A CITY OF GHOSTS

First it comes for those on watch, whose eyes become uncontrollably heavy. They will close them - only for  a second - but that is long enough. When they open them again, they see that the desert is quite different from how they remember it.

THE FIRST NIGHT

The Spectral City appears atop a shimmering sea where once there was sand. The tide laps gently at the travellers' feet, but they are quite distracted by the sight of the city itself: slender towers lit by white and purple light, dancing to a music of such uncommon beauty the spectator finds themselves hopelessly transfixed. They know that it probably isn't real, and that if it is, it is of a nature beyond their understanding, but they do not feel fear. They feel nothing but joy.

The sound of ghostly music awakens their companions: startled, they beseech the watchers for an explanation. None is forthcoming, and soon they too are hypnotised. Somehow, though the city seems far away, they can see the beautiful, diaphanous-skinned couples in pale luminous garments walking arm in arm along its splendid boulevards. They watch a carnival of barges, piled with silken cushions, encircle the cities walls, helmed by ghostly young men and women blowing horns of delicate sound.

And it will all be too much for one of them to bear any longer. At first hypnotised by the spectacle, they will snap from their reverie and, overcome by a desire to join in, will either call out to the occupants of the barge, or wade out into the water. As soon as this happens, the music stops, and the citizens of the Spectral City will affix the interloper with expressions of such disappointment that the individual will show no reaction other than hanging their head in profound shame.

Presently, the city fades from view and the ocean evaporates into the cold night, leaving behind nothing but a sea of sand and the incredulous expression of the weary travellers. They do not speak,; neither do they return to sleep. Instead they sit in silence, contemplating the void the city has left in the desert and also in their hearts.

As dawn breaks, they may crawl back to the shade of some palm, or whatever cover they have already erected; they may drink a little of their water, if they have any left; such will be the full extent of their actions. Their only desire now is to wait for the city's return.

THE SECOND NIGHT:

Long after dusk is their wish granted, though later recollecting the precise moment proves impossible. The same gleaming spires and beautiful ghosts materialise before them, but this time it is as thought their revelry has been amplified: a true spectacle of the carnivalesque unfolds before their very eyes. Fireworks of wonderful intricacy bloom in the sky: laces, nets, starbursts of red and green and blue and silver. The promenades throng with  gay processions of outrageously costumed ghosts, dancing and marching to the unearthly music of the Spectral City.

Again, overcome by the sheer jubilance of the sight, one of the travellers is unable to resist temptation, and edges forward into the water. This time the carnival does not grind to a halt: the revellers are oblivious. Buoyed by this, the traveller will edge forward a little, wading into the ghostly waters, but something holds them back: they do not belong there. Glancing to their left and right they will see that their comrades have joined them, standing knee-deep in this illusory ocean, captivated by a carnival city of ghosts.

Here they remain, until the city and its seas fade with the rising sun.

Once again, the party are overwhelmed by torpor, and retire to positions around their camp where they might better await the coming night. But for one of them, there is a memory of another purpose, another journey they are supposed to be making. They remind their comrades of this fact, but are unable to rouse them. They pace the length of the imaginary shoreline, and the brief moment of clarity experienced begins to fade, as they contemplate a large sand dune that might afford them an evening grander view of the Spectral City come nightfall.

Here is the moment of truth. All hope for the travellers rests upon this one soul: this is their last chance for salvation. In exploring the site, even only absentmindedly, the traveller increases their chance of happening upon the desiccated remains of their predecessors. The mere sight of a mummified corpse sticking out of the desert sand will be enough to break the spell totally, and it will only take a few strong words for them to likewise rescue their colleagues.

Yet two days have already passed, two days in which the sun has shone and no food has been eaten and no-one has slept: there will be members of their party too weak to leave of their own volition, and decisions will have to be made. Do they try to carry the invalided with them, or leave them to their fate? They will receive no encouragement from those so incapacitated, whose dry lips intone that they will only slow the party down.

All to often this is the case: the party leaves at least one of their number as a sacrifice to this wicked vision, and continues their journey across the desert in bitter silence. It is a silence born not only of guilt, but also of envy: part of them wishes they could see the city too, just one last time.

THE THIRD NIGHT

Her eyes closed, just for a second, and when they opened it was just as she expected and more. An enormous silver moon bathed all in its luminescence: the towering spires of the Spectral City; its beautiful, ghostly inhabitants; its grand barges, like floating palaces. Unlike before, now she finds herself almost completely submerged, and she begins to tread water in the cool sea around her. Gondalas drift by, its passengers urging her to swim towards the city. Atop its walls the beautiful ghosts are calling to her to join them and, in time she will.

She feels a joy like no other when she is lifted up by one hundred hands, and held aloft to watch a sky erupt into a chaotic ballet of iridescent fireworks, but is brief. Her exertions have bettered her, and within she descends into oblivion.

LATER...

Perhaps her former colleagues will come by this way again. They will not have forgotten the Spectral City, even if they have forgotten their companion. In spite of knowing the dangers it poses, part of them will yearn to see it again. Perhaps they will.

If they do, they will notice amongst the throng a familiar figure: she will be more youthful and more alive in appearance than they ever remember her being, in spite of her non-corporeality. They will want to join her (foolish) or try to rescue her (even more so), bu tit is not her. It is the ghost of her final moments, a trace of her animating spirit that knew such glee in its final moments. Her soul, that which was truly her, was utterly annihilated long ago.

Inspired by The Pilgrims in Jack Vance's Eyes of the Overworld.

Contains paraphrased passages and quotes from that work, not cited. Fair use etc.

THE GREAT SILENCE

Recently, I have been listening to a lot of podcasts. Most recently, an episode of This American Life grappled with the issue of loneliness, starting at a cosmic level. Given that I listen to podcasts principally out of a kind of loneliness (living and working in a non-English speak environment), it was amusingly apposite. In a very short time, however, my amusement gave way to a feeling of existential dread.

The programme bore the title “Fermi’s Paradox”, and used the conundrum of cosmic loneliness to springboard into the more general topic of loneliness. For the uninitiated, Fermi’s paradox is the contradiction presented by the apparent likelihood of intelligent life existing in our Galaxy and the complete lack of visible evidence that this is the case. In Fermi’s words, “Where are they?” (“they” being technologically advanced aliens).

For the show’s producer, David Kestenbaum, the possibility that humans are alone in the visible universe made him feel profoundly sad. I do not share this feeling: perhaps when there are fewer things to feel sad about within human civilisation I will start to grow melancholy at the silent universe. I did allow myself to consider Fermi’s paradox yet again, however, and this led me to a darker place.

The predominant hypothesis concerning the apparent absence of intelligent life is quite simple: there are no aliens. The Rare Earth Hypothesis states that the conditions necessary to create life, even in its most simple form, are exceptional. Technologically sophisticated, culturally complex civilisations such as humanity are therefore beyond an oddity: the evolutionary coincidences that have led to our development amount to probabilities of trillions-to-one, we are alone in the Universe. This was what rendered Kestenbaum so upset. The universe, within which our tiny planet is barely a pinprick, is teeming with death: it is a cold, desolate, empty expanse, which will ultimately consume all human endeavour.

The show was a journey of reconciliation- allowing Kestenbaum to come to terms with his feelings of cosmic isolation. Part of this process seemed to focus on gently mocking his sensitivity, and allowing him to recognise that there are far more pressing things to worry about in the world. Additionally, other reasons for the Great Silence were touched upon, suggesting that Fermi’s Paradox need not preclude the existence of alien life.

One of the reasons explored was the so-called “Zoo Hypothesis”: the existence of alien civilisations is being deliberately kept from us so that our cultural and biological evolution can follow its own course, without external influence, presumably for similar reasons to those of conservationists preserving endangered species in their natural habitat. It was a thought I’d had before, but had not pondered for some time… least not since the Simulation Hypothesis had been re-popularised by Elon Musk. It was putting these two ideas together that sent me into my own existential tailspin.

An extension of the Zoo Hypothesis posits that in their efforts to conceal the rest of the universe from us humans, the advanced alien civilisation(s) have somehow isolated our world and its immediate astral environs, surrounding them with an incredibly sophisticated simulation of the rest of the universe, which has been created bereft of other sentient beings. For me, Fermi’s paradox naturally dovetails into the Simulation Hypothesis: our entire reality is a digital simulation that has been created to observe how a human civilisation might develop in a universe lacking any other sentient beings.

Imagine those early pioneers of agriculture, trading the uncertainty of the foraging lifestyle for the relative security of sedentary life. These men and women ultimately set in motion an unprecedented revolution in culture and technology, culminating after tens of thousands of years in the exploration of space.

Along the way they have created hierarchy, religion and war. To facilitate their industrious exploitation of their planet’s resources, they have poisoned their own environment against them. Whilst they have made progress in reversing the inequality that has sprung up over the centuries of cultural evolution, it is unclear as to whether this progress is sustainable given the scale of the environmental problems and capacity to annihilate themselves over political disagreements.

Cue intervention by an interstellar civilisation. Detecting the emergence of a technologically advanced civilisation within range of their spacecraft, said civilisation decide to introduce themselves. They are dismayed to find that Homo sapiens has been unable to resolve its social differences in spite of its huge leaps forward technologically. They issue dire warnings to the terrified denizens of earth, having witnessed this behaviour in previous civilisations. Almost universally, world leaders surrender to the superior beings and follow their recommendations, in order to steer humanity from its path to destruction. Not all of earth’s citizens are so eager to comply, resulting in a bloody war.

Reluctantly, the aliens assist earth’s leaders in the suppression of the global insurrection, but in doing so they reinforce support for the rebel forces. The whole planet is in the throes of a bitter, bloody civil war. The aliens have failed utterly, and after much discussion, decide that their only option is to intercede directly: follow our road map to peace and prosperity, or face annihilation- annihilation at their hands.

The threat is enough to at least get the leaders of the significant parties to agree to meet. The dividing line is clear and stark. On the one hand, the establishment opinion holds that humanity will be destroyed unless the aliens’ instructions are followed. On the other hand, insurrectionists argue that it was the aliens who created this situation in the first place, are now threatening the earth directly, and better to die fighting for freedom than to continue living with no control over their fate.

The divisions and arguments are predictable, but the alien civilisation is able to steer a way through the debate with their trump card: simulated realities. They have the power to create incredibly accurate hologrammatic simulations, and are capable of demonstrating the outcome of actions on a galactic scale by tweaking the simulation’s parameters. Hundreds of these simulations are run, each demonstrating that if humanity was simply left to their own devices, the only possible outcome is increased misery and suffering and ultimately, the extermination of all biological life.

Naturally, the insurrectionists suggest that these computer models are weighted in favour of the extra-terrestrials preferred outcome. As a measure of good faith, the aliens induct the top computer scientists and programmers from the insurrectionist side into the inner workings of simulation construction. Across earth, an uneasy truce reigns.

After several years, the insurrectionists are convinced by the civilisations validity, but this does not put an end to the conflict. The debate turns to the age-old issue of individual agency and the greater good, the Platonic/Aristotelian dialectic that has plagued public discourse since the dawn of civilisation. However, faced with annihilation, the wider populace overwhelmingly choose life as well-fed slaves than hungry free men. A new world government begins to institute the aliens’ original programme for cultural and environmental recovery.

Naturally, pockets of resistance still exist across all continents. Though they can no longer count on the same levels of popular support as before, they are still able to interrupt the recovery programme and cause misery, pain and suffering. For some, this is the price of progress, and anticipate the remaining insurrectionists slowly dying out. For others, it is unnecessary and hideous, and are dismayed by the establishment’s inability to stamp it out completely.

Once again, the aliens manage to steer a path through the fog. Human leaders are urged to reach out to the remaining extremists and offer amnesty: not in return for ceasing their actions, but for the opportunity to negotiate and discuss once again. The aliens are desperate to understand the desires and motives of these men and women, and to do what they can to end what they see as unnecessary suffering. Amongst the myriad demands and aspirations lurked something curious: it wasn’t that the insurrectionists wanted the aliens to just go away, they wanted them never to have arrived.

So: in order to demonstrate at least some degree of compliance, the aliens agreed to run a simulation in which they never came to earth. In fact, they agreed to run a simulation of the universe entirely devoid of other sentient life forms. They hoped this would demonstrate the hopelessness of the remaining insurrectionists’ cause. I cannot speculate on the outcome, because I believe that this is the simulation in which we now live.

I snapped out of my reverie in a manner similar to Dhasa in the Glass Bead Game: I found myself back in the present, doing something completely mundane, having lived through not just one life time but tens of thousands of years of parallel history. Like Dhasa I was by water, pouring from a shower head not a gently babbling forest stream. My heart rate felt higher than usual and I was aware of a great deal of chatter in my head. I resolved to practice some mindfulness, in an effort to return myself to normality.

Inhale, exhale: as long as you are breathing, there’s more right with you than wrong with you.

I felt the cold, wet torrent immerse my head and body.

I looked at the soap bubbles forming between my fingers.

I observed the complexity of the iridescence on the surface of each bubble, each one, containing within it its own universe.

What kind of technology would simulate this? Even at a level observable by the human senses, what power would be required to simulate something so complex, so convincingly?

It looks so real. It feels so real.

But then again, it’s all we’ve ever known. How do we know that this is what wetness feels like?

Embrace the matrix. There is no way out.

You can listen to the podcast that inspired my melancholy here.

PROAIRETIC CODE, DISCONTINUOUS PROSE AND PARACOSMS

So... blogging, yeah? Last time I posted something here (Sunday, 28th December 2014) I mentioned a change in circumstance might lead to a reduction in productive output. Since then, of course, we've had a New Year to celebrate... well, two to be precise, what with the lunar calendar and everything  (Chúc Mừng Năm Mới!)...

There's a reason or my choice of image juxtaposition that extends beyond (long overdue) tet-induced goodwill. Generally, one of the unstated rules-of-cool is that if you can somehow associate your slightly nerdy pursuits with attractive women a free-pass is granted. I'm a little fuzzy on how the rules operate, but I'm quite sure this rule is rendered void if one immediately draws attention to it.

"Wait," I hear you cry, "are you saying that in the yawning maw between now and your last posts you've been playing SNES style RPGs  and are attempting to excuse yourself of this  by implying that you also that at some point in this time period were in the company of aesthetically pleasing members of the opposite gender?", to which I can only reply "No, I'm stating that I could attempt to excuse myself through this image selection but since I've already stated that this would be a very obvious tactic I'm hanging a lampshade on it and want to engage you in a discussion about image-and-text, Roland Barthes style.".. though that would also be a lie, but it want to steer the subject towards  a discussion to another principle of Barthes', that of proairetic code.

Let us take a sidestep from the Ouroboros-esque tail-swallowing.