You know that old police station on MacLeod Avenue? I think it’s a realty office, now. But when I was little it was where the RCMP staff sergeant lived, and I was friends with his son Jordan. One day when I was about five Jordan and my friend Travis and I were playing dinky cars there when we came to an impasse. There was one van that all three of us wanted, because it was the coolest. If you looked into the little view port in the back you could see a picture of the Incredible Hulk smashing things up. I kind of wish I still had that little van because I’d play with it right now. You could probably find one on eBay, but it would cost a million dollars, I’m sure.
Anyways, the three of us were arguing about who would get to play with the Hulkmobile. Then one of us, probably Jordan, him being the son of an RCMP officer after all, hit on a diplomatic solution. Whoever was born in the biggest place would get the van. Pure, simple five-year-old logic.
Well, Jordan was born in Red Deer. But Travis trumped him because he was born in Edmonton. Me, I couldn’t really remember much about the particulars of my birth, but I had a vague idea that I was born in Hinton, which was the smallest of them all. So I lied. I said I was born in Mexico. This was certainly plausible, even to me, since everyone knows I’m half-Mexican. Travis and Jordan agreed that Mexico was a very big place to be born in, maybe even the biggest in the world. Travis had been there when he was two, so was able to verify this fact personally. Thus I got to play with the Hulkmobile that day.
Now, more than twenty years later, I am not ashamed to say I was born in Hinton. I’m proud of it. But let me tell you, it’s hard to impress people with that fact, especially New Yorkers.
I recently got to go to the Big Apple to visit another Hinton alumnus, one of my best friends, Jon W____, aka Jonny Smelter. Jon has lived in New York for the last two years, lovin’ life and trying to make it as an actor. If you ask me, it’s only a matter of time, and he’ll take the world by storm.
I’d wanted to visit him since he moved there. When I got my lay off notice from Cardinal River I saw the opportunity, so I bought my ticket and emailed Jon to tell him when I was coming. Just my luck, he emailed me back to tell me he would be in Portugal! Oh no! Well, it was too late to change things, and anyways it wouldn’t be so bad, Jon was only gone for the first week, and would be back for the second week of my stay. So he arranged for me to stay with his friend Ryan, a Calgarian living in Brooklyn.
That worked out great, as Ryan and I hit it off immediately. His place that he shared with three other people was huge, but the funny thing was, one of the bedrooms was cut off from the main part of the apartment, with the only means of access being through Ryan’s room. So every morning, when I’d still be sleeping and snoring away on the floor, hair and limbs all akimbo, Ryan’s room mate would have to walk past us on her way to school. Yep, you read that right- her. Her name is Sara and she’s this beautiful model trying to become an actress. One day when she’s famous I’ll be able to say that she’s seen me in my underwear.
So I had a great time in New York, even while Jon was in Portugal. Did all the touristy things like go to a Broadway show, a Yankees game, the Statue of Liberty, all that. If you’ve never been and are looking for something to do, you should go. It’s a lot safer than I would have thought, you can take the subways and walk around late at night and no one will bother you. A highlight was going up to the Empire State Building and looking out at the New York skyline- the man-made equivalent of the Rockies. What a great city. Still, it was more fun when Jon returned.
Jon and I go back a long time. Almost twenty-five years, since we were both very young. In fact, Jon used to live on the same block as that old police station. We went to school together and spent many hours wandering the streets of Hinton, talking about comic books, Star Wars and always finding a little trouble to get ourselves into. We even wound up in some of the same university classes together. I recall that we spent a lot of time drawing Star Wars characters and writing poems about Mars. Amazingly, we both graduated. He eventually got a geophysics degree and was working in Calgary as a geophysicist when he decided to leave everything and go to NYC. And for that I respect him immensely.
When he got back from Portugal (he was there visiting his Mom who had just walked across Spain!) we went out to various establishments in Greenwich Village, and got to talking about life, as we always do. He told me a little about how he caught the acting bug. I had asked him if it was from playing Baloo in the Mountain View School play when we were in Grade 6. Not really, as it turns out, though it did partially spring out of that venerable old elementary school. His Grade 7 teacher was Mrs. Bird. Occasionally she would inform the class that she wouldn’t be at school the next day, but a good friend would be there for her. Then the next day, she would show up dressed as some other person altogether and stay in character all day. Jon loved that.
So we sat in Greenwich Village alongside all the varied denizens of that famous artists’ paradise, sipping our wine, and reminiscing about the old days in Hinton. And of course we talked about Star Wars.
Later that week Jon took me on a tour of all his haunts, including a theater where he used to work as a bartender, a pizza place that (no offence to Gus’ Pizza) makes seriously the best pizza in the entire world, and, most important of all, the acting school he went to for two years, the Neighborhood Playhouse. This is a prestigious acting school that has produced many famous actors over the years. One time, Jon was down in the locker room when someone asked him for directions to the washroom. Jon looked up and saw Al Pacino. He was treated to a private reading with Mr. Pacino and Tony Randall. Cool, eh?
At each of these places Jon enthusiastically and proudly introduced me, saying I was from Hinton, too. This fact hardly elicited more than a polite “Oh yeah?” from anyone, because like I said it’s hard to impress a New Yorker, but I stood proud with Jon, united in our love for Hinton. Two Hintonites hangin’ in New York.
If you don’t like it, I’ll get the Incredible Hulk to smash you.
  ¶ 9:42 PM

  The following essay was one I wrote years ago for a 400 level English class. It's on Hyperion, by Dan Simmons.  ¶ 3:52 PM

  It was an interesting case. I decided to take it - not that I had much choice - my client was paying marks and I always need more of those. There’s this shark calls himself the Dean who’s always after me. Maybe this’ll cool his heels a bit.
My client didn’t give me much to go on. Seems there’s this poet been dead 900 years and all of a sudden he pops up out of nowhere in the Hegemony universe. My job is to figure out why. Also, if possible, to link it to postmodernism in some way. No problem. Yeah right.
First order of business, as with all my cases, is to check out the particulars of the universe I’m going to be investigating. Dan Simmons is my best informant for this one. I don’t know where he gets his info, but it’s real grade A stuff. He wrote some history books for the universe, called Hyperion and Fall of Hyperion. What it boils down to is this: there’s a war between the Artificial Intelligence TechnoCore and the Hegemony of Man, with all sorts of factions mixed up in it. Except at first, no one knows the real deal. See, the TechnoCore is supposed to be the Hegemony’s ally; heck, they practically run the Hegemony society for them, operating their farcasters which are so important. The Core has manipulated things so that everyone thinks it’s a group of humans called the Ousters who seceded from the Hegemony who are the bad guys. The Core, being AI’s, pretty much have things under control.

But then there’s this planet, Hyperion, which screws everything up- an unfactorable variable. There are some strange archeological artifacts called the Time Tombs there which seem to run backwards in time. Associated with the Tombs is a scary critter called the Shrike - all spikes and blades and thorns, kind of like my ex-wife. A religion has sprung up around it, called the Church of the Final Atonement, or just the Shrike Church, and they send pilgrimages of the faithful to the Tombs to seek out the Shrike. The final pilgrimage is somewhat unique in that it consists of non-Shrike cultists, people who have been chosen by the Core or the Hegemony because they somehow fit into the unfactorable variable business. Anyways, that’s where the poet, John Keats, comes in.
Each pilgrim has their own unique story to tell to explain why they came on the pilgrimage. There’s this detective (I like her already) named Brawne Lamia. She was hired to solve a murder. The funny thing was her client was the guy who was murdered. See, he was a cybrid- an AI personality with a cloned human “remote”. In this case the cloned human was John Keats, a romantic poet who lived in the nineteenth century. He was “killed” in the sense that his consciousness was shut off for a minute and he lost a slough of data. And he didn’t know why.

Lamia and Keats eventually figured it out, that the TechnoCore wanted him dead because he had decided to join the Shrike pilgrimage. Too bad for him, when they went to seek refuge from the Shrike Church, they were attacked. What a sight that must have been - little “Johnny” decked out in titan-poly armor and packing an “Ouster hellwhip” (Hyperion, 403) as well as various other ultra-tech gizmos. In the Hegemony universe this is not an uncommon sight, maybe, but remember that this guy is a Romantic poet who wrote lines like these all the time: “How he does love me! His poor temples beat/ To the very tune of love- how sweet, sweet, sweet”(“Endymion” Book II line 764-765). Anyways, in the ensuing firefight, Johnny was killed, got his arm and foot blown off.
So much for “John Keats of the 28th Century”, right? If only it were that easy, then I could collect my pay and go home. But now things get complicated. Johnny was able to transfer his AI personality into a Schron Loop implanted in Lamia’s head, so he’s not really dead, and Lamia goes to Hyperion for him. Plus there’s the matter of the second Keats cybrid, but I don’t want to get into that just yet.
At this point I tell Simmons I gotta go look into something else. I need to get a grip on this Keats guy, the real one I mean. I know just the guy, kind of a high-fallutin’ type named Rutherford, owns all sorts of books. So I find me some books on Keats, and right away I start learning some interesting stuff. Being in my line of work, I never had much exposure to poetry or the poets, but it’s not so bad.

He died young. Had tuberculosis. He was only 26. What is it they say? The best die young. Thing is, no one really thought he was the best at the time, ‘cept maybe his pals. One guy said, “He was dearly beloved, and honoured as a superior being by me” (Brown, 40). His friends were real loyal, too, sticking by him while he was on his death bed, helping him out wherever they could. When my time comes, the only friends at my side will be my gun Lucy, Jack Daniels and a bunch of guys named bill.
His poetry is quite something. I don’t pretend to know anything about poetry, though. Figures my client would have to be a poet in his spare time. Great. Anyways, his poetry is where the connections start coming together like flies to . . . never mind. Seems Keats wrote some poems called “Hyperion” and “Fall of Hyperion”. Now if you’ve been paying attention those names should be real familiar. Know what’s funny, though? He never even finished either of these poems. The guy’s supposed to be a genius. Well, I ain’t no genius but at least I finish what I start. Don’t get me wrong though, the more I learn about the guy, the more I like him.
Another thing - remember that detective the cybrid hired? Brawne Lamia? I never though twice about it, I mean it’s just her name, right? But it seems ole Keats had a girl, and her name was Fanny Brawne. Spooky. But there’s more. He wrote a poem called “Lamia”, about this skirt who turned out to be a snake. “ ‘A serpent!’ echoed he; no sooner said,/ Then with a frightful scream she vanished:/ And Lycius’ arms were empty of delight,/ as were his limbs of life” (“Lamia” Part II, 305-308). She killed the sap! Well, Brawne seems like a tough customer but I doubt she goes around killing her boyfriends.

It’s hard to figure what the poems, both of which were intended to tell the same story, are all about, so I’ll let Keats speak for himself, sort of. The second Keats cybrid (who we’ll get to in a bit) says they are about “the death of the gods and their difficulty in accepting their displacement. [They were] about transformation and suffering and injustice. And [they were] about the poet . . . whom he thought suffered most at such injustice”(The Fall of Hyperion, 57).
I guess I should explain about the second Keats cybrid now. The original John Keats asked in a letter to a friend, “Is there another life? Shall I awake and find all this a dream?” (Brown, 74). I don’t think in his wildest poetical musings did he expect to wake up in a world of farcasters and spinships, TechnoCores and interstellar wars. A second cybrid was activated after the disappearance of the first, and this new one took the alias Joseph Severn (the guy who stuck by Keats on his death bed) and became an aide of sorts to Meina Gladstone, the Chief Executive Officer of the Hegemony.
This one’s got the ability to dream what the Hyperion pilgrims are doing through some kind of mystical connection with the first cybrid persona implanted in Lamia’s head. Okay, it sounds kind of funny but it works. Reminds me of a line from one of the poems: “The poet and the dreamer are distinct” (“The Fall of Hyperion” line 199). This version seems a lot more like the real thing, to me. Not that he is or anything.

I left a few loose ends earlier when I told you about the war between the TechnoCore and the Hegemony. I didn’t say why they were at war. Within the Core are three factions: the Stables, Volatiles and Ultimates. All three of them are dedicated to the same cause, namely to build the Ultimate Intelligence. God, in other words. The Stables believe they should preserve the relationship between humanity and the Core, whereas the Volatiles think humanity should be exterminated, and the Ultimates don’t really care one way or the other, they just want to build the UI.
In the far distant future, the UI has been achieved. The problem is, there is another god out there, this one the culmination of human evolution, the “Omega Point” theorized by Teilhard de Chardin. They are in conflict with each other. In other words, there is a war between the human god and the machine god. And that’s where John Keats fits in.
The very fact that “Hyperion” and “The Fall of Hyperion” went unfinished is why this Hegemony universe came to be. One of the other pilgrims is a poet, named Martin Silenus (Silenus, incidentally, is a satyr who is mentioned in “Lamia”) who is determined to finish “his” Hyperion Cantos. I’m thinking this is a thinly disguised interpretation/ extrapolation of Keats’ works by Dan Simmons. “The Hyperion Cantos made no secret of the multiple identities of these gods: The Titans were easily understood to be the heroes of humankind’s short history in the galaxy, the Olympian usurpers were the TechnoCore AI’s . . . The Cantos were also about the relationship between creatures and their creators . . . artists and their art” (Simmons 169).

The ideas of Teilhard de Chardin run their way through Simmons’ works, as well. Teilhard de Chardin was a Catholic scientist who dealt a lot with evolution. One could say he was a post-modern Jesuit. His central idea is the Omega Point - “all the prospects and possibilities before mankind converge upon a single point; and this point is not an abstraction but a Person” (Delfgaauw, 93). Obviously the UI project and the human version are taken directly from his writings, but there is also an interesting way in which Simmons plays off the role of the poet in the cosmos. Martin Silenus is describing to the other pilgrims what it’s like to be a poet. “To be a true poet is to become God” (Hyperion, 192).
There is a period when the TechnoCore believes that the second Keats cybrid is the Empathy persona of the human god, sent back in time to flee the battle with the UI. However, when the Keats cybrid is returned to Old Earth, he right away catches tuberculosis and starts dying all over again. You gotta feel for the guy. At one point he says, “I know at that instant, dying, that I am not the chosen vessel for the human UI, not the joining of AI and human spirit, not the Chosen One at all. I am merely a poet dying far from home” (The Fall of Hyperion, 427).

So when you combine Teilhard de Chardin with John Keats you get this business with the TechnoCore and the Hegemony. A postmodern look at a Romantic poet’s great works. Or maybe more than just a look - maybe a completion. At any rate, it’s hard to pin down a good definition of postmodernism and apply it to this mess. I like this one guy’s take on it - “postmodernism has been defined and dedefined enough times to have taken on a shape, a silhouette- but it is the silhouette of an enigmatically protean form” (Csicsery-Ronay, 305). Sounds like the Shrike.
All I mean when I say Simmons’ work is a postmodernist completion of Keats’ poems is that the application of Teilhardian philosophy to a future history that is built around the Hyperion-battle-of-the-gods motif can’t be anything but postmodern. Right? I don’t even know any more.
There is still a problem for the resurrected Keats persona- he again dies of tuberculosis, and so he still doesn’t get to see how his poetry ends. Which maybe answers the question posed earlier of the role of the artist to his art, the poet and the dreamer - they are distinct, and the art can evolve independently of its creator. This is only another application of Teilhardian principles.
Okay, so let’s review. John Keats has been more or less resurrected 800 years from now in order to watch the symbolic culmination of his poem-diad, “Hyperion” and “The Fall of Hyperion”. Teilhard de Chardin’s musings about the Omega Point were applied to Keats’ poems to take them out of the realm of classical mythology and project them into a future postmodern mythology, where the themes stay true to the original poems, but the applications become new.

Well, this case hasn’t been an easy one, but then they hardly ever are. One consolation is that I didn’t have to wake Lucy up from her nap. It’s just as well, I doubt even she could hold her own if the Shrike decided he didn’t want me snooping around in his business. Which reminds me, that’s still kind of bugging me, what role does the Shrike play in all this? And who won the battle between the UI’s, anyway? My gut tells me the human side won, because Gladstone destroyed the farcaster web which is where the Core had is home. Thing is, the Core is still alive and kicking a few hundred years later, around the time of some punk named Endymion, which incidentally is another Keats poem. Well, that’ll have to be a job for another day. I’m going home. Case closed.



Expense Account
Brown, Charles Armitage. Life of John Keats. London: Oxford University Press, 1937.
Complete Poetry and Selected Prose of John Keats. Briggs, Harold Edgar ed. New York: Random House Inc. 1951. (all poem citations taken from)
Csicsery-Ronay Jr., Istvan. “Introduction.” Science Fiction Studies v.18, November 1991: 305.
Delfgaauw, Dr. Bernard. EVOLUTION: The Theory of Teilhard de Chardin.
New York: Harper & Row,1969.
Simmons, Dan. Hyperion. New York: Bantam Books, 1990.
Simmons, Dan. The Fall of Hyperion. New York: Bantam Books, 1991.
  ¶ 3:50 PM

  Here is a story that more properly belongsover at the Woods, but it is too long to post with old-school blogger. It;s from my sermon at Holyrood Mennonite Church, and is more or less based on the story of Sir Gawain and the Green Man.

Once upon a time there was a mighty bear warrior named Sir Wain. He was the most beloved and respected knight in the land. He was brave and strong, yes, but he was also virtuous and true. The claws on his right paw were covered with a solid silver sheath, which is how bears mark Knights of Truly Noble Character.

One day the King of the Bears, King Bert, who was himself a mighty and valorous grizzly, summoned Sir Wain before him.

“Sir Wain,” said King Bert, “My Golden Berry Tree has been stolen. I need you to find it for me and bring it back.”

“It shall be done, milord.” And so Sir Wain ventured off into the woods, seeking the Golden Berry Tree. He asked the other forest animals he met, and though they were eager to help, they knew nothing. Then a Raven landed on a nearby branch.

“You are seeking the Golden Berry Tree,” cawed the Raven.

“Yes, do you know where I can find it?”

“Perhaps. I’m not sure if it’s the tree you seek. Here is a berry from it, why don’t you taste it to see if it’s the right one?” The Raven showed Sir Wain a golden berry he carried in his talon.

“I can not taste the berry- it is forbidden for all but the king to eat from the Tree. But only one tree produces berries like that. Take me to it.”

“If you won’t eat it, I won’t help you,” said the Raven, who flew away cursing and squawking, for ravens are foul birds.

Sir Wain continued searching, but again, he found nothing to aid him in his quest. A few days later the Raven again landed on a nearby tree and offered Sir Wain the berry he carried.

“You’re right, you know,” said the Raven, “No other tree produces fruit like this. Just taste it and I will take you to it.”

“If you agree that it’s the tree I seek, why don’t you take me to it?”

“Maybe it belongs to some other king.”

“There is no other king. But I will not eat the berry. Take me to the tree.”

“No,” said the Raven, and he flew away too high and too fast for Sir Wain to follow.

So Sir Wain resumed his search, but it was fruitless. Then, late one night, the Raven came for a third time and again made his offer.
Sir Wain, tured and hungry, finally agreed to eat the Golden Berry. Immediately he was rejuvenated, and felt new strength began to flow into his body.

“It is the King’s Berry Tree. Take me to it.”

“Of course,” said the Raven, who seemed strangely pleased. “Follow me.” And he flew off, lower and slower than before so that Sir Wain could follow him. Soon, they arrived in a clearing, at the center of which stood the Golden Berry Tree. The Tree glowed softly with its own light.

Satisfied that his quest was finished, Sir Wain strode into the clearing to retrieve the tree. Just then a pack of Timber Wolves materialized out of the trees and started circling Sir Wain, snarling and growling. Sir Wain eyed them warily, flexing his claws in their silver sheaths. He knew he was outnumbered, and could not win, but he was determined to fight bravely to the end.
The wolves attacked, and Sir Wain was surprised to find himself easily fending them off. Although the battle was fierce and gory, Sir Wain defeated each and every wolf, suffering only the loss of one of his silver sheaths. Hardly even winded, he turned to the Berry Tree and hoisted it onto his back. The Raven was nowhere to be seen. Sir Wain made the long journey back to the Castle of King Bert.

When the castle sentries, a pair of very fine Black Bears, saw him approach, they blew their trumpets and lowered the drawbridge. The whole kingdom turned out to welcome their hero home. King Bert himself strode up to meet him. “Well done, Sir Wain! How did you find it?”

Sir Wain hesitated, and said, “A Raven showed me the way.”

“A Raven?” The King seemed surprised. He took a careful look at Sir Wain, who seemed even bigger and stronger than he was before. “Sir Wain . . . did you eat one of the berries?”

“No sire,” answered Sir Wain, though in a voice so soft the king almost missed it.

By this time the procession had reached the king’s courtyard and the Royal Gardener was replanting the Berry Tree in its rightful place. The King watched Sir Wain closely , and saw that he was indeed bigger and stronger than before. “Sir Wain,” said the King, “do you know what happens when you eat a berry from my tree?”

“No sir.”

“A bear becomes larger, stronger and mightier than before, almost invincible. Which is why the berries are reserved for the King of the Bears. If you hadn’t told me otherwise, I would say that you had recently eaten one of the berries.”

Sir Wain could take it no longer. He confessed to the King what he had done.

“I see,” said the King, gravely.

“Sire, I have failed you and do not deserve to live. I will return my silver sheaths and await my execution.” He began removing the sheaths from his claws.

“Sir Wain, you are missing a sheath. What happened to it?”

“I lost it, Lord, in a fight with Timber Wolves.”

“Sir Wain, put your sheaths back on. I will not punish you.”

“Sire?”

“You thought I sought a champion without flaw. Not so. I sought a champion who knows he is flawed, for who among us is not?” *

And so King Bert restored Sir Wain to his place of honor. But instead of replacing the lost silver sheath, the king had a new one cast out of iron, which was allowed to rust.

From then on, Sir Wain wore with pride borne out of the deepest humility one sheath that was the color of dried blood.



* This quote taken, with only a slight change, from Nan Runde’s telling of Sir Gawain and the Green Man, “A Tale of Wonders”
  ¶ 4:31 PM