This week, The Parker Institute of Time Travel Studies (The PITTS) — in conjunction with State and Local Officials — has devised this warning for all time travelers and others involved in temporal excursions: Do not employ bootstrap time travel.
Bootstrap Time Travel (Encyclopedia Galactica*) — The bootstrap paradox is a paradox of time travel in which information or objects can exist without having been created. After information or an object is sent back in time, it is recovered in the present and becomes the very object/information that was initially brought back in time in the first place.
A recent examination by investigators — hired by the autonomous Fish and #TARDIS Sauce Group — indicate that there is an alarming rise of bootstrapped articles appearing throughout the timeline. The genesis of this “fad” seems to have been the airing of the Doctor Who episode, “Blink.” The PITTS, therefore, has been forced to implement emergency and draconian measures to staunch the flow of now-uncreated objects and information. Recent examples of bootstrap incursions include, but are not limited to, the following:
A man from Nantucket took a freeze-dried lizard back to his childhood, gave the lizard to himself, which he (the younger) then kept until he was a grown man with a chance to travel back in time … the situation was frustrated by teaching his younger self a limirick.
A husky Russian émigré, intent on playing football for Vince Lombardi, recently overshot his mark and took his time vehicle to 1947 New Mexico instead of 1967 Wisconsin, ruining our research and playoff hopes in one selfish move.
An English woman, home from the laundry mat and feeling adventuresome, took the family Wellsian for a spin to Victorian England with a basket full of extra footwear, creating an impossible temporal vortex of missing socks that will confound 20th– and 21st-century men for eternity.
An Alabama man took an egg (cage-free, organic, with Omega-3s) to China, circa 6000 BC, to the very day that the first chicken became domesticated and, as a result of self-indulgent selfish motives, removed the chicken-egg paradox from modern thought.
A Jaffa woman recently returned The Holy Grail to its shelf at TheCenacle, thereby eliminating any possibility we could determine the origin of said graal.
And in 2007/1969 Doctor Who told Sally Sparrow, “Blink and you’re dead. They are fast. Faster than you can believe. Don’t turn your back. Don’t look away. And don’t blink. Good luck.” The Doctor has been unavailable for comment.
These are but a few examples of what has become a worldwide epidemic. At this rate, all material objects, articles, matter, data, information, and salmon will not have a place of origin. The effects of this activity on the eco-military-industrial-climatic-god complex cannot not be overstated without embellishment. Please stay tuned to this channel for further updates.
The past is prologue; so is the future.
Years truly,
Keith
* All entries from Encyclopedia Galactica are, in fact, plagiarized liberated from Wikipedia.org (English version).
“Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” ~ Arthur C. Clarke.
Scale and scope.
When did the scale and scope of speculative fiction become so obsessed with the unimaginable? This question came to mind the other night when I was watching Star Trek Into Darkness, after having just seen a re-run of Doctor Who‘s “The Eleventh Hour” (s05e01) the day before. Both shows, so completely different in theme, character, and setting, do have something in common: The stakes are so high that the action — both physical and dramatic — has to be quasi-supernatural in order to … in order to … in order to what?
Keep our attention?
Is it really necessary to have a fist fight with a genetically engineered god on top of an air-car traveling at 100 miles per hour?
Is it really necessary to have Mr. Spock from two different universes?
Is it really necessary to climb through an unimaginably large warp core that’s eerily reminiscent of a famous British police box on the inside?
Speaking of which …
Is it really necessary to hack into a global video teleconference?
Is it really necessary to have an villain who can shape-shift (clothes, and dog collar, and all) into anything, anything at all?
Is it really necessary to program a planet-wide computer virus?
Maybe it is. I don’t mean to sound like a curmudgeon, because both of these shows charge me with that sense of wonder that’s enchanted me since I was old enough to know what genre is.
Vast scales and scopes are nothing new to the mythos of speculative fiction; not when you had shows like The Twilight Zone telling you that there was a fifth dimension “as vast as space and as timeless as infinity” right there in the corner of your eye; not when you had The Outer Limits telling you that “we will control all you see and hear”; not when you had spaceships traveling to Jupiter so humanity could become star children. And all of that was a generation ago.
But if we take away today’s themes of the universe-is-going-to-implode-and-all-of-spacetime-is-going-to-get-flushed-down-a-Planck-scale-toilet, then what are we really left with? We’re left with questions. And those are the hardest things of all. Do we seek justice, or do we demand revenge when we see crimes of utter devastation? Do we trust the man in the bow-tie when he was really only figment of our childhood? Do we believe there is absolute good and absolute evil? Or do we believe there’s a spectrum in between?
The struggle to save humanity — the galaxy, the universe, the mutli-verse itself — really pales when compared to the questions that these shows ask. The visual candy is there — oh, yes — and I will gladly pay the price of admission time and time again to consume it. But I want to ask these questions. I want us all to ask questions. In my opinion, that’s the only way we can grow. I want to know if there’s moral absolutism or moral relativism … or both. I want to know what we do when morality changes, if indeed it can. I want to know how to ask these questions. I don’t look for answers much anymore, but I don’t think that’s the point anyway. I think we, as humans, have to ask them.
By the way, a Star Trek fan gave me two hand-made Tribbles. They’re sitting on the mantle next to a Waterford crystal wine decanter, in stark contrast to one another: The sublime and the ridiculous. The trouble is, I don’t know which is sublime and which is ridiculous. That’s another question I’ll have to ask.
“The way I see it, life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don’t always soften the bad things, but vice versa the bad things don’t always spoil the good things and make them unimportant.” ~ Doctor Who
As an unapologetic, unsuccessful fiction writer I’m proud to say that I often rub shoulders with the people who rub shoulders with the people who rub shoulders with the writers who write in the tradition of Edgar Allan Poe and Ambrose Bierce. Down through the years I’ve been drawn to the hauntingly compelling fiction of H.P. Lovecraft and Robert E. Howard, Ray Bradbury and Shirley Jackson, Joyce Carol Oates and Stephen King. So when my family sat down to watch the award-winning episode “The Doctor’s Wife” — and the opening credits popped up on our barn-size television set — I yelled out like the damn food I am: “Neil Gaiman! Neil Gaiman! It was written by Neil Gaiman!”
My wife and kids stared at me like I was speaking Serbo-Croatian.
But then I remembered the good Doctor’s quote, that bad things don’t spoil the good. So instead of simply leaving it at that, and enjoying a stunning piece of drama — wherein Doctor Who melds science fiction, fantasy and horror with the aplomb of a good bartender mixing a mojito — I paused TiVo to explain that Neil is one of the über-talented writers who’ve inherited the mantle of Lovecraft and Poe, who’ve become the newest generation of fantasists. And their blank stares reminded me of Christmas dinner twenty-years-ago, when a friend of the family asked what kind of fiction I wrote. When I allowed that I was a fantasy writer, he said he loved — just loved — a book with good, steamy sex. So do I, for what it’s worth, but that’s not the point.
When I say fantasy, I don’t mean Fifty Shades of Gray or late-night Cinemax. I’m not a prude; it’s just not my genre. In fact, I am not even referring to The Lord of the Rings or A Game of Thrones. Again, not my thing. You see, my foot is firmly planted in that land of shadow and substance, of things and ideas, and so when people ask what I write, I simply smile and say that I write Twilight Zone stories. At which point some teen or tween will say, “Ooh, I just love Stephenie Meyers.”
And that’s when I go to the bar and order another scotch.
“Violence,” came the retort, “is the last refuge of the incompetent.” ~ FOUNDATION, The Encyclopedists, by Isaac Asimov, 1951
“To thine own self be true.” ~ Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 3, by William Shakespeare, c 1623
Look, it’s pretty obvious I was a dipshit for about 20 years. Why in the name of God would I try to write something I wouldn’t even want to read? If you stay up 12 hours every night reading thrillers, then you need to be writing thrillers. If you’re mesmerized by Joyce Carol Oates’ sublime prose, then you need to be writing about the jagged edges of love. If you’re reading Playboy for the articles, then you’re lying.
Ever since I was a kid I’ve been mesmerized by the science fiction and fantasy section of bookstores. I’d wander in, mouth agape, eyes agog, images of spaceships and ray guns whirling around me.
I remember one store vividly –Adan’s Bookland, if I remember correctly – located at a mall here in Huntsville. As a comedian once mocked, this mall was called “The Mall,” and was located on a parkway called “The Parkway,” which is not too far from a mountain called “The Mountain.” Alas, my hometown is not renowned for its creativity. If you went into the bookstore from its sidewalk entrance, the science fiction (or SF) section was immediately to your right. My older brother, a brilliant hippie and headstrong physicist (or do I have that backwards) had turned me on to Star Trek and The Twilight Zone years before. He’d drive me to The Mall, then ditch me while he and his high school buddies looked for the latest LPs by Badfinger and Led Zeppelin at Hornbuckle’s Records. On one specific day – an icy-blue November Saturday – I’d just finished the Foundation Trilogy by Isaac Asimov, devouring the copies of those three books that my brother had given me. I wasn’t quite sure I understood the story, and I was as enthralled with the cover art as I was with the mysterious story itself. The first book of the trilogy looked like this photo on the left.
To my surprise that morning, I spotted another book right away that looked like it was part of the same series. Its title was 50 Short Science Fiction Tales and it had Asimov’s name in bold font across the front – along with Geoff Conklin, whoever he was! At the time – I was only nine – I didn’t know publishers commissioned the artists to do covers for different novels. All I knew was the enigmatic cover art, so very similar to Foundation, was sitting there in front of me. It looked like this photo on the right.
So, it was perfectly natural for a fourth-grader to conclude he’d soon be reading even more about futuristic heroes like Hari Seldon, Hober Mallow, Salvor Hardin, and, of course, The Mule.
What was it about that art? Was it the eerie green glow? The spaceship-and-sun logo? The creepy man with the Roman nose and slanted eyes, the one who looked … Asian? On the way home I asked my brother about this. After all, every other SF book cover showcased men as white as Florida sand and shackled women as bikini-clad as Florida women. My brother didn’t need to mull over my question. He just flipped his hand flippantly (as it were) and said Asimov’s fiction took place 50-to-100 thousand years from now. By that time humans would’ve evolved (he said) toward an Asian countenance because of that culture’s science, technology and logic.
I cocked my head, confused. The entire population of Asia was composed of scientists and engineers who kicked their emotions to the curb like Mr. Spock? Everybody? There wasn’t a single pissed-off garbage man on the entire damn continent?
I encountered a lot of that type of weird stereotyping growing up, a half-insulting, half-complimenting broad-brushing of people who were “not like us,” whatever the hell that means. If you grew up in the ruins of the old Confederacy, as I did, you know what I’m talking about. You’ve learned to juggle these conflicting thoughts and feelings, contradictory morals and ethics. It goes with the territory, as it were.
But I digress. When I was nine if you’d asked me what I wanted to write when I grew up, I would’ve said science fiction without hesitation. Hell, if you’d asked me when I was 18 I would’ve said science fiction, until a strange series of events in the fall of 1982. I had started school at a small, liberal arts college with a tremendous academic reputation. Like most guys my age, my studies took a backseat to the twitchy, inexplicable and completely normal crush I’d developed on a cute blonde I met that first week. Things didn’t quite work out between her and me, mostly due to my awkward bungling of the whole affair. But the subsequent letdown affected me for a long time to come.
That probably translates to about one week in the taffy-time of your teen years.
Her rejection sent me scrambling back to the sanctuary of SF. I remember driving my old Plymouth to Brookwood Mall seeking solace. I went straight to section containing Asimov’s books. His literature was my comfort food, my meat and potatoes.
And what did I find that day? I found something that rattled me as hard as the rejection from the girl on campus: The cover art of the entire Foundation series had been changed. It had been updated.
It had been ruined.
Feeling lower than a man who’s just accidently shot his own dog, I dragged my sorry ass back to campus, realizing everything had changed, including me.
And that’s when I really became a dumbass, hiding behind a veil of dry humor, thinking I knew that SF was only for nerds. Now don’t get me wrong … I had fun. Or should I say, F-U-N! College was one of the greatest experiences of my life. I met my wife and made friends so dear they’re like family to this day. But I also gave up a piece of myself. I ditched SF, and for that, I made Keith Parker a synonym for dipshit. And I kept it that way until tragedy struck almost 20 years and two children later.
In February 2003 my brother – the one who’d given me the Foundation novels – dropped dead of a heart attack in his own kitchen. Under the crushing stress of grief, my mother’s subsequent strokes and Alzheimer’s dementia, the loss of a job, the death of my father-in-law, and countless other freaky setbacks, I found myself gravitating back that charming realm of SF, seeking the asylum I lost that autumn day in ’82.
Thankfully, I’ve rediscovered my roots. I know within a moral certainty that my writing has to be speculative fiction. There’s no other way for me to be me without it.
So no matter what your passion is
and you know what it is
do not ignore it. You’ll never write a successful novel, screenplay, short story, poem, haiku, or recipe without having the full weight of love behind it.
Oh, one last thing: Those copies of Foundation that my brother gave me? The ones with the “evolved” humans? Those novels are gone forever. Locked away. Buried. And I mean that literally. Without anyone looking, I put those copies into the memory box of my brother’s casket. I said goodbye. Sometimes you have to say goodbye in order to say hello again.
This week, The Parker Institute of Time Travel Studies (The PITTS) — in conjunction with State and Local Officials — has devised this warning for all time travelers and others involved in temporal excursions: Do not employ bootstrap time travel.
So, it was perfectly natural for a fourth-grader to conclude he’d soon be reading even more about futuristic heroes like Hari Seldon, Hober Mallow, Salvor Hardin, and, of course, The Mule.
KeithParker.org 