Looking Past the Pain

I remember the year my studies were interrupted as the worst year of my life. Beyond the family crisis and subsequent estrangement with my father, I was jealous of my peers’ continuing academic journeys. Mostly, though, I had lost something I believed was a key to progress: structure. I went on to learn a lot on my own, but that path was riddled with hurdles.

The first obstacle I faced was my own nature: I am the kind of person who would rather secure conquered ground – sometimes unnecessarily – than attempt to conquer new territory. In school, you are explicitly told what you need to learn, and there are ways of finding out whether you do. Not so when you are on your own. Nobody is going to tell you there will be a data management test in a fortnight. Other hurdles were the ever-evolving nature of software engineering, and the fact that I could not keep up financially. Picture this: in 2006, I had no idea what Ruby on Rails was. Hell, I was only peripherally aware of PHP, one thing the company I now work for can’t do without (well, we could; we won’t). By the time I finally felt comfortable with one tool, I’d learn it was fading into obsolescence. It was frustrating, to say the least.

Nevertheless, it was all I had. There was no other option. I stayed the course, and learned. I am not an expert yet; that is still years off. But I am confident enough now. More importantly, I learned the value of discipline for myself, by myself. Frustrating, painful, why-do-I-even-bother discipline. Whatever skill you are going to master, whatever vice you are going to give up, whatever healthy habit you are going to adopt will come at that price. Talent and enthusiasm are great, but they each come with a risk. Talent is especially dangerous, in that it robs you of the incentive to work hard and of any sense of achievement when you do. Enthusiasm fizzles out fast, no matter what those frozen smiles on workout infomercials would have you believe. Also, the law of diminishing returns means that the same line of pep talks will only take you so far.

You need something else to keep you on track, something that will help you not lessen the pain but remember its purpose. Vision. Obsessive determination. Those will keep you going through the sleepless nights, the friends that feel deserted and desert you in return, the miles walked, the pennies pinched, the aching muscles, the self-denial. Incoming understatement: it is difficult. It is painful. But the good news is, the more you do it, the better you become, both at the goal you set and at staying the course.

Discipline (n): the continuous choice to suffer by taking action, in order to avoid greater suffering through regret.

Perfect Anniversary

As I am typing these words, I am still reeling from having experienced one hour and sixteen minutes of awesomeness. I’m actually considering bumping this post to somewhere near the head of my expanding cue of unpublished posts.

I have just watched The Day of the Doctor. It was sad. It was funny. It was scary. It was epic.

Now, how do you suppose I could do a review of something without any spoilers? Spoilers are, as I frequently remind people who are never actually listening, against my religion. I can’t. But I can talk about my experience.

Doctor Who first aired on November 23^rd 1963. The Day of the Doctor is a commemoration of the show’s 50-year anniversary. Personally, I am relatively new to the series.

It was recommended to me by a friend from Nevada with whom I share another passion. Actually, “recommended” is a bit of a misnomer. She just never shut up about it, to the point where, just to know what she was going on about, I had to find out. Knowing the series was old, and that finding traces of the original episodes would be akin to re-forging the One Ring, I asked her if there was another starting point. “Begin with the ninth Doctor,” she said. Unsurprisingly, that is the same advice I give to people who are interested in taking up Doctor Who.

And so it was that I found myself watching a young British lady get attacked by plastic mannequins before her in-extremis rescue by a man whose only utterance was “Run!” I haven’t shut up about it since. Ask Cindy.

The Doctor is an amazing individual. A Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey, he is an explorer who travels through space and time in his T.A.R.D.I.S. (Time And Relative Dimensions In space), a “ship” that looks like a blue telephone box (a Police Box, actually) and is bigger, way bigger, on the inside. The former is due to the fact that the ship’s chameleon circuit, which allows the T.A.R.D.I.S. to blend with its surroundings, was damaged when the Doctor visited 1963 London. The latter is a common feature of Time Lord technology.

 

No, seriously, that thing is huge.

As a Time Lord, he has the ability to Regenerate (12 times) when his body fails: every cell in his body changes. This influences his appearance and personality. This is the plot device that allows different actors to portray the character and bring their own interpretation of the role to bear.

He reacts to every new thing he encounters with a sense of wonder, with no hint of judgement, which was what set the series apart in my eyes. Even when confronted with something that is actively trying to kill him, he will seek first to understand, and then to reason, again and again. His favourite tool is a sonic screwdriver, precisely because it, in his words, “Doesn’t kill, doesn’t wound, doesn’t maim.” However, despite this Gandhi-like approach to problem solving, the Doctor has routed armies, faced down invaders, tricked pseudo-deities and saved the universe(s) countless times.

Don’t let his pacific nature make you believe it’s all philosophy and no thrills. Far from it. Oh, far, far from it. Just like thinking of Friday the 13^th will make you think twice about camping, Doctor Who will make you think twice about mannequins, shadows, boxes, Christmas trees (heck, Christmas altogether), cracks in your walls, Wi-Fi and stone statues (hint: they’re only statues when you’re looking).

The Day of the Doctor was no exception. The hype had been building since the end of season seven, and even a part of me worried that the anniversary episode might not live up to expectations. I need not have worried. It was every bit as unexpected as I expected. I seriously don’t know how they keep doing that. But I can’t talk about it (for… religious reasons; see above). I can’t tell you about the lead up the reunion between two of the most beloved Doctors. I can’t tell you about the riveting climax, the tear-inducing resolution, or the mind-blowing implications. You’ll just have to watch it, if you want to know (yes, that was my plan all along; start with the 9^th Doctor, please).

What I can tell you about was the sense of awe and gratitude I felt at the very end. Technology has finally managed what had so far been impossible. All the faces of the Doctor, living and departed, present in the same moving shot. In a semicircle, facing outward, stood eleven of them. Matt Smith, the latest, and David Tennant before him. Then Christopher Eccleston, John Hurt, Paul McGann, Sylvester McCoy, Colin Baker, Peter Davison, Tom Baker, Jon Pertwee and Patrick Troughton. And, standing at the center of the semicircle, the man who started it all, William Hartnell, the First Doctor.

Uncertainties

As one of Douglas Adams's characters once pointed out, we tend to congregate at boundaries. We like the beach because it is where land meets water. We like the sunrise and sunset because those are the moments day meets night. And, more to the point of this post, we want to remain at the cusp of maturity, because that is where the child meets the adult.

That is a scary place in which to find oneself, both because and in spite of the fact that it is also scary to leave it. The only way out of it is forwards. There is no going back to the carelessness of childhood. There is no having your outfit picked out for you (well, not always).

Back in the days when your last name was a reliable indication of your protection (a system under which Spiderman's alter ego would be Peter Photographer),  things were simpler, despite the lack of smartphones: you took up your parents' trade and that was that. You basically knew your life's path the moment you achieved social awareness. Nowadays, though, such certainties are the stuff of fiction. Which means that at the cusp of maturity, the way forward looks not unlike this.

Good luck.

 See if you can just replace mommy as an Air Force Captain these days. You truly are on your own. You're supposed to figure this life thing out, and unless you come with the right connections, genetic or otherwise, holy crap, is it hard!

So you stay put. Embracing all of the independence that comes with not being a child, and none of the responsibilities that come with being an adult. That attitude can best be summarised in phrases such as "I do what I want" or "I am the one in control." But my economist friends would likely call that an unsustainable business model (or something): society expects something of you, and it's only a matter of time until it finds a clever way to punish you for failing to deliver. Whether you believe it to be ordained from above or not, you have a part to play. Remaining an unchild (Trademarked) will only get in the way, and as nature can't abide a vacuum, someone else will step up to your plate.

Fortunately, on some level, most people understand this. Of course, it could just be that they finally realise they can't stand the embarrassment of watching their peers speed past them as they remain static in an ever-moving world. Competition is as efficient a motivator for humans as it is for bacteria. Regardless of incentive, though, most people eventually grow up.

Hugh will catch up in a bit.

It's still scary, and the uncertainty eats us up. Have I chosen the right career? Am I in the right place? What if I settled for the wrong person? The questions keep coming. The self-doubt is crippling. And THAT, friends, is the problem. Second-guessing everything you do will get you nowhere. Every choice you make will make some possibilities unavailable. I'm sure I don't need to repeat the forking roads analogy here. The only way to have infinite choices is not to make any.

But take heart. You're not alone treading the foggy streets of what is hopefully not Silent Hill. The uncertainty of adulthood is one of the things we share regardless of breed or creed. Think of the previous sentence as that "I'm scared too; let's do it" line that crops up in every other movie. If it works in movies, it works everywhere, right? Let's do this!

... And We're Back

Before you bite my head off, I would like to assure everybody that I am indeed aware of how long it has been since my last post. Also, I would like you to brush your teeth; if you insist of biting my head off, I would prefer the last thing I smell to be fresh.

It's been a difficult couple of months for me. Between a departed dear uncle and a young cousin whose already poor health took a turn for the worse, I feared posting anything without first getting my head straight would turn this blog into a depression inducer.

Have I got my head straight? No. I simply no longer fear dragging the lot of you into despair. There are other things to discuss than the vicissitudes of the Judge Magister's life. And so here I am, back online. I may even resume tweeting.

To those who missed me, I apologise. I can't promise this sort of things won't happen again. But I can promise you that I will get up again every time it does. Unless, y'know, it takes the form of one of the more virulent strains of death.

Anyhoo, what's everybody been up to?

Jekyll And Hyde

Sometimes, I can feel it coming. At other times, it takes me over without the slightest warning. It happens at seemingly random moments. I have, so far, failed to determine what the trigger is. Whatever the reason, whenever it happens, and though I could stamp it down, I embrace it. Because it turns me, for a few moments, into the person you (and I) secretly wish I were.

I have never done drugs - well, I love a sugar high - but I can imagine this is how drug users feel. The exhilaration, the escape, the abandon, the feeling - the knowledge - of invincibility. For a few moments, of course.

For a while, the quiet, cold, flawed, deeply insecure (if very clever) individual fades to black as an interesting, amicable creature of raw confidence and charm emerges. The transformation is complete. Jekyll and Hyde. Or, for people allergic to reading (there's something terribly wrong with you guys), Banner and the Hulk.

The intellect remains,but no longer as my main selling point. I become utterly mesmerising. Adventure? Count me in! Social taboos? What are those? Even the humour is spot-on. And the looks help too, especially now (thanks, HIIT).

People naturally gravitate toward those types. It makes perfect sense: everybody likes to be entertained. I, for one, rely heavily on entertainment in order to maintain my sanity (says the one blogging about what could possibly be a mental disorder). In my 'altered state', I become an avatar of entertainment.

There are drawbacks, of course. There always are drawbacks. Hyde murders, the Hulk makes no distinction between friend, foe or bystander... And I lose my sense of empathy, one of my core attributes. Fulfilment of my desires becomes my prime directive, and I simply stop caring much about other people's feelings. Oh, but I can still act like I care, so people  are none the wiser.

Eventually, though, my baseline persona reasserts itself. It begins with a thought, a shard of doubt, or of fear. Sometimes it is a memory of some kind, usually of an occasion when my current state failed to be triggered, or was triggered, to sad effect. The thought starts a chain reaction, robbing me of my smooth eloquence, of my daring, and so on. Before you know it, I'm back to bland as dough.

Then comes the remorse over any 'forward' thing I might have said, the worry over how I am now perceived, and the avoidance of people who call, expecting more entertainment, not knowing they're now dealing with an entirely different person.

I'm back to being an empath, though. And I get to keep the bod, so there's that.

The Wheel's Last Turn

“The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fade to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in [locations vary]. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.”

Thus begins the first chapter of every book in the Wheel of Time series. The wind is then followed through various landscapes toward the character the reader shall follow throughout the chapter.

The series operates on the premise that time is cyclical rather than linear. What happens has happened before, and will happen again. The world described in The Wheel of Time is therefore both our past and our future.

The first book, The Eye of the World, was published on January 15^th, 1990. I only encountered it in 2008, entirely by chance, on a boring day. The final book, A Memory of Light, was published earlier this week, on January 8^th, 2013. I do not have my copy yet.

Soon, Precious.

 The first book narrates the journey of Rand al’Thor and his friends Matrim Cauthon, Perrin Aybara, Egwene al’Vere and Nynaeve al’Meara from their once peaceful village of Emond’s Field to the White Tower, domain of the Power-wielding Aes Sedai. Rand is thought to be the Dragon Reborn, the reincarnation of a hero three millennia dead.

If this hardly seems original at first (the journey theme is a staple of the fantasy genre), the true strength of the series lies in its use of the ripple effect. Rand and some of his companions are ta’veren; people who somehow make events around them unfold in certain ways, not always to their advantage. These events have consequences in other characters’ lives, whose actions create yet more ripples, and so on. With each new book, the scope and the stakes widen, and the story is told from the point of view of an increasing number of characters.

Given such complexity, it is small wonder that the tale grew in the telling (from a planned trilogy, the series was expanded to fourteen books), or that it took twenty-three years to complete.

Cardiac amyloidosis claimed the life of the author in 2007, with only eleven volumes published. Robert Jordan, whose birth name was James Oliver Rigney, Jr., would not live to complete his great story. He was prepared for that eventuality, however, and left behind what I understand is a staggering amount of notes, recordings and the like, in the hope that someday another would finish what he had begun.

That other turned out to be Brandon Sanderson, a young author whose works include the excellent Mistborn trilogy and the newly begun Stormlight Archive. Sanderson was charged with writing the last book of the story, which, given the amount of information to include, was split into three.

Robert Jordan, handing over the Dragon Banner to Brandon Sanderson, as characters look on.

 When the announcement was made, fans the world over (me included) held their collective breath as they wondered whether this new writer would do the series justice. Having already read two of the three Wheel of Time books Sanderson wrote, I am really satisfied with him. Granted, the story will never be completed exactly as it would have been under Jordan’s penmanship, but I doubt even a clone could pull that off.

The Wheel of Time has taken me places. Beyond the narrative itself, there is a treasure trove of references to many of our own myths, not to mention a few winks and nods to the present-day world (I smiles when I really understood what a sa’angreal referred to). I have reread the entire series (such as it stood) many, many times, and each time some new nugget of understanding came to me. I have been recommending the series to anybody looking for a new read, much to the irritation of some.

As I patiently (after a fashion) wait to buy my copy of A Memory of Light, I wonder what life will be for us fans, after we turn the last page. I wonder what will become of the online communities, of the discussions and the ruthless ‘flaming’ in forums, now that theorising is no longer necessary.  I can only hope some of the bonds we forged hold.

The Wheel has turned its last, its history has entered legend, a legend I will not soon forget. Robert Jordan’s work may not have been a part of my life for as long as some, but for that very reason I feel these words about the Dragon apply to the author just as well as they do to the character:

“He came like the wind, like the wind touched everything, and like the wind, was gone.”

A Thousand Lives

I have clear memories of the time my mother taught me how to write. It was long before I started school. We’d be in her office, and she would hand me pieces of paper with dots that outlined letters, and I was supposed to connect them. Over time, each letter was made of fewer and fewer dots. I cannot imagine what sort of patience she had.

Reading came to me more readily than writing did. I’m left-handed, and western calligraphy was designed with right-handed people in mind (I would totally own an Arabic class). As soon as my reading skills were good enough, my mother set me loose upon comic books. I had nearly every issue of Asterix, Lucky Luke and Tintin.

In high school, I encountered story books with not much in the way of pictures. Rather than feeling like Gaston (failing to understand this reference means your childhood may have a missing piece), I discovered this was better. A picture may be worth a thousand words – jury’s still out on that – but it is a frozen thing, static and immutable. A thousand words could evoke a million shifting ideas, depending on the person that encounters them.

That realisation was the drop that broke the dam. A good chunk of my allowance was dedicated to book purchase and exchange, and I became more indiscriminate in my reading as time went by. On the bright side, this helped with school, as I would read my textbooks for fun along with any science journal I could find. On the not-so-bright side, I was quite unprepared when I had a run-in with my uncles’ *Ahem!* spy stories.

I began to look for bigger books. Now, as men so fervently (and naively) believe, size doesn’t matter. This is true in literature as well – just compare Narnia to Inheritance. But I have found, especially when my means are limited, that I like to prolong the pleasure. And THAT concludes the 'innuendo' section of this article.

My first heavy-duty read was The Count of Monte Cristo. I loved every page. Alexandre Dumas wrote a lot, and wrote well. He probably did little else. I imagine him permanently connected to a feeding tube and a catheter, taking time off only to sire yet another writing Alexandre Dumas. No, seriously, that's actually true. Or maybe he cloned himself for increased productivity.

Dumas sparked my interest in historical figures and event. Visiting the past eventually led me in the realm of mythology, and from there it was only a small step to the genre that I enjoy most. Fantasy was unique in that its many themes resonated with me so strongly it was like finally finding my place in the world (nothing like a good exaggeration to get a point across). The epic contests between Good and Evil mirrored my own inner struggles. The various ‘magic’ systems obeyed clearly defined rules rather than being just some convenient plot device – really helpful when it comes to suspension of disbelief.

I got a glimpse of heaven the day I entered The Book Den in Windhoek. Back then, it was still situated in Gutenberg Plaza, and you could stay in there for hours, lost among the shelves, or seated on the floor, turning pages. There were books for all tastes, all ages, and all walks of life. Leaving felt like waking up from one of those sweet, sweet dreams we have every once in a while. Broke or not, I found myself there very often. I have looked for something similar over here to no avail. I hear South-Africa has even grander book stores (true, if the CNA store at the airport in Johannesburg is any indication), and I hope one day to visit them, but our firsts do hold a special place, do they not?

So here I am, having consumed hundreds of books by dozens of authors, having produced a couple of manuscript s I will keep on polishing until they reflect my satisfied face back at me, and thinking up blog articles I hope will inspire someone to… I dunno, pick a passion and run with it, maybe. I know I got mine and I feel like a fish in water nurturing it. To have had your emotions tugged at by words on a page, to have felt the joys and sorrows of multiple characters, to have received authors’ wisdom, to have lived a thousand lives and learnt a little from each… Try and top that.