The Unoriginal Muse

From a comment on Gates of Vienna.

A person, especially one not trained to consider what one sees with at least a bit of dispassionate skepticism, can simply absorb ideas passively by watching films or television.

More true than you even realise. When I was doing my undergrad, part of the course on media analysis included information on how the brain reacts to television and film compared to other forms of media. Television and film specifically create a very passive state in the viewer. The combination of the hypnotic effect of a fast strobe light and the generally passive state the viewer must enter to take part in the piece work together to produce an incredibly suggestible state of mind, one where ideas are much more easily absorbed by the viewer than in any other situation. It’s akin to hypnotic suggestion. Film in particular is immensely powerful in this regard, as the scale and overwhelming force of a film in a cinema strip away any natural defences against the ideas being presented to you.

C.S. Lewis would have described this as the difference between contemplation and enjoyment of a particular thing, which he outlined in Medition in a Toolshed, where he compared Contemplation and Enjoyment by refernece to a beam of light shining through a crack in the door. Contemplation is looking at the beam of light from the outside, in the dark of the shed, seeing the motes of dust twinkling in it and being able to see that it’s a beam of light, where it falls, what angle it’s at. Enjoyment is akin to looking along the beam, so that you no longer see the beam of light but are immersed totally in it; along the beam you see sky, clouds, the top of a tree. You no longer contemplatively see the beam of light, you are “enjoying” it.

Looking at a film from outside, reading the plot and examining the ideas contained produces an contemplative effect that isn’t nearly as potent as the “enjoyment” effect caused by actually watching the film. When you contemplate a film you examine it’s characteristics in a different way to when you are enjoying it. This state of enjoyment is where film and television become so powerful and consequently so easily used for manipulation. In the enjoyment of the film you are totally immersed in it to the point where your own self, your id, almost becomes lost and quiescent. “You” nearly cease to exist, your role is so passive and so enjoined. In that state, the message presented to you is absorbed as easily as a sponge soaking up water.

Perhaps with the exception of staged theatre, no other media has this effect. Not even computer games. Anything that requires an active participation consequently requires a contemplation, and contemplation requires personality and individuality. And whilst both contemplation and enjoyment – looking at the beam and along it – are necessary modes of thought one must be aware that each requires the other to be whole. To be totally looking along the beam one must necessarily give up looking at the beam – one must give up more logical and rational assessment to become lost in the experience.

Most people in the industry don’t even realise this. They just instinctively know that television and film are very powerful tools for spreading a message.

If I were to watch this film it’d be on my computer with the lights on, a cup of tea, and perhaps with some music. That would prevent me from losing myself in the spectacle and allow me to rationally examine its message and undertones. I’d be able to enjoy the impressive special effects without losing myself in the message. I certainly wouldn’t watch it in a cinema.

Got me a project to work on and writing the spec right now (which makes a change from some of the other projects I’ve worked on. Spec? What’s that? But that’s another story) so, busy busy busy and all that.

I need to update the blogroll, hopelessly out of date so it is. Until I get around to that here’s some random blog love.

The Strata Sphere
The Blogmocracy
Ace of Spaces (like he needs any more traffic)
Robert Stacy McCain, who has some interesting advice on what to buy wives for christmas.

That treaty. That damn treaty. Constitution in all but name. I’ve avoided EU issues for quite some time (as there are people better covering it than I) but it inevitably intrudes in every aspect of life.

It’s a done deal. A fait acomplis. No way out of it In the process of this constitution treaty becoming law I learned something about my father that I didn’t really want to learn, but which, perhaps, is inevitable. Brave as he is, free thinker that he is and smart as he is – god knows where that bit went, I sure didn’t get it – he sees no point in fighting. On his sixtieth birthday my uncle and his family came to visit. My uncle is Irish to the bone and a fighter like his forebears, and was in typically rambunctious mood over the possibility that Cameron would backtrack on his promise to hold a referendum on the Lisbon treaty, taxes in general and the terrible fate awaiting politicians he despised, which would be all of them. Dad’s attitude was… knuckle down, try to pay as little as possible and try not to catch their attention. Don’t make an issue out of it and they won’t come after you. And yesterday, I brought up the issue of the treaty and the referendum being called off, expecting at least indignation or agreement that Something Should Be Done. He replied that nothing could be done. It’s law now.

Recently I’ve been feeling a little nagging voice that says it’s not worth fighting any more. It says give up and live your life as best you can. It’s the voice that no doubt millions have heard in the past as they worked around and behind the back of the system imposed on them by autocrats, trying to claw back as much if their pittance as they could from the maw of the state whilst avoiding its notice. I feel… it would be so easy to just go back to sleep. But, I’m young(ish) and still have a long life ahead of me. I think dad has decided to listen to that voice. He no doubt feels he deserves some peace in his life after the constant up and down of the last couple of decades. No doubt he doesn’t want to go back to the days when we lived on the edge of starving and he sees that any resistance to the growth of the EU in our lives would threaten the relative stability we’ve achieved as a family. He’s proud. I’m proud, which is why I hear the same voice.

I have, in the past, encountered people who assume that the country as a whole is populated by sheep who are so dumb they’ll follow any siren voice (mixing metaphors is fun!) but I think I discovered the truth today. Not sheep. My country is proud, far too proud to admit it has taken the wrong path. My people, all the peope who live here, refuse to accept that they collectively made a mistake in joining and remaining in the EU.

It is far easier to manipulate a proud people than it is to manipulate sheep. The metaphorical sheep will follow the loudest voice and can be snatched away by another in moments. A proud people are much harder to set on a course but, once set on it, are harder still to turn away or convince of their folly. In good times such pride will lead to great heroism and accomplishment, the refusal to stand down in the face of total defeat and the “stiff upper lip” of fable. In bad times, it leads to the tragedy of Scott and the rout of the Indian Mutiny, the bloody mess of the civil war and the loss of an empire.

God once called his people stiff-necked. Stubborn, like an ass, which has its good points but made them hard to save. I suspect the Israelites are not alone in this state of mind.

“My son,” said the Norman Baron, “I am dying, and you will be heir
To all the broad acres in England that William gave me for share
When he conquered the Saxon at Hastings, and a nice little handful it is.
But before you go over to rule it I want you to understand this:–

“The Saxon is not like us Normans. His manners are not so polite.
But he never means anything serious till he talks about justice and right.
When he stands like an ox in the furrow – with his sullen set eyes on your own,
And grumbles, ‘This isn’t fair dealing’, my son, leave the Saxon alone.

“You can horsewhip your Gascony archers, or torture your Picardy spears;
But don’t try that game on the Saxon; you’ll have the whole brood round your ears.
From the richest old Thane in the county to the poorest chained serf in the field,
They’ll be at you and on you like hornets, and, if you are wise, you will yield.

“But first you must master their language, their dialect, proverbs and songs.
Don’t trust any clerk to interpret when they come with the tale of their wrongs.
Let them know that you know what they’re saying; let them feel that you know what to say.
Yes, even when you want to go hunting, hear ‘em out if it takes you all day.

They’ll drink every hour of the daylight and poach every hour of the dark.
It’s the sport not the rabbits they’re after (we’ve plenty of game in the park).
Don’t hang them or cut off their fingers. That’s wasteful as well as unkind,
For a hard-bitten, South-country poacher makes the best man- at-arms you can find.

“Appear with your wife and the children at their weddings and funerals and feasts.
Be polite but not friendly to Bishops; be good to all poor parish priests.
Say ‘we,’ ‘us’ and ‘ours’ when you’re talking, instead of ‘you fellows’ and ‘I.’
Don’t ride over seeds; keep your temper; and never you tell ‘em a lie!”

Grand event this is. The first whisky tasting in my new apartment – I’ll make a post about that later – and something I’d never seen before. Of course there are so many single malts out there these days it’s hard to keep up with them, especially when you’re but an amateur like me.

A little different this time. We’ve got a Speyside here called “The Singleton”, a 12 year-old malt from non other than the legendary Dufftown. Simpsons fans will be delighted to know that Duff Whisky does in fact exist after a fashion.

Aaanyway, it’s nicely presented in a rather unusual flat bottle declaring its age, provenance and all that stuff. Standard whisky drivel really, they’re al the same, but the shape and the name make it a little bit special.

Uncork it and you’re assaulted with the label’s “fruity hints” for just a moment. The cork is nice and tight as they always are. I’m savouring this one a little more as it’s the first really different whisky I’ve tasted for a while. Now pour some out. Nice colour, not to much caramel but a rich golden hue that seems to mix with the appley scents to put me in mind of nothing less than apple brandy, oddly enough.

I’ve kept it sitting in front of me while I wrote the introduction and it’s been like sitting in an orchard at high summer. Getting a little bit away from the glass the nose is full of scents of apple blossom and fresh cut grass, and a hint of … well it brings to mind the days I spent climbing trees as a lad so it must be something from then. Cracked leather and freshly broken book spines complete the ensemble. Yes I know that’s a silly comparison but there you go.

A deeper nose gives me more earthy scents, warm stone and ancient, toasted appletree wood and mahogany. There’s a definite undertone of general fruitiness. Overall it does smell a lot like a brandy. Something like calvados? I’m not sure.

First taste is actually a little disappointing after all. It’s quite bitter, though perhaps I’ve just let it air a little bit too long. Applewood and nutmeg and a strong aftertaste of toasted pine. Or it tasted hot toasted pine looks, if you see what I mean. Subsequent tastings reveal a more subtle flavour of the ubiquitous apples (baking apples apparently), barley, hints of that fruity taste (loganberries and sour plums). It’s not exactly unpleasant at the start but it’s a little different, and it becomes sweeter as you go on. Otherwise it’s as smooth as its age belies and quite nice.

The scent of this one really raises your expectations, which are let down by the flavour, which is subtle and enjoyable after a moment or two, but which initially disappoints. A subsequent tasting, plus an experiment on the wife has confirmed that what I thought was a bitter overtone was actually more an absence of flavour. She said it was very light and sweet, and in retrospect I agree with her. I was tasting what I suspected rather than what was actually there which was – not surprisingly little, but very subtle. Having grown u sed to the bombastic punch of islays I’ve probably lost some of the sense for lighter, softer flavours speysides and lowlands provide.

UPDATE
After a second tasting I’ve decided that this is really a lot better than I’d originally thought. It’s incredibly light and sweet without being syrupy, rather like licking the aforementioned apples. Marvellous.

If you’re looking for something different this is it. The bottle stands out, it’s got an incredible nose and despite my previous negativity it actually tastes pretty good. Very smooth, light, not too sweet but sweeter than most. Despite this I wouldn’t recommend it for novices. The flavour would disappoint the unsubtle palette (or, as in my case, one that has been trained with the smoke and brimstone of Islay) and they might be put off after the more powerful and pungent common blends or sour mash american whiskies sold in pubs and bars.

Past everything else it still reminds me of a very slender brandy… it’s remarkable.

A little melancholy going on at the moment. This year marks the 20th year since the suicide of my cousin Tracy, who was one of the closest people to me in my youth after my parents.

I was nine when it happened. I’d known Tracy as a loving young woman who was always ready to play and take care of me when I was a child, but who was always a little sad and distant towards the end of her life. The pain that eventually resulted in her death was something I simply couldn’t understand at that age, bu there have been times recently when I’ve been able to finally appreciate what drove her to that point.

She was 19 when she died. For the previous few years she had battled with Anorexia Nervosa, perhaps brought on by the stress of knowing her parents no longer loved each other, though that might be just speculation. Shortly before she died she came to stay with my family for a few days, and for a moment she seemed like she was starting to get better. Then she suddenly decided to go home again. Days later she took a dose of pain killers that wouldn’t have been even remotely fatal for a healthy woman her age, but was fatal for her because of how damaged her organs were, and how little mass her body had. It was a cry for help.

She was the closest I ever had to a sister.

I’d forgotten until a week ago that this was the 20th year since her death, some time in October I believe. I had been suffering increasingly powerful bouts of depression the last few months that I had initially attributed to my financial situation, but which I now realise were a reaction to the anniversary. My aunt – Tracy’s mother – has said that recently she has been overwhelmed by a desire to talk to Tracy, even though she knows she’s been gone for so long. I realise I too have been feeling something similar all year. A sense of loss that I could never properly place or identify, a feeliung of desire to communicate, though with whom and what about I had no idea.

Music would provoke emotional reactions when normally it would just be a little entertaining. Scenes in films where characters are reunited with their loved ones, or where the narrative described characters surviving profound and testing events, would bring me to tears when normally I would be unmoved.

I miss her.

Politics being what it is you can only take so much before resorting to a drink or two. Or ten. Fortunately I have a well-stocked cask to tide me over.

I was just looking through the backs of cupboards when I found a tube that claimed to be an Aberlour. It isn’t. Inside there’s a bottle, a 1974 Speyside distilled and bottled by Glenlivet and aged 24 years. It’s bottle number 13 from cask 5533. There’s about two inches left in the bottle and my first thought was “Oh no, it’s oxidised!” and so I did the only thing I could think of and opened it up. Turns out I was wrong and now I’m enjoying it while I have the chance. I’ll have to find a small bottle I can decant it into later to stop it oxidising and turning to crap.

I’m not sure of the significance of 1974 to anyone in the family, except that as a 24 year-old it would have been bottled in 1998. Perhaps I was given it when I left college, who knows? I sure don’t. I don’t care either, I’m just savouring the moment. God this stuff’s good. It’s definitely a glenlivet. I can taste the same basic palate as the 10, though this one is infinitely smoother and much more balanced. Caramel and vanilla with a hint of rosewood and coffee undertones, a strong waft of elderflower and just a bit of liquorice. Tastes peppery, same hints of elderflower and liquorice and a strong, bitter aftertaste like oak with notes of almond. Very sharp on the tongue but smooth toward the back of the mouth.

I’m sure if I were to go looking for this again I’d find it was ridiculously expensive, though not as expensive as the £1200 bottle I saw somewhere once. No whisky is worth that much, no matter how good it tastes.

For now I’m in heaven, but that’s enough. Back to the gin! Oh and that might be the subject of another post at some point. Possibly.

In Wales, Carmarthen to be precise, there is a museum of various oddities and bits charting the history of Carmarthenshire, from the roman period to the present (which apparently stops when the Commodore 64 was invented). Amongst the roman artefacts on display were numerous coins – there are always coins – showing elements that later went into the design of “Britannia” on the back of the fifty pence which I found interesting. There were also numerous items displaying a rather blatant affinity with the nazis, at least if some people are to be believed, including a rather nifty gold filgree necklace and the two grave markers show below.

I know I keep banging this drum but it’s not without reason. This cross is older than history. The fact that a few modern groups use it as a stand-in for the swastika doesn’t mean that anyone displaying this cross belongs to one of their groups.

A gravestone bearing the Solar cross

A grave marker bearing a solar cross. The inscription reads 'Memora Voteporix Protecti' - translating as something like 'in memory of Voteporix the protector'

So there you have it. The romans were nazis. And they were also quite fond of those stylised eagles on everything too.

An ultra-powerful laser can turn regular incandescent light bulbs into power-sippers, say optics researchers at the University of Rochester. The process could make a light as bright as a 100-watt bulb consume less electricity than a 60-watt bulb while remaining far cheaper and radiating a more pleasant light than a fluorescent bulb can.

The laser process creates a unique array of nano- and micro-scale structures on the surface of a regular tungsten filament—the tiny wire inside a light bulb—and theses structures make the tungsten become far more effective at radiating light.

Regular Light Bulbs Made Super-efficient With Ultra-fast Laser

So we’re using these bloody useless fluorescent bulbs why?

I love this bit.

In addition to increasing the brightness of a bulb, Guo’s process can be used to tune the color of the light as well. In 2008, his team used a similar process to change the color of nearly any metal to blue, golden, and gray, in addition to the black he’d already accomplished. Guo and Vorobeyv used that knowledge of how to control the size and shape of the nanostructures—and thus what colors of light those structures absorb and radiate—to change the amount of each wavelength of light the tungsten filament radiates. Though Guo cannot yet make a simple bulb shine pure blue, for instance, he can change the overall radiated spectrum so that the tungsten, which normally radiates a yellowish light, could radiate a more purely white light.

Interest in the flats has been remarkable. We haven’t put them up for sale at any agencies but we’ve already had a dozen or more people express an interest. One is definite: we’ll be renting the first flat out to a Columbian family who want to send their children to my old school down the road. Someone else has expressed keen interest in the top flat – and they say they have more than enough money to buy it and that they aren’t in a desperate hurry to move, so they can wait until it’s finished.

What did it? There are still flats for sale in the big block behind us, flats for sale all over town in fact that just aren’t moving. The ones across the canal are still a quarter empty and the development further along teh canal is almost half empty too, and just not budging.

The size might be a factor. Those other developments are huge, but the actual flats in them are tiny. I went looking at a couple a while back to see and they’re just pathetic, and badly finished as well. Rush jobs, cheap, shallow, no space… and no storage. Our flats come with a storage room underneath the building, which seems to be almost unique these days. Everyone see’s the storage and their eyes go like this: O.O

It’s a huge selling point. People want storage. They want somewhere to put their junk, because it’s obviously not going to fit inside the house.

Fingers crossed the two flats sell…