Testing

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Orrin sat on a rough-hewn wooden bench in Fort Tryon Park, elbows on his knees, heavy head resting on cupped hands. The summer sun baked his scalp through thinning yellow hair—wisps that had once been a thick blond mane. A few hours ago, he’d lost his beloved dog Lola to cancer, one year to the day after his wife Mika died from the same disease.

Alone again, he thought. Always alone. That part wasn’t exactly true; he did have Tu. But the love of your best friend isn’t the same thing as having a lover, is it?

Tu was, in fact, the one who had introduced him to Mika.

Fourteen years ago.

Orrin remembered it as if it were yesterday. He’d loved her so much it never occurred to him what life would be like without her. And now he’d lost Lola, too. Without them, what’s the point? Why can’t we just fall in love and live together forever?

Not for the first time, he wondered if death would be a peaceful reprieve from the pain of living.

“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice above him rang out. “I seem to have lost my way.”

Startled out of his brooding, Orrin looked up, and standing before him was, without question, the most beautiful woman he’d seen since Mika passed away. Glowing amber eyes, shoulder-length black hair cut in a bob, smooth light-brown skin—everything about her was mesmerizing. Almost otherworldly. Dumbstruck, he turned around, thinking she must be talking to someone else.

“Oh my God,” she said, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. “This is so embarrassing. Mind if I have a seat?”

There was an eerie stillness to the woman as she paused and gazed down at him with soulful eyes. Orrin couldn’t quite interpret her expression. Kindness? Confusion? Maybe both? She carried a sizable package and a handbag, so he motioned to her with his right hand. Modestly tucking her green floral mini dress, she sat down next to him.

For a moment, there was an awkward silence. The smooth, copper-toned skin of her bare leg brushed his as she positioned herself on the bench. Orrin pulled away and immediately regretted it. He hadn’t touched another woman since Mika died. I’m sure she didn’t mean to do that. The woman gazed across the park at a group of children playing, setting the package beside her feet before placing her purse on top of it.

“I’m sorry for being so informal,” she said, pausing to take him in. “It’s just that you look like you’re having a pretty bad day. Sometimes it helps to talk with a stranger.” She smoothed the fabric of her dress and sighed. “Hope I’m not intruding.”

A group of teenagers played basketball nearby, laughing and yelling, full of life. Mothers pushed their babies in strollers, and two men talked in Spanish as they passed by, drinking their daily sustenance from bottles hidden in brown paper bags. The afternoon sun bathed everything in its warm embrace, and the sweet fragrance of summer lavender filled the air.

I Think You Answered Your Own Question

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“You could also probe an A.I. system,” he said, “by observing its behavior, watching how it chooses to operate in certain environments or accomplish certain tasks, which things it seems to prefer and avoid.”

I came across this quote in Kevin Roose’s excellent article in the New York Times today titled “If A.I. Systems Become Conscious, Should They Have Rights?”

It’s interesting to note that the AI is “choosing how to operate in certain environments” and that the only way we can understand its behavior is by “observing which things it seems to prefer and avoid.”

Oxford defines consciousness as “The state of being awake and aware of one’s surroundings.” Wouldn’t being able to choose how one wants to operate imply some sort of awareness? I’m not saying I think current AI models are conscious, but I do think we’ve entered a gray area.

The truth is, the people who created these things will be the first to admit they don’t really understand how these models work. They’re a black box—impossible to reverse engineer. We created algorithms capable of teaching themselves and turned them loose.

We may only find what they’re capable of when they choose to tell us.

Taking Stock (Part 1)

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26,150 words in. That’s how far I am into my new novel, and, much like the first, I’m having way too much fun writing it.

How much fun?

The kind where each day you can’t wait to see what the days writing session will reveal. It’s one thing to create a fictitious person in your head, but it’s only when they start interacting with other characters on the page that they begin to come alive.

And they will invariably surprise you.

So, yeah—things are shaping up nicely. Let’s see where this goes…

Oblivion, Here I Come!

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Before you get all bent out of shape because no agent seems interested in the book you wrote, just remember two things.

First, remember how much fun you had writing it. How fulfilling it was to carry this story around in your head for three years, then watch it grow from a sliver of an idea into this living thing inhabited by real people, each with their own hopes and dreams.

Seriously, who’s the winner here? I’ll tell you who—the winners are the people who get to make this cool shit, that’s who.

And if that doesn’t make you feel better, how about this: We all die eventually, and when we do none of it will matter. Eventually it all gets swept up into the dustbin of eternity. And that includes us.

So let’s keep our priorities straight.

Creating is the fun part. Everything else is just icing on the cake.

Catch-22

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“Nowadays, you have to know exactly what a movie will be before you start making it, which means, usually, you end up with something that’s already been done.”

This quote is from an article in the New York Times written by Sam Wasson, about Francis Ford Coppola’s movie “Megalopolis.”

I couldn’t help but substitute “book” for “movie,” and wonder how true this is.

If not 100%, it’s at least enough to give one pause.

The Power of Names

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I once studied with a brilliant teacher from Juilliard, an older gentleman born in the early twentieth century with an interest in the supernatural and the occult.

He would often talk about a close friend’s wife, relaying how she had a special gift for naming people and objects to ensure their success, so much so that corporations would consult with her when naming new products.

I was fascinated—at the time it seemed weirdly plausible, but once the seed was planted, I began to see this phenomenon everywhere.

Black Sabbath. Would they have birthed the new genre heavy metal with their original name Polka Tulk?

Psycho—Brilliant, short, and unforgettable.

Texas Chainsaw Massacre—Perhaps the best example of all time.

And, of course, celebrity name changes:
Archibald Leach became Carey Grant and Issur Danielovitch begat Kirk Douglas. Would their careers have had the same trajectories had they not found their perfect names?

Writing Aphorism Bullshit (Part 1)

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Writing only has meaning if someone reads it.

Sounds true, and god knows I do want people to read and get something meaningful out of my writing, but this is just complete and utter bullshit.

How so? Well, I can’t speak for anyone else, but for me, writing is an act of self discovery. It’s a way to uncover what’s going on in my head, a way for me to process the world, a way to learn and stretch out beyond my comfort zone.

So, yeah, I get a lot out of it even if no one reads it.

Did I mention how much fun it is to create worlds filled with interesting people in my head?

You get the picture.

Checking In (Part 1)

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I started writing my new novel on Monday, so this is the end of day three. Quick thoughts? Well, first off, I’d have to say that, at least at this stage of my life, nothing engages me more than this.

There’s just no other experience that even remotely compares. The closest was back when I was writing, playing, and producing music. That was completely immersive, for sure, but at the time I was trying to master so many disciplines I always felt like I wasn’t quite where I wanted to be in any one of them.

With writing, it’s different. Still very difficult to do well, but it just feels so natural, like this is what I’m supposed to be doing. Instead of trying to master a dozen different disciplines, I’m only trying to master one.

There’ll be a lot to say about this going forward, but I’m off to a good start. Can’t wait to hit it again tomorrow.

Daily Affirmations

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Each day, after I meditate, I repeat this affirmation to myself like a prayer. Even though I am, of course, an atheist.

Today is a wonderful day. A day where I am grateful for every moment of life I have. A day where I strive to live and enjoy each moment to its fullest.

It’s a practice I began after I survived cancer thirteen years ago. What does this accomplish? It’s just a reminder that the void is patiently waiting, and I must be mindful.

Someday this will be over.

Independent Filmmaker Shoutout

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As a lifetime film aficionado (with a particular love of everything horror-related), I always get excited when I discover something new and fresh. So imagine my surprise and delight when I recently watched “The Deeper You Dig,” from 2019, on the (highly recommended) streaming service “Shudder.”

The story essentially follows three people: a woman, her teenage daughter, and a man. No background exposition is provided, so you have to take the story as it unfolds. I’m not going to give away any spoilers, but suffice to say that I was completely engrossed from beginning to end. There’s a real feeling of authenticity to both the characters and the dialog, along with a menacing edge that kept me thoroughly engaged.

Now, imagine my further surprise to find out it was co-directed by a husband and wife team, who were also the lead actors in the film. And the teenage girl was actually their daughter.

Then, imagine my jaw hitting the floor when I saw that the wife wrote the script and the husband did the soundtrack. WTF!?

Then I realized they had made four films in as many years…

Let me just cut to the chase—remember these names: Toby Poser, John Adams, Zelda Adams, and Lulu Adams. I know I’ll be watching, and so should anyone else with an interest in independent cinema. Bravo!