Ask A Darkening Dawn and Datalisk

Is rape possible in cyberspace? By its very definition, one has no body, nor any real gender. So how can a sexual violation of the body take place when there is none? Either no rape has occurred, or there is some element of the crime takes place in the mind.

On the Internet, or in similar sectors of cyberspace, there is no set identity for anyone. We create who we are from the ground up. Just ask “Datalisk” or “A Darkening Dawn,” both of whom are (in some way) sitting at this keyboard right now. I can say that I have chosen these two names to be my digital avatars, one for the “typed, forum based world” and the other for the “game world.” Yet, they are not exactly Robert Tolley. The two cyber personalities exist within the mind, but they also rely upon the freedom of motion and expression of the Internet. At the same time, Robert Tolley feels the emotions and effects of the actions of both Datalisk and A Darkening Dawn. Confusing, isn’t it?

When one says that there is no crime against the characters, because they are not a part of the real world, that ignores the fact that the identities of the gamer and their character are intimately linked. I suffer the same slings and arrows that Datalisk does on the forum, and any flame sent against that personality is bound to hit me.

So is rape possible in a digital environment?

I would have to argue that it is.

Not in any sense of physical violation, that is sure. No one can reach out from the monitor and wrap their hands around your physical body. But there is something far more intimately connected to you than your body. Your mind, the very essence of “Who You Are” is being violated in this sense. If there is a part of you that is more intimate and personal than your own personality I know not of it. If the digital self is the projection of the personality into the outside world, then the violation of that self is still a violation of the self in the “Real World.”

That is one handicap of the digital world. It does not seem to happen in any one place, and the results are often left as only series of ones and zeroes somewhere on magnetic media. But the damage done to the selves is still there. Note that the noun is plural. There is definitely an effect on the “digital world” self, but there is also an impact on the “physical world” self. Violation of the digital world self may not leave physical marks on the self in the real world, but it definitely leaves psychological effects.

Looking at how the characters in the MOO reacted to “the Bungle affair,” there really isn’t much doubt that something occurred. While the digital world is undoubtedly different from the physical world, people are still the same. Since it is personalities that are projected into the ether, people are largely the same. They still want and desire prestige and a sense of community. There are also urges that cannot be acted out without consent.

That is another effect of the digital community. Digital entities can act without direct physical repercussions on the real world body. But a majority of the actions that are polite or permissible in the digital world hinge upon the idea of consenting parties. Take for example, killing and death. Entering a FPS game (a first person shooter, where the player looks out from the eyes of their character, often with the goal of killing other players for points, or some other activity requiring something similar) implies a level of consent. In a MMORPG (Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Game), there are designated PvP (Player Vs Player) servers for many games. Entering one implies that your personality is prepared for a certain extent of combat between characters and the potential of dying in the process. At the same time, dying in these worlds is far from permanent. Generally in FPS or MMORPG games, when one dies, that is not the end of that character. Characters are respawned, or reincarnated which makes their death more of a pause in existence.

Getting an account removed, however, is a significant problem. It is analogous to dying in the real world. While the player can in effect come back and create another character, it has a different effect on the mind than “dying” in the game.

The same goes for having an account stolen (or violated, in the case of the Bungle incident). It is akin to a sort of possession, where one is not in control of their body anymore. When the mind is the body (think of it, we’re talking digital self here), that sort of possession is incredibly disturbing. No matter how heated forum conflicts can become, having someone else post under your name is even more disturbing.

So what I would argue is that there is an inadequate metaphor for the digital self. Rape in the digital world may not be possible in the same exact sense as the physical. Taking control of another character is a sort of crime against them, no matter what is done with it. Even if the offence is not directly sexual in nature, it is still a sort of rape of the personality. We cannot send our physical self into the void, but we can create our own archetype of our self. When that archetype is violated, we feel that violation in the same way. Coming from a proud denizen of the digital plane, I would like to make it clear that there is much at stake. Just ask A Darkening Dawn or Datalisk. They’ll tell you.



 

Speaking of Speaking

I know that I speak in different ways to different sets of people. I am going to use a couple of examples here, just to make my point. The first example is what I am writing right now. I would probably not say all of this if I was speaking to someone else in person. That is partly because that here I have to state everything and make it completely clear. That is because no one can really say “wait, back up, I didn’t quite get that last part” on a forum or posting. In spoken language, I would say a lot less, and still be assured that my meaning was coming across. That, and here I can talk for as long as I want to. There is really no limit to how much text I can put down. But if I were talking, then there would be a logical time limit to whatever I was saying. So I naturally have to communicate differently in spoken and written mediums, even if I am using the same language.

But not all written languages are the same. I know that many people are into IM’ing. This kind of truncated speech is used because of the time constraints involved. Also, because one is in direct communication with another, they don’t necessarily have to get out every thought in a complete sentence. This leads to all sorts of “IM”lish where you’ll see spelling and grammatical errors, and even stylized misspellings. Now I don’t IM, so you’re probably wondering why I’m talking about this. I don’t IM, but I do play first person shooter (FPS) computer games. Without a VOIP support, typing is the only way to communicate to another player in the game. But when one is typing, one is not moving- which makes one into a sitting duck… which is bad. One might say that FPS-speak is similar to IMlish, but I would have to argue. I won’t say I’m fluent, but when someone types “gs,” I can translate that to “good shot!” or “ty” for “thank you.” Clearly, such a language leaves a lot of room for misinterpretation problems. It is a special purpose language- used in special circumstances.

These are extreme examples, I know, but sometimes the best examples can be found in the extremes. I will also say that my normal speaking language does change slightly depending on whom I am talking to. Having taken Japanese for 4 (going on 5 now) years, I am familiar with the concept of an “in group” and “out group” languages (although I still get them confused now and then). The whole idea is that there is a way of talking to people who you are comfortable with- a way that allows for more close communication, while also having a different language set that allows for greater diplomacy. I would argue that we do this in our everyday life as well without realizing it. There is a way that we talk around our friends, and a way that we talk around those who are above us in “status” level. There are many, many different ways of speaking, and we use them daily. But there are also many different special application languages that we have learned over the course of our life. Especially with the different means of communication available to us, there are definitely different languages that are used for different purposes. I would say that what is truly myself would not be described by any of these languages in particular. Each way of speaking reveals a certain aspect of who I am, which is not necessarily the same as being different from myself. It’s the odd sort of thing which is often difficult to describe- every shard that is portrayed in a language is me. Each individual view is distinct and somewhat different. At the same time, all of the shards AND the sum total of the shards is what I use to define myself. (that’s way complicated, and I can’t even explain it satisfactorily to myself without resorting to poetry which is another language….. *sigh*). But in response to the last question, as to whether the parts of yourself represented to another group are truly you. Since when have we laid bare the inner, deepest workings of our personality to another person or group? It wakes a lot of trust, and isn’t something that is going to happen easily. And so I would argue that we aren’t ever really showing the “true self” to another person- that’s not hiding behind a mode of speaking, it’s just that our emotional barriers close us off just enough to give us some modicum of privacy and self containment. It’s not a defensive thing, it’s just a human thing. Which is all that our languages are anyways.



 

Hello (hello, hello) is there anybody out there?

Looking at my blog, I realized something. For all of my posts, I have 3 real comments. That started me thinking - which is always dangerous.

I realize that in writing this, I am screaming out into the void. Of course, what else is blogging, but shouting at the top of one’s lungs into the indeterminable vastness of the internet and hoping that someone else stumbles across your voice? But as of late, I feel that either fewer people are hearing, or that the ones who do hear are declining comment. Given that the grade for the class is based upon the revisions that we make, and that the revisions must be based on the comments we receive…. I am sure that my problem is clear. If you are reading this, then it means that you aren’t the one that I am talking to. Isn’t it wonderful how this works! But it is my first recourse. So if you are reading this, and don’t want to comment on anything else that I’ve said, please at least say “I’ve read this” in the comments section. That way, at least I’ll have some idea of how many people can hear me screaming in the void. 

More powerful than any Mind-Control ray...

At first reading the account of the “strange and dreadful occurrences,” I was not quite surprised. Such an account leaves little doubt about the situations of the writer and readers. It is an automatic for them that such strange occurrences would be the result of a demonic possession. There is also the statement that such things are relatively common, and that only the power of their benevolent supernatural can keep it from happening to them.

Sounds like a pretty powerful form of mind control to me.

Today, we label things “illnesses” and “dysfunctions,” because we have been able to trace specific maladies to specific problems with the body. We know that if such things occur, then it is probably the result of one or more imbalances within the body. Hallucinations, convulsions and irrational behavior can be linked to specific biological problems. This “natural understanding” allows us to fix the problems as they occur, and even to prevent the problems from occurring in the first place.

But the body of science that is available to us now was not available when this article was written. Instead of a “natural understanding,” they must use a “supernatural understanding,” with cues and a frame of reference provided to them by an outside source. In this case, the outside source provides a demonic interpretation of mental illness and hallucination. But that is not all. Recall the line



“Remember the late storm of hailstones in which many things were slain and beaten to the ground, which Hailstones were equal in greatness to a Goose Egg, of eight inches about”



This storm is described not in terms of naturally occurring weather phenomenon, but in terms of the “wrath of God.” We still use those words, but today they have somewhat less literal meaning. But in this case, the storm is the actual anger of the supernatural being, a judgment come down from the supreme deity as a result of negative human actions.

In a similar way, negative human behavior is not a result of chemical imbalances, but as a result of hostile spirits. Since only the benevolent supernatural (and the belief in said and conformity to the code of conduct imposed by the institution advocating said) can protect the individual from those negative spirits, there is a significant benefit to believing.



The metaphor of demonic possession creates several logical results. The first is that there must be spirits and supernatural entities, some of them friendly and some hostile. The second is that those hostile spirits can enter the human body and take control, or affect reality in some way. Yet another result is that those entities can not only affect reality, but can affect each other.

But those beliefs are only a part of a structure which affects how people act and think. If belief in a particular supernatural being can prevent possession, then what happens when one is possessed? The actions and strange behavior are not the result of an illness, or disability, but rather the result of personal sin. Thus, such actions are a reflection on the moral state of the individual, rather than any curable medical condition. Such an individual would be ostracized, or shunned as a result. Exorcism, rather than treatment, was the primary means of getting someone back to normal.

Today, we call such hallucinations and convulsions a disease. In fact, we have several different names for the conditions, depending on what biological factors cause the actions. That is far different than the model of demonic possession. Our model requires an understanding of disease causality. Their model provides a causality dependant on a particular theology. While our “belief” in science is just that, there is nevertheless a major difference between the theological and the scientific. The idea behind science is that at any point in time, any individual could replicate the experiments. But theology is different. It functions on a level necessary to explain the world around the individual, but it can create unexpected results- especially when it is used as a metaphor to explain things which have personal consequences.

After all, how else could have the woman been possessed, if she did not “fall from God never so little.” That is, after all, the message of this piece: “Be wary, lest yee too fall victim.”

One can find the reasoning behind the metaphors by asking one simple question “what purpose does it serve?” In some cases, it serves to communicate (bats have radar/sonar) In other cases, it serves to affect the ways that people see issues (drug abuse as sickness). In still other times, it can be used as a form of mind control, a powerful method of making people act and think in a certain way. It is this third way that is present in the article. The metaphor is controlling. It serves to define not only the actions, but the very beliefs of the people using the metaphor. Think about that the next time you use or see any metaphor- that the metaphor itself is mind control. (and what did I just use? Hmmm?)
 

A maze of glistening, tinkling spheres, bound by silver thread.

The mind is all in how we think about it. Just looking at the rather squishy mass of neurons isn’t enough to understand it, because what the mind “is” is not defined by the brain. What the mind is, is a complex environment. If using a metaphor for computers, it is the operating system and the software, capable of modifying and adapting itself to ever changing circumstances. It must also deal with filtering information- discarding the fluff and keeping only what is important. And then, everything is assembled into a maze of interlinked glistening, tinkling spheres, all connected in some way by a silver thread of association.

Why the mixed metaphors, you ask. The way that we think of and describe the mind is an ever changing thing. We really don’t quite understand “how” people think, and so we can only describe its consequences. Using many metaphors for how thinking seems to be, we can gain a sort of understanding about it.

But the metaphors that we use are not only limited to how we think about the mind. They, like many other metaphors, have applications elsewhere. When we attempt to design a system that acts in a similar way to the mind, it is important that we think of how the mind works. Since we fail in complete understanding, any endeavor will eventually come down to the metaphor that is used. In terms of computation, we have organized data into “folders”- meaning that each document, each “file” exists within a single place, organized hierarchically from most general to least general. The words we use reveal the metaphor we are using. Where would one find a “file,” a “folder,” and a “desktop?” The metaphor for the modern computer is the desk and filing cabinet. Even earlier in the development of the computer, the metaphor was a piece of paper and a typewriter- attached to a smaller filing cabinet.

In thinking of new metaphors, as did Vannevar Bush, we come closer and closer to how the mind works. The eventual conclusion of such thinking and technology might be a computer which works in the same way that the mind does. Thinking about associations and filtering, rather than files and cabinets.

There is definitely a difference between thinking of the mind as a printed page, and as a web of trails. On the page of paper, everything is arranged in order, from first recording to last. And while the ink on the paper may become smudged, everything will still remain in its order, in the same positions that it was created in. The piece of paper metaphor shows that data is created and it illustrates some of the clarity with which we remember things. But at the same time, paper hides the associations that make the mind run. A web of trails describes the way that associations work far better. The more one walks down a certain trail, the deeper it is beaten. At the same time, a trail which is not walked more than once will become overgrown and eventually disappear. While the trails metaphor shows the association factor, it completely hides what is being stored in the trails. One does not find words or images worn into the dirt on a forest trail. In that case, a page of paper represents what is actually stored far better. But as to how it is stored, the trails metaphor is superior. So why not combine them? At the end of each trial is a piece of paper… It is more complex as metaphors go, but it also relates better to how the mind stores and retrieves information.

No matter what metaphor we use, it will still be a metaphor. And like any imprecise description, there will always be something that will be hidden or deemphasized. Then again, sometimes a metaphor is our best bet for understanding things as complex as the mind. 

And the world within a single word

Our understanding of bats has changed moderately since Cuvier wrote his animal textbook. In part, this is because our instruments have changed to allow us to measure and quantify what is happening with the bat’s sensory system. But that is not all that has happened. How does one describe something to another person, who may have no direct understanding of what is taking place? We understand bats because we know they use “sonar”. Our entire understanding of the concept can be compressed into that single word. Since we know of that technology, we can use it as a metaphor to describe something else that may or may not be exactly like it. As technology changes, our definitions and metaphors change. In explaining computer concepts, I have often used real world examples (i.e. a file server is like a waitress). But as technology advances, those technologies can be used as metaphors for other things. Saying that bats use sonar is a great simplification available because of the invention of the technology. The description works both ways- for someone who knows about the navigation of bats, and does not know about sonar- the inverse is also true. As technology advances, and we create robots that act like insects, we start to understand how those insects behave. Eventually, when those products enter the marketplace, they will be used as metaphors for the insect behaviors. It won’t be so different from how we used sonar and radar to describe the navigation of bats. The thing about using the metaphor is that it works both ways. We can not only describe animal behavior in terms of the technologies we have created, but it is possible to describe our technologies in terms of animal behavior and traits. Our understanding of animals not only changes, but our understanding of technology changes as well. 

Tales Of The Gun

There I was. One gun in one hand, another in the other. One was pointed at the head of one of the thugs, and the other was pointed at another. They had their own weapons, and I happened to be looking down the barrel of a rather significant looking 9 millimeter pistol. From my vantage point, it wasn't much to look at, just a darker circle in the middle of a square of black steel. They called this sort of thing a Mexican standoff, although I wasn't and still am not really sure what Mexico has to do with anything. I couldn't see the other guy's gun, but I was sure that his little pistol wasn't anything special either. Now my guns, those were works of art. For an industry which operated on the principle of disposable weapons, I was certainly an oddity. Then again, I wasn't really in an industry. I killed people. It wasn't really a living, in that it didn't quite pay the bills. It did pay for itself though. It paid enough to have some rather spectacular guns made.

The one in my right hand was silver with black inlay. The pattern on the right one was absolutely beautiful, it looked like a feathered wing which started at the muzzle and wound back toward the handle. The gun wasn't actually silver, just a good solid silver plating. It was pretty, but it was definitely a functional piece. It was the heavier of the two. I had never really liked mixing ammunition sizes, but it made managing the recoil easier. A .32 ACP cartridge gave a whole lot less kick than the .50 caliber slug that came from the silver gun. The black pistol was the lighter caliber. I actually liked the looks of it a little better. The gold inlay on the black actually gleamed a little brighter in the light cast by the burning gasoline. But in my experience, I had found that the “little” .32 cartridge just didn't make a big enough hole in some of the heavier body armor. I had enough experience with making holes in things to appreciate the extra damage. I also had enough experience to know how much damage a weapon could do to protected flesh. That, and what kind of damage that a weapon could do to unprotected flesh. Namely the skull. I knew what the .32 cartridge would do to the man's skull, and he knew what his 9 millimeter would do to mine. I guess that the Mexicans knew that too. Maybe that was why it was their standoff.

“Well, since I got hired to kill you guys, I suppose that there’s not much chance of either of you walking out of this place alive.” That was me. You have to say something in a situation like that, and since they both knew the guy that had put the contract on them, they weren’t exactly going to put down their guns. Besides, I knew something they didn’t. I had a partner.

She wasn’t exactly the most lovable girl on the planet. She had a sense of humor like a barracuda and was just about as charming as one. Then again, her personality wasn’t why I hired her. I hired her because she could shoot.

Standing there with two guns pointed at me, I was faced with a critical decision. I could pull either trigger, and it wouldn’t make much difference. Even if fired both weapons at the same time, there was a good probability that one or both of the men would still have enough in him to cap me. Since one can’t really enjoy the contract money when one is dead, that wasn’t really an option for me. They were also thinking the same thing, and since they couldn’t exactly shoot me without me killing the both of them, we were at what one might call an impasse.

I did know one thing that they didn’t. She was off there somewhere in the shadows, and I had paid her to cover my back. There was another problem though. She could shoot one of the goons in the head and his partner would probably kill me. She could shoot one of their guns away, but not both at the same time. I had come to a conclusion about two minutes into the encounter. At about that time, I thought that I heard a bolt being moved. Apparently she had come to the same conclusion that I had.

A bright green dot appeared on my chest. Now let me tell you something. The red lasers that you see in movies, those are a bunch of bull. With one of those, unless you’ve got great conditions, you don’t see it. With a green sight-laser, you can put a dot on your target from almost a kilometer and see the damn thing. I knew that on the other end of that laser beam was my sniper, with a FNH Special Police Rifle.

“Shit!” I exclaimed. What else are you going to say when you’re about to get shot? I had half prepared myself for what was going to happen, but that didn’t make it any less pleasant. I don’t remember the crack of her shot. By the time the sound wave got there, I was already on my way down. I fell to the floor, dead for what I think was the fourth time.

I really have to stop pushing my luck with these things. The lady in Soho said that my heart had stopped for about three minutes. I think that counts. Anyway, that had been Number Three, so this had to be Number Four. I really have to stop getting shot.

The two guys who had been pointing their guns at me suddenly had nothing to point them at anymore. They started looking around in shock, trying to find the sniper. After all, for all that they knew, she could shoot them next. They were too busy looking around to see me blink.

The Fabrique Nationale de Herstal Special Police Rifle fires a NATO 7.62 by 51 millimeter cartridge. The round is a little thinner and longer than a standard AA battery, three of which were in my pocket at the time. Long story. The bullet that it fires may seem small, but when one hits you in the chest traveling at a little less than 2700 feet per second, you know that something’s wrong. The force of a normal round is about equivalent to having a one kilogram mass dropped on you from eight meters. Don’t ask me how I know that. That might not sound like a lot, but when you consider that it’s all going against a space about the cross-section of a pencil, that’s something to think about. Luckily for me, she wasn’t using the normal NATO round. That was what the guys who formerly had pointed guns at me didn’t know. She had used a flat “less than lethal” round against me. “Less than lethal” still gets me a laugh. I know that it broke at least three ribs when it hit my body armor. But true to advertising, I wasn’t dead. Being shot still stings though, I don’t recommend trying it.

Anyway, they were looking around for her, their attention focused on everything but what was at their feet. It took me a few seconds to get the wherewithal back to raise the guns. You know, with me being shot and all. I focused on moving the black .32 to its target. She had shot me in the right side, right where it would do the least damage. That did make moving the heavier pistol a little harder. The silver .50 caliber moved a little more sluggishly. The gods of aiming decided to gift me with a perfect shot for my left hand, but they weren’t so forthcoming with my right hand. Then again, that’s why I like my silver gun. It makes big holes in everything.

I pulled both triggers at the same time. The two goons never knew what hit them. The little .32 struck the first one near the base of the jaw on his right side and exited through the top of his skull, leaving a wonderful mess for housekeeping. I wasn’t so lucky with the .50 caliber though. I didn’t have much control over my right arm at that point, so I just kind of pointed it dead center on the other goon and pulled the trigger three times. After all, I was getting paid to make these guys dead. I wasn’t getting paid to make it neat or clean up the mess afterward. The cartridges for the silver gun are expensive, but I was more interested in making sure the guy was dead than worrying about how much money I was wasting on ammo.

I got up then. That’s one of the perks of having died three times is that you can make it look convincing even when you’re not dead. They wouldn’t be getting up. I did still have a couple of broken ribs though. Worse had happened to me. Like dying, but then again I digress. Getting out of there was going to be a little hard though. I hadn’t exactly planned on getting shot. Well, let’s put it this way. There was a plan A and a plan B. Plan A was that I killed both of the targets without getting hurt. Plan B was the one that I was currently working on. It involved a white cleaning van, and paying my sniper an extra ten percent.

That is one of the problems of being an antihero. You may get called when they don’t want the “good guys” messing things up, but it also meant that you didn’t get anything for free. When you wanted a taxi, you paid for one, and right now, taxis were at a premium. That meant that my sniper could pretty much name her price, and that generally meant about ten percent.

In the van, headed back to my “secret lair” which wasn’t so much a lair, and really wouldn’t be much of a secret if anyone wanted to find out, I tried to think of the reason why I had recently killed two men. On the scale of Mother Teresa to Stalin, they were somewhere more near the middle of the “evil” axis, but they were still men. I knew a priest who would probably tell me that I was going to hell for that one. I think it was number six on his list. I really didn’t care. If the city wanted to use me on the sly to get rid of some of their more undesirable elements, all that they needed to negotiate was the price. After all, I didn’t do it for the satisfaction or the glory. I didn’t mind killing things and it paid well. It didn’t completely pay the bills though. I served coffee to do that. I work at the Starbucks on Eleventh and Main. At least there I wasn’t going to get shot.


What I want to know is, can you connect with the character. Is his presentation believable and likable. Do you really care that he just killed two men, or does that not really matter? What about him makes him likable? Or unlikable?
 

War (huh?) what is it good for (apparently a lot of things)

War: a competition between two factions (generally armed) that results in one side losing and the other winning (or both losing). To have a war, one first needs two sides, an "us" and a "them." Then, one needs an issue of contention. Obviously, in the "war" on drugs, we have an issue of contention, but do we have two sides? It is easy enough to say that there are enemies in the war on drugs. One only has to say "Columbian drug lord" to get that reaction. But that is not the whole story. A large portion of the distribution chain is within our own country- even within our own population. If we insist on using a "war" metaphor for halting drug usage, we insist that these people (the distributors and the users) are "enemies of the population." Clearly, we cannot burst into someone's home and start shooting just because they are using. But that is what the "war" on drugs suggests. At the same time, we have no problem in locking up the criminals who use and distribute. But if we are calling addicts criminals, then we are denying their problem. They are chemically dependant on a substance. That is not the same as being involved in an opposing faction, or holding up a bank. They may have chosen to start, but their body makes the choice to stay on the chemical. If we use the metaphor for war, we ignore completely the nature of their affliction. They become the enemy, rather than our friends and neighbors. It also ignores the need for compassion. While our society says that we should comfort the sick, it says nothing about comforting the criminal. We view drug users with a strange mix of abhorrence and hatred- they are against us in corrupting our society. They are not the victims; they are the perpetrators in this "war."

Clearly, there is a difference between the "war" on drugs, and the need to "cure" the drug users. With the "war" on drugs, we fight the very people that we are trying to save. We incarcerate them and take them away from their families. This is not the care and healing that a sickness deserves.

War on drugs (ugh!) what is it good for (locking people away, I guess.)



 

Whores! (Got your attention yet?)

It's so strange to know that you have a little story somewhere inside you. You can almost-sort of-kind of feel it. It's like it's got little hands, little feet and legs- little wings (or other appendages not yet named by man), and it's moving, fluttering ever so slightly. The problem is that you aren't quite sure of where it is. You can listen to the little flutterings, try to seek it out, and sometimes it will make itself easy to find. But those are never the fun ones. The exciting stories are the ones that come unexpectedly, popping from your chest like that alien in the movie Aliens. You're feeling fine one second, and the next second there's this splattered mess all over your keyboard and this thing sitting there proudly with a little "murr?" like it expects you to reach out and pet it. Because that's the moment that you get enamored with it. It's all sleek and glossy black, and you just want to love it. Never mind the fact that it just popped out, it's beautiful.

There is another thing that I've noticed. Art begets art. In fact, let me put it in a little bit of a poetic form
Art begets art.
Joy begets joy.
Sorrow to sorrow
And Laughter to laughter.

I still can't quite believe that I wrote that on the top of my Japanese homework, but when the muse strikes. Oh, when the muse strikes. I have a feeling that I will be posting my Courtesans of the Pen sometime soon. As soon as I get some cohesion to the parts. Right now, let me give the basic idea of the satire.

The muses are all whores.

There. I said it. Now, if anyone was really offended by that statement, just completely turned off...

Stop reading.

I mean it. Don't go any further because if that offended you, then you are probably going to have an aneurysm from what comes next. In fact, I would recommend that you generally stay away from these kinds of rants. If you pop a blood vessel and end up sprawled all over your keyboard, I don't want to feel in any way responsible. What a way to go. Your brain goes "fzzrt," dies instantly and your body (deprived of any control whatsoever) falls normally. Of course, if you are typing or reading at the computer at the time, you're going on to your keyboard. You will end up with one side of your face getting QWERTY-itis, and you'll probably be drooling into the keyboard. Not a pleasant way to go. That, and my essay will be up on the screen, so the police will be reading it. And if one of them is prudish in any sort whatsoever, he will either keel over (oh great, two deaths on my conscience) or he will want to ask me some questions. So yeah, if you are prudish in any sort, and you haven’t already stopped reading... You’re putting both of us at risk.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

And now for those with the intestinal fortitude to read such satire (it's meant to be funny at the same time it is a truthful reflection on the natures of inspiration). I present you with my magnum opus. (An image of a revolver wielding penguin from Bloom County, if you are that old. Or, if you have been reading the Sunday funnies. If you’re still confused, try http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Opus_the_Penguin)



Courtesans of the Pen

By Robert Tolley

The muses are all whores.

Show them a pretty bauble or shiny new ideas and they will wrap themselves around your leg, enticed by the newness. They will brush your hand one moment and leave you with your pants around your ankles the next, not pausing for anything in between.

You can court them as mistresses, plead and appease them, ply their silken trades with gifts and wonders but sometimes they’ll leave you- just to prove they can, and how you can’t get it from anyone else. Then they show up one morning, giggling, and you see them and smile. They drop their skirts to the floor and all is forgiven. No matter how many times they have left, no matter how much your hair has grayed, they’ll still be back.

They torment you when you can’t get the pen up- will tease you and flash you in the most inappropriate of moments- when you’re at a meeting and look out the window, she’ll be there, leaning over, shaking it at you. Or you’ll be in the shower and she’ll give you a quick kiss and slip right down the drain before you can catch her.

But then one night you’ll be ready for her- alone in your bed with a notepad and a quill and she’ll come and it will be beautiful. She’ll show you things that you never thought possible- and then in the afterglow of the moment, you’ll be leaning back and she will say “get all of that?” in the way that only she can, flash her smile and leave again, leaving you once again alone on the cooling bed, your notepad smudged with the results of yet another messy lovemaking, and your head not yet quite calmed down.

Or maybe you can’t last the distance- your lead goes soft or your pad is too short and she pouts and frowns and turns away disappointed, casting one last glance back at you as she walks through the door. But she’ll be back. In those moments searching for a word, her touch will electrify you like a hand along your thigh and you will remember how many nights she had spent with you.

And thrilling as it is, it can be expensive to court the muse- nights in golden champagne rooms, journeys on private yachts or stays in French villas. All of that she will appreciate, of course, but after that courtship, she can still turn around and spend the next day lay in the lap of some random Joe- just to make his day. They are fickle and flighty. In a moment they will disappear at a loud sound or sudden interruption- whisk up their things and vanish, leaving you half finished and stunned at their departure.

And if finally a child is born of that bond, that joining, you will bear it, and it will come crying and misshapen from your loins, and you will have to appeal to her to help you mend its twisted frame, set its bones and make it beautiful- and like a true whore, sometimes she will, and sometimes she’ll flash you a smile with the seat of her panties and disappear for another stint around the town. But you will still care for that child, still raise it as your own. And maybe it will be able to lose the stigma- being a whore’s bastard child- never knowing its mother. Maybe it will rise of its own accord into a world that is too often too cold to the newcomers. It happens often enough for there to be some hope. Hope that yours will be different and that the world will welcome it. Because goodness knows, you aren’t the only one who has birthed such a child.

Like all truly public women, they can be enjoyed by everyone. But, there are some that have made their pursuit a life’s venture. Dirty old men will sit in smoke filled rooms, exchanging stories of where and when- even how many at a time. They will listen to the others stories- each thinking of the next time, of how it will be even more worthy of the telling. You can always tell those men, the bookish ones, always with a little kit, a package seemingly innocuous enough, ready to “capture the moment” as it were.

But it is not limited to smutty old English professors or even writers. Students will sit in classes, waiting anxiously for their next visit. And sometimes they will even enjoy the company in class, pen scratching anxiously on the paper. They hide that courtesan behind a book, or behind a tilt of their leg, but they enjoy them nonetheless. They hide because few teachers would appreciate the encounter. Even though they eventually encourage the students to seek out the “femmes de plume” as it were. That is, if the student is unable to court these dames that they are shunted to the ranks of the “unimaginative” or “standard” while those able to seek them out successfully are given accolades. A strange sort of double standard, with an action that is both required and forbidden.

And then one day you’ll be sitting in an auditorium, thousands of other anonymous people, and you’ll see her across the room. She will walk across the floor, slip you a lascivious little smile, place her finger to her lip and settle down to give you a little lap dance. And you will try not to show it, try not to let on to anyone else, or let them figure it out. But that’s hard, as she knows exactly what she is doing, what she is putting you through. So she’ll be sure to drag it out as long as she can, leading you on while all of those thousands of other people might be watching, as you hope that you can find your pen in time. And then she’ll raise her head from your lap and give you a little grin, kiss you on the lips and walk away, your eyes casting around to see if anyone else noticed.

As with all matters of the night, there are books of advice- a veritable library of kama sutras for the courting of the muse. Some instruction on how, when and in what positions. It isn’t required reading, but as with many things a little knowledge can be gained from books, but a good deal of it is experience. You know what to do by learning how to do it. And if you are fumbling with your first attempts- she’ll just smile knowingly and lead you gently on. But once you get some experience, the books can help, help you get a little more adventurous, get a little more out of each encounter. And when it is good, it is really good, but even when it is bad, it’s still pretty good. But while there are those who are truly skilled at seeking them, most are working hard just to catch a glimpse of one. It is what one makes of it, whether during the encounter you just lie there or whether you can take her, slip a bridle in her mouth and do something indecently kinky. She’ll enjoy that- like any lady of her craft, and will make it all the better. Because, eventually when you are distracted, she’ll take the bit and loop it through your mouth and ride you around the room. And while you’re busy tasting her kisses, she will have a good time and leave you tied up in your bed when she’s done. But that’s no problem, because you will remember every moment, and that makes it all worthwhile. She’s gone, but she’ll be back.

After all, they’re off turning tricks all across the world- everyone has had one at one moment or another- whether it was an ongoing fling or just a one night stand- that’s up to her and them. But even the most committed Joe knows- that they will be with you one moment, a memory the next. Because the muses are the courtesans of the pen, lovers for the night and day.

So what do you think of that? At least it's an extended metaphor, and at most it's more than a little bawdy. Tell me what you think.

Hedging Bets on Love

Love is a dangerous emotion. At least, that is what our language says when we “fall” for someone. Falling is uncontrolled, and while the falling doesn’t hurt, the sudden stop at the end does. Clearly then, when we discuss someone “falling” in love, we are talking about an uncontrolled emotion, something that is likely to take someone and drop them in a painful situation. The loss of control over one’s emotions are highlighted in the metaphor. We cannot control our descent, and that loss of control is taken as a negative effect. Another side effect of falling in the real sense is disorientation as we lose gravity. This feeling, of not knowing which way we are falling is true to the sort of blind disorientation that results from love. At the same time, love is not bad. It creates a positive bond which is ignored by the metaphor of “falling.” Unless it talks about people “falling together” in which case a different sort of metaphoric image is created, “falling in love” ignores the positive aspects of the emotion. When we use that equation, of how falling is equal to love, we tell ourselves that we have no control over it. While we can chose to fall, chose to jump off some high precipice, all too often it sneaks up on us as we trip over something we didn’t see. It seems to say “don’t go looking, for love, because eventually love will catch up to you.” While we admire those who are passionately and deeply connected by love, we are also a little bit irritated by those who are blinded by their love. Shouting “get a room” to the couple that is obliviously making out at the football game is a good example. The general populace is irritated by that sort of uncontrolled display of affection. But even so, the intolerance is a gentle one, an acceptance that such a display is beyond the control of those engaged in it. After all, they cannot control “falling.”

I feel that I must digress now to talk about A Ways From Nowhere. It does deal with love, and in many ways with “falling” (of one sort or another). If one can fall into love, can one also be tripped or pushed? What if a little nudge was all that it took? That if you had the right skills you could “push” someone ever so lightly into someone else’s arms. Either that, or you could trip that person into your own arms. What would you do with those powers? Well, that’s enough of the shameless plug for one day. Toodles! 

A strange duality/Which you fear

Anger is an emotion where the effect varies with its target. That is to say that anger between friends is significantly different between anger between enemies. With a friend, one can voice one’s anger appropriately- thus diffusing its effect. Between friends, when the anger is expressed, amends can be made. That is the nature of friendship, is that even with the differences, the effects of anger exist only until they are voiced. That is not so with anger toward an enemy. Since an enemy is not usually someone that one speaks to in the sort of frank manner that one would address a friend. In this way, an enemy is less likely to know that you are angry with them. Also, since they are in an adversarial relationship with you, they are less likely to try and make amends. The hostilities are more likely to continue and grow without communication. In the poem there is a definite difference between expressing and hiding one’s anger. When it is discussed, the force of the anger “ends.” That is to say that it no longer has any power to destroy. But when the force of the anger is contained, nurtured and directed, it can be powerful enough to kill one’s foe. If the friend is fine while the foe is slain, there is a definite difference between the effects. The difference is that between friends, such little issues are voiced easily, removing them. But, between enemies, each small reason for anger builds upon the conflict. Anger between enemies grows, and is refreshed with each hostile thought. In this poem, anger is metaphorically described as a tree. It needs to be watered, given sunlight, and when full sized it will bear fruit. The last line even says that his foe was outstretched beneath a “tree.” Anger described as a tree is certainly a valid metaphor, and it ties in all of the other images in the poem. In this way, Blake’s describes anger as a “poison tree” which can be both powerful and impotent at the same time. 

The Technology of Peace!

Socrates states that people will learn many things but know nothing. That is, that they will not evaluate what they have learned. Since one cannot ask words to expand upon what they said (due to their inherent permanence and unchanging nature), one has to learn only what is said by the words. Socrates, in his method of teaching, uses the method of asking questions to the student. He seeks to identify flaws and inconsistencies in logic and reasoning. One cannot ask the page a question and expect an answer any different from what is written there. Additionally, the page is unthinking and uncaring. It doesn’t matter to the book who reads it, or for what reason it is read. The same written words can be used for many different purposes, for good or evil. A book cannot protest its use, cannot say “that’s not what I said” simply because it cannot speak. A book is unalterable, and there lies its strength and weakness. If we become a writing culture, we lose the ability to question the information that we learn. Also, if we become accustomed to learning without examining, we become unable to judge anything that we learn. According to Socrates, this deprives us of reason and thinking. I feel that Goody would not agree with Socrates, because he asserts that oral and written information can coexist. Socrates fears that his method of teaching will die out, and the written method will replace it. Goody identifies the symbiotic relationship between the two technologies. He states that neither is in danger of dying out, and that there is no real conflict between the two. Both the written and the oral compliment each other, and will continue to be used.



Technology, in each era, has come to commonly mean the technology of that era. In our terms, technology is the computer and the internet, the digital of the silicon born. In the years before, the technology was the car, the radio, the horse drawn carriage. All of these technologies are hard technologies. They can be touched, they can be listened to, and they can be used to move the world. But there is one invention that has changed more than the wheel. Language as a technology has defined the way that we think, act and relate to other people. It allows us to make endeavors past the scope of our individual abilities. Language allows us to have effects beyond our own physical presence. Writing takes language and makes it permanent. Language is extended from simply the oral tradition into something that can last for years, travel across generations, and exchange information with other cultures. In terms of its impact, language is definitely a technology. Therefore, the transcription of language into a permanent form is technology. I do not agree that the definition of technology should be “expanded” to include writing, because it already includes writing. The definition does not have to be expanded to encompass something that it already contains.



 

Error: Unable To Read Disk (Insufficient Energy)

It’s strange sometimes, how you can feel something inside- some plot or character that wants to come out- and yet you can’t summon up the energy to birth it. I suppose that it’s an effect of a sort of lethargy of the brain. It’s like the disk that just won’t spin up to full speed, but instead goes whrrr-chnkk, spinning up and then dropping RPM. It’s the sort of thinking that requires a great amount of energy but really creates no result. I have just enough energy to think and write this. There isn’t enough energy to study, and I can’t quite summon up the motivation to do any “important” writing. I need to work on Overture 02, on Angelo or Cassandra, or even the editing work on A Ways From Nowhere. I think that I finally have a way to split the 187,000 word monstrosity into about 5 smaller books. It’s sort of a young adult book, anyway. Only Rowling can make a book that large and pull it off, and Alandrus is definitely no Potter child. Aargh. I have the first little bit of Closer To Nowhere written too, and I can’t even summon up the energy to transcribe it from the little Moleskine notebook. I think that was the thing that kept me sane through the NOLS trip- being able to write something long, with my typical over-dense prose. That, and reading what I’d written to the group, 10 people stuffed into a little tent that’s supposed to fit 4 uncomfortably. They loved Alandrus, which made it even better. I suppose that some time I have to e-mail them the edited versions of AWFN. That’s the next step for Alandrus, is finding out whether people like the shortened “5 books” versions, or the whole “big honking book.” I need readers. Volunteers can apply in person. Compensation will be arranged, probably in the form of a “thank you” and getting to read some very long winded fiction about a very improbable series of events. Summary to follow, whenever I can get some more energy.



 

310 and 1/7 Laws Hall

This room is a strange little anachronism. Laws Hall, I would assume one of the buildings that was created when the Telephone was still a new creation, one powerful and full of promise. That's why there is a small telephone booth built in between the women's restroom and a lecture hall. It's just a very small, one person room with a telephone, a sliding door and a blower fan to keep the air from getting too hot. It's delicious when you close the door, the fan comes on and cools you.

I'm actually surprised that it works, as the phone booth is here sans phone. All that's left is the mounting bracket and a few wires, the red, green and yellow just a reminder that there was, at one point, a telephone here. I kind of wonder whether the wires still lead to anything, or whether they are as defunct as the telephone that used to be here. The blower is still working though. It seems as if that kind of simple machinery can outlast more advanced technology. But then again, there really isn't a more simple and effective way to move air than with a fan. It's robust, gets the job done, and doesn't really require any maintenance. I am surprised that the fan is still working. At first I thought that it wouldn't, that when I closed the door nothing would happen.

But instead, with the closing of that door, something semi-magical happened. The little whirr of the fan took over, and I was transported away. The outside world is no longer of any real relevance, except as I look out through the glass. It seems that with the closing of that door, and the writing of this dialogue, that I have left the normal stream of existence.

I am reminded of No-Space, the space within the veil between the worlds, the space that I needed to create in A Ways From Nowhere just for the sake of being able to ignore time. Although I must say, that time is the one factor that holds sway in here. I know that I must eventually leave this place. But why not return. It is such a wonderful little place, where the world passes me by without seeing me, or that an acute observer might stop by and ponder with me. I wonder if anyone else uses this place. I can see a now departed piece of gum, wrapped in a mini size Three Musketeers wrapper, but aside from that I don't really know if anyone else has been here. Perhaps I will post something, create a sort of little mini writer's forum. That would be wonderful. 310 1/7 Laws Hall, the place where one writer can hold a class in and of himself, or in commune with the writings of another. It would be an interesting sort off experiment. I think I will do it.



 

Overture 01, or "the other thing I wrote for 30 days in the wilderness"

Overture 01: A Requiem For A Mind

It was a fairly ordinary laboratory. White boards covered with scribbles lined the walls. White lab coats hung on pegs just inside the door. The milieu of science filled the air, but it had to compete with a different scent. Sweat, fear and blood floated through the room. Those smells were forced to compete with one more- burning metal, as a small sun lanced through the thick lab door. A cutting torch.

“They’re coming through!” screamed a frantic voice. “Harrison!” He looked up from the bandage he was applying. Blood smeared the lab coat, most of it that of his fellow scientists. Some of it though was that of the attacking force. Harrison gave one last twist to the dressing and his right hand reached out. It closed around an instrument not normally associated with science. A black, synthetic stocked pump shotgun lay there and Harrison’s hand found it as if it was a part of him. The science team had been completely overwhelmed when the military had penetrated the compound. Still, the brightest minds in weapons research were able to organize a response. Exploding laboratory supplies and other booby traps had accounted for four of the enemy. The weapons, such as the shotgun in Harrison’s hand, had been scavenged from the bodies and accounted for seven more. Eleven soldiers for over forty scientists dead and wounded. Forty of the field’s brightest minds laid low. It wasn’t a trade that anyone would have willed, but it was all that they could do.

“Get the wounded out of here.” His voice was calm and cool, despite the frantic atmosphere. He swung the shotgun up to his shoulder and surveyed the scene. Men and women scrambled through the door, carrying their wounded.

“Vikram. Vik. Listen to me.” He heard a voice, almost choked with strain and sadness. “Grenade. No pin. Vik. Do you understand? Don’t let go.” The blood stained scientist on the floor smiled grimly, clutching the clasp of the grenade shut. Harrison looked down.

“Make them pay, Vik.”

The white hot flame traced its way further around the door. There wasn’t anything that he could do about that except crawl further into his hole and close the door after.

“Margerie. How’s the door coming?” he turned around and faced the other door, the one through which they were retreating.

“It’ll hold against their security breakers, but that cutting torch won’t care.” He looked at his colleague, the thin, wiry woman who obstinately refused to lose her firm, graceful poise.

“It’ll have to hold. Marcus. How many more grenades do we have?” Marcus looked up from the console in the next room and tossed Harrison a grenade.

“With that one, two.” Was his reply. Harrison did not curse, but frowned, his lips drawn into a thin line as he contemplated the last two grenades.

“Make it count, Vik.” He said to the scientist on the floor. Vikram had taken three shots to the chest. Blood escaped from his mouth with every strained breath. He was dying, and he knew it.

“Get going.” He gasped. “Can’t hold it much longer.” The room had been nearly evacuated. Harrison kneeled down to Vikram and placed his hand on the dying man’s head.

“Give them hell.” He said, vengeance in his voice. Then he retreated through the other door, seeing the tiny flame trace its way back towards where it had started. The heavy laboratory door swooshed shut between him and the room he had just left, the seal pressurizing with a hiss. They were in the old Biotech laboratories, back toward the Heavy Industrial Technologies lab. He heard a heavy metal clang behind the door that had just sealed. They had broken through the door and were swarming into the room. Everyone winced as they heard the explosion. There was a moment of unintentional silence. They had lost so many people already but each person lost left a fresh wound in their souls.

“Harrison, I’ve got them.” Marcus looked up from the hotwired laboratory terminal. “They’re trying to get into the HIT labs.” Harrison looked off. Something jumped into his mind, rather some one.

“They’re going after Carynia.” He said with a cold air in his voice. Marcus tapped a few more keys. “I’ve locked it down for them but there’s already a few inside. We can get you to the antelab, but you’ll have to get inside yourself.” The shot gun came down to a cradled position.

“Listen up everyone.” He began. There was a silence. No rustling of motion, no moans of the wounded. “They came here to get Carynia. If they do get hold of her, then everyone who has died here will have died in vain. We have to awaken her, get her out of here. Because if they get her, we all know what’s going to happen.” He didn’t add his other thought. Alecia was in the same room. If he could get to the two sisters, he could turn the tide. No matter the cost.

“Margerie. Get the vent. We have to get Harrison there.” She stood on the desk and reached up to a ventilation duct. The crowbar that she was holding made short work of the metal cover. There was space enough for a man to crouch in the passageway. It might not get him all the way to the HIT lab but it would get him closer. He swung the shotgun on to his back and stepped up to the vent. She put the crowbar with his hands, with a simple explanation.

“You may need it.” She said and he couldn’t suppress a small jump of his heart. She had been strong through the entire incident. She had laid the first trap that had killed soldiers. She had taken the pistol of that first downed soldier and had used until it had run out of ammunition. That pistol hung at her side, a symbol of her resolve. She cupped her hands to let him climb into the vent. With one heave, he was in the square metal tube extending off into the distance. He crawled then, hand over hand, through the shaft. The metal was cool under his right hand, the crowbar still warm in his left. The shaft was a half kilometer long, connecting the HIT labs to the renovated biotech lab. That was why the vent was here- the same air that fed the labs was pumped into the HIT lab. Now it was his conduit, his path to Carynia and Alecia, the sisters that could be their salvation. He slowed as he approached the vent that could drop him into the HIT antelab. He heard low, angry voices. Military voices.

“Bravo 22. Respond.” The man named Bravo 22 did indeed respond.

“This is Bravo 22. Penetration is behind schedule. They got the lockdown in too fast. We’ve been trying for a brute force access, but it’ll take time.” He heard the reply to that.

“Confirmed. We’ve got them pinned down in B sector. Time is not an issue. Command out.” Harrison looked down through the grille and saw two helmets. Two enemies. He quietly took the last grenade from his pocket and moved it to the grille with his left. With his right, he took the crowbar and set it to where the leverage would take the vent off. The grille clattered to the floor, followed by the grenade.

“Oh shit!” was the last thing he heard before his hearing exploded into a high pitched whine. He sung himself down from the vent and into a charnel house. The grenade had fallen right between the two shoulders and each had taken the full effect of the blast. The concussion had disabled both of them instantly and even if the metal fragments hadn’t done their job, ripping through their bodies, they would have both been down for the count. As it was, one leg was missing from one of the men, and the blood coating where the other man’s chest would have been left little doubt as to their condition. Harrison spared no tears for the men. Instead he turned to the doors leading to the HIT lab. The retinal scanner perched to the right of the door like a silent guardian. He crossed the short distance and looked closely at the scanner. A piece of military hardware hung from its side like some cancerous growth. He pushed the activator button but stopped. He felt rather than heard the door behind him depressurize. He swung around, holding the crowbar in his left hand, the shotgun still strapped to his back. He couldn’t get the gun.

The explosion had not gone unnoticed. The soldier was standing in the doorway, his pistol already coming up. There was no way to get away, there could only be combat. He saw the soldier falter momentarily in the face of his advance. Then the pistol continued up.

He didn’t hear it go off, but in the dilated time of battle he saw the muzzle flash and felt a tiny pucker in his side. That didn’t slow him down as his right arm swung in a wide arc. Three pounds of forged steel, swung with all of the force of survival, contacted a riot helmet. The helmet’s designers had never thought to protect againt that kind of force from that kind of angle, and certainly hadn’t envisioned a scientist wielding a crowbar. The helmet shattered inward from the side and he soldier went down hard, a length of tempered steel impaling his brain. He looked at the downed soldier, the crowbar still protruding from his head, and gave the body a kick.

He might have managed to spit if his biology had not reminded him that he had just been shot. Pain surged up from the wound and he looked down. A neat, small hole sat in his shirt, soaking quickly with blood. The pain was from just below the bottom right rib. Not fatal if he got medical attention, but it would definitely slow him down.

He unslung the shotgun from his back and held it at the ready, in case there were more soldiers. He advanced to the scanner and keyed it active.

“Access granted.” He barely heard the robotic voice chimed as the door whooshed open. Holding his chest with one hand and the gun with the other, he advanced in to the HIT lab.

He moved quickly down the long white corridor and entered the first security checkpoint. It was the only way into the lab with the security lockdown in effect. The airlock accepted his clearance and allowed him access. Once the door had opened, he fired a single shot into the code reader, preventing anyone else from using it. If his plan worked, he wouldn’t be using the code pad. If it didn’t work, he would be too dead to worry about such things.

At the end of the hallway was the Advanced Projects part of the Heavy Industrial Technologies lab. He limped down the hall, feeling blood loss start to lighten his body and cloud his mind. He did not fear death then, just what it would mean if he were to fail. But even those thought were muted when the door to the AP labs opened. He cold never enter without some trace of wonder stirring within his body. In the center of the room, surrounded by instruments, was a glass tube about six feet across. But that wasn’t the impressive thing. Suspended in an amber liquid was the figure of a young woman. To a novice observer, it would have seemed like she was wearing a black wetsuit. But Harrison knew better. The figure in the tank might have been female, but she wasn’t human. At least, she wasn’t any more. Above her right breast sat three letters and two numbers. “XHI01.” That told both more and less than the truth. Harrison knew the truth. The letters stood for eXperimental Hybrid Intelligence, a euphemism for what had really happened. He looked across the room even further and saw another figure. If the figure in the tank was a ballerina dancer, the figure that stood in the service rack in the corner could have been a 400 kg gorilla. It was vaguely humanoid, in the way tat a deep sea diver’s suit was vaguely humanoid. It looked like a person that had been built from large spheres. On the largest sphere in the center were another three letters and two numerals. XHI00. That told a little more still, but it was still a misnomer. He knew the story behind them both.

XHI00 had been the first, as its designation suggested. He also knew their names. Alecia had been the first, a heavy combat suit designed to interface with the pilot. It was the ultimate urban combat vehicle except for one flaw- it had to interface directly to its pilot’s mind to be effective. A special implant would allow Alecia’s spike to enter the brain and seat itself right below the cerebellum. The onboard combat computer would take over the user’s body and allow the user to direct the suit. That symbiosis would create the most powerful combat system ever imagined. That was, if it didn’t irreparably damage the pilot’s mind. The combat computer did strange things to one’s mind. Especially the first test pilot.

Her name had been Carynia. He used the past tense because the figure floating in the tank, XHI01, might bear the name, but she was not the Carynia that had strapped into the Alecia prototype. The woman had been killed by the merging, but something had happened to the combat computer. Something of the woman had been imprinted on the system. It wasn’t an artificial intelligence because it wasn’t artificial. So it had been given the name Hybrid. The experimental notation was given to make it seem like it hadn’t been a tragic accident. But while Alceia might just be a dumb combat suit with no more intelligence than its user, Carynia was a bona-fide MIT class genius.

They had taken the micronized computer from the burned out Alecia prototype and put it into a body similar to the one from which it had sprung. XHI01 looked remarkably like Carynia the test pilot. But that was only the outside. Inside, the most advanced myometrics drove motion faster than any human body could move. Dermal armor protected her better than most battle tanks. Twin reactors were housed in the chest and it was not without some humor that they protruded about as much as the original test pilot’s B-cups. Her hair was longer, as it was actually a series of receptors for everything from chemical to spectrographic analysis. She was perfect.

Carynia was beautiful, but it was the sort of beauty that a sword had, a kind of lethal keenness that extended from her toes to the top of her head. As he approached the glass case, he saw that here eyes were closed. She was sleeping and he once again wondered whether she dreamed in that suspended state. He hoped that if she did that they were pleasant because he was about to bring her to a very hostile reality. He moved to the console and keyed in his security clearance. In the glass case, Carynia’s eyes fluttered. The sequence took a little over a minute and in that time he attended to his wound. The bleeding had stopped but he knew that something had been punctured when the round went in. It was bad, he concluded, and that only spurred him on.

She came fully awake in the tank and her eyes traced the room, finally coming to rest on him.

“Hello Harrison.” She said and he almost imagined that the sound was coming from her rather than the speaker on the console. Her lips were moving but no sound transmitted through the fluid. Her eyes then latched on to his chest.

“You’re wounded.” She said and the voice software did a good job of creating concern. “What happened?” she asked.

“We’ve been attacked.” He replied with the haste that he felt in his gut. “They’ve just gotten through into the compound and started killing scientists.”

“Why?” she asked.

“They’re here for you.” He said and while the surprise did not register in her body, it was evident in her voice.

“Explain.”

“They found out about you. How I don’t know, but they found out. Now they’re after you. If they get you, I don’t know what will happen, but.” She cut him off.

“Termination?” she inquired.

“Yes was his reflexive response.

“Inallowable.” She replied. That was the self preservation of the combat computer talking. She would not allow her own death. She might be a computer based intelligence, but she held on to every iota of self identity.

“Combat authorized?” she asked and he knew that this was the critical question. Without this, she would run and hide. He needed her to fight. The other scientists needed her to fight.

“Confirmed.” He responded and she smiled.

“Agreed. Release requested.” He could not help but smile in return. The soldiers would never know what hit them. He typed on the console harder. He didn’t have the cylinder release clearance, but he could disable the umbilical locks that kept her in place. Hoses released from their attachment points on her spine. He might not have the clearance but he did have a shotgun. He put two shells into the same spot on the tank and a spiders web of cracks spread across the glass. She swam down in the tank, cocked her fist back and drove it through the inch thick glass with more strength than five of the soldiers had. The fluid gushed out of the shattered tank, washing over the console and Harrison. She hopped down to the floor and this time her voice came from her throat.

“Seek medical attention.” She said, pointing to his wound. He shook his head.

“No time. Help me get to Alecia.” She cocked her head in curiosity. It was a gesture that one might have expected from a seven year old, but the sentiment she expressed was not.

“User does not have acceptable configuration for interface. User termination may result.” He became solemn.

“Observation and risk accepted. Assist me.” It was a simple command, one that wouldn’t allow her to ask “why” again. She didn’t talk but they both walked over to the bulbous body of Alecia. The docking harness held the body suspended to where a man could open the carapace and enmesh himself in the cockpit. He triggered the release and the spheres opened, leaving a human shaped space inside. Harrison stripped off the bloodied labcoat and stepped up to the behemoth.

“Run it through the fast boot sequence as soon as I’m in.” he ordered. If he moved fast, he might still be able to save some of the science team. He nestled himself inside the huge machine and the padding wrapped around his body. He triggered the carapace close and his world went black as Alecia enveloped him. A soft voice whispered in his ear. The scientists had found that a gentle feminine voice was best forgiving the warrior information .Put simply they were more likely to pay attention, which in this case was important.

“Attention unrecognized user. You are not authorized to access this system. Enter override authorization.” Almost immediately the voice changed. “Override accepted. Welcome science team user #4 Warning. User lacks acceptable implant. User death probable if insertion attempted. User must provide acknowledgement and verify override.” Harrison bit his bottom lip. If he accepted, the spike now positioned to the rear of his skull would slam forward and pierce the bone. The probe would slam into his brain without any smoothing from the interface implant. Even if it didn’t lobotomize him instantly, there would be nothing to stop him from bleeding out. Even so, the bullet in his gut reminded him that he was already living on borrowed time. It was all that he could do to spend that time to save his fellow scientists.

“I recognize and accept these risks up to and including my cessation of life. Proceed with insertion.” There was a sharp stabbing pain in the back of his head, a wetness that trickled down the back of his neck and then nothing.

A moment after that, everything. Information poured into his brain, telling him identification, threat levels, armor classes, and armaments. He almost choked on it all but his mind somehow managed to cope. Then the picture became clearer and he “saw” through Alecia’s eyes.

“User integration complete.” The voice whispered in the back of his mind. He looked out and saw Carynia highlighted with a friendly green icon. “Carynia. Friendly combat capable unit.” Read the display. Off in the corners of his vision floated the integrity readings of the suit, his weapons and ammunition.

Alecia was an angel of death, implacable and indestructible. If he still had held control over his lips, a smile would have broken across them. He was struck by a sudden flight of soliloquy. He spoke to the combat computer and Carynia.

“Hush you vaunted angels. Silence your blessed harps Still your fluttering wings for my task is a damned one. I do this to save and in doing so I damn myself. With these fists I will hold retribution and salvation. I do what must be done no matter the cost.” With his eulogy composed, he closed the voice channel and prepared to move. The umbilicals had separated and all that was left was to stand. Alecia did so clumsily, knocking aside the mooring brackets.

“What’s wrong?” Harrison demanded of Alecia, their conversation taking place inside his own head.

“User lacks acceptable augmentations to use stimulant couplings. Manual override possible.” Harrison keyed the override and knew that his body was being abused further. Valves that should have been on his chest to allow stimulant chemicals to be pumped into his blood stream weren’t there. So Alceia pierced his body and pumped the chemicals in through the gaping holes. He felt his mind speed and his motions became more sure.

“Little Sister. Let us go.” He said to Carynia and they stepped toward the door. He saw her pick up the shotgun and cradle it in her arms. He needed no weapons now. He was a weapon. The doorway was too narrow to accommodate Alecia’s bulk. So he ripped that wall apart.

Chunks of masonry flew as he bashed his way through. Carynia followed in his wake as he made his way through the security checkpoint to the door through which he had entered, leaving rubble in his path. He did not even pause for that wall, but instead ripped through it. A soldier stood on the other side of that wall, and he had enough time for a surprised “unk’ before he was smashed against the wall like a rag doll. Alecia spared no though save “Hostile down” before going through the next wall. Carynia did pause to pick up the man’s weapon. A heavy assault carbine replaced the shotgun in her hands, the shotgun taking its place on her back.

He emerged into a long hallway, the main corridor between the B-labs and HIT. The enemy was still moving here. Alecia counted eight, lightly armed hostiles. Not a threat to him. The right arm came up and a razor hail of metal flechettes tore through the men. One had enough time for a dying scream into his radio. Alecia didn’t care. They could do nothing. He advanced down the hall, Carynia at his side. From a storage room down the hall, three soldiers emerged, firing wildly. They went down before he had a chance to raise the fist of death, laid low by precision fire from Carynia. It shouldn’t have taken that long to react, he thought, as more troops moved further away. A few grenades clattered toward them, but their explosions were blocked by Alecia’s prodigious bulk. Carynia ducked behind him, for she was not so durable. A storm of blades ended those men’s lives as well, as the flechette gun tore through them like paper bags full of tomato soup. He got to the corner, the one that would take him to B-lab. An RPG exploded on his arm and for the first time Alecia knew damage. Nodes flashed yellow, indicating that the armor was damaged but unbreached. Carynia took out the soldier that had fired the rocket. Harrison looked down the hallway and saw the bodies, the bodies of the enemy and the bodies of his colleagues.

This was where they had retreated to, where they had hidden themselves. The torchu cut door was too small for him to pass through, so he sent his remote sensor ahead. A tiny robot the size of a tennis ball bounced through the cut doors. The mangled body of Vikram and those of the two soldiers he had taken with him told the first chapter. The door beyond had been torch cut as well. IN that room he found the bodies of those who had been wounded. Hawkins, Jefferson, Lee-Ann. There was one more soldier there and the pistol in Lee-Ann’s hand seemed to claim him. The door beyond had been cut and there he found death. The room was the last one, the last stand for the scientists and it showed. Four soldiers lay dead, cut down by fire from the science team. The small drone hopped over the improvised barricades to find what lay beyond. The seven members that had remained had put up a valiant fight but they had been overwhelmed. He surveyed the bodies and his heart leapt as the sensor indicated that one was still living. Margerie lay up against a cabinet, four bullet holes in her chest leaking blood.

“Harrison, is that you?” she managed to splutter weakly. Harrisoin/Alecia managed to reply/

“Yes. I got Carynia out. I’m in Alecia.” Infinite sorrow clouded her face. “Why? You didn’t need to.”

“It was the only way, Margerie, the only way. Where are the others?”

“There are no others.” She replied sorrowfully.

“You and I are the last. And I’m not going anywhere but a morgue. Did you get Carynia?” she begged, needing to know.

“Yes.” was his reply, concentration already getting difficult. Margerie sighed.

“The complete unlock code. It’s the only way she’ll survive out there. The code is “To be sure that all is right with the world.” Let her go. Maybe she can be our legacy. Something to live on. Maybe.” With that the life died in her eyes. Lacking hands, he could not close her eyelids with the remote. So he returned to Alecia’s vantage. Carynia was there, looking at him.

“Listen carefully Carynia.” He said, his mind scattering. “I hereby activate your complete unlock override. To be sure that all is right with the world.” A new look emerged in her eyes as previously hidden commands were made accessible.

“Go. Get away from here and live. That is your mission now, Carynia, Live.” She stood close to him even as the suit faltered and fell to its knees. The man inside Alecia failed, his flesh compromised beyond function. The scientist known as Harrison, one of the brightest minds in his field, the man who had built Alecia and Carynia, started the XHI project an had used it to wreak a terrible vengeance upon its violators, had died.

Alecia, now unthinking and unfeeling, began to play back the message that its pilot had first given: A requiem for the mind that had built it.

“Hush you vaunted angels. Silence your blessed harps. Still your fluttering wings…” As the voice trailed off, footsteps receded into the distance.



 

Opening Shots, or Visions of Coffee

He nursed the coffee like he was kissing it, holding it gently with both hands, taking small sips with his eyes closed. Watching him, one would have thought that the coffee reminded him of a special someone, a lover or mistress. If they would have asked him, he would have replied that in a way it did, but in another way it didn't. In one way, it was very good coffee, and deserved to be appreciated for that single fact alone. But that it also reminded him of times and places, the memories more powerful than the touch of any mistress.

I write, many times, with facets of myself. But, in a world populated by myself, I sometimes wonder about the conflicts. Is it the individual brought out aspects that are fighting, their extremity creating their dissonance? Or is there some more basic, root cause to this? Is the battle between Alandrus and the White Suit a battle for individual identity, or some challenge for salvation against one's will?
That is another question. Can someone be saved against their will. Do they have to allow the entry of whatever force, or can they refute it. Can they set themselves completely against it, and still in some manner have it forced upon them?

Should I rewrite the Suited Man into the later portions of the book, peering out at Alandrus from a television screen, or being noticed in the background by the readers. Would that bring back his words, his message? The "You fool. You know not what you've done. You have bound yourself even closer to those who would use you. Make sure that you remember what you have done this day."
Or am I merely rambling, spinning the wheels of my mind just to spin them. For the sake of warming up the writing cores, for getting that "cycle time" out of the way. Sometimes this rambling works. Perhaps I will be able to write today. Or at least revise.
I think that having mother send me the file for A Ways From Nowhere would be good. That way I could look over what she thinks changes should be. I probably will accept them, but I don't know. Sometimes there's a word or a feeling that needs to stay the same, or an entire segment that needs to change.
Then again, what am I doing dawdling. Perhaps I should ask the questions that I need to ask. I feel as if I have so much more time that is just spent at my own whim. Why can that whim not be satiated by nothing in particular. I know that sometimes we need nothing, but sometimes we need to create something. To be something, just for the sake of doing it and coming back to it later.

Remember the picture, the sketch of the amalgamation of bodies, how they are turned towards, turned away, looking directly at you with breasts bared, as a sort of challenge that has nothing to do with sexuality, or others that are stretched out as if laying down, waiting for something. Then the rise of a leg or the curve of a shoulder, captured solely for the sake of its being there. And then the whole thing overlaid by shades of color, some color suggesting outline, the silver crest of a head, or the red shaded thigh. And the expressions, the motherly, matronly care, the bewildered, open eyes stare, the passive glance away, or the bold eyed challenge, that stare directly into your eyes so powerful that you cannot help but treat it as a challenge.
An Alaryal glance, a Gloria glance, an Alice glance. I have seen all of them in writing A Ways From Nowhere. 
So many different people, all jumbled and pieced into a single piece of art. Perhaps someone could write that, the mishmash of feelings, emotions of a group. Here I am, why don't I,. But where would I begin. I could capture the people of a Coffee shop, their wants, their desires. And like some kind of voyeur to the soul I would be here, but be somewhere else.
Could I do that, even if I only pretend to violate the sanctity of their desires, could I? Would it be in some way a violation of who they are, a rape not of the body but of the Identity. Who am I to assign them their passions, their wants? It would be fun though. On this Sunday morning, or on the afternoon of sorts, pick a time and come here regularly.
Come to the Kofenya and become a part of it. I could do that, I think. Have a coffee a week. That would be nice, perhaps on a night, to come and read poetry, to become that sort of beatnik. And her I find myself writing without any real feeling.
Without direction or aim or goal, jut writing down my feelings. Why not put this on my blog as a sort of first entry. It would give people a mishmash of identity, random musings. My considerations, my thoughts, my feelings all copied down raw from my brain without any sort of intervening filter. No care as to what I am writing, no attempt to translate at all. Just a raw and unfettered flow from brain to page. Or in this case, brain to ordered set of electrons. This is what lets me write this way, this keyboard. I must thank Xuesan, my PDA, for my writing, the ability to keep some focus here , some focus there, and keep rewriting it all without having to worry abut where my hand is trending, about running off a line and not hitting return. This is how I write, when I write without direction this sort of stream of consciousness, and then I can shape that flow of consciousness, direct it and stream it in the right direction. That is how I write.