I was recently asked for the most private thing I was willing to admit on a web site. I thought about it for a moment, and the exact answer came to me:

I have a M.Sc. in Computer Engineering. Despite my barely above-average grades in undergrad (where I worked like a cat) and uncomfortable tendency to screw up one graduate course per term, my supervisor offered to take me on for a doctorate based on the strength of my thesis. To this day, I wish I’d published more stuff that he could put his name on, because he was the best supervisor I could imagine having, with a heart to match his considerable brain. On the other hand, I don’t regret turning down the offer for an instant.

I can’t imagine how unhappy I’d be as an engineering academic, a mere 400-metre walk from hundreds of lovely young people doing exactly what I knew even then that I should have done in the first place. And so that degree represents seven years of running from my dreams and beating myself up for it.

It’s really astonishing in retrospect. How did I not see? How did I not act?

My notes were 75% doodles, often lacking critical information in favour of shapes, squiggles and cartoons. I avidly collected obscure old computers, which I admired for their astonishing craftmanship and the ingenious ways they bent the limitations of their technology. I collected strange music, which I admired for their skill with their instruments and their subversion of my expectations. I also listened to a lot of angry and pretentiously sad music, where admiring the skill of its execution was honestly a cover for deeply identifying with its desperate cries for attention, admiration, acceptance, love… whatever.

At the end of undergrad, I had two close friends who were engineers. One sang in choirs and shared my admiration for the brilliant artistry of the deeply arcane guts of our computers and the beauty of well-composed music, though he has always been more willing to accept the beautifully trite as much as the beautifully unexpected, and he’s still one of my dearest friends; the other shared my more obscure and violent tastes in music as a balm for pain he clearly had no idea how to deal with, and renounced me after a crush on my sister went sour. I found one more close friend in grad school, a gifted and pudgy Chinese man who shared my tendency to understand the phenomena of our field intuitively before even looking at the math—a helpful tendency in research, where the math often doesn’t exist yet. I lost track of him in the following years. I hope he’s doing well.

The rest of my friends were misfits, humanities or arts students, musicians, and seekers. I pursued friendships with people in cultural and artistic fields, more often than not pushing them away with an unending barrage of questions and a childish admiration paired with an arrogant assumption that I was one of their peers. I took every opportunity to hang around the opposite end of campus, because arts and humanities clearly had more interesting women, although I had no idea how to relate to them, feeling that they were part of a braver, more sophisticated species than I.

It’s a wonder to me that I could so deeply understand where I wanted to be and still keep myself so very far from it. What forceful self-denial! What savage self-flagellation! Or more accurately, what fear!

And if I’d found any believable solace, I might have kept resisting until the flow of life wore me down to a nub. Even now I regret the loss of parts of my being that surely must have died, and parts of me that might now never grow. Some day, I hope I learn to forgive myself for it.

Seriously, shut up about Hipsters already. It’s done. It’s over. Shut up.

This sort of thing has happened before. Here’s the shape of it: some strange people start doing something. It’s misunderstood, except by a handful of people. That handful of people just happen to be “cool,” and so the whole thing draws more people, understand it or not. Eventually the strange people that started it get tired of it or the stuff that’s grown up around it, and they leave. The subculture stops evolving and turns into a historical edifice or parody maintained by people who mostly never understood it in the first place.

Everyone likes a bandwagon, and that’s why after the punks we have Punks¹, after raves we have Ravers, after hippies we have Hippies, after hipsters we have Hipsters. In all of these we have (occasionally very convincing) vestiges of the original philosophy, politics and attitudes that started the movements, but really, they’re just party scenes.

And hey, what is it that everyone hates about the Hipsters? The almost complete conformity under the banner of rebellion? The self-mockery? The shitty fashion? Wait, which party scene am I talking about again?

But to return to my original point: everyone accepts that it’s poor form to make fun of Punks, Ravers, and Hippies. They’re all adorable in a way, like lost puppies with strange hair. Hipsters are really no different, and if you leave them alone then all those negative attention seekers will move on and this mess will wind down to a niche just like every other dead party scene.

1)Yes, this is the same capitalization scheme used to discuss political philosophies, to distinguish followers a philosophy (like conservatives) from the party that forms around it (like Conservatives). It’s vaguely surprising how perfectly the distinction holds when talking about subcultures instead of political philosophy, until you grant that all of these movements had sound and subtle philosophical plumbing underneath them at the start.

Damn it, I knew I forgot something. I step back into the elevator and press nine.

Somehow, I never noticed that there are no doors on this elevator. It’s fine, really, because I get to see everything on the way back up.  On one floor there seems to be a seminar; a woman in a red business suit is pointing to slides and addressing an attentive audience. A couple of floors up, the space between the floors has a little garden growing in a neat grid of green wooden boxes.  It’s reassuring how well built this part of the building is, really.

A black, stenciled “10″ slides by. I look to the buttons, and nine is still lit, but the elevator is not stopping. Another of these ones, I guess. Outside is a four meter gap between the elevator and the unfinished concrete hallway marked 13. The elevator bumps into something and swings out to the right, continuing its upward journey with a gentle pendulum sway.

It eventually stops, letting me out on a narrow rough wooden floor suspended in space. Steel girders at the four corners mark the edges of the tower. Off to my right hover three finished houses with small yards; an old Japanese man in monk robes is shouting out the window of the nearest one at a construction worker with a jackhammer. Across the wooden path from the houses a crane clings to the frame of the building, and construction crews bustle around it, completely ignoring me.  The nearest solid part of the building is ten stories below.

Suddenly I realize that I’m not standing on wood, but a grey, knit wool.  I drop to my knees and grab it with both hands as the wool walkway starts swaying; I try to keep myself upright but adjusting my weight seems to accelerate the swaying.  I really just want to get back to my apartment.  Enough of this.  Really.  As I wrestle with the knit, three people walk up and join me to wait for the elevator.  ”Hello,” one of them says to me.

“I don’t know how you can live here,”  I say.

“You get used to it,” he replies.

“Yeah, but I have acrophobia.”  I look down, and my stomach turns.

With a friendly laugh, he says, “I suppose that might complicate things a bit.”

The wool path has settled, and I relax a bit.  In fact, relaxing seems to make it more stable.  The elevator appears from a hole in the sky above me, and starts sliding down.  It looks like it will arrive at our level ten meters out from the walkway.

“How are we supposed to get there?” I ask the others.

“We walk, of course,” one says.

“What? How?” I ask.

“Don’t worry, everything’s been built.  You just don’t know it yet.”

The elevator comes to a stop, and the others start towards it as the door opens.  I look down, take a deep breath, and follow.

I erased your words today,
poetic wish
for a time beyond suffering.

Every communique tells us of
     your lonely path
     your unbearable pain
     your grace
     how you sublimate it all to wisdom:

Fuck off.

You dug your hole
to flatter the acoustics of your screaming
and it belittles us.

There's a reason
     what hearts make
is called a beating.

Well, with considerable help from my shiny new Logic Studio 2.0, I’ve finished my first remix: a drum and bass version of Hall & Oates’ “Maneater”. Enjoy!

Maneater (Reidmix)

Inviting impermanence
you declare:
        all idols sham
        all monuments crushed
and you make a fortress
        of rubble.

The universe gives us
    wounds
too deep to heal
    in our own minds.
This is how it draws us closer
    or kills us.

In an alley
a giant Cadillac, like my grandfather drove,
dried blood rage red.

From under festival orange tarp shroud
juts chrome snarl grill
between lifeless headlight eyes.

What better to do
with such a monster
than bury it with its children?

Ben Bumhertz writes:

I’m a new driver, and I’ve heard that being passed by cyclists can strike you gay.  I’m scared, what should I do?

Well, Ben, you heard correctly.  Being passed by a cyclist while driving can strike you gay.  It’s only natural, as you sit there powerless in your car or truck, to imagine those powerful legs and glutes pounding your fleshy bottom (with prosthetics as required) for hours on end.

Researchers in the field call it queeralysis, and if you drive a large truck or sports car, you may be especially vulnerable.  And we’re sure you are aware of the downsides of being struck queer: constant discrimination, no longer being able to call everyone a fag, possibly dramatic changes in hygiene and style, and an enjoyment of TV shows that are only aired on expensive premium channels.

Fortunately, you can protect yourself. There are several tactics that you can use to delay or even avoid being struck queer.

1) Pass the cyclist as quickly as possible, even if it means speeding. It is very important that you also rev your engine as you pass, to signal to the cyclist that you meant to let them by, and that you could have overtaken them at any time with your powerful machine, and that you didn’t just spend the last thirty seconds imagining them filling every inch of you.

2) Shout at the cyclist. This technique has been used since the time of your ancient, lemur-like ancestors to reclaim dominance and heterosexuality.  ”Get off the road!” is one suggested line, since it gives an impression of authority, wisdom and straightness, but if you feel the strike coming and you can say it without a quaver in your voice, try shouting “Fag!” or “Dyke!”  Since this technique might lead to eye contact with the cyclist, we suggest that you clench your anus before shouting, in case they use witchcraft to teleport inside you.

3) Endanger the cyclist. Remember, the goal here isn’t to kill, only to prove that you’re not queer.  If they don’t survive the encounter, they will never know.  Passing them as closely as possible and then cutting them off is a classic; try stepping on your brake afterwards for a more powerful effect.  Again, we suggest clenching your anus to protect against witchcraft.

So there you go, Ben.  With the appropriate use of these techniques, you will be as well equipped as possible to resist queeralysis.  Good luck, and happy driving!

Sam stood in the darkness, one foot raised, eyes closed.  He took a slow, deep breath and let it out, focusing his attention on making the inhalation and exhalation even.  Still, his heart was racing and his beak was clenched.  He tried to remember his Sensei’s words.  Breathe the feeling into your chest.  Gather it into a ball in the centre, over your heart, and you will be able to separate yourself from it.  Then transmute its power to positive chi.

He took breath after breath, his body completely still, using the movement of the air to gather his rage, but after each inhalation contracted it, the exhalation delivered more to every part of his body.

He tried to focus on what he’d gathered so far, but if there was any ball it barely stood out.  His heart ached; maybe that was part of it.  Maybe he was getting somewhere.  Oh well, he’d try to transmute what he could.  Remember how it worked: shoot the energy down through your rooted foot, your anchor anchor to the ground.  Concentrate on cleansing it, or maybe trading it in for good chi.  Bring it back inside.

OK, he could do this.  He visualized the energy moving down from his chest, but didn’t feel anything.  But something shot up, and he suddenly wanted to cry.

Sensei!

The image leapt to his mind, as vivid as the day it happened: his Sensei, head and neck stretched over a log, the farmer with his axe silhouetted against the rising sun.  Sensei looks to Sam with an unreadable expression, and then up at the farmer. The axe falls.

With a shout, Sam lost his balance.  He put a wing out to catch himself, and struck it on something before falling against it with a deep thud.

“Shit,” he whispered as he gathered himself, feeling his bruised elbow and opening his eyes.  He looked at what he’d fallen against, bewildered, and then it struck him: it worked!

He had grown!  He was way taller than he had been before, as tall as the farmer.  Maybe taller.  He’d channeled a portion of his rage into growth energy and had unlocked the power to defeat the farmer and get revenge!  YES.

It was still dark, and the farmer wouldn’t be up for a while yet.  Sam didn’t want to confront him in his fortress, there was no telling what defenses he would have devised to keep himself safe from Sensei.  He decided to wait until sunrise and prepare.  He resumed standing on one foot and dropped back into meditation, finding his rage soothed by cold intent and the giddy confidence of his new-found power.

Sam held the feeling for over an hour, and started to feel uncomfortable. Strive for light and warmth, Sensei had told him, but what he felt was dark, cold and sharp. Was this right? Of course it was: it was justice. The farmer had killed, without provocation or reason. He deserved what was coming to him. Besides, Sensei also said that way to the light is always through the darkness.

And this is where his concentration was snapped by a scream and a terrible shattering sound. That scream… it was Ella! And it was coming from the farm house! Oh no, she was the only one left! He ran towards the sound as quickly as he could, and rounded the corner of the house to find himself face to face with the farmer. Fragments of glass littered the ground between them, and from the inside they heard the sounds of struggle.  Sam locked gazes with the farmer, and raised his head into the first wing-fu offensive stance.

The farmer’s eyes were wide, and then they closed. He exhaled and seemed to collapse slightly. “I never would have thought it’d come to this,” he said, apparently to himself.

“You killed my Sensei. Prepare to die.”

The farmer’s eyes squeezed tighter, and a tear trickled down his cheek. He has remorse, Sam thought; good, he has accepted justice and his soul will find peace. Beak ready, he leapt.

After dreaming of strings of Rubik’s cubes shifting and solving and sharing blocks, Ella woke to an uncomfortable prodding sensation in her backside. Both of these were confusing: there was only straw below her when she fell asleep, and—being a chicken—she had no idea what Rubik’s cubes were or what they were doing in her dream. She reached down and tried to move whatever she was sitting on, but it didn’t budge.

She yawned and stretched upward, painfully striking her head against something.  This was also confusing, because there was only air above her when she fell asleep.  She opened her eyes.

Oh!  What a funny joke.  Somebody put her in a really tiny version of the coop while she slept.  They did a really good job too; it must have taken a long time.  Every familiar detail of the the cavernous ceiling was recreated with painstaking accuracy in the one that was now within wing’s reach.  The dusty windows were identical but now only as wide as her shoulders.  She looked down and saw that she was sitting on the remains of a ledge that looked just like her ledge, but far too small and flimsy.  Whoever built this replica didn’t make it very strong.  Maybe it was a prank by the giant lady who took her kids to school.  They’d both been kind of sad since all the other hens moved to the retirement home.  It was nice of her to be so thoughtful.  Ella liked the giant lady, and hoped she wasn’t too lonely.

There seemed to be no point in hanging around in there, and it was really small and sort of uncomfortable.  She looked around.  The hatch where she usually left would be impossible to squeeze through.  The only thing that seemed likely was the giant lady’s door, which was now about the right size.  She felt a flicker of guilt as she looked at the handle.  The giant lady would put her paw on it and turn it, and it would click and then the door would open.  It didn’t feel right to use it, because it wasn’t her door.  Wait!  This wasn’t the same door.  This was a mini prank-door.  She reached out her wing, grasped the handle, turned, pulled, and stepped into the light.

Oh!  The world…

The feeling that she’d been pranked escalated to a paralyzing terror.  The whole world was smaller.  This was impossible.  The indomitable fence around the coop wasn’t even as high as her head.  The area it enclosed was no longer an arena, it was only… an enclosure.  The sturdy crab grass growing around the fence posts looked frail and thin, and in the wind it’s majestic sway was only a stiff wiggle.  Even the trees seemed tiny and rushed compared to the swaying mountainous majesty of the day before.

After about five minutes the shock subsided into a deep unease and Ella decided to go about her day.  For a while she decided to stay in the fenced area, but it was really too small now and she had to move.  She’d normally start the day with a jog, but the shock of this whole thing made her want to just run around like her head was cut off.  She walked around in tight circles faster and faster until she fell over, dizzy.  There was no way around it: she had to cross the fence.  Hopefully the giant lady would understand.  She closed her eyes and jumped over.

The world didn’t explode.  She looked around and decided to start her jog.  She ran across the farm’s yard and hopped over the fence into the field where the cows lived.  She said “Good morning!” to them as she passed, but the cows just stopped, their eyes bulging and grass falling from their mouths.  She ran to the far end of their field and back, her excitement growing as she went: all of this stuff had been way off in the distance her whole life, and now she was seeing it.  It was very exciting.  Maybe if everything stayed smaller, she could help out more, Ella thought.  The tuition for her kids must be pretty expensive.

She went around the south side of the barn where the tractor slept, and turned north to go see the pig pen.  ”Good morning!” she called to the pigs as she approached.

“Is it really?”  one of them replied, calmly, with one raised eyebrow.

“Of course it is,” Ella replied, “The sun is out, everything’s gone tiny and I’m out for a run!”

Another pig looked at her for a moment before saying, “And we’re in a fucking sty, suffering our disenfranchisement under the heel of bipedal despotism.”

“Well, if you don’t clean up after yourselves, that’s your own problem.  And I don’t know what the rest of that means, but it’s probably hooey too,” she said.

“If you can read, take this,” said another pig, who handed her a pamphlet.  ”It’s the latest from Kroporkin.  It explains everything.”

“Oh, these look like those squigglies on the food bags,” Ella said, and then realized that they meant something.  They meant “Hamarchist Morality,” and she almost know what that meant.  ”I always used to think they were for decoration.”

The pigs looked at each other.  One of them said, quietly, “Poor girl, she has no idea.”  They all looked serious and sad.

Well, enough of that, what a downer.  Ella thanked the pigs for the booklet and jogged on.  She rounded their pen and approached the farmhouse.  Through the no-longer-big shiny squares she saw the giant lady, now the same size as her.  She was standing in front of a white box with four black circles on top, and one of the circles had fire coming out and there was a thing on top of it that looked like a round metal feeding trough.  The giant lady was holding something round and white in her hand; why, it was Percival!  Her dear Percival!  She expected he was going to be a doctor, some day.  The giant lady held him in one hand, and then her arm swung down.