Friday, August 20, 2021

My Trainer Believes In Aliens

Like I could open a blog about aliens and lifting weights without explaining grammar. Did you know that the word "in" in the phrase "believe in" is an adverb? This means it is a word that modifies a verb, in this case creating a verbal phrase that changes the meaning of "believe" from a surety (either an opinion, as in "I believe you're mistaken," or something accepted, as in "I believe the coroner's report") into a matter of faith: I believe in magic. I believe in aliens. I believe in God. Do you believe in life after love? You get the idea. Anyway, this means that the "in" in the title of this blog gets capitalized, because it is an adverb and not a preposition. (A preposition is anything a cat can be in relation to a tree: in, on, around, under, above, below, within, beside, atop, across, before, after, from, to, with, near, far, etc.; and the type of thing you're not supposed to end a sentence with.) And now you know.

So anyway, my trainer believes in aliens. Not necessarily like they're out there, right now, probing people; but more like they definitely built the pyramids. With lasers or something. (Because that definitely makes as much sense as levers and pulleys and sleds and tens of thousands of people doing literally anything to get out of paying taxes.) Friends, let me tell you this: the effort that it took for me to keep a straight face when I learned this was matched only by the effort it took not to get crushed by the weight of what I think is called a Smith machine (you can Google it, I'm busy writing this). (I did it anyway, I was right!)

Now, I've always been a moderately skeptical person. Part of that is because the world is full of assholes, and that's a good defense mechanism, but also because my favorite books from between the ages of about 5 to at least 8 was the DK Eyewitness series of "how stuff works" books for kids. (At least, according to my best Google-fu, that looks the closest to what I remember. It could have been the Smithsonian version of the same thing.) YOU GUYS. THESE BOOKS ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE YOUR FAVORITE BOOKS.

But. And this is, I think, the key to my entire identity as a human being. BUT. At the end of each chapter, there is a little box text "for the parents." It is in a smaller font, and there aren't any bright colors or pictures, so kids are supposed to look right past it. And for a while, I did. But then I saw it. And I swear.

It was like, imagine if you're Harry Potter, and not only did you just find out--FUCK that transphobe who wrote that book, by the way, don't ever forget she is trash and does not deserve a single ounce of pity or respect, let alone another damn dollar--but imagine you're not just finding out that there ARE wizards, and YOU get to be one, but then you get on this magic train to this magic castle and THEN you go the library, and there's a RESTRICTED SECTION. LIKE EVEN MORE SECRET AND POWERFUL AND AWESOME THAN ANYTHING ELSE.

You're sneaking back in that magic library in the magic castle in the middle of the night to break into the restricted section. YOU HAVE TO.

And that was me, and the "For the Parents" section. It was the answers. It was the WHY and the HOW, and once you know that stuff, you can see behind the screen. You can see the wind, not just the leaves shaking. You can see the shape of the earth, not just the horizon. You can see the patterns in the stars are NOT the archer and the bear and the lady-or-the-chair, it's the entire freakin universe spinning around and spreading out and cooling down and we are MADE OUT OF THE ASHES OF EXPLODING STARS.

"So do you watch ancient aliens?"

I make a face, which looks exactly like not making a face, because otherwise I would die because this Smith machine is maybe a torture device, and my hip flexors are too tight but I haven't figured that out yet. "On History channel? Where that guy is like 'oh, it's aliens' about a bunch of stuff from a long time ago?" I'm very carefully not dying, because I learned the right form and that alone is worth whatever I'm paying for this, and because no one wants to die in a Smith machine.

"Yeah so I've been binge watching it," she says, and tells me something I don't remember because I was trying really hard not to let any of it get remembered, but might have had something to do with floods.

"Well it is pretty cool that the Aztecs and the Egyptians had similar structures around the same period of time, and they found cocaine under one of the Pharoah's fingernails," I say. "That's pretty hard to explain." So far, as far as I know, I'm telling the truth.

"RIGHT?" And she says something else I commit myself not to commit to memory.

"I mean, someone did build a reed boat and sail it from Venezuela or somewhere all the way to... maybe Morrocco," I say. At this point I know I'm only half right. Which, I assume, is still more than the Ancient Aliens guys.

"Oh weird. Yeah I wonder if they could have just sailed there?" At least, that's what I remember my trainer wondering aloud. My memory could be faulty, considering how poorly I abused it right up until that point in this conversation.

"Squats or leg press?" I ask, and we leave the Smith machine and that conversation behind.

But I didn't, not really. I can't leave that conversation behind. I keep thinking about lasers and how did they make the Nile flood and how did that make a pyramid? And the first draft of this had a lot of other shit and then ended with something about ELECTRONS ARE NOT FRIENDS WITH EACH OTHER, because science.

And really, that's all that matters. Just science. There’s this principle in the philosophy of science that any true theory must be falsifiable, or conceivably able to be proven false. And I know this for a fact because I heard it somewhere. (Now, for too many people, that would be the end of the sentence, and that’s part of the problem.)

I know this for a fact, because I heard it somewhere and then I repeated it to someone who should have also known it, my freshman biology teacher in high school. We had just started evolution, which was actually kind of a controversial topic 20 years ago, and she was dipping her toes into the water of explaining that “evolution is just a theory,” and I asked (attempting to be helpful) “Well isn’t it true that all scientific theories should be falsifiable, so even though we can observe evolution, the theory of natural selection may not be the mechanism?” (I was 14, that should have earned me a Nobel prize or at least a gold medal in something.) And she said no. NO, she said. Maybe she was diplomatic about it, but I was crushed.

There are maybe only two reasons for a 14 year old boy to race to the Internet after school as quickly as I did that day: mine was to prove her wrong. And she was. (Mostly.)

So that’s me. And, with both honor and pride intact, let me label that: I’m a skeptic. As by instinct, I test each new thing I see and hear against what I have heard and seen before. When I first heard about falsifiability, it fit with everything I knew about the scientific method. And when my teacher said NO, it didn’t. I don't always have to be right (don't laugh, reader, who knows me too well), but if I’m wrong I have to know why. I have to peel back and look behind and test and probe and weigh and judge.

And that's me, too. Look behind the easy thing, the obvious thing, the fun thing, to find the real thing. And the only reason any of this felt like it fits together (aside from how clacky my keyboard is, which is super fun, and if not for any slight degree of restraint might have led me into a lengthy aside about the tortoise trade), is that THAT is what I'm doing in the gym.

I don't need muscles. I want better posture. I don't need to lose my love handles, or my quarantine belly. I just want to sleep better, and move better, and feel better. (And look better, okay you got me.)

My workouts aren't just 30 reps of this and that and go home. That's how you end up with bad posture. (Seriously. There's a guy at the gym who looks like a wet noodle because he only works his chest and not his back.) There's science to balance, to feeling better, to work one thing and stretch the other, over and over until you're perfect. (Or better.) And when things don't work you can find kinesiology textbooks online and find terms like lumbar hyperlordosis and then search for exercises to correct it and realize you’ve completely fucked your hip flexors by doing the wrong ab exercises. How’s that for falsifiability?

ALL of which is to say: my trainer believes in aliens. Sometimes it’s easier to turn your brain off and let the guy from the meme tell you that “it’s aliens” whenever something happens that you can’t quite explain. But I’ll be in the Smith machine, watching my posture, waiting for the incline bench to open up so I can go target that one part of my pecs that’s lagging behind, humming under my breath a made-up song about electrons. (The second verse might stray off topic because collapsed-chest guy is doing competition poses in the mirror again. It is a waist-high mirror. I will laugh because my legs are bigger than his.)

Weight: 139

Monday, February 8, 2016

Writing is hard

Writing In General
It took me way longer than I expected to write my first short story over at weeklywordsmith.wordpress.com - which means this year-long project is going to be a lot harder than I originally expected. On the days that I could actually write, I wrote at nearly NaNoWriMo pace (about 1,000 words per day) but still had to edit, revise, re-write, and edit all over again.

Unless I decide to switch to shorter "vignettes" or flash-fiction for at least some of the weeks, I am basically going to have to give up all of my hobbies, social events, and outdoor activities if I am going to pull this off. That sounds like zero fun. But I'm going to give it a couple more weeks before I make the decision about whether to switch to occasional flash-fiction, or cut my goal from 52 weekly stories down to 26 bi-weekly stories; mainly I just to see if I can get any faster or more focused before admitting defeat.

Writing "Adam"
My first story, Adam, is loosely inspired by a 1968 science fiction short story written by Damon Knight, a prolific writer of science fiction short stories. Masks is one of the few short stories I've read that actually stuck with me, so it felt like the perfect jumping-off point to start this writing journey. It's about a human who has his brain transferred into a robot body (I don't remember why), and losing the ability to feel slowly drives him crazy. Seriously. He kills a puppy.

I remember reading the commentary that the puppy represented everything he was not: soft, small, cuddly, pure emotive expression unbridled by reason. And that's why he killed the puppy. But I think the premise would need revision if this 50 year old story were written today.

The robot-person (whose name I can't for the life of me remember) shows two clear signs of impending insanity: first, fitful bouts of dreams in between the lab-approved, regularly-scheduled dreams and the pre-programmed "wake up" command; and second, a fear of germs. The first is a small rebellion, the physical brain attempting to chemically balance itself. It's probably harmless, and it's completely normal. The second is an irrational defense mechanism, the personality attempting to calm itself by imposing an element of control over the world, requiring visitors to wear masks and the laboratory to maintain a positive air pressure (like a CDC lab).  It's also pretty harmless, and also completely natural.

But neither of these reactions is enough to give the brain a sense of normalcy, and the second impulse develops into something sinister; the robot-person (sorry, let's call him John) begins to become repulsed by ordinary facets of life: sweat on a brow, grease on a forehead, a pimple in the corner of a nostril, a droplet of saliva expelled while talking, and, ultimately, the puppy, who sits there not hurting anyone but breathing and panting and drooling and shedding.

So why does any of that affect John? I don't think it would be as simple as the story from 1968 envisioned; it isn't the otherness that affects him, because he still intellectually remembers those things. Instead, I think the breakdown is more fundamental: his physical mind has lost the structural connectedness of being part of a living ecosystem.

Yeah, that sounds weird. But there's a concept in psychology and, increasingly, in artificial intelligence research called embodied cognition. I'm not qualified to teach it, but think about this: why is up good ("cheer up"), and why is down bad ("he let me down")? We use words about the way we feel--physically--about the world to describe more abstract qualities about the more abstract things that happen to us in that world. Up, high, and big are good things, whereas down, low, and small are bad things.

These descriptions are almost universal, because we all have bodies, and our brains perceive the world through them. Physicality is the primary filter of self-awareness. When John loses his body, he loses his ability to perceive the world the way other sentient beings do. As his neurons re-train to control the robot instead of a human body, they lose the pathways built around experiencing the world, interacting with the world, being a part of the world. His brain rebuilds itself into a CPU interface, translating raw thought into 1s and 0s. (There is even a line about how difficult it would be to upgrade his body because there aren't enough nerves to operate fingers, or facial muscles, with the kind of "analog" control that ordinary humans completely take for granted.)

After his transfer to a robot body, John is still sentient; but there is something cold and piercing about his intelligence, something distant about his self-awareness. Without a human body, "warm" is no longer inherently good in his mind, nor is soft. So he feels no remorse in dispatching something that embodies those qualities.

And that leads me back to Adam. I tried to be a little ambiguous, without being annoying about it. Maybe Adam is an AI who was given an android body, or maybe he was a human who had his brain transferred into a new body like John. Maybe Dr. Thayer, the man who fell, committed suicide, or maybe Adam threw him from the roof. It doesn't matter. Because the point is, Adam is an intelligent being in a synthetic body. (The pulp-fiction tagline for this story is "He was the first of his kind. Will he be the last?" Originally, I had imagined him as a prototype AI who went berserk on his creator, but with Ex Machina, Uncanny, and The Machine in my Netflix history, I didn't want to dwell on the implications of what it meant to create an AI so much as I wanted to explore what that AI would feel.)

He has a body, for better or worse; and he has a mind, and it seems to be pretty sharp. He thinks he should be able to feel things, and presumably he's walking around the city in the middle of the night trying to experience fear, isolation, a chill in the air, a sense of rebellion, something; but at every turn he is repeatedly deprived of that satisfaction. His synaptic interface is based on real technology being developed by IBM but it begs the question every child asks: how do we know that the color "blue" is the same for everyone? what if my "blue" sky is what you see as "green," but you call it "blue" because you know the sky is "blue?" If Adam feels things through a synaptic chip, how can he know if that's the same as feeling things through a nervous system?

Adam can feel temperature and texture and the pull of gravity. He can see color and hear sound. His synaptic processor is designed around processing these signals the way a human brain would, and there's a scene that looks like pain-gating (where the brain effectively ignores new sensory inputs when it's busy dealing with existing ones). But is that enough to feel?

Dr. Thayer's fall was the reader's first glimpse of what that answer might be; Adam can describe the instinct that might lead a person to pick a scab, but it doesn't appear he can conceive the pain that comes with picking at a scab. He is able to describe the sensation of falling, but only in hyperbole. He can't actually feel anything.

And it drives him mad. So he does increasingly daring things, desperate to feel anything at all. And at the very end, when it looks like he is going to do something truly terrible, completely unambiguously bad, he realizes that what he's been experiencing this whole time is emotion, or a "feeling"--just not the one he expected. Watching Dr. Thayer fall was as painful as picking at scab, he just didn't realize the analogy he was drawing. He could only tear the skin from his limbs because his brain was already consumed by the pain of grief: anger, denial, bargaining. And that realization saves him, even if he's a little broken by the experience. And later, of course, he learns what every child who wonders about the color blue learns: shared labels for abstractions are simply a part of human existence. We agree to call certain things by certain names on little more than the faith that the experience is the same for all of us; we can never truly see through someone else's eyes or feel through their skin.

This story was a little darker than I intended my first story to be, but the opening line kind of came out of nowhere and I really had to run with it just to see where it would take me. Once my character told me a little more about himself, Masks came rushing up out of some sub-basement of my memory and I knew who Adam was.

I had to rewrite the first scene once, and the second and third scenes a few times each, which I won't have the luxury of doing if I try to keep my goal of 52 stories in a year. I still have a lot of studying to do when it comes to the art and technique of writing a short story, so maybe I'll figure out how to outline in the interest of saving time.

All in all, this was fun; it might be one of my better crazy ideas.

Wednesday, January 27, 2016

Well, that settles it.

I'll be writing one short story per week, every week, for a year. Follow me at weeklywordsmith.wordpress.com (or wait for me to complain about it here).

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

Julie and Julia... and Craig: My Year Of [_____]-ing Dangerously

One of my book clubs (yes, I am in a couple) just read Julie and Julia: My Year of Cooking Dangerously. This particular book club is populated by NaNoWriMo participants, and books are selected with the ultimate goal of discussing what we (as writers) can learn from the author as an author. (I'll save my thoughts on the book for a later post, probably.)

Since writers are, as with most artists, an altogether self-punishing breed of person, someone in the group challenged us all to blog about a year-long project. So far only two people have settled on projects: one is watching all of the Star Trek episodes and movies in order of release date, and the other is reading the entire Sherlock Holmes canon.

I want to play along; or, at the very least, I want to want to play along. The only thing is, I've already resolved to watch less Netflix and read more books, but I don't have a favorite genre or even a favorite author with an oeuvre large enough to make a project. Except maybe Stephen King, but I can't read more than one of his books in a row, and he has a lot of stinkers out there (I'm looking at you, Cell). I also joined a gym last year, and spending a couple hours at the gym a few times a week really eats into my free time. Plus, I play a lot of Minecraft. That's a commitment all by itself.

So I have a few options, and I'm going to take a few days to mull them over. Here's what I have so far:

  • Visit and photograph all 105 Kansas county courthouses.
  • Write a short story every week.
  • Cook something new every week (like really new, like some sort of regional cuisine I've never even heard of).
  • Learn a new skill and demonstrate it every week (like, painting... and do a painting every week, or playing the ukulele, and recording a song every week).
  • Alternatively, learn a new skill every week (like lockpicking, metalsmithing, or... um, the art of being a mime).
  • Stock trades? I'm not even sure what that would look like, but maybe researching a different company or investment vehicle every week, learning how to do valuation analysis, and then putting my portfolio up for commentary.
And here's what I think about everything I've thought of so far:
  • I've actually wanted to do this for a while, and I've researched the history of many of the older courthouses, but traveling to the western parts of the state would make it difficult to have any sort of "regular" progress on this project.
  • I have no idea how to write short fiction. I guess I could learn?
  • As I learned from reading Julie and Julia, it can be hard to find ingredients for recipes that aren't en vogue. The last thing I need is to spend three days driving all over the place trying to find millet flour; I have no idea what a courgette is; and there is no way in hell I am going to cook anything involving offal, tongues, or hooves.
  • Painting seems expensive. I've purchased paint before, and canvas, and I know what they cost. I am not made of money. I also don't have room in my house for anything bigger than a shoebox. I don't think very many skills or artistic endeavors meet the requirement not to take up any more room in my house than a shoebox.
  • I don't think I can get good enough at any one thing in only a week to demonstrate it, let alone learn anything about myself or the people who do that thing, let alone not drive myself crazy because I am a perfectionist and there is no way I'm going to do something and not get good at it.
  • I really don't want to lose all my money, even if it's in the process of learning how not to lose all my money.
So basically I'm exactly where I started, except I couldn't entirely shoot down the idea of writing short stories. Is that a good enough reason to do something like this? That it's the least bad option?

Hopefully when the group meets tonight I can get a better feel for what they think worked (or didn't) in the book, and why, and then use that insight to help decide what to do.

If you have thoughts or ideas (or reasons not to do this!), let me know in the comments.

Thursday, January 7, 2016

Actually, don't Just Listen To Me

I guess it had to happen sooner or later. After a 9-year hold on the super "emo"-sounding www.justlistentome.com domain, a 4-year dearth of posts and an equal number of years' worth of essentially wasted URL registration fees prompted me to finally let go of the past.

But at least before it was all over I got to refresh my HTML skills, tinker with Wordpress widgets, and exercise a little creativity. There was also that one time I got to exchange really fiesty emails with a domain squatter who tried to charge me $3,000 for www.justlisten2me.com - after months of emails where we both tried to out-wit and out-annoy each other, I finally got him down to $100, which pretty much proves I missed my calling as a hostage negotiator.

Anyway, hopefully www.craigpaschang.com is both more professional-sounding and more likely to be updated on a regular basis. I'll eventually have links to my published work and essays, as well as the standard blog fare of life updates and cat videos (Agatha snores, you're going to love it!).

Still, it feels a little weird, and a little sad - like the first time I put Dog (my favorite stuffed animal as a child) on my desk at night instead of bringing him to bed with me.

Here's to Dog, and here's to JLTM. You'll both live forever, if only in the past.

Goodbye, sweet emo blog. Don't cry though, your eyeliner will run.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Just Listen To Me

If you want to know what's going on in my life, just listen to me.