Pam Webb

a writer's journey as a reader

Archive for the category “Animals”

Let’s Stop With The Cloning Around


STOP: SPOILER ALERTS for the following
Never Let Me Go
The Island
Moon
I, Robot
Oblivion
Frankenstein
Robocop

“Four legs real, fake legs baaaad.” image: nature.com

What is this fascination with the humanity aspect of clones or artificial intelligence? Why do we want to inject a soul into something man has created? Or a more defined question is: why do we explore whether man-made creations have a soul?

Is it guilt? Afterall, creation is best handled by the Creator, the One who has the Master Plan. That statement could incite a whole firestorm of commentary in itself, which is fine, but I’m really after the literary and even film aspect of cloning/artificial intelligence.
For instance, having just finished Never Let Me Go by Ishiguro, I began thinking about other cloning works: The Island,Moon, Oblivion, and while there are other aspects attached to these films, the main takeaway: “cheated.” The clones are cheated because even though they look human, act human, they are not, which becomes a matter of concern because there is an investment of empathy for these characters, yet part of me says “Wait! They aren’t real.” I feel cheated because I am tricked (seemingly) into believing and caring about something I inherently don’t subscribe to: cloning.
Have you ever tasted imitation crab? Once–thank you very much. Looks like (mostly), tastes like it (kind of), smells like (a bit), same texture (not really). After being duped into eating it I came away with the same feeling: cheated.
Duplicating sheep, crab, humans–it’s not the same, and can never be. I believe in science; I do not subscribe to Luddite philosophies, but there are moral boundaries and these boundaries keep reappearing in novels and films as guilt and even revulsion. Why?
I think we try to justify the curiosity to recreate human life through the compassion for the Creature, as in the case of Frankenstein. The Wretch had initial goodness until it met up with repeated rejection. However, Shelley pointed out the disastrous results of man attempting to recreate man.
We root for Tom Cruise (Oblivion) and Sam Rockwell (Moon) as clones, only because we thought they were human. Upon realization they were clones I immediately reneged my emotional investment–I had been cheated, someone had switched in that imitation crab.
I have no problem with robots though. The A.I. component works for me. I liked R2D2, who didn’t? And Sonny, from I, Robot? A charmer. They were machines with heart; they did not have a soul. Machines are machines. On the other hand, that fuzzy line is not so warm and fuzzy when it comes to cloning: Humans with no soul? Are these simply sophisticated machines with feelings?
Which brings me to my latest Ishiguro read, Never Let Me Go. Having heard raves about it, and having read two other of his novels, I looked forward to this particular one. Ishiguro’s style of unreliable first person narrative and undercurrent, deceptively complex plot is very much evident. It wasn’t until about halfway through I realized I’d been cheated. Here I thought Ruth, Kathy, and Tommy were victims of a cruel government experiment, only to discover (oh so subtly) they are clones. Dissapointment. I finished the novel, although I felt a detached flatness. No joy in that one. I did feel a resonance with Robocop, but then has man trapped in a machine. And even though he was mostly machine I rooted for him because people I can relate to–fake crab, not.
Anyone else have thoughts on cloning in literature in regards to character empathy?

Just Swallow the Leader


Summer wouldn’t be the same without those plucky little backyard aereo acrobats–the swallow.

Although I have never been to San Juan Capistrano, I would surely like to be there when they make their yearly return.  The MEPA has related how spectacular the event is, and so it’s been placed on THE B.I.G. LIST. For now, I still thrill to seeing the few swallows that  swoop and dive and line twitter in our neighborhood. They are such cheeky little things with their bombing straifs if we get too close to their nest, and I always glance up upon hearing that endless parakeet chittering as they zip through the air on their bug runs.  Gosh, I just love ’em!

image: vickiesvintage.blogspot.com

Growing up, my dad had constructed a row of birdhouses, nailing them to the back of the house which faced the sidewalk leading to my playhouse and the garden. I had to pass in front of this airport of activity if I wanted to go to either of these favorite hangouts. The frantic commuter flights both enthralled and frightened me, and I distinctly remember the cacophony of the endless tweets and peeps of fledglings and parents.

Moving to Northern California for continued college, I can’t tell you how ecstatic I was to discover swallows galore. Maybe they got confused or liked the area better than San Juan Capistrano. These guys weren’t the shiny, futzy glossy white shirted swallows, these were the raucous barn swallows who much preferred making nests of mud in the most inconvenient places.  Whole apartment duplexes of them! As much as I loved them, I did not like the mess they made on the stairs which I had to use everyday.

image: pedestrian.com

Once we got settled in our own house I convinced, begged, and bothered the MEPA to install three birdhouses.  Great guy that he is he did so.  It’s taken almost four years for swallows to rent out one of the bungalows. The middle remained unoccupied and a family of chickadees moved into the other end house.

The chickadees have been long gone, but those swallows, my oh my, talk about failure to launch! They’ve been keeping mom and dad busy for these past few weeks. But today was the day they finally moved out.  Like most kids, they blew this small town and mom and dad must have fallen deep into empty nest syndrome, because they seem to have moved on as well.

The robins never returned from last year, and there just doesn’t seem to be as many birds at the feeder this year.  The progeny tease us how we’ve turned into old folksies with our bird books, binocs, and have our chaise chairs aimed towards the feeder.

“Look, hon, a chickadee–or is it a junco?”

“Ohmigosh, it’s an oriole. Lookitlookit.”

“Two o’clock. Nuthatch.”

I got birding love from my dad, and I now I got the MEPA hooked on birds. He’s taken it to a far higher level than me, however. He’s got a telescope trained on the feeder, has at least two bird books on hand for identification, and he talks and whistles to them.  He even gets them to land on him when he’s changing the feeder.

That’s a bit over the top for me and I get a little snippy with comments about nutty about nuthatches.  I kind of feel like Lucy when she catches Linus petting the birds on their heads and yells at him to knock it off.  Don’t know why it makes me crabby when he talks to the birds.  I best watch out. I wouldn’t want a Hitchcockian adventure in the backyard.

image: lecinemadreams.blogspot.com

My bird book of choice (from a college birding class I took):

image: amazon.com

(Guinea) Pigging Out on Turkey Day


English: Saying grace before carving the turke...

English: Saying grace before carving the turkey at Thanksgiving dinner in the home of Earle Landis in Neffsville, Pennsylvania (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’m alone with my pie baking and other preparations for T-day.  I’ve cleaned the house, rearranged furniture, and managed to plunk down another NaNoWriMo post.  My MEPA has proven his value once again by doing the honors of entertaining the tribe so I can cook, bake, and relax a tad before celebrating our favorite holiday with our loved ones.  I really need to see about giving him a bonus.  For now he works for Bit-a-Honey and an ocassional dinner out.  I’ve got a good thing going for sure.

My NaNo protag is babysitting the neighbor’s guinea pig over the long weekend.  Vera is not sure what her family is doing for Thanksgiving.  It’s usually at her Grandmother’s, but she’s sure something is up.  I really don’t know what’s going on either.  Somehow I type and the story begins spilling out.  I don’t always know what direction it’s going to go in.  NaNo-ing is a very different way to write: don’t plot, don’t plan, just write.  We’ll all find out tomorrow what Vera ended up doing for T-day.

I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving–my favorite holiday, all in all.  I think I like it better than my birthday, and that’s saying something.

The Baby Robin Song


American Robin -- Humber Bay Park (East) (Toro...

American Robin — Humber Bay Park (East) (Toronto, Canada) — 2005, by User:Mdf (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As we have been watching the last batch of robins readying for their imminent departure I found myself humming a tune:

There were four robins in the nest

and the little one said:

“I’m squished.  Move over.”

So they all moved over  and one flew out,

and there were three in the nest

and third one said:

“I’m squished. Move over.”

So they all moved over and one flew out,

and there were two in the nest

and the second one said:

“That’s better.  You good?”

And the first one said,

“Yup.  Works for me.”

At least that’s what I think is going on.   I had received an update on the baby birds whilst out shopping yesterday (we take our baby birding seriously) and contemplated rushing home to watch the event.  Costco won out and by the time I got home one of the birdies had flown.  Towards the evening it looked like another might be heading out but then all three hunkered down into the nest so only the tips of the beaks were sticking up.

Smart birds.

A summer storm kicked in an hour later and that birdie knew the nest was the best place to be if being a baby bird.

This morning I heard a cacophony of cheeping outside my bedroom window.  Upon checking I found the third baby robin just below the nest and forlornly indicating its angst of separation anxiety.  When it saw me approach it flew up into what I call the launching pine (it’s where all the robins seem to fly from the nest).  It hung out there for the longest time.  It’s still there and I still hear its lamentable cheeps.  I wonder if it’s having second thoughts about leaving the nest?

As I listen to its pitiful cheeps this book came to mind

I think our little bird is saying, “Mom? Mom?”  And I hope mom bird stops by and encourages her baby to find flight, grab a worm, and enjoy the sights.  At least that’s what I’d recommend.

UPDATE: the birds are gone. Rats.  I came home from morning appointments and the nest was empty.  I hear scattered cheeps up in the pines and I hope to spot them on the lawn learning how to get their own grub.  A couple of pics to share:

Getting Ready

I’m out…now what?

Beary Wonderful Books


Recently I attended a SCBWI (Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators) writing conference. There is something so energizing about them.  Everyone who is attendance is somehow connected with writing or illustrating books for children, which means this is a gathering of grownups, a room full of adults whose main concern and occupation is celebrating the wonder of presenting the world so that it appeals to children.

I have attended other types of writer conferences, and learn much from them–yet, they are so much more serious in tone.  Writing is a serious business, of course, of course, and I do take my writing quite seriously.  But, there is something about attending a SCBWI conference that is delightfully different.  There is this celebratory exuberance, this uncontainable joy that cascades over, around, and through the conference.  We are all gathered together because we know how to celebrate like a child.  We all take delight in the unexpected rainbow.  We sing the praises of butterflies and dragonflies and kites that flit upon the summer’s breeze.  We are all grown-up, but haven’t forgotten the wonder of childhood. We’re talking a fun-filled work and learn weekend.  I like it.

The main reason for attending the conference is to learn all about the business end of writing for children: submitting manuscripts, understanding the trends, listening to expert advice and soaking up valuable insights.  There is also the anticipation of connecting with other writers, and maybe even an author.  This is how I rediscovered Jesse Bear. 

On the first day, as we selected seats, made polite small talk, and exchanged introductions, I glanced around at name tags and stopping at one I thought “Hmm, that name sounds familiar.”  I then realized I was conversing with the Jesse Bear author!  These books are sweet, gentle reads that embrace the warm fuzzy moments of childhood.   Nancy White Carlstrom, is the author of these delightful books, and  each read is like receiving a hug of reassurance that the world through a child’s eyes is ever so pleasant.

During the break I took the opportunity to ask Nancy a few questions, which she graciously answered.

CM: What are the biggest changes you’ve seen in the publishing world?

NWC: Picture books are more quirky and loud. Those are getting the attention in the market place.

We then talked about how quiet stories, like Jesse Bear, (and the ones I like to write) are not in the forefront like they once were.  Newer books focus on characters who tend to be naughty, loud, or even angry.  Most certainly, these books are entertaining, yet Nancy and I both agreed there are times when a child needs a gentle read, a quiet time book to settle down.

CM: Why is a successful author like you attending the conference?

NWC: I have several novels I never finished.  I’m going to be submitting books I want to write now and need to know what the market is doing.

In the few minutes we had between sessions we traded concerns, tidbits, and comments about the current status of the children’s book market.  Sitting together the next morning and continuing our conversation we even discovered we had mutual friends.  That six degrees thing kind of sneaks up on a person now and then.

Overall, I came away with quite a bit from this last conference.  One big takeaway is the encouragement I received from Nancy’s example of a pro sitting with the novices. She showed me that even when the trends don’t go our way, we as writers shouldn’t get discouraged.  Getting our writing published and appreciated is an important part of the creative process; however, more importantly Nancy demonstrated to me we write because writing is what we do.

  

A Tribute to Guinea Pigs


So sad. Patches, our guinea pig passed away today.  Some may wonder at being so attached to such a small  animal and might even wonder about guinea pigs as being significant pets, especially since they aren’t known for devotion and heroics as found in other pets such as cats, dogs, or even horses.  It’s not like there are scads of books or movies that pop into mind featuring a guinea pig as the hero animal.  Yet, our little pet definitely impacted our lives.  How could you not love this little face?

Image

He lived a very long life for a guinea pig, we reckon about eight, maybe even ten years.  Though Patches didn’t care much for me (never trim a guinea pig’s nails–he will forever resent you for it), he was known to lick fingers of those he adored.  Admittedly, he would set aside his resentments and he would squeak and wheek when he heard my voice  and when I peered into his cage he would rise up on his haunches looking for the treat he knew I would bring him.  I will miss sharing my morning banana with him. I will also miss taking him for our walks out in the backyard where he would munch away, the lord of the lawn, weather permitting.

The house seems so empty without his rustlings about.  Sigh.  Pet death is tough.  As part of my farewell, I thought I would dedicate a few books about guinea pigs to him.  Goodbye, little friend.

Product DetailsDick King-Smith is the author who wrote Babe, The Gallant Pig. Maybe you caught the movie?

Product DetailsProduct DetailsA couple of books and a movie which show the fun and adventuresome side of guinea pigs.  Our guinea pig may not have had a secret life, but he was still special to us all the same.

Cat in Hats and in Books


I like dogs.  I like cats.  Right now I own a guinea pig.  When it comes to reading about animals, though, I will reach for a book with cat in it far more quickly than a dog.  Like I said, I like dogs; however, in terms of characterization, cats are far more interesting.  Why?  They are so unpredictable and independent that they are a free agent, and that is what makes them  so interesting as book characters.

I didn’t realize how much I preferred cats as my literary animal of choice until I looked over my Good Reads list and read the titles. Definitely cats, especially this last year.  Below are a few of the cat books I’ve encountered, relished, and experienced.

Image Detail I must admit I am not a Cat in the Hat fan.  He made me nervous and tense as a child with his edging towards the naughty side of spicing up a boring day, and as a grownup–he still makes me nervous. Nevertheless, how can I fault a cat that has championed the cause of reading?

Tom Kitten and his companions are adorable in their little suits.  What little girl doesn’t dream of having her kittens all dressed up and talking?

Who can resist kittens?   Image Detail

As I got older I turned to books like The Incredible Journey and It’s Like This, Cat.Image Detail  Both impacted me differently.  I think I cried when I read about the hardships of the animals as their love drove them on to find their owners.  Any book that makes me cry is going to be notable.  Truthfully, I don’t remember anything about Neville’s book except the title.  It seemed odd to me that a teenage guy would turn to a cat for solace.  Actually, that’s not too hard to believe since I dated a guy who owned four cats.  I figured a man who owned four cats possessed understanding and compassion. (“Reader, I married him.”)

Another unforgettable literary cat is the Cheshire found in Alice in Wonderland.

   Image Detail The Cheshire represents to me that cunning, sphinx-like knowing, but not telling aspect of cats.  They blink and stare at you with their little paws tucked under them.  They have secrets they aren’t sharing, that’s for sure.  I imagine if they started talking to us they would be a little bit maddening in their logic, and perhaps a bit condenscending in tone.  Last year I began a short story that’s growing into something larger, which is about a modern girl getting caught up into an Alice type world.  I know, it’s been done.  Remember, I love to write and now that I’m caught up into the story I have to keep going.  I’m at the part where Alyce (yes, different spelling) has caught up with Chessy, a Cockney-speaking cat.  We’ll see what happens.

I can’t leave out James Herriot.  I cried sometimes after reading his stories.  I read the entire series and became a devoted fan of the televsion series.  When the picture books came out spotlighting the various animal stories I read them as well.

     Image Detail               Image Detail

Last year I discovered two cat books that left me with that satisfied afterglow of a really good read.  These cats impacted many lives and though they have departed, their stories live on.  If you haven’t read them I encourage you to do so.  Be ye cat fancier or not–they are reads of longlasting impact.

Image DetailImage Detail  

I think every public library should have a cat, especially if they could be as personable as Dewey.  Found in the library’s book drop as a nearly frozen lump of golden fur, he was nursed back to health by the staff. Head librarian Vicki Myron became his mother, and she writes lovingly of his impact on the library and on the town.  There is also a series of picture books featuring Dewey.

They say cats can sense sadness and will lend their furry compassion when needed. Oscar, one of the resident cats in a nursing home, had an uncanny sense of which patients were terminal and he would visit them in their last hours, giving comfor to both the patient and the family members.  His feline ESP caught the attention of staff doctor, Dr. David Dosa, and he learned how to add that Oscar touch to his rounds with his patients.

And then there is Homer.  Born blind, he learned to not only cope with life but through the devotion of his owner, Gwen Cooper, he embraced life, and became an inspiration to all who came in contact with him.  One aspect of the story is Gwen’s and Homer’s experience with being separated in 9/11.  A touching tribute to the bond between pet and owner.

I thought if I were going to read about cats I should delve into the famous The Cat Who… series.  I read the first one the other night: The Cat Who Read Backwards, which came out in 1966.

  There are thirty books in the series (actually the publisher cancelled the last one upon Braun’s death in 2011).  I have my work cut out for me if I intend to get caught up.  The last came out in 2007.  Koko, the star of the series, must have been well taken care of to make a sojourn of that length.

From cats in hats to cats who solve murders, there is something for everyone’s interest.

Post Navigation