mdlake.net

This is an experimental entry today; we're trying out a new system. Tiring of putting my words onto your screen, Eileene dug up a new web utility at the Greymatter website which lets semi-ignorant schlubs like me put up readable web pages. For the graphic, I still have Eileene to thank. This is an experimental entry today; we're trying out a new system. Tiring of putting my words onto your screen, Eileene dug up a new web utility at the Greymatter website which lets semi-ignorant schlubs like me put up readable web pages. For the graphic, I still have Eileene to thank.

There's little more to it than setting up a template into which you cut-and-paste whatever you like. Greymatter provides you with an ordinarily but perfectly useable HTML format, complete with header notation and everything. If you are web-savvy and prefer to tinker, you can do that, too. Eileene spent last evening ooh-ing and ah-ing over all the customizable whatzits while I looked over her shoulder, uncomprehending. My suspicions that the special features were extras only a web designer could love seemed vindicated when her attempts to get up a test page failed. Twice. Three times. Four. I went to bed. But now, as she watches Jurassic Park III, I am grappling with the thing, and there are neat buttons to play with.

I can [i]italicize[/i]. I can [u]underline[/u]. I can [b]boldface[/b]. I can do it with proper HTML tags (not hard), or use a shorthand, like double-asterisks on either side to boldface. Colors. Fonts. Pretty cool, eh?

That's all standard stuff, what you might expect. But HTML doesn't easily do?

moving script

zigging back and forth across the page. If I should need it. Spellchecking is automatic, sort of a pain to override when you want to use a non-word, but I can close my eyes and get: foe lofts jiving sigma kHz winch wings waning.

The text is interactive, too, in surprising ways. It sends a cookie out into your computer to check which of eighty-three languages you prefer, and translates my essay into proper idiomatic phrasing for that language. (Sorry for you Tamils out there; we're working on it.) Greymatter searches your records for age, so you can get the hot, , *** version or get it automatically cleaned up for the kiddies. I can program words like

this

to react to your mouse as a graphic, dodging across the screen when your cursor approaches, like a pesky mosquito. HTML doesn't do that. Click the button in the lower right to pre-arrange individual letters to compensate for dyslexia. A Braille version on screen or printer. I can even use monitor radiation to reprogram your DNA through the LAN.

Oh, wait. It doesn't do any of that. What was I thinking?

Hey, if it just appears in one piece on the first try, that's a small miracle.

Posted by at 1:42 PM | Permalink

It is hot today, and will be hotter tomorrow, by all reports. It's the kind of heat that settles on you like a thick blanket weighted with shot. It pushes you down into your seat where you remain until sunset at least, when things go from unbearable to merely oppressive. The quote above often pops into my head on days like this.

I like Eliot a lot, especially The Hollow Men, enough so that I took the time to memorize it at 16. This despite the fact that I don't understand a word of it.

Oh, I can understand the footnotes and commentary textbooks supply. Since they largely agree, I have to accept they're largely correct interpretations, too, but damned if I can follow the path from poem to consensus interpretation as a compelling argument. The images are too heavily symbolic to carry meaning so explicitly. Maybe they are about 20^th century angst caused by a loss of religious faith. Or not. Once, when I confessed to my English-teacher Aunt Linda that I loved Eliot but hadn't the vaguest clue of what he was saying, she replied, "Oh, Eliot usually didn't have a clue what he was saying." Maybe, maybe not, but it was a good answer. If we did, we'll never know it for certain.

So really, his value is all a question of the turns of phrase he uses. Are they pleasing to the ear? Do they evoke intriguing images? Do they seem pregnant with meaning, even if the meaning is obscure? Appreciation of the poem becomes even more personal and subjective than for other poems. Personally, I like "I will show you fear in a handful of dust" and "this broken jaw of our lost kingdoms," but if you don't, well, what can I say to change your mind? This indefensibility Is it good? Is it art?

Before you answer too quickly, I also like many pretentious, drug-induced Woodstock-era lyrics: Jefferson Starship, the Moody Blues, even Neil Young - if only they could do something about his voice! I've puzzled over their lyrics, and am drawn to a portion of it for the same reasons that I like Eliot,. Yet most of the acid lyrics, while indisputably art, is also bad art.

What's the difference? Nothing I can communicate well, which makes my position tenuous indeed. Eliot just feels better. Heavier, in the Latin sense of gravitas. The images relate closely to one another, and suggest more meaning than does acid rock flinging out images chosen for their own sake. I feel, at some non-verbal level, confident that Eliot has the power to appeal much more strongly to many more people, and to carry its sense of (unfathomable) meaning more reliably. Just a guess, but one I trust.

Which brings me to a principle I hold very firmly: there is a difference between what we like and what is good. I like James Bond and Hostess Ho-Hos and H. Beam Piper, but neither in ways that make the experiences rich and valuable, nor in ways I could expect others to share. They are crap. By contrast, it's hard to imagine someone not reacting on some level to the fourth movement Beethoven's 9^th. That's art. Good art.

Posted by at 1:38 PM | Permalink

This came to me as I watched a tape of Neil Gaiman reading his own works on tour. In the short story Chivalry, a widow picks up the Holy Grail in a used goods outlet, and puts it on her mantel. Soon Sir Galahad comes to petition her for it. When he offers a legendary sword, the widow, who does not want the sword, hunts for something polite to say, finally settling on, "It must be very sharp." Suddenly, I realized that, had I been reading rather than hearing the story, I would have taken the statement as a straightforward expression of wonder. Just as suddenly, I realized that's why stories always seem to sound better on NPR's Selected Shorts program. Good actors sift among turns of voice suggesting surprise, irritation, sarcasm, and so on for the most entertaining, even without explicit direction from the text. Perhaps they do this automatically, even unconsciously. I don't. I miss important material this way, unless the writer is as literal-minded as I.

I can blame my weakness on various causes. My own voice is monotone, so naturally I project it on books. Similarly, I tend to literal speech, apart from frequent fits of sarcasm, so anybody but Dave Barry reads literally to me. And, of course, unless the writer explicitly directs the reader, taking words at face value is the safest course. (A whole school of thought claims it's the only course.)

Unfortunately, the safe course also means I miss important content. A good writer doesn't riddle conversations with Tom Swifties, and subtly implying every inflection is a Herculean task. Perhaps my difficulty with classic literature stems from this problem - I don't "get" the classics unless I'm in a lit appreciation course.

What's the lesson here? Damned if I know. Maybe to cycle through passages repeatedly, trying out different deliveries of the dialogue. But I'd read about 20% the rate I do now, if I did. So, for fiction, I will continue to tend to stick to sci fi, which attracts a literal crowd. And Selected Shorts, of course.

Posted by at 1:37 PM | Permalink

Different military branches have enjoyed the prominence of being the arm of decision through history. In the bronze age, chariots ruled the battlefield. Later it was the spear wall, armored knights, the pike again, muskets, artillery, rifles, artillery again, armor, the airplane, and jets, each replacing earlier branches as technology unevenly improved their relative merits. For example, under Napoleon, massed artillery could break an enemy formation faster than infantry or cavalry could; whoever got the best use out of his artillery while holding reasonably firm everywhere else would win. By the Civil War, infantry weapons had increased in range to match artillery: what you could see, you could shoot. Artillery could fire over the horizon, but what good did that do anyone before forward observers could tell the cannon whether they were hitting anything? Infantry superceded artillery as the arm of decision for a while.

Typically, the arm of decision is employed against its enemy counterpart first, then turns to mop up whoever is left. Thus, in WWII, the Allied air forces focused on driving the enemy from the skies first. Only when control of the air was assured could ground support be used to proper effect. The Axis, preferring a faulty doctrine of chaining planes to ground support, naturally was driven from the skies. Thereafter, when the post-Normandy ground offensive ran up against stiff resistance, the Allied troops could call in a quick air attack and press on.

Following this principle of pursuing the enemy counterpart first, hard-core adherents of the new school propose an army of hackers aimed at gumming up the enemy's communication networks, and would strengthen the hacker corps even at the expense of the conventional forces' budget. Conservatives aren't ready to go that far; if the defense is stronger side in purely electronic warfare, the electronics corps won't be able to crack the enemy, and should be assigned immediately to supporting conventional forces. Both sides are plausible; it all depends on how effective electronic offensives can be.

The thing that most intrigues me about the debate, however, is not the capabilities (or incapabilities) of the new technology, but the subtext of the debate. If it were just about getting new hardware, there would be no conflict. Generals traditionally like getting new gadgets, and like the idea of getting them now. What they're having trouble with is the implications for hierarchical command structure.

To use the new weapons effectively, you need to use them quickly. Modern mobility makes military intelligence even less dependable than it has been in the past: wait a week, a day, sometimes even an hour, and it's obsolete. There won't be time to check all the way up the chain of command before information must be used in a decision. And, since the soldiers who can understand the data and analysis are typically not even officers, much less top brass, critical strategic decisions will be increasingly in the hands of ordinary enlistees.

Can the military handle that sort of decentralization? Can it win without it? Since the development of gunpowder, there's been a continual trend towards greater dispersal of forces, avoiding exposure to deadlier weapons. By and large, the junior officers, and then the NCOs, have handled the delegation of authority, and the responsibility for initiative, pretty well, particularly with the spread of universal education and citizen armies. They can probably handle it in the future, too, though how they can all be kept informed enough to make decisions with repercussions over vastly larger portions of the war is a sticky question. I think the risks inherent to the fog of war will increase, not decrease, with expanded detection and communication. Yes, battlefield information will be increasingly available, but the amount of information needed to make a good decision is increasing even faster. The chances for a catastrophic mistake are rising sharply. All the more reason to hope warfare, at least between great powers, is obsolete.

Posted by at 1:36 PM | Permalink

I have discovered a needful book, or at least I find myself wanting a book which does not, to my knowledge, exist. Plenty of Neil Gaiman exposure of late has me thinking of the popular literary device of gaming, gambling, and bargaining in a mythic perspective. Such battles of wit and will often carry implicit, or even explicit references to The Rules, which one breaks at risk to one's own soul, or at least the loss of the challenge. The tales build upon their own tradition; reusing story elements suggests some degree of consistency, that the games continue to use the same Rules, possibly refined over the ages to close up the loopholes which make for such good stories.

Let me give you a few examples.

Ever heard of the wish game? A magical creature grants a wish or three to some hapless mortal whose objective is to get the most from the wishes, while the spirit tries to pervert the wish to the mortal's detriment. King Midas played and lost. So did the fairy tale couple who wound up with a sausage attached to the husband's nose. The Monkey's Paw is a more recent retelling which openly acknowledges the malevolence of the wish-granter.

A variation is selling one's soul to the devil. Sometimes, the soul is lost, a la the original incarnation of Faustus. Often, however, the story reads better when one outwits Satan, as in The Devil and Daniel Webster or Convergent Series. The sinner wins by exploiting a loophole in The Rules.

There's the Achilles' Heel monster. Originally, a vampire could only be dispatched by impaling its heart with a stake of beech or lightning-felled oak, or by decapitation followed by stuffing its mouth with communion wafers. More recently, movie vampires have developed more vulnerabilities; now it suffices to trick the creature into remaining out until dawn, or luring it into prolonged contact with a cross. Still, the game remains the same: dispatch an otherwise invulernable creature by tricking it into its one weakness. Gandalf used the same tactic against trolls early in The Hobbit, and Superman continues to banish Mr. Mxyzptlk to the fifth dimension by getting the imp to say his own name backwards.

Oath-taking is sacred, and was once taken quite seriously. In the context of a mythic contest, they become Rules. One of The Rules is that participants can make their own before they start.

Riddle contests are universal.

The list is long. The Greek Furies can't touch their victim; they can only goad their victim to suicide. Similarly, vampires can't come in until you invite them. Breaking bread together is a sacred bond. Violating the trust of a house guest carries horrific penalties, and not even the Aesir can kill a blood relative. Holy ground is proof against all manner of evil, not just Christian bugaboos. Djinni are helpless sealed in a bottle. So are leprechauns once held by the leg. These are Rules.

Susan Cooper's The Dark is Rising series describes several tactics in the battle between the Light and the Dark, hinting that we're only seeing a small sample of the Rules, that somewhere is a vast compendium of all the opportunities and restrictions. If we could get our hands on it, we could describe every fairy-tale battle ever fought, or that ever will be.

That's what I want to see: an encyclopedia of The Rules, culled from myth and legend and fairy tale. It wouldn't be self-consistent, alas, there are too many contradictory versions of the stories floating around. But it would be one hell of a read.

Posted by at 1:35 PM | Permalink

I think I've got our president figured out. You probably will too before I reach the conclusion. See what these points mean to you.

One: George the lesser's fiscal policy is to concentrate money in the hands of the wealthy, so that it may trickle down to the rest of us. The theory is that if the wealthy have more of the nation's money, they will vastly increase their purchases of consumer goods, which will stimulate the economy. Whereas if the money goes to anyone else, uh? what? They won't spend it, I guess. Turn it into papier mache or something. Maybe waste it on food and consumer goods, as the poor are wont to do, which won't stimulate the economy.

Two: the president's domestic policy is to grant big business whatever it wants. The theory is that business will produce wealth, which will ultimately improve everyone's lot, and that business will be responsible enough to take care of any problems it creates. That's why it's perfectly all right to drill for oil in national preserves: oil companies will be very careful to use only natural-looking, non-pollutive derricks.

Three: on the foreign scene, the essence of George's policy is the "charm offensive." By substituting warmth and general affability for actual substantive policy, he avoids worrying over all those tricky details. Surely foreign leaders will happily dispose of their own agenda for someone as likeable as George. Oh, not including evil empires, obviously.

Four: for those evil empires, George wants a high-tech anti-missile shield. Observant military theorists note that such a defense will not deter great powers, who don't really want to get into a nuclear exchange, and wouldn't stop them if they did, since the shield can't be entirely effective, and only a few nukes would need to get through to destroy the country. Also, it won't stop rogue states, which, by definition, act irrationally and are more likely to use suitcase bombs, anyway, since they can't afford ICBMs. Never mind; the US can win any arms race. That'll show 'em.

Five: the president is entitled to short work days. Long hours tax his attention span, so, according to an account I found in the Economist, he works 10-noon and 1:30-4, a four-and-a-half hour day, not counting a brief after-lunch nap.

Starting to sound familiar? You've seen it all before, perhaps with slightly different labels. Supply-side economics. The environment delegated to James Watt. Teflon presidency. SDI/Star Wars. Oval office naps. Bush either thinks he's Reagan, or wants very, very badly to be.

Well, there we go again.

Posted by at 1:35 PM | Permalink

I've had a lengthy sabbatical while pursuing a program of volunteering. The idea is to get out of the house and have actual life experiences to write about. Too often I find myself living off memories and familiar thoughts, the literary equivalent of eating nothing but canned food. So I've manned phones for an NPR pledge drive, and helped the local blood drive, and put on a demo for the local game shop. It seems to be working, though it's hard to point to any specific correlations - "I saw X today, and I wrote about it." Still, I do feel more active. By the middle of last week, I found myself saying I had things I wanted to write. Wanted to write, mind you, not merely could pound into an entry.

My friend Brian just returned from a trip meant to do much the same for him on a much grander scale; he traveled to Australia, Indonesia, and nearby countries, risking his life on bungee cords and the streets of Singapore. Eileene has a new job with the NY Mercantile Exchange, and Jim is chafing at the sensory and intellectual deprivation of truck driving, so the human need for novelty and stimulation is sort of the flavor of the week.

It isn't just a human need, either, and that's what I wanted to talk about today. Just last week, the radio had a quickie on scientists proving that the brains of lab mice grow much larger in complex environments than simple ones. That's no earth-shaking discovery; I vividly remember a Nova program from my adolescence depicting a monkey kept in a bare cell. It would perform elaborate feats, not for food, but for a five-second glimpse at an electric train in a neighboring cell. And, of course, zoo animals have long been known to maim themselves out of boredom after too long in an overly dull cage. What caught my attention about the discovery was something the radio program didn't address.

Not all creatures need mental stimulus; it's a side-effect of intelligence. Higher birds and mammals need novelty. Fish and insects don't. Now we know that lab mice lie above that dividing line, which puts behavioral scientists in a particularly nasty catch-22.

Science demands that experiments be simplified as far as humanly possible. The fewer independent variables which can affect an experiment, the easier it is to isolate the expected cause-effect relationship the experiment is meant to test; ideally, the only true variable is the one being tested. Living creatures are frustratingly complex, responding to the subtlest differences in their environments in unpredictable ways. (Take, for example, the "counting" horses which instead were responding to the tester's anticipation!) The only way for the scientist to keep things manageable is to keep them in the simplest environment possible. But observe: lab mouse brains confined to simple environments develop differently than normal ones. The mice being tested, having sub-standard brains, quite probably will exhibit different behavior than normal, healthier mice. A crucial premise, that a sample of lab mice will exhibit behavior sufficiently similar to the general populace to draw meaningful conclusions from it, is ruined. The very process of setting up a useful experiment calls the applicability of its findings into question.

It's just one more item for the list of fundamental difficulties psychologists face in turning their field into a proper science. Yes, my boy, stick to physics and you'll go far. The precisely measureable uncertainties of Heisenberg can't hold a candle to a well-developed nervous system.

Posted by at 1:34 PM | Permalink