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."
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, May 25, 2009
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?
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?
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
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.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Saturday, May 16, 2009
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."
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."
Friday, May 15, 2009
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."
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."
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
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.
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?
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.
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.
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