Saturday, May 26, 2007
"Their" Planet
The Del Ghattians had inhabited the cozy, little planet for approximately three millenia (for no-one, no-one living anyway, could remember exactly how long - their communal memory only tracked back about three generations).
Del Ghashia was a happy planet. It was populated with happy people. And they had happy animals.
Everything was happy about Del Ghashia.
They even had a happy God. He was always depicted as smiling (for what kind of creator could create such a happy place if he too weren't first happy?).
Everything in Del Gashia always went along, and went along just "swimmingly".
But a rain cloud was about to form, and their creator knew it (for he was an excellent programmer).
The code was about to hit its bug. The hour was nigh.
Their creator was "perched" in his usual position. When he "saw" his creation, he did not do it with 'normal' eyes, but rather, the creator's mind could picture everything without the need for input.
Think of him as a purely "digital" being...he did not require analog input to "see" the creation (for even the future was a function of memory for him).
The creator was old. Ancient.
He enjoyed all his creations, but especially Del Ghashia. Del Ghashia made him smile.
It was so pure there. The essence of the master's "giggle box".
But the creator's smile was always a wry smile (for he had that repressed memory of that bit of code he threw into the mix for good measure).
Marvel Del Ghattio, who it was said hailed from the clan, perhaps, of the original Del Ghattians - Marvel was a leader among Del Ghattian leadership. He was the Shaman. He was the man for whom the heart's of great, great leaders, at the very sound of his voice, would slow almost to a stop.
They hung on his every word.
For he was from the special people of Del Ghattia (spelling here was endemic to the area of the planet from which one hailed - some called it Goshia, some Ghattia - but all knew it as home).
Marvel had begun to feel his smile fade a little (for they all had perpetual smiles here). Oh, it was hardly perceptable.
Even his goo-goo had not noticed (and she'd been with him since the very start).
In Del Ghattia, you see, they fall in love as infants. The bonding begins as soon as they leave their Mother's ra-ras (the feeding sphere, or spheres (depending on her configuration - "Ra" if she is of the single nature..."Ra-Ra" of the dual...we could go into infinite detail on this subject, for there were a choice few who were configured with multitudenous Ra's and they were known as the "Hoo's", or "Hoo-Law, laws").
Some believed that the perpetual happiness begins with the "bonding" period...that fourteen weeks that the babies spend coming and going from the feeding sphere. Quite spectacular, actually. Difficult to understand why they would ever leave (especially the females)...but eventually they yearn for what is on the other side of the sphere.
It was possible that this was the very nature of Marvel's new-found "wryness" in his perpetual smile.
He knew there was a time to break from the spheres. He knew there was a time for bonding with the goo-goo's. It was the nature of the Del Gha.
They yearned to seek other smiles.
The unfortunate problem was that after all this time, he felt deep down they would soon seek to look upon the face of that dastardly grin...that wryless smile of the other. He who delighted in the things that would make even a Del Goshen forget the Master's smile.
They would soon, he felt, turn from happiness.
And thus the nature of a crooked smile (smiling, "in spite" of himself).
Marvel knew.
(see the continuing saga in "Levella Joppanian")
Del Ghashia was a happy planet. It was populated with happy people. And they had happy animals.
Everything was happy about Del Ghashia.
They even had a happy God. He was always depicted as smiling (for what kind of creator could create such a happy place if he too weren't first happy?).
Everything in Del Gashia always went along, and went along just "swimmingly".
But a rain cloud was about to form, and their creator knew it (for he was an excellent programmer).
The code was about to hit its bug. The hour was nigh.
Their creator was "perched" in his usual position. When he "saw" his creation, he did not do it with 'normal' eyes, but rather, the creator's mind could picture everything without the need for input.
Think of him as a purely "digital" being...he did not require analog input to "see" the creation (for even the future was a function of memory for him).
The creator was old. Ancient.
He enjoyed all his creations, but especially Del Ghashia. Del Ghashia made him smile.
It was so pure there. The essence of the master's "giggle box".
But the creator's smile was always a wry smile (for he had that repressed memory of that bit of code he threw into the mix for good measure).
Marvel Del Ghattio, who it was said hailed from the clan, perhaps, of the original Del Ghattians - Marvel was a leader among Del Ghattian leadership. He was the Shaman. He was the man for whom the heart's of great, great leaders, at the very sound of his voice, would slow almost to a stop.
They hung on his every word.
For he was from the special people of Del Ghattia (spelling here was endemic to the area of the planet from which one hailed - some called it Goshia, some Ghattia - but all knew it as home).
Marvel had begun to feel his smile fade a little (for they all had perpetual smiles here). Oh, it was hardly perceptable.
Even his goo-goo had not noticed (and she'd been with him since the very start).
In Del Ghattia, you see, they fall in love as infants. The bonding begins as soon as they leave their Mother's ra-ras (the feeding sphere, or spheres (depending on her configuration - "Ra" if she is of the single nature..."Ra-Ra" of the dual...we could go into infinite detail on this subject, for there were a choice few who were configured with multitudenous Ra's and they were known as the "Hoo's", or "Hoo-Law, laws").
Some believed that the perpetual happiness begins with the "bonding" period...that fourteen weeks that the babies spend coming and going from the feeding sphere. Quite spectacular, actually. Difficult to understand why they would ever leave (especially the females)...but eventually they yearn for what is on the other side of the sphere.
It was possible that this was the very nature of Marvel's new-found "wryness" in his perpetual smile.
He knew there was a time to break from the spheres. He knew there was a time for bonding with the goo-goo's. It was the nature of the Del Gha.
They yearned to seek other smiles.
The unfortunate problem was that after all this time, he felt deep down they would soon seek to look upon the face of that dastardly grin...that wryless smile of the other. He who delighted in the things that would make even a Del Goshen forget the Master's smile.
They would soon, he felt, turn from happiness.
And thus the nature of a crooked smile (smiling, "in spite" of himself).
Marvel knew.
(see the continuing saga in "Levella Joppanian")
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Yet another "quote du cuff"
"Arms embrace, arms divide...arms at once ensure both segregation and absolute compliance. May arms forever be free, and may they forever work (no matter to what end)."
SEV
SEV
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Quote du Jour
"Had he the moment to consider, he would have, and, extensively so. But there was only time to act; and act, he did."
Standifer Evasto Visum
Standifer Evasto Visum
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
A Metered Soul
a It was just an old store
a in form, just a bore
b gone is its legacy
b done is its happening
c and in my soul, there's a hole
a No restful sleep when I snore
a No dreams to escape (places of lore)
a My lifedream, I'm afraid 'tis no more
b crumbs are my thoughts
b fun, just a memory
b love, it ain't no healthy place.
b Run, say my demons.
c somersault and roll!
a I am no bore.
a I hop not ruddy whore.
a My memory, God save it from lore.
a in form, just a bore
b gone is its legacy
b done is its happening
c and in my soul, there's a hole
a No restful sleep when I snore
a No dreams to escape (places of lore)
a My lifedream, I'm afraid 'tis no more
b crumbs are my thoughts
b fun, just a memory
b love, it ain't no healthy place.
b Run, say my demons.
c somersault and roll!
a I am no bore.
a I hop not ruddy whore.
a My memory, God save it from lore.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Motion to Submit
I hereby make a motion that all Nikki Giovanni poems be submitted to the following "alliance".
TENNESSEE WRITERS ALLIANCE
Literary Awards
Poets Sheryl Hill and Rose Becallo Raney, both of Knoxville, shared the $500 Tennessee Writers Alliance Literary Award, which was given this year for individual poems. Nikki Giovanni was the judge.
The awards are open to all Tennessee writers as well as members of the Tennessee Writers Alliance, a three-year-old nonprofit organization for writers, teachers, and librarians; there is a $20 annual membership fee to join. As of this writing, it has not been determined if the 1995 award will be given for poetry or fiction; further information will be available in February. The deadline is July 15.
Literary Awards, Tennessee Writers Alliance, P.O. Box 120396, Nashville, Tennessee 37212. Amy Lynch, Interim Executive Director. (615) 383-0227.
TENNESSEE WRITERS ALLIANCE
Literary Awards
Poets Sheryl Hill and Rose Becallo Raney, both of Knoxville, shared the $500 Tennessee Writers Alliance Literary Award, which was given this year for individual poems. Nikki Giovanni was the judge.
The awards are open to all Tennessee writers as well as members of the Tennessee Writers Alliance, a three-year-old nonprofit organization for writers, teachers, and librarians; there is a $20 annual membership fee to join. As of this writing, it has not been determined if the 1995 award will be given for poetry or fiction; further information will be available in February. The deadline is July 15.
Literary Awards, Tennessee Writers Alliance, P.O. Box 120396, Nashville, Tennessee 37212. Amy Lynch, Interim Executive Director. (615) 383-0227.
Monday, May 07, 2007
PM 10: Introduction
I was shocked, my whole body jerked in revulsion. What was this thing that hovered above me?
"I assure you," she said sweetly "you look as revulting to me as I do to you."
I tried to sit up, but the weight of my body was so very great that I could not even lift my head.
"Steady," she continued, "let's not rip a muscle overexerting. Diot or someone will help you up in just a minute."
"Where am I?" I asked again.
"You are with the EARA. You were just unpacked."
"What are you going to do to me?"
"Well, we will do some training, indoctrination, acclimation as I just said. We also will outfit you for your new career depending on how well you take to the training. That's our main job in human procurement. But of course, we are just one group in a much larger organization. Take for example, this single station. We have a large semi-autonomous program management team here. There are about twenty-five full time assistants and associates whose whole occupation is to monitor commuication between various operatives. We also have an information coordinator and a Ninian Press Liason. These are all part of our Protocol and Internal Affairs Departments. We also have several actual operative divisions. Don't ask me to explain all their various tasks. Truthfully their affairs are no real concern of ours. We have a small hospital contingent, a fair sized mechanical technician lab, an armament recuperation officer, and an information coordinator. With all the incomings and outgoings of officers and operatives we also employ..."
I suddenly realized that she was going to keep talking unless I took action immediately. "I don't care, damn it! Just let me up!"
"As I said, we will let you up in a moment. I suggest just relaxing and being patient. You are a great deal overdue. This has put us into an unpleasant situation, and I can't tell you how much typework this is going to cause. We have to relist you and check on current assignments. The position we had you down for has already been filled, hasn't it Diot."
"Yes..."
"Just send me back!"
"No, I don't think so. It would be a tremendous nuisance. The only options right now are to dump you or train you." She stepped away, "Diot, will you see to it that it is put back into the system? I have a few other affairs to take care of." She shuffled out of sight. I turned my head and looked at the far more attractive creature operating a console a few feet away.
Relatively more attractive. She was tall and thin and the head on her long neck drooped like a wilted flower. She had a wild mass of yellow-orange hair that seemed to stick straight up like a candleflame. Her elfen face was a little less than pretty and a little more than plain. Her tight fitting uniform revealed a rather asexual body with very little feminity. I noticed that it was the same kind of unifrom Bud had appeared in with a few small changes. The satin stripe down the leg and sleeve was white with a red square at shoulder and hip.
"What was that thing?"
"Hmmm?"
"What was that thing?" I repeated, my voice becoming more desperately shrill and ragged.
"You mean Pamille?"
"Yes. Whatever. What was she?"
"She is a Ninian, Mr. MacLeinn. Please don't worry about the typework. It's really not that bad. Pamille just doesn't understand how the system works. She always thinks things she doesn't know about are so complicated. There, you're back in the system." She looked over at me giving me a reassuring smile. The anxiety on my face must have been quite obvious. "Try to relax, I'm checking your insulin response and a couple more medical checks and I'll help you up and you can get something to eat and drink."
I looked around the room. There were many more tables like the one I assumed I was on. Most were empty but several had bodies on them. Unmoving bodies. There was spotlight above each of the corpses, just like the one that had blinded me. "Why can't I move?" I asked. "I'm not dead am I?"
An enormous teeth baring smile split her face. Then she emitted a spontaneous barklike laugh and then snorted through her nose. "Oh... the gravity is always a little higher in the basement. No Mr. MacLeinn you're not dead, but for all anyone really cares you might as well be dead." She paused looking at what I took to be a computer console. Her expression became more serious and reflective. "And probably, soon enough you will."
"I assure you," she said sweetly "you look as revulting to me as I do to you."
I tried to sit up, but the weight of my body was so very great that I could not even lift my head.
"Steady," she continued, "let's not rip a muscle overexerting. Diot or someone will help you up in just a minute."
"Where am I?" I asked again.
"You are with the EARA. You were just unpacked."
"What are you going to do to me?"
"Well, we will do some training, indoctrination, acclimation as I just said. We also will outfit you for your new career depending on how well you take to the training. That's our main job in human procurement. But of course, we are just one group in a much larger organization. Take for example, this single station. We have a large semi-autonomous program management team here. There are about twenty-five full time assistants and associates whose whole occupation is to monitor commuication between various operatives. We also have an information coordinator and a Ninian Press Liason. These are all part of our Protocol and Internal Affairs Departments. We also have several actual operative divisions. Don't ask me to explain all their various tasks. Truthfully their affairs are no real concern of ours. We have a small hospital contingent, a fair sized mechanical technician lab, an armament recuperation officer, and an information coordinator. With all the incomings and outgoings of officers and operatives we also employ..."
I suddenly realized that she was going to keep talking unless I took action immediately. "I don't care, damn it! Just let me up!"
"As I said, we will let you up in a moment. I suggest just relaxing and being patient. You are a great deal overdue. This has put us into an unpleasant situation, and I can't tell you how much typework this is going to cause. We have to relist you and check on current assignments. The position we had you down for has already been filled, hasn't it Diot."
"Yes..."
"Just send me back!"
"No, I don't think so. It would be a tremendous nuisance. The only options right now are to dump you or train you." She stepped away, "Diot, will you see to it that it is put back into the system? I have a few other affairs to take care of." She shuffled out of sight. I turned my head and looked at the far more attractive creature operating a console a few feet away.
Relatively more attractive. She was tall and thin and the head on her long neck drooped like a wilted flower. She had a wild mass of yellow-orange hair that seemed to stick straight up like a candleflame. Her elfen face was a little less than pretty and a little more than plain. Her tight fitting uniform revealed a rather asexual body with very little feminity. I noticed that it was the same kind of unifrom Bud had appeared in with a few small changes. The satin stripe down the leg and sleeve was white with a red square at shoulder and hip.
"What was that thing?"
"Hmmm?"
"What was that thing?" I repeated, my voice becoming more desperately shrill and ragged.
"You mean Pamille?"
"Yes. Whatever. What was she?"
"She is a Ninian, Mr. MacLeinn. Please don't worry about the typework. It's really not that bad. Pamille just doesn't understand how the system works. She always thinks things she doesn't know about are so complicated. There, you're back in the system." She looked over at me giving me a reassuring smile. The anxiety on my face must have been quite obvious. "Try to relax, I'm checking your insulin response and a couple more medical checks and I'll help you up and you can get something to eat and drink."
I looked around the room. There were many more tables like the one I assumed I was on. Most were empty but several had bodies on them. Unmoving bodies. There was spotlight above each of the corpses, just like the one that had blinded me. "Why can't I move?" I asked. "I'm not dead am I?"
An enormous teeth baring smile split her face. Then she emitted a spontaneous barklike laugh and then snorted through her nose. "Oh... the gravity is always a little higher in the basement. No Mr. MacLeinn you're not dead, but for all anyone really cares you might as well be dead." She paused looking at what I took to be a computer console. Her expression became more serious and reflective. "And probably, soon enough you will."
Sunday, May 06, 2007
New Blogs
Sterquilinium's Faithful Readers:
Please take a moment to visit the new blogs listed in the links on the right side of this page:
Inverness Fan Club
Summa Contra Peart
Cheerio!
Please take a moment to visit the new blogs listed in the links on the right side of this page:
Inverness Fan Club
Summa Contra Peart
Cheerio!
Friday, May 04, 2007
PM 9: Arrival
It is a strange thing unconsciousness, hovering between existence and nonexistance. A taste of death it often seems. My uncosciousness, unobserved by any, was of an even stranger sort. It did not merely encompass me, but everything else. It was a blankness in the universe. I was Schrondinger's cat.
Perhaps you are not familiar with that story from modern physics. Schrodinger came up with the experiment to refute the ideas of men like Heisenberg and Niels Bohr who believed that reality was the summation of various wave states which collapsed upon observation. The experiment Shrodinger suggested, if carried out, was a rather cruel exercise in probability; however, it was only a thought experiment. The cat is placed in a black box with a poison vile and a small amount of some unstable isotope and a radiation detector. The decay of a isotope determines when the vile of poison is released. Until the box was open and the cat seen again, the unfortunate beast was neither alive nor dead but both and neither. Half a cat, some might say. Shrodinger thought his opponents would realize that their arguments would have far reaching consequences. The cat subject to the whims of an uncaused event showed quite clearly that there can be no real distinction between the subatomic world (radioactive decay) and the macroscopic world (cats and scientists). Therefore, surely the idea of a half a cat would by its very absurdity prove to them that their interpretation of Quantum Mechanics was false. Shrodinger was naive to think the saner view would be the more pervasive. We now must accept only half a cat.
Yes, I was that cat, possibly alive, possibly dead in a black box somewhere in the Universe. My existence was even more questionable, for unlike the cat whose consciousness had it been awake would have been snuffed out, mine was simply not present. But if "I" was not in the box, where was "I." I was so dilute, even to myself, that I was for all practical purposes not really any place at all. I had simply fallen out of time. And more than that, there was no guarantee I would ever appear again. And even one step further, as it turned out when I did come back into existence, for the observor unaware of my history, I may have merely appeared out of the ether. I appeared ex nihilo, another uncaused event like radiaoctive decay.
Father Kindly objected to talk like that. He said it was silly and idle and I will have to account for it someday. But Father Kindly believed in causality. He believed in St. Thomas Aquinas's proofs. I myself am not sure. God, if he exists, being omnipresent, sees through all things. He is the observer extraordinaire and therefore, it seems to me all waves must collapse for Him. God does not play dice with the universe as Einstein said, but all evidence seems to say if there is a God then he does. How can it happen that a photon passes through both slits at the same time? If conscious shapes the universe and we know there is an unknowable, there can be no observor. I told Father Kindly this, but he always insisted on the metaphyiscal certainty of God's existence. Metaphysics and physics. I can comprehend neither. How can I choose between metaphysics, which I can't see but can percieve, and a photon, which I can't help but see but shall never percieve?
All the stronger argument seems to work against God. Why would God hide invisible behind his creation? Shouldn't he arc above it like the sun in the sky? I see and percieve the universe, its vastness, its emptiness. I see nothing of what is beyond it. The universe I can comprehend, measure, and describe. I can in a measure comprehend it. Father Kindly's God is incompatible with this universe. He is colorless, massless, sizeless. I can not see, percieve, or comprehend him. How than can I be at all understood to have been created in his image? This is too much to believe. It is faith that defies the probing of reason. Father Kindly said reason can not contradict faith, but my reason causes me to reject God. Only one thing keeps my mind open to the faintest possibility of His existence: the odd fact that I myself feel incompatible with the universe.
Of course these were not the thoughts I was entertaining when eventually the waves did all collapse down and I popped back into existence. I was thinking of how much pain I was in as I lay on a cold metal shelf. I felt so very heavy. I tried to open my eyes but was almost immediately blinded by the brightness of my surroundings. It was liking stepping out into sunlight from a pitch black cave. I blinked, but the light was so intense it hurt.
"Oh good, its brain cavity isn't going to burst." said a voice.
"His vitals are fine. Blood pressure is rising but still normal. I told you he would be okay."
"Yes, yes, yes, but you aren't the one who gets splattered when they go off." It was a woman's voice, soft and melodious. My one eye could make out a vague outline, a grotesque and distorted sillouhette. She prodded me. "Can you hear me? What's your name?"
I grunted.
"What planet are you from?"
Two grunts.
"A slow riser apparently."
"I'll pump in a little more adrenalin." Said the second voice, also feminine but by comparison quite a bit more gravelly.
"I say we just dump him. Why bother training such a useless glob of flesh. It will be doing it a favor. It doesn't stand a chance. Better to die out in the void than be ripped apart in some arena." She paused. "Besides, I'm over my short shift by at least 10%. "
"Peter." I managed to get out. my arm moved slightly, but it was so heavy. I curled my fingers and turned my head.
"Look, he's responding." siad the second voice.
"To which question?"
"He's telling you his name."
"Is that your name? Peedar?"
"Peter MacLeinn."
"Look him up will you Diot?" Said the soft voice. "Where's he supposed to be?"
"Nothing by that name." The gravelly voice replied. "Ask him where he's from."
"What planet are you from?"
"New York."
"Newyork? Diot what planet is Newyork?"
"Earth, he means Earth."
"Well how come he said Newyork?"
"New York is a big city there. Several recruiters work out of New York. Of course he could have meant New York the province."
As my eyes grew accustomed to the light the blur that was my inquisitor became more colorful and distinct. I could see now that despite the loveliness of her voice she was horrendously ugly. "You're not properly in the system. Who recruited you? We need to know." The word recruited brought me a little more back to the world.
"Where's Bud?" I said weekly. "Where am I?"
"Oh here he is. I found him." The gravelly voice exclaimed. "You know he was supposed to arrive ten long shifts ago. We had him down as lost in transit."
"That's impossible. Where has it been all this time?"
"Probably in a warehouse, or in one of the bays."
I was looking around trying to make out other objects in the room. The overhead lights kept drawing my attention. "Well, some have been known to endure twenty or thirty long shifts in stasis. Still it's amazing it survived. Most likely it has brain damage." She paused before addressing me again. "Did you say Bud Holligan recruited you?"
I licked my dry lips, my tongue was swollen. There was little saliva. "Where is he?"
The second voice, Diot, answered. "He's long gone. Don't worry, if you knew him as well as we do, you'd be grateful you missed him."
"Who are you?"
"Oh, I'm just the resident medical technician. This is Pamille the Human Resource coordinator."
I now could make out this woman who stood over me. Her bald wrinkled head, her huge lidless black eyes, her colorless lips, the flat nose and her long neck. She wasn't ugly, she just wasn't human. "Welcome to the Eternal Agressive Revolutionary Army. I'll be assisting you as you get acclimated."
Perhaps you are not familiar with that story from modern physics. Schrodinger came up with the experiment to refute the ideas of men like Heisenberg and Niels Bohr who believed that reality was the summation of various wave states which collapsed upon observation. The experiment Shrodinger suggested, if carried out, was a rather cruel exercise in probability; however, it was only a thought experiment. The cat is placed in a black box with a poison vile and a small amount of some unstable isotope and a radiation detector. The decay of a isotope determines when the vile of poison is released. Until the box was open and the cat seen again, the unfortunate beast was neither alive nor dead but both and neither. Half a cat, some might say. Shrodinger thought his opponents would realize that their arguments would have far reaching consequences. The cat subject to the whims of an uncaused event showed quite clearly that there can be no real distinction between the subatomic world (radioactive decay) and the macroscopic world (cats and scientists). Therefore, surely the idea of a half a cat would by its very absurdity prove to them that their interpretation of Quantum Mechanics was false. Shrodinger was naive to think the saner view would be the more pervasive. We now must accept only half a cat.
Yes, I was that cat, possibly alive, possibly dead in a black box somewhere in the Universe. My existence was even more questionable, for unlike the cat whose consciousness had it been awake would have been snuffed out, mine was simply not present. But if "I" was not in the box, where was "I." I was so dilute, even to myself, that I was for all practical purposes not really any place at all. I had simply fallen out of time. And more than that, there was no guarantee I would ever appear again. And even one step further, as it turned out when I did come back into existence, for the observor unaware of my history, I may have merely appeared out of the ether. I appeared ex nihilo, another uncaused event like radiaoctive decay.
Father Kindly objected to talk like that. He said it was silly and idle and I will have to account for it someday. But Father Kindly believed in causality. He believed in St. Thomas Aquinas's proofs. I myself am not sure. God, if he exists, being omnipresent, sees through all things. He is the observer extraordinaire and therefore, it seems to me all waves must collapse for Him. God does not play dice with the universe as Einstein said, but all evidence seems to say if there is a God then he does. How can it happen that a photon passes through both slits at the same time? If conscious shapes the universe and we know there is an unknowable, there can be no observor. I told Father Kindly this, but he always insisted on the metaphyiscal certainty of God's existence. Metaphysics and physics. I can comprehend neither. How can I choose between metaphysics, which I can't see but can percieve, and a photon, which I can't help but see but shall never percieve?
All the stronger argument seems to work against God. Why would God hide invisible behind his creation? Shouldn't he arc above it like the sun in the sky? I see and percieve the universe, its vastness, its emptiness. I see nothing of what is beyond it. The universe I can comprehend, measure, and describe. I can in a measure comprehend it. Father Kindly's God is incompatible with this universe. He is colorless, massless, sizeless. I can not see, percieve, or comprehend him. How than can I be at all understood to have been created in his image? This is too much to believe. It is faith that defies the probing of reason. Father Kindly said reason can not contradict faith, but my reason causes me to reject God. Only one thing keeps my mind open to the faintest possibility of His existence: the odd fact that I myself feel incompatible with the universe.
Of course these were not the thoughts I was entertaining when eventually the waves did all collapse down and I popped back into existence. I was thinking of how much pain I was in as I lay on a cold metal shelf. I felt so very heavy. I tried to open my eyes but was almost immediately blinded by the brightness of my surroundings. It was liking stepping out into sunlight from a pitch black cave. I blinked, but the light was so intense it hurt.
"Oh good, its brain cavity isn't going to burst." said a voice.
"His vitals are fine. Blood pressure is rising but still normal. I told you he would be okay."
"Yes, yes, yes, but you aren't the one who gets splattered when they go off." It was a woman's voice, soft and melodious. My one eye could make out a vague outline, a grotesque and distorted sillouhette. She prodded me. "Can you hear me? What's your name?"
I grunted.
"What planet are you from?"
Two grunts.
"A slow riser apparently."
"I'll pump in a little more adrenalin." Said the second voice, also feminine but by comparison quite a bit more gravelly.
"I say we just dump him. Why bother training such a useless glob of flesh. It will be doing it a favor. It doesn't stand a chance. Better to die out in the void than be ripped apart in some arena." She paused. "Besides, I'm over my short shift by at least 10%. "
"Peter." I managed to get out. my arm moved slightly, but it was so heavy. I curled my fingers and turned my head.
"Look, he's responding." siad the second voice.
"To which question?"
"He's telling you his name."
"Is that your name? Peedar?"
"Peter MacLeinn."
"Look him up will you Diot?" Said the soft voice. "Where's he supposed to be?"
"Nothing by that name." The gravelly voice replied. "Ask him where he's from."
"What planet are you from?"
"New York."
"Newyork? Diot what planet is Newyork?"
"Earth, he means Earth."
"Well how come he said Newyork?"
"New York is a big city there. Several recruiters work out of New York. Of course he could have meant New York the province."
As my eyes grew accustomed to the light the blur that was my inquisitor became more colorful and distinct. I could see now that despite the loveliness of her voice she was horrendously ugly. "You're not properly in the system. Who recruited you? We need to know." The word recruited brought me a little more back to the world.
"Where's Bud?" I said weekly. "Where am I?"
"Oh here he is. I found him." The gravelly voice exclaimed. "You know he was supposed to arrive ten long shifts ago. We had him down as lost in transit."
"That's impossible. Where has it been all this time?"
"Probably in a warehouse, or in one of the bays."
I was looking around trying to make out other objects in the room. The overhead lights kept drawing my attention. "Well, some have been known to endure twenty or thirty long shifts in stasis. Still it's amazing it survived. Most likely it has brain damage." She paused before addressing me again. "Did you say Bud Holligan recruited you?"
I licked my dry lips, my tongue was swollen. There was little saliva. "Where is he?"
The second voice, Diot, answered. "He's long gone. Don't worry, if you knew him as well as we do, you'd be grateful you missed him."
"Who are you?"
"Oh, I'm just the resident medical technician. This is Pamille the Human Resource coordinator."
I now could make out this woman who stood over me. Her bald wrinkled head, her huge lidless black eyes, her colorless lips, the flat nose and her long neck. She wasn't ugly, she just wasn't human. "Welcome to the Eternal Agressive Revolutionary Army. I'll be assisting you as you get acclimated."
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Ode to Adam Smith
O dark machine of capital,
conceived by Scots and Jews,
what you demand, I must provide;
no wise man could refuse.
For your laws are writ in stone;
the very laws of earth.
Thus I accept that I must be
a wage-slave from my birth.
You keep me clean and feed me well
and all that you demand
is every final part of me
from soul to busy hands.
conceived by Scots and Jews,
what you demand, I must provide;
no wise man could refuse.
For your laws are writ in stone;
the very laws of earth.
Thus I accept that I must be
a wage-slave from my birth.
You keep me clean and feed me well
and all that you demand
is every final part of me
from soul to busy hands.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Reposted from "Precipii"
Riding the Concrete Iceway
On a beast of steel
I ride. I ride.
On her cold, black back
I'm tried, (I'm tried).
Stetched out there before me,
lay the long, white line
I ride her bumpity bump
I ride, I ride.
My thougths turn to tragedy,
How easy it would be.
How easy, how easy.
One drunk, crossed line, and I'm greasy.
So I throttle on down,
slip another gear
and I ride. I ride.
Think about a tall black beer.
How the meds make me thirst,
how the pain subsides.
I ride. I ride.
Pain's all gone, soul's all that's tried.
Whippin' traffic,
in and out.
How fried, how fried.
Girl on a cell phone, talkin' to the sky.
LIke great, white sands
or a white, icey Tundra,
she lays there before me
on her slick surface, ain't no umbra.
So with taita, ta, taita, taita, ta taita
I ride
And the highway hums
And soft, leather hide beneath me, she glides.
She glides.
http://precipii.bravehost.com/knowit_poets.html
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Your world is good
Looking out tonight I saw
adorned by setting April sun
a willow tree of incandescent
emeralds, their time begun
and framed within my bedroom window
panoply of quickened green.
So now I confess, dear Lord
your world is good, my thoughts but mean
adorned by setting April sun
a willow tree of incandescent
emeralds, their time begun
and framed within my bedroom window
panoply of quickened green.
So now I confess, dear Lord
your world is good, my thoughts but mean
Thursday, April 26, 2007
What's important
In the past several years, more than once (which makes it a trend, I suppose), people have said to me "you need to concentrate on what's important".
I've pondered long on this.
They always seem to intimate that it has to do with my health (something that is God-ordained)...
My health.
Gee wiz!
It ain't never been that great.
So then, I thought about my family.
Yeah, they're important.
From a distance.
We are kinda fractured that way.
So then, I thought, "what's important to me?".
Well, it's easy really, when you think about it.
I've never left here.
I like here, where it is, and I like being here.
You see, here, is where God planted me.
And I like it here.
Oh, I've traveled.
I went down past Greenback, one time (a long time ago).
Caught some fish.
But I like it here.
Here is where my heart is.
Here, is where my mountains are. And, I like it "up ere".
So I like it here (and thar).
And it is what is important to me.
Cause...it's where God put me. And by-God...it's where I belong.
So yeah. Sometimes...I think about what's important to me.
And here..."here" is where THAT is (that which is important, to me).
And here, is where it always will be.
All that stuff, that's important, to me.
I've pondered long on this.
They always seem to intimate that it has to do with my health (something that is God-ordained)...
My health.
Gee wiz!
It ain't never been that great.
So then, I thought about my family.
Yeah, they're important.
From a distance.
We are kinda fractured that way.
So then, I thought, "what's important to me?".
Well, it's easy really, when you think about it.
I've never left here.
I like here, where it is, and I like being here.
You see, here, is where God planted me.
And I like it here.
Oh, I've traveled.
I went down past Greenback, one time (a long time ago).
Caught some fish.
But I like it here.
Here is where my heart is.
Here, is where my mountains are. And, I like it "up ere".
So I like it here (and thar).
And it is what is important to me.
Cause...it's where God put me. And by-God...it's where I belong.
So yeah. Sometimes...I think about what's important to me.
And here..."here" is where THAT is (that which is important, to me).
And here, is where it always will be.
All that stuff, that's important, to me.
The Whirlwind Cometh
As I sat tonight, upon wrought-iron, rocking throne, I sipped my beer from a vessel tall, and calmed my dog on the coming storm.
Weird night it was, and pleasent somehow.
Wild winds blew, (and from that place, I do not like).
So many nights I have lived in this wild. I've come to know the passing storms, as neighbors...as friends.
But in this sky, windy, bright...brilliant blue...upon high there lay a cloud so long, fathoming couldn't measure it there, no imagining could guess at its brilliant volume.
"A poet would."
But no poet to be found.
I thought to myself, "here is a vapor, cloud so high; and in its belly a darkenss that is the shadow of its own self. Vaporous moisture, this cloud on high, and its very substance defined by a shadow of its own self. Billowy white, yet full of water, and casting dark, upon dark itself".
But the beauty here, was in that sky. For across a full five times its length, a shadow even greater was cast against? Blue sky!
Shadow upon shadow, dark against space - willowy whisp upon whisp...and a mighty wind their so forceful on the face.
God moves in these elements.
How like them He is.
He can cast shadows against blue sky and dark. He can make forboding shadow of vaporous nothing...nothing, yet so substantial to the soul, and like the cloud (vapor itself).
While I can not touch Him, I know He is there.
An engima bound in a shadow against a shadow, in a whisp, a mighty wind is born, and substance istself is removed from its path, and by muscle not of this earth born.
Weird night it was, and pleasent somehow.
Wild winds blew, (and from that place, I do not like).
So many nights I have lived in this wild. I've come to know the passing storms, as neighbors...as friends.
But in this sky, windy, bright...brilliant blue...upon high there lay a cloud so long, fathoming couldn't measure it there, no imagining could guess at its brilliant volume.
"A poet would."
But no poet to be found.
I thought to myself, "here is a vapor, cloud so high; and in its belly a darkenss that is the shadow of its own self. Vaporous moisture, this cloud on high, and its very substance defined by a shadow of its own self. Billowy white, yet full of water, and casting dark, upon dark itself".
But the beauty here, was in that sky. For across a full five times its length, a shadow even greater was cast against? Blue sky!
Shadow upon shadow, dark against space - willowy whisp upon whisp...and a mighty wind their so forceful on the face.
God moves in these elements.
How like them He is.
He can cast shadows against blue sky and dark. He can make forboding shadow of vaporous nothing...nothing, yet so substantial to the soul, and like the cloud (vapor itself).
While I can not touch Him, I know He is there.
An engima bound in a shadow against a shadow, in a whisp, a mighty wind is born, and substance istself is removed from its path, and by muscle not of this earth born.
S.O.G.: Deux de pas
The sandaled one brustled about the dank cavern. Grey dust was thick in the air, and above his cavernous ruin its clouds danced on the bright beams of a sun, reflected from that dead, dusty moon, far, far above.
Bright white light was at the entry-way bathing its rocky welcome mat, and the clouds of dust rose like shadows in the night, transparent in luminosity, yet illuminous still in such a dark and dusty place to eyes so long veiled in the darkness of a this, their home; their cave buried deep in this field of battle.
All about was activity.
The wearer's of veil were forbidden from this place, for their mouths knew no discretion. And discretion was key in these times.
"This warrior is a fool. Tonight we wait, as many moons have come and gone, and still...we wait. The enemy is mighty, but he is a fool. He does not recognize that there are those in the world who will be patient. Who will await their turn. It is God's way!," said the tall one "he has waited many years for his justice to be served, and eternity is but a fastidious dream in short afternoon nap for our Father above."
His friend there with him listened as always, attentively. They'd been together since the early wars...where there was fast victory, and a victory that was assured against the red star.
It had not been the case for a number of years. There was this incessant, numbing wait. Waiting for opportunity that seemed never to present itself. Waiting for a break of daylight.
"You are right, wise one. We must wait for the time...and I feel it is near, when our enemy will slip...one break of daylight, granted by God, and we will strike! Like an eel captures its prey from ocean depth, we will rise from this cavern and strike! Praise God. Victory will be ours!".
With that phrase, the dust rose higher as there was a frenzy of enlivened activity. Troops all about them stamped in the dust and in muffled cry they rose, weapons in air, and cursed this enemy who had driven them to this sub-earth hell.
********************************
In a place far from this sub-terranian hell-hole, the peacock strutted his usual strut again. Arists of the "make" "up", were making him up, royally. His greyish, putty look that would ordinarily drive even the leper away was now replaced with the bright colors usually reserved for the women-folk when they'd dress for finding a mate, or for impressing one another.
"Tonight, I hit the airwaves. Tonight, I make the speech that will unite my people. Together, we will bring our nation back to its senses. Away. Away from this maddening war envisioned by childish fools! So much in this world needs attention. Like the spoiled child, our enemy beckons...screams really, in tantrum. As my wise, old pap (and, esteemed predecessor) used to say 'give the child attention, and fuel the tantrum; ignore him, and choke its embers'...my father was such a wise man. He knew his stuff; and tonight, I will make him very proud", this former man of Congress remembered his glory days for a moment, went it was he in the spotlight...when family dynasty was a very real thing. Men close to the great one, that President who'd brought them through such tough and evil times.
He'd had enough of the makeup artists (for they were a bit too close to home), and he rose from his chair like a sinking giant, ready to return to former trimph.
"Mr. VP, do not go on that stage," shouted his monkey-handler "your collar, it still has tissue all about. Here, let me fix it for you!", Tina had always taken care of the aging and bloated politician, as if he were her very own hubby (and, in many ways, he was - for she had no life outside the political ring) "here, let me take care of those before you get powder-cake on your lovely, white color."
He looked at her, adoringly. "I'll see you at our Bible study sister. Now wish me luck. I'm giving our populace the very gates of hell".
And like the muddled peacock-soldier he was, the dodering, old politician rose to a stage set by other's practicing the craft of the liberal guild.
Tonight was truly a defining moment for the beaten giant.
Tongiht he would speak to that enemy in the cave.
Bright white light was at the entry-way bathing its rocky welcome mat, and the clouds of dust rose like shadows in the night, transparent in luminosity, yet illuminous still in such a dark and dusty place to eyes so long veiled in the darkness of a this, their home; their cave buried deep in this field of battle.
All about was activity.
The wearer's of veil were forbidden from this place, for their mouths knew no discretion. And discretion was key in these times.
"This warrior is a fool. Tonight we wait, as many moons have come and gone, and still...we wait. The enemy is mighty, but he is a fool. He does not recognize that there are those in the world who will be patient. Who will await their turn. It is God's way!," said the tall one "he has waited many years for his justice to be served, and eternity is but a fastidious dream in short afternoon nap for our Father above."
His friend there with him listened as always, attentively. They'd been together since the early wars...where there was fast victory, and a victory that was assured against the red star.
It had not been the case for a number of years. There was this incessant, numbing wait. Waiting for opportunity that seemed never to present itself. Waiting for a break of daylight.
"You are right, wise one. We must wait for the time...and I feel it is near, when our enemy will slip...one break of daylight, granted by God, and we will strike! Like an eel captures its prey from ocean depth, we will rise from this cavern and strike! Praise God. Victory will be ours!".
With that phrase, the dust rose higher as there was a frenzy of enlivened activity. Troops all about them stamped in the dust and in muffled cry they rose, weapons in air, and cursed this enemy who had driven them to this sub-earth hell.
********************************
In a place far from this sub-terranian hell-hole, the peacock strutted his usual strut again. Arists of the "make" "up", were making him up, royally. His greyish, putty look that would ordinarily drive even the leper away was now replaced with the bright colors usually reserved for the women-folk when they'd dress for finding a mate, or for impressing one another.
"Tonight, I hit the airwaves. Tonight, I make the speech that will unite my people. Together, we will bring our nation back to its senses. Away. Away from this maddening war envisioned by childish fools! So much in this world needs attention. Like the spoiled child, our enemy beckons...screams really, in tantrum. As my wise, old pap (and, esteemed predecessor) used to say 'give the child attention, and fuel the tantrum; ignore him, and choke its embers'...my father was such a wise man. He knew his stuff; and tonight, I will make him very proud", this former man of Congress remembered his glory days for a moment, went it was he in the spotlight...when family dynasty was a very real thing. Men close to the great one, that President who'd brought them through such tough and evil times.
He'd had enough of the makeup artists (for they were a bit too close to home), and he rose from his chair like a sinking giant, ready to return to former trimph.
"Mr. VP, do not go on that stage," shouted his monkey-handler "your collar, it still has tissue all about. Here, let me fix it for you!", Tina had always taken care of the aging and bloated politician, as if he were her very own hubby (and, in many ways, he was - for she had no life outside the political ring) "here, let me take care of those before you get powder-cake on your lovely, white color."
He looked at her, adoringly. "I'll see you at our Bible study sister. Now wish me luck. I'm giving our populace the very gates of hell".
And like the muddled peacock-soldier he was, the dodering, old politician rose to a stage set by other's practicing the craft of the liberal guild.
Tonight was truly a defining moment for the beaten giant.
Tongiht he would speak to that enemy in the cave.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
PM 8: Decision
Am I a man anymore? Am I human? Or am I something else entirely? I am not sure. So much has happened.
I’m sorry. Again, I am hesitating to just stay with the events. I promise you, if you humor me this one last time, that I will not be reflective again. This is the last time I stop the steady progression of my story as it ticks away, moment by moment, to this very point. But I don’t know what I did, and in some way this exercise of relating all these events is just some attempt on my part to finally see myself. Everything changes in a moment. After years of following a long, winding, branchless road, I found myself at the intersection of my life, ironically to be decided by the choice of a green or a red button.
I walked to the couch and upon sitting down, the first (and of course most sensible) thought that occurred to me was “I would have to be crazy to take it.” There was no mention of pay. Most likely it was a sales-type telemarketing job or (to contrast dull with sinister) it could be some mob-related business. The note had a lot of words, but really didn’t say anything. It didn’t even say whether the job was downtown or on the moon. It just seemed like a stupid thing to do. It was a simple choice of risk with no real expectation of reward, or safety… with no real expectation of ever really achieving anything.
There was something to be said for taking a risk. The prospects of staying in this current situation were pathetic at best. Could I really continue to face a slurping Mr. Daniels five days a week for thirty or forty years and then retire? And what would I do then? What had I really built for myself? And what if I pressed the green button? I wasn’t signing anything. If I didn’t like it I could quit. Really, where was the harm in pressing the button? The blitbox must just be some kind of pager. I could just say I wanted to ask him some questions. If it was mob-related I could go informant. Nowadays the mob didn’t seem as dangerous as they had been. But the thought of the mob and bombs under my car and kneecaps blown off frightened me.
Then all my thoughts became jumbled up together. After struggling towards no conclusion, I decided to sleep on it. Distraction did not seem the appropriate action, however. I went back to the study and did a search on Bud Holligan but found nothing. Holligan was not a particularly common name, but it was far from unique. It must be a derivative of the Scottish name Holigan.
A search for EARA was more fruitful, but of the organizations bearing that title, none made much sense: Eastern Airlines Retirees Association, Egypt Amateurs Radio Assembly, Environmental Auditors Registration Association, Equipment Authorization Review Activity, European Asbestos Removal Association, European Association for Research on Adolescence, European Association for Research in Astronomy
I quickly grew tired of this, though it did allow me to distance myself from the actual reality of the crisis I faced. I went back to the sofa and turned on the TV. Watching until late, I finally was tired enough to try my hand at sleep. It was a restless night, filled with half-thoughts among a murky cloud of possibilities. One moment I was trying to convince myself to take the job, then at the first sign of inclination, I argued instead that it would be the worst mistake possible. Yet no matter how often the rational argument won out, the inner desperation crept out.
I was awake as dawn began to break, and I looked out of my bedroom window to see a sick-strange green sky, like I imagine the deadly sky of an approaching hurricane at sea might look then headed towards the bathroom and then the kitchen. I looked at the blitbox innocuously resting on the counter. It almost seemed alive to me. I was in my pajamas. I went to back to my room and put on some sweatpants and a tee-shirt.
Back in the kitchen, I was again looking at the blitbox. I picked it up. It fit well in the hand. The buttons were perfectly placed so that the thumb rested right between them. I thumbed the two large buttons. I shook the object vigorously. It seemed light and hollow. My thumb went from button to button. Feeling strangely calm I walked back into the living area, stood in front of the poster and the sofa, and I pressed the green button with my thumb.
At that moment I was only thinking of one thing. I needed to ask Bud some more questions. This situation was to strange. If I did not press the button this would always remain a mystery to me. The button did not yield immediately. I really had to push hard to depress the button. Then it sunk in with a click and I felt a sting. I dropped the box and lifted my thumb to my mouth. Before I had managed to open my mouth I had collapsed to the floor completely unconscious.
I’m sorry. Again, I am hesitating to just stay with the events. I promise you, if you humor me this one last time, that I will not be reflective again. This is the last time I stop the steady progression of my story as it ticks away, moment by moment, to this very point. But I don’t know what I did, and in some way this exercise of relating all these events is just some attempt on my part to finally see myself. Everything changes in a moment. After years of following a long, winding, branchless road, I found myself at the intersection of my life, ironically to be decided by the choice of a green or a red button.
I walked to the couch and upon sitting down, the first (and of course most sensible) thought that occurred to me was “I would have to be crazy to take it.” There was no mention of pay. Most likely it was a sales-type telemarketing job or (to contrast dull with sinister) it could be some mob-related business. The note had a lot of words, but really didn’t say anything. It didn’t even say whether the job was downtown or on the moon. It just seemed like a stupid thing to do. It was a simple choice of risk with no real expectation of reward, or safety… with no real expectation of ever really achieving anything.
There was something to be said for taking a risk. The prospects of staying in this current situation were pathetic at best. Could I really continue to face a slurping Mr. Daniels five days a week for thirty or forty years and then retire? And what would I do then? What had I really built for myself? And what if I pressed the green button? I wasn’t signing anything. If I didn’t like it I could quit. Really, where was the harm in pressing the button? The blitbox must just be some kind of pager. I could just say I wanted to ask him some questions. If it was mob-related I could go informant. Nowadays the mob didn’t seem as dangerous as they had been. But the thought of the mob and bombs under my car and kneecaps blown off frightened me.
Then all my thoughts became jumbled up together. After struggling towards no conclusion, I decided to sleep on it. Distraction did not seem the appropriate action, however. I went back to the study and did a search on Bud Holligan but found nothing. Holligan was not a particularly common name, but it was far from unique. It must be a derivative of the Scottish name Holigan.
A search for EARA was more fruitful, but of the organizations bearing that title, none made much sense: Eastern Airlines Retirees Association, Egypt Amateurs Radio Assembly, Environmental Auditors Registration Association, Equipment Authorization Review Activity, European Asbestos Removal Association, European Association for Research on Adolescence, European Association for Research in Astronomy
I quickly grew tired of this, though it did allow me to distance myself from the actual reality of the crisis I faced. I went back to the sofa and turned on the TV. Watching until late, I finally was tired enough to try my hand at sleep. It was a restless night, filled with half-thoughts among a murky cloud of possibilities. One moment I was trying to convince myself to take the job, then at the first sign of inclination, I argued instead that it would be the worst mistake possible. Yet no matter how often the rational argument won out, the inner desperation crept out.
I was awake as dawn began to break, and I looked out of my bedroom window to see a sick-strange green sky, like I imagine the deadly sky of an approaching hurricane at sea might look then headed towards the bathroom and then the kitchen. I looked at the blitbox innocuously resting on the counter. It almost seemed alive to me. I was in my pajamas. I went to back to my room and put on some sweatpants and a tee-shirt.
Back in the kitchen, I was again looking at the blitbox. I picked it up. It fit well in the hand. The buttons were perfectly placed so that the thumb rested right between them. I thumbed the two large buttons. I shook the object vigorously. It seemed light and hollow. My thumb went from button to button. Feeling strangely calm I walked back into the living area, stood in front of the poster and the sofa, and I pressed the green button with my thumb.
At that moment I was only thinking of one thing. I needed to ask Bud some more questions. This situation was to strange. If I did not press the button this would always remain a mystery to me. The button did not yield immediately. I really had to push hard to depress the button. Then it sunk in with a click and I felt a sting. I dropped the box and lifted my thumb to my mouth. Before I had managed to open my mouth I had collapsed to the floor completely unconscious.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
A Perpetual Season: 1, Smoking Cigarettes
You have to work hard to smoke three packs of cigarettes a day. Chain smoking is an art, one that I learned in college. I’m way past my form. I can do maybe three packs on a good day. Most of the time it’s just two. Of course, my style is cramped by the various laws that have come around since college. I remember the days when you could go just about anywhere but movies and elevators, and smoke to your heart’s content.
I’m lucky in my job. In fact, from what I understand, my “charism” seems to be finding easy jobs without trying. This was by far my easiest job yet. I had been appointed by the Sheriff, who was all-powerful and unquestioned. He didn’t really care about the work I was supposed to be doing. I wasn’t supposed to really achieve anything. But it had to look like I was trying, so there was a sort of tacit understanding that I would spend a lot of money. I was a sort of lightning rod – I was well-paid to take a lot of heat from the people I was supposed to be serving. I didn’t mind. That’s not the sort of thing that gets to me.
My official title was “Deputy for Cultural Relations.” That was my first task on the job. “Think up your title,” Sheriff Birmingham told me, and boy did he laugh when I came up with the old “D.C.R.” “That’ll get ‘em!” he said, and he was right. They shuffled me off to every committee meeting and community action group that was known to the Knoxville Sheriff’s Office. And believe me, there were a lot of them. There was some sort of Citizen’s Review Board that met to second-guess the actions of the deputies. I was the sacrificial lamb offered up to the Board, and they ate me at every meeting and never seemed to marvel that I was served up again at the next. I was a perpetual feast. I was snubbed by City Councilmen at every summer picnic in South Knoxville, sneered at during obligatory calls at the Middle Schools, mocked, insulted, and generally despised.
But those, of course, were the people I was supposed to be serving. The people I really served were within the Sheriff’s Office, and if they didn’t exactly love me (having seen the extravagances of my office and expense account), they got it pretty quick. They knew that I was there to take heat off of them, and that it was working. So I got to pal around with the deputies, drive a cop car, and take advantage of those little amenities that make police life bearable. All without actually being a cop.
There were (and are) a whole mess of people like me in police departments across the country. From the guy who takes fingerprints and mugshots to the various secretaries and assistants, there’s a whole world of proxy-cops who don’t have to do the real dirty work but get to play policeman in their spare time.
I was a little different in that I was sworn in. There was some sort of mumbo-jumbo about my lack of police training and education, and I had to attend various courses at the local academy, qualify on the firing range, and sit through interminable downloads of relevant law. Frankly, most of the crap I had to swallow was directly applicable to my job as keeper of the peace for the keepers of the peace. In the end, I was appointed because Sheriff Birmingham wanted me appointed.
So there I was in my office in the City-County building. A nice big office overlooking the muddy expanse of the Tennessee River, right where it narrows and constricts to plod its way through downtown. The only thing I hated about my office were the ancient tilt-out windows; if you were trying to be polite, you had to lean down to blow smoke up and out of the window. In theory, the whole building was non-smoking, but like most laws and regulations, it was really intended as an excuse to punish the poor slobs waiting in the lobby for their lawyers.
I would have vastly preferred an office back at the Sheriff’s Detention Facility, where most of the fun guys were. Instead of the morning hassle, parking garage, and views of nondescript brick boxes, you had a great complex of beautiful suites overlooking a golf course, a nice country drive, and a great cafeteria.
As I’ve said, I have a knack for finding good jobs, particularly jobs that I am in no way qualified for. The DCR job was the pinnacle of my lucky streak. I had been recruited in by the Sheriff, directly from my job as Director of Human Resources for Harvey’s Meats, a fairly big local food distributor with close ties to the mayor’s office. I frankly was nearing the end of my rope in that job. There was an ever-increasing pressure from various federal and state regulations which meant that most of my time was spent shuffling between conferences and seminars, and leading committee meetings on determining costs and risk of noncompliance. I had been in that job about a year, and there were pretty good odds that I would have been canned for one reason or another, so the opportunity to jump ship was a welcome one.
Way, way back in my past I had gotten my degrees in history and philosophy from the University of Tennessee, a feat I had accomplished after only eight years as an undergraduate. My lucky streak started when, to my eternal amazement, I got a job, entirely thanks to a former roommate whose father ran a data-analysis contract firm that supported the NSA. Neil Bryce (aforementioned roommate) was trying to turn me into a Mormon, and I drifted along through his evangelism and into the job. I can’t remember now if he finally figured that I wasn’t worth converting, or if I chucked the whole thing, but in any case I got a flashy company name on my resumé, and one which immediately broke me out of the stigma of a liberal arts major.
Bryce Data Services gave way to Cesar Co., an industrial food services company, and then a stint at Marriott Hotels, the doomed Whittle Communications, Baptist Hospital (where I milked a customer relations job while completing my on-line MBA), a brief run at Oak Ridge National Labs (my NSA ties helped me land that one), and finally on to Harvey’s Meats. All in all, six jobs, sixteen years of work, and exactly zero accomplishments except an ever increasing paycheck, a huge network of golf buddies, and a two-pack-a-day cigarette habit.
Which I was able to indulge pretty easily as the Deputy for Cultural Relations.
So I was sitting at my desk, gazing out the window and lighting a cigarette when my cell phone rang.
“Deputy George,” I said, tapping the earbud to answer the call
“Tom, you’ve got to check this shit out!”
It was Mark Franciscan, a real deputy, but one in Roane County. I had known Mark since my days at Oak Ridge, but now that I was a cop too (or so he claimed), he found more time to hang out with me.
“What’s going on, Mark?”
“You remember the sportsman’s club out here?”
I did. The Oak Ridge Sportsman’s Club was a huge gun range located on federal property near the Y-12 National Security Complex. Mark and I had shot skeet there quite a bit.
“Yeah.”
“Well, get in your car and get out here. And you might try listening to the scanner. It’s a madhouse! You’ve gotta see this shit. A total clusterfuck!”
“OK. Where are you at exactly.”
“Just follow the flashing lights. You’ll figure it out. Bring your badge.”
“OK.”
I tapped the earbud and hung up, amused. Snuffing out my cigarette, I walked down the hall to the reception station where Heather Kirby sat at a circular desk amidst well ordered stacks of paper. Heather had been one of the pleasures of the job, filling out her uniform in a very agreeable way and flirting in a clinical, almost obligatory manner that made up for the unfortunate prominence of her cheekbones. But she had gotten married and cut both her long hair and her flirting. I confronted the cheekbones.
“Something going on in Oak Ridge?”
“You haven’t heard? Everyone’s heard. You haven’t heard?’
“No, I haven’t heard. What’s up?”
“Shots fired, a house on fire, automatic weapons, maybe a hostage situation. Roane County and Oak Ridge PD are there. Oak Ridge security too. I think TBI is on the way.”
“OK – I’ll get more on the radio. I’m headed over there.”
“Why are you going?” Heather was one of the few who seemed to have caught on to my uselessness, and now that the cheekbones were in charge, she was more acidic than playful about it. I couldn’t resist a little lie.
“I got called in.”
As usual, it was better to listen to the local news than to the scanner.
“blah blah blah blah first on the scene blah blah blah exclusive report blah blah blah journalist blah blah blah…
Or maybe not.
I’m lucky in my job. In fact, from what I understand, my “charism” seems to be finding easy jobs without trying. This was by far my easiest job yet. I had been appointed by the Sheriff, who was all-powerful and unquestioned. He didn’t really care about the work I was supposed to be doing. I wasn’t supposed to really achieve anything. But it had to look like I was trying, so there was a sort of tacit understanding that I would spend a lot of money. I was a sort of lightning rod – I was well-paid to take a lot of heat from the people I was supposed to be serving. I didn’t mind. That’s not the sort of thing that gets to me.
My official title was “Deputy for Cultural Relations.” That was my first task on the job. “Think up your title,” Sheriff Birmingham told me, and boy did he laugh when I came up with the old “D.C.R.” “That’ll get ‘em!” he said, and he was right. They shuffled me off to every committee meeting and community action group that was known to the Knoxville Sheriff’s Office. And believe me, there were a lot of them. There was some sort of Citizen’s Review Board that met to second-guess the actions of the deputies. I was the sacrificial lamb offered up to the Board, and they ate me at every meeting and never seemed to marvel that I was served up again at the next. I was a perpetual feast. I was snubbed by City Councilmen at every summer picnic in South Knoxville, sneered at during obligatory calls at the Middle Schools, mocked, insulted, and generally despised.
But those, of course, were the people I was supposed to be serving. The people I really served were within the Sheriff’s Office, and if they didn’t exactly love me (having seen the extravagances of my office and expense account), they got it pretty quick. They knew that I was there to take heat off of them, and that it was working. So I got to pal around with the deputies, drive a cop car, and take advantage of those little amenities that make police life bearable. All without actually being a cop.
There were (and are) a whole mess of people like me in police departments across the country. From the guy who takes fingerprints and mugshots to the various secretaries and assistants, there’s a whole world of proxy-cops who don’t have to do the real dirty work but get to play policeman in their spare time.
I was a little different in that I was sworn in. There was some sort of mumbo-jumbo about my lack of police training and education, and I had to attend various courses at the local academy, qualify on the firing range, and sit through interminable downloads of relevant law. Frankly, most of the crap I had to swallow was directly applicable to my job as keeper of the peace for the keepers of the peace. In the end, I was appointed because Sheriff Birmingham wanted me appointed.
So there I was in my office in the City-County building. A nice big office overlooking the muddy expanse of the Tennessee River, right where it narrows and constricts to plod its way through downtown. The only thing I hated about my office were the ancient tilt-out windows; if you were trying to be polite, you had to lean down to blow smoke up and out of the window. In theory, the whole building was non-smoking, but like most laws and regulations, it was really intended as an excuse to punish the poor slobs waiting in the lobby for their lawyers.
I would have vastly preferred an office back at the Sheriff’s Detention Facility, where most of the fun guys were. Instead of the morning hassle, parking garage, and views of nondescript brick boxes, you had a great complex of beautiful suites overlooking a golf course, a nice country drive, and a great cafeteria.
As I’ve said, I have a knack for finding good jobs, particularly jobs that I am in no way qualified for. The DCR job was the pinnacle of my lucky streak. I had been recruited in by the Sheriff, directly from my job as Director of Human Resources for Harvey’s Meats, a fairly big local food distributor with close ties to the mayor’s office. I frankly was nearing the end of my rope in that job. There was an ever-increasing pressure from various federal and state regulations which meant that most of my time was spent shuffling between conferences and seminars, and leading committee meetings on determining costs and risk of noncompliance. I had been in that job about a year, and there were pretty good odds that I would have been canned for one reason or another, so the opportunity to jump ship was a welcome one.
Way, way back in my past I had gotten my degrees in history and philosophy from the University of Tennessee, a feat I had accomplished after only eight years as an undergraduate. My lucky streak started when, to my eternal amazement, I got a job, entirely thanks to a former roommate whose father ran a data-analysis contract firm that supported the NSA. Neil Bryce (aforementioned roommate) was trying to turn me into a Mormon, and I drifted along through his evangelism and into the job. I can’t remember now if he finally figured that I wasn’t worth converting, or if I chucked the whole thing, but in any case I got a flashy company name on my resumé, and one which immediately broke me out of the stigma of a liberal arts major.
Bryce Data Services gave way to Cesar Co., an industrial food services company, and then a stint at Marriott Hotels, the doomed Whittle Communications, Baptist Hospital (where I milked a customer relations job while completing my on-line MBA), a brief run at Oak Ridge National Labs (my NSA ties helped me land that one), and finally on to Harvey’s Meats. All in all, six jobs, sixteen years of work, and exactly zero accomplishments except an ever increasing paycheck, a huge network of golf buddies, and a two-pack-a-day cigarette habit.
Which I was able to indulge pretty easily as the Deputy for Cultural Relations.
So I was sitting at my desk, gazing out the window and lighting a cigarette when my cell phone rang.
“Deputy George,” I said, tapping the earbud to answer the call
“Tom, you’ve got to check this shit out!”
It was Mark Franciscan, a real deputy, but one in Roane County. I had known Mark since my days at Oak Ridge, but now that I was a cop too (or so he claimed), he found more time to hang out with me.
“What’s going on, Mark?”
“You remember the sportsman’s club out here?”
I did. The Oak Ridge Sportsman’s Club was a huge gun range located on federal property near the Y-12 National Security Complex. Mark and I had shot skeet there quite a bit.
“Yeah.”
“Well, get in your car and get out here. And you might try listening to the scanner. It’s a madhouse! You’ve gotta see this shit. A total clusterfuck!”
“OK. Where are you at exactly.”
“Just follow the flashing lights. You’ll figure it out. Bring your badge.”
“OK.”
I tapped the earbud and hung up, amused. Snuffing out my cigarette, I walked down the hall to the reception station where Heather Kirby sat at a circular desk amidst well ordered stacks of paper. Heather had been one of the pleasures of the job, filling out her uniform in a very agreeable way and flirting in a clinical, almost obligatory manner that made up for the unfortunate prominence of her cheekbones. But she had gotten married and cut both her long hair and her flirting. I confronted the cheekbones.
“Something going on in Oak Ridge?”
“You haven’t heard? Everyone’s heard. You haven’t heard?’
“No, I haven’t heard. What’s up?”
“Shots fired, a house on fire, automatic weapons, maybe a hostage situation. Roane County and Oak Ridge PD are there. Oak Ridge security too. I think TBI is on the way.”
“OK – I’ll get more on the radio. I’m headed over there.”
“Why are you going?” Heather was one of the few who seemed to have caught on to my uselessness, and now that the cheekbones were in charge, she was more acidic than playful about it. I couldn’t resist a little lie.
“I got called in.”
As usual, it was better to listen to the local news than to the scanner.
“blah blah blah blah first on the scene blah blah blah exclusive report blah blah blah journalist blah blah blah…
Or maybe not.
A Perpetual Season: Prologue
In light of all that has occurred, I find a great deal of interest in the old Manichees. Sure, Augustine railed against them, but they were on to something, they just got it backward. You see, there are people like me who can only take their religion in a cold, impersonal way. Even the Pharisees were passionate, despite their rigor. But it seems like my type is exiled. Paul warned us in Corinthians, but it's one thing to be warned, and quite another to comply. Many are called, few are chosen. That sort of thing. The Manichees' chosen ones could not prepare their own food. They were too good for it. It was a sin. So the lesser adherants got stuck with the job of feeding the bastards. But I think it's kind of the same, but, as I say, backwards. For the Church needs people like me - the cold, Manicheean bastards who just don't get it. Only we're the ones who have to serve, and we're the ones who aren't among the chosen. Is there second-hand salvation?
An unusual place to jump in, perhaps, but frankly I don't really know where to start. A year ago I wasn't even a neo-Manichee, so I suppose I've made some sort of progress. But then, in a sense, I'm an imperfect tool, so I can't even claim the progress as my own. I suppose it's just enough grace to get me to where I have to do what I have to do, but not enough grace to save me.
I suppose all I am doing right now is delaying that... duty? For even at this moment I am of two minds about the proper course of action. And another strange thing is that those two courses of action are completely opposite of what I would have thought them to be, in their implications. If I'm right about all of this. And I doubt that I am. But I am.
So I can sit here waffling, smoking cigarettes and chewing my fingernails. Or I can just do what I have to do. Or I can keep typing and hope that by trying to relate the whole thing, I can make sense of it.
An unusual place to jump in, perhaps, but frankly I don't really know where to start. A year ago I wasn't even a neo-Manichee, so I suppose I've made some sort of progress. But then, in a sense, I'm an imperfect tool, so I can't even claim the progress as my own. I suppose it's just enough grace to get me to where I have to do what I have to do, but not enough grace to save me.
I suppose all I am doing right now is delaying that... duty? For even at this moment I am of two minds about the proper course of action. And another strange thing is that those two courses of action are completely opposite of what I would have thought them to be, in their implications. If I'm right about all of this. And I doubt that I am. But I am.
So I can sit here waffling, smoking cigarettes and chewing my fingernails. Or I can just do what I have to do. Or I can keep typing and hope that by trying to relate the whole thing, I can make sense of it.
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