Winter reading

Notes

A Bend in the River by V.S. Naipul
Salim journeys into the heart of Africa, into the same territory explored by Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness nearly eighty years earlier—but witnessed this time from the other side of the tragedy of colonization. Salim discovers that the nation’s violent legacy persists, through the rise of a dictator who calls himself the people’s savior but whose regime is built on fear and lies (familiar isn’t it?).

Fires by Raymond Carver
One of my favourite authors, he says of why he chose to write short-stories: Nobody ever asked me to be a writer. But it was tough to stay alive and pay bills and put food on the table and at the same time to think of myself as a writer and to learn to write. After years of working crap jobs and raising kids and trying to write, I realized I needed to write things I could finish and be done with in a hurry. There was no way I could undertake a novel, a two- or three-year stretch of work on a single project. I needed to write something I could get some kind of a payoff from immediately, not next year, or three years from now. Hence, poems and stories.

Towards Another Summer by Janet Frame
When I was younger and struggling to find something to write about, I had actually wished that my circumstances were different. I actually believed that if I had struggled, I would have something substantial to write about. Well, I wonder what Janet would say about this: Frame was born to a railroad worker and a sometime-poet who had been a maid for the family of writer Katherine Mansfield. Her early years were marked by poverty, the drowning death of her sister, and the disruptions created by her brother’s epilepsy. In 1945, while studying to be a teacher, she suffered a breakdown. Misdiagnosed as having schizophrenia, she spent nearly a decade in psychiatric hospitals. From 1947, following the drowning death of another sister, she endured repeated courses of electroconvulsive therapy. During that time she read the classics voraciously and cultivated her writing talent.

On my 'shelf'

(from the NY Times review) In Törzs’s world, books of magic, all written in human blood, can do incredible things when someone feeds them a drop of blood and reads them aloud. Abe Kalotay collected these books to protect them from falling into the wrong hands, and raised his daughters, Joanna and Esther, as stewards of a beautiful and dangerous library that had to be kept hidden at all costs; in Esther’s infancy, her mother was murdered by powerful people who wanted the books.

A jaw-dropping exploration of everything that goes wrong when we build AI systems and the movement to fix them.

Today’s “machine-learning” systems, trained by data, are so effective that we’ve invited them to see and hear for us―and to make decisions on our behalf. But alarm bells are ringing. Recent years have seen an eruption of concern as the field of machine learning advances. When the systems we attempt to teach will not, in the end, do what we want or what we expect, ethical and potentially existential risks emerge. Researchers call this the alignment problem.

Currently reading: Infinity Gate by M.R. Carey

I’ve had multiple dreams with varying contexts, but essentially all the dreams are in the same location.

A dark path into woodland with faint, fog-swathed light at the end of it. Winding, craggy paths. An abandoned villa with red adobe brick. A hill with a view.

We always look for second chances in life, but the ‘fantasy’ in this book is about finding something better- a 2nd, 3rd, 4th and even infinite chance. But this is not Marvel- you won’t find a version of yourself in the multi-verse and swap jokes about wanting to compare genitalia just to see if they’re the same.

But who knows because I’m just in the middle of it and wondering why a major character who dies in the earlier chapters is still alive.

But the science is titillatingly plausible; ironically, I checked it with chatGPT and it came up with the same theoretical assumptions, hmmmm. Scarier still is the fact that AI plays a major role in the book (of course it does).

What's your fantasy?

In the Christopher Nolan film, Inception, there is a scene where Cobb (played by Leo Di Caprio) and his group tour a secret basement filled with sleeping men hooked to IVs and dreaming the equivalent of 40 hours a day.

‘The dream has become their reality’, the watcher says.

A scene from the movie Inception

When I was growing up, reading books had the same effect on me; I’d be in bed reading away for hours or days on end.

I would remember the books I read, but not the time I read them. There is a Christmas that I don’t remember to this day, but I vividly remember the book I read- The Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy.

I was made to expect that when I finally ‘socialised’, or ‘got some friends’ or left the one-person island that my mother said I spent so much time in, things would be different. But alas, it wasn’t!

The world was boring! The people in it were as dull as the oatmeal I forced myself to eat every morning years later, in the (vain) hope it would lower my cholesterol levels. Or- it could all be just me. So to this day, I would dive right back to books when I needed a different and better reality.

I have a soft spot for fantasy; if genres were drugs, I would pick it not for the high but for its hallucinatory effect, and the longer the better.

The Chronicles of Narnia were the 1st fantasy books I read when I was in the 6th grade. It was so real to me, I kept inspecting closets for that secret door to another world.

In high school, I plowed through War & Peace and Anna Karenina- hardly fantasies, but to a 14-year old, 19th century Russia seemed exactly that- and I don’t think I finished either. In college- which really didn't get exciting until my last year- I passed the tedium of days reading through Tolkien (LOTR & The Hobbit ). Then it was the Dark Tower series by Stephen King, but I only got as far as the third book. Tried to start Malazan Book of the Fallen by Steven Erikson with Gardens of the Moon, but couldn't finish it for some reason. I would have gone on and finished the entire Dragonriders of Pern series by Anne McCaffrey, but in the era before Kindle, it was hard to find books and they were also expensive- I only finished the 1st four books.

And it also happens that there are some books that are better off seen on screen. I read Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, but opted to watch the rest of the series on the big screen.

Lately, I discovered Raymund Feist’s Riftwar Trilogy which I finished while I was in Ashburton to visit Doyet and the family. It felt like being at home again in Pangasinan, comfortable with no care in the world; you read, slept and ate with the food magically appearing on the table.

Feist’s world-building of magicians, lords, dragons and sorcerers is familiar, but it’s the conviction in the writing that creates the illusion of being firmly in that reality. A thousand pages fly past like a fast-moving photo carousel and it no longer feels like reading, but living.

I finished the trilogy just as I was heading back to Auckland so I didn’t feel the full weight of that emptiness that almost feels like grief, as if you had just lost someone, when you finish a book that you’ve inhabited so completely.

You just sigh and face this reality with some reluctance.

The magic wish list

When R was younger and didn’t quite yet know the power of his mind, he relied on basic magic- crude magic, like writing affirmations on blessed paper (written after the last full moon prior to the new year), and burnt (conveniently and discretely with the fireworks) just before the clock struck 12.

For more serious stuff, he would write out wishes in the smallest script possible- in reverse- on a mirror fogged with humidity. If it was granted, the wish would disappear. But mind you, when he first knew of this, R was skeptical; it could have been a change in temperature, or that someone may have deliberately wiped it off. But since he did it in his own bathroom which no one else used (with his room locked for good measure) he was fairly certain, it was working as it should.

But more importantly, he had proven it for the last three years of what it granted, and what it withheld. His face burned with shame at the memory of the first two times he did it. Top of his lists for those two years was one word- fame.

Looking back now, he didn’t quite know what it really meant, or what he wanted. Was it adulation? Like people on a sound-stage screaming his name as he sang or danced, neither of which he knew how to do? If it was granted, did he miraculously wake up one morning singing with the voice of an angel, or moon-walked effortlessly across their verandah like Michael Jackson? (he had tried this, but his ankles were stiff and he didn’t move an inch). Did it mean money, because if one was famous, wasn’t wealth not far behind?

But he didn’t think of these things until later, on the 3rd year when he had ‘fame’ at number 2, and when he did look at the mirror after midnight, he had to look again, half-believing. But there it was; number 1 was gone (D will stop bullying me) and so was number 3 (I will do well in Math).

But number 2, ‘EMAF’, in all-caps, was there as it had been for the last three years, unerased.

But whether it was magic doing its work, or life taking its normal course (nudged by magic, who knows?) D stopped bullying him because he moved schools. And he did better at Math- just- because his mother got him a tutor.

But he never ever put ‘fame’ on his wish list ever again, even after he started to understand its strange dynamics. He knew that like a plant, it had to start as a seed, with magic being its oxygen and water, and having it flourish and bloom at a preternatural rate. But he had looked inside of himself, at his catalog of abilities and there was nothing there really that was special or extraordinary.

He wasn’t disappointed at this though. He knew that talent and skill can be granted, even if they were neither special nor extraordinary. Having something that he never had before, was all the magic he ever needed.

So he started to write his magic wish list:

1) you will speak French;
2) you will write something great;
3) you will get some muscles;
4) you will paint;

What are you reading? The Riftwar Saga by Raymond Feist

Just finished Dune, and while I was tempted to continue through to the next books, I thought that the Atreides saga was a bit heavy on my mind as well as evoking too close to current events. For those of you who haven’t read it, the gist of it is this- be careful of believing in leaders who promise you everything. Some nations make this mistake far too often, and we know who these are.

The difference however with Dune’s protagonist-hero Paul Atreides and real-life leaders is that he’s truly fair and moral because of course, it’s fiction. In real life, you get GARBAGE like Trump, Putin, Bolsonaro and Duterte. Well, the people who vote for them can certainly lie in the beds they’ve made and I hope they rot in them. So leaving the planet Arrakis for now..

And because real life in 2021 is still shit, I’m still doing fantasy. I’m sure I’ve read Raymond Feist before, but I’m not sure, so I’ll take a trilogy please..

26th Nov

It’s normal the doctor said, and R remembered a time when he would have argued with him.

So I take a 20 minute bus ride, fall asleep and relive dreams so vivid that I can literally feel the time I spent in that dream; and they were weeks, months even. And then just like that, I wake up at the beep of the bus telling me that I’ve reached my stop. And the beep is no louder than a phone notification.

There was nothing normal about this.

But then he was 167 years old, ‘frozen’ at 52 and looked no younger than 35, so he didn’t argue.

He went home and realised when he was on the bus, that he was supposed to drop by the supermarket for some stuff. Some time ago, he would take this as a sign that something was remiss. He likened it to snow loosening, slowly but surely gaining momentum and mass until it became an avalanche, a total collapse of his senses and his mind, but beyond that, he couldn’t really imagine what came next. Would it be total oblivion, a comforting blackness like dreamless sleep? Or would it be an endless dream that flowed from one scene to the next, again also comforting like being afloat on a calm ocean with your eyes closed?

But he would look at his face in the mirror- bright eyes, bright unlined, dewy skin- and know that nothing was really wrong. That he was only half-hoping, half-fearing and these two feelings never really met half-way, and after a while- fifty years to be exact- he stopped looking for signs.

What are you reading? Dune by Frank Herbert

I make stories up a lot which I think of as being part and parcel of being a writer. But then I haven’t published anything; spent the last 20 years of my career being more of a graphic-designer-project manager type where copy was only a small part; and some have actually called me out that this story-telling is actually lying. Well.

Anyhow…I always claimed that I had read Dune. And I have read so many books that some I have actually forgotten until I’ve come across them again, and the 1st page is immediately familiar. And I have come across multiple copies of Dune when I was younger so in my mind, the probability was high that I had read it. The new movie version by the gifted Denis Villeneuve prompted me to try and re-read the book again so I bought a Kindle copy.

After the first page I was shocked to discover, that no, I actually have not read the book. None of it was familiar, even as I was equally shocked at how easy Frank Herbert’s prose is. In my mind, even the false memory of having read it, had within it, a false memory of what his prose was like.

I'm hungry

I reward myself with three things- tech, nice clothes and food.

Since I really need to think about retirement, I’ve put a sensible brake on the 1st two and as for the third, it’s kind of tricky, very tricky. In the Philippines, you can eat cheap, and it’s healthier. A bit of rice, heaps of vegetables and fish. I could live on that with pork barbecue and lechon once a month.

But eating healthy in New Zealand is expensive. You can count with your ten fingers, how many vegetables there are at any given time and even less in winter when your best bet is frozen. Seafood is not a staple and more of a luxury unless you were willing to rent a boat or go on a charter to catch your ow which is ridiculous. I love salmon but it’s not something you can eat every day and I’ve seen the price go up and up and up since 2008.

I avoid processed carbs, sugars and some fats (!), so essentially, my diet has come to consist of nothing but espresso in the morning; there was a couple of weeks at the start of this year’s lockdown when I had an oat-meal run, but I got sick of that; I would have the occasional bread, but would pick those fancy sprouted variants; for lunch, the previous night’s left-overs if there’s any would do; more coffee during the day and then dinner which is normally a protein and some carbs like rice or vegetables. I think I average less than 2,000 calories a day.

It’s a bit more than that during the weekend where I do have a proper lunch (sushi or a meal called Katsubi which is like sumo wrestler food but with more meats and veggies and less or no carbs; and then for dinner we rotate around chicken (baked chicken wings or air-fried), pork (belly) or beef roasts. And snacks! I love what they call crisps (potato chips) which I’ve started to lessen and ice-cream- I’m not completely lactose-intolerant and can finish off a whole container.

And because I don’t get enough vegetables, I’ve taken to taking fibre supplements along with four other supplements which I’ve been taking for the better part of 15-20 years.

But I’m hungry..I’m a hungry man…