The Dark California Sun
A frightening speculative future where Hollywood has completely run out of new ideas.
I remember it like it was yesterday. Whistle a happy tune, and you will always have a song in your heart! I remember my father used to say his father told him that his father learned from his father that there was a pasttime in the 'old Earth', where new and exciting visions and words were brought forth each and every day. Now, though, a dark cloud has settled over the land, and today they are nothing more than memories.
I will never forget the look on her face when she told me. The sun was warm that day, but I felt cold ice in my veins. No, not regular winter storm cold. Much worse, like the Gods of the Arctic had come down from the heavens and visited my soul.
I looked out the window of my cottage, a small, secluded fortess deep in the woods, far hidden away from a world gone mad. I tried my best not to turn around; I did not want her to see my melancholy, and futilely attempt to brighten my world.
I could not, would not, in a million years believe it. All of the creative ideas for new works in the arts--gone! All used up! I had heard stories, legends if you will, told of how the "Hollywood machine" was running out of new ideas. It was just a sarcastic rumor, really. All anyone could produce anymore were remakes of old cartoons and television shows. But I never dreamed it would actually materialize.
"Why do you still turn away and not look me in the eye?" she asked, finally. "Don't you believe me? Why would I make up a story such as this? I cannot, anyway. "There are no more stories to tell."
"Yes, there are. I'm sure there are." I tried to hold back my tears, but they had other plans. "Just look deep inside yourself, and I'm sure you can come up with new tales. Why would you think that your own thoughts have been dreamed up by somebody else, already?"
"Because it's true."
My Lord, she was beautiful. The kind of beauty that could only be sent by the heavens, making a man wonder if it was just a mirage, or the real thing, even if it only lasted for a short while. Yet another lesson handed down by my father, who was taught by his, and himself by his own, and so forth, until the first day back at the beginning of time when men and women were first captivated by each other.
I told myself, just for a moment, that I would gladly trade in this feeling she gave me--if I indeed had the power to do so--for the chance to see a new film, or hear a new song, or read even one page from a new book, once again. It has been so long; much of my life has been filled with repeats. No! I must erase that vile thought from my mind! Nothing should be worth wishing a life away! Nothing!
"Why don't you come for a walk with me?" she continued. "I want you to run from this so-called sanctuary, which is really a prison, and come see the rest of the world. Stop trying to convince yourself it isn't pretty anymore just because nothing new can be found. Besides, so much was made before it ended that I'm sure there are many things you haven't experienced yet. So it will be new to you."
"And what happens when I truly finish with all of it? Am I going to be relegated to run through it all again? I will get bored after a short time. Most anyone would. We as persons were not meant to stagnate. We have to learn and know new things if we are to grow and be happy."
"You can still be happy. When you come across something familiar, just think, 'I remember that now.' Think back to where you were and what you were doing when it first came upon you. You can use it as a pleasant memory for when life if not well."
I grabbed my coat and started for the door. The smile on her face told me she was pleased that I was doing as she asked. But if that was the only reason, then I was less than satisfied, for it meant I relinquished all control to her. "I'm just...afraid. I'm afraid, that's all. I fear I will not enjoy it. I fear it will sadden me. It already has. And I fear we will run into many others who feel as I do.
"Don't worry," she urged. "Everything will be alright. Come...take my hand." As I placed her hand in mine, little did I realize how much I would miss my humble home. And how much I would be able to convince her of the same feeling. She would break down and cry.
We were neighbors, yet strangers, in an isolated land not far removed from the main kingdom. Each of us, separately, was exiled from the city for daring to question the truth about finding new material. It was the way things had to be, I suppose. Though one big difference between her and I was that I was filled with hope of changing things, whereas she was content to accept the world as it is.
We walked in silence down a country lane to the middle of town, where merchants could often be found peddling their wares on cobblestone streets. At one particular booth, a gentleman held out a small sample cup to me filled with strawberry fruit puree. I took it eagerly. I forgot to take something to eat from home. On a high shelf of the back of his venue, a modest, tabletop radio was playing a song I think I may have heard before, but I wasn't sure. The proprietor told me the man singing was named Elvis Presley, and the song was called *Can't Help Falling in Love With You*. I exclaimed, "See? I told you! That's new , isn't it? I know I havent heard it before!"
My companion answered, "Sorry, wrong again. This is a very old song. It's from the mid-twentieth century, I think."
"And you mean to tell me that after all that time, five hundred years later, no one could come up with anything different?"
"That's right," she answered. "There are no more ideas for new songs, anymore. Everything that can be made has been made."
The guy in the booth spoke for the first time. "Or maybe folks simply stopped trying. Perhaps due to the law of the land, sad to say."
"What do you mean by that?" I inquired. "What is this about a law?"
"Well, not many people know about this--and you didn't hear it from me--but there is a rumor lately that there are laws secretly put in place to suppress the creation of new material. I suppose the government men and women think it's too difficult to think up anything new, so they want everyone to think what they want them to think. We must only rely on the old stuff. Also, having new things created will make us happy. And they don't want us to be too happy, because we will be tempted to think we can have other freedoms, as well. And if we're given too much freedom, we may overthrow the system and their control of us."
"If it's true..."
"If it's true, we should uncover this plot. How would you feel if you found out that new shows and songs you thought up were not allowed to be made public, just to perpetuate the plan?"
"It's not true," she said.
"But what if it is?" I prodded.
"It's not."
A momentary silence passed between me and the old man, though it seemed like forever. "You don't think she's working for them, do you?" I tried my best to whisper. The man just shrugged his shoulders.
She said, "If you thought I was one of them, would you be certain to risk inquiring of such a thing, presuming there was chance I'd take you in?"
I just looked at her. I didn't say a word, but my face said a million.
At about this time, a small crowd had started to gather, enticed by the banter. A kindly old woman, dressed in stripes with a polka dot shawl, emerged from the group so steathily I didn't even see her. "You youngsters better listen up. The man is right. There's a great conspiracy among us. They won't allow us to create anything new. They try to win us over by giving us hope, but the smart ones like me...we know better," she scowled with a warning finger held up.
"Come with me, my lady," I said, taking my companion's hand. "We must find out the truth."
"I am sorry that in the short while I have lived near you and passed time as the sun blazes the sky, that I never officially introduced myself. My name is Kara. I'm Kara Vanderlese."
The old man shirked back in fear for a moment. "Not the Kara who was exiled? They say you're dangerous."
(To be continued...)
A frightening speculative future where Hollywood has completely run out of new ideas.
I remember it like it was yesterday. Whistle a happy tune, and you will always have a song in your heart! I remember my father used to say his father told him that his father learned from his father that there was a pasttime in the 'old Earth', where new and exciting visions and words were brought forth each and every day. Now, though, a dark cloud has settled over the land, and today they are nothing more than memories.
I will never forget the look on her face when she told me. The sun was warm that day, but I felt cold ice in my veins. No, not regular winter storm cold. Much worse, like the Gods of the Arctic had come down from the heavens and visited my soul.
I looked out the window of my cottage, a small, secluded fortess deep in the woods, far hidden away from a world gone mad. I tried my best not to turn around; I did not want her to see my melancholy, and futilely attempt to brighten my world.
I could not, would not, in a million years believe it. All of the creative ideas for new works in the arts--gone! All used up! I had heard stories, legends if you will, told of how the "Hollywood machine" was running out of new ideas. It was just a sarcastic rumor, really. All anyone could produce anymore were remakes of old cartoons and television shows. But I never dreamed it would actually materialize.
"Why do you still turn away and not look me in the eye?" she asked, finally. "Don't you believe me? Why would I make up a story such as this? I cannot, anyway. "There are no more stories to tell."
"Yes, there are. I'm sure there are." I tried to hold back my tears, but they had other plans. "Just look deep inside yourself, and I'm sure you can come up with new tales. Why would you think that your own thoughts have been dreamed up by somebody else, already?"
"Because it's true."
My Lord, she was beautiful. The kind of beauty that could only be sent by the heavens, making a man wonder if it was just a mirage, or the real thing, even if it only lasted for a short while. Yet another lesson handed down by my father, who was taught by his, and himself by his own, and so forth, until the first day back at the beginning of time when men and women were first captivated by each other.
I told myself, just for a moment, that I would gladly trade in this feeling she gave me--if I indeed had the power to do so--for the chance to see a new film, or hear a new song, or read even one page from a new book, once again. It has been so long; much of my life has been filled with repeats. No! I must erase that vile thought from my mind! Nothing should be worth wishing a life away! Nothing!
"Why don't you come for a walk with me?" she continued. "I want you to run from this so-called sanctuary, which is really a prison, and come see the rest of the world. Stop trying to convince yourself it isn't pretty anymore just because nothing new can be found. Besides, so much was made before it ended that I'm sure there are many things you haven't experienced yet. So it will be new to you."
"And what happens when I truly finish with all of it? Am I going to be relegated to run through it all again? I will get bored after a short time. Most anyone would. We as persons were not meant to stagnate. We have to learn and know new things if we are to grow and be happy."
"You can still be happy. When you come across something familiar, just think, 'I remember that now.' Think back to where you were and what you were doing when it first came upon you. You can use it as a pleasant memory for when life if not well."
I grabbed my coat and started for the door. The smile on her face told me she was pleased that I was doing as she asked. But if that was the only reason, then I was less than satisfied, for it meant I relinquished all control to her. "I'm just...afraid. I'm afraid, that's all. I fear I will not enjoy it. I fear it will sadden me. It already has. And I fear we will run into many others who feel as I do.
"Don't worry," she urged. "Everything will be alright. Come...take my hand." As I placed her hand in mine, little did I realize how much I would miss my humble home. And how much I would be able to convince her of the same feeling. She would break down and cry.
We were neighbors, yet strangers, in an isolated land not far removed from the main kingdom. Each of us, separately, was exiled from the city for daring to question the truth about finding new material. It was the way things had to be, I suppose. Though one big difference between her and I was that I was filled with hope of changing things, whereas she was content to accept the world as it is.
We walked in silence down a country lane to the middle of town, where merchants could often be found peddling their wares on cobblestone streets. At one particular booth, a gentleman held out a small sample cup to me filled with strawberry fruit puree. I took it eagerly. I forgot to take something to eat from home. On a high shelf of the back of his venue, a modest, tabletop radio was playing a song I think I may have heard before, but I wasn't sure. The proprietor told me the man singing was named Elvis Presley, and the song was called *Can't Help Falling in Love With You*. I exclaimed, "See? I told you! That's new , isn't it? I know I havent heard it before!"
My companion answered, "Sorry, wrong again. This is a very old song. It's from the mid-twentieth century, I think."
"And you mean to tell me that after all that time, five hundred years later, no one could come up with anything different?"
"That's right," she answered. "There are no more ideas for new songs, anymore. Everything that can be made has been made."
The guy in the booth spoke for the first time. "Or maybe folks simply stopped trying. Perhaps due to the law of the land, sad to say."
"What do you mean by that?" I inquired. "What is this about a law?"
"Well, not many people know about this--and you didn't hear it from me--but there is a rumor lately that there are laws secretly put in place to suppress the creation of new material. I suppose the government men and women think it's too difficult to think up anything new, so they want everyone to think what they want them to think. We must only rely on the old stuff. Also, having new things created will make us happy. And they don't want us to be too happy, because we will be tempted to think we can have other freedoms, as well. And if we're given too much freedom, we may overthrow the system and their control of us."
"If it's true..."
"If it's true, we should uncover this plot. How would you feel if you found out that new shows and songs you thought up were not allowed to be made public, just to perpetuate the plan?"
"It's not true," she said.
"But what if it is?" I prodded.
"It's not."
A momentary silence passed between me and the old man, though it seemed like forever. "You don't think she's working for them, do you?" I tried my best to whisper. The man just shrugged his shoulders.
She said, "If you thought I was one of them, would you be certain to risk inquiring of such a thing, presuming there was chance I'd take you in?"
I just looked at her. I didn't say a word, but my face said a million.
At about this time, a small crowd had started to gather, enticed by the banter. A kindly old woman, dressed in stripes with a polka dot shawl, emerged from the group so steathily I didn't even see her. "You youngsters better listen up. The man is right. There's a great conspiracy among us. They won't allow us to create anything new. They try to win us over by giving us hope, but the smart ones like me...we know better," she scowled with a warning finger held up.
"Come with me, my lady," I said, taking my companion's hand. "We must find out the truth."
"I am sorry that in the short while I have lived near you and passed time as the sun blazes the sky, that I never officially introduced myself. My name is Kara. I'm Kara Vanderlese."
The old man shirked back in fear for a moment. "Not the Kara who was exiled? They say you're dangerous."
(To be continued...)