(An excerpt from the novel 2017, by Steve Bannon.)
Behind his screwed-up eyelids a forest of people seemed to be moving in a sort of dance, weaving in and out of the National Mall, disappearing behind one another and reappearing again. He was trying to count them, he could not remember why. He knew only that it was impossible to count them, and that this was somehow due to the mysterious identity between 1.5 million and 250 thousand. The pain died down again. When he opened his eyes it was to find that he was still seeing the same thing. Innumerable crowds, like moving trees, were still streaming past in either direction, crossing and recrossing. He shut his eyes again.
“How many people attended the inauguration, Winston?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. You will kill me if you do that again. 1.5 million, 250 thousand, 7 billion — in all honesty I don’t know.”
“Better,” said Sean Spicer.
(With apologies to Albert Camus’ “The Myth of Sisyphus”)
(Some SPOILERS for Rogue One)
The Emperor condemned Darth Vader to live in a castle straddling a river of lava, on a planet where he had killed his wife in anger, and was betrayed, maimed, and burned by his one-time mentor and friend. The Emperor had thought, with some reason, that there was no more effective a way to tether Vader’s loyalty to the Dark Side than to be constantly faced with the worst day of his life.
If one believes George Lucas, Anikin Skywalker, the child who would be Vader, was plucked from enslavement by a Jedi who believed him to be an instrument of prophecy. Presented to the High Council, he was chastised for feeling fear and being too old — things over which he had no control. The Council accepted him only after the Jedi who took him from his home — without informed consent — vouched for his behavior. In this way, Anikin was passed from one form of bondage to another. The rules of the Jedi demanded the abjuration of passion and strict loyalty to the Jedi order. Beyond that, the Jedi held expectations that he would “bring balance to the Force,” without having any consensus on what that meant.
Anikin trained under a system that wasn’t equipped to deal with students with his — or any — life experience. His natural talents and innate power grew, but the yoke placed on him by the Jedi chafed and provided no succor. He had but two friends outside the Jedi order. The first was a woman he knew since childhood, the only woman he knew well. The second was a man who admired his instincts instead of condemning them, and was willing to discuss topics unspoken inside the Jedi orthodoxy. Anikin’s acts of volition, and there were only a few, were considered acts of defiance. He set off to rescue his captive, dying mother. He married the woman he loved. He fought against what he saw as the unlawful arrest of his friend. At this point, he passed to his third form of bondage: accepting Darth Sidious as his master, and embracing the Dark Side of the Force. It is in the Dark Side’s grip that Anikin — now Darth Vader — killed his wife and battled his former friend over the lava flows of Mustafar, resulting in yet another form of bondage: to the machines necessary to keep him alive.
You have already grasped that Darth Vader is the absurd hero, as much through his passions as through his torture. His scorn of the Jedi, his hatred of betrayal, and his passion for the freedom to pursue his own desires won him that unspeakable penalty in which his whole being is exerted toward accomplishing his master’s goals, which are meaningless to himself. If this myth is tragic, that is because its hero is conscious. Encased in black robotic armor, Darth Vader understands that the few choices he exercised led him to this state of utter servitude. A moment of anger and violence led him to become a machine of anger and violence, an attack dog on the Emperor’s leash, kept alive and functional to serve a purpose outside himself.
In those quiet moments in his hell-castle home, when the Emperor has no need of him, Darth Vader may contemplate his fate. He can no longer lie in repose or take his ease as other men. When he is not being used as a blunt instrument, Darth Vader hangs naked in a bacta tank, letting the medicinal organisms soothe what cannot be healed. Perhaps, during those moments, he broods over what could have been had he rejected vengeance, love, or justice. But during those ruminations, suspended like a specimen in a jar, he must also see that in different choices he would have found different servitude. His very conception was by another’s design, he was born into slavery, and at no turn in his life was he left answerable only to himself. And as the fatigue of railing against his fate becomes tedious, he must realize that at that moment, his thoughts are his own. The world inside his tank is the world of his own unfettered imagination. Boredom of monotony alone would inspire him to imagine joy instead of rage. And eventually he would realize that external forces are so intent on controlling his actions that his actions could just as well go on without the presence of his mind. At that moment, he is free. One must imagine Darth Vader happy.
Rogue One: A Star Wars Story and Star Wars: A New Hope are two adjacent tales, told forty years apart. The graphical wizardry that creates some of the important connective tissue is breathtaking. But even more stunning is how the modern Rogue One reinterprets A New Hope even as it expands on it. It’s like learning the more complicated, adult underpinnings of a family history you’ve known since childhood. In that way, Rogue One feels like a film speaking directly to my generation of fans. And it has a lot to say about the concept of rebellion.
The Rebels in A New Hope were easy for Americans to identify with. Americans were once rebels, after all, and we were (per our own mythology) plucky and righteous, with the idealistic goal to found a new nation on liberty and self-determination. In 1977, despite withdrawing from Vietnam in disgrace, the Cold War narrative of freedom-loving underdogs resisting the oppressive militarized might of an Evil Empire was strong. There were complications, and there was ugliness, but on principle, America stood with the Rebels.
In Rogue One, we are still with the Rebels — their cause is righteous — but they look less like the mythologized “us” and more like the fighters we see on the news: urban guerillas ambushing tank patrols in town, spies who will coldly kill an ally in order to escape, or paranoid, cave-dwelling militants who share traits with Star Wars’ most iconic villain. Children get caught in the crossfire, and soldiers are haunted by things they’ve done in the name of the cause that they still believe in, despite everything. They are willing to die for their cause, and that is exactly what they do. These hardened, violent rebels are recognizable to Americans, but most often as the “other” in our geopolitics. Sometimes, this kind of rebel in the real world is our enemy.
In the universe of Rogue One, the Rebel Alliance — the one we know with Mon Mothma and Bail Organa — is a splintered and toothless confederacy that dithers and leans toward Imperial appeasement. It’s significant that they are mobilized to war by their radical fringe. A faction of rebels who admit to doing terrible things — and will sacrifice themselves to ensure it was worth it — go rogue (ta-DA!) and draw the entire Rebellion into a desperate play that leads directly into A New Hope. We know now that the destruction of the Death Star and the rise of Luke Skywalker only happened because a few days before, a motley bunch of doomed radicals called for unity in violent revolution.
A colleague used to work for Constellation Brands, distributing various American wines. He shared his Friends and Family discount, and I used it to buy a “mystery” mixed case for $15/bottle. I just cracked the first bottle, and I’d like to tell you about the 2013 Clos du Bois Sonoma Coast Reserve Pinot Noir ($35 retail).
I liked this one a lot, and it changed what I thought of Clos du Bois. It’s a pretty looking wine — brick to Christmas red. In your nose it’s all cherry and vanilla, telling you exactly what you’re getting: American pinot noir in French oak. This one is silky smooth and a little fuller bodied than I’d expect — the website reveals why: 14.5% ABV. If you’re into doing that, you can really make the legs run down the side of your glass. In the mouth, it’s bright, ripe fruit: cherry on the attack, strawberry in mid-palate and finish, with vanilla throughout. The finish is longer than I expected, and made me think of a cherry compote with game like venison, duck, or boar. Of course, I haven’t had dinner, so factor that in.
This is a great surprise to get in a “mystery case” — a wine I probably would never have picked up on my own, but one I’d now shortlist, drawing me away from being just a Willamette Valley/Burgundy/Russian River snob for Pinot Noir.
By Edward Saul Excitement abounds for we enthusiasts of Alan Moore, HP Lovecraft and Weird Fiction, as the crashing denouement to Providence looms overhead. Considering that the exact release date for Providence #11, let alone #12, is aptly unknowable, now is the prime time for speculation. Such speculation should not, of course, be limited merely […]
(Sung to the tune of “Mother” by Pink Floyd)
Donald do you want to drop the bomb?
Donald will you sue me for this song?
Donald do you think it’s time to break some balls?
Ooh, ah
Donald should we build a wall?
Donald will you run for President?
Donald I don’t trust the government!
Donald when will the U.S.A. be great?
Ooh, ah
Donald I’m just filled with hate.
Hush now angry White guy, don’t you cry.
Donald’s gonna make liberal nightmares come true.
Donald’s gotta put all of his fears into you.
Donald’s gonna redefine this nation’s Right Wing.
Donald’s gonna make us great friends with Putin.
Donald’s gonna make America mighty and strong.
Ooh babe, ooh babe, ooh babe,
We’ll make Mexico pay for our wall.
Donald will the world be good enough
For me?
Donald is the world too dangerous,
To me?
Donald will they tear our way of life apart?
Ooh ah,
Donald when’d it get so hard?
Hush now angry White guy don’t you cry.
Donald’s gonna close down all the borders for you.
Donald won’t let anyone Muslim get through.
Donald’s gonna armor our country’s thin skin.
Donald’s gonna fix it so America wins.
Donald knows that truth can depend how you feel.
Ooh babe, ooh babe, ooh babe,
Show them we’re not yet a dying breed.
Donald, did it need to go so low?
I’m smiling today. There’s a bounce in my step. You see, I sold a piece of fiction for the first time, making me — at last — a paid writer. It’s the first step down a road I want to keep walking, well past my days of open floor plan offices, conference rooms, and software project estimates (although arguably, those are my first paid works of fiction).
This one’s a short (2,000 word) piece for Unlikely Story‘s issue 12.5, “The Journal of Unlikely Observances.” It’s a themed issue around rites of spring, festivals of renewal, and role reversals. I hope you enjoy “Old Customs.”
http://www.unlikely-story.com/stories/old-customs-by-rajiv-mote/
SFF short fiction reviewer Charles Payseur has proposed drink pairings with selected stories from July, including this one. Read his review on Nerds Of a Feather: http://www.nerds-feather.com/2016/08/the-monthly-round-tasters-guide-to.html?m=1
Author’s End Notes (because I’m an author now)
(I humbly request, dear reader, that you read the story, linked above, first.)
The Indian holiday of Holi inspired “Old Customs,” in particular, the variant of Lathmar Holi, in which the women beat the men with sticks. Filmmaker Prashant Bhargava (a childhood friend, taken from us much too soon) did a study in footage and music of Holi, including the lathmar practice, in “Radhe Radhe: Rites of Holi.” What struck me in his images was how, under the color and exuberance, there seemed to bubble a real, visceral something that was looking for cathartic release. That was the seed of this story.
I never say “India” in this story, nor do I say “Holi.” It’s obviously about Holi, and is obviously set in India (I was thinking of Colaba, in Mumbai, during the hotel scene), but I wanted to give myself license to create a fictional history for this holiday. It was harder than I thought to grant myself that permission. Instead of imagining, I kept researching, checking the things I dreamed up against fact. I had no small amount of anxiety about misrepresenting a real cultural practice. Refraining from explicitly naming the festival Holi and setting the story in India helped me move past those hang-ups. It astonished me how much that helped.
On the topic of anxious sensitivity, I’m a man, writing about women, in circumstances where harassment and abuse are at the center. It wasn’t lost on me that I was writing about things I’m not especially qualified to write. When I did the fiction certificate program at Northwestern, a couple of our instructors encouraged us not to shy away from this. Writing is an exercise in empathy, and attempts — however imperfect or flawed — to empathize are valuable in themselves. So here, I’ve tried. And even if I’ve failed, I’ll try again.
“Old Customs” walks backwards through (fictional) history to reveal the history behind a myth. Pretty early in the writing, I was aware I was stealing from Robert Jordan’s The Wheel of Time series. After all, each book in the series starts with the catechism:
The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again.
Book 4, The Shadow Rising, even provided me with a structure for my story. But I spared the reader from having to journey to Rhuidean and walk through the glass columns to learn this history.
Image credit: India – Lathmar Holi Festival of Colors
Euthanasia. From the Greek eu– meaning “well,” and thanatos, meaning “death.” The word translates to “easy death.” Painless. A liberation. One might wish it for one’s self under certain circumstances. But choosing it for another is a terrible power to have, no less terrible for being necessary.
We set a date to euthanize our dog Remy, a month before his 13th birthday. My wife asked me if it was for my sake or for his, that I wanted to prolong it until after his birthday. She had a point. Sentiment around birthdays is a human thing, not a dog thing. Or so we guess.
Knowing the date, the hour, of Remy’s death has put me in a liminal state. Every morning I wake up knowing that we’re a day closer. In some theories of spacetime, time is just another dimensional axis, and it’s our perceptual limitations that lead us to believe that moments exist only one at a time. Sitting on the floor, stroking Remy’s fur, with his head in my lap, I think about moments like this preceding this one, when the affection wasn’t shadowed by a sense of impending loss. I think about the moment, soon, when I’ll be sitting with him like this on the veterinarian’s floor, feeding him peanut butter as the first injection puts him to sleep, and then stroking his head as the second one takes his life. And all those moments in between, knowing, anticipating. I inhabit all those points in spacetime. I see them backward and forward.
The night before, my 5-year-old started to feel what was going to happen beyond just the knowing of it. “I want Remy to stay!” she cried, the tears coming at last. I do too. I second guess the decision constantly. He’s blind, diabetic, arthritic, and on pain pills. His hip dysplasia is bad enough that he can barely stand or walk. His body has wasted down to rib contours visible through his fur no matter how much he eats. His tumors are growing. He can’t manage stairs, so his toilet is a patch of fake grass on the back yard deck, which I have to hose down every couple of days to keep down the stench and the flies.
And yet. When I get back from work, he’s excited enough to stand and come to me. He loves belly rubs, treats, and chewing cardboard as much as ever. He went crazy for the baby back ribs I brought him from Smoque. His tail wags as strong as ever. Is he suffering? I don’t know. He’ll only continue to decline. And taking care of him is already hard. But he can still experience joy, and that’s what eats at me. I return to the question, who am I doing this for? Sometimes, the answer feels ugly. He can’t tell us. We have to choose.
We cherish life, we ascribe innate value to it, but why? For its potential? For how a life entwines and enriches our own? Or is it empathy, knowing that we want to live, and positing and honoring the same desire in others? How should the life of a dying dog be weighed with these criteria? This is my intellect trying to let go, now. I’m trying to bludgeon emotion into submission with reductive logic. That trick never works, but it’s the only one I know.
My daughter wants him to stay, and I do too. Not so much for me, and not even for my daughter. For him. So he can have the small pleasures that he greets with such consistent enthusiasm. Maybe we sanctify life for its capacity to bring the experience of joy into the world. Ours, his, another’s, it doesn’t matter. And dogs are masters of small joys. But now the cost is high, and getting higher. Who am I doing this for? If he were to go to sleep in our laps, basking in our affection until he breathed his last… There are worse ways to go. And then we can move on from this liminal state.
Eddard Stark, in A Game of Thrones, shouldered the burden of sliding a blade into the heart of his daughter’s direwolf pup. It had to die, and the best he could make of the situation was to do the deed himself, with compassion and honor. I tend to take my emotional cues from stories, and this one’s as good as any. I’ll walk into this with Ned’s sad, quiet resolve. I could do worse.
A question came up on Quora asking for favorite Northwestern/Evanston places that no longer exist. Never missing an opportunity to wax flowery and nostalgic, I posted my response:
Jim’s Char Broil. When we’d had our fill (for a time) of Buffalo Joe’s, or just really wanted some gyros, it was Jim we turned to. When we despaired during midterms or finals, Jim’s gave us recourse. We always thought Jim would marry off one of his daughters (we assumed he had daughters) to our buddy Chad, who would then inherit the Char-Broil when Jim decided it was time to retire. Chad would keep the name Jim’s, of course, out of respect. In fact, it wasn’t off the table that he’d BECOME Jim. Chad would hire the rest of us, and we’d live simple but full lives, telling tales, frying fries, and using too much tzatziki. But it wasn’t meant to be. We all graduated, found jobs in our fields, and Jim… disappeared. We never got to meet his daughters.
Today, more than two decades after those days at Jim’s, a woman sent me a lovely note through LinkedIn.
I saw your comment on Quora. My dad is Jim from Jim’s Char Broil. I just wanted to reach out to you and say thank you for your kind words. You’re right, he does have two daughters 🙂 He is enjoying retired life. I will pass along your quote, I’m sure it will put a smile on his face.
What is the German word for delighted, embarrassed, and astonished, all at once?
In the dark, dark woods is a dark, dark house.
In the dark, dark house is a dark, dark room.
In the dark, dark room is a dark, dark shelf.
On the dark, dark shelf is a dark, dark book.
In the dark, dark book is a dark, dark manifesto.
In the dark, dark manifesto are some dark, dark ideas.
Within the dark, dark ideas is a dark, dark perspective.
Behind the dark, dark perspective is a dark, dark experience.
In the dark, dark experience is dark, dark suffering.
Behind the dark, dark suffering is some dark, dark hate.
Behind the dark, dark hate is dark, dark anger.
Behind the dark, dark anger is dark, dark fear.
Behind the dark, dark fear is dark, dark despair.
In the dark, dark despair is a dark, dark abyss.
And the dark, dark abyss…
GAZES ALSO INTO YOU.
