Traceur

It was hard to follow the twitter feed.

@chasescene

The posts came so fast.

Only a couple a week at first.

But, if you gave yourself 10 mins time, a phone with a map with a GPS
system giving real time updates and some speed and skill with
meatspace hacking…

You could join up with this guys.

I can't believe this only started... what? A month and a half ago??

Nothing public lead on to what they are doing.

And if you could catch them, you were already initiated.

We would meet randomly, inconstantly. No pattern to the location. Only
the obstacles

"Today, we are finding my cat. He's gone missing, he's really fucking
fast."

Through the trees at the park after Stank's tweeker fast tabby.
Fastest fucking cat I've ever seen, but that thing could sail through
bushes and on and off of fire escapes and roof tops.

We started wearing little medallions of Ganesh, Lord of Obstacles.
Some would offer up prayers before they would go.

A murmur or two of protection, or guidance or strength.

Then off like a gun.

All of us acting like we were auditioning for the best fucking chase
scene in a movie ever.

But then

A child is drowning.

Then your child has been kidnapped.

You are in too deep.

But you can't unhack that which you have just hacked, you can close
down the neural path ways you've opened, you have to see where this
path leads you.

Because that's what keeps you swift, that's what keeps you alive.

And you have to say, when you reach your destination, that every fiber
in your being was present regardless of the outcome.

Or the mistakes you made.

I've seen a kid split his kneecap right open after a bad fall.

Most everyone sails past him, to the next goal, the next objective.

These guys are adrenaline junkies and will burn

I stop because it's not just speed, it's also endurance.

If I'm running through a doorway and my friend trips on his way
through, he comes with me because I stop to help him. It's because
even if I'm one of the last human beings on the planet, I want and
know that that kind of organism can survive.

And must.

End of line

Percy@meatspace.com

District 9

Perci types...

Apartheid was still alive in this world not more 15 years ago. It's amazing how quickly I forgot. I remember why I wanted to forget.

There is something about injustice and the violence of poverty and the indifference to humanity that acts as a match to spark a fire in a heart.

To become a chalice; One forever filled, over flowing with compassion.

Cruelty overcome, by a promise, an empathy and a vow.

Locked in the shell of the other, the oppresed minority, the forgotten.

Hoping that his gift of compassion and humanity, in exchange for your life and freedom is repaid. Looking upwards to the heavens.

Three years. Waiting. Another man waiting 27 years imprisoned.

It has the same sad poetry of a story of a kind uncle morning the loss of his only son and a battle he commanded.

Tolerating injustice weathers away the passion for life the longer it occurs.

The Buddah teaches that the only way to experience true empathy is is to know another's suffering and to know that you too are subject to this frailty.
From this is born compassion.

Promise something to me, my friends. The next time you see someone that you are able to help, please do.

And I promise you that it will provide a moment of inspiration for you.

The Accordians

"Then we shall strike an accord," he said, "and we shall hold to it through anything, and every trial, our rigid ethical code will never fail! We are..."

Then they raised their chalices in unison, and chanted, "The Accordians!"

As the saying goes, it takes a discordian to play an Accordian.

No one knows when the Special Ones first appeared, though of course there are those who believe they have always been here. It hasn't been that long, and no one can say they've shown any sign of aging.

There was Warrior Poet, the most famous of them all, in his own way, though almost nothing was known about him. He was the Jesse James of the Special Ones, making headlines as he quietly stalked the cities of America, his exploits strewn across front page headlines.

He was one of the first to be sighted, to be labeled, though no one knows how many others there were, waiting in the shadows, biding their time while their existence was unknown.

If anyone had bothered to ask, they would have learned they was at least one more: Warrior Poet was looking for him.

Gods, bless the psychics. They have never failed to feel pain.

Stan Van Hassle hated learning new languages, but it had fascinated him to hear the language being spoken, still, in real life. He stopped his pacing for a moment, looked back down at the book and began counting from 1 to 10 again.

"Un, daa, tree, kiare, queig...shey, shaight...shite," he said, putting on a British accent, as he checked his copy of 'Manx for Dummies' swiftly, "hoght, nuy, jeih."

He shook his head and continued pacing. Languages had never been his strength, but he was determined to impress the Bishop of Sodor.

He had never told anyone, but when he way young, and he almost died of TB, his parents took him to live in Ireland with his great-aunt. He lived there from less than a year old until after he was 3, and he spoke Irish like a 7 year old, as if he somehow knew his time there was limited, and spent all his time on the language.

For whatever reason, once he picked up English, he didn't seem at all interested in learning another. He didn't really know much Scottish or Welsh but he had traveled a bit and saw enough movies that he could tell which one was being spoken.

But the language that he had heard earlier wasn't either, and it wasn't Irish, but it was so similar, he just knew he was missing something. That something was the language known as Manx.

He thought back to his meeting with the Bishop, the words he had accidently heard him speak.

He still didn't know what they meant, but he had a strange feeling it was important. Beacause one word he was sure he knew. In Irish is was "bás", but it was basically the same thing in Manx, "baase".

And if there was a chance it was his death, he wanted to know about it.

He shook his head. He had made his deal, and now he had to play his hand. The disc wasn't worth anything to him besides what he could get for it, anyway.

But if the Bishop of Sodor spoke secretly in Manx, to messangers wearing the signet of the House of the Keys, then he knew he'd better know it too.

[I made notes on this story line a while ago, here http://copperpot.livejournal.com/95876.html ]

The Assassin and the Emperor

Simon: I need you to read something Perci
Perci: Sure, just let me finish up the dishes. Brb
Ok, back. What is it?
Simon: Sending you a .doc right now.

My father is a medicine man. He taught me that there are many toxins and evil spirits in this world. He taught me the value of Maintaining a relationship with the earth lest our sterile world kill off our last good medicine.
I’ve eaten the hash of the assassins. I’ve been sent to the earthly garden and seen through the moon and illusion of it. I have embraced the sacred feminine and married it to my warrior self.
The being I have created will be silent, moving through the crowd of this globe, amongst so many innocents in pursuit of my target. And when I am placed, undetected amongst the world’s tightest security, speaking casually of sports and weather with humanities most paranoid, I am my most calm and serene.
And when I am in distance to strike, to pierce the frail mortal shell of the VIP target, a president, a pope, a CEO or the head of a crime syndicate, I pull out my gun, aim it point blank at his forehead and pull the trigger. A flag pops out inches from their head and says live.
Minds are blow, empires fall, paradigms shift. As men in suits, soldiers with guns, news teams swirl around us, the target and I share an intimacy not even the closest lovers share. There is a look in his eyes and he is thankful for his life. No one dies, except me, maybe. But it hardly matters.
I’m transformed into a being of light and consciousness. The singularity has already happened and I’ve met my future self and we’ve shifted the timeline.
A suicide-less bomber. And when they search my body, the will only find a message; a single piece of paper.
Be lucid!

Perci: That’s really bizarre, who wrote it.
Simon: That’s the part that bothers me the most. I think I may have.

Catch-up

"Munay-ki." Betty Boatman and her brother Perci both smiled and bowed to one another as they finished up their ritual. They rose and moved into his living room, that was being bathed in the Seattle afternoon sunlight. Tea had been prepared, the smell of yerba matte was invigorating. Perci's iPod was quietly playing. Both siblings sat and sipped their tea for several minutes without speaking before Betty noticed Perci's body nervous body language.

"I need your help, Betty."

This was a powerful admonition. Her brother was one of the most power and focused shamans she had ever met. She had never seen anything phase the man. Betty tried hard to control her rising fear.

"Remember that thing that Simon and I found a year ago."

She remembered he had posted about it in his LJ. "Yes, the disc."

"We've lost it."

Betty had to swallow air several times before she could respond. "Lost it?" Her mind raced with all of the powers and abilities the disc had granted. The last time she had seen her brother, he had visited her in the Midwest, flying in on what appeared to be a shimmering shoulder protrusions of light.

"Lost... but its been found." Perci produced a business card in his left hand from no where.

Meditation on Pentacles

The Yogi floated before his computer, its name emblazoned on the side of the monitor. Maya. His fingers moved above the keyboard without touching. The monitor flashed with input.

The Yogi pulled up his feeds. The screen dove into an endless see of webpages. The look of passionless detachment was a near permanent fixture on his face. Until, in the midst of the sea of information, the Yogi raised his hand and his monitor stopped on a particular blog. It was a LJ post, someone had reviewed a game called Plants vs Zombies. His eyes scanned through the page a lightning speed.

The slightest smile broke on his face. His other hand rose in benediction and a credit card rose from his nearby wallet. It zoomed through the air like a witch's broomstick and swipped through the card reader on the side of his computer.

The Yogi sipped his grande latte as he scanned through today's etsy post. Hmmm, Arm Candy for the Queen of Hearts. What a novel concept.

The Commissar stood in the top of the lead tank, thermal goggles to his eyes, while his division tore through the western edges of the Chilean rain forest. They skirted the mountains but never entered more than their foothills, as they didn't have the equipment on hand for such a journey.

Even in this uncertain territory those that seek omniscience can find the ancient ruined landscape from a past age that is hidden within the jungle, claimed by it.

The Commissar called for a halt and was handed a new pair of goggles, the latest development of modern technology, carbon-dating goggles. Not only that, but they were able to detect geometric patterns in underground structures, meaning that he could see the chamber running underground ahead of his tank, like a neon green road through his viewer.

He had no doubt there was a piece of the disc below.

"Shadow Corps, deploy."

Correspondence

Perci smiled when he opened the link from his friend Simon. After a long day of fruitless hunting for a $30 an hour email solution to a picky CEO, it was nice to see an email from his old friend halfway across the country.

Dear Perci, I meant to have this playlist ready in CD format for you upon our meeting for your bother's wedding, but alas I failed in that task. In lieu of success I would offer this digital playlist, which really never needed to exist in physical form anyway. You have all the songs already, of course, but they are hidden in the archive, in a way, allow me to illuminate this selection...

It was a mix. A 21st century mix tape.

Took in a deep drag of his spliff and sighed deeply as he looked out at the setting Pacific sun. His iPhone played the songs through enhanced speakers. As he listened to the music and the words, his mind slowly different away from the world of servers, clients, bosses and deadlines.

Blue Mountain made him think of the life of assassins. Training, in the mountains, surrounded by lush, beautiful earth. Drink from the box, life is. The perfect infiltration, the perfect dissimulation. Face to face with the target, gun to the head. A squirt of water. Walking away, having illuminated then.

Brother's Gonna Work It Out reminded him of the corruption, the bias, the prejudice, the isolation and the injustice that seems to be fused into the material world. But it also reminded him of a feeling of family, of community of the kind of prosperity that brings people together. The faith in a strength, its been called masculine but I've seen good men and women of conscious wear it when they build the mortar of their families.

Galvanize took him away from himself, it shrunk the world, it made him a man of everywhere. Aware of every political scenario, of every struggle and every poverty. And in his heart, smoldered a stoic gamen, a grim determination and a holy war.

Halfway into the listening, Perci stopped and noticed himself. He has been initiated, brainwashed even by his own friend. Drawn into whatever scheme Not in any mean way. But his consciousness has shifted. Just like every other mix Simon had

It made him feel powerful again. It made him feel potent and alive. The Pacific sun traveled another degree west, beyond the horizon.

Simon woke up, his head on his keyboard, a fine stream of saliva just touching the space bar. He jerked his head up immediately, suddenly suspicious, because he couldn't remember what he had been doing, or what day it was.

He checked his clock. 8:42. A quick glace at his sheet-cum-drapes told him no sunlight was hitting them, and so he was less worried, he couldn't have been out that long.

Now that he thought about it, he had gotten off work earlier, and vaguely remembered getting on his computer. Of course, when he was home his computer was always on, nearly always doing something, occupying some corner of his mind, if not all his attention.

He opened his webcam to look at his face, as he had no mirror in his apartment. The unique checkered pattern of a keyboard was easily recognizable, and he laughed at himself at took a picture.

It was the least he could do to share his humility with his friends, who, like most Americans raised in the Ego Generation, were struggling daily between their need to feel successful and to feel decent.

That's not how they put it to him, of course, Bronwynn and Percival would both swear they were seeking the big time, but they would be the first to admit the the compromises were never-ending. So there would always be a generous portion of denigration with the enjoyment. To Simon, this could only be called decent, but then they called him an unreasonable idealist, with no place in the world.

And yet here he was.

But something was definitely off. The marks on his face weren't that bad, if he had really been sleeping on the keyboard for 4 hours he would have had deep red grooves all over his face.

Then he remembered the bouncing IM icon. He looked at his dock, but the program was closed. He opened it, but their was nothing in his history. He couldn't remember anything, and he had the distinct feeling that he had lost something. He looked down into his hands but there was nothing there, and he didn't really expect to find it, but still, he couldn't shake the feeling.

What had happened?

Betty boatmom has finally docked at the other shore.

Wait, was that last week, or next year? Did I just think that, or did I say it? Was I talking just now? Did someone hear me?

I'm not sure I have the time, half the time, have the time, what's the time.

Time?

It's time now!

Meanwhile, back in the heartland, Betty boatmom was shining the hull of her boat. When everything converged, she was sure to navigate through the flood waters of global warming by gliding around Frangipani county on her deck boat. Her new lookout, Princess Cyndi Lou, danced merrily around the vessel, determing its sea worthiness by sniffing every little nook and cranny of the boat.

Last night, they sat on the boat and watched the crescent moon smile at Mars and Venus as they peeked over the eastern horizon. Days ticked by and the three and a half year window of time seemed so short. Attention on deck, all hands of the USS Survivor are ready for the days mission. Strangely, it was just to sit quietly and reflect. Watch the sun track across the sky and land in the northwestern sky in a dazzling display of fuschias and musky purples. This kind of patience was needed. This kind of clarity was required. We are standing on a cusp of a new dawn that no one can even imagine. Yet, the world is colored with the technology and the dirt of an age that must pass. Choking in its own black lung, the American way is scheduled for rehab.

********************

Orderly, this is Captain Betty Boatmom, and I have the oranges. They were shipped all the way from the tropical orange groves in Atlanta. Permission to dock at the hospital receiving bay?

A thin wavering voice crackled over the intercome.

Permission granted.

Betty enjoyed taking care of those who had caught the latest pandemic.

"Can you believe the paintings they put in museums? I think art people like history better than they like art. How can the two converge?"

If things were going to converge, then first they must span the edges of the unknown. Simon was sure that he and his friends had found the borders of this undiscovered country.

Bronwynn was turning circles in Manhattan, he had never met anyone so frustrated in all his life. She had to be the most creative person he'd ever met, and here she was trying to trim down her creativity to the most meager denominator: product design.

If you sat her in front of a table with pen and paper soon she would have created an entire world on those thin sheets.

Simon liked to dabble with a pen, but he was always frustrated that his faces seemed lifeless, unreal, unbelievable and amateur, the pieces were there but they didn't fit into a puzzle.

Bronwynn could lay down a maze of scratches and blobs but when you gaze at it, there would be the most sinularly powerful expression of emotion. She would design whole cities, alien races, create their civilization down to the most incredible detail, with the ease of a child's imagination at play.

He was sure it was some sort of abomination against the gods that she was stuck drawing 1000 different swishes for the new Nike logo, or 10,000 Pepsi logos in an attempt to harness her gift into its crystalline, earthly form.

It was only in the last year that she had finally started moving towards her dreams again, casting off the mold of buisiness success and the security of buying in. Talking to her 18 months ago he hardly have recognized her, but for her voice, so constricted were her emotions, he sentences, strangled by stress and a neverending stream of worried thoughts.

Percival Penderbrooke, the best writer he knew, was working out of his van, trouncing thought the boroughs of LA looking for the latest piece of trash to sell his bosses at the Enquirer. Of course, 2 years ago it was a dream job, an opportunity to make some money while at the beginning of his career, but he had seemed only stuck in a rut, his mind only on the deviances of humanity's most obsessed over members.

Sometimes Simon thought that the fairy tale they were writing together was the only thing that kept him from losing his love of writing.

His IM bounced in the dock.

"Hi, Simon."

Brother, can ya spare a paradigm?

Every Ontology is an apocalypse.

Every Singularity is a paradigm shifter.

Simon Signet knew. 3 jobs in 4 years. He stepped out of the movie theater, his head swimming in thoughts.

Star Treks. Terminator. Transformers.

A summer of reboots, sequels and prequels.

A new way about thinking about what we think we already know.

Time Virus. Alternative realities. Ancient prophecies.

We are getting closer. To something? I donno what. A stone punk-crystal-shitting convergence. Why not.

The idea that when we gain access to this certain technology, everything changes. Everyone is connected.

Simon looked around the landscape of his life, of this city, of this world and knew in his gut that it had to be better than what was going on.

Things align, light and stars, clocks and ley lines. Peoples lives, the fate of a world. This produced passion in him unlike any other idea. The locks are coming out of place. Ancient, rusted and carbonated devices are starting to move again. The stars are starting to whisper to us again. Pressures are building up inside our world.

Simon went online. One of his patron saints had been canonized. He scanned through the smiley Illuminati triangle faces that adorned RAW's website. He smiled when he read the quote.

"You should view the world as a conspiracy run by a very close-knit group of nearly omnipotent people, and you should think of those people as you and your friends."

The yogi and the commissar.
We think the warrior is the enemy of peace; if only everyone would lay down the arms all the battles would end. We're so tired of fighting, we've seen how far the commissar is willing to take it; further than we ever dreamed, trying to imagine ourselves as generals as children.
And so the yogi sits on the ground, ceases his endless movement here and there, his endless choosing of yes this and no that. But there is endless pressure. The pounding of hunger on the inner walls of his body. The ache of loneliness as he rests alone under a tree, as he is a human after all.
But do not be fooled into thinking the yogi is not a warrior. His expression is grim, his weapon is inaction. He wields it with less ruth than the most lethal assassin. He slices through time, and everyone that seeks to make him into a tool finds nothing but chains of inaction draped around them.
Chains that drag them down. The yogi wasn't going anyway anyway, if the commissar must draft him into his plans, he will only find the most agreeable slacker sitting behind a button in a lonely room. And, when it comes down to it, when its time to act, he simply will not do what he is told.
Trying to discipline humans is like trying to close Pandora's box. We quake in the power of our own free will, only wishing to know our will, to calm the savage beast of desire. If we cannot stop ourselves from exploding into expressions of freedom, how can someone else hope to?
But the commissar is convinced time is on his side.
He has his hands of 7 pieces of the sacred golden disc.
And he believes everything he's heard about its powers.

My mind's thoughts are bouncing off the moon.

Bounce...

Bounce...

No one would ever stop to believe it. The fact they would have to stop to believe it shows they wouldn't believe, because who stops? No one. If you stop, you're no longer part of the movement. The human movement. Civilization. Stop to describe it and its already changed.

Bounce...

Bounce...

But where are we going?

Psy-Tech

Stan VanHassle looked at the object laying on his desk; a golden metal disk. He recalled quite quite vividly the moment he had first seen it. It emerged from an unseen pocket in the sky along with several other objects. They shifted around as though an unseen hand were trying to assemble a puzzle.
After a few minutes, Stan saw the objects... well perhaps saw is not right. Felt these objects click into place. A golden light resonated through them briefly. Then they fell to the earth. Stan looked at the only one he was able to recover. A slightly concave disk with almost microscopic ridges near the edge yet felt smooth to the touch.
Since this even and the cascading series of images and feelings that accompanied it. Stan didn't send out his resume anymore. He emailed this song; Man in Motion (St. Elmo's Fire) by John Parr. It summed up his experiences and goals better than any document could.