Beginnings are too linear and sometimes misleading. You couldn't have picked a more opportune moment to jump into the cycle. But I guess you never really had a choice. You hear a story and expect that it will start at the beginning, the beginning of anything. This is my beginning to you. One of my names is Karm Forense. I live on the socially isolated outskirts of this continent’s largest city, Zin. This is my beginning to you.
Some of us left to the Sprawl want knowledge. What happened here? Why this, not that? Others seem to relish the situation they've created for themselves. Their graffiti reads, "The Sprawl is all" and "The Individual is the Enemy." I can explain their behavior only by exploring mine for it is their opposition that places what I think. If there were none complacent, were would I fit?
Yesterday, I met with Maryam and
Jaynel at Stein’s Water Bar. There is a water bar sprinkled
throughout every corner of the Sprawl but most of them are
drive-thru. You can actually go in and sit down to drink your water
at Stein’s. That's why we go there.
Maryam and Jaynel
both live in Zin’s Southern Core and come to the Sprawl for
work. It’s an interesting reversal and I imagine the traffic
during their commute to be light. The majority of Zin's employers are
based in and around the Core. The only businesses in the Sprawl are
Sheppet food restaurants, grocery stores, and churches. There are
other stores, too – you can’t take a piss without wetting
someone selling something – but most Sprawlers choose to work
the Core. Invariably, the para’d work the Core.
"We
want to make a documentary,” said Jaynel.
“About
what?”
"About the Schism,” she answered.
"Maryam
sipped her water, anxiously tapped her toes and let her gaze flit
about the other people occupying Stein's.
“Why? Everyone
knows what happened.” I took a drink.
"Maryam spoke up
quickly, her hands flailing about in emphasis. “No one knows
about the S.D’s though.”
“What the hell?”
I jumped.
“Jaynel giggled. “She fell asleep in the
bathtub this morning and the caffeinated soap fell in. Now she’s
up and in everyone's face.”
“And not going to be
sleeping for a while either," Maryam spouted.
“Speaking
of sleeping,” I sipped then spoke, “Last night, I had
this dream, and it's not the first one, that-”
“No,
no. Documentary,” Maryam interrupted. “Subject, please.
Subject.”
“So, what’s the subject? Why am I
here?”
Looking at the ground, Jaynel said, “We want
you to script the voice-over.”
Last night, while driving home from my Visual Literature
class, I was delayed by an accident. On the Corner of 9th and Cress,
just before the Safety Hill Compound Apartment Complex, two cars had
run into each other. One of the drivers, a younger man, was yelling
at the Concerned Operations Officer handling the scene. The other (a
lady) was obviously para’d. The C.O.O. looked to be
administering some field tests on her yet she just stared ahead. The
front of her Suburban Assault Vehicle was completely thrashed but the
damage seemed minimal in comparison to the man’s vehicle. From
the looks of it, she had run over the hood of his car, squashing it.
Had he been driving any faster she probably would have run him right
over as well. Fucking para’ds.
I know what pop diagnosis
has to say about S.D. but I don’t buy it. I’ve lived in
the Sprawl off and on for close to ten years and I’m not
para’d. Some fringe research claims that Sprawl Disease is all
in the head yet the I-doctors can do nothing for them. I’m
divided. On the one hand I’ve got sympathy for para’ds.
On the other – they piss me off. They can respond to their
environment while being completely oblivious to it. Take tonight’s
accident as an example: that para’d lady – she runs over
this guy’s car and the C.O.O. can’t even get her to
answer questions or take tests. Yet, and here’s the kicker, if
the officer let her she could get in her SAV, drive home, punch the
proper wall code to get in, and walk right to her kitchen to make
herself a late-night snack. So, is she responsible for this accident?
She won’t talk to the officer or the guy she ran over. They
don’t exist to her. If the officer runs her in, she’ll
get tested, confirmed, and medicated for S.D. (if she isn’t
already).
I’m lying in bed, reciting this to my comp, thinking
about last night. I had the dream. The dream always begins the same,
with me waking up and getting out of bed. Then I go into the
bathroom, kiss a man lying next to me, and hop into the shower. Mind
you, I’m doing all of this in a completely foreign environment.
Yet it’s me doing it. It’s Karm.
The people I meet
with and talk with in these dreams don't call me Karm. But when I
look into a mirror it’s that familiar, reversed image that
stares back. I have a vague sense of control while having these
particular dreams. I can do what I want although most times I simply
let go and watch as the dream takes me. When I first started having
them, they didn’t take me anywhere really novel. I’d
begin the dream as I always do, by getting out of bed, and then
sometimes I’d be in a car, in an office, in a classroom, in
someone else’s home. In short, nothing extended nor that
interesting. Lately, however, when I wake up, I can remember no other
dreams but this one. And there is only this one dream – not
several instances of a dream experienced throughout the night over a
period of time. The dream is linear and follows some narrative. I go
to sleep, have the dream, wake up, and when I fall asleep the next
night - the dream will pick right back up like it’s a new day,
with the dream-me getting out of bed. It’s so – INCOMING
CALL FROM TOTH, JAYNEL. ACCEPT?
“Yes. Hello.”
“What are you doing up? It’s early.”
“So
why are you calling then? I had trouble sleeping.”
“I
expected to leave a message. I couldn’t sleep either.”
“I had that weird dream again. I was at some party and I
ran into this guy that I had a huge crush on in prior school, even
though I wasn’t into guys in prior school, and-”
“Oooo,
was it Sincy Rema? What’s with the homo-dreams?”
“I
don’t know. It was someone that I don’t know at all.
Well, in my dream I knew him. And I wanted to hang out with him some
more but I just got up and left the party and came home and the whole
time I kept saying to me in the dream – go back, go back. Then
I went to sleep in the dream and woke up here. I was just wiring some
stuff about it so I could go over it later.”
“You’re
recording this?”
“Yeah. I’m in bed.”
“Hmmm . . . well, I just called to see if you’ve
given any thought to doing the voice-over. We’re trying to get
going on this project and want a sense of who’s to be on the
team.”
“I’ve given it some thought, but not a
lot. I’m just not certain I want to– ”
“I
know, I know. But that’s why Maryam and I thought to ask you.
We know how you feel about what happened.”
“But
everybody knows what happened then. The history’s available.
That’s my hesitation.”
“We think there’s
more to it than that. I’m not sure any of us are being told the
truth. I mean, when the Femels came to the Core – why did
everyone here instantly become so hostile? And what about S.D., huh?
What about all those para’ds? You know, before the Schism there
was no Sprawl and before the Sprawl there was no S.D.”
“I’m
not sure what to say.”
“Just think about it, OK? We
really want you to be a part of this. It’s important. I’m
going to shower. Call me later.”
“B–” –
CALL ENDED.
And that’s that. I need to eat.
Upload.
Looking at a blank page is one of the most intimidating things
I can think of. It’s a place where all possibilities exist and
where one is forced to choose or stagnate. Choose or
stagnate.
Thinking about the history of Zin’s Core and
the circumstances surrounding it’s fracture – I get
trapped there, in the past.
I was 11 or 12 when the first wave
of Femels came to Zin from the Burning West. There were probably 150
of them and Concerned Operations immediately placed them into
containment. After testing them for contagions and finding them
healthy, C.O. set up a temp-shelter for them in a North Central
complex. Then, Intelligence began to study them and soon began to
teach them how to acclimate to life in Zin. Zin is dense – 30
million people in a 50 mile square area - and I can imagine how
intimidating it must have been for those first few Femels, having
been displaced from the open West, to try to live in such close
quarters. But they had no choice, really. The West, their home, had
caught fire, giving way to this forced Diaspora.
So we taught.
We taught them how to move about in the city; taught them how to
think like individuals, not to take “no” for an answer.
We taught them how to be like us and never once paid attention to
what ideas they’d brought with them from the West. We never
paid much attention to them at all. Until more arrived.
The
next group came in a bundle of 1,000. More and more began to arrive
daily. All told, I think that close to 1,000,000 Femels migrated to
Zin in just over 2 years’ time. Thinking pragmatically, C.O.
moved them all to North Central, effectively relocating any of the
prior inhabitants to other sections of Zin. The goal was simple –
those Femels that understood Zin culture would be more effective at
indoctrinating the neophytes. This would relieve some of the pressure
being placed upon Intelligence to instantiate educational programs
amongst the immigrants. This relocation set the foundation for the
trouble to come.
This is my job: looking at page after page of computer generated
lists of data discrepancies and tracking down the points of error.
So, the computer shows me the error and maybe it’s Jones in
Accounting or Smith in Customer Service or Adams in Human Resources?
I access Jones/Smith/Adams’s data logs, match up the dates, and
then send J/S/A the error page with a memo to J/S/A instructing them
to re-enter. That’s it. That’s my job. My company has
over 15,000 employees doing data entry (a third of which turn over
monthly), each inputting 3 pages a minute (on average). The potential
for error is vast, or so they say, and I have yet to understand the
rationale for having people do this job. But, they pay me.
All
my friends yelled at me. I think they were more scared that they too
might go that same route then they were upset with me for getting a
term job.
Term job. Being terminal: The room I work in is
barely lit and there are rows upon rows of low recliners. Our monitor
lenses hang from the ceiling like oxygen masks in some ancient,
about-to-crash airplane. We plug in to our in and outs, lie down, and
work for 7 hours while caffeinated pheromones hang in the air,
keeping us alert. The company doesn't like to have caffeine running
through the IVs - another policy I don't understand. There are 3,000
of us in first-tier data check, 1,000 in second. Terminals.
Last night, I took the train
down to the Core to feel my friend Aesop’s band. It was more
intense than I expected. I arrived at the performing hall, paid the
rental fee for the T-suit then changed into it at one of the grimy
stalls outside of the main room. Surprisingly enough, the damn thing
fit. I’ve no shoulders or chest but have awfully long arms so
it’s hard to find form-fitting clothing and it kind of defeats
the suit’s purpose if the tactile contacts are out of place.
So, happily geared up, I wandered into the hall, turned my suit on,
and looked at the myriad people around me. Those without T-suits
sported the latest fashions. I have never understood fashions and
seem to always be out of step with them. Once, when I was fifteen and
in prior school, I wore a hat that had been popular a few years
earlier. Mistake. Got verbally abused through the day. Two years
later, every body and their mother wore those hats. No matter. Most
everyone here had on a dark gray T-suit, which rendered us
fashionably neutral.
As the first band began to tune up I
spotted my old friend Rique. Rique and I used to run dust out from
the Core to the South Sprawl. Years ago, dust was a popular way for
para’ds to self-medicate. Unfortunately, all it ended up doing
was prolonging the inevitable. I walked over to Rique.
“KK,
how’re you?”
“Ahh dayum – Karmo –
long time no see. You need dust?”
I smiled. “No, no
dustin’ in this suit. Who’re you here with?”
“I’m
solo, brolo. Just waiting for this showlo to golo. You?”
“Same.
Aesop said the band is supposed to go on at 22 or so. I’m
surprised to see you here. I heard you moved up Northwest.”
Rique didn’t respond right away. I thought maybe he hadn’t
heard me. Then he spoke.
“Tiz has S.D., Karm.” The
words rang hollow in the otherwise full room.
“Oh man.
Rique, I’m sorry, guy. What the fuck happened?”
“I
wish I knew. All I know is that dust don’t do shit for it.
She’s...it’s, ah man, she’s slipping.”
He
didn’t have time to tell me anything else. The music had begun.
The first chord hit me like the blast from a cold shower and I
instinctually jumped back. A T-suit’s contacts pick up on the
sound waves, transforming them into sensations of minor hot or major
cold, sharp pleasure or flat pain, and everything in between. Before
going on, the band has the choice of tuning the suits to deliver
certain types of stimulus or they can allow it to be more of a random
affair. I’m not sure what Aesop’s band had done but I’d
never felt music like that before. The band didn’t let that
initial chord touch us for long before the rest of the song came on
furiously brisk. It was a wake-up call. Tiz sick. Another one down.
Rique had move up into the Core to try to counter the disease. Why
isn’t there any progress being made?
I've taken some time off to fall in love. Now I'm dealing with
the logistics of this most comforting of contradictory states. I had
recorded a long screed about the nature of compromise in a loving
relationship but the Company scrambled the upload. I was docked two
hours. To avoid a repeat of the process I've begun coming in before
the Restraint Managers get on-site so I can get back to regular
recording.
Anyway, love's the reason for the lag in updates. I've
been learning time management skills insofar as how best to balance
my desire for solitude and its percs with my desire to be with Vale
and its percs. She's learning about this too and doesn't particularly
like it. In response to my detachment, she's labeled me the
"emotional void." I'd like to tell her all about the Vassic
notion of separating feelings and emotions; how that inspires my
thinking and acting. She won't want to hear it though. My fear is
that she takes my desire to spend time apart as a personal affront
when, in fact, she doesn't factor at all into that desire. And maybe
that's her fear.
I've been cleaning. I am cleaning. What you find is a debate
along the lines of: should this stay or should this go?
Cleansing.
Last night, Vale and I went to Simpy's for some
tall glasses of H20. Simpy's is all right for a Sprawl establishment.
They're open much later than anyplace needs to be around here. Vale
was feeling down and out (insight-might she be experiencing the onset
of S.D.? Strike that-she's feeling something, even if it's crappy, so
it’s not S.D.) We sat, talked about what I'm sure I can't
recall at this instance. I'm distracted. Cleaning. Vale hates when I
talk and my heart's not in it. I tell her that when I talk my heart
is never in it. Speaking is a plague to me. Further, the stereotype
that speaking is more, more, more - something! - than writing...I
don't buy into. If you want me to actually communicate anything then
don't let me speak.
I'm starting school again this coming
week. Three more quarters and I'll have my cert and with it a ticket
to break from the Company. Then, if I pass the preliminaries, I'll be
put on the list for focal implants. Wow. I just found an old message
log between Cyrine and me. Four years ago. Vale's right. I shouldn't
be doing this while distracted. I'll probably have to do some heavy
editing later. Four years already?
The dream again. I haven’t had it for a few months. I
woke up at half past two this morning, sweating. The dream’s
story is hardly worth repeating. I was driving, going to the grocery
store, watching a sell-box (although in the dream the word used was
“television”), reading a book. But the effect, the
feeling, my presence in the dream was close to absolute. For
instance, I heard things not as a disinterested observer, but as a
full participant. Biting into an apple, I could hear myself chewing
while breathing through my nose. My presence was close to absolute,
yet the me/not me split was still apparent. The dream me used
different words for things that I would have called by another name.
Also, the technology of the dream world is completely external. No
headpieces, LCD contact lenses, inner-ear phones. Why does dreaming
such an environment disconcert me so? I’ve had far stranger,
more frightening, more stimulating dreams. Why does this mundane,
repeat episode of sleeplife get to me?
There isn’t much
else to get out this morning. I received a very strange message from
Salva this morning. Another example of miscommunication I hope. I
hope. The possibility of miscommunication exists in every social
endeavor. In artistic endeavors, miscommunication seems the standard.
If I compose a poem with a certain intent and you, as a random
observer, fail to pick up on that intent – or better still, you
pick up on something unintended by me – that’s OK, it
enlarges the work. There’s nothing personal about not “getting”
a piece of art, or “getting” out of the art something
different than everyone else.
If, however, I compose a
specific message to you, as a particular individual, and my meaning
is completely misconstrued, that’s not OK. Such a
misunderstanding ruins the communication, especially when the
message, written with sincere, good intent, is taken as a thing
malicious. Further, it soils the dialogue, as the participants must
backtrack to determine what happened to bring offense to the person.
Can we ever truly know what another person means? Probably not, but
hopefully we can learn to refine our communication to a point where
we can transmit our meaning to our best ability. Can we begin to view
conversation as an art form open to interpretation? No. It isn’t
conducive to enjoyable, personal communication (although it is an
interesting thought experiment.)
The possibility of
miscommunication across the board frightens me. Am I misunderstanding
my dream?
“So, why are you here? Are you
taping this?"
“Yes. I hope that’s all right.
It’s a project I’m working on.”
“This
talk is supposed to be of a confidential nature. Your recording may
violate doctor/patient confidentiality.”
“That
only applies if I mind that my session is made available; a moot
point if I’m the one doing the recording.”
“Fair
enough. So, why are you here?”
“Because Caleb said
you wanted to see me.”
“I wanted to see you
together, Mark.”
“I thought it might be best if we
spoke alone first. I wanted you to form your own opinion before you
saw us together.”
“Is there something about the
two of you together that you thought might influence my
opinion?”
“I’m not certain but seeing as how
you’ve already heard Caleb’s view of me I thought you
might like to hear my view of me, uninterrupted.”
“And
what view is that?”
“I’m not sure I
follow...”
“Your view of you – what might
that be?”
“Isn’t that for you to determine?
I can tell you that I’m hardly as out of touch with my feelings
as he has told me, and presumably you, that he thinks I am. I feel
confident in my ability to recognize a feeling as it arises, pinpoint
what causes that feeling, and either choose to act on it or simply
look at it for what it is.”
“And what is a
feeling?”
“An intuition - as opposed to an
emotion, which, akin to the Stoic ethicists, I take to be an assent
to a feeling. Feelings are natural, healthy, expected and may be a
unique instance of social structure instigating a series of
bio-electro-chemical reactions. Emotions I have yet to categorize as
existent outside of a given social context, but I do think I can
extert some control over them.”
“Go on.”
“For
instance – when I tell you that I’m about to marry my
cousin what’s the first feeling you get? Revolt, disgust,
something along those lines? That’s how I feel about it,
anyway. But were we 14th century European aristocrats or belonged to
an Egyptian dynasty we’d hardly blink an eye at the revelation.
To use a more contemporary, literary example: the characters Ashley
and Melanie Wilkes from Gone With the Wind are cousins who
feel romantic love for each other. Their society condones those
feelings and, consequently, their resultant emotions. I think across
the human spectrum feelings are feelings. Love is love is love is
love. The same goes for hate, anger, sadness, etc. Societal
expectation as to how one should deal with those feelings will affect
the emotional expression of them. If I fall in love with my cousin I
would be conflicted. Love in one hand, disgust in the other. The love
I feel regardless. The disgust is due to my particular society's
insistence that wedding one's relatives is wholly inappropriate. This
may be a poor example but I'm reading Gone With the Wind right
now and I'm having a rough time with those characters' love for each
other.”
“Those feelings are what we are trying to
get you to express. Whatever your label, Caleb just wants you to
express them.”
“I do express them. Just not in
ways that he accepts or probably even recognizes. By the time my
feelings get to the point of expression, they’ve become
obsolete to me. If something makes me angry, instead of immediately
expressing, “I’m angry,” I will look at what it is
that’s made me angry and nine times out of ten I find that I’m
angry as a result of the expectation that this type of situation
should make me angry. Immediately, I question why I should be
expected to feel this way and look at the variables coming into play.
Maybe I’m hardwired to be quick to anger. Maybe I’ve also
been empowered by an unspoken social philosophy of self-importance.
Maybe I’m tired of always being passed up by people more
aggressive than I am. More than likely, it isn’t one reason in
isolation. It’s a combination of all these influences and
predispositions working together in pre-conscious concert to cause
this particular feeling as a gut reaction to this particular
instance. Now, I’ve felt the feeling and examined it – I
find responding to it in most cases unnecessary.”
“That
works fine in some situations. What about negative situations where a
personal relationship is involved? If you don’t express your
feelings, are you really relating to that person? Similarly, what
about positive feelings, expressing love, happiness,
pleasure?”
“Well, first off, I said that in most
cases I find an emotional expression of my feelings superfluous.
Further, the binaries "negative" and "positive"
are relative and situational. Sometimes, love is a curse and anger a
gift. Should those feelings not be avoided or respectively nutured if
they manifest in a contradictory manner? But, I get your point. In
the case of anger at a person with whom I am personally involved –
family, friend, co-worker, or lover – unless the situation
occurs repeatedly, I feel no desire to express my anger with them. If
it is a recurring issue, I’ll discuss it without qualm. When I
am sad, I will mope. I might even cry. In the case of "positive"
feelings, I do the same thing to a lesser degree. I find it more
appropriate to express "positive" feelings as the result
seems to be the generation of "positive" feelings in
others. I think positivity should be cultivated as often as possible.
I’d be lying though if I didn’t say that I examine the
context of positive feelings as well. I just find that, like most
people, I don’t focus so much on feelings during the happy
times. When I'm feeling good, I don't bother much with the intricate
details. I'm aware of what's causing the pleasure, and focus on
extending it. I tend to keep three axioms in mind while living my
life.”
“Which are?”
“‘Everything
in moderation.’ ‘This too shall pass.’ ‘The
unexamined life is not worth living.’”
“Do
you think that these axioms lead to a healthy, fulfilling, and
connective life?”
“Well, I have no problem making
or keeping friends. I think that for the most part people enjoy my
company. I’m very happy with being me. The problems arise when
I try to explain to people the thought process that I just unloaded
on you. People tend to find it too analytical or too cold or some
other such adjective.”
“And you don’t think
that?”
“Not at all. I feel things to the core of
my being. I am affected by existence and relish every maddening
second of it. It’s central to my humanity and my person. I have
a vested interest in why I feel the way I do. I’m not content
with only feeling then letting that feeling out to the world. I want
to know why and when I come to see why, I either let the feeling
dissipate or express it if it will improve or help a situation. Did
he tell you about his labeling me, “the emotional void?”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I wish
I knew. The only question about my feelings that he asks me is,
‘What’s wrong?’ Most times, nothing is wrong. Maybe
I'm tired or just in a pensive mood. When we speak of specific
situations he doesn’t typically like where our conversation
leads. I don’t think he wants to hear my view because, for a
number of reasons, hearing my view of existence causes him distress.
This may be the root of our problem. As for individual situations
though, it seems he expects me to react rather than respond to them.
I’ve asked him what it is that causes him to label me
"emotional void", but he can’t give me specifics -
only a general feeling that that is how he thinks I am.”
“Well,
you've just presented yourself that way to me. You've just said that
you don't really tend to express emotion. I think it’s safe to
say he wants that tendency to change.”
“Well, what
I said was I don't express emotion in a way that he accepts or
recognizes as an expression. But, that he wants me to give him more
emotion is what I am afraid of. That’s the thing, though –
I have no problem telling him I love him (which I do), being intimate
with him, or expressing other pleasures that I feel around him.
Further, it seems that a big part of his questioning of me – my
motivations, thinking, etc. – only arises at times when we’re
apart. Rarely do these issues arise when we’re in each other’s
company. Granted, that may be due to his aversion for lengthy
discussion about some of my feelings on the subjects of personal
identity, life, death, etc. for fear of the possible unsettling of
his mind. I'm fine with that, but I’m unclear as to what I need
to do, in particular, better or different if I'm unable to speak with
him about where I'm coming from. Caleb has advised me that one
possible remedy to his perception of me is that I ‘pay
attention.’ This is quite easy for me to do so as it is
imperative to my health that I remain in constant awareness of my own
bodily state. It’s also easy for me to pay attention to other
people. As a writer I feel it my duty to be a keen observer of the
world around me. I take from his advice, however, that I need to pay
attention to him. That seems fine advice for any relationship and I
follow it to the best of my ability although I find it next to
impossible to judge from his outward displays any of his inner
workings. Maybe this will become possible as we spend more time
together. I’m not sure. He lives with a great amount of
physical pain and I think he hides it quite well; enough for me to
forget about it at times. Also, he doesn’t immediately tell me
when something I say or do upsets him. He waits until two, three
days/maybe a week later to bring the issue up and by this time, it’s
causing him much more distress than it admittedly caused him in the
first place. That makes him seem a bit hypocritical in terms of his
desire that I express myself more often, but I don't mind the
hypocrisy all that much. So, what do I do?"
“Well,
that's what we're here for. If it matters, you just keep talking and
work though it. A loving relationship is a working relationship.”
“I
know. I know.”
“And what about the
soul?”
“Well, to be blunt, it’s a myth. A
soul is a convenient term used to describe the hope that the self
continues beyond bodily death. I fail to see how this is remotely
possible, let alone desirable.”
“Not possible? I’m
surprised to hear you claim that, what with all your talk of the
‘mysteries of existence.’”
“Why? The
mysteries inherent in being alive have nothing to do with debunking
things that are imaginary. I’m all for imagination – but
not at the expense of dealing with what’s in front of you. The
soul is a hope and a false hope at that. You cannot divorce the
person from the body. Your self is as much others’ view of you
as it is your view. The self is a web of social and biological
relationships – the memories of your mother’s love or
hate, the way certain chemicals are behaving in your body and brain,
your own restraint when it comes to the desire to punch your neighbor
for trashing your yard. Strip away the context of your life and
you’ll find that, while something is there, observing, it isn’t
recognizable as having personal identify. Self is
contextual.”
“Couldn’t that observer be the
soul?”
“Not in the conventional sense of the word.
First of all, I don’t think that observer exists outside of a
living brain. And, if it did, you wouldn’t point to
consciousness stripped of body and disposition and say, ‘Ooh,
there’s Grandpa!’ Why do you think we humans place such
high value on our lives?”
“Because life is
inherently valuable?”
“Life is inherently valuable
in fostering further life. But we don’t really think of
ourselves as being a part of the web of life, do we? No, we value
life because, aware of it or not, each of us knows that every person,
broadly defined, is unique and finite. We will all cease to exist as
individuals.”
“That’s fairly dismal.”
“On
the contrary, I find it liberating and further motivation to make the
most of my time.”
“So, we all cease to... ‘exist
as individuals’?”
“Sure, ashes to ashes,
dust to dust through and through. All the atoms in my body come from
all over the universe. In a hundred years, they’ll be spread
back out all over the universe. What was once a part of me, which was
once a part of - what, a star, another person? – will become
one with the earth or a plant or an animal or perhaps another person.
In a hundred billion years, if our cosmologists are correct, every
atom will be squeezed back into a pinhole singularity of matter or we
will continue to spread out over this infinite canvas. How does that
old song go? I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all
together. What’s great is that we have the capacity to
recognize this. Though many of us choose not to.”
“But,
Mark, how does this recognition help in everyday life? It seems
paralytic and essentially meaningless.”
“Where is
the meaning in the comforting myths – that something else has
control of your life so any responsibility is lifted from your
shoulders? That there is a place where nothing bad exists? How do you
then recognize good? What is the meaning of ‘God’s plan’?
You get the answer: ‘God’s plan’ is meaningful.
That’s it. You can't understand it. But it's there and, take
our word for it, meaningful. Look at the Intelligent Design theory:
We live in a world that has been constructed with a sense of
intention and coherency. Well, that’s great – it puts
some meaning in my life. Now I have an abstract entity to blame for
all my troubles. Oh, wait, I can’t do that? Oh yeah, I can
credit the entity for all the good stuff, but I have to blame my
species for the bad. That’s some comfort.”
“That's
not necessarily what I.D. theorists says. They say there's a creator,
but they don't qualify it. Besides, not everyone wants to see it your
way. They’re not as strong as you to be able to live
without faith.”
“It’s not about strength. I
think it takes more strength to believe in ID after getting the world
news from your morning paper. The issue here is one of making meaning
or taking meaning. Instead of condemning the world and humankind in
expectation of the after party, why not leave the world better than
you found it? You know the world will be here long after you’re
gone. Whether “you” will be around when your body quits
is questionable. So I say act as though this is the only chance you
have to do anything meaningful. I think any god would understand.
Anyway, how needy is a god that requires your devotion?”
The Femels came to Zin in droves and C.O., thinking it would be better for community building, corralled them into one section of the city. The resentment was strong and I suppose understandable. I’ve never been one to get too attached to any particular place but I’ve known plenty of people who have. And there were plenty of people who were attached to that location. Rather than petition the government, people began to hurt Femels. What gets me is – the Femels took it all in stride. It’s almost as though they expected some sort of backlash to their migration. So, the isolated violence and prejudice, they took. If you’ve ever known a violent person, one who’s really caught up in his or her own righteousness, you know that in infuriates them when their target responds passively. A person prone to violence expects to be dealt with violently. Not doing so confuses and frustrates them. This confusion and frustration split the displaced citizens of Zin into two reactionary camps. The first group, realizing that Zin authority was accountable for this situation, decided to leave the city and any further whims of its governing body. (Rarely are such decisions made in full light of all the evidence.) The second group decided to take back what they felt was theirs. (It’s too bad you can’t hear my voice because that last line was delivered in a fitting, ominous tone.)
The voice in your head begins to stick. It stops and repeats from the beginning. First happens with song lyrics and snippets of statements. Progresses to such a point where there are thought pictures to go along with the voices. There's no longer just your one, familiar head voice either. May be a conversation or a cacophony of sound. But no matter what it turns into you're stuck. Not to the exclusion of the outside world, though. The thought loop overlays the world without. Imagine attempting to focus under such sensory assault. Eventually, the loop replaces any outside stimulus. Then the S.D. becomes catatonic and under C.O. orders, euthanised. "No Function, No Support." - the motto of C.O. Health.
If, while reading this, you’ve come to think I may be
losing my mind I wouldn’t altogether disagree. I’d
probably use different terminology but a loon by any other name is
still a loon. I haven’t necessarily “lost” my mind
so much as I’ve gained another. That’s the only way I can
explain what you’ve been witness to.
Here’s what I
think and you may take this thought and wrap your pretty little mind
around it:
My dream – I’m him. And, for the sake
of argument and necessary balance, in his dream – he’s
me.
Do pronouns even work in this situation?
Follow me.
Say I exist in one aspect of a holographic reality.
Might not another instance of I exist in another aspect of that
hologram, physically the same yet surviving in a different context?
Hell, to take this line of thinking further, might not infinite I’s
exist in an infinity of aspects of a holographic, infinite universe?
All these I’s, myself included, when looked at separately are
living distinct lives. Taken as a whole, however, all our particles
are functioning wholly together and in unison although those
functions are manifest differently depending on context. For
instance, I eat my breakfast and simultaneously all the myriad I’s
eat something – breakfast, lunch, each other, doesn't matter.
The manifestation of physical (or psychological) hunger is
contextual. When I walk, we all walk. But, when I lie down to sleep –
what if one of those I’s is just beginning to wake?
“ – but in the dream
I’m dating a girl!”
“That’s not
altogether uncommon.”
“Still, it’s
uncomfortable. Christ, if I told Caleb he’d flip. Hell, even my
dads would flip! I can already hear them, ‘Son, you mate with
women. You don’t date them.’”
“Is that
how you feel about it? You know sometimes dreams are telling us
things about ourselves that we don’t readily see or think about
in our waking lives.”
“This isn’t like a
normal dream though. It doesn’t have that surreal air about it.
Well, it’s surreal that I’d be dating a girl in my dream
but I don’t think even that would bother me so much if it
didn’t seem so real or so normal. I’m there, doing
what I’m doing, and it doesn’t even strike me as odd
until I happen to wake up.”
“And what are you
doing, other than dating a female?”
“Oh hell, I
don’t know. Last night I dreamt that I was lying on this couch
thing, looking at the ceiling and watching/listening to an older man
lecture on perspective.”
“The man was on the
ceiling?”
“Oh, no. I was looking at the ceiling
because I needed a blank surface. The image was in my line of vision
no matter where I looked. If I looked at the floor, the image would
be viewable over the texture of the carpet. The man’s voice was
in my head, too. Well, I guess it was all in my head, but you know
what I mean. Anyway, I’d get up to go to the bathroom and the
lecture would follow me – or rather, I would be following it
because the image would always be in front of me. It’s kind of
funny watching your piss flow into and through someone’s
head.”
“Sure. But none of this struck you as odd
or out of the ordinary?”
“Not a bit. Not until I
woke up and thought, ‘What the hell was that all
about?’”
“Where does the girl come
in?”
“When? Sometimes she comes over and we make
love. Other times we argue. She’s a part of whatever this life
is I’m dreaming of.”
“Hmmm...”
“What?
What’s that mean – the cryptic sound of
contemplation?”
“That was just an interesting
phrasing you used – ‘this life I’m dreaming of.’
I think it says a lot.”
“Well? Could you please
clue me in?”
“What might be right for you, may not be right for some”
1. Does that mean I’m always right?
2. Does it work
in practice?
3. In a relative existence, I’m always right –
yet so are you – and then what does right mean?
4. How does
being tolerant make you feel?
5. Can you build a life on a
relative foundation?
6. How far will you take the principle of
toleration - Toleration Uber Alles?
7. Is toleration an inherent
feature of the human being?
8. Should we all “just get
along?”
9. Does might equal right or logic equal legit?
10. At what might does toleration become undesirable?
11. If
we don’t tolerate is our only option to indoctrinate?
12.
From where do you get your ideas of right and wrong?
13. Is there
any benefit to intolerance?
14. Has your community adopted a
tolerant attitude?
15. Would you tolerate your government’s
attempt to disrupt another country’s oppressive regime?
16.
Would you tolerate another country’s attempt to disrupt your
country’s oppressive regime?
17. Would you tolerate your
neighbor abusing his or her spouse?
18. Would you tolerate your
neighbor abusing your spouse?
19. Are there standards of
relativity?
20. Toleration is a must, yet how do we go about it?
Either the dream has become less
frequent or I have become less observant. Typically a bastion of
relief and escape, my nights no longer provide anything other than an
excuse to lie down for a few hours. I’m uncertain how much
sleep I’m getting. My body is piping up here and asking me to
tell you, “None whatsoever.”
So if my hypothesis
about the dream is valid, my connection to one of the other me's is
tenuous at best. My subconscious must be as exhausted as my conscious
not to pay attention. Hmmm....can a subconscious not pay attention?
Why do we wage war?
1 – Fear
2 –
Unwillingness to change a mindset or way of life
3 –
Megalomania/Desire to further interests of a particular set of people
(group megalomania)
[There may be more and I’ll record them
as they occur to me.]
3. Often, one country wages war because
their leader is a power hungry dictator (sometimes even in the guise
of a casual, god-fearing simpleton). Check your history tapes.
Sometimes a leader convinces his public that he or she is a god. A
population fighting for a god fights without doubt. Such people have
nothing to lose, because the afterlife’s bliss promised by
their god awaits them.
2. One country may view another as
representing a threat to well-established cultural norms. Rather than
undergo a public dialogue with the other in an attempt to educate and
explore differences, the leaders of the steadfast country demonize
the other. This is done overtly or subtly. The result is the same –
the formation of public bias.
1. This is the foundation of
all other reasons. Fear is a concern. Why are leaders afraid? They’re
afraid to lose power or they’re afraid to change their minds.
Sometimes the fear is more fundamental. The fear is of death. The
fear of death, however, should be equated with defensive action, not
offensive.
What we have in Zin is a city divided into fifty
governing factions according to population density, economic
viability, etc. Heads of the factions meet routinely to discuss Zin’s
functions. One of these factions, Southwest 5, happens to be four
times larger than any other faction. What the head of SW5 wants, Zin
usually gets. When the head of SW5 is afraid, Zin usually suffers.
SW5 declared war on North Central and the Femels occupying it. They
multiplied too fast and fear of another displacement soon rose
throughout SW5. Thus, war.
We have a ritual called 'The Day of Love.' On this day, you
make every effort to show your partner your affection for them or you
suffer unimaginable torture. What happens if you equally love the
world and everything in it? Well, you may:
1 - tell your partner,
"in the grand scheme of existence, my love for you is equal to
my love for that spider dangling above your head." Between your
partner and the spider, life is.
Result: Your partner slaps you
and calls you an insensitive, uncaring lout.
2- tell your
partner, "I love all the world, but that love is subsumed by my
love for you."
Your partner is the Other that is All.
Result: Your partner hugs you with relief that your view of
romantic love is as narrow as theirs.
3 - tell your partner,
"Life is good, love makes it better and I'm happy we're
together."
An honest expression enhances relations.
Result:
Your partner says, "Oh, that's sweet," while hoping for a
more direct instance of ego gratification.
Unfortunately, the
Day of Love seems to feed people's insecurities. "If I don't
make the appropriate gesture, they won't think I love them," or,
"If they don't make the gesture I think I deserve, they probably
don't love me," or, "I don't have anyone to share this day
with. What's wrong with me?" or, "Fuck the Day of Love! Who
needs to show care?"
Fear again. Easy to spot, hard to
eliminate.
If I may quote a wiser person:
"Which is the
most universal human characterisic: fear or laziness?"
We
move from love to fear and back again - every day should be a day of
love.
When I drive these streets at night, moons low above me, the
weight of where I am presses upon me. The gated developments contrast
directly with the looming entertainment complexes. One warns "keep
out" while the other begs "come out!" When we're
though being entertained, it's time to retreat to safety. These
developments house thousands. Thousands of people living in such
close proximity yet lacking any presence. I'm the first to admit I
don't know any of my neighbors.
Despite this, I don't feel
our society is somehow worse off. I remember times before the Schism
and I remember those times fondly. But that's probably the case for
the vast majority of people who reflect upon their lives. We have a
tendency to think of the past as "better" and a model for
how life should be. Things are different now, that's all, different.
The children that grow up here and now, knowing nothing else, will
probably look back with warm regard upon all that I see as glaring
disconnect.
I'm finding it harder and harder to judge
anything on its own terms. What does it mean to judge a thing on its
own terms? Does any person, place, or thing exist on its own terms,
outside of a given context, separate from all that it influences and
that influences it? And what of my experience of that thing? I cannot
help but allow my own terms and feelings to color and guide my
perceptions. None can escape the comforting prison of subjectivity.
In light of this, I'm uncertain of how best to stay afloat in a sea
of multiplicity.
I've been wondering when the dream would come again. When would I slip into another me's mind? I had a mad dream last night that didn't feature any quantum relocation of consciousness. I went back to my old prior school for some unknown reason. Walking through the halls I noticed many varieties of teenage cliques lounging about. Of course, I knew none of them and they knew not me. As I continued to walk down the halls my discomfort at being a stranger grew. I left the building and walked outside. Bathed in loneliness, I looked all around for something familiar. This is not my memory. Then I knew why the discomfort. My family, Vale, my friends. Those are the people I know and should be concerned about. All these people I don't know, they may forever stay that way. But if I can't maintain decent relationships with those currently in my life what hope do I have to maintain a relationship with anyone ever?
Tell me why I'm here?
Where else would you be?
I wake up, my jaw hurts.
Stop bruxing.
Then,
who are you?
You, not you. Socially and
psychologically, we're two different entities. But, Mark, in a
quantum fashion - we're the same; two instantiations of an infinitely
mutable personatype. We're losing our selves, Mark. We're fragmenting
by coalescing.
But what'll happen to us?
We'll
become whole.
I've figured it out. A brief conversation with him/me. Whether
he remembers...I'll have to wait and see. You got a fragment because
the wire was on. You got the middle. The beginning and the end:
I
woke up and got ready for work. Slipped on my shoes, warmed some
water for a bowl of nutri-paste, linked up for news (the war is
"over"). I felt him then while I stood in the kitchen
watching the water boil. A slightly curious, highly confused, and
more than typically anxious presence tickled my head. No words, just
a brief awareness on my part. It made sense. I just woke up. And
here is one of them/me. Cultivate your awareness. Entice him/me.
I ate. He/I expressed disgust at the paste's flavor. It's
all you need, I said to the inside. That, and this.
Then I ate the bowl.
I guess the world outside amazed
him/me to the point of articulation. That day it took me 45 minutes
to get out of my subdivision. He/I asked what the hell this was. The
Sprawl, I said. The Suburbs. Then I looked in my rearview
mirror. He/I gasped. I understood. What's your name? Mark.
Karm. The conversation posted a few days ago took place. I
arrived at work. Mark grew anxious then vaporous. He/I must have
woken. Risen from a nightmare of the Sprawl. Back to reality.
You/I'll be back, Mark. If not, I'll see you/me tonight.
I’ve been exercising as much as my health permits.
I’ve been trying to form articulate descriptions for those
expressing concern. It comes out as gibberish, which does nothing to
bring our positions into any type of concordance.
Does anyone out
in the ether know the etymology of the word “gibberish”?
Was there once a land called Gibber? And did their alphabet consist
of all consonants? Did the Queen Mother of Gibber ride around in a
purple pumpkin and did her husband wear a liquid crown? Could the
people of Gibber understand each other?
I stand before a
simulated monkey. He dances and chatters and bares his teeth. He
eats, sleeps, shits, and sometimes flings that shit at passers-by. He
watches those watching him watching them. He hasn’t yet
realized this is the feedback loop of self-awareness. He knows he is
on display. He doesn’t yet realize he is watching himself watch
himself. But when he does – oh! – when he does...the
world around him will crumble and rebuild itself exactly as before;
only this time, the monkey will stand before a simulated world. He
will then dance, chatter, and bare his teeth. He will eat, sleep,
shit, and sometimes fling that shit at passers-by. He will watch
those watching him watching them. He will realize that this is the
feedback loop of self-awareness. He will then ask, “For whom am
I on display?”
The irregularity gets to me. We live in a universe that
exhibits “handedness”, symmetry. On top of that,
everything spins. We might doubt that the universe spins, but I don’t
see why we should. Anyway, I think as the universe expands and speeds
up and expands some more that centrifugal force distorts our
symmetry.
Have you seen ever seen footage of what happens to a
person in a centrifuge? They spin and spin and spin and their facial
features get distorted from the G-force. Then, their eyes roll back
into their heads and “Poof!” - they cold pass out. Some
have an NDE (which is interesting when you come to realize that we
all live out our lives in the biggest centrifuge all them all –
do we all pass out and see a god when the motion gets too much?).
But, more importantly, a centrifuge distorts humans. The faster they
spin, the more out of whack become their appearances. There is
probably an internal distortion as well but it’s harder to
judge that from video.
In the wake of the universe’s
centrifugal force, the male/female bond pulls apart at its seams. The
relationship between humans and their non-manufactured environment
elongates and stretches. The psyche itself twists and ripples as
result. Distortion becomes the norm when movement precedes existence.
Perhaps it was the recent lunar eclipse, perhaps not.
Whatever IT was, something there was that did not love a
relationship.
Many couples that once were are no more.
Some
went in a bastardly flash.
Some went after torturous discussion,
debate, debacle, and doubt.
I did dream last night. Not of
anything important or dimension shattering. A simple dream about a
visit to a small town and the downright awe such a visit can inspire
in a person who’s never been to a small town. In the dream, I
took two other people with me to a small town I used to live in. My
guests (who I think were George Clooney and Tim Blake Nelson in their
‘O, Brother’ garb but I can’t really remember)
wanted to touch everything and seemed to regard the entire
environment as holy/sacred. I thought, that’s odd –
that road is where I drank my first six pack and that road is where I
lost my virginity.
I guess the old saying holds true:
"One person’s holy ground is another’s hotbed of
adolescent debauchery."
I want to have an adventure.
It doesn’t seem like it
would be that hard of a thing to manage. Simply sever the I.V. drip
called “salary” that connects me to my job and find an
old galleon upon which to stow away. That’s not too much too
ask.
I heard a news item today about scientists from one
field who got caught imitating scientists from another field. This
group of biologists decided they wanted to impersonate physicists,
you know, just for kicks. The biologists’ names were Alex, Ted,
George, and Chad. They worked for a university somewhere in the East.
Anyway, they lost their biology garb and donned that of a physicist.
Then, they sneaked into the physics lab at the university and got to
work. They dropped bowling balls from the tops of towers and
teleported light. Eventually though, the imposters got caught when
they tried to lecture one afternoon. About halfway through the
lecture one of the class’s quietest students stood up and
yelled, “That’s not Planck’s constant!” The
students were outraged and a riot ensued. The biologists barely
escaped with their lives only to be caught an hour later by campus
security. Some people will go to great lengths to entertain
themselves.
There once was a man who woke to
find his head missing. He could still see, hear, and think –
this tale isn’t long enough to tell whether he could still
taste. He woke and went to the bathroom and didn’t look in the
mirror and sat on the toilet and when he tried to rest his head in
his hands he almost fell forward and pissed all over himself. He
stood up with his pants around his ankles and went to the mirror. He
saw his headless body. He passed one hand through the space where his
head had been. Then he passed the other hand through. He tried to
spit. Nothing came out. He wondered how he could see. Then he
wondered how he could breathe.
The phone rang.
He
tried to answer it but the receiver didn’t fit anywhere. A
disembodied voice sounded in the air like a helium-sucking ghost,
“Hello? Hello? Dieter, are you there?”
He hung up
the phone and began to ready himself for his first day as The Man Who
Woke to Find His Head Missing.
