Blame It On Gutenberg!

gutenberg1

If you live long enough, you find yourself out of the loop.  You lose touch with your own society.  You don’t understand the language anymore, fashions look scandalous, music is noise, young people are stupid and technology is a battle, not a convenience.  This is why, for the most part, old people are grumpy.  They simply don’t understand the world they live in.  This is the natural order of things, and we all do it.  It’s been going on since Zeus replaced Horus as the god of choice along the Nile.  In essence, we remain brand loyal to the years that made sense to us and we never leave them, regardless of what the rest of the world is doing.  So we fondly remember the 60s or the 20s (or whenever we thought we were cool) and naturally wonder, loud and long what the hell happened to that time.

However, in recent history, this generational disconnection has become more than just a side effect of the trudge to the grave; it’s now happening to young people.  Thirty-somethings are looking back at the 80s like it was a Golden Age.  Forty-somethings are wrapping themselves in fashions clearly unsuitable for a widening waistline, and if you’re creeping up on fifty — forget it – you just might as well have been born during Prohibition.  The problem is we live in an age when the layers of knowledge are getting thinner and thinner, and if you miss one, you can never catch up.  Here’s how it works.

For the thousand years or so between the fall of the Roman Empire and the Renaissance, nothing much changed in our world.  Certainly, there were scientific and social advances during that time, but progress was slow.  To your average peasant, one century looked pretty much like the last one: a bit more plague, a little less heretic burning, but no decided differences.  People were born, lived and died in a world dominated by the church, impending famine and war.  Generations of people worked the land, built cathedrals and occasionally bashed each other over the head — for a millennium — with the tools and weapons their ancestors used.  Innovation, when it came, travelled slowly and new ideas were not readily accepted.  The layers of knowledge were thick.

This all changed when a German named Gutenberg built a printing press sometime around 1436.  Suddenly, ideas didn’t have to travel by word of mouth anymore (getting totally screwed up along the way.)  They could be written down and printed in large numbers.  So, if Wolfgang, a Bavarian smart guy, figured out a better way to grind wheat that knowledge was both easily assessable and, more importantly, widely distributed (with no embellishments.)  With this rapid exchange of information, the layers of knowledge got remarkably thinner.  By the time Pope Urban VIII was threatening to cut off Galileo’s protruding parts for saying the Earth revolved around the sun — not the other way around — in 1633, there was no stopping it.  Galileo may have recanted his discoveries to save his appendages, but his book remained out there for anybody to read.

Thus it was that invention no longer had to rely on the genius of one person to initiate change, nor the local gossipmonger to spread the word about it.  Books changed all that; ideas became permanently available.  Philosophers and scientists could build on each others’ knowledge just by reading each others’ books.  And each innovation was also written about, in turn, thus spawning dozens of refinements that continued the cycle.  The world of ideas expanded exponentially.  The layers of knowledge became thinner and thinner.

Skip forward two centuries and these days the layers of knowledge are so thin they don’t last more than a couple of years.  Some are added to our world and expanded upon before people are even acquainted with them.  For example, for 99% of history, people looked at a map if they wanted to know where they were going.  In the late 1990s, the GPS system revolutionized that.  However, before anybody could really cash in on a stand-alone GPS device, it became an accessory (App?) on our Smart phones.  The same thing is now happening with digital cameras and MP3 players.  These devices were born, lived and died in less time than it takes an average person to get a PhD in Sociology.

There is no longer a generation gap in our society.  There is only an information gap.  As the world spins ever faster all around us, we long for the security blanket of the objects we’re familiar with – whether they’re electronic devices or social interaction.  Nobody fully understands the world we live in (not that anybody ever did) but in the 21st century, more and more of us are falling further and further behind.  People are uploading and downloading information at such a furious rate no one can really process it properly.  (For example, that last sentence wouldn’t have made sense a generation ago.)   The result is we look with nostalgia on what we remember as a simpler time.  So the next time you see some kid with droopy drawers, talking to what is clearly a teenage prostitute, in a language akin to gibberish, while techno-noise booms in the background — blame it on Gutenberg: he started it all.

I originally wrote this is 2012 – ironically not much has changed since then.

Fiction (Jasper Conrad …)

This is a gateway drug to the fiction of WD Fyfe — an excerpt from “The Last Romance of Jasper Conrad.”

jasper conrad ...

The last sun tip was over, pulling all the long shadows away with it into the water.  They had walked up the hills above the sea, their own shadows gliding and sliding ahead of them.  Now they stood near the top, looking out, and there, at their feet strings of stars appeared in the frail blue water with trails of moving silver chasing them like ribbons.  First one, then more and more.

“It’s the fishing fleet,” he said softly.

And as she watched the boats, the real stars dotted into the sky above her, point bright, one and one.  Each light dipping its finger in the shivering water.  And slowly in the accumulating darkness, there was no horizon, no sea, no earth — and she was standing in the sky, surrounded by the heavens.

“Listen,” he said.

And there was music, carried faint along the warm evening breeze.

“It’s from the radios on the boats.  They’re bringing you tomorrow’s dinner.  Let me show you something.”

She didn’t move.

“There,” he said and turned her shoulders.

Down by the bay, lit by floodlights, the Roman ruins stood like great candles in the collecting night.  And as the solid white lights traveled up the hill, she could clearly see the ancient city, where it had stood.  It was real, like endless time, alive in front of her.  And she could just see him, dark outline and close to her — close enough, if she fell, tumbled into time and the sky — he could catch her.

“That’s where your friends are going to be,” he said, motioning to a glowing row of gauze colored tents, stuck in the tumbled columns.  And as if on cue, a set of huge headlights flashed out and cut lines high into the darkness.  The faint music from the boats swallowed whole by the diesel motors of the approaching bus.

“Oh,” she said and turned away.

As the noises died, he found a place in the clear night overlooking the bay.  Two broken shoulders of stone, smooth with time and picnics and half lit by the far-off nearest floodlights.  He spread the blanket and knelt over the basket.

“Bread, cheese, wine, olives and what i-i-s-s-s probably fish.  Not quite a drunken Bulgarian Luau, but we’ll get by.”

“What is this?” she asked, actually speaking directly for the first time since the night had come over them.

“Hmm, Ferguson’s idea of a picnic, I think.”

“No, not the food.  This.  Is this like — uh — something?”

He couldn’t see her face clearly, but her voice was urgent and her hands, white, were moving between them in the light.  She leaned forward.

“There isn’t like something going on, is there?  You wouldn’t do that to me?” she was shaking her head.

He understood, thought and decided.

“No,” he said completely.  She slipped back into the half-light.

The night was warm, like a shawl across her shoulders.  She could feel it tucked into her.  The music flickered, there and gone and again, melody low, recognizable pop tunes in unrecognizable languages, aroma sounds carried on the air.  She could taste the night on the glistening olives, black and invisible, and on the sharp cheese that he handed her directly from the knife.  And she heard his voice without the words, dark and full, deep like the wine.  Its whole taste on her tongue, blending with her, blending with the night, spreading through her with no before or after, like conscious sleep.

“Sometimes,” he said, “I come up here at night and just wait.”

“For what?  Wait for what?”

“The moon,” he said.

“Is there a moon?”

“There’s always a moon, Frances.”

“You know what I mean.  Here…now?”

“No, not tonight,” he said quietly.  “No sense waiting for it.”

They sat for a moment, and she tucked her feet underneath her.

“What are you waiting for, then?” she said.

“Don’t know.  How about you?”

“I don’t know.  I don’t think I’m really waiting for anything.  Everything that’s going to happen to me is just going to happen.  It’s not like I want very much — a nice house, garden, children, someplace to do some good for people.  What everybody else wants, I suppose?”

She’d misunderstood the question, but he didn’t care because she was going to tell him what she wanted to tell him — either way.

“Okay, then, what do you want now?”

She shook her head in the darkness, unaware that he could barely see her.

“I don’t know.  I like the law.  I like research.  I like what I’m doing.  But it’s just.” She weighted her words, “I’m going to miss all kinds of things just because I don’t know what they are.”

She stuck her glass into the light between them, and he splashed more wine into it.

“People like me — women like me, don’t have very much – okay.  We look good, not just good like attractive, our lives look good, and they are.  But nobody ever thinks about us.” She laughed sadly, “We’re the ones who get missed.  Overlooked.  It’s like our whole lives are clean and correct and nobody ever gives us a second thought.  You know what I mean?”

He did, but he wasn’t about to tell her she was doomed, and that was okay, too, because she didn’t wait for him to answer.

“I’m going to be a good lawyer.  I’m going to be a good mom, wife, everything — whatever – a good — a good person.  And I’m willing to do that — all that stuff.  I just don’t want to end up with nothing.”

There were noises coming from below them, hard sounds that were stirring up the evening down there.  She felt them, felt annoyed by them, rushed by them.

“Just – just because I’m ordinary doesn’t mean I can’t have something.  I look around and I see my life and I know how it’s gonna go.  I can see it.  I’m gonna settle in and it’s gonna be so-o-o easy.  Career, children, grandchildren even, houses, cars — all that stuff — probably end up saving the whales or feeding the orphans or something like that, and sometimes I’ll even be able to convince myself that it’s all good enough.  But I’m gonna know it isn’t — secretly, I’m gonna know, and one day — one day — I’m gonna wake up and it’s gonna be too late.”

She paused, but there was no silence.  The music and the people noise from below was more now, larger, lapping up the slopes like rising water, impossible to ignore.

“The thing is – the thing is – I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”

She stopped again to swallow.

“But I’m missing it.  And now…”

She took a drink.

“Now.  Here’s this perfect night – we’re having this perfect night.  I’ve never had anything like this.” her voice trailed off so she could look into the darkness. “This is the most romantic thing that’s ever going to happen to me.”

He moved slightly so he could see her in the light.  She wasn’t looking at him, so he couldn’t really see her face.  But she saw him move and turned her head.  The light caught her eyes and they were shining in the dark, glistening with emotion.  She parted her lips and swallowed, aware of him.  Then, she lifted the wine glass and took a long drink.

“God!  I don’t know where all that came from.  You must think I’m just this total poor little rich bitch.  Way too much drama.  I’m not like that.  I’m really not.  It’s just the wine and…I didn’t mean to…”

“Don’t even think about saying you’re sorry.”

She laughed and sniffed and turned her face away from him.

“We’re going to have to go soon, aren’t we?” She said, waving vaguely at the night.

“Not really.  It depends on how sick you want to be when the horde gets back to the hotel.”

“I don’t really care,” she said, leaning back.

But she was quiet after that.  Embarrassed.  Aware that the mood was crumbling under the persistent pulsing music and the vague voices and scattered shrills of sound that crawled in the air around them.  They sat together for a while, feeling it die, and when it was impossible to deny that the night was gone, they left.

 

Why DID The Chicken Cross The Road?

chicken

Why did the chicken cross the road?  Our time is so terminally serious that a lot of people think this is a real question, and more importantly, an opportunity to jump on their soapbox and give the world the benefit of their answer.  Here are just a few examples.

Will this be on the exam?
University freshman

To die in a ditch – alone.
University sophomore

I know why, but you wouldn’t understand.
University senior

I’m up to my ass in student loans: I don’t care.
University graduate

Chickens are running for their lives since the Trump administration announced it would be adding chicken soup to the White House cafeteria lunch menu.
CNN

To sell its eggs on our side of the road and destroy the American poultry industry.
Fox News

This is what happens to British agriculture when a bunch of uneducated yobs vote for Brexit.
BBC

I think we better take a look at the slo-mo video review of that– to make sure the chicken actually did get across the road.
ESPN Sports

Chicken on the road!  You won’t believe the “shocking” video!
Huffington Post

That question will be answered in a 10-part original series — with Jennifer Lawrence as Chicken Little and Alec Baldwin as the Cock of the Walk.
Netflix

We don’t care why, but we will accept one million chickens who are fleeing their side of the road.
Angela Merkel

We are not racist, but we’re glad the chickens are going back to their own side of the road.
Madame Marine Le Pen

On behalf of all Canadians, we apologize for our ancestors who built a road that the chicken was forced to cross.
Justin Trudeau

To try and escape from our awesome nuclear arsenal.  But there is no escape, and I will rain fire down on any chicken who dares challenge my supreme power.
Kim Jong-un

I have no knowledge of this chicken.  It wasn’t a Russian chicken, and anyone who says it was — is misinformed.
Vladimir Putin

He didn’t!  Fake news!  Not funny!
Donald Trump

Colonel Sanders is sexist.
Serena Williams

I’m smarter than that chicken.
Kanye West

I walk down the middle of the road.
Taylor Swift

We must end our dependence on fossil fuels, and then there would be no need for roads, chickens would run free, and families could just gather the eggs for food.
Environmentalist

Did you know that millions of chickens are suffering and never get the chance to cross a road?
PETA

One percent of the world’s population controls 90% of the chickens and 80% of the roads.  That’s not fair.
Activist

I’d like to live in a world where chickens can cross roads without everyone questioning their motivation.
Facebook activist

Chickens have just as much right to cross the road as roosters do.
20th Century feminist

What’s your problem with an empowered female following her passion in a rooster-dominated society?
21st Century feminist

But my favourite is

Wow!  Wouldn’t it be weird to have feathers and shit, and like we could fly everywhere, and instead of having babies, we could just like lay eggs?  Cool!
Over-enthusiastic Cannabis User