Charles Degelman
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Climate change and climate fiction — hope versus reality

9/28/2014

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A new fiction genre has sprung from the tortured brows of writers who see fiction as a tool for social change, want to sound a tocsin about climate change, or simply create a dismal future scenario. Just two  years ago, climate fiction, or cli-fi, as it is known, could monger disasters with impunity or generate fanciful planet-wide redemption tales.

Today, my
perceptions of the future have changed drastically with recent scientific surveys from U.S. and U.N. climate change research concluding we have passed the point of no return. Climate change is an indisputable and irreversible fact. These realities can render optimistic cli-fi writing a bit naïve. Still we must survive with hope. A case in point...

Ten years ago I wrote a cli-fi filmscript  set in the near future. At that time, global warming, pollution, and energy depletion spiraled and a spate of disaster/dystopian films appeared on the scene and began raking in considerable profits for the culture industry.

My thoughts on the lure of disaster were validated by Walter Benjamin in a much earlier work, “The Work of Art in the Mechanical Age of Reproduction (1936).” Here, Benjamin wrote that the culture industry’s penchant for creating dystopian and disaster films provides proof that “…[society’s] self-alienation has reached such a degree that it can experience its own destruction as an aesthetic pleasure.”

I began to contemplate a film story that would stand in contrast to the “What’s the use?” disaster litany of the culture industry and would foster “…the development of a credible, engaging feature-length film that depicts the overthrow of a dystopian, corporate-driven society by wilderness rebels an egalitarian, renewable, cyber-ingenious, multi-species society that reinhabits the corporate wastelands of the planet. The rebels, of course, emerge victorious, and the planet is theirs to renew.

Today,  this scenario seems incredible. Where do we go from here?



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Endless War — Cops of the World

9/20/2014

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The United States grew to power because we could make stuff.  As we grew better at making stuff, we could compete with England, France and other Old World colonial powers that we separated from.

By the beginning of the 20th century we were builders and bankers on a par with the biggest, baddest European colonialists, with the weight and muscle to back up our supremacy.

We crested on that massive, ethically rationalized shift in power and capital known as WWII. As we rolled into the Cold War, the United States had become the Boss of the World.

Now, all that is gone. We sold our industries to the highest offshore bidders and crippled our economy with tax breaks to the rich and to corporations. We redirected tax money from the working and middle classes from education and New Deal social services into war prep and weapons production. This tax flow siphoned capital from the general population into corporate and ruling-class coffers.

We auctioned off our elections and began to erode our civil liberties. The costly defeat in Vietnam and the 1973 Arab oil embargo underscored our vulnerability while we pretended our economic collapse wasn't happening.

Gradually, we began to build back our military strong suit by demonizing communism.
Yes, we still played cards at the green baize table with the international chips and the the stacked decks,  but we no longer played a dominant role in the world economy.

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The Red Menace dematerialized.  Without communism to combat, we were rudderless. We tried a war on drugs that has never succeeded and never ended. We tried to bully Central America for a while but there was no money in it.

We have degraded our work objectives from production to service to a series of short-lived bubbles — the dot.com explosion and the sub-prime real-estate fad are just two examples of the tragicomic rise and fall of phony economic boom... the bubble boom.

Now, when we elected Obama, we thought, "okay, we don't run the world anymore, but if he helps our crippled domestic well-being with a hand up to education, the environment, healthcare, and social equality, that will be enough." I never expected Obama would be in control of foreign policy but — we could enforce worldwide priorities.

In the midst of his efforts — many successful despite the worst Congressional obstruction in American history — President Obama has learned from the mess he inherited from the Bush Doctrine and the Neo Con manifesto. He has learned how to protect and serve globalization by serving the need for an endless war.

Today, despite the cost in lives, the distortion of our economy, the degradation of our morale and our integrity, we are really good at playing Cops of the World.

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Lying, thieving writers — part three

9/2/2014

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Why I stole Hamlet...

I want to write about fathers and sons. I’m wary of approaching this age-old, overwritten topic but here I am, digging for dad. I lost my father at 19, years after my anger and impatience and his destiny had separated us. We never said goodbye and never reconciled the ups and downs, hopes and disappointments of our few years together. Since then, I’ve always wanted to cherish my old man, to forgive, accept, and love as Woody Allen, Jessica Lange, and the Talmud so succinctly put it.
 
I shadow box with recollections — what he looked like, the distant sound of his voice as he read to us, the mistakes he made, the successes he could not enjoy. I discovered that I knew my old man only through what he taught me — a deep, multi-faceted understanding of how the world works — and by a bewilderment at what he could not teach. Good to understand that about a person you still get pissed off at.

I've already written reams about my past, but I'm too young to gather sheaves into a memoir. Despite the compelling world we shared, from Cold War and the McCarthy era through the first glimmer of the 1960s, the book would yield mostly lies, because my sketchy recollections don’t serve me well. Better to create a father-and-son fiction where I can shape reality... and lie with impunity.  See ‘Lying, thieves, and writers — part one.

I began casting about for ways to invent a fictive father-and-son relationship that would allow me to dive deep into filial matters without opening old wounds or boring everyone to death. But what was to be done?  Wisely, my playwright companion showed compassion and suggested I revisit ‘Hamlet.’

I’d never read Hamlet. Not carefully, not for a two a.m. final paper. Never. I dove into the play and surfaced, not so much in the plot, but through the character of Hamlet and how he was manipulated by this ghost of a father.

I marveled at Hamlet’s language and demeanor as he ruminated on his father's untimely death, at his grief and bewilderment, as he listened to the old king’s finicky recipes for revenge. There he was, lost and swamped in loss, a kid reviewing, analyzing, brooding like a clown juggling chainsaws. Hamlet, the fool’s psychic circus act began to sound familiar (I use the word advisedly).

Hmm. Maybe I could use Hamlet as a guide for my own explorations, if not via the plot than via the words and actions of this soliloquizing, word-parrying young prince.

I dug deeper. I retraced the origins of Hamlet's story. Shakespeare stole the seeds for Hamlet from an already moldy Norse revenge story involving a royal Cain and Able murder, the dead father-king’s reappearance and the manipulation of a Hamlet-like protagonist.

Shakespeare also stole from himself. He had written and earlier Ur Hamlet. The writer steals from the writer. The untimely death of Shakespeare’s real-life son, Hamnet clearly impacted the later Hamlet. Years before, a young woman named Kate Hamlet drowned herself in the nearby Avon river because she had been disappointed in love. Ophelia. Thievery?

Finally, I encountered a dilemma that I might have shared with Shakespeare. Who tells the story of Hamlet? Is it Hamlet, or a long-dead father who pushes the son to bow to the ghost’s self-serving need for revenge? Will my unreliable father be my unreliable narrator in this on-again, off-again tale of fathers and sons?

Is Hamlet Shakespeare’s property? Not according to the laws of public domain or according to the collective consciousness that embraces every note of music played, every genesis myth perpetuated, every story told.

Writers are going to lie to tell a good story, and they are going to steal from what they recognize to be the power of the word. I can only hope that Hamlet will inform anybody who lives with the ghost of a father.



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    The author of this blog...

    Writes about the world — real, imagined, troubled, lied about, dreamt of, and celebrated.

    American Postcards: growing up absurd in the land of the free

    Style — The Lone Revisionist

    Style — Why Write?

    Lost in Translation

    Doctor Sunshine

    Covidream 2.1

    Outside Agitators

    The Crash

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