I am in my Junior year of college, and although I retain my honors status, my wits and wiles sometimes lie thin in getting work done. I sat through three classes which were interconnected in a bloc today. The first was demanding of the above qualities, for the teacher delights on minimal hints as to the text, while encouraging application of the concepts in class exercises.
The second class is taught by a professor who is class interaction heavy - his view of the text is as a resource and wants his students to come to class prepared to engage with logical progression in provide suggestions as to application of concepts. The third is my favorite, not only because it is the last, but the professor is well-experienced and gives a broad homework question which is to be answered and brought to class to share. This encourages collaboration with other students to thresh out potential details and structure for the answers as well as ingenuity and self-education in creating the individual solutions as distinctive.
On the way outside the building, I notice the rain soaked landscape, the overcast sky. It brings to mind the Reliant k lyric "Lately the weather has been so bi-polar , and consequently so have I." (High of 75, Mmhmm). This wasn't one of the affected days, I was cheerful in the aftermath and delightedly scampered the empty streets of my downtown area. My mother warns me that I will eventually be reckoned for my reckless attitude towards crosswalks & impatience to keep moving when I have somewhere to go. I take joy in the feeling of the whistling wind as my backpack slaps in a side-to-side rhythm and my coat flares behind. I was listening to a Nerdist podcast and picked up my pace during the 8-bit theme. Electronic music is an effective pace-creator and motivator to prolong sprints. The episode's content wasn't particularly interesting at times, but the overall effect of enthusiasm and amusement of Hardwick & company's banter was pleasant.
It helped to pass the time as I awaited public transport homeward - because parking at college is notoriously frustrating and it is cost effective to buy a discount pass from the University than paying for gasoline. I have more time than I have cash flows, so it is a trade-off that I recognize and accept. I had G.K. Chesterton's "The club of queer trades" in my backpack, but didn't withdraw it as is my usual habit in deference to the still unfinished podcast. The book is a collection of interconnected short stories with a reoccurring cast. As with most of Chesterton, the story is a vehicle for the author's views of humanity in a greater point. The tales are contrived, but cleverly and deftly so. Even when I do not understand everything taking place, I want to learn quickly and thus pay greater notice to the words he chooses and themes upon which he expounds.
When I arrived home I had in mind to work ahead of my schoolwork tomorrow. My friends ran a simulation as part of a class and their scores were superior to my own experiences. After retrying the parameters for forty-five minutes, I was no closer to solving the formula for how they had managed to accomplish the feat. I scrolled through my twitter feed and happened across my internet friend @soldeglo announcing a BlogTV hangout. As I had never attended one of the previous shows - I was late or without proper access, I determined to visit this one.
It was delightful, I enjoy this lady's perspective - she is insightful, thoughtful, talented, and has a beautiful perspective on life in general. I don't recall how I first stumbled upon her channel, but I quickly became an avid follower. She reminded me of my older sister by two years who I have ever adored and looked up to my life. She was a peer, who laid voice to many thoughts that I hadn't put into words, admitted to thinking, or would have the skill to speak as she did.
I attach a great interest to other people and was soon hungering for more of her thoughts as her video blogs grew further and further apart. It was like finding a new favorite author and reading their recent releases, only to run out of fresh material and start rooting around bookshops and libraries in search of their older works. The difference here was that I was forced to view her as a real, tangible person who responded to my comments and thoughts, rather than an abstraction or ideal. It is ironic that I hate the idea of putting people into simple categorical boxes, yet I often find myself doing it to people. Nay, people are more like flowerpots - their roots run deeper and thoughts grow higher than I suspect, I can only focus on one portion at a time. They are no less complex, but I hope that my self-awareness of this pratfall trains me to question it healthily and not reduce others, but build them up, supporting their work.
I didn't want to be an aggressive stalker, but a curious observer as to what else Soldeglo held as an opinion and observation. Tonight she and her sister played piano, did impressions, and sang duets. It was charming and entertaining - it reminded me not to take my own family for granted. My younger sisters are also interesting and warrant my attention. (Often deserving more than I bestow, for I can be absent physically and mentally at times.). The sisters showed love and sisterly inside jokes with one another. While they may not always be on the best of terms - this was a treat and they enjoyed it thoroughly. I wanted to thank them for allowing friends and strangers to view a window into their lives. Jake Sidwell, by the username of Cohenism on YouTube, patrolled the text feed for his friend, kicking out the stranger strangers. I was pleased at his diligence and learning slightly more about him. Jake's work on YouTube is very well polished, he is studying the art of filmmaking and his finished products are a wonder to see. I admire him as well, but he is slightly reclusive and restrained in his internet interactions at times and I respect him all the more for that. His scripts are poetic and his speech eloquent in metaphor and associations - he has a gift for putting vague emotions and feelings into paragraphs that arrest the audience's attention and imagination.
I thank God for wonderful people like this, who remind & reinvigorate me as to the reason for living well. There is a purpose and beauty behind all this environment of nature and creation of man. I need times like these to refocus and glory in the moment I have, while it is still called today.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Monday, September 3, 2012
Conclusion - Inscribed
Kiley's Adventures, Part the Final.
"It's been 3 weeks," Rachel grumbled, "I have been pulled into being involved in a writer's nightmare - a place that looks & sounds like it would be a simply wonderful paradise. What we forget is all the work that has to go into constructing & supporting the infrastructure." The TARDIS's holographic interface had been quiet until now. "There is always the exit route through Austen's rendezvous to consider." "What is that?" Rachel perked up, "Is that some Gallifreyan equation or protocol that solves this world's problem of Silence?" "No Scribe, it is the alternate destination which you deferred by coming here - Tea with Jane Austen the author. There now exists a probability problem in a time loop - You are not the Scribe unless Jane Austen entitles you as such during your meeting. However, until you resolve this planet's menace of the Silence, the interference issues will not allow the egress functions to take effect." "Why didn't you tell me about this before?" Rachel stopped her pacing. "I di-" the hologram started before Rachel facepalmed. "You did, didn't you - all those bloody error messages. I thought it was one of those quirky time travel issues, the obscure balancing act that the Doctor always has to keep track of in his eons old TARDIS. Only he has almost 1000 years of experience to match them. I am a horrible heroine. I just want to go home, write LBD episodes, hang with Kylie & MK in coffee shops and bars."
Rachel straightened, "What if I never go see Jane? Then I will no longer be the Scribe who is supposed to solve the Silence problem." "Inadvisable - I have run that scenario as you were suggesting it. The results are an 87% probability of you warping out of time altogether, 7% that you will hit an alternate universe, 4.67% of dimensional malfunction results in a timequake between streams, and 1.23% that we will explode from the strain of running against a hard patch of redundancy logic." Rachel considered, "None of those options appears to be successful. What is the .10% remaining?" "General standard of margin of error in calculations. Even a core as sentiently skilled as I cannot prepare for every variable involved. You requested an adventure & a drink when we started this jump. Here lies your adventure - as stated on your interim planet's history. 'It is a bitter cup to drink, but it is the one I have chosen.'" Rachel nodded. "So, no escaping this time? Why did I ever want to be the Doctor? I'll view episodes of the show in a whole new light after this." She walked over to the box of elephants, patting Dumbledwarf on the ear as she emptied the waste into a cone of crumpled manuscript. At least it was being useful for something.
From what Rachel surmised of the scattered conversations, the Silence was indefeatible - any time someone came up with a solution for eliminating the creature, its natural amnesiac defense wiped their short term memory - the notes to the solution were scattered among the reams of failures. The creature didn't appear hostile, only that its continued existence appeared to frustrate the inhabitants for some unlearned reason. Tired, frustrated, and disheartened, most of the people lay as scattered as their work on the planet's surface, sleeping and wracking their brains for a solution. Rachel walked over to Simeon, one of the believers in the Scribe movement. Leaning over, she tapped him on the shoulder to wake him from his nap. "Hullo Sim, just so I understand this a little better, can you explain the Movement to me one more time? This go 'round, keep it short and to the point - all these other interviews have tended to be peppered with sob stories of previous failures."
Sim yawned, then brightened for a moment, "See, this place is a dream planet to which writers throughout the galaxy visit through their subconscious astral forms when they sleep. Story logic is translated to dream logic over the journey." Looking up at Rachel, he noted her confusion. Sim swept the ground clear and used the other end of a pen in the dust. He illustrated a series of roughly circular points surrounding a larger central point. "When writers dream, their internal genius and creativity come here to play around with ideas in a solidified form." Sim drew lines radiating from to the central point. "When the issues concerning the writers are resolved here, the consciousness returns to the writer, translating back to story logic to be captured in narrative form back home." At this point, Rachel was skeptical of the reality, but curious as to how Simeon and the others rationalized this concept. "And if the problem isn't resolved?" She gestured at the general chaos. Sim gave a nod. "Sometimes, a problem baffling one writer becomes a parasite of their concentration, and the mind which brought it to life starts asking others how to resolve the issue. Things... Escalate as the problem isn't solved. Soon, it is too big for any of us to solve and without a resolution, we all become stuck here until it is. Thus the term 'Writer's Block' - we cannot return to our writers without a solution to whatever vexed them to travel here in the first place." Rachel smiled despite herself: What a fanciful concept. Still it was better than a lot of explanations for the term's origins. Sim continued, "That is what happened with the Silence. So while brainstorming, a group of us hit upon the idea that maybe some other writer could conjure up the Silence's bane. Thus the Scribe movement."
Rachel felt like this was about all the history she could take. Now for more practical matters. "So, what have you tried so far?" Sim frowned, "We tried standard combat measures and weapons - Its hands shock like a taser when engaged head on by one of us. If we bring any offensive construct to confront it, the Silence has a sort of 'negation field' which dissolves the object's corporeal density before it is a threat." "Have you tried talking to it?" Rachel asked. Sim laughed. "Sorry, that is such a girlish stereotype - I can't take it seriously." He paused wheezing. "No, we were not equally prone to the cliche - we tried. But no matter how much we bargain, plead, cajole, threaten, or reason - the thing just looks at us with those unsettlingly empty voids it has for eye sockets." Rachel felt the beginnings of an idea, then fed it slowly with the reasons why she might have been brought here as the Scribe. Throughout these weeks she had been asking the right question the wrong way: "Why her?" She tested her hypothesis with a question. "You said it never replies at all?" "Yes!" Sim responded, yawning again, "Just stays silent." He chuckled sleepily at his own joke. "But that is it! You stupid, brilliant, literal-minded scribblers - It is silent because it was written to be that way. Why would a living breathing concept of Silence talk?"
"Thank you!" Rachel chortled as she dash-hopped away.
Rachel arrived near the TARDIS and looked around earnestly. "Oy! You! Silence!" She yelled, "Where are you? I am the freakin' Scribe for a reason and I think I know why!" She turned in a slow circle, only to find the creature 6 feet to her right. She focused on it. It stood looking sad and expectant in its black jacketed suit, familiar with nothing but attempts on its life and abuse. "You look lonely all by yourself, and I think that is the problem at hand. I may not know much about combat, but I do know about relationships and their problems. I am the queen of free shipping!" Rachel paused in her enthusiasm - somehow that had come out wrong. "So, anyway. You know what I never saw on Doctor Who? A female Silence. It figures that no writer on this planet ever thought of a solution that didn't involve punching away their problems. (Wait, that is another stereotype. Whatevs)." Rachel drew her sonic sharpie and uncapped the end. Picking up a discarded tablet computer, she shipped with her sharpie as if her trip home depended on it. Blotting over the Ariel font on the screen with bold black strokes, she wrote the other half of the Silence into existence.
After she signed the endnote of her work, she looked up to glimpse the Silence embracing for the first time. The two negations cancelled each other out of existence on the dimensional plane. The TARDIS door swung open behind her. "Ready for another adventure?" The interface inquired. Rachel limped in on her tweaked ankle. "I've had my fill of adventures, where the devil are my ruby slippers?"
"It's been 3 weeks," Rachel grumbled, "I have been pulled into being involved in a writer's nightmare - a place that looks & sounds like it would be a simply wonderful paradise. What we forget is all the work that has to go into constructing & supporting the infrastructure." The TARDIS's holographic interface had been quiet until now. "There is always the exit route through Austen's rendezvous to consider." "What is that?" Rachel perked up, "Is that some Gallifreyan equation or protocol that solves this world's problem of Silence?" "No Scribe, it is the alternate destination which you deferred by coming here - Tea with Jane Austen the author. There now exists a probability problem in a time loop - You are not the Scribe unless Jane Austen entitles you as such during your meeting. However, until you resolve this planet's menace of the Silence, the interference issues will not allow the egress functions to take effect." "Why didn't you tell me about this before?" Rachel stopped her pacing. "I di-" the hologram started before Rachel facepalmed. "You did, didn't you - all those bloody error messages. I thought it was one of those quirky time travel issues, the obscure balancing act that the Doctor always has to keep track of in his eons old TARDIS. Only he has almost 1000 years of experience to match them. I am a horrible heroine. I just want to go home, write LBD episodes, hang with Kylie & MK in coffee shops and bars."
Rachel straightened, "What if I never go see Jane? Then I will no longer be the Scribe who is supposed to solve the Silence problem." "Inadvisable - I have run that scenario as you were suggesting it. The results are an 87% probability of you warping out of time altogether, 7% that you will hit an alternate universe, 4.67% of dimensional malfunction results in a timequake between streams, and 1.23% that we will explode from the strain of running against a hard patch of redundancy logic." Rachel considered, "None of those options appears to be successful. What is the .10% remaining?" "General standard of margin of error in calculations. Even a core as sentiently skilled as I cannot prepare for every variable involved. You requested an adventure & a drink when we started this jump. Here lies your adventure - as stated on your interim planet's history. 'It is a bitter cup to drink, but it is the one I have chosen.'" Rachel nodded. "So, no escaping this time? Why did I ever want to be the Doctor? I'll view episodes of the show in a whole new light after this." She walked over to the box of elephants, patting Dumbledwarf on the ear as she emptied the waste into a cone of crumpled manuscript. At least it was being useful for something.
From what Rachel surmised of the scattered conversations, the Silence was indefeatible - any time someone came up with a solution for eliminating the creature, its natural amnesiac defense wiped their short term memory - the notes to the solution were scattered among the reams of failures. The creature didn't appear hostile, only that its continued existence appeared to frustrate the inhabitants for some unlearned reason. Tired, frustrated, and disheartened, most of the people lay as scattered as their work on the planet's surface, sleeping and wracking their brains for a solution. Rachel walked over to Simeon, one of the believers in the Scribe movement. Leaning over, she tapped him on the shoulder to wake him from his nap. "Hullo Sim, just so I understand this a little better, can you explain the Movement to me one more time? This go 'round, keep it short and to the point - all these other interviews have tended to be peppered with sob stories of previous failures."
Sim yawned, then brightened for a moment, "See, this place is a dream planet to which writers throughout the galaxy visit through their subconscious astral forms when they sleep. Story logic is translated to dream logic over the journey." Looking up at Rachel, he noted her confusion. Sim swept the ground clear and used the other end of a pen in the dust. He illustrated a series of roughly circular points surrounding a larger central point. "When writers dream, their internal genius and creativity come here to play around with ideas in a solidified form." Sim drew lines radiating from to the central point. "When the issues concerning the writers are resolved here, the consciousness returns to the writer, translating back to story logic to be captured in narrative form back home." At this point, Rachel was skeptical of the reality, but curious as to how Simeon and the others rationalized this concept. "And if the problem isn't resolved?" She gestured at the general chaos. Sim gave a nod. "Sometimes, a problem baffling one writer becomes a parasite of their concentration, and the mind which brought it to life starts asking others how to resolve the issue. Things... Escalate as the problem isn't solved. Soon, it is too big for any of us to solve and without a resolution, we all become stuck here until it is. Thus the term 'Writer's Block' - we cannot return to our writers without a solution to whatever vexed them to travel here in the first place." Rachel smiled despite herself: What a fanciful concept. Still it was better than a lot of explanations for the term's origins. Sim continued, "That is what happened with the Silence. So while brainstorming, a group of us hit upon the idea that maybe some other writer could conjure up the Silence's bane. Thus the Scribe movement."
Rachel felt like this was about all the history she could take. Now for more practical matters. "So, what have you tried so far?" Sim frowned, "We tried standard combat measures and weapons - Its hands shock like a taser when engaged head on by one of us. If we bring any offensive construct to confront it, the Silence has a sort of 'negation field' which dissolves the object's corporeal density before it is a threat." "Have you tried talking to it?" Rachel asked. Sim laughed. "Sorry, that is such a girlish stereotype - I can't take it seriously." He paused wheezing. "No, we were not equally prone to the cliche - we tried. But no matter how much we bargain, plead, cajole, threaten, or reason - the thing just looks at us with those unsettlingly empty voids it has for eye sockets." Rachel felt the beginnings of an idea, then fed it slowly with the reasons why she might have been brought here as the Scribe. Throughout these weeks she had been asking the right question the wrong way: "Why her?" She tested her hypothesis with a question. "You said it never replies at all?" "Yes!" Sim responded, yawning again, "Just stays silent." He chuckled sleepily at his own joke. "But that is it! You stupid, brilliant, literal-minded scribblers - It is silent because it was written to be that way. Why would a living breathing concept of Silence talk?"
"Thank you!" Rachel chortled as she dash-hopped away.
Rachel arrived near the TARDIS and looked around earnestly. "Oy! You! Silence!" She yelled, "Where are you? I am the freakin' Scribe for a reason and I think I know why!" She turned in a slow circle, only to find the creature 6 feet to her right. She focused on it. It stood looking sad and expectant in its black jacketed suit, familiar with nothing but attempts on its life and abuse. "You look lonely all by yourself, and I think that is the problem at hand. I may not know much about combat, but I do know about relationships and their problems. I am the queen of free shipping!" Rachel paused in her enthusiasm - somehow that had come out wrong. "So, anyway. You know what I never saw on Doctor Who? A female Silence. It figures that no writer on this planet ever thought of a solution that didn't involve punching away their problems. (Wait, that is another stereotype. Whatevs)." Rachel drew her sonic sharpie and uncapped the end. Picking up a discarded tablet computer, she shipped with her sharpie as if her trip home depended on it. Blotting over the Ariel font on the screen with bold black strokes, she wrote the other half of the Silence into existence.
After she signed the endnote of her work, she looked up to glimpse the Silence embracing for the first time. The two negations cancelled each other out of existence on the dimensional plane. The TARDIS door swung open behind her. "Ready for another adventure?" The interface inquired. Rachel limped in on her tweaked ankle. "I've had my fill of adventures, where the devil are my ruby slippers?"
Friday, August 24, 2012
Kiley - Sequential
[When we last left Rachel, she was exiting her TARDIS in search of a puppy sized elephant. This is not where this story resumes. Like Douglas Adams's short run on the writing staff of a certain British telly program which was quite popular in the 70's, some things are lost and unaired. The chronicle of how the elephants Rachel currently holds may someday resurface in a lonely thrift shop on Charon, but that might be addressed later.]
"Have I mentioned how much of a letdown these elephants are?" Rachel grumbled, poking one with her sonic sharpie. It jumped and landed with a charming *clump* in the hatbox, causing the second to whistle in its sleep. The third puppy proboscidean was trapped in a cycle of trumpeting in a panicked fashion until it fainted and awoke again - Rachel's quickly decided this one would be MK's, so she named it Picante. The lethargic specimen was Dumbledwarf, and the first unfortunate victim was Cumbersnout. Rachel's initial period of delighted amusement had slowly diminished with the responsible reality of caring for the three's needs. "This is why I don't have kids. Though it is kinda funny to toss their excrement into space, I wonder how science will explain THAT!" She smiled at the ridiculous notion. "Cosmic Elephants will make a great reality show on Discovery or something." "Scribe!" the onboard interface broke into her visions of episodic focuses and specials. "The temporal window for reconciling this temporal anomaly is dwindling rapidly. You should -." "HEY!" Rachel yelled, looking up at the holographic image. "I am the important adventurer here in a time machine that goes anywhere in the universe - You are the computer solvey thing that does all the calculations and nyan cat rainbows of science. I do my thing, you make sure I can keep doing it, kapisch? I click 'Don't send' or 'register later'."
"This is the twenty-third time this topic has been postponed, even for a Timelady of your reputation, this is most irregular." Rachel waved away the information, got up off the floor, then stopped. "What is my reputation? I forget sometimes. Is amnesia a side effect that came with the last regeneration?" "Negative," The core replied, "The origin of the condition which you are querying has a greater probability of stemming from alcohol intoxication on your base planet." "Touche." Rachel smirked. "Speaking of which, I want to restock our supplies, it is a 'creative necessity.' Stop off at a planet or time that has an excellent beverage selection." "There are three destinations which remain viable in my coordinate system - Tea with Jane Austen on Aug. 27, 1815; 'Charon's Trachea' on Pluto's orbital satellite, Stardate: Cellist-4561.7; or 'Unicorn Dreams' on Hubron in the Nether Days." Rachel considered these. "Seeing that I HAVE to see Jane Austen eventually to receive this title personally, I'll do that later. I choose 'Unicorn Dreams'." The TARDIS sighed softly, condensing tendrils of resignation as the lighting pulsed rhythmically.
"Your destination, Scribe. Powering down to maximize geocentric pinpointing throughout the vortex entry areas. Protocol dictates that the traveler operate in a responsible and level-headed manner during this procedure. Internal opinion based on observation of your behavioral patterns over the course of your reactivation as a passenger indicate strongly that you will ignore this as a suggestion." "Thank you for your understanding. You're really great too."
As Rachel exited her time vehicle, the first impression she noticed was the Silence. She ignored the taut air of tension and soon forgot it in the light of the next thing she noticed. The ground was strewn with notebook paper, mechanical pencils, broken laptops, and highlighters. There were people among the ruins, if they could be called as much, shells and shadows of higher life forms. Rachel approached one despondent fellow and kicked him lightly on the shin. He moaned and looked up. "What is it? There's been only horrendous news in here, the more knowledge I have, the greater the burden of despair." "Do I even want to ask what your problem is?" She waited a beat out of a sense of courtesy - she had opened this dialogue by kicking him after all. "Are you new here or are you one of those delusional believers in the legend of the Scribe? You know that the Scribe's coming is as likely as black forest cake for everybody - 'tis but a deception!" Rachel, who had been thinking about taking her chances with some friendlier person, became interested. "How many people do you see believing in that stuff?" The man waved his hand, "Too many, even though the Scribe's predicted arrival date has come and gone three weeks. This person is supposed to arrive and defeat the Silence that rules over this land. Many have tried and failed to craft the solution to the problem. It counters our best efforts, the words we sow have no space in which to grow and bear fruit. We need to accept this barrenness - our writing utensils are worn down, our ends are left incomplete. Those still in denial hold out hope that the Scribe will lead us out of this limbo."
Rachel began to understand, "Are you a writer?" The man laughed mirthlessly, "I used to be, we all did, but now our true colors are shown - we were nothing but pretenders. Who are we to believe we have something to say that can change anything? I dabbled in fiction, now I am converted to realism."
Rachel stared him down, "If you were an instrument, you would be a kazoo. Yeah, everyone is happy that you have something, but when you try to use it, all you really do is blow. I don't really like your one note drone, so I'm going to talk to someone else. Keep on working at it, maybe one day you'll have something to trumpet about." With her thoughts made clear, Rachel turned and walked away. She miscalculated a sheaf of notes, however, and turned her left ankle. "That is going to smart tomorrow. " She muttered, limping. "Nice way to exit stage right..."
[Note: Now that I am invested in this, I'll continue this in another post tomorrow. I haven't a set ending in mind, but I would hate to have my friend not succeed or something. Be forewarned that I am afraid of happy endings - they feel like a cop-out on originality and sincerity to the reader.]
"Have I mentioned how much of a letdown these elephants are?" Rachel grumbled, poking one with her sonic sharpie. It jumped and landed with a charming *clump* in the hatbox, causing the second to whistle in its sleep. The third puppy proboscidean was trapped in a cycle of trumpeting in a panicked fashion until it fainted and awoke again - Rachel's quickly decided this one would be MK's, so she named it Picante. The lethargic specimen was Dumbledwarf, and the first unfortunate victim was Cumbersnout. Rachel's initial period of delighted amusement had slowly diminished with the responsible reality of caring for the three's needs. "This is why I don't have kids. Though it is kinda funny to toss their excrement into space, I wonder how science will explain THAT!" She smiled at the ridiculous notion. "Cosmic Elephants will make a great reality show on Discovery or something." "Scribe!" the onboard interface broke into her visions of episodic focuses and specials. "The temporal window for reconciling this temporal anomaly is dwindling rapidly. You should -." "HEY!" Rachel yelled, looking up at the holographic image. "I am the important adventurer here in a time machine that goes anywhere in the universe - You are the computer solvey thing that does all the calculations and nyan cat rainbows of science. I do my thing, you make sure I can keep doing it, kapisch? I click 'Don't send' or 'register later'."
"This is the twenty-third time this topic has been postponed, even for a Timelady of your reputation, this is most irregular." Rachel waved away the information, got up off the floor, then stopped. "What is my reputation? I forget sometimes. Is amnesia a side effect that came with the last regeneration?" "Negative," The core replied, "The origin of the condition which you are querying has a greater probability of stemming from alcohol intoxication on your base planet." "Touche." Rachel smirked. "Speaking of which, I want to restock our supplies, it is a 'creative necessity.' Stop off at a planet or time that has an excellent beverage selection." "There are three destinations which remain viable in my coordinate system - Tea with Jane Austen on Aug. 27, 1815; 'Charon's Trachea' on Pluto's orbital satellite, Stardate: Cellist-4561.7; or 'Unicorn Dreams' on Hubron in the Nether Days." Rachel considered these. "Seeing that I HAVE to see Jane Austen eventually to receive this title personally, I'll do that later. I choose 'Unicorn Dreams'." The TARDIS sighed softly, condensing tendrils of resignation as the lighting pulsed rhythmically.
"Your destination, Scribe. Powering down to maximize geocentric pinpointing throughout the vortex entry areas. Protocol dictates that the traveler operate in a responsible and level-headed manner during this procedure. Internal opinion based on observation of your behavioral patterns over the course of your reactivation as a passenger indicate strongly that you will ignore this as a suggestion." "Thank you for your understanding. You're really great too."
As Rachel exited her time vehicle, the first impression she noticed was the Silence. She ignored the taut air of tension and soon forgot it in the light of the next thing she noticed. The ground was strewn with notebook paper, mechanical pencils, broken laptops, and highlighters. There were people among the ruins, if they could be called as much, shells and shadows of higher life forms. Rachel approached one despondent fellow and kicked him lightly on the shin. He moaned and looked up. "What is it? There's been only horrendous news in here, the more knowledge I have, the greater the burden of despair." "Do I even want to ask what your problem is?" She waited a beat out of a sense of courtesy - she had opened this dialogue by kicking him after all. "Are you new here or are you one of those delusional believers in the legend of the Scribe? You know that the Scribe's coming is as likely as black forest cake for everybody - 'tis but a deception!" Rachel, who had been thinking about taking her chances with some friendlier person, became interested. "How many people do you see believing in that stuff?" The man waved his hand, "Too many, even though the Scribe's predicted arrival date has come and gone three weeks. This person is supposed to arrive and defeat the Silence that rules over this land. Many have tried and failed to craft the solution to the problem. It counters our best efforts, the words we sow have no space in which to grow and bear fruit. We need to accept this barrenness - our writing utensils are worn down, our ends are left incomplete. Those still in denial hold out hope that the Scribe will lead us out of this limbo."
Rachel began to understand, "Are you a writer?" The man laughed mirthlessly, "I used to be, we all did, but now our true colors are shown - we were nothing but pretenders. Who are we to believe we have something to say that can change anything? I dabbled in fiction, now I am converted to realism."
Rachel stared him down, "If you were an instrument, you would be a kazoo. Yeah, everyone is happy that you have something, but when you try to use it, all you really do is blow. I don't really like your one note drone, so I'm going to talk to someone else. Keep on working at it, maybe one day you'll have something to trumpet about." With her thoughts made clear, Rachel turned and walked away. She miscalculated a sheaf of notes, however, and turned her left ankle. "That is going to smart tomorrow. " She muttered, limping. "Nice way to exit stage right..."
[Note: Now that I am invested in this, I'll continue this in another post tomorrow. I haven't a set ending in mind, but I would hate to have my friend not succeed or something. Be forewarned that I am afraid of happy endings - they feel like a cop-out on originality and sincerity to the reader.]
Friday, August 17, 2012
Kiley - FanFic
[Initial Disclaimer: I have had a bad history with short stories being taken for deeper meaning. If you find any, be sure to tell me - maybe I can learn why my mind associates things the way it does. But, as the reading of things reveals just as much about the reader's perspective coming into the story, it might be your mirror instead. I don't understand the full meaning behind this phrase, it sounds good so I'll leave it intact]
{Introduction: This is inspired by my friend @RachelKiley from Twitter, who recently took a leave of absence for an undisclosed reason. Her last tweet was, "Lighting Twitter on fire and watching it burn. See you in September, unless the smoke clears. #itwont" Although this appears to be on the surface a Joker/Green Day quote hybridization, I tend to overthink things to a fanciful degree and my mind ran with the following threads. I wish that most of it was accurate, or if nothing else, that Rachel derives some odd pleasure of having not only two Tumblr pages dedicated to her memory, but a rough fan fiction as well.}
It was yet another dark night at Casa de Kiley, and Rachel distracted herself by indulging in a non-canonical script. Sighing contentedly, she reached to her left for her wine glass to further lubricate the gears of her imagination, only to notice it empty. This was a problem - to get up and lose her train of thought's momentum, or go without the lovely co-authorship of the Muse of Alcoholic inspiration. "Why is the wine always gone?" She sparrowed to herself. Glancing reluctantly at the kitchen area twelve feet, five inches distant, she levered herself off the keyboard of her laptop, washing the room with the glow of the awakened screen. As she made her brief pilgrimage, she tripped over something in the dimness of her apartment floor. Hopping on one foot for balance, she grumbled, "Should probably clean up more often around here. I'll do it on Saturday. Is this Tuesday night? I've never gotten the hang of-" She was interrupted by a sound of a sudden breeze sweeping through the room. The faint outline of a box materialized, then faded. Rachel's respiratory system skipped half a dozen beats, then resumed at double pace to compensate. The noise began again, this time crescendoing in the box coming into focus, revealing itself to be... Brown in color? Apple rich nonetheless, but wasn't it supposed to be police blue? Rachel was quite put out by the oversight, but her curiosity was revived by when the doors hissed open. "Welcome Scribe, your TARDIS is fueled & ready."
Rachel, still clutching her empty wine glass, stepped inside. There she found all the flashing lights and burbling noises a Gallifreyan could desire. However, given that Rachel was of the human variety, these were seen as not nearly enough. Which brought her to the most pressing point on hand. "Where is the Doctor?" Her eyes swept the interior, finally resting on a holographic image of a young woman. "Are you injured?" The voice chirped politely, its features shifting to appropriate concern. Rachel paused, "No, it's just that I expect the madman to come as a package deal with the box." "Who?" The image responded. "Yes! Exactly." Rachel filled in eagerly. The glowing lady looked genuinely perplexed by this turn in the conversation, then rallied. "Please state the name of the subject in question to proceed." "Oh," Rachel said, shoulders resting. "I was rather hoping that you could tell me that. I would be the envy of all the Whovians on earth. Something that only Alex Kingston, Steven Moffat, and now I would have known. Maybe even Russell T. Davies too, but given Moffat's run on the show, it might have been changed since the 'Silence in the Library' in season 4. Wait, that was written by Moffat wasn't it. Hmm... Wonder if it is like an inheritance on the show through the years to pass from head writer to head writer." Throughout this soliloquy, the holograph became blurred due to the amount of computation through its logic engines to provide answers. Finding none to its satisfaction to be reputable sources, the hologram cleared its resolution with a hum and pressed forward. "Scribe, shall we begin our odyssey?" "That is another thing - Why are you calling me that." Rachel waved her glass at the floating interface in a vaguely threatening manner. The machine replied dutifully. "It all will make sense two days from now when you meet Jane Austen and give her relationship suggestions for the characters in her novels. She will be amused by your twenty-first century ideas and grant you that title. A future timeline version of you will think this to be an excellent honor and demand that her TARDIS call her that in all continuities, including this one." "Wait, What?!" Rachel adjusted her glasses. "Hold up - Doesn't that mess with the 'wibbly wobbly timey wimey thing' with the time vortex as mentioned in 'Blink' by the 10th Doctor?" "Yes, but the future version of you was/is intoxicated at the moment of departure. She/you decided that the novelty of introducing present you to your destiny is worth the risk of screwing continuity. 'Rules are made to be broken, and I have a TARDIS or whatever.' is/was your exact quote." "Sounds about right," Rachel admitted, "First thing I want to do is capture my very own puppy sized elephant. I'll use it for the return of 'Lydia Bennet Diaries' as Mary Kate's new pet. That will give the tumblr masses something to gif about. Maybe John and Hank will want their own too. So, when can we start?" "Already arrived, in anticipation of your request. Future you named it -" Rachel interrupted. "Please stop talking like that, you... whatever you are - This is my first time 'round and I don't want any spoilers!"
[Endnote: This seemed to be all I could be bothered to capture today. If Rachel likes it, I might continue along this vein. I only have a few ideas where I would like to go with this. However, since I have never met her, I can only guess how Rachel would respond or what she would do with a TARDIS.]
"This is not how the World ends." - Jonathan Hickman; S.H.I.E.L.D. (2010)
{Introduction: This is inspired by my friend @RachelKiley from Twitter, who recently took a leave of absence for an undisclosed reason. Her last tweet was, "Lighting Twitter on fire and watching it burn. See you in September, unless the smoke clears. #itwont" Although this appears to be on the surface a Joker/Green Day quote hybridization, I tend to overthink things to a fanciful degree and my mind ran with the following threads. I wish that most of it was accurate, or if nothing else, that Rachel derives some odd pleasure of having not only two Tumblr pages dedicated to her memory, but a rough fan fiction as well.}
It was yet another dark night at Casa de Kiley, and Rachel distracted herself by indulging in a non-canonical script. Sighing contentedly, she reached to her left for her wine glass to further lubricate the gears of her imagination, only to notice it empty. This was a problem - to get up and lose her train of thought's momentum, or go without the lovely co-authorship of the Muse of Alcoholic inspiration. "Why is the wine always gone?" She sparrowed to herself. Glancing reluctantly at the kitchen area twelve feet, five inches distant, she levered herself off the keyboard of her laptop, washing the room with the glow of the awakened screen. As she made her brief pilgrimage, she tripped over something in the dimness of her apartment floor. Hopping on one foot for balance, she grumbled, "Should probably clean up more often around here. I'll do it on Saturday. Is this Tuesday night? I've never gotten the hang of-" She was interrupted by a sound of a sudden breeze sweeping through the room. The faint outline of a box materialized, then faded. Rachel's respiratory system skipped half a dozen beats, then resumed at double pace to compensate. The noise began again, this time crescendoing in the box coming into focus, revealing itself to be... Brown in color? Apple rich nonetheless, but wasn't it supposed to be police blue? Rachel was quite put out by the oversight, but her curiosity was revived by when the doors hissed open. "Welcome Scribe, your TARDIS is fueled & ready."
Rachel, still clutching her empty wine glass, stepped inside. There she found all the flashing lights and burbling noises a Gallifreyan could desire. However, given that Rachel was of the human variety, these were seen as not nearly enough. Which brought her to the most pressing point on hand. "Where is the Doctor?" Her eyes swept the interior, finally resting on a holographic image of a young woman. "Are you injured?" The voice chirped politely, its features shifting to appropriate concern. Rachel paused, "No, it's just that I expect the madman to come as a package deal with the box." "Who?" The image responded. "Yes! Exactly." Rachel filled in eagerly. The glowing lady looked genuinely perplexed by this turn in the conversation, then rallied. "Please state the name of the subject in question to proceed." "Oh," Rachel said, shoulders resting. "I was rather hoping that you could tell me that. I would be the envy of all the Whovians on earth. Something that only Alex Kingston, Steven Moffat, and now I would have known. Maybe even Russell T. Davies too, but given Moffat's run on the show, it might have been changed since the 'Silence in the Library' in season 4. Wait, that was written by Moffat wasn't it. Hmm... Wonder if it is like an inheritance on the show through the years to pass from head writer to head writer." Throughout this soliloquy, the holograph became blurred due to the amount of computation through its logic engines to provide answers. Finding none to its satisfaction to be reputable sources, the hologram cleared its resolution with a hum and pressed forward. "Scribe, shall we begin our odyssey?" "That is another thing - Why are you calling me that." Rachel waved her glass at the floating interface in a vaguely threatening manner. The machine replied dutifully. "It all will make sense two days from now when you meet Jane Austen and give her relationship suggestions for the characters in her novels. She will be amused by your twenty-first century ideas and grant you that title. A future timeline version of you will think this to be an excellent honor and demand that her TARDIS call her that in all continuities, including this one." "Wait, What?!" Rachel adjusted her glasses. "Hold up - Doesn't that mess with the 'wibbly wobbly timey wimey thing' with the time vortex as mentioned in 'Blink' by the 10th Doctor?" "Yes, but the future version of you was/is intoxicated at the moment of departure. She/you decided that the novelty of introducing present you to your destiny is worth the risk of screwing continuity. 'Rules are made to be broken, and I have a TARDIS or whatever.' is/was your exact quote." "Sounds about right," Rachel admitted, "First thing I want to do is capture my very own puppy sized elephant. I'll use it for the return of 'Lydia Bennet Diaries' as Mary Kate's new pet. That will give the tumblr masses something to gif about. Maybe John and Hank will want their own too. So, when can we start?" "Already arrived, in anticipation of your request. Future you named it -" Rachel interrupted. "Please stop talking like that, you... whatever you are - This is my first time 'round and I don't want any spoilers!"
[Endnote: This seemed to be all I could be bothered to capture today. If Rachel likes it, I might continue along this vein. I only have a few ideas where I would like to go with this. However, since I have never met her, I can only guess how Rachel would respond or what she would do with a TARDIS.]
"This is not how the World ends." - Jonathan Hickman; S.H.I.E.L.D. (2010)
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Shadow - Eventide
I have been on an extended vacation lately, yet haven't left off my online activity. I am a convert to the twitter persuasion of content for the moment. I see the cleaving of a metaphorical claymore with its limitations. Some of the greatest writers were inspired by boundaries, for it allows a mind to stop exploring the "no edge" universe which Hank Green so aptly described the reaches of space. Instead, it forces the hand to make the best of the area available to interaction and self-expression. In short, an empty room is a matter of perspective. To the ignorant it is a prison, but a creative and optimistic mind notes the opportunity to fill it with content & purpose.
As pertains to Twitter: Yes it is a medium that lends to stupidity, but at least it is boxed away into a mercifully small package of 140 characters. It takes a meticulous and patient person to write what they mean in the same space. If it requires more than one tweet to expound upon your subject, a succinct #hashtag will summarize the common thread between postings. It is almost laughable when a rash person rants half cocked on a subject, because their paragraphs are taken more easily out of context. Continuity is an important virtue to hold even more dearly when the stakes are so small and the potential is great.
While brevity may not always be the soul of wit, it is a highly prized virtue in a fast paced world.
The same can be said on an intellectual level. I function better when I am not faced with many options. I can stop calculating what additional routes might be available, in fact, some avenues close when not pursued in a timely manner. I then must choose from a shortened menu of paths, and put all my energy behind the one I must undertake. Joss Whedon's Avengers featured a villain who took this idea to the extreme. Loki perceived that humanity had a history of following the example of others rather than blazing their own trails. What he failed to ask himself honestly, was whether he was a person who was such an example worth emulating. Further irony arises from the fact that Loki was the God of Mischief in the Norse mythos. Instead of encouraging entropy and chaos from free will gone haywire, he had taken the opposite strategy of making humankind his unquestioning sheep.
I don't want to spoil Dark Knight Rises, only that it is a fitting end to the Nolan trilogy of the creation, fall, & conclusion of Bruce Wayne. Nothing in Batman was admitted to be superhuman or supernatural, Nolan's vision was to turn a unblinking spotlight on the heights of nobility and hope depths of depravity & despair found in human behavior and simple choices. The frightening part of the content of the movies is the basis for logic of the "villains," that these beliefs exist as seeds in the hearts of men, but that so few have the courage to stand for what is noble or the nerve to question social norms with a revolutionary philosophy.
The Avengers was star-powered lighthearted fun and thrills, leaving the theatre knowing that such characters will remain fixed in that universe. The Dark Knight trilogy will not depart so easily from your subconscious, it raises questions as to "what would you have done?" and "do you have it in you to make such a decision? What compels you to action?"
As pertains to Twitter: Yes it is a medium that lends to stupidity, but at least it is boxed away into a mercifully small package of 140 characters. It takes a meticulous and patient person to write what they mean in the same space. If it requires more than one tweet to expound upon your subject, a succinct #hashtag will summarize the common thread between postings. It is almost laughable when a rash person rants half cocked on a subject, because their paragraphs are taken more easily out of context. Continuity is an important virtue to hold even more dearly when the stakes are so small and the potential is great.
While brevity may not always be the soul of wit, it is a highly prized virtue in a fast paced world.
The same can be said on an intellectual level. I function better when I am not faced with many options. I can stop calculating what additional routes might be available, in fact, some avenues close when not pursued in a timely manner. I then must choose from a shortened menu of paths, and put all my energy behind the one I must undertake. Joss Whedon's Avengers featured a villain who took this idea to the extreme. Loki perceived that humanity had a history of following the example of others rather than blazing their own trails. What he failed to ask himself honestly, was whether he was a person who was such an example worth emulating. Further irony arises from the fact that Loki was the God of Mischief in the Norse mythos. Instead of encouraging entropy and chaos from free will gone haywire, he had taken the opposite strategy of making humankind his unquestioning sheep.
I don't want to spoil Dark Knight Rises, only that it is a fitting end to the Nolan trilogy of the creation, fall, & conclusion of Bruce Wayne. Nothing in Batman was admitted to be superhuman or supernatural, Nolan's vision was to turn a unblinking spotlight on the heights of nobility and hope depths of depravity & despair found in human behavior and simple choices. The frightening part of the content of the movies is the basis for logic of the "villains," that these beliefs exist as seeds in the hearts of men, but that so few have the courage to stand for what is noble or the nerve to question social norms with a revolutionary philosophy.
The Avengers was star-powered lighthearted fun and thrills, leaving the theatre knowing that such characters will remain fixed in that universe. The Dark Knight trilogy will not depart so easily from your subconscious, it raises questions as to "what would you have done?" and "do you have it in you to make such a decision? What compels you to action?"
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Abdication - Selfishly
I have dug myself into a hole this morning. I am 0 for 2 in tasks that I was asked to perform. My attitude is repulsive, I don't merit redemption. So I rest in my pit and consider my next move. Can I apologize for the wrongs I have done, strive to make them right? Shall I put this behind me as if it had never happened, and press on in my day, learning from it without dwelling?
This is not about me. Though this blog is from my perspective. I detest self-pity, especially when I am tempted to succumb to it. Thanks be to the God who lifts our heads from looking at our problems. I try to be too flippant, too clever, staying a step away from commitment. The tasks that my heavenly father asks me to perform are simple, basic behavior. Yet sometimes a stumble raises the question of whether we will ever walk. If I could write a letter, it would be a plea for me not to lose appreciation for the moment. To know that each one is precious it can make or break a heart.
I am fearful of being the truer fool - the one who is blind to his own ignorance. I have longed to be the ironic fool, the one who knows better but is willing to take the fall if needed. I crave attention - the undivided focus of another person. Groups are more difficult to navigate - for there are multiple subjects, multiple ideas flying. Self-abasement rises again in the past paragraph. Please Lord, give me guidance. "You kick against the pricks" is the answer. When you calm down and stop fighting me, then work can be done.
I have been feeding my mind a steady dose of eye glitters and shimmers of fantasy, trying to escape from the gravity of reality. It is a web of lies, constructed with the intent to draw the reader beyond a point of difficult return. The surface grows stickier from the struggle. I need to rest, to forgive and not fall prey. My king? How can I bring glory to you if I will not pay heed to your orders? I become a hazard to those around me - a distraction.
If I was on the other side of a post akin to this, I don't know how I would respond. Silence is probably the just course of action - it speaks volumes about the scale of my place in a sea of faces. For if you speak and counsel, I am gleeful that someone heard my cries and took time to respond. But if I wallow, if I remain here, I am not. How can you run from yourself? Escape from the box of personality you have crafted with your time, the habits you have cultivated and fertilized with effort and custom. Christ, I truly need thee every hour, I pray that I entwine my life to yours. Your virtues displayed in Your word to come alive in my life. I look in the gardens of others and see the beauty of their discipline and determination. Live a life for which there is no occasion for shame and regret.
This is not about me. Though this blog is from my perspective. I detest self-pity, especially when I am tempted to succumb to it. Thanks be to the God who lifts our heads from looking at our problems. I try to be too flippant, too clever, staying a step away from commitment. The tasks that my heavenly father asks me to perform are simple, basic behavior. Yet sometimes a stumble raises the question of whether we will ever walk. If I could write a letter, it would be a plea for me not to lose appreciation for the moment. To know that each one is precious it can make or break a heart.
I am fearful of being the truer fool - the one who is blind to his own ignorance. I have longed to be the ironic fool, the one who knows better but is willing to take the fall if needed. I crave attention - the undivided focus of another person. Groups are more difficult to navigate - for there are multiple subjects, multiple ideas flying. Self-abasement rises again in the past paragraph. Please Lord, give me guidance. "You kick against the pricks" is the answer. When you calm down and stop fighting me, then work can be done.
I have been feeding my mind a steady dose of eye glitters and shimmers of fantasy, trying to escape from the gravity of reality. It is a web of lies, constructed with the intent to draw the reader beyond a point of difficult return. The surface grows stickier from the struggle. I need to rest, to forgive and not fall prey. My king? How can I bring glory to you if I will not pay heed to your orders? I become a hazard to those around me - a distraction.
If I was on the other side of a post akin to this, I don't know how I would respond. Silence is probably the just course of action - it speaks volumes about the scale of my place in a sea of faces. For if you speak and counsel, I am gleeful that someone heard my cries and took time to respond. But if I wallow, if I remain here, I am not. How can you run from yourself? Escape from the box of personality you have crafted with your time, the habits you have cultivated and fertilized with effort and custom. Christ, I truly need thee every hour, I pray that I entwine my life to yours. Your virtues displayed in Your word to come alive in my life. I look in the gardens of others and see the beauty of their discipline and determination. Live a life for which there is no occasion for shame and regret.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Eleventy - First
So, I have One-hundred and eleven posts written on this blog. A couple of which are private, so feel free to claim it faulty at this point if you counted them up. I enjoy patterns and numbers, the little significance and stories that I can attach to things. It endears them to me, simultaneously making them easier to remember and more interesting as well.
Sadly, I don't keep all the quirky facts and trivia on brainwave command as I once did. I collect things, as I have mentioned before. I don't remember my first collection (probably coins given to me, in which a dollar felt like wealth untold.) But I remember vividly one in particular when I was twelve-ish. My parents had kept nearly seven years of back issues of Reader's Digest, and I would scour them for interesting tidbits and anecdotes. Many of the ill-tasteful dross went over my head, but I loved amusements and learned small insights into the lives of celebrities and everyday heroes brought to light in the course of a few choice pages.
One lingering side effect of this endeavor is that I have become insufferable when listening to "jokes," I hear the opening and claim, 'Heard it already, the punchline is _____ or near it, correct?' (I wonder if I could use this fickle memory for more useful streams of knowledge, in schoolwork perhaps?). Among the stories I read in these pages, I recall at least three which I particularly liked.
The first was an article written by a former "dipper" or pickpocket. He told of his early training and entry into the trade. Some of the exercises he did were wrapping rubber bands around his fingers to flex, or picking up bricks by the corners using only two fingers. The tone of the article was precautionary, how to defend yourself from predators, especially cute kids who could be hiding a light-fingered knack behind an innocuous smile. He and his sister would work a mall, it was her job to distract the mark while he lifted the wallet, stripped the cash/cards, and returned the empty vessel into the owner's possession. He was caught one day when he was bored with a successful haul and wanted to do one more mark, a challenge this time. The lady had a leather zippered purse and he fumbled it up and was caught. Interesting seeing the game from the perspective of the other, profiteering side of the criminal bargain.
The second was the story of Will Shortz, the New York Times crossword editor and puzzlemaker extraordinaire. The man's story was a wonder - created his own field by the improvised major of studying the construction and history of puzzle-making in college. Mr. Shortz was just a fascinating fellow, I don't think myself alone in admiring his motivation, vision, and success.
The third I had in mind took me a couple of times through the reams of issues to appreciate - it concerned the mental state of a man who decided to stay awake for as long as he could endure. He wrote about his experiment in sleep-deprivation, and the delusions and daydreams which plagued him for the duration. At the beginning of the article, he described a dozed dream in which he was a laboratory rat running through a maze. He cannot stop, cannot rest, he must continue... I don't want that problem. I will go to bed now, just thought I should update this chronicle of my ramblings every so often.
Until the Muse lays me low with a disheartening mental blow,
I shall persevere to scribble my thoughts and make them so.
To manifest an gloriously novel idea on a page,
Only to be informed its origins stretched back to the Middle Age.
Sometimes I pause to query rhetorically, "Is there anything truly new under the sun?
Technology's progresses are merely rearranging of 'What are the limits as to what can be done?' "
Sadly, I don't keep all the quirky facts and trivia on brainwave command as I once did. I collect things, as I have mentioned before. I don't remember my first collection (probably coins given to me, in which a dollar felt like wealth untold.) But I remember vividly one in particular when I was twelve-ish. My parents had kept nearly seven years of back issues of Reader's Digest, and I would scour them for interesting tidbits and anecdotes. Many of the ill-tasteful dross went over my head, but I loved amusements and learned small insights into the lives of celebrities and everyday heroes brought to light in the course of a few choice pages.
One lingering side effect of this endeavor is that I have become insufferable when listening to "jokes," I hear the opening and claim, 'Heard it already, the punchline is _____ or near it, correct?' (I wonder if I could use this fickle memory for more useful streams of knowledge, in schoolwork perhaps?). Among the stories I read in these pages, I recall at least three which I particularly liked.
The first was an article written by a former "dipper" or pickpocket. He told of his early training and entry into the trade. Some of the exercises he did were wrapping rubber bands around his fingers to flex, or picking up bricks by the corners using only two fingers. The tone of the article was precautionary, how to defend yourself from predators, especially cute kids who could be hiding a light-fingered knack behind an innocuous smile. He and his sister would work a mall, it was her job to distract the mark while he lifted the wallet, stripped the cash/cards, and returned the empty vessel into the owner's possession. He was caught one day when he was bored with a successful haul and wanted to do one more mark, a challenge this time. The lady had a leather zippered purse and he fumbled it up and was caught. Interesting seeing the game from the perspective of the other, profiteering side of the criminal bargain.
The second was the story of Will Shortz, the New York Times crossword editor and puzzlemaker extraordinaire. The man's story was a wonder - created his own field by the improvised major of studying the construction and history of puzzle-making in college. Mr. Shortz was just a fascinating fellow, I don't think myself alone in admiring his motivation, vision, and success.
The third I had in mind took me a couple of times through the reams of issues to appreciate - it concerned the mental state of a man who decided to stay awake for as long as he could endure. He wrote about his experiment in sleep-deprivation, and the delusions and daydreams which plagued him for the duration. At the beginning of the article, he described a dozed dream in which he was a laboratory rat running through a maze. He cannot stop, cannot rest, he must continue... I don't want that problem. I will go to bed now, just thought I should update this chronicle of my ramblings every so often.
Until the Muse lays me low with a disheartening mental blow,
I shall persevere to scribble my thoughts and make them so.
To manifest an gloriously novel idea on a page,
Only to be informed its origins stretched back to the Middle Age.
Sometimes I pause to query rhetorically, "Is there anything truly new under the sun?
Technology's progresses are merely rearranging of 'What are the limits as to what can be done?' "
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