Wednesday, February 24, 2010


Four boys ran away into the desert, tired of life. Tired of an endless vaudeville. They decided to seek life and God, in loneliness and vacuum. They held forth an induced vision, that the Truth was out there.

The Truth was waiting to be found, and it was their holy duty to reach it. They carried their organs and their guitars, songs to keep them through the nights under starry skies, flickering sometimes above them in wind and in storm. Music is your only friend until the end, they held fast. They had delighted long years in the illusion that they found the World to be, and had spent many years enjoying its fruit and offspring. It was a good laugh and they had had many. But to reach greater, lasting happiness, they needed answers and they knew they had to take the Trip.

They wanted to roam the desert, wander dunes under a pitiless, angry Sun. If they stuck to their purpose, they would reach a great Oasis. At the Oasis, wondrous maidens would offer them cool wine and rich fruits. They would escort them to their king, a man of impressive power and many jewels. In his court, they would tell their Tales, of exotic creatures and the trees of thorns and hidden juices. They would tell stories to make the toughest soul weep, of hours and days without sight of Life. Of hours and days without water or food. Of moments of fierce contemplation and desperation, when consuming each other seemed the only safety. Of the day the Music died and true despair began. They would ask their questions then and find true answers for the king would know.

Why is Earth? When am I? Who is Time?

They would be Heroes for their struggle. Honoured, revered and offered women, sweet-sour and luxurious. And foods, the same and more.

They clung to the dream of this Oasis in their struggles. They no longer felt the Sun or its stare. They welcomed the evening, with its chilly winds that carried sharp sand. They were one with the sand, the dunes. The shifting landscape, with a blue sky and no clouds, only the Sun above, and soft, hot, folding sand below became their meaning of World. They forgot the vaudeville, the dancing fools and the lumbering fools. They forgot their mothers and their brothers. They forgot names and places, and other animals which did not give poison.

They walked into the Desert, looking for an Oasis and hoping for a Caravan to it.

Monday, February 22, 2010

Moonlight SpaceDrive

Let's swim to the moon.
Let's climb thru the tide.
Ah ha.

Let's go deep into space, into spaces never seen before. Let's break all these ties and chains. Be free, past the final frontier.

In space, in a year millions ahead of us, in a year past several million more, a time-stamp (or a frame) resolved itself. Raised its hand over the formation and came forth to light. In space, in another time, lived a world. This world moved through space and through time. It made its own direction, unknown to its inhabitants. It was possessed by a power, long wiped out. It was not Nature's making. This world was a product of the relic called Mankind.

Mankind, a species illogical and out of harmony, that erupted in a world in a corner of a galaxy. Too small to notice. The energy that breathed the universe would learn lessons off this irregular animal. Such nonsense should not be tolerated again.

A people, devouring everything and one in its Path, moving on and on with wider eyes, far too excited to see the Picture. Annihiliation threatened and Mankind made a craft. It was equipped with the trappings of the People, subverting even each other in a quest for mortal power. The remnants, chosen to breathe on air into future time, dormant and quiet in a locked world.

They would wake, eventually.

When they woke, their world was changed. They got together, in fear, in panic, and in an already growing lust for control. They knew not of which year they were. They could not measure a day or a night. There was no time in their world. Wonder gave way to fears, and they slashed at each other to maim and to kill. Threats were issued and some were kept, and a long time later, bone-weary and famished, came resignation and acceptance. Slowly, they receded back into their wombs, made by their Masters and Commanders of the dead past.

Some wondered where they had come from. And made great tales of lies and visions. Epics, myths and legends were created, all to suggest how began this new, vicious game. Others believed them, and shouted out for strength and blood, in a rage that had no reason and no discernible criteria for success. They thought they were timeless, and their sons did not know what that even meant. But Time passed them on too, a local monitor of pain and change. They sank into their seats, floating in Space. Now the world floats, on a path nobody knows. The People who held that knowledge hid it from their Gods and their Kind. Direction is lost to those on board. They wander, helpless in a Space they do not know.

Ether, the energy, absorbs their passage, allows for this clot of poison to pass as it may. The music plays on, and waves and movements are enacted. Energy rises and ebbs, vibrant in harmony's corridors, leaving echo, a deja vu, and standing waves. The AI world traveled on in the waves, climbing through the tide.

What was a day? What was a night? When are trees? Why is earth? Baffled, mystified and disinterested of their origins, Mankind survived. A generation, lived and duly multiplied, not knowing for whom and why. Theirs was not to question, theirs was but to do. Religion was born again. We must keep the faith. Understanding their world in epiphanies and in illusions, many proclaimed it a show and a mirage. They asked for freedom and a Death to do them part. Blind masses, eager for convenient answer, followed them home.

Generations lost in Space.

Every mind held the same Questions, though some chose not thinking. Why are we here? Where do we go? What is Purpose? But Time passed, and they were silenced, their words erased from the record. Again the same Questions would come, to start over from scratch.

It was said that they had mastered this world of theirs, some thousand units of a pathetic time-measure later. They understood its mechanisms, they manipulated its programs. They could tap into the Power and free their souls into Heavens above. They had been refined and had made Culture. They attached significance to this new past they had, and objects of the World were revered and treasured. They believed that they were Masters now, of their own destiny.

The Pattern recognizes no good or evil. The Pattern remains fair and impartial, weaving everything in the same threads.

Once upon a moment, something changed suddenly. The People rose in shock and in fear. Religions were called upon and Gods consulted, to justify and to explain to those of Faith. For an unknown force had come upon them, and a Voice had delivered to the whole world.

"We are killing ourselves. We are dying. But as even the last rat (and I know you would not know what a rat was) struggles desperately for life and safety, so we thought even we should try. You are Mankind, and my children. Our children. Our future. Our hope."

Then the Voice had ceased. Men consulted, disturbing the universal Fabric once more, with riot and bloodlust for neither rhyme nor reason. They would be safe, they concluded. They were in no harm. It was a friendly voice, and may have answers to our needs. So they waited to hear it again.

"But there is no hope, in a universe. There is no future. There is no room for breath or scream or anger. You have lived now, and been decadent and wasteful. You live in squalor, created by yourself. You deserve no better. We, a Mankind before you, realize our fault, deep within our gene - superior mind and superior skill, let down by greed, lust and gluttony. The survivor of this failed marriage, technology - which we give to you now, as a test and a chance. We hope you have used it well."

And then it spoke no more.

They knew not what to think. They knew not what to want. Lose in space, alone and crowded, they felt helpless and suddenly undone. People fought, People prayed, People drowned in their inner pains. And waited for their Fate.

"You have had the time we had. Time to err, time to learn and time to change. Time enough to do it several times, but still come out strongly again. Your every action, your critical responses and your streams of consciousness have driven your world. Your ideas and your minds have given it direction. You were never helpless, you fools. You had your own world to control and to guide. As was decided today, the day before our own Doom (most just and fair), we shall provide one more chance. If we, Mankind, are to live again, we must find our music and our place in it. One more chance, or never again.

Now, it must end. Your skies will turn to fire. Now. Your floors will split open to devour your lives and your roads. Now. You men, you women, your children must scream in pain and in disbelief. Now. It pains me to do what is necessary and what is just. Know now, you are not special. You are in exile. You are not blessed. You are outlawed and an abuse. So you have remained even now. Now, Mankind, a being most redundant, must end. We, must end."

Pain, rage, screams and pleas came forth, begging forgiveness and promising wrath. But the End came too, swift and fast. They burned and they were swallowed. They drowned and were torn to shreds. Histories, books, music and science, of a world generated by experiment, were burned and made no more. Without a moment's pause. None, from all. No Mankind survived this Time.

The universe functioned on. The Pattern weaved ahead, into Time and Space, making Time and Space. Complex weaves, of different shades, making shapes unplanned and unprecedented. A bigger Power, perhaps? Another Mankind? Or no more mistakes anymore, and just a plain single shade of white? The Pattern was neither good nor evil. Only fair. It absorbed everything, and was impartial.

When the Doors of perception are cleansed, things will appear as they truly are. - William Blake