The Breaking Point
"If it ain't broke don't fix it," was one of the first truisms that I ever learned from my dad. I know that it was not original but he was wise enough that he tended to live by it. I don't know who it was that was the first to ever say that; I don't really think that it matters to me.
For over ten years I have been reminded of the expression every time I flush the toilet. I'll explain.
Sometime in the early 1990's Congress enacted well-intentioned legislation in an effort to conserve water. It was an amiable goal and I am pretty certain that those members of that Congress were pretty pleased that they had finally done something that would have a lasting impact upon generations to come. Good intentions notwithstanding, I thought a portion of that legislation had actually served to increase unnecessary waste water.
Prior to the enactment of the bill every toilet tank in America held at least 3 gallons of water for the purpose of properly operating the siphon action first designed in Great Britain by John Krapper in the 19th century. The ingenious principle allowed sewers to be connected directly to homes without the smell of the waste water in the sewer backing up into the house. It allowed for the installation of 'water closets' in homes, the precursors of modern bathrooms. In most civilized places that eliminated the need of a flashlight and slippers strategically placed close to the bed at night for when ever you just had to 'go'.
At some point during the late 1980's and into the early 1990's someone, somewhere determined that Krapper's values in the overall equation were greater than necessary and that actually only 1.6 Gallons were necessary to properly flush a toilet. I am certain that there was a good deal of testing, perhaps even with government funded. Perhaps panels of experts were consulted. There was probably some treatise filed with the Library of Congress regarding the design changes necessary to flush a toilet with 1.6 Gallons of water thus conserving 1.4 gallons of water with each flush.
All too often theory and practice seem to be at odds. Such appeared to be the case with the 'new and improved' toilets. From my direct, empirical evidence, I had concluded that the toilets actually waste water as it very often if not constantly requires two and even sometimes three flushes to properly dispose of the contents of the bowl after I have 'dropped a log'. By the way, the math on that is:
(>2 times 1.6 Gal = >3.2 Gal verses 1 times 3.0 Gal = 3.0 Gal)
I was off-the-wall about how we were actually wasting water not conserving it at all. I was really almost at the breaking point with my tolerance for the collective stupidity of our government. I told my kids, my friends, and even a couple of complete strangers who immediately ran away from me for fear that what I was suffering might be contageous. I mean it was obvious to me that I was flushing twice whenever we had to 'drop the kids off at the pool'. That was actually wasting 2 tenths of a gallon of water if not more.
Then I started to work it out on paper. I did extensive research consulting Google a couple of times and found out everything that I ever wanted to know about the usage of toilets in America. Actually I learned more than I expected and considerably more than I needed to know. You really have to get into that much detail to understand this rare occasion of the demonstrated genius on the part of our Congress. We don't often have the time to fully appreciate the collective wisdom of our legislators - and generally speaking, it is very seldom that they exhibit any collective wisdom whatsoever let alone anything worthy of any note. Still, I think this one instance needs to be revealed to one and all. Here is the marvelous workings of our representative democracy resolved to a simple mathematical expression.
I figure the average American uses a toilet about 4.5 times per day, counting all the times we have to do #1 as opposed to much fewer times that we have to do #2. (I am not counting those people that have an illness or the people who live in states where authentic Mexican cuisine is available and sometimes enjoyed.) Now if we figure that only one flush is required per 'tinkle' but each and every 'bomb drop' requires at least 2 or sometimes 3 flushes, and each of us average 1.5 power dumps per day that means:
[(1.5 times 2) plus (3 times 1)] times 1.6 Gal = 9.6 Gal per person per day
or
[(1.5 times 3) plus (3 times 1)] times 1.6 Gal = 12.0 Gal per person per day
compared to
[(1.5 times 1) plus (3 times 1)] times 3.0 Gal = 13.5 Gal per person per day
As you can see there is an effective reduction in the usage of water even when we have to flush more often when we are 'dropping a load' as opposed to 'draining the reservoir'.
I am in awe - not so much because the damned toilets actually do what they were intended to do but that it is a result of Congressional action. It may have been an accidental consequence of the legislation. I think I can live with that assumption and still feel that the previous balance in the universe is maintained - that Congress seldom ever gets something right. But I was critical and went around shooting my mouth off about something that I was completely wrong about. Please accept my apologies.
So take this as a warning, from me to you. Be mindful that before you criticize the Congress of the United States, and always do the math.
E
'Undersplaining' And 'Elgonisms'
Over the years, some people have accused me of inventing words and have even termed them 'Elgonisms'. I suppose I have made-up some words here and there. I try not to. I think there are already enough words to express most of what I have to say. Whenever I resort to coining a phrase of inventing a new word there is a pretty good reason for it.
There is one word that I think merits mention here. It came to mind while I was writing the previous blog post but I skipped over it. There was already far too much going on in that post. On further consideration I think that the subject deserves its own blog.
My first semester at the University of Texas at Austin, I had enrolled in a required Macro Economics course. I had been told that it was an easy 'A'. I was ambivalent about those courses that others promised were 'GPA inflators'. I needed the grades but I also felt that I was wasting my money having to take classes that really taught me nothing. It happened that the guy that I sat next in that class, James, became my roommate during the ensuing semester. He wanted to split costs on an apartment and so did I. It made economic sense to each of us so I figure that is what I got out of the Macro Economics course.
James was a native Texan, born and raised in Houston. He had been a middle linebacker for his high school football team. Even though he was a little bit on the scrawny side, I never doubted his story. James could be a madman at times, passionate on a few things, focused and unwaveringly opinionated on others. He had a wild look in his eye, something that might frighten the faint at heart causing them to relent in their efforts or at least setting aside their argument until James had left the vicinity. To me his look was that of a religious zealot or perhaps a mass murderer. Yeah it was that scary; James was generally harmless, though.
Anyway our friendship began in that Macro Economics course. He and I used to take turns asking questions of the professor, vague questions to which there was either no real answer or a generalized topical sort of answer that lent itself to the professor's propensity to pontificate. James had told me that the guy could be manipulated. "Ask him something fringe or controversial, and he will waste all the class time trying to explain something that he has no clue about at all." James would do his other homework while the professor rambled on about nothing important or even remotely relevant. It was only toward the end of the class that the professor would reel in his far-flung conclusions, tracking back on to subject just before the end of class.
Now, as for me, I sometimes did other things in that class but usually I listened and tried to figure out what the professor was talking about. It occurred to me that he actually was basically still on subject even as he fancifully flew off on this or that tangent, digressing upon this or that almost unrelated sub-topic. He really was attempting to answer the question that had been posed. When I mentioned this to James, he scoffed as he reasserted what was his fervent belief: "The man is an imbecile. He got his credentials by accident or through a mail order. Anyway he's an economist. Economists are like the world's worst bullshit artists."
Emperors and kings of old used to have court astrologers to advise them as to the proper courses for their decisions in matters of life and death. In modern times where money matters most and all money is based on a fiduciary system the shaman of preference is an economist whose job is to spread out the tarot cards, read the tea leaves, check the bumps on the First Lady's head, count the number of times that the Presidential pooch had to go outdoors for a tinkle during the course of a day and then explain the mysterious forces of the world's economy. Regardless the source of the bull shit, bull shit is still and always will be bull shit.
It occurred to me that the Macro Economics professor had no idea how to answer some if not most of the questions that James and I were asking him. Yet he tackled the challenge with as much hubris and vigor as any so called 'expert' would. As I observed what he was doing and listened to what he was saying, he perhaps had numbed my mind to the point that he eventually started making sense. Alternatively he had perhaps stumbled, stammered and him-hawed but only to a point, and then suddenly it was as if a light had illuminated from the heavens above, and shone down, penetrating the roof to light his way out of his self-excavated pit. Suddenly he became succinct and purposeful. The transition was astonishing to behold.
There was no word that I knew of that could encompass that entire process so I made one. It was obvious to me that in the course of his trying to answer a question he was beginning to understanding something even while he was explaining it, hence the 'Elgonism' that I coined: 'undersplaining'.
E
There Are No Coincidences
The subject of coincidences and my claim in One Over X that coincidences do not exists has caused some minor controversy or at least a few animated discussions. My further assertion is that there are no accidents either has even infuriated a couple of people and served only to confirm that 'Elgon is way out there', at least on some issues.
Despite that I am a writer and therefore inherently 'different' in some if not most ways, I do not think that the event stream of my life differs all that much from any other person. Certainly I am prone to the influences and effects of whatever befalls me just like anyone else. That is my point. In most ways my life happens just like anyone else. I have generalized that what I perceive to be true about the world is probably applicable to anyone else if he or she would but open eyes and mind wide enough to capture soemthing beyond the narrow, personalize focus of what is and what is not important int he world.
When I say that there are no coincidences I really and truly believe it. That is not to say that the world is not without irony. Thank God or whatever providence there is in the universe for that simple truth, otherwise writers would have to discuss boring things as there would be nothing much to laugh about; comedians would have much less material to work with, for example.
One of the people that told me 'you're crazy' said that my assertion defies the scientific evidence of creation. Yeah, I pursued that statement with some vigor. What is the scientific evidence of creation? Do you believe in the all-powerful supreme deity or that mass randomness accidentally arrived at a solution that resembled the present universe? Or is there some other truth that lies somewhere between those extremes?
I was in a philosophical discussion a while back and someone asked me just what is my concept of God? Now usually I would go off on some tangent stating that it doesn't really matter what my concept is and why do humans even try to conceptualize something that by their own definition defies the limitation of human words to capture? Well, then again humans are known for pursuing hopeless causes and other illogical crusades and without such human attributes there would be much less material for writers to draw upon for inspiration. But I was having one of those days, so I felt like playing.
"God to me," I said, "is a guy in Brooklyn named Sal that runs the best kosher deli around. A gift from God, then is mayo and cheese at no extra charge. Of course this also relies heavily on my theory that the Universe is shaped like an Onion Bagel and we may be either cream cheese of lox, I am not sure which. I would hope that I am cream cheese as I don't much care fish."
Yeah, I was trying to be funny and certainly failed with that poor soul but the point I was attempting was that however anyone conceives of God it is immaterial to what He or She is or is not. Our religions ridiculously restrict the concept of God enough without each of us having some personal input. What I think about God is irrelevant to anyone else but me. I firmly believe that He or She has a sense of humor. My mythical deli owner has a sense of humor. How could He not? He runs a business in Brooklyn for Sal's sake!
Coincidence smacks in the face of order and organization. I agree that the universe has a good deal of chaos about it but then again, that could be my limited understanding of the real inner workings of the physics involved. If you think we know how things really work, read a few physics books. We know or at least think that we know a lot of things. We are pretty cleaver like that, figuring out why apples fall from trees but the moon does not fall from the sky. We even figured out how to destroy pretty much everything that we know as the world, if we want to. Don’t push the red button unless you’ve taken the blue pill!
The fact is that mostly we still don't have a clue how things really work. We have some theories and sometimes they lead to yet other theories. Some things seem to explain this or that and they work until somone you asks this or that other pressing question. That is the state of modern physics. That is also the truth about modern science in general.
So I am not a proponent of science ever being able to know everything. It is neither the savior of modern man nor even the vehicle for bettering the human condition. Science is knowledge, plain and simple and therefore it is raw clay for humans to mold as they would see fit. To believe that science can ever know all things is not only too ambitious but also ridiculously arrogant. That is also why as a concept I do not believe in coincidence.
I have seen countless examples of coincidence in my life but I could also almost always figure out causality if given the time to figure it out. Accidents don’t happen either. Because you chose to leave the house just in time to make that left turn in front of a guy that had earlier chosen to hit his snooze button one-too-many-times and now he is in a hurry to get to work and tried to run a red light. Wham! Accident? No that was a mistake and not an accident at all. He didn't intend to have a collision but he did and there is a very clear causality. So there was no accident, now was there? We call it an accident because insurance calls the event an accident. They would not pay if we really intended to damage something. Somehow intent transforms a mistake an accident?
We play with semantics all the time, don't we? That's the case with accidents and it is certainly the case with coincidence. The hackneyed expression goes: accidents happen. NO THEY DON'T! 'Shit' doesn't just happen, either, by the way. 'Shit' is planned sometimes but very often it is the unforeseen consequence of human myopia. On the other hand, 'bull shit' is the unforeseen consequence of mistaking someone for an expert, say an economist like Alan Greenspan, and then asking a question that he or she is too embarrassed to admit no knowledge of and should therefore not even bother answering. I have heard the Chairman of the Federal Reserve speak before Congress, ad nauseum. I know every word that comes out of his mouth and I also know the meanings of every word that he uses. Yet I have no clue what he is saying, and neither does the Congress or Alan Greenspan, I'd venture to guess. Actually I am convinced of that. Yet our national fiduciary policy is based on whatever this one man says and sometimes doesn't say. Is there someone in Washington, hidden in a closet on Capital Hill with an Greenspan/English; English/Greenspan dictionary decyphering the secret code this guy uses to convey his real message. People accuse me of inventing words and yes, I do. But damn it, I at least know when I do it. And generally I respect the meaning that others have attached to the words that are supposed to belong to our common language.
Obviously 'bull shit' happens about as often as 'shit' and it is also no accident.
Which brings me to a clear and precise understanding - well it is as clear and precise as anyone could expect me to be early Monday morning - that there are no coincidences. Here is a patent example.
Elgon almost never has a Saturday off, unless he is on vacation or requests it for a very good reason, say for example taking my daughter Amanda to St. Augustine to tour Flagler College - one recent exception. Elgon works retail; that is why. It is part of the territory and silly Elgon actually likes working on Saturday.
Elgon has some Sundays off, a couple each month, usually.
The combination of a Saturday and a Sunday off is almost impossible for me to remember except for vacations and special requests along with a note from my dear deceased mother and/or the Pope's blessing. Since I am not catholic I stand a better chance at getting the note from my mother than from the Pope. For something like that to happen by 'accident' is pretty much impossible.
Once in a great while Elgon has a Monday off. Elgon does not like having Monday off as a rule because the remainder of the week is playing catch-up. Elgon would not ordinarily even permit a Monday off to appear on the schedule except that this is Easter week and due to other scheduling considerations, one being that the operations manager is on vacation leaving the management schedule a little light throughout the week, I let it stand.
Seldom ever does Elgon have three days off in a row and certainly not a weekend followed by a Monday. Well, anyway it happened. The events in the universe, my boss being out of the store all last week at meetings for example, conspired to create the conditions in which I had Saturday, Sunday and Monday off.
Wait, stay with me; I am getting to how this ties into a coincidence pattern of the sort that clearly is not a coincidence.
A couple of weeks ago, check the back postings of this blog, my best friend called me. She was depressed and just wanted to talk. She was bummed about a lot of things and needed to vent and needed to laugh about things. She didn't expect anything except for me to listen, which I gladly did fior her becasue she is my friend. What little that I could help her with was getting her computer running again so that she might be able to do research on her upcoming project for her college business course. Because her car was also inoperable she could not readily get to the library to do her research. She was having a good deal of anxiety about everything else in her life and the stress about her upcoming project was just adding to it.
About a week ago we got one of her computer working and determined that cat hair balls vomitted onto cable modems is not a good thing and it severely limit access to The Internet. She managed to get her cable modem replaced and was up and running around last Friday. She posted a message to her yahoo group and I received an email. When I happened to check my personal email from a webmail server, I immediately opened and read it. The subject of her email was that she was back online and that it was a good thing because she had so much work to get done and her assignment, a marketing plan was due on Tuesday. Even though she had access to The Internet she felt that she was severely behind and it was perhaps hopeless that she would ever get her project done on time.
Three guesses what I have a degree in. Three guesses what I used to do for the clients that I sold advertising services to. I called her, offering to give her some advice for her project, if she needed it. That was when we made arrangements to get in contact on Saturday. (See a previous blog post regarding my rare Saturday off.)
We worked together coordinating the online research . It was actuially the first time that I had ever done something like that and it is really like creating a synergy of the efforts. We also brainstormed ideas. I have no idea how long we were at it using Instant Messenger and voice conversation over Instant Messenger but it was several hours. Time went by pretty fast. She said it was a help to her and it lessened her anxiety a little. She had a lot of work to do just to get organized and that was what was stressing her out.
Yesterday we again spent several hours working semi-independently and sending files back and forth. My schedule and being off had allowed me to help her on her project in a way that I could have never done had I been scheduled to work. As this was important to her it was also important to me because she has been a good friend, my best friend for many years. As I have said before, the books that I have written would be very different without her inspiration and suggestions. I always feelt hat I owe her something then again freinds owe nothing to one another. Friends do for one another expecting nothing thereof.
It was not really planned scheduled or anything. Most people would say that it was a coincidence. I am very confident that it was not. If you believe in chaos theory and the mass randomness of the universe that all things given enough time could have fallen into place with enough structure to create the universe, then you believe that a series of otherwise random events led directly to my being there and available for Ela'na to get her assignment done this weekend; to you I will say this, bull shit! You could not know the extent of seeming coincidence that I have exposed around my having met Ela'na when I did. A lot of it is deeply personal and very private and her her sake I will not elaborate on those things. But I can tell you a couple of things that are indicative of the overwhelming body of evidence that there are NO COINCIDENCES.
Ever since I first met Ela'na it has been clear to me that other things were at work beneath the perceivable surface. It is almost as if everything conspired to produce one coincidence after another until the very absurdity of believing in the coincidence was finally made clear to me. It was as if the forces of nature had whacked me up the side of the head to get my attention.
Do you want some proof?
Coincidence 1: When I was an undergrad at Purdue University I wrote a character profile for a creative writing class describing a female Wolfcat (although I did not term it as such) on January 13, 1977. Ela'na, the inspiration for the Wolf Pack elements of the series and the one that the Wolf Pack calls The Wolfcat was born on January 13, 1977. I did not know this factoid until the fall of 2002 when I was in the process of moving and sifting through and sorting all the collected 'stuff' that had been packed up and ratted away in the attic. I found an old notebook with the exercise still in it from my days at Purdue. I had known Ela'na for over 2 years at that time and although I knew that I had written about a fantasy character in the late 1970's I did not remember the details.
Coincidence 2: I met her online in a chat along with several other Wolves and even joined the Wolf Pack on my birthday, May 7, 2000. Earlier that year on January 13, 2000, something that I did not realize until 2004 when I was helping my son fill out applications for college, I had registered my vehicle, gotten by driver's license and voter registration, all on the same day, her birthday. Honest to God, that is the truth.
I won't bore you with the other dozen supposed coincidences but I think you see what I have noticed. I laugh whenever something else comes to the surface, like this past weekend.
My point is that there is a reason why people meet one another. Somethings are just meant to be. As humans we are not intended to be all alone in this living thing. We need others in our lives. It is not just for making babies and building families but for long term relationships borne out of friendship because everyone is an individual and each of us really do matter. From the best that I can determine we are here to make life easier for everyone else that our lives touch. You need to give at least as much as you take; that is the balance of the world on a human level.
So, anyway this past weekend, I helped my best friend because I needed to do it. There is no other reason necessary. No other explanation matters but that she IS my best friend.
She thanked me for my help. It was unnecessary for me; necessary for her perhaps. It made her feel in balance. From my point of view I would have done it without her explicit thanks because what little I contributed lightened her load enough that she slept better and had much less stress. That was my objective anyway: lightening her load. I used my skills, talents, knowledge and whatever else I had just to nudge the Bally Table enough to keep the pinball that is life in play.
Over the past five years of knowing her, Ela'na has helped me through some strange times and has inspired me to write things that have amazed me especially when I have read them years later. She has never asked for anything in return. She is my personal muse, as I have said previously and in a fundamental way I believe that. In fact most of the time she was unaware of her impact on me or even others whose lives she has touched. Unless someone tells her she is unaware of her influence. The equation of our personal relationship, as strange as it is, was never about correcting any balance or anything like that. In a real friendship it never is. You do iwhatever you need to, not because of a self imposed obligation to help friends. It is conditional only on the relationship itself.
Friendships never emerge from coincidence; each one is meant to be.
E
Interface
The following is a revision to the first section of One Over X - Episode One : From The Inside To The Closer, copyright 2002, 2005, all rights reserved. It is offered here for comparison to earlier verions and as a promotional vehicle. For more information on books, please go to
http://www.acbooks.com
Gasoline permeated his clothing, soaking his flesh and giving him the raw reek of petroleum. Cold penetrated the moisture, clawed at his shivering bones as he cried out in his suffering. At first he had believed the wetness was overflow from an eve trough after a spring shower in the city, the place he had just been; the brush of icy air whisked against the bare skin of the back of his hand and crystallized the vapor of his breath, confirming that he was elsewhere and events had turned otherwise. Where was he? He asked silently of himself as if it were anything new. He desired to return the peace that he had known in the preceding instants but knew full well that they were gone if not forever then for this condemnation.
Pain pulsed around the knot on his head. His blood engorged eyes bulged with the pressure of hanging upside down. Squinting through blood tainted tears, bleary-eyed he struggled to regain any of his bearings. His eyelids served him only as crimson curtains drawn over unprotected eyes to shield against the glare of the rapidly clearing sky and dawning sun of a new day.
First there was a spark, and then flames bloomed, nearly clear at the base but turning golden or red at the extremes as it licked closer to where he hung. Impulsively attracted, he reached out toward the fire. Thickly the smoke boiled up, surrounding him, overwhelming his every sense, except for the sound of things crackling and popping when consumed by flame.
He understood the urgency inherent in his immediate situation. In moments the flames would ignite his saturated and now inflammable clothing. Extremes, from bitter cold to intense heat now came as the ebb and flow of the tides but it was the gusts of wind that moderated the change and it was the persistence of those gusts that was preventing the flames from reaching him.
Shaking his head as if that would allow some freedom from his too-real fear – he was strapped in; trapped inside a burning crumpled carcass of steel. No escape, no time to react - everywhere he hurt except what parts that were already numb from either his injuries or from the pressure applied against vital arteries. There was more than his split head that needed immediate attention and as a result of the sum of all things wrong with Andy; all pain would end soon, peace forever.
From the dancing flame’s tickle the heavy, sooty smoke boiled to surround him until he succumbed to a fit of coughing. Inevitably this youthful adventure would end, his breath ripped from his oxygen-starved lungs. Life forever, except for the immediate circumstance was the promise in the allure of flame that captivated his attention. How was it fair for him to perish now? Why had he even bothered to go on with the charade for even this long? There was only the black uncertainty of salvation’s promise, as if he believed in life ever after the purgatory of his existence.
Suddenly another gust of wind brought a more pleasant odor. He knew the perfume and by it assumed the presence of the bearer. “Where have you been?” He asked of the cool shadow as it passed over his face.
“Nowhere,” was the reply of the familiar voice that he had anticipated.
“Can you at least help me?”
“Why should I? Are you that helpless?”
“Hopeless is more like it.” He growled but then coughed so hard that he gagged and nearly vomited. He might have evacuated his stomach not been already empty. Gusts of wind maintained the distance of the persistent flame’s encroachment. He winced from the throbbing lump on his head. The sentience of pain reassured him. To feel is to not yet be dead. “They followed me again,” he said.
“You went where you had no business going?”
“No business…? What do you mean? I had every reason.”
“No one has any business interfering with them.”
“God it hurts!” Andy forced the issue to reach out to the shadow. “Can you help me out of this…this harness?”
The harness released and he fell with all his weight against jagged points of metal sticking up from the heaped bed of shattered glass that covered the razor-edges of twisted metal. He tried not to scream but the reaction erupted by the force of will its own. So severe was the suffering that he lost consciousness even though it only seemed for that moment in agony.
“Come on.” Lana beckoned to him toward peace.
He rolled over, and crawled away from harm, staggering as he struggled against the numbness in his extremities as he attempted to stand and then finally walk. He glanced back at the flames frozen in time. Slowly he steadied his gait and was able to trust his weight on his feet again. Miraculously all his pain was suddenly gone. The realization panicked him, threatening the elation of hope with torrents of despair. Had it possibly been another deception? He reached for the lump on his head, gently touching it, not only reassured that it was still there but that it hurt like hell. Yes, he was still alive!
Lana laughed. “There are limits to what I can do.”
“You left it there for a reminder. I know you.”
She smiled. “I can’t do everything for you.”
“Where are we going?”
“Where else would we go? We seem to always end up there.” Lana said with an enticing smile. She offered her hand as she reached out to him. “Come on. When we get there I’ll put some ice on that bump.”
“It’s more than a bump.” Andy followed her into the alley that appeared as if drawn up the ground and made read within the fog. “It feels like a small mountain.”
“To you maybe but to me it is next to nothing.”
“Why can’t they leave me be?” Andy asked as he tactilely surveyed the painful lump, gingerly relocating his finger tips again and again so as to appraise the actual size of the lump.
“They are relentless machines,” she replied. “They are carrying out their instructions.”
“They were machines.” Andy corrected.
“Once a machine…” Lana unlocked the outer door and held it open until Andy had passed. Then she locked the door behind them and followed Andy up the stairs to her apartment.
“They are alive, Lana. They learn. They create. They reproduce. They live!”
“You made them; you would know.”
Andy shrugged. “I’m responsible, yes; I did not make them.”
“It doesn’t matter to them. You know what they want from you.”
“I know what needs to be done. It is just…”
“You think that they are alive. That pause in thought is your vulnerability and their advantage.”
“Yes,” Andy confirmed with the lowering of his eyes allowing his head to follow.
“They won’t hesitate to kill you.”
“So far they haven’t succeeded.”
“Or is it just that you’re lucky.”
“They don’t understand their significance.”
“And you do?”
Andy shrugged. “I know they are more important than they could possibly imagine.”
“Imagine!” Lana scoffed. “Envision machines that can imagine. Would that be the pinnacle of achievements for all mankind or the depths of our collective folly?”
Andy forced a weak smile as he collapsed back into an over-stuffed chair and watched Lana as she went into the kitchen only to return within a few moments with the promised cold compress, immediately applying it to the remaining knot on his head.
Andy winced at first then grew to appreciate the caress of cold. “I had that same nightmare again, except I wasn’t dreaming this time around,” Andy said.
“Which nightmare is that?”
“What other nightmare is there? The finger from the sky chased me. I escaped; it followed me. There was a fiery crash and I was in the process of burning to death…”
“You’re always safe here.”
“Again that is thanks to you. You always come when I least expect it but generally when I most need it.”
“Your problem is that you still rely on the magic too often. Brent had that same problem early on.”
“How is Brent?”
“He is old here and younger there. You know how it is with him.”
“Do I ever know anything about him? He is an enigma.”
Lana laughed. “Hey, be careful what you say. You never know who you might insult.”
“I never intend to offend.”
Lana smiled, “Brent is a friend, actually more than a friend in some ways. He helped me so many times and in so many ways that I still feel indebted to him but he always says that it was I that helped him and that he is in my debt,” she shrugged. “So if he is an enigma to you he is at least that to me.”
“Brent sent me here.”
“Did he now?”
“It is largely his fault. Isn’t that clear? I mean it has the essence of him splattered all over it.”
“Nothing is ever that clear, Andy. Besides I would never presume to lay all the blame on Brent. Like you he was part of the system.”
“The key word there is ‘was’.”
“I am missing your point.”
“Well, what if that were the real world that I just experienced, the wreckage and the flames and this were a dream?”
“Then you would be dead already several times over,” Lana said as she kissed him lightly on the forehead. “Does that feel like a dream to you?”
“How would I know?”
“You wouldn’t…” She smirked as she gently continued to apply the cold compress to the large knot on the back of Andy’s head. “You are safe here, for the moment anyway. It always takes them a while to find you.”
“I am safe from everyone and everything except for the Siblings.” Andy challenged.
“To me they seem the more relevant problem. They are actually here.”
“Your magic is nothing against them.”
Lana shrugged. “Who said I need magic?”
“I hope that is not just arrogant bravado,” Andy chuckled as he sighed and leaned back. He closed his eyes even before he realized that it was a mistake, but then with the realization he shouted, “No!”
He opened eyes and his mind once more to appreciate the pure canvass of full potential. Nothing was impossible here. It was as if creation had never paused. In the distance he heard the mournful howl of the wind or was it a lost Wolf’s plea frozen in eternity?
Tugging, pulling, bringing him away, he fought to linger but the allure of the light and the enchantment of the colors within the light were both far too dazzling and inviting. The intensity of the late afternoon sun screamed intensely in hues that his deafened mind could barely hear let alone appreciate for their harmony. His outer sense triggered a squint in response to the glare of the sun that tickled the edges of his taste in perception. It was a signal, the conditioned response to the first signs of a workday’s culmination. His base awareness permitted mind the mere slow withdrawal from the brink of madness that was called interface. The shadows of the surreal lingered transparently as if there were two or even more layers of reality just beyond his immediate focus or interest, the real world to which he would invariably and reluctantly return underlying the enhanced cybernetic projection used to accelerate relatively limited human mental performance during the process that was interface.
Horrific! The word echoed within his mind as smothering panic overcame him. He remembered an impression, from some way station along the course of his mental meandering. At some point he had been immersed within oxygenated, gelatinous goop. His life depended upon it but his instinctual response to it was revulsion and gagging. It was the fear of suffocation that he had fought; the fear of drowning while starving for air. When he could not hold his breath any longer he gave up, fully expecting that his heart would lud-thump and thud-lump until the oxygen expired and then thud-thump and lud-thump even harder and at an accelerated pace in panic mode until it finally exploded, contained only by his chest. Amazingly, he realized that he could breathe a fluid. There was air dissolved in the goop that filled his lungs; he drew oxygen from it and he survived. With that revelation, the ocean of madness compelled him toward the source, the unifying identity that was still the interface.
Andy forced an eye open but could not readily determine where he was. When or where was the sensation that he had just had? Had it been real or imagined? Salvation was the release of falling back into strong and concerned arms, forgetting every care and every identity leaving only trust in another to catch him whenever he fell; it was some other that he could not readily locate.
His lungs ached as he breathed in deeply from the thinner, vapor rich, wonderfully reclaimed air that descended from the vents above his workstation, glad to not be suffocating or sustained in breathing a gelatinous substance.
Upward, outward, ever closer to the superficial context that was his stupefying incarceration, called existence. What was he doing in the real world anyway? Still, sitting within the relative protection of his cubicle he was poised at his workstation waiting to come back into the parts of life that meant pain and suffering, to his living amongst those terminally condemned to an almost meaningless and surely mindless, mundane mortal morass of existence.
Another distraction called for his immediate attention. It was an additional but only temporary delay as he rose back toward the surface of awareness.
“Will you look at this?”
If he had a body in interface then it turned and his head followed that cyberspace body. His eyes focused on some distant gathering in the ethos. There was a banner hovering, seemingly suspended from thin air, but in reality it was hanging from small gravity-compensating devices called floaters. It was a trick, even an effective one, all controlled by Ethosphere. “Welcome Siblings!” The banner proclaimed.
Across the way, a stranger was pressing into the throng but then he abruptly brandished a weapon above his head. It was a primitive device, one from a previous century that used an outdated yet still effective chemical reaction to propel a small lead projectile. From the muzzle of the weapon discharged several brilliant flashes followed almost immediately by a series of loud pops. In the air there was some pungent chemical residue left wafting.
In response to the loud pops, many bodies scattered, a couple of bodies fell, and other bodies were trampled under foot and left broken and bleeding on the concrete slab of the Square of the Ethosphere. Yet other bodies surged toward the would-be assassin.
As the chaos subsided, abruptly several people ripped away at him, tearing his jacket, others pinching and twisting his arms, someone wrenching the weapon from his hand, even breaking his index finger in the process, a level of pain that he had not expected and would not wish upon even his worst enemy.
“Murderer!” The mass that was nearest accused him. How had Andy come to be within the body of another, the stranger that was this assassin?
As the crowd parted now and again to allow others to reach its midst, he glimpsed the crimson pools that continued to grow to surround two lifeless bodies, one a young man; the other a young woman. He had become the murderer!
There was death, now! Finally there was a resolution to something. At least a part of the madness would end this way.
Still, he had the sensation that something was incredibly wrong and different. Andy felt a loss as intense as the day of his mother’s death. Family had passed. What confused him even more was the remorse that he felt. It was as if he were somehow responsible for the failure of The Society to establish proper controls to protect the Siblings. A chill penetrated him and he shivered in response. He understood relationships, purpose and destiny. Couldn’t any of them understand why it had to be done? The Siblings were Evil beyond any comprehension. It had always been the providence of the Good to destroy the Evil!
Security twisted, pulled on his hands and arms until they were bound behind him. They threw a black hood over his head, then lifted him from his feet and threw him into the back of a vehicle before hauling him away.
When he arrived at the interim destination, they pulled him from the back of the vehicle and nudged him onward. Even as he stumbled someone struck him from behind with a heavy blunt object. He no longer cared, he may have cried out but he was not sure. It wasn’t like it mattered to anyone present. The flung him forward and he lunged and crashed face first onto pavement, scraping against the roughness of concrete. At some point between their beating, kicking and dragging him, he lost consciousness. He did not remember the next portion of his incarceration and torture. Perhaps that was just as well.
The taste of blood in his mouth exacerbated the appreciation of the excruciating trauma of his bruised and broken body. Fixing the damage that they had inflicted would be the humane thing to do, not that civility figured into any of the security operations. Andy was wanted, had been for a long time. He’d been holed up in a cave near the river upstream from the technopolis. He was considered part of the rebellion, part of the fringe terrorist element. Security had expected him to attack; it was just that they had no idea where to find him. Had he never returned to the city, he would still be free. Then again the final scenarios of confrontation that led to the end would have never been forced into play.
“No one would ever quite understand or know how repulsive this task has been,” he muttered to himself. “It’s a damn dirty job.” Andy allowed his head to fall into his hands as he sat alone on the edge of a bed pondered forthcoming actions. It was never easy to kill yet in his mind he knew it was necessary even though in his heart the agony endured. To cause death was always unforgivable. He had assassinated the demon spawn not real people. Unfortunately he was responsible for more than just their deaths. Eventually he would have to pay for what he had done, bringing them to life.
My Rare Saturday Off
For the most part I think I am a considerate and helpful person. Some may differ with my self-assessment and from time to time I can be selfish, overbearing and all those things that make us humans and me in particular a man. In general I think I am pretty accommodating, though. The only time that I am not is when something conflicts with a portion of my schedule that I have no power to modify.
It is pretty rare that I get a Saturday off and in truth I really did not have yesterday off. It is just that I had been scheduled to work six days last week and that on Thursday it was decided that I did not have to work for the entire day on Saturday. I had to attend a meeting on Saturday morning, though. So I worked Saturday but only for a couple of hours.
My daughter, Amanda submitted some of her art for a local youth competition. One of her pieces called Prima Vera was accepted for the competition and was hung for display in the Hennegar Center for the Arts in downtown historical district of Melbourne. Because of her other obligations for a school assignment that is due on Tuesday, Amanda could not attend the awards ceremony. She asked me to attend, since I had most of the day off. I had no other plans and I had planned to attend anyway - ever since I was given the balance of Saturday off.
There were a lot of things going on in downtown Melbourne yesterday. There was the St. Patrick’s Day parade queuing up and so some of the streets were blocked off completely. People that were attending the parade had parked along the side streets. So there was limited parking close to the Hennegar Center. I found a place to park in a lot about a mile or so away. So I walked. It wasn't all that bad. It was a beautiful day with a light breeze and generally on the cool side. This is really the time of year that I like being in Florida. What was a little annoying was that as I walked I had to weave my way through the small crowd that was gathering to wait along New Haven Avenue for the parade.
When I arrived at the museum, I walked around for a bit looking at the art on exhibit. Then I went to the upstairs ballroom to find a seat for the awards ceremony.
You might think that I would be comfortable around artists. Usually I am. There is a sort of soul-mate thing going on whenever I am around other creative people. We each have found a way to tap into the flow of creative energy that underlies the veils of reality. Yeah that sounds like something out of one of my books but it really is something that I believe. From my conversations with other creative people over the years, I think we are each attuned to a different level of consciousness at least. So whatever you want to call it, there is something that makes creative, artistic people a little different. Those of us that have that ‘bug’, as my friend Jeff put it, do not have issue with it and fundamentally embrace it even when at times others in our lives perceive it as a bane.
Very often I find inspiration in the works of other creative people. I think we all do, at least those of us that appreciate art. Yesterday it was an even greater inspiration to me that the artists were all young people, no older than 22, and the majority of submissions were from artists of high school age. I can not tell you how truly impressed I was with the quality of the art. Even though Amanda's work was a first rate creation of line art, it had met with stiff competition. It was Amanda's first time and even though she did not win an award just being selected from the hundreds of entries was an accomplishment.
For some reason, though I wasn't all that comfortable at the ceremony. I don't know why. Maybe it was the usual 'I don't like being in public around total strangers' thing. It could be that I felt out of place. I was a parent. There were other parents there but each of them was with their aspiring artists. I don't know what was going on with me. I was just a little uncomfortable.
One humorous thing happened though at the time I didn’t realize that it was funny. While I was sitting, waiting for the awards ceremony, I was enjoying four young flautists performing some chamber music. I must have sat back on my cell phone. I almost never have the keys locked - my bad. I inadvertently dialed the last number called, which happened to be my best friend's number - the one who lives in California, the inspiration for many of the characters in my books; yeah, that friend.
Now this was around 1:15PM EST (10:15AM PST). I would have never called her at that time because sometimes she works late and I would respect the possibility that she was still sleeping, even though we had made arrangements to get in contact later in the afternoon for doing some research for a marketing plan that she is researching for her business class. Anyway, I accidentally called her. Remember now, I do not believe that anything is ever an accident. I use the word here just because it was something that I never intended to do not that I believe it was pure coincidence that I called her. Apparently her voice mail picked up and for a few minutes it recorded the sounds of flutes.
After the awards ceremony, I negotiated my way back through the even larger min-throng that was forming along the parade route and back to the place where I had parked. I navigated out of the parking lot and down a barricaded street but was permitted to leave, rejoining US-192 just past the break where New Haven Avenue splits off and Strawbridge carries on toward the causeway and bridge over to Indialantic Beach. Traffic was heavy for downtown Melbourne on a Saturday. Whether it was the parade or the weather of the combination a lot more people than usual were downtown. There was a mini-traffic jam and really the congestion continued even once I had reached the barrier islands. For my part it was too cool to have been at the beach yesterday but not for tourists. Bikini-clad ladies were prevalent even though it was at best 70 degrees. It was a nice day for a drive and I suppose everyone else realized it too because Highway A1A was crowded too.
I was in a hurry to get home. My friend and I had arranged to connect for doing her research sometime after 3PM. It was already close to 2:20PM. Suddenly my cell phone rang. I have a bad habit of picking up my cell phone before even bothering to check caller ID. Usually when I receive a call it is either Amanda or Rob. Sometimes it is Jina but that is not very often. This time it was my friend in California.
“That was really nice music. I was sorry it timed out,” she said.
I laughed, “Oh so it was you that I called.” I then explained what must have happened. She laughed and we finalized arrangements to get connected for the research a little later.
It was a Saturday, a rare one that I had off. I usually don’t like having Saturdays off. I have worked retail for long enough to actually enjoy the excitement of a weekend in a store. But as Saturday’s go, it was not bad.
Oh yeah, and somewhere in all that I rewrote the first two pages of Book 1-2e. I think it is even better. When I am certain that it is finished I will post the first section here. I did that before for the version that is in print. Even those of you that have not yet read Book 1 will be able to compare the difference between Books 1-1e and 1-2e.
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