We're not alone

Timestamp: 15:31, 28th of November, 2014
Workingtitle: We are not alone.

‘It takes all kinds to make a world. The fat ones, the short ones, the curious ones, the kind ones. The spectrum of our existential consciousness, is comprised of tiny bits of interactions with these variegated facets of humanity, like watching the light glint off fine cuts made in one of those sparkly thingies some people seem to like so much....’

‘For Chrissake, stop blathering on about such dashed nonsense. Don’t you have anything better to do? For example, figure out exactly what the subspace of good couplings is for the four-point functions?’

‘Ooh, look. There, to your four o’clock. My goodness, she’s so pretty. The way her hair falls across her face when she leans forward..’

‘Again with the humming. what is it with you crazy aes-sedai? And stop tugging on your earlobe. You look creepy. Okay, I need chocolate. And perhaps some ice-cream. And coffee!’

‘I want to run. Freely, without restraint. Over fields, and hillocks, and valleys. Past small stalls selling tea and biscuits, past bullocks drawing carts full of hay, past the straggling industries at the edge of civilisation, or, at least, the edge of wi-fi. I want to run past train stations, over flyovers, slide on railings, and vault over cars....’

‘Oookay, ignoring the weirdo with his orthogonal tangents for a moment, are we going to get coffee? I could do with some food too, while we’re at it.’

‘If you find her so perfectly fetching, then why don’t you go talk to her? It’s been too long that you’ve been hung up on M. Stop sulking.’

‘I want to run past faded graffiti on old buildings and dogs scavenging for thanksgiving leftovers. Past plastic-and-chrome bookstores that stock naught but bestsellers, and old smoky bars with a jazz quartet playing songs from a forgotten age....’

‘So, if you look at the two chiral vertex operators, in the fundamental representation and its dual, the only way they can couple is through the identity.’

‘What if this place had a moat?’

‘A coffee shop with a moat. Really?’

‘That would be so cool, we could throw those buggers in to the sharks when they act all pretentious. Oh, look, I’m reading Murakami. I’m so cool. I’m going to use words like reprobate and excrescence, quote obscure pieces like Janacek’s Sinfonietta, and talk about how the mundane and the metaphysical are inextricably linked.’

‘You hypocrite. You read Murakami and do all those things.’

‘Oh. Well, crap.’

‘So, are you going to talk to her? Or get coffee? Being hungry makes me ornery. Or is that being sleepy?’

‘Look. People you know, to your seven o’clock. D’you want to talk to them?’

‘Hm. Some company might be nice. Besides, I’ve been sitting here for too long. I’ll wave at them.’

‘Run, run, while you can. It’ll just be awkward for everyone if you wave. They didn’t expect to see you here, but then they’ll have to come sit with. Then it’ll just be silences, with bits of meaningless nothings floating in little boats of awkwardness, in a gravy sea of embarassments. Say you have an urgent appointment.’

‘Ah, yes, to the doctor! For herpes? An appendectomy?’

‘Oh, shut up. They didn’t see me.’

‘The relief, the relief. Methinks I feel faint.’

‘Of what use are these moments of utter eloquence if not to convince you to do stupid things?’

‘Like walk on that frozen lake?’

‘Don’t even remind me of that.’

‘Shutupshutupshutup...’

‘Run past hills, with little brooks and sheep grazing in their little bubbles of serenity and perpetual amazement..’

‘Or consternation. You know these sheep, they find a stream instead of their usual patch of grass and the next thing you know they’ve wandered up the hill and are trying to jump off a cliff.’

‘Stop indulging him.’

‘(or consternation), past mountains, with great big craggy peaks that are nigh-impossible to scale, and beyond...’

‘Sometimes, it takes all kinds to make up a person. Whispering, cajoling, needling, arguing, agreeing, temporising over trivialities together, pennies for thoughts, as we subconsciously influence what you call your own notion of free will. Whether you think its your memories, or your emotions, or your baggage, or God’s voice....’

‘Or a dyslexic Dog’s voice...’

‘Or that, or logic, or your own notion of free will. You are, of course, free to rationalise your actions any way you want it. But sometimes, if you feel brave, or adventurous, or curious, or simply lonely, do sit down in absolute silence, and listen to us, the voices in your head. For you are not alone.’

‘I want to run into space, to soar in the great big open sky with its uncountable finity of stars, past planets vast and gassy, and planets compact and tectonic, and stars mild and serene, and furious ones, flaring with tempers under little control.’

‘I want to run faster and faster, picking up momentum as I go along, leaving comets hurtling in my wake, as I approach the speed of light. And as light, I want to run to the edge of the universe. To the edge of infinity.’

‘And beyond...’

Ale n' wich #1

'I didn't know that I was drunk enough to philosophise about moral relativism.'

'You never do. It just sorta creeps up on you.'

'How d'you mean?', he said, cocking his head to one side, and trying to focus, giving up midway.
The cacophony of sounds from the background, the passionate screams, pointless within seconds, the screeches as a lucky shot lands a pool ball in an unsuspecting pocket, the incredulous exclamations as someone strikes up a conversation with an extraordinary story, the cries of rapture as your song comes on, completely unexpected, the sighs of disappointment at not finding two quarters for the next fusbal game, and the sideways glances at someone you wish you were here with, as you sip your drink and try to make conversation that your mind isn't really on, the heady mixture that makes up your sustenance in the dimly lit dive permeates it as it has on so many nights before.

'Well, there're so many things. Its like that last shot of whiskey that you'll think you'll have. It lingers on the tongue, hinting at possibilities of a disconnect so effective that you think you'll be swimming in a sea of unmoored emotion, drifting around in an effervescent haze as disembodied faces and fabricated memories dip and bob and weave past your insufficiently buoyed spirits.'

I'm not quite sure I understand, but I nod anyway. I don't think I am in any position to frame an argument, nor do I think that anything good will come out of it, even if i do. She leans over to whisper in my ear, and I can smell the shampoo from her hair and the beer from her mouth. 'It comes down to evolution. Morality is a toy model for adaptability, it enforces social compatibility in a system of constructs that dictate the quality of actions based on a system of absolutes that vary with time and circumstance in the most canonically abstruse of ways.'

She's close to my ear now, so close that I can feel her breath on it. She moves an iota, and nibbles on my ear. I remain still, unsure of how to react. The set of my experiences borders on the theoretical, on the abstract, my contact with reality leaves me bewildered, and surprised at my inaction. I expected to act. Perhaps badly, in a way that I would regret later, reminiscing of rash gestures and rude comment, hormonal and pheromonal, pushy and intrusive, bold and stupid. But fresh, nevertheless. Yet, I disappoint myself, once again. Hardly surprising.

I take a deep breath, and prepare to speak. It means nothing, requires no thought, takes no effort. Open my mouth, and utter nothings. My zephyr song.

Herrmit krab.

Oh, what do you know,
of the heady lassitude of spending time,
in the company of good friends?

Of lying 'pon the grasses green,
And shooting watermelon seeds,
at passing clouds that look like sheep.

Of roaming around broke,
penniless and destitute,
for food oh so cheap, oh so delicious.

Of talking through murky nights,
when the world shudders and quakes,
while you while away the time,
with a thought, a drink, and a song.

Of trudging wearily to the nearest town,
Robbed o' your wits, your possessions,
Taking solace in each others presence.

Of endless professions of undying love,
Promises made, broken, and made anew,
Staying static as the world warps,
Wondering why people change.

What do you know, O' friendless one,
joyless and solitary, stubborn and apathetic,
what do you know of joy and pain?

Sitting in your shell,
as you go about it all,
Looking, but not seeing.
As the ones who care,
slip away into obscurity,
in the mists of time.

Moonshine and monsters.

Glance at the sky,
overcast, cloudy,
as the moon tries
with its feeble light
to pierce the veils
and gaze back at you.

A thousand stars shrouded,
blinded by your luminiscence,
shine back at each other,
in ignorance of your darkness.

You look, and wonder, and imagine,
starry skies, clear and bright,
whether the little ones above notice,

the twinkle in your eye.

Majick lock-opening-thingamajigs

'Sure', he said.

'Freilich', he said.

'Of course it has to be magic. What else can it be?'

The mysterious customer, still standing in front of the counter, unaffected by the heat that aided his melting into an unsightly pile of cheese in front of her, turned the 'it' over in her hands. Her face was hidden, but her nimble fingers seemed bemused.

'Reallye?', she said.

'Da, really.', he replied. He didn't quite know what tone to take with her. In his line of work, he had had to deal with a number of women before. That number being five. Okay, fine, three. But he had gotten through those without being slapped, stolen from, spit upon, set on fire, or turned into a frog waiting for a kiss from a true love that didn't exist. Surviving, while not exactly the best recipe for boosting confidence, did help kick it up the hill a bit.

He wondered, looking at her well woven cloak, with its discreet golden threading, and the impressively elegant wooden cane she used, but didn't seem to need, what their origins were. Wooden sticks, he knew, were rather hard objects to impart a refined air to. She should, by all intents and purposes, be ridiculously rich. But the unfettered wealthy did not impart such intense scrutiny to trinkets. Heck, it should've been his lucky day. She should've just purchased, nay, appropriated a quarter of his shop. It was all junk anyway. But instead, she seemed to have no eye for aught but the mangled key that she kept turning over and over, as if she expected it to jump up and do a trick for her.

He was wondering if he should break the silence with yet another discreet reminder of their mortality, and that they should probably complete their transaction before they died of starvation, or the plague, or yet another publicity scheme thought of by their increasingly erratic liege-lord. But she looked up, and he caught his first glimpse of her eyes, framed by locks of her dark hair.

They were brown. Not the brown, though, that most normal folks had, but an intelligent brown, one that weighed, calculated, and gave off a hundred different meanings with a hundred different hues, with a twinkle of hidden merriment that lurked beneath. He decided that whatever he wanted to say, was not worth it. She spoke, in a low, lilting voice that would have been a song were it not for the words,

'Hwa bealucræft, galdorcwide, wiccecræeft, or dreócræft numol, þéos keye?'

He struggled with that. He hadn't heard the old tongue being spoken so fluently in a while, perhaps it was just the new tongue being murdered. Perhaps not. He shook his head, trying to clear the bells and chimes of wonder and alarm ringing in them, and concentrated on the words instead.

'O' scínlæ', he said, for he was now sure that was what she was, a sorceress. A real live one, apparently not on the run either, for she seemed not in any kind of hurry. 'The drýlác, the sorcery on this key I know not, it came into my hands through a quirk of fate, nothing more, and all I knew of it, you now do. If you want it, take it. There ain't no instruction manual included, I'm afraid. Not a lock that I could find to fit it into.'

Slightly mollified by his own diatribe, he continued, 'It does seem to be a rather odd key, though. I couldn't straighten it out, nor melt it down into slag, and that alone is enough to confirm that it has to be magical, and a strong one at that. That alone prompted me to not mess around with it anymore. Well, that, and the inscription near the top.'

She listened patiently, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She glanced at the inscription, and told him, in perfectly good lower tongue, 'I'll take it. How much would you like for it?'

He grinned back, now this, he could work with. 'Whatever you feel like giving, m'lady', he said.

'Well then, this should serve you well, should you figure out how to use it', she said, dropping a pouch on the counter, and smoothly scooping up the key. By the time he yelled that he didn't accept barter, she was no longer there, her swooshing skirts but a memory, were it not for the dull leather pouch on the countertop.

He opened it and looked inside, and removed an egg. An effing egg. Well, looked like he'd be having an omelette for breakfast tomorrow, he mused, thinking of that saying, how'd it go, 'when life gives you eggs...'

Outside, much farther away from the shop than a normal person would've been able to walk, or even run, she sat under the shade of an old tree, a gentle breeze ruffling the grass, and looked at the key, and smiled. The inscription read,
                                                        
'dréam on oþ dréams cymst sóþ.'

of blind men and monks.

It takes a lot out of people. Life does. There're all these ups, and downs, and at the end of a long dusty road, paved with the sweat and blood of years of toil, the next day is still as unpredictable as the very first. It's frustrating, sometimes. But that inherent, inexplicable uncertainty is what makes it fun, as well.

People talk about petty struggles, about great loves, about causes and passions. About the importance of conquest, and the journey being more important than the destination. About seizing the day, and living every day as if it were your last. About it being better than to have loved and lost than having been sued for sexual harassment. About contributing to society, and being punctual, and listening while other people talk. About what's for dinner, and did-you-see-what-she-was-wearing? About books, and film, and sport, and how the collatz conjecture can be proved. All right, maybe not the last.

Some, they say, are significant, and life-altering. Others, trivial. Though very few agree on which falls under what category. Johann Friedrich Herbart, while at Gottingen university, had outlined philosophy as the process of developing concepts. 'Partly as a consequence of the practical necessity to eliminate a contradiction or explain some matter, partly as a result of purely theoretical interest, a desire arises in him [man? dolphins? mice?] to correct, to amplify, to tie together - in general to put his concepts into good order. In other words, he begins to feel an urge to philosophise.'

I often wonder, though, considering that the majority of humankind tends to go through life without indulging in much of what is perceived in today's world as a waste of time, or a rich lad's passing fancy, whether these questions that we wonder about, are clear as day to the rest of us. Are we as blind men, trying to listen in vain for the colour blue?

A small clan of monks in the Himalayas presumably set out to find the meaning of life, the universe and everything. They hadn't had the opportunity to peruse Douglas Adam's monogram on the topic, and didn't realise they could have saved themselves a lot of time and instead have a snowball fight, and perhaps some tea afterwards.

Regardless, some meditated, standing on one leg for weeks on end while abstaining from food, and drink, and the passionate, lingering glances of the goats grazing on the hillside. Others read ancient texts on philosophy, and religion, and politics, and social constructs, and eventually went completely bonkers, renounced the ascetic lifestyle, sold their little mud pot, and went to work at wall street. I'm told they now drive ferraris, having found inner peace.

A particularly wise monk, driven to the edge in his pursuit for ultimate knowledge, literally, took it one step further, and jumped off a cliff. He may have found the answer he was looking for. Unfortunately, we'll never know.

 A wiser monk, looking at the unappetizing mess at the bottom of the cliff, concluded, with the brevity that is characteristic of the monks who speak, on average, about sixteen words a lifetime.

 'Life', he said, 'is not being dead.'

Of things, things and other things

A young man and an old man sat in a smoky bar.

The young man was unflappable, his leather jacket askew over his white shirt, cocky, assured, with nimble fingers and a nimbler tongue to match.

He looked around with old eyes, not missing a beat.

The old man, wise and fazed, wrinkled hands caressing his pitcher, had a small smile on his weathered face, with a gap or two where once teeth had been.

He looked around with young eyes, curious and interested.

They had been sitting beside each other for a while now, neither had spoken a word. Not that they needed to. Communication happens in many forms, only a small fraction of it spoken.

The serving girl came up with a fresh round of drinks, and the men looked, the younger one hungry, the older one appreciative. Both nodded their thanks as she sat the mugs on the table.

It was not late in the evening, but there were already plenty of people in the crowded alehouse. Some of them tolerably drunk. Some of them swearing it was their last glass. Some of them happily drunk, some exuberantly so, some sober on too much to drink, some high on too little.

The critical point in any establishment of this sort on an evening of this kind was bound to appear soon. And the masters of statistics and the students of human nature were not disappointed. Their gods, while ineffable, were also punctual.

A push turned to a shove. One abusive holler greeted another. Hands disappeared into scruffs only to appear miraculously as self defense from another lifetime made itself heard over the din. Sides were chosen, and observers relegated to the background. The stage was set, the lighting was adjusted, the tinny band in the background retreated to the safety of the barracks and resumed their chorus.

The young man and the old man watched.

They watched as words turned to actions, as ideals turned to protests, and wars were fought over what would have been pittances. In another lifetime.

They watched as innocent bystanders were swept into the inexorable tide of events, as good ale was laid to waste, as chairs were smashed and table legs were extricated from their parent bodies in an effort to provide for the cavalry. The hippies in the barracks sang about love.

Then someone caught the young man by the arm, and pulled him into the fray. The old man nodded sorrowfully, and stood up. Dusted his clothes ruefully, and followed him in.

The battle raged on, feeding on a hundred repressed emotions and a thousand unsaid words, too late, too late. Cards from a game of poker fluttered about dismally, their aces in the hole worthless now.

The young man remained calm, discouraging eager assailants with a desultory swipe of his long limbs that made the battle crazed barbarians remember Attila the hun. The older man did the same, with a gentle push, and a kindly nod that made the draftees of someone else's war remember their kindly grandfathers.

They reached the center of the fray, the eye of the storm, where the seed of the violent tree of events stood facing each other, a broken bottle in one hand, a wooden mug in the other. The remaining two hands clutched at lapels that did not belong to their parent bodies.

They looked at each other, eyes crazed with anger and disappointment. The old man and the young man looked at each other as well, sadness in one, a grim determination in the other. The stepped in, and exchanged the lapels being held for those of their own.

Startled glances were passed around as the hostilities paused for an uncertain moment, assessing the new development, unsure of how to proceed. The warmongers wanted to continue, venting and exhausting that which had been pent up for so long, but how could they? Before that question could be answered, the two men embraced each other. The one with the youthful eyes, and the one with the gray ones.

Fifteen minutes later, the two sat at their table, watching the two men talk, watching the bar as it put itself together again, as fresh grass grew from the scorched earth, pushing the ash away, letting it drift in the breeze, to lands were it would become fertilizer for growing potatoes. A waitress came up to their table with fresh drinks, and bestowed a grateful smile upon them before being pulled to her more insistent patrons.

The two clinked their glasses, and drank deeply. A satisfied sigh. A sated burp. Something new. Something old. Always fun, always bold. The honky tonk bar played its honky tonk music.

'Next one's on me.', one said. The other nodded. They walked out. The glasses sat on the table and watched the bar.

Why not?

'You don't dare?', she asked, half smug, half anxious.
'Oh, you'd just love to find out, wouldn't you?', he replied. Loosening his tie. Stepping forward. Devil-may-care dripping from eyebrows, moonbeams glinting off cold eyes. He tilted his head as he came forward, lips slightly parted...
He picked up the monstrous sandwich, stuffed to the brim and beyond, a daredevil french fry leaped forth, grabbing desperately at his white shirt, missed, and careened into the ravines below, screaming only as a disillusioned fry can. A mozzarella stick poked out from underneath the lettuce, wondering, but not brave enough, or foolish enough, to try and duplicate that stunt.  He opened his mouth wide, getting some mayonnaise on his lips as he engulfed the arterial clusterfuck, mindless in the ecstasy that overcomes the devourers of worlds as they consume an entire planet, its people, their culture and their porn. (though those things were synonymous on some planets.)
She just stared, amazed, horrified, and morbidly fascinated, it was like watching a snake eat an antelope. Horns and all. Bit by bit, not hurrying, nor slowing down, he went at the monstrous concoction till naught remained but crumbs, which he then licked off his fingers. Then, and only then, did he look up at her,  a smile on his lips, along with some crumbs, and she found that her breath was coming in shallow gasps, as if she'd just finished running a marathon. There was something about a man who could eat an entire fat sandwich in one go. Something irresistible, something delicious. She did not care anymore.
She went at him, as he'd gone at the sandwich.

- This happened in no universe. Ever.
   Not even one where we elect politicians with a criminal record, watch videos of cats falling into bathtubs, and arbitrarily decide Pluto's not a planet anymore.

- Poor Pluto.  

Grounds for divorce. #4

He hated the smell of fish and rotting cheese in the morning. And she bloody well knew that. He fell off the bed and stumbled in his sleep-daze towards the coffee pot, one arm covering his nose, intending to unplug it, until it dawned upon him that it wouldn't do any good at all. Much easier to just jump out of the bloody window. But it would be waiting for him at the bottom. It would follow him to the depths of hell, to the barber's shop, on his dates and drinks with friends. Back when he had friends. With a hollow groan, he poured himself a cup. He didn't bother looking into the coffee to see what it contained, and shut out the squelching noises coming from within. He took a deep drag.

---------------------------------------------

She was annoyed. She hated the odorous brown liquid that filled up her stew pot whene'er she wanted to cook a good meal. Whatever she put in her stewing pot invariably got mucked around. She'd tried everything. Filling it up with soap water, dumping garbage in it, using it as a last line of defense against that rabid cat. She'd heated stuff, cooled stuff, sauteed, marinated, broiled and salted a variety of increasingly aromatic substances, all of which turned into that disgusting brown stuff. Today, she'd tried to make a nice family recipe involving tuna and a sharp cheese, but even that had failed to sate the devil pot's appetite for transmogrification. She was almost ready to throw the darn pot away

---------------------------------------------

In the shadows between time and space, the earl of poor eating laughed maniacally.

[expand?]

Found it.

At last, I found it. And in such an unlikely place, too.
(Mayhap this one is not so old as thought, after all.)