9th Post – Utopiaoid #8 – 6/11/2015

9th Post  – Utopiaoid #8 – 6/11/2015
Bubble Burst: Richard Frosty

Clearly not ready to start his day—never ready to—Richard Frosty slips on his slightly-unkempt, navy blue uniform and starts his morning rounds of coffee and ritualistic consumption of greasy bacon—an egg or two for his guilt. Coffee and bacon get him up in the morning, and it is perhaps his sole reason for getting up. These brave steps mark the harrowing first events of “A Day in the Life of Richard Michael Frosty.” The television is blaring, preprogrammed to awaken alongside him at this time each morning. There are no surprises to be found this particular sunrise, as the politically slanted News show has maintained its slant, and all is yet stable in this world. He stumbles about, preparing for his morning transition from the sanctity of his house to the bee-hive world outside. “It all sounds right to me.” Frosty stares awhile, barely awake at the television screen. “Hmm…I must be a bit off this morning.” It was the political slant of opinion that Richard Frosty most preferred to be awakened by, however he had no actual stake with either side of the spectrum in his day’s political bi-partisan state of politick, when truly in his right mind. He was a self-described rhetorician, and what I mean by that is, he did not believe in truth–but rather in discussion. The ‘Question’ was his God. Pundits debate on the television and he can’t catch any mistakes in logic, no errors, no contradictions, by any of them, nor was he, at this moment, even trying to.
His bacon and coffee grew cold as he mulled about his kitchen tuning in to the streaming content of the television program. The debates have his attention, yet he feels that all his faculties are not yet awakened—the neglected bacon and coffee would have to agree. Frosty has a thought, a momentary glimpse of clarity: “I watch the T.V. every morning, before work, and every evening, after I’m done.” Letting their touted truths wash over him like fact. “Television watching is such a passive activity… I need to do less of it. I should start going to the gym in the mornings… I’ll do it tomorrow, first thing! … Tomorrow!” Richard Frosty looked at his belly as he lied to himself.
Television: The spin masters talk in pixilated floating heads. Spinning their yarns, decorating narratives in fixed patterns of bias, they do as their interests command—can you hardly blame them? He takes pride in his pursuit of a “lack of slant” position, noting, dubiously, that all men’s perspectives are flawed, and microscopic, in scope. Ulterior motives, perhaps mostly subconscious, he knew that humans perpetually seek one thing: Power—though in myriad forms. “Peacock feathers,” someone once put it. A quality or trait Freud might say would attract the best mate. All things can be reduced to this sad truth, he believed, but it was better not to think like this. In fact, he likes this fact of man, for in his line of work it makes them predictable; it makes people consistent. Mankind’s nature to desire for himself, amongst the head hunters and government profilers like Frosty, seems truth enough to bring some kind of fixed direction in which to pursue. Amongst seemingly hopeless scatterings for the truth, this pattern was enough for him to make a living. Some truth had to be expressed out here—Hell, any truth was welcome to a philosopher, but for a skeptic like Frosty it seemed that important truths about questions like “purpose” were a fool’s dream; rarer than ever before in his life did he ask them now. A wise man once said, when a pessimist accused him of holding himself to be ‘special,’ that “there is one thing that certainly is not special, and that is people who do not think that there’s room for things to be special in this world.” True, there is nothing special about something as commonly ordinary and mundane as that type of person.
He buckled his belt as the very last act of the morning ritual—seconds before any other human might have opportunity to witness him. “These people say the same things over and over. I love to listen to it, but today… My mind dips into the poetic.” He liked that thought of himself, dwelling upon it a moment. Then he went on like this: “Other people would think, if they knew my private thoughts, that I am so…interesting. If they only knew…” Dwelling upon this a moment longer, this moment of self-satisfyingly unique self-description, he continued on once again: “I have no interest in the market today, or even the wars… I need to get my thinking straight.” By remote control, the box turns off. Getting dressed Frosty accidently steps on the remote control. The T.V. turns on again. Or was it an accident? Seems the kind of accident which one secretly hopes might happen. “This is no accident–I am called into tuning!” The debate has moved on, the content and the patterns are becoming clearer to him now—logic formed by the master’s of the word; this is their sacred geometries, beautiful and enticing patterns of thought. His mind-stuff reverts back into a logical state, to critical reasoning, where his powers and long-term hold are quite strong. Nearly drawn in, he resists, though he leaves the volume high to continue preparing in the kitchen. “I need to rid myself of these morning battles with the box!” Frosty, at least, has a great sense of humor about it all.
Cold coffee, room-temperature bacon, both consumed shamelessly in the shower before a proper, secondary breakfast in the television-theatre’s attendance. Once again, Frosty takes in the suggestions of the box, after only minutes previously condemning the whole device, like a sort of propaganda brain wash. The cats he housed encircle him, upset by some vague dissatisfaction. Richard Frosty’s uniform might be a little too small for his pudgy frame. It was as if he were clinging, stubbornly, to past glory days. There’s a certain pride a man has in his uniform—and it seems it could be ANY uniform, so long as there’s a uniform! The wants and desires of the felines follow him around, encircling Frosty with verbal orders, and raised talks, of protest, and ass holes, of punishment, perhaps, for the neglect endured. The dog sits sedately in front of the warm exhaust vent at the bottom of the refrigerator, man’s best friend. A black and white kitchen-tile floor bespoke an ordinary sense of style reasonably fitting for an ordinary man. After all, Richard Frosty just wants to be normal, and to pay his rent with enough left over for his grocery bill. Frosty has a very large grocery bill.
The News reports drone on, about drone strikes and market crashes, until: “A recent breakthrough in wireless communication has lead to the first expedition team in space to land a crew of working robots onto a fast moving asteroid. This marks the first stages of a solution to the quickly depleting reserves of minerals on Earth such as: antimony, zinc, tin, silver, lead, indium, gold, copper, and even useable forms of clean oxygen and water. Other potential minerals to be gathered from these asteroids include: cobalt, manganese, iron, molybdenum, nickel, osmium, palladium, platinum, rhenium, rhodium, ruthenium, and tungsten, which are all essential to Earth’s economic and technological progress.” The news story is about the very flagship project that Frosty’s department is championing. He listens in. Due to this recent communications breakthrough, the government’s asteroid mining project had finally captured the public’s awareness. “If successful, this would mean that the people of Earth are one step closer to reaching out to the rebels in space–those brigands operating in the wild, isolated terrains of our solar system whom infamously seceded from the collective interests of the Earth—so many years ago.” The news anchor went on: “The ‘Utopiaoid’ program, as it has been called, has not once attempted to make contact with their mother planet since their departure. Our economy was crippled, but now it seems we are finally making that fateful return home, to the Golden Age, amongst the strength in unity of Earth’s government. Perhaps, one day, we will bring these colonists back to answer for their crimes.” Frosty laughs at the arrogant speculation. The Utopiaoids were long gone, and they didn’t gain anything by returning home.
            The interesting topic had passed. The lobbyists perform their daily philosophies on television, and everything is exactly as it has been—for decades. Perpetually we ride the same plateaus. In each of these plateaus we remain, stubbornly, well past our allotted time, our endless insistence on community building. After the world governments had devoted fortunes to build a base upon the Moon, coming together in one, major ambition, it was famously the largest mutiny of an Empire since the Americans did it. This had earned the colonists the nick-name of ‘Utopiaoids.’ Their idealistic manifesto presented to the world before they left, to the stars, for good, was not unlike Jefferson’s. While plummeting steadily, for awhile, the Earth governments hitting rock-bottom had been an event much worse than anyone had actually anticipated. However, despite the many fears surrounding this, the concentration of power into a centralized force had created a short-term stabilizing mechanism for reasons of survival–but believe you me, readers—no pearl! It came with great loss, absolute corruption, bloated and faceless bureaucracy (to which he ironically owed his own job), BUT despite this, humanity on Earth would live on.
A few eye drops later, and Frosty inserts special contact lenses into his eyes. The talking heads float on while Frosty adds the finishing touches to his appearance. Before he goes out into the world, he provides on-lookers with his best performance, or so he likes to think…of course, within reason… As Frosty’s hair inevitable falls to the left side of his neatly-combed hair, the pudgy white flesh of his neck is thankfully pulled down, a bit, by his collar. Frosty throws over his uniform jacket, even having a confident little moment at: “Looking good.”
His vision begins to change. A thin line, red at first, which quickly cools into a light-blue, lines out his peripheral vision as a rectangular screen manifests into view. The opaque blue boarders around his vision are brought about by the technology of the contact lens in his eye. These contact lens devices are common amongst the sixteen tower’s work-force (as common as an ‘iPhone’ in the early twenty-first century). Within ‘Adobe Tower,’ Richard Frosty holds many duties and responsibilities. Chief among them, at this moment, is to arrive to work on-time.
“[Alarm expired: Feed the Animals]” A text bar appears. In Richard’s field of vision, daily duties and reminders are relayed throughout the day.
“I already fed the animals.” Frosty yells out, a small audio input device clipped to the ear recognized the command, and the reminder text fades away from view. Frosty then walks over to his refrigerator; thin-green lines trace the items. There are small texts of information:
“[Purchased Last Thursday.]” The lens sorts out pertinent information, informing him, but not overloading him, amongst a quick glance.” [est. expiration: end of the month.]” Frosty picks out his day’s lunch. Nutritious slop—a sandwich for reward. Frosty starts off his day on an optimistic diet. He drifts away from this mindset, also daily, at about noon, when he orders a cheeseburger and fries, or some such none-sense. Something to satiate his unconscious need for preservatives and genetically modified tastes. [“Daily reminder: Head to Work Soon.”], [“Daily reminder: take medication within 15 minutes.”].
“I’m taaaking ittt.”Frosty responded laboriously, like a child toward a nagging parent. The good thing about artificial intelligences is that they don’t take personal offense when you’re being short with them.
[“Inquiry: taking what?]
“My medication, I’m taking my medication!” Sometimes the simple computer needed clarification on abstract statements…and sometimes with simple ones. The message prompt floats away
-End of 5 Pages!!!!!-
from his field of vision, as if understanding his frustration. He informs the central computer from which the lens communicates that he is currently stepping out of the door on his way to work. The device is located on a stylish ring upon his finger. “Honey, I’m leaving–walking out the door!” A cat looks over to him blankly. The message reminder about going to work fades away and his vision is now blank, except for time, a symbol representing unread messages, and the day’s date. Stiffly, he steps out of his apartment. His pudgy, cold, body is used to long spans on couches and computer chairs. Walking along a small hallway out to the platform where Adobe Tower’s transportation system will send him an automated vehicle, he exhales. “Thank God…”
Richard Frosty sits within the driverless vehicle, sorting out his calendar on the visual field manifested by his lens. Text-messages, reminders, other such basic systems to keep organized, are sorted through while Frosty patiently awaits transportation up the tower’s Helix transport system, to the higher levels of the Tower. He realizes something very important about his life, while the moment’s message-tending was disappointingly brief: that today’s to-do list is very, very, similar to yesterday’s to-do list…
Within the Towers of the “United Earth” government, family comes first, well, only once personal foundation has been established. Just read the instructions on any airline manual. Cooperation is necessarily a concern that will likely bring about great benefits to all persons, wouldn’t you agree? From there, Community is sprung, once again, out of Anarchy and Blood Red competition. Cooperation has qualities that are lacking in competition (and vice-versa). Families ally with other families, through marriages (a symbol of cooperation), and therefore create a stronger, more lasting network. This network has even more power to defend itself, and to endure the Earth’s hardships.
By the 2040’s Earth had experienced only temporary ruin. Frosty works in the Adobe Tower right after this calamitous event. Within a quick decade the UE had climbed up to the plateau that they are currently enjoying. The conditions of the divide between the people in the sixteen Towers, and the hundreds of shanty, war-torn village-towns, and hugely abandoned cities set up on the Tower’s periphery, only affects Frosty, and men like him, very little. He is one of the men who genuinely would like to see everyone in his State prosper, though, and believing that everything done within society is working toward that penultimate direction. This genuine trait is something perhaps rare among men in the world at this time.
Cities sprang up from these sixteen locations, they call the “Nation of the Sixteen Towers,” and all around citizenships exist together, surviving from the resource scraps of the monolithic towers. This pessimistic attitude is not without justification. The massive towers obscure the sky around the common people. The divide is growing more noticeably between the rich and poor each day, and keeping a lid on this perception poses a major concern for the State as well as the affluent. It has placed people like Richard Frosty into some very dangerous waters.


8th Post Utopiaoid #7 – 5/14/2105

8th Post Utopiaoid #7 – 5/14/2015

The All Stars

***Returning to Earth for a moment, we see the panic and the terror from the previous segment. The scene is of Draggis in the city streets, before entering into the diner. Noises in the distance seem to disrupt him for a moment.***
2040, A room with an annoyingly-bright light is on a view-screen. Two men in this dark room observe the video as they discuss:

“These 5 suspects—“ The man speaking looks like a military man.

“Consenting conspirators.” The man interrupting looks even more ‘military’ than the previous military man—he’s obviously a senior officer, of some sort, indicated by the opposing eccentricities in uniform.

“Yes…these consenting conspirators are being interrogated with the severest methods, nothing to get us into trouble—but appropriate to get the job done.”

The senior officer capitulated wizened-ly: “What I could gather from the videotapes: they’ve maybe got a little angst in them, but they’re defeated.”

The younger officer stood his ground: “They’ve been battered out there in the jungle; however, they’ll die before they talk.” It was what he earnestly believes to be the truth. The truth is helpful, and he could be somewhat assured that the truth is here preferred over convention.

***Back on Earth, Draggis starts running in the opposite direction of the noise. After a time, a furious dog catches up to him. It is barring down upon him with ferocious speed. He sets behind a car, taking some time to think. Three dogs in all; two of the dogs are quickly catching up with the first. The first dog leaps on top of a car not far in front of him, and as it jumps down Draggis shoots it with his pistol. He suspects something, as the dog lands lifelessly to the ground. His eye bulges, as–***

2040, An overly-technical video conference Room, viewing another room with an annoyingly-bright light:

“I would have to agree—but that’s not to say these five aren’t guilty of committing serious, treasonous, crimes…they’re not on trial here solely for one infraction.”

In the videotapes a man in a stiff, clean blue-uniform carries out the interrogations. As the videos are reviewed by these two men, each in their own, slightly distinctive stiff blue suits, an outside witness of this might notice that the man in the videotapes is the very same man who has been briefing his superior in the shady video conference room. He is the same man who has also played some part in this set-up, which is materializing currently before us. There is a crest of a black hawk, or perhaps a phoenix, represented on the chest of his blue uniform in the videotape, however, in the dark conference room, his uniform appears different, and there is no black-birded crest to be found on his uniform at all.

****Upon landing the dog explodes, bits of flesh are flung about. Draggis realizes that these dogs have been implanted surgically with explosives, and continues in the opposite direction with ears ringing mind-numbingly. The pack was a trio, and two more run towards him, though he can’t hear them he has just now remembered them.****
2040, An overly-technical video conference Room, viewing another room with an annoyingly-bright light:

“The first one was the surly bit of the group. An older guy—had white hair coming out of his ears. Apparently he’s a dead-shot, and as patient as they come. He was their triggerman on the field.”

“Hard to imagine that this one is ever very patient.”

“Only on the field, sir—he’s got a record a mile high in his domestic…experiments. It’s why he’s stayed active into his golden years. He can’t give it up.”

The conference room in which these two men speak looks inappropriately technical. It has almost no resemblance to anything nearing a typical civilian conference room, and whoever these men are, who orchestrate conspiracies within conspiracies, they clearly work their strings from a place of remote-viewing power.

It isn’t clear, from the video tapes, if these interrogations were carried out within the same room, or within 5 separate rooms—but let’s get real, interrogation rooms always look the same anyways, you know the types: gray walls, a suggestion of impenetrable dominance, stiff-looking men imposingly. These 5 being interrogated are the resistance, the All Stars,” clearly, but what it is they are resisting, has yet to be made clear…

– Video Archive: 2040, An overly technical video conference Room, viewing another room with an annoyingly-bright light: The first’s grandfather was Scottish. He wasn’t Scottish, but memories of the screaming of his grandfather would shine through, in particular situations: “What are ye’? Call yourselves ‘investee-gators,’ why—you can’t even keep track of a single story! Are you even listening to me? How’rwee supposes’ to communicate, if ye’ve all got the memory of a bloody gold-fish?!”

****The Earthling runs toward a leather bag sitting in between two abandoned cars. He clutches the handles, hardly spending any effort to slow down, and the side of the bag reveals a name: “the “Feather-er.” Draggis taps (whatever it is he taps) to activate “the Feather-er” and as he runs toward the nearest wall, he miraculously starts floating, weightlessly up into the air, visibly correcting his course toward a nearby building with a shingled roof. As Draggis nearly passes the ledge of the roof, floating upwards like a balloon, he grabs onto the ledge. His body is tilted vertically, his feet up in the air above him, and deactivating “the Feather-er” machine causes his weight to return to him. He falls forward, landing athletically on the top-side of the roof.****
2040, An overly technical video conference Room, viewing another room with an annoyingly-bright light:

The video tape has been paused. “See, surly, isn’t he?” The shrewd old man didn’t react to this attempt at humor. The interrogator went on: “This old bugger had a few Strategos interested in him, in the past, apparently nothing worth bringing him in for. The second one was a bit more…resigned. She’s a good-looking blonde, but any attractiveness is completely spoiled by her masculinity—to a couple of guys like you and me, that is.”

“Yeah—decent citizens.”

“That’s right. She looked like she knew exactly what deep trouble she had gotten into. Like I said, she was resigned, smoking a cigarette and not responding much.”

“So what’s Goldie-lock’s story then?”

“She used to do solo-marks. Learned, initially, on one-at-a-timers—now she’s gotten more specialized.”

“Yeah, it looks like she does group-work now.”

“She’s tough, looks butch for a reason, she’s highly trained and strong. She can definitely kick some ass. We’ve got her entire past written up here, detailed by previous Strategos. We know her whole story.”

– Video Archive: The Inappropriately-lit interrogation room(s): “Do you realize that you were taken-in, armed, at the site of what became the most monolithic, and tragic, event in decades? If we even released that we had ‘suspects,’ the people would be rioting to see you hanged. Even at just the word ‘suspected,’ they’ll beg you be brought to justice—old school justice—where we string you up, for everyone to see.”

The beautiful, yet overly-butch (perhaps), blond woman had an empty, cold look to her eyes. A cigarette dangles from her lip, as was promised: “Have you been instructed to use these hostile tactics, Stratego?” She says, with a devil-may-care inflection.

“Miss—I’ve been confirmed to use whatever tactics necessary. I can start to use severe ones—use your imagination on what that can mean!”

“We weren’t there to bomb anything…”

In the video, you can see that she takes another drag of her cigarette, here, trying to play it cool. Her response betrays her, it sounded desperate. She’s scared.

****After the dogs, he has returned to the diner where he started. He is sipping a cup at the table, two orbital cameras, the shape of eyeballs, hover over his shoulder. He sips the coffee, staring at a working clock, his wrist-viewer to keep an eye on his back, and waits for the men who sent the dogs to blindly walk out into the open, thinking their abominations had inevitably succeeded. He had a soft spot in his black heart for people who used exploding dogs. It was disgusting how common they had become. He finishes them off with his knife, and sets back down on a rock to finish his morning coffee.****
– The Inappropriately-technical conference room: “She’s a fighter, but it looks like she at least recognizes a losing battle.”

“Yeah, not like the first guy. That tough old bird reminded me of my father, before he passed away…” He laughed a moment, “probably how I look to my kids.”

“Well, it sounds like he was committed to die on this operation. He was into it all the way. Maybe we don’t even need to crack the first guy. Heck, maybe we can’t.”

– Video Archive The Inappropriately-lit interrogation room: The surly old man was steaming: “Wait a second—you’re telling me that we were conspir-ators behind a possible bomb-bing, but part of the plan we had envisioned, so thoroughly, was to stick around while the charges go off? Bah! Is that insane? Is that what you’re suggestin’ to me, ya’ daft bastards, how many times do I have to tell ye’ that you only get one suicide mission in life! Best not to spoil it—unless you really have to!” The old man laughed maniacally, his eyes are crazed and his cheeks are rosy and filling with blood. “So you keeping telling us this, I haven’t forgotten—it just doesn’t make any sense. If you were just there minding your own business, why did we bring you in with all of these weapons? You guys were in communication, armed-to-the-teeth; what am I supposed to think?”

“You don’t get to my age, in this world—young man—when blowing yer’ self up is typically part of the plan!” He was drunk on his own manufactured hysteria. The tape went blank by direction of the interrogator to the control room. ****Subversion—the crown weighs heavily. Now, we are in another time. A spider crawling into the room catches Draggis’s attention. His breath escapes him, betrays him, he holds back bulging eyes, and a physical manifestation of his terror even produces a sound: “Ungkkh!!” The Masai Warrior cannot believe his eyes…
– The inappropriately technical-looking conference room:

“The 3rd guy is a jungle-native. Communication wise, he’s incompetent. Half the time he didn’t know what we were saying. Although he didn’t talk much, he seemed to be listening carefully…he was showing us body language that he was intently committed to processing whatever he could. I don’t know if he got much out of the exchange…”

“Okay…and what’s his deal?”

The investigator was subtly reminded that one must be quick when speaking to the general. His time was always on his mind. “To me, it sounds like he was assigned to the crew, by tribal elders. This wasn’t anything personal for him.”

The shrewd old man is collecting more data: “Any idea which tribe?”

“We’re on it.” The investigator must remember to please his general with results.

****The former Masai Tribesman cannot help but bend an eyebrow, smiling the type of smile that’s got ‘I can’t wait to get a laugh out of this one’ written all over the face. “Is something funny?” Obviously, Draggis has become slightly embarrassed by his ‘unmanly’ reaction to the tiny little spec of a creature. “What are you looking at?!” The former Masai tries to shut his mouth, but is making it obviously forced. Holding back the sheer joy of this moment like a sneeze, he knows not to go too far with his employers.

And so the former Masai warrior shows his white teeth, he absolutely cannot help it, and with a broad, genuine smile he speaks in his Native tongue: “Mr. Draggis, I never thought I would see you bothered by a little spider. The things you’re comfortable with! Funny—all the horrors we’ve seen, and this little eight-legged friend-of-the-forest gives you such a panic! It’s funny, no?”****
– Draggis, becoming aware of himself, catches onto the objective humor in his precious little moment of terror and starts to transmute his mood into producing a smile. That is why these men will not rat on him: he has the ability to transition into a knowing disposition. He can remove himself from the subjectivity of matters, adopting as much of an objective view as he can humanly muster, and these are traits that always go along with the best of leaders. He snaps out of the mental idolization of himself, which most people it seems cannot do, and of this fault of perceiving a mind-made form (the invocations by the inner-eye vision) that could be mistaken for any sort of ‘truth’ when speaking on behalf of the ‘self.’

Comedy-wise, he was not the kind to be so self-inflated, so identified with the illusion, that there isn’t any room to allow a true laugh to escape—and he loves the truth, and thus he loves to laugh. This heightened awareness is what those close to him hardly could, or would ever try, to articulate. It wasn’t just a violence thing, a savagery, the grit in the spokes of the wheel that had made Marc Antony so popular with the soldiers—it was something ineffable, something ‘higher’ which they could pick up on. It is humility; it is a sense of true connection.

The revelation at that moment was that this is the paranoia which comes with an Empire. The fear of the Spiders are a living metaphor. There is an enemy in every crack, bound to every shadow. It was the Total Death which could be rendered by the smallest gap in attention. It was the plight of the King; paranoia towards any possibility of subversion—any little crack in the ‘paved road of the plan,’ that consumes men with obsessive clinging. For some Kings, however, the possibility of subversion is met with A laugh—a true acceptance of the passage of all forms, and thus the noblest trait to poses when sitting upon a chair made of gold and jewels. Subversion—the crown weighs heavily.

7th Post Utopiaoid #6 – 6/11/2015

10 years ago in 2030, Somewhere In Space
20,000 Leagues Away from the Sea

Somewhere in space a vast ocean sits inside a tiny rock. Children decide the fate of this Ocean. Young children will oversee the life-forms that are about to miraculously generate, and never before has this ocean seen creatures of any variety. In these unformed lands a group of children manage the Lego-building blocks of carbon-based life-forms. Hardly more than a dozen children witness this marvel: the great ocean has known only a machine of dead chemicals, rocks, and sand. Time behaves differently, for the ocean in this rock, and an accelerated pace will allow a human observer to witness a great new beginning; a genesis of something from nothing. Time and space have a strange relationship in this ocean, a unique relationship, and through the course of the life of this simulated ocean, this computer-manufactured parallel dimension, the ocean within this rock which floats somewhere in space will have a completely unique destiny. The story of this ocean will never leave this room (unless there is some extenuating circumstance, requiring a look through the archive) and the life and death of this new world will run its course within a few short hours—just before their lunch bell rings.
Shortly, the group of children will take part in the lives of these swimming microbes, each deciding the fates of a single-celled organism, soon to become a cluster, and each subsequent stage of evolution that will be leading toward whichever creature they would like to see created. This ocean is contained within a small room. There isn’t any water in the room, only these dozen or so children, who, suspending from cables with strange devices covering their heads, hands, and feet, are alone able to witness this great ocean during the dawn of life inside simulator #2287. Human eyes could not see the tiny microbial organisms, now swimming around the primordial soup, but these children can. Aided by the devices covering their primary sense organs, they can see everything—and although this vast ocean and its burgeoning new life are simulated, to the observing children this vision of genesis is their current reality.
The group of children suspended in the air by a system of pulleys and cables represent a typical classroom in the Asteroid city called Utopiaoid. These young marionettes enjoy their day at school, dancing within the air of this dark room. Freeing their range of motion and helping them to become weightless. They grasp at the air and dance like pixies. The room is dark and there are small blue lights scattered around, the humming of computer fans, and apparently nothing else…well…except the invisible Ocean. Only the children can see it. In their Virtual Reality displays, there is a myriad of color, lights, and sounds. There is a concept being communicated, which holds their attention and keeps their minds craving more content—more learning.
Aleon attempts to grab a swimming cluster of microbial cells, his large VR glove lifts into the air, swiping at some invisible pixels in the empty, cold room. Selecting the cellular cluster, or rather the cluster of lights that represent the cellular cluster, a text prompt appears overhead. He has several options for interacting with the bubbling mass: he can choose to attack it, he can attempt to engulf the mass and, incorporating it into himself, grow larger, or he can simply run away from it. Attacking it would require that he secretes toxic chemicals from the inside wastes of his own organism by a coordinated method of rapid diffusion. This would probably deter the alien organism from coming closer. Aleon perceives no threat and decides to save the energy, swimming his little cellular cluster away with water pumps and Flagellar motors (slender, threadlike structures that allow small organisms to swim). Getting bored with the slow initial progress of the game, he attempts to drag his colony of cells onto dry land. An error prompt displays in front of him:
–Complexity of Organism not Sufficient–
“I need feet,” he gathered to himself. So, for the time being, Aleon continued swimming about, checking out other bubbly clusters of proto-life that his classmates were controlling. Slowly, the forms of these creatures were becoming developed. Each creature was becoming a little more personalized through greater complexities, and naturally, they were taking on the personalities of the student who was controlling it. They were in a laboratory, of sorts, and here the adults would experiment in new educational simulations with their children. A man’s voice, the teacher, shatters the cold silence:
“Try to walk before you run.”
“How can I walk without feet!?” Protested Aleon.
“Perhaps I’m being too literal. What I’m getting at, Aleon, is that you need to master the microscopic world before venturing on to the terrestrial world. Let’s try to develop your ability to swim. Try to become faster, it will help you grow as you avoid your natural predators and consume your natural prey.” Aleon agreed, and this made a lot of sense. He wanted to master the basics. He felt a little embarrassed at his attempt to go on land, but this was the nature of experimentation, and it was certainly the nature of the child named Aleon. He was developing into quite an inventive young man, and though he often attempts to push the boundaries of his world, he also took the time to master his basics before ‘jumping the gun,’ pouncing on a situation before assessing it. Usually, this was a learned process for a child through a system of trial and error, but not for Aleon. Not really. He had been taught relatively few lessons, and hated the feeling of failure so much that it didn’t take him very long to control this impulsive nature. In this game he was committed to covering his basics first, yet again, well, more than cover—master—and it seemed that this was the proper course with almost any endeavor. He, of course, would continue experimenting and testing the many environments he found himself within, but it was a gradual process; from a place of stability and not impulsivity.
A girl, Aleon’s sister, started to complain. She was getting bored, she was always getting bored—Aleon noticed—and she started her usual tantrum: “This is tedious.” She complained with a princess’s wantonness. Her name was Molly, and she had big orange hair. She wasn’t from the same place as Aleon (the Emerald society), and had been born into a place which seemed to value (or over-value, as Aleon was starting to deduce) stimulation above fundamentalism. Molly was from the Ruby society, but at this age it was deemed important to her parents that she be switched over to Emerald society and to begin her adolescent education. Aleon was born and raised here, in Emerald, and by his assessment of his sister, he was glad that he hadn’t been brought up anywhere else. Molly seemed unsatisfied with almost any situation, and ‘needed’ constantly. She seemed rather free to Aleon, however, and an unrestrained creative mind. Everything in their lives was coordinated by the adults, ultimately, and although the “simulated” worlds gave them a large degree of creative freedom, it was still within the bounds set up by the “adult” world. Therefore, Aleon compared this creative freedom of Molly’s to his fundamentals-first-then-testing strategy, and found that his system would be applicable to a wider range of uses.
The teacher went on: “You aren’t giving it a chance, Molly. You’ve barely even moved your organism. Try to understand your environment, I promise there will be much more to design later on in the game. Allow the game to dictate to you a little, so that in the future you can dictate a little more to it.”
“I don’t get it. I want to make my creature.” Molly insisted that the seven days to create the universe was six days and twenty three hours too long.
The instructor pleaded further: “Everything is in some sort of context. Find the context to direct; find the natural harmony, and a correct course of action will appear. I promise.” The teacher sat at his observation desk. He can see what each individual student is doing from a conglomeration of computer screens connected directly to the simulation display of each student. Raeff, the child suspended next to Aleon’s terminal, has long white hair, a tan, healthy complexion, and is quite new to this world of simulation. He is in awe of this experience. Raeff grew up in Sapphire society. They had a man-made sea there, and it was not simulated. The Sapphire world is a world in tune with nature—actual nature—and there they try to maintain some sort of natural purity. The Sapphire people fear over-exposure to the simulated worlds, which were so frivolously utilized by Emerald and Ruby societies. Knowing only fishing, filleting, gutting, shelter assembly, navigation, diving, and nothing about technology, Raeff has a deep respect for what he can do with his own two hands. This simple, and yet profoundly honorable, life is called the “Path of the Arrow,” and it certainly teaches mastering of the fundamentals. However, unlike most of his community in Sapphire, Raeff found himself amazed by the “simulated” worlds. He was sent here, at a young age, to bridge the gap between Sapphire and the rest of the Asteroid community. It would be his destiny to find some use of the simulators to teach the Path of the Arrow, and then return to Sapphire and teach what he had learned there.
After some time, the instructor lifted some more restrictions from the student’s simulated environments. The students were nearing the big-game fish level of development, and things were getting pleasantly competitive and stimulating. They chased each other around, testing out which was predator and which was prey. There was a great variety of forms, rather ludicrous forms actually, but it represented the creative wishes of each student for their individual organism. The instructor noticed that Molly was having some issues once the restrictions had been lifted. Her organism lay at the bottom of the ocean—some sort of pink flamingo-fish with bird-feathered wings (which did not work), whiskers three feet long, a mild addiction to sea cucumbers. The species name: “Puddin’.”
“Molly, I see you’re having some difficulties…I’m sorry dear, but I don’t think Puddin’ has quite made the evolutionary cut. Also, I think that your seventy three requests for “cowboy boots” have been a little extraneous. Why don’t you try and cooperate a little more with the game, hmm?”
“Because I don’t want to do it your way, I want to do it MY way!” yelled the cranky young Ruby-born girl. She wasn’t upset about the outcome of her organism in this simulation, but rather her performance reflected her protest to the game overall. Puddin’ had been her mechanism of sabotage. It’s not that she had any better game in mind; rather, she simply wanted to establish her creative independence while also goading a little frustration from the instructor, as a bonus.
“Progression can only happen under certain conditions. You have displayed degeneration. If you want something more calm, Molly, there is always…” Molly’s terminal switched to a rather black-and-white math game by command of the instructor. Though it wasn’t the most stimulating of the games they played, it beat the monotonous hand-written, chalk-board approach. Children seemed to crave the stimulation brought about by technology, almost like a drug. Sapphire had emerged as a response to this apparent dysfunction, and Ruby seemed to be a culture centered on a certain relenting to it. In Emerald, there was a degree of balance between the two, and the Emerald people would often take what they had termed “information diets,” where much of their time was spent in meditation, reflection, community building or navigation of the stars (also known as Philosophy). The girl was throwing a tantrum. In response to the duration of this tantrum (and magnitude) her terminal switched off entirely. She was left, suspended in the air in darkness and silence. She hangs from the cables while protesting her instructor’s decision by violently kicking her legs and tossing a shoe from her foot. After realizing the futility of her tantrum, she hangs in silence.
Swimming amongst the scene we see one student represented as an entire school of lime-colored fish. There is a blue stripe along the side of each lime-scaled fish, and it almost mimics the wave-world in which it had been spawned. The school moves together, as if aware of the overall plan. They behave as if directed by one singular consciousness—and they are. Another student sees in acres. Light green acres of plant-life originating from a single ancestor. The immortal plant steadily growing across the ocean floor is maintained by another student, who had been focusing on one of the main properties of the plant: the chlorophyll, and evolving a new mechanism of photosynthesis for which his chlorophyll has been mutated and enhanced. The tall plants sway gracefully under the tidal movements. A large puffer fish expands, swimming alone, and the utterly strained and uncomfortable look on its face makes the child who created it laugh every time. A delicate seahorse, another lone creature, exists despite it all—and a shark feasts upon the A.I. directed fish and the student created organisms alike.
(in the future of this Natural Selection simulation, the sentient species on the planet may come to interact with certain substances produced by the plant, and the children that know about this may exploit this to see the interaction of plant and the sentience, the drug, that will be simulated).      

6th post Africa Experience # 1

Blog Post, Africa #1:

Our trip to Tanzania was made possible by my Grandparents, and their foundation “Global Partners.” Bill and Harriet are helping to provide the people there with the framework to thrive, and it is this altruistic lifestyle that we must certainly all aspire toward! In their dedication to providing structure for these people–who honestly seem to have vast potential (as they are in touch with something so profound, that in our culture is so utterly missed), we would all benefit greatly by each other’s success. The Tanzanians have something that we do not, because it cannot be taught. It can only be lived. Its an experience that is beyond words.They want to be educated, but first they need water, they need books, and they need classrooms which have All four walls.

The night we landed our bodies were tired. Our minds had been occupied with gadgets, magazines and books, yet guided effortlessly forward, the jungle sensations pulling us along, we were attracted like magnets to the invisible mystery of it all. Stepping onto the tarmac of the Tanzanian airport, it was something “in the air,” between us and the night sky, transmitted directly to us by the source: carried by the humidity and by the jungle breeze.

Upon first experiencing that natural silence of wild nature, and the ineffable sense of aliveness that is so exciting and uplifting–the sort of feeling you get on the very first step into a ‘new’ adventure, and you can ‘only’ get it here. Here, at the pinnacle of the ‘new,’ the thrill is the most palpable amongst the group. Tired, but rapidly waking; day-dreaming, of fashions or of fantasy, but now a little more silent, listening; we are
(children, of the night!)

On the night-drive to this compound, which was basically smack-dab in the middle of the jungle (and almost an hour’s drive in jungle-trail terrain), our driver is a different sort of man than you might encounter back home. He could, no doubt, jump out of the Jeep to repair or mechanic whatever problem with his vehicle that might arise. It was like the Indiana’s Jones ride at Disneyland (and me without my whip).

I feel shamefully Westernized, but I have to break whatever journalist 3rd wall routine I’m so supposed to write in, and admit to my obsession with all things ‘American,’ or ‘Western,’ as far as plugged into the ‘Matrix’–I’m thoroughly settled in. I wish I was Zeifer, eating the steak and cutting a deal, but its more likely I’m just one of those random people that the Agents can jump into at-will, just to chase Keanu Reeves down back alleyways in New York. This entire journey I felt like what people joke Americans to be like, by compulsively reminding myself of even more Hollywood productions from the video that raised me. I’m not convinced, however, that this takes anything away from the adventure, but proliferates those past adventures into a magnitude of new connections. Yeah, that sounds good enough.

As the group arrives to the compound, there is a light-gray fog rolling about like a dream all around us. Jungle sounds of creatures and critters, the light-gray swirls misting organically around the limitless and unconstrained green. The compound itself is gorgeous, and the immediately surrounding environment is something (my cousins and I kept joking) straight out of Jurassic Park (J.P.). The compound was separated from the jungle by a large white wall, and a big wooden gate at the road. There are fires lighting the area where reliance upon fickle electricity can be avoided. As far as the Hollywood Production parallels go, There were even these jeeps, all flat-green, diesel, thick “jungle-traipsing” tires, and decked out with tarps, shovels, canteens–the only thing missing were the dinosaurs (luckily).

The security within the compound was one of the most interesting spectacles of the immediate culture in this region. At night, Masai tribesmen patrol the grounds, some sit under trees, as if in meditation–but it is a sentinel’s meditation–stoically aware. They are the night’s watchmen, but not like our American super-market variety. They’re ready for anything. They can’t “phone it in.” These are Masai warriors, after all, and there is a definite sense that we are in good care–under their jungle-wizened gaze.

The Jurassic Park references kept coming, from everyone (just about) in the day time. I felt better. ‘We’ were all hopelessly Westernized. I remember thinking if the people working in the compound had heard all these jokes before, and further, if they had ever even ‘seen’ any of these movies (oh, the humanity!) Sipping our coffee in the morning, I was whisked away by day dreams of “Newman” with shaving-cream bottles, taunting computer programs, and Jeff Goldbloom, just in general (Mind-blowing Jeff Goldbloom–and the people here were gorgeous, interesting–and alien to our Western ways–just like Jeff Goldbloom). My cousin Nate and I are roomies, and overall buds, for the entire trip. If I was …Jeff Goldbloom’s character (as not many day-dreamers dare dream–and admit to it)…then Nate was certainly, none other than, Dr. Alan Grant (err, maybe one of raptors :).

I abruptly realized that the accommodations prepared for us were going to be nowhere near the scope of what I had anxiously sort of braced myself for. My grandparents, Bill and Harriet (B & H), know how to travel. This is truly a beautiful experience.

During the day there was breakfast prepared for us, a jungle’s song of birds, and even some monkeys paid us a visit–not necessarily the friendly kind. And where I had been picturing some sort of ‘camping,’ perhaps fairly-decent but “rough-necking it” adventure, to some degree, this establishment was far from what anyone (ever) would have considered “roughing it.” It felt, honestly, like Hawaii–but the ‘old’ Hawaii, the one that you ‘really’ want to go to.

For every body I was raised with, my buds (sorry everyone else) it was exactly like Diablo 2, Act 3. Yeah, you know. Kurast Docks. For everyone else:

This trip to Africa was a really heartfelt experience! Seriously, though…and almost constantly and without pause, for each member of our group. The Tanzanians are beyond great, and powerful, beaming personalities (in a way that puts our Western civilization to shame, in the strength of their rootedness in this) and to be related to Bill and Harriet gave us all a rare experience. This was all paired by an enormous pride, to even be associated with them, in the eyes of the Africans. It kind of felt like cheating.

I had done nothing to deserve the experience of this praise. The reality of my experience had a double-edged effect, once again, to put aside the journalistic rendition of an experience for a moment, the subjective reality of what goes on often brings about a stern judgement along with the beauty. My darker self reminds me that this is what almost everyone in what our society of celebrity magazine worship and our hoarding of graceless baubles–our distance, if not denial, from Death–has achieved us. These un-plugged people have put our average Western citizen to shame, in my eyes. Death, and community, are much closer to their life. They’re more real, and therefore non-sterlized. New, new, they can only experience more new!

Our civilization is utterly lacking in what the Masai has; in this age, of the cell phone camera mirror (although, many of the tribesman did shockingly communicate across the planes of the Serengeti with a flip phone). And they are lacking from what we have in ours, and the abundance the Western world can achieve. They are not so ‘dire’ as us, as hilarious as that seems to be, what with malaria, hunger, (etc.) with all we ‘think’ that we have to bring to them, is our ingratitude, and our insincerity. They might laugh at this. When they see us, they see us questioning ourselves. They are impressed by us, some just interested, but they can tell which of us are not of ourselves. They can see the seeking in our eyes, and they smile at it.

I will say this, as well, about our morning coffee and our (certainly my own) constant stream of enculturated content: That we, in the West, are certainly ‘thinkers,’ and we are so limited because of this. We’re so full of ‘stuff.’ In Tanzania, the people seem so fresh. They’re such fresh canvases! Is that creepy? But thats what I thought, in the moment. And I think this is why people are becoming fascinated with helping them, and by helping them to join the integrated world they seek to heal their culture, as well as our own.

(The photo below was from the compound of our first stay in Tanzania. The photo above is from the “Swamp Thing” issue I had been reading on my iPad. I felt like I was the little girl, giving Swamp Thing flowers of appreciation).



5th post Utopiaoid #5 – 5/14/2015

5th post Utopiaoid #5 – (update 6/9/2015)

Simulation #76866-46855

Some things never change. This morning I got woken up, early, by birds. We’ve tried to replicate the park-centered neighborhood dynamic, and there are bird parks, and of course there are also non-bird parks. My little house happens to be next to a bird park.

Crows (not even nice, tropical birds, like we also have in the ‘Bird-ed Parks’) it was a stinking, ratty old crow, waking me up this morning. I’ll get to the point, this is a simple simulation (though completely realistic) with one intended function, and this rather base and sole function:

It’s called “The game of punching crows to death.” 

I think I’ll never leave this Ruby culture.

The simulated crows are pummeled, and the tremors shooting through my arm, from the knuckles on upward, feel so…good! Such relief; such revelation.

There’s something not right about it. I’ll switch the program off, after just another moment or two…

They caw annoyingly, and then they splatter. Within the simulation, the ‘hypothetical reality,’ they mist bloodily in the air when I hit them. On the ground it squirts out of them. My eyes are wide and open, perhaps crazed: this game is always a bit of an indulgence–I get my cake and I get to kill it too. 

None of this is real, I remind myself, and I even stomp one–as if to reinforce the point. It’s difficult, however, as the simulation even simulates the ‘feel’ of it. The only difference between a real experience of violence and a simulated one (simulations that are tailored for the 5 senses, as accurately as possible) is the a ‘conceptual’ element. The foreknowledge of the laboratory experiment where we go inside a vacuum to play. 

I ‘know’ that it’s all happening inside a computer, but I tell you: it is just as the real thing must be. My knuckles must be white, and bruising, and yet, when the simulation ends, I can see how there was no reality to the impact or to the tremors of my blows–it was all simply ‘told’ to me. Told to me by my mind through the sensations, and yet it’s there. It is ‘there,’ in my awareness. It is ‘there,’ and ‘I am’ what makes it real. When the helmet and electrical neuronal-sensors are removed from my body, my hand is as pale and untouched as when I had gone in. A lucid dream–no more.

And no less.

Much is told to us by our dream experiences, especially our vaunts into lucidity. That explains our simulators best, our Emerald creations, does it not? With the neuronal sensors and the hypnotic state induced for the user, are these not lucid dreams? A simulacrum? A playground, with no limits and no consequences. Or are there consequences?

The experience I am having, of violence, is a guilty pleasure of the simulators. Often times there are games, complex, honest-mind games, but sometimes (when no one is looking) there are violence games–for violence sake. Sometimes, it feels ‘too’ good. It feels like any more of it–once crossed a particular line (of enthusiasm)–that you’ll cross over…into a place you never wanted to go. There is no escape, you predict, and it’s better not to know what releases you uncover by it. There is no sport here, either (other than my technique). The sport is removed and the birds exist solely to die. They actively remove any difficulty with their (fantastic) fatalistic programming. 

I strike one and my knuckles seize up as the bird’s bones break and the insides spill out, plummeting like a bloody meteor, when it lands, it ‘all’ spills out, from both ends…

I stop the program. The birds flying around me are dipping down, and gliding back up again, darting and whirling around all about me. At a thought, the layer is removed and the crows disappear. There is only the white room–and the blood! 

The blood had remained, and the guts, and this was a horrific glitch in the system’s programming. I look to my hands, I am terrified to see red–pulpy, warm, and red. 

There is not a single black feather to be found anymore, but the program delayed removing the gore. This created a disturbing moment, however, soon the program corrects itself. Now, the room is devoid of this layer of gore, as well. I feel enormous relief. A white room and a black-haired boy remain. 

But..for a moment…I had witnessed Hell.


Simulation #485475-685

“The fractal cracks like thunder in the dry air and it’s raining while the enormous shifting, fractal-pattern in the sky aggressively shifts outward from within itself, and unleashing an enormous magnitude of force–the sound seems to cover hundreds of miles. In awe, we are nearly floored by the enormity–like a massive Rorschach ink-blot test, a Torus movement by some great fractal in the sky, that cannot be incapsulated fully, not by our paltry, failing, human-comprehension.”

We’ve felt like we have been on the simulated desert ground for quite a long time, but in reality this simulation began with the fractal bang.

Now, Aleon insists: “this is a simulation to demonstrate one principal: Knowledge over Power.”

Flying up toward the sky, toward the source of the terrifying noise, he punches through the center. He is completely engulfed in the inky black substance and disappears from view.

Raeff and Molly presumed this was what they were to do as well–seeing as this is Aleon’s personally-written program. They lift off of the sandy, waste-land sand, into the air, rushing bravely at the heart of that inky-black fractal in the sky. They depart the dry simulated-Colorado environment, sparks and static electricity writing Tesla’s signature into the lesson.

As they near the breast of the Moon-sized beast, the enormity of the chasm before them, which they faithfully tread towards, fully dawns on them. It is simply…terrifying…and then, they ‘hit.’

A slapping, belly-flop smacks inaudibly against the steady noise of the liquid fractal’s ever-shifting nature.

They dip through an inky entity of black, into a realm of pure white. They fall into the world of milk, and unintentionally tread a bit of the dirty, inky-abyss through with them on their way.

“Rock, Paper, Scissors?” 

Aleon had parts missing from his body here. He seems to have vacant spots, where this distant light shifts, as if it were two blurry, spinning plates of yellow and red. It was like staring at the sun, and it was flowing through the “realm of milk” in a tracing of where the key lines distinguishing his appearance should be–and other parts of him, patches, seem to be ‘see-through,’ opaque in this manner as well. There is a winged astral form encircling his physical form, allowing him to drift through this place of Power.

“Why does paper beat rock? What could paper do to a rock to ‘beat it?’ Rock smashes! What hope could paper, or scissors, have!? Fret not, companions: It is not hopeless.

the paper, or cloth, is thrown over rock. Blinding the rock, power is over-thrown by knowledge. It becomes unaware of it’s situation, the paper–it’s enemy–is it’s hostile situation, as well. and this act alone renders all the rock’s ‘smash-y powers ‘ineffectual.” 

He glides through the empty realm of white, and Molly and Raeff follow him, listening to the use of his language– more so than attempting to uncover his point.

“The Cloth thrown over the rock is Bugs Bunny. The ultimate negotiator. It can never be pinned down by rock–so long as the cloth’s covering it–it is the situation the rock can’t figure out! It is both the thing that is causing the dilemma, for the rock, as well as the situation itself! Just like Bugs. The two are inextricable, and therefore impossible for the rock to navigate. It’s like Bugs Bunny, dressing up and disappearing into a situation of his own device. You know how the pursuers, classically, ask: “Did you see a male bunny run through here a minute ago?” and then Bugs seduces him, like a cartoon Socrates, however dressed as a female now, and creating an entirely fabricated scenario for the monster–fabricated on-the-fly!

This is Knowledge over Power.”

The children realize that they too are wrapped in this light, carried as if by an Astral chariot, slowly, steadily through the realm of empty white. They beam brightly and blurred from direct vision. It was hard to tell distinctly which part of them was the Astral body and which the human one. They crept along slowly, as if carried along by the current of a river. 

“Don’t get me started on scissors…”

They apparently hit the confines of this room, as Aleon is disappearing into a wall of liquid white substance. It engulfs him calmly, smoothly, and his two companions are on course to follow him.

“the cut-up, the Blending.”

They drip through to the next realm, and their milky white trail mixes with all the colors of the jungle, distorting the very fabric of reality on the area they’ve made their entry. They are clothed now, in nice jungle-trekking attire. Aleon slices at some branches, with a simulated machete. 

“Hah-Haah!” He was in-character, apparently. “C’mon, my friends, we’re almost there!”

The expressions on the faces of Raeff and Molly’s were diametrically opposite to one another. Molly looked hot, stuffy, and completely not up for a simulated ‘hike.’ Raeff looked calm and serene and like it was a little bit of ‘home’ for him.

“Aleon, can we go back a little longer. I’m sweating, and you kept the Mosquitos in the program, just to annoy me!”

Raeff smiles. He understands the total experience requires the ‘totality of the experience’ to adequately communicate the lesson. “After that first realm, the humidity and the Mosquitos are a nice relief.”

“Uh, you’re gross.”

Aleon hacks a branch, another, and he flings a snake deep into the jungle with his machete: “Hiiiyaa!” The snake’s eyes jump off it’s body like a cartoon, and it disappears into a warped vanishing point in the not-too distant confines. of what is actually simulated here (versus what appears to be here). 

“Sweating here is necessary to the nature of my point.”

They cut their way to the Temple in the jungle. There are statues of Serpents and Birds grown over with jungle green. Abandoned, inside the Temple to Quetzalcoatl there is a great skull made of stone leading to a mysterious chamber. Passing through the skull into darkness the trio make their way to see a simple rope bridge leading to a faintly growing, massive red crystal. As they approach Aleon hacks at the crystal with his machete and the shattering is instantaneous, and loud. It was like a cathedral came down. The shards fall into the blackness below them. There is a massive Portal, appearing made of quicksilver, or Mercury, and this is what the crystal sought to maintain. 

Walking through this portal, the group regains consciousness inside the simulation room–the piston-shaped metallic cylinders unwind, seemingly rotating out of the children’s skulls as the cylinders come out near the temples. The visor can be removed now, and though they had been suspended by the pullies and cables they were now being gently lowered down. The apparatus attached to the spine, the exo-skeletal neuronal sensor, un-peels from their backs like a leech. The units over their hands, waist and feet unlatch, with similar unwinding of bolts and compressed air. Their body-suits noticeably switch off, producing no foreign sensations. They awaken back home–the ‘actual,’ or the reality which is defined by “where they had started.” The reality that stays.

– end-

4th post Utopiaoid #4 – 4/30/2015

2B – Morning Coffee/the Earthling
News cast:  “Over population, do we talk about it?”
Riding the tram deep into the city, streets barren this time of day, the Earthling’s greasy, dark-red hair is slicked back, un-kempt; looking like it has been combed exclusively by fingers, and never washed since birth. Voices speak out to him, not just the voices of the newscasters in the tram, but voices from the past:

          Rough translation, Our All-Star #3: “You know what I would miss, Mr. Draggis, if I were up there, wit’ those people in de’ stars?”
The Earthling’s voice: “What?
Our All-Star #3: “Coffee.”
The Earthling’s voice: “What, you don’t think they have coffee out there?”
Our All-Star #3: “No—I mean the ‘real’ stuff.”
“The stuff it takes a planet to grow, jest’ right.”
The Earthling’s voice: “Hah, the synthetic stuff doesn’t do it for you, huh?”
Our All-Star #3: “No Way!”
The Earthling’s voice: “Well, have you even tried the synthetic coffee?”
“Maybe they’ve really got it all nailed-down up there.”

          Our All-Star #3: “Mr. Draggis, if there is one thing I’ve learned, in all my life—my childhood in Africa and living all the rest in the South American Amazon,”
Our All-Star #3: “it’s that there is more to growing plant-forms, indeed, than the simple combination of soil, water and the sun-shine.”

            Our All-Star #3: “For that—I am certain.”

News cast:  “Over population, do we talk about it?”

He makes his way through the vacant city block. Aimless for these short moments, and deciding to take rest, he steps into a run-down Diner amongst rocky rubble. He sits inside a ghost-town diner in the midst of a rotten city. At a white counter with a metallic trim and a glittery red stool he sits, and he stares.
He purposely burns his upper lip with the smolderingly hot coffee. The shock of pain exhilarates him. “The Earthling” is drinking some coffee with his back to the open window.
Our All-Star #3: “My morning coffee—ah! Nothing quite got me up at dawn like the smell of fresh brewing coffee!”

          The Earthling: “I never really had the taste for it—makes me paranoid or something…”

            He looks strung out, this man named Draggis, half-real, half-mythology; awake for too many hours, by anyone’s standards, and alert as ever.  His skin has a few deep wrinkles, mostly under the eyes, like drawn-in with a black felt pen. Penciled-in lines form around his nostrils as he cringes, as he’s bighting on the scalding hot coffee. His skin is very pale, chalky white. Dry, and yet a strange purity permeates his bone-like complexion.  His face returns to the blankness. He’s a little older, nowadays, a little less active these meager days, but some men might wonder, who know him by name:

–I Wonder What Death Contemplates?–

The entrance to the diner where the Earthling is sitting was made of glass, now it stands hollow. The glass walls are now shattered. Small shards scatter the base and surrounding streets. There are no real doors, to say, in this area of the city. Doors, and other symbolic barriers to life, are more symbolic, a fleeting phenomenon. In this part of the city, everyone has their attention directed toward day-to-day survival. The scattered shards of glass, swirling from the windows of the nearby establishments are a story told through a cacophony of shapes, sizes, and color—all from dozens of different points of origin across the streets abandoned streets.


 [He sits and stares in a run-down diner, in the midst of a rotten city.]

            The plates and silverware rattle all around the abandoned diner from eruptions in the distance. Combat is well underway, somewhere within earshot. He casually looks back and forth between a small screen on his wrist, and then ahead at the menu on the wall. His eyes fixate on the wrist screen for a moment—then to his left—then to his right. Finally, he stares back at the apparent nothingness of the plain-white wall.
After some qualitative summation of his environment, he has registered enough data for now. Setting his mind aside, like any tool which has exceeded its use, he lets the space around him consume him. He takes a gulp from his coffee, a large one, and as he retreats from things the muscles on the side of his face frigidly tighten, jaws clamping down on gripping tan-teeth.
Two spheres float silently over his head. They look like human eyeballs, and in a way they are eyeballs. They are his ‘second set.’ Tiny cameras that relay video feed back to the monitor on his wrist…allowing him to appear to have his guard down. They stand still, hovering quietly and swaying, now, above his right shoulder. They rotate calmly, surveying the environment with casual 360-degree precision.
Draggis is not the kind of person who ever has their guard down.

News cast:  “Over population, do we talk about it?”

          Draggis sitting alone, at the bar seating in the diner, upon that ruby-red, that glittering-red stool, in an abandoned Diner. By luck, they still had some coffee there, which had just begun to steam and finish brewing.

          The Earthlings voice: “Coffee, huh?”
Just a flash, but it was of the African man he had been speaking to earlier. He smiles back at him, they are in some comradely conversations, which intuit bodes strangely with, as from the perspective that this image we have of this, the orange-haired man, as he sits upon this abandoned, rubble-filled diner. It would be a surprise to find that this man had ever had a ‘comradely conversation’ in his life.
The African man, who he had known to be an expert in navigation of the South American Amazon, now flashed into his mind with his full Masai Warrior decorative paint. It had oranges, whites, and reds, and beads were hanging decoratively, and he is smiling even wider and younger than before.
A bartender, like “the Shining,” manifests before the lone diner.
****Quickly, he metamorphoses into ghostly blue in order to speak with the patron–about his order of coffee. ****you should be asking right now, Is he alone? Is this a f**** ghost??
The ghost Bartender: “I’m sorry sir, we’ll have to brew some. Would you mind waiting?”
The Earthling’s voice: “Not a problem.”
“Anything to eat, while you’re waiting?”
The Earthling’s voice:  “I’ll take a breakfast burrito—thanks.”
Once again, we can see that there is no one else in the Diner
The Earthling’s voice:  “I brought my mug from the outside,”
The seemingly deranged-man pronounces out-loud to invisible conversationalists.
The Earthling’s voice: “…and I wanna’ make sure I get a little ‘face time’ in, before I ask for a refill of coffee, ya’ know?”
Suddenly, and with some mechanism that I am unprepared to explain to you, these adorable little tourist-types, the obese ones (really cute), you know, with the small t-shirts, too small for their frame, and sun-tan lotion un-rubbed on their noses, they’ve got the cameras dangling from their necks like elephant trunks—the large white-socked ones—and with those horrible, but comfortable, bulbous-white sneakers—they just appear there, as diners who had just finished with their meal, and nearly validating Draggis’s schizophrenic behavior with their presence.
The Earthling’s voice:  “You know, instead of paying for the cost of a whole new one.” (?)
Draggis smiles insanely, but friendly, to these obvious tourists: new to ‘these parts’ of the mind.
The pair of tourists look caught off-guard, and hoping to not offend anybody in their anthropological travels. So the elderly lady nods in agreement; her husband, her panic-stricken husband, the one with the generalizing and ongoing confusion, hasn’t quite followed into-line with his ‘wife-slash-parent.’

Inquires the ghost-memory form, composed of translucent-pale blue. Detailing of the scenario around the scene of the diner (snapping in and out of this parallel-dimension of ghostly hallucinations. He snaps into practical, worldly matters in the same instant as when he leaves it. Swirling of glass on the diner’s former front door…

News cast:  “Over population, do we talk about it?”
Sitting at the diner, the observer will instantly notice the most obvious aspect of this scene: there isn’t anybody around anymore. An analysis of the general environment by “the Earthling:” The green glass had been shot out by impact with a small projectile. The projected object was most likely a pipe bomb; “they’re so easy to make.” The silver glass encircling and combining together with the restaurant’s-glass has smaller, individual pieces, and are from the buildings across the street. The range of the shards can be gauged by their smaller and larger sizes.
Quick trends can be interpreted by the mind at an estimating level. The glass tracks are un-important. They merely let him know that this area is highly volatile. With a large enough input of data on these patterns, the scene seems to come alive. It was as if the moment were extraordinarily close to some ‘other’ time. It is one of those things that happen to you in disc-like record. He now knows that the volatile-actions have occurred relatively recently, as well.
If need be, he could look this far into it, examine the shards, and detail some general story of what had gone down here.
The Earthling’s Voice: “Old ghosts.”

News cast:  “Over population, do we talk about it?”
The room becomes filled, well, not filled, but perhaps what a typical Saturday morning shift might have looked like when people were still alive here. In this area of the city, no decent people, no local-business supporting types, would be caught dead anywhere around here—not anymore. This was another carcass of another “city-beast.” The Earthling overhears a server, speaking to a co-worker:
“I have to work a full shift here, and then another one tonight at the restaurant across town.”
“Hey, at least you’re making money, right?”
Some other conversations can be overheard:
“I’ve gotta’ get going…” Suddenly, and only momentarily, it is night at the diner.
“What is it, past your bedtime?”
They’re paranormal-blue now, the patrons of the diner, and with dotted-line tracings in chalky white…
“Happy wife—happy life, am I right?”
“Hey, at least you’re making money, right?” The Lunar-Realm blue-prints are in the room, architectural constructs that the room is inextricably connected to, and yet the room is empty.
“Maybe I could get a re-fill, you know—rather than the cost for a brand new one?” They are connected to the world of form, but they’re not ‘really’ manifest there.
“I’m sorry sir, we’ll have to brew some. Do you mind waiting?” They are potentials manifestation of form, of other people, at a different diner, but old ghosts just the same…
“I’ve gotta’ get going.”
“What is it, past your bedtime?”
They’re fading now, and the room is empty once again. The deranged, orange-haired man must be somewhat aware of these passing hallucinations.
“Old ghosts.”

News cast:  “Over population, do we talk about it?”

Skipping passed the investigation, and the blue-hallucinations, he is distracted as the building directly behind him appears to inhale for a moment. Violently, the walls of the first floor vomit stone and steel onto the pavement. For him, fear quickly turns to concentration, but it is a wild and un-tamed sort. After a moment, head peaking out of the Diner’s former front door, he looks around at the rubble. He looks at the flaming rocks scattered around, puzzled at why the charges had gone off. There are no signs that any fighting men are here. His hand is firmly gripped on his weapon. Ragged men, empty vessel men, walking out of the destroyed building line the streets around the explosion site. Those closest to the explosion seem injured, but their faces say that they have done little to react, apparently, not in any sort of pain, but also displaying no-life, in a manner.
Draggis, “the Earthling,” continues toward the gaping hole of the building that had just erupted. Moving silently against the wall, he devotes two-heartbeats to checking around the corner of the concrete wall—he sees no activity. He keeps at his investigation, explosions are common around here, but not ‘that’ common. Walking, slowly, to the area where the explosion had occurred, water dripping from the floor above provides enough sound to move about unheard. Someone is coming, directly toward him, loudly, from inside the building. He quickly notes that they are heavily armed.

–A hissing sound. A rattle–

It was Death’s rattle. Draggis stands at the doorway, a pitch black shadow. Light from the adjacent room accentuates only his silhouette. Raising his gun to the side of his head, and pointing it toward the ceiling, he begins to breathe deeply and steadily. The subtle light of his optic lens glows white, harshly defying the darkness of the room. Like aluminum-foil wolf eyes, reflecting by the moonlight, he is staring down in confidence at his defeated prey. Old thoughts, ancient thoughts, are manifesting into his consciousness. These are those ‘old reptilian thoughts’ that exist in order to protect the flesh against, perhaps mostly forgotten, natural enemies. It mocks you with its show of pearly-white teeth, an alligator mind-game, the teeth and Death’s grin, which everyone in the jungle knows marks demise. Clamped tightly together and drooling, the predator is inseparable from its weapon.

            –A hissing sound. A rattle–

            It was Death’s rattle. One of the men, in the rubble, hears that eerie sound again. Another hissing, shocking sound, like a popping firework, and a scream sends the hairs on the back of his neck on-end. His neck hairs reach outwardly, like they themselves are trying to escape the situation. Adding to the mounting fear, gripping at his internal organs like a wrench, was the fact that the sound came from near his partner’s position, across the way. He knew a 20-meter spread was too far apart. Should he call out? Should he remain silent? He chooses to remain silent. There is a feeling, of heat, that circulates throughout the body in times of duress. It’s nature’s signal. It’s a warning of imposing danger. Survival instincts kick in. There is no ‘morality’ in this state, it is inherently ‘a-moral,’ in that this dilemma of the ‘morality’ of his situation isn’t even a blip on his radar of concerns—there is no time, nor energy, to be spared for it.
There is only one rule to be maintained within the jungle: to kill or to be killed. This aspect of mind is too powerful a force in nature to be completely annihilated. However, the planet had once tried to bury it as the predominant force on Earth. Although evolution re-directed itself, in order to favor a cooperative mind (the Mammalian mind), the Reptile mind, or the competitive mind, had definitely stuck around. Something about it must be too… useful, to lose.

–A hissing sound. A rattle–

It was Death’s rattle. Behind him; the sound again, will his reaction time be adequate? Again, that popping sound! Then, a short, eerie, rattling; like the warnings of a rattlesnake. Then, blackness—then, the greatest mystery of all.
The bottom of the Earthling’s fist was pressed tightly against his neck when he first was inclined to react. Blood, streaming down the left side of his victim’s body, red slowly flowing over the Earthling’s knuckle, streaming down all the way to his little finger and dripping off like a leaky faucet. Tears moisten both their eyes; these last moments together, as humans. Sometimes the Dragon is a hindrance for the Tiger, and sometimes vice versa. The body drops lifelessly on the dirt. The “Earthling,” who is named Draggis, pauses for a short minute in the abrupt silence. He contemplates what the two men were doing here, blowing up buildings, and ruining people’s breakfasts. He takes a seat on a nearby rock and continues to enjoy his morning coffee, laughing at the audacity of these dead men.


3rd Post – Utopiaoid #3 Blog 4/30/2015 (work in progress…)

Pt. 3 – “Blenders”

Upon the blacktop of the schoolyard, the young students sit in what they’ve been told is an “Indian style,” and arranged in a “boy-girl” order. Arranging the young Utopiaoid children like a checkerboard, the moment of serenity seems as fragile and unbelievable as a snow-flake resting in the high-desert. Maybe you could believe the sight from a photograph, but chances are the moment won’t last very long. This is not the snow flake’s natural environment. Only a few minutes before the children had been running around the schoolyard in a belligerent frenzy—a blurred mass of tiny bodies, wild-eyed (almost ‘blank’-eyed) expressions. The mad desperation to release physical energy has been forcibly cowed, as the maternal teachers have brought order to a seemingly hopeless situation (of natural, young chaos).
“Children—there is still 30 minutes left in ‘Physical Realm Education,’ then we can go back to the simulators, mmkaaayy?”
Since the class is seated now, breathing heavily and sweating (like “sweaty little pigs,” the instructors couldn’t help but thinking) it was much easier to handle their insubordinations one at a time. Certain individuals may be unaware of how things are run, in recess of this class, but you can make damn-sure that these women will make those unaware quickly brought up to speed. For example, a certain child exclaims in protest, and once the instructor goes about resolving the final statistics of their game you should notice with what maternal instincts these more-than qualified instructors parry this particular disruption:
“Okay boys & girls! So, which of the final three do you think had ‘got the most points’ in today’s dodge ball session: was it ‘Briant,’ ‘Codrey,’ or ‘Philt?”
There was a short pause, a moment of silence brought about amongst the dry, artificial breeze.
A sound erupted from the temporary silence, like a cracking whip of petulance:
The large-front-toothed boy’s reaction to the teacher’s declaration of the exact names of the “final three” dodge ball stars is emotionally charged. It is passionate, there’s an obvious intensity, and there is certainly a small amount of embarrassment. The child recoils immediately after yelling it (at the sheer distress this remark has unintentionally communicated, no doubt).
“Is there a dispute you would like to open up for discussion?” The wonderfully accommodating woman will put the matter into dispute, since it has caused such a raw and potentially tenuous reaction.
“I saw Philt got ‘got,’ and the teachers didn’t see—and he pretended it didn’t happen!”
Philt was not going to take this accusation sitting down—he hadn’t gotten ‘got,’ he never got ‘got,’ and this big-front-toothed boy was just jealous that he wasn’t even in the running for today’s ‘treat.’ Besides, if he had got ‘got,’ and the teacher’s hadn’t seen it, could it really be said that he had gotten ‘got’ in the first place?
For time’s sake, I will let you know that Philt had then masterfully pleaded his case, and the women couldn’t help but awarding him the day’s ‘physical realm educational Treat.’ However, Philt had gotten ‘got,’ so the entire recess was a shame.
Somewhere else on the playground, another group of children are at play. At the top of the slide, in the sandy area, a classmate stops at the top of the queue, turning to face Aleon, as the young child has not forgotten the proper formalities in requesting orders from his Captain: “Mr. Aleon, I’m prepared to use the slide—shall I continue, sir?”

“Make it so.” The boy slid, continuing to run in a completely arbitrary direction, never a second-thought at how strange this moment was—unquestioningly acknowledging this ‘Lord of the flies’ hierarchy.
Aleon makes his way to the slide. He stares with an expressionless, wide-eyed gaze. We see him mid- slid and there has been absolutely no change to his facial expression so far. No joy, not a thing. At the bottom of the slide, where he feet now rest, calmly on the floor, there has really been no change to his cat’s-eye gaze—nothing that would suggest any state of change which may have resulted from the slid. Apparently, this had been an experience altogether neither positive nor negative. Absolute and totally unaffected, the Emerald inflected child rises from the bottom of the slide.
There is time yet to be utilized, until the recess bell rings, and he seeks to experience a few more ‘pleasurable experiences,’ before the recess bell has rung. Although this was his first day blending, it didn’t really seem like any other day. Most of the children behaved relatively the same way, regardless of the society inflection they had been born into. The substances synthesized from the crystals grown on Utopiaoid are perfectly safe. Yes, they are administered to children of a certain age, but this is only because their understanding of the science behind these substances are so vast, than their society can claim, assuredly, that there is no harm in it. However, the inflections themselves, the catalyzed Emerald, Ruby, and Sapphire perspectives, are maybe not as harmless to the life-form as the mainstream society would have us believe. Something was brewing within Aleon. Something pairs quite well about the Emerald inflection and the boy, but there was also something wrong about it. It was ineffable, but this Emerald inflected boy, Aleon, had a darkness about him which may put their entire civilization’s way of life into a stronger system of scrutiny.

An example of his strange behavior might be gleaned from his personal account of that first day, as a “Blender:”

Mission Log, Emerald Commander Aleon.
Star-Date [un-available]:
My first day ‘Blending’ was one I was unimpressed by. I had far more interesting mysteries waiting for me back in my laboratory, within Professor Woland’s mind. We had been playing ‘Sherlock Holmes’ again, as I had to embarrassingly make clear to the young Ruby lad earlier. The process of playing ‘Star Trek,’ playing the role of characters who are playing characters themselves (upon the ‘holo-deck’) may sound confusing, but I must explain an integral difference in my laboratory scenarios with Woland. The difference between my simulated scenarios and that of the ‘Enterprise,’ specifically with ‘Commander Data,’ is that ‘Data’ is always aware of his individuality, outside of the simulation. If there is any question as to the logic of the overall narrative, Geordi can break the 3rd wall, asking Data about certain accuracies, in which Data can respond out of character. I have programmed my own simulations so that Woland does not. In my simulations, Woland is experiencing the mystery ‘subjectively.’ Therefore, as Dr. Holmes, the android is fully immersed into the plot, and this makes things tend play out more seriously.
However, while examining Professor Woland’s reactions to our ‘Sherlock Holmes’ puzzles, I noticed that there is something a tad strange about the quality of the deduction he makes.

He seems to make deductions based solely off of the dark and mysterious failings of the human soul, and has several errors with simple logics, and common knowledge—but like this broad, perfectly clear understanding of the subtle moral short comings that lead to so much of the suffering of humankind. He didn’t notice the broken window, indicating a forced entry, but within one murder mystery he had displayed a wide spectrum ability to make sneak-peeks behind the metaphorical human curtain, to gaze at the monkey who shrieks in rage with the exposure of its operations of the controls.