From 1c8c17a2a28606c83555e21c2451cfb0d2ac83bd Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: "M. Taylor Saotome-Westlake" Date: Mon, 3 Aug 2020 01:06:24 -0700 Subject: [PATCH] check in "Blindspot" draft MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=utf8 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit This unfinished short story draft is from 2011—it might be worth finishing! --- content/drafts/blindspot.md | 363 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 1 file changed, 363 insertions(+) create mode 100644 content/drafts/blindspot.md diff --git a/content/drafts/blindspot.md b/content/drafts/blindspot.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d579699 --- /dev/null +++ b/content/drafts/blindspot.md @@ -0,0 +1,363 @@ +Title: Blindspot +Date: 2021-01-01 5:00 +Category: fiction +Tags: epistemic horror +Status: draft + +"I don't understand," muttered Wesley to himself, examining the +reflections off of the surface of the water in his paper cup. It +was raining outside and the drops falling outside the window made +[...] + +"What don't you understand?" Wesley was startled; he wasn't +prepared for his private mutterings to be eavesdropped upon. In +this case it was just Charles, one of the programmers. Wesley +didn't like the man, but at the moment he couldn't recall exactly +why. + +"My girlfriend." + +Charles laughed, a natural, confident laugh. "Hey, women, right? +Where to begin?" Wesley sighed; Charles's casual misogyny was so +many worlds distant from Wesley's actual relationship problems +that Wesley didn't think he had much hope of communicating with +the man. + +"It's not like that," Wesley said. "She's a theist. It doesn't +make any sense." + +"Uh---" Charles was too self-possessed to be described as +uncomfortable exactly, but Wesley could tell that he had put the +other man off guard; whether it was because Charles himself was +religious or just didn't think the subject appropirate for +workplace office cooler banter, or whether he simply had trouble +parsing the sentence and didn't feel like saying “What?”, Wesley +couldn't say. Charles decided to change the subject to something +work-related. + +"So, did you finish the help module we were talking about the +other day?" + +"Still working on it," said Wesley tersely, "I'll get back to +you---Thursday?" Charles gave him another look that he didn't +quite know how to interpret, and left. Wesley finshed his water +cup, and proceeded to his own cubicle. It was best to put last +night's dispute with Rachel out of his mind; he would think it +over on his own time, and somehow patch things up with Rachel. +Now it was time to work! He was a techinical writer at a midsized +software company in the city; his job was to write help +documentation for the company's products. It may have been a +modest position---certainly relative to Wesley's native +talents---but he found the work fairly engaging (at times), and +it paid well enough, and the conditions were comfortable. + +But when pondering the benefits of his position, before pay and +perks, he was proud of his role in the scheme of things. When +some hapless user out there found him- or herself befuddled by +the company's products, it was his job to make sure that when +they came to read the freaking manual that the manual was clear +and helpful. If he communicated poorly, then who could say what +the toll would be on the hapless users? And if he wrote well, +then he similarly did not know how to calculate how much smoother +their days would go. The point was, even if he was not a +programmer---yet, he reminded himself that he would need to +finish that Sudoku solver in Python one of these days---he had a +place in the great world economy; he made a difference; he +created value, and was paid for it. He swore---as a ceremonial +gesture for his own amusement, there being no God or spirit of +honor to accept the gesture---that in a lesser or a greater job, +he would always seek to do his work to the best of his ability. +So resolved, he maximized the appropriate window in preparation +to begin writing, but---oh, hell, he was still so preoccupied by +the dispute with Rachel last night. + +He kept remembering, wanting to examine his every line. He didn't +regret having challenged Rachel's (so uncharacteristic, so +perplexing!) superstition, but surely there must have been a +better way for him to have phrased things, some rhetorical +strategy he could have taken to point out her blindspot, this one +irrationality that was so inconsistent with the rest of her +being. His rhetorical performance had been lacking, he could tell +that---indeed, who could say but that he had made things worse? +But knowing that he had spoke wrongly (even as he was right) +didn't tell him what he should have said instead. It was said +that hindsight is 20/20, but sometimes even hindsight was blind. +He tried to keep his mind on the sacred work, set his hands to +the keyboard, but memories from last night kept invading his +thoughts. + + +------------------------------------------- + + +Rachel had come home late. "Wow, you're home late," said Wesley. +"Sorry I didn't make dinner for us; I had soup. Where have you +been?" + +Rachel answered both questions in stride. "Don't worry about +dinner, I'm fasting until this time tomorrow. I was at the Kol +Nidre service at Beth Shalom." She cocked her head, looking at +him. "I thought you knew." + +"I thought you were joking," he deadpanned. + +"Wesley, It's Yom Kippur. This is the day when my people atone +for our sins of the previous year." + +"I can hardly object to a day to regret one's wrongdoings, but +why do have to bring 'your people'---scare quotes---and their +primitive superstitions into it? Maybe it made sense for a bunch +of nomadic goatherders three thousand years ago," he said, +although regretting the concession immediately: whatever +disadvantages the authors of the Old Testament had had, he didn't +want to excuse anyone for believing falsehood. "But that was a +long time ago," he continued, "We have science now. You, of all +people, should know better!" + +[...] + +"Reform Judaism. You don't even take your own lies seriously! I +bet seven-eighths of the congregation only shows up twice a +year---and a lot of them wouldn't come if you didn't cap the +services at two-and-a-quarter hours." She shrugged, denying +nothing. + +[...] + +"This is just like 'What the Tortise Said to Achilles.' You +accept that A, and you accept that A-implies-B, but you don't +accept B!" + +"I disagree about the applicability to our current dispute, but +the Tortise had a point." Now Wesley + +[...] "It's a subtle issue in the philosophy of logic. To +clarify, I'm not asserting that there's any possible world where +not-A, B, and B-or-not-A are all true, but there are all sorts of +foundational issues that have to be dealt with that explain why I +can say that. Just because the obvious answer turns out to be +right, doesn't mean it's right for the obvious reasons." Wesley +nodded, deferring to her expertise for the moment. "This is +off-topic, though," he said, "Can I add it to the list?" "Sure." +They kept a list clipped to the refrigerator of topics they +wanted to discuss. + +[...] + +"You're lying! Stop lying!" + +"Now that's unfair even conditional on you being right about the +object-level issue. If I'm mistaken, by all means let it be said +that I'm mistaken, but---" + +"Self-deception, then." + +"I hate that term. What's the model being implied? That some +subsystem of my brain knows the truth, but insists on lying to +the rest of me?" + +"Something like that." + +”Well, that's hardly parsimonious.” + +"I'm not angry at you---" + +"Yes you are.” + +A moment of introspection confirmed her observation. + +"Okay, you're right," he said. "I am angry, but it's not endrosed +upon reflection. It's just—Rachel, you're the most beautiful +person I've ever met." + +"And when you say beautiful, you really mean intelligent." + +"Of course." + +"I don't want to discuss this anymore." + +[...] + +“The Komologrov complexity of the God hypothesis is---” + +Rachel burst out laughing. Wesley didn't know how to respond, not +being aware of having told a joke. + +“Uh---what's funny?” + +“Komologrov complexity!” she howled. “Neither of us has the +expertise to talk about that. You're just throwing around big +words without knowing what they mean.” + +Wesley flushed. + +[...] + +"Until you can see that which the evidence supports and what I +believe as manifestations of the same thing, then you don't +understand this belief business at all." + +"Wesley, please stop—" + +"If you could just stop rationalizing backwards from your +familiar conclusion—" + +"No. Stop—" + +"And look at the actual details of your thought process—" + +"You're hurting me!" And she burst into tears. Wesley rushed to +hug her, to try to comfort her, but she pushed him away. “Don't +touch me! Don't touch me!” she yelled as she continued sobbing. +Wesley didn't know what he could say, what he could do; one +moment it had just been one of their usual philosophical +disusssions, and then the next Rachel was in these hysterics. + +“I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm sorry; I'm sorry.” Except he wasn't +really sorry; he believed everything he had said. + +Then there was a knock on the door. Rachel was still crying, and +Wesley still didn't know how to comfort her. At a loss for what +else to do, he walked over to get the door. + +It was Jude and Charlotte, the couple who lived in the next +apartment. Wesley wondered how he looked, standing dumbly before +them with Rachel still sobbing in the background. + +“Uh, hi,” said Jude, “We just wanted to make sure that everything +is all right.” + +“Uh, yeah,” said Wesley. “Rachel and I were just---having a +discussion,” he continued, conscious of how unconvincing this +must have been although true. He looked back at Rachel, who had +stopped crying for the moment, and who was looking earnestly at +Jude and Charlotte earnestly. “Yes,” she said. + +“Um, would you like to come in for tea?” Wesley said lamely. +[...] + + +------------------------------------------- + + +Wesley's reverie was interrupted by a noise: a sharp ping, almost +metallic in nature. At first he could not be sure that he had +heard it at all. The ping was accompanied by a slight distortion +in the edge of his visual field, which Wesley could not describe +in any way except to say that it had been there. Wesley reacted +with a bit of a start, but then a moment later he began to doubt +that he was reacting to anything at all---surely he was but +imagining things. + +He had hardly but a moment to consider this possibility when the +ping came again, and again the distortion at the edge of his +vision. And before he had time still yet to consider this, the +ping and the distortion came yet again, and Wesley realized that +there was nothing mysterious about the matter: it was just, after +all, the intra-office instant messaging system: his boss Eric was +IMing him, and Wesley had been so lost in thought that he didn't +properly interpret the audio and visual prompts. The distortion +in his sight was just the messages appearing in the corner of his +monitor, in his peripheral vision, as it turned out, as he had +been staring into the space to the right of his monitor. + +The messages in the lower-right side of the screen read: + + +Eric Dalton: Wes + + +Eric Dalton: See me in my office + + +Eric Dalton: ASAP + + +Wesley read the words, duly, dully, but it took him a few moments +to fully register their meaning. + +[...] + +"Have you done any work at all during the past three weeks?" +Wesley's instinct was to lie or change the subject, but he pushed +the feeling away, not because (or at least, not only because) it +would never have worked anyway, but because he had a self-image +to maintain. He was an honest person. + +"No," he said quietly. + +"What have you been doing the past three weeks?" It was the +strangest thing, but Wesley didn't know. He was sure his memory +had suffered no damage. He could remember moments in isolation, +but somehow he couldn't reconstruct the gestalt, how the moments +added up into days. + +He said nothing. + +"That's about what I guessed," said Eric. "You're fired. Have +your desk cleaned out by noon tomorrow. Goodbye, and good---" he +paused, and Wesley was expecting him to say riddance, "luck." + +"Don't I get two weeks notice?" + +"Did you give me two weeks notice before you stopped doing +things?" Wesley nodded, slowly, to acknowledge the righteousness +of the question, if not to answer it. He backed away a few steps, +turned, left the office, saying nothing more, walking swiftly +down the hallway, past the water cooler, and then quickening his +pace to a jog. He could come back for the stuff in his cubicle +tomorrow, right now he just wanted to get out, out, out. No one +saw him and no one spoke to him, as he jogged down the stairwell, +and out of the building, out onto the sidewalk. He couldn't say +why it was so important to him that he be outdoors in this +moment, why it was important to get his body out into the cold +air before the previous two minutes's events really hit him hard. + +The city was beautiful in the rain. He began to cry, and the +thought occured to him that it had to have been because the city +was so beautiful in the rain; there was no other possible reason +he could be crying at this moment. A woman with an umbrella +passing by gave him a funny look, but he just stared blankly past +her, trying to blink back the tears, failing miserably at this, +and then sobbing a bit more. + +The city was beautiful because of its awesomeness---with an +unquestionable solemnity, he was certain that was the right word. +The rain and the clouds were a natural process, but nearly +everything else in his vision was gloriously artificial; it had +been built by humans. For years, he had held himself with a sense +of superiority over others. He thought he was better than +ordinary people, because he knew more science, because he had +glimpsed deeply into the true structure of the world, while they +(it was always an amorphous they) surely just went about their +daily lives, not knowing, not seeing what he and similarly +well-read people could see. + +But ultimately---did it matter? From the inside, anyone can see +that they're right, so the test of a true science was that you +didn't need to see it from the inside. You could know them by +their works: a bridge that stays up, software that doesn't crash, +happy and healthy people that can hold jobs and earn PhDs. +Whatever nonsense people professed, they had to be successfully +dealing with reality in some way, operating as well-designed +mapping engines and choice machines, or their plans couldn't +possibly work. That was what it meant for a theory to be true +whether or not you believed it---it didn't matter whether or not +you believed it. + +"I'm not as smart as I thought," he said aloud. + +Until you can see that which I should be doing and what I'm doing +as manifestations of the same thing, then you don't understand +this choice business at all. And if he could just stop +rationalizing backwards from his familiar behavior—and look at +the actual details of his decision process--- + +But he refused. It was easier not to look, not to notice. He had +solved one other problem, though. He unclipped his cell phone +from his belt (the device's stolid presence better testimony to +the nature of this world than a thousand lectures on physics) and +called Rachel. The morning Yom Kippur service should have been +over; she would have her phone on. "Hello," she said. "Wesley?" + +"Now I understand." -- 2.17.1