That'll do my son
That'll do.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Hello World...?
Imagine how a baby feels when its first born. When all its senses, cushioned for nine months in the warmth of the mother's womb, the only sounds the beat of her heart and the gentle mumur's drifting in from outside. No light, no taste, no smells. And then, birth;
The harsh glares of an operating room, the sterilized smells of the tools and beds, the beeps and flashes of the various machines, the taste of blood and the chill of the air...
All at once.
So it is for each stage of life, being born anew, from a different womb into a different theatre, sometimes with surgeons all a-clamor, sometimes with barely a soul around.
And with it, new rules, new feelings, new thoughts, new horomones, new processes, new information, new journeys and new mountains to climb...
I think know now why a baby cries.
------------------------------------------------------------
Blessed I am, for the friends I've made,
Blessed I am, for the parents I have
Blessed I am, for this body and mind;
Alas Lord, my soul is Weak,
Undeserving,
Naive.
And yet...
Blessed I am;
But why?
The harsh glares of an operating room, the sterilized smells of the tools and beds, the beeps and flashes of the various machines, the taste of blood and the chill of the air...
All at once.
So it is for each stage of life, being born anew, from a different womb into a different theatre, sometimes with surgeons all a-clamor, sometimes with barely a soul around.
And with it, new rules, new feelings, new thoughts, new horomones, new processes, new information, new journeys and new mountains to climb...
I think know now why a baby cries.
------------------------------------------------------------
Blessed I am, for the friends I've made,
Blessed I am, for the parents I have
Blessed I am, for this body and mind;
Alas Lord, my soul is Weak,
Undeserving,
Naive.
And yet...
Blessed I am;
But why?
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Background Noise
In the darkness of the room, Jean fingered a tiny remote.
He had been careful, so careful with his project. Months and months of preperation, hundreds of dollars in equipment, survillence, bribes to make sure that no information was leaked out, that no one took offense at his work.
The city wasn't large, and thankfully, not that developed. Not enough for the latest in anti-bugging technology, or sweeping tools.
Around him loomed the chromed metal frames of half a dozen instruments. Black wires snaked from each of them, connecting the essential bits of hardware and software together. Above his house sat a massive satellite dish, one he had installed just under an hour ago. It would take a while for the privacy agents to notice. Until then, he would enjoy the fruits of his labor.
He pressed the remote.
Control panels lit up, blinking like stars in the clear night sky. The whirling of a thousand processors and their respective cooling units filled the room, but thankfully, was unable to penetrate the soundproof padding of the massive headphones he wore around his head. The dish hummed and beeped, as the first of the many, many signals came it.
Patter. Patter.
It was the sound of rain.
Somewhere in the city, a storm had formed.
This was joined in by the rustling of leaves in the park, the tap tap of footsteps down the tiled office floors, the whisper of sheets in a clothes maker's shop, the gurgling of coffee at the cafe next door...
The cries of babies in the hospital wards. The sweeping of brooms down the dusty allyways. The screeching of cars, the honking of a band, the slamming of classroom doors and the thunk-thud of falling cans.
They all joined together, melded together, the computers calculating and adjusting, blending the noises and melodies of the city into a single, perfect symphony.
In the background, the chatter rose. Voices of office workers, of artists in their homes, of students in their canteen, of sweepers down the streets. Of shoppers at the mall, of sportsmen in their gyms...all of the chatter rose and fell, their meaning and exact words lost and screened as the formed one crowd, the heartbeat of civilization.
Months of work. Months spent placing those tiny recievers on every broom. On the odd door, office corner, water-cooler, toilet. On plates and tyres, on flowers even. Just for this.
This was the music of the city. Of people, of their creations, of the things they did. Yet no one paid attention, trapped in their tiny bubbles of music, pumped into their ears from an even tinier music player.
Jean sighed a sigh of contentment, and heard it echoed back to him a hundredfold, mixed with the sighs of a hundred people. And then he smiled, listening to the symphony of the world.
He had been careful, so careful with his project. Months and months of preperation, hundreds of dollars in equipment, survillence, bribes to make sure that no information was leaked out, that no one took offense at his work.
The city wasn't large, and thankfully, not that developed. Not enough for the latest in anti-bugging technology, or sweeping tools.
Around him loomed the chromed metal frames of half a dozen instruments. Black wires snaked from each of them, connecting the essential bits of hardware and software together. Above his house sat a massive satellite dish, one he had installed just under an hour ago. It would take a while for the privacy agents to notice. Until then, he would enjoy the fruits of his labor.
He pressed the remote.
Control panels lit up, blinking like stars in the clear night sky. The whirling of a thousand processors and their respective cooling units filled the room, but thankfully, was unable to penetrate the soundproof padding of the massive headphones he wore around his head. The dish hummed and beeped, as the first of the many, many signals came it.
Patter. Patter.
It was the sound of rain.
Somewhere in the city, a storm had formed.
This was joined in by the rustling of leaves in the park, the tap tap of footsteps down the tiled office floors, the whisper of sheets in a clothes maker's shop, the gurgling of coffee at the cafe next door...
The cries of babies in the hospital wards. The sweeping of brooms down the dusty allyways. The screeching of cars, the honking of a band, the slamming of classroom doors and the thunk-thud of falling cans.
They all joined together, melded together, the computers calculating and adjusting, blending the noises and melodies of the city into a single, perfect symphony.
In the background, the chatter rose. Voices of office workers, of artists in their homes, of students in their canteen, of sweepers down the streets. Of shoppers at the mall, of sportsmen in their gyms...all of the chatter rose and fell, their meaning and exact words lost and screened as the formed one crowd, the heartbeat of civilization.
Months of work. Months spent placing those tiny recievers on every broom. On the odd door, office corner, water-cooler, toilet. On plates and tyres, on flowers even. Just for this.
This was the music of the city. Of people, of their creations, of the things they did. Yet no one paid attention, trapped in their tiny bubbles of music, pumped into their ears from an even tinier music player.
Jean sighed a sigh of contentment, and heard it echoed back to him a hundredfold, mixed with the sighs of a hundred people. And then he smiled, listening to the symphony of the world.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Not Much
As an average person, my life and call
is said to be well, not much at all
Not much the pleasure of one's first kiss
Not much small moments of simple bliss
Not much the regret of saying goodbye
Not much a mother's tears
Or a father's sigh.
Not much the goals, big or small
Not much the struggle to achieve them all
Not much the stress in moments of strife
Not much the friends you make through life
Not much the nerves on a wedding day
Not much the secrets we never say
Not much the shouting and bills not paid
Not much the sickness or words last said
An average person, from rise to fall
a life well lived- not much at all
is said to be well, not much at all
Not much the pleasure of one's first kiss
Not much small moments of simple bliss
Not much the regret of saying goodbye
Not much a mother's tears
Or a father's sigh.
Not much the goals, big or small
Not much the struggle to achieve them all
Not much the stress in moments of strife
Not much the friends you make through life
Not much the nerves on a wedding day
Not much the secrets we never say
Not much the shouting and bills not paid
Not much the sickness or words last said
An average person, from rise to fall
a life well lived- not much at all
Sunday, February 21, 2010
The Hunter's Recruit
I began my journey by writing how it all began:
Uncle Lee had these magic forms which he passed to me; neither were yellow or green, mostly red and white. The moment I touched them I knew what fate had in store for me. Within weeks I was transported into this strange place, filled with many poo- companies. Some were dying, some were still full, while others seemed to be small, but deep with possibilities.
We explored the strange worlds, looked upon the halls of old, and spoke the Pledgeful Words. With that, our fate was sealed, and we were brought before by the great Lion Officer to the new company, where he roared life into the recruits gathered there. And from the trucks and loading bays erupted a multitude of equipment and field packs, enough for everyone.
And between the recruits he divided them into platoons, and each platoon he divided into sections. And some of the recruits he appointed as ICs, that they may govern over the other recruits.
Many days later the recruits were taken upon to the sacred garden, where a mighty apple was presented to them. Powerful was this apple, and only with the right words and training could one possess it so, for the guardians of the garden were vigilant in their watching, and nary an unsqueezed apple would bring doom upon the entire platoon. Tempting it was, to sleep or simply steal the apple, but the recruits knew their Officer would not be pleased, and bore it weight all the way back to their company, rightfully and honorably.
And the recruits took back the apples and buried them in their lockers, to keep them safe from the prying hands of the sergeants. And though the recruits did return amidst a shower of fireworks and red packets, they knew that in four days they would return once more to the company. And though the apple was returned to the garden, in the times to come they would pick it up and march through the jungles with them.
And the leaves of the apple, which were green like the greenest grass, splotched with pixels of black and brown, were worn by the recruits both forward and back, that they may journey to each adventure in the days ahead.
Still in my possession do I have a green card, and the leaves of the apple tree made into a shirt. Today I return to Orien to chronicle my adventures there once more.
Uncle Lee had these magic forms which he passed to me; neither were yellow or green, mostly red and white. The moment I touched them I knew what fate had in store for me. Within weeks I was transported into this strange place, filled with many poo- companies. Some were dying, some were still full, while others seemed to be small, but deep with possibilities.
We explored the strange worlds, looked upon the halls of old, and spoke the Pledgeful Words. With that, our fate was sealed, and we were brought before by the great Lion Officer to the new company, where he roared life into the recruits gathered there. And from the trucks and loading bays erupted a multitude of equipment and field packs, enough for everyone.
And between the recruits he divided them into platoons, and each platoon he divided into sections. And some of the recruits he appointed as ICs, that they may govern over the other recruits.
Many days later the recruits were taken upon to the sacred garden, where a mighty apple was presented to them. Powerful was this apple, and only with the right words and training could one possess it so, for the guardians of the garden were vigilant in their watching, and nary an unsqueezed apple would bring doom upon the entire platoon. Tempting it was, to sleep or simply steal the apple, but the recruits knew their Officer would not be pleased, and bore it weight all the way back to their company, rightfully and honorably.
And the recruits took back the apples and buried them in their lockers, to keep them safe from the prying hands of the sergeants. And though the recruits did return amidst a shower of fireworks and red packets, they knew that in four days they would return once more to the company. And though the apple was returned to the garden, in the times to come they would pick it up and march through the jungles with them.
And the leaves of the apple, which were green like the greenest grass, splotched with pixels of black and brown, were worn by the recruits both forward and back, that they may journey to each adventure in the days ahead.
Still in my possession do I have a green card, and the leaves of the apple tree made into a shirt. Today I return to Orien to chronicle my adventures there once more.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Egoist
I would say that by nature I am a proud man, in that I am often too proud to lie.
It is very difficult for me to say something I do not mean. False praise for example.
It is disgusting to praise someone and then demand they do the same to you. Disgusting, and pathetic.
Yes I am a proud person in this regard. My opinions of people, my respect for people. I will respect those I want to respect, and praise those I want to praise. And if you or anyone tries making me write or say what my heart and mind do not mean then God forgive me for what I shall say or do to you.
Pride is a great sin, but in this regard I would say it is a sin only in the face of sin. For the humble would never ask to be lauded in attention. Perhaps there might be a fall I am not aware of for this notion, but if there is it is one I would gladly learn from.
You, and sometimes the censor inside me can control my actions, disguise my words or restrict my impulses.
But my opinions shall forever remain mine and mine alone. Beyond all mortal power. For only God may change the hearts of man. And you, my friend, are most definitely not He.
It is very difficult for me to say something I do not mean. False praise for example.
It is disgusting to praise someone and then demand they do the same to you. Disgusting, and pathetic.
Yes I am a proud person in this regard. My opinions of people, my respect for people. I will respect those I want to respect, and praise those I want to praise. And if you or anyone tries making me write or say what my heart and mind do not mean then God forgive me for what I shall say or do to you.
Pride is a great sin, but in this regard I would say it is a sin only in the face of sin. For the humble would never ask to be lauded in attention. Perhaps there might be a fall I am not aware of for this notion, but if there is it is one I would gladly learn from.
You, and sometimes the censor inside me can control my actions, disguise my words or restrict my impulses.
But my opinions shall forever remain mine and mine alone. Beyond all mortal power. For only God may change the hearts of man. And you, my friend, are most definitely not He.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Head in the Clouds
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.
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.