Elaynor Green stood silently before the massive canvas, staring at its clean, white surface as if by doing so the images in his mind could be projected onto the wall. Three more minutes before he could access the Cloud. Until then, there was nothing, nothing comparable at least, that he could do.
It was such an obvious innovation he was surprised they had not thought of it sooner. The average human uses less than ten percent of his brainpower each day. This number fluctuates constantly throughout the day, depending on what the said person is doing. Extrapolating the results of an experiment using calculus took much more brain power than lets say, having lunch. And since every brain was connected directly to the internet these days…well, the rest was obvious.
Two more minutes.
The Cloud allowed those who needed just that little bit more mental processing power to access it. It optimized thinking. It made it efficient. Of course, there were problems at first, ethical issues, teething troubles- Hacking, order of priority, waste data clogging up the neruo-streams…things like that. Powerful controls were put into place, a set of very, very strict laws established and a rationing system created. Your average gardener certainly did not need access to five hundred gigabytes of neuro-space every hour, did he?
As an artist he was allowed a much higher amount of Cloud Access, though this fluctuated depending on who he was working for and what they wanted him to paint. Creativity was the most data-heavy of the many types of thought processes. Which was why he had accepted this offer in the first place: it was a political piece. Propaganda.
One more minute.
The current mayor had decided, using (quite literally) the minds of fifty-three different sociologists and psychologists from around the world, that the current “anti-cloud” sentiments that certain writers and activists were championing could be curbed through precise application of various propaganda tools. In his case, it was a depiction of the power, potential and beauty the Cloud could offer. To excite the minds of the populace, to capture their imagination!
Well, the amount imagination was allocated to them at least.
Thirty more seconds…
If he was successful, the anti-cloud activists would lose public support, and hence, processing power. Less processing power meant less dangerous speeches and words.
Elaynor didn’t really care. The chance to use virtually unlimited brainpower to create anything…anything he wanted…that alone was worth the risk. He imagined himself dancing through the sky, his mind soaring high and above, expanding across the heavens, capturing just a brief glimpse of perfection...
Three…two…one…
At last, he was fre-
Outside the museum, in the gardens filled with trees, a lone gardener stood sweeping the leaves. He thought not of beauty or splendor, nor of ethics or words. Indeed, all he could think about was the sweep-sweep motion of his hands and the color of leaves in fall.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Sickness
"I've tried everything,” sighed the man, leaning back in his plump, blue armchair in exhaustion. Tired, brown eyes stared out from under a mop of disheveled black hair, gazing blank space as if trying to focus on a point in it which did not exist. His clothes were also a mess, one end of his shirt un-tucked while the other was stained with coffee. Both his socks matched, whether by chance or some actual remnant of orderliness. The two left boots, one brown and the other black however, suggested otherwise.
“I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. My stomach feels like ten thousand camels spontaneously decided to take a piss in it. Reading gives me a headache. Music hurts my teeth. Even sitting down to well…relax makes my body dance in seven different directions. I’ve gone to three doctors, four psychologists, a medium, a priest and a gynecologist. Yes, I know they’re for women only. That’s how bad it is.”
The other man simply regarded him with an odd expression, a cross between bemusement and utter exhaustion. The former because it was his current state of mind. The latter because it was his common state of health.
“And your…er, symptoms?” he ventured, making sweeping motions in the air with his pen.
The sick patient closed his eyes and spoke, as if performing some internal bodily scan;
“My head feels like it is about to explode. I cannot sit still. My sleep is filled with dreams that burn like hot flashes in the middle of the night, enough that I cannot rest. It’s like trying to breathe underwater. Incidentally, that’s how my lungs feel like. And my hands ache. I…they want to grab something…anything and…and…I don’t dare think what they want to do. Doing anything…relaxing…just living, feels like a bloody waste of time! I- I…”
“Ah.”
“Ah?”
“Yes. Ah. An expression of understanding and realization. I believe I have a cure. Here’s your prescription.”
The other man got up and exited the room. The patient, alone in the small, quiet office, picked up the piece of paper he had left behind.
It was blank.
He stared at it in confusion, trying to make sense of it all. Some sort of puzzle? Was he supposed to see something in the paper? Maybe this was a psychological test…or cure even. He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. The sick man placed the paper on the desk and stared at its white, empty surface in despair.
Images swam before his eyes.
“NO!”
He could feel it again! A relapse! The same burning sensation, the same anxiety, pressure, focus of thought! His hands twitched. His stomach lurched. All around his body parts of him felt both weak and strong at the same time. The desire welled up in him, a passion he could not control. It needed release. It needed an outlet. His gaze swiveled around the room, looking for a means to an end-
The pencil gleamed on the doctor’s desk, like a comet on a moonless sky.
The frenzy that took hold of him was frightening to behold. He grasped the pencil with all the strength and desperation of a starving man on a pair of worn but edible boots. The tip blazed across the paper like the fire blazing across his mind, the two arcs matching each other streak for streak, flame for flame as the man whirled and spun the innocent piece of wood across the table. It scored across the white, tainting the purity of the sheet with its dark, black marks. His wrists and arms hurt with the strain, yet the blade remained miraculously unbroken, faithfully serving its purpose like a hunting dog chasing down its master’s slaves.
For what seemed to be eternity, the only sounds were that of the pencil tearing across the surface of the paper, and the man’s deep, ragged pants.
When the other man came back in, the sick one was lying back in his armchair, a small smile on his face. He was fast asleep.
He picked up the prescription. Written across it were sketches and diagrams, notes and symbols whose meaning he could not comprehend. Not at this moment, at least. Designs, plot points, twists, conflicts, a beginning and an end.
The other man sighed. All those ideas, crammed into one head. Years and years they must have waited. How many times had he shoved aside a thought to tackle a matter at hand? For people like him, it must have been too much. Men can fast but even the most devout had to eat sometime.
He tucked the piece of paper into the man’s shirt pocket, then opened up a Notepad on his computer’s screen. A few typed lines, a notation or two...there. Safely preserved.
You had to let them out in moderation. Small thoughts, one at a time. It didn’t matter how and where you did it. But sooner or later, you had to let them out.
The other man sighed and looked over at the sleeping patient, a gaze that was both knowing and sympathetic, that showed a level of understanding achievable only by those who had walked the same path through hell together;
“Inspiration’s a bitch eh?”
Perhaps someday, they'll find a cure.
“I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. My stomach feels like ten thousand camels spontaneously decided to take a piss in it. Reading gives me a headache. Music hurts my teeth. Even sitting down to well…relax makes my body dance in seven different directions. I’ve gone to three doctors, four psychologists, a medium, a priest and a gynecologist. Yes, I know they’re for women only. That’s how bad it is.”
The other man simply regarded him with an odd expression, a cross between bemusement and utter exhaustion. The former because it was his current state of mind. The latter because it was his common state of health.
“And your…er, symptoms?” he ventured, making sweeping motions in the air with his pen.
The sick patient closed his eyes and spoke, as if performing some internal bodily scan;
“My head feels like it is about to explode. I cannot sit still. My sleep is filled with dreams that burn like hot flashes in the middle of the night, enough that I cannot rest. It’s like trying to breathe underwater. Incidentally, that’s how my lungs feel like. And my hands ache. I…they want to grab something…anything and…and…I don’t dare think what they want to do. Doing anything…relaxing…just living, feels like a bloody waste of time! I- I…”
“Ah.”
“Ah?”
“Yes. Ah. An expression of understanding and realization. I believe I have a cure. Here’s your prescription.”
The other man got up and exited the room. The patient, alone in the small, quiet office, picked up the piece of paper he had left behind.
It was blank.
He stared at it in confusion, trying to make sense of it all. Some sort of puzzle? Was he supposed to see something in the paper? Maybe this was a psychological test…or cure even. He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. The sick man placed the paper on the desk and stared at its white, empty surface in despair.
Images swam before his eyes.
“NO!”
He could feel it again! A relapse! The same burning sensation, the same anxiety, pressure, focus of thought! His hands twitched. His stomach lurched. All around his body parts of him felt both weak and strong at the same time. The desire welled up in him, a passion he could not control. It needed release. It needed an outlet. His gaze swiveled around the room, looking for a means to an end-
The pencil gleamed on the doctor’s desk, like a comet on a moonless sky.
The frenzy that took hold of him was frightening to behold. He grasped the pencil with all the strength and desperation of a starving man on a pair of worn but edible boots. The tip blazed across the paper like the fire blazing across his mind, the two arcs matching each other streak for streak, flame for flame as the man whirled and spun the innocent piece of wood across the table. It scored across the white, tainting the purity of the sheet with its dark, black marks. His wrists and arms hurt with the strain, yet the blade remained miraculously unbroken, faithfully serving its purpose like a hunting dog chasing down its master’s slaves.
For what seemed to be eternity, the only sounds were that of the pencil tearing across the surface of the paper, and the man’s deep, ragged pants.
When the other man came back in, the sick one was lying back in his armchair, a small smile on his face. He was fast asleep.
He picked up the prescription. Written across it were sketches and diagrams, notes and symbols whose meaning he could not comprehend. Not at this moment, at least. Designs, plot points, twists, conflicts, a beginning and an end.
The other man sighed. All those ideas, crammed into one head. Years and years they must have waited. How many times had he shoved aside a thought to tackle a matter at hand? For people like him, it must have been too much. Men can fast but even the most devout had to eat sometime.
He tucked the piece of paper into the man’s shirt pocket, then opened up a Notepad on his computer’s screen. A few typed lines, a notation or two...there. Safely preserved.
You had to let them out in moderation. Small thoughts, one at a time. It didn’t matter how and where you did it. But sooner or later, you had to let them out.
The other man sighed and looked over at the sleeping patient, a gaze that was both knowing and sympathetic, that showed a level of understanding achievable only by those who had walked the same path through hell together;
“Inspiration’s a bitch eh?”
Perhaps someday, they'll find a cure.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
NEXT
I sit in front of the monitor watching the screen. Behind it various streams of wires and rubber snake around the table, forming bushes and foliage akin to that of a forest. The room is dark, all curtains and windows closed, the door barred shut with a lock and an old musty chair.
Inside the monitor I stand before a boardroom filled with men in smart, black business suits, striped ties ironed neatly upon their well-starched vests. A small projector shows a series of elaborately colored slides, each covered in archaic numbers and symbols, charts and diagrams. The men are nodding, some are smiling, while I dribble on, apparently more nerves and delight at their approval than actual confidence.
Next.
The screen fizzes and the readjusts. Wires hum with redirected power, stolen from the mains and the ‘faulty’ lamp-post across the street. With a few clicks and switches an image appears, stabilizes, fills with color and…there! It appears to be a park, one with many, many flowers and trees, each lush with life. A lake, with ducks or swans and a few odd reeds sticking along the side…
Adjust…zoom…there I am! The wide-brimmed sun hat and old grey shirt makes it difficult to differentiate me from the background, but I recognize that chin and stubble anywhere! The portable vacuum pack looks heavy, and for all the thriving of the plants around, there sure were a lot of dead leaves.
How depressing. Next.
Another jump. Readjust…focus…scanning, searching and…there!
A beautiful gallery greets me, paintings of nature and people, of lakes and sky and trees. Once more I wear the wide-brimmed hat, though the shirt is considerably newer and stained with paint, the vacuum nowhere in sight. A grin adorns my face as visitors flock into the queue, gasping at the vivid use of colors, at the soft palettes and powerful brush strokes. Better, much better;
Nex- oh…
A young girl is sitting on a bed with her child, both characters smiling happily despite the filthy state of their home. The gray walls are covered in cracks and cockroaches that skitter in and out of the fading wallpaper. A knock sounds on the termite eaten door, and in enters a familiar face. Weary, tired, wearing the same suit and tie as the man two jumps ago, but much less well-cared for. Yet there are laughter lines that weren’t there before, and though strands of gray dot his hair his eyes are filled with joy and warmth.
My eyes.
I remember how she had smiled back then, back when neither of us was aware of the consequences of our actions. We had been seeing each other for years. Known each other for even longer, long before we knew the meaning of the word ‘romance’. It seemed so natural that day. So…right.
And so the choice had been made and the consequences had been brought forth for us to face. And I-
I made my second choice.
Next…next…
I flick through the channels, jumping from life to life, from moment to moment, through every possibility and every trouser leg of time. If we never had met. If nothing had happened that very first time. If it had been someone else, not her…if I had focused on my work more…if I had not missed that bus…
Next! Next!
The machine is a result of all these. Of combined regrets from possibilities that did not exist, of yearnings for things not yet occurred...some of the wires fade off into thin air, but that does not bother me. I didn’t want to make choices anymore, not without knowing the consequences, and so here I am, watching and waiting, thinking and evaluating.
Nextnextnextnext-
The screen is blurry again but it is no fault of the equipment. My cheeks feel wet. She’s called me three times so far yet I dare not answer in event I trigger a path yet seen. The other paths comfort me, telling me of things I could do, of the potential that exists to be tapped. Yet though I know the consequence, I know not which choice to make. Which path to the businessman? To the scholar? To the unmarried merchant, artist, poet? Or to the happy spouse?
Next……next………Return.
Oh.
No matter how many possibilities I flick past the screen always comes back to this. As if the machine itself was reminding me. Punishing (?) me. Of the consequences of unseen consequences, of choosing not to choose.
N-
The two embrace, and I feel a brief pang of regret before flicking the channel once more;
-ext.
End.
Inside the monitor I stand before a boardroom filled with men in smart, black business suits, striped ties ironed neatly upon their well-starched vests. A small projector shows a series of elaborately colored slides, each covered in archaic numbers and symbols, charts and diagrams. The men are nodding, some are smiling, while I dribble on, apparently more nerves and delight at their approval than actual confidence.
Next.
The screen fizzes and the readjusts. Wires hum with redirected power, stolen from the mains and the ‘faulty’ lamp-post across the street. With a few clicks and switches an image appears, stabilizes, fills with color and…there! It appears to be a park, one with many, many flowers and trees, each lush with life. A lake, with ducks or swans and a few odd reeds sticking along the side…
Adjust…zoom…there I am! The wide-brimmed sun hat and old grey shirt makes it difficult to differentiate me from the background, but I recognize that chin and stubble anywhere! The portable vacuum pack looks heavy, and for all the thriving of the plants around, there sure were a lot of dead leaves.
How depressing. Next.
Another jump. Readjust…focus…scanning, searching and…there!
A beautiful gallery greets me, paintings of nature and people, of lakes and sky and trees. Once more I wear the wide-brimmed hat, though the shirt is considerably newer and stained with paint, the vacuum nowhere in sight. A grin adorns my face as visitors flock into the queue, gasping at the vivid use of colors, at the soft palettes and powerful brush strokes. Better, much better;
Nex- oh…
A young girl is sitting on a bed with her child, both characters smiling happily despite the filthy state of their home. The gray walls are covered in cracks and cockroaches that skitter in and out of the fading wallpaper. A knock sounds on the termite eaten door, and in enters a familiar face. Weary, tired, wearing the same suit and tie as the man two jumps ago, but much less well-cared for. Yet there are laughter lines that weren’t there before, and though strands of gray dot his hair his eyes are filled with joy and warmth.
My eyes.
I remember how she had smiled back then, back when neither of us was aware of the consequences of our actions. We had been seeing each other for years. Known each other for even longer, long before we knew the meaning of the word ‘romance’. It seemed so natural that day. So…right.
And so the choice had been made and the consequences had been brought forth for us to face. And I-
I made my second choice.
Next…next…
I flick through the channels, jumping from life to life, from moment to moment, through every possibility and every trouser leg of time. If we never had met. If nothing had happened that very first time. If it had been someone else, not her…if I had focused on my work more…if I had not missed that bus…
Next! Next!
The machine is a result of all these. Of combined regrets from possibilities that did not exist, of yearnings for things not yet occurred...some of the wires fade off into thin air, but that does not bother me. I didn’t want to make choices anymore, not without knowing the consequences, and so here I am, watching and waiting, thinking and evaluating.
Nextnextnextnext-
The screen is blurry again but it is no fault of the equipment. My cheeks feel wet. She’s called me three times so far yet I dare not answer in event I trigger a path yet seen. The other paths comfort me, telling me of things I could do, of the potential that exists to be tapped. Yet though I know the consequence, I know not which choice to make. Which path to the businessman? To the scholar? To the unmarried merchant, artist, poet? Or to the happy spouse?
Next……next………Return.
Oh.
No matter how many possibilities I flick past the screen always comes back to this. As if the machine itself was reminding me. Punishing (?) me. Of the consequences of unseen consequences, of choosing not to choose.
N-
The two embrace, and I feel a brief pang of regret before flicking the channel once more;
-ext.
End.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Thax
I've seen wizards like him before. Magi fascinated by even the simplest spell, the most minor cantrip. Who only truly started living upon discovering magic. For them, it matters not that they are not talented, or quick, or prosperous. What matters is that centuries down the road,or even sooner in fact, many greater magi would have become worn with the ages or grown cocky with power. These few however, retain that essential combination of drive, curiosity and humility that forces them, in whatever limited capacity they have, to continue pushing the boundaries of magic. To innovate.
And it is of such innovations that true breakthroughs are made.
Most of them fail, forgotten in the dust and shadows of some slum in a corner of society. Of the rest, many also die, consumed by knowledge too dire, by power they cannot control. But the ones that do succeed...
Watch him, my friend. Watch the path he takes, the roads he dares to walk. Shall he slip into the chasms below, or ascend to the highest peak?
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Perhaps its reflective on me that I conceive character concepts and ideas by imagining what people observe, think and say about them. That I find the most powerful moments being in the recognition of some essential quality of a character, either by other characters or the reader himself.
Above is one such statement about a character I recently thought of. One that seems to be merging and growing into this strange tanglepatch of ideas that have been recently forming in my head.
Granted, its nothing too original. But it sure is fun.
And it is of such innovations that true breakthroughs are made.
Most of them fail, forgotten in the dust and shadows of some slum in a corner of society. Of the rest, many also die, consumed by knowledge too dire, by power they cannot control. But the ones that do succeed...
Watch him, my friend. Watch the path he takes, the roads he dares to walk. Shall he slip into the chasms below, or ascend to the highest peak?
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Perhaps its reflective on me that I conceive character concepts and ideas by imagining what people observe, think and say about them. That I find the most powerful moments being in the recognition of some essential quality of a character, either by other characters or the reader himself.
Above is one such statement about a character I recently thought of. One that seems to be merging and growing into this strange tanglepatch of ideas that have been recently forming in my head.
Granted, its nothing too original. But it sure is fun.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
And so It Ends
I wish I could express properly the exact feeling of having finished IB. The odd mix of feelings, thoughts, the words of friends, the memories playing by...
I cannot.
But nonetheless, I will try.
It was only recently, though rather late, that it dawned upon me that this wasn't simply an ending of 2 years of IB. It was an end of 6 years of ACS. Of perhaps, one of the most life-shaping six years I've been through.
Just the other day, we went to renew my passport. I looked at the picture taken six years ago, and wonder at how much I've changed. More knowledgeable, maybe more mature, and hopefully, a little more wise.
Same shirt though. Somehow, even after six years God still has a sense of humor with my life. How the heck I still have and actually wore the same shirt I did six years ago for the same passport amazes me. (Or was it three years ago? Hm...)
But the point is, despite all that I've been through, despite what people may say about the education of Singapore, of IB, of the world even, there's no denying that its something all of us have gone through. So even as I look and sigh at the ideals of a perfect school, of the possibilities creative teaching and the irony of teaching creativity...in the end, as I walked out of the school and looked back at the clock-tower, I suppose there is still only one thing I can truly say:
That I'm proud and blessed to have lived six years of ACS. Because what defines a school, learning, development, is not the knowledge you've gained, the grades you received, the projects you complete.
It is the life you have lived. Because learning and living are one and the same.
And turning away from the clock-tower, I see my friends, all smiling and waving and laughing at the end of the exams, walking down the ramp together. And I know that in many ways, in the trials I've taken and the people I've seen, in the teachers that blessed me and the mistakes I made; that these six years were a life well lived, and a lesson well received.
So to the IB Cohort of 2008-2009, this is all I can say. To take heart and soar on, on Wings like Eagles, with the Lord as our Anchor. To be the Salt of the Earth, a Scholar, Officer and Global Citizen.
And though the first path is over, may we always remember-
-the Best is yet to Be.
I cannot.
But nonetheless, I will try.
It was only recently, though rather late, that it dawned upon me that this wasn't simply an ending of 2 years of IB. It was an end of 6 years of ACS. Of perhaps, one of the most life-shaping six years I've been through.
Just the other day, we went to renew my passport. I looked at the picture taken six years ago, and wonder at how much I've changed. More knowledgeable, maybe more mature, and hopefully, a little more wise.
Same shirt though. Somehow, even after six years God still has a sense of humor with my life. How the heck I still have and actually wore the same shirt I did six years ago for the same passport amazes me. (Or was it three years ago? Hm...)
But the point is, despite all that I've been through, despite what people may say about the education of Singapore, of IB, of the world even, there's no denying that its something all of us have gone through. So even as I look and sigh at the ideals of a perfect school, of the possibilities creative teaching and the irony of teaching creativity...in the end, as I walked out of the school and looked back at the clock-tower, I suppose there is still only one thing I can truly say:
That I'm proud and blessed to have lived six years of ACS. Because what defines a school, learning, development, is not the knowledge you've gained, the grades you received, the projects you complete.
It is the life you have lived. Because learning and living are one and the same.
And turning away from the clock-tower, I see my friends, all smiling and waving and laughing at the end of the exams, walking down the ramp together. And I know that in many ways, in the trials I've taken and the people I've seen, in the teachers that blessed me and the mistakes I made; that these six years were a life well lived, and a lesson well received.
So to the IB Cohort of 2008-2009, this is all I can say. To take heart and soar on, on Wings like Eagles, with the Lord as our Anchor. To be the Salt of the Earth, a Scholar, Officer and Global Citizen.
And though the first path is over, may we always remember-
-the Best is yet to Be.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
Parasyte
Common concept of a creature living in another creature, absorbing their nutrients and abilities without given anything in return.
I don't need to elaborate I think.
Interesting how interesting some parasytes first appear to be. Many a colorful fungus or worm has a curious shape. Its almost as if a brightly colored or interesting looking exterior facilitates the infestation.
So the parasyte mimics the behavior of the host, and discerns what the hosts find "interesting". Thus the host picks up the parasyte, and gives nurtients of its own free will.
I wonder how the parasyte feels, needing others to survive?
Parasyte, parasite.
The worst sort of potential a person can have is wasted potential.
Sloth is a potent sin indeed.
I don't need to elaborate I think.
Interesting how interesting some parasytes first appear to be. Many a colorful fungus or worm has a curious shape. Its almost as if a brightly colored or interesting looking exterior facilitates the infestation.
So the parasyte mimics the behavior of the host, and discerns what the hosts find "interesting". Thus the host picks up the parasyte, and gives nurtients of its own free will.
I wonder how the parasyte feels, needing others to survive?
Parasyte, parasite.
The worst sort of potential a person can have is wasted potential.
Sloth is a potent sin indeed.