Paranoia 8
I'm feeling much better. The question is whether or not I should risk exposing potential flu germs to fellow classmates and go to class. Or should I just stay here, and work on essay material? Hmm... it's a decision I will have to make very soon...
in any case, I have decided to release another chapter of Paranoia
Chapter Eight
It is a strange humor that happens when my particular face is considered a media symbol. And at the same time, it is terrifying, at least for my housemates. Theirs is a unique relation and recent events makes their situation unclear. My security is practically metaphysical, after all, and if such a thing such as this can happen, what does it mean to the nature of events?
My laughter was startling to them, unexpected to their expression of fear and concern. I shocked them into silence and they waited for the sacred moment to pass, a key marker in their memories to come. This is, I suppose, for them the beginning of cycled insanity, even though the symptoms of chaos was there for them to see, if only in passing glance. And then my laughter ceased, and I turned to my housemates, my chosen charges, and their reactions.
The scientist, ever logic and rational, gave guessed ratios till the studio will be illegalized, hunted down and found. She wanted answers, wanted facts and figures and information. Her sharp mind measured the risks and dangers, to consequences to actions and carefully picked and examined each detail. Whatever did she want to know such things? For the knowledge itself, and how it may be used for improvement. She saw the consequences of my fame, my form of media attention, and wanted to prepare. It is tricky enough that I was questioned by agents, but the consequences of being caught on illegal camera... Bless her responsible soul, for all her annoying prying, she seeks the best of her position. Bless her, for the troublesome responsibility of the masses in their restricted state and struggle that she reminds me.
The banshee wanted action, implusives, quick and complete, feeling the urge to flee or fight, to strike and run, to move and stand strong and proud, yelling with rage and justice. She demanded immediate justice in action, heedless of the risk and consequence, selfless in sacrifice, and yet selfish to others. Consequences, responsibility, these extend only to duty, what should be done, regardless of rules and pain and suffering. She is action, brave and bold, with the blind stubbornness to fulfill tasks and overcome obstacles. The banshee is unshaken, undistracted strength. Ah, to have the confidence to stand tall and loud, demanding justice. She is the strength of the movement, for when such actions are needed.
The bard is unity, between the voice of responsibility and consequence and the voice of action and justice. He suggests examination and reflection, explanation and thought, perhaps over a drink. He offers to reach into his cupboard to teas and wisdom, to draw out the knowledge of the ages, all gathered together and condensed into a wonderfully warm mug cupped between hands. There is something serene and calming about his manner, soothing the concerns of the others and easing their nervous energies. I am grateful for the bard's talents, as he directs their attention from myself so that I can consider their concerns.
There is risk, with having any one of us drawing any sort of media attention, for it draws attention and investigation upon us all. The agents would not overlook the situation and tended to question more when such events did occur. We could expect more concentration in my investigation, and their eyes will turn to my housemates as they seek to find connections to the company, the illegal studio which as both rescued and doomed. It would be a test, then, as to the strength of my protection, my mother wings over my nest of hatchlings. I half look forward to the confrontation. Finally! A test to my skills, my plans and careful work! A challenge! As my blood quickens at the thought of something maybe happening, the voice of responsibility speaks, warning me of the risks. It is not just myself that I would place in the line of fire, with this manner. It is not just these house mates that I would risk. I refuse to hide behind them, for them to take the fall for my actions.
And they are not ready for this. They cannot stand and break the current, the tide, for others who stand behind. No, they will stand behind the screen, safe in the faceless crowd. The defense will hold. I will not bring them into the spotlight, under the fold and dagger of leadership, the cloak of responsibility. Not without a promise, the strength and faith of the promise, to drive away the doubts and fight the fear that bubbles and seethes deep within, to emerge in sleepless anxious nights.
No, I will not submit their remaining innocence. Let them stay safe under the protection of my promise and my shield. But they do have the right to know something, of the things that will not involve them, to answer their concerns.
First, the banshee, who is easy to content. There shall be no marching, no more attention to question and no reason to look more closely. The time will come for open confrontation, but today is not it. Continue, the studies and simply life.
Then, the scientist, the facts as they are and as they seem to be and happened: A simply investigation being interrupted by a surprise illegal protest. A detail; my use of a common escape on film. But such a skill can be easily taught, perhaps by Marcy when seeking some amusement to drive away boredom. Ah, the rage in my eyes, to whom was that directed?
To the bard; continue the deception. We will continue to function as studious students, serious with our noses in our books and this attention an uninvited interruption that we will be happy to do without. The deception will continue.
I have work to be done, in the meanwhile, If the studio will use my image to gain reputation, then I feel responsible for them. It is my image that is being used, after all, and while I approve of their bold independence, I will not have my face used unintelligently. It would interfere with my purpose.
Is this concern that I am feeling? Is this worry and anxiety? What do I have to be concerned with? What decisions do I have to doubt? Not my own, I am aware and in control. What regrets do I have? I refuse to suffer regrets. So what is this that I feel for these poor foolish children, stumbling in their righteousness, their hands shaking with excitement as they light their candles, small flickering hope in the darkness. They are small, they are weak, alone. But together, as many, they are strong.
And they have my image. I will not let them misuse it, or be foolish with it, despite their admirable boldness. A small update window has appeared on my screen, quietly reporting and recording, automatically copying secret files from far off places, transcribing and transporting, racing a clock countdown to deletion. Automatically, several backups are made, sent to safe secure locations and locked down on completely offline databases by means of my own automatons. Several of them, backups for backups for backups, hidden amongst countless endless code forever adapting and changing, ever running in lines and rows, marching past the eye towards some undefined end. The manifold mirror echoes eternally through time.
But on this screen, the original point of the cycle, dutifully reporting to my eyes, instead of to my doubles, to join the records of my memory. May I never forget a record, even if this resemblance of life and lives disappears, let the knowledge remain.
Ah! These are my new children, on that pirated news line, the stolen signal cutting in, disrupting law and order for their chaos. With their first broadcast, they have decided their fate in mine eyes.
The authorities have acted quickly, gathering its fire and power to disapprove the untouched, bare and raw truth on the screens. They seek to hush and cover the silent screams and demanding stares, claiming set up and devious forces to corrupt ideals that result in massive suffering and ended halcyon days. By dull sublunary love, what hell would our proved peaceful nation face should to public trust the word of any and every source? I'm quite sure that the people have been impressed by the passion of our leaders, for feeling is to be closer to human nature than to think and design.
It does not matter, the result is the same; the signal, broadcast and company is outlawed, for thinking and feeling too much out of line, for acting too much out of human nature. Heavens forbid we be too human! But these, these are mine, as they have claimed my image, my face, my rage, used it to dare the authority, even as a vague memory, to say something. They are brave, to take on the fear that hunts the nights and haunts the dreams, gnawing at the mind and sanity. By sheer guts, they have proven themselves to me. I will spread out my wings and enfold them, bringing them to my nest, my shelter. And my promise will extend to them.
To them, they have attracted my attention, as something bold that's needed. No, there shall be no other reason for my interest in them, for my protection. There shall be no connection between myself and my image. Let them be innocent and accept unquestioning in the gift they have been blessed with, for their sake and my own. Finding them, for someone as I, is too terribly simple. My dears, my sweets, I shall make you untraceable, yet visible, a ghost on the wires, a spirit on the net, spreading your wings from this outgrown broken shell. Ah, if I could spread my own wings towards the heavens, leaving the dust with a leap! These children will only hover in my shadow, but they believe otherwise, that they too will soar. Such are humans. The message has been sent, accepted and replied. Ah, they have heard of my fame, one of my names and reputations. Who are they to refuse my services?
I smile, a small mischievous thing for a devious mind. A strike of a key, a quick correcting calculation, and the trace of the pirate signal sinks within a fog of complicated arrays and overlapping signals. At the same time, the broadcast begins to haunt the wires, appearing suddenly in random emails, forums and chat rooms. It defies filters and passwords and security systems, infiltrating, subverting, appearing and slipping away. And no one could be traced to my face.
It would be bothersome to have my face connected to my services. No, it would be too dangerous, giving many another piece of the puzzle, one that I cannot afford, especially now with recent events. Unacceptable.
Never let my face be held in patrolmen hands as they wait at the door as students exit. I am promised, I keep the promise, chanting it at night before I close my eyes and suddenly am falling through glass, cloud and water, shattering and never fully broken. Oh my beloved, how I wish you were here, and not merely a half forgotten memory in this half life of a dream. No one told us that we couldn't die, and so we wait for the final slumber. Or maybe this is a desperate dream from which I float like a specimen in a glass jar, forever frozen to be examined in my rest. Or maybe this is a cage, and I, a blinded prisoner unable to reach the bonds that cover my eyes, unable to scream my fury.
Who promised me? Was that also a dream? What makes this dream less real than reality, less valid than the truth of life and nature. Shall I test it then?
by the way, does anyone have an easy way to write a resume? I need to rewrite mine, or rather, write mine, since I've lost it in the summer computer crash. I could ask my mother for an old copy... but I'd like to become more independent.
in any case, I have decided to release another chapter of Paranoia
Chapter Eight
It is a strange humor that happens when my particular face is considered a media symbol. And at the same time, it is terrifying, at least for my housemates. Theirs is a unique relation and recent events makes their situation unclear. My security is practically metaphysical, after all, and if such a thing such as this can happen, what does it mean to the nature of events?
My laughter was startling to them, unexpected to their expression of fear and concern. I shocked them into silence and they waited for the sacred moment to pass, a key marker in their memories to come. This is, I suppose, for them the beginning of cycled insanity, even though the symptoms of chaos was there for them to see, if only in passing glance. And then my laughter ceased, and I turned to my housemates, my chosen charges, and their reactions.
The scientist, ever logic and rational, gave guessed ratios till the studio will be illegalized, hunted down and found. She wanted answers, wanted facts and figures and information. Her sharp mind measured the risks and dangers, to consequences to actions and carefully picked and examined each detail. Whatever did she want to know such things? For the knowledge itself, and how it may be used for improvement. She saw the consequences of my fame, my form of media attention, and wanted to prepare. It is tricky enough that I was questioned by agents, but the consequences of being caught on illegal camera... Bless her responsible soul, for all her annoying prying, she seeks the best of her position. Bless her, for the troublesome responsibility of the masses in their restricted state and struggle that she reminds me.
The banshee wanted action, implusives, quick and complete, feeling the urge to flee or fight, to strike and run, to move and stand strong and proud, yelling with rage and justice. She demanded immediate justice in action, heedless of the risk and consequence, selfless in sacrifice, and yet selfish to others. Consequences, responsibility, these extend only to duty, what should be done, regardless of rules and pain and suffering. She is action, brave and bold, with the blind stubbornness to fulfill tasks and overcome obstacles. The banshee is unshaken, undistracted strength. Ah, to have the confidence to stand tall and loud, demanding justice. She is the strength of the movement, for when such actions are needed.
The bard is unity, between the voice of responsibility and consequence and the voice of action and justice. He suggests examination and reflection, explanation and thought, perhaps over a drink. He offers to reach into his cupboard to teas and wisdom, to draw out the knowledge of the ages, all gathered together and condensed into a wonderfully warm mug cupped between hands. There is something serene and calming about his manner, soothing the concerns of the others and easing their nervous energies. I am grateful for the bard's talents, as he directs their attention from myself so that I can consider their concerns.
There is risk, with having any one of us drawing any sort of media attention, for it draws attention and investigation upon us all. The agents would not overlook the situation and tended to question more when such events did occur. We could expect more concentration in my investigation, and their eyes will turn to my housemates as they seek to find connections to the company, the illegal studio which as both rescued and doomed. It would be a test, then, as to the strength of my protection, my mother wings over my nest of hatchlings. I half look forward to the confrontation. Finally! A test to my skills, my plans and careful work! A challenge! As my blood quickens at the thought of something maybe happening, the voice of responsibility speaks, warning me of the risks. It is not just myself that I would place in the line of fire, with this manner. It is not just these house mates that I would risk. I refuse to hide behind them, for them to take the fall for my actions.
And they are not ready for this. They cannot stand and break the current, the tide, for others who stand behind. No, they will stand behind the screen, safe in the faceless crowd. The defense will hold. I will not bring them into the spotlight, under the fold and dagger of leadership, the cloak of responsibility. Not without a promise, the strength and faith of the promise, to drive away the doubts and fight the fear that bubbles and seethes deep within, to emerge in sleepless anxious nights.
No, I will not submit their remaining innocence. Let them stay safe under the protection of my promise and my shield. But they do have the right to know something, of the things that will not involve them, to answer their concerns.
First, the banshee, who is easy to content. There shall be no marching, no more attention to question and no reason to look more closely. The time will come for open confrontation, but today is not it. Continue, the studies and simply life.
Then, the scientist, the facts as they are and as they seem to be and happened: A simply investigation being interrupted by a surprise illegal protest. A detail; my use of a common escape on film. But such a skill can be easily taught, perhaps by Marcy when seeking some amusement to drive away boredom. Ah, the rage in my eyes, to whom was that directed?
To the bard; continue the deception. We will continue to function as studious students, serious with our noses in our books and this attention an uninvited interruption that we will be happy to do without. The deception will continue.
I have work to be done, in the meanwhile, If the studio will use my image to gain reputation, then I feel responsible for them. It is my image that is being used, after all, and while I approve of their bold independence, I will not have my face used unintelligently. It would interfere with my purpose.
Is this concern that I am feeling? Is this worry and anxiety? What do I have to be concerned with? What decisions do I have to doubt? Not my own, I am aware and in control. What regrets do I have? I refuse to suffer regrets. So what is this that I feel for these poor foolish children, stumbling in their righteousness, their hands shaking with excitement as they light their candles, small flickering hope in the darkness. They are small, they are weak, alone. But together, as many, they are strong.
And they have my image. I will not let them misuse it, or be foolish with it, despite their admirable boldness. A small update window has appeared on my screen, quietly reporting and recording, automatically copying secret files from far off places, transcribing and transporting, racing a clock countdown to deletion. Automatically, several backups are made, sent to safe secure locations and locked down on completely offline databases by means of my own automatons. Several of them, backups for backups for backups, hidden amongst countless endless code forever adapting and changing, ever running in lines and rows, marching past the eye towards some undefined end. The manifold mirror echoes eternally through time.
But on this screen, the original point of the cycle, dutifully reporting to my eyes, instead of to my doubles, to join the records of my memory. May I never forget a record, even if this resemblance of life and lives disappears, let the knowledge remain.
Ah! These are my new children, on that pirated news line, the stolen signal cutting in, disrupting law and order for their chaos. With their first broadcast, they have decided their fate in mine eyes.
The authorities have acted quickly, gathering its fire and power to disapprove the untouched, bare and raw truth on the screens. They seek to hush and cover the silent screams and demanding stares, claiming set up and devious forces to corrupt ideals that result in massive suffering and ended halcyon days. By dull sublunary love, what hell would our proved peaceful nation face should to public trust the word of any and every source? I'm quite sure that the people have been impressed by the passion of our leaders, for feeling is to be closer to human nature than to think and design.
It does not matter, the result is the same; the signal, broadcast and company is outlawed, for thinking and feeling too much out of line, for acting too much out of human nature. Heavens forbid we be too human! But these, these are mine, as they have claimed my image, my face, my rage, used it to dare the authority, even as a vague memory, to say something. They are brave, to take on the fear that hunts the nights and haunts the dreams, gnawing at the mind and sanity. By sheer guts, they have proven themselves to me. I will spread out my wings and enfold them, bringing them to my nest, my shelter. And my promise will extend to them.
To them, they have attracted my attention, as something bold that's needed. No, there shall be no other reason for my interest in them, for my protection. There shall be no connection between myself and my image. Let them be innocent and accept unquestioning in the gift they have been blessed with, for their sake and my own. Finding them, for someone as I, is too terribly simple. My dears, my sweets, I shall make you untraceable, yet visible, a ghost on the wires, a spirit on the net, spreading your wings from this outgrown broken shell. Ah, if I could spread my own wings towards the heavens, leaving the dust with a leap! These children will only hover in my shadow, but they believe otherwise, that they too will soar. Such are humans. The message has been sent, accepted and replied. Ah, they have heard of my fame, one of my names and reputations. Who are they to refuse my services?
I smile, a small mischievous thing for a devious mind. A strike of a key, a quick correcting calculation, and the trace of the pirate signal sinks within a fog of complicated arrays and overlapping signals. At the same time, the broadcast begins to haunt the wires, appearing suddenly in random emails, forums and chat rooms. It defies filters and passwords and security systems, infiltrating, subverting, appearing and slipping away. And no one could be traced to my face.
It would be bothersome to have my face connected to my services. No, it would be too dangerous, giving many another piece of the puzzle, one that I cannot afford, especially now with recent events. Unacceptable.
Never let my face be held in patrolmen hands as they wait at the door as students exit. I am promised, I keep the promise, chanting it at night before I close my eyes and suddenly am falling through glass, cloud and water, shattering and never fully broken. Oh my beloved, how I wish you were here, and not merely a half forgotten memory in this half life of a dream. No one told us that we couldn't die, and so we wait for the final slumber. Or maybe this is a desperate dream from which I float like a specimen in a glass jar, forever frozen to be examined in my rest. Or maybe this is a cage, and I, a blinded prisoner unable to reach the bonds that cover my eyes, unable to scream my fury.
Who promised me? Was that also a dream? What makes this dream less real than reality, less valid than the truth of life and nature. Shall I test it then?
by the way, does anyone have an easy way to write a resume? I need to rewrite mine, or rather, write mine, since I've lost it in the summer computer crash. I could ask my mother for an old copy... but I'd like to become more independent.