Artificial Intelligence

For most of my life, I have been irrationally (really?) freaked out about robots. I can’t say when or how it started, but I am so anti-droid that:

I refuse to entertain the notion of investing in a robotic vacuum cleaner to make my former house elf’s life easier.

On meeting the new photocopier, I was immediately reminded of Star Trek’s M5 and vehemently warned our office’s tech advisor against unplugging it at source because “it’ll fry you where you stand!”

My favourite Alan Parsons Project album, I, Robot, tells the sorry tale of machines becoming our masters and, gee, who saw that coming?

Any Hollywood attempt to make androids our friends is less believable than any Hollywood attempt to make androids our enemies.

I don’t understand our obsession with making machines smarter than we are, with giving them personalities, or with trusting them to remember their place and to stay in it.

Ironically, a robot may have changed my mind about the inherent evil code-named “artificial intelligence”.

Type “Hitchbot” into any search engine and a plethora of pictures pops up, each of a funky little compilation of parts parked roadside in any number of locations. Developed in Canada and set loose to test the nature of humans when interacting with machines, Hitch travelled across the country, spent time in Europe, and started a journey across the USA which, sadly, ended last week in Philadelphia. In a thicker twist of irony, the amiable little droid was vandalized beyond hope of repair in the city of brotherly love.

Robophobia notwithstanding, I have problems with vandalism against any inanimate object—without the psychoanalysis, it’s a show of disrespect and does nothing to further the argument that humans are a superior species. Programmed though its personality was, Hitchbot was also harmless. Beating it to death was a show of bullying cowardice as much as it was an act of vandalism. Unfortunately, a violent end has—for the moment, at least—eclipsed all those good folks who drove it from town to town, pausing for photo ops with their kids in front of national landmarks. It’s kinda sad that I only learned about the ʼbot’s adventure when it was over, and sadder still that it was only news because it ended with an act of mindless savagery.

Intelligence? I’m pretty sure we’re the ones who are faking it.

As the Crow Sings

My music collection has been pared back a few times over the years, but staples remain firmly in place. Duran and Def Leppard, Alan Parsons and David Usher, Sarah McLachlan and Sting figure prominently in that I’ll buy anything and everything they put on the market—sometimes more than once. While de-cluttering for our first residential move in seventeen years, Ter and I discovered no fewer than four cassette tapes of Seven and the Ragged Tiger; a true puzzlement considering that we owned no more than two cassette players in 1987. I’ve grown up a little since then. When the re-mastered special edition was released a few years ago, I sent my original CD of the same album to the used disc shop because, pfft, who needs two?

I recall an interview wherein the father of my unborn children discussed his album collection. Of course he doesn’t listen to everything every day; with any extensive collection, who has the time? But once in a while, he pulls out vintage Bowie or Roxy, gives the LP a spin, then puts it back in the cellar to be enjoyed, like a fine wine, a few more years down the road.

I went on an Alan Parsons bender last year. I just lay on the couch and remembered why I love the Project’s work so much. More recently, the Leppards were trotted out to prep for their tour and, boy, was it fun rocking out to X and Yeah! With Paper Gods due for release in September, Duran is resurfacing on my playlist to reacquaint me with their more recent work (Astronaut is truly brilliant, and not just because it features the Original Five). And, for some reason, last week I began looping my favourite track of Sheryl Crow’s extensive catalogue, so I pulled her CDs on Sunday to remind myself why I liked her so much back in the day.

Actually, it’s a bit of a mystery because she borders on country with her syrupy drawl and penchant for steel guitar, but I bought her first album in 1993 and didn’t stop until Detours in 2008. She played Victoria on that tour; by then she had enough ammo to play a greatest hits set, so of course I went to see her. Great show, lame crowd. I couldn’t tell if I was in an audience or an oil painting. Oddly, I can’t remember if she played The Difficult Kind; I think she did, but nothing beats the album version off The Globe Sessions … currently in heavy rotation on my turntable. This live version got good reviews, though, so please ...

Enjoy.

Fine Tuneage

pretty much the whole catalogue with a few exceptions

The Father of My Unborn Children is a musician, so is it ironic that an interview on his book tour put me back in touch with my musical history? He did a session in the Google Authors series while promoting his most-excellent autobiography, and during the Q&A, he admitted to a fondness for the old vinyl LP. He still owns a vast collection (and clearly hires someone else to do the heavy lifting when relocating it) though, naturally, he doesn’t listen to everything as frequently as he once did. He likened it to a vintage wine collection, when something is opened and savoured as the mood dictates. After he’s done with whichever Bowie or Roxy album, it goes back into storage for a few years, until he feels like hearing it again.

Most of the vinyl I owned was sent to consignment as I converted to compact discs; the medium is less important to me than the content, so if an LP made it to my CD case, it was a keeper.

During my recent bout of “writing is not meant to happen”, I rediscovered my joy in the Alan Parsons Project. Rightly or wrongly, I associate my sizeable collection of their work with my younger older brother, who introduced me to the concept of orchestrated rock and album-oriented FM radio when I was a teenager. I vividly recall the instance when he started his car and “Hyper Gamma Spaces” (an instrumental from 1977’s “Pyramid”) poured from the souped-up speakers, but I’m sure he had me hooked before then. In any event, I became a fan, collected all the APP albums I could find, and have revisited them in sequence over the past few weeks. And I’ve loved it—so much that it finally occurred to me that there might be a website.

Alas, the Project broke up and co-founder Eric Woolfson passed away in 2009, but Alan Parsons himself continues to produce and record new material. His website is now bookmarked and I am trying to get over the fact that “I Robot” (my favourite after “The Turn of a Friendly Card”) has just been remastered, expanded, and re-released in a 35^th anniversary edition! 35 years? Really? Playing it last week, I closed my eyes and was immediately transported to the couch in my parents’ living room, flaked out in one corner with my older older brother in the other, both of us floating on the groove of the LP’s first release. The memory was so clear that it couldn’t have been that long ago … could it?

The studio technology, so sparkly and new at the time, is dated and sounds a little clunky nowadays, but the albums themselves remain a magical link to my past, to time shared with both of my brothers, and my own visions of a creative future. Now that I’ve heard them all again, back to the wine cellar they go, to be opened and enjoyed again some time down the road.

The Importance of Tea (Part VII)

“Serenitea”

A treasured day off. After two weeks of recalibrating to the office routine, I have a day to myself … and I’ve given myself permission to indulge. The Ocean Room is warmed up, I have Nicole’s new story to read, and yesterday I bought nine handrolled balls of peach momotaro—a blooming tea that tastes of fresh peach and cost a king’s ransom. Never let it be said that I don’t know how to care for myself; I don’t always do it, but when I’m drained and need Ru time, I make it count. As Cal Leandros has said, “Desperate times call for criminally overpriced tea.” A fortnight of work following vacation probably doesn’t classify as “desperate times” (not by Cal’s estimation, anyway); however, my batteries need charging in a big way. That’s close enough for me.

I have brewed a pot of China gold, Nic’s story awaits, and I have the rest of the morning in which to enjoy both. Perhaps this afternoon, I’ll take the Canon on a photographic flânerie, then flake on the couch and listen to a vintage Alan Parsons album from start to finish. Tales of Mystery and Imagination seems to fit the mood. Now that I’m done with Shade, my mind is turning toward another project, but there’s no pressure. Not today. Today is all about the moment and being in it … one drop at a time.

The Gorgeous Struggle

Getting there ...

Jake’s story is almost finished. I wrote two thirds of it during my week off last month. Progress since then has been steady, but – to my mind – interminably slow. And, as is usual when fitting my writing into my life instead of the other way around, I’ve found myself struggling to get it done. The latest scene, for instance, has been written three times. The characters have reached a critical point in their relationship, so I want to get it right.

Yesterday, I revamped a few things while the scene played out in my mental cinema. Jake is sure about his feelings. Kim, not so much. Women are complicated. Jake knows that, but he’s willing to wade through the crap to have her. Only the crap is deeper than it looks. I sorta kinda knew that, given my familiarity with her background, but she wasn’t explaining it well enough to convince him. It was better to have her show him, live in his living room, just how torn she is. Enter the other man. Once he showed up, the complications became more apparent, but I was still stymied on how to describe Jake’s perception of Kim’s dilemma. So I followed sage creative advice and took a break.

Alan Parsons has been my musical wallpaper for this story, but while making lunch I threw the Gatsby soundtrack onto the stereo and promptly remembered why I bought the darned thing. It’s awesome! I was cheerfully chopping veggies and singing along with Fergie and Jack White and Lana del Rey—and then Goyte came on. The song is called “Hearts a Mess” and it’s stunning. Weird, but stunning (hear here). I actually stopped to listen when it came on. And something so profound happened that I pulled the disc off the junky little kitchen stereo and ran it down to the big cahuna in the living room. I cranked up the volume, stood between the speakers, closed my eyes, and got it.

Ah! That golden moment when all comes clear! It happens to creative people more often than we think, but it never gets old. The puzzle piece that finally drops into place, the plug that finally fits the socket – I live for those moments, and yesterday’s was momentous. Ironically, it always happens when I’m not looking. I have battled for days with this scene and the minute my back is turned, the answer arrives in a flaming chariot. It’s proof to me that intellect consistently gets in the way of my imagination. One day I’ll learn to act quickly when a plotline gets hopelessly knotted. I’ll leave it in a pile on the bedroom floor and go distract my mind with something trivial. Then my spirit will be free to unravel the mess unhampered by a well-meaning mental analyst.

As for finishing Jake’s story … I’m on it!

 

Head Games



"Pacific"



Yesterday morning, I selected the wrong tea. I thought it was the right tea (and it would have been, had the character associated with it been willing to talk). Pondering my supply, I stumbled onto a tin of David’s Whiskey White and immediately thought Good tea for Jake. That gave me pause.

Jake? Who the heck is Jake?

I picked Persian Apple and proceeded to bash my head against my desk. Finally, fed up with me bouncing around inside my own skull, Ter sent me on a walk under explicit orders to return with a decision on which story to write. I knew which one I wanted to work on, but the other two were should-ing me to distraction. A 30 minute stint at the beach and I made up my mind. Go with the one I wanted.

It turns out that Jake is the mystery man in the tale inspired by Alex Colville’s painting. Yes, Whiskey White is his tea, and when the final all-important puzzle piece dropped into place, I was off to the races. Music is as vital to my process as tea and solitude; every story I write has its own soundtrack. Julian demands Chopin, Lucius likes Def Leppard. On my way back from the beach, I was wondering what Jake would like and the answer came as clearly as the flavour of tea: Alan Parsons. It was so perfect that I almost ran the rest of the way home. I wrote all afternoon and was more productive than I’ve been in ages. It’s nowhere near done, but at least I know how it will end. It's currently untitled; the post title refers to the nonsense I put myself through before allowing myself to pick the project I most wanted to pursue.

The story began a few blog entries back, but here is the next scene. It’s almost all dialogue and not very long – I’m still trying to figure out how best to post my work when a short story for me runs longer than some novellas.

Anyway, here you go. Just a nibble. Please note the use of punctuation J

* * *

Just as he was mentally composing his message, Doug answered the phone.

“Jake! Good to hear from you, man. When did you get back?”

“Last night. Late last night,” he amended, anticipating a reprimand for not calling sooner.

“How was the Continent?”

“Cold and drizzling. Bud, I’ve got a problem.”

Doug’s bonhomie turned wary. “What kind of problem?”

“A girl washed up on my beach this morning.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I wish I was. How soon can you get here?”

“I take it she’s still breathing?”

“Barely, but yeah, she’s breathing.”

“Call the police.”

“I’m calling you. That’s close enough.”

Silence preceded a short, resigned sigh. “I’ll be right over.”

* * *