The Hopeless Politician And The Technological Singularity

I swore to myself that there will be nothing of a political nature in Headless Chicken, but I guess with all that hype going about with the “shocking” results, I ended up commenting on my friends’ blog and article. As such I shall thus still remain true to my word (making me a hopeless politician) and if yer interested in my two cents worth you can visit http://g-e-r-g-a-s-i.blogspot.com/2008/03/left-is-new-right.html#comments and http://thecicak.com/why-im-voting-why-we-need-to-fix-the-flaws-in-the-system/

Mainly I said in those comments that the Internet was a major factor in influencing the results. This got me ticking how much cyberspace is shaping our future. Sure we know about all those social networking sites, and I’ve read countless articles on how a digital society can manipulate real life events, but to witness it in our own backyard and at such a large scale truly amazes me how powerful the World Wide Web can be.

Indeed everything is going online, a brooding giant breathes behind the computer screen ready to strike. It raises its view and decision, and this has profound impact on politics, businesses as well as the economy and judicial systems and society at large.

I like the idea of having our own place in virtual space. It’s like owning your own universe where you can invite friends to be a part – a growing community where bits and pieces of our self are in everyone else. And as computing power accelerates I wonder how much more is ahead. Can we create our own Matrix? Each person possessing his or her ideal state - be it narcissistic, romantic, mythical or scientific. And we don’t go in to a site just to read, watch and listen, we also taste, smell and feel. We absorb in to the URL, and in 3-dimensional fashion socialize with avatars amidst virtual architecture, magical pets and alien flora.

And when one day this becomes a reality, what becomes of society? We are already escaping in to an electronic lifestyle, will we now immerse in it? Will we find the digital more appealing than the natural? And when we can, will we choose to live in it instead? Will we even interact? Preferring to commune with our own creations because they both compliment and complement us. Who will we be?

Thus ultimately, this takes us to the theory of Singularity http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Technological_singularity proposed by scientists like Raymond Kurzweil http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ray_Kurzweil http://www.kurzweilai.net/ and Vernor Vinge. The Singularity is a point in the future when technological advancements supersede human intelligence, and as such mankind is joined to machines becoming a new hybrid species, first as individual AIs that can merge and separate at will, take diverse forms and switch between the physical and digital and later transcending to a collective consciousness taking over the universe, converting “dumb” matter (rocks, gas etc) to intelligent stuff, and finally interacting beyond outer space.

I repeat then, “Who will we be?” Our individual person is so important to us; can we still then ever be unique? Can we maintain our individualism and yet be a collective consciousness? I think so; we have demonstrated it in our recent election. All distinct human beings possessing the same voice. Though we long to be different we choose to be the same.

So, how the hell did I get from the 2008 Malaysian election to the sci-fi theory of Singularity? Some workings of my mind I cannot compute, but whatever it is, from here and now with the swearing in of new powers to the transformation of mankind to his divine state I hope we can accommodate our different agendas peacefully.

Monday Morning Glory On A Thursday

I stumbled upon a gem in Jusco IOI Mall over the weekend in the form of Woo Ming Jin’s Monday Morning Glory, a Malaysian movie about terrorism. The day before I had just witnessed Vantage Point (another terrorist film…by Hollywood none other this time) and I have to say that even without the glitz and glamour of an illustrious production our local fare captured me more. The 8 Vantage Points of a single assassination and bombing event got me yawning halfway thru.

As for Monday Morning Glory otherwise known as Lampu Merah Mati, I wonder how many Malaysians have heard of it? If you ever catch it look out for the part bout McDs and other fast food chains…that was my fave. Got me laughing. (I always have this thing about not supporting corporate America but fail miserably). And I like the Chief Inspector’s (played by Patrick Teoh) dry remarks when answering journalists on police brutality.

The film does not take sides. Both parties have faults, it just re-enacts an event. You don’t really get to know the characters well, but a good question to ask is whether we actually know what the hell we are doing when we take actions on Planet Earth.

Deathrow High (Chapter 1)

This tale is about life, it mirrors everyday existence. If it’s a budgeted movie shot on video cam, you’ll get to pick up the hum of noises while filming. Therefore, don’t expect any highflying explosive effects or outlandish costumes; only be entertained by the mundane routine of reality.
Also, don’t be bothered by the guy in prison. You’ll never know why he’s in there in the first place. He’s just sitting in the shadows, allowing the dim light to flood through his soul until a contrast that highlights his mouth but camouflages his eyes appear to become two pitiless sunken sockets staring outward. Only his hand stuck forward in the light, holding a cigarette between fingers.
Frank sits silent. The smoke twirling off the fag mesmerises me. It looks like a serpent slowly uncoiling in to the skies. But fate has it that it’ll only be swallowed by the dark night.
“Emptiness is nothing you can share.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I was just singing to myself. Sugar Ray, Falls Apart I think.
“I remember…”
“Runaway, runaway la la la la la…o’ what the fuck.”

I’m visiting Frankie in his cell. I know I’m not supposed to, but I’m a nice guy and the warden likes me. I bring gifts, and besides, Frank needs company. He’s on death row, and perhaps someone in the inside has a soft heart toward dying men…I dunno.

Sometimes, men can be in the same room without saying a word. We don’t have that need to talk, unlike women…cos we’ve got nothing to say! Frankie can just sit there in his little own dark corner smoking a fag and I’ll sit down at the opposite end looking at him fag away.
But suddenly he started to cry. It wasn’t much initially, just a tear that streamed down his cheek like a shooting star crashing out of the shadows of outer space. Then another, then another…soon I heard a sob crackling from his throat…then another.
And to my horror, he began to growl. Gurgling sounds like those of persons smitten by sorrow. Eventually it got louder until it resembled cats screaming in the middle of the night behind alleyways. I was standing erect by then…lost…
The guards, alerted, came running to see, but they look more like fancy to me, like the way people slow down to stare at accidents on the road. Frankie keeled over in howls, mucus hanging precariously from his nostrils a foot down and I remember this war movie: A British soldier about to be beheaded by the Japs had the same facade as he, only that it was drool on that poor chappy that defied the laws of gravity.

To the guards I must have looked like a Messiah where a sinful man implores for forgiveness by clinging to my trousers and wiping his nose on it…

Old by Esther

yes i am old.

like how old wine has refined tastes

and delectable textures

like how old t-shirts make you feel comfortable

enough to fall asleep in

like how old sneakers are your best footwear

cos they've moulded to the shape of your feet

like how old songs are fun to sing to

because they bring back a flood of

pleasant emotions and memories

that make you smile

like how old diaries yellowed with age

remind you of old school crushes and

loves won and lost

like how old friends are the best of friends

because inspite of all the rottenness they've seen

they chose to see how beautiful you are

and love you just the same

Its good being old.

I like the part bout the old t-shirts and sneakers (and of course the friends lah). Never wanted to wear anything new when I was a kid, not very keen bout it now too. As for the sneakers, I had a Fila pair once. Holes in the soles, and my solution rather than dispose of them were to duct tape the bottom. My shoes are an inspiration; just ask Esther bout it in her poem.

Yasmin Rocks!

I had the pleasure of meeting Yasmin Ahmad recently. Her eyes sparkle with observation, her tongue with inspiration. Something she said stabs me. In describing her favourite film Tora-san, Our Beloved Tramp by Yoji Yamada in her blog http://yasminthestoryteller.blogspot.com/ she states “Notice that there was no real big event occurring in the film. No wars, no murders, no deaths, no alien invasion. Just regular folks with regular problems. But in the end, you care deeply about each person's problem as if it was your own.” She also quotes John Webster, “It's easy to be sensational. Just walk around with your zipper down and you'll be sensational. But genius is when you can be sensational with your zipper up.” I admit I often walk with my zipper down. Most storytellers do. We resort to some kind of drama. Not necessarily anything cataclysmic, but even everybody’s hot topic love is dramatic. How often do we fall in love? As such, how do you tell a compelling tale in the day of a life? Wake up, go to work, come back, kiss the wife and kids and then sleep. Only a master storyteller can pull this off.

So, I have a new goal. To do a tale about nothing. Ideally it’ll be a movie as nothingness is harder to portray with visuals. In spite of our mundane routine, what goes on in our head is always exciting – scandals, murders and super beings – and as such a book does not invigorate me. Novels are the dramas of the mind.

God willing, fingers crossed, I’ll be able to come up with a story. All inspiration exists. Nothing is original. We just reach out to grab it. Meanwhile, I’ll still walk with my zippers down.

I Am Me

Here’s something written by the babe Esther Lim. Inspired by the Greek legend of Narcissus, the story is the product of her acting class’ brainstorm session, but the words are totally hers.

A barren landscape. A deep, dark, stagnant, bitter pond. This is all that’s left.

All it can do now is dream. Dream of the past that was once pleasant and beautiful.

You see, the pond didn’t always look this dark and bitter, it was once beautiful. It was once rich with the source of life; it once reflected the beauty of a young man who had undeniable good looks. This young man came by the pond every day to look at his reflection. In that reflection the man saw perfection, flawless beauty, and that made him happy. It made him vain and proud. Day after day he would return to the pond and stare at his reflection long and hard. One day, as the man knelt at the edge of the pond he slipped and drowned.

The pond became depressed and felt an acute sense of lost, not because it loved the young man, but because it could no longer see itself being reflected in the young man’s eyes. It could no longer see how beautiful or happy or sad it was. The pond’s sense of identity died together with the young man. The pond felt a deep sense of sorrow as it reflected on the many ways it could have prevented the young man’s death.

Had he been the trees that grew by the banks of the pond, the young man could have held on to its branches or roots to save him from falling to his death. Had he been a tree, he would have protected the man.

Had he been a bird he could have swooped down and carried the young man to safety as he was falling into the pond.

Had he been a flower he would have emitted scents so sweet that the man would have been distracted from starting too intently at his reflection.

The pond is none of these things however. He isn’t the tree or the flowers that grow by the banks of the pond; neither is he the bird that flies by for a visit. As the pond reflects on these things, it grows angry and bitter. After months of nursing angry, bitter thoughts the pond turns dark and poisonous. Once a source of life to the trees and flowers that grew by the banks of the river, it now spews out bitter poison killing everything that was ever beautiful.

Now the pond is left in a barren wasteland. Alone and friendless.

All it can do now is dream. Dream of the past that was once pleasant and beautiful.

Elizabeth Amber

Elizabeth Amber sat transfixed by the window of her cottage. Children played in the garden outside. She has a good life. Munching in to her cheesecake, everyday at least one since her migration to the UK. Elizabeth loves Jane Austen, that entire epoch actually. She wears a bonnet, the costumes of that time, whenever she strolls and takes Pup (her Golden Retriever) out for a walk. Some kids and teens make fun of her, some insensitive adults too, but she’s unbothered. She’s happy.

Elizabeth had come a long way, a high flying career in modelling, everyman’s number 1 wet dream, money like free champagne. But she’d given it all up. At the time of her peak some more. Sensationalism. All the world is after is a new sensation. After the old one is gone, vapour in a few months…weeks even. Where was the certainty? Where was truth?

Elizabeth rather withdrew. To a quiet town, a quiet village, but the modern world was everywhere. Coke, Sony, IBM, brand names at all corners, products she’d helped to sell. Entirely unreal, compulsively choking, that’s why she’d resorted to organic vegetables planted in her own backyard. Rear and slaughter pigs instead, keep chickens for eggs. Very self-sustaining, a close circuit.

Town folk called her a waste. No one understood her “irrational” decision to throw away fame. They mocked her, blasted her insane. And for a while the media crowded around, breaking for an interview, to report on her odd behaviour, feeding the consumer’s stomach for news and hearsay. But soon they got bored and then they allowed her to do her thing, went searching for the next big thing.

She was only 29 when she ran away, when she built this cottage to live a recluse’s life. But not exactly a hermit cos I was with her.

Elizabeth Amber,

How I love you. I am a simpleton, the village idiot. You showed love when all others poked, you cared when they scorned. They said I talk funny. It was a grainy afternoon, grey with rain. I was beaten up by thugs, scarred, left to suffer in a playground from the night before. Housewives passed, gentlemen take this way as a shortcut to work, even two priests flocked along with their black robes. No one bothered.

Until you, until you came in your funny clothes. For a while I thought I’d died and heaven was an 18th century gentry. But you picked me up, supported my drawling weight with your shoulders. To clean me you first had to get dirty with me. Tended to me and finally healed me.

I am forever indebted to you. I serve you. This is the way to live, basking in simplistic beauty unperturbed by the dissonant and discord of the world.

Elizabeth Amber sat transfixed by the window of her cottage. Children played in the garden outside. She sips tea; we are a billion light years away from Earth, orbiting a nebula galaxy, and I approached to hug her tenderly.