I'm still not sure what this was turning out to be. Though I still like a lot of the language in it. And I keep coming back to it as something I want to expand. It dates from July 2003 when I was in the Merrill Library in Toronto.
It's always impossible to know how and where to begin with such things. While the outcome of my adventures, if they may be called such, are almost certainly well known, but I am at a loss to best describe when it was they began. Some could say that it was when I ventured forth from university whilst others might suggest a correlation with meeting Mr. Pensnave.
But personally I associate them with one of the most mundane of activiteis, the washing of one's hands. In fact, I specifically remember on that second of June, which was my birthday, I was forced to the washroom after spilling the ink for my new pen.
As I ran cool water over my soiled hand, I watched the ink blend into and colour the water a greyish tinge. With some bemuesement I noted that the dye did not quickly dissipate in the liquid, but rather maintained a mass and then spread through, like a multitude of tendrils. Absolutely reminding me of the fearsome octopus and the way it envelopes its prey into its net.
It was then that I heard my friends calling for me from the garden. I emptied the basin, dried my hands, nad ventured out to accompany them. They were still quite merry from earlier on in the party, but clearly things were becoming more sedate with the approaching evening.
And while some may label me sexist for this opinion, I may say my male friends were putting on a wonderful appearance that night. They had made the most delightful food for us, including a cream cake that I know Harold brought since he knew it to be my favorite. In addition to tis they were dressed in their best suits. Honestly, had we not been such good friends there were one or two there which I had considered potentially worth pursuing. However now, I am glad that I did not, seeing as such a pairing would have almost certainly kept me safely at home.
After I had wished my friends off to a good evening, I decided that I would retire rather than engage in a thorough cleaning. It was my birthday after all! So I quickly moved the mess into the kitchen and went up to my room and prepared to sleep. That night, as I slept, a strange vision came to me. I saw the cloud of ink from when I had washed my hands earlier.
Again, it billowed and curled before my eyes. But instead of seeming as it had, it began to turn over in my mind's eye. Thus appearing as a large ball suspended on strings. It floated and fell through my dreams in a sort of almost mystical fashion. Something about this seemed enchanting on its own, and it caused me to wonder whether such a device were possible. At least for decorative purposes.
The next morning I awoke invigorated, and yet over-excited. My dream vision had left me curious and eager to experiment with my own method of achieving the same effect. So first, I went back to the ink and the water. With dropping careful dots of ink I watched it spread and fall in almost a cascade fashion. So clearly, with what I remembered from university, the ink was, while heavier than the water, light enough to be suspended for a short while. I assumed that this was because the ink was hotter than the water. It had been left in the warm conservatory nearly all day, and the water was still relatively cool.
...
And that's all I got through at this point. I know I had a full story together, and it too had come to me in a dream. I just need to work through the rest, though I sometimes wonder if it would be as good if I had written it in one go.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Poem 4: The wake
How do you feel
When you know you're at end
That no time more will pass?
To take that bow
That dip into the sea
Settling to stop, and rest
The world washing over and around
But leaving, no more wake
Into unknown solitude
When you know you're at end
That no time more will pass?
To take that bow
That dip into the sea
Settling to stop, and rest
The world washing over and around
But leaving, no more wake
Into unknown solitude
Fragment story 1: Net heads
This is a start of a story I was working on a little bit ago. Will finish working on it at some point probably. I've never shared these fragments with people before, and seldom the finished product. I thought I'd try something different.
When you’ve got option of the wide world and the same thing you grew up with, how do you say no?
The old world seems so small now. And I just feel so stupid remembering how I used to see things. I swear I’ve barely used my physical net connection since I had the surgery. So much shit bypassed now, knowing what people think about you, none of the second guessing reading faces crap. Well unless they aren’t here.
“One of us! One of us!” giggles Streena
“:P Nice way to be 20th Stree” comes my quick reply
Its hard to describe the trans-web to people who aren’t on it.
“then why try?” Winder asks
“because people are scared?”
“Their own loss” he replies, accompanied by Stree’s felt agreement
There is a certain amount of cynicism felt I have to agree. But when we’re getting second or third generation netheads, from the earliest adopters… Its growing, and hasn’t stopped growing.
People who aren’t connected still worry about losing identity, losing control. They are having more and more problems arguing with the longitudinal studies though, about net families being closer, relationships lasting longer. They worry about spying and privacy issues, just because they think everything is open.
So they regulate it. Rules about when we have to be off. Lists, registries, limitations, luxury taxes.
“They’d just neuter us and stop it all if they could”
“Yeah, if there was anything they could do to show it hurt someone”
“Good luck with that, net’s have been self policing for the last three decades. Converts have the lowest crime committal rate of any population. And we haven’t had an internal murder or suicide since the first year of being online”
Some quick taps on my control and I cut out the chatter. I still don’t get the people who can be on all the time. The children who grew up with it and who only chat. Sometimes I think they do more hurt than good in the long run. They can speak any language that’s connected fluidly but don’t by volition. Myself, I can only do it with a little strain, like trying to remember something after years of not thinking about it.
But they’re right that most implant receivers at least become non-violent towards each other. Memories of pain, anger, hatred, when seen from different sides… give most people perspective.
That murder though… It was nearly three decades before I went online and its still there. Its not as intense as it was, but its definitely taken on a “lest we forget property”. The net was so small when it happened, the death was a noticeable loss. Sharon screaming into the general chat so loudly and stopping so suddenly, and she just… wasn’t there. Everyone on knew what it was. It wasn’t a half hour later that police cars arrived.
When you’ve got option of the wide world and the same thing you grew up with, how do you say no?
The old world seems so small now. And I just feel so stupid remembering how I used to see things. I swear I’ve barely used my physical net connection since I had the surgery. So much shit bypassed now, knowing what people think about you, none of the second guessing reading faces crap. Well unless they aren’t here.
“One of us! One of us!” giggles Streena
“:P Nice way to be 20th Stree” comes my quick reply
Its hard to describe the trans-web to people who aren’t on it.
“then why try?” Winder asks
“because people are scared?”
“Their own loss” he replies, accompanied by Stree’s felt agreement
There is a certain amount of cynicism felt I have to agree. But when we’re getting second or third generation netheads, from the earliest adopters… Its growing, and hasn’t stopped growing.
People who aren’t connected still worry about losing identity, losing control. They are having more and more problems arguing with the longitudinal studies though, about net families being closer, relationships lasting longer. They worry about spying and privacy issues, just because they think everything is open.
So they regulate it. Rules about when we have to be off. Lists, registries, limitations, luxury taxes.
“They’d just neuter us and stop it all if they could”
“Yeah, if there was anything they could do to show it hurt someone”
“Good luck with that, net’s have been self policing for the last three decades. Converts have the lowest crime committal rate of any population. And we haven’t had an internal murder or suicide since the first year of being online”
Some quick taps on my control and I cut out the chatter. I still don’t get the people who can be on all the time. The children who grew up with it and who only chat. Sometimes I think they do more hurt than good in the long run. They can speak any language that’s connected fluidly but don’t by volition. Myself, I can only do it with a little strain, like trying to remember something after years of not thinking about it.
But they’re right that most implant receivers at least become non-violent towards each other. Memories of pain, anger, hatred, when seen from different sides… give most people perspective.
That murder though… It was nearly three decades before I went online and its still there. Its not as intense as it was, but its definitely taken on a “lest we forget property”. The net was so small when it happened, the death was a noticeable loss. Sharon screaming into the general chat so loudly and stopping so suddenly, and she just… wasn’t there. Everyone on knew what it was. It wasn’t a half hour later that police cars arrived.
Poem 3: Why rules shouldn't be broken
When darkness descends across the land
Fear and Hate go hand in hand
Hearts turn black and Eyes turn green
And N’er a kind soul is to be seen
A plague of flies heralds this time
Followed by a flood of chyme
The living dead drown and swell
Releasing a truly noxious smell
Fear and Hate go hand in hand
Hearts turn black and Eyes turn green
And N’er a kind soul is to be seen
A plague of flies heralds this time
Followed by a flood of chyme
The living dead drown and swell
Releasing a truly noxious smell
Poem 2: Shoreline
Bending down towards the sand
A child reached gently
Touching the grit and grain
The last remains
Of rock and glass
Of shell and bone
Made uniform by the tide
And I stand next to that child
On the shore washed even
Looking back over the dunes
There I see our tracks
Twin pairs of steps
Equal in size and depth
As though time had gone
Erased by the sea
The child saw none of this
He looked only down
Rustling the wet sand
Under the rushing wave
Causing flurries of clams
And eddies about his legs
I thought on this
And smiled at the mirror
For we will always be there
That child and me
While there is still sand
And aquatic butterflies
We’ll walk apace
And stop upon the line
Even if it isn’t us
Held in the grains of time
Oddly, this was written after reading a friend's signature on a message forum
A child reached gently
Touching the grit and grain
The last remains
Of rock and glass
Of shell and bone
Made uniform by the tide
And I stand next to that child
On the shore washed even
Looking back over the dunes
There I see our tracks
Twin pairs of steps
Equal in size and depth
As though time had gone
Erased by the sea
The child saw none of this
He looked only down
Rustling the wet sand
Under the rushing wave
Causing flurries of clams
And eddies about his legs
I thought on this
And smiled at the mirror
For we will always be there
That child and me
While there is still sand
And aquatic butterflies
We’ll walk apace
And stop upon the line
Even if it isn’t us
Held in the grains of time
Oddly, this was written after reading a friend's signature on a message forum
Poem 1: Prairie Plantings
Prairie Plantings
Wheat Field
The wild wind whipped down across the plain
Causing waves to build in the shining wheat
The hairy ends supported on flimsy stalks
They bend to meet the wind's kiss
And then turn against it's push
Crashing down upon themselves
And bending back again
Corn Crop
Meeting the wave-breaker corn it stops
Elephant-eye high it runs the corn's maze
The trickster twisting tassels as it works through
The corn pulls from the touch
Catching others as they fall
Shaking dust from their frayed heads
To stand tall in the sun
These poems were printed in the Pigs n' Poets online poetry journal in January 2000. They were written after a trip to my grandparents in Nebraska. They can be read individually or interleave the lines for a single poem.
Wheat Field
The wild wind whipped down across the plain
Causing waves to build in the shining wheat
The hairy ends supported on flimsy stalks
They bend to meet the wind's kiss
And then turn against it's push
Crashing down upon themselves
And bending back again
Corn Crop
Meeting the wave-breaker corn it stops
Elephant-eye high it runs the corn's maze
The trickster twisting tassels as it works through
The corn pulls from the touch
Catching others as they fall
Shaking dust from their frayed heads
To stand tall in the sun
These poems were printed in the Pigs n' Poets online poetry journal in January 2000. They were written after a trip to my grandparents in Nebraska. They can be read individually or interleave the lines for a single poem.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)