I've recently begun writing a new science fiction story, set mostly in 1980. As something set before I was born, it's actually a rather comforting departure from the more distant bits of the twenty-first century. It's not just that I don't have to do any worldbuilding for 1980 - though the peppering of hints that the story is not set in the twenty-first century is reminiscent - but I know how things turned out. I do not have to worry about the prospects or possibilities of a global thermonuclear war in 1995, but an author sitting in 1980 and writing about the twenty-first century would be forced to confront that before moving on.
I can still remember when the twenty-first century was supposed to be a golden time of wealth and opportunity. The role-playing game Transhuman Space, set at the threshold of the twenty-second century, strikes me as an embodiment of that expectation and, as such, strikes me as more and more dated with each passing year. The last ten years have taught us that the twenty-first century will not be a golden age. It will just be an age, and if we're lucky and skillful we'll come out of it better than when we went in.
One great problem for forecasting and envisioning the shape of the future world is not only the flux of events, but their apparent solidity until the tide comes rushing in to destroy all our sandcastles. Take Toronto's Transit City light rail project, one of the city's biggest nods to the future in recent years. It was announced back in 2007, a network of six lines extendng rails throughout the city and simplifying transit for tens of thousands of people, with funding commitments made and repeated by the provincial government again and again. The whole project was supposed to be completed in 2018.
Three years later, it'll barely be started in 2018. The economic crunch and Ontario's debt load have given the province all the excuse it needs to cut the project to the bone - the half of it, that is, that still has funding commitments as I write this. Three years ago we budgeted for plenty. Now we're all in penury, or at least our governments are, and things that need to be done are falling by the wayside.
It's easy to forget that the future is expensive. Whether they're new transit lines or space stations or a truly green economy, so many of the things we habitually associate with the future remain so today because their cost couldn't be justified to politicians in days gone by. It's not inferior technology that prevents us from living in cities in the moon today but the astronomical cost of building and maintaining those cities. Though these things are always assumed to be part of the future, I worry that they'll remain that way explicitly because no one has the will to bring them out of the future into today. The Toronto subway is another example of that; it's an excellent transit system for a city of 600,000 in 1980. The only problem is that's not what it's serving anymore.
The concept of doublethink was popularized by George Orwell in Nineteen Eighty-Four, and it consists of holding "simultaneously two opinions which cancelled out, knowing them to be contradictory and believing in both of them." Thinking about the future feels like doublethink to me sometimes. On one hand, we're dealing with a great many threats - social, environmental, technological, economic - that all need to be dealt with while we have only limited resources to deal with them, and on the other hand I have to believe - for the purposes of my stories - that Earth of 2078 was able to solve them all, one way or another.
I'm not saying it's impossible to solve these problems. But it nevertheless seems a bit incoherent to say that we'll have people working in space stations and spacing off to Mars when right now we don't even have the stones to build a few kilometers of light rail.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Saturday, May 15, 2010
PDP #220: Rising on the River
As I mentioned yesterday, I got myself all educated at Trent University in Peterborough. While I was there, its major project was the construction of Peter Gzowski College, housed in the Enweying Building on the east bank of the Otonabee River. It ultimately opened in 2004, and in terms of residential style it blew all the other colleges away. I took this photo in October 2003, a little more than a year before Enweying's official opening.
The most surprising thing about it was that that yellow paneling actually ended up part of the finished exterior.
I, the copyright holder of this work, hereby release it into the public domain. This applies worldwide. In case this is not legally possible, I grant anyone the right to use this work for any purpose, without any conditions, unless such conditions are required by law.
The most surprising thing about it was that that yellow paneling actually ended up part of the finished exterior.
I, the copyright holder of this work, hereby release it into the public domain. This applies worldwide. In case this is not legally possible, I grant anyone the right to use this work for any purpose, without any conditions, unless such conditions are required by law.
Friday, May 14, 2010
A No-GO for Peterborough
With the budgetary situation as strained as it is, there are a lot of people in Ontario and Canada who won't always get what they want. The recent postponement and foreshortening of Toronto's planned Transit City LRT lines is one of the more talked-about examples in the media, but Toronto's not the only city that's having to deal with 2010's new normal. The city of Peterborough, a regional center of 77,000 people 125 kilometers northeast of Toronto, has as of late been trying to become more integrated into GO Transit's regional transit network. It's something that's already begun - there's currently a GO Bus route that connects Peterborough with Oshawa GO Station, an alternative that didn't exist when I lived there. In the early 2000s, the Greyhound down the 115 was pretty much the only game in town.
Nevertheless, as even people with a passing interest in transit may have noticed, there's a large chunk of people out there who just don't ride buses. Plenty of these people will, however, ride trains - be they streetcars, subways, or the commuter rail system that forms the backbone of GO Transit's regional network. With that in mind, Peterborough MP Dean Del Mastro of the Conservative Party has recently been championing the establishment of regular commuter rail service between Peterborough and Toronto.
Metrolinx threw cold water on that prospect on Monday, when it released a report suggesting that "the most basic commuter rail service" in 2016 would come with a price tag of $541-million, with the most thorough service calculated to cost $1.5-billion - greatly in excess of the $150-million each the provincial and federal governments committed in 2008, contingent on the findings of Monday's report. Del Mastro is, unsurprisingly, not taking it sitting down. "It's not possible that this would cost $25 million a year to operate," said Del Mastro as quoted by the Peterborough Examiner - because, you know, an MP with no apparent background in railway planning absolutely knows what he's talking about more than the people who actually do this sort of thing for a living.
Beyond that, though, I have to ask a question that everyone else involved in this situation seems to be taking for granted - would Peterborough be better off with a direct commuter rail link to Toronto? I, personally, would say no. As I mentioned before, I lived in Peterborough for three years while attending Trent University, and it was a good city. In part, I liked it because it was seemingly preferable in all respects to Barrie, a similarly-sized city that even then was dominated by sprawling subdivisions. I didn't find many Barrie-style suburbs at all while I was in Peterborough. Peterborough seems to be a regional center to a far greater degree than Barrie is - and it doesn't seem as easy to live a commuter lifestyle there. Peterborough's more than an hour and a half by car from Toronto on the best days. Barrie is significantly closer.
If this issue was about extending all-day rail service, the arithmetic would be different. But it's not, and there's no way I can support what Del Mastro's pushing. To put it bluntly, when municipalities around the province are running up aganst deficit walls and being told to forget the promises made to them, he's still gung-ho about spending $300-million so that a small number of people can work in Toronto and buy big houses in Peterborough. This is not the sort of thing the government should be encouraging! The fact that he's crying out for this when a number of people greater than the entire population of Peterborough is being left in the lurch by the cuts to Transit City is just icing.
There's a time and a place for everything. If this was something else - say, a Peterborough Light Rail demonstration project, or something else of direct public benefit, I'd likely be behind it. As far as I'm concerned, the time is not now and Peterborough isn't the place. It's too nice of a city to be ruined by easy commuting.
Nevertheless, as even people with a passing interest in transit may have noticed, there's a large chunk of people out there who just don't ride buses. Plenty of these people will, however, ride trains - be they streetcars, subways, or the commuter rail system that forms the backbone of GO Transit's regional network. With that in mind, Peterborough MP Dean Del Mastro of the Conservative Party has recently been championing the establishment of regular commuter rail service between Peterborough and Toronto.
Metrolinx threw cold water on that prospect on Monday, when it released a report suggesting that "the most basic commuter rail service" in 2016 would come with a price tag of $541-million, with the most thorough service calculated to cost $1.5-billion - greatly in excess of the $150-million each the provincial and federal governments committed in 2008, contingent on the findings of Monday's report. Del Mastro is, unsurprisingly, not taking it sitting down. "It's not possible that this would cost $25 million a year to operate," said Del Mastro as quoted by the Peterborough Examiner - because, you know, an MP with no apparent background in railway planning absolutely knows what he's talking about more than the people who actually do this sort of thing for a living.
Beyond that, though, I have to ask a question that everyone else involved in this situation seems to be taking for granted - would Peterborough be better off with a direct commuter rail link to Toronto? I, personally, would say no. As I mentioned before, I lived in Peterborough for three years while attending Trent University, and it was a good city. In part, I liked it because it was seemingly preferable in all respects to Barrie, a similarly-sized city that even then was dominated by sprawling subdivisions. I didn't find many Barrie-style suburbs at all while I was in Peterborough. Peterborough seems to be a regional center to a far greater degree than Barrie is - and it doesn't seem as easy to live a commuter lifestyle there. Peterborough's more than an hour and a half by car from Toronto on the best days. Barrie is significantly closer.
If this issue was about extending all-day rail service, the arithmetic would be different. But it's not, and there's no way I can support what Del Mastro's pushing. To put it bluntly, when municipalities around the province are running up aganst deficit walls and being told to forget the promises made to them, he's still gung-ho about spending $300-million so that a small number of people can work in Toronto and buy big houses in Peterborough. This is not the sort of thing the government should be encouraging! The fact that he's crying out for this when a number of people greater than the entire population of Peterborough is being left in the lurch by the cuts to Transit City is just icing.
There's a time and a place for everything. If this was something else - say, a Peterborough Light Rail demonstration project, or something else of direct public benefit, I'd likely be behind it. As far as I'm concerned, the time is not now and Peterborough isn't the place. It's too nice of a city to be ruined by easy commuting.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
PDP #219: Green Trees, Blue Sky
A couple of weeks ago, the trees in Toronto finally started to go green. I'm not sure how many days they were like that before I stumbled into a forceful realization that - my god - there are leaves here now while I was on my way to the streetcar. Now that they're back, photographs are going to be even better. Though I don't mind the photos I picked up while tromping through Cedarvale Park last month, I do think they would've been more powerful with a canopy of green instead of bare, scraggly fingers.
Here, a pair of trees rise below the Atrium on Bay, on Edward Street just off Yonge.
I, the copyright holder of this work, hereby release it into the public domain. This applies worldwide. In case this is not legally possible, I grant anyone the right to use this work for any purpose, without any conditions, unless such conditions are required by law.
Here, a pair of trees rise below the Atrium on Bay, on Edward Street just off Yonge.
I, the copyright holder of this work, hereby release it into the public domain. This applies worldwide. In case this is not legally possible, I grant anyone the right to use this work for any purpose, without any conditions, unless such conditions are required by law.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Banking on an Incentive for Art
You may never have heard of Banksy before. To put it simply, he's a British street artist of mystery - the people who know who he is aren't talking, you see - responsible for guerrilla artworks that have appeared on the sides of buildings across the United Kingdom and abroad since the 1990s, though it's only in the last ten years he's come to a greater prominence. Whoever he is, Banksy was in Toronto this past weekend as part of the launch of the new "street art disaster" movie Exit Through the Gift Shop, and while he was here some local buildings became his latest canvases - the first time his art has hit Toronto's streets. I've not seen them myself, but Torontoist did report on them with photographs.
It may be that I won't be able to see them in person. Subsequent to the initial announcements of the art's appearance, Torontoist noted in an update yesterday that they have begun to be painted over, presumably by the owners of whatever property they were painted on. I understand that this is perfectly within the rights of the property owners, but to me, it seems kind of short-sighted; like there could be a better way of going about this. I was thinking for a while yesterday, and by the end I had a new plank for my mayoral platform.
The idea of urban beautification is something that I've been at least trying to mention since I started running for mayor - one of my first posts on the subject dealt with it, and I also briefly discussed it in my interview with CP24, which will presumably be hitting the internet Real Soon Now (you know, after they sort through the sheer weight of outtakes produced because I kept stumbling over my own words). Here, we've had a stab at bringing life to otherwise empty concrete, and not all of it meets with a paintbrush slathered in white or grey. For example, I don't know whether or not it's an "official" mural, but this painting on the back of one of the industrial buildings just north of Lawrence East station on the Scarborough RT is, in my opinion, one of the true highlights of the route.
Trust me, it's even better when the sun is out and there's not a barbed-wire fence in front of it.
What I'm suggesting is an expansion of the current system. The City of Toronto already runs its Economic Development Mural Program, intended to help "local businesses and communities create an attractive and positive identity for their commercial areas." It offers funding of up to $5,000 for the installation of a mural, but it's also commercially-focused: eligibility is restricted to Business Improvement Areas, business associations, and "community groups that include strong business participation."
My concept is something that runs in parallel with this - call it a "Mural Incentive Program" for now. Under this program, a property owner could apply to place a mural on the side of their building - commercial, residential, or industrial, as long as the zoning laws don't take issue with it - and while the City wouldn't provide any funding to install it, the completed and maintained mural could instead be counted as a property tax deduction. Tax credits, in my experience, are a crackerjack way to encourage the sort of things you want to encourage.
It's the details of this plan that would have to be hammered out. City Council is a governing agency, not a panel of art critics, and I'm sure there are a lot of people who would take issue with the government deciding what is and what is not "correct" art - but on the other hand, there has to be some kind of approval process for this system, in order to ensure it's not abused. Here, maybe, we could take it to the people of Toronto themselves and crowdsource the approval. It could be, then, that when a property owner takes a mural design to the Mural Incentive Program for approval, that design is put up on a website where Torontonians can vote on whether or not the design should pass muster - and if it does, they're on their way.
It's a minor thing, I know. It's not something that will shake the foundations of the city. Sometimes, though, the incremental changes are among the most important.
It may be that I won't be able to see them in person. Subsequent to the initial announcements of the art's appearance, Torontoist noted in an update yesterday that they have begun to be painted over, presumably by the owners of whatever property they were painted on. I understand that this is perfectly within the rights of the property owners, but to me, it seems kind of short-sighted; like there could be a better way of going about this. I was thinking for a while yesterday, and by the end I had a new plank for my mayoral platform.
The idea of urban beautification is something that I've been at least trying to mention since I started running for mayor - one of my first posts on the subject dealt with it, and I also briefly discussed it in my interview with CP24, which will presumably be hitting the internet Real Soon Now (you know, after they sort through the sheer weight of outtakes produced because I kept stumbling over my own words). Here, we've had a stab at bringing life to otherwise empty concrete, and not all of it meets with a paintbrush slathered in white or grey. For example, I don't know whether or not it's an "official" mural, but this painting on the back of one of the industrial buildings just north of Lawrence East station on the Scarborough RT is, in my opinion, one of the true highlights of the route.
Trust me, it's even better when the sun is out and there's not a barbed-wire fence in front of it.What I'm suggesting is an expansion of the current system. The City of Toronto already runs its Economic Development Mural Program, intended to help "local businesses and communities create an attractive and positive identity for their commercial areas." It offers funding of up to $5,000 for the installation of a mural, but it's also commercially-focused: eligibility is restricted to Business Improvement Areas, business associations, and "community groups that include strong business participation."
My concept is something that runs in parallel with this - call it a "Mural Incentive Program" for now. Under this program, a property owner could apply to place a mural on the side of their building - commercial, residential, or industrial, as long as the zoning laws don't take issue with it - and while the City wouldn't provide any funding to install it, the completed and maintained mural could instead be counted as a property tax deduction. Tax credits, in my experience, are a crackerjack way to encourage the sort of things you want to encourage.
It's the details of this plan that would have to be hammered out. City Council is a governing agency, not a panel of art critics, and I'm sure there are a lot of people who would take issue with the government deciding what is and what is not "correct" art - but on the other hand, there has to be some kind of approval process for this system, in order to ensure it's not abused. Here, maybe, we could take it to the people of Toronto themselves and crowdsource the approval. It could be, then, that when a property owner takes a mural design to the Mural Incentive Program for approval, that design is put up on a website where Torontonians can vote on whether or not the design should pass muster - and if it does, they're on their way.
It's a minor thing, I know. It's not something that will shake the foundations of the city. Sometimes, though, the incremental changes are among the most important.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
PDP #218: Queen West, Rain in the Night
Last Friday evening there was an accident at King and Spadina - hopefully, not as bad as it seemed - right on the streetcar tracks. As a result, if I wanted to get home I needed to truck north to Queen, through the rain. It had let up a bit by the time I made it to this stop, but I was still thankful for the shelter there. I didn't even mind that the Queen streetcar was erratic as usual, and that after I'd been waiting in the cold for an unusually long while two of them showed up bumper to bumper, as usual.
I, the copyright holder of this work, hereby release it into the public domain. This applies worldwide. In case this is not legally possible, I grant anyone the right to use this work for any purpose, without any conditions, unless such conditions are required by law.
I, the copyright holder of this work, hereby release it into the public domain. This applies worldwide. In case this is not legally possible, I grant anyone the right to use this work for any purpose, without any conditions, unless such conditions are required by law.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Common Words #12: Sparrowstrike
Here's something new. You may recognize some names in here if you've read previous bits of my work, particularly #11. As it turns out, this was the prototype for that one - while it uses the same characters, it was written three months before, in September 2006. My mind is, unfortunately, rather empty today, and I know it's not right for me to leave an equally empty day in the log.
The primary difference between this story fragment and "A Scene from the West" was that, in the latter, the setting was shifted to Montana. Here, things take place in southeastern Arizona, 1876. Not exactly the wettest place around.
I can't remember where I got the title from, or what it means, either.
The man had to be mad. Siobhan Cameron tilted the brim of her hat down, wishing it could keep the sweat as well as the light out of her eyes, and regarded him with a long stare, as if enough attention would make him fade from existence like the mirage that he was.
Whoever the man was, he was persistent, and steadfastly refused to disappear.
"Well, this don't look all that usual at all, Brendan," Siobhan said, one hand stroking her horse's thick brown mane. "How's about we make a stop, see if we can find out what the deal is, and give you a couple minutes of rest as part of the bargain? You'll like that, you will. Go on now, Brendan."
Siobhan urged her horse forward at a slow walk and leaned forward in her saddle, squinting as if she was staring into his soul. The man didn't seem to have noticed her presence yet, or if he had, he wasn't giving any hint of it. His attention was on some device Siobhan didn't recognize, what looked like a solid brick of iron on the end of a metal pole, that was connected by a tangle of wires to his backpack. He moved in a straight, regular pattern in a square of land, never going over his footsteps in the time Siobhan watched him, moving like a horse lashed to a plow.
He was a white man, that much was obvious. For all the savagery of the local tribes, Siobhan knew that none of them would be crazy enough to let themselves roast under an unforgiving sun.
As she approached the man, more details emerged from the bright glare that seemed to make the very air around him glow. He was modestly attired in clothes that gave him the look of a seasoned operator, and his boots were worn and coated with the dust of many miles. His hair was a tousled brown mop, visible despite the hat he wore, and he carried himself firm, without the hint of a slump.
He still hadn't taken notice of her approach. Siobhan said a silent prayer, thankful that she had found him before some vainglorious highwayman. She had learned from hard experience that the desert was not a place to lose touch with one's senses, lest death hide in one's shadow.
"Pardon me, sir," Siobhan said, taking up an oft-practiced respectful tone. "Do you know if Silverbridge is far?"
The man stopped in his tracks and his head spun toward Siobhan at an unnerving speed. Words died in her throat as she looked at the man, who regarded her in the cool and distant manner that a falcon might gaze across a valley from its perch. His face was placid and his chin was shaven, but she could see a quiet determination in his steel-grey eyes.
"Is that a lady's voice I hear?" the man asked. He was a New Englander from the sound of it. "Or is the heat boiling my brain?"
"I am a woman, but I can't speak for the state of your brain," Siobhan said, dismounting her horse with practiced grace. She retreived a water canteen from her saddlebag and offered it to the man, whose face overflowed with rivulets of sweat like miniature Mississippis. "Siobhan Cameron is my name. What might yours be, sir?"
"No need for 'sir' out here, Miss Cameron," the man said, taking the canteen in his free hand. He took a brief swig before handing it back. "Do I look like a duke or a general to you? The name's Morgan, Samuel Morgan, and I can tell you it's a pleasure indeed to meet someone like yourself in this wasteland. I know there aren't that many people who would share their water with a stranger."
"Likewise, Mr. Morgan," Siobhan said. "I could hardly ride by, knowing what the sun does to people under it. I can't help but wonder what it is you're doing out here all alone, though, and with that contraption of yours as well."
"It's simple, really," Morgan said. "I am a man of science, and these are my tools. Speaking of which, you wouldn't happen to be hiding a couple of batteries under your blouse, would you?"
Siobhan frowned and crossed her arms. Her experience across the coarse-tongued frontier nonwithstanding, such words never became easier to weather. To hear an educated man speak that way only made it even more painful. She would have expected him, at least, to have some politeness in him.
"The only cannon I have is the one that Mr. Colt provided, and as for what's under my blouse, that's not for you to know," Siobhan said as a great deal of her curiosity toward the device evaporated. "Not that I can see what a man of science would need with artillery."
"I mean electrical batteries, not cannons," Morgan said, holding a hand to his temple. "People always... no, it doesn't matter. I need electrical batteries to power my contraption, as you call it, and it drinks them dry like a shootist in a hot saloon."
"I've certainly got none of those," Siobhan said, frowning at him now. "Nor do I appreciate being spoken to in such a manner, Mr. Morgan. This may be an uncivilized land, but I will be damned if I allow myself to be dragged down to its level, or to yours."
Morgan's eyebrows shot up, as if her statement took him by surprise. Siobhan had to take a step back at that. Surely he wasn't so far removed from reality that he hadn't realized how she would react to his words, was he?
For a moment he floundered under her arrow-straight gaze, unspoken justifications or apologies dying as they met open air. She noticed the sweat starting to run down his forehead anew, despite the brief wind that had kicked up around them.
"I didn't mean you any disrespect, Miss Cameron," Morgan said, staring at the ground. That much wasn't a surprise, as she'd dealt with plenty of men who would rather be buried to their neck in the desert than apologize. "It's just, you know, I don't have the opportunity to talk to ladies like yourself, decent ladies, all too often. Not that many of them left in these parts anymore, either."
"Is that an apology?" Siobhan asked, eyebrow upraised. "What a fine work of camouflage. Here I thought you menfolk had all the subtlety of an artillery barrage."
"It... yes, Miss Cameron," Morgan said, still unwilling or unable to look her in the eye. "I... I apologize. It's just that... well, stay out here for long enough, and you'll feel the courtesies of the civilized world start to just fly away."
"That's something I'd prefer to avoid, thank you," Siobhan said. "I accept your apology, Mr. Morgan. Try not to be so uncouth in the future, though... or is it thoughtlessness?"
"Probably some of both," Morgan said. "Look, Miss Cameron, I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot, and I'd hate to lose out on your acquaintance because of one stupid remark. You're headed for Silverbridge, right? It's only a couple of miles down the road."
"I am," Siobhan said. "In a manner of speaking. I go where the road takes me, and if Silverbridge lies along it, so much the better."
"What's left of it," Morgan said, shaking his head. Sadness? Regret? Siobhan couldn't tell from her limited interaction with the man. "All right. There's a place there called the Blue Castle, and it's a good enough spot to get your bearings. Tell the barkeep that I sent you along, and he'll treat you right. Once I get back to town, maybe we can try so start from the beginning again."
"Fair enough, Mr. Morgan," Siobhan said. "You do seem a conscientious sort, after all. As long as you keep from disrespecting me in such a way, I'm sure we'll get on well."
"I'm already looking forward to the opportunity," Morgan said. "I know enough not to waste second chances. Just be careful in Silverbridge... the place isn't exactly enlightened, you know."
"I know all too well," Siobhan said, mounting her horse once more. "Sometimes I wonder if there's any room for enlightenment at all out here."
"Only what you can carve out for yourself," Morgan said. "It's something, but it's hardly ever enough."
"Perhaps, Mr. Morgan, but if there was enough, there'd hardly be any thrill to the challenge, would there?" Siobhan asked, winking at the man. "I'll see you in Silverbridge, then. Good luck with... whatever it is you're doing out here."
"Only the business of necessity, Miss Cameron," Morgan said. "The most important business there is. I've almost got this problem beat, too. Then everything'll be right as a trivet again. Just you see."
"Perhaps I will indeed," Siobhan said. "Till next we meet, Mr. Morgan."
"Same to you, ma'am," Morgan said, tipping his nonexistent hat. "Safe journey."
Siobhan glanced back at Morgan as her horse trotted down the road. He'd already turned his back to her, once more consumed in the pattern of his movements, guiding his contraption over the dirt like a plowman steering a horse.
"That Mr. Morgan seems like an odd duck, doesn't he, Brendan?" Siobhan asked, stroking her horse's mane. "Good enough man, though, considering."
Something did seem unusual about him, though, in a way she'd seen in only a handful of people before. There was something strange about the way he spoke and the way he moved, as if he wasn't entirely tethered in reality. She wondered if it could be that he was one of the few...
No, Siobhan thought. He can't be. I know the Art. I would have been able to tell.
But then, to Siobhan Cameron, used to the orderly farms and bustling cities on the fair side of the Mississippi, the vast expanses of the West had always had the air of the unreal.
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Previously on Common Words
The primary difference between this story fragment and "A Scene from the West" was that, in the latter, the setting was shifted to Montana. Here, things take place in southeastern Arizona, 1876. Not exactly the wettest place around.
I can't remember where I got the title from, or what it means, either.
**********
The man had to be mad. Siobhan Cameron tilted the brim of her hat down, wishing it could keep the sweat as well as the light out of her eyes, and regarded him with a long stare, as if enough attention would make him fade from existence like the mirage that he was.
Whoever the man was, he was persistent, and steadfastly refused to disappear.
"Well, this don't look all that usual at all, Brendan," Siobhan said, one hand stroking her horse's thick brown mane. "How's about we make a stop, see if we can find out what the deal is, and give you a couple minutes of rest as part of the bargain? You'll like that, you will. Go on now, Brendan."
Siobhan urged her horse forward at a slow walk and leaned forward in her saddle, squinting as if she was staring into his soul. The man didn't seem to have noticed her presence yet, or if he had, he wasn't giving any hint of it. His attention was on some device Siobhan didn't recognize, what looked like a solid brick of iron on the end of a metal pole, that was connected by a tangle of wires to his backpack. He moved in a straight, regular pattern in a square of land, never going over his footsteps in the time Siobhan watched him, moving like a horse lashed to a plow.
He was a white man, that much was obvious. For all the savagery of the local tribes, Siobhan knew that none of them would be crazy enough to let themselves roast under an unforgiving sun.
As she approached the man, more details emerged from the bright glare that seemed to make the very air around him glow. He was modestly attired in clothes that gave him the look of a seasoned operator, and his boots were worn and coated with the dust of many miles. His hair was a tousled brown mop, visible despite the hat he wore, and he carried himself firm, without the hint of a slump.
He still hadn't taken notice of her approach. Siobhan said a silent prayer, thankful that she had found him before some vainglorious highwayman. She had learned from hard experience that the desert was not a place to lose touch with one's senses, lest death hide in one's shadow.
"Pardon me, sir," Siobhan said, taking up an oft-practiced respectful tone. "Do you know if Silverbridge is far?"
The man stopped in his tracks and his head spun toward Siobhan at an unnerving speed. Words died in her throat as she looked at the man, who regarded her in the cool and distant manner that a falcon might gaze across a valley from its perch. His face was placid and his chin was shaven, but she could see a quiet determination in his steel-grey eyes.
"Is that a lady's voice I hear?" the man asked. He was a New Englander from the sound of it. "Or is the heat boiling my brain?"
"I am a woman, but I can't speak for the state of your brain," Siobhan said, dismounting her horse with practiced grace. She retreived a water canteen from her saddlebag and offered it to the man, whose face overflowed with rivulets of sweat like miniature Mississippis. "Siobhan Cameron is my name. What might yours be, sir?"
"No need for 'sir' out here, Miss Cameron," the man said, taking the canteen in his free hand. He took a brief swig before handing it back. "Do I look like a duke or a general to you? The name's Morgan, Samuel Morgan, and I can tell you it's a pleasure indeed to meet someone like yourself in this wasteland. I know there aren't that many people who would share their water with a stranger."
"Likewise, Mr. Morgan," Siobhan said. "I could hardly ride by, knowing what the sun does to people under it. I can't help but wonder what it is you're doing out here all alone, though, and with that contraption of yours as well."
"It's simple, really," Morgan said. "I am a man of science, and these are my tools. Speaking of which, you wouldn't happen to be hiding a couple of batteries under your blouse, would you?"
Siobhan frowned and crossed her arms. Her experience across the coarse-tongued frontier nonwithstanding, such words never became easier to weather. To hear an educated man speak that way only made it even more painful. She would have expected him, at least, to have some politeness in him.
"The only cannon I have is the one that Mr. Colt provided, and as for what's under my blouse, that's not for you to know," Siobhan said as a great deal of her curiosity toward the device evaporated. "Not that I can see what a man of science would need with artillery."
"I mean electrical batteries, not cannons," Morgan said, holding a hand to his temple. "People always... no, it doesn't matter. I need electrical batteries to power my contraption, as you call it, and it drinks them dry like a shootist in a hot saloon."
"I've certainly got none of those," Siobhan said, frowning at him now. "Nor do I appreciate being spoken to in such a manner, Mr. Morgan. This may be an uncivilized land, but I will be damned if I allow myself to be dragged down to its level, or to yours."
Morgan's eyebrows shot up, as if her statement took him by surprise. Siobhan had to take a step back at that. Surely he wasn't so far removed from reality that he hadn't realized how she would react to his words, was he?
For a moment he floundered under her arrow-straight gaze, unspoken justifications or apologies dying as they met open air. She noticed the sweat starting to run down his forehead anew, despite the brief wind that had kicked up around them.
"I didn't mean you any disrespect, Miss Cameron," Morgan said, staring at the ground. That much wasn't a surprise, as she'd dealt with plenty of men who would rather be buried to their neck in the desert than apologize. "It's just, you know, I don't have the opportunity to talk to ladies like yourself, decent ladies, all too often. Not that many of them left in these parts anymore, either."
"Is that an apology?" Siobhan asked, eyebrow upraised. "What a fine work of camouflage. Here I thought you menfolk had all the subtlety of an artillery barrage."
"It... yes, Miss Cameron," Morgan said, still unwilling or unable to look her in the eye. "I... I apologize. It's just that... well, stay out here for long enough, and you'll feel the courtesies of the civilized world start to just fly away."
"That's something I'd prefer to avoid, thank you," Siobhan said. "I accept your apology, Mr. Morgan. Try not to be so uncouth in the future, though... or is it thoughtlessness?"
"Probably some of both," Morgan said. "Look, Miss Cameron, I'm sorry we got off on the wrong foot, and I'd hate to lose out on your acquaintance because of one stupid remark. You're headed for Silverbridge, right? It's only a couple of miles down the road."
"I am," Siobhan said. "In a manner of speaking. I go where the road takes me, and if Silverbridge lies along it, so much the better."
"What's left of it," Morgan said, shaking his head. Sadness? Regret? Siobhan couldn't tell from her limited interaction with the man. "All right. There's a place there called the Blue Castle, and it's a good enough spot to get your bearings. Tell the barkeep that I sent you along, and he'll treat you right. Once I get back to town, maybe we can try so start from the beginning again."
"Fair enough, Mr. Morgan," Siobhan said. "You do seem a conscientious sort, after all. As long as you keep from disrespecting me in such a way, I'm sure we'll get on well."
"I'm already looking forward to the opportunity," Morgan said. "I know enough not to waste second chances. Just be careful in Silverbridge... the place isn't exactly enlightened, you know."
"I know all too well," Siobhan said, mounting her horse once more. "Sometimes I wonder if there's any room for enlightenment at all out here."
"Only what you can carve out for yourself," Morgan said. "It's something, but it's hardly ever enough."
"Perhaps, Mr. Morgan, but if there was enough, there'd hardly be any thrill to the challenge, would there?" Siobhan asked, winking at the man. "I'll see you in Silverbridge, then. Good luck with... whatever it is you're doing out here."
"Only the business of necessity, Miss Cameron," Morgan said. "The most important business there is. I've almost got this problem beat, too. Then everything'll be right as a trivet again. Just you see."
"Perhaps I will indeed," Siobhan said. "Till next we meet, Mr. Morgan."
"Same to you, ma'am," Morgan said, tipping his nonexistent hat. "Safe journey."
Siobhan glanced back at Morgan as her horse trotted down the road. He'd already turned his back to her, once more consumed in the pattern of his movements, guiding his contraption over the dirt like a plowman steering a horse.
"That Mr. Morgan seems like an odd duck, doesn't he, Brendan?" Siobhan asked, stroking her horse's mane. "Good enough man, though, considering."
Something did seem unusual about him, though, in a way she'd seen in only a handful of people before. There was something strange about the way he spoke and the way he moved, as if he wasn't entirely tethered in reality. She wondered if it could be that he was one of the few...
No, Siobhan thought. He can't be. I know the Art. I would have been able to tell.
But then, to Siobhan Cameron, used to the orderly farms and bustling cities on the fair side of the Mississippi, the vast expanses of the West had always had the air of the unreal.
**********
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Previously on Common Words
Sunday, May 9, 2010
PDP #217: A Wide, Open Perspective
The local geography of Los Angeles is, I think, a bit of a mixed bag. While the surrounding mountains mean that it doesn't get as much air circulation as cities in flatter regions, they also provide crackerjack photographic vantage points. This particular one was taken from a lookout just off Mulholland Drive in the Hollywood Hills, looking over the Hollywood Bowl to Hollywood itself with the skyscrapers of downtown LA just visible in the distance.
I, the copyright holder of this work, hereby release it into the public domain. This applies worldwide. In case this is not legally possible, I grant anyone the right to use this work for any purpose, without any conditions, unless such conditions are required by law.
I, the copyright holder of this work, hereby release it into the public domain. This applies worldwide. In case this is not legally possible, I grant anyone the right to use this work for any purpose, without any conditions, unless such conditions are required by law.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
A Historical Perspective: Victory in Europe
Sixty-five years ago, the guns in Western Europe fell silent and the curtains closed on one theatre of the Second World War. Victory in Europe Day, or V-E Day, marked Germany's unconditional surrender to the Allies. With the United Kingdom overwhelmingly invested in the fight against Adolf Hitler - the war against Japan in the Pacific was disproportionately shouldered by the United States - it was a day of feverish celebration as six years of conflict came to a close.
Yesterday would have been my grandfather, Les Parkinson's, ninety-fourth birthday. I've previously posted extracts from his memoirs dealing with his service in the Manchester police force during the war. In 1943, he stepped out of his police uniform and served as a motor mechanic aboard the motor launch RML 497, where he served for the remainder of the war.
From the news releases it was obvious that the war was going well for the good people - us - and the speculation was about when it would all end. We carried on our patrols and spent a lot of time at sea with the spring of 1945. We had nice sailing conditions, and we were able to enjoy reasonably warm weather. The thought of being able to go on watch without wrapping up in all sorts of clothes to keep warm was uppermost. Around April the rumours started again, and the time of peace, it seemed, was at last in sight.
We finally got the news that an armistice would take place early in May. On the afternoon of May 6th, there was a broadcast from the base PA system that no boats would go out on patrol that night, or any other night, as an armistice had been arrived at and hostilities would cease at 0230, May 7th. What a birthday present that was for me.
During the afternoon of May 7th, Peter Scott, the SO of the SGBs, escorted an E-boat into the harbour. Aboard this boat was a high-ranking German naval officer, whose only purpose was to surrender his fleet of E-boats to the Royal Navy. These boats were beautiful to look at, and once they were cleaned up, we were allowed to look over this one.
The crew's quarters were dirty compared with ours, but the wardroom was scrumptious and nicely fitted out. The E-boat was powered by three Daimler-Benz diesel engines. They were huge, and it was no wonder they could outrun our boats.
They had one snag, though, if you could call it one. Whilst they were moored, they had to have a "Jenny" pump hot water through the main engines to keep them warm and ready for immediate use. Also, they had no gearbox. When the engines were started, the boat moved at three knots and was in direct drive. To go astern, the rotation of the camshafts had to be reversed.
The German crew trained one of our crews to handle the boat. Then our men took the E-boat on a tour of the bases on the east coast that had played host to our own boats during the war.
With the war in Europe over, we had to wait to see what was going to happen. One strange thing did happen, though. On the night of May 7th there was no order broadcast at sunset to darken ship, as had been the case for the last five years. It was a strange sight that night. All the lights in the harbour were on, and lights could be seen on all the boats as the hatches and portholes were not battened down.
It was a wonderful, almost forgotten sight. Most of the crews of the boats went up to London that night, and everybody celebrated. As the coxswain was from London, I stayed aboard on watch and let him go to see his family. I went ashore the next night and had my photo taken with my two stokers, Biff and Monty.
Les Parkinson, Biff, and Monty - May 8, 1945
We were detailed for one more patrol, and that was to take a person from Trinity House to check all the buoys in the area. This took us three days. We returned to base each night, and each night we saw fewer and fewer boats in the harbour. They had all gone to be decommissioned and paid off, and we knew that it wouldn't be long before we were paid off.
One of the nicest orders in the Navy was "Harbour Stations," and it was given when entering or leaving harbour. All the crew lined the deck facing the base and stood at attention as the skipper saluted the duty officer. This was to allow the crew a last look at land as they left, in case they didn't return, and as they entered it was to allow them to be thankful for their return. I did like it, although I never participated, as I was always below in the engine room.
The day we left for Dartmouth I watched the land disappear and had a lump in my throat. Why, I didn't know, but I knew that I was leaving something behind. We were on our way to pay the boat off and go home.
All we had to be careful of was that we didn't hit a mine. There were plenty around, but the minesweepers were already hard at it, clearing the minefields and reopening the channels to shipping. To be sure we didn't hit a mine, a lookout was posted up forward and lay on the deck over the bullring in the bow.
Our first stop was at Newhaven, where we spent the night. There, there was a thirty-two foot rise and fall tide. The boats were rafted, and the inner boat was moored to a pontoon that was fastened to the bollard on shore. As the tide went out the watchkeeper had to release and let out the ropes mooring the pontoon to the shore, and the reverse was done when the tide was on the flood.
The watchkeeping was done by men from the base, allowing the boat crews to get some much-needed rest. To get ashore when the tide was out, one had to cross the pontoon and climb up a series of ladders, like the wall bars of a gymnasium, to get ashore.
That night I went ashore to celebrate, and celebrate I did. It was my one and only real bender. We started off with beer and cherry brandy chasers, and what a night it was. The last thing I remember happening was slapping Jimmy the One on the back in a pub and telling him it was time he bought the crew a drink. Everything else was a blur until I woke up in my cabin aboard _497_. From what I was told, I flaked out and the crew carried me to the base, lowered me down the ladders and onto the boat, where they put me on my bunk.
The next morning we put to sea, and I didn't know which was greener, me or the water. The coxswain had had to remain in Felixstowe, so one of the ratings was made acting swain and I was in charge of the crew. As we put into Torquay, I asked the skipper if there was shore leave for the crew. "Yes," he said, "but not for you. You had enough last night." I didn't intend going ashore anyway.
The next day we left for _497_'s final resting place, Dartmouth. The River Dart was the graveyard for many, many Motor Gun Boats, Motor Torpedo Boats, and Motor Launches. There were dozens of them tied up. We tied up to a jetty, and there a work crew removed our guns, ammo, depth charges and CSA gear, while the crew unloaded their own gear.
We could leave nothing aboard. I shared my stock of cigarettes with the crew. From the bridge I took the ship's badge, which I had made, as a keepsake and reminder of my days aboard _497_. As I left the boat I felt a little sad, as it had been my home for so long.
Past Perspectives:
Yesterday would have been my grandfather, Les Parkinson's, ninety-fourth birthday. I've previously posted extracts from his memoirs dealing with his service in the Manchester police force during the war. In 1943, he stepped out of his police uniform and served as a motor mechanic aboard the motor launch RML 497, where he served for the remainder of the war.
*****
From the news releases it was obvious that the war was going well for the good people - us - and the speculation was about when it would all end. We carried on our patrols and spent a lot of time at sea with the spring of 1945. We had nice sailing conditions, and we were able to enjoy reasonably warm weather. The thought of being able to go on watch without wrapping up in all sorts of clothes to keep warm was uppermost. Around April the rumours started again, and the time of peace, it seemed, was at last in sight.
We finally got the news that an armistice would take place early in May. On the afternoon of May 6th, there was a broadcast from the base PA system that no boats would go out on patrol that night, or any other night, as an armistice had been arrived at and hostilities would cease at 0230, May 7th. What a birthday present that was for me.
During the afternoon of May 7th, Peter Scott, the SO of the SGBs, escorted an E-boat into the harbour. Aboard this boat was a high-ranking German naval officer, whose only purpose was to surrender his fleet of E-boats to the Royal Navy. These boats were beautiful to look at, and once they were cleaned up, we were allowed to look over this one.
The crew's quarters were dirty compared with ours, but the wardroom was scrumptious and nicely fitted out. The E-boat was powered by three Daimler-Benz diesel engines. They were huge, and it was no wonder they could outrun our boats.
They had one snag, though, if you could call it one. Whilst they were moored, they had to have a "Jenny" pump hot water through the main engines to keep them warm and ready for immediate use. Also, they had no gearbox. When the engines were started, the boat moved at three knots and was in direct drive. To go astern, the rotation of the camshafts had to be reversed.
The German crew trained one of our crews to handle the boat. Then our men took the E-boat on a tour of the bases on the east coast that had played host to our own boats during the war.
With the war in Europe over, we had to wait to see what was going to happen. One strange thing did happen, though. On the night of May 7th there was no order broadcast at sunset to darken ship, as had been the case for the last five years. It was a strange sight that night. All the lights in the harbour were on, and lights could be seen on all the boats as the hatches and portholes were not battened down.
It was a wonderful, almost forgotten sight. Most of the crews of the boats went up to London that night, and everybody celebrated. As the coxswain was from London, I stayed aboard on watch and let him go to see his family. I went ashore the next night and had my photo taken with my two stokers, Biff and Monty.
Les Parkinson, Biff, and Monty - May 8, 1945We were detailed for one more patrol, and that was to take a person from Trinity House to check all the buoys in the area. This took us three days. We returned to base each night, and each night we saw fewer and fewer boats in the harbour. They had all gone to be decommissioned and paid off, and we knew that it wouldn't be long before we were paid off.
One of the nicest orders in the Navy was "Harbour Stations," and it was given when entering or leaving harbour. All the crew lined the deck facing the base and stood at attention as the skipper saluted the duty officer. This was to allow the crew a last look at land as they left, in case they didn't return, and as they entered it was to allow them to be thankful for their return. I did like it, although I never participated, as I was always below in the engine room.
The day we left for Dartmouth I watched the land disappear and had a lump in my throat. Why, I didn't know, but I knew that I was leaving something behind. We were on our way to pay the boat off and go home.
All we had to be careful of was that we didn't hit a mine. There were plenty around, but the minesweepers were already hard at it, clearing the minefields and reopening the channels to shipping. To be sure we didn't hit a mine, a lookout was posted up forward and lay on the deck over the bullring in the bow.
Our first stop was at Newhaven, where we spent the night. There, there was a thirty-two foot rise and fall tide. The boats were rafted, and the inner boat was moored to a pontoon that was fastened to the bollard on shore. As the tide went out the watchkeeper had to release and let out the ropes mooring the pontoon to the shore, and the reverse was done when the tide was on the flood.
The watchkeeping was done by men from the base, allowing the boat crews to get some much-needed rest. To get ashore when the tide was out, one had to cross the pontoon and climb up a series of ladders, like the wall bars of a gymnasium, to get ashore.
That night I went ashore to celebrate, and celebrate I did. It was my one and only real bender. We started off with beer and cherry brandy chasers, and what a night it was. The last thing I remember happening was slapping Jimmy the One on the back in a pub and telling him it was time he bought the crew a drink. Everything else was a blur until I woke up in my cabin aboard _497_. From what I was told, I flaked out and the crew carried me to the base, lowered me down the ladders and onto the boat, where they put me on my bunk.
The next morning we put to sea, and I didn't know which was greener, me or the water. The coxswain had had to remain in Felixstowe, so one of the ratings was made acting swain and I was in charge of the crew. As we put into Torquay, I asked the skipper if there was shore leave for the crew. "Yes," he said, "but not for you. You had enough last night." I didn't intend going ashore anyway.
The next day we left for _497_'s final resting place, Dartmouth. The River Dart was the graveyard for many, many Motor Gun Boats, Motor Torpedo Boats, and Motor Launches. There were dozens of them tied up. We tied up to a jetty, and there a work crew removed our guns, ammo, depth charges and CSA gear, while the crew unloaded their own gear.
We could leave nothing aboard. I shared my stock of cigarettes with the crew. From the bridge I took the ship's badge, which I had made, as a keepsake and reminder of my days aboard _497_. As I left the boat I felt a little sad, as it had been my home for so long.
Past Perspectives:
Friday, May 7, 2010
PDP #216: Round and Round and Round Again
As I write this there are only six seats left to be declared in the United Kingdom's election, but at this point it's not going to change much. David Cameron's Conservatives have dethroned Gordon Brown's Labour, yes, but while it's not by the thinnest of margins, it's not enough either - and so, it appears that the UK is looking at the prospect of a minority government. After their most recent experience with it, I have a better understanding of why they call it a "hung parliament," but it's worked out well enough for Canada over the last four years. The fact that the Conservatives are sounding out a coalition government with the Liberal Democrats - who, from my perspective, appear to approximate Canada's New Democratic Party - just underscores the weirdness here. I would have expected Labour and the Lib Dems to go it together, myself. If for no other reason than to provide Stephen Harper with a reminder that a coalition government between multiple parties that, between them, control a majority of the seats in the house, even if neither of them have the most seats individually, is not a coup d'etat.
I expect it's going to be a bit interesting from here on. So I think that this picture of the London Eye, a rather large Ferris wheel just a stone's throw from Parliament, is appropriate. Would you believe, though, that when I went to London I did not take one single photograph of Parliament itself? For shame.
I, the copyright holder of this work, hereby release it into the public domain. This applies worldwide. In case this is not legally possible, I grant anyone the right to use this work for any purpose, without any conditions, unless such conditions are required by law.
I expect it's going to be a bit interesting from here on. So I think that this picture of the London Eye, a rather large Ferris wheel just a stone's throw from Parliament, is appropriate. Would you believe, though, that when I went to London I did not take one single photograph of Parliament itself? For shame.
I, the copyright holder of this work, hereby release it into the public domain. This applies worldwide. In case this is not legally possible, I grant anyone the right to use this work for any purpose, without any conditions, unless such conditions are required by law.
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