Sunday, February 13, 2011
prologue?
I regret to inform you that this will not be a tale ending happily, peacefully or with any sort of merriment. You have decided to remain ignorant for far too long and now we must attempt to scrape back the layers upon layers of excrement and detritus which you have taken to believing as the truth of your origins. The depths of your ignorance is so painfully offensive that we have no choice but to spoon feed you your history one bitter morsel at a time. Bit by bit, bite by bite you shall be suckled until you are full and beg us to stop because you fear you’ll burst and we will continue to slowly, oh so slowly, fill you with the knowledge you have tried so very hard to remove from your collective histories.
somewhere in the middle
“Sir, the United States ambassador is here.”
She looked up from her terminal, her good eye boring through the messenger. “Is that so,” she replied in her usual bored manner, “and what, pray tell, would the United States ambassador want?”
The messenger, a young lieutenant stepped to the side to reveal a haggard looking woman appearing to be in her late forties or possible early fifties. Her hair was cut short and her dark eyes were sharp behind the small round glasses she wore. “Sir, with your leave, I think I’ll let the ambassador speak for herself.”
Her dark eyes took in the large room and its occupants in one graceful sweep, “ I am Melissa Thorne, and I have been sent to inquire regarding terms.”
“Well Melissa Thorne, exactly what terms are you referring to,” came the reply with a toothy one-eyed wolf grin.
“I’m not here to play games,” Ambassador Thorne retorted sharply.” I’ve been sent to offer you our surrender.”
“Then it seems you have wasted a trip ambassador.”
“Why do you say that? A call for peace can never be a waste of time.”
“Your nations hypocrisy truly is astounding, Ambassador Thorne. Or is it that you simply have a terribly short memory? Well, let me refresh it. This war need never have started. We begged and pleaded with you to find some peaceful solution, but you thought that because ours was a new and small nation you could dictate to us. You thought that we would be awed and overwhelmed into submitting to your demands. Before any blood was spilled we told you how this would end. Leave here Ambassador Thorne and tell your nation, surrender is denied. Tell them that those who wish for war so very badly have no say as to its conclusion. If they ask you when this war will end, you tell them that once we’re done killing your soldiers we’re going to keep on killing until there is nothing left but some arbitrary lines on a map full of orphans living in the burned out carcasses of what used to be cities. Now, run along Ambassador, the death of a nation doesn’t happen by itself and as you can imagine it is terribly time consuming.”
Ambassador Melissa Thorne was left standing wide-eyed, mouth agape and thoroughly forgotten. She felt like a child sent to her room without supper after a stern scolding. Deep down, buried deep beneath the horror of what she’d just been told she couldn't quite shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe they deserved whatever was about to come next.
She looked up from her terminal, her good eye boring through the messenger. “Is that so,” she replied in her usual bored manner, “and what, pray tell, would the United States ambassador want?”
The messenger, a young lieutenant stepped to the side to reveal a haggard looking woman appearing to be in her late forties or possible early fifties. Her hair was cut short and her dark eyes were sharp behind the small round glasses she wore. “Sir, with your leave, I think I’ll let the ambassador speak for herself.”
Her dark eyes took in the large room and its occupants in one graceful sweep, “ I am Melissa Thorne, and I have been sent to inquire regarding terms.”
“Well Melissa Thorne, exactly what terms are you referring to,” came the reply with a toothy one-eyed wolf grin.
“I’m not here to play games,” Ambassador Thorne retorted sharply.” I’ve been sent to offer you our surrender.”
“Then it seems you have wasted a trip ambassador.”
“Why do you say that? A call for peace can never be a waste of time.”
“Your nations hypocrisy truly is astounding, Ambassador Thorne. Or is it that you simply have a terribly short memory? Well, let me refresh it. This war need never have started. We begged and pleaded with you to find some peaceful solution, but you thought that because ours was a new and small nation you could dictate to us. You thought that we would be awed and overwhelmed into submitting to your demands. Before any blood was spilled we told you how this would end. Leave here Ambassador Thorne and tell your nation, surrender is denied. Tell them that those who wish for war so very badly have no say as to its conclusion. If they ask you when this war will end, you tell them that once we’re done killing your soldiers we’re going to keep on killing until there is nothing left but some arbitrary lines on a map full of orphans living in the burned out carcasses of what used to be cities. Now, run along Ambassador, the death of a nation doesn’t happen by itself and as you can imagine it is terribly time consuming.”
Ambassador Melissa Thorne was left standing wide-eyed, mouth agape and thoroughly forgotten. She felt like a child sent to her room without supper after a stern scolding. Deep down, buried deep beneath the horror of what she’d just been told she couldn't quite shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe they deserved whatever was about to come next.
Friday, October 01, 2010
Musings at the Edge
Musings at the Edge
“ Do you ever think that maybe, just maybe, we might be the bad guys?”
“Of course not.”
“But, how can you be so sure?”
“Well that’s simple enough, we can’t be the bad guys.”
“Huh? Why not, I mean if you have good guys then you have bad guys.”
“True enough, but you’re forgetting a very important point.”
“Really…well then do tell.”
“We are we, and they are they.”
“Okay you lost me.”
“Sigh…you know you really are a bit dense some times. Weren’t you some kind of super genius before the shit hit the fan?”
“I worked in astrophysics so excuse me for not being able to decipher your cryptic murmuring s out here at the edge of beyond , and around the corner from the devils own ass crack. So are you going to explain what you mean or can I shoot you and save our mysterious alien enemies the trouble.”
“Such a violent individual you are.”
“supposedly that’s a good thing when you get drafted to fight unknown bad guys light years from home.”
“Touché. Anyway what I meant is that we can’t be the bad guys, because the bad guys are always the other guys. “
“What?”
“Think about it, the universe is made up of we and them. We equals good, them equals bad. To us bank robbers and serial killers are bad guys, to bank robbers and serial killers cops are the bad guys. If you start thinking of yourself as the bad guy you wind up with a seriously fucked sense of self. “
“So you’re saying that by virtue of being us we are automatically the good guys .”
“Yep.”
“But then doesn’t that mean that to our enemies we are the bad guys?
“Double yep.”
“In that case doesn’t that mean we’re both bad guys?”
“ I told you, if you start seeing yourself as the bad guy you’re going to totally screw your self image. I prefer to think of us all as being good guys. On my happier days there’s even a princess to rescue.”
“You know, sometimes I think I wish an alien would get you.”
“
No you don’t.”
“Is that so?”
“Yep. You like having me around. Think about it, as long as I’m around you have a fifty fifty chance of getting killed in an attack. If I wasn’t around your odds of getting alien KO’ed go way the hell up. Besides, as long as you have me to talk to you have a reason o get up every morning. What would you do with yourself you didn’t have my witty banter to keep you going? Speaking of morning, I’m going to sleep, wake me when it’s my watch.”
“You’re just going to sleep, just like that?”
“Bingo, the way I see it Kirk couldn’t have gotten all the hot alien babes and I pan on meeting a few in my dreams. Maybe a blue one, with three tits…and a tail.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
“If I’m lucky, and if you play your cards right I’ll let you play with the middle tit. I’ve only got two hands after all.”
“ Do you ever think that maybe, just maybe, we might be the bad guys?”
“Of course not.”
“But, how can you be so sure?”
“Well that’s simple enough, we can’t be the bad guys.”
“Huh? Why not, I mean if you have good guys then you have bad guys.”
“True enough, but you’re forgetting a very important point.”
“Really…well then do tell.”
“We are we, and they are they.”
“Okay you lost me.”
“Sigh…you know you really are a bit dense some times. Weren’t you some kind of super genius before the shit hit the fan?”
“I worked in astrophysics so excuse me for not being able to decipher your cryptic murmuring s out here at the edge of beyond , and around the corner from the devils own ass crack. So are you going to explain what you mean or can I shoot you and save our mysterious alien enemies the trouble.”
“Such a violent individual you are.”
“supposedly that’s a good thing when you get drafted to fight unknown bad guys light years from home.”
“Touché. Anyway what I meant is that we can’t be the bad guys, because the bad guys are always the other guys. “
“What?”
“Think about it, the universe is made up of we and them. We equals good, them equals bad. To us bank robbers and serial killers are bad guys, to bank robbers and serial killers cops are the bad guys. If you start thinking of yourself as the bad guy you wind up with a seriously fucked sense of self. “
“So you’re saying that by virtue of being us we are automatically the good guys .”
“Yep.”
“But then doesn’t that mean that to our enemies we are the bad guys?
“Double yep.”
“In that case doesn’t that mean we’re both bad guys?”
“ I told you, if you start seeing yourself as the bad guy you’re going to totally screw your self image. I prefer to think of us all as being good guys. On my happier days there’s even a princess to rescue.”
“You know, sometimes I think I wish an alien would get you.”
“
No you don’t.”
“Is that so?”
“Yep. You like having me around. Think about it, as long as I’m around you have a fifty fifty chance of getting killed in an attack. If I wasn’t around your odds of getting alien KO’ed go way the hell up. Besides, as long as you have me to talk to you have a reason o get up every morning. What would you do with yourself you didn’t have my witty banter to keep you going? Speaking of morning, I’m going to sleep, wake me when it’s my watch.”
“You’re just going to sleep, just like that?”
“Bingo, the way I see it Kirk couldn’t have gotten all the hot alien babes and I pan on meeting a few in my dreams. Maybe a blue one, with three tits…and a tail.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
“If I’m lucky, and if you play your cards right I’ll let you play with the middle tit. I’ve only got two hands after all.”
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
ghosts
A low hum becomes a solid thrumming whir. Somewhere far away impossibly large, complex machines of a long since forgotten time awaken from a slumber that should have lasted for eternity and beyond. Countless lights flicker to life along hundreds of corridors which haven’t heard the busy rhythmic patter of footfalls for unknown millennia. Ancient stale and stagnant air is cycled from the empty living areas of a thousand thousand long departed beings. Life slowly, methodically, deliberately reinstated where only fleeting memories and the layered dust of ages should reside.
Along a line of large metal sarcophagi a solitary machine moves on six spindly legs. Arachnid with a vaguely humanoid form rising from it, a malformed centaur, inspecting each in turn ensuring the status and safety of their precious contents. Seven total. Only five need attention, the remaining two lay silent and empty having already fulfilled their purpose and discharged their materials. Out of seven, five remain, only five more chances to forestall the loss of all. The first was a seed a beginning and rebirth the second was a surgical instrument, a subtle attempt, a gentle course correction. It had worked for a time, slow steady progress, but progress turned to stagnation and stagnation led to corruption. The corruption, the decay then led to the unthinkable. The occurrence that should never be began to happen…regression. Things had become dire, drastic measures were now necessary. Where a scalpel was once sufficient a sledgehammer is now needed.
Only a low hum could be heard from the gleaming sarcophagi as the machine moved nimbly among them. It was searching, scanning each box for the proper tool. It lingered at one set apart from the other six. It was different. Where six of the sarcophagi sat on the floor equidistant from each other with their long ends parallel to the wall, one box stood against the opposite wall almost as if watching over the others. Six boxes with the look of quicksilver. One the dark crimson of flowing blood. Four fragile arms take hold of the anomaly, it had the waxen feel of the recently deceased. If the machine had feelings it would have felt dread and trepidation at the sight of that peculiar container, but it had no emotions only it’s duty and the sledgehammer it needed most probably lay within.
Like any other tool, this one had to be properly stored until time called for its use. Like a skilled craftsman that spindly, malformed centaur inspected his dread package slowly with four ocular lenses, methodically checking connections and seals carefully vigilant for damage and outward signs of anything amiss. Slowly, slowly, bit by bit, square millimeter by square millimeter the crimson box was inspected. Finally satisfied, the bizarre caretaker takes hold of its large charge and with the casual strength of a mastodon placed that dire package upon its back. Its business there concluded, six legs quickly carry it and the burden from a cavernous vault that will most likely never again see visitors. If the current tool is successful there will be no need t ever again disturb the ghosts of the past and if the hammer fails there will be nothing left.
Along a line of large metal sarcophagi a solitary machine moves on six spindly legs. Arachnid with a vaguely humanoid form rising from it, a malformed centaur, inspecting each in turn ensuring the status and safety of their precious contents. Seven total. Only five need attention, the remaining two lay silent and empty having already fulfilled their purpose and discharged their materials. Out of seven, five remain, only five more chances to forestall the loss of all. The first was a seed a beginning and rebirth the second was a surgical instrument, a subtle attempt, a gentle course correction. It had worked for a time, slow steady progress, but progress turned to stagnation and stagnation led to corruption. The corruption, the decay then led to the unthinkable. The occurrence that should never be began to happen…regression. Things had become dire, drastic measures were now necessary. Where a scalpel was once sufficient a sledgehammer is now needed.
Only a low hum could be heard from the gleaming sarcophagi as the machine moved nimbly among them. It was searching, scanning each box for the proper tool. It lingered at one set apart from the other six. It was different. Where six of the sarcophagi sat on the floor equidistant from each other with their long ends parallel to the wall, one box stood against the opposite wall almost as if watching over the others. Six boxes with the look of quicksilver. One the dark crimson of flowing blood. Four fragile arms take hold of the anomaly, it had the waxen feel of the recently deceased. If the machine had feelings it would have felt dread and trepidation at the sight of that peculiar container, but it had no emotions only it’s duty and the sledgehammer it needed most probably lay within.
Like any other tool, this one had to be properly stored until time called for its use. Like a skilled craftsman that spindly, malformed centaur inspected his dread package slowly with four ocular lenses, methodically checking connections and seals carefully vigilant for damage and outward signs of anything amiss. Slowly, slowly, bit by bit, square millimeter by square millimeter the crimson box was inspected. Finally satisfied, the bizarre caretaker takes hold of its large charge and with the casual strength of a mastodon placed that dire package upon its back. Its business there concluded, six legs quickly carry it and the burden from a cavernous vault that will most likely never again see visitors. If the current tool is successful there will be no need t ever again disturb the ghosts of the past and if the hammer fails there will be nothing left.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Waking Dreams
Close your eyes, think of heaven, and know that you're dreaming.
Close your eyes, think of hell, and know that you're there.
Close your eyes, think of hell, and know that you're there.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Please Don't
"i can stop anytime"
that was five years ago
"I’m not hurting anyone"
that was two funerals ago
"i can handle it"
here, let me tie your shoes
"i've been doing this for as long as i can remember"
do you remember yesterday
"i don’t have a problem"
what do you have
"it makes me feel good"
and then
"all my friends are doing it"
where are they now
"you aren't my mother or father"
you missed their funeral
"who died and made you boss"
too many
"you aren't better than me"
i know, do you
"just leave me alone"
you already are
that was five years ago
"I’m not hurting anyone"
that was two funerals ago
"i can handle it"
here, let me tie your shoes
"i've been doing this for as long as i can remember"
do you remember yesterday
"i don’t have a problem"
what do you have
"it makes me feel good"
and then
"all my friends are doing it"
where are they now
"you aren't my mother or father"
you missed their funeral
"who died and made you boss"
too many
"you aren't better than me"
i know, do you
"just leave me alone"
you already are
Mary
Mary stood on that slim barrier of stonework and looked at the street below. It was early evening, but that didn't stop the busy flow of people coming in and going out of the courthouse. She came up to the roof to clear her head and wipe the tears away. The wind ruffled her simple dress and whipped through her long auburn hair. Her eyes still puffy and red as she squinted against the rush of cool autumn air. Mary looked out over the setting, at the first stars peeking through the twilight and a hazy moon battling to outshine the last vestiges of sunlight.
For twelve years Mary had Sara alone. When Jim found out she was pregnant, Sara's father took off. All he could say for himself was how young he was and how he couldn't be stuck with a kid now. Mary had called the cab herself, if he didn't want them so be it. After Sara was born, Mary took whatever jobs would pay the bills. So for twelve years she had worked two and three jobs at a time, and would go home to a daughter that never stopped smiling and was always eager to cheer her mother on. One month ago that all changed.
Mary and Sara were playing chess when the door bell rang. There stood Jim, in all his miserable weasel glory, wearing an expensive suit and carrying a box under one arm. Twelve years and not so much as a word from him and then he just shows up. Mary felt a well of anger she didn't know she had as she dropped him with a wicked right hook. It wasn't until after he hit the hall carpeting that she noticed the other suit standing outside her door. Jim started to whimper as he rubbed his chin. Mary felt a twinge of pity and ushered the two inside.
She didn't bother with pleasantries; the two wouldn't be staying long. Turned out the suit was a lawyer, an expensive one. Jim had made some money on the stock market, found a pretty blonde to marry and decided he wanted to play daddy now. The box Jim had was a doll for Sara, a peace offering, for neglecting her for twelve years. Mary showed them the door amidst promises of long days in court.
It didn't take long for the suit and the moron to make good on their word. Mary had spent most of the last week in court, Jim was winning but he and his suit had to fight and claw for every inch they gained against her. Before getting pregnant Mary was accepted to law school, a fact she never shared with Jim before he skipped out. With the help of a very smart, very supportive little girl Mary was ready to start classes in a few months. It wasn't enough though.
The suit was good, or bad, a lawyer doing what’s best for his client walks a fuzzy line. He kept hammering away at Mary's life, taking any opportunity to show her as an unfit mother. It always came back to money, rather her lack of it. Like money was all there was to life. With very little of it Mary had managed to raise a healthy, happy, intelligent little girl. What about the future they kept asking. Teenage girls have lots of needs, and what about college, how could she afford to send Sara. They treated her like dirt throughout those days, she was starting to get a little nagging thought in the back of her head. Maybe they were right. That’s when the tears started, what if they were right? What if she wasn't as good a mom as she thought? What if Sara would be better off with Jim?
Court was in recess and Mary went up to the roof. She didn't plan on jumping, yet she found herself on top of a short wall a mere six inches between her and oblivion. She looked out over the darkening city, lights blinking on against the approaching night. Twelve years, she thought. For twelve years her first thought was always about Sara. She looked down at the street again and frowned. Mary turned and hopped back down to the roof. "I'm her mother damn it," she said heading for the stairs, "I will not lose to that bastard."
For twelve years Mary had Sara alone. When Jim found out she was pregnant, Sara's father took off. All he could say for himself was how young he was and how he couldn't be stuck with a kid now. Mary had called the cab herself, if he didn't want them so be it. After Sara was born, Mary took whatever jobs would pay the bills. So for twelve years she had worked two and three jobs at a time, and would go home to a daughter that never stopped smiling and was always eager to cheer her mother on. One month ago that all changed.
Mary and Sara were playing chess when the door bell rang. There stood Jim, in all his miserable weasel glory, wearing an expensive suit and carrying a box under one arm. Twelve years and not so much as a word from him and then he just shows up. Mary felt a well of anger she didn't know she had as she dropped him with a wicked right hook. It wasn't until after he hit the hall carpeting that she noticed the other suit standing outside her door. Jim started to whimper as he rubbed his chin. Mary felt a twinge of pity and ushered the two inside.
She didn't bother with pleasantries; the two wouldn't be staying long. Turned out the suit was a lawyer, an expensive one. Jim had made some money on the stock market, found a pretty blonde to marry and decided he wanted to play daddy now. The box Jim had was a doll for Sara, a peace offering, for neglecting her for twelve years. Mary showed them the door amidst promises of long days in court.
It didn't take long for the suit and the moron to make good on their word. Mary had spent most of the last week in court, Jim was winning but he and his suit had to fight and claw for every inch they gained against her. Before getting pregnant Mary was accepted to law school, a fact she never shared with Jim before he skipped out. With the help of a very smart, very supportive little girl Mary was ready to start classes in a few months. It wasn't enough though.
The suit was good, or bad, a lawyer doing what’s best for his client walks a fuzzy line. He kept hammering away at Mary's life, taking any opportunity to show her as an unfit mother. It always came back to money, rather her lack of it. Like money was all there was to life. With very little of it Mary had managed to raise a healthy, happy, intelligent little girl. What about the future they kept asking. Teenage girls have lots of needs, and what about college, how could she afford to send Sara. They treated her like dirt throughout those days, she was starting to get a little nagging thought in the back of her head. Maybe they were right. That’s when the tears started, what if they were right? What if she wasn't as good a mom as she thought? What if Sara would be better off with Jim?
Court was in recess and Mary went up to the roof. She didn't plan on jumping, yet she found herself on top of a short wall a mere six inches between her and oblivion. She looked out over the darkening city, lights blinking on against the approaching night. Twelve years, she thought. For twelve years her first thought was always about Sara. She looked down at the street again and frowned. Mary turned and hopped back down to the roof. "I'm her mother damn it," she said heading for the stairs, "I will not lose to that bastard."
Musings on the Distant Future
100,000 years from now the various catastrophes that humanity had feared never manifested. Some slight changes in weather occurred, but humanity managed to come to its collective senses in time to muster the full might of their science in or to avoid its own destruction. Science saved the world and the scientists were seen as the saviors to liberate humanity from the greed, corruption and violence which had so far plagued its existence and so the scientists were seen as infallible and given a free reign to do as they saw fit. Unfortunately mans science always outpaces his conscious.
Humanity soon saw two major rifts formed in the fabric of society; that between the industrialized nations and the underdeveloped world and then between the two main schools of thought within the industrial peoples. The first rift was caused because most of the scientific and technical knowledge rests in the industrial world and they see science and technology as the solution to all of the worlds problems. Among these people two prevailing schools of thought manifested. On the one hand you have those who believe that technology is the one true path to a utopian existence and began to call themselves the Technocrats. On the other hand you have those who believe that the path to perfection lies with genetic modification and began to call themselves the Perfectionaries.
Technocrats began to delegate more and more of their daily lives to the machinery around them as they focused on developing their craft. They designed and built, redesigned and rebuilt until every aspect of their lives was a well regulated machine. It wasn’t long before they realized that the one thing they still didn’t have control over was life itself. So little by little they began to replace life with A-Life. Children were no longer born but were instead made in the image of their forefathers. They had achieved immortality for the price of a soul.
The Perfectionaries used their genetic science to create a race of being with long life and disease resistance. One thing they couldn’t do with their science was splice out the social conflicts that are a part of human diversity. Their solution to this problem was the limiting of that diversity. Reproduction through normal means were outlawed and the entire population sterilized at birth. To ensure perfection, genetic samples were taken from the entire population. If they proves themselves worthy through displays of excellence and adherence to the collective will, a modified clone is produced with memories of the originals knowledge and experience. Those that prove themselves unworthy are terminated and their genetic data is removed from the collective pool. In this way they create a homogenous society, immortality in exchange for obedience at the cost of individuality.
In the underdeveloped countries manpower is the primary means of getting things done. Most of the underdeveloped countries have strong culture beliefs towards the purity of the body and mind. That cultural doctrine coupled with the lack of technical and industrial resources lead to a society were people strive for physical prowess in order to compete with their modified neighbors. The purists are not made like the technocrats and selectively bred like the Perfectionaries and so they find their lives a competition for justification of their existence. Through hard work and dedication they have to make themselves as strong, if not stronger than their modified kin lest they be sucked into their genetic pools or augmenting facilities.
Humanity soon saw two major rifts formed in the fabric of society; that between the industrialized nations and the underdeveloped world and then between the two main schools of thought within the industrial peoples. The first rift was caused because most of the scientific and technical knowledge rests in the industrial world and they see science and technology as the solution to all of the worlds problems. Among these people two prevailing schools of thought manifested. On the one hand you have those who believe that technology is the one true path to a utopian existence and began to call themselves the Technocrats. On the other hand you have those who believe that the path to perfection lies with genetic modification and began to call themselves the Perfectionaries.
Technocrats began to delegate more and more of their daily lives to the machinery around them as they focused on developing their craft. They designed and built, redesigned and rebuilt until every aspect of their lives was a well regulated machine. It wasn’t long before they realized that the one thing they still didn’t have control over was life itself. So little by little they began to replace life with A-Life. Children were no longer born but were instead made in the image of their forefathers. They had achieved immortality for the price of a soul.
The Perfectionaries used their genetic science to create a race of being with long life and disease resistance. One thing they couldn’t do with their science was splice out the social conflicts that are a part of human diversity. Their solution to this problem was the limiting of that diversity. Reproduction through normal means were outlawed and the entire population sterilized at birth. To ensure perfection, genetic samples were taken from the entire population. If they proves themselves worthy through displays of excellence and adherence to the collective will, a modified clone is produced with memories of the originals knowledge and experience. Those that prove themselves unworthy are terminated and their genetic data is removed from the collective pool. In this way they create a homogenous society, immortality in exchange for obedience at the cost of individuality.
In the underdeveloped countries manpower is the primary means of getting things done. Most of the underdeveloped countries have strong culture beliefs towards the purity of the body and mind. That cultural doctrine coupled with the lack of technical and industrial resources lead to a society were people strive for physical prowess in order to compete with their modified neighbors. The purists are not made like the technocrats and selectively bred like the Perfectionaries and so they find their lives a competition for justification of their existence. Through hard work and dedication they have to make themselves as strong, if not stronger than their modified kin lest they be sucked into their genetic pools or augmenting facilities.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Rusting Steel and Molding Pages
I remember once, many years ago, telling a classmate that when I died they would hold parades in my honor. Our teacher happened to be walking by at the time and made a comment to the affect that I had set quite the lofty goal for myself. These many years later the names of that teacher and classmate have long since been forgotten by me, but not my promise never that. Sometimes I think I would be much happier, or at least content, if I could simply forget the vow of a naive boy. Other times I believe that reaching for that seemingly unattainable goal is what separates we human being from the poor dumb beasts that so graciously adorn our dinner tables. I will have my parade even if it means mobilizing every beggar and street urchin I can gather to walk the distance for the promise of a sandwich or bottle of scotch.
By way of education I suppose I’m a historian, truly an underappreciated and misunderstood lot of fanatics and social misfits. History was by no means my first calling, I sort of fell into it, and while I was cobbling together my BA I became a cook. In fact I was a cook long before I became a Bachelor of Arts. After high school I had no idea what I wanted to do with myself. I knew I wanted to go to college, I wanted to be the first college grad in my family, but I needed money. I pondered selling drugs for a short bit, the hours were good the pay was great, but I didn’t have any connections and I was too pretty for jail. I decided to go with a different type of retail and signed up with a certain mega retail chain known for its door greeters and abusing its employees, yeah that one.
Every bad thing you have ever heard about the mega retailer is probably true. I call it the big blue devil and refuse to buy anything from them. The hours were bad, the pay paltry, and most of my coworkers fell into two categories; the soon to be deceased and the parolees. Don’t get me wrong, my coworkers were a great bunch of people trying to make the best of a bad situation. Would I leave them alone with my mother, no. I had the honor of working overnight, ten to seven, and volumes could be written about the people that work and shop overnight. My primary reason for leaving the great blue devil was the overwhelming miasma of the place. It had the effect of making you question every part of your life and making you think that this was all you were good for. I decided to leave before I acquired the same hollow eyed stare and empty half smile of my older coworkers, the walking wounded. I could only image what went through their minds every night, perhaps mistakes they’ve made, perhaps the break they never got, perhaps they managed to convince themselves that this was the best they could do and they should simply be glad to have a job. My thoughts were all to clear to me, at the forefront was a promise I made years earlier, and the knowledge that parades aren’t thrown for people who work for the big blue devil. Really, the best I could hope to get from them was a paupers grave and my last paycheck would probably be docked the price of flowers I would never receive.
Next I found myself working food service for a theme park, the pay was better and I had been cooking since I was six the scar on my wrist is testament to that. It was during my tenure at this theme park that I applied to and was accepted by Christopher Newport University. I decided to go with a slow and steady approach to college since I took full time work and had to make work schedules and class schedules complement each other. The theme park was a great choice for the summer months when I didn’t have class and could work as much as I wanted, unfortunately I still wasn’t making enough so I had to resort the dreaded student loans. During the winter the park was closed and I was in school so I had to find work with flexible scheduling, this meant service industry work and the best pay was in food service and prostitution. Considering my severe allergy to STDs I decided to stick with the lower paying but more stable food industry. This path led me through cafés and delis and eventually full service restaurants. Slowly honing my skills as I steadily familiarized myself with various cooking methods in different environments with different people.
On the academic front I was beginning to feel a bit disillusioned. I had originally signed up as a biology major due to my interest in nature. After a few semesters of lecturing from unkempt hippies and the mind numbing repetitive drudgery of lab work I decided to switch my major to computer engineering. A couple of semesters of near vision loss from countless hours staring at computer monitors in search of bad coding coupled with my lack of advanced calculus skills led me to search for a new major. I settled on history as my major for a number of reasons. I had always been a capable writer so that aspect of it was of no problem. Books had always been my closest and oldest friends and the prospect of pouring over obscure text was something I looked forward to. Lastly, I chose history because most of the people I had to deal with were good and dead basically in no danger of causing me annoyance.
Finally I’ve graduated. As I search for a permanent job my books sit collecting dust and my knives grow dull. It would seem that this world of ours doesn’t realize how much they need historians. I search every day for a job in the field of my study and yet the fire calls to me. The constant hustle and bustle. The never ending battle of us versus them. The comrades. Comrades, not co-workers, because a kitchen is a war zone and you succeed or fail with the man or woman standing next to you. Our uniforms were white and our knives the only weapons needed.
We are misfits and outcasts, cutthroats and degenerates, artists and philosophers, lovers and fighters, pirates and privateers. I have had the pleasure of working with mothers, fathers, sisters, and brother. With junkies and dealers, sinners and holy rollers and I never felt more at home than in the chaos of our personal battlefield. Of all the things we are, we are a brotherhood of fire and steel. Though my knives may grow a bit tarnished and my books might grow a bit dingy no one ever truly leave this affiliation, for once the fire wraps itself around the core of your being it will constantly be attracted to flame and the clatter of steel. While the fire burns in one form or another, there will always be time to organize a parade.
By way of education I suppose I’m a historian, truly an underappreciated and misunderstood lot of fanatics and social misfits. History was by no means my first calling, I sort of fell into it, and while I was cobbling together my BA I became a cook. In fact I was a cook long before I became a Bachelor of Arts. After high school I had no idea what I wanted to do with myself. I knew I wanted to go to college, I wanted to be the first college grad in my family, but I needed money. I pondered selling drugs for a short bit, the hours were good the pay was great, but I didn’t have any connections and I was too pretty for jail. I decided to go with a different type of retail and signed up with a certain mega retail chain known for its door greeters and abusing its employees, yeah that one.
Every bad thing you have ever heard about the mega retailer is probably true. I call it the big blue devil and refuse to buy anything from them. The hours were bad, the pay paltry, and most of my coworkers fell into two categories; the soon to be deceased and the parolees. Don’t get me wrong, my coworkers were a great bunch of people trying to make the best of a bad situation. Would I leave them alone with my mother, no. I had the honor of working overnight, ten to seven, and volumes could be written about the people that work and shop overnight. My primary reason for leaving the great blue devil was the overwhelming miasma of the place. It had the effect of making you question every part of your life and making you think that this was all you were good for. I decided to leave before I acquired the same hollow eyed stare and empty half smile of my older coworkers, the walking wounded. I could only image what went through their minds every night, perhaps mistakes they’ve made, perhaps the break they never got, perhaps they managed to convince themselves that this was the best they could do and they should simply be glad to have a job. My thoughts were all to clear to me, at the forefront was a promise I made years earlier, and the knowledge that parades aren’t thrown for people who work for the big blue devil. Really, the best I could hope to get from them was a paupers grave and my last paycheck would probably be docked the price of flowers I would never receive.
Next I found myself working food service for a theme park, the pay was better and I had been cooking since I was six the scar on my wrist is testament to that. It was during my tenure at this theme park that I applied to and was accepted by Christopher Newport University. I decided to go with a slow and steady approach to college since I took full time work and had to make work schedules and class schedules complement each other. The theme park was a great choice for the summer months when I didn’t have class and could work as much as I wanted, unfortunately I still wasn’t making enough so I had to resort the dreaded student loans. During the winter the park was closed and I was in school so I had to find work with flexible scheduling, this meant service industry work and the best pay was in food service and prostitution. Considering my severe allergy to STDs I decided to stick with the lower paying but more stable food industry. This path led me through cafés and delis and eventually full service restaurants. Slowly honing my skills as I steadily familiarized myself with various cooking methods in different environments with different people.
On the academic front I was beginning to feel a bit disillusioned. I had originally signed up as a biology major due to my interest in nature. After a few semesters of lecturing from unkempt hippies and the mind numbing repetitive drudgery of lab work I decided to switch my major to computer engineering. A couple of semesters of near vision loss from countless hours staring at computer monitors in search of bad coding coupled with my lack of advanced calculus skills led me to search for a new major. I settled on history as my major for a number of reasons. I had always been a capable writer so that aspect of it was of no problem. Books had always been my closest and oldest friends and the prospect of pouring over obscure text was something I looked forward to. Lastly, I chose history because most of the people I had to deal with were good and dead basically in no danger of causing me annoyance.
Finally I’ve graduated. As I search for a permanent job my books sit collecting dust and my knives grow dull. It would seem that this world of ours doesn’t realize how much they need historians. I search every day for a job in the field of my study and yet the fire calls to me. The constant hustle and bustle. The never ending battle of us versus them. The comrades. Comrades, not co-workers, because a kitchen is a war zone and you succeed or fail with the man or woman standing next to you. Our uniforms were white and our knives the only weapons needed.
We are misfits and outcasts, cutthroats and degenerates, artists and philosophers, lovers and fighters, pirates and privateers. I have had the pleasure of working with mothers, fathers, sisters, and brother. With junkies and dealers, sinners and holy rollers and I never felt more at home than in the chaos of our personal battlefield. Of all the things we are, we are a brotherhood of fire and steel. Though my knives may grow a bit tarnished and my books might grow a bit dingy no one ever truly leave this affiliation, for once the fire wraps itself around the core of your being it will constantly be attracted to flame and the clatter of steel. While the fire burns in one form or another, there will always be time to organize a parade.
Monday, January 30, 2006
a spot of religion
honestly i'm not sure what led me to this train of thought but here i am. the topic is adam and eve and their expulsion from eden.what if thwey were expelled from the garden asan act of mercy rather than the punishment people seem to see it as. how can denial of paradise be an act of mercy you ask? well think about it, they only got kicked out after they ate fruit from the tree of knowledge and then were ashamed of their nakedness and hid. don't you see?!? Ignorance is bliss so had they not eaten from the tree they would have lived in blissful ignorance for the rest of their lives, but after gaining knowledge for how much longer do you suppose they would have been happy to stay in the garden knowing that there was a larger orld out there that they would never experience? stone walls do not a prison make nor iron bars a cage. how long would it have been before they began to resent being kept like animals in a zoo? true they had everything they needed but they would never have a free life. so forseeing their eventual unhappiness they were cast out of the garden to live their lives.
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