Author: admin

The central tower of the city was now in sight, directly in front of them. All the travellers needed to do was proceed forward, and they would surely arrive at their destination. “I think we’re nearly there,” Jenny said in relief. She couldn’t even say how long they had been travelling, and her feet ached terribly.

“No,” said Josh, “we have to turn here.” He pointed down a narrow dimly lit side street — really more of an alley than a street.

“What do you mean?” Jenny said, exasperated. “The tower is right there in front of us. I can see it!”

Josh just shook his head. “That way doesn’t work. Look, I’m sorry, I don’t know how I know, but I just know. If we go that way, we’ll die.”

Jenny was about to say something in response, something she was sure would have been cutting and clever, when Sid interjected. “He’s the path finder, remember? Whatever he says, goes.”

“Oh right,” she said. She looked at Mr. Symarian and Charlie, and they all nodded in agreement. She came to her senses. If Josh said it wasn’t safe, then it wasn’t safe.

The travellers turned into the alley, just in time to miss he low grumble of a sound far, far down the main road — the path they had not taken. It sounded like nothing so much as a deep growling, the kind a dog might make if strangers approached.

I learned this week that there is a movement around building things for a ten dollar computer (playpower.org). The existence of these computers, which can be found, for example, in marketplaces in Mumbai, came about due to a combination of two things: patents running out on old 6502 processing chips from the 1970s, and the propensity of small manufacturers in China to throw things together quickly and cheaply, if they see a market.

Given all the hype about the iPad and other relatively expensive devices, it’s intriguing that there is a computer inexpensive enough to be in the hands of a fairly large proportion of the world’s population — and in particular, the world’s children. Educational games made for such a platform (assuming they are well made) could easily reach a far higher proportion of children around the globe than anything we are currently doing that aims at a higher end platform.

There is something immensely appealing about the idea that illiteracy — one of the key contributors to endemic poverty — might be battled by enlisting the technological power of old video games.

Bruno sensed something new in the air. Softly he growled. Since time before time, he had been standing watch over his mistress, guarding the way to the castle spire where she slept. In all that time, none had dare cross his path. The mere sight of his fearsome visage had turned away even the hardiest of souls.

But now strangers approached. He did not know how he knew this — he just knew. He rose slowly, unaccustomed to movement. It had been so long since the last time he had needed to awaken from his eternal vigil.

But now he was fully awake, and his senses were alert. He sniffed the air, seeking a clue to the identity of the invaders. They seemed strange, with a scent in may ways unlike that of the villagers. Above all, these travellers seemed not to have the smell of fear about them.

At least not yet.

Martin Gardner died this past weekend at the age of 95. In the scheme of things, not the worst age to die. He had time to accomplish many of the things he wanted to in life. And oh, the things he accomplished!

When you’re a brainy misfit kid, say around thirteen years old, too smart by half for your own good but utterly unable to connect with kids your own age, life becomes a kind of purgatory. You may have friends, but in some ways you find yourself completely alone.

But then one day you pick up a copy of “Scientific American”, and happen upon Martin Gardner’s column on Mathematical Games. And suddenly you are not alone. Here is a man — an actual, honest to goodness grownup — who shares your loves, your passions, your belief that there is beauty in the very fabric of the universe.

I remember poring over his columns for hours at a time, studying the beautiful puzzles, working them out, letting one thought lead to another until my mind had built an entire cathedral of meaning.

Martin Gardner was not afraid to be a nerd, an uncool intellectual, a mathematical devotee. He reveled in mathematical beauty, not with the jaded and self-interested eye of a grownup, but with a kid’s perfect enthusiasm, a pure unadulterated hobbyist’s delight.

I saw him speak once, when I was a teenager. I was thrilled to see my idol standing before us in person, and he did not disappoint. He talked of puzzles, of strange mathematical paradoxes, of delightful creations conjured from pure thought. I saw then that Martin Gardner was a brilliant overgrown kid, excited and inspired — as I was — by the sheer joy of problem solving.

He is gone now in body, but will forever be with us in spirit. I realize, in this moment of this man’s death, knowing how many lives he has touched, and how many young minds he has kindled, that this is not an occasion for mourning, but rather a celebration of a life beautifully lived.

As they walked the deserted streets in the gathering gloom, the travellers instinctively huddled together. Josh looked off into the distance, at the five ramparts around the city, each glowing with an eerie green light. He turned to the large demon. “Why does the city have five sides?”

Charlie shook his head. “Didn’t always. The city’s changed in all kinds of ways, and some of those changes are hard to explain. ‘Cause it’s not really the city — it’s more like the reality.”

Josh looked confused, and the big demon just shrugged and smiled apologetically. “Sorry kid, I’m no good with metaphysics.”

Sid chimed in helpfully. “Old Charlie’s probably a little out of his depth here. Hey Teach, can you help us out with this one?”

Mr. Symarian smiled sadly. “It is indeed as our large friend says. Since the arrival of She Who Sleeps, it is believed that this reality itself has been changing to reflect her dreams.”

“Wait,” Jenny said, “are you talking about my grandmother Amelia?”

If we attained true global peace, would we stop saluting flags?
If we knew the world would never end, would we still recycle plastic bags?

If we all were telepaths, would that take away love’s passion?
If we were by love at last fulfilled, would there still be any jobs in fashion?

If we could beam ourselves at will, would we love fast cars anyway?
If we knew that we could live forever, would we still cherish every day?

Around the central spire of the palace, the city was circular. There were five ramparts, spaced equally around the circle. Atop each of these ramparts was a flaming torch, eternally lit with a greenish flame the color of the sky. The travellers walked in silence through the seemingly deserted streets. Gradually the sky darkened, and the gloom settled around them like dust.

Charlie was the first to speak. “I remember back when these streets used to be full of life.” The large demon looked around with sadness. “It was like one big party here, and everyone was laughin’. I would come home at night through the crowds and it’d just feel great to be alive. I remember once, back when I was just a boy, my mom…”

“Your mom?” Jenny interrupted. “But you’re a demon!”

“Yeah,” he replied sadly, “You got that right. I am a demon. But I wasn’t always like this,” he said. “I had a life once — before I was, um, taken.”

“Taken?” she said. “I don’t understand.”

He shrugged. “Not sure I can explain it right, at least not till you understand more. Reality is, well, a kind of prism, and even truth itself can bend. That’s as true on your world as it is on mine. And wherever the light bends, we gotta see what it shows. Sure, I’m now a demon, can’t argue with that. Every bit as much as your teacher there,” he pointed toward Mr. Symarian, “is now human.”

“Mr. Symarian?” Josh broke in, looking at their teacher in alarm. “You weren’t always human?”

“Perhaps,” their teacher said, smoothly changing the subject, “We can continue this fascinating discussion another time. As you can see, we have arrived at our destination for the night.”

It would be interesting to expand the notion of the Subversion Clock to include other aspects of everyday life. A motion sensor could be placed in every room of a house, and assorted mechanisms installed in the walls, doors, windows, cabinets, floors, closets, and miscellaneous nooks and crannies. Anyone entering a room would encounter a perfectly ordinary space. However, whenever the motion sensor in a room detects that nobody is present, various changes start to occur.

Towels might change color, or wallpapers vary in pattern. The woodgrain of the doors might mutate from one visit to the next. The picture on the mantel could change in both content and position. A throw rug may appear on the bedroom floor one day, only to be gone the next time you enter. Window curtains might change to slats, or vice versa.

There are so many possibilities for the inconstant house, so many opportunities for play. And of course the best changes would be the little ones — those that require attention to be noticed. It should not be too obvious that the height of a picture upon a wall has changed, or that a trim little mustache has appeared in that old black and white photo of grandpa during the war. And the pair of old work boots which one day turns to a pair of lady’s shoes should be discretely tucked away in a corner of the library.

Much of the fun would be in designing the house in such a way that the underlying mechanisms remain unseen. There should be no tell-tale strings or wires to trip over or to catch the light. Plumbing fixtures, bookcases and alternating styles of furniture should rotate cleanly around a central hinge, so that the unseen version disappears behind the nearest wall.

And of course, upon entering any room, one should see one of those subversive clocks, always reliably set to a new and unpredictable hour.

The distance to the gleaming city on the horizon must have been greater than it looked, Jenny thought. It seemed like countless hours since the travellers had begun crossing the vast plain, as the magnificent skyline on the horizon gradually grew larger. There were long stretches of silence, with no words passed between them.

At last Josh turned to Jenny and said, in a still quiet voice “have you noticed something?”

Jenny was startled out of her reverie, and jumped in surprise at the unexpected sound of a voice. “What?” she said. “Noticed what?”

“We’re not hungry. And we’re not thirsty. And this has been going on for, like, forever.

Slowly Jenny nodded her head. “Yeah, that’s weird.”

“Not weird, precisely,” came Mr Symarian’s voice. “It’s the curse, you see. The effect is centered upon the city you see before you. It begins just outside the city itself, and pervades the countryside for a considerable distance in each direction. Within the affected region, time itself appears to change. Two weeks or more can go by, and it might seem to be the very next day. Or the reverse.”

At this Sid chimed in. “Yeah, like the little lady said,” he grinned. “Weird.”

A century ago people didn’t take movies seriously. The view of the intelligentsia (the kind of people who took books seriously) toward films was roughly akin to the view many people now have of interactive media such as computer games. This parallel came up today in a discussion that touched on both computer games and the history of romantic tragedy.

Take, for example, Sidney Carlton, who is initially presented as a self-absorbed wastrel in “A Tale of Two Cities”, yet ends up being willing to sacrifice his own life so that another man (a man he detests) can live on happily with the woman he himself loves. It is perhaps one of the most moving examples of self-sacrifice in all of Western literature.

There are many other examples of “beautiful tragedy” — whereby the hero makes a noble decision that personally destroys him, and yet (in the mind of the reader/viewer) affirms a kind of transcendent and redemptive dignity of humanity. Many film noirs starring actors like Robert Mitchum share this quality. The hero willingly chooses death, knowing that this is the act which will redeem his/her soul. The tradition dates back to antiquity, and continues on today in films like Eastwood’s “Gran Torino”.

I participated in a discussion today about the relationship between tragedy and interactive media. At some point I raised the question of whether such scenarios of redemptive sacrifice — with their attendant echoes of emotional catharsis and existential affirmation — could exist in interactive media such as computer games.

Of course this is not a straightforward question. The agency of the player complicates things considerably. How can you truly be moved by the decisions a character makes if you yourself might be responsible for that character’s choices? Yet one could argue that there would be enormous resonance in presenting a player with a set of decisions in which the ethical or psychological “win” involves a powerful self-sacrifice for the sake of a loved one, or just for the sake of what is true and right.

I’m not sure exactly how something like this could be pulled off, but I do think that it’s a key question, if we are looking at computer games as a medium that might, at some point, take its place as a serious forum for cultural production and reflection, just as films have come to take their place alongside the novel.