. He dropped the shovel, spread his arms and looked up at the cascading watter.
The torrent continued.
He wept. His tears washed away as quickly as they could form in the corners of his eyes.
Then he heard it. A crack. Loud and close. Lightning does not strike in the middle of the rain, only the edges. He knew this. It couldn't be...
A large branch of the sycamore had broken and fell. It was unrelated to the storm. Just a coincidence. It struck him on the head. He fell unconscious, landing face down in one of the mini-streams that were nourishing his crops. His heart pumped. His chest and stomach moved in and out, replacing the air in his lungs with water and mud. His heart pumped faster, trying to get more oxygen. His lungs were inundated. His heart raced, became erratic, then stopped. Signaling in his brain continued for a bit, then slowed, then stopped.
The next day his nearest neighbor came by to check on him. Then came an ambulance, then the police. His wife's body was discovered, and the coroner's report came back: both had drowned.
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