This is a game I like to play called Porcupine. It takes many different forms, in song, poetry, sentences, words, pictures even. The idea is that you create a thing, and then your friend creates another like-thing that matches with the thing you created. Generally in some sort of order. The rules are maleable, this is the story format. This story is undone as it is @DrWeidinger‘s turn to play. I hope you enjoy what we have collectively created so far. 

In the beginning, well, we think it was the beginning. Most stories start in the middle, or the end really, but this one it starts in the beginning. At least we think it’s the beginning; we’ll have to get back to you on that one, this requires more research.

Anyway… where was I? Yea! The beginning. In the beginning, that may or may not have been the beginning there was a man. His name was Ralph; he resented his name but had never quite figured out what to change it to. He was going to change it to Richard, but wasn’t sure if he preferred “Dick” to “Vomiting.”

Ralph, as we’ll continue to call him, was walking to get his morning coffee. He did this every day, and had for as long as he could remember. Which wasn’t much, Ralph wasn’t in the habit of remembering very much of anything. He felt that it took away from the experience.

Upon entering the coffee shop, Ralph immediately noticed the barista standing behind the counter with its long matted hair and a peculiar sheen on the surface of its skin.  This was like no ordinary person Ralph had seen before. “What is this!” exclaimed the barista, “Every day you come in here with that look on your face and you askin’ all these questions like you already know the answer!”  Ralph wondered to himself, why on earth is this person so upset? The only thing I have done is walk into a coffee shop. Is this a crime? There are no security cameras in here, so it must not be a crime. Crimes only happen in places where there are security cameras, and there are no security cameras in here so everything must be okay. Unless they have hidden cameras… No, it would be foolish to hide cameras in a warm and inviting coffee shop such as this one.

Ralph was still staring at the barista, who was still visibly upset. Suddenly a cheap polyester armchair demanded Ralph’s attention. The chair was checkered with a vibrant yellow and orange Penrose pattern. His mind raced around the broken circles, looking at the center in this madness of this pattern. After a few seconds his eye ran into the seam of a cushion and lost the thread. That would be a nice place to sit. The barista stared back at him hotly, then turned around and lifted a to-go cup from the bottom of the stack, filled it with decaf, put in three cubes of sugar and turned back to Ralph. “And I am not going to tell you any more stories about Vostok. I’ve told you all I know.”

At this Ralph stopped, “Who the fuck is Vostok?” he thought to himself while juggling the cup in his hands. “Damn this is hot, oh wait, the little cardboard thing isn’t on it.” But at this he was already half a block away and wasn’t inclined to go back to coffee shop that seemed welcoming but really was a suffocating pit of despair, especially with that confusing barista hanging around.

As he walked, Ralph considered what he was going to do with his day. Perhaps work on that project he said he would work on, his wife had been badgering him about it for a while now. What was she so concerned about anyway? It wasn’t like their lives depended on him completing the building of a new buffet. They didn’t really ever invite guests over, so nobody would be seeing it besides them. What was the point if only two people derived joy from such a thing. Even if they had guests, or friends at all, they probably wouldn’t really like it. It would be one of those items that you see in houses that you talk about when there isn’t anything else to talk about. Like the furniture-world’s equivalent of talking about the weather.

No, Ralph thought to himself. If he finished the buffet then she would just go on to nag him about the next thing. She never seemed to be satisfied with what she had, always wanting for a relentless stream of more. It seemed absurd that any household could possibly need a fourth buffet table. Especially since they hadn’t had a single guest over in two hundred fifty six days. His wife, what was her name? Ralph held up his left arm and rolled up his sleeve to reveal the copious notes scrawled above his wrist, dotted lines connecting obscure symbols. Bold red letters spelled out MARSHA-L. That must be it.

Two hundred and fifty seven days ago Marsha had invited over a person who made the most delicious cakes. Ah yes, the man with the cakes had asked if Ralph could help with his satellite-launching rail gun. He was happy to help the man with some of the more complicated Lorentz force equations. These equations kept coming back to him, over the phone, from the man, always with cakes on the front stoop the next morning. They kept getting more complex. The equations, not the cakes, the cakes were always equally delicious. Ralph continued helping the cake man until one day he formulated a new theory of magnetism, which his pigeons utterly failed to comprehend. Maybe he would knock on his neighbor’s door and inquire as to how the rail gun was going. He hadn’t had a cake for quite some time. And this would certainly be more interesting than making another buffet table.

So Ralph, only a few doors from the cake man’s  house, turned around, and headed up the alley to the cake man’s place. Taking in the sweet smells of the city, the ten block radius in which he had lived out his entire life. Leaving only once for his honeymoon to Cancun, that was a terrible idea. So much sand, and birds, and sunshine, Ralph didn’t like any of these things. Especially birds. Well save for pigeons, but they seemed to have a hard time dealing with magnets for some reason.

“Heya Ralph! What are you doing you old bastard!” hollered a middle aged balding man wearing red suspenders and beaten khaki pants from a small, crowded landing.

“Not much, just thought I’d come by and see you. I was craving cake, you been baking much lately?” replied Ralph, not sure if he could continue the conversation much longer without saying the squat man’s name. “Sure, come on in. I’ll show you what I’ve got going.”  As Ralph went up to the door stoop, he paused at the mail box to take a peak at the name, G-A-R-N-E-R it read. “Good, I’ll call him Garner… I really should remember this stuff better.”

The man, now called Garner, let Ralph in. “How ya’ been lately buddy? Haven’t seen you in an age.” Garner said with special enthusiasm, “I have something exciting to show you!”

“What is this?” Ralph sat at Garner’s table eating what seemed to be a cake, but it had what could’ve been chunks of zucchini in it.

“Here, let me bring it to you.” At that Garner left the room and returned with a giant object, a square, and oblong, and round, and probably geometric object. “This is my new creation, I’ve found that if you put ingredients in it, any ingredients it will create a tasty cake. What you’re eating now is a made from batteries and spare television parts I found on the street, and maybe on mattress.”

“Well, it’s delicious! Are you sure this is edible?”

“Of course it’s edible, you’re eating it right?”

Ralph had to except this logic, he was indeed eating and even enjoying the television and batteries, and mattress? He wasn’t sure about the mattress, he suspected that he could still taste some of the street slime that had inevitably been soaked into the sponge as it likely laid on the sidewalk. Nasty street sponges, mattresses are.

 

 

So recently I took the plunge, at the suggestion of Nic, to switch to the electronic cigarette, so that maybe I might not die as fast.

At the time my lungs were looking like they were going to come out looking like this:

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And nobody wants that, so I bought this:

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In the hopes that it would be enough. I did a lot of research trying to find out if it’s actually safer than smoking. All I could find was reference to one study done once in New Zealand where a doctor tested the liquid stuff you put inside the e-cig and he said, apparently, that it’s safe. Not much really, right?

But intuitively I know it’s better for me. I am not inhaling a bunch of tar and burnt up particles, no instead I am inhaling glycerol and nicotine, and whatever stuff they use to make the flavors. All-in-all that’s probably less-bad.

After eight years, yes,

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years of smoking I’ve noticed a discernable difference. My teeth are this strange shade of white, not off-white, not yellow-ish, but white. Unless I forget to brush them. I can mostly do physical things and run-amok like the other children. I am capable of climbing San Francisco hills without needing a break, not that I did before, but I was getting there. You get the picture, I’m doing better with this new device.

I also still receive all of the awesome benefits of nicotine, it being a stimulant and all. I still can have my ritual morning “smoke”, and my oral fixation doesn’t have to be sated with some nasty gum-chewing habit. (I have to say, gum-chewing is really sort of gross if you think about it.)

So now hopefully I’ll stick to this, I’ve had a few cigarettes so far and they don’t taste as good as they used to. More like dirt, less like sweet, sweet tobacco. Though I would appreciate it if there was a brand of the liquid nicotine stuff that tasted like Lucky Strikes, because I still love Lucky Strikes. It’s a personal failing of mine I suppose.

Here’s to happy lungs I guess!

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Martinus lives in a world without antibiotics and pharmaceuticals as we know it. Martinus lives in North America, his last name is Beijerinck, but he is considering shortening it to Beij. Martinus has a pretty steady job, a nice girlfriend called Papilla, her real name is Lita, and he just got his first apartment. He thinks to himself when he looks at his unfurnished living room, “Hey self, we’re moving up in the world!”

He works for the government, he is on the board for the regulation and control of symbiotes. He’s been there for little over a year now, and he likes his job. At least he normally does. Lately it’s been a hodgepodge of the same old, but also some very new, strange cases. He reads over the paper work and wonders to himself what is going on in this world.

He waited for what seemed like an hour, but really it was probably ten minutes. He was embarrassingly excited when he heard the nurses steps coming down the hallway towards him.

“Well, you should be feeling better in a matter of days, here is some take-home literature about side effects you should look for, and remember to take your iron supplements.” The nurse, a middle aged woman with whitening hair, stood outside the doorway safe from the soil’s contents,  handed him his shoes and a bag full of brochures and other literature. “Thanks.” replied Martinus quietly, not wanting to insult her by not taking the literature.

It took a good few minutes to get himself back in order. He had to dust the dirt off his feet first, but finally having his shoes back on, jacket in order, and his shirt rearranged, he was feeling a new man.

Martinus got to looking around the place. He noticed that the door’s bottom edge didn’t have the proper accoutrement. It was supposed to have a liner, as well the floor under the soil was supposed to be lined, but by the looks of it they failed to do so. He felt stupid not noticing this before he sat down, but he was so excited to be ridding himself of his allergies he didn’t notice.

He took out a notebook from his jacket and, at the nurses detriment, began to take notes on the failings of the space. “What are you writing down?”, she inquired.

“There are some serious failings here in this facility, now I know it’s not your fault, but could I speak to someone who is in charge of keeping to regulation here?” he responded very matter-of-factly. The nurse didn’t speak, but gave him a business card for what it seemed like to be her boss.

“Have a nice day, sir.” she said cooly.

At that, he walked down the hallway, paid his co-pay at the receptionists desk, said his to-do’s and howdy’s to the people walking by, and left. Noting to send an inspection team to check on the facility in the future.

So far I have consumed all of the sleepy-making, anti-coughing, de-sicking medications and somehow I’m still awake. Fuck you brain. Fuck you.

Also, I figured I should start acting like some of the mini-celebrities on twitter and start my own, “In the Now’s”, because I figure that’s a totally useful and productive use of my time. ImageImage

…Yea, fuck you, too buddy.

PS. That small body next to me is my boyfriend, not a child I keep as a slave/child. Ick, babbies.

This is the very, very, very, beginning of a story I’m working on. It’s taking me a bit of time to get it out. This is the first time I’ve ever tried writing a story that wasn’t something I hadn’t experienced, other than the tales I would tell when I was a kiddo, and the rando rando story. But then I didn’t have to worry my grammars… as much. 

Martinus walked towards the door, into a room, the ground covered in dirt. This is where they raise Necator americanus. This was the room where they let them live, cycle, and burrow.

Almost reluctantly, he took off his shoes and socks, placing them right outside of the doorway on a mat with the words, “Place Shoes Here” embedded in the weave. Feeling the air on his toes was a pleasant sensation. He rarely found himself barefoot in a public place, or any place for that matter, save for in bed and in the shower.

Martinus moved himself into the room, feeling the soil creep it’s way around his toes. It was surprisingly warm and not-quite-damp. The last time he remembered having bare feet on soil was maybe when he was in in his late teens, when he accidentally ate mom’s “magic” chocolates.

He walked over to a plastic lawn chair placed in the center of the smallish room. He didn’t feel  anything as he sat there. Nevertheless, he knew that the nematodes were quickly liquifying the skin at the base of his feet, in order to slip their way into his blood stream. This is where they were supposed to be, and he was glad for it.

He had suffered from allergies almost his entire life, and it was only until recently that he had considered that the fix was worth it. Martinus had known of this therapy for some time now, he was the one who looked over its regulation, but it takes time for these things to sink into the mind of a stubborn man.

A friend took note of his allergies and suggested the therapy to him, the friend being a doctor specializing in symbiotic therapies had a very convincing argument for the treatment. He called it helminthic therapy and had even had a number of patients that fared well with it. As Martinus respected this man, he acquiesced and concluded to undergo the treatment.

“I’ve learned to cry with my eyes open because of the makeup I wear. I sit on a balcony by myself smoking most of the time, with a drink in my hand wanting for something but I don’t know what. I am in love with a man who’s life will ever be more exciting than my own and I don’t feel like I am involved in it at all. I hate myself for being so boring.” 

Truth is found in sorrow, happiness leads to delusion. At least this is what I tend to think while sorrowful.  It is in this world I find my thinking is more muddled than my emotions, and it is this world my happiness is diminished to the butt end of a cigarette. It is here I find solace in nothing, but it is in mania that there is no solace as well, for it is in everything.

I aim for peace in the middle. Where my tears are from joy’s and sorrow’s that make sense to the world around me, and more importantly to myself. It is here that I am now, and it is here I shall fight to stay.

I am boring, perhaps, but I shall not be bored. I have too much to write and talk about. I have too much to think about.  I have.  It is this having that I relish in life.

I went to the mental ward again. I sat in the same chair at the hospital for six hours, and watched homeless after homeless after suicidal wreck come in screaming, crying, spitting, and kicking their way into a room of silence, and solitude.

I ate oranges and rice for lunch, while watching the wrecks pass me by, listening to the nurses and doctors chat each other up about this or that. I didn’t interact much with these people, save to ask for a pencil once. In my journal I wrote that I was miserable and bored for pages. It’s hard not to be bored sitting in the same spot for hours. I mentioned this to a nurse and her only response was, “Some people wait for twenty four hours or more.” My response, “That isn’t good at all.” She didn’t seem to like that. I should’ve said that isn’t acceptable, because it isn’t.

Health care in this city is not what I would expect, though I sense that it is something similar–if not worse–in most cities. My experience in the past with  hospitals have been generally good, and I was better for it. Though it was hard, boring, and long, I made due and had people to talk to. This time was to be very different, and to last for a much shorter period of time. Last time I probably left too early, this time I am sure I didn’t leave early enough.

I was in a half-way house for the disturbed, those of us in society that have issue with ourselves, and occasionally others. I was the richest, most put together person there. Albeit that I have a serious condition on paper, in reality I am incredibly put together. For this I should be thankful. My ability to play normal has greatly improved over the years. I hope it only improves more as I get older.

This house, called the Avenues, located in the Inner Sunset of San Francisco was terribly lit, smelled of cigarettes and rotting junk food. A smell I remember from a childhood friends home back in Oklahoma, damn did that place reek. The movies were all fairly depressing, and most conversations at some point went to talking about films. I’m not sure why, but it seems these people really liked talking about movies. They also seemed to like talking to me. I think I made them feel more put together themselves.

The counselors were generally nice. I spoke with them cordially and when I left– after only staying for twenty four hours, a little more– they were nice to me and understood my sensation of not being right for the place. They said that I didn’t feel comfortable, but my answer was that I simply was in the wrong program.

My treatment plan was to help with my paranoia, sense of isolation, and hallucinations. Though I lied a bit and said they weren’t as bad as they are sometimes, I can live with this. I am much more at peace with the specters than I am with the paranoia and anxiety. For some reason the noids are harder to keep at bay.

Weekends at psych wards, or any sort of mental facility as I’ve recently learned, are the worse. They are dull, dreary places to be. The most unfortunate thing about them are the people there. They are generally not bright, theistic, and drug addled. Not that I haven’t been drug addled before myself, I have plenty of experience with drug addling, but I tend to think that I am a bit smarter than these folks. Maybe I simply have more will.

I slept in a room that would definitely depress the most optimistic of our species. I shared it with a woman who only slept, coming off of heroin, she was full of methadone and kolonopin. A cocktail well suited for sleeping like a cat. There was a man who had a masters in English who had AIDS as he expressed to me, who did meth but would stop doing his drug of choice a week before each doctors appointment in order to appear healthier. I have no idea why you do that beyond brushing your teeth before the dentist–because nobody likes bad breath– the doctors are bound to notice even if your body doesn’t tell them outright.

I have learned to fight the noids better. It is fighting, the Fear had to be fought, so do the noids, all of them at once. You can’t really just take them one at a time, you have to take a battalion to them and slaughter them all. It takes some time, and I am still learning how to be a foe of the noia, but it will come.

This visit put it in more perspective for me. My life is good, it is simply a way my brain works and I have to balance myself better. I need to not isolate myself, and continue to not isolate myself. This can be very difficult to do with the noids floating about in my head, telling me to be one way or the other. That this or that, he or she, are out to in some way hurt, maim, kick out, or simply deplore me.

It’s an arsenal of chemicals to combat, but it is also a battalion of fight to survive this silly thing called my brain chemistry.

I’ve found myself with a lot of free time lately and decided to write a bit about technology and some of the anxieties surrounding it as a fun exercise. It’s not much, and doesn’t really say anything new. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. 

As early as Grecian tales of how Prometheus stole fire from Zeus, in order to share it with man, to modern anxieties about how social networks are causing our interactions to become superficial, technology, and how we use it, has been a point of contention in western dialogue.  Our drive to modernize is only matched by our apprehension of modern life. This apprehension that many feel towards technology varies in extremity, but it exists nonetheless, and a tendency to blame the technology itself is oftentimes present in the arguments that stem from these anxieties.

Why was Prometheus condemned to the mountain for giving fire to Mankind? The simplest explanation is that he defied the gods, but that fire was something more, it was knowledge, the knowledge that allowed us to defy the Gods.  What the myth tells us is that new knowledge -new technology- is dangerous precisely because it allows any person to defy the perceived limits of nature. This invention, especially the knowledge that allowed us to use it, drastically altered the way society operated.  In doing so, the fire also altered how we thought about the world, leading to a disintegration of the walls that blocked us from trying to break the natural order of things.

This fire is more than just a single technology; it is a technological mind-set, one that always seeks to defy our limitations, to push past the boundaries of what is now possible.  Building bigger buildings, extending human life, chatting with people on the other side of the earth – the flame that Prometheus brought us is never satisfied with limitations, as a wild fire is never satisfied with one tree, and so it sets ablaze the path to other inventions.  For all that scientists may love nature, even to the point of imitating it, the technological mind-set is never satisfied with the natural order.  That’s why it was fire, and not water, in the myths, that elevated humankind from animals to something closer to the Gods. Technology wishes to consume what it can, for better or for worse, this is the gift of humankind.

The technological mind-set also believes in the freedom of information, which is often itself a radical notion. Technologies desire to spread, and our desire to freely share information, from the library to the free culture movement, is a part of our symbiotic relationship. Sharing is met at times with adoration, the protestors in Egypt protecting the Library of Alexandria, and other times with fear. Some of this may have a beginning in another myth, in Genesis with Eve and the Apple.  In low-technology societies, eating the apple is a sin.  In high technology societies, this is the moment where things get interesting.  The “Twitter revolution” in Egypt wasn’t about Twitter or Facebook, but about new ways of bypassing censors to create a new movement – a movement that protected the Library of Alexandria from vandals, even while defending itself against the enemy.

Technological advances, and the information that is required to develop them, thus always represent social change. Because of this, we will have those who are uneasy with these cultural alterations, and lash out against it.  On the other hand, we will have those defenders of technological advancement, capitalists, scientists, and laymen alike. These are the people who perpetuate these machinations of unease, upheaval, and exploration, and though these people do not always do what is best, they disallow stagnation; allowing for change, ranging from perceptual, to fundamentally altering the ways in which we live our lives.

Each time this has happened, the defenders of the current order forget the last wave of technological change and think that this thing, this new thing, is the one step we’ve taken too far. By the time people were protesting the assembly line, no one objected anymore to the cotton gin. By the time people objected to texting, no one remembered how they’d once thought email was the end of civilized discourse. The objection to new technology is always a rearguard action, fighting a battle against the technological mind that has been lost since Prometheus.

It always goes the same way, because in an important sense the struggle against “new technology” is really a struggle for other things.

A famous example of techno-revolutions, and the anxiety it can bring, was seen in 19th century Britain. English workers, who are known as the Luddites now– named for their anonymous mascot Ned Ludd– were caused to feel insecure about their livelihoods by the onset of large factories that could produce products with little skilled labor and in mass quantity, albeit products of lower quality. These people were a part of a rising working class that worked ages to reach their status in life, only to have their financial security stripped from them by a new breed of venture capitalists. These groups of people were not necessarily against technology, but rather were opposed to the loss of autonomy and culture that came with its misuse.

They were “machine bashers”, but ironically they were also some of the most highly skilled craftsmen of their day. Using advanced techniques, and sophisticated technologies of their own, to create and produce products of esteemed value.  As seen in the lyrics of “General Ludd’s Triumphs”,

“ …Till full-fashioned work at the old-fashioned price,

Is established by custom and law.”

In this song, they sing of the grievances felt by the misuse of technology, but in this last line the point is driven home. This is not necessarily about technology; this is an argument about labor rights and the right to a personal livelihood.

Melvin Kranzberg, a historian of technology at Harvard University, and coiner of Kranzbergs Law, believed that technology and western traditions have co-created the “individual.” This concept of the autonomous person has played a large part in the modern perception of what it means to be human. From the Declaration of Independence, to the Occupy movement, from France to Egypt, individualism is a cause for the birth of many states and movements, with technology as its driving force. The rugged frontiersman always had his rifle and his Bowie knife; the rebel on the road rides a motorcycle; the hacker is wired into the network. Technology has empowered the idea of the autonomous individual because the autonomous individual, too, doesn’t want to know his limits.

But Ritzer, states that technology’s usage, as it stands now as a method to ease life for humans, may eventually limit individual independence, and possibly even come to replace humans with machines, as in Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, by Phillip K. Dick. If all the world is a technology, how do we know that we, too are not programmable? How can we remain rugged individuals if parts of us can be turned on and off at the flick of a switch? Even Androids are uncomfortable with their own on-switches, as Data shows in The Next Generation, only allowing the doctor to know of his control switch under a promise not to tell others about it.

Many from the Christian right, as Deacon Tom Frankenfield writes for integratedcatholiclife.org, claim that access to the Internet increases perversion and sinful action, though he does have suggestions for safe Internet use. Many more less extreme voices tout that our new technologies of heightened connectivity engender in young people a short attention span and is, much like Socrates is claimed to say, making us lose our memory.

Is the Internet really making us lose our memory? Did the giant factory machines take the Luddite’s jobs? In ways, yes, and in other ways, no. We cannot honestly deny that each technology has a downside: overthrowing the old limits is a kind of revolution, and revolutions have victims. Prometheus himself lost the glory of Mount Olympus for giving us the technological mind-set. One wonders if he still thinks it was worth it.

I do. The benefits always seem to outweigh the risks. We may be losing our memory for phone numbers and birthdays, but we have created space for new types of thought. The Internet allows us to convene and create so many marvelous things, from revolutions to millions of images of cats doing cute things, as well creates a space for dialogue we have never experienced before. The Luddites lost their livelihoods, but they started the first step in a long battle for fair working conditions in factories, and the factories themselves made previously expensive and hard-to-attain items, widely available to those who would otherwise go without shoes, cloth, or utensils.

Technology is but a physical manifestation of human thought, and it is the human that is to be apprehended, not the child of her thinking. Adam and Eve, and Prometheus may not have known exactly what they were getting into, and what sort of children their thoughts would birth. The inventors of new technologies rarely do. The pattern of technology is one of revolution, advancement and healing, much like an eternal Ouroboros, regurgitating his tail before he reaches his end.

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