This is a work in progress - more to come
Two-Handed Baboon began life as any baboon begins life: a baboon pregnancy followed by baboon birth. By all accounts, Two-Handed Baboon was a regular baboon, with - as his name suggests - two hands, which is normal for baboons. It would seem to follow then that the name Two-Handed Baboon is meaningless, without a regular context for baboons with a number of hands different than two, and that he should simply be called baboon, like all other baboons, but making that assumption requires the observer to overlook one key detail: one day, while eating a mouse, Two-Handed Baboon came to realize he had two hands. After this realization, he tried to share his knowledge with his baboon gang. Not one of the other baboons cared or understood what it meant to have two hands. Two-Handed Baboon tried to go back to his everyday life, but in everything he did he was constantly reminded that he had two hands. He felt disconnected, and knew that the other baboons were not like him, and that he could not be happy as a baboon. Remembering from long ago, Two-Handed Baboon thought of the men who had walked through the forest. They had been different than baboons, and also had two hands. They wore coverings over their bodies, and carried objects of power. They knew many secrets. Two-Handed Baboon decided to find where the men lived, and to join them, so that he might know secrets also, and so that he would have the company of equals.
Two-Handed Baboon fashioned a skirt from leaves and picked up a leg-bone from a deer skeleton, to use as a cane, before leaving his home. He did these things because he knew that finding the men would only be half of the journey - between his old life and his future, and that when he found the men, he would need to be more than a baboon. The road was long and Two-Handed Baboon began walking.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
Death and the God of Lost Causes
They meet every Thursday afternoon in the park, because Death doesn't mind the company and the god has to be true to his nature. They grab a coffee and sit down at one of those little chess tables, though they never play. Instead, they watch the people walking in the park, and on the street, and make plans to meet throughout the week. Death takes on many appearances: in each meeting comes as a different person. The god is always the same. He is an old balding man, wearing an old worn out sweater - olive usually - and pants that threaten to swallow him whole. His face is heavy and wrinkled; the skin on his chin hangs loose with the goose hair stubble that grows in hospitals. His eyes are deep and brown and are filled with compassion along with a surprising amount of youth and strength. Death enjoys approaching the meeting as new person every time, and seeing if the god recognizes him. Death comes to these meetings out of curiosity. The god comes because he has no choice. Still, the two are civil, forever is too long to bicker. The god comes to ask for life. Death can not concede. And so they schedule. They will meet in an alley sometime between Tuesday night and Wednesday morning where the god will look for an exit. They will meet on a bridge late Friday night where the god will try to give some hope. They will meet countless times in the hospital, where the god silently pleads as the tragedies tick away. Still, at each scheduled stop, Death performs his duty and smiles. Death smiles because, when the god's compassion overcomes his own senses and leaves him lying feeble with grief, Death can hold him as he cries.
Monday, July 6, 2009
The Serpents and The Gods
This text was taken from 'A Moral History of Existence' written in the middle 100's by an unknown author. Many scholars believe the author to be a monk who lived in a monastery somewhere in the province of Ru. Because of this, he has come to be known simply as The Monk of Ru, and has had many texts philosophical, religious, and instructional (possibly erroneously) attributed to his name.
To call the place formed by the corpse of Something the bitter fields is misleading. The world was not called this due to the prevalence of grasslands within it. In actuality the bitter fields are called such because in the infinite grey recesses, beings of strange forms emerge inexplicably, like crops from the earth. Many of these being defy explanation, and, before clocks and calendars and weekends, they churned against each other eating and being eaten. This churning pitted infinity against itself, and allowed no peace within the world. Of the creatures to form in this world, only the great and clever were able to persist, and of these, the greatest were the serpents and the most clever were the gods.
The serpents were very large, very powerful creatures, but they possessed animalistic intelects. Because of this combination, often they would grow so long that they would forget where their tails were. This did not trouble the serpents because they knew that only another serpent would have jaws strong enough to injure them, and they avoided each other's hunting grounds. Still, the longest of serpents would circle back centuries later, and, upon seeing their own tail, think it the tail of a rival, bite it, and tear themselves apart. The amazing aspect of the serpents though was that they were also natural magicians. Often times their coiling would mirror the exchange, and sections of their long bodies would fall out of the bitter field all together, to occupy some other space.
The gods, not unlike humans, thrived by virtue of cooperation, and in the midst of the terrible churning were able to build Peladokus, the first city. Inside Peladokus, the gods studied many things, and over time some of them learned secret things from echoes, and others found remnants of the exchange in the action of the churning: some of the gods became magicians, and others grew wise. The gods who held the wall of the city became great warriors and the gods that gave themselves over to passion became great artists and lovers.
All of this happened and Peladokus flourished. Peladokus was the gem of the world, and it was all the gods cared for, until it was eaten by Monmigut, a great blind serpent. Few of the gods survived, and the wise men among them discovered something first-hand: it is better to be great than to be clever.
The serpents were very large, very powerful creatures, but they possessed animalistic intelects. Because of this combination, often they would grow so long that they would forget where their tails were. This did not trouble the serpents because they knew that only another serpent would have jaws strong enough to injure them, and they avoided each other's hunting grounds. Still, the longest of serpents would circle back centuries later, and, upon seeing their own tail, think it the tail of a rival, bite it, and tear themselves apart. The amazing aspect of the serpents though was that they were also natural magicians. Often times their coiling would mirror the exchange, and sections of their long bodies would fall out of the bitter field all together, to occupy some other space.
The gods, not unlike humans, thrived by virtue of cooperation, and in the midst of the terrible churning were able to build Peladokus, the first city. Inside Peladokus, the gods studied many things, and over time some of them learned secret things from echoes, and others found remnants of the exchange in the action of the churning: some of the gods became magicians, and others grew wise. The gods who held the wall of the city became great warriors and the gods that gave themselves over to passion became great artists and lovers.
All of this happened and Peladokus flourished. Peladokus was the gem of the world, and it was all the gods cared for, until it was eaten by Monmigut, a great blind serpent. Few of the gods survived, and the wise men among them discovered something first-hand: it is better to be great than to be clever.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Getting Farther Off Topic
No-one has seen beyond the horizon, and winds can only carry so many whispers.
There are many beginnings we know of, and most likely many more that have been forgotten or never even known. So, it is with this knowledge that we set down what happened in our history, and we attempt to go back all of the way to the first beginning. Certainly there is a beginning which came before, but allow us the privilege of calling our oldest known beginning the first.
The First Beginning
First, there were two brothers: Something and Nothing. They together were Everything and they were one and the same. Regularly, Something would become Nothing and Nothing would become Something. This switch was the oldest ritual, known as The Exchange. This entire system was called Potential.
Sometimes, instead of practicing The Exchange, Something and Nothing would create an idea and place it inside of Something or Nothing, depending on what it was or wasn't. So, at one point, instead of practicing The Exchange, Something and Nothing created Separation. Separation did not fit in either set, so it lay down between Something and Nothing.
Separation prevented Something and Nothing from practicing The Exchange and appeared to have put an end to Potential.
For a very long time Something, stuck as Something, continued to create things to fill only himself, while Nothing, stuck as Nothing, became more and more bitter. Eventually, Nothing and Something no longer remembered they were brothers and viewed each other as the enemy from across Separation: Something recognized the bitterness which had consumed Nothing, and Nothing saw only Something's senseless pursuit of more.
Nothing plotted to kill Something.
Nothing approached Something when he was distracted with creation and, using The Exchange, wounded Something. Something's Blood poured out, half on either side of separation. One half the blood pooled around Nothing and the other half stewed upon Something's dieing form. The corpse of Something bloated and tainted the blood. This tainted blood created a bitter field, filled with monsters. Nothing, in his killing of Something, had finally bridged Separation and felt great sorrow for Something. He took the blood that pooled around him and, using the Exchange for the last time, created a world within himself as a shrine for his dead brother. This world was entirely empty, and its form was that of penance.
Together, the bitter field and the world made of sorrow, divided by the primordial force of Separation, were the beginnings of our world. All of this happened before the gods. The world that was created was called Potential.
There are many beginnings we know of, and most likely many more that have been forgotten or never even known. So, it is with this knowledge that we set down what happened in our history, and we attempt to go back all of the way to the first beginning. Certainly there is a beginning which came before, but allow us the privilege of calling our oldest known beginning the first.
The First Beginning
First, there were two brothers: Something and Nothing. They together were Everything and they were one and the same. Regularly, Something would become Nothing and Nothing would become Something. This switch was the oldest ritual, known as The Exchange. This entire system was called Potential.
Sometimes, instead of practicing The Exchange, Something and Nothing would create an idea and place it inside of Something or Nothing, depending on what it was or wasn't. So, at one point, instead of practicing The Exchange, Something and Nothing created Separation. Separation did not fit in either set, so it lay down between Something and Nothing.
Separation prevented Something and Nothing from practicing The Exchange and appeared to have put an end to Potential.
For a very long time Something, stuck as Something, continued to create things to fill only himself, while Nothing, stuck as Nothing, became more and more bitter. Eventually, Nothing and Something no longer remembered they were brothers and viewed each other as the enemy from across Separation: Something recognized the bitterness which had consumed Nothing, and Nothing saw only Something's senseless pursuit of more.
Nothing plotted to kill Something.
Nothing approached Something when he was distracted with creation and, using The Exchange, wounded Something. Something's Blood poured out, half on either side of separation. One half the blood pooled around Nothing and the other half stewed upon Something's dieing form. The corpse of Something bloated and tainted the blood. This tainted blood created a bitter field, filled with monsters. Nothing, in his killing of Something, had finally bridged Separation and felt great sorrow for Something. He took the blood that pooled around him and, using the Exchange for the last time, created a world within himself as a shrine for his dead brother. This world was entirely empty, and its form was that of penance.
Together, the bitter field and the world made of sorrow, divided by the primordial force of Separation, were the beginnings of our world. All of this happened before the gods. The world that was created was called Potential.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Jellyfloats
Imagine lighter-than-air robots, made in the form of jellyfish. Drifting about in a room, they would turn the air into water. Spun from plastics, filled with gases, and printed with circuits, they would emerge into life from the spawning machine like soap bubbles. They are initially indeterminate, then become something real and frequently flawed, floating about, gently undulating. They might flex to the touch, but only to a point - often breaking on a finger leaving behind a lifeless husk as its helium soul departs. More can be spun, but the spawning machine breathes only borrowed life and fleeting freedom. Creating creatures out of air in a world like ours is somewhat immoral.
The needed fix
Project Daedalus was intitially started with a vision that far out shines its current splender. I am coming back to trim the weeds that have choked this story blog for some time and to apoligize for allowing my vision to dissapate long before my first post. Project Daedalus is indeed the story of a probe exploring first contact, but it is also much more than that: it is a place designed to celebrate things that fly, not only in space, or in our atmosphere, but also in our hearts. Project Daedalus is being redesignated, or maybe reclaimed, as a place to prove that ideas - both near and far can be lighter than air. The story of the probe is still a story I would still like to tell, but I am revoking its grasp upon this blog. The story will now be told as it should be - not in an exacting manner, but rather in pulses received from a distant star. The transmissions are mixed and delayed. Do not look to Houston for guidance. The ground has lost control.
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