(no subject)
There are certain things in our lives that, over the course of time, become more important to us than we realize. They seep into our subconscious, grow their roots into tiny crevices in our minds that we didn't know we had. They take hold, influencing us from the deepest recesses of who we are.
Without our awareness, they change us. The way we talk, or think, or write. Or more.
These experiences take on a life of their own, painted in our brains with broad strokes of colors that don't exist. They come along in our lives only once or twice, if that. Many people, I imagine, never experience them.
For me, one of these things the only one I can actually think of is The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
Yes, it's just a book. Or a bunch of books, really. The world's only five-book trilogy. Or four really, since the fifth one just doesn't quite fit.
Just like The Davinci Code and Clinton's memoirs and whatever other topic du jour is just a book.
But then, it's not just a book. It's a fucking place. A time. A universe, a way of life. A philosophy unto itself more logical and believable and practical than the best musings of Plato or Nietzsche or any other hack.
It's one of those things that came to me at just exactly the right moment in my life. I discovered it quite at random one summer day long, long ago could there be any other way, really? and it slipped into the closing synapses of my brain, those tiny gaps just a breath away from fusing permanently as I trasitioned into early adulthood. It sneaked in at the last moment and stamped its seal into the hardening concrete, never to be removed.
And so it is. Twenty years on, that seal remains. I've relived every instance of Adams' brilliant universe from a thousand angles, seen each character from high and low, their images and personalities burned into my mind in a medium that defies description.
I can't tell you exactly what Zaphod Beeblebrox looks like or what colors his shirt is, or what color Trillian's eyes are or what Arthur's voice sounds like.
But I can tell you what those things don't look or sound like. And that is this: Any imagination of them that doesn't come from inside my head is the wrong one, period.
These beings have become a part of me, over the years. I've adopted bits of who they are into who I am, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
So you can imagine my horror at discovering that someone has, as was sickeningly inevitable, made a movie from this. I wonder if Douglas is rolling in his grave, or smiling.
I know that I'm not smiling. Since my earliest days of this experience, I've gone to great extents to keep my Hitchhiker's virginity. Rumors surfaced that the BBC had produced a radio series of it, and then a television thing. And I made damn sure over the years that I never so much as saw or heard a single second of any of that crap.
Because I know how that stuff works. One tiny dose of these caustic visualizations is all it takes to poison my pristine, unspoiled inner visions of what it all looks like. Or sounds like. Or whatever.
And so now, here in this God-forsaken Internet age of Every Single Fucking Thing on Earth Is Available Right This Minute, Shoved In Your Face Right Now, Here Have Some More, it's harder than ever to keep this corrosion away from me.
But so far, I have succeeded. So far, I have kept this bastardized version of my world at bay.
But it's hard. It beats at my defenses, tempting me like a fat line of coke or a cold frosty beer, reassuring me that it'll be okay to just take a little peek at it. How bad can it be, right? Just a little taste won't hurt.
But I stand fast. Because like hell it won't hurt.
As quickly as possible, I want this movie to fade itself into obscurity.
Without our awareness, they change us. The way we talk, or think, or write. Or more.
These experiences take on a life of their own, painted in our brains with broad strokes of colors that don't exist. They come along in our lives only once or twice, if that. Many people, I imagine, never experience them.
For me, one of these things the only one I can actually think of is The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
Yes, it's just a book. Or a bunch of books, really. The world's only five-book trilogy. Or four really, since the fifth one just doesn't quite fit.
Just like The Davinci Code and Clinton's memoirs and whatever other topic du jour is just a book.
But then, it's not just a book. It's a fucking place. A time. A universe, a way of life. A philosophy unto itself more logical and believable and practical than the best musings of Plato or Nietzsche or any other hack.
It's one of those things that came to me at just exactly the right moment in my life. I discovered it quite at random one summer day long, long ago could there be any other way, really? and it slipped into the closing synapses of my brain, those tiny gaps just a breath away from fusing permanently as I trasitioned into early adulthood. It sneaked in at the last moment and stamped its seal into the hardening concrete, never to be removed.
And so it is. Twenty years on, that seal remains. I've relived every instance of Adams' brilliant universe from a thousand angles, seen each character from high and low, their images and personalities burned into my mind in a medium that defies description.
I can't tell you exactly what Zaphod Beeblebrox looks like or what colors his shirt is, or what color Trillian's eyes are or what Arthur's voice sounds like.
But I can tell you what those things don't look or sound like. And that is this: Any imagination of them that doesn't come from inside my head is the wrong one, period.
These beings have become a part of me, over the years. I've adopted bits of who they are into who I am, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
So you can imagine my horror at discovering that someone has, as was sickeningly inevitable, made a movie from this. I wonder if Douglas is rolling in his grave, or smiling.
I know that I'm not smiling. Since my earliest days of this experience, I've gone to great extents to keep my Hitchhiker's virginity. Rumors surfaced that the BBC had produced a radio series of it, and then a television thing. And I made damn sure over the years that I never so much as saw or heard a single second of any of that crap.
Because I know how that stuff works. One tiny dose of these caustic visualizations is all it takes to poison my pristine, unspoiled inner visions of what it all looks like. Or sounds like. Or whatever.
And so now, here in this God-forsaken Internet age of Every Single Fucking Thing on Earth Is Available Right This Minute, Shoved In Your Face Right Now, Here Have Some More, it's harder than ever to keep this corrosion away from me.
But so far, I have succeeded. So far, I have kept this bastardized version of my world at bay.
But it's hard. It beats at my defenses, tempting me like a fat line of coke or a cold frosty beer, reassuring me that it'll be okay to just take a little peek at it. How bad can it be, right? Just a little taste won't hurt.
But I stand fast. Because like hell it won't hurt.
As quickly as possible, I want this movie to fade itself into obscurity.