our mythical reality, live at Tanagra

So I’ve been chewing over this article (Ian Bogost’s ‘Shaka, When the Walls Fell’, at The Atlantic) since it was linked really heavily in my Twitter feed back in June. Then, in October, CBS Action launched its service on UK Freeview, just in time to show S4/S5 in its primetime rotation of Star Trek: TNG1 And that was pretty much that. I had to talk about ‘Darmok’.

and Jalad, at Tanagra, yes, okay.

I’ve felt really compelled to talk quite a bit about Star Trek lately, though I am scared everyone will scream NERD and run away in horror. But I saw Trek on three different UK channels in October (yay!), and I am more than okay with that situation, and feel compelled to Say Things. ‘Darmok’ seems a good place to continue this (though I recently watched ‘Space Seed’ and have a LOT of thoughts on Marla McGivers and Khan).

I don’t really want to directly address Bogost’s take, because while I think he’s probably right in at least some ways (my understanding of psycholingustics is not nearly sophisticated enough to say for sure)2. I have a far different sort of take when it comes to this episode and the language of the Children of Tama.

To put it simply: LESS LOGIC MORE FEELS PLEASE. All the thinky about allegory and what allegory is, which I don’t entirely agree with, and all the stuff about how the language works, is interesting but seems to me to mask a big picture analysis. Darmok’s generally treated by a lot of fans as a really nifty thought experiment and/or touching story about communication. That’s fine, but I felt, somehow, that I needed to keep digging.

a picture of Jean-Luc Picard holding a guitar, with text that reads 'Darmok & Jalad at Tanagra September 1991', made to look like a concert promo. art by nerdvana clothing.
this is a t-shirt by nerdvana clothing…and I would not be sad if it were purchased for me, just sayin’.

Firstly though, a bit of complaint: The episode doesn’t entirely make sense, nor does it have a ton of internal continuity, but that’s symptomatic of Trek overall. I will say that in rewatching ‘Darmok’, I find it a little hard to understand how someone with Picard’s diplomatic skills and resources wouldn’t get what’s going on a little more quickly.  Also, Riker is a douche throughout; I accept he’s under stress, but he knows as much or more than Picard does about how the Children of Tama communicate, and he doesn’t handle his frustration worth a damn. Shoot at them, okay, that makes sense. golfclap.

In other words, why the hell didn’t the Enterprise crew scour the texts, which they apparently had, and try to determine some of the context? You know Darmok and Jalad are at Tanagra, which is an island–so how would you not look to see how they got there and how (if at all), they left? There’d be a lot of nuance missing, yes. But that could be worked out, as Picard works out with Dathon via their experiences. Dathon really is the cleverest of all of them, Picard included–he knows what it will take to get the message across, through the bloodymindedness of the Federation, even as dangerous a prospect that that is.

But…and here I set my frustrations with the structure of the episode aside and actually get to why I like ‘Darmok’…

Understanding is dangerous. Comprehension, even if incomplete, of other cultures and languages, even simply of other people’s points of view, is a painful process, but it’s an utterly necessary process. It’s critical to our survival as a species.

There are a lot of people–like Riker, like Dathon’s first officer–who are obstructive to that, whether out of willful ignorance or frustration or hidebound convention to their own ways, are unable to cope with this.  There are people who try to understand, and fail, like Troi, because the concepts are new and their existing methods of processing the world don’t work.

And even with people who try, they’re often wrapped up in their own sense of how the world works, and within the hegemony. It takes time and effort and will to get past that, but as it was for Picard, it’s the only way to actually survive.

This is not to say that people, particularly marginalised people, should hand-hold and spoonfeed to their own detriment. Certainly not to the point of being mauled to death by a phasing monster-beast.3 The burden needs to be on the privileged, and they need to make a fucking effort.

Incidentally: Bogost doesn’t really pick up on the issues of what having a mythopoetic allegory based system would do to that culture’s understanding of reality and how any marginalised folks would express themselves. Maybe I’m reading this wrong, but as I understand it, a myth only tells one side of a story and often the meaning is either commonly ‘understood’ (read: set by the dominant culture) or open to such interpretation as to have varied meaning.  If one considers what myths would go into a language like English, there’s quite a bit missing due to the nature of the Western ‘canon’. There’s something to be said for being able to express an idea in words, and marginalised people are regularly criticised for not being able to express themselves in an ‘understandable’ or ‘acceptable’ way, because of tone or word choice or structure. Could an allegory-based language where a specific meaning is commonly held appreciate differences in thought beyond wiggle room? What if there were ideas that were not covered, could not be covered?

Probably something for an essay of its own.

To sum up, my feeling is that ‘Darmok’ is itself an allegory.4  It’s a rather beautiful, though somewhat imperfect, myth about human interaction and our failures and successes to comprehend each other. It’s about the limits of the theory of mind and how we need to push those to succeed.

That’s my takeaway from ‘Darmok’, and I kinda doubt that that’s entirely what the Menosky/LaZebnik writing team was entirely going for, as my view on the world is not theirs. But that’s cool. Unlike Borgost, I feel no need to despair, no need to refer to Shaka, when the walls fell. If anything, ‘Darmok’ gives me hope that there are always going to be people who want to try, and that trying is worth something; even when it hurts, even if there are losses necessary to arrive at something better.

The world (and galaxy) are far more worthwhile when we look at it critically, when we try to comprehend others: when our minds are as Temba, his arms outstretched.


  1. CBS Action television schedulers: if you’re reading this, show more Trek of all kinds and far less NCIS and Nash Bridges, please. 

  2. Hence my ‘sorta think probably some’ language. 

  3. They never do say what that being is except a means to an end, which I find frustrating. What if the phasebeast just wants to have a quiet day without two alien dudes using their own space trying to come to a philosophical understanding? 

  4. We need to go deeper. BRAAAAAAAAP. 

REVIEW: Welcome to Night Vale @ Oran Mor – 22/10/14

NB: This review will attempt to remain as spoiler-free as possible, though there may be a couple of snippets.

I came to Welcome to Night Vale a little over a year ago. This was late for someone who keeps an eye on fandom, mostly because I didn’t think it would be my kind of thing. I find I can’t listen to fiction podcasts, much as I try (a shame, as I really liked audiobooks as a kid), and I’ve also never really been much of one for Lovecraftian style horror, so I thought I’d give it a pass.

As it happened, around that time, I was hard up for podcasts to listen to in the gym. I’d given up on Radiolab, the last straw being their appalling treatment of the Hmong community1 (though I’d previously found their story on Henrietta Lacks to be cringeworthy, and that among other things). That had been my go-to for drowning out the terrible music or television options in the gym I go to, and nothing else was quite right. So I gave WTNV a try.

It takes some getting into–I would say one needs to give it five or six episodes at least, if not ten–and to be fair, I don’t think I could just sit and listen to it all, which has been the barrier for several people I know. But for me, WTNV is a perfect storm, engaged storytelling in a radio style format while being both funny and poignant, diverse in a lily-white genre, and relatively limited on fail–or at the very least, a general commitment to doing better than the usual crap one gets in spec fic media.

I’m hooked on this little town, Lake Wobegon meets Derry meets Gravity Falls. It fills the Prairie Home Companion niche for this generation, who watch the fall of world they cannot control, struggle not to fully succumb to corporate interests and marketing, keep tongue firmly in cheek while making dark in-jokes, and fail miserably when it comes to being entirely jaded about life.

I love that. I love Night Vale, I love hearing about everyone in it, not just Cecil and Carlos. I love that it’s touching and sweet in places, that there is always deeper meaning; that it’s our world, to borrow a turn of phrase, as seen through a glass (or perhaps an old oak doorframe), darkly.  And I love that it actually makes me laugh aloud in public places wearing headphones, causing other gym patrons to give me looks of concern.

So, long introduction over? It wasn’t really much of a choice when I found out the Night Vale crew were bringing their live show over, not only to Europe, but to Glasgow.2 The live shows had been doing ridiculously well in the US, and one never does know if this option will come up again. Therefore I plunked down my £18.50 moments after the sale opened, then promptly remembered/forgot/remembered again over the past couple of months that I was actually going, before having a moment of anxiety about going to a gig mid-week, and getting past that and dragging myself to the West End on a weeknight.

In retrospect, I’m not quite sure what I expected, but I was not in the slightest way disappointed.

Oran Mor is a deconsecrated church turned venue/restaurant/bar, and I knew it’d be atmospheric. I’d been past it plenty of times in my old days in Hillhead. But the interiors are something else, particularly in the Auditorium where the gig was held–the bare bones of a church, with walls and steeple covered in paintings and slogans and busts of thinkers, stylistic modernist outsider art with a spiritual twist meeting 60s-style countercultural murals. Musical guest Mary Epworth noted it was the ‘most Night Vale venue’ they’d performed in yet, and that really does sum it up. If you’re in Glasgow, it’s worth a nosy.

The crowd was receptive and 100% behind the performers, though not quite as rowdy as I’ve heard ones in the US have been, which suits me, particularly as I was on my own. Though I hadn’t been in queue since 4:30, I didn’t have any trouble getting a good seat due to being a single ticket. Huge relief that, as I get very frustrated in theatres and cinemas when I have a rubbish view.3

Mary Epworth was a delightful musical guest–though I wasn’t certain the audience was with her initially, people soon picked up and cheered her on. Epworth is a stylistic heir to the British electric folk and progressive folk genres, and I can appreciate that taking a song or two to get used to (one never knows what the weather will be in Night Vale). If I had to pick a word to describe her work, it’d be ‘liminal’, somewhere between the real world and the supernatural, at once both grounded and ethereal. This made her a perfect match for the show, in retrospect, and one of the unobtrusive ways that the  performance was tailored to fit local audiences.4

By now the WTNV crew have long since ironed out any growing pains in doing live shows, and while I admit to being a bit sceptical at hearing about the first ones, I shouldn’t have been (more on this in a bit), and I certainly enjoyed the hell out of this one. As when listening to the podcast, time flew by and the performance was laugh-out-loud funny as well as just insightful and poignant enough to get to the heart; but in this case, the visual dimension really did add to the narrative.

Nowhere else was this more obvious than that all of the performers walked the thin line between remaining perfectly in character and completely smashing the fourth wall, even when it came to audience participation elements. The narrative, in fact, demanded this same liminality5, and it was a good reminder of just how talented the cast and creators of WTNV are, particularly fandom’s beloved Cecil Baldwin. I’ll admit here that he really is a joy to watch, and if you have the opportunity to see him in anything, do so.

What’s also testament to the talent of Fink, Cranor, et al, isn’t just that they pulled together an engaging, cohesive story that fits into the current plotline of the podcast6 without being plot-critical. It’s that ‘The Librarian’ is so engaging and so cohesive while incorporating so many call-backs to beloved elements throughout the series.

After all, any live performance generates certain expectations in the fan who turns up; they need some surprises but aren’t going to be satisfied with everything being new, and you better play the goddamn greatest hits while you’re at it. Avoiding spoilers, this show hit every single necessary note, as well as an unexpected one or two (a return from waaaaay back in the day). But above all, it’s proof of the solid writing and the belief and charisma of the talent that this came off without being clunky and overly obvious. When you add in the fact that this is a skeleton cast and crew working frantically under the burdens of international performance (travel and visas and show after show after show), the level of artistry here was pretty much stunning.

If you’re a WTNV fan7 –regardless of whether or not you’re just a faithful listener, a massive shipper, or the biggest analytical fangeek on the Tumblr dash–and you have the resources and ability, get thee hence to a live show. It enhances the immersive part of the fannish experience rather than revealing any backstage secrets, but I, for one, am more than okay with that. Night Vale needs to retain its mythos to fully function; it remains, even in live performance, snippets from another world just around the corner which tells us so very much about our own.

For more info with less rambling introspection:
Welcome to Night Vale
Mary Epworth
Òran Mór


  1. What do I mean? Interviewee and translator Kao Kalia Yang tells her and her uncle’s story here

  2. One learns to do grabby hands with this kind of thing, both when living in a flyover city in the US and off the beaten track…uh, really anywhere outside London…in the UK. 

  3. When possible, I must sit in the near-exact centre of a movie theater. It’s A Thing. 

  4. MINOR SPOILER: Though to be honest, I see Tamika Flynn and her reader posse as being as keen on the poetry of Jackie Kay and Liz Lochhead as they are on Carol Ann Duffy’s, my friends. 

  5. Yes, that word again, shut up, I like it. 

  6. That is, ‘bonus material’ of the sort we’re apparently due to get for the month of November, as they recover from non-stop trekking over most of Western and Central Europe over three weeks’ time. Can’t really blame ’em. 

  7. If you’re not, consider becoming one. 

time bomb town: on not watching Doctor Who

I feel rather guilty about not watching this series of Doctor Who, to be perfectly honest. Admittedly I feel guilty about a lot of things, it’s one of my default states, but still, fannish guilt is as valid as anything else.

It’s frustrating, as for several years my identity was pretty wrapped up in Being A Doctor Who Fan. As part of that, I’m at least partially responsible for several people either starting to watch the show or renewing their interest in it. These days I have easy access to it, being UK-based, and the shine didn’t entirely come off the penny by my learning what goes into the media industry sausage.1

I know what it’s not: while I’ve been critical of Steven Moffat, it didn’t stop me from watching Eleven; I actually find Clara to be an okay companion, though the Special Girl stuff does wear on me; and I said quite firmly that if they absolutely had to go with a white dude for Twelve, Peter Capaldi would be the only one I’d want. Hell, he’s even allowed the right accent, and if he’s riffing off Seven, I’m entirely cool with that. I like Seven.

But apparently I can’t be bothered. Some of this is anxiety around watching things I like2 and some of it is the fact that I simply don’t have the energy these days to face the potential crap. I have an overly analytical brain, and DW has never been a show I can watch where I know, or even can be fairly confident, that nothing big is going to bother me in a fail kind of way. Usually this wouldn’t be quite as much of a problem, admittedly–as many others have said before, marginalised people tend to elide a lot of bullshit when consuming media, or we would never consume anything ever again. Sometimes it ends up being beyond the pale or reaching critical mass.

The problem with DW is that I care too damn much. I want it not to fail, to be as interesting and nuanced as it is in the best fanworks. And because it’s ongoing, every new episode is another hope that falls apart into, inevitably, another utter disappointment.

This is not, by the way, me strictly going off at Moffat for fail, though I notice the overall fannish and critical tide is changing towards that, in an interesting development. (If you asked me, and you didn’t, I suspect this is due to recent shifts in SFF around awareness of social justice; it doesn’t matter if one likes it or buys it, one at least knows about it.) RTD was as guilty, in my book, of certain kinds of screwup.

Lightbulb moment: in my opinion, the tone of the Moffat-run show is currently one where the viewer anticipates nuance and complexity. The cues are there, the settings, the narratives–and then things just don’t pan out. RTD had a problem of building up far too much drama to ever be remotely resolved, but to me, it was forgivable in the sense that it was not to be taken as high art telly.

It works better explained in the metaphor of animal vids. No, seriously.

For me, RTD’s show is like one of a puppy that runs about the kitchen, tripping over its paws, bonking its snout into things and careening off them. RTD’s Who was at heart, even when dark, even when failing3, a big camp romp.

Moffat’s Who is like one of a cat that prowls the edge of the sofa, contemplating the jump to the top of the nearest piece of furniture. There’s a lot of wandering back and forth and pondering about it, possibly a brief nap in an odd position, and then finally, when you least expect it, it jumps, misses

And then shakes itself and walks off across the floor like Nothing Just Happened, Nothing To See Here.

And to be honest, I can really only put up with so much of that. I’ll store the Twelfth Doctor for some time when I have more of myself to spare, when things aren’t getting far too real and complex and problematic in the real world.

Or when the cat sticks the jump. Whichever comes first.


  1. Even the coolest-looking things are held together by spit and duct tape and a lot of hard poorly-compensated labour. 

  2. I’ve been fighting anticipatory anxiety around fandom and real life interaction for several years and I hate it SO MUCH

  3. Let’s not talk about Donna: mentally insert gif here of stick figure flipping off the heavens, going f uuuuuuuu

in the gyre (always coming home)

Hey, kids, I’m back, for my sins–a new theme, a tidy blogroll, and a different outlook on life.

Okay, maybe not that different. After all, I’m still generally grumpy and snarky and a bit of a cynic, but I’ll endeavour to be entertaining while I blether on.

Check out the about page for what passes for my mission statement, and I’ll get some content to you soon.  (e.g. when it’s not near to midnight on a Friday.)

but seas between us braid hae roared

I was going to do an epic post about the best classic rock Christmas songs, but life…okay, lazing around at the in-laws during the holiday season…got the better of me.

In lieu of that, here’s a sample from the list that’s appropriate today yet–James Taylor’s version of Auld Lang Syne.

Personally, I (heresy, I know) am not that big a fan of Robert Burns, sort of take him or leave him. I’m sure as hell not fond of Hogmanay, the Scottish take on New Year’s Eve, though it’s perhaps a bit more genuine than the Times Square Rockin’ New Years Whatever US version (both have too large of drunk crowds for my liking). And while I do love James Taylor, the rest of his holiday album is also take it or leave it, in my opinion.

But this suitably pensive limited-production take on Auld Lang Syne is far and away the best version of the song or poem I’ve ever heard. And with that–a happy new year to those on the Gregorian calendar.

So many people I know have had lousy times of it in 2012. In light of that, I hope that 2013 will be better for us all and for the world.