Ambitious title for a post, this one, looks like I'm taking the piss off Tolstoy. No, I've not read War and Peace, and I don't want to start a topic on the current wars all around the world. That might be a plan for the future, but it takes a bit more research work and would probably end up very similar to the Amnesty International web site. I'll leave that for another day.
Peace and War is the title of a collection of novels, written by Joe Haldeman. The oldest one, dating 1974, The Forever War, is what I've been reading recently (I'm halfway through the second volume, Forever Free, now). Ok, it's sci-fi, so there are aliens that look like hourglasses and fancy stuff like collapsar to bring you from one side of the galaxy to the other, just to add some spice to the whole. But the basis of the book is slightly more solid: this war is fought by elite soldiers, drafted from universities, regular boys and girls (yes, the balance of sexes is about 50%, combat and support troops, so the book was quite advanced for its time in that area - and there is plenty of female soldiers dying in action, real parity. If you have watched Starship troopers, you have a clue of what I'm speaking about) drafted into the army and turned into highly technological and expensive cannon fodder. That in itself makes my stomach sick, the simple idea of such a waste of lives. The fact that it has been, and often still is, regular procedure on most of this planet, the real one I mean, just adds to the melee.
Smartly enough, the author throws in another angle: jumping around the galaxy involves relativistic effects. Space ships blazing around at .6, .7 c means that a mission that takes one subjective year amounts to 20, 50, 200 years back home. The whole war spans a millennium, soldiers come back home to find a society with which they are completely unfamiliar, their parents all of a sudden old folks or dead altogether. They feel uprooted and dislocated, and they are easily tricked into rejoining the army, to be thrown again into the meat grinder. Average probability of getting back alive from a mission: 8%. Average probability of getting through the whole war alive: well you do the math, only one soldier starts with the first mission and comes back from the last. The veterans of this millennium long war are a couple of hundreds troops.
How does a war last a millennium? By modifying the society into a war oriented economy. You can bet Haldeman has read his share of George Orwell, there is no Party in the book and no clear political angle, but he depicts hazily an economy based on war, that would shatter to bits if the war were ever to end. Remember that that was 1974, not last year, but the basics seem to have stayed the same.
Conclusion, this book has been a great reading, highly recommended if you can digest sci-fi to get to the good bits. I personally love science fiction, so I might be a little biased in judgment. Well, pity, you'll have to deal with it or simply buy another book :)
I.
Friday, 17 October 2008
Wednesday, 15 October 2008
PWD: Post Whatever Depression
Ever been working hard on something, then it's finished and you feel devoid of meaning, without a reason to go forward? It's not the relax of a job well done, 'cause you still don't know it's well done. You have done your fair share of it but in the end it's not under your control; you are not happy with some bits of it, but you share responsibility, and the only thing to do is sit back and wait. And move on.
It's a pain. It's a pain because it's bad in itself, plus it's a symptom that there is something missing in your life. Nice, this one, "there is something missing in your life". Perfect for a pop song. Makes no sense in itself. Nothing that is missing can "be there" to start with. But that's just playing with words.
Once again life goes by without leaving tracks, weeks pile up without anything worth remembering happening, apart from work deadlines. It's massively depressing, it keeps happening about twice a year, generally speaking it's a major PITA. Why am I writing about it here? Because saying it out loud is the only way I've found so far to overcome depression bouts like this. Telling it to friends is no use, everyone has a recipe for happiness that just doesn't fit MY bill, they mean well but the only one that can solve this problem is me. With time and patience and a little luck.
If anyone happens to read this, which I doubt, take a word of advice. If you ever feel the same way I do, drop whatever you are doing, drop this page and run for dear life. Go get one, quick. Doesn't matter whether it's perfect, your dream of a youngster, with plenty of bells and whistles, or something more plain and simple. Reach for it like it's the only important thing in the world, because, for you, it is. I'm going to do that as soon as possible.
I.
It's a pain. It's a pain because it's bad in itself, plus it's a symptom that there is something missing in your life. Nice, this one, "there is something missing in your life". Perfect for a pop song. Makes no sense in itself. Nothing that is missing can "be there" to start with. But that's just playing with words.
Once again life goes by without leaving tracks, weeks pile up without anything worth remembering happening, apart from work deadlines. It's massively depressing, it keeps happening about twice a year, generally speaking it's a major PITA. Why am I writing about it here? Because saying it out loud is the only way I've found so far to overcome depression bouts like this. Telling it to friends is no use, everyone has a recipe for happiness that just doesn't fit MY bill, they mean well but the only one that can solve this problem is me. With time and patience and a little luck.
If anyone happens to read this, which I doubt, take a word of advice. If you ever feel the same way I do, drop whatever you are doing, drop this page and run for dear life. Go get one, quick. Doesn't matter whether it's perfect, your dream of a youngster, with plenty of bells and whistles, or something more plain and simple. Reach for it like it's the only important thing in the world, because, for you, it is. I'm going to do that as soon as possible.
I.
Tuesday, 7 October 2008
To Absent Friends
Foreword: I'm crap when it comes to speak about death, so you might be either depressed or unimpressed after reading this entry; likely, you won't feel any deep emotion; but then blogging is not about the feelings of those who read, is about my feelings. They're weird, but they're there.
I was watching Star Trek: Nemesis the other night (yes, I'm a geek. No, I'm not a Star Trek aficionado). The best character of the series "dies" there. Yeah, it's Data. The Captain says that, after the battle, sharing a drink with the other big shots. It's nice, probably the best bit of the whole movie.
A friend of mine died last August, the 7th. Her name was Michela, she was 27, she was pretty, nice and funny, and don't you expect me to say all this? Well it happens to be true. She used to like the same music I like, she was learning to play the trumpet and she was as good as I am with the guitar, which is not much, she liked to laugh at everything including herself just like I'd like to, I was in charge of "tutoring" her when she got her first level degree, and she was happy enough about that to give me a hardback copy of her thesis, and that was nice.
Then she gets a job, she puts some money away, goes on a well earned holiday with her boyfriend, a tire blows up and she ends up dead. That IS tough, undeserved, unfair, sad. I don't know what else to say to express how bad it feels.
Not long before that last August, she told me about her trumpet practice sessions: during the lunch break, in a park, in Bologna, in the sun. I wasted no time in turning that into the description of the last scene of a movie, made a couple of jokes to tease her. She teased back, told me to write it instead of wasting my time doing nothing. It never became any more than a fragment, but here you go:
Put on Red Right Hand by Nick Cave:
... e questa e' la fine della storia, tutti andarono per la loro strada, qualcuno felice, qualcuno stanco, qualcuno zoppo. A volte ci sentiamo, ma non capita molto spesso, la vita ci porta di qua e di la'. Me, se mi cercate, passate da Bologna, in quel parco vicino al centro. Chiedete di una ragazza che suona la tromba, sola, nell'angolo dove c'e' sempre il sole.
Se non ci sono, aspettami.
... And that's the end of the story, everybody went their own way, someone happy, someone tired, someone else limping. We keep in touch, every now and then, but not too often, life is too hectic and keeps pushing us all around. But, if you;re looking for me, stop here in Bologna, in that park close to the city center. Ask for a girl who plays the trumpet, alone, in that corner where the sun is always shining.
If I'm not there, wait for me.
It's not that much of a piece of work, but this is what I can offer.
To absent friends.
I.
I was watching Star Trek: Nemesis the other night (yes, I'm a geek. No, I'm not a Star Trek aficionado). The best character of the series "dies" there. Yeah, it's Data. The Captain says that, after the battle, sharing a drink with the other big shots. It's nice, probably the best bit of the whole movie.
A friend of mine died last August, the 7th. Her name was Michela, she was 27, she was pretty, nice and funny, and don't you expect me to say all this? Well it happens to be true. She used to like the same music I like, she was learning to play the trumpet and she was as good as I am with the guitar, which is not much, she liked to laugh at everything including herself just like I'd like to, I was in charge of "tutoring" her when she got her first level degree, and she was happy enough about that to give me a hardback copy of her thesis, and that was nice.
Then she gets a job, she puts some money away, goes on a well earned holiday with her boyfriend, a tire blows up and she ends up dead. That IS tough, undeserved, unfair, sad. I don't know what else to say to express how bad it feels.
Not long before that last August, she told me about her trumpet practice sessions: during the lunch break, in a park, in Bologna, in the sun. I wasted no time in turning that into the description of the last scene of a movie, made a couple of jokes to tease her. She teased back, told me to write it instead of wasting my time doing nothing. It never became any more than a fragment, but here you go:
Put on Red Right Hand by Nick Cave:
... e questa e' la fine della storia, tutti andarono per la loro strada, qualcuno felice, qualcuno stanco, qualcuno zoppo. A volte ci sentiamo, ma non capita molto spesso, la vita ci porta di qua e di la'. Me, se mi cercate, passate da Bologna, in quel parco vicino al centro. Chiedete di una ragazza che suona la tromba, sola, nell'angolo dove c'e' sempre il sole.
Se non ci sono, aspettami.
... And that's the end of the story, everybody went their own way, someone happy, someone tired, someone else limping. We keep in touch, every now and then, but not too often, life is too hectic and keeps pushing us all around. But, if you;re looking for me, stop here in Bologna, in that park close to the city center. Ask for a girl who plays the trumpet, alone, in that corner where the sun is always shining.
If I'm not there, wait for me.
It's not that much of a piece of work, but this is what I can offer.
To absent friends.
I.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
