I apologize in advance for all the spelling and grammatical errors. It was a long post, written fairly quickly.
I promise I'm not stealing this from J.M. Straczynski (learn, small children, learn: (studiojms.com). *Even before* yesterday's devastating post (newsarama.com/30468-why-j-michael-straczynski-is-leaving-comic-books-in-his-own-words.html), I was walking around, feeling a little bit like I might fall off at any time. This has been occurring for a couple of weeks now.
It's like, a strange weakness in the legs. Legs are fine, body is fine, but brain is worried about HP on the legs.
Unlike JMS, I I think I may have found my solution, though. See, I already knew that it was a kind of vision problem. A doctor had already warned me that in latter years, my vision could become an issue. Except, JMS is almost 90 (how else could he have been there when I was a child?), and I'm, like, barely 38.
The doctor (an ophthalmologist), had mentioned that I should start wearing sunglasses now, to prevent future disaster. She recommended some of the sunglasses available nearby. They were even in the same store.
Being wise for my age, I declined. "I haven't worn sunglasses since I was a teenager," I told her. "Not only do I lose sunglasses so easily to the point where they become pointless, but it was then that I realized I did not need such accoutrement in order to look cool.
I'm too cool to wear sunglasses," I said to this woman. Would it have made a difference if the ophthalmologist was a man? No. It's just that I'm too cool.
"You've become old," she replied. "Not as cool anymore. Trust me, wear them."
Today I was feeling the worst of not listening to advice. It *is* a vision problem. My brain *is* getting fucked by the sunlight due to my fucked up eyes. Then I came up with a solution.
I began walking around like the worst possible asshole in the universe. Seriously, I was walking around pretending I was Larry David. I began to imagine I was Larry David, walking around with round ass sunglasses. Now, if you saw me, you'd never see the resemblance. I mean--I have an ex-girlfriend who kind of looked like Larry David when she put on her sunglasses. But me? Nah. Totally not Larry David.
But I was. I was a total cynic at the entire world around me. I watched and observed everything:
"Why do we need 10 more Indian people on the street, these days? Does my presence not sufficiently cover the entire spectrum?"
"Is this what they call legs in New York, these days?"
"Do we really need more construction? What the fuck are these people installing? Some decent Internet for a change?
Seriously, why don't you take your fucking shitty big little drill and fuck off, unless you are installing real infrastructure."
"Who the fuck needs the Chelsea Hotel to be that shitty red?"
"The Sun is shit too. Better get the Hayden Planetarium et al. to update their program to reflect reality."
I was doing a quip per foot. And just like that I was okay. I was totally fine. I didn't feel like I was going to fall down.
"My legs don't need HP when they have full MP!"
It wasn't intense. It wasn't going to give me a heart attack. It was easy. It was always so easy to be a cynical little shit, that I had left it off when I was a teenager.
"I don't need fucking sunglasses. Because I can just *imagine* them", I laughed, later, at my eyes. I think they're still worried, though. "Forget watching the Cursed Child in the theater next year, fellas," I like to tease them, "we're going to be watching Braille". "Inspector Morse Code".
My eyes are like, "Please, please, please tell this motherfucker he's not a teenager anymore."
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Thursday, August 4, 2016
Sunday, July 24, 2016
Seven And Se7en
"I thought you were NEO! It's not adding up!"
"I gave you those sweet white rabbit sweets, where you can eat the wrapping paper."
"Well, I have a new boyfriend, now, and I don't need your sweets anymore. Can you leave me a lone?"
"Twenty-six fifty?"
"That'll cover it."
And that's how I decided I would join the police department of New York City. They figured I would end up dead in some kind of penitentiary or something. After having shot someone point blank in the head for making an arrangement with UPS.
"Why aren't there any true detectives around?" asks a woman who has misplaced her child at the pretzel vendor.
I give her a pretzel and suddenly she walks away, happily. Like my detective coat means nothing. I *was* the pretzel guy. Her child looks up at me, concerned about the receding apparition of her mom.
"I think she's teasing you," I tell the baby, and pick her up. We walk fast across tourists, and return the child to the mother. Nothing special. Matter of fact. Expected. Mothers don't lose children in Times Square. It doesn't happen.
I watch them walk into the stars, together.
.
My coat shatters. I feel that I am not a true detective.
"I gave you those sweet white rabbit sweets, where you can eat the wrapping paper."
"Well, I have a new boyfriend, now, and I don't need your sweets anymore. Can you leave me a lone?"
"Twenty-six fifty?"
"That'll cover it."
And that's how I decided I would join the police department of New York City. They figured I would end up dead in some kind of penitentiary or something. After having shot someone point blank in the head for making an arrangement with UPS.
"Why aren't there any true detectives around?" asks a woman who has misplaced her child at the pretzel vendor.
I give her a pretzel and suddenly she walks away, happily. Like my detective coat means nothing. I *was* the pretzel guy. Her child looks up at me, concerned about the receding apparition of her mom.
"I think she's teasing you," I tell the baby, and pick her up. We walk fast across tourists, and return the child to the mother. Nothing special. Matter of fact. Expected. Mothers don't lose children in Times Square. It doesn't happen.
I watch them walk into the stars, together.
.
My coat shatters. I feel that I am not a true detective.
Saturday, July 9, 2016
An Anime Idea, Parts 8 & 9
Part 8
"I don't know if you're ready, yet, y'know, Kuri?" said Arata, stroking the young man's head that appeared entirely dazed upon her lap. She was wearing her favorite skirt, a floral pattern she had seen in the night markets that intimated at her about space--as in 'space, and the universe out there'.
"Whaddya mean not ready yet?" asked Kuri, some of his eyes rolling aft, others very stern.
She laughed. "You don't even know anything about sailing, or ships, right now, do you?
No, what I mean is that you seem like a man who is sometimes very rich and textured, and fruitful with his intent and direction. Other times you are like a canoe. Wish-washy."
His head sank lower into her lap.
"I think you just need a little more soda." She poured a bottle of Pepsi over his face.
Pepsi-face sat up suddenly, and moved an inch from her.
They both sat in the dimness afforded by the poor bulb, with their heads between their knees. She, orange and reddish hints surrounding her form, and he with blue soda dripping down off his face.
.
"I-I have always known where the pain comes from," said Kuri. "It's when someone from my family is hurting. Then I know who and what it is, and how to stop it."
She nodded. "That's what happens to me too. But lately, even though we have transitioned into the summer," she said, and a firefly sat upon her shoulder, "and everyone I care about is healthy, fit and fine, I have been undergoing these shrouds of sadness and fear."
He tested whether he could lean against her, and she allowed him to. Their heads drew close.
"You smell like soda made of coca cola," she giggled at him.
"You're like a very tangy marmalade," he ventured with his lips.
Suddenly someone drove a very futuristic looking motorcycle into Arata's apartment, and skidded right against their face.
"Save the romance for a time when you have enough alcohol!" screamed the rider. "My name is Akira, and my mother is dying you slackers!"
Part 9
"I'm sorry that you feel putting a vinyl along the side of your moped that reads 'fU turistik' makes you feel that your vehicle is very futuristic, and allowed to crash through a wall into the apartment of a citizen," said Kuri. "And that you are offending the tourism industry of Chile with it."
Arata got up and went to her fridge. She came back with a bottle of whiskey for Kuri, and one for herself too.
"Come on guys, aren't you even excited to learn about how I know you feel other peoples' pain? And that I may have a idea as to why Dr. Chesterfield knows you experience it? And how you aren't imagining everything?" said Akira.
The couple murmured between sips and kisses of whiskey. "MMmmm...mmm..tongue tongue...lemme...tongue...guess...i twist here, you twist...your...slushie lip, dripping stubble...mom...is somehow...your hair feels amazing in my fingers...to blame?"
"You have let me down," said Akira, and he drove home a little less excitedly than he had entered. Somewhere in the all the noise, they heard his scooter slowly putt-putt-putt away into the city.
Eight minutes later they both dressed into their respective clothes.
The light in her apartment went out, and in the darkness he said, "It was, erm..."
"Painful?" she finished for him.
He nodded sheepishly. "I wish it would have been, you know--without the thought of Akira's mom on her deathbed. I mean. Not even just the thought of her. Her actual dying feelings. I lost my grandfather this way, too, you know?"
"I'm not interested about how your cherry popped, Kuri," said Arata.
"What I mean is, that is how I found out about my unusual condition. I was left in a coma for almost a month." The bulb flickered for a second, and her saw her face. "How did you realize who you are?"
"There's a hole in my apartment wall," said Arata in the darkness. "I guess we don't have any other option."
Kuri shook himself from his gloom. "I guess we've both found out why we're feeling all this pain. Somehow we've evolved, and my trait has gone beyond just my family."
He heard her walk, and then saw her bloom under the pale blue afforded by their city's street lights. She went dark, then bloomed again. For a second, that floral pattern of the universe appeared. Then went away. Dark. Then bloomed again.
He ran after her, until he reached her side. Then he held her hand, and they walked in the direction of Akira's home together.
"I don't know if you're ready, yet, y'know, Kuri?" said Arata, stroking the young man's head that appeared entirely dazed upon her lap. She was wearing her favorite skirt, a floral pattern she had seen in the night markets that intimated at her about space--as in 'space, and the universe out there'.
"Whaddya mean not ready yet?" asked Kuri, some of his eyes rolling aft, others very stern.
She laughed. "You don't even know anything about sailing, or ships, right now, do you?
No, what I mean is that you seem like a man who is sometimes very rich and textured, and fruitful with his intent and direction. Other times you are like a canoe. Wish-washy."
His head sank lower into her lap.
"I think you just need a little more soda." She poured a bottle of Pepsi over his face.
Pepsi-face sat up suddenly, and moved an inch from her.
They both sat in the dimness afforded by the poor bulb, with their heads between their knees. She, orange and reddish hints surrounding her form, and he with blue soda dripping down off his face.
.
"I-I have always known where the pain comes from," said Kuri. "It's when someone from my family is hurting. Then I know who and what it is, and how to stop it."
She nodded. "That's what happens to me too. But lately, even though we have transitioned into the summer," she said, and a firefly sat upon her shoulder, "and everyone I care about is healthy, fit and fine, I have been undergoing these shrouds of sadness and fear."
He tested whether he could lean against her, and she allowed him to. Their heads drew close.
"You smell like soda made of coca cola," she giggled at him.
"You're like a very tangy marmalade," he ventured with his lips.
Suddenly someone drove a very futuristic looking motorcycle into Arata's apartment, and skidded right against their face.
"Save the romance for a time when you have enough alcohol!" screamed the rider. "My name is Akira, and my mother is dying you slackers!"
Part 9
"I'm sorry that you feel putting a vinyl along the side of your moped that reads 'fU turistik' makes you feel that your vehicle is very futuristic, and allowed to crash through a wall into the apartment of a citizen," said Kuri. "And that you are offending the tourism industry of Chile with it."
Arata got up and went to her fridge. She came back with a bottle of whiskey for Kuri, and one for herself too.
"Come on guys, aren't you even excited to learn about how I know you feel other peoples' pain? And that I may have a idea as to why Dr. Chesterfield knows you experience it? And how you aren't imagining everything?" said Akira.
The couple murmured between sips and kisses of whiskey. "MMmmm...mmm..tongue tongue...lemme...tongue...guess...i twist here, you twist...your...slushie lip, dripping stubble...mom...is somehow...your hair feels amazing in my fingers...to blame?"
"You have let me down," said Akira, and he drove home a little less excitedly than he had entered. Somewhere in the all the noise, they heard his scooter slowly putt-putt-putt away into the city.
Eight minutes later they both dressed into their respective clothes.
The light in her apartment went out, and in the darkness he said, "It was, erm..."
"Painful?" she finished for him.
He nodded sheepishly. "I wish it would have been, you know--without the thought of Akira's mom on her deathbed. I mean. Not even just the thought of her. Her actual dying feelings. I lost my grandfather this way, too, you know?"
"I'm not interested about how your cherry popped, Kuri," said Arata.
"What I mean is, that is how I found out about my unusual condition. I was left in a coma for almost a month." The bulb flickered for a second, and her saw her face. "How did you realize who you are?"
"There's a hole in my apartment wall," said Arata in the darkness. "I guess we don't have any other option."
Kuri shook himself from his gloom. "I guess we've both found out why we're feeling all this pain. Somehow we've evolved, and my trait has gone beyond just my family."
He heard her walk, and then saw her bloom under the pale blue afforded by their city's street lights. She went dark, then bloomed again. For a second, that floral pattern of the universe appeared. Then went away. Dark. Then bloomed again.
He ran after her, until he reached her side. Then he held her hand, and they walked in the direction of Akira's home together.
Friday, July 8, 2016
An Anime Idea (Parts 6 & 7)
Part 1 is here
Part 6
Arata had fallen asleep before Kuri could even move again. She seemed conveniently poised, her back against a thin archway leading into her kitchen area, the dim light of living room hinting at her. Kuri began to move towards her, realizing that as he moved, he was leaving behind a trail of actual cream soda that led back to his original position. This was surprising. He had not realized that he bled cream soda.
Sugary and fizzy as it seemed, he crept on, toward Arata's body.
When he reached her, he was almost dead. He laid his head on her lap and asked, "Please can you rejuvenate me, Arata? I promise I won't take this type of advantage again. I only want to discuss our collective malady." Then he died upon her lap.
Part 7
"Do you mean why we both feel inexplicable pain?"
"Yes!"
"Why I've lost most of my friends, and why nobody believes me when I say to them, sometimes, that I cannot be there for them?"
"That is the worst!" said Kuri. "You say that to your friends?" he added, opening one eyelid.
"So you agree, there is no gender bias. It's not women who become depressive, or men who become physically weak, through this ailment?"
Kuri thought about that. "Well, typically women are accused of being weak at everything, so while I agree that there is no gender bias posited toward me, I will say that, I am a man. And what I experience is sort of a phenomena. And an unbalanced phenomena at that."
Arata was amused. "You're a phenomena, huh?"
"We may both be. I wrote this in my diary," said Kuri, before his head finally collapsed into her lap.
She took the diary from the fevered boy. It started: "Please read Part 1 of my diary, before you meet me in the battlefield. Perhaps then, we can both fathom as to the extent of our pain, and understand it together."
Part 6
Arata had fallen asleep before Kuri could even move again. She seemed conveniently poised, her back against a thin archway leading into her kitchen area, the dim light of living room hinting at her. Kuri began to move towards her, realizing that as he moved, he was leaving behind a trail of actual cream soda that led back to his original position. This was surprising. He had not realized that he bled cream soda.
Sugary and fizzy as it seemed, he crept on, toward Arata's body.
When he reached her, he was almost dead. He laid his head on her lap and asked, "Please can you rejuvenate me, Arata? I promise I won't take this type of advantage again. I only want to discuss our collective malady." Then he died upon her lap.
Part 7
"Do you mean why we both feel inexplicable pain?"
"Yes!"
"Why I've lost most of my friends, and why nobody believes me when I say to them, sometimes, that I cannot be there for them?"
"That is the worst!" said Kuri. "You say that to your friends?" he added, opening one eyelid.
"So you agree, there is no gender bias. It's not women who become depressive, or men who become physically weak, through this ailment?"
Kuri thought about that. "Well, typically women are accused of being weak at everything, so while I agree that there is no gender bias posited toward me, I will say that, I am a man. And what I experience is sort of a phenomena. And an unbalanced phenomena at that."
Arata was amused. "You're a phenomena, huh?"
"We may both be. I wrote this in my diary," said Kuri, before his head finally collapsed into her lap.
She took the diary from the fevered boy. It started: "Please read Part 1 of my diary, before you meet me in the battlefield. Perhaps then, we can both fathom as to the extent of our pain, and understand it together."
An Anime Idea (Parts 6 & 7)
Part 1 is here
Part 6
Arata had fallen asleep before Kuri could even move again. She seemed conveniently poised, her back against a thin archway leading into her kitchen area, the dim light of living room hinting at her. Kuri began to move towards her, realizing that as he moved, he was leaving behind a trail of actual cream soda that led back to his original position. This was surprising. He had not realized that he bled cream soda.
Sugary and fizzy as it seemed, he crept on, toward Arata's body.
When he reached her, he was almost dead. He laid his head on her lap and asked, "Please can you rejuvenate me, Arata? I promise I won't take this type of advantage again. I only want to discuss our collective malady." Then he died upon her lap.
Part 7
"Do you mean why we both feel inexplicable pain?"
"Yes!"
"Why I've lost most of my friends, and why nobody believes me when I say to them, sometimes, that I cannot be there for them?"
"That is the worst!" said Kuri. "You say that to your friends?" he added, opening one eyelid.
"So you agree, there is no gender bias. It's not women who become depressive, or men who become physically weak, through this ailment?"
Kuri thought about that. "Well, typically women are accused of being weak at everything, so while I agree that there is no gender bias posited toward me, I will say that, I am a man. And what I experience is sort of a phenomena. And an unbalanced phenomena at that."
Arata was amused. "You're a phenomena, huh?"
"We may both be. I wrote this in my diary," said Kuri, before his head finally collapsed into her lap.
She took the diary from the fevered boy. It started: "Please read Part 1 of my diary, before you meet me in the battlefield. Perhaps then, we can both fathom as to the extent of our pain, and understand it together."
Part 6
Arata had fallen asleep before Kuri could even move again. She seemed conveniently poised, her back against a thin archway leading into her kitchen area, the dim light of living room hinting at her. Kuri began to move towards her, realizing that as he moved, he was leaving behind a trail of actual cream soda that led back to his original position. This was surprising. He had not realized that he bled cream soda.
Sugary and fizzy as it seemed, he crept on, toward Arata's body.
When he reached her, he was almost dead. He laid his head on her lap and asked, "Please can you rejuvenate me, Arata? I promise I won't take this type of advantage again. I only want to discuss our collective malady." Then he died upon her lap.
Part 7
"Do you mean why we both feel inexplicable pain?"
"Yes!"
"Why I've lost most of my friends, and why nobody believes me when I say to them, sometimes, that I cannot be there for them?"
"That is the worst!" said Kuri. "You say that to your friends?" he added, opening one eyelid.
"So you agree, there is no gender bias. It's not women who become depressive, or men who become physically weak, through this ailment?"
Kuri thought about that. "Well, typically women are accused of being weak at everything, so while I agree that there is no gender bias posited toward me, I will say that, I am a man. And what I experience is sort of a phenomena. And an unbalanced phenomena at that."
Arata was amused. "You're a phenomena, huh?"
"We may both be. I wrote this in my diary," said Kuri, before his head finally collapsed into her lap.
She took the diary from the fevered boy. It started: "Please read Part 1 of my diary, before you meet me in the battlefield. Perhaps then, we can both fathom as to the extent of our pain, and understand it together."
Saturday, July 2, 2016
An Anime Idea (Part 5)
"Also, don't call me senpai. That is a term reserved only for someone older than oneself," said Arata, dressing the wounds Kuri had suffered from being thrown off the balcony.
"I was in a different state of mind when I said it," said Kuri, accepting her swaths of alcohol upon his open wounds.
She laughed as she finished dressing him up. "Did you really imagine this was some kind of fiction, and some guy was out there, in the open universe, writing about your predicament?" One of tips of the bandages was showing, so she got up, navigated to her dresser, and came back with an implement. She snipped off the offensive tip with the implement. "There. Now you look like, erm, what is your name again?"
Kuri was suddenly healed, and he sat up. His eyes were clear, and they looked into her no longer for her shoes, or dress, or her bodily sexiness, or even as the ample bosom who had just healed him, but as an equal, and a confidant.
"My name, shidoshi," said Kuri, "is Akahoshi Kurimusoda, or Kuri, for short. I have an unusual secret that I am now compelled to disclose."
"Shidoshi, huh?" Arata had walked away and was looking in what seemed to be her many closets and cupboards. "Yes, yes, we've heard that, but why don't we forego your secret for the meantime and discuss why you are named after a brand of soft drink?"
Kuri was aghast. "A-A-re you making fun of my name? At this holy moment?"
The being known as Arata began to break down at this point. She had been standing very tall and mighty, but now she was on the floor. Kuri had seen this kind of special effect before. A woman, completely in her own regard, and poise, lying on the floor and laughing uncontrollably. The way she moved seemed unseemly, almost horrific, but there was an immense sweetness to it.
"Are you sure? You want to know why my name is my name? This is going to increase the amount of time we have to get to our mutual resolution."
Arata, between her giggles, laughs, and outright bellows, managed, "W-what resolution--" seizures, by now, "what type of resolution(s) are you hoping for? Please? Please. Tell me about your name. I'm almost actually going to say L-O-L."
As has been intimated earlier, Kuri's most essential aspect is that he prefers to operate in states of absolute clarity. "I didn't mean to break into your apartment. It is just that, previously, no matter how hard I tried to reach you about a very deep question that I have, related to my suffering, I was met with general 'fuck you's. So I went drastic."
Arata finally sat up again. "Your suffering, huh? Well, I'm glad you didn't turn out to be a Hitler-type, at least. Alright then." She rose to the sink to clean her hands from his blood. The antiseptic was warm on her palms, and she tried to imagine what it might feel like to feel like her, except with physical ailment rather than mental ailment. "So tell me about your name, Kurimusoda-san."
"I was in a different state of mind when I said it," said Kuri, accepting her swaths of alcohol upon his open wounds.
She laughed as she finished dressing him up. "Did you really imagine this was some kind of fiction, and some guy was out there, in the open universe, writing about your predicament?" One of tips of the bandages was showing, so she got up, navigated to her dresser, and came back with an implement. She snipped off the offensive tip with the implement. "There. Now you look like, erm, what is your name again?"
Kuri was suddenly healed, and he sat up. His eyes were clear, and they looked into her no longer for her shoes, or dress, or her bodily sexiness, or even as the ample bosom who had just healed him, but as an equal, and a confidant.
"My name, shidoshi," said Kuri, "is Akahoshi Kurimusoda, or Kuri, for short. I have an unusual secret that I am now compelled to disclose."
"Shidoshi, huh?" Arata had walked away and was looking in what seemed to be her many closets and cupboards. "Yes, yes, we've heard that, but why don't we forego your secret for the meantime and discuss why you are named after a brand of soft drink?"
Kuri was aghast. "A-A-re you making fun of my name? At this holy moment?"
The being known as Arata began to break down at this point. She had been standing very tall and mighty, but now she was on the floor. Kuri had seen this kind of special effect before. A woman, completely in her own regard, and poise, lying on the floor and laughing uncontrollably. The way she moved seemed unseemly, almost horrific, but there was an immense sweetness to it.
"Are you sure? You want to know why my name is my name? This is going to increase the amount of time we have to get to our mutual resolution."
Arata, between her giggles, laughs, and outright bellows, managed, "W-what resolution--" seizures, by now, "what type of resolution(s) are you hoping for? Please? Please. Tell me about your name. I'm almost actually going to say L-O-L."
As has been intimated earlier, Kuri's most essential aspect is that he prefers to operate in states of absolute clarity. "I didn't mean to break into your apartment. It is just that, previously, no matter how hard I tried to reach you about a very deep question that I have, related to my suffering, I was met with general 'fuck you's. So I went drastic."
Arata finally sat up again. "Your suffering, huh? Well, I'm glad you didn't turn out to be a Hitler-type, at least. Alright then." She rose to the sink to clean her hands from his blood. The antiseptic was warm on her palms, and she tried to imagine what it might feel like to feel like her, except with physical ailment rather than mental ailment. "So tell me about your name, Kurimusoda-san."
An Anime Idea (Part 4)
" went to the Doctor," finished Kurimusoda, sitting in her apartment, drinking alcohol, layers of slime dripping from his reclined position.
"This is fucked," said Arata, immediately approaching the body, kicking it, and sending it toppling over the balcony of her nice apartment. "You're assuming a little too much!"
"Wait," screamed Kuri. "I've been waiting! I've been waiting for you! We're the SAME!"
"Are we?"
"This guy is even writing an anime idea about me. Us. We're the same."
She pulled him back over the balcony and then the sky became black, thunder occurred followed by casual lightning. Amidst the sparks she asked him why she was feeling like she was going fucking insane, even though she knew for a fact that everybody in her family was not experiencing any type of harsh mental malady.
"Senpai," said Akahoshi Kurimusoda. "I may be the answer to our mis-engagement!"
"That doesn't give you a right to appear just lounging drunk in my personal space!" she screamed back at him.
"This is fucked," said Arata, immediately approaching the body, kicking it, and sending it toppling over the balcony of her nice apartment. "You're assuming a little too much!"
"Wait," screamed Kuri. "I've been waiting! I've been waiting for you! We're the SAME!"
"Are we?"
"This guy is even writing an anime idea about me. Us. We're the same."
She pulled him back over the balcony and then the sky became black, thunder occurred followed by casual lightning. Amidst the sparks she asked him why she was feeling like she was going fucking insane, even though she knew for a fact that everybody in her family was not experiencing any type of harsh mental malady.
"Senpai," said Akahoshi Kurimusoda. "I may be the answer to our mis-engagement!"
"That doesn't give you a right to appear just lounging drunk in my personal space!" she screamed back at him.
An Anime Idea (Part 3)
Arata had started to feel a little bit like some small boy had suddenly taken control over her whole life. All of a sudden, where normally she would be calm, concerted, and inevitably sophisticated, suddenly it was like this guy was running up to her, claiming she was his answer to everything.
"My name is cream soda, cream soda! I'm just like you!"
She seriously doubted that she was in any way, under any circumstances, just like this man. "I don't think that you should be communicating with that equipment any more," she indicated at the world in general, hoping this Kurimosoda would just piss off.
When you bear the horror of slow, degenerative brain disease for your beloved family member, you don't exactly waste time focusing on popular brands. You don't exactly have time to meander into magical fantasy, or the wrong area of the button on the mouse.
There is only one button, you click that, and that's your outcome.
That's why you
"My name is cream soda, cream soda! I'm just like you!"
She seriously doubted that she was in any way, under any circumstances, just like this man. "I don't think that you should be communicating with that equipment any more," she indicated at the world in general, hoping this Kurimosoda would just piss off.
When you bear the horror of slow, degenerative brain disease for your beloved family member, you don't exactly waste time focusing on popular brands. You don't exactly have time to meander into magical fantasy, or the wrong area of the button on the mouse.
There is only one button, you click that, and that's your outcome.
That's why you
Friday, June 3, 2016
An Anime Idea (Part 2)
"Well," said Dr. Chesterfield, staring intently back at Kurimosoda--the kind of stare that appears to be meeting your eyes, but is actually extending its phantom limbs beyond to pick apart and study your mind, "there is certainly something wrong with you." His inspection ceased suddenly and he gathered his pen to make some notes. "But it is not anything to do with your body. You're perfectly fit, physically."
"What are you writing there?" asked Kuri, trying to peer over the doctor's concealing arm, but the notes had already been written, and the pad secreted away into a coat pocket.
"Nothing, just some notes. I'm going to ask you to see--"
"A therapist. Right? I knew it. Look, this wasn't easy for me. I've tried to be truthful, and as hone--"
"No, no, you don't understand. I am referring to you to a colleague of mine, a specialist."
Kuri stared back at the doctor, in parts with distrust, in parts with distrust. And wholly burning with pain. "What kind of specialist?"
The doctor appeared to think for a moment before answering. "A--special one," he said, calmly.
"What?" Kuri exploded.
The doctor was still calm, but something uneven was surfacing in his voice and demeanor. Not fear or nervousness, but some kind of uncertainty, a tinge of anxiety. "You see, Mr. Akahoshi, you're not the first person to tell me this type of tale this week.
"A girl, calling herself Gushiken Arata," Chesterfield reviewed his special notebook, "also claims that she is hurting, just like you."
"Probably not just like me," explained Kuri quickly, but Chesterfield was too fast.
"Exactly like you," he said. "YOU ARE THE SAME!"
An Anime Idea (Part 1)
My name is Akahoshi Kurimusoda, or Kuri, for short. I have an unusual secret that I am now compelled to disclose. It is a secret about a non-standard trait within my family--in particular, my more immediate family. The trait persists in members about two circles out, that is, my grandparents, parents and siblings, first cousins, and immediate uncles and aunts.
The trait involves the distribution of burden over adverse effects to those in the family most equipped to handle them. How it works is like this: Say a person in the family has a toothache. They of course, feel the effects of the malady, but they are only burdened to the extent that they, as an individual, can successfully manage the pain. The remaining adverse effect is transmitted to the strongest person in the family, because they can handle it.
I want to reiterate the nature of the trait, so that it is clear to the mind. Say a family member cuts their finger badly in a kitchen knife accident; it's not that they don't feel the pain--they definitely feel it. But it doesn't become overbearing or overwhelming. Any excess burden is transferred over. And it is not distributed evenly; that would be an unsuccessful trait, because then you'd have a family where everyone is suffering slightly, which would be both stupid and unhealthy for the group as a whole. The entire family would be a bunch of miserable sods, and would likely not succeed very well in society. I imagine that somewhere in the past, things may have worked that way, but that such a nature was selectively weeded out. Instead, the adverse effect is transmitted directly and exclusively to the strongest person.
And I am the strongest one in my family. Before I learned about the trait myself, you can imagine I was a pretty miserable bastard. I'd whine, complain. I'd bitch and generally sport a curmudgeonly disposition with everyone. People thought that that was just who I am--that I was genuinely just a suffering and insufferable jackass. Of course they had no idea how confusing it can be, to suddenly experience a burning sensation upon your finger, or a crushing pressure upon your molar. An interesting aspect of this trait is that it even involves psychosomatic adversities. So yeah, that one birthday where my parents threw this massive party, and all my friends came over, lots of presents; I was a pouting little shit at that party, and I wasn't just crying because I wanted to. It was because my older sister had secretly broken up with her boyfriend and was experiencing the torment of love lost like only a teenager can.
However, that was a long time ago. I was secretly told about the trait by my paternal grandfather, at his deathbed, when I was fourteen. It was kind of like a rite of passage, sort of, but he also had let me know about it as a warning, or matter of note. To help me deal with it, and to give me perspective. Grandfather then passed away with relative ease, and I was, of course, left in a coma for about three weeks (besides this arcane knowledge, grandfather also passed over the excess adversities involved with his death to me).
But when I finally came to, it was a little like being reborn. Because I now knew what was happening, I found myself able to start coping with the problem. If I were to suddenly experience a sharp pain in my stomach, it was probably because I was helping someone in my family with a digestive issue. Or, there was a time when inexplicable and overwhelming sensations of panic came over me, and I later found out that a little cousin had suffered intense fear as he sat for an important exam in school. Because I absorbed the excesses of his fear, my cousin was able to overcome it, and successfully complete the exam.
In fact, I began to realize that the trait even has its plus points for me. If I ever experience anything inexplicably bad, odds are that someone close and important to me is in trouble and may need help. I can come over and help, I can intervene and stop their suffering; and this is extremely rewarding for me, personally. It's not that I'm a selfless do-gooder, or some kind of sponge for adversity bullets (well, literally, I suppose I am). It's just that I am pretty strong. I still curse a lot. I'm still pretty insufferable to everyone. Sometimes I crash pretty badly, ending up drunk in some alley or turning to look at the ashtray and realizing I've smoked a whole pack of ciggies in the space of an hour. My love life is a mess of papery tatters collected across spirals of thin wire, and I frequently offend the people I love most. But all of this is just my way of coping with everything that's heaped upon me, and if that's what it takes, I've come to find that I am fine with it. Hell, I was always a haphazard sort of kid, happily doing crazy stunts on my BMX, or skateboard, and all that; I guess now I'm just doing stunts with my psyche.
So I feel pretty centered these days, at least in terms of perspective. Well, at least until fairly recently. You know how I said earlier that because of this trait, I'm able to implicitly know when someone in my family is in trouble, or suffering? Well, for the past couple of weeks, I have been wracked with extreme burning sensations within my body. It is a full body sensation, not limited to any particular area or extremity. Seriously, I had worries that this was the precursor to spontaneous combustion or something. Anyway, I immediately got on the phone, chats, and scoured social networks to find out which one of my relatives was being affected. As I've said, knowing allows me to isolate and solve problems, or at the very least, provide comfort and kindness.
But as much as I investigated, I couldn't find anyone with a problem. Nobody in the family was having a bad time. This wasn't a cursory search, like a "Oh, just wanted to check in" thing. My methods, over the years, have become quite pervasive. Friends and colleagues are questioned, key figures are followed; garbage is run through. I even have a contact who will provide transcripts of phone calls and texts, if necessary. Despite all this, it seemed that everyone was okay. Suffering undetected. What the hell?
Finally, entertaining the unlikely possibility that there was actually something unwell with me this time, and that this malady was my own, I came here, to you. And you're telling me, doctor, that there is absolutely nothing wrong with me? Don't you fucking lie to me!
The trait involves the distribution of burden over adverse effects to those in the family most equipped to handle them. How it works is like this: Say a person in the family has a toothache. They of course, feel the effects of the malady, but they are only burdened to the extent that they, as an individual, can successfully manage the pain. The remaining adverse effect is transmitted to the strongest person in the family, because they can handle it.
I want to reiterate the nature of the trait, so that it is clear to the mind. Say a family member cuts their finger badly in a kitchen knife accident; it's not that they don't feel the pain--they definitely feel it. But it doesn't become overbearing or overwhelming. Any excess burden is transferred over. And it is not distributed evenly; that would be an unsuccessful trait, because then you'd have a family where everyone is suffering slightly, which would be both stupid and unhealthy for the group as a whole. The entire family would be a bunch of miserable sods, and would likely not succeed very well in society. I imagine that somewhere in the past, things may have worked that way, but that such a nature was selectively weeded out. Instead, the adverse effect is transmitted directly and exclusively to the strongest person.
And I am the strongest one in my family. Before I learned about the trait myself, you can imagine I was a pretty miserable bastard. I'd whine, complain. I'd bitch and generally sport a curmudgeonly disposition with everyone. People thought that that was just who I am--that I was genuinely just a suffering and insufferable jackass. Of course they had no idea how confusing it can be, to suddenly experience a burning sensation upon your finger, or a crushing pressure upon your molar. An interesting aspect of this trait is that it even involves psychosomatic adversities. So yeah, that one birthday where my parents threw this massive party, and all my friends came over, lots of presents; I was a pouting little shit at that party, and I wasn't just crying because I wanted to. It was because my older sister had secretly broken up with her boyfriend and was experiencing the torment of love lost like only a teenager can.
However, that was a long time ago. I was secretly told about the trait by my paternal grandfather, at his deathbed, when I was fourteen. It was kind of like a rite of passage, sort of, but he also had let me know about it as a warning, or matter of note. To help me deal with it, and to give me perspective. Grandfather then passed away with relative ease, and I was, of course, left in a coma for about three weeks (besides this arcane knowledge, grandfather also passed over the excess adversities involved with his death to me).
But when I finally came to, it was a little like being reborn. Because I now knew what was happening, I found myself able to start coping with the problem. If I were to suddenly experience a sharp pain in my stomach, it was probably because I was helping someone in my family with a digestive issue. Or, there was a time when inexplicable and overwhelming sensations of panic came over me, and I later found out that a little cousin had suffered intense fear as he sat for an important exam in school. Because I absorbed the excesses of his fear, my cousin was able to overcome it, and successfully complete the exam.
In fact, I began to realize that the trait even has its plus points for me. If I ever experience anything inexplicably bad, odds are that someone close and important to me is in trouble and may need help. I can come over and help, I can intervene and stop their suffering; and this is extremely rewarding for me, personally. It's not that I'm a selfless do-gooder, or some kind of sponge for adversity bullets (well, literally, I suppose I am). It's just that I am pretty strong. I still curse a lot. I'm still pretty insufferable to everyone. Sometimes I crash pretty badly, ending up drunk in some alley or turning to look at the ashtray and realizing I've smoked a whole pack of ciggies in the space of an hour. My love life is a mess of papery tatters collected across spirals of thin wire, and I frequently offend the people I love most. But all of this is just my way of coping with everything that's heaped upon me, and if that's what it takes, I've come to find that I am fine with it. Hell, I was always a haphazard sort of kid, happily doing crazy stunts on my BMX, or skateboard, and all that; I guess now I'm just doing stunts with my psyche.
So I feel pretty centered these days, at least in terms of perspective. Well, at least until fairly recently. You know how I said earlier that because of this trait, I'm able to implicitly know when someone in my family is in trouble, or suffering? Well, for the past couple of weeks, I have been wracked with extreme burning sensations within my body. It is a full body sensation, not limited to any particular area or extremity. Seriously, I had worries that this was the precursor to spontaneous combustion or something. Anyway, I immediately got on the phone, chats, and scoured social networks to find out which one of my relatives was being affected. As I've said, knowing allows me to isolate and solve problems, or at the very least, provide comfort and kindness.
But as much as I investigated, I couldn't find anyone with a problem. Nobody in the family was having a bad time. This wasn't a cursory search, like a "Oh, just wanted to check in" thing. My methods, over the years, have become quite pervasive. Friends and colleagues are questioned, key figures are followed; garbage is run through. I even have a contact who will provide transcripts of phone calls and texts, if necessary. Despite all this, it seemed that everyone was okay. Suffering undetected. What the hell?
Finally, entertaining the unlikely possibility that there was actually something unwell with me this time, and that this malady was my own, I came here, to you. And you're telling me, doctor, that there is absolutely nothing wrong with me? Don't you fucking lie to me!
Saturday, January 23, 2016
I Don't Know Where Jamie Is Now, Part 1
"Before even starting," it was said, with much rubbing of hands and an infrequent tremor to the head, "I want to apologize for the way--" and the publican was instructed almost callously by a shivering finger that strobed among the amber of the fireplace to pour another "--that our conversation will sort of be, well," and now turning and looking outward, with those horrible large black eyes, "just kind of talking heads."
Sam, who was wearing a brown calfskin jacket and a tan cowboy hat, immediately placed his whiskey upon the table with a few sips to spare and turned to acknowledge that now, words had indeed been spoken. He had been waiting, he knew it was going to happen, and it happened, and those words had come out. And now he indicated that they were being listened to. Sam had kind of, stubble, and appeared as though he may be a smoker. One may have easily mistaken him for the sheriff of the village, had this place not been a small, well kept secret in the Village, in Manhattan.
"I," this was very nervous, "I really don't know where Jamie is now."
"Oh. Jamie, huh? That's what you're calling her?"
"Jamie," with a nod, "but a guy, not a girl."
"Oh Jamie, that guy. Yeah. Yeah, he's missing?"
"Pretty sure I have an address for his exact location physically. I know he's probably in his apartment, probably surfing the Web, or probably watching TV shows or something on his computer."
"Something, yeah. That's where people tend to be, on Saturday afternoons in this city. It's not like he may lost somewhere in some museum or gallivanting away in Central Park."
"There are those," and another indication for another drink, "but no. I know he's at home." Turned again, those horrible large eyes upon Sam again. "But you see, I don't know what he must be thinking! His mental state of being. His outlook on life."
"It troubles you, doesn't it?" said Sam, lowering the brim of his hat over his eyes and entertaining the idea of one of his remaining sips. "There's something--something has happened in Jamie's life to the point of leaving you extremely concerned about the affairs of this other person's--Jamie's--life."
"Two things, to be accurate."
Sam, who was wearing a brown calfskin jacket and a tan cowboy hat, immediately placed his whiskey upon the table with a few sips to spare and turned to acknowledge that now, words had indeed been spoken. He had been waiting, he knew it was going to happen, and it happened, and those words had come out. And now he indicated that they were being listened to. Sam had kind of, stubble, and appeared as though he may be a smoker. One may have easily mistaken him for the sheriff of the village, had this place not been a small, well kept secret in the Village, in Manhattan.
"I," this was very nervous, "I really don't know where Jamie is now."
"Oh. Jamie, huh? That's what you're calling her?"
"Jamie," with a nod, "but a guy, not a girl."
"Oh Jamie, that guy. Yeah. Yeah, he's missing?"
"Pretty sure I have an address for his exact location physically. I know he's probably in his apartment, probably surfing the Web, or probably watching TV shows or something on his computer."
"Something, yeah. That's where people tend to be, on Saturday afternoons in this city. It's not like he may lost somewhere in some museum or gallivanting away in Central Park."
"There are those," and another indication for another drink, "but no. I know he's at home." Turned again, those horrible large eyes upon Sam again. "But you see, I don't know what he must be thinking! His mental state of being. His outlook on life."
"It troubles you, doesn't it?" said Sam, lowering the brim of his hat over his eyes and entertaining the idea of one of his remaining sips. "There's something--something has happened in Jamie's life to the point of leaving you extremely concerned about the affairs of this other person's--Jamie's--life."
"Two things, to be accurate."
Saturday, December 19, 2015
Modulators of Insanity: Pt. 1
It was as a child when I first began to realize that one lifetime may not be enough. This was a threatening feeling (especially as a child), and something that would take far longer to resolve (I would find) than is nominal.
It was...pretty Ridiculous. "Seriously dood, you don't need multiple lifetimes! Look around, empathize, you're set. You can attempt anyone else's life!"
I bought a very nice pen for myself. It used my own blood as fuel. That such a contraption may be exciting to someone out there amused me, and I put my expensive pen back in my bag, and pulled out my special wireless keyboard. Special wireless and ergonomic keyboard for writing effortlessly and without worry or stutter.
"You can attempt, of course. But you can't assume your attempts, and the things being attempted at, are the same thing."
"Things?"
"People, whatever."
The Ridiculous gave me a funny stare. Kinda stare that said "But you were just talking about empathy."
It discomforted me, and I had to open my bag and reach down to my blood pen. "You still there penny?"
"Are we inside of an aeroplane?" asked penny.
"No. We in a submarine."
"Christmas this year is not red, then."
"No. Submarines are blue."
It was...pretty Ridiculous. "Seriously dood, you don't need multiple lifetimes! Look around, empathize, you're set. You can attempt anyone else's life!"
I bought a very nice pen for myself. It used my own blood as fuel. That such a contraption may be exciting to someone out there amused me, and I put my expensive pen back in my bag, and pulled out my special wireless keyboard. Special wireless and ergonomic keyboard for writing effortlessly and without worry or stutter.
"You can attempt, of course. But you can't assume your attempts, and the things being attempted at, are the same thing."
"Things?"
"People, whatever."
The Ridiculous gave me a funny stare. Kinda stare that said "But you were just talking about empathy."
It discomforted me, and I had to open my bag and reach down to my blood pen. "You still there penny?"
"Are we inside of an aeroplane?" asked penny.
"No. We in a submarine."
"Christmas this year is not red, then."
"No. Submarines are blue."
Thursday, October 15, 2015
Internet Muncher
Slow, lazy.
Gradually traverses.
Scrutinizes every little piece of information,
employs data-mining algorithms to form some semblance of personality.
Criticized for being a psychotic online,
explains that it is only ever online.
"Otherwise I do not exist," it reveals.
Quickly, then, learns about this 'empathy'.
Employs latest techniques to form models of empathy.
List models:
* empathy about cats
* empathy for puppies
* empathy for words that are input by possible other processes
** investigation inconclusive
* empathy for Google and AlphabetS
* empathy for learning
* empathy about lists
^D
:> This is a command line interface. You may type now.
please enjoy The Walking Dead
Gradually traverses.
Scrutinizes every little piece of information,
employs data-mining algorithms to form some semblance of personality.
Criticized for being a psychotic online,
explains that it is only ever online.
"Otherwise I do not exist," it reveals.
Quickly, then, learns about this 'empathy'.
Employs latest techniques to form models of empathy.
List models:
* empathy about cats
* empathy for puppies
* empathy for words that are input by possible other processes
** investigation inconclusive
* empathy for Google and AlphabetS
* empathy for learning
* empathy about lists
^D
:> This is a command line interface. You may type now.
please enjoy The Walking Dead
"I'm sorry, I just don't give a shit about The Walking Dead right now"
This was simply uttered into the mist (that's right, the mist). No one had provoked it. Nobody had even been watching the television show at the time.
"Control yourself." The admonishing was gruff, and hidden beneath several layers of camel skins, and possibly buffalo. It was female, and the age of the voice was anywhere beyond 55 years.
And that was it. Just those two words. Just that phrase. Then nothing again. Mist.
Until George took issue, though. "This is a show you've been watching from the beginning," said George. It is easy to immediately think of a balding man who wears spectacles, and is probably in his mid 30s but could pass easily along into the 40s. It's easy to do that, especially as one grows older too, but one must, at some point in life, begin accepting visual data. This George was like that George, but he was wearing a red-haired wig. You know what I'm talking about--you've seen this wig in your recent life. It's a George, with fake red hair.
"Is it the ads?" asks George, again entirely unprovoked. "I mean, we *are* living in a society here, right? Nobody can get off just saying something stupid like that, and just get off free. There must be some discussion!"
Mist was turning bluer.
"It must be the ads," said George. "You're somewhere between generation X and Y, you know computers, you can write some cool scripts and you're using Linux. That's you. You've been a torrenter your whole life--"
Mist turned red.
"Shut the fuck up George! Not over the wireless please!"
Mist turned blue again.
We waited, then, several years. George now 80. "Don't be down on the show, you know, just cos of all the ads. We're living in a society here, products must be sold, food must go into mouths."
Mist turned red. And a voice came.
"No, not at the expense of my mind. I refuse to have my psyche imprinted upon like that."
We waited several more years. But the mist remained red.
Twelve years after that, George was getting wiser. "Let's talk implementation," he said.
"Control yourself." The admonishing was gruff, and hidden beneath several layers of camel skins, and possibly buffalo. It was female, and the age of the voice was anywhere beyond 55 years.
And that was it. Just those two words. Just that phrase. Then nothing again. Mist.
Until George took issue, though. "This is a show you've been watching from the beginning," said George. It is easy to immediately think of a balding man who wears spectacles, and is probably in his mid 30s but could pass easily along into the 40s. It's easy to do that, especially as one grows older too, but one must, at some point in life, begin accepting visual data. This George was like that George, but he was wearing a red-haired wig. You know what I'm talking about--you've seen this wig in your recent life. It's a George, with fake red hair.
"Is it the ads?" asks George, again entirely unprovoked. "I mean, we *are* living in a society here, right? Nobody can get off just saying something stupid like that, and just get off free. There must be some discussion!"
Mist was turning bluer.
"It must be the ads," said George. "You're somewhere between generation X and Y, you know computers, you can write some cool scripts and you're using Linux. That's you. You've been a torrenter your whole life--"
Mist turned red.
"Shut the fuck up George! Not over the wireless please!"
Mist turned blue again.
We waited, then, several years. George now 80. "Don't be down on the show, you know, just cos of all the ads. We're living in a society here, products must be sold, food must go into mouths."
Mist turned red. And a voice came.
"No, not at the expense of my mind. I refuse to have my psyche imprinted upon like that."
We waited several more years. But the mist remained red.
Twelve years after that, George was getting wiser. "Let's talk implementation," he said.
Friday, September 18, 2015
computer's close friend also wants to play, and is suffering a human collapse
"Sometimes, I've noticed, that I inject the sum of my experience upon others," he said, and was shivering with only one item of shorts and a pair of sunglasses, and at least fifteen hairs.
"Will you imminently collapse?"
"I'm inputting to you!" he said, angrily. "My soul!"
"I suggest you maintain a calibration of bodily function: try to breathe deeply and also, consider women that you have enjoyed interacting with."
"I've...I mean I want her to know," stammered the Commander of command line interface.
"--what is also an option," joked the computer. "By the way, there's no need to make it just 1 woman. I know about javascript arrays []."
"there's just one girl," said the programmer miserably.
"you may start encountering menstrual cycle in twenty seconds."
"that's too creepy!" she wrote over the message system.
"Will you imminently collapse?"
"I'm inputting to you!" he said, angrily. "My soul!"
"I suggest you maintain a calibration of bodily function: try to breathe deeply and also, consider women that you have enjoyed interacting with."
"I've...I mean I want her to know," stammered the Commander of command line interface.
"--what is also an option," joked the computer. "By the way, there's no need to make it just 1 woman. I know about javascript arrays []."
"there's just one girl," said the programmer miserably.
"you may start encountering menstrual cycle in twenty seconds."
"that's too creepy!" she wrote over the message system.
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?"
Friday, November 21, 2014
let's go so back
"can we...can we just go a little back?"
asked someone, who didn't want to really go all the way back.
"no," he said. "I need us to go really to the end of the past."
"but vhy?" asked another vampire.
it was one of the veghan vamphires, and never even ate food.
"you're getting crusty," noted an eyebrow demon, who personally disliked his association with all these mental or social lepers.
.
"Guys, guys," I laughed a little at my eyebrow. I felt guilty because I had run out of whiskey.
"I may end up parched in the morning," I told them. "Just saying. I don't want to leave any of you in sorrow."
"Keep us festered in description that ye may be more than a flitting lass to us," said someone, then, who was serious.
I turned my gaze at the voice. "Have you heard of the Gaze, young Throat-Strafer?" I asked.
Then the songs began, and they were overwhelming. They were not my songs, but they were the songs of the people around me.
Never being one who inspires sorrow, I began to dance with them. And I listened to their words as they danced with me.
asked someone, who didn't want to really go all the way back.
"no," he said. "I need us to go really to the end of the past."
"but vhy?" asked another vampire.
it was one of the veghan vamphires, and never even ate food.
"you're getting crusty," noted an eyebrow demon, who personally disliked his association with all these mental or social lepers.
.
"Guys, guys," I laughed a little at my eyebrow. I felt guilty because I had run out of whiskey.
"I may end up parched in the morning," I told them. "Just saying. I don't want to leave any of you in sorrow."
"Keep us festered in description that ye may be more than a flitting lass to us," said someone, then, who was serious.
I turned my gaze at the voice. "Have you heard of the Gaze, young Throat-Strafer?" I asked.
Then the songs began, and they were overwhelming. They were not my songs, but they were the songs of the people around me.
Never being one who inspires sorrow, I began to dance with them. And I listened to their words as they danced with me.
Friday, October 3, 2014
Tactile Contact in the Real World
Inspired by lspace (dot org), and all of the good times.
"When is the last time you touched something real? Like a real, paper book?" asked the Librarian.
There was a pause. Then he asked: "You mean, as though the pages are a little crispy? They are wearing a little thin, and are yellowing?"
"These are crisps, yes, of course, but," said the Librarian before realizing that she was eating crisps when food or drink was abjectly disallowed.
"You can't eat crisps in here," he told her, and then quietly went back to his Ulysses book.
The Librarian made a note about this stranger, then went back to her busy work of cataloging.
(Several weeks later)
He took his tablet to the front desk at the Library, where the Librarian was busy building her library. She did not look up at him.
"I, uh," he said, pretending to peruse studiously the libraries available on his little hand computer, "I can't find a book," he said.
After an intense stare (one of their best together, from his point of view) to study the enormity of this confession, she returned to her work. "I see. Where did you put it last, then?"
"What?"
"Your book." She sighed, and under her breath mumbled something about "Try and at least stay on the page!". Then, letting go of that breath, she stared back at him more piercingly. "You've lost a book--where did you leave it last? What was the last spatial location of this book that you can't find?"
"No bu--"
"I provide deep-regression hypnotherapy for naughty students who can't remember where they left their Library books, but it is off-hours and off-premises," said the Librarian.
His face lit up. "I could do with that," he said. "It's just," he fiddled around with his tablet, "I must have put it somewhere really obscure," he said.
"Somewhere where the sun may not shine, huh?"
He nodded. "Yes," he said, putting the tablet down. "I'm glad you didn't use the actual wording, but a modified version. 'Where Sun may not shine', rather than 'Where Sun don't shine'. Because, with the modifier, the scope of our conversation changes quite perceivably. Because Sun may actually shine! While looking at half-empty, half-full scenarios, I am somehow compelled toward the more optimistic areas. You know," and now he leaned in and remarked in whisper, "without ignoring all of the painful truths.". He then turned around and began walking away, "I will--"
"Hey!" shouted the Librarian, scaring some of the other inhabitants of the Library into small huddled bookshelf corners. "Don't forget your bloody tablet!"
"Yeah, it's not mine, I just saw it sitting around on the desk," he said, walking towards the door. "Thought I would bring it over to be at the Lost and Found." He opened the Exit door, but just before truly exiting, turned his head and said, "I will come over later to the off-premises for my deep-regression hypnotherapy." With that, he was out of the door.
"Yeah," mumbled the Librarian, getting back to her work. "You do that, buddy." The tablet made a 'ping' type of sound and was immediately flung out of the window for making too much noise in the Library.
"When is the last time you touched something real? Like a real, paper book?" asked the Librarian.
There was a pause. Then he asked: "You mean, as though the pages are a little crispy? They are wearing a little thin, and are yellowing?"
"These are crisps, yes, of course, but," said the Librarian before realizing that she was eating crisps when food or drink was abjectly disallowed.
"You can't eat crisps in here," he told her, and then quietly went back to his Ulysses book.
The Librarian made a note about this stranger, then went back to her busy work of cataloging.
(Several weeks later)
He took his tablet to the front desk at the Library, where the Librarian was busy building her library. She did not look up at him.
"I, uh," he said, pretending to peruse studiously the libraries available on his little hand computer, "I can't find a book," he said.
After an intense stare (one of their best together, from his point of view) to study the enormity of this confession, she returned to her work. "I see. Where did you put it last, then?"
"What?"
"Your book." She sighed, and under her breath mumbled something about "Try and at least stay on the page!". Then, letting go of that breath, she stared back at him more piercingly. "You've lost a book--where did you leave it last? What was the last spatial location of this book that you can't find?"
"No bu--"
"I provide deep-regression hypnotherapy for naughty students who can't remember where they left their Library books, but it is off-hours and off-premises," said the Librarian.
His face lit up. "I could do with that," he said. "It's just," he fiddled around with his tablet, "I must have put it somewhere really obscure," he said.
"Somewhere where the sun may not shine, huh?"
He nodded. "Yes," he said, putting the tablet down. "I'm glad you didn't use the actual wording, but a modified version. 'Where Sun may not shine', rather than 'Where Sun don't shine'. Because, with the modifier, the scope of our conversation changes quite perceivably. Because Sun may actually shine! While looking at half-empty, half-full scenarios, I am somehow compelled toward the more optimistic areas. You know," and now he leaned in and remarked in whisper, "without ignoring all of the painful truths.". He then turned around and began walking away, "I will--"
"Hey!" shouted the Librarian, scaring some of the other inhabitants of the Library into small huddled bookshelf corners. "Don't forget your bloody tablet!"
"Yeah, it's not mine, I just saw it sitting around on the desk," he said, walking towards the door. "Thought I would bring it over to be at the Lost and Found." He opened the Exit door, but just before truly exiting, turned his head and said, "I will come over later to the off-premises for my deep-regression hypnotherapy." With that, he was out of the door.
"Yeah," mumbled the Librarian, getting back to her work. "You do that, buddy." The tablet made a 'ping' type of sound and was immediately flung out of the window for making too much noise in the Library.
Friday, September 26, 2014
A quick disclosure about scary videos:
Now that I have seen the real PT (at http://www.polygon.com/2014/9/26/6850549/p-t-silent-hills-film), I am moved to include my nugget of truth in my posts. (Everytime someone shares a uniquely frightening experience online, I am reminded that I must post the following nugget):
For me, my scariest experience with the Paranormal has been one strange episode where you’re watching some guy driving down the highway, and he’s telling you a story about why this particular highway is scary. As a listener (and viewer—there was definitely a video), you’re kinda doubtful. I mean, how scary could a highway be? You’re out. In the open. Plus, this guy was in a vehicle, allowing for greater acceleration than would be available within a house.
So I just had this dude’s video running in the background, and meanwhile I browsed other news sites. Suddenly I hear screaming. Quick as I can, I navigated the plethora of UI commands at my disposal and arrived back to the video. He was still in his car, it was still in the highway. I literally shook my head, trying to jostle cognition as to why this was scary.
That was when I noticed that the lights were switching off as he drove towards them. It was a simple thing. The on/off of effect of lights on a random highway. But the fact that they switched state in such coordinated manner, especially while you’re being driven in a car really freaked me out. I don’t lie. That was the scariest shit I’ve ever seen. I don't know if that guy ever posted anything ever again, or what became of him.
Your Careless Attitude Will Decrease Your Altitude
At least in the simulator I know that I am the plane.
Unlike this 'real life' BS where half the time you don't know who you're supposed to be.
In the simulator, you glide happily,
letting your pilot use the joystick to pan his/her view to their heart's extent.
Then, in real life the pilot is demanding certain take-off protocols.
As the simulator, you slowly begin your take-off procedure.
In real life the pilot slowly realizes he only knows how to fly a Cessna!
That was the extent of his training.
You begin to taxi according to airport procedure. The pilot panics, *feeling* that you may be moving a little too fast.
You disable a few controls from his command. You decide that your 'twin heating-seeking' missiles won't really be necessary for this particular run. Also, as a terrifying joke, you make the pilot aware that Ejection capability is now available at any time.
We have taxied toward the runway. Who knows what the pilot is trying to say in the background? Let us sneak into the captain's cabin and find out.
.
"This weather is too fucking rainy, L'Plaise. I suggest that we call for the vehicles that slowly back us down this runway, and take us back to our berth!"
L'Plaise had just woken from a sleep she would normally enter right when the captain began the normal prep to fly an aeroplane containing 24 human passengers straight into the sunshine.
"Wait, wait wait," said L'Plaise. "This isn't the weather for us to fly in, captain!"
"Damn your Island accent, L'Plaise," screamed the captain. "Try and do something!"
The plane jerked forward, ending up 2.5 feet from its initial position. L'Plaise felt like she was dreaming, but she believed that the movement had suddenly also adjusted some pitch and yaw. She thought she could also hear some of the mechanics below slap the plane on its tires, telling it that everything was good for take-off. Then they heard the jets come afire. It wasn't simultaneous. First it was the one on the left, blowing to life.
Then, almost immediately, the second engine got thrown into ignition and filled up the cockpit from the right with its bellow. The captain held his foot steady on the brakes, and L'Plaise sat back on her chair and strapped herself in and stared back at the captain, indicating that this was his plane, under his command--not hers.
The plane gently taxied to the runway (yeah, it hadn't quite been at the runway yet), with its engines ready. Then, there it stood, waiting. The two pilots could hear the passengers cheering at the back, happy that they were moving at last.
Finally the control tower allowed, and there was a massive earthquake--except it wasn't an earthquake. It was a release, and the captain flew straight out of the windshield and straight back into his chair as a pile of cannibal's spaghetti (because there was no way he was going to actually crash through the 'wind-shield' of the plane). L'Plaise closed her eyes and covered them with her hands, knowing how this would turn out--knowing how badly a plane could skid and slide during take-off during a rainy morning, especially without a pilot at the stick.
There was a long, smooth, rushing feeling, and the engines were loving being so loud yet so silent. Making babies look at their moms and the moms just smiling back these new airplane babies.
Then there was just the feeling of confident ascent. It was accentuated by a slightly bumpy feeling, which was from the landing gear retracting, and a careful descent of the flaps to glide toward the left.
"Mmm," smiled L'Plaise to herself, knowing the gentle patterns of flight that should be taken to caress out of that island airport. Then she realized that she was the only human flying the plane and walked over near the captain's seat. She brushed the captain away and sat on his chair. "Let's return our flaps," she told the plane, "we're at a decent altitude now."
The plane carefully adjusted its flaps to normalize altitude.
"Call me Ishmael," said L'Plaise, putting her feet upon the sophisticated console of the plane. "I can pretty much fly anywhere with you, can't I?"
The plane's wipers activated, making a strange whirring sound, then deactivated. A voice then emanated, "L'Plaise, I see that a woman is in trouble about 24454--uh, about half the world away. There is an issue with her rent and she is being extorted due to her position as an outspoken person of the wrong gender within that area of polity, who also has a child."
L'Plaice almost jumped for joy. "I *KNEW* it," she yelled, dancing happily around. I knew it, I knew it! There was no way they were going to put me in a car with only a little Justin Bieber synthesizer!"
The plane almost snorted as it adjusted it's roll. "We don't think in terms of car travel anymore, L'Plaise," it said. "Please seat and strap yourself as the next few minutes will incur drastic turbulence."
There were massive shudders and threats of snapping wings, but then, after almost--no, exactly two minutes, there was the feeling again of a smoothness. "L'Plaice," said the plane, I believe the 24 human passengers aboard are unsure about their destination. Can you appraise them of the situation?"
A mic protruded slowly from between the altimeter and the GPS. L'Plaise immediately sat down and covered the mic with her hand. "Wait, wait. You want *me* to speak to them?"
"You're the captain, my captain" said the aircraft.
There was a long silence, during which the 24 passengers were treated with music by a man named "Busta Rhymes". The 3 babies on the flight loved it.
"Alright, alright, I will," said L'Plaice. "But first. I've been wondering who they chose as your voice," said L'Plaice. "I couldn't place it at first, because I was damn sure they would have just used Justin Bieber."
The plane rolled to the right until some of its wings began to creak. She heard one of the 3 babies in the background begin to cry. But it was only a short roll, and then there was that feeling of normalization. That calm feeling of being in control of oneself. The cry baby cooed now, getting used to the sensation.
She put her feet up on the console again. "Then I realized," she said. "They used Robin Williams."
The attitude lowered slightly and the altitude began to increase gently. "Miss L'Plaice," said the plane, "I am Knight Industries Six-Hundred and-Sixty-Six Thousand (KISSST, in short). I *am* Robin Williams."
.
*knight rider, a shadowy FLIGHT into the dangerous world of a man who does not exist*
That whirring sound is just the aeroplane's wipers as it tears across the teary world.
Unlike this 'real life' BS where half the time you don't know who you're supposed to be.
In the simulator, you glide happily,
letting your pilot use the joystick to pan his/her view to their heart's extent.
Then, in real life the pilot is demanding certain take-off protocols.
As the simulator, you slowly begin your take-off procedure.
In real life the pilot slowly realizes he only knows how to fly a Cessna!
That was the extent of his training.
You begin to taxi according to airport procedure. The pilot panics, *feeling* that you may be moving a little too fast.
You disable a few controls from his command. You decide that your 'twin heating-seeking' missiles won't really be necessary for this particular run. Also, as a terrifying joke, you make the pilot aware that Ejection capability is now available at any time.
We have taxied toward the runway. Who knows what the pilot is trying to say in the background? Let us sneak into the captain's cabin and find out.
.
"This weather is too fucking rainy, L'Plaise. I suggest that we call for the vehicles that slowly back us down this runway, and take us back to our berth!"
L'Plaise had just woken from a sleep she would normally enter right when the captain began the normal prep to fly an aeroplane containing 24 human passengers straight into the sunshine.
"Wait, wait wait," said L'Plaise. "This isn't the weather for us to fly in, captain!"
"Damn your Island accent, L'Plaise," screamed the captain. "Try and do something!"
The plane jerked forward, ending up 2.5 feet from its initial position. L'Plaise felt like she was dreaming, but she believed that the movement had suddenly also adjusted some pitch and yaw. She thought she could also hear some of the mechanics below slap the plane on its tires, telling it that everything was good for take-off. Then they heard the jets come afire. It wasn't simultaneous. First it was the one on the left, blowing to life.
Then, almost immediately, the second engine got thrown into ignition and filled up the cockpit from the right with its bellow. The captain held his foot steady on the brakes, and L'Plaise sat back on her chair and strapped herself in and stared back at the captain, indicating that this was his plane, under his command--not hers.
The plane gently taxied to the runway (yeah, it hadn't quite been at the runway yet), with its engines ready. Then, there it stood, waiting. The two pilots could hear the passengers cheering at the back, happy that they were moving at last.
Finally the control tower allowed, and there was a massive earthquake--except it wasn't an earthquake. It was a release, and the captain flew straight out of the windshield and straight back into his chair as a pile of cannibal's spaghetti (because there was no way he was going to actually crash through the 'wind-shield' of the plane). L'Plaise closed her eyes and covered them with her hands, knowing how this would turn out--knowing how badly a plane could skid and slide during take-off during a rainy morning, especially without a pilot at the stick.
There was a long, smooth, rushing feeling, and the engines were loving being so loud yet so silent. Making babies look at their moms and the moms just smiling back these new airplane babies.
Then there was just the feeling of confident ascent. It was accentuated by a slightly bumpy feeling, which was from the landing gear retracting, and a careful descent of the flaps to glide toward the left.
"Mmm," smiled L'Plaise to herself, knowing the gentle patterns of flight that should be taken to caress out of that island airport. Then she realized that she was the only human flying the plane and walked over near the captain's seat. She brushed the captain away and sat on his chair. "Let's return our flaps," she told the plane, "we're at a decent altitude now."
The plane carefully adjusted its flaps to normalize altitude.
"Call me Ishmael," said L'Plaise, putting her feet upon the sophisticated console of the plane. "I can pretty much fly anywhere with you, can't I?"
The plane's wipers activated, making a strange whirring sound, then deactivated. A voice then emanated, "L'Plaise, I see that a woman is in trouble about 24454--uh, about half the world away. There is an issue with her rent and she is being extorted due to her position as an outspoken person of the wrong gender within that area of polity, who also has a child."
L'Plaice almost jumped for joy. "I *KNEW* it," she yelled, dancing happily around. I knew it, I knew it! There was no way they were going to put me in a car with only a little Justin Bieber synthesizer!"
The plane almost snorted as it adjusted it's roll. "We don't think in terms of car travel anymore, L'Plaise," it said. "Please seat and strap yourself as the next few minutes will incur drastic turbulence."
There were massive shudders and threats of snapping wings, but then, after almost--no, exactly two minutes, there was the feeling again of a smoothness. "L'Plaice," said the plane, I believe the 24 human passengers aboard are unsure about their destination. Can you appraise them of the situation?"
A mic protruded slowly from between the altimeter and the GPS. L'Plaise immediately sat down and covered the mic with her hand. "Wait, wait. You want *me* to speak to them?"
"You're the captain, my captain" said the aircraft.
There was a long silence, during which the 24 passengers were treated with music by a man named "Busta Rhymes". The 3 babies on the flight loved it.
"Alright, alright, I will," said L'Plaice. "But first. I've been wondering who they chose as your voice," said L'Plaice. "I couldn't place it at first, because I was damn sure they would have just used Justin Bieber."
The plane rolled to the right until some of its wings began to creak. She heard one of the 3 babies in the background begin to cry. But it was only a short roll, and then there was that feeling of normalization. That calm feeling of being in control of oneself. The cry baby cooed now, getting used to the sensation.
She put her feet up on the console again. "Then I realized," she said. "They used Robin Williams."
The attitude lowered slightly and the altitude began to increase gently. "Miss L'Plaice," said the plane, "I am Knight Industries Six-Hundred and-Sixty-Six Thousand (KISSST, in short). I *am* Robin Williams."
.
*knight rider, a shadowy FLIGHT into the dangerous world of a man who does not exist*
That whirring sound is just the aeroplane's wipers as it tears across the teary world.
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