When, they say, not if.

Will it be today?

Time draws on relentlessly.

Rock towers above.

Crags of grey and brown.

A summit obscured from sight.

Dull blue, green smudges.

The fuzzy blur spins.

Look ahead, but not behind.

Chalk. Sweat, blood. More chalk.

Limbs tire, digits ache.

To rest is to fall and die.

Clouds of smog roll in on the evening breeze, obscuring the view to less than a dozen feet, and filling the air with choking fumes. In the growing dusk, brought on early by the opaque clouds, lights begin to come on in this part of The City. Due to the rapid expansion of the world's population, The City now covers two thirds of the Earth's landmass. The City has spread as deep and high as it has wide. Deep beneath the Earth's surface, sprawling networks of tunnels and catacombs are home to a thriving criminal underworld, full of potent synthetic drugs, a single dose of which can keep a man in hallucinations for years, deadly faction feuds and infighting, and illicit bionic body modification parlours, preying on the disenfranchised who may be prepared to take any risk for a shot at escaping this hell.

The streets at ground level are normally empty. The toxic smog, full of heavy metals and poisonous chemicals can roll through with less than a moment's notice. Few take the chance of being caught out in it, and fewer survive. If one was to take stroll through this apparent ghost town, one would likely notice the occasional movement in the shadows, near long-boarded-up storefronts and abandoned public fixtures. There are those who live in this wasteland. Few live long. Most are cast-offs of the criminal underworld, and would-be entrepreneurs from the bustling hive of activity above whose luck ran out and whose debts caught up with them. The few denizens of this place who last more than a week become hardened veterans of the shadows. They know where to find food and air, and how to move about unobserved by the uninvited voyeur. If you venture here, take care to look out for these folks, for an encounter with one may be your last.

Above the smog-filled wastelands, rise innumerable towering buildings with massive glass windows. These buildings are packed as tightly as the streets below will allow, and many join up in mid-air, forming a continuous aerial thoroughfare. Within this vast expanse of interconnected buildings, the great majority of The City's residents live, work, and die, many never setting foot outside even once. A well-designed internal transport network removes the need for these people to leave this place, or even think about the outside. This is the domain of the business magnates, a small number of wealthy men who own everything, and care about no one other than their own pockets. If one cares not for their greedy rule, the alternative is to take one's chances on the streets or the criminal underworld below.

In this world, population growth has not just been fuelled by the natural reproduction of humankind, but by unprecedented technological advances as well. Robots, or "synthetic humanoids," as they are commonly known, have become indistinguishable from real humans. Researchers were proud when they first made a robot that could pass as human, but soon they lost track of how many they had made. They say the computer with the records crashed, destroying the hard drive, and the backups were lost in an unfortunate fire on the same day. Same say this is too much to be coincidence.

To begin with, the synthetic humanoids were easy to catch if you had a good eye and knew what you were looking for. There were tells. But over time, they seem to have learnt not only to build copies of themselves, but to improve and adapt their programming with each successive generation. The one thing they always struggled with was romance. It was their greatest tell. For many years, one merely had to make an advance and you could tell whether you were interacting with a human or a synthetic by the reaction. Sadly, over time, this tell too was engineered out to near perfection. But one tell still remains. We call it The Test.

~~~~~

As Justin walked along the corridor, he paused. He had the misfortune to be walking on the lowermost outer corridor on a connection bridge. He hated looking out the window, but he hated his job more. So he stood there, and steered at the smog rolling in. As he watched the toxic clouds gradually hide the grey streets below from his view, he pondered on the news that had been announced that morning. Less than a month ago, there had been an election, an impressive feat for a collection of people the size of The City. He didn't really care who had been elected. They were all puppets of the business magnates, as far as he could see. Already though, there were policy changes. This morning, they had announced a new law that all public servants were required to be chaste. Justin thought it was strange law, and wouldn't really have cared, except that it seemed to have put his boss in a particularly bad mood. Justin was pretty sure that his boss was human, as he couldn't imagine a synthetic having such unpredictable mood swings, but he hadn't done The Test to confirm, and really didn't feel that he wanted to. There were murmurings today that something was wrong, but he didn't feel that it concerned him, so he ignored the rumours and continued on his way to work.

Like most residents of The City, Justin was happy enough with his life. He had a job that paid enough to buy food and clothing for himself, his wife, and his two children. He had a family, and he had a roof over his head. He was also not a criminal, or stuck on the streets outside. Life wasn't glamorous, but it could be much worse. He had almost married a synthetic. He cringed internally every time he thought of it. She had deceived him, persuaded him there was no reason to do The Test until they were wed. He had learnt his lesson from that. He knew his wife was human, and he had made certain he did The Test before he got too far in.

As he sat down at his desk, a news article flashed on his screen. He decided that he might as well check it out, as it meant that he could avoid doing work for a bit longer. As he opened the article, a video clip began playing. A rather large man, in a ridiculously formal, tailored suit, and gold earrings was talking. Justin recognised him as the business magnate who owned the company he worked for. Normally, this fellow was busy gloating about his record profits, but today he seemed agitated. Justin started actually listening. The fellow was concerned that synthetics were taking over the government. Justin found this rather hilarious, as this fellow and his compatriots were really the only ones in control, anyway. But the more he listened, the more Justin realised what the problem actually was.

~~~~~

The only way to be sure you have found a synthetic humanoid is to sleep with it. People say it's not bad, just different. This is The Test. If you don't want to sleep with it, you can take it to a testing house. You can let someone else sleep with it and tell you. But beware, if you go to a testing house run by a synthetic humanoid, you may not get the answer you are looking for. You may need to Test the tester.

~~~~~

Justin didn't feel like going to work. He was still thinking about the video clip he'd seen two days. He'd been unable to concentrate at work yesterday, especially after discovering that he couldn't find the article when he went looking for it again to show his wife. He had a strange sense of foreboding, and he didn't like it. Trying to take his time, he deliberately took a longer route through a major shopping zone. He spent as much time as he could justify gazing at each window and deciding what he'd spend his money on, if he ever had enough for more than the bare basics. He decided on a nice, striped tie for himself, and a new set of painted china dinner plates for his wife.

As he moved on, he passed by Madame Toufrae's, the most reputable testing house in this part of The City. Madame Toufrae herself was standing outside, and he offered a greeting as he went past. She raised her hand to return the greeting, and Justin hurried on, now concerned that he would get in trouble for being a little later than his usual tardiness. Halfway across the the bridge corridor, he realised something. As far as he could recall, Madame Toufrae always wore gloves. Generally, elbow-length white lace. Today, she had not had gloves on. He dismissed it, and carried on. People were entitled to try new things and wear whatever they wanted. It was none of his concern.

~~~~~

No one really knows how the synthetic humanoids were able to resolve their shortcomings in romance. One theory suggests that they analysed human-produced media and altered their behaviour to align with our idealised romantic interactions. Opposers of this theory maintain that this would not have allowed them to so swiftly and transparently integrate into society, as our media is too unrealistic. Another theory suggests that they instead fed us with their own ideals so that we came to expect them to interact in the way that they do, and mirror it ourselves. The final theory, of those that seem likely, is that they achieved it by trial and error. By engaging in dating practices at scale they could have collected enough data to improve their performance and gather more data with another iteration. This seems the most likely.

We suggest to you that if you venture into our world, take care who you trust. The synthetic humanoids are their own master. We no longer know what they desire, or who among us may be one of them. How you choose who to trust is your problem, not ours. Good luck.

~~~~~

When Justin arrived at work the following morning, the normally dreary office was abuzz with muttered gossip, and sideways glances. He tried to find someone who would tell him what was going on, but everyone seemed too preoccupied to talk to him. He sat down, rather annoyed, at his desk, and turned to look at his monitor. There, in front of him, was another news article. The article informed him that, as much as synthetic humanoids were normally indistinguishable, you could sometimes tell when they were impersonating a specific human. It suggested to look out primarily for subtle changes in their dressing patterns. And then the article abruptly disappeared. And that was when Justin realised why his wife had gone to work that morning in the dress that she hated....

The whole internet seems to be flooded with this at the moment. I have several comments to make. First, the scenario is riddled with ambiguities that could potentially change women's answers, or men's perception thereof. How close is the man/bear? Is an encounter guaranteed? What is the chance that the bear has cubs? Does the man have a gun? What if she had a gun? The list goes on. My point here is that the circumstances are so vague that it encompasses a range of scenarios in which the "right" choice may be different. Asking women to give a blanket answer that covers all possible scenarios, rather than using good judgement, is a dangerous over-generalisation. However, some insight can still be garnered from the scenario and the responses, which I will get to shortly.

Secondly, the question is a logical fallacy. As well as the over-generalisation problem I discussed above, the scenario also requires women to stereotype men. Depending on your perspective, it encourages them to ascribe the qualities of some men to all men, or of men as collective to every individual man. Whichever way you see it, it is going to cause some offence.

So, if the question is ambiguous and logically unsound, what can we learn from it? Well, first, most men seem to have forgotten that there is little point in trying to explain to explain to women that their answer is "wrong". It is an opinion question. There is no wrong answer. However, the fact the majority of women who answered chose the bear is pertinent. In fact, the same over-generalisation which means the scenario encompasses any number of situations where they would be safer with the man, and yet they still choose the bear as the overall safer option, should make this point even more potent. Men need to listen to women's opinions and concerns and ask what we can do as society to rectify the situations that make women feel unsafe, and shift that perception.

However, men are not the only ones with something to learn from this. A lot of women seem to have forgotten that it is possible for men to understand their decision to choose the bear, and still disagree in opinion about the perceptions and logic that lead them there. Shutting men down with personal attacks as soon as they dare to disagree is not going to get women anywhere. If women want men to listen to their concerns, ad hominem attacks are just going to put them on the defensive and make them less likely to listen to any valid point women have to make.

Finally, both men and women seem to forget that men and women experience life differently, think differently, and have differing, but equally valid perspectives. We need different perspectives and opinions in this world, so please listen, learn, and have civil discourse, even when you disagree.

an egregious buffoon

what is life, but a stopwatch

the cowbells tinkle

it is all in the hands of the brave

and so we dance

an Irish fishing reel

three shirts and a set of underwear

Douglas is bald

two tutus and a toupee

the knives of insomnia

are there roses in the garden?

but here comes Larry

ba-dum diddy tish

bananas are drumsticks

which makes Vikings turkeys

cauterize your typewriter

blood flows

slurp your lemonade

but not nectarines

the world is steamy

where is my fan?

toot toot!

the inspiration begins

clickity-clack, clickity-clack!

is sherbet sugar?

and around the corner we go

rabbits and dogs

the spires of Constantinople

don't get caught in the spike trap

waterslides are fun

knock knock, there's a doorbell

is this reality?

basil in a plant pot

Valhalla ahoy!

but only in Alabama

chickens eat hay

watch the canary!

kaboom!

one fist, two fist, red fist, blue fist

are those my boots?

sing a song for the sing-along

it's north of Malayasia

polar beers in Antarctica

too much head for a lambic

but was it a typo?

I'll ask Georgina

my belt is on backwards

it's simple maths

count the squares

and add on the trapeze

behold the elephant pig

emails from yesterday

newspapers are due tomorrow

help, it's the weekend

and thus the buffoon

Not available anymore

Read by snoops and

Fact-checked by snopes

Verifiably misleading

Copyright struck three times or more

Misinformation

Disinformation

These ducks control the nation

We live in a world where most relationships are transactional. You give me this, and I will give you that. This is sad, but it is, most of the time, reality. It is sad because in a transaction there are seldom two winners. Everyone is trying to gain the upper hand, and come off best, but for that, someone else has to lose. Perhaps in a best case scenario, a compromise is reached, and no-one wins.

I purchase a lot of stuff, if I'm honest, probably too much. If I may say so myself, I have an eye for a bargain. I tend to purchase anything I think I may need in future when I see it going cheap. Sometimes, I can be persuaded to on-sell my goods for the right price. But, I got it cheap, and I might need it, so if you want it, I'm going to want enough money to replace it. I generally drive a hard bargain. Recently, I sold a large power tool to friend. He too, drives a hard bargain. It took him over three months to convince me to sell it. I wouldn't sell for less than I thought it was worth, and he refused to give up that much cash. I only relented when he offered me some stuff that I wanted, as well as the lesser cash. We both came away from that with a good deal. We were both satisfied that we got what we wanted, but at the same time we both felt slightly disgruntled that we got less than we desired. We both won, but we still felt a little like we'd lost.

This is a problem. In a transaction, there can be only one true winner. Only one person whose expectations are met in full. If both feel that they have won, one has likely been deceived. Many transactions are a compromise, which means both sides may still get a good deal, but no-one's expectations are met in full. Do you see how this might cause problems in a relationship?

Talking of expectations, why is it that we see females as higher value in this transactional sex marketplace than males? If she must make sure she is getting enough in return for giving him access to herself, what can he expect in return for giving her access to himself? If one side is to sell themselves dearly, then surely we should expect the other side to do the same? I am not advocating that either side is justified in trying to extort the most they can out of the other, but that is what happens.

In fact, I would like to turn this around, and say that though in many cases relationships are transactional, and failing to recognise that will get you hurt, in the long run, transactional relationships themselves will hurt you. Is there a better way? Perhaps. When you dwell on what you can give rather than what you can get, things can be very rewarding, but it needs to be reciprocated. And I don't mean reciprocal in the present moment, I mean reciprocal over time. Perhaps today, you are having hard time and need some extra care, maybe next week, or next month, it will be their turn. It is a matter of trust, and that carries risk. We don't like risk. And so, our relationships are too transactional, and too ephemeral.

I think my grandmother is magic. Maybe she's a fairy, but who knows. All I know is that two days after I was born, she arrived on my mother's doorstep and gave her a shoebox. I still have that shoebox. It is a tiny wooden box, painted in flowing swirls with forest greens and ocean blues. It's so pretty, the pattern feels magical, but it's nothing compared to what was within.

When my mother opened the box, she found a pair of tiny leather boots, just the right size for my tiny baby feet. They fit me perfectly, and mother used to say that I stopped crying the moment she put them on me. I seemed to be happier wearing those boots than any of the woollen baby booties knitted by my various doting aunties. I was so small back then that there wasn't much I did, other than cry and kick. No sooner had my mother put those boots on me, she says, than I kicked her right in the chin with them. Those boots were made for kicking.

As I grew, so did the boots. They always seemed to be a perfect fit. Never too small, never too big, always just right. Soon, I started crawling. I would crawl around on the floor, get under everyone's feet, and make a right nuisance of myself. But I was inseparable from those boots. I would even wear them to bed. I would have had a bath with them, if my mother had let me. That, she refused to do. But I wouldn't let her scrub me unless I could see them sitting next to me on the bathroom bench. And as soon as she finished, and they were back on my feet, I'd go right back to crawling around on the floor, and getting in the way. Those boots were made for crawling.

Once I learnt to walk, they were still my favourite shoes. Whenever my mother tried to buy me other shoes, some mishap would happen to them, and I'd go right back to wearing my boots. They were so comfortable. And I never had a single blister from them, either. What I never told my mother, was that what happened to my other shoes was only half deliberate. I'm a tad adventurous, and the other shoes just couldn't take the beating, while my boots seemed to be indestructible. Those boots were made for walking.

As I grew older, I got other siblings, and then I started school. At school, I learnt to get up to all kinds of mischief. My favourite was climbing the trees in the hedge that encircled the school yard. I loved to see how high I could go. I'd hide up there for hours, even after the bell had rung, and no-one could find me. And then I'd come home and teach my siblings how to climb too. One day, we were climbing the tall yew tree in our back yard, when I slipped and fell out of the tree, breaking my arm. The doctor couldn't keep me in bed for more than two days. My mother caught me back out there, climbing that tree, cast and all. Those boots were made for climbing.

Eventually, I joined the school athletic team. I loved athletics, particularly sprinting. By the time I reached my senior year of high school, I'd aced the local and regional champs, and was competing for a national placement. But I refused to wear track shoes. Only my boots. It's a wonder I didn't get disqualified, but I guess people thought running in boots was a disadvantage. Those boots were made for running.

After I left school, I got a job. I still insisted on wearing my boots, but life wasn't so interesting any more. No-one cared so much if I wore my boots everywhere. But then, I learnt how to dance. I danced to jazz, and I danced to folk, but my favourite was classical ballroom. I loved the swish and the sway of the dances, and the beautiful melodies of the music. One day, I met a handsome, young fellow at a ball, and we danced together for the rest of the evening. I began to encounter him more frequently, and eventually we found love for each other, and married. On our wedding night, we danced through the night, until the sun rose. Those boots were made for dancing.

Now, I am old. I sit here in my armchair by the fire, and tell stories of what I've seen in life and where these boots have taken me. Though once they may have kicked, and crawled, and walked, and climbed, and run, and danced, all these boots do now is keep my feet warm by the fire, and help me remember. I think my grandmother knew, because these boots are made for sitting, too. And for remembering.

This is something I think about often. I have to. I'm involved in youth work with my church, the local government, and through another voluntary organisation akin to scouts. This a big issue, and it is often a stumbling block to many of our projects.

Unfortunately, I don't believe it is one issue. It is many issues, some big, some small, and some things that really just shouldn't be issues, all intertwined in a big, tangled ball of interconnected problems. A great way of putting it is "integrated complexity" (Uncontrolled, Manzi, Jim, 2012). Our society is so complex that no phenomenon has a single, isolated cause, and no factor would create exactly the same phenomenon, other factors being different. We can't hope to change everything by changing one thing. Changing everything requires changing everything, and that is both almost unachievable, and bound to create new, unexpected problems. So maybe our society itself is the issue? I don't think it's that simple either.

First, let us ask, how deep does this generational disconnect run? Let us take an (almost real) case study. John wants to be an engineer. He enjoys the practical skills of designing and building things in a workshop. Locally, there is a group of men, mostly of a well-matured age, who maintain and operate a working vintage railway. They have a well-equipped workshop and would teach any young person who choose to show interest with passion, happy to have someone interested in their craft. Even if John knew of their existence, which he probably doesn't, he would rather pay to take a class with a bunch of other people and a single tutor, than step into that workshop full people waiting to teach him for free. Why?

Well, first of all, John probably doesn't even know they're there. Older people seem to find it hard to interest younger people in their hobbies and interests. They often move in different circles and connect in different ways. That doesn't mean it's impossible, just difficult. Sometimes older people struggle to learn how to adapt to new patterns, and sometimes no-one makes the effort to help them.

Even if John did know they were there, the same issue crops up. Older people struggle to make their interests relevant to young people. John probably doesn't see the connection between what they do and his aspirations. And if he does, he probably thinks that what they have to teach him is outdated and irrelevant. Sure, it may not be up with the newest technology, but that workshop contains hundreds of cumulative years of knowledge and experience that is worth learning from.

However, things don't end here. Despite any impressions that John may or may not have, they're not the only factors at play. There are plenty of older people that think young people are irreverent, obnoxious, and self-obsessed. Unfortunately, sometimes they are right. But, at least as often, they are not. These people can tend to be very vocal about their opinion, which further clouds young people's perception of the older generation. Whether or not the men in the railway workshop hold this opinion, John may expect that they do, and so keep away from them.

And so we see that young people may think that older people are irrelevant, stuck in the past, and judgemental. While older people, in turn, may see younger people as lacking wisdom, impulsive, and disrespectful. Those who are young need to learn to appreciate the wisdom of the old. While those who are older need to learn to appreciate the energy of youth, and consider how to harness and temper it effectively.

Wait, you ask, what about the generation between? Surely they appreciate both the wisdom of age and the energy of youth? Let them be the mediators. Spot on, well said. I could not agree more. But why isn't it working? Well, my observations would suggest that the current generation of young people feel let down by the previous generation. If you think someone has let you down in the past, why would you listen to them now. So exactly how have they been let down? And why?

This is another issue with no straight-forward answer. Let's briefly look at what I think are a few of the issues. We all know that the cost of living is rising. Pressure to have the newest and best, along with the never-ending onwards race of technology has pushed more and more parents into working longer hours, and spending less time with each other and their families. Young people may feel sidelined or forgotten, and the newest tech seldom truly makes up for the lost bond of time spent together. This, along with other issues related to how our society perceives marriage relationships (@voiceinthewind has some relevant thoughts here), have lead to increased break downs in family stability, which also affects young people. Further, we encourage young people to break free from anything perceived to define them, to decide their own identity. Perhaps we force this choice upon them at too young an age, before they are ready to understand and choose their own path. (For more on this, see my recent post The problem of choice). This results in our young people growing up disconnected from faith, gender, race, and family, among other things. In short, the things that provide them with a framework for their identity. Lastly, some parents have allowed technology to parent their children. They are not made to learn any social skills or life skills. Their devices become more familiar to them than the physical world. All these things add up. Not every family is affected by them all, and there are plenty of good families out there. But perhaps young people are simply disillusioned about how they have been raised, and what they were taught (or not). Perhaps they feel that it does not match the reality of the world.

Finally, this is not entirely new. The issue runs generations deep. Different factors, different issues, but a similar result. We are trapped in a vicious cycle, each generation letting down the next, and then criticising when they do the same again. But to change everything requires changing everything, and that is both almost unachievable, and bound to create new, unexpected problems.

To the tune of "Montezuma", by D.F. Alderson

Mister Tallinn

Met a virgin

On a Sunday noon.

Handsome Tallinn

Made the virgin

Have a heady swoon.

Transportation.

Strange location

Met the woken girl.

Wall cobblestones.

A floor of bones.

Smells suffice to hurl.

For that Tallinn

Was a felon,

Master of a cult.

Motives shady.

And the lady

Sacrifice occult.

Preparation.

Incantation.

Hooded figures glare.

A silver crown,

A purple gown,

She is made to wear.

Long procession.

Slow progression.

Come to the alter.

Mister Tallinn,

Nasty felon,

Reads from a psalter.

Insatiable!

Sensational!

A man of vision!

Mister Tallinn,

The hegemon,

On television.

Fate is spoken,

The death token

For the poor woman.

She sits in place,

With air of grace,

On her silk cushion.

Loud commotion!

Strong emotion!

Behold her betrothed!

Dedication,

Obligation,

Solemnly oathed!

Upon swift horse,

With gentle force,

He saves from the fire.

Then, heavy clout!

A mighty shout!

Tallinn on the pyre!

All mouths agape!

Lovers escape,

Amid cult surprise!

To see Hades:

Kidnap ladies.

Thus Tallinn's demise.