I am delighted to welcome my first guest blogger to The Ephemera today. Fellow dystopian author Leigh M. Lane from www.cerebralwriter.com has written a fantastic article on the state of the dystopian genre. I encourage everyone to check out Leigh’s books, World-Mart and Myths of Gods.

I want to thank Jeffery M. Anderson for opening his blog to me as a guest today. It’s a real treat to connect with other dystopian authors and readers and I’m glad to be here.

I would like to begin with an interactive test. Go to any social network and type into the discussion box the word “dystopia.” See anything interesting? Chances are, you’ll see the same issue in most word processing programs. The word comes up as a spelling error; however, you’ve made no error. Many programs simply do not recognize it as a legitimate word because it has become too rare to bother adding to their databases.

It came as quite a shock the day I finally realized dystopian literature no longer held the reverence it did back in the days of Orwell et al. Ask any given group of people to define the term, and you’ll be lucky to find one or two people who can do so adequately. The realization hit me when the reviews began to pour in for my recent release, World-Mart. While the novel was able to find some readership familiar with the genre, I was surprised when some readers rated it poorly because they didn’t like that it had a dismal ending. The first thought that came to my mind was, “This is a dystopia. What do these people expect?” Then, I realized that these readers did not know what a dystopia was.

I shared a blog post last month titled The 1984 Effect, in which I defined the public’s desire for escapism and happy endings as a sign of the times. Instead of embracing literature that works to highlight contemporary issues and effect change, most people would rather read books that take them as far away as possible from the evils of our world. While a little escapism every now and then is a good thing, I see the aversion to realism as a part of the complacency that plagues our nations, a problem that—like the world’s compounding problems—no one seems to want to address.

For those unfamiliar with the term, “dystopia” refers to the genre of literature opposite of “utopia.” Instead of portraying a perfect world, the dystopia paints a bleak picture of our future, often a prediction of what may come to be if people do not change their ways or face current issues. Like the utopia, dystopia is meant to raise issues in meaningful ways and make people think. Unlike the utopia, the ending is typically not very happy—but this is with purpose. Only through angst might people truly look at the problems around them and decide it is time to make a stand against them. Only by looking at the worst possible scenarios might they consider their opposite outcomes and how to achieve them.

In my dystopia World-Mart, corporate America has fallen to its extreme. Gone are the days of “mom and pop” stores, independent contractors, and the freedom to choose one’s own path. Because of reorganization prompted by the effects of global warming and antibiotic-resistant disease, “Corporate” owns everything, including government and church. Everyone is reduced to a polo shirt and a name tag, working either for the Marts (low income) or the Corps (middle income). Construction work is left to the “deviants,” those unfortunate enough to be descendants of a germ-line therapy for antibiotic resistant disease gone wrong (although the only real difference between them any everyone else is their eye color). If one wants to go grocery shopping, one goes to the Food-Mart; if one wants to get from point A to point B, one goes through Transportation-Corp; if one gets sick or injured, one goes to Medical-Corp.

Why did I write such a bleak story? Because I remember a time before the corporate takeover, when independent businesses were the norm, customer service was a pleasure, and people took pride in their work (because they made more than minimum wage, received great benefits, and loved their employers). Fast-forward to the present day, in which people fitted in matching polo shirts and khaki pants work for enormous corporations for little pay and few to no benefits, struggling to make ends meet, while high-paid CEOs rake in the cash. People are undereducated, stores are employed with uninformed “experts,” and no one seems to care. As a writer, I feel it is my job to address such issues through my literature.

So, I ask you to finish reading this short essay with an experiment of your own. Ask ten random friends to define “dystopia” and take a close look at the answers you receive. Go to your local “Mart” store and ask an employee how long he or she trained for the position—and then ask what his or her company last did to improve his or her quality of life. Then ask yourself: what has this world come to and where is it heading? Moreover, would you rather remain with the escapists or start thinking about what you personally can do to change it all?

Leigh M. Lane lives in the beautiful mountains of Montana with her husband and their two cats. She writes dark speculative fiction that often contains strong social and political commentary. Her novels Myths of Gods and World-Mart span billions of years of science fantasy past to just decades into a dystopian future, her imagination as vast as her books are fast-paced and unique. For more information, go to her website at http://www.cerebralwriter.com.

“You don’t know the meaning of hard work.” My father used to say that a lot to me when I was a kid. I hated hearing that back then. It seemed to me that there was no pleasing him, sometimes. He’d wake me up at the crack of dawn, hover over my bleary head and say “I’ve got a project for you.” I would cut and stack firewood. I would help him build a fence. I would help him put together a tool shed, or a duck blind. I would help him clear away brush. Hammers and saws and nails were my enemies. No matter how hard I worked, I still heard it, that refrain. I love him for it today.

When I was about twelve, I got my first job. I was a busboy at the local country club where my mother was the book keeper. I ran butter and rolls, pitchers of ice-water and napkins, dropped silverware on the tables of the fortunate and the well-to-do of Ft. Madison, Iowa. When they were done eating, I took away their dishes and wiped clean their table cloths. I got to learn the class that they were and the class I was not, back then.

I went on to a string of constant jobs after that. I washed dishes and waited tables at a local beer and burger joint. As soon as I could drive, I got myself and my brother jobs as corn de-tasslers. We woke up at four in the morning so we could drive to a corn field, half an hour from home, and spend twelve hours pulling the silky tassle parts from corn stalks. Up and down the rows we went, sometimes riding in the baskets of a detassling tractor, sometimes just walking the rows, cutting our hands on corn leaves.

I felt like a big brother then. I looked out for my little brother. Then there was the one day that neither one of us wanted to go. We skipped out on work, driving around for a couple of hours before going home, when we knew no one was going to be there to catch us. We didn’t know the meaning of hard work. – At least, that’s what my dad would have said.

When I graduated high school, I got another job. My mother had moved on from book keeping at country clubs to book keeping at nursing homes. It was a natural progression. I was hired to scrape and re-wax the floors of the West Point nursing home. Sometimes, it was an overnight shift, so that the nurses and residents would be out of the way while I worked. So, I scraped and I scrubbed and I waxed. The crazier residents would call out at night. Sometimes, they would come out of their rooms, naked and aged, calling for someone that was no longer living. I watched a woman die once. It was an accident. I happened to be sweeping her room when she went into cardiac arrest. The staff rushed in and made a big fuss, but none of their ruckus could overwhelm the quiet of her passing. I saw her eyes dim.

I remember coming home at seven in the morning from a shift about two weeks before I left for college. My father was just waking up to go to work himself. He walked in on me cobbling together some kind of breakfast in the kitchen. He put his hands on my shoulders and said, “Now you know what hard work is. I’m proud of you, son.” He cooked me eggs after that. It was one of my favorite moments with my dad.

But, the hardest work I was in for came later. It wasn’t the cooking jobs I got in college, rushing around various kitchens, burning myself to sautee vegetables, grill burgers and steaks for two hundred people in a night. It wasn’t the factory job I spent two summers doing. I worked a production line for eight to ten hours a day, piping chemicals into superheated steel molds to make armrests and dashboard parts for cars. It was a hundred degrees in that factory. The supervisor ran back and forth across the line, barking at us about moving faster and making our quota. I sanded my knuckles off on a belt sander once, making an armrest smooth. I came home every day with bruised hands from knocking open the steel molds, at first with an iron bar, then, I just got tough enough to open the molds with my bare hands. Burns and bruises meant nothing.

The hardest work wasn’t the landscaping company. I worked twelve to fourteen hours a day, planting trees and cutting sod with a box knife. I ran a skid loader and a fork lift. One day I walked off the job, because I was going to kill a guy with a rake for repeatedly driving over the area I was planing for sod. The next day, the owner of the company dressed me down for leaving, until I told him why I did. Then, he gave me a raise for having common sense. A few weeks later, the owner was broke and he couldn’t pay us. I went to his house and threatened to kill him with a rake, before I got my check. I walked off the job then and never went back. He still owes me money.

The hardest work came one day when I was broke, as usual, and looking for the biggest paycheck I could find. I got a newspaper and saw an ad for a job that was paying over seven dollars an hour, a fortune back then. The only job description was ‘laundry service.’

The University of Iowa has one of the largest hospitals in the country. I’d worked there before on several other jobs, delivering packages, sterilizing sutures. Those were the jobs not worth mentioning, the easy jobs. I called about the laundry ad and was directed to a squat concrete building across the river from the hospital.

There I met the angriest looking man I’ve ever seen. He was so angry that the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth had folded in on themselves from scowling so much. He called me into his office and grunted everything he said, like a big alpha gorilla. One of the things he grunted was that nobody lasted there. He grunted that he was doubtful I’d last beyond one day.

He reluctantly led me upstairs to the upper level, past the steam and gears and roaring of the massive machines downstairs that were pressing and cleaning and drying clothes from the hospital in huge loads, pushed around in big plastic carts by sad looking individuals.

Upstairs was a locker room. The doorways were covered in plastic. Inside, a cart full of rubber aprons, gloves and surgical masks stood by the door. There was a row of solemn rubber boots on a bench. “Get dressed.” He told me, pointing to the rubber robes. I did. Then I followed him through a door in the back of the locker room.

The smell was indescribable. Opening the door fed into my lungs a funk of rot and death that would cause anyone instant retching. I swallowed my retching and entered. It was a concrete industrial room the size of a gymnasium. A large conveyor belt ran through the middle of the room and made a square turn at the far end, descending into the floor below. Seven men lined the conveyor belt, breaking open garbage bags full of laundry. They were surrounded by six-foot piles of various types of hospital garments on all sides. Another two men were scooping armloads of the garments into canvass bags hung on hooks that they filled and pushed along tracks in the ceiling until they came to a stop over a chute that led to the washing machines downstairs. They dumped the soiled clothes into the chute and returned for another load.

“Welcome to the sorting room.” The angry man pointed to an open spot along the conveyor belt. “There’s your spot. They’ll tell you what to do. Let me know when you want to quit.” He shook his head and walked out.

I thanked the luck that I did not eat a big lunch and took my station, to the left and right of me were masked men who smiled with their eyes. An alarm rang. A light on the ceiling began to pulse, and the conveyor belt began to move. Suddenly, a line of garbage bags appeared, marching up the conveyor belt from the floor below. The first two men in the line up smacked the bags and popped them open, dumping them on to the belt. I saw turds roll away from the piles. As the piles came closer to me the workers began to sort, throwing garments expertly in front and behind them to their appropriate piles -scrubs to one side, baby blankets to another, hospital gowns, mop heads, sheets and blankets, all to distinct piles around the room. Fresh blood and coagulated blood poured out of the laundry. I picked up this and that, tossing here and there, according to direction from some of the sorters. The speed was intense. A truck load had to be sorted in a matter of minutes. Pieces of bone, brain, human meat, dropped and bounced as the laundry was picked through. Feces fell everywhere. The smell of every type of human fluid puffed anew as each bag was opened. There was also broken glass, sometimes syringes, bloody and just used.

All the time, some of the men kept cat-calling to the new guy – me. “Pick it up, fish! You suck at this, little boy! Better sort faster! If we have to stop the belt, I’m kicking your ass, boy!” I was too slow and they had to stop the belt. It was a big red button next to the man who was yelling at me most. He hit that button and turned on me. He walked up to me in a fit and shoved me so hard I nearly fell down into a pile of shitty baby gowns. If the belt had to stop again, he said, I was going home with my teeth in my hands. I found out later that he was a murderer. Many of the workers there were on parole for rape, murder, armed robbery from the max prison nearby. It was part of a jobs program for parolees. He became my closest friend at the laundry.

In a month, I was the one threatening to knock the teeth out of newcomers. Ex-felons and college kids, the last frontier in a college town, the best symbiosis I could imagine. I got by because I could make them laugh. I became endeared because I did a good job, put my nose down. I knew the meaning of hard work. I was fearless and they respected me for it. Even John, the angry manager took notice and, after four months in the sorting room, promoted me downstairs to run the washing machines and the dryers on weekends. I went back to the sorting room during the week.

One day John called me into his office. He was angry and ugly, as usual. He put a pen and a piece of paper down on his desk and looked me in the eye, with his angry eye. “I never thought I’d be doing this, but, I’ll pay you to leave.” He said. I looked confused.

“You’re becoming too much like them.” He nodded upstairs. I shrugged. John pounded his fist on his desk. “You forgot who you are!” He yelled. “You have more important things to do than this. Don’t be like them. They just came out of something you don’t want to go into. I see you heading there.” I shrugged again and walked out of his office. I didn’t see what he wrote on the paper. Maybe I should have looked.

Three months later, I got another job, through a friend. It was a good university job. I gave my resignation to John and he looked happy, for the first time since I’d known him. I’d lasted over a year. He didn’t think I could finish a day. He didn’t realize I know the meaning of hard work. Thanks, Dad.

Various literary scholars and Websites have identified several common elements that are distinct within classic dystopian literature. What distinguishes the dystopian tale, when examined, reveals the why of its importance as a literary form. The examination also gives insight into the why of the authors and their motives for writing such generally bleak stories.

Classic dystopian novels, such as 1984, A Brave New World and Farenheit 451, commonly involve a humanity overburdened by technology and dehumanized by its own fragility and helplessness that technology has brought on. It is often a humanity tightly controlled and oppressed by a government, corporation or other controlling power that has stepped in to fill the vacuum left by the populace’s inability or unwillingness to self govern behaviors and social structure. The governing power may have intentionally encouraged the powerlessness of the people and helped to create the dystopian society, or simply arose as a response to the decline of self governance. Regardless, the result is always nightmarish.

The “heroes” of the genre, perhaps better simply termed protagonists, are usually disaffected members of the defunct society, insiders who, for one reason or another, are not fully indoctrinated by the governing power and not susceptible to the soporific trance of the average citizen. They rebel against the dystopia and try to escape, or fight back against its oppression. Interestingly, in many cases, the protagonists are largely unsuccessful, falling prey to the power of the antagonistic governor. This leaves many dystopian novels with predominantly frightening and sorrowful endings, and leaves readers feeling as hopeless and powerless as the citizens of the novel.

The intentions of dystopian novels are pretty clear-cut. The whys of these stark warnings about society are deep seeded concerns of the writers as observers of their own times and cultures. Portraying a totalitarian end result to their concerns over apathy, censorship, over-governance and over-technologied people is a plausible and logical conclusion to these writers, observing the trends of the world.

It is a significant and important genre because it realizes fears that many people have about their modern world and can serve as a message of warning that the dystopia can be averted if people become more involved in the formation of their future. But is dystopian literature averting anything, or is it symptomatic of the dystopia becoming realized?

The popularity and frequency of the genre has increased over the last several decades. Literature and film both seem to show an increased fascination with the dystopia. There may be something to the idea that, somewhere in our collective human conscience, the dissatisfaction with the world is increasing, as is the fear of its general direction.

In my own dystopian novel, Ephemera, the world is not a clear-cut dystopia, yet. But, it is far more dystopian than its citizens realize and it edges closer to it every day. It is a dystopia and a totalitarian power that has slowly been emerging for sometime and is on the brink of taking total control of the people, as technology slowly puts them to sleep.

And that is the most likely way that this scenario would come about. Not with a major defining event, but in bits and pieces over time. As the old adage goes – with a whimper, not a bang. There are any multitude of trends one could point to as evidence that the slide toward dystopia has been long coming. It is a pessimistic and perhaps, hyperbolic view of modern history. Still, observant watchers of history cannot deny that the presence and power of media, technology and governing bodies over the daily lives of people has been steadily increasing, if in seemingly innocuous, or even beneficial ways. As to now, society has not hit a stopping point, drawn a line in the sands of tolerance that it will not allow any of these influences to cross. That, in itself, may be of most concern to writers and readers of dystopian literature.

We’re moving through the holiday season and reflecting on the past year, giving thanks, appreciating the people that matter to us. It is too bad that life would corner giving thanks into a particular season. For so many, including myself, it often does. Swept up the minutiae of daily business, work and family, it is very easy to forget to stop and think about how good life is. – even when it isn’t so good.

In the last weekend in October, a poignant reminder arrived in the form of the now famous and over reported October snowstorm that crushed the forests and utility lines of the northeast. I was lucky to only go three days without power and other utilities. Friends went a week or more. But the blackening of the television and the computer, the silencing of the phone, brought some seriously needed pause and contemplation time. It was a silence for thought and what came to me was not how cold and boring the house had become. I did not lament my inability to turn on the stove or take a shower.

Profoundly enough, the focus shifted to how lucky I was to have a great family, full of love, to be with. I felt lucky to have a car to travel to a restaurant, and money to buy a meal for my family when we could not cook at home. I was grateful to have friends to check on and offer help to. I have a bed and blankets to bundle into with my family and keep warm.

No matter what our problems, whoever we are, there is likely someone else out there who has bigger problems, who lives with less, who survives a harder life. Some of them even manage to be happy some of the time.

So, I, for one, am making it a point, starting now, to pause a little more often and be appreciative. I’ll take inventory and sum up the great things that make life sweet, a list of the important things. I’ll also offer a few more well wishes for those who need them more than I do.

For the entirety of my life I’ve wanted to write novels and have a lot of people read them. For the past three years, I’ve worked tirelessly for that to become a reality. I will continue to work tirelessly to that end. But, I will continue to pause. If I never make the big time, I know I’ll still have that list of invaluable joys to peruse in my mind. If my goal is never achieved, I’ve still lived a great life. I have the list to prove it. That list may change. It may grow or shrink. But that list will always be there, and, it does not include any of the things lost in the storm.

It’s a top ten list. The very thing I don’t like to do, but, it makes a good primer for Halloween viewing. It is my second favorite holiday, after all. There is no particular order to it. Number one doesn’t mean number one, rather the order that they came to mind. So, feel free to disagree, send me a comment and add your own, or just lend support to a fellow horror movie lover.

1. Halloween (1978) – The cinematography alone makes this movie, not only a classic, but, to me, the Citizen Kane of the horror genre. Carpenter masterfully scared the crap out of viewers, for almost half an hour, without a single drop of blood spilled.  The camera shots of Michael Myers stalking his victims, along with the music that Carpenter composed himself, shiver my spine even today, when I already know what’s going to happen. The image of Michael rising up from the floor behind Jamie Lee Curtis is timeless. The sequel, Halloween II, won’t make the list, but it also deserves a look for some of its really creepy moments. I’m a big Carpenter fan, particularly his early years, when his movies didn’t suck. He makes this list a couple of times.

2. The Thing From Another World (1951) – Oldie, but goodie, that won’t disappoint the discerning horror afficionado. Cited by a number of big name directors as an influence for movies of their own, this film serves as a time-capsule, looking backward at the innate fears of yester-year. The thing is plant-like and ravenous. The actors are bravado-filled and almost insouciant, but the plot is scary and the struggle seems real.

3. The Thing (1982) – As was referenced above, Carpenter called The Thing From Another World a major influence, and also called his remake, his best movie. I’m on the fence about that. However, it is an amazing and scary film, one of my all time favorites. Critics and movie-goers initially brushed it off. But, the fact that there is a re-remake now, stands as a poignant statement to the impact of his creation. In 1982, nobody was doing the kind of animatronics and SE gore that The Thing brought to the screen. Seeing a human head sprout legs and skitter off, is scare royalty. Kurt Russell et al, gave great performances, eliciting palpable stress and paranoia that you don’t see in movies, even today. My favorite quote comes from Donald Moffat (Garry) “I know you gentlemen have been through a lot, but when you find the time, I’d rather not spend the rest of this winter TIED TO THIS FUCKING COUCH!”

4. Friday the 13th (1980) – The original camp slasher movie. It had it all – a murky back-story, shocking plot twists and creative murder methods. Counselors were stupid and having sex in the woods got you impaled. There is a lot to criticize about it, but it is an original and all time favorite. I also have a theory about a declining algorithm, wherein the franchise got dumber with each sequel. We can discuss that later.

5. The Burning (1981) – Never heard of it? Not surprised. It came out one year after Friday the 13th and bore all of the characteristics of a rip off. Harvey Weinstein may have known that at the time and was trying to ride the camp slasher wave, but he succeeded. There was a drive in theatre in Keokuk, Iowa that my parents used to take us to in the station wagon. My brother and I were supposed to be filled with popcorn and sleeping in the back when the scary movie came on. For this one, I wasn’t. I peeked quietly over the back seat and, it is etched into my brain permanently. The killer in this flick is a groundskeeper, who is severely disfigured and burned by a prank from campers involving gasoline and candles. Tell me why that was ever a good idea. He is released from the mental hospital and does what? Oh, he goes back to the camp to kill everyone in sight with a pair of hedge clippers. The film holds the tension well, offers some horrific scenes, such as a raft of canoes filled with chopped up body parts, and gives viewers some scream time with incredibly young stars, such as Holly Hunter, Jason Alexander and that dopey kid from Fast Times at Ridgemont High.

6. Forbidden Planet (1956) – Leslie Nielson was not always a comic actor. He served well as the captain of this errant space ship, looking for a new beginning. The ghosts of Mars are in full effect in this sci-fi twister that involves a quirky professor, a fetching young daughter and an invisible monster lusting blood from the new arrivals. Creepy, funny and just plain entertaining.

7. Masque of the Red Death (1964) – Vincent Price doing anything is entertaining. Vincent Price doing Edgar Allen Poe is genius. Price actually did a number of films adapted from Poe stories, The Pit and The Pendulumand The Fall of The House of Usher. His turns in The Fly and House of Wax alone should get him a spot on this list. But, his maniacal and self absorbed character in this movie turns him from creepy to stellar creepy. When the clock rings true and the plague reaches the party goers, the lament of Price is priceless. I love this film for a number of reasons, most of which involve my love of Poe and the coming undone that always happens in his stories. He died in a gutter in Baltimore, laying bare his soul in the same way that he laid bare the souls of his characters.

8. Jaws (1975) – The eternal appeal of this movie lies in the characters. The shark is a real character, acting out its desires and rages. Roy Scheider and Richard Dreyfuss are real people, struggling together for the return of normalcy and balance to the sea of knowledge. Robert Shaw (Quint) is a real captain, searching for his own revenge against the world that stole his mates back on that cold voyage to deliver the bomb. The story is real, at least, from the history of the USS Indianapolis, from the shark attacks that happened in New Jersey forty years ago. What I love about Steven Spielberg’s early movies is the juxtaposition (damn college words) of scary and humorous, real and suspension of disbelief. Jaws has really scary moments, but it equally has moments of hopefulness and comedy. He can switch from funny to scary at a moment’s notice and that is something I appreciate.

9. Poltergeist (1982) – “We’ll go to Pizza Hut” Jo Beth Williams says as she slides her daughter, in a football helmet across the kitchen floor. It turns from bad to worse in this ghost story that gives all suburban families a pause, as they move in to new digs, built just for them. As in the last entry, Spielberg sets us up in the most normal of scenarios and then turns them upside down. I remember watching this movie for the first time as a kid and, thinking, I know those people. That’s the genius of it all. Skeletons and phantoms hovering over your head, possibly dragging you across the floor, are not something to be trifled with.

10. Night of The Living Dead – George Romero made Halloween scary. There is no doubt about it. The original film is still the scariest, creepiest and the gruesomest that was ever played. Unfortunately for George, I figured out how to survive the zombie apocalypse. They don’t have endothermic heating systems. I’m going north, to Canada, George. I’m going to watch them freeze solid and then open a restaurant.

There are a number of other movies I wanted to include. Hitchcock got a bad shaft, for instance. The original My bloody Valentine seemed appropriate, but unable to stand up to the rest. Maybe there’s room for another list next year.

Writing a novel about strange conspiracies has given me something of a conspiracy theorist’s eye that, at times, it would be helpful to turn off. The truth about conspiracies is that they can be found in anything. All it requires is a vivid imagination. It is not hard to understand that some imaginative and, possibly, unstable individuals can convince themselves of the nefariousness lurking behind even the most innocuous events and media presentations.

So, it is with the theorist’s eye that I’ve made a game of spotting the conspiracy behind any message I come across. Recently, most of the messages I am exposed to come from the horrific annals of children’s television. There I have discovered conspiracies abound. Evil is afoot, and a little known war is being waged for our children’s minds and souls. I may be killed for revealing these plots, but it is imperative that you, parental reader, know of the existence of the adorable agents of sedition. They are legion.

Little Einsteins

One might watch this creepy, daily melodrama and assume that the writers only want to give kids a little art and culture. But, it has a darker purpose. As an adult, sitting through an episode can be an uncomfortable experience. Ocean dwelling musical instruments and strange fairytale characters are surreal enough to make an adult’s skin crawl and a child’s brain pliant and suggestible. The little Einsteins themselves seem oblivious and dedicated to their cause as they soar the skies in their rocket, a machine with a personality that they are mindlessly loyal to. For some unsettling reason, all of the animals and inanimate objects the kids encounter shriek the sounds of stringed instruments, reminiscent of something from an alien horror film. The adult viewer half expects insect appendages to burst from their bodies. The theorist must ask what the ‘real’ message here is.

Indeed, the true intent of this show is demonstrated in the repeated appearance of the villain character, a military jet that has mechanical appendages bursting from its body. This demon of the skies is known, coldly, as “Big Jet.” The Einsteins obviously want children to hate the government and the military industrial complex, to grow up and revolt against a working life and all become wandering minstrels of peace. Not if I have anything to say about it, Einsteins.

Thomas and Friends

Who doesn’t love those adorable and ‘useful’ engines from the island of Sodor? I don’t, because I know that the Marxists have taken over the Awdry empire and want to turn your children into the red youth. Sir Topham Hatt may resemble Winston Churchill, but his speeches about being useful and not causing confusion and delay are echoes of Stalin. Sodor is the communist utopia where an engine will only end up causing trouble should it decide to think for itself. The message to kids – you are single purpose machines and must serve the collective, or chaos will ensue. I’m on to you, Thomas.

Go, Diego Go!

This is obviously the propaganda arm of PETA and the animal rights coalition. Diego wants your children to stop eating meat and go commune with wild animals, sacrificing anything to help them and make their lives better. Diego wants your kids to know that humans are the oppressors and owe restitution to other animate life-forms around the world, even if your kids are killed and eaten for their good deeds. Young people must be saved from these backward lunatics.

There are many more evil forces behind the shows children watch. I did not get into the violent fascism being peddled by the happy creatures of Yo Gabba Gabba! Neither was there time to outline how Jerry Falwell was actually covering up the anti-gay propaganda of the Teletubbies when he made his accusations about Tinky Winky. These are for another post. Be wary, parents, of the intent behind every voice reaching your children’s ears. Barring that, try to amuse yourself with the conspiracy game. It makes sitting through these shows just a little more tolerable.

Sometimes I want to think for myself, in the simplest terms. Sometimes I want to go to the bathroom at a restaurant and flush the toilet at my discretion, turn the water on and off at will, pump out my own hand-soap, pull out my own paper towel to dry my hands, without waving them, like a crazy person, in front of some sensor that won’t cooperate, or is overly cooperative and dispenses far too much of its assigned commodity. It seems like opportunities to control simple things are becoming more scarce by the day.

Sometimes I want to find my own way somewhere without an aseptic computer voice haranguing me when I need to turn, sometimes erroneously. I’ve been witness to an, otherwise sane, married couple screaming at each other as they circled a church they were trying to get to for a wedding. The church was in clear view, only a couple of blocks away. Yet, the navigation system in their car kept insisting they make right turn after right turn, trying to avoid one-way streets and a construction site. This small, technological device had somehow disarmed their normally acute common sense and put their marriage on the rocks, simply because they were given over to believe, to trust, in that motherly voice to get them where they needed to go. When that voice failed them, they were powerless to adapt, at least for a little while.

Over the weekend, I drove a couple of hours west to take a short family trip. I used the navigation system to get me there. The trip was relatively seamless. The technology did what it was supposed to do. I used it again on the way home. I drove carefully, enjoyed the scenery and got back without incident. Even though my destination is only a hundred miles from me, only requiring about four turns to get there, I cannot tell you how to get there without looking it up.

In the days before GPS, even in the days of Mapquest, I would have had detailed directions. I would have mentally noted landmarks and highway numbers. I would be able, one day later, to tell you exactly how I got to my weekend getaway with meticulous accuracy.

The brain takes on the load it needs to take. When we have ease, when we have thinking taken away from us, we simply stop thinking. The necessary tools we previously needed to function stop working. If those mental tools remain dormant for long enough, they may be difficult to jump start, when needed again. Just like any skill or physical ability, the ‘use it or lose it’ rule applies.

In my novel, Ephemera, the populace has lost it, on many more levels than navigation or turning on a faucet. Children born into the world of thoughtless ease never even develop the skills that lie dormant in older people. This is something we need to be imminently wary of.

At one point in the book, a character observes that knowledge of geography is a thing of the past. Due to a lacking educational system, this is already becoming a fact among our younger generations, and has been getting worse for decades. American students fail even basic world, or national, geographic knowledge. With GPS technology, the problem can only worsen. Soon, people won’t be able to find their way around their state or county without the driver’s little helper. Why think about where you are when someone else is doing it for you?

As technological replacements for thinking multiply, human thinking is deprived, whether it is getting where you are going, or going when you have to go. How long will it be until a child is befuddled when presented with a sink that has traditional taps?

I have a three year old, who already asks me, whenever we are out and have to visit the loo, “Dad, does this toilet flush by itself , or is there a handle?” You have to ask yourself if this is really what we want for people.

Over the weekend I attended Frenchtown, New Jersey’s Riverfest, as a vendor, to sell copies of Ephemera and finally get face to face with the public. I was apprehensive about doing an event, not sure what to expect, or, whether it would be worth the investment.

I am happy to report that it was a great success and well worth my time and money. While online marketing opportunities are tenfold, the indie author has very few options for connecting with the public in a live setting. It was extremely fulfilling and energizing to see how many people are willing to take a chance on a local author. It was extremely fun to chat up the book with people, and even put on the hard sell, at times. It was also a great learning experience.

I want to thank all of the great folks who I met, who bought my book, and who stopped by to say hello. I want to thank Cleo, of Alchemy, and Teresa, of Southern Belle Stonery, for being so gracious and getting me acquainted with the process. I also want to thank all of the fellow vendors who mentored me, helped me out and kept me entertained through the long days on my feet.

I especially want to thank Joie and Chris from Heron Tales, magnificent people with huge hearts, who were the first to lend a hand, the first to buy my book and the first to offer support when things were slow, or the heat was bogging us down.

Heron Tales makes an assortment of leather jewelry, much of which features the slogan “Choose Peace.” Joie lost her son in Afghanistan last year. To her and her son, the great blue heron was a symbol of luck. She’s taken this tragic experience and turned it into something heartfelt and hopeful. I spent a lot of time this weekend thinking about that message, ‘Choose Peace.’ Those of you that know me, know I’m not the hippy-esque, anti-war protestor type. But I listened to Joie explain her message to customers. I read her story and I came to really feel its simplistic truth. I don’t know about you, but, I’ve had a belly full of witnessing war and killing in my lifetime. I know it is not likely to end soon. But, it can only help that people are out there trying to offer an alternative, on any level, and at least make people think about it. It is a choice, a collective and individual choice.

I can’t imagine living, going on, after I lost my son. I don’t suppose any one can, until they are faced with it. But turning an event like that into something workable, something meaningful, earns my loyal admiration. If you live in Pennsylvania or New Jersey, look these folks up and tell ‘em I sent you. They’ll be at festivals across the region and they deserve a moment of your time.

Choose Peace.

I’m happy to report it wasn’t as bad as it was predicted to be. The flooding was the worst of it, as mentioned in the previous post. Thoughts and prayers go out to everyone who’s life was affected by the storm. Let the rebuilding commence. Currently watching the media marvel at how empty New York City seemed after the mayor shut down the transit system and told everyone to leave. Amusing.