Could this be the most offensive action a driver can do on the road?
I mean, other than actually causing a collision, is cutting another driver off the worst offense? Do you judge every other driver by the offensiveness of their driving technic? And if so, do you judge them by how close they are to you and your vehicle when they merge?
Even if you don’t, I do.
I judge people’s driving skills by their ability to make me want to cause the accident they were about to commit. Don’t ask why. I have an undying curiosity. It can’t be stopped.
Forever, I will be wondering: “What would it look like if they were driving that close and I wasn’t paying attention and instead of braking I just rammed into them?”
It’s a good thing I value my vehicle or there’d be mayhem on the highways. I could imagine having a less-than-appealing automobile and driving it like an idiot so at every lane change and every merge point I was making some other driver angry enough to play crash-up derby with me. In fact, it’s a good thing most people value their vehicles, or there would probably be a lot of that going on out there.
Could you imagine all the stressful and impatient moments pushing a driver to do the crazy driving things like crashing through barriers, driving off the road, and/or plowing through a flock of sheep?
Photo by Tobias Tullius
An impatient moment. A gas pedal. A slowly meandering sheep. All of these mix too well. If a low-quality vehicle was thrown in, then the accident would be inevitable. There’s no doubt in my mind.
Low auto esteem is a real phenomenon. It happens all the time, on every roadway in the world. The good thing though, is that it’s not too widespread. If it was more common, we’d have massive twenty-car pile-ups. We’d have crash-up derby. We’d have, well, mayhem on the highways.
There’s a sort of misunderstanding in the writing world which has become a myth.
The myth is that a character must have an arc.
Before I get too deep into why this is a myth, let’s define what it means to “have an arc.”
In case you’re new to writing, the “arc” that some advisors to writing are speaking of is the imaginary curvature of the character’s character. Confusing, if you think of it like that. But I’m simplifying the concept a bit. Essentially, some people in the writing world believe a character should start in a story with a single, simple problem.
There are more hindrances to this idea than there are benefits.
For one, people don’t have single, simplistic arcs in their lives. Have you ever done any people-watching? People don’t speak in linear fashion, they don’t walk in a straight line, they don’t think about one problem at a time, they don’t worry about only one thing, they don’t even stand straight most of the time.
The majority don’t even try to solve their own problems. They look for someone else to do it.
Now, don’t go thinking there are no arcs whatsoever in writing fiction. There are. The story can and should have an arc. A plot, or a throughline if you like, can follow the standardized path of an “arc” very smartly when constructed right. Even though it’s unrealistic to write characters with an arcing maturity path, the story as a whole could benefit from being fit into the pattern. It could begin rather calamitous, take the multifaceted character through a load of learning experiences, press them with conflict, require solutions, then record how the character might have matured from all of the above in such a way that they are totally impressive, and all of that with one plot arc.
Here, too, I should add, the character does not need to mature in every way through a story. Even though the plot problem is resolved at the end of a good story, the character’s multiple flaws or problems should not be totally or completely resolved.
If you took a normal person and followed them through an arc in their lives, then cataloged it, reported it in fiction fashion, you could end up with the shortest story ever, or the longest. Consider the time it takes most men to mature from boys and you’ll understand what I mean. Ever heard a really old man tell a fart joke? He’s eighty years old and his arc has yet to begin. At least for that portion of his life, for that part of his development. Maybe the same man could look a large-breasted woman in the eyes when he talks to her. The arc is complete for his respect of breasts, perhaps. So in one case, he has completed the arc, and in another, he has not.
You might be thinking, “I thought you said, ‘People don’t arc.'” You are so right, but doesn’t the above example show that people have multifaceted problems? Multiple problems require a variety of solutions. Some are solved readily, others take years. People in reality don’t have single arcs, they have many. Trying to pinpoint one and create a character from it usually (not always) makes a character unappealing. A character with only one arc in their lives isn’t only unrealistic, but unbelievable too. Readers understand this while reading. Audiences understand this while watching. A writer should understand it while writing and avoid making characters too simple.
One of the jobs of a writer is to diminish the doubt of a reader. If the characters a writer creates are too unbelievable, the reader will have overt doubts about the characters.
Job failure.
However, creating characters with multiple concerns, multiple troubles, a variety of internal flaws to overcome, will diminish the doubt.
Smog is a wonderful word. Not used nearly enough, I’d say.
There are a number of personages in my life who have started using the term inversion. The people I know who use this word aren’t even meteorologists.
Inversion is a meteorological term meaning the atmosphere is layered. Certain portions of the layers are warm, others cold, and the layers don’t mingle so there’s no movement. When there’s no movement, all of the pollutants we humans produce stick around right here where we live. The term to refer to this layered, non-mixing atmosphere is inversion.
Inversion, sure. It means what it means, though. It doesn’t mean the stuff that collects when the inversion happens, even though the people who I’ve heard using the word lately are using it as if it means the smog.
Why would anyone in their right mind trade in a great word like smog for a technical term with only meteorological uses?
So you’re aware, smog isn’t only one word, it’s two smashed together.
Smoke + Fog.
Smoky fog? Like fog, only smoke? Smog.
The word smog pops up in poems and music. Poets and musicians get it. The word smog brings to life the imagery of sickly yellow air, careless industries pumping pollutants into the sky, and dystopic environments. It has the poetic qualities other words do not, even though some of the other words a person might use to define bad air have potential, such as: gauze, haze, or soup. But these words could be too light-hearted and fun, depending on how they’re used.
Despite the abhorrent way I feel about the actual substance of smog, the word is still my favorite way to label the stuff.
Seeds of the word portal came from Latin, meaning a gate.
The word has grown from that simple definition over the years, so it means not only a gate. A portal can also be a door, a simple opening, or an entryway to anything. Current definitions aren’t limited to hollow openings. In medical definitions especially, the term portal doesn’t mean an airy gateway, rather a location where subtances pass.
Most of the world has been exposed to the idea of a portal from teevee shows or movies. Science fiction has taken the idea of a portal to mean a teleportation device. Within the broad category of sci-fi, there are time portals, space portals, and yes portals in which trash is discarded.
Convenient.
There is a fun offshoot of this idea of a portal being a passageway to somewhere else. It has to do with one of the most popular video games of all time, Portal.
A fantastic puzzle game, it involves traveling from place to place and solving problems while manipulating portals. Despite being a relatively short game, it requires some brainpower to strategically maneuver through the world.
And, let’s not forget, the game was successful enough to spawn a second version: Portal 2.
If the first iteration wasn’t enough, a person could renew the thrill with the next. Like entering another place, through a passageway…or something.
In this article there are potential spoilers. Be warned.
M. Night Shyamalan’s The Sixth Sense is a movie which can be considered a masterpiece for a variety of reasons. It has all the necessary elements. The movie was initially advertised as a psychological thriller with mystery and suspense added. In each of those categories—thriller, mystery, suspense—there are certain events which need to come to pass. For example, without a question for the audience to answer, there would be no mystery.
The psychological thriller aspect of the film was found in the mind-bending advancement of the plot. An audience watching for the first time would find themselves thrust into a happy marriage nearly cut short, a mother / son relationship which is strained for reasons yet unknown, and what seems like a flashback. A simple clue is injected into the film for the sharper viewers: a patch of grey hair on a troubled man’s head—then again on an otherwise youthful head. The clue is beautifully planted, so the audience is (or, at least, those who notice are) left to wonder what the clue means. Was it the same person? Was it the thing that triggered the flashback in Doctor Crowe’s mind?
Malcolm Crowe is a psychologist who comes home from a night out with his wife. The two don’t immediately notice the signs of a break-in, until—the broken glass, the light on in the bathroom—too late. A much younger man exits their bathroom. In many ways he appears unhinged. He’s thin, undernourished, wearing only briefs, crying, or on the verge of crying. His name is Vincent Gray, but if the name is used, it’s only in passing, as a comment, or a sidenote in the tense conversation. Words flow from Crowe and Gray in doctor / patient fashion, the doctor attempting to make clinical sense of the disturbed young man’s anxious accusations. The doctor never helped this patient. Vincent tells him about it, tells him with words and the horror-filled look on his face. Then Vincent ends the conversation with two bullets: one for Doctor Crowe’s abdomen, and one for his own head.
The audience leaves the scene with the camera aimed at Doctor Crowe. Black blood issues from the wound on his right side. A shot in the liver, the audience might infer, and, of course, knowing the situation is deadly, the audience would be right to ask the question, “Will he survive?”
At this point in the film there should have been several questions rolling through the minds of those in the audience. The immediate one, the one we want answered most, “Will he survive?” is answered right away. Here he is again, looking like a psychologist on a park bench who quietly studies his patients, so it appears he did survive, but then…is this a flashback?
Soon Cole Sear enters the plot and the scene. Here he is with his patch of gray hair, looking like a wary city kid who always watches where he’s going and always checks who might be behind him. He’s a boy. Maybe he never walks. He runs everywhere he goes. Where’s he going? School, where other children call him a freak. Church, where no one else follows. The plot takes a slower turn. The doctor sometimes speaks to Cole. Cole acts like a boy whose mother made him see the doctor. He doesn’t even look Doctor Crowe in the eyes.
Does he want to be helped? If he’s not the same one from the near-death scene, he could be a similar case and the good doctor might only be trying to find more effective treatment than what he used on the failed case of Vincent Gray. Subtly, the question is altered for the attentive audience. No longer, “Will he survive?” but, “Will he help this troubled boy?”
Cole finds the doctor pacing him. Doctor Crowe shows up on the street, in the church, in his apartment, and other places. Cole’s mother, Lynn Sear, pays the doctor little attention. She seems to accept his presence, as if she invited him in the apartment.
Lynn is a devoted mother. She does what she can for her amazing son and with her single parent life. She is somewhat oblivious to her son’s life. He is a scared little boy, and she consoles him at times. At other times, she grows weary of Cole’s odd behavior. She doesn’t know he can SEE DEAD PEOPLE so she lashes out in tired parent fashion. He eventually proves to her, and Doctor Crowe, that he does indeed have the curse and the ability, to see the deceased.
This ability of his, and the reactions of the other characters in the movie to his ability, has an interesting effect on the audience. Repeat views turn the suspense into drama. Once the mystery of Cole’s talent is no longer a mystery, a viewer will tend to see the hopelessness of his plight. The audience can’t convince the other characters of his honesty. Cole doesn’t mean to twist his mother’s view of reality. It’s only a natural consequence of his desire to be real with her, and the audience knows it.
Likewise, the relationship he develops with Doctor Crowe, has more drama than mystery with repeated views of the movie. Malcolm Crowe doesn’t have any less skepticism than Lynn Sear, so his actions can frustrate the audience a little.
There are frightening scenes and gross-out scenes within this movie, but there are no unnecessary scenes and no amateur sloppy-camera. If you were undecided on whether to watch a slasher movie or a suspenseful psychological thriller this Halloween season, just do what Cole Sear does and see some dead people already. See them in The Sixth Sense.
Xenosthesia.com 