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.
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