"I'm flying over for a close chat," said the voice, which sounded a little bit like a mix between Tom Selleck and the KITT (Knight Industries Two Thousand) voicebox.
"You're calling me a voicebox? Now? I was a fully interactiv--"
KITT was turned off.
Only Tom Selleck remained. "I don't like that you have switched off your companion," said Tom. "In real life, you can't just switch people off just like that."
"Just don't fly so close to my vehicle," I said, tersely over the radio. "It's enough that I'm contemplating various geometry as I hurtle through space and time, I don't need your moustache to pose issues."
"There, we have finally connected," said Tom. "This might be a first, man. This might be the first time a person actually shifted from one cockpit and began knocking on the next."
"And what are you knocking with, the bones of your knuckles?"
"What?"
"There's no way your skin will even survive these speeds. Let alone your oxygen helmet."
"I guess I'll just camp out here then, on your wing."
I looked at my controls and there weren't any more buttons to make it happen faster. There was only this slider that indicated the gradual increase of speed, and it was set at Maximum.
"Just make sure you do it according to safety regulations of making a fire on the wing. Don't want your lazy arse flinging me to oblivion," I told the guy.
Things began happening faster.
Friday, June 5, 2015
Sunday, May 24, 2015
"Someone"
Someone online has started calling me a racist.
At first, it left me a little uncertain, a little unsettled. My brain began to collate my own personal history with the question of race, and the fact that I, indeed, have been a lifelong victim of racism, and persecution. So it left me really puzzled, initially. Who was this person? And what had I done that must have been so horrible--so terrible--that accusations of racism were now being flung in my direction?
Then I realized that that must be how every racist thinks. That somewhere in their mind one of the synapses has made a very clear decision that "Nope, I'm not having any more of this. There is no possibility of me being a racist".
There was a lot of smoke in the room. And there was this...mixture of noise. I almost felt like I was right at home, that this was my comfy place. Being in this zone allowed me the privilege of contemplation. Because, usually, I'm very blunt to people. Very tit for tat. You say words to me, I disintegrate your previous comment with a special mix of my own. Extremely quickly, but regardless of thought or conscience. It has landed me in oceans of trouble, but over the years I've learned to deal with this annoying feature of mine. Seriously I can only be friends with people who already know I'm not really a terrible man. Because of shit that I say.
Anyway, this time I was able to come back with a decent response, I feel. "I don't want to be," I said to my accuser. But I said it while looking directly into his eyes. "I never want to be that. Never want to be that person. How could you even suggest such a thing?"
We were floating in mid-air, flying through space as though passengers in an aeroplane. Except, there was no plane. There wasn't even an aisle or two. Everything had stopped existing, and there were only two people. Me, the defendant, and my accuser. "Witness, I explained to the fellow, "how quickly we are traveling. At this speed, there is just no--room--for racism."
"So you will accept me as I am?"
"No."
"WTF"
"I can't." By this time I had become blind. You know how some people can smell different colors? Blue and orange? Some people can actually live just by imagining those colors. I was feeling like that was happening to me, at that point.
My opponent was not an idiot by any stretch. He knew what was going on. He knew the number of the game. He knew I was a real person, with buttons. Buttons that could be pushed. "So you are a racist. Who won't accept me."
"I need you to tell me about you. I need to hear your story," I replied. "That's all. I need to learn about you--who you are, your name--everything about you. What cellphone plan you subscribe to, your purchasing habits. The decisions you make in everyday life."
The accuser stared at me, but I had already been looking directly into his eyes all the while. I felt I was a passionate man, and that I had empathy, and so it allowed me to figure people out, simply by staring into their eyes. They unravel, you see. They unfold. Characteristics slowly seep out. Diagnostics are revealed and their personality slowly starts to shine. "You see, I could stare at you like this forever. But it would take a very long time. And the results would probably not be as accurate as--"
"As what?"
"--as, if you told me in your own words."
"So what you're saying is that this is an opportunity for me. To disclose details, to reveal myself. You are opening yourself up to my manner of being, allowing me to penetrate your existence with my wholeness."
"As data," I carefully pointed out. "Information about who you are."
.
That night they called me names in my sleep. Names from when I was young. Disparaging names. Mutilations. But I knew who I was, so I just waved back, and I was terribly arrogant about it.
At first, it left me a little uncertain, a little unsettled. My brain began to collate my own personal history with the question of race, and the fact that I, indeed, have been a lifelong victim of racism, and persecution. So it left me really puzzled, initially. Who was this person? And what had I done that must have been so horrible--so terrible--that accusations of racism were now being flung in my direction?
Then I realized that that must be how every racist thinks. That somewhere in their mind one of the synapses has made a very clear decision that "Nope, I'm not having any more of this. There is no possibility of me being a racist".
There was a lot of smoke in the room. And there was this...mixture of noise. I almost felt like I was right at home, that this was my comfy place. Being in this zone allowed me the privilege of contemplation. Because, usually, I'm very blunt to people. Very tit for tat. You say words to me, I disintegrate your previous comment with a special mix of my own. Extremely quickly, but regardless of thought or conscience. It has landed me in oceans of trouble, but over the years I've learned to deal with this annoying feature of mine. Seriously I can only be friends with people who already know I'm not really a terrible man. Because of shit that I say.
Anyway, this time I was able to come back with a decent response, I feel. "I don't want to be," I said to my accuser. But I said it while looking directly into his eyes. "I never want to be that. Never want to be that person. How could you even suggest such a thing?"
We were floating in mid-air, flying through space as though passengers in an aeroplane. Except, there was no plane. There wasn't even an aisle or two. Everything had stopped existing, and there were only two people. Me, the defendant, and my accuser. "Witness, I explained to the fellow, "how quickly we are traveling. At this speed, there is just no--room--for racism."
"So you will accept me as I am?"
"No."
"WTF"
"I can't." By this time I had become blind. You know how some people can smell different colors? Blue and orange? Some people can actually live just by imagining those colors. I was feeling like that was happening to me, at that point.
My opponent was not an idiot by any stretch. He knew what was going on. He knew the number of the game. He knew I was a real person, with buttons. Buttons that could be pushed. "So you are a racist. Who won't accept me."
"I need you to tell me about you. I need to hear your story," I replied. "That's all. I need to learn about you--who you are, your name--everything about you. What cellphone plan you subscribe to, your purchasing habits. The decisions you make in everyday life."
The accuser stared at me, but I had already been looking directly into his eyes all the while. I felt I was a passionate man, and that I had empathy, and so it allowed me to figure people out, simply by staring into their eyes. They unravel, you see. They unfold. Characteristics slowly seep out. Diagnostics are revealed and their personality slowly starts to shine. "You see, I could stare at you like this forever. But it would take a very long time. And the results would probably not be as accurate as--"
"As what?"
"--as, if you told me in your own words."
"So what you're saying is that this is an opportunity for me. To disclose details, to reveal myself. You are opening yourself up to my manner of being, allowing me to penetrate your existence with my wholeness."
"As data," I carefully pointed out. "Information about who you are."
.
That night they called me names in my sleep. Names from when I was young. Disparaging names. Mutilations. But I knew who I was, so I just waved back, and I was terribly arrogant about it.
Saturday, April 25, 2015
tobi decides to return
---
tobi is a chinese spy sent to the united states in order to alleviate the local's misunderstandings about china, and chinese domestic affairs. But where is teep? Surely we won't get shot to shit.
---
Return of Tobi:
"I told you that you can return whenever you please," was the instruction.
"Whenever I *fucking* please," was the countermand.
"Don't mess with my schedule."
They all laughed. "Schedule?"
.
Tobi considered quietly. Then he declared: "Yo you heard of RRules?"
.
There was a long gap. Then someone sent: "I hope you're not fucking around with RRules."
"Times recur, sometimes," said Tobi. "I'm still wrapping my head around it."
"Tobi. tobi Tobi t0bi."
"Yes?"
"Motherfucking tobi."
"Nope."
"It is time."
The bullets came from Nowhere, which is also a place considered. Tobi was saved by someone who prefers not to be noticed.
tobi is a chinese spy sent to the united states in order to alleviate the local's misunderstandings about china, and chinese domestic affairs. But where is teep? Surely we won't get shot to shit.
---
Return of Tobi:
"I told you that you can return whenever you please," was the instruction.
"Whenever I *fucking* please," was the countermand.
"Don't mess with my schedule."
They all laughed. "Schedule?"
.
Tobi considered quietly. Then he declared: "Yo you heard of RRules?"
.
There was a long gap. Then someone sent: "I hope you're not fucking around with RRules."
"Times recur, sometimes," said Tobi. "I'm still wrapping my head around it."
"Tobi. tobi Tobi t0bi."
"Yes?"
"Motherfucking tobi."
"Nope."
"It is time."
The bullets came from Nowhere, which is also a place considered. Tobi was saved by someone who prefers not to be noticed.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
Ghost Story X
Saturday, April 4, 2015
Sweet Inclusion
everything so salty
sometimes malty?
Never paltry!
sweet inclusion
the observation of happiness,
'n synthesis thereof.
by including sweet into there diet.
sometimes malty?
Never paltry!
sweet inclusion
the observation of happiness,
'n synthesis thereof.
by including sweet into there diet.
Friday, April 3, 2015
Indy...Asps. Very Dangerous.
Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh Indiana,
Indiana, Indiana
Jones
If you could see yer own state you'd be embarrassed to your
bones.
But don't you worry, don't you worry, The Marriages will keep
goin',
With pizza pies for everyone, and on each slice two whole toppings one would
presume.
Because let's all support the classy act of catered pizza for a wedding.
Indiana, Indiana
Jones
If you could see yer own state you'd be embarrassed to your
bones.
But don't you worry, don't you worry, The Marriages will keep
goin',
With pizza pies for everyone, and on each slice two whole toppings one would
presume.
Because let's all support the classy act of catered pizza for a wedding.
Saturday, February 28, 2015
'Second Voice' Technique
In most literature, the 'second voice' is where 'you' are involved in the plot somehow. Usually the story starts something like: "You find yourself in a strange cave, and you are a floating presence. By simply indicating mentally (whatever that means) you find that you can move forward." Then the media provides the reader with a means by which to 'move'.
This is not, however, what I mean by it here.
.
"Hello," said a Third Person; let's call him Peter. Let's call him Peter Small to be precision microparts.
"Hello Peter. Hello Peter...Small."
"My body has been destroyed by life in general, and, having made my way up the copororaratereal ladder, I now find the public and entire government are against me."
Careful needles began to examine Peter Small. They made melodies, and sang small ditties about some Large Concepts, such as the importance that these cronies off the backbone should be able to maintain their sorts of 'fiefdoms' and 'duchies' so as to properly arbitrate the essence of the Internet to the poor gaming and movie files watching masses.
"After all, they're putting the next Star Wars on in a coupla years--what if some dude is actually recording everything Disney is making, and enjoying it with his friends right now?"
"Oh nooooooo! Shall we kill him then? Pulverize?"
"Yes," said Peter Small.
.
Before I'd heard the first voice, I'd been a gas. I'd wheeze about. I'd proceed, and do my operations and my work that I was interested in. It was codified. I had methods, and if methods were not enough, they would be contained within classes. If classes became too topological, we has cross-cutting ways. I became renowned for my abilities--not by name, but by ability. People would leer at me, asking if I can do what I claim, and then I would do what they didn't know they really wanted. If I cared.
Basically, if there was something I cared enough about, I would just naturally be able to hack into it. <--T-h-----i--s is important. I had to care about it. Also, towards the latter era of this existence, I found myself speaking a little too much in the first-person for comfort, and therefore I self-terminated at a terminal emulation on someone else's window manager.
.
The lives of free souls like Duane were supposed to easily transcend to their natural next positions in the ecosphere of totality.
However, because of Peter Small, Duane was unable to. Peter had killed the neutrality of the Internet at a point that was really inconvenient for Duane, and Duane's entire being--the essence of his soul--kind of was, just, blocked.
.
That's why he awoke in this realm of colors; twelve, fifteen and thirty two. With floating points twirling around them. The sound of a woman deciding she wanted to curl into him after a long night of self-imposed isolation. The integers were all a deeper green and the fractions sent notes of very serious ruby red.
He knew he was broken to pieces, and so he just waited. He couldn't say anything because his narrative voice had been crushed by Peter Small.
That's when the second voice came enabled: "What possible routines could be enacted to pick up and fling these small broken pieces of machinery together?"
This is not, however, what I mean by it here.
.
"Hello," said a Third Person; let's call him Peter. Let's call him Peter Small to be precision microparts.
"Hello Peter. Hello Peter...Small."
"My body has been destroyed by life in general, and, having made my way up the copororaratereal ladder, I now find the public and entire government are against me."
Careful needles began to examine Peter Small. They made melodies, and sang small ditties about some Large Concepts, such as the importance that these cronies off the backbone should be able to maintain their sorts of 'fiefdoms' and 'duchies' so as to properly arbitrate the essence of the Internet to the poor gaming and movie files watching masses.
"After all, they're putting the next Star Wars on in a coupla years--what if some dude is actually recording everything Disney is making, and enjoying it with his friends right now?"
"Oh nooooooo! Shall we kill him then? Pulverize?"
"Yes," said Peter Small.
.
Before I'd heard the first voice, I'd been a gas. I'd wheeze about. I'd proceed, and do my operations and my work that I was interested in. It was codified. I had methods, and if methods were not enough, they would be contained within classes. If classes became too topological, we has cross-cutting ways. I became renowned for my abilities--not by name, but by ability. People would leer at me, asking if I can do what I claim, and then I would do what they didn't know they really wanted. If I cared.
Basically, if there was something I cared enough about, I would just naturally be able to hack into it. <--T-h-----i--s is important. I had to care about it. Also, towards the latter era of this existence, I found myself speaking a little too much in the first-person for comfort, and therefore I self-terminated at a terminal emulation on someone else's window manager.
.
The lives of free souls like Duane were supposed to easily transcend to their natural next positions in the ecosphere of totality.
However, because of Peter Small, Duane was unable to. Peter had killed the neutrality of the Internet at a point that was really inconvenient for Duane, and Duane's entire being--the essence of his soul--kind of was, just, blocked.
.
That's why he awoke in this realm of colors; twelve, fifteen and thirty two. With floating points twirling around them. The sound of a woman deciding she wanted to curl into him after a long night of self-imposed isolation. The integers were all a deeper green and the fractions sent notes of very serious ruby red.
He knew he was broken to pieces, and so he just waited. He couldn't say anything because his narrative voice had been crushed by Peter Small.
That's when the second voice came enabled: "What possible routines could be enacted to pick up and fling these small broken pieces of machinery together?"
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