Erm, Captain Picard… Where’s the Loo?

I don’t want you to come away from this with the impression that I’m obsessed with defecation. It’s just that, in all my years of watching TNG, I don’t think I ever saw anyone go to the loo.

Captain Picard stands on the bridge of the Enterprise, gesturing to Riker, standing behind him.

I’m Picard. This is my Number One. We don’t have Number Twos on this ship.

Don’t you think that’s kind of weird? We see them fulfil the other necessities of life: eating; sleeping; social contact. We, in fact, have entire plot lines which revolve around them. And the plasma relays burn out on a weekly basis, but the plumbing is always perfect. You never hear of a ruptured sewage pipe on G deck when they take devastating fire from the Borg. Where the hell does the Enterprise even keep its toilets, anyway?

It’s one of those things that, once you see, you can’t unsee it. Almost no one in modern spec-fic goes to the loo. Entire civilisations thrive without a single toilet.

When I’m world-building, it’s these kinds of things that I need to think about. I need to think about how a culture’s psychology and morality is going to be reflected in the way they deal with the necessities of life.

In our culture, we take a dump in the most valuable resource on Earth, pull a handle and don’t give it another thought. Someone else’s problem, right? That’s pretty telling.

On the Enterprise-D… I dunno. They must be horrified by their bodies. Utterly, utterly repulsed. You notice how all their medicine is very clean, doesn’t involve blood or cutting. Doesn’t, in fact, involve touching the body in any way in most cases.

If a writer fails to demonstrate they know how the culture in their fiction deals with its crap, it feels akin to failing to demonstrate that they know where they get their food from. It’s a pretty damned fundamental flaw. I’m not expecting a song-and-dance routine, just half-a-sentence to let me know that they know.

I’m not saying I’m going to throw a fit if Into Darkness or the next Interzone doesn’t have at least one toilet scene. I’m just saying, well… once you see it, you can’t unsee it.  Almost no one in spec-fic goes to the loo.

It’s Okay, I’ve Worked It Out: We’re Rich!

I’ve been pretty poor in my life. Poor enough to have skipped out on three months’ rent in one house, and into another house that should, really, have been condemned as not fit for human habitation. Poor enough to have had bailiffs taking an inventory of all my possessions, poor enough to have a credit history blacker than the IMF’s heart, poor enough that I’m still scared to answer the phone or open any letters because I’m convinced they’ll be demanding money from me I simply don’t have, and can’t get. Things are an awful lot better now–I still have no money, but I’m paying the amount due on my bills instead of the amount over-due plus attendant charges (well… on most of them). And if I ever get misty-eyed about the Romance of being poor, there’s these painfully true Cracked articles to remind me of the realities.

(Honestly, I’m beyond grateful that healthcare–both physical and mental–is free in the UK. I’d be dead if it wasn’t. No joke or hyperbole.)

So, the head gasket has gone in my car and the bill to replace it is £500. That’s about £600 more than the money Allegra and I have left after all the bills have been paid.

However, we can still afford to get it fixed. Although money is the only asset our society places any value in, it’s not the only asset we have access to. (Remember, an asset is something that has intrinsic value, or is something which creates something with intrinsic value.)

Now, obviously, time is an asset and money can buy time–by, for example, taking my car to the garage to get it fixed I’m buying the two or three days it’s going to take my dad and I to fix it, and working for a living is selling your time to a company.

However, when there is a deficit of money or time, we still have other assets we can use to pay off a debt. Things like:

  • Friends and family
  • Rationalizations
  • Coping Mechanisms
  • Perseverance
  • Willpower
  • Knowledge

Take my head gasket problem. Instead of paying £500 of assets, I’m able to pay off the balance by:

  • Using my dad’s time and knowledge
  • Using the support and humanity of friends to bring a little sunshine into my life
  • Using the willingness of friends to let me (and Allegra) use their home to make the bus journeys to work psychologically and physically easier
  • Using the skills I developed in CBT counselling to rationalize and contextualize my problem, and to come up with this here blog post.

The same way governments and banks can just create money, we can just create non-quantified assets (i.e., those that aren’t time, money or anything else you can take to the bank and turn into cash). When I went to CBT counselling, I transformed time, willpower and perseverance into coping and rationalization mechanisms. It was a transference of one type of assets for another. Only, I got to keep my perseverance and willpower. In fact, I got a lot more back than I put in!

Relationships work the same way. You invest time and emotional vulnerability, and you (hopefully) get back support, empathy, knowledge and (limited, maybe) access to all the non-quantified assets of your new friend or partner.

The way things work at the moment, you can’t monetize your non-quantified assets. You can’t call out the plumber and say, “if you can fix that leaking pipe for me, I can tell you what that nagging feeling at the back of your head is and what do to about it.”

Maybe in the future you will be able to. Maybe we’ll all have profiles on a database somewhere which lists our non-quantified assets and is supported by feedback on those we’ve traded with. The database would also list what problems we have (a desire to quit smoking, a difficult teenager, a profound sense of unimportance). So when I call the plumber out he can look at my profile, I can look at his, and we can come to an agreement whereby I trade my CBT skills for his time and expertise with leaking pipes. (Of course, this type of agreement is perfectly possible between friends and family members right now.)

Like I said at the start, being money-poor sucks donkey balls. And if I could simply give money to the garage to fix my car, I would. But just because I can’t, that doesn’t mean my car won’t get fixed–I have other assets that I can spend to fix it.

Maybe if you can’t afford a childminder, you can transfer some of your invested relationship-assets for child care–in other words, ask a good friend to look after your kids for you. If all you can afford to rent is a crappy room in a shared house, you can cash in some rationalization, knowledge and willpower assets to make the most of it. You can even cash in some relationship-building assets to make friends of your new housemates and wind up in credit. Or if your computer is broken, you can use some knowledge and perseverance assets instead of taking it to a shop. In each case, you’re using non-quantified assets instead of money.

Interestingly, I’m not the first person to realise this. You check the online help files of MS Office, and more than likely you’ll be taken to an external website where customers are helping other customers to use the programs. Microsoft has done away with investing their own assets (time, money, employee knowledge and experience) to create their own help files for their own products, and is instead exploiting the time, knowledge and good-nature of their customers. They’re getting all the benefits of those non-quantified assets, and they did nothing to pay for them! Cheeky bastards.

Framing it like this has made me realise that when disasters happen and I don’t have the money to fix it, it’s not the end of the world. I have other assets I can use to pay the balance.

(A last word about my dad: he’s fucking awesome. Would your dad give up his holiday over Christmas to help you fix your car? And buy all the parts for you [it’s my Christmas present]? And not begrudge a moment of it? ‘Cause mine is. And all I ever did to deserve this relationship-asset was be born. And I don’t remember that being a huge drain on my own personal assets at the time…)

But What About Where There Are Only One Set of Footprints?

When I was in primary school (ages nine to 13), the walk home took me about half-an-hour.  Most of it was on pavement along main roads, but there was some nice scenery.  I frequently walked home alone.

I had a rough time when I was at school.  Right from the day I started at age 5 to the day I left at age eighteen.  On my walks home, I’d tell myself stories–or maybe daydream, depending on how you want to define things.  A frequently recurring daydream I would have was that I’d be walking home, and an adult would call me over to sit down next to them on a wall surrounding a garden.  They’d call me over using my secret name, the name I used to talk to myself that no one else knew.  That would be how I knew I could trust them.

I’d sit down and they’d say, “hey [name], I just wanted to tell you–it’s going to be okay.  Trust me, it’s going to be okay.”

Then they’d give me a brand new school jumper, and disappear off somewhere.

I still tell myself stories and daydream, of course.  Last night, I was falling asleep and I made this daydream where I could go back in time to when I was in primary school and wait for an eleven-year-old version of myself on a garden wall.  I would have gone down the school earlier in the day to purchase a new school jumper (I worked out I would have to pay for it in pound coins because they wouldn’t accept our bank notes in 1991, and they certainly wouldn’t accept my chip-and-pin debit card).  I’d call my younger self over with his secret name, and tell him, “you know, it’s going to be okay.  Trust me, it’s all going to work out okay.”  Then I’d hand him the jumper, and disappear.

I didn’t remember about the daydreams I used to have until after I’d thought all of that.  I hadn’t thought about our secret name or that particular daydream for well over a decade.  It was only when it was all set in my mind last night that it connected with the memory.

Suddenly I was back in 1991, looking at the whole thing through a pane of glass.

A few years ago, all that hurt and heartache would have twisted me up inside and driven me on a weeks-long down spiral.  Last night, though, it just made me sad.  Very very sad that I felt so alone and desperate all those years ago.  And today, I’m still on my feet, doing what I do.

It’s easy to say, ‘what I went through made me who I am today’.  But if I had a time machine, I’d go back.  I’m walking down the path of my life with a whole host of past-me’s and future me’s, so I’ve never really been alone.  I don’t think it would destroy the timeline to let myself know that when I needed it the most.

Back in my day…

A little while ago, @TychoBrahe Tweeted:

“”I still love you,” my son informed me, “even though you’re a centipede, and I’m a millipede.””

It awww’ed! the hell out of me when I read it. Penny Arcade’s other half, Gabriel, posted a story about his son on the PA site a while ago about a game of make-believe Star Wars he and his son were playing (which awwww’ed me even more than Tycho’s Tweet). Then this morning I found Shit My Kids Ruined. It’s become de rigour for new parents to plaster their children’s photographs on Facebook and talk about them in their blogs. The people who grew up with the microchip–my generation–are using technology to talk about their lives as they always have done, and now their lives include children.

When these children grow up, they’re not going to have photo albums to remind them of those memories they only vaguely remember, if at all. When I was a kid, we had 35mm film in cheap cameras that my mother sent away in special envelopes to be developed. Now, only the most special and treasured photos get printed out and saved. The rest sit on a hard drive somewhere, or on a CD that’s going to be scratched beyond use in a few years.

But they’re also being uploaded to Twitter, Facebook, Flickr, blogs… The photo albums of our children aren’t going to be collections of photos. In ten years time, we’ll be able to buy hard bound paper editions of all of our Tweets, status updates and photo uploads for a given year. Our children will be able to watch their first bike ride and the time they painted the cat on YouTubeClassic, things which happened far too young for them to remember. When they have children of their own, they can read through our hopes and fears and realise, ‘hey, my parents went through all this too’.

Social media is changing the way history is recorded. Future historians are going to be overloaded with personal, primary evidence. They won’t have to guess at the mood of a nation, they’ll have to run analytical programs to make sense of all the data.

But just as importantly, it’s changing the way we record our personal history. The past our children remember is going to be vastly different to the past we remember, because their past is being documented in a way ours never was. They’re not going to have to rely on their own and their relatives’ memories the way we do. I’ve no idea where it’s going to lead us, but it should be interesting.

My idea of Heaven

It would be a roomy room with an open fire and bookshelves heaving under more books than I could read in a life time.  There would be a rug, and a spiral staircase leading up to a balcony bedroom.  There would be pens and paper.

The best part would be the bed.  It would be large, covered in soft white sheets and soft white pillows.  They would always be clean and fresh, and it would always be slightly cool when I climbed in.  And, when I climbed in, I would feel tired enough to go to sleep.

There are lots of necessities I don’t like being shackled to in life.  Eating, for instance.  If I could never eat again, that would be fantastic.  I could just have a meal once in a while, just for the pleasure of eating.  But having to do it so damned much?  It just isn’t worth it for the experience I get out of it.  I look forwards to the day of food pills and protein injections.  Washing is another thing.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, I keep myself clean.  It’s just a process I have to go through every couple of days.  Scrub the dirt off and get on with the day.  It’d be great if I could get rid of that, too.

But sleeping… There are times when I think I could quite happily spend my whole life asleep.  Actually being asleep is great, but so is falling asleep.  That bit where your mind wanders randomly and you’re not to sure what’s real and what isn’t.

I’ll tell you what it feels like:  When I’m dozing, or falling asleep, or sleeping, it feels like my mind is free.  Free from society, free from what other people expect of it, free from my body, free from my own expectations and desires and hang-ups.

Maybe sleep is like everything else.  Maybe it’s the scarcity of it that makes is so valuable, and if you have an unlimited supply of it then it becomes worthless.  But in my trans-humanist future where you can free yourself from the shackles of physical necessity, I’m going to be keeping hold of sleep.

So, where are my food pills?

This is significantly interesting:  People in vegetative states are alive and well, thinking and reasoning.

It’s not hard to imagine a future where we’re looked on as savages for turning off life-support for these sorts of people.  It’s murder.

Maybe we should just give these people in-brain wi-fi chips and let them roam the net.  We’d just have to make sure the wi-fi didn’t interfere with the medical equipment…

Another day, another sci-fi trope becomes a little bit more plausible.