Month: May 2019

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Object of the Game

Computers have mastered chess. They’ve cracked “Jeopardy!’ But it seems even they can’t figure out “Game of Thrones.”

Maybe there’s hope for the human race.

For those of you who care about the recently concluded HBO series, be warned – there’s spoilers ahead. (Also, Darth Vader is Luke’s father, Rhett leaves Scarlett, and “Rosebud” was the sled. Just saying.) On the other hand, if Westeros isn’t your cup of tea, stay with me, OK? I promise, we’re going somewhere from this.

OK, back to the computer.

Game of Thrones is known for a high body count among its heroes and villains, with survival rates that are about as good as a Denver Broncos head coach. (The joke goes that when George R.R. Martin logs onto Twitter, he kills off all 280 characters.) So, computer science students at the Technical University of Munich in Germany were given a challenge – create an artificial intelligence algorithm that would predict who had the best chance of surviving the final season.

They programmed the AI. They fed it the data. And they concluded the most likely survivor – a 99 percent chance! – was the Mother of Dragons herself, Daenerys Targaryen.

This would be the same Daenerys who got stabbed to death in the final episode, by the way.

Oops.

I’m sharing this for a few reasons. First, as a reminder that computer intelligences depend on our intelligence, and are only as good as the assumptions we make. Second, to reassure diehard Daenerys fans – and oh, my, there are a lot of you on the internet – that even the experts were on your side.

But most of all, I wanted to point out that the biggest survivor of all wasn’t even on the list. I don’t mean any of the kings or queens or dragons or warlords …  not directly, anyway.

I mean the story.

The story that engrossed people for eight seasons. The adventure that had millions of people arguing about the fate of its characters, before, during, and after its conclusion. Love or hate, agree or disagree, the tale was not being ignored.

That’s powerful.

And it’s a fundamental part of who we are.

I’ve said this here before: we are creatures of story. We look for meaning, narrative, connection in every part of our lives. Sometimes we find them in Westeros, or Middle-Earth, or a galaxy far, far away.

But many times, we find our story in something bigger yet. The causes we stand for. The beliefs we hold. The traditions and histories we carry on, and where we see our role in them. Those are stories on an epic scale, ones that men and women would willingly die for.

Have willingly died for.

We’ve reached another Memorial Day. It’s the time when many of us recount the stories of our fallen – who they were, what they did, why they did it. It’s also a time, perhaps, when we think of the story that motivated them to fight and die in the first place – the dream made real, the ideal made true, the hope that a particular hope could be carried on through generations.

Because ultimately, that’s what our country is supposed to be. A hope. A promise. An imperfectly kept promise, it’s true, at many times to many people. The story is far from finished, always being written, always taking shape.

But it’s still our story. Through all its twists and turns, we still have the power to write the next chapter.  And with that, the duty to remember the authors who came before – military and civilian, young and old – and consider what the story they’ve given us mean, and what our part in it will be.

“There’s nothing in the world more powerful than a good story,” Tyrion Lannister declared in the final episode of Game of Thrones. “Nothing can stop it. No enemy can defeat it.”

Take up the tale. Tell it well.

Because no computer ever made can do it as well as you.

 

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A Place in the World

There are certain sounds you don’t want to hear from the next room. This was several of them.

CRASH!

I came into Missy’s bedroom on a sprint. Had she fallen over? Had the shelf in her closet collapsed? Was Big Blake  knocking over furniture in his never-ending canine quest for unauthorized food?

No, no, and no.

Missy greeted me with a grin – and a position that was a lot closer to eye level than usual. Our 4’11” wonder had hoisted herself on top of her dresser, positioned perfectly to look out the back window and listen to her stereo simultaneously.

Well, almost perfectly. Three or four large stacks of CDs littered the floor below, the victims of Missy’s sudden elevation. Noisy, messy, but no lasting damage.

She’d made a place for herself.

In retrospect, she couldn’t have picked a more appropriate time.

After all, we’re about to hit G-Day. Graduation. The time of flowing gowns and funny-looking hats, of big crowds and endless speeches, of “Pomp and Circumstance” played on an endless loop until it’s echoing in your brain at 3 in the morning.

So, basically, a royal wedding with Dr. Seuss references.

This is when everyone finally learns the full name of their classmates. (“Your middle name is Elmer?”) It’s when the latest improvements in air-horn technology are trumpeted to the world, followed by massive investment in the hearing-aid industry.

And most of all, it’s when everyone in the world feels entitled to give advice. In the speeches. At the parties. During the good-byes. Tucked away in the corner of Hallmark Graduation Card No. 38. After all, we’ve all been there, right? Who should know better?

Graduates, be warned – you can’t stop this. It’s well-intentioned, for the most part. They want to help. So smile. Say thank you.

And then be prepared to have to figure it all out yourself anyway.

There’s a saying in military history that generals are always ready to fight the previous war. World War I taught the world that technology favored the defense – until World War II taught that fixed defenses were useless in the face of a fast-moving mechanized army. That doctrine in turn ran into the guerilla warfare of the ‘60s, where the battlefield could be anywhere. Generation to generation, change to change.

Similarly, every adult has learned the lessons of the world they found. But the world has a nasty habit of changing.

When I graduated, the World Wide Web was just starting to wake up. Columbine was still a state flower instead of a shorthand for violence. Newspapers were still a viable – if not wealth-generating – career move. Many of today’s issues and controversies, even when they were present, were still away from the spotlight and center-stage attention unless you were personally involved. And in a world without 24-hour connectivity, it was easy – maybe sometimes too easy? – to not be involved.

My world then isn’t your world now. And your world is just as transient.

So what do we learn? What stays?

To listen. To love. To try to understand. To meet each other in compassion. To stand where we must and heal where we can. To be aware that we can be wrong, that we don’t have all the answers, that we can and must learn from each other.

These are the things that stay.

Maybe, instead of the endless Elgar, graduation music should have a chorus of “Teach Your Children Well.” The words gently remind each generation that they’ll never fully understand the other – all they can do is reach out as best they can, share their dreams, feel their pain, “and know they love you.”

From that, everyone makes their own place. It may be noisy. It may be messy. But it also helps you see what you need to see.

And if the damage is no worse than 57 spilled CDs, you’ve done pretty well.

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Another’s Story

This week, I wanted to be teasing the royal family about their new arrival, Archie, and ask if Prince Jughead was next.

Didn’t get to.

Or maybe I could be celebrating and lamenting the Colorado Avalanche season gone by, with so much accomplished on the ice and so much left to do.

Uh-uh.

Heck, at any other time, falling back on Mother’s Day would be a valid plan.

But not this week.

This week, we had it all shatter again. Death in a place that’s supposed to be safe. Violence where it shouldn’t be. A lost child celebrated for heroism when his family only wanted a graduate.

School shootings are my least favorite topic. But it’s one that keeps coming back. And it has a way of erasing everything else that crosses its path, leaving no one sure what to say.

So this time, I’m going to start by saying nothing.

***

It sounds unnatural, I know. When someone is grieving, we want to help. We’ve all seen it – or done it – so many times: this friend helps a hurting neighbor clean things up, that one helps get them where they need to go, and everyone brings them dinner.

It’s one of our best traits. It’s what makes us a community instead of a bunch of people that just happen to live together.

And like any good trait, it can be taken a step too far.

Because what we also try to do, so often, is tell our story.

“I had a cousin who went through the same thing …”

“Oh, my gosh, I remember when that happened to me …”

“I bet I know exactly what you’re feeling right now …”

It’s natural. It’s human.

And unless it’s invited, it’s also taking over. All of a sudden, if we’re not careful, we’re making someone a spectator to their own grief while we make it all about us.

The best help starts by listening.

It’s hard. We don’t like silences. Or unanswered questions. Or pain.

But the pain of grief lives in a sacred space, a time and a place set apart. A time and a place for the one who’s living it.

It’s a space they can fill with their memories of what happened, their need to examine the details again and find their place in it.

It’s a space they can fill with their memories of who they’ve lost, reminding themselves and the world around them of the treasure that was here.

It’s a space they can fill with their anger. With their hurt. With their uncertainty. With their need. And (with time) their hope.

And yes, it’s a space they can fill with silence when they need it.

When we enter that space, we’re not the author. We’re the audience.

That’s challenging enough when the pain is a private, local one. It becomes even more so when it’s something so public that re-opens so many of our national wounds. There are issues that have to be dealt with, alternatives that need to be discussed, policies that need to be addressed – if only because it seems like we can never get anyone talking about them at any other time.

Those are conversations we need to have as a nation. They shouldn’t be delayed.

But we still need to respect the space.

Those who are at the center of all this have their own stories, their own priorities and needs. They’ll join that conversation if and when they choose to do so. If it’s forced on them – from any side – they have every right to say “not here, not now,” just as they did at a recent vigil.

Our hearts may break at their grief. But it is their grief. We don’t own it, any more than we own the new royal baby just because Harry and Meghan let us share a piece of their joy.

“A time to keep silence and a time to speak,” the old verse goes. We have our time to speak, in abundance. And I don’t doubt we’ll fill it.

But remember the silence. Remember to listen. Remember whose story this is.

If we don’t have the words – maybe they were never ours to begin with.

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The Silent Partner

The first time that Peter Mayhew met George Lucas for an audition, Peter rose from his chair in courtesy. And rose. And rose.

Peter Mayhew was 7 feet, 3 inches tall. Lucas stared upward at the towering Englishman, turned to producer Gary Kurtz and said “I think we’ve found him.”

“Him” turned out to be Chewbacca, the mighty Wookiee partner of Han Solo in the Star Wars films. An ape-like wall of muscle and hair, the beloved alien co-pilot was a huge part – literally – of establishing that this was indeed a galaxy far, far away.

Chewie continues to roar, on the screen and in our memories. But his original actor has made the jump to hyperspace. Earlier this week, Mayhew – whose height had been a side effect of Marfan syndrome – died from a heart attack.

And for a moment, many of us felt a disturbance in the Force.

It’s funny, really. This wasn’t an actor who died too soon like Carrie Fisher (though 74 still seems too young these days). He hadn’t accumulated a huge body of work like Alec Guinness.  In an odd sense, the other Star Wars loss that Mayhew had the most in common with was Kenny Baker, the original player of the droid R2-D2, who passed away in 2016.

R2-D2 was a tiny barrel of a robot; Chewbacca a lumbering ape-like figure.  But in both cases, their actors had to bring them to life without a word of dialogue. No English. No subtitles. Just beeps and whirrs from the one, roars from the other, and whatever intention and personality their actions could convey.

That’s hard.

I’ve played a lot of roles in community theatre, and watched still more. One of the most fundamental, and difficult, skills is to carry a scene where you don’t speak or speak very little. An actor’s voice is a powerful thing – no, a human’s voice is a powerful thing – and when you take it away, you find out how well-conceived the character truly is. Does the actor know what they want to do? Does it show on their face and in their body? What do they do to make that clear?

Do it badly, and you’re a cipher, a blank spot on the stage. Do it well and you become part of the audience’s heart. It’s one of the oldest adages: show, don’t tell.

And it applies to a lot more than the stage or the screen.

We spend a lot of time surrounded by words. (And as a writer, I say bless you for it.) But we also live in a world where many of those words are disconnected from action, used to hide motivation rather than show it. And whether you call it spin or hypocrisy, the effect is the same one that any cut-rate actor might expect – an unconvinced audience, skeptical, jaded, and rapidly growing tired of the story.

If you took the words away, or dubbed them over with Chewie-like roars, what story would you see?

It’s one thing to profess love for a country, for a neighbor, for a faith. Do the actions  bear that out? Do they defend, lift up, heal, build? Or is one story playing in the script and another in their life, like someone reciting Winnie The Pooh while playing out a Tarantino movie?

The audience can tell. And we cherish the true ones.

Mayhew, by all accounts, was one of them, a gentle giant on and off the screen with a heart as big as his frame. His intentions were always clear. It’s how we came to love his character, and how some came to love him as well.

Now his running time is done. But what he’s left behind still stands tall.

That deserves a roar of approval.