Ken’s Blog

I was having lunch yesterday with a colleague who mentioned that her husband used to create hyper-fictional poetry in book form. His poems would appear in the same printed book at various levels of detail, to create a kind of printed hypertext.

She said he later had electronic hyperfiction versions of the book created, so that readers could interactively choose to dive into the poems to see the more detailed levels.

I asked whether that really worked. After all, in my experience people don’t always dive down to see all the levels in interactive hyperfiction. Often they are not even particularly aware that there are deeper levels to explore.

She agreed that in some ways the piece was hurt in just this way: A number of readers would now go through the entire experience by simply skimming the surface.

It occurred to me then that one interesting use of interactive games as a rhetorical device is to lead people into such deeper levels, which can so easily be missed in “folded” narratives. For example, the game Myst, which really was at heart about exploring a world, was structured as a mystery so that people would dive deep into the experience to try to solve that mystery. The real pay-off was the opportunity to explore its rich fictional world. The challenge of playing the game of Myst was a mechanism by which the designers of the world created an inviting path for people to keep exploring the world of Myst.

Maybe something that looks like a game doesn’t need to be primarily about being a game. Providing challenges to be solved can simply be a useful interaction technique to help lead people to a more complete exploration of a rich and complex fictional world.

The other day a colleague told me he had a theory.

“What’s your theory?” I asked.

He said his theory was that some children like to eat dirt because they have an instinct to develop defenses against micro-organisms in their environment. It is a way to ensure the continued survival of the species.

“That makes sense,” I said. “And I have another theory.”

“What’s your theory?” he asked.

“My theory is that some parents like to stop children from eating dirt because they have an instinct to prevent the continued survival of the species.”

Given the general coolness of simple robots like thermostats, steam engine governors and telephone ringers, I already had the idea as a child that there is something wonderful about things that operate by going in cycles.

Then when I was thirteen I discovered that there really isn’t any such thing as a “sine wave” or a “cosine wave”. Every time you see something that looks like it is going back and forth to make a wave — like a pendulum, or a water ripple, or a guitar string — what’s really happening is that something is going in a circle. The reason it doesn’t look like a circle is that one of the two dimensions of the circle is hidden from you.

For example, the left to right movement of a pendulum is one dimension of a circle. The other dimension of this circle is the momentum of the swinging pendulum. Think about it — when the bob of the pendulum is in the center, it is moving the fastest, and when it is all the way to one side, it isn’t moving at all. Just like sines and cosines. In other words, the bob is really moving in a kind of circle.

Once I realized this, I saw that all sorts of things work this way — light, sound, tides, people’s changing moods — anything that has a repeating rhythm to it.

And movement in a circle just means always being pulled toward a point. It’s like when you twirl a rock around on a string. The string is always pulling the rock toward a point (in this case, your hand holding the string), so the rock goes in a circle.

For the pendulum or the guitar string or the ocean wave, that point is always there, constantly pulling something toward it. You can’t always see the hand that holds the string, but it is always there.

In honor of the most wondrous circle of them all, I decided to devote this solstice day to poetry.

      The longest day, the largest moon,
      Summer seemed to come too soon.

      Nothing ever seems to last,
      But memories of time long past.

      So near the moon, so long the day,
      Then why does time just slip away?

 
Tomorrow we will circle back to yesterday’s topic. 🙂

When I was a child I fell in love with the idea of thermostats. The lowly thermostat was, I came to understand, the perfectly minimal example of an actual working robot. When the temperature went up, a sensor triggered the thermostat to produce cool air. When the temperature went down, the sensor triggered the thermostat to produce warm air. It was simple, but intelligent.

It was a robot in my house. What more could any kid ask for?

When I was a child there were also mechanical men. They were on TV, in movies, and in exhibitions, and they were called robots. But I understood that these were not robots at all — they were simply puppets dressed to look like robots. The thermostat, humble though it may be, was the real thing.

And then I discovered it had cousins, like the governor of a steam engine. If a steam engine runs too hot, its governor spins faster, and the two steel balls it carries are flung outward through centripetal force. This movement causes a lever to be pulled downward, which partly closes a throttle, thereby cooling the engine down.

My grandparents owned an old telephone they never used, which I was given to play with and take apart. I found an electromagnet inside, which pulled upon a spring metal bar which held a clapper that rang a bell. But as the clapper moved toward the magnet, an electrical connection was broken, and the bar snapped back. This reconnected the electric circuit, and the cycle began anew.

The phone ringer didn’t look anything like the thermostat, or the steam engine governor, but I knew they were all cousins.

And then one day I learned the truth about circles.

More tomorrow.

Today Alan Kay told me that in the hay day of Apple’s HyperCard, over four million people were programming in its HyperTalk language.

This number dwarfs the success of all other programming interventions. For example, the Scratch programming language for introducing kids to programming, which is considered by many to be a highly successful project, has several hundred thousand users — an order of magnitude fewer than HyperCard in its prime.

It’s odd to realize that the historical high point for widespread computer programming literacy occurred about a quarter of a century ago.

We really need to fix that.

In response to my post about nostalgia for the future, Sally wrote: “Star Trek is just cops in space. Gene Roddenberry worked for the LAPD. Think about it, the Enterprise crew flies around in a “cruiser” fighting intergalactic crime, but IN SPACE and with no donuts.”

The original Star Trek was an important show in the evolution of television, but not as a cop show. The prime directive generally prohibited “solving crimes”, but the story goes much deeper than that.

On its most basic structural level, Roddenberry’s “Wagon Train to the Stars” (his term) was very much a Western. As I’ve noted here before, there are only two kinds of Westerns: (1) A stranger rides into town, and (2) We ride into a strange town. Star Trek was both kinds.

But the clues to what Roddenberry was really up to can be found in his previous show “The Lieutenant”, which focused on a military man in peace time. I suspect that show was influenced more by Roddenberry’s experience as a fighter pilot in WWII than by his later stint with the LAPD.

In addition to Gary Lockwood as the lead character William Tiberius Rice (Lockwood would later famously guest on Star Trek in the iconic episode “Where No Man Has Gone Before”), the show featured appearances by Leonard Nimoy, Nichelle Nicols and Majel Barrett.

One episode, featuring Nichelle Nicols in a mixed-race relationship, was never aired, because NBC decided that race was too controversial a topic for television. This sad incident motivated Roddenberry to make his next series — Star Trek — into a vehicle for progressive social commentary. As in a Western, the displacement of the story out of our own contemporary world gave him license to make political points that would otherwise be unacceptable in the heavily censored TV of the 1960s.

The airing of Star Trek was very much a political breakthrough for television, opening the door for a slue of later socially progressive shows from Norman Lear, Larry Gelbart and others.

In a sense Star Trek was the very opposite of a cop show. Rather than being a show about going around arresting bad guys, the overriding message of the series is understanding and acceptance of others, no matter how different they may be from ourselves.

By the way, I think Tiberius is a wonderful middle name, don’t you?

I attended a conference this past weekend, a gathering of scientists and spiritual leaders, all of whom are seriously addressing the question of “How can we live forever?” Whether through induced neural regeneration, or nanoscale tissue repair, or downloading of minds from a brain to a computer, or spiritual transcendence of the body, just about everyone seemed to be a True Believer.

I turned to a friend of mine, who seemed really into it, and I asked “But why is everyone so sure this is a good thing?” He seemed a bit taken aback by my doubt. “After all,” I continued, “you have a small child. I can imagine a future scenario where there wouldn’t be any more room — where your desire to live forever would clash with your ability to bring a new life into the world.”

If somebody said to me: “You have five seconds to decide, and only one chance — would you like to be immortal?” I suspect I would probably say yes. The instinct for survival is simply that strong. But that doesn’t mean I think this would be a good thing to unleash upon the world.

And then there are all sorts of weird ways in which the very idea of an individual could become eroded. What if my downloaded mind were then replicated multiple times? Which one would be me? Would the phrase “unique individual” even continue to make sense in such a world?

In yesterday’s post I talked about period films, and how much they reveal about the era in which they are made.

Stephan pointed out that this is also true for Star Trek, as in the differences between the original series and the recent JJ Abrams reboot.

Which made me realize, perhaps for the first time, that a science fiction film is a period film. In this case the period is a particular vision of the future that has become built into our culture.

You might argue that a “vision of the future” doesn’t count as “period”, since it’s not a real place or time.

Yet the “old West” that we see in our movies is often the mythological version, not at all grounded in the reality of life in those times, but rather in an idealized collective fantasy about that era. It is not so much whether a period being portrayed exists in reality, but rather, whether it exists in our hearts.

And there is some piece of cultural real estate in our collective history that we all recognize as “science fiction future” that we idealize as a period in our cultural history, like any other. We experience all of the attitudes toward this make-believe place that we have toward any other era in our nation’s history.

We might even feel nostalgia for the future.

I’ve been spending time recently watching old “period films”. A period film is a movie in which the story takes place in an earlier historical era, such as “Gangs of New York” or “Gladiator”. The thing that strikes me about old period films is how much they reveal about the era in which they were made.

For example, there have been at least five different filmed versions of “The Great Gatsby” (if you include the 2000 made-for-TV version). Although each movie ostensibly takes place in the summer of 1922, they all end up being lessons in the aesthetics of their own time. In a sense, such movies are “double period” — they reveal the aesthetics of two time periods at once.

What is considered sexy, powerful, compelling, from facial expression to body language, are portrayed in markedly different ways in the various versions of “Gatsby”. Which makes sense, since ultimately each film is aimed at its own contemporary viewers. Rather than faithfully portray Fitzgerald’s Jazz era, each film maker must recreate that era in ways that will resonate with his or her own current audience.

It is easy to look at a movie which aims to portray events of its own time, and see the markers of the particular slice of time in the culture when that film was made. But in a way it is far more interesting to do this with a period film. The choices are still there, but they have moved largely to an unconscious level.

Seeing “Ivanhoe” now (the Richard Thorpe version) is a lesson in the aesthetics of the early 1950s, even though it is based on a novel about the 12th century that was published in 1820. And seeing “The Scarlet Pimpernel” (the Harold Young version) tells us far more about the aesthetics of 1934 than I suspect the filmmakers had ever intended.