So I think my "androids in space" idea is becoming more solid in my head, but not in its entirety yet. I believe I've thought of names for them that may or may not change just slightly during the writing process. Currently there are four main characters; in a way they are recombinations of the original crew from the last novel, embodying most of the characteristics that made each unique (in other words, each android id still in part based on some of you, the Circle :D).
~CINQ-1701 : captain/commander of the ship. He is moderately trained in all aspects of the running of the ship as well as in his duties as a commander of others, and knows well how much responsibility he has for them. He is the most well-rounded of the crew in both mental and physical aspects.
~ZNTE-5223 : engineer expert. He is extremely well acquainted with the operation of the ship itself and can also function as the repairman for it. He is therefore more sturdily-built than the average android and can handle more intense temperatures and impacts.
~TRLL-0158 : zenogeology/astronomy expert. Her focus is mainly on the physical aspects of the planets and celestial bodies themselves and can detect and interpret readings based on chemical and biological information gleaned from them.
*~PAXL-0064 : zenobiology/psychology (neuroscience) expert and main character. Her focus is in the creatures that inhabit the universe. She is specifically trained in abstract concepts as well as subjectgs such as physiology and anatomy in both Earth and potential alien species. Although she is the youngest and newest of the crew, she is also of one of the highest class of androids with the ability to not only store and learn new information, but make assumptions based on that data and store it as new information with prompting if the ocassion deems it necessary. As such, she is a somewhat experimental "breed," though entirely capable of performing her duties.
So what does ya'll think of the cast? I know there's not a whole lot of info up right now, but some opinions would be nice :D Also, does anyone have an idea for a title? Doesn't matter too much right now, but I'd love suggestions!
Love and peace for all :3
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Paradise? Just a thought
"Paradise is not an oasis in a desert. It is a world where deserts do not exist...or is it a universe in which we are content with deserts?"
That's a quote from a friend of mine named Eric aka [another brick in the wall] on Elftown.
Why are we as humans constantly looking and begging and hoping for more from life instead of making the most of the deserts we're stuck with? We can synthesize our own happiness, I've learned, make ourselves believe we are happy or sad, content or lacking, but in the end it doesn't really matter. There comes a point when one realizes that it doesn't matter if there are deserts or oases, because they are part of the same structure, the same concept on two different sides. They blend into each other where it's hard to tell which is which anymore and suddenly we're questioning where one starts and the other begins.
Then again, who's to decide which part is the oasis and which is the desert? Is the oasis really a paradise or merely a new desert within the old?
Hmm...must investigate further.
That's a quote from a friend of mine named Eric aka [another brick in the wall] on Elftown.
Why are we as humans constantly looking and begging and hoping for more from life instead of making the most of the deserts we're stuck with? We can synthesize our own happiness, I've learned, make ourselves believe we are happy or sad, content or lacking, but in the end it doesn't really matter. There comes a point when one realizes that it doesn't matter if there are deserts or oases, because they are part of the same structure, the same concept on two different sides. They blend into each other where it's hard to tell which is which anymore and suddenly we're questioning where one starts and the other begins.
Then again, who's to decide which part is the oasis and which is the desert? Is the oasis really a paradise or merely a new desert within the old?
Hmm...must investigate further.
Monday, July 20, 2009
New Poetry! - The Boxer
First new (good) poem in a while, not really inspired by much. Just thought it was a good line and rand with it :)
____________________________________________________________
The Boxers
What are we
But boxers in a ring,
Dancing around in some obscene ritual,
Twisting, bounding left and right,
Avoiding each others' throws,
Taunting one another into a corner,
Preparing for the knock out.
Hop left for the jab,
Right for the hook,
Low blows that don't count
But pain us just as much.
And in the end we'll see through blood
And glare and think our dirty thoughts,
But somewhere in the middle
We fall against each other,
Clinging for dear sweet life in the midst of it all
Before we both retreat
And start the dance again.
Friday, July 10, 2009
NaNo 2009?
So...I think I might have a new idea for a novel this year, or rather a sort of reworking of last year's idea. Another hard sci-fi idea, which might not be a good idea, but right now it's just a vague concept.
I want to see androids in space.
We have so many stories about humans and intergalactic travel and such, saving the planet and all that, occasionally with the aid of alien species and robots of sorts. But wouldn't it seem a little more logical if we launched beings with greater intelligence that needed no oxygen or resources of any kind besides some sort of power? Makes sense to me.
I think that this particular idea is original enough to be interesting to people. The main challenge will be in setting up characters, as most of the cast will be mechanized. Anybody have any comments?
I want to see androids in space.
We have so many stories about humans and intergalactic travel and such, saving the planet and all that, occasionally with the aid of alien species and robots of sorts. But wouldn't it seem a little more logical if we launched beings with greater intelligence that needed no oxygen or resources of any kind besides some sort of power? Makes sense to me.
I think that this particular idea is original enough to be interesting to people. The main challenge will be in setting up characters, as most of the cast will be mechanized. Anybody have any comments?
Friday, June 12, 2009
Winds of Change: A Practice in Sap
Ho boy, am I feeling sappy or what? Well, take it or leave it. It's just for you guys :) I will never write something this corny again haha XD That's how much I love you all
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Winds of Change:
An ode to the Circle
Oh Winds of change please blow on by
And come again some year.
Don't sully these last moments
With a sense of end and tears.
I see the clouds you're blowing in--
All grays and tampered shade.
They cover up the day in night,
And night within the day.
You've settled here for long enough,
Moved slowly through our lives,
Changing little parts of us
In ways we can't deny.
Despite the storms you've brought with you,
We reveled in the rains;
And through everything, in thick and thin,
Some things have stayed the same.
But here you are to threaten us
With the promise of a start,
To make us disparate and new,
And to make us grow apart.
But then again...
Let you do your worst, oh Wind,
We've weathered harsher things.
We've waited years, and lived them well,
And repelled your whips and slings.
Perhaps someday we shall look back
Upon these days, our last,
Remembering these times we shared,
The things we have surpassed.
For it is you that's made us so,
And you that made us strong,
And together we'll be made again
As you sweep us each along.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Winds of Change:
An ode to the Circle
Oh Winds of change please blow on by
And come again some year.
Don't sully these last moments
With a sense of end and tears.
I see the clouds you're blowing in--
All grays and tampered shade.
They cover up the day in night,
And night within the day.
You've settled here for long enough,
Moved slowly through our lives,
Changing little parts of us
In ways we can't deny.
Despite the storms you've brought with you,
We reveled in the rains;
And through everything, in thick and thin,
Some things have stayed the same.
But here you are to threaten us
With the promise of a start,
To make us disparate and new,
And to make us grow apart.
But then again...
Let you do your worst, oh Wind,
We've weathered harsher things.
We've waited years, and lived them well,
And repelled your whips and slings.
Perhaps someday we shall look back
Upon these days, our last,
Remembering these times we shared,
The things we have surpassed.
For it is you that's made us so,
And you that made us strong,
And together we'll be made again
As you sweep us each along.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Random Question:
There's a poetry reading at the school tomorrow (Wednesday) so I'm trying to figure out what to read :) So out of all the things I've posted here, what is y'all's favorite? Can be anything, any part of something, poetry, prose, whatever. Just wondering what people like to read and such, since I always write too depressing stuff to read aloud. Feedback is awesome!
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Without Significance
People don't die anymore the way they used to.
It used to be that people knew what camaraderie was, running into battles with swords and guns and cannons blazing, like all the good stories. It used to be that people died in the arms of others who prayed for them, softly and sincerely, in their final moments. Men holding each other because they had to, because there was no one else, and for an instant there could be unfathomable and unconditional love because there had to be. Then, the fires would roar and they'd be up again, leaving the fallen alone and cold but always within memory, always tingling on the edge of remembrance. Someone would write a song about them later and call it something simple and sweet so others might wonder what it's really all about.
Now there's just needles and white bed sheets and pills and strange little containers and bags with tubes that weren't there the week before. Dying alone with strangers and a strict deadline to keep. Six months. Six weeks. A few hours, maybe. Depends on charity. Depends on the money. Just depends.
The movies like to think the saddest part is letting go. Talking to the dying with some prepared speech that makes an audience weep and they don't even know why. Sometimes there isn't a reason at all, really. Just because it's an opportunity to feel something more than numbness. An opportunity to feel more than what we can muster for the people we know in our lives that needed to see it. Because that's all we are: numb. Numbed to the killing and the dying alone in hospital beds. Hearing another "I always loved you, always will" or "I forgave you a long time ago" while holding hands until one of them goes limp is a refreshing little twist of angst compared to the usual droll gray-white that always seems to end before the punch line.
A man sleeps in an otherwise empty bed. He's just turned eighty-four years old. A long time ago, he used to deliver papers on a bike that wasn't his. The man down the street named Mr. Johnson used to talk to him every day on his routes. He died a long time ago. He never remembered that kid's name, but he thought about it sometimes when he wasn't thinking.
His children call him on his birthday every year. They can never come up because it's always so busy at home. He doesn't mind though. It's understandable, and he loves them anyways because that's what fathers do. He has pictures of his grandchildren and old photos in black and white. He doesn't remember the faces well anymore, but he likes to look at them and try all the same when there's nothing better to do.
His wife died a few years ago. She was the prettiest girl in school when they first kissed, and her eyes were still the same old blue when she died, only they didn't twinkle so much as they had then and her hands were stiffer and colder than they had a right to be. Now there's no one to listen to him play his piano in the other room but walls filled with faces and an old TV he forgets to turn off.
On a warm sunny morning in May, the man wakes to find himself something to eat. As he reaches for a glass in the cupboard above the sink, his heart seizes. The glass falls and chips the edge of the counter. He lays on the linoleum floor of his kitchen, gripping his chest as he stares at a spot of black lint beneath the fridge. As his vision blurs, he tries to think of what Heaven will look like, but the pressure in his chest makes it hard to think, and all he can see is that fuzzy black spot. He can't think of anything else to do but wait, so he does, and dies.
No hands to hold. No sudden final call from loving relatives. No camaraderie. No note on the bedside table. Just the low gasping for breath that has run out. Just another average man's death in just another average town.
Sometimes we try to find reasons and meanings, when everything's over, just because we feel we should, when the reality is there is no reason. Reasons come with things that happen with consequence, and death has no consequence. It simply is. It comes and it goes and the rest of the world moves on because it must move on. Sometimes he's remembered. Most times, he isn't.
It's just the way it goes. I imagine in a hundred years things won't even need a reason anymore. People will just assume there isn't one and leave the guessing and the speeches we didn't get a chance to make to the movies about fake people and real people that didn't have a reason either, until the time comes for us to die too. So we'll slip into that darkness without a thought, without a reason, without a consequence. Without significance.
I guess people just don't die the way they used to anymore.
It used to be that people knew what camaraderie was, running into battles with swords and guns and cannons blazing, like all the good stories. It used to be that people died in the arms of others who prayed for them, softly and sincerely, in their final moments. Men holding each other because they had to, because there was no one else, and for an instant there could be unfathomable and unconditional love because there had to be. Then, the fires would roar and they'd be up again, leaving the fallen alone and cold but always within memory, always tingling on the edge of remembrance. Someone would write a song about them later and call it something simple and sweet so others might wonder what it's really all about.
Now there's just needles and white bed sheets and pills and strange little containers and bags with tubes that weren't there the week before. Dying alone with strangers and a strict deadline to keep. Six months. Six weeks. A few hours, maybe. Depends on charity. Depends on the money. Just depends.
The movies like to think the saddest part is letting go. Talking to the dying with some prepared speech that makes an audience weep and they don't even know why. Sometimes there isn't a reason at all, really. Just because it's an opportunity to feel something more than numbness. An opportunity to feel more than what we can muster for the people we know in our lives that needed to see it. Because that's all we are: numb. Numbed to the killing and the dying alone in hospital beds. Hearing another "I always loved you, always will" or "I forgave you a long time ago" while holding hands until one of them goes limp is a refreshing little twist of angst compared to the usual droll gray-white that always seems to end before the punch line.
A man sleeps in an otherwise empty bed. He's just turned eighty-four years old. A long time ago, he used to deliver papers on a bike that wasn't his. The man down the street named Mr. Johnson used to talk to him every day on his routes. He died a long time ago. He never remembered that kid's name, but he thought about it sometimes when he wasn't thinking.
His children call him on his birthday every year. They can never come up because it's always so busy at home. He doesn't mind though. It's understandable, and he loves them anyways because that's what fathers do. He has pictures of his grandchildren and old photos in black and white. He doesn't remember the faces well anymore, but he likes to look at them and try all the same when there's nothing better to do.
His wife died a few years ago. She was the prettiest girl in school when they first kissed, and her eyes were still the same old blue when she died, only they didn't twinkle so much as they had then and her hands were stiffer and colder than they had a right to be. Now there's no one to listen to him play his piano in the other room but walls filled with faces and an old TV he forgets to turn off.
On a warm sunny morning in May, the man wakes to find himself something to eat. As he reaches for a glass in the cupboard above the sink, his heart seizes. The glass falls and chips the edge of the counter. He lays on the linoleum floor of his kitchen, gripping his chest as he stares at a spot of black lint beneath the fridge. As his vision blurs, he tries to think of what Heaven will look like, but the pressure in his chest makes it hard to think, and all he can see is that fuzzy black spot. He can't think of anything else to do but wait, so he does, and dies.
No hands to hold. No sudden final call from loving relatives. No camaraderie. No note on the bedside table. Just the low gasping for breath that has run out. Just another average man's death in just another average town.
Sometimes we try to find reasons and meanings, when everything's over, just because we feel we should, when the reality is there is no reason. Reasons come with things that happen with consequence, and death has no consequence. It simply is. It comes and it goes and the rest of the world moves on because it must move on. Sometimes he's remembered. Most times, he isn't.
It's just the way it goes. I imagine in a hundred years things won't even need a reason anymore. People will just assume there isn't one and leave the guessing and the speeches we didn't get a chance to make to the movies about fake people and real people that didn't have a reason either, until the time comes for us to die too. So we'll slip into that darkness without a thought, without a reason, without a consequence. Without significance.
I guess people just don't die the way they used to anymore.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
The Gods of Babel - "Prologue"
Well, since some people seem to be interested in it, I've decided to put up the first "scene," which takes place at a local bar in northern Canada mid-December and introduces the main character, Diana. Not too bad a start, I think. :)
The plot centers around a small group of unrelated people around the world who are born for the sole purpose of attempting to salvage humanity for the Creator Gods, particularly the Mayan God Alom. They are just unassuming individuals, and all were born on December 21, 2012, when the world was meant to change. One of them is Diana, who plays the Greek Goddess Artemis (and is the only one with an obvious name heh). Anyways, that's what's up in a very simplified way. Enjoy our little endeavor--I won't post more unless you want me/us to and simply can't wait for the comic :D
________________________________________________________________
INT.LOCAL BAR.NIGHT
The first page opens on a local bar scene late at night. The small bar is strewn with a string of thin white and blue lights, it's only attempt at festive decorations. A few of the usual alcoholic crowd sit hunched at the bar over empty glasses, and a close couple sit quietly in the corner. JACOB the bartender, a burly capable man with the chiseled appearance of an unkempt lumberer, stands cleaning glasses as he chats up a few of the regulars. One customer looks as if he might have once been an average guy, fit and with a neat sort of air, but his face is dotted with stubble and his eyes are bleary and red. He seems to have something important to say, yet avoids saying it and lapses into other things. He stares into a half-empty mug of stale coffee.
Customer
So I guess that's it, then, eh?
JACOB
(turning to him) What's that?
CUSTOMER
I said I guess that's it.
JACOB
What is?
There's a brief pause.
CUSTOMER
I guess there's really nothing else, is there? I mean...now that she's gone n' all. Not much point to it, is there?
JACOB
Hey, now. You quit that talk. Drink your coffee. S'been a long day.
CUSTOMER
Yeah...
He obeys and gulps down the last half with his head tilted back, expressionless. A small gold cross can be seen on a chain around his neck. He turns to Jacob, but doesn't meet his eyes.
CUSTOMER
You believe in God, Jac-Jac?
JACOB
Well...yeah, I suppose. Course I do. Just like most folks....You?
CUSTOMER
Nah...not really. (smirking grimly) Just like most folks.
JACOB
Go home, Bern.
CUSTOMER
Gotta pay still--
JACOB
Don't worry about it.
He stands obligingly, swaying in place as if forgetting where he is for a moment, then pulls on a bulky parka and starts to head out.
JACOB
Go get you some sleep, Bern. You'll feel better in the morning. Promise. Want to see you bright n' early tomorrow at the yard. Alright?
Bern, the customer, smiles lopsidedly, unconvincingly.
CUSTOMER
Yeah, sure.
He leaves, walking out into the dark snow storm outside. Jacob shakes his head with a sigh, beginning to pick up the multiple glasses left behind and wipe down the bar.
DIANA watches him a few feet away, also at the bar, hunched over a single glass and whiskey. She's a fit woman, but not in any especially feminine manner. Her shoulders are broad as a man's and her shoulder-length brown hair is pulled back under a woven gray beanie. She swirls her drink idly and sips.
JACOB
I just don't know about that guy anymore, Di.
DIANA
(disinterested) What did you expect? The guy lost his wife on the highway.
JACOB
So did Adrien. He lost his little girl, too, in the pileup. Still manages to come to service, at the very least.
Diana smirks, sliding down towards him.
DIANA
Don't think it helps much. Didn't do shit for me, I know that much. You can go to all the sermons, but they don't really say anything useful unless you're about to crucify your kid or build a gold cow on a cliff someplace.
JACOB
Damn, what's got into you all lately? All this talk of death, it's all I hear these days.
DIANA
Just life. You know how it is.
JACOB
I sure hope not.
He looks out the window at the blizzard.
JACOB
What d'you think the odds are that he hangs himself tonight, eh?
DIANA
(shrugging) Dunno. 'Pends on if he can find a place to do it. I'd say drowning's more likely.
JACOB
(exasperatedly) Di! Come on, have a heart, why don't you. Just a little faith... You're supposed to say you don't think he'd do that sort of thing. You know, like normal folk would.
DIANA
What? Just speculating. You asked.
Jacob "humphs" and ignores her, knowing she's won, as usual, and Diana knows it too as she sips at her drink and smirks at him through the bottom of the clear glass.
JACOB
So you don't think there's a God either anymore, eh?
DIANA
Who knows? Who cares? Far as I'm concerned, I'll figure it out when it matters, right? Maybe it's one of those things you're not supposed to know. Makes sense.
JACOB
Yeah, I guess. To each their own. I'd like to think there's somethin' waiting up there after everything.
DIANA
Like you said, to each their own. Endless blackness doesn't sound all that bad to me. Better than some loony old guy sitting in a cloud staring me down all day.
She smiles empathically at him, though, and Jacob returns it with some sadness. Diana stands with a yawn and slides a $20 bill from her back pocket onto the counter. She shrugs on a worn gray-orange parka and pulls the hat down further on her head.
DIANA
Be seeing you. Tell your wife merry Christmas.
JACOB
Yeah, I'll do that. Take care, Diana.
She doesn't answer, already heading out the door, but waves a hand in the air in good humor. Her dark bulky figure disappears into the snow and night.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
More Poetry--Grave
Whoo, more poetry. This was basically just to write something. I couldn't get the last three lines out of my head the past few days. Not my best work, but it works :)
_______________________________________________________________________
Grave
If I must die and sleep into the darkness,
Dig a shallow grave, that I may taste the sun
Past the stale and dampened earth,
Through the thick wood and canvas.
Allow me the beauty to feel the warmth of light
Upon these withering bones,
Chilled marrow,
Sallow flesh;
To hear the songbirds passing by,
Nesting in the branches of great oaks
That drop their offspring to sprout above my head,
Eternal guardians.
And if I must perish, let me reach death young,
For if I must endure an endless darkness,
Why must I first wallow in the darkness of mankind,
Suffer before suffering,
Blinded before blinded?
His darkness permeates the world
And turns it black,
Makes it indiscernibly churn like molten ink.
What waiting room all earth should be amongst them,
Only to be thrown into another blacker blackness--
How unfair.
How cruel.
Then make me like the earth itself,
Embedded within it,
Flesh within flesh,
Life and death within living and dying,
Breathing.
For if all the earthworms of the world
Have rights to sun and soil alike,
Then what have I?
_______________________________________________________________________
Grave
If I must die and sleep into the darkness,
Dig a shallow grave, that I may taste the sun
Past the stale and dampened earth,
Through the thick wood and canvas.
Allow me the beauty to feel the warmth of light
Upon these withering bones,
Chilled marrow,
Sallow flesh;
To hear the songbirds passing by,
Nesting in the branches of great oaks
That drop their offspring to sprout above my head,
Eternal guardians.
And if I must perish, let me reach death young,
For if I must endure an endless darkness,
Why must I first wallow in the darkness of mankind,
Suffer before suffering,
Blinded before blinded?
His darkness permeates the world
And turns it black,
Makes it indiscernibly churn like molten ink.
What waiting room all earth should be amongst them,
Only to be thrown into another blacker blackness--
How unfair.
How cruel.
Then make me like the earth itself,
Embedded within it,
Flesh within flesh,
Life and death within living and dying,
Breathing.
For if all the earthworms of the world
Have rights to sun and soil alike,
Then what have I?
Monday, January 19, 2009
Poetry?!?
Yup, after nearly seven months I've finally written a new poem. Crazy madness. For being so out of practice, it's not too bad :) Partially (vaguely) inspired by Watchmen. Read away.
________________________________
Specters Black
At midnight in the city,
All the dark and tattered men
Play poker in the corners
And hold close their jars of gin.
They plot dark things in slick black tongues,
They stare like dazed lost sheep,
Pass packages beneath the slab
And watch him take the leap.
A poor man down the street cries out,
He says, “The Specters haunt.”
He doesn’t understand his needs,
But thinks he knows his wants.
He wants to drink and throw his cards,
To play their vicious games;
He wants the world to be his own
And wants to live in shame--
Not this life, this worthless thing,
A new thing, all it’s own,
A living thing in shadowed night
That will not stand alone.
He lies awake each night and day
And watches Specters black,
Longing for a place with them
And the vices that he lacks.
________________________________
Specters Black
At midnight in the city,
All the dark and tattered men
Play poker in the corners
And hold close their jars of gin.
They plot dark things in slick black tongues,
They stare like dazed lost sheep,
Pass packages beneath the slab
And watch him take the leap.
A poor man down the street cries out,
He says, “The Specters haunt.”
He doesn’t understand his needs,
But thinks he knows his wants.
He wants to drink and throw his cards,
To play their vicious games;
He wants the world to be his own
And wants to live in shame--
Not this life, this worthless thing,
A new thing, all it’s own,
A living thing in shadowed night
That will not stand alone.
He lies awake each night and day
And watches Specters black,
Longing for a place with them
And the vices that he lacks.
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