FOREWORD: This is a STORY. Not a post about my life. Though one can assume so if you wish. The first person is an attempt at something different from my usual third person narratives.
-------------------------------------------------
Today at school the teacher was teaching us about history again. It was a play, sort of. Some girl had gotten interested in her servant and decided to flirt with him. Said teacher had this huge PowerPoint presentation, nearly fifty slides long, filled with stuff about themes and relationships and literary devices. All this was to be poured via lecture into our minds and hopefully onto our reports when we handed them up next week. It was hard staying awake, all that droning did was put my brain to sleep, but I pinched myself a few times throughout the lecture to keep awake. It didn’t work.
By the time my friend prodded me awake a good third of the slides were over. Five minutes to dismissal.
Along the way back I met with Paul and Simon to check the pools. It was a competition we had, four times a year. Every boy would have their own pool, dug out of a hole in the yard, which the rain was supposed to fill and the sun dry out. Then when some time had passed we would take turns to measure it, see how deep the pool was. The ones with the deepest pools won a prize.
Paul’s pool was really good – a star shaped one (he liked standing out) in concrete, dug using an automatic drill. His father had been rich enough to afford one, the lucky bastard. As if that wasn’t enough, his uncle had just bought him a rain catcher for his “little project” so that he could fill the pool up faster. I wanted to stay and watch the rain catcher work, but the missed slides from the lecture had left this big empty gap of worry in my heart.
I spent the rest of the night reading the first three chapters, and another two chapters in advance, just in case.
Morning came and with it came Pool Inspection. Some of the kids didn’t bother but personally speaking, a little paranoia never hurt. I had dug my pool in the soil and lined it with plastic to keep the water from seeping; it wasn’t very good plastic though, and the ground was hard. The pool was very wide, but not very deep – each time I tried to go lower the spade would clang off hard rock or soil, sending little shocks of impact through my arm.
We got our grades from the previous assignments back. A literature essay, on a play about some girl who got raped by her father. Or was it her boyfriend? Anyway I had written all the usual stuff that the teacher had taught us in class, some weird nonsense about the flowers being all girly and the characters being “out of place”. I wasn’t sure how much of it was true, but the teacher said it was correct, so I just wrote it all down.
I got a D. “Not deep enough” wrote the teacher. I decided to go look at Simon’s essay, which got an A. Maybe it was something I forgot to write.
It rained a lot on my side, so my pool filled up quite quickly. But each time there was so much water that it overflowed from the pool and into the ground, wasted. Then the sun would come up and dry the whole thing out again, leaving something like a puddle in the ground. That always made me worried. Sometimes after it rained in the morning I liked to go sit at the window and look at all the small little puddles on the road, glistening with potential. Then I had to go to school, and by the time I came back the puddles were gone, all dried up.
I didn’t want my pool to dry up. If it did I wouldn’t get the prize.
During our welfare class the teacher thought it would be interesting to try out an interview session with each one of us. He said it will help us with our future, though how it did I couldn’t really tell. It didn’t really matter to me though, because all that meant was that the rest of us were free to do whatever we wanted. Like my math homework.
John got called by the teacher. He stood up proudly, stacking his papers up in a nice neat bundle before going out of the door. John always had a lot of papers – I think it’s because he kept winning the competitions. The prize was usually this great big piece of paper that all the guys signed and drew smiley faces on, to show that you had the deepest pool for that term. John had nearly eight of those now, thanks to the rain catcher.
I had tried using a hose to fill the pool with water, but every time I did the pool overflowed and most of the water went to waste. It didn’t make a difference no matter how many times I refilled the pool. The sun just came up again and the ground remained hard no matter what. Still, I keep digging, because I really want that prize. Everyone does, except for Simon.
The math homework lay finished, a minor obstacle now overcome. I had to check some of the methods with the guidebooks I borrowed from John, but overall I think I understood the questions. I just needed to make sure I knew which method to use with which question…
Simon came back to the class, still smiling. He was always smiling, that Simon. Even though his pool wasn’t very good and didn’t have any fancy rain catchers it still was pretty deep. When I asked him how he did it he just shrugged and said that it seemed obvious. I’m not sure what he meant by that, though I suspect he uses a hose from time to time. When I asked him about it he just laughed and said the prize wasn’t worth cheating for. Simon was weird, in that way.
I was about to re-read the textbook again when the teacher called me out. It wasn’t like I had a choice, so I went outside. The teacher sat across, his spectacles gleaming in the corridor light. I didn’t know what to say, so I told him my name and class and date of birth - and all he did was nod. I tried talking about all the things I knew, like how many eggs a platypus laid, and what methods were best used to solve a quadratic equation. I tried quoting all the good things the other teachers had said about me, about how hardworking I was despite all the trouble I seemed to have. By the time I ran out of things to say the teacher was looking at me with a bored expression on his face, twirling his pen in the air;
“Alright, that’s good. So…what hobbies do you like?”
What?
I tried to answer, but nothing came. What hobbies? What kind of question was that? The textbooks said nothing about “hobbies”. I never bothered, never had time! I was too busy trying to keep up, trying not to let my pool disappear…
I wanted to answer, but all I could do was stare blankly at his face - poised and expectant - as my pool finally ran out and dried, like puddles under the hot afternoon sun.
----------------------------------------------------
In a moment of twisted inspiration I decided to write this story instead of my World Lit Essay. Behold the wonders of reading too much Paddy Clarke!
It felt interesting trying a different style of writing though. In doing so I was aiming for some sort of overall message that was bothering me for a while, which (if my writing skillz are l337 enuf) you would have gotten. If you didn't, feel free to tell me the level of fail I have reached by posting this crap onto the internet.
IB really makes me wonder sometimes. In both senses of the word.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Monday, January 12, 2009
The Great Vomiting
Siddhartha much? Perhaps I have been reading too much lit. Well, reading too much at least.
Over the hols I have discovered of all things, an slew of online story sites. Some good, some bad, some that just turned my brain to sludge. But in all that crap something stood out - a strange sort of mismashed impression, that these were all story sites, all on the internet, and all (sadly?) probably written by teenagers between the age of 13-19.
But all together, they became a voice. A small voice amongst the tide of the internet, with its great waves crashing all over the place, facts and wikipedia overloading our minds with every hyperlink. But a voice nonetheless.
They spoke of all things, change. They spoke of futures, of possibilities. Of what could have been, has been and will be soon. This is the age, THE age, where all the knowledge of a million people, their thoughts, their feelings - their sorrows, joys and regets, their successes and failures, their hopes and dreams - all of this, each a drink of innumerable flavors, float around the internet; a sight akin to seeing a slew of wine bottles floating through the gutter. Thing is, you never know which one might be the cheap alcohol, and which the 1787 Chateau d'Yquem.
In an age where all of this is available, what happens? Where we can look and see, from the comfort of our doorstep, the multitude of links and chains that web the world together? We see the patterns, I see the patterns, and they are ever-shifting, ever changing, a product and cause of the past, the present and the future.
We act on the present based on our past, and hence affect the future. That's the common line of thought. But then there is looking to the future to affect the present - this is called foresight. And then there's looking at how the past affects the future as well - this is called history. So what is there to say that the future did not affect the past? Somewhere, in the ancient times of the Egyptians, a king saw the future and made monuments to outlast the grinding hands of time.
And all these voices, they too speak of when has been. I read them and look at life, look at people and the world around, and I see patterns, connections - strange rifts and waves. Life has a rhythm, a flow to it. A song, but more than just music. A story, but more than mere words. A play, but across an infinite stage, with an unlimited cast. And in the heart of this, in the soul and centre, lie the voices of each generation, in black and white type across the screen.
A teacher told me at the start of the year, that the gift of the writer, the power they hold, is the ability to turn life into words, such that when a reader sees them, reads the scenario presented as in drawn into, he or she can say, "It resonates with me. It reminds me so much of my life". Except that its not only one life. Its an ocean, a million, billion droplets connected together in a massive body of water, flowing, churning, sparkling in the flame of life.
And so I drink from this ocean, with shaking hands and thirsty lips, until I can drink no more, am filled to the brim. Until these ideas, swimming and clashing in my brain like stars, burst out of my lips and hands and onto the page. To join the rest of the streams, flowing towards the sea.
I met my friends today, and was reminded of the endless potential displayed in upstart new heroes, eager to take on the world. I saw my EE Mentor, and felt the doom and fear of a minion before his absolute master, Demon of the Abyss. I cheered my sister's wonderful results, saw her tired smile, and heard the cheers of fellow family and friends cheering their champion's return. In life I see stories, and in stories I see life. And God is the Author, playwright and poet, of the greatest play of all.
Someday, I hope to write.
There is but a single line's difference, between a word and the world.
Over the hols I have discovered of all things, an slew of online story sites. Some good, some bad, some that just turned my brain to sludge. But in all that crap something stood out - a strange sort of mismashed impression, that these were all story sites, all on the internet, and all (sadly?) probably written by teenagers between the age of 13-19.
But all together, they became a voice. A small voice amongst the tide of the internet, with its great waves crashing all over the place, facts and wikipedia overloading our minds with every hyperlink. But a voice nonetheless.
They spoke of all things, change. They spoke of futures, of possibilities. Of what could have been, has been and will be soon. This is the age, THE age, where all the knowledge of a million people, their thoughts, their feelings - their sorrows, joys and regets, their successes and failures, their hopes and dreams - all of this, each a drink of innumerable flavors, float around the internet; a sight akin to seeing a slew of wine bottles floating through the gutter. Thing is, you never know which one might be the cheap alcohol, and which the 1787 Chateau d'Yquem.
In an age where all of this is available, what happens? Where we can look and see, from the comfort of our doorstep, the multitude of links and chains that web the world together? We see the patterns, I see the patterns, and they are ever-shifting, ever changing, a product and cause of the past, the present and the future.
We act on the present based on our past, and hence affect the future. That's the common line of thought. But then there is looking to the future to affect the present - this is called foresight. And then there's looking at how the past affects the future as well - this is called history. So what is there to say that the future did not affect the past? Somewhere, in the ancient times of the Egyptians, a king saw the future and made monuments to outlast the grinding hands of time.
And all these voices, they too speak of when has been. I read them and look at life, look at people and the world around, and I see patterns, connections - strange rifts and waves. Life has a rhythm, a flow to it. A song, but more than just music. A story, but more than mere words. A play, but across an infinite stage, with an unlimited cast. And in the heart of this, in the soul and centre, lie the voices of each generation, in black and white type across the screen.
A teacher told me at the start of the year, that the gift of the writer, the power they hold, is the ability to turn life into words, such that when a reader sees them, reads the scenario presented as in drawn into, he or she can say, "It resonates with me. It reminds me so much of my life". Except that its not only one life. Its an ocean, a million, billion droplets connected together in a massive body of water, flowing, churning, sparkling in the flame of life.
And so I drink from this ocean, with shaking hands and thirsty lips, until I can drink no more, am filled to the brim. Until these ideas, swimming and clashing in my brain like stars, burst out of my lips and hands and onto the page. To join the rest of the streams, flowing towards the sea.
I met my friends today, and was reminded of the endless potential displayed in upstart new heroes, eager to take on the world. I saw my EE Mentor, and felt the doom and fear of a minion before his absolute master, Demon of the Abyss. I cheered my sister's wonderful results, saw her tired smile, and heard the cheers of fellow family and friends cheering their champion's return. In life I see stories, and in stories I see life. And God is the Author, playwright and poet, of the greatest play of all.
Someday, I hope to write.
There is but a single line's difference, between a word and the world.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Progress
John Wickerson rose to the cheering ovation of the crowds. With one fine, manicured hand he silenced the masses, with the other he adjusted his sleek, black tie. Upon his smooth, angular face lay a pair of NewTech glasses, calibrated to shield the eyes from maximum glare. As the great man stepped out into the morning sun his freshly tailored smart suit readjusted itself to the heat of the sun, nano-fibres tightening to release the many small pockets of heat-trapping air, cooling and ventilating his body.
The podium was made of sleek, black synthesized oak, the original great trees having went extinct over centuries of woodcutting. A small laser-mic rested upon its smooth surface, transmitting his voice directly into the head-jacks of the populace around the world.
“I am John Wickerson," said the figure, his young voice bright and rich, "the new leader of the Fifty-first state. As I promised then, so do I promise now: Change!”
“Change!” echoed the crowd, fists held high the in air,
“For ten years our country had languished in the pits of tradition, slaving our way through the ecosystem. For ten years we were bound by the environment, blinded by religion, shackled by practice, condemned to remain stagnant forever! For ten years I watched as good men and women, with healthy minds and souls were forced by the boundaries of our once-barbaric society to work, toil and sweat for their lives!”
“We thought things were so for a reason. We believed so firmly in our roots to show us the way. But little did we know that the roots had rotted, the tree was dying, and the fruit - and seeds of our future – were slowly being poisoned by the sickness of ages past.”
A brief cloud passed over the stadium, obscuring the morning sun. Moments later a low hum could be heard echoing over the sky, as the cloud was dispersed into water vapor and air. Nothing would disrupt the perfect, sunny mood of John Wickerson’s speech.
“But then, salvation came! The light of Progress came to our aid! With its caring arms it sheltered the seeds, with its mighty hands it rebuilt the tree, and with its loving heart it opened to way for more Progress to come, that all seeds may grow and not die, without pain, worry or struggle.”
“Progress!” screamed the crowd,
“They brought us technology, showed us the light. Our crippled were healed, our men and women restored. Our industries are automated, that no man be oppressed for the benefit of others. All our previous systems: our failing economies, our flawed beliefs, our outdated practices – were abolished and remade anew! Now we need not worry about finance with the abundance of produce, and no child need waste precious time on painful things like education or work. With Progress all things shall be met!”
Throughout the state men and women cried and screamed in joy, as their mood calibrators pumped dose after dose of serotonin into their minds.
“Once I was but one of the down trodden, a worker in a factory producing cars. But ten years later, I stand here today. With Progress, everything has changed!”
“Change!”
“And so, in the name of Progress I bring to the Fifty-first state the latest development of Progress: the EarthNet! Now all citizens of the Fifty-first state may join the wondrous Dreamscape, where all your imaginations and dreams may soar. No more would we have to toil to see our dreams come through, no more would the poor inventor have to trudge his way through the hurdles of our so-called society, wasting years of precious genius and creativity. Now we can be satisfied! Now we can be Changed!”
And as the cheers of the crowd burst into ovation John Wickerson returned to his seat, and pressed a single button underneath the armrest. For a brief moment the world flickered, as the stadium, the cheering, and the sky went dim. John blinked, taking a moment to re-orientate himself, before removing the head-jack that linked him to the Net. Quickly, he erased all records of his recent imaginings. The Automated political system of Progress did not take kindly to those who dwelled in past victories.
Outside the glass panels of his house what remained of the Stadium slowly crumbled, pulled apart by giant hovering claws and wrecking balls the size of a bus. A single camera floated, a mere fly amongst the rest of the machines, monitoring the Progress of the Stadium. Once more John Wickerson was left with nothing to do.
John simply sighed, throwing his head back on the armchair. The red velvet piece of furniture had been passed in his generation for centuries, one of the last reminders of the old world. He ran his fingers over the armrest, recalling the precious moments he spent with his grandmother in the very same chair. At times like these, the relic gave him comfort.
Outside the weather continued bright and sunny, maintained by the technology of Progress. Forever it would remain that way, until the time for the next Change came once again.
------------------------------------------------
The New Year has come, but have things truely Changed? Which leads to the next question: Should they?
The podium was made of sleek, black synthesized oak, the original great trees having went extinct over centuries of woodcutting. A small laser-mic rested upon its smooth surface, transmitting his voice directly into the head-jacks of the populace around the world.
“I am John Wickerson," said the figure, his young voice bright and rich, "the new leader of the Fifty-first state. As I promised then, so do I promise now: Change!”
“Change!” echoed the crowd, fists held high the in air,
“For ten years our country had languished in the pits of tradition, slaving our way through the ecosystem. For ten years we were bound by the environment, blinded by religion, shackled by practice, condemned to remain stagnant forever! For ten years I watched as good men and women, with healthy minds and souls were forced by the boundaries of our once-barbaric society to work, toil and sweat for their lives!”
“We thought things were so for a reason. We believed so firmly in our roots to show us the way. But little did we know that the roots had rotted, the tree was dying, and the fruit - and seeds of our future – were slowly being poisoned by the sickness of ages past.”
A brief cloud passed over the stadium, obscuring the morning sun. Moments later a low hum could be heard echoing over the sky, as the cloud was dispersed into water vapor and air. Nothing would disrupt the perfect, sunny mood of John Wickerson’s speech.
“But then, salvation came! The light of Progress came to our aid! With its caring arms it sheltered the seeds, with its mighty hands it rebuilt the tree, and with its loving heart it opened to way for more Progress to come, that all seeds may grow and not die, without pain, worry or struggle.”
“Progress!” screamed the crowd,
“They brought us technology, showed us the light. Our crippled were healed, our men and women restored. Our industries are automated, that no man be oppressed for the benefit of others. All our previous systems: our failing economies, our flawed beliefs, our outdated practices – were abolished and remade anew! Now we need not worry about finance with the abundance of produce, and no child need waste precious time on painful things like education or work. With Progress all things shall be met!”
Throughout the state men and women cried and screamed in joy, as their mood calibrators pumped dose after dose of serotonin into their minds.
“Once I was but one of the down trodden, a worker in a factory producing cars. But ten years later, I stand here today. With Progress, everything has changed!”
“Change!”
“And so, in the name of Progress I bring to the Fifty-first state the latest development of Progress: the EarthNet! Now all citizens of the Fifty-first state may join the wondrous Dreamscape, where all your imaginations and dreams may soar. No more would we have to toil to see our dreams come through, no more would the poor inventor have to trudge his way through the hurdles of our so-called society, wasting years of precious genius and creativity. Now we can be satisfied! Now we can be Changed!”
And as the cheers of the crowd burst into ovation John Wickerson returned to his seat, and pressed a single button underneath the armrest. For a brief moment the world flickered, as the stadium, the cheering, and the sky went dim. John blinked, taking a moment to re-orientate himself, before removing the head-jack that linked him to the Net. Quickly, he erased all records of his recent imaginings. The Automated political system of Progress did not take kindly to those who dwelled in past victories.
Outside the glass panels of his house what remained of the Stadium slowly crumbled, pulled apart by giant hovering claws and wrecking balls the size of a bus. A single camera floated, a mere fly amongst the rest of the machines, monitoring the Progress of the Stadium. Once more John Wickerson was left with nothing to do.
John simply sighed, throwing his head back on the armchair. The red velvet piece of furniture had been passed in his generation for centuries, one of the last reminders of the old world. He ran his fingers over the armrest, recalling the precious moments he spent with his grandmother in the very same chair. At times like these, the relic gave him comfort.
Outside the weather continued bright and sunny, maintained by the technology of Progress. Forever it would remain that way, until the time for the next Change came once again.
------------------------------------------------
The New Year has come, but have things truely Changed? Which leads to the next question: Should they?
Saturday, December 6, 2008
"What's the use of Steering?"
A strange question that some might not understand. Steering is the so-called 'leadership committee' in the Boy's Brigade Primers. But in a way this question is relevant to us all - just change the words 'Steering' to 'Manager', 'President', 'CEO'.
Many of us nowadays, me included, seem to walk around with the concept that all the work in the company is done by the managers. By the IT Experts, by the salesmen, by the custodians and maintanance men. So what the, are the point of the big bosses? If the organs run won't the business grow?
What if the heart still functions while the brain is dead?
It is a redundant topic I suppose. All of us know this. Yet how many of us truely act on it? I once thought that the world had too many leaders. I now know this is false. The world has too many sheep thinking to be leaders. The shepherds are now all lost.
Humans have always been creatures of habit. Patterns, logic and order. We establish rules and fixed methods for accomplishing things, for the sake of efficiency, for the sake of economy. And now I believe, for the sake of our sanity.
How many of us can truely, truely say we live spontaneously, through our lives? Even while the greatest of comedians and stage actors laugh with the audience on stage back home they have a favourite chair or sofa that they sit in every evening to relax, worn out from a good day's work. Perhaps its only my mentality, but when I analyze it, when I plumb the depths of my brain, and then compare it with the actions and behavior of the world around me I find the only conclusions I can make is this:
We are all followers.
Some of us claim to have vision. When asked about it they say: Oh, I want to make my first million by the time I'm 25. Others look to becoming CEOs, scientists, great writers. Yet how many of us have a concrete plan, a long-term step process - a path as to the goal?
Its useless saying you want to get to the port if you do not even have a map.
Back to the original question. Steering Committee is supposed to be the unifying committee of the Boys Brigade 12th(I) Company. It is supposed to be the Seer, the old Soothsayer that sits in its hut recieving visions of the future from the Officers and sometimes CE Committee. Then we find the Heroes (i.e. chairmen of the respective committees) and send them on a Quest.
But are we really doing something like that?
Steering now, simply organises and plans. We sort out a schedule, and say "on friday this is the time table". Which, while being a definate duty and neccessity, seems rather...lacking. It is like the soothsayer from earlier suddenly overseeing the runnings of the village. We have village elders and matrons for that. So what can the Soothsayer do?
Believe. That's what.
The role of Leaders, of Kings and Generals, has never been to carry out the tasks. They can do so to inspire, they can do so to push - but these are the facilitators, the sub-leaders, the link between the future and the present. For the leaders, they are the future, they have to be. The sub-leaders cannot concentrate on the men and their orders at the same time (though there exist a precious few who can). No, it is the leaders who must be the "lazy bastard" that gives the order to charge. Because if he doesn't, then who will?
Who is willing to take responsibility for the lives of a hundred men? A hundred employees, soliders, farmers, villagers.
A hundred BB Boys?
Administrators are what we are now. What most of us believe to be leadership. Create a plan, carry it out. That is simply processing. It is stupid, its idealistic, but thats what them leaders are for. A central nerve, someone to whom all the orders go, all the information is fed, so that the whole system can function as a whole. And because of this, there is the risk, the horrible risk of losing sight of the source of all this information, and forgetting, just for a moment, just who you are responsible for. Throwing away, sometimes for good, responsibility altogether. And that's what makes a good leader fall.
We live in fear of this. We keep saying: we must not forget the little guy, the commoner on the street. And this is true. We cannot ignore them. But we cannot glorify them either. AS leaders, as someone appointed to the position, we cannot simply look at the day-by-day processes and crack our skulls over it. We have to...create. We have to explore. And we have to take the risks, and absorb the responsibility when we do explore. And by exploring, we find success - but at what cost? This Dilenma, this situation, is the painful question I believe many leaders, true leaders, are often forced to ask: what is the price for our success?
The key word here is 'our'. And the moment the leader forgets that, he is a shepherd no more.
Always remember that Butchers keep sheep and goats as well.
Many of us nowadays, me included, seem to walk around with the concept that all the work in the company is done by the managers. By the IT Experts, by the salesmen, by the custodians and maintanance men. So what the, are the point of the big bosses? If the organs run won't the business grow?
What if the heart still functions while the brain is dead?
It is a redundant topic I suppose. All of us know this. Yet how many of us truely act on it? I once thought that the world had too many leaders. I now know this is false. The world has too many sheep thinking to be leaders. The shepherds are now all lost.
Humans have always been creatures of habit. Patterns, logic and order. We establish rules and fixed methods for accomplishing things, for the sake of efficiency, for the sake of economy. And now I believe, for the sake of our sanity.
How many of us can truely, truely say we live spontaneously, through our lives? Even while the greatest of comedians and stage actors laugh with the audience on stage back home they have a favourite chair or sofa that they sit in every evening to relax, worn out from a good day's work. Perhaps its only my mentality, but when I analyze it, when I plumb the depths of my brain, and then compare it with the actions and behavior of the world around me I find the only conclusions I can make is this:
We are all followers.
Some of us claim to have vision. When asked about it they say: Oh, I want to make my first million by the time I'm 25. Others look to becoming CEOs, scientists, great writers. Yet how many of us have a concrete plan, a long-term step process - a path as to the goal?
Its useless saying you want to get to the port if you do not even have a map.
Back to the original question. Steering Committee is supposed to be the unifying committee of the Boys Brigade 12th(I) Company. It is supposed to be the Seer, the old Soothsayer that sits in its hut recieving visions of the future from the Officers and sometimes CE Committee. Then we find the Heroes (i.e. chairmen of the respective committees) and send them on a Quest.
But are we really doing something like that?
Steering now, simply organises and plans. We sort out a schedule, and say "on friday this is the time table". Which, while being a definate duty and neccessity, seems rather...lacking. It is like the soothsayer from earlier suddenly overseeing the runnings of the village. We have village elders and matrons for that. So what can the Soothsayer do?
Believe. That's what.
The role of Leaders, of Kings and Generals, has never been to carry out the tasks. They can do so to inspire, they can do so to push - but these are the facilitators, the sub-leaders, the link between the future and the present. For the leaders, they are the future, they have to be. The sub-leaders cannot concentrate on the men and their orders at the same time (though there exist a precious few who can). No, it is the leaders who must be the "lazy bastard" that gives the order to charge. Because if he doesn't, then who will?
Who is willing to take responsibility for the lives of a hundred men? A hundred employees, soliders, farmers, villagers.
A hundred BB Boys?
Administrators are what we are now. What most of us believe to be leadership. Create a plan, carry it out. That is simply processing. It is stupid, its idealistic, but thats what them leaders are for. A central nerve, someone to whom all the orders go, all the information is fed, so that the whole system can function as a whole. And because of this, there is the risk, the horrible risk of losing sight of the source of all this information, and forgetting, just for a moment, just who you are responsible for. Throwing away, sometimes for good, responsibility altogether. And that's what makes a good leader fall.
We live in fear of this. We keep saying: we must not forget the little guy, the commoner on the street. And this is true. We cannot ignore them. But we cannot glorify them either. AS leaders, as someone appointed to the position, we cannot simply look at the day-by-day processes and crack our skulls over it. We have to...create. We have to explore. And we have to take the risks, and absorb the responsibility when we do explore. And by exploring, we find success - but at what cost? This Dilenma, this situation, is the painful question I believe many leaders, true leaders, are often forced to ask: what is the price for our success?
The key word here is 'our'. And the moment the leader forgets that, he is a shepherd no more.
Always remember that Butchers keep sheep and goats as well.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Seasons of Fluff
It was with a heavy heart and sad eyes that the poet Jonathan Ematon left the train station by the fields. Long hours at work each day, banging upon typewriters and listening to the chidings of his editor left him in need of a good, long break. And so by cashing on what little leave he had, Jonathan managed to procure for himself five days by the countryside, in a old farm shack owned by his grandfather.
Old boots crunched on the frosted gravel as the man made his way towards the farm. Worn eyes gazed over the vast green fields, populated by woolen, fluffy sheep. The time of the year was when the lambs began growing their coats, such that every animal upon the grasslands looked like a small white cloud, come to earth after spending too much time in the sky.
People often talked about him having his head in the clouds, but this time the clouds had come to him. It was funny, in a way. Jonathan smiled.
His grandfather was waiting for him, old bones and all, upon the same old rocking chair. He remembered that rocking chair - his grandfather had used it long before he was even born. The wood on its legs bore scratches and markings from decades ago, testaments of a time long past. Back when Jonathan was five, his grandpa would take him onto his leg, smiling and smoking that putrid, ivory pipe of his, one hand tracing the scars on the chair - and there he would speak.
"Heh, my boy, I see you found me chair's little markings. Now, there's a story behind that - a real good story. See, when I was younger, about your father's age now, all tall and strong and smart, this place here wasn't quite a peaceful as it was. Oh no, it had much more. Wolves for one. Great snarling beasts, with teeth a hundred feet long, and claws ten inches wide. They-"
And then he would continue, about how a wolf had pounced upon him when he was sleeping, minding the flock, and how he had taken the chair and blocked its swipes, then hit it with the back so hard the creature collapsed onto the porch. And then he would turn over the chair, and show him the little scars and single large dent on the back of the chair, and Jonathan, eyes wide with wonder and excitement, would stare at it in shock. His grandpa told him the first time he heard the story, his mouth had hung open for the rest of the day.
Just like Grandpa to exaggerate, then laugh about it all the way.
The sharp smell of smoke brought Jonathan back to the present. Was Grandfather still smoking that pipe? He was, judging from the dead flies around the ledge. Grandpa had noticed him now, his eyes bright with mirth.
"John, me boy! How have you been" cried Grandpa, arms outstretched. For a moment Jonathan considered running over to embrace him, hugging his grandfather with all the drama of a Saturday Night soap opera. Thinking it over, he decided he'd rather not. No, he'll rather settle for shaking hands instead.
"Grandfather" he answered, returning the smile with a cool one of his own. Old his grandfather may be, but his grip was as strong as ever.
"Your old rooms all cleaned'up and ready son," said his grandfather, "just put your stuff there and we can go fer a walk - you and me, just like old times"
"Maybe" sighed Jonathan "I feel really tired right now. Perhaps in thirty five minutes...?"
"Ha, take an hour! You need the rest son, isn't that what you came 'ere for in the first place? Go getcha sleep, we'll wake you up in a while."
Precisly three hours and twenty-two minutes later, Jonathan awoke. He fumbled about the darkness of his room, reaching for the light switch that wasn't there. Then he remembered, and laughed to himself softly, just under his breath. Without looking he grabbed his spectacles from the small dresser near the window still and maneuvered around the beam post in the middle of the room. He even managed to remember to avoid the springy little floorboard that sunk into the ground. All these things he recalled, and Grandpa was waiting for him-
Thirty seconds later Jonathan stumbled out to the front porch, gasping for breath. His grandfather was still there, asleep and unmoving, the air long clear of the smoke emitting from the now-dead embers of his ivory pipe. At the sudden commotion though, one wrinkled eyelid creaked open.
"Mrm...ah Jonathan. Sorry about that, the weather's really fine today...kinda dozed off. And the cuckoo clock's all broken, never could fix it properly...you know how things disappear if you don't keep track of them? Time's a thing too."
The afternoon air was still fresh and cool, even after being heated by the noonday sun. Across the porch the sheep grazed, a cluster of small white cotton balls on a sea of bright green grass. The sky was blue, bluer than the sky in the city, which was grey and tarnished from all the pollution there. Even Grandpa, with all his foul smoking and occasional swearing, could do little to stain the sky here. Emerging from the darkness of the cabin, everything around Jonathan just seemed so...pristine.
He sat down on the ledge next to his Grandfather, being careful to avoid crushing the flies. For the moment, everything is still. Then his Grandfather sighed;
"You know John, we used to sit here a lot too, back then."
"Yea."
"Even when you grew up you liked to come here and sit to look at the sky. I remember you would like to lean on that spot, right there, next to the beams, where you could see the fields and the little dirt road across them, and Grandma would be there with the sheep, and she would be smiling and-" he choked.
"I know."
"That was before you went to the city, of course. To write stories, was it? I remember you used to love listening to stories."
"It was...what made me want to write"
"And do you still do that?"
"...I'm not sure anymore" whispered Jonathan, and hung his head. It was such a immature gesture, such a childish reaction that he felt ashamed. Almost immediately he raised his head and looked away instead,
"What I meant was, I don't think I want to anymore."
"And why is that?" asked his grandfather, one eyebrow raised. Somewhere in their conversation he had lit his pipe, which now smoked with all the ash of a minature volcano.
Why is that indeed. What can I say? About the reviews from the magazines? About all the books and talks and seminars I've been to? What was it Mrs. Know-it-all Editor had said...
..."I know you Jonathan, and I know you can write better than this"
"I can, and I have. This is what I feel is best!"
"What you feel isn't enough John, its what the reader's feel. They want more drama...more complexity. A story like this just won't sell John, its too...idealistic."
"What do you mean?"
"Its too perfect. Too nicely wrapped up. No plot-hooks, no cliff-hangers, just one great big happy ending."
"And what's wrong with that?"
"Listen to yourself John. You're an adult writer for God's sake! Happy endings and joyful tidings are for children and mentally deranged teenagers! Adults need something a touch more...realistic."
"Things are realistic enough! The characters-"
"The characters are fine John. Your plot, isn't. I suggest you go and rewrite this. Go look around the world a bit more. Open those eyes of yours, or get some better glasses. Things aren't so bright and happy and people know it. Don't lie to them Jonathan."
And that was that.
His grandfather listened, quietly at first, then when John paused to check if he was listening, started inserting various grunts and nods just to show he was listening. At the end of the whole thing his grandpa just sat there smoking his piped, leaning back against his chair. Then he got up and spoke:
"My question would be, why write about it?"
"Huh?" said John, who was feeling rather relieved at the moment. It felt so good to just rant on about your problems, like some internal pressure value had been released...
"'Cause well, she says they already know it, yes? So why bother telling them? The worlds a bleak place and any idiot can see that. We don't need writers reminding us about it in words when we can just sees for ourselves, right?"
"Er, I don't think she quite meant it that way. You see, it was the fluff?"
"Fluff? Isn't that like the wool you get on sheep?" his grandfather was sitting upright now, but the expression upon his face was still one of confusion.
"Yes er, no. Fluff's what the writers call...excess packaging. Its what makes a reader feel good. Its sort of like...seasoning. But you don't need it."
"Why not?"
"Because...er, it's kind of obvious, isn't it? When you eat, you eat to nourish yourself, to feed your body. Writers can be...writers should be writing stories with more...substance. What's the point of people reading your works if it don't teach them anything about life?"
"That's true, that" muttered his grandfather, nodding. Without looking he reached into his pocket to pull out a pile of strange, dead leaves, half of which ended up in his pipe. The other half ended up somewhere stuck between the floorboards, rotting slowly away.
"And so the reverse applies to fluff. You don't really need it, per say, its just...extra fittings. But-"
"But it doesn't feel right, does it?" What was that a faint sparkle he saw in Grandpa's eye...?
"...no, not really", Jonathan replied, looking away. Now he found himself staring at the field again, "but it should! A good writer, a respectable writer, should be able to shape society, to teach mankind! And if my works don't make the cut then I don't really have the right to-"
"Right to what?" piqued Grandpa, his eyes flashing and fixed directly on his, "To inspire? To create? Content's all good and all, but at the end of the day you still need fluff."
"I don't...quite...get it."
"Well, you could look at sheep - they've got fluff too, piles of it. Farmers shear it off during summer cause its so useless then, surrounded by all them heat and light, but in the middle of winter, ah, that's when them wool is in use"
"We're talking about writing, not sheep" said Jonathan, trying to steer the conversation back on track, but to no avail. Grandpa just continued on and on...
"Wool is mostly air, you know. Just like clouds. All of them is air and water vapor, or thin strands of white so fine you slice through them with a leaf, but that don't matter, cause its these tiny little fibers that trap the air, that keep the warmth and heat in, and stops it from being lost to the cold, cold rain outside"
"I can see what you mean, but-"
"Cause you see, fluff it may be, but that's what keeps them warm at night," finished Grandpa with a great big smile on his face. And upon that face was the weathering of years, the marks from a thousand battles with the wind, with the world, with himself - every wrinkle was a hundred different tales, every line a new story to tell. And in the middle of it his smile, and his eyes, sparkling with a joy and light that seemed at the moment to radiate from him and him alone, a lamp in the gloom of the day.
"And that be what keeps all of us warm too, in all our darks and nights."
Old boots crunched on the frosted gravel as the man made his way towards the farm. Worn eyes gazed over the vast green fields, populated by woolen, fluffy sheep. The time of the year was when the lambs began growing their coats, such that every animal upon the grasslands looked like a small white cloud, come to earth after spending too much time in the sky.
People often talked about him having his head in the clouds, but this time the clouds had come to him. It was funny, in a way. Jonathan smiled.
His grandfather was waiting for him, old bones and all, upon the same old rocking chair. He remembered that rocking chair - his grandfather had used it long before he was even born. The wood on its legs bore scratches and markings from decades ago, testaments of a time long past. Back when Jonathan was five, his grandpa would take him onto his leg, smiling and smoking that putrid, ivory pipe of his, one hand tracing the scars on the chair - and there he would speak.
"Heh, my boy, I see you found me chair's little markings. Now, there's a story behind that - a real good story. See, when I was younger, about your father's age now, all tall and strong and smart, this place here wasn't quite a peaceful as it was. Oh no, it had much more. Wolves for one. Great snarling beasts, with teeth a hundred feet long, and claws ten inches wide. They-"
And then he would continue, about how a wolf had pounced upon him when he was sleeping, minding the flock, and how he had taken the chair and blocked its swipes, then hit it with the back so hard the creature collapsed onto the porch. And then he would turn over the chair, and show him the little scars and single large dent on the back of the chair, and Jonathan, eyes wide with wonder and excitement, would stare at it in shock. His grandpa told him the first time he heard the story, his mouth had hung open for the rest of the day.
Just like Grandpa to exaggerate, then laugh about it all the way.
The sharp smell of smoke brought Jonathan back to the present. Was Grandfather still smoking that pipe? He was, judging from the dead flies around the ledge. Grandpa had noticed him now, his eyes bright with mirth.
"John, me boy! How have you been" cried Grandpa, arms outstretched. For a moment Jonathan considered running over to embrace him, hugging his grandfather with all the drama of a Saturday Night soap opera. Thinking it over, he decided he'd rather not. No, he'll rather settle for shaking hands instead.
"Grandfather" he answered, returning the smile with a cool one of his own. Old his grandfather may be, but his grip was as strong as ever.
"Your old rooms all cleaned'up and ready son," said his grandfather, "just put your stuff there and we can go fer a walk - you and me, just like old times"
"Maybe" sighed Jonathan "I feel really tired right now. Perhaps in thirty five minutes...?"
"Ha, take an hour! You need the rest son, isn't that what you came 'ere for in the first place? Go getcha sleep, we'll wake you up in a while."
Precisly three hours and twenty-two minutes later, Jonathan awoke. He fumbled about the darkness of his room, reaching for the light switch that wasn't there. Then he remembered, and laughed to himself softly, just under his breath. Without looking he grabbed his spectacles from the small dresser near the window still and maneuvered around the beam post in the middle of the room. He even managed to remember to avoid the springy little floorboard that sunk into the ground. All these things he recalled, and Grandpa was waiting for him-
Thirty seconds later Jonathan stumbled out to the front porch, gasping for breath. His grandfather was still there, asleep and unmoving, the air long clear of the smoke emitting from the now-dead embers of his ivory pipe. At the sudden commotion though, one wrinkled eyelid creaked open.
"Mrm...ah Jonathan. Sorry about that, the weather's really fine today...kinda dozed off. And the cuckoo clock's all broken, never could fix it properly...you know how things disappear if you don't keep track of them? Time's a thing too."
The afternoon air was still fresh and cool, even after being heated by the noonday sun. Across the porch the sheep grazed, a cluster of small white cotton balls on a sea of bright green grass. The sky was blue, bluer than the sky in the city, which was grey and tarnished from all the pollution there. Even Grandpa, with all his foul smoking and occasional swearing, could do little to stain the sky here. Emerging from the darkness of the cabin, everything around Jonathan just seemed so...pristine.
He sat down on the ledge next to his Grandfather, being careful to avoid crushing the flies. For the moment, everything is still. Then his Grandfather sighed;
"You know John, we used to sit here a lot too, back then."
"Yea."
"Even when you grew up you liked to come here and sit to look at the sky. I remember you would like to lean on that spot, right there, next to the beams, where you could see the fields and the little dirt road across them, and Grandma would be there with the sheep, and she would be smiling and-" he choked.
"I know."
"That was before you went to the city, of course. To write stories, was it? I remember you used to love listening to stories."
"It was...what made me want to write"
"And do you still do that?"
"...I'm not sure anymore" whispered Jonathan, and hung his head. It was such a immature gesture, such a childish reaction that he felt ashamed. Almost immediately he raised his head and looked away instead,
"What I meant was, I don't think I want to anymore."
"And why is that?" asked his grandfather, one eyebrow raised. Somewhere in their conversation he had lit his pipe, which now smoked with all the ash of a minature volcano.
Why is that indeed. What can I say? About the reviews from the magazines? About all the books and talks and seminars I've been to? What was it Mrs. Know-it-all Editor had said...
..."I know you Jonathan, and I know you can write better than this"
"I can, and I have. This is what I feel is best!"
"What you feel isn't enough John, its what the reader's feel. They want more drama...more complexity. A story like this just won't sell John, its too...idealistic."
"What do you mean?"
"Its too perfect. Too nicely wrapped up. No plot-hooks, no cliff-hangers, just one great big happy ending."
"And what's wrong with that?"
"Listen to yourself John. You're an adult writer for God's sake! Happy endings and joyful tidings are for children and mentally deranged teenagers! Adults need something a touch more...realistic."
"Things are realistic enough! The characters-"
"The characters are fine John. Your plot, isn't. I suggest you go and rewrite this. Go look around the world a bit more. Open those eyes of yours, or get some better glasses. Things aren't so bright and happy and people know it. Don't lie to them Jonathan."
And that was that.
His grandfather listened, quietly at first, then when John paused to check if he was listening, started inserting various grunts and nods just to show he was listening. At the end of the whole thing his grandpa just sat there smoking his piped, leaning back against his chair. Then he got up and spoke:
"My question would be, why write about it?"
"Huh?" said John, who was feeling rather relieved at the moment. It felt so good to just rant on about your problems, like some internal pressure value had been released...
"'Cause well, she says they already know it, yes? So why bother telling them? The worlds a bleak place and any idiot can see that. We don't need writers reminding us about it in words when we can just sees for ourselves, right?"
"Er, I don't think she quite meant it that way. You see, it was the fluff?"
"Fluff? Isn't that like the wool you get on sheep?" his grandfather was sitting upright now, but the expression upon his face was still one of confusion.
"Yes er, no. Fluff's what the writers call...excess packaging. Its what makes a reader feel good. Its sort of like...seasoning. But you don't need it."
"Why not?"
"Because...er, it's kind of obvious, isn't it? When you eat, you eat to nourish yourself, to feed your body. Writers can be...writers should be writing stories with more...substance. What's the point of people reading your works if it don't teach them anything about life?"
"That's true, that" muttered his grandfather, nodding. Without looking he reached into his pocket to pull out a pile of strange, dead leaves, half of which ended up in his pipe. The other half ended up somewhere stuck between the floorboards, rotting slowly away.
"And so the reverse applies to fluff. You don't really need it, per say, its just...extra fittings. But-"
"But it doesn't feel right, does it?" What was that a faint sparkle he saw in Grandpa's eye...?
"...no, not really", Jonathan replied, looking away. Now he found himself staring at the field again, "but it should! A good writer, a respectable writer, should be able to shape society, to teach mankind! And if my works don't make the cut then I don't really have the right to-"
"Right to what?" piqued Grandpa, his eyes flashing and fixed directly on his, "To inspire? To create? Content's all good and all, but at the end of the day you still need fluff."
"I don't...quite...get it."
"Well, you could look at sheep - they've got fluff too, piles of it. Farmers shear it off during summer cause its so useless then, surrounded by all them heat and light, but in the middle of winter, ah, that's when them wool is in use"
"We're talking about writing, not sheep" said Jonathan, trying to steer the conversation back on track, but to no avail. Grandpa just continued on and on...
"Wool is mostly air, you know. Just like clouds. All of them is air and water vapor, or thin strands of white so fine you slice through them with a leaf, but that don't matter, cause its these tiny little fibers that trap the air, that keep the warmth and heat in, and stops it from being lost to the cold, cold rain outside"
"I can see what you mean, but-"
"Cause you see, fluff it may be, but that's what keeps them warm at night," finished Grandpa with a great big smile on his face. And upon that face was the weathering of years, the marks from a thousand battles with the wind, with the world, with himself - every wrinkle was a hundred different tales, every line a new story to tell. And in the middle of it his smile, and his eyes, sparkling with a joy and light that seemed at the moment to radiate from him and him alone, a lamp in the gloom of the day.
"And that be what keeps all of us warm too, in all our darks and nights."
Friday, November 14, 2008
Dx -Commentary- xD
Alright! My computer's alive again. Need to remind myself not to mistreat my beautiful little mechanical devices. Ahhh...you precious thing...
*Ahem* Going to attempt to write another Short, not sure how people felt about the one below. Its pretty much a rewrite of the other idea I had, but from a different POV...so to speak. I'll shove it in this Space once I'm done with it on Notepad...
ZZZZZ
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*Ahem* Going to attempt to write another Short, not sure how people felt about the one below. Its pretty much a rewrite of the other idea I had, but from a different POV...so to speak. I'll shove it in this Space once I'm done with it on Notepad...
ZZZZZ
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Monday, November 10, 2008
Forever
It was a Tuesday morning at about 8 or so when I visited the Curator at the local museum. Now the Curator himself was a rather strange fellow, don't get me wrong - he's a wonderful person so long as you don't touch the statues - but occasionally it seemed to me that the man had far too much to drink; after all, only a drunk man would smile the way he smiled, a lopsided, twisted grin that had all his teeth showing. I had met the Curator somewhere in the past year, when the story I was writing required me to investigate a particularly ancient and valuable Egyptian vase. I still remember his first words spoken to me that day:
"It's all fine, all fine, perfectly preserved, the tablet. Looking is fine I suppose…just no pictures and whatever you do, do not touch.”
And so it was with a pair of gloves and a bottle of "Dr Husby's Hangover Cure" that I approached the museum. Recently there had been quite a big hoo-hah about the town I was living in, what with the government plans for upgrading and all that, and the editor of the magazine I work for had requested that my latest article include a short write-up about the current "cultural preservation riots" that were taking place in the town.
Well, at that time I thought: if it be anything cultural, old Mr. Gregory would have quite a bit to say! So here I am, standing outside the museum at 8am, while the rest of the town sleeps, banging on the iron gates and waiting to be allowed in. Of course I had booked an appointment with the man the week before, but in general it was considered polite to announce your presence when one comes to "visit".
It took a while of course, but soon the Curator hears my shouting and hobbles over to the gates with the key. Large, brass keys like something out of a castle, the locks on the gates reminding me of some giant dungeon. Somehow the museum, with its grey, stone-worked walls and Victorian architecture, did little to assay this image. All in all, it looked like a scene out of Dracula, with the manservant Igor coming to invite the unsuspecting guests inside for, as the Count himself would say, "A bite to drink."
"Morning Greg!" I called, waving at the man. The Curator merely stared a bit before smiling his trademarked "Drunken Sailor" grin, thin, claw-like hands struggling to pick the correct brass key from its heavy chain. There seemed to me an assortment of keys, large and small, simple and strangely ornamental. Like the man needed that many keys to run a museum! Still, there were always countless doors about the place...
As the Curator led me through the wooden floor of the Museum I caught out of a corner of my eye of the many strange doors marked "Staff Only" alongside the passageway. What had caught my eye was not so much the sturdy, iron frame as the flickering blue light that emitted from the cracks underneath. In the shadows of the half-lit, un-opened museum it seemed rather eerie. Before I could comment about this to the Curator though we arrived at his office, a small oak door with the words "Curator" carved upon them in cursive script.
"So, what is it you wished to see me about?" spoke the Curator. His voice had an oily, smooth quality to it, a quality ruined somewhat by the constant grin upon his face. "I believe it had something to do with the recent attempts to culturally reform this village?"
"Somewhat" I replied, pulling a series of papers from my pack "a large number of people feel that the government's attempts to...revitalize the tourist situation here will ah...destroy the 'spirit' of the place."
"Indeed, and this is because...?"
"A large number of protests, some going on this moment, say that the government renovation of their homes and shop-houses will destroy the culture here. They insist that the ethnicity of the place has already been, to quote, 'poisoned' by the introduction of other cultural places, such as Indian Curry Restaurants...or Russian Dance Centers-"
A brief flash caught my eye. From under the wooden door came the same blue glow I had seen outside.
"Indeed that is true," replied the Curator, his smile disappearing for a minute, wrinkled arms coming up to rest upon his desk, "many a time in history a civilization has lost its culture due to the interference of governments...the Chinese Revolution for instance, where billions of books and cultural knowledge were destroyed in the span of days...the Spanish, whom leveled the Aztec temples and built what is now known as America to the rest of the world...all this due to war, due to people, due to governments. Such incidents are common occurrences in history."
"And what do you, as Curator of this museum, think of it?"
"What do I think? What am I supposed to think?" he answered, the grin slowly re-emerging, "that we can resist the all-consuming tide that is Progress? Man has tried, over the millennia, to build markers and structures that would last forever. Only the Egyptians have succeeded, and even now their eternal pyramids sacred tombs are raided by explorers and crumbled by industries today."
"I for one, would like to see this stop, but there isn't much I can do, can I?" smiled the Curator, “progress eats at our heritage and eats at our past. Soon even the museum may be washed away…”
The blue glow intensified, and a faint hammering drifted in from the outside. Things were getting stranger by the minute, though the Curator looked curiously unaffected.
“…though some may say it is important to be forward looking, I for one, believe in reflecting on the past…”
There was a faint thud, and the blue glow suddenly grew impossibly bright, so much so it seemed like a searing beam of light was outlining the frame of the door. I blinked, eyes watering, trying to point out this strange phenomenon to the Curator.
“…so they said there is a high chance the Museum itself would be closed. Excuse me” added the Curator, rising from his seat. In a few strides he walked over to the door and opened it. For a moment, the world went white. Pain seared through my eyeballs as though someone had shone the beam of a flood lamp directly into my irises. It was bright, so bright that even my other senses seemed to be affected…there seemed to be screaming…
Then the light faded as the Curator came back in, closing the door. The blue glow was gone.
Shaken, I stumbled about the room trying to stand up, one hand massaging my eyeballs, the other steadying the rest of my body against the table. Briefly, I managed to gasp,
“What in the name of God was that?”
“Nothing much really…though I suppose…yes” the Curator begin to look thoughtful, his grin growing wider with each passing second, “yes…I could show it to you…an excellent example of the 20th century…I do believe…yes…” he continued, simply staring at the ceiling. Then all of a sudden, he looked down at me, straight at my eyes, which were still half-blinded by the light, and smiled his favorite little smile.
“Well, come along with me, and you can see. Don’t touch though, don’t touch!” he added, rising from the chair. Was it me, or did his last sentence had a slight pitch to it?
When the Curator opened the door once more I cringed and covered my eyes, as any fool would when he had been blinded by what was behind that big block of wood. But this there was no light, save for the orange radiance of the morning sun, and the dark shadows that ringed the hallway.
“Come,” he said, the sound of keys echoing about the corridor.
Like a frightened dog I followed, though I hesitate to use such a term to describe myself, there was no other phrase that was more accurate at that time. It was terrifying, somehow, the light that had blinded me. It was as if my entire body knew, at that moment, that the beam of light was more than just a mere scattering of color. It was as if the glow had – and how my editor would hit me if he saw this – a sense of dread to it; horrifying, blinding, all-consuming dread.
Before long we passed once again in front of the metal-framed door. But this time the Curator stopped before it, holding up in his hand one of the more elaborate keys in his possession. There was a click as he slid the metal piece into the keyhole, all the while muttering, “Just don’t touch anything! Don’t touch!” It was at this point that I noticed that the faint glow from earlier had disappeared.
By this point I was ready to bolt and everything, to run down to the bar and drown my throat in alcohol. Maybe if I ran far enough I could somehow forget this incident, convince myself that Old Gregory here was just playing around, that being cooped up in this old museum was screwing with his mind, and maybe we could call some doctors and psychiatrists down for the poor old man.
The Curator reached for the brass handle and pulled-
Only to reveal what seemed to me to be, for all purposes and intents, and overly large and highly stuffed janitor’s closet. As anti-climatic as it was I nonetheless decided to wander inside the closet, waving my hands about while poking at the odd mop handle in a bid to find whatever it was the Curator felt was so interesting.
“What was it you wanted to sho-” I started, only to feel the impact of something large and heavy upon my skull. The world went dark-
-and brightened up again, almost immediately after. When I opened my eyes again the whole world around me seemed so blurry. Strange images and echoes haunted my senses and I gazed about the place trying to orientate myself. And then I realized;
I was at my desk. In my office. Five hundred miles from where I was.
Could it be a dream? What was going on? Wasn’t I having an appointment with Mr. Grego-
I froze. Looking at me though the office window was the silently grinning face of the Curator. This would not have been such a horrifying sight if not for the fact that my office happened to be located on the seventh floor.
A giant floating head-
“Hello” said the Curator.
-that spoke as well was not doing wonders for my already confused psyche.
“I suppose you’re wondering what you’re doing here? Don’t worry, don’t worry. You’re perfectly safe in there. Just make sure to behave normally, would you? It wouldn’t do good to spoil the exhibit”
By now I had rushed over to the window and pulled down the curtains. I had also taken a few large wads of tissue to stuff into my eardrums. No good, the voice was still coming through;
“Really, it was rather strange coincidence that you would happen to visit me today, even more that you would wish to discuss, of all things, my favorite topic. See, all my life as a museum curator I had wondered: what happened if all those books could be preserved? Everything changes, you cannot fight change. You know about the theory of entropy? About how all things must degrade, in time? What if there was a way to stop that? A way to preserve our heritage…forever?”
His grin grew wider, more macabre. All around his head was the same eerie blue glow I had seen from under the door.
“See, I can stop people from touching. I can corner off walls and build gates all around. But sooner or later the government will come in. Time will come in. All things will fade, there’s no fighting progress. But progress needs time, and there I have the weed by its roots!”
Here the face stopped, as if for dramatic effect. The Curator’s eyes sparkled as a phantom finger raised itself into the air.
“Stopping time - A ridiculous task, an impossible one. But what if it could be done? What if there was someway to preserve something…preserve it as it was, people and all, without ever losing the moment?”
“You’ve seen motion pictures. Seen how they can be played back, then forward again? I heard some of the larger museums have those. Giant exhibits designed to show simulations of life back then. A poor imitation, if I ever was a judge.”
By now the Curator seemed to be rambling, his eyes were bulging, his grin was definitely crazed, and blue glowing spittle seemed to be flying from out of his mouth.
“The Egyptians had the right idea. And now I can have my exhibits, and even if one or two escape occasionally it wouldn’t matter, because they’ll always find themselves back here again…”
“Just behave naturally, and things would seem much better, less confusing. I would forget, if I were you. Good bye, and remember not to touch!”
The voice faded away. For a brief moment I stood there, stunned, not believing what I heard, what I saw. Then I tried dashing over to the door and opening it, but the moment I touched the knob-
-I found myself back the desk again. Any attempt to do anything short of sitting at the desk typing causes the whole thing to reset itself. And each time it happens I remember less and less, like my memories are slowly being sucked away, becoming less permanent, less reliable…
So I sit here at this desk, typing for all its worth. It’s been thirty minutes since I started typing, and nothing’s reset itself so far. I can only pray that the information within the computer can be kept, at the very least it can help my enforce my mem-
It was Tuesday morning at about 8 or so…
This moment seems oddly familiar. Perhaps the head had already-
It was Tuesday morning…
I think I typed this bef-
It was Tues-
No! No! Everything is-
It wa-
It-
…
Outside, surrounded by mechanical vats of glowing blue light, the Curator grinned as he admired his latest exhibit. With tender, almost loving care the old man reached into his pocket and brought out a small brass sign, hanging it carefully from a hook protruding from the machine:
“Do Not Touch”
The public did not know, but their culture would be preserved. He had seen to that.
"It's all fine, all fine, perfectly preserved, the tablet. Looking is fine I suppose…just no pictures and whatever you do, do not touch.”
And so it was with a pair of gloves and a bottle of "Dr Husby's Hangover Cure" that I approached the museum. Recently there had been quite a big hoo-hah about the town I was living in, what with the government plans for upgrading and all that, and the editor of the magazine I work for had requested that my latest article include a short write-up about the current "cultural preservation riots" that were taking place in the town.
Well, at that time I thought: if it be anything cultural, old Mr. Gregory would have quite a bit to say! So here I am, standing outside the museum at 8am, while the rest of the town sleeps, banging on the iron gates and waiting to be allowed in. Of course I had booked an appointment with the man the week before, but in general it was considered polite to announce your presence when one comes to "visit".
It took a while of course, but soon the Curator hears my shouting and hobbles over to the gates with the key. Large, brass keys like something out of a castle, the locks on the gates reminding me of some giant dungeon. Somehow the museum, with its grey, stone-worked walls and Victorian architecture, did little to assay this image. All in all, it looked like a scene out of Dracula, with the manservant Igor coming to invite the unsuspecting guests inside for, as the Count himself would say, "A bite to drink."
"Morning Greg!" I called, waving at the man. The Curator merely stared a bit before smiling his trademarked "Drunken Sailor" grin, thin, claw-like hands struggling to pick the correct brass key from its heavy chain. There seemed to me an assortment of keys, large and small, simple and strangely ornamental. Like the man needed that many keys to run a museum! Still, there were always countless doors about the place...
As the Curator led me through the wooden floor of the Museum I caught out of a corner of my eye of the many strange doors marked "Staff Only" alongside the passageway. What had caught my eye was not so much the sturdy, iron frame as the flickering blue light that emitted from the cracks underneath. In the shadows of the half-lit, un-opened museum it seemed rather eerie. Before I could comment about this to the Curator though we arrived at his office, a small oak door with the words "Curator" carved upon them in cursive script.
"So, what is it you wished to see me about?" spoke the Curator. His voice had an oily, smooth quality to it, a quality ruined somewhat by the constant grin upon his face. "I believe it had something to do with the recent attempts to culturally reform this village?"
"Somewhat" I replied, pulling a series of papers from my pack "a large number of people feel that the government's attempts to...revitalize the tourist situation here will ah...destroy the 'spirit' of the place."
"Indeed, and this is because...?"
"A large number of protests, some going on this moment, say that the government renovation of their homes and shop-houses will destroy the culture here. They insist that the ethnicity of the place has already been, to quote, 'poisoned' by the introduction of other cultural places, such as Indian Curry Restaurants...or Russian Dance Centers-"
A brief flash caught my eye. From under the wooden door came the same blue glow I had seen outside.
"Indeed that is true," replied the Curator, his smile disappearing for a minute, wrinkled arms coming up to rest upon his desk, "many a time in history a civilization has lost its culture due to the interference of governments...the Chinese Revolution for instance, where billions of books and cultural knowledge were destroyed in the span of days...the Spanish, whom leveled the Aztec temples and built what is now known as America to the rest of the world...all this due to war, due to people, due to governments. Such incidents are common occurrences in history."
"And what do you, as Curator of this museum, think of it?"
"What do I think? What am I supposed to think?" he answered, the grin slowly re-emerging, "that we can resist the all-consuming tide that is Progress? Man has tried, over the millennia, to build markers and structures that would last forever. Only the Egyptians have succeeded, and even now their eternal pyramids sacred tombs are raided by explorers and crumbled by industries today."
"I for one, would like to see this stop, but there isn't much I can do, can I?" smiled the Curator, “progress eats at our heritage and eats at our past. Soon even the museum may be washed away…”
The blue glow intensified, and a faint hammering drifted in from the outside. Things were getting stranger by the minute, though the Curator looked curiously unaffected.
“…though some may say it is important to be forward looking, I for one, believe in reflecting on the past…”
There was a faint thud, and the blue glow suddenly grew impossibly bright, so much so it seemed like a searing beam of light was outlining the frame of the door. I blinked, eyes watering, trying to point out this strange phenomenon to the Curator.
“…so they said there is a high chance the Museum itself would be closed. Excuse me” added the Curator, rising from his seat. In a few strides he walked over to the door and opened it. For a moment, the world went white. Pain seared through my eyeballs as though someone had shone the beam of a flood lamp directly into my irises. It was bright, so bright that even my other senses seemed to be affected…there seemed to be screaming…
Then the light faded as the Curator came back in, closing the door. The blue glow was gone.
Shaken, I stumbled about the room trying to stand up, one hand massaging my eyeballs, the other steadying the rest of my body against the table. Briefly, I managed to gasp,
“What in the name of God was that?”
“Nothing much really…though I suppose…yes” the Curator begin to look thoughtful, his grin growing wider with each passing second, “yes…I could show it to you…an excellent example of the 20th century…I do believe…yes…” he continued, simply staring at the ceiling. Then all of a sudden, he looked down at me, straight at my eyes, which were still half-blinded by the light, and smiled his favorite little smile.
“Well, come along with me, and you can see. Don’t touch though, don’t touch!” he added, rising from the chair. Was it me, or did his last sentence had a slight pitch to it?
When the Curator opened the door once more I cringed and covered my eyes, as any fool would when he had been blinded by what was behind that big block of wood. But this there was no light, save for the orange radiance of the morning sun, and the dark shadows that ringed the hallway.
“Come,” he said, the sound of keys echoing about the corridor.
Like a frightened dog I followed, though I hesitate to use such a term to describe myself, there was no other phrase that was more accurate at that time. It was terrifying, somehow, the light that had blinded me. It was as if my entire body knew, at that moment, that the beam of light was more than just a mere scattering of color. It was as if the glow had – and how my editor would hit me if he saw this – a sense of dread to it; horrifying, blinding, all-consuming dread.
Before long we passed once again in front of the metal-framed door. But this time the Curator stopped before it, holding up in his hand one of the more elaborate keys in his possession. There was a click as he slid the metal piece into the keyhole, all the while muttering, “Just don’t touch anything! Don’t touch!” It was at this point that I noticed that the faint glow from earlier had disappeared.
By this point I was ready to bolt and everything, to run down to the bar and drown my throat in alcohol. Maybe if I ran far enough I could somehow forget this incident, convince myself that Old Gregory here was just playing around, that being cooped up in this old museum was screwing with his mind, and maybe we could call some doctors and psychiatrists down for the poor old man.
The Curator reached for the brass handle and pulled-
Only to reveal what seemed to me to be, for all purposes and intents, and overly large and highly stuffed janitor’s closet. As anti-climatic as it was I nonetheless decided to wander inside the closet, waving my hands about while poking at the odd mop handle in a bid to find whatever it was the Curator felt was so interesting.
“What was it you wanted to sho-” I started, only to feel the impact of something large and heavy upon my skull. The world went dark-
-and brightened up again, almost immediately after. When I opened my eyes again the whole world around me seemed so blurry. Strange images and echoes haunted my senses and I gazed about the place trying to orientate myself. And then I realized;
I was at my desk. In my office. Five hundred miles from where I was.
Could it be a dream? What was going on? Wasn’t I having an appointment with Mr. Grego-
I froze. Looking at me though the office window was the silently grinning face of the Curator. This would not have been such a horrifying sight if not for the fact that my office happened to be located on the seventh floor.
A giant floating head-
“Hello” said the Curator.
-that spoke as well was not doing wonders for my already confused psyche.
“I suppose you’re wondering what you’re doing here? Don’t worry, don’t worry. You’re perfectly safe in there. Just make sure to behave normally, would you? It wouldn’t do good to spoil the exhibit”
By now I had rushed over to the window and pulled down the curtains. I had also taken a few large wads of tissue to stuff into my eardrums. No good, the voice was still coming through;
“Really, it was rather strange coincidence that you would happen to visit me today, even more that you would wish to discuss, of all things, my favorite topic. See, all my life as a museum curator I had wondered: what happened if all those books could be preserved? Everything changes, you cannot fight change. You know about the theory of entropy? About how all things must degrade, in time? What if there was a way to stop that? A way to preserve our heritage…forever?”
His grin grew wider, more macabre. All around his head was the same eerie blue glow I had seen from under the door.
“See, I can stop people from touching. I can corner off walls and build gates all around. But sooner or later the government will come in. Time will come in. All things will fade, there’s no fighting progress. But progress needs time, and there I have the weed by its roots!”
Here the face stopped, as if for dramatic effect. The Curator’s eyes sparkled as a phantom finger raised itself into the air.
“Stopping time - A ridiculous task, an impossible one. But what if it could be done? What if there was someway to preserve something…preserve it as it was, people and all, without ever losing the moment?”
“You’ve seen motion pictures. Seen how they can be played back, then forward again? I heard some of the larger museums have those. Giant exhibits designed to show simulations of life back then. A poor imitation, if I ever was a judge.”
By now the Curator seemed to be rambling, his eyes were bulging, his grin was definitely crazed, and blue glowing spittle seemed to be flying from out of his mouth.
“The Egyptians had the right idea. And now I can have my exhibits, and even if one or two escape occasionally it wouldn’t matter, because they’ll always find themselves back here again…”
“Just behave naturally, and things would seem much better, less confusing. I would forget, if I were you. Good bye, and remember not to touch!”
The voice faded away. For a brief moment I stood there, stunned, not believing what I heard, what I saw. Then I tried dashing over to the door and opening it, but the moment I touched the knob-
-I found myself back the desk again. Any attempt to do anything short of sitting at the desk typing causes the whole thing to reset itself. And each time it happens I remember less and less, like my memories are slowly being sucked away, becoming less permanent, less reliable…
So I sit here at this desk, typing for all its worth. It’s been thirty minutes since I started typing, and nothing’s reset itself so far. I can only pray that the information within the computer can be kept, at the very least it can help my enforce my mem-
It was Tuesday morning at about 8 or so…
This moment seems oddly familiar. Perhaps the head had already-
It was Tuesday morning…
I think I typed this bef-
It was Tues-
No! No! Everything is-
It wa-
It-
…
Outside, surrounded by mechanical vats of glowing blue light, the Curator grinned as he admired his latest exhibit. With tender, almost loving care the old man reached into his pocket and brought out a small brass sign, hanging it carefully from a hook protruding from the machine:
“Do Not Touch”
The public did not know, but their culture would be preserved. He had seen to that.