Here it is October and I have hardly written about monsters.Apart from the US government, that is.I suspect that I could use a little escapism right about now, and most of the boxes are unpacked from the move.Perhaps it’s time to watch a little horror and feel better about the world.Monsters, you see, crop up in the most unexpected places.Yes, in October we expect them to be crouching in dark corners and in dismal swamps as the light begins to fail.Yet the trees are still mostly green around here and I think I might be in need of some new material.As with most people my age, I get lost on the internet—someone needs to offer a roadmap to it.Preferably on paper.
I admit being stuck in the past.As any music therapist will tell you, a person’s musical tastes often reflect the sounds of their youth, and some of us believe that rock hit its high point in the 1980s.My work doesn’t lend itself to background music, so I seldom listen to the radio, and I wouldn’t even know what station to try to hear contemporary offerings.Fortunately I know some people half my age who find their tunes on the internet, and I was recently introduced to Panic! At the Disco via YouTube.I’m old enough to remember when music videos first appeared, although I never saw them.We lived in a small town and, besides, we couldn’t afford cable.Kids at school, however, talked about MTV and other places—there was no world-wide web then, kids!—that they had seen the latest, coolest video that I could only imagine.When my contemporary young friends showed me “LA Devotee” by Panic! I was stunned.
If you haven’t seen it, just look up the official video on YouTube.You’ve got the whole internet at your fingertips!While the lyrics seem innocent enough—young person wants to make it big and so imitates the Los Angeles lifestyle—the video is horror show.Literally.Borrowing from M. Night Shyamalan the opening sequence is a cross between The Village and Signs.Then it becomes a torture chamber for a young boy (from Stranger Things, no less, a show I binge-watched when it came out on DVD).And Satanism.Yes, taking on the LA lifestyle is compared to selling your soul to the Devil.The stunning visuals kept me clicking the replay button.Even as I felt my age, I also felt October growing.And I was glad to see the monsters are still there.Too bad we can’t banish them from DC, however.
The roofers were here.One of the things you learn only after laying down a ton of money is that those selling a house like to withhold information.Moving during one of the rainiest summers in history, we naturally discovered leaks.And so the roofers are here, like noisy angels banging above my head.Given the orientation of our house, their access is outside the window of my work office.I figured it was an opportunity to learn.As the old shingles came raining down, however, I couldn’t help thinking of M. Night Shyamalan’s The Happening.One of his more disappointing efforts, this horror film involved a memorable scene of mass suicide where people jumped off of a high building one after another.Maybe other people would think of other comparisons, but the falling debris brought the film to mind in my case.
It’s a matter of framing, I suppose.I’ve watched enough horror that it has become a framing device.This is true although it has literally been months since I’ve seen a horror film.(Moving proved to be its own kind of nightmare and one day I suspect we’ll be unpacked enough to watch movies again.)Instead of losing the frame of reference, however, I find it intact.If you spend long enough with Poe, he gets under your skin.And changing states to M. Night Shyamalan’s eastern Pennsylvania might have something to do with it.This is Bucks County territory, after all.Another frame of reference, mediated by media.
As I watch the old shingles drop, I realize the window through which I’m witnessing this is another frame.Like a camera lens, it limits my view.At times it can be like Hitchcock’s Rear Window, seeing neighbors at their daily business. Indulge me. For nearly the past five years I worked in a cubicle with no view of any windows whatsoever.I was completely cut off from the outside.(Which, for those of you who’ll admit to having seen The Happening, might not have been an entirely bad thing.)Now that I have a window—my own framing device—I realize some of what I’d been missing.At Routledge I had a window, but at such a level that the Manhattan outside seemed artificial.You couldn’t see individuals down on the street.The entire wall was a window—too much of a frame.Gorgias Press involved working in a windowless room as well.I’m professional enough not to let the falling material or the pounding distract me much.There’s work to do because there are bills to pay.And horror films prepared me for that as well.It’s the ultimate framing device.
With my new job I haven’t been able to be as active on our high school’s robotics team this year. Not that I ever contributed much beyond moral support, but there is a very profound satisfaction at seeing teenagers concentrating on such technological marvels and building self-esteem. Yesterday was spent at a regional competition. Noisy, colorful, chaotic—it was like being a teenager again myself. I overhead engineers talking during the course of the day about the great technological marvels of the future made possible by robots. These people have no apocalypse hidden among their endless optimism. We’ve got robots on the ocean floor and rolling around on Mars, snaking into our bodies even down to the cellular level. No end of times here, only forward motion. I know that computers now define my life. If I miss a day on this blog I grow dejected; one of my biggest worries about going to Britain later this week is how I will continue posting from overseas. But I sometimes feel as if our love of technology will be our undoing.
Experts—of which I am not, I hasten to add, one—tell us that within a lifetime artificial intelligence will be indistinguishable from real intelligence. As I watched the robots playing basketball (this year’s FIRST Robotics challenge), I began to wonder about the motivation of our robot slaves. Humans are driven by biological and emotional needs. Robots, as far as we can tell, do not want anything. It is a vacuous life. Yet as the robots played basketball all day, I noticed they didn’t suffer the obesity problems so evident among humans, nor the weariness that accompanies having to awake before dawn to catch a school bus to the competition. They are built for a purpose and they stick to it. Even as I watched hours of competition, I began to miss my laptop—driven by my own emotional needs as I am. I begin to wonder who is really the slave here.
Last night my family participated in Earth Hour. We try to do it every year with a kind of religious fervor. Turning off all electronics, including lights, we sit in the dark and talk by candle light. There is a profound peace to it. As my daughter commented on how spooky the shadow play could be, I imagined our ancestors who had no choice but to rely on pre-electric light in drafty houses where real wild animals still prowled the dark nights outside. How quickly that would become a trial for us. The same thought occurred to me as I watched M. Night Shyamalan’s The Village again last weekend. We are helplessly tied to our technological advancement. We might like to get away from it all for a few days or weeks, or even months. But we want the comfort of knowing that the robots are waiting for us when we turn back to reality again. Perhaps no apocalypse is needed after all.