White, formal walls of the asylum. He was pretty sick of them by now. Of course, someone had to guard the poor memory-wiped sick folk from themselves and their delusions. Of course, someone had to guard the research facility and the virus within the labs. It was a hard enough work for the scientists to isolate it to the few victims now housed in the clinic while the virus was still natural. If someone was to steal it and spread it around on purpose, the results could be horrifying. He saw what it did to people - some of them could easily forget how to breathe.
Of course, some actually seemed to recover quite well, and with each passing day, the researchers from the secure wing brought in new samples of potential cure. The cure for memory deterioration itself was, in fact, achieved, the goal now was to restore the destroyed memories of the patients. This was the hard bit, from what he understood.
Today, that girl passed him by again. Smiling at him. Wished him a good day. He wondered about her. Wondered a lot. Who was she? He was sure she didn't know. She didn't even have a name, none that she knew of. Sometimes, they would talk, and she would ask him to pick a name for her. It felt strange. How could she remember the words, but not her name, not who she is? She knew nothing of her past.
She looked angelic.
Yesterday, he tried to read her files. It wasn't something he was likely permitted to do, but he didn't care. He wanted to know more about that girl, and a few nags from the employer wouldn't stop him from it. All he had the time for was just blindly copying the data. At home, he had no reader for it, either, but here, he could try. A bored guard, using one of the computers, who would ever be bothered by it?
He walked up to one of the machines, looking casual - or so he hoped, but inside, he felt tense; he struggled to contain the excitement and the fear. What if she was married? What if she was a lunatic? He was comfortable with her the way she was now. Would he be afterwards? He looked at the screen, hesitant, then opened the file.
To him, most of the text inside was gibberish. What would he know about the abbreviations, prescriptions and other such trash? There was nothing for him, nothing at all for all this trouble. It didn't even have her name. Just the number. Just that. Oh, and...
He blinked. It seems he'd copied her chart. Of course it wouldn't have her history, of course not. But even then, there was something that did catch his eye. A prescription due for just another week from now. A memory implant. He stared at it.
"Harry?", a voice said behind his back. Her voice. He tensed up. It was now or never. Decision time. Yes or no, one or zero. A binary choice with no chance to replay.
He closed the file and slowly, calmly turned to face her, trying to smile. Something was choking at his throat, and he couldn't quite make it stop.
"You remember", he said, "We've talked about outside? The trees, the grass, the flowers, the wind?"
"Of course I do", she replied, chuckling at him, "Since when have you become one of the doctors?"
"That's not what I meant", he muttered, looking confused. Her laugh, pretty as it was, was making him feel stupid - and the damned claw on his throat didn't help his case either.
She tilted her head to the side at his reply. "What then?"
"I meant, would you like to come see it with me? The outside?"
She blinked with surprise, her eyebrows rising involuntarily. "Outside? But we're not allowed to do that!"
"I know", he nodded, "But we're about to change that." He paused, looking at her, hoping she'd understand. And she did.
"Oh"
"Would you like to come with me?"
She looked at him, letting silence fall and the pause to grow. Slowly, a smile touched her lips. Her eyes. He smiled back.
"Of course I would!"
Monday, May 26, 2008
Sunday, May 25, 2008
A Poem About Incarnation Of Good
For the formerly Soviet comrades:
Добро должно быть с кулаками,
С хвостом и острыми рогами,
С копытами и с бородой.
Колючей шерстию покрыто,
Огнем дыша, бия копытом,
Оно придет и за тобой!
Ты слышишь - вот оно шагает,
С клыков на землю яд стекает,
Хвост гневно хлещет по бокам.
Добро, зловеще завывая,
Рогами тучи задевая,
Все ближе подползает к нам!
Тебе ж, читатель мой капризный,
Hоситель духа гуманизма,
Желаю я Добра - и пусть
При встрече с ним мой стих ты вспомнишь,
И вот тогда глухую полночь
Прорежет жуткий крик: "Hа помощь!"
А дальше - чавканье и хруст...
©перто
Sowwy to the rest. Might translate it later.
Why 4chan?
Can anyone explain this to me? Why 4chan? What makes it appealing? What's the big deal? "the lulz"? I've seen funnier things in Sunday Morning comic strips. Trollgrounds? Suppose that could be something to consider. But doesn't it get old? Anonymity? Now there's a laugh, anonymity in the Internet. If anyone actually cared, nobody could be able to hide their identity. Thing is, nobody cares who the 4chan "activists" and "members" are, though, besides the child-minded adults with too much spare time and too little taste.
"War on Scientology"? Please. That's now how you fight a war. This is the display of helpless gerbils banging their head against a wall. Though I suppose to some, that's entertaining for more than five minutes. No lasting effect can be expected to come out of it, if nothing else, it's actually advertising the Scientology by placing it in the spotlight. Surely the people there should know that Christianity wasn't the object of everyone's love and admiration back in the olden Roman Empire days.
So what is it, then? A place for the helpless to vent their rage? A place for cheap laughs?
"War on Scientology"? Please. That's now how you fight a war. This is the display of helpless gerbils banging their head against a wall. Though I suppose to some, that's entertaining for more than five minutes. No lasting effect can be expected to come out of it, if nothing else, it's actually advertising the Scientology by placing it in the spotlight. Surely the people there should know that Christianity wasn't the object of everyone's love and admiration back in the olden Roman Empire days.
So what is it, then? A place for the helpless to vent their rage? A place for cheap laughs?
Eurovision
Bilan won by attrition! I guess Europe was afraid that he'd be sent to compete again in another two years.
Though to be serious, the song was kinda nice. Furthermore, Greece should've been taken out and Ukraine's 12-point moments should've been shown twice. More yays at the general success of Armenia and the relative success of Azerbaidzhan. Shame that Finland didn't do better, but then again, nobody forced Finland to send Teräsbetoni, for which even the neighbouring countries wouldn't want to give a point or two.
But yes, the song was nice. And the 3-time Olympic champion skating on that small pond of ice was neat. Good thing Bilan won, next time I bet he'd have brought the national hockey team, what with ballet dancers from pianos and stuff.
Though to be serious, the song was kinda nice. Furthermore, Greece should've been taken out and Ukraine's 12-point moments should've been shown twice. More yays at the general success of Armenia and the relative success of Azerbaidzhan. Shame that Finland didn't do better, but then again, nobody forced Finland to send Teräsbetoni, for which even the neighbouring countries wouldn't want to give a point or two.
But yes, the song was nice. And the 3-time Olympic champion skating on that small pond of ice was neat. Good thing Bilan won, next time I bet he'd have brought the national hockey team, what with ballet dancers from pianos and stuff.
Even when the thunder and storm begins
I’ll be standing strong like a tree in the wind
Nothing's gonna move this mountain
Or change my direction
I’m falling off that sky and I’m all alone
The courage that’s inside is gonna break my fall
Nothing’s gonna dim my light within
But if I keep going on
It will never be impossible, not today
Cause I’ve got something to believe in
As long as I’m breathing
There is not a limit to what I can dream
Cause I’ve got something to believe in
Mission to keep climbing
Nothing else can stop me if I just believe
And I believe in me
Even when the world tries to pull me down
Tell me that I can, try to turn me around
I wont let them put my fire out, no!
But if I keep going on
It will never be impossible, not today
Cause I’ve got something to believe in
As long as I’m breathing
There is not a limit to what I can dream
Cause I’ve got something to believe in
Mission to keep climbing
Nothing else can stop me if I just believe
And I believe:
I can do it all
Open every door
Turn unthinkable to reality
You’ll see- I can do it all and more!
Believing
As long as I’m breathing
There is not a limit to what I can dream
Cause I’ve got something to believe in
Believing
Mission to keep climbing
Nothing else can stop me if just believe
And I believe in me.
I can't believe I watched Eurovision and wrote an article on it.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Yet more old stuff
Spring '03. Not my best writings, perhaps. And perhaps I posted it here somewhere already, in which case, silly me, but, who cares.
A clear, windy summer day in the wastelands, there’s nothing out of the usual here. Important-looking people in official suits and military attire gathered here at the testing grounds, inspecting the device. The technicians are giving it the last test runs, adjusting this and that, seeing to it that nothing goes wrong this time. Finally satisfied, they all get in their vehicles and drive off to the safety of the bunkers, some distance upwind. In the bunkers, the white suits were doing some final adjustments to their equipment, pushing buttons, adjusting screens, and saying things the visitors didn’t much understand. Finally, it looked like the countdown could, at last, begin.
As the sun goes down, the wind speed picks up and a few people start saying that the test should be postponed a bit, the wind is too strong and might blow the sand to a settlement downwind, perhaps even contaminating it. Others say the wind is just fine and further delay would just cause them to lose time and money. The argument quickly ceases and the countdown begins. Ten minutes to go. The time ticks the seconds away, painfully slow at first, faster and faster as the time of the final test approaches. And finally, it seems as rapid and unstoppable as an avalanche. Three minutes…Two and a half…One…
Far away, in a settlement downwind, a boy asks his mother to let him go chase the wind outside a bit. His mother is reluctant at first – the wind has picked up now, carrying sand and occasional pieces of trash with it – but looking at her son’s eager face, she lets him go. A minute, to lace the shoes – he isn’t too good at it yet, twenty seconds to run down the stairs and out the front door.
Three, two, one… A bright flash on the monitors makes the observers close their eyes for a brief moment, then the earth rumbles and shakes and a distant roar is heard, and the crazy howling of the wind. The lights flicker, the monitors go static. The show’s over, champagne is opened, congratulations everyone, blah, blah…
A minute to get to the open field, and then he runs against the wind, the sand blowing in his face; runs against it with hands open wide.
A clear, windy summer day in the wastelands, there’s nothing out of the usual here. Important-looking people in official suits and military attire gathered here at the testing grounds, inspecting the device. The technicians are giving it the last test runs, adjusting this and that, seeing to it that nothing goes wrong this time. Finally satisfied, they all get in their vehicles and drive off to the safety of the bunkers, some distance upwind. In the bunkers, the white suits were doing some final adjustments to their equipment, pushing buttons, adjusting screens, and saying things the visitors didn’t much understand. Finally, it looked like the countdown could, at last, begin.
As the sun goes down, the wind speed picks up and a few people start saying that the test should be postponed a bit, the wind is too strong and might blow the sand to a settlement downwind, perhaps even contaminating it. Others say the wind is just fine and further delay would just cause them to lose time and money. The argument quickly ceases and the countdown begins. Ten minutes to go. The time ticks the seconds away, painfully slow at first, faster and faster as the time of the final test approaches. And finally, it seems as rapid and unstoppable as an avalanche. Three minutes…Two and a half…One…
Far away, in a settlement downwind, a boy asks his mother to let him go chase the wind outside a bit. His mother is reluctant at first – the wind has picked up now, carrying sand and occasional pieces of trash with it – but looking at her son’s eager face, she lets him go. A minute, to lace the shoes – he isn’t too good at it yet, twenty seconds to run down the stairs and out the front door.
Three, two, one… A bright flash on the monitors makes the observers close their eyes for a brief moment, then the earth rumbles and shakes and a distant roar is heard, and the crazy howling of the wind. The lights flicker, the monitors go static. The show’s over, champagne is opened, congratulations everyone, blah, blah…
A minute to get to the open field, and then he runs against the wind, the sand blowing in his face; runs against it with hands open wide.
Summer Night
A small concept sketch I wrote, haven't found any use for it yet.
A warm, cloudless night in the end of summer... Standing in the middle of an open field, waist-deep in the rye, you run your hands through the golden carpet of plants, listening to the quiet song of the night, the air alive with the song of the insects, various birds that are still awake, and a distant nightingale... Gentle warm wind blows softly against your skin, making you shiver lightly, and brings with it a soft, quiet melody, played on a flute in the distance. Curious, you follow the sound, and it grows closer, and closer, then, suddenly, decides to let you approach no further, staying at the same distance from you no matter how long you walk. You keep on following the sound, the gentle melody almost bewitching in its beauty. The night goes on, the quiet melody still carried through the air, but you, you are no longer in this field, nor in this world, the song of the siren forever keeping you as you walk on.
A warm, cloudless night in the end of summer... Standing in the middle of an open field, waist-deep in the rye, you run your hands through the golden carpet of plants, listening to the quiet song of the night, the air alive with the song of the insects, various birds that are still awake, and a distant nightingale... Gentle warm wind blows softly against your skin, making you shiver lightly, and brings with it a soft, quiet melody, played on a flute in the distance. Curious, you follow the sound, and it grows closer, and closer, then, suddenly, decides to let you approach no further, staying at the same distance from you no matter how long you walk. You keep on following the sound, the gentle melody almost bewitching in its beauty. The night goes on, the quiet melody still carried through the air, but you, you are no longer in this field, nor in this world, the song of the siren forever keeping you as you walk on.
University Assignments, I Has Them
I really wonder how I actually passed the courses, let alone get good grades, with assignments completed in this key. Oh, and I remember being extremely irritated while writing this, thus the poem didn't quite get praise. Like Marlowe would care about my praise thought.
A close-up of Christopher Marlowe's The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
This poem is, I dare mention this word, a typical pastoral poem. In it, the poet glorifies nature, elevating it to a nearly divine rank - yet the poem itself is not targeted as a praise to nature, but rather, as a love verse. Here we can see the convention of the poet referring to himself allegorically as a shepherd, a man attuned to nature and wishing to introduce a certain unknown lady to his place of "dwelling" as well.
Following the major interpretation branches, this poem shows a wish for spiritual regeneration - of course, the notion is flawed with the sad reality, where nature isn't as perfect, the flowers tend to wither and the lovely tree stump that one chances to sit upon happens to be ant-infested. However, such is not shown, to make the setting more attractive to the recipient, presumably (initially, at any rate), a young impressible lass in order to join the "shepherd" in spiritual regeneration of any interpretable sort. From here, one can also discern the notion of "carpe diem", which is supposedly the invention of modern youth - as anyone with some relative knowledge of the world knows, spring and summer do not last forever, and after them, one must weather the rainy, decaying autumn and harsh winter in order to, perhaps, come back to spring. Yet, the poem makes not a single mention of such detestable things, hence hinting at it being a poem aimed for what is conveniently labeled a "fling" these days, or, in other words, a short-term relationship. It's not for me to tell if it is indeed so, but such a notion is certainly discernible throughout the text, and, as it had already been noted on the class, it would seem as though many other contemporaries of Marlowe had a similar opinion.
P.S:The poem itself:
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle:
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold:
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning;
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle:
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold:
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning;
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.
P.P.S: Thanks to CC for spotting more typoes. I think I forgot to mention that I do assignments 10 minutes before leaving the house for the class.
Goldshire Survival Guide
Commentary: This is what the world would see if, back in WoW, our guild would have made a newspaper, and if Theanoril was to write anything for it.
Theanoril's Survival Guide to Goldshire
------------------------------------
So, yeh heard of Goldshire from yer friends and family and figured that all the things they said were a lie, packed your bags and went on a trip, and now you're standin' shin-deep in something that looks like someone's processed lunch? Well, my dear friend, congratulations on the well-picked holiday destination, and welcome to what is rumoured to be the representation of the Twisting Nether on Azeroth.
Mayhaps now is a good time to turn away and run, run, run, until you are out of breath, until you are safe? But 'tis too late, a beggar is now firmly attached to your sleeve, a gnome hanging down your leg, several lasses are smilin' at you in a way most seductive... And several of the local brawlers, with faces twisted from over-indulging of local alcohols are approaching you now, blades drawn and smell of brimstone clearly tickling your nose. Now, what do yeh do, dear friend, what indeed?
Now, if you consider yourself a capable fighter, you may consider taking a moment to punch one of the local drunks in the face a time or two. However, it would do you well to keep in mind these simple truths, should you decide to take the above course of action:
1) Should you indeed defeat your foe in an honourable sparring session, the most likely actions by the opposite party will be nowhere near courteous. You will be accused of numerous sins, called even more numerous names, then likely challenged again, either by the same person, or by his, or her gentle friends.
2) Should you be defeated, prepare to be subjected to boasts of the victor, and most of what'd been described in Case 1.
3) Duelling may be honourable and sportive, however, when performed in the streets of Goldshire, it instantly turns you into one of "them", not to mention that you're going to stain your clothes, one way or another, and while your prowess as a fighter may impress the nearby opposite (or/and similar) gender, the stench of sweat will not. Then again, this -is- Goldshire, and even the strongest stenches of sweat will be considered an improvement.
My advice? Steer clear of conflict in Goldshire, however, should someone be overly annoying to you, always remember that there is no better way for instant gratification and redemption of self-esteem that punching the fool in the face, driving a blade through their liver and walking away, as long as it's done in style.
Now that we've dealt with the rowdy sort, let's move on to the rest of the run-of-the-mill population of Goldshire - the drunks, the beggars, the seductively-smiling lasses and the mysterious group of people that tend to like biting people's necks (many of us like doing it, but we generally await the invitation). Out of the above, the drunks are perhaps the most harmless of the local scene, generally running (walking, crawling, lying in a ditch; pick as desired/necessary) around the tavern and town, occasionally performing ritual sacrifices to Ragnaros by torching themselves in the local tavern's fireplace. Most of the trouble out of them is incessant babbling and yells, and you needn't concern yourself with these.
Now, the beggars may be more annoying. Most of these have spent so long in Goldshire that they have forgotten how to properly speak or address a person of status and decency such as my gentle readers. In fact, at first you may not comprehend what they ask of you, and whether it is indeed you that they are talking to. My advice on the issue of beggars is - why perpetuate them? Should you feel enough pity for them, you may even consider putting them out of their misery.
(Note: Using this article as a means of explaining your motives to the Guard will not work. The author does not accept any responsibility for the readers' compliance or non-compliance to the article)
Having successfully pushed away the beggars, you may now have more time to talk to the lasses. Often they are dressed in revealing clothes, though occasionally you may find one that is either dressed fully or not at all. As with all things in Goldshire, it is best to steer clear of them. If you should want to learn more about reasons behind the advice, follow the future publications of the Goldshire Quarterly and you may learn. However, I will reveal to you one of the reasons as of right now. Y'see, gentle reader, many of the lasses (lads as well, in fact) of Goldshire belong to a secret sect of idiots. They have decided to call themselves "Vampires" and claim to be immortal, blood-feasting creatures. They tend to run up to you and bite your neck til it bleeds then try to lick the blood off, which is indeed disgusting and perpetuates all manners of disease, leprosy for instance. The best way to deal with these is to carry around a handy piece of sharpened wood that you may run through their heart and thus terminate their desire to drink, eat and procreate forever. Why use wood, you may wonder? Simple - you do not want to ruin your blade with -such-.
Now, dear friend, you have learned of the general make-up of Goldshire population. While it is still adviseable to stay the Nether away from it, now you will at least know what strategems to apply.
Stay safe, if that is even possible, and make sure the innkeeper does not dilute spring water with boilt one.
Your faithful guide,
Theanoril Eyrean.
Theanoril's Survival Guide to Goldshire
------------------------------------
So, yeh heard of Goldshire from yer friends and family and figured that all the things they said were a lie, packed your bags and went on a trip, and now you're standin' shin-deep in something that looks like someone's processed lunch? Well, my dear friend, congratulations on the well-picked holiday destination, and welcome to what is rumoured to be the representation of the Twisting Nether on Azeroth.
Mayhaps now is a good time to turn away and run, run, run, until you are out of breath, until you are safe? But 'tis too late, a beggar is now firmly attached to your sleeve, a gnome hanging down your leg, several lasses are smilin' at you in a way most seductive... And several of the local brawlers, with faces twisted from over-indulging of local alcohols are approaching you now, blades drawn and smell of brimstone clearly tickling your nose. Now, what do yeh do, dear friend, what indeed?
Now, if you consider yourself a capable fighter, you may consider taking a moment to punch one of the local drunks in the face a time or two. However, it would do you well to keep in mind these simple truths, should you decide to take the above course of action:
1) Should you indeed defeat your foe in an honourable sparring session, the most likely actions by the opposite party will be nowhere near courteous. You will be accused of numerous sins, called even more numerous names, then likely challenged again, either by the same person, or by his, or her gentle friends.
2) Should you be defeated, prepare to be subjected to boasts of the victor, and most of what'd been described in Case 1.
3) Duelling may be honourable and sportive, however, when performed in the streets of Goldshire, it instantly turns you into one of "them", not to mention that you're going to stain your clothes, one way or another, and while your prowess as a fighter may impress the nearby opposite (or/and similar) gender, the stench of sweat will not. Then again, this -is- Goldshire, and even the strongest stenches of sweat will be considered an improvement.
My advice? Steer clear of conflict in Goldshire, however, should someone be overly annoying to you, always remember that there is no better way for instant gratification and redemption of self-esteem that punching the fool in the face, driving a blade through their liver and walking away, as long as it's done in style.
Now that we've dealt with the rowdy sort, let's move on to the rest of the run-of-the-mill population of Goldshire - the drunks, the beggars, the seductively-smiling lasses and the mysterious group of people that tend to like biting people's necks (many of us like doing it, but we generally await the invitation). Out of the above, the drunks are perhaps the most harmless of the local scene, generally running (walking, crawling, lying in a ditch; pick as desired/necessary) around the tavern and town, occasionally performing ritual sacrifices to Ragnaros by torching themselves in the local tavern's fireplace. Most of the trouble out of them is incessant babbling and yells, and you needn't concern yourself with these.
Now, the beggars may be more annoying. Most of these have spent so long in Goldshire that they have forgotten how to properly speak or address a person of status and decency such as my gentle readers. In fact, at first you may not comprehend what they ask of you, and whether it is indeed you that they are talking to. My advice on the issue of beggars is - why perpetuate them? Should you feel enough pity for them, you may even consider putting them out of their misery.
(Note: Using this article as a means of explaining your motives to the Guard will not work. The author does not accept any responsibility for the readers' compliance or non-compliance to the article)
Having successfully pushed away the beggars, you may now have more time to talk to the lasses. Often they are dressed in revealing clothes, though occasionally you may find one that is either dressed fully or not at all. As with all things in Goldshire, it is best to steer clear of them. If you should want to learn more about reasons behind the advice, follow the future publications of the Goldshire Quarterly and you may learn. However, I will reveal to you one of the reasons as of right now. Y'see, gentle reader, many of the lasses (lads as well, in fact) of Goldshire belong to a secret sect of idiots. They have decided to call themselves "Vampires" and claim to be immortal, blood-feasting creatures. They tend to run up to you and bite your neck til it bleeds then try to lick the blood off, which is indeed disgusting and perpetuates all manners of disease, leprosy for instance. The best way to deal with these is to carry around a handy piece of sharpened wood that you may run through their heart and thus terminate their desire to drink, eat and procreate forever. Why use wood, you may wonder? Simple - you do not want to ruin your blade with -such-.
Now, dear friend, you have learned of the general make-up of Goldshire population. While it is still adviseable to stay the Nether away from it, now you will at least know what strategems to apply.
Stay safe, if that is even possible, and make sure the innkeeper does not dilute spring water with boilt one.
Your faithful guide,
Theanoril Eyrean.
Something old
Note: This story was written five years ago, some time in December of 2003, if memory serves. I haven't modified it since then, though I believe it would need some of that. Still, here it is, in original form. One of my experiments in stream-of-conscience type of writing.
P.S: Thanks to CC for spotting the typoes, haven't exactly edited the text, and NotePad has no spell-checking.
P.S: Thanks to CC for spotting the typoes, haven't exactly edited the text, and NotePad has no spell-checking.
6.12.2003
Twilight. Cold winter twilight. It's probably the creepiest time of the day, really. Not the darkness of the night, the darkness that conceals all, no, but this brief time between day and night when the shadows seem to have a life of their own, a mind of their own, when they hide daggers in their depth to stab and pierce you with the deepest of despairs. So what would a person be doing here, far from the city, deep in the forest, in the shadows? What makes one go to the middle of nowhere and draw odd pictures on the rock, muttering some utter bullshit from a sheet of paper all the while? Well, I don't know about other people, but I am here for a simple purpose of following the instructions I found on the net. Supposed to call forth a demon. Spooky, huh? Well, it isn't supposed to harm anyone, what with all these handmade wards and spells... and mutterings. But still, I guess most people go and take out a loan or go to a shrink or find some sort of comfort with a female representation of our species, not summon demons. Normally. Thing is, I don't care for money, shrink won't cure my shattered mind, and females... Well, how should I put this? I am not interested in most of them. Can you blame me? Once you see the sun from a cave, you'll not settle for the good old fire anymore, I think. That's my case, anyhow. There, looks done. And looks like it's getting dark. And cold. Should just finish this and go home and drink something warm. And a shower. Maybe. Meh, nah, I'm not sweaty or anything. Not like I didn't wash day before yesterday or anything. Just some warm drink. But back to what we came here for, anyway... There, more incomprehensible demonic tongue... I wonder if I'm supposed to be respectful or fearful or anything? Ah well, whatever. There, now just to finish the blabbering and "utter the wish(es)". Now, what do I wish for? I doubt that global peace and justice are in demonic domain... Maybe I should just ask for success in life, and to make the one I'm metaphoring with the sun to turn her attention to me... There, done. The paper doesn't seem to have any further instructions. Hm, I wonder what I expected, anyway... Some impressive show with illumination? And why do I even believe this crap? Ah, whatever. Now, to get back to the car... Or else I'll freeze my everything off. Damn it gets cold fast now.
Bloody twilight, playing tricks on me. The shadows, seemingly alive again. The forest, cold, ready for the winter, sleeping... And yet, laughing at me all the same?... I should maybe increase my pace or something... It's cold... And kinda scary, even though I'd never confess I thought that way. Well, no-one here will see me run, anyway. No sane person is out here, only me. Kinda windy, too. They promised a calm evening and everything... Ah well. There's the car. And the heater...
7.12.2003, headlines of a morning paper
"Young man found frozen to death in his car"
"A young man, age 20, found in his car on the highway 4, frozen to death. The fact that the night was warm and the condition the body was found in raises certain questions, and the police has opened an investigation. However, it is at the moment unknown what could freeze the victim solid. Further confusion is caused by the markings found on his arms and neck that seem like carved symbols of some sort. Police is conciderng opening a case on vandalism. Any further developments will be published in our next issues"
A Day At The Marketing Department
It has been a while since he was last directly involved with the operations of the Marketing Department. The giant, towering building of steel and polished glass, ever-spotless, looming as a constant reminder of the companies' presence over the cities, he couldn't help but hate it. Of course, he couldn't help but be here today, either. He didn't have a choice, of course, but even if he would, he'd still be standing in the marble-covered lobby, staring at his reflection in the window, trying to adjust his suit to sit on him like he would wear it daily. It was an uncomfortable place.
"Your ID checks out, you may proceed to the upper floors", the guard finally announced, returning a small card, "Seems you've been here before, but, in case you feel lost, would you like to ask for directions?" The guard offered a polite smile in a half-hearted attempt to hide the sarcasm in his voice.
"No, thank you. You've been of too much help already", he replied, hoping the smile he offered in return was at least twice as polite. The guard nodded, losing interest.
He quietly walked away, headed for the nearby elevator. Of course, even that had to be made in the flashiest way possible. Of course, the Marketing Department did not feel any need to save on anything; in fact, the more it spent, the more it gained, or so the popular belief among pretty much anyone that cared was. The elevator, a polished glass box framed in gold-plated steel (Or so the popular belief said. It dawned upon him now that it could just be paint), whirred quietly, and began a swift, yet regardlessly majestic rise towards the sky. Were it not for the clouds, the view would certainly be enchanting - just like the last time. From the enormous height the buildings became tiny, the factories shrank and looked like scale models of themselves, the dirt and the noise moved out of sight, and the city, the ugly, poisonous city, suddenly became an object of pride. A bell rang quietly, and the elevator stopped, the doors hissing lightly as they parted before him.
Nervous, he cleared his throat and rubbed at his chest, ruining the perfect balance of black and white of the shirt and the tie. With a sigh of irritation and relief, he paused, looking at himself in the polished golden panels, once more busy fixing the suit. Just then, a face peered at him, a young, attractive, well-kept secretary staring at him with a hint of irony. He felt colour touching his face, rising through the frost-ruined skin, and a helpless anger. Yes, he knew the suit fit him worse than it would fit a cactus, but was it necessary to point it out at every turn?
"He's waiting for you, I'm sure", the secretary said, "And you shouldn't do that. Keep him waiting, you know"
He nodded clumsily, stepping out of the elevator. A few steps more, a quiet whir, and another door opened before him - and shut itself close moments later.
Inside, just like the times before, a man sat at a massive desk. Expensive suit, expensive glasses, expensive smile. He seemed as though his value rose every day. Perhaps he bought his face off some poor desperate street urchin. Perhaps he bought those weekly. Skin-buyers.
The man looked up briefly, to ascertain the visitor's identity, then nodded, seemingly satisfied, and turned away, losing all apparent interest. Minutes ticked by, stretching like cooling tar. Finally, the man paused, drumming on the table thoughtfully.
"Well, well", he announced in a low, slow voice, "You'll have another assignment. The previous was done well, all things considered. We were somewhat disappointed with the amount of victims, but, what lacked in the body count was well made up for by the damage you and your colleagues achieved. The sales numbers corresponded with the projected numbers, which makes us all quite satisfied."
He nodded to the man. Yes, the meat processing plant was quite a successful job. They brought down two of ten production halls, yet there only were eighty casualties. Whether it was the company's investment into the building's structure, or the controlled detonations, he wasn't quite certain, but everyone was happy. Especially the Marketing Department and their client, a rather large and successful insurance company. The purchases of life and health insurances that month alone brought in millions in one city alone, globally, he couldn't even guess the figure.
"But as you may guess, we have more need of you. I hope you're not otherwise engaged?", the man asked, attempting a slight smile. The stretching skin looked somewhat terrifying for a moment.
He shook his head.
"Always ready? Good. We require another nudge to improve the quarterly outcome. You will be payed extra on the structural damage, by-the-by, so don't hold back, the place is insured by our client's rival group. Make sure it's big. Make sure it's in the news. Make sure it's international."
He nodded.
"And remember the NDA. If someone catches you, you don't tell who you work for. If you do, we will have to take you to court."
"Your ID checks out, you may proceed to the upper floors", the guard finally announced, returning a small card, "Seems you've been here before, but, in case you feel lost, would you like to ask for directions?" The guard offered a polite smile in a half-hearted attempt to hide the sarcasm in his voice.
"No, thank you. You've been of too much help already", he replied, hoping the smile he offered in return was at least twice as polite. The guard nodded, losing interest.
He quietly walked away, headed for the nearby elevator. Of course, even that had to be made in the flashiest way possible. Of course, the Marketing Department did not feel any need to save on anything; in fact, the more it spent, the more it gained, or so the popular belief among pretty much anyone that cared was. The elevator, a polished glass box framed in gold-plated steel (Or so the popular belief said. It dawned upon him now that it could just be paint), whirred quietly, and began a swift, yet regardlessly majestic rise towards the sky. Were it not for the clouds, the view would certainly be enchanting - just like the last time. From the enormous height the buildings became tiny, the factories shrank and looked like scale models of themselves, the dirt and the noise moved out of sight, and the city, the ugly, poisonous city, suddenly became an object of pride. A bell rang quietly, and the elevator stopped, the doors hissing lightly as they parted before him.
Nervous, he cleared his throat and rubbed at his chest, ruining the perfect balance of black and white of the shirt and the tie. With a sigh of irritation and relief, he paused, looking at himself in the polished golden panels, once more busy fixing the suit. Just then, a face peered at him, a young, attractive, well-kept secretary staring at him with a hint of irony. He felt colour touching his face, rising through the frost-ruined skin, and a helpless anger. Yes, he knew the suit fit him worse than it would fit a cactus, but was it necessary to point it out at every turn?
"He's waiting for you, I'm sure", the secretary said, "And you shouldn't do that. Keep him waiting, you know"
He nodded clumsily, stepping out of the elevator. A few steps more, a quiet whir, and another door opened before him - and shut itself close moments later.
Inside, just like the times before, a man sat at a massive desk. Expensive suit, expensive glasses, expensive smile. He seemed as though his value rose every day. Perhaps he bought his face off some poor desperate street urchin. Perhaps he bought those weekly. Skin-buyers.
The man looked up briefly, to ascertain the visitor's identity, then nodded, seemingly satisfied, and turned away, losing all apparent interest. Minutes ticked by, stretching like cooling tar. Finally, the man paused, drumming on the table thoughtfully.
"Well, well", he announced in a low, slow voice, "You'll have another assignment. The previous was done well, all things considered. We were somewhat disappointed with the amount of victims, but, what lacked in the body count was well made up for by the damage you and your colleagues achieved. The sales numbers corresponded with the projected numbers, which makes us all quite satisfied."
He nodded to the man. Yes, the meat processing plant was quite a successful job. They brought down two of ten production halls, yet there only were eighty casualties. Whether it was the company's investment into the building's structure, or the controlled detonations, he wasn't quite certain, but everyone was happy. Especially the Marketing Department and their client, a rather large and successful insurance company. The purchases of life and health insurances that month alone brought in millions in one city alone, globally, he couldn't even guess the figure.
"But as you may guess, we have more need of you. I hope you're not otherwise engaged?", the man asked, attempting a slight smile. The stretching skin looked somewhat terrifying for a moment.
He shook his head.
"Always ready? Good. We require another nudge to improve the quarterly outcome. You will be payed extra on the structural damage, by-the-by, so don't hold back, the place is insured by our client's rival group. Make sure it's big. Make sure it's in the news. Make sure it's international."
He nodded.
"And remember the NDA. If someone catches you, you don't tell who you work for. If you do, we will have to take you to court."
Ooops.
I think I went way over someone's capacity of understanding just now. Oh well, that was rather amusing anyway, but I should probably not quote F451 for the people that it's essentially written about.
*grin*
*grin*
Fahrenheit 451 on mass media
Sometimes I'm feeling like taking half the damn book for quotes. Still, as I don't think that's a bright idea, might as well just take out some quotes related to the mass media.
And I really wonder if the book originally had this much an impact on me. I've not read F451 for at least ten years, though I remembered the outlines pretty well. However, the details I'm now finding as, for the first time, I read the text in English, is rather surprisingly similar to my own views. So, I wonder, I wonder indeed:
Beatty took a full minute to settle himself in and think back for what he wanted to say.
"When did it all start, you ask, this job of ours, how did it come about, where, when? Well, I'd say it really got started around about a thing called the Civil War. Even though our rule-book claims it was founded earlier. The fact is we didn't get along well until photography came into its own. Then — motion pictures in the early twentieth century. Radio. Television. Things began to have mass."
Montag sat in bed, not moving.
"And because they had mass, they became simpler," said Beatty. "Once, books appealed to a few people, here, there, everywhere. They could afford to be different. The world was roomy. But then the world got full of eyes and elbows and mouths. Double, triple, quadruple population. Films and radios, magazines, books levelled down to a sort of paste pudding norm, do you follow me?"
"I think so."
Beatty peered at the smoke pattern he had put out on the air. "Picture it. Nineteenth-century man with his horses, dogs, carts, slow motion. Then, in the twentieth century, speed up your camera. Books cut shorter. Condensations. Digests. Tabloids. Everything boils down to the gag, the snap ending."
"Snap ending." Mildred nodded.
"Classics cut to fit fifteen-minute radio shows, then cut again to fill a two-minute book column, winding up at last as a ten- or twelve-line dictionary resume. I exaggerate, of course. The dictionaries were for reference. But many were those whose sole knowledge of Hamlet (you know the title certainly, Montag; it is probably only a faint rumour of a title to you, Mrs. Montag) whose sole knowledge, as I say, of Hamlet was a one-page digest in a book that claimed: 'now at least you can read all the classics; keep up with your neighbours.' Do you see? Out of the nursery into the college and back to the nursery; there's your intellectual pattern for the past five centuries or more."
Mildred arose and began to move around the room, picking things up and putting them down. Beatty ignored her and continued.
"Speed up the film, Montag, quick. Click? Pic? Look, Eye, Now, Flick, Here, There, Swift, Pace, Up, Down, In, Out, Why, How, Who, What, Where, Eh? Uh! Bang! Smack! Wallop, Bing, Bong, Boom! Digest-digests, digest-digest-digests. Politics? One column, two sentences, a headline! Then, in mid-air, all vanishes! Whirl man's mind around about so fast under the pumping hands of publishers, exploiters, broadcasters, that the centrifuge flings off all unnecessary, time-wasting thought!"
And I really wonder if the book originally had this much an impact on me. I've not read F451 for at least ten years, though I remembered the outlines pretty well. However, the details I'm now finding as, for the first time, I read the text in English, is rather surprisingly similar to my own views. So, I wonder, I wonder indeed:
"Now let's take up the minorities in our civilization, shall we? Bigger the population, the more minorities. Don't step on the toes of the dog-lovers, the cat-lovers, doctors, lawyers, merchants, chiefs, Mormons, Baptists, Unitarians, second-generation Chinese, Swedes, Italians, Germans, Texans, Brooklynites, Irishmen, people from Oregon or Mexico. The people in this book, this play, this TV serial are not meant to represent any actual painters, cartographers, mechanics anywhere. The bigger your market, Montag, the less you handle controversy, remember that! All the minor minor minorities with their navels to be kept clean. Authors, full of evil thoughts, lock up your typewriters. They did. Magazines became a nice blend of vanilla tapioca. Books, so the damned snobbish critics said, were dishwater. No wonder books stopped selling, the critics said. But the public, knowing what it wanted, spinning happily, let the comic books survive. And the three-dimensional sex-magazines, of course. There you have it, Montag. It didn't come from the Government down. There was no dictum, no declaration, no censorship, to start with, no! Technology, mass exploitation, and minority pressure carried the trick, thank God. Today, thanks to them, you can stay happy all the time, you are allowed to read comics, the good old confessions, or trade journals.""Yes, but what about the firemen, then?" asked Montag.
"Ah." Beatty leaned forward in the faint mist of smoke from his pipe. "What more easily explained and natural? With school turning out more runners, jumpers, racers, tinkerers, grabbers, snatchers, fliers, and swimmers instead of examiners, critics, knowers, and imaginative creators, the word 'intellectual,' of course, became the swear word it deserved to be. You always dread the unfamiliar. Surely you remember the boy in your own school class who was exceptionally 'bright,' did most of the reciting and answering while the others sat like so many leaden idols, hating him. And wasn't it this bright boy you selected for beatings and tortures after hours? Of course it was. We must all be alike. Not everyone born free and equal, as the Constitution says, but everyone made equal. Each man the image of every other; then all are happy, for there are no mountains to make them cower, to judge themselves against. So! A book is a loaded gun in the house next door. Burn it. Take the shot from the weapon. Breach man's mind. Who knows who might be the target of the well-read man? Me? I won't stomach them for a minute. And so when houses were finally fireproofed completely, all over the world (you were correct in your assumption the other night) there was no longer need of firemen for the old purposes. They were given the new job, as custodians of our peace of mind, the focus of our understandable and rightful dread of being inferior; official censors, judges, and executors. That's you, Montag, and that's me."
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Fahrenheit 451
Fahrenheit 451: The temperature at which book-paper catches fire and burns.
It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strode in a swarm of fireflies. He wanted above all, like the old joke, to shove a marshmallow on a stick in the furnace, while the flapping pigeon-winged books died on the porch and lawn of the house. While the books went up in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned dark with burning.Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451
A great novel. Really. Absolutely great. And so are his Martian Chronicles, Dandelion Wine...
The autumn leaves blew over the moonlit pavement in such a way as to make the girl who was moving there seem fixed to a sliding walk, letting the motion of the wind and the leaves carry her forward. Her head was half bent to watch her shoes stir the circling leaves. Her face was slender and milk-white, and in it was a kind of gentle hunger that touched over everything with tireless curiosity. It was a look, almost, of pale surprise; the dark eyes were so fixed to the world that no move escaped them. Her dress was white and it whispered. He almost thought he heard the motion of her hands as she walked, and the infinitely small sound now, the white stir of her face turning when she discovered she was a moment away from a man who stood in the middle of the pavement waiting.
The trees overhead made a great sound of letting down their dry rain. The girl stopped and looked as if she might pull back in surprise, but instead stood regarding Montag with eyes so dark and shining and alive, that he felt he had said something quite wonderful. But he knew his mouth had only moved to say hello, and then when she seemed hypnotized by the salamander on his arm and the phoenix-disc on his chest, he spoke again.
"Of course," he said, "you're a new neighbour, aren't you?"
"And you must be" — she raised her eyes from his professional symbols — "the fireman." Her voice trailed off.
"How oddly you say that."
"I'd — I'd have known it with my eyes shut," she said, slowly.
"What — the smell of kerosene? My wife always complains," he laughed. "You never wash it off completely."
"No, you don't," she said, in awe.
He felt she was walking in a circle about him, turning him end for end, shaking him quietly, and emptying his pockets, without once moving herself.
"Kerosene," he said, because the silence had lengthened, "is nothing but perfume to me."
"Does it seem like that, really?"
"Of course. Why not?"
She gave herself time to think of it. "I don't know." She turned to face the sidewalk going toward their homes. "Do you mind if I walk back with you? I'm Clarisse McClellan."
"Clarisse. Guy Montag. Come along. What are you doing out so late wandering around? How old are you?"
They walked in the warm-cool blowing night on the silvered pavement and there was the faintest breath of fresh apricots and strawberries in the air, and he looked around and realized this was quite impossible, so late in the year.
There was only the girl walking with him now, her face bright as snow in the moonlight, and he knew she was working his questions around, seeking the best answers she could possibly give.
"Well," she said, "I'm seventeen and I'm crazy. My uncle says the two always go together. When people ask your age, he said, always say seventeen and insane. Isn't this a nice time of night to walk? I like to smell things and look at things, and sometimes stay up all night, walking, and watch the sun rise."
They walked on again in silence and finally she said, thoughtfully, "You know, I'm not afraid of you at all."
He was surprised. "Why should you be?"
"So many people are. Afraid of firemen, I mean. But you're just a man, after all…"
He saw himself in her eyes, suspended in two shining drops of bright water, himself dark and tiny, in fine detail, the lines about his mouth, everything there, as if her eyes were two miraculous bits of violet amber that might capture and hold him intact. Her face, turned to him now, was fragile milk crystal with a soft and constant light in it. It was not the hysterical light of electricity but — what? But the strangely comfortable and rare and gently flattering light of the candle. One time, when he was a child, in a power-failure, his mother had found and lit a last candle and there had been a brief hour of rediscovery, of such illumination that space lost its vast dimensions and drew comfortably around them, and they, mother and son, alone, transformed, hoping that the power might not come on again too soon…
And then Clarisse McClellan said:
"Do you mind if I ask? How long have you worked at being a fireman?"
"Since I was twenty, ten years ago."
"Do you ever read any of the books you burn?"
He laughed. "That's against the law!"
"Oh. Of course."
"It's fine work. Monday burn Millay, Wednesday Whitman, Friday Faulkner, burn 'em to ashes, then burn the ashes. That's our official slogan."
They walked still further and the girl said, "Is it true that long ago firemen put fires out instead of going to start them?"
"No. Houses have always been fireproof, take my word for it."
"Strange. I heard once that a long time ago houses used to burn by accident and they needed firemen to stop the flames."
He laughed.
Oh yes, it is.
This novel was published in 1953, people. 1953. Did this man not capture the spirit of today's entertainment? Fifty-five years ago."What's on this afternoon?" he asked tiredly.
She didn't look up from her script again. "Well, this is a play comes on the wall-to-wall circuit in ten minutes. They mailed me my part this morning. I sent in some box-tops. They write the script with one part missing. It's a new idea. The home-maker, that's me, is the missing part. When it comes time for the missing lines, they all look at me out of the three walls and I say the lines: Here, for instance, the man says, 'What do you think of this whole idea, Helen?' And he looks at me sitting here centre stage, see? And I say, I say —" She paused and ran her finger under a line in the script. " 'I think that's fine!' And then they go on with the play until he says, 'Do you agree to that, Helen!' and I say, 'I sure do!' Isn't that fun, Guy?"
He stood in the hall looking at her.
"It's sure fun," she said.
"What's the play about?"
"I just told you. There are these people named Bob and Ruth and Helen."
"Oh."
"It's really fun. It'll be even more fun when we can afford to have the fourth wall installed. How long you figure before we save up and get the fourth wall torn out and a fourth wall-TV put in? It's only two thousand dollars."
The Final Day
Well, today my contract with the employer ended, as the service of a lot of people at the site will no longer be necessary. There was a roof-placement, or whatever, party today, with much speeches from the clients and the management, with much thanks to us, the workers, with live music, pea soup, sandwiches, coffee, dessert and beer! Was quite nice of the company and the rest to offer something like that.
And despite the job really wearing me out, I think I'll miss it more than I miss making phones.
Furthermore, to my surprise, the construction folk didn't jump at the offered alcohol like crazy! We can actually act civil at times! But our socks still kill weaker life forms!
And despite the job really wearing me out, I think I'll miss it more than I miss making phones.
Furthermore, to my surprise, the construction folk didn't jump at the offered alcohol like crazy! We can actually act civil at times! But our socks still kill weaker life forms!
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Roots of Breakdance
The roots of breakdance have been unearthed, and, unsurprisingly, they come from the totalitarian, evil Soviet Russia!
(Yoinked from Goblin's site)
(Yoinked from Goblin's site)
Nerd Rage!
According to some of the posters (and links they offer on the topic) at the RPG Codex, D&D, the rather famous roleplay system, is about to eat a nerf bat. Things that are being kicked out the window are half of the alignments, for one. Based on reasons like, quoting,
The rest of this can be found here. Read and weep, nerds. Braincutting for better sales is now available in table-top.
Changes made to Forgotten Realms:
-Mystra is killed, everything in the world explodes. Except the Sword Coast. HOW FORTUNATE!
-Tyr kills Helm because of lies Cyric told. I want to state this again. The god of justice, truth, and overall "lawful good" kills the god of unwavering loyalty, honesty, and strict creedence to the law because the god of lies told him to.
-Lathander, the second most worshiped god in all of faerun, the perfect example of Neutral Good, decides to become Amunator. Amunator is a very strict neutral god, who's basic credo seems to be "OBEY, PEASANT." He is also known - or rather, NOT known - for being the completely forgotten god of the sun of some anchient people. He isn't worshiped by anyone. Some sources claim this change occured when Lathander's mind broke while trying to comprehend just what the fuck the writers were doing when they made Tyr kill Helm.
The rest of this can be found here. Read and weep, nerds. Braincutting for better sales is now available in table-top.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Sketch for a new setting - Memories
It was now a dirty, run-down derelict house with most of the windows boarded up, with a crumbling chimney and a tremendous road roaring past it just several steps away, bringing dirt and noise and smells of processed fuel, but it wasn't always that way. He didn't really get to see it in the days of former glory, but, from whatever pictures and old videos left, he could see that once, it was different. It felt inhabited, it felt like what he thought a home should.
He still remembered the old stories told by his parents about the place. It was rather fascinating to him at the time, hearing of how seven children, just like him back then, managed to keep the house together. How'd it go, would he still remember it after all that he'd drank today and all the previous days of the year? Ah, yes.
It was still quite a bit before the Depression hit that the house was bought and built by his great-grandparents. From what he was told, they met by chance at some medical facility that was searching for a cure for a then-rare virus, RMD (Note: Rapid Memory Deterioration), and, at a better period, when the cure was seemed to have been found, finally realized and remembered that they quite liked each others and eventually got married and took out a loan for the house.
It wasn't really a fancy house - from what he was told - though rather large regardless, it seems as though they planned to have numerous offspring, just like they indeed had. Two floors, metal roof, skin-toned house paint. It wasn't anything special. But it had a yard. And, from what he heard, a river. Just where the highway ran now, a river flowed before, clear, swift and blue. Drained in the post-Depression years when the country needed every coin it could scrape - probably sold off to some other, better-off place. He often tried to imagine the river in place of the road, staring at it from the attic, but every time he inevitably failed. At that thought, his arm grabbed for the glass.
In any case, it was all quite well for many years, around twenty, if he recalled right. Seven children were born in that time, all of them healthy and happy. But then, a disaster stroke - just as the eldest turned nineteen, their mother's illness suddenly re-emerged. At first, it was a slow decline, with small things forgotten, but eventually, things simply collapsed. She would not recognize her children, she would barely know her husband, the only thing that remained in her mind at all times was the house, and she was frequently horrified with "strangers" on her property.
In order to treat her, her husband took her to Sweden, the place where the research on the RMD continued. They never returned or were heard from again. This, of course, left the children in a very tight spot. Even before the Depression, getting by a decent amount of money was hard. The eldest kids went to work at various factories and construction sites, trying to get enough money to keep their younger siblings fed and dressed, the younger ones toiled at school and tried to make some money on their free time, and everyone was busy for many, many years, until finally, the youngest completed her studies and got a career of her own. Several years of prosperity followed.
Then, the Depression hit. Hundreds of thousands lost their money, jobs, minds, everything. A brief and inconclusive war with the now-unmentionable neighbours took lives of two of the seven siblings, another fell victim to a crazed customer opening fire in the broad daylight as he was asked to pay, one of the sisters married a shell-shocked war veteran and it all ended horribly one day, but the rest managed to make it through, though it was no rose garden for them, either. And he was one of the many scattered members of this bloodline. Coincidentally, the owner of the house.
He drained the glass, looking back over his shoulder at some slight noise. The corporate party was still going strong, though he already saw some barely-moving couples dragging each others off, presumably to their tiny little cells, where they could lock themselves up for the night and pretend to be elsewhere and elsewho. Then, with a brief chuckle, he swept the emptied glasses down to the street, following them with his drunken gaze as far as he could. They disappeared in the darkness long before he heard them shatter on the pavement beneath.
He still remembered the old stories told by his parents about the place. It was rather fascinating to him at the time, hearing of how seven children, just like him back then, managed to keep the house together. How'd it go, would he still remember it after all that he'd drank today and all the previous days of the year? Ah, yes.
It was still quite a bit before the Depression hit that the house was bought and built by his great-grandparents. From what he was told, they met by chance at some medical facility that was searching for a cure for a then-rare virus, RMD (Note: Rapid Memory Deterioration), and, at a better period, when the cure was seemed to have been found, finally realized and remembered that they quite liked each others and eventually got married and took out a loan for the house.
It wasn't really a fancy house - from what he was told - though rather large regardless, it seems as though they planned to have numerous offspring, just like they indeed had. Two floors, metal roof, skin-toned house paint. It wasn't anything special. But it had a yard. And, from what he heard, a river. Just where the highway ran now, a river flowed before, clear, swift and blue. Drained in the post-Depression years when the country needed every coin it could scrape - probably sold off to some other, better-off place. He often tried to imagine the river in place of the road, staring at it from the attic, but every time he inevitably failed. At that thought, his arm grabbed for the glass.
In any case, it was all quite well for many years, around twenty, if he recalled right. Seven children were born in that time, all of them healthy and happy. But then, a disaster stroke - just as the eldest turned nineteen, their mother's illness suddenly re-emerged. At first, it was a slow decline, with small things forgotten, but eventually, things simply collapsed. She would not recognize her children, she would barely know her husband, the only thing that remained in her mind at all times was the house, and she was frequently horrified with "strangers" on her property.
In order to treat her, her husband took her to Sweden, the place where the research on the RMD continued. They never returned or were heard from again. This, of course, left the children in a very tight spot. Even before the Depression, getting by a decent amount of money was hard. The eldest kids went to work at various factories and construction sites, trying to get enough money to keep their younger siblings fed and dressed, the younger ones toiled at school and tried to make some money on their free time, and everyone was busy for many, many years, until finally, the youngest completed her studies and got a career of her own. Several years of prosperity followed.
Then, the Depression hit. Hundreds of thousands lost their money, jobs, minds, everything. A brief and inconclusive war with the now-unmentionable neighbours took lives of two of the seven siblings, another fell victim to a crazed customer opening fire in the broad daylight as he was asked to pay, one of the sisters married a shell-shocked war veteran and it all ended horribly one day, but the rest managed to make it through, though it was no rose garden for them, either. And he was one of the many scattered members of this bloodline. Coincidentally, the owner of the house.
He drained the glass, looking back over his shoulder at some slight noise. The corporate party was still going strong, though he already saw some barely-moving couples dragging each others off, presumably to their tiny little cells, where they could lock themselves up for the night and pretend to be elsewhere and elsewho. Then, with a brief chuckle, he swept the emptied glasses down to the street, following them with his drunken gaze as far as he could. They disappeared in the darkness long before he heard them shatter on the pavement beneath.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Democracy on the march
Democracy continues its triumphant march across the globe:
On the bright side, the savages will finally know true justice. Vhailor would be proud.
The Pentagon is moving forward with plans to build a new, 40-acre detention complex on the main American military base in Afghanistan, officials said, in a stark acknowledgment that the United States is likely to continue to hold prisoners overseas for years to come.Found at N.Y. Times.
On the bright side, the savages will finally know true justice. Vhailor would be proud.
Social Sabotage!
Have you ever had the feeling that the governments around the "civilised" world are purposefully sabotaging the social situation in their corresponding countries with things like political correctness, national minority politics and faked tolerance? It's really a bit disturbing if you stop and think about it a little.
First of all, one doesn't need to be a genius to see that the old laws that are based on the idea that all of the given nation's citizens have something to lose that will prevent them from going bad doesn't any longer function. Why? Well, it's rather simple - now, any country out there has a layer of society that, essentially, has nothing to lose at all, or perceives the situation to be of that sort - there is little to gain through legal means any longer, and the only means available are, therefore, illegal. And as there is too little to lose to begin with, the question of "To be or not to be" becomes rather irrelevant - and then, it's time to form nationality-based gangs, fight, rob, burn down stores and cars, get involved in drug business et cetera. And as we know, the European laws as such are absolutely ridiculous in terms of formal punishment - it's nothing that the guys we're talking about would even worry about. Sure, a future manager that's a representative of the "title nation" might worry about a criminal record because that will kill his career, but what about those that haven't even got a hope for a career? What stops them? Kind words? Conversations with a psychologist? Small-time imprisonment? Being ruled to pay several thousand euros that they do not have, and will never pay since the government hasn't really got an effective means to make them pay?
But what is it that makes these gangs form at all? Why are the people desperate? Why can't they get a job? Well, this, too, is simple - the workings of the legislation, corporate machinery and various shortcomings of the system make it nearly impossible for a foreigner without recommendations to get a job that isn't about cleaning the streets - and let's admit it, not that many of us would love to go clean the streets. Three years' experience requirement is, of course, still understandable, if not somewhat stupid, really, it's the lack of proper language, social and legislative courses for foreigners that makes one's jaw drop. Seriously, what do people really think, that people come around and magically learn a new language? That they magically learn the ways of the local society? Traditions, culture, laws - all of which can be radically different from what the immigrants are used to, none of this is really on the curriculum unless one actively seeks such courses. Even the language courses themselves are fairly weak, often uninspired and ran by bored lecturers. The good courses, on the other hand, are paid, but why would an immigrant low on money to begin with toss out the money out of his pockets for it if there's no guarantees anyway?
Instead, the government pats the criminals on the head and exercises in political correctness - with the aid of awesome organisations like Amnesty International etc. What help is it to the source of the problem if a black is called an african american? What help is it if out of the two fighters on the street, the national minority representative will be punished far less severely than the "title nation" representative? None, unless the purpose is to anger the members of the title nationality. And what happens when everyone is angry?
I don't really even understand the whole thing about political correctness movement. People are supposed to be equal? Okay, equalize all the groups (race/gender/sexual preference/what have you) both in rights and responsibilities, stop screwing with language (OMG, he called me "Black", oppressing bastard!"), stop giving obvious priviledges to groups, create proper propaganda instead of "gangsta bro/ho cool bustas" rubbish, hell, I don't know, work for the money you people get from grants and donations, as crazy as that may sound. How bloody hard does that sound? Well, it does sound hard, but one has to start, else, things turn worse and worse by the year. But well... It'll never happen until the fires start. It's not what these people want. It's not their purpose. They're merely a distracting arm with a flashy foil that takes the audience's eyes away from the magician's manipulating hand.
One day, the pendulum will make the swing to the opposite direction. All the tolerance, patience, correctness, solidarity, all of it will crumble, and once more, extreme nationalism and other lovely features of an inflammated society will appear. We claim we've learned our lessons, we claim we've grown smarter. But that's just a lie, ain't it?
First of all, one doesn't need to be a genius to see that the old laws that are based on the idea that all of the given nation's citizens have something to lose that will prevent them from going bad doesn't any longer function. Why? Well, it's rather simple - now, any country out there has a layer of society that, essentially, has nothing to lose at all, or perceives the situation to be of that sort - there is little to gain through legal means any longer, and the only means available are, therefore, illegal. And as there is too little to lose to begin with, the question of "To be or not to be" becomes rather irrelevant - and then, it's time to form nationality-based gangs, fight, rob, burn down stores and cars, get involved in drug business et cetera. And as we know, the European laws as such are absolutely ridiculous in terms of formal punishment - it's nothing that the guys we're talking about would even worry about. Sure, a future manager that's a representative of the "title nation" might worry about a criminal record because that will kill his career, but what about those that haven't even got a hope for a career? What stops them? Kind words? Conversations with a psychologist? Small-time imprisonment? Being ruled to pay several thousand euros that they do not have, and will never pay since the government hasn't really got an effective means to make them pay?
But what is it that makes these gangs form at all? Why are the people desperate? Why can't they get a job? Well, this, too, is simple - the workings of the legislation, corporate machinery and various shortcomings of the system make it nearly impossible for a foreigner without recommendations to get a job that isn't about cleaning the streets - and let's admit it, not that many of us would love to go clean the streets. Three years' experience requirement is, of course, still understandable, if not somewhat stupid, really, it's the lack of proper language, social and legislative courses for foreigners that makes one's jaw drop. Seriously, what do people really think, that people come around and magically learn a new language? That they magically learn the ways of the local society? Traditions, culture, laws - all of which can be radically different from what the immigrants are used to, none of this is really on the curriculum unless one actively seeks such courses. Even the language courses themselves are fairly weak, often uninspired and ran by bored lecturers. The good courses, on the other hand, are paid, but why would an immigrant low on money to begin with toss out the money out of his pockets for it if there's no guarantees anyway?
Instead, the government pats the criminals on the head and exercises in political correctness - with the aid of awesome organisations like Amnesty International etc. What help is it to the source of the problem if a black is called an african american? What help is it if out of the two fighters on the street, the national minority representative will be punished far less severely than the "title nation" representative? None, unless the purpose is to anger the members of the title nationality. And what happens when everyone is angry?
I don't really even understand the whole thing about political correctness movement. People are supposed to be equal? Okay, equalize all the groups (race/gender/sexual preference/what have you) both in rights and responsibilities, stop screwing with language (OMG, he called me "Black", oppressing bastard!"), stop giving obvious priviledges to groups, create proper propaganda instead of "gangsta bro/ho cool bustas" rubbish, hell, I don't know, work for the money you people get from grants and donations, as crazy as that may sound. How bloody hard does that sound? Well, it does sound hard, but one has to start, else, things turn worse and worse by the year. But well... It'll never happen until the fires start. It's not what these people want. It's not their purpose. They're merely a distracting arm with a flashy foil that takes the audience's eyes away from the magician's manipulating hand.
One day, the pendulum will make the swing to the opposite direction. All the tolerance, patience, correctness, solidarity, all of it will crumble, and once more, extreme nationalism and other lovely features of an inflammated society will appear. We claim we've learned our lessons, we claim we've grown smarter. But that's just a lie, ain't it?
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Down with euphemisms!
As a result of my occasional listening to mainstream radio, I occasionally get to hear the great hits that sweep through the nation. Among them is this little gem by a "Kelly Rowland". As CC said, "At least they don't use lame euphemisms in this one". Can't help but agree that this is about the only positive side of the song. Seriously, mainstream? *goes into the prude mode*
The lyrics can be found here, don't feel like putting something as "awesome" into this blargh.
The lyrics can be found here, don't feel like putting something as "awesome" into this blargh.
Friday, May 9, 2008
A Cynical Approach to Electronic Entertainment Market
Mass Effect uses SecuROM and requires an online activation for the first time that you play it. Each copy of Mass Effect comes with a CD Key which is used for this activation and for registration here at the BioWare Community. Mass Effect does not require the DVD to be in the drive in order to play, it is only for installation.Now, this is something I fail to understand altogether. The whole idea of selling a game at 60€ and then adding a ridiculous amount of double-checks of "whether or not this is legit" while the pirates will have cracks hanging around for free on the next day or so is stupid beyond belief. When, and if I buy a consumer product, I don't want to figure out for hours how to even get to use it, and then worry that it might stop working because someone else has faked the serial key for it. I don't want to spend hours on figuring out on how to eat a grape, if I did, I'd install Linux.
After the first activation, SecuROM requires that it re-check with the server within ten days (in case the CD Key has become public/warez'd and gets banned). Just so that the 10 day thing doesn't become abrupt, SecuROM tries its first re-check with 5 days remaining in the 10 day window. If it can't contact the server before the 10 days are up, nothing bad happens and the game still runs. After 10 days a re-check is required before the game can run.
Now, that aside, another matter that I fail to understand is the apparent lack of comprehension of basic economy laws that the fine people of EA and of other companies that represent electronic entertainment have. Is it truly hard to comprehend the target audiences and the maximum profit/maximum price curve? Even I know how to calculate it, can't possibly be that the marketologists (spellcheck suggests herpetologists here, heh) at EA don't know it.
So what do we have? DRMs, which probably cost around 2-5$ per copy as license, RIAA fees, publisher fees, European Committea On Some Useless Crap That Is Supposed To Fight Piracy fees, "Record Tax", VAT, Voice-over superstars (that perform poorly anyway), production costs. Out of these, we can safely toss out, well, almost all of the listed items. In turn, this lowers the costs by nearly 50 bloody percent, imagine that. Fifty. Which suddenly makes everything about twice more affordable and about four times more attractive, since cheap = attractive, as pretty much any supermarket manager will tell you. The purchaser amount would, in turn, soar - far more than twice, and the eventual turnout from the sales would increase by a lot due to the simple reason of not having to share all the income with about a dozen separate agencies.
However, none of this is done, the prices on games increase every year, the amount of the protection included is ridiculous, the purchaser base collapses and, in turn, certain parts of it turn to the consoles.
However, the consoles as such are, firstly, somewhat costly and second, each game purchased is pretty much an investment, because, no matter how expensive the PC games are, consoles beat them with ease. Which brings us to the point of the target audience, and the simple fact that the said audience seems to include the pre-"independent" children and the people with a steady income. In turn, this cancels out the students and, in some degree, people with steady income but a lack of desire to purchase a separate machine to play a game on for reason ranging from lack of room to peer phobia.
Stupid.
Constructive criticism
So on Monday, I went and got a job. At a construction site. Which started this Tuesday. So far, it's been a rather interesting experience. During my time there, I finally learned why the construction people curse so much! And my cursing skills are much better now, too! Hell, I'm soon going to be able to rival a sailor!
On a slightly more serious note, it seems that the company I'm working for is a bunch of cheap-ass scum. Sure, assistants at a construction site aren't supposed to be covered in rose petals and licked by super models just for existing (I think), but I wasn't at any point aware that our main purpose was to move pre-made bathrooms. Yes, pre-made bathrooms. Which, like, weight at around two tons at least, and are about as mobile as my face is shaped like a winged horse with jumping monkies on its back. I suppose I might just be complaining, but then again, I really wasn't aware that we'd have to move those with the aid of very high-tech wooden boards. It's kind of irritating, really. On the other hand time goes really, really fast when moving one of those, and I've been losing weight like nothing to it, at a rate of a kilo a day, making it four total by this moment. Miracle diets, my ass.
In addition to that, I'm actually getting some of the old ways back. Yay. And am starting to think that cigarette smoke smells nice. Which is worrying.
Amusing detail: As our "cleanup crew" isn't taking part in the work on the weekend this time, the overseer decided to call to recruitment companies for people for weekend jobs, in order to replace us. The amusing bit is, apparently, they're hiring five people to do the job the three of us normally do. We're worth five mortals, whee!
On a slightly more serious note, it seems that the company I'm working for is a bunch of cheap-ass scum. Sure, assistants at a construction site aren't supposed to be covered in rose petals and licked by super models just for existing (I think), but I wasn't at any point aware that our main purpose was to move pre-made bathrooms. Yes, pre-made bathrooms. Which, like, weight at around two tons at least, and are about as mobile as my face is shaped like a winged horse with jumping monkies on its back. I suppose I might just be complaining, but then again, I really wasn't aware that we'd have to move those with the aid of very high-tech wooden boards. It's kind of irritating, really. On the other hand time goes really, really fast when moving one of those, and I've been losing weight like nothing to it, at a rate of a kilo a day, making it four total by this moment. Miracle diets, my ass.
In addition to that, I'm actually getting some of the old ways back. Yay. And am starting to think that cigarette smoke smells nice. Which is worrying.
Amusing detail: As our "cleanup crew" isn't taking part in the work on the weekend this time, the overseer decided to call to recruitment companies for people for weekend jobs, in order to replace us. The amusing bit is, apparently, they're hiring five people to do the job the three of us normally do. We're worth five mortals, whee!
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