Procrastination: planting yesterday’s harvest tomorrow. © sept. 2005

Where to Find This Series Published.

2010-10-08T12:29:00.000-07:00

I am: Sweet Fruit From the Cursed Earth

2008-09-26T20:21:00.000-07:00

Another free write from the expanding mind of daudi e cinza.

Prelude to: Time Value of Money

2008-05-13T19:05:00.000-07:00

Only two percent of all the money in the world is backed by gold, silver, good, or service. The rest is backed by falsified debt.

For this reason two related, but very separate things(were/are)happening.

The attempt to forge even more money legally; which we will get to later.

And conversely, an attempt to subvert the established system of state regulated forgery of loan receipts as being the same as reciepts for gold deposited.

All in what we generally percieive as the 'past'. Or things existing before our own birth. And even in that, time travel adds a complication. the knit pearl of parents or one parent from the childs perceived future who've moved back and birthed a child before they themselves are born.

Before linear time was transended socially. An attempt needed to be made by the government to be a temporary depository of all value for a predetermined instant. The effort would have to have been multinational with every governments participation.

This was not going to happen. Even with trade embargos that couldn't be enforced.
So the idea remained in the discussion by water coolers, in bars, at dinner tables, between resting partners, in congressional hearings, blogs, stream talk on internet radio, and in lecture halls, but not as a viable solution.

One of the major opponants were reporationist think tanks. The general offer to the arguement was: If infact that money could just be written, why not just write tradable recepts for reporations. Or even go back in time and forge receipts to pay reporations just as early European backers had done for themselves. Writing loan receipts in the same manner as they did for deposite receipts. So that if a depositer has a receipt for there own money, and two other patrons pay them for their good or service. And these patrons were paying with loan receipts rather than deposit receipts so that the banker could keep from having to share interest gained from the loaning of deposited gold they didn't have the right to loan out.

The original depositer gets screwed. They don't make any interest on there money. They get receipts they think are new peices of gold transfered from one depositor to another. When in fact its there own gold, or no real gold at all. So they don't make any money for there good or service. Except until they bring the loan receipt to the banker and he honors it as if it were another peice of gold.

With this understanding- why is it not just as easy to "print" promisary notes to cover reparations. One senator heard in a bar and repeated in session the idea that if Western exspansion and the slave trade funded the capture of slaves with fake money, that then the slavitude of the same slaves was baught again with the same kind of forged money. And even more money was printed with the likeness of the enslaved picking cotton- as if to imply that the currency was backed by the actual gains of the cotten picked by L- Bros. associated trading with these plantations, only to forge false reciepts(money) in the form of loans to be deposited elsewhere as if were actually the money.

How hard can it be to print the money, and call it good.

Conjecture could hardy come to a consensus in bars and dinner tables among friends as to whether just straight electronic printing* (which most older people imagined in thier heads as an actual printing press running a metric shit load of fake printed money)[money makes people jelious]{where as electric numbers just looks like digits on a screen, rather than heeping blocks of cash you ned but cant seemingly touch, even though a lot of it would get spent}* or to go back in time and set up an ivestment fund to come due now to cover the reparation debt owed by the government.

Then why wouldn't everyone do it, if its legal why not? The question from cost to cost was rhetorical.

While this discussion was transpiring for serveral decades, money slowly started to be used pantemporally. That is someone would travel back in time and spend money printed in the future with an merchant who'd bn to the future and knew it would be legal if not worth more in a few years.

As these transactions would become more and more complex, and cross greater distances of decades and centuries, or whatever the entangled photon touches it became more and more inmposible to just stop one day, and say that all the money of the people presently alive is valid and backed by some other comodity than false debt for money that was never really legitimatly lent in the first place.

As money changed hands just as easily as light changes moments.

Little bits of text started slipping from the future to the past in exchange for informal reciepts for good or services, or the actual services if the sender was standing there with the reciever. Or if in one manner or another they are the same persons.

And finally the simple divide was between the creative and the stuborne.

People who see rules as bendible or false, and people who see rules as absolutes.

The needle in the haystack. Caleb needed to find it. It was obvious who. And where.

Even the when had a short period from its start to finish. Or so he thought.

The market was flooded with twenties world wide, and that meant a lot more than just the Earth the term had ome to mean where ever modern man lived or thrived.

The twenties had hit the markets in several tempral borders as lagit currency before the 'real money' made it out of the mint, down the road-much less across temperal borders.

Other eras had been crative with the art on thier money. But this latest version of unforgible cash- reflected the sentament of the time. Even the designers had an 'its all funny money anyway'.

Chance played a big part of how things were distibuted. Some people saved ancestors form tragedies... ...only to find that historically this people somehow made it through impossible times.

During a particular century on one of Ceres moons; the government made everyone use only currency printed by parker brothers in the twentieth century. And no money could be tradd with out it being carbon dated on the spot. The moon was being inhabited during Earths rule of the Ottoman Empire among others. Ceres having a war in the future with its ancestors added to the irony. The place had ben too populated, future generations moved to the distant past only to realise they as they desendants got linearly closer to their ancestors in the future the clash would be difficult for both cultures.

But the modern money was considered a total break down in the system.

It caused a panic over the possible worthlessness of modern money. As if it was really worth anything.

But the beauty in the eye of the beholder, gave the paper value. And the pantemperal forgery is the diamond beach some thinkers in government wanted paved.

Some efforts tiped the balance of history in favor of history as we know it. For example the slave trade was at first selling European prisoners and African prisoners.

From the future there was a large influx of forged money and gold that was 'from the Americas' but was actually from everyplace but the Americas' contemporary to the time.

This had two negitive effects:

money ment to save enslaved Africans from a grim fait was adding fuel to the growth of the commerce and profitability of the same trade.
The wide spread lie that the gold was rom someplace in the Americas where there were cities made of gold, was the cause of ruthless people heading to that part of the world in search of these cities.

The orginal idea was that they were using a myth to mask the origin of the gold. But in reality the organised collective use of this myth was the actual cause of the myth to begin with.

This was hard for a lot of people to wrap their mind around. The idea that their liberal effort to do good actually was not a catalyst for change or salvation, but an accidental, yet well intensioned speed way; rushing in the hell they intended to finance stopping.

The regulation had to come down. But with the ecomony of the modern diaspora itself, and as a pantemporal catalyst for influence

The Link to: Time Value of Money Opens May 15th.

Time Value of Money

2008-05-06T14:00:00.000-07:00

Coming June 15th.

A new chapter in the temporal diaspora
as described from the creative mind of Daudi e. Cinza.

The Aduna

2008-02-14T14:11:00.000-08:00

It spins in the sky beyond the air we breath. We see it in the night sky as it makes up the earth and the moon and thousands of other celstial bodies in the solar system.

We have culculated the power of the aduna ability to wobble suns, quasars, and supernovas far beyond our solar system.

We walk on the aduna our bodies come from. And now we dance with our feet kicking up the surface of the aduna in places far beyond the gravity of the Earth, and the aduna of Mother Senegal.

The bloodline of the magic fingure tips slapping out a way for us to throw a spear in something we loosely call air, both unbreathable to us and the plants the dance tells a story of the undiscovered "US" pretending to pick.

This far away the Earth seems more one, and the aduna in the cercomventing endless void as remote as a peable at the top of an ocean, and as endless as eternity.

The magic discovered in the science of home is still with us, extending as a reaching fabirc of the universe machines jump across great voids in to find little pockets big enough to hold us inside.

And the magic is here in the way only we know, as it has always been. Perhaps not waiting, but still here and with us in the extra aduna.

But this place is not in the lineage of the Sun.

But still it is my place in the cool warmth of its five distant and distinctive suns.

This aduna number seventeen of sixty satilites to three gavity bound gas giants who dance with each other exchanging satilites like dancers exchangin partners in a stageshow. There is no place like that I have seen in all my travels

The sky is a rainbow of gases changing color all the time. Its hard to predict what a year is here.

This place facinates me.

This place called New Senagal.

Tandem

2005-10-01T23:17:00.000-07:00

Now and then, and then again

This didn't spring out of nothing: It fell together out of random design. It is the same as the beauty of a scar or a burn on the victims body, observed by a lover, or more.

Its blue hue emerged from the sub-plank coastline fractions of solids, liquids, and gases. This crest occurred/s before it had entered the inertial mass to cut passage from one binary photon to another. Reaching from aspect to aspect the way ideas carry readers from one comic panel to another, and into the plot line of a third, or one panel observed before. A sequence which has a direction only comprehendible to the charter, or one who follows the pattern and its subplot lines closely.

There is an Atlas/a Hercules that holds it up, the same way the Earliest Linear Greeks posture the Earth is burdened.

This was the kind of ability that is the supporting conundrum.

(I am posting this from Anytime, in Cyrabillic, the common thinking form, not the original thought life of the clinical vegetables and broken people the addition was designed for. I note that, encase anything is lost in your translation.)

A beam of blue light carried (is carrying) the hue and continued/s to jump upstream, backwards through the timing of the current, as if it (is)/were determined to reach an ancient spawning pool in a time before it had dried. Leaping from the visual memory of an eagle to a point in the fowls vision it had gazed through out of a cargo hold window of a constellation transport a while before it had passed away.

The beam materialized into the current of time within the birds vision hundreds of miles away from the cargo ship, its window, and its intravenously sustained and restrained live stock.

It piloted through the scorched chemicals that crusted and lined asteroid after asteroid, from hydrogen surfaces, to silver chromed bodies that shot through relativity as pieces in each solar game of marbles they would roll in and out of maybe for a linear eternity if undisturbed in one way or another: If not entirely. If vanished with purpose in through the entangled photons of each surface, piercing a point in the image to become one with the time of the object, leaving that mass it was refracting, reflecting, or chemically fused with back in the future as they conjoined the inertia of the new point in times direction and pace: Trillions of moments back at an instant fractioned with shorter traverses' into space forward as a stitch, or salmon out of water. Ten steps forward- a half step back; as if rewinding via the back button on VHS with the play trigger still depressed.

Stitch after stitch the blue line crochet its way back needleless through images and scorched solar scars.
The next jump could be a lot closer to its destination. Rather than going the long distance needed to get to the nearest star cluster to Analise what photon had entangled themselves in the surface of other matter; the pilots of the small blue beam expanded a reception photo of a port city by projection in front of the ships bow. The first jump from the projection of the photo and into the photo itself was successful. They could even perceive their spacecraft pop into existence at the event horizon of the actual photo by looking through the electron microscope set up to record the event. However, the destination sky that surrounds wouldn't allow it. They needed to find a shorter point of objectified time. The next picture they had was too far away in space and time. The planets, stars, dark matter, galaxies, quarks and all things sub plank moved slowly through eternity. If all the astrologic pulls and influences were at one absolute point in the cosmos. Then in another point pulling and repelling at completely different points that then immediate origin. upon traversing in the inertia through the mass barrier across the event horizon the beam was pulled apart at the sub-plank level. A size smaller than a tree if the sun the tree live from is the rati- ed size of the sun. The space craft was gone, like a salmon being caught jumping up from pool to pool and eaten by a grizzly bares along the way.

The exponential laws of inertia made the mass barrier of objectified time traverseable.

The entangled pairs of photons made *objectified time* traverseable.
The objectified time, a frozen instant.... Use the image of an ice chuck formed on a cold river breaking free and bobbing down the current of the of the savme rio.

Note to self:

Charaters should break this down. I shouldn't let this out in the narative so quickly. It belongs in the dialog.

(Now add to that idea the concept that the ice chunk is a piece of/and whole with the moment it was formed.

The photo is frozen light, with photonic bonds on tied to the flow of time it is now an object with mass in, and anchored to the moment it froze that perspective of the river.)

Stairing into photos made it possible. Consciousness stairing through the invisible, arguably two dimensional, abyss between now and then that is then-now/now-then, or objectified when, among other things is at the root core that starts in the middle.

This traverssia occurring with out the need of technology, while amazing to the uninitiated mind, isn't as miraculous as you and I would think.

It isn't genetic evolution that is/has made it happen(ing). No matter how you perceive, it was, is and will be memes, behaviors, moods & pressures on the body learned from technological effects: Specifically similar to learning the leverage of barrel rolling a snowmobile sixteen feet in the air: From the social memory base consciousness of general stunts, gymnastics, and malandrade of the Korean- Mandincan-and Norsemen, among others meant to dismount soldiers riding horse back while they themself leap from the ground like Hawaiians off pollockesque cliff bluffs into the estuary below without the aid of elevation. Instead the force of a run or a vault or the motion of being draged by their mark. In both forms the body memory of position and tork of the moment like olympians leaving manufacture aparatus stear themselves with a knod or a glance. Where ever the head goes the body follows.

In these photonic instances its the look, the feel, like remembering seasickness, bliss, hips, intoxication afte the effect has passed and reliving the sensations; the flash back; the deja vu realised due to having felt the sensation of mechanically crossing the photonic barrier via the use of technology initially. Like learning to flip with the aid of two towels and two spotters until you can do it alone. Its all in the right point of leverage. Like balancing on the hind legs of a chair in primary school. Not too far forward, not two far back. Or a toddler walking, learning to toggle from one leg to the next, by pushing equal to his or her weight from the floor.

Some traversers don't get a scence of avoiding the cold void for the warmth of light between instances from mechanics, some unknowingly are just near a loop in the chrochet when it will occur, and feel the duality of alternately placed bodies in the galaxy, Stars, solar system and mass in general- the diference is too acute to forget. And the thin cold void that is bridged by atomic and photonic bonds between one universe devided into the root of itself is now acutely tactile on the brink of every memory and taverseable where the photons are entangled.

Some people traverse michanically and for what ever reason don't have an acute recallection of the memorable sensation. A lot of people remember the blur of sharp cold between moments and focus on complaining about the sensation.

I don't know how exactly the name got tagged on. But the people who develope the skill to traverse through entangled pairs of photons on there own are commonly called 'Shivers'.

And some shivers learn how to swim simply by being near the photonic event horizon traversed by other shivers. Which often leaves them without any referance point to figure out what the hell just happened and little context to get back where they came from until they really think about it, and still they are lost. And if they see the memory of another shiver or on even rarer occasion are caught up in the image of a mechanical traverse to and through an image for a time that they have no reference for they can find themself lost in a temporal war or worse.

I dont want to tell the story too fast, so I'm going to let it tell itself.

The newspaper ink came off on his fingers. It was mid week and the ink was still wet on the Sunday paper. Well loose, it rubbed off as Ransom manipulated the topsy turby arrangement to find the section he would call through this week to continue gainful employment. He preoccupied his mind by doodles and a start at tic marks he hoped would reach ten thousand in number.

Meager wages backed by the empty promise of big payoffs for little goals, kept him spending long hours away from what he cared about most.

He knew the drill. He could pitch and even sell in his sleep literally. Ransom's imagination wondered with day dreams of olds pets, urban farm animals from the barrio he spent time growing up with in P.I. amidst the marble homes, card board shacks, bamboo middle class , sori sori stores, weighted super hero beating cards, school yard spider traders and the morphologies' and aggressive natures of their arachnid wares as alternates to the cock adult past time, the shaved ice- lima beans-and nippon gelatin of halo halo, the baiyon yielding(anything that goes with rice) beach front offering a different supplementation based on the tide, the pain of itching sweet on an imitation leather couch, in 90 degree heat, wearing blue jeans and jean jacket-falling asleep without a net-waking to the invested bloody swarm of female mosquitoes sipping him alive and swollen-(toes bell armpits eyelids scalp)-bloody from beginning to mash the swarm inside his clothes tossing in his sleep- the rush of his arriving parents to his aid, {(link marker- shower)}, and alternanty the grinding pressure of the sea gliding this body surfer into the sand and coral with the threatening under tow sending the torso of him and his friends from skidding across the surface of the wet beach sands for thrills, too often twisting like laundry into sundried coral edges again being unearthed as the tow reformed the beach line for its next 72 hour formation before the following recognisable contorsion of the beach front.

Much of a comic strip he wanted to put together took shape in his cubicle. The sketches and panel scripts made him think of how the story panels would work. He wrote notes on what he wanted the reader/viewer to imagine happening between panels, as a book head was given to read on the subject suggested for better transition between concept progressions. More fundamentally his core meditation came from acute reflection on his life, and where childhood church lectures had taken his imagination, how this had played out into the happy life he was leading with his sentiments toward love and loyalty. Ransom thought about how the 'universals' and 'particulars' could find a common ground: The "Classic Conversation" poised by Plato, Aristotle, D'Angelo, Roddenberry and others 'like a prayer' to the sacred vanity of god(dess), demigoddesses, men w/without wombs, and our mammalian origin from both the creative thought and the dirt. A good portion of art and science thinkers, quietly placed comments on this debate(in the perspective/method & design) of their work on what's big in the universe or what is small. And which one is more important; or what combination is relevant and relative. For instance Gothic architecture contrasted with pointillism dot construction of the image of a whole subject. Ransom thought about how to structure this into his work as a tool to convey a greater reality of sincere unity with his partner.

Ransom thought about the religious relevance this would have on his art pieces. He had been taught in school that this was another layer to look for in art that people cared about.

Something to think about: What is more important? The little guy/gal, or the world?

He thought about graffiti: The little guy trying to be noticed in the big sterile world. Ransom wanted to be noticed too. He felt trapped twelve hours a day. He wanted to make enough money to strike out with his young wife in new directions. But he had to strike out on his own to cut into the working world without her for everyone's sake.

All these thoughts took up part of his mind while he rolled his working mind down the columns of FISBO adds. Next to the realty add he pasted over for another for sale by owner add. He began to think about panel options for his comic.

A comic strip about a super flower that was stationary except for the freedom of the spirit.
Ransom was raised judeo-pentecostal. He was in love with the ying and yang of the Hebrew god(dess). He could almost feel the love between different same sex couples he had grown to know in his home block over a few short years.

His day dreams were very lucid in order to still talk in his sleep to each new prospect he dialed by hand and looked up with sleepy vision. It was this fusion of logic-waking action and lucid memory of casual almost subconscious reflection that brought the recording of boring sermons into close reality with the reality of a tedious job that he simply suffered through for the love of his wife.

Sermihna a pleasant person, had a part time job; what type is pointless. She left after Ransom and was home before him.
Most of there marriage he came home at the same time. It had been long enough that what added up to many times but really was now and then, he would return with odd colored flowers. She liked the purple ones.

Ransom looked forward to the smell of her hair, the taste of her mouths breadth, the care in her heart, her domestic & thrifty qualities, the variant colors inked on her skin always entranced him. Her earthen movements even with the ware of the suns visible on her inked skin; and the way she would rub his back and reach around him while he watched a bit of bed time dinner television kept him far more than interested. He was bonded and beholden to her.

He would leave Sermihna lunch since he got up first. She would make lunch the night before if he came too soon the night before, and was emotionally worn out from the previous day. She was always freshly trapped in his clutches to times end, often enough anyway. And he was beautiful when his body would give out, in her.

In her he saw the fulfillment of the feminine deity. The bob of her head to an mp3, her taste in dark girlie linens and the way she filled lacy things she found for free bargain hunting. Things he wanted to be able to send her off to buy for herself, but couldn't. And his mind would meld back into dialing quicker, marking the dial on a piece of clear paper, doodling to keep his mind from suffering the boredom and politely exciting calls after he had warn out every possible home equity loan solution fathomable, before he had warn out his forty seconds or so of welcome.

"Some will, some won't. NEXT!" the business philosopher: Darlene East.

His fingers flying at the phone keys, calculator, or pen. He paced in charting the wondering of his mind into the workflow motivated by his need to provide for a life he was missing:

The stamen- eternal feminine The Pistol - eternal masculine The Honey Bee - the living spirit that delivers the right amount of pollen to the right flower irregardless of whether the flower is mono-gendered or genderful. The drone-neither wond or set (ref. Amharic).

He checked out books on flowers-there was no Wiki encyclopedia at that time- information took a more three dimensional form called a card catalog, and the library book shelf. Ransom would read about flowers and write out panels, draw disproportionate story boards of his imaginings.

Things like the Hornet that thinks he sees a female and goes to mate her, only to be taken in by the hornet like pistol of a male flower; passed through the saucy ingestion of the pedal base coated in pollen and ejected to stumble and struggle in the thick pollen that the hornet would get all over the steamins of the female flowers, confused over what just happened, and confused about the female hornet he thought he sensed; as he staggers on. That little bit, in four panels: Imagine it.

Ransom walked to the corner thinking about the lyrics of an adored deep elum seminary punk band, he'd slam danced and dropped in with before drifting apart over the last few years.
The familiar noise in his mind made him feel sanctified. The red hair twin fins of his friend's head bobbled about in his memory while the same guy's poetry screeched in his head like a pleasant melody. "There I sit!..."

The lucid chanting made him think creatively. An idea came to him about the honey bee being volleyed by two flowers. He read that bees will be attracted to one color of flower and fly to the nearest flower of that same color. He wanted to write out a panel that would hint at two tongue tip enthroned lovers. One being represented by a steamin, the other a pistol, and the actions of the tongue(s) would be acted out by the motion of the bee. The action of the bee clearly drawn, and also implied between panels.

The Steamin, The Pistol, And the Honey Bee.
Strip: Self inseminating celibate lust sausaition
The preist and nun o the field. Designed to attract bees. The Bee Orchid self inseminates, ocasionally fufilling its natural dsign to attract bees and pollenate the Steamin of another self inseminating bee orchid designed to recieve it.
Here the effort byand for the bee; are wasted; for the drive of the dually conflicting design

After a few repetitions of the chorus Ransom reached the front door of the firm that was taking advantage of his youth.

He had stayed too late at home making sure that Sermihna spent at least sixty seconds clutching onto some heavy earthen object in order not to fall off into the vastness of god while her body shook and quivered in the agony of bliss forcing it way threw her nervous system and back into her soul.

He didn't have a pen in his pocket. Ransom figured he would right the idea down when he reached his desk. The bento stand at the base of the elevator made him think of bayan. The eight track in his head instantly hit play and as the elevator rose with a motor mone exceedingly slowly between floor. The Philippino National Anthem sung by a yard full of Illiconos Community School children at morning drill took over where Sanctified Noise had been.

As the elevator door opened and the shift crew emptied out onto the seventh floor: The voices singing Bayan Magilu lowered in his mind as his powers of lucid dreaming seemed to just turn down the volume once he set into the habit of thinking about work and the bland task of asking people about land finance for the next 5 hours.

The idea note never got written. At least not then.

He continued to maintain his goal of making ten thousands marks on the two month old monthly calendar that took up most of the desk space under his arms, elbows, sometimes napping head, and Sunday home section.

By Thursday the Sunday home section is usually dry. If he was calling on Thursday He always would try and convince himself it was Monday. This way he wouldn't get discouraged by the changing interest curve in what he was eloquently peddling, as the assistant peddler’s peddler.

Monday is happier: The slogan for a week’s potential after the starting gun has gone off. Monday is potential. Thursday is endearment. Monday’s people haven’t been retarded by their own inability to be patient; Thursday he thought people were worn out. It was a combination of the two colliding into a mood from call to call even though he was better than most. This was evident in the fact that when he believed it was Monday he could get a better reaction from Thursday’s children. Thursday’s adult children in a rush to accomplish before the weekend.

As Thursday’s child Ransom saw the day as the heart breaking fifth of a mile before the second wind sprint home of the week end schedule.

Thursdays’ are important because it is a means that hurts the working heart, it’s the emotional work just before the week’s end pay off. Thursday s’ need a mantra, a prayer, a ritual, a push.

Thursday is the body’s shock and claming panic, like blood loss, as the nervous system starts to shake in the torso, arms, & legs for oxygen before the infusion of saline, dihydroxic-acid, or returning blood flow calms the silent screams of thousands of rioting individuals’ who’ve taken issue in a revolution, militant headless, armless, legless, soundless rioting torsos’ wriggling, crowded disaster victims impatiently waiting to be feed or die at a food drop thrashing about (as I too would do) : kinetic energy before a stampede. The last burst of burn off before death settles.

Thursdays’ Ransom’s mind and body wanted to quit. Thursdays are the verge of emotional break down. The track stars legs failing before we find the Gregorian chant within the rhythm of the stumble. And we roll out with the fire that burns us, set deliberately because we can, and use the burn to fuel the heart to the weeks finish at the ribbon, or at the money well.

Thursday s’ have to be pushed through; the blood will come back to the body; the finish line will be behind you as you faintly work at not swallowing your own tongue from exertion.

Ransom always tried to be the first to cross it. Or in games of pool- which wasn’t his game try to loose with less than four balls on the green, if he couldn’t make it racing to the eight ball first.

Ransom tricked his mind on Thursdays’. What ever song he was sing to himself, or his mind was playing back for him, he would sing, or use lucid dreaming in the wake world to push play in his mind for the play back. He had learned to control his nightmares as a child this way; and he was working on exercising a voice in his mind that he designed to praise without ceasing. It was this mental swiki that often brought the Sanctified Noise to his mind from the under painting of his personal composition.
He would feel the same feelings as Monday and stand in the same places. Even enact the same conversations with co-workers. Folks who both knew and had no idea what he was up to. He would eat the same food, drink the same stout and ponder the same ideas and deliberately feel the same feelings: Upto the point that the depression inducing fixated association with Thursday’s potential clients moods would be suppressed but the fruit of his effort.

If he forgot what date it was everyone would just tell him. He was able to out produce everyone this way. Ransom had a subconscious way of turning it off. But he was dull to the actual numeric date and would always have to turn to ask a co-worker. If anyone copied him to increase their production they kept it to themselves. And some of the people he trained to work had full exposure to Thursdays underplayed exercise. If he was training someone on Thursday he would share his compulsion like a bad religion. For him it was a chariot swung low that he could ride.

Ransom’s second Monday this week began Thursday afternoon. The elevator rose as the eight track in his head switched like an mp3 from thoughts of Sanctified Noise on tape to live memories of he and his school mates singing Biane Magilu.

It didn’t take long for the fruit of his effort to yield Mrs. Filzwielder. She has lived beyond her means through the Chanukah season. A widow, her son had died in a shipping accident. His daughter—her grand daughter—had gotten married. In her husband’s and son’s sted she Hilary paid for the wedding on a credit card she swore she would never use except for emergencies.

Since the wedding the company her late husband worked for had contested her claim against her husband’s pension. A middle class worker with a petty authority issue and the compulsive disorder had found out through research that she was still married to her first husband whom she had married back in WW2.

She had assumed he died as the marriage was a drunken whim some weeks before the invasion. She didn’t have any paper work. She didn’t know his name until know. And it turned out he was married for decades and had no desire to complicate his life beyond helping her stick it to the trust worker for the pension fund that had made this an issue.

The stress from having to start paying back her husbands pension income had given Hilary a minor stroke. So now medication was an added burden to her shrinking budget.

“What is the mans malfunction”; Ransom stated.
“I have no idea what he has against me. He treats me like I’m some sort of criminal.” Hilary enjoyed talking to someone who was willing to listen even if they were paid to do so.
“Mrs. Filzwielder, he is a cog.” Ransom added with a tone of reassuring disgust.
“I want to take my home off the market. I don’t know what to do. My children grew up here. Its humble and not too big for me to manage. I had to remortgage it when Henry, that’s my late husband went ill. I should have known when we had trouble with his insurance.”

“Is it handled by the same worker” Ransom interrupted.
“Yes. He’s a fucking idiot pardon my French. So we took out about two hundred and fifty thousand. We paid off our medical bills at the time and used the rest to take a cruse before He was told he would start to slip away from us.” She concluded.

“Can you ask you grand daughter and her family for help?” Ransom asked.

Her voice went cautious and soft, “No, I paid for her wedding for my son. He died three years ago. Did I mention that he was beginning to be quite a sturdy long-shore-man? I paid for there wedding in his place. I let them keep his money. To get a good start you know. They are good kids. They were able to take a proper honeymoon vacation with the money they both make because I paid for the wedding. Well the credit company paid it by loaning me the money. I don’t want them to feel guilty about that.’ Hilary’s voice went sure as she finished talking.

The Noise’s twin orange fins -bobbed on the head screaming at a whisper set to mute- singing in a screech to him in the back of his mind, as if to cheer him on for being able to help this older lady.

“I understand….”. they talked about home values, figures and modalities of converting the cost of living (food, meds, bills, & mortgage)

Ransom resumed his tick marks somewhere in the eight thousand five hundreds when he knew what to do to turn Hilary’s life back around and see that the universe rewarded her for her good heart.

He had found her add in the SW section’s listings. The section he had called through on the first Monday of the week. He had Marked the add with a b for busy the first time he had called. Now he’d changed that mark into a Y E S in lower case cursive and heavily over wrote to out shadow the capital b.

He wrote Thursday on the lead sheet. “Its Thursday right?” He asked a co-worker to be sure. “Thursday!” They called back with a smile in their voice.

He gave Hilary the name of the person she would be working with after him. And the number of a lawyer she could called that he looked up for her. The lawyer worked with personal harassment cases.

The next few calls went buy, some answering machines, a disconnected number and some depressed people thinking that they could release their toxin on him just because he had solicited them for a living.

His hand oscillated between the eight thousand five hundred thirty-something tick mark and the blue ink doodled silhouette of a slender woman with loosely curled hair. A composite of different women he’d seen on public transit that fit the general archetypal physical, (not cultural) blend of scary spice’s hair, on Naomi Campbell’s body- but would consider David Bowie pretty enough to marry for life.
Ransoms mind began to slip back into monotony after copying down Hilary’s details legibly explaining what needed to be accomplished to salvage her new beginning. The information would be bought from him for triple minimum wage and two hundred and fifty bucks. Next to his silhouette and cramping tick marks he started to doodle Hilary as a struggling super hero flower.

His mind began to wonder over to Monday with each new call. He responded differently, smiled more while talking and felt generally more positive. People responded to him better. He had hours to go, and forgot it was Thursday once more. He imagined the wet ink still on the paper. As he visualized Monday the river in his mind shook and quivered against its normal current of visual thought. Someone else had stepped into the room and vanished within the chuckles and smiles of nearby co-workers camera flashes. He had no knowledge or awareness of the transfer in and out between the camera flashes.

Like an eager runner knowing that the mile has been done in less than four minutes, or better: His body felt the natural spatial shift of the room. He had learned to trust his body with Sermihna and by the second pop of the 110mm after the first 35mm flash. Whatever had entered the room made his body aware of the entangled photons in his mind as they gave way to realize Monday. He could feel the wet ink of the South West section of the paper and he knew he was colliding with and going to fuse into his own flesh. This would fuse Thursday to Monday. He got the sense-again-physically that he didn’t want to do this.

He quickly recalled an art opening that stuck out in his memory, and a mirror that gave a minor view around a hall way corner that had been in view of his eye shot, but off in his peripheral vision at a point away from his own flesh. He hoped his other self wouldn’t notice him. He knew it is his own visual memory that he was walking through. That maybe why the schema, in his fight or flight problem solving subconscious, freely associated the visage related memories.

He had always wondered if the mirror was the here, or the elsewhere. As he walked past the time of the entanglement he did recall seeing someone there that looked a lot like him now that he thought about it. But it was a memory that had fallen into disuse over time.

Ransom was a work-a-holic. He had gone to that ‘peep show’ with Sermihna two years before. He focused on the thought of the image of the mirror and walked into the reflection which was the actual physical hall way it self.

He could feel his body double at once. He blended into the crowd of girls and boys in the bifocal room off the reflected hallway. A room full with plenty of sexy clean cut full figured girls wanting to get out the natural saucy side of wholesome. He recalled staying away from what he saw before as the white drug corridor where now he noticed some trinities taking shape. He thought someone would become from all those birthing hips.

All the meter carrying metropolitan boys changing sizes as they walked around the geometry of the quarta in the glass and other magnifiers around the room. Blew up the pitched tent and flaccid pleats. Individual flat chests would explode with magnification to give off the function of slender torsos and also the supported busts of others with the beat of the function over form mix of the magnified digits and vinyl of the sinque technicians’ binary seduction of complex primordial maladies.

Some grapes, havarti, and dill rye wafers pulled him closer to the door. As he pulled his samples from the offering, he obeyed the notion of his feet to walk out the door.

Out doors he exhaled: Looping the dharma back in on itself. In a smallish college town like Seagate Falls there is little doubt that he was exhaling the dead cells of someone who hadn’t exhaled these parts of their internal structure themselves. Since we breath out whole organs and bone structures over relatively short periods of time. Its possible what he was exhaling was not even created yet. He didn’t know it but he was also loosing greater than microscopic material from the heals and soles of his shoes.

Millions of tincy animals with figelia for propellers, membranes for various wonderful things, and something other than eyes to see with were both falling from and floating onto the shingles of his shingles of his skin and cross breeding into the trillions if he’d walked an inch. Pretty much the same way our solar system sustains us, well less like the solar system and more directly mother Earth tolerates our feuds and pleasures without incident. An entire reassertion of the strong survive had begun to manifest and balance out on the terrain of his skin and the surrounding breeze and surfaces. Inbreeding and natural selection all warranted a micro history that to him never managed to make a nerve itch.
With quite literally the casual sense of a walk in the park. He ate the o’durves; while lying on a park bench. His sense of loyalty and love for his with got him thinking about being at home. Home got him thinking about responsibility. Responsibility Is what got him to work. It was an easy step for him to find himself back in his cubicle reaching for the pen and receiver in order to provide for his family.

Never unestimate the motivating anger of a good man.
In nearly another universe entirely, as some would call it.

Dead bones were fused to the tiny cavern walls. A long since spent air tank had settled to the floor of the tiny underwater cavern passage. Its barer drown, in a moment of clostrophobia and panic. The emotion of the get away, the kill, the long quiet dive through the water way in rock, the family troubles that lead to the moment. When his air tank pinched as he tried to snug his way through.

The panic, and peace that fallowed had long passed. His flesh had long been feeding microbic flesh eating animals that for hundreds of thousands of years hadn't lived in this cave. The swarm of carnivors laid in hybernation waiting for the oldfactory of fresh flesh to bring them to a hungry conciousness, not that far from that of midevil diabetics who'd been presumed dead. Only to have them wake up sick and hungry with recessed gums and lost hair, and discolored skin.

The appearent creatures were not evil, only good hunters. And less decearning than the near death diabetics presumed to be the undead.

The bones were picked clean. They had come to block the way in an attempt to flae the seen of a crime were a high powered rifle sit a little over a mile from the target that it was used to hit. The police would have the air and ground covered.
But a careful study of the states underground gave him away to remove the intereferance and get away. only to be trapped below.

Ransom is a poblem solver; raised on religion he could resolve to die in peace rather than panic. And this is what drew in Sevinha, more than once.

The first time he meet her was not the first time she'd met him. But the second time she met him was as endearing as the first.

Neither of them knew that at roughly those same moments he was in two places at once. Hundreds of feet below them. Just below the cliff face, later in his life, he was trying to go someplace he'd never been before. He needed to see it, leave undetected, and show others' what he had seen. And at this moment the him below them is trying to take off his air tank, fit it throught an opening that is jammed with a dead mans tank and his petrified bone structure.

Her son Vejai the first time he met her was visiting a little over three years old. She was camped seven hundred and fifty feet above the cliff face base. He wouldn't have seen her above him in the night sky. The rock face would have prvented that angle.

She however, had his communication frequency on her locator.

She called him, "Patrick". He (the him camping on the cliff face) figured that the park knew they would both be there, so they gave her (this woman) the frequncy he was using so they could call each other if the need arose.

She called him again, "Patrick?" She liked calling him that, and remembered this was the first time he'd met her and critisized her self unecessarily for a moment, then let it go.

"Pat," she called again. He thought she was reading his name off so form they gave her where he'd accidntally wrote out his legal name.

"Pat Ransom" she called out again. He took notice because he hadn't been called Ransom since middle school. And not as a last name. The name of the other half of his family.

"Geese", she thought to herself:

She realised she'd screwed up and that he would think she knew them.

"I need him to talk to me", ah thought to herself without the need to think it outloud in English or any language for that matter. She had been hanging there waiting for nearly a day, waiting for him to get there.

"I'm supposed to meet in now." thinking still internally, she knows she has to get him talking to her now.

"Okay honey, don't force it, you know this man and you have known him for a long time. He likes you for who you are." she still thought to herself in a moment between blinking below the stars. "Flirt with him" apart of her vocal thought life chimed in. "No', she replied quit naturally away she was thinking to herself offering up images in her mind of him smirking pleasantly at her advances in the past like a child getting away with tacking chair of a teacher, but also openly taking candy from the same teacher's desk as well; "...not too soon', she knows him to be a hornball and a familyman. But it was too late... The flirt had taken over her voice for a moment.

He was curious because he called in to the park rangers to tel them which part of the face he was headed for only hours before. And no one he knew personally worked there.

"She sounds intelegent..." he told himself without using internal voice or vernacular thought. "hair twist", again ne noticed it, thought it, no intenral voice or verbage. Moments were too slow and too often. But the thought made him glace up at what her could make out of her bag, and notice how her ass settled into its suspended form, even from that far away.

Not taken in so easily by a piece of ass, beyond neat one nighters, since he'd made the mistake of letting them go longer, as well as cutting them off at the right time... He could think it's best to hit it, and leave it: Kinda like the "Palmer-Straight" approach to subluxation.

Still, she wasn't letting on how she knew who he was. In fact she came off pleasent, he sensed no bad intension from her. And He also heard her control letting out her full bore flirt. She was there, he determined thinking still to himself barely to himself inside of language to support notion... ...she was there to find him because she liked him. "But who the hell is she", he thought to himself in English.

He could have rattled off the trueistic line, 'I'm your good boy fetish, and your bad boy dream'. But then he would have to prove it without falling to his death. In the cold joint stiffening night air. Give up him warm bedding. And climb in to her sack to 'take her' without getting them both killed. So he kept his mouth in check, and pulled out a scanned version of a book he had via PDA and PDF.

He had braught up translations of the poet Vijai of Sub continnental India antiquity.

The wind often beat the cliff side for momments at a time. making communication useless. One would have to hold the exact thought for up to fifteen minutes until the wind settled and thy could hear each other talk again.

"Hey lt me read you something, since we are both still awake-over", he called up to her.

"Okay, what cha got-over"

"I'll just read it, and if you like it I'll tell you what it is-over"

"Sure', she dragged out the word in a playful interested tone, "its just good to hear a soft voice up here against the big sky, hanging from a hot rock".

He cracked the book open and it fell to a folded in corner of a page that was lite will with the moon. "Subtext to what I'm going to read you"

"Emhm"

"This poet was set up and an atempted murder on his life was made so that someone could claim his work. How is not quight clear to me. I saw it in an old back and white movie on a satillite channel a few years ago. The author goes through all this suffering, only to be revealed as the true author of this poems. I had to find out if this guy was real. It was another kind of ella of the cindars, or woman of the ashes story that appealed to me.'

"So, I found this book on the interlibrary exchange, made a copy and scanned it into my laptop.'

(we are here)

She seemed intent on him reading the entire book to her since she was hanging there til morning day break and couldn't seem to sleep.

LIGHT IN A BOTTLE...

2005-09-26T09:59:00.000-07:00

Light in a bottle... a foreign self-luminescence at the bottom of the mare' (mah-rey), the belly of the ocean. More like that, than actually that thing. The euphemism developed naturally; but started out with the word play of an advertisment lodged in the local places. Places like malls, vision centers, bus stops and cab doors as well as between the lights and lisence-plates of cab asses.

'GET DONE YESTERDAY WHAT YOU SHOULD HAVE DONE TODAY!'

or

'PUTTING OFF TODAY WHAT YOU CAN LATER DO YESTERDAY'

All advert word plays on 'Dont put off till tomorrow what you could have got done today'
And: 'what you could have, should have, would have if, but you still (know you) didn't.

9:50 a.m.

"Carrin?", a questioning voice called down a hallway.

"Yes Ms. Dinh" the response answered.

"I forgot to wash the dishes from the party, god... ...all those people, I was a wreck having to talk to them all. I went straight to bed. The thought of all that food rotting in the sink... ... we have another one this afternoon. I know your not to keen on heavy cleaning but I'm in a jam..."

"Look at through the door', Carrin intereupted.

"They're all done!, Nice!"

"Okay its on my list the go to last night and finish them for today's party when I go shop for the extras I need for the party favors... I'll hire some helpers too. I expect they are already waiting to be paid, so I'll walk in here after I leave and tell you who I hired last night."

'Why do today what you can put off til yesterday', she kept misquoting the slogan in her head, within the schema of her own creative thought.

She carried her groceries with her in a super conductivity cart that was soft cuffed to her rist. Looking over the contents to be sure she had everything on her shopping list she noticed at a glance a fiftyish man toting a university student ID. He looks more like a professor, the bearded type than student, But then most professors are professional students aswell; so, she continues to give it little thought.

"Tamatinos, cremfresh, kiwi, spinach, chards....', her list written in cooking order, was not crossed off in order; and she had forgot to continue crossing it off while she was shopping. Her eyes darted about the cart to be sure she had everything.

"Looks like your missing sage", he used that as his intro to talk to her, noticing that she isn't wearing a wedding ring.

"Yes it looks that way", she replied like she knew.

He was talking to her since he noticed that she glanced up at him.

"I'm to old to make conversation with women who are not interested in me to some degree." He hoped his frankness would break the ice, and quickly. He was going to be diverted to the suttle going into the day he needs, and he wanted to get to the point before they would have to separate.

"Like the sage, I have plenty at home", refering to the possibility of a long term lover.

A pleasant terminal voice changed the mood a bit. The voice was delibeately designed to calm the rushed traveler. And the female voice seemed to not interupt even though it started mid conversation and at intevals.

"Last Tuesday, has been diverted to terminal T17'... the automated voice rested as though deliberatedly letting listeners continue where they left off--then it interjected a moment later-- ..."The travel desity is being tallied and a referal location is being determined, we apologise for the delay."

"Is your partner now, or then or after?", the bearded man asked since now there would b some time to talk. And he started getting bord as a reaction to the delay more than any actual waiting.

"Why would I tell a stranger that?", she replied.

"Well your bothering to talk to me at all, a lonely middle aged man who's headed or from anywhere. It Doesn't mean you love me or anything. I'm just passing time."

"He is in the now', she replied -acepting his divegence from flirting as genuine.

"You are my kind, but I like what I have- and I notice that you saw me take a peek at you. So I can't exactly fault you for flirting. But I am not looking, just noticing.'

"I have patches of pinapple sage at home. I noticed that I picked some when I looked at my patch this morning. I guess my home is between work and where ever our arrival site will end up being."

"There is sage at the store." He gave flirting one last effort.

"Growing your own and tasting what you grown yourself in the meals I cook tastes best. I can go to the store anytime I want. But I veggies from the store ( even fresh produce ) doesn't taste nearly as good as home grown.'

"Your a cutie though, I bet you have a vegitable garden of your own."

"No', he relied. "Mostly buding flowers and nearly rip fruit. I still find myself having to go to the store if I want to eat anything ripe enough to cook up right."

"Your a professor at which ever univrsity. Plenty of woman to cook with there, no!?!"

"Well I am, and I'm not.' He resolved that she was taken, still it is second nature to him to practice taking advantage of chances to be or at least look clever.

He waits for her next word to be a nonverbal cue of curiosity to a mild degree.

"I graduated, but I haven't taken any tests yet."

"Oh, I see and your going to take it, or is it more, now." He opened up a bit and now she saw the gist of what he is getting at.

"Its more."

"How the hell did you manage that? you know the material but didn't take that test. Is it minor, or am I correct in thinking that I'm getting from you that its a whole lot more"

He bounced up on his toes and back down; with his hands folded and a playful smirk behind and adding shape to his well trimed beard. Without any verbal communication.

"I'll take that as a shy, or guilty yes!- OMG!', she laughed.

"You never took any- but you've been teaching all this time- you had to have done the homework linear, and yor thesis paper-OMG!"

He held up an evelope and a sort of jump drive, still retaining his blush and smirk.

He broke in to the dialog to explain: "I missed a test, so I told myself I'd go back and make it up. Turns out that since its me I can go and do that at the university I attended/attend"

"Your kidding' she exclaimed with her hand on her mouth. "They allow that?"

"I guess so. I went to class and I got a B-. I blew off the next test and got an A++.'

"Most of the material that was hard for me back then is secondnature to me now. So I decided that after waiting this long, I didn't want to have to go back and do seven years worth of exams in my eighties and ninties. Turns out the test rooms are filled with people who figured out the same thing I did."

Love is Responsible

2005-09-25T22:38:00.000-07:00

The volts pierced the metal that replaced bone, and fried the surrounding tissue. His subconscious felt the crackle of flesh you and I would hear if we were standing beside him bent over his injury listening as if our ear was to a door and we were trying to hear the sound distinctly.

His mind drifted out and into itself as the sealed envelope of his conscious mind let thoughts escape, through forced creases, from the feeling of his constricting muscles that jerked into other fresh tearing postortions in the predictably irregular forms. Even his lucid thought went out of order for instances surrounding the impact of his neck against the frame and the floor.

It was a crazy woman, that pierced him first. She sat down. Her almond eyes that were deep with senselessness. He couldn't tell, if she was lit, or just dim. He curled his lip into the bit of his naturally jagged lower teeth, as he thought about responding to her sudden approaching chatter, and rolled the inner lip against the straight slightly less protruded upper fang, the flesh swelled a bit as he rolled and squeezed it with a slight pressure that would leave it slightly inflamed every time he bit down. Enough swelling that he would bit through it some moments from now shattering three of his teeth in the process. When his heart rate would become faster than the slight raise she caused with her attraction or addiction.

He was distracted enough by the thought of letting go of the saint in himself and leaving with the attention, Her smile was a little to party girl for his taste, He thought to himself. He was too distracted to see the room change around them quick enough. The music was the same. The other general shapes of the walls and furniture still hung in his retina and hadn't been gone long enough for his eyes to catch up with what was missing until he knew that he was again present elsewhere. His leap from his chair would have knocked over the coffee table with the dive he took to avoid her cell phone lens if it wasn't too late. He saw his knees burst through the after imaging. Lunging through the remnant of the coffee table the first crack of electricity came out from the device she held in her palm. He didn't drop as he bit off a chunck of his inner lip. And another dozen angles sprang out at and through him igniting every nerve and bouncing instantly off every peircing, filling, wire- rod and metalic that replaced bone.

His heart stopped:

---

"Son you've got to clean it bye tomorrow."

"I'll do it, can you please leave me alone now.?."

"You act like I'm beating down your door, walking down my hallway, stoping and reminding you to set yourself up to be able to do the things you want and need to do to grow and thrive is hardly an intrusion. In fact. You protesting is an intrusion on my space, my rights. I only get one chance with you. If I fuck it up, then its done. You however have a world- a lifetime a head of you. So please stop asking me to fuck that up for you by letting you slide on taking care of yourself. Your a good son. I just want you to set yourself up to be free to do what you want to do"

"Okay' a voice answers back through the locked door. "But can I just have my space for a bit?"

"Yes son, I let you rest".

The father remembered when he needed more privacy, and what it was like to live in an orphanage where guys were used to not having anything but the stillness of sleep and a solitary cot or bunk if lucky, to border between privacy and exposure.

---

To be Continued:

"Hey. Will you be quiet! I can't think.'

"Ahhh me Ahhhh blow it up by itself'

"What do you need? Please figure it out. I need to get going on this.'

"Dad do you have any TV shows that are/ would be on right now that are really really good. ehm e ehm ehm ememem!'

"Try the fourth sword! Hey dad, dad!? How many gas stations do you see in New York?"

"Stop fighting- yes I'll come play. I wasn't getting much done anyway" "Dad I literally feel holloween in my soul, awe man my balloon holloween right now".

"Hey dad there is a sci-fi show on. Bone get my balloon!"

"Get your own balloon lazy butt."

"Guys stop fighting!' Arturo get your own balloon!"

Daudi managed to type a bit of narration and some quick notes.

-he sits thinking, wishing he was home with his lover. She misses him.

daudi got down an un edited first draft, forgetting to capitalize, without the chance to go over it twice or speak with any rhythm or voice, barely getting down his concept.

- he is bored, work is staggeringly tedious and boring, entangled pairs of photons, he escapes work through passages, synapses, goes to prison, slowly getting older to himself. quickly getting older to her, She doesn't notice that he is aging faster at first. But when he comes home one day with a broken arm, and the next day healed and with a full chestlong beard, she begins to imagine the truth. He dies in her arms only to be revealed to her at his the funeral: Into the rest of her old age. http://papertones.blogspot.com/2005/10/tandem.html (Linear order)

A few weeks later he got back to finishing garden preporations that he'd been putting off for weeks. He decided to get around to gardening and so he started using coffee cups, produce seeds, and dirt from around trees in the, not so near to work, ajacent, office blocks.

Setting up tomati~no clippings and shredding peppers into dirt filled cups got his mind relaxed and more smoothly kept pumping the ideas out and into a voice of his own. He thought about a chapter that talked about things that are

Daudi's mind was fresh on this idea, and how it would support the main body of his ideas as a whole. He put off writing down his thoughts to pull about a fresh jabo~neiro, that was starting to yellow, apart with his bare hands set the dirt in the botom of the cup to buffer between the decomposing leaves he laid in over the darker contrast of the soil visible looking into the cilindrical container beyond the browning leaves in the white coffee togo cup he was using for a starter pot. He set in some more dirt, then the small jewel-ish radiant orange pepper, and covered it with dirt; set the planter next to the steam heat radiator until Spring, or sprouting.

He needed to use the rest room. He'd write after he returned from the bathroom. He thought he could put off sitting down until after he left himself a quick post-it icon stuck to his desk top.

The lid was up at work. Only one woman was in the small section of the small office building. Everyone rented their own space. She had been there for a while; if she minded the lid being always up, he'd never heard her complain.

He finished shaking the residual urine directly into the center of the bowl, flushed the toilet and eased the under-side of the toilet seat down with the side of his shoe sole: The part of the sole that is on the side of most shoes; the in--or out--step that never touches the ground, mostly ever. Zipping his fly after tucking his flacid cock back under the gym shorts, a amorello golden beird and red hair school mascot, draw string pair; that he'd borrowed perminantly from the local city university, that seconded sometimes as boxer briefs: He turned to the sink, knudged on the lever controlled faucet with his elbow; out of habit/ritual he used a clean part and knuckled the soap dispenser push mechanism into yeilding clear honey-esk gue into the hand that aimed the stream and shook his cock free of urine. The hand was clean. His cock was clean. You could say that his cock was clean enough to eat off of. But he always thought as a child and up--that boys & 'men' who touched thier penis at the urinal, and then grabbed the bathroom exit handle were idiots. He would always tell Bone and Arturo how nasty that lack of consideration of other people was in any rest room, (private, or public) if he sensed that someone was about to try to leave the bathroom without washing their hand(s). No one wants to touch something that has just been touched by something that has just touched a clean, or worse dirty, maybe deseased genitels. He would tell his boys to never touch the bathroom exit door with bare hands. "Knudge it, Kick it, use tissue, or a towel; And always wash your own hands" he'd say.

Both Bone and Arturo would look at grown men with discussed if they had started walking toward the door after there father laid down his comment. This was particularly effective if the boys were a bit ragamuffin from a few days of striaght video games over a week end. In the sense that even people who are unkept for the moment won't accept nasty bathroom habits, from those who perceive themselves as 'clean enough.' "That, and people who are dumb enough to not hold toddlers up away from the bowl, children should never stand on their tip toes to pee into a toilet, or urinal. They almost always rest their valuables on the porciline right where everyone else has dripped. What kind of parent, or grand would let their child do that(?) Its disgusting", he would exclaim. With that, another set of people would correct their rest room etiquit with a bit more embarassment than the first set.

But now the mistake is his. As he turns to go back to his office to write, on his lap top, with his very clean soaped & rinsed hands, like his father taught him. He can feel that the underside of his cock is starting to burn. The last time he felt this burn was while rubbing an orange jabo~neiro on the lips and tounge of a lover before she went down on him to make the burn worth the pain.

"Shit" he thought to himself quietly. "Dang it! Dang it! Dang it! Damn eahreahr." He skirted back and about in the open door of the more secluded rest room. The burn was beginning to make him dance around. "it burns dang it". He left the bathroom door open while he was unbuckling his pants. He realised that he'd planted the jobo~neiro in the cup and gone to urinate standing; not realising to wash his hands before he reached under his mascot adored gym shorts a.k.a. boxers. This time the burn was intense. As he freed himself of his pants and shorts he realised that the door to the unisex bathrrom was still open. He also realised that he was chanting 'it burns dang it' out loud. The other offices were less than an earshot away. He didn't want his co-workers, or the other office renters to be able to use him to deflect attention from their own imperfections: So he deliberately said something to the like of, "Freakin jabo~neiros, God! I had to plant the jabo~neiro and not wash my hands before I went in here." He didn't say it too loudly. But loud enough that if anyone heard him saying 'it burns dang it' before; they would have a believable explanation other than thinking he might have an, or some s.t.d.(s).

S.T.D.'s.

He thought to himself while fuetilly trying to quench the burn that spread with every wet wip of dispencer hand soap, wadded toilet paper, water from the shaft of his cock over the bell tip reaching the rim of his ureathra, this time without the aid of being willing to sexualize the pain. The heat made his testicles hang further down cuping his limp shaft and bell, and so now he noticed his scrotum began to burn.

Helplessly he looked in the mirror, still trying to kill the burn with soap, and forgetting to wash his hands while touching the dispencer: He thought this must be what Herpes, Siph, or the drip feel like. He thought briefly about young kids from his country getting busted in other countries'; and having the police force soda pop and jalopa~nos up their noses. He would never want that to happen to his children he thought, as the burn was funny to him, but nipped and pinched in the nerves.

He hadn't seen his boys in a few days. and he thought he would never want them to go out and catch a disease as this must be what those S.T.D's feel like. He couldn't comprehend what that must feel like. Herpes inflamation. He both thought ew, and how much more he respected his friends who had to function through that kind of uncomfortable pain. And it hit him; "I can go to visit my kids, talk to their mother about it first of course, and somehow how get them put the pepper on themselves. I can have pleanty of dairy creamer ready for them to take to the bathroom. That way they know that not using a condom could leave them hurting like this all the time.' "Would that be cruel?', He thought to himself. "Not as cruel as letting them go out into the world and catch something..." *that is perminantly painful, because they acted indiscriminantly*, was the completion of his thought, that didn't pass from idea- into the language he was thinking in at the time.

He imagined leaving the jabo~eiros on the kitchen table, telling them that he'd acidentally got some on himself, so he would be able to tell if they were faking, and hadn't done as he asked.

He knew of a vegetable open market near their mother's house. He knew he'd have to talk to her about it first. So he got on the shuttle to make it there by dawn.

The chapter idea for Hidden in Plain Sight never went beyond the dictation program he forgot was on his PC that had recorded the idea only because the program was time set to open and had caught him say. "Chapter idea about everything that is hidden in plain sight."

Carbon L

2005-03-01T21:51:00.000-08:00

Five hundred idiots crammed through the front door as fast as possible in offset single file lines. Quartets of social grace & expression, duets of miss matched incompetence with deal breakers hidden in every smile-pout, fold of motion, attitude and posture. Some full of miscellaneous spiced dinner menus, commercial along with homemade/home remedy snacks, colorful and plain alcoholic beverages, breath fresheners including scented eye drops that sent mint and other aromatic flavors through the sinuses and into the throat: Others broke and quiet waiting for the brief relief of hearing tunes they couldn’t afford to buy or were to busy working to ever stream into pocket gadgets beyond their mean--waiting to be inspired to dance by the vibe of a lyric that would carry their soul intoxicated or sober into the upper region of a audio addicts heaven. Even if it took ten bucks of a friend to get there.

They would have to hold back from dancing, a city ordinance, passed down to the smaller venues that carried large crowds below the sound barrier. This gig was on what the locals called offender island. A place where the displaced, and released lived out their lives after from prison but not in the villages of the general public.

Society forgives but had learned to not forget. Tourists had a choice. The local arts and industrial market kept the tax strain down. The locals felt a little more humanized. Vengeance had an easy mark regardless of whether it should or shouldn’t. So the locals and island staff set up bullet proof walls, bought cheaply from closed banks, and fashioned them around the outer square to the main venue floor. Locals agreed on a mandatory separate entrance into the outer edge floor barrier.

Cradled by a large vegetable garden and parking lot the garden glorified into a multipurpose expanse the Open House exploded electric variations shaped by the will of the touring into the souls of the free who were good for the freedom and into the souls of those who statistically probably were not.

The wall was as close as any local would get to being free of unforgivable sin.

The tourists would sober up from, or into their humanity. Roll back from love, waist its reactions and contaminate each others ability to function. Succeed at living, and choose to love their children the best they can. Be enamored by another’s style and grace: and be again reminded that a love life is much stronger than any single individuals ability to tend to it as ideally as their heart intends to.

In the beginning the shows were cheap. Fifteen to twenty a pop. The same bucks that ferried welfare families and sports arenas evened out the canted costs of some of the more known musicians willing to step into the venues set up across and near the island.

Burn marks scared and faded on Kevin’s hands. A few times stainless steel opened his hands and stainless needles carried stitches to close the injuries covered by a form of workers compensation.

He worked hard. Just on the Nuevo Amer-English side of Cyribillic an audio sphere cranked notes into his head set; for only him to hear while keeping its distance from any work related motion.

He’d been at it for a while. He spoke and the sound vanished to mute.

“Score!’

“Yeah’ an semi rushed and defiantly aggressive voice replied from around a corner.

“I’m going to the rest room, all the orders are up.”

“Don’t take too long!", the voice volleyed back with the lack of self confidence so often seen in control freaks.

Kevin had already rolled off his station, self motivated to stay ahead of the work from years of keeping up.

As he pushed the door to the bathroom open his eye caught a flier pinned up. Disheveled was playing at the Open House. He assumed in a few days. He hadn’t stopped to read the entire flier. He did see that it was mid week.

----------

Gorgeous flagella eaten and brewed by not so happy beautifully normal people, against every need for self control from other party goers choosing other concoctions from home brew to herb taken the worker owned and operated co-op farther away from the corp. and closer to the doorways and porches to rest kegs & bags of home grown natural goodness that still others will pass over to the left or right side knowing they have to be the designated driver of there tomorrow morning even if they biked or walked over tonight: Even better, control what other natural seed or hop gets roasted by the end of the mood likewise (also), tonight.

Not enough people had arrived yet, to crush the emptied living room into a dance hall.

Still those eager to trance felt free to move in a semi familiar social round, skipping the cd with various inebriated missteps. The food came together from what was left over from everyone moving out, the few bags of shell noodles from a father ready to live down ruining himself for the benefit of his amazing new son and his son’s ungracious other. This father forgetting that he was hoping to choose to remain celibate until after he’d caught up on some of his bills. Something the high-content amber helped him let go of and not hold to so tightly to. Which wouldn’t matter because his sacrificial love was still in him—and would come rushing to just below the surface of his skin every time just before the stereo was stopped from spinning a ballad for the alternate upbeat. An in another house the mother of his other children is overwhelmed getting their children to do their chores, clean their home(not make it messy as a fore thought), do and turn in

home work, among other needed behaviors. This went into the dishes as a means of finally putting off procrastinating his creative nature, a creative nature that had become a perfectionist who could accept failure, but strive to avoid it, with hope. This was the blessing he was serving up, and out as he struggled to dice with a serrated peeler and utilize the ingredients left behind of offered up toward the vaguely forming recipes’ by natural food market folks

Multi-ethnic malandragem (capoeira underground): risen above it (social class casting), asian looking latinas’ growing apart and out of what was her bostonian thin locked, thin framed, afro-atic construction worker. Falling to irritation with each well thought comment or point of view. Caring, but still time to move on.

What is the difference between a grove and a rut. Thinking out loud Kyla Daro-Moore thought that one is a spiral and the other a circle. Is that spiral downward, or an l.p. cut. Is the circle nice and boring, or a reliable interesting choice.

A once .

“Damn everything is at risk. Why do I have to be a gambler? I just want the solid life.” Carbon L continued, pushing his stern fingers four at a time through his silky blond locks; exhaling into a relaxed posture tilting his head past the sky and looking back at the ground.

“No life is solid, I work and hurt each moment I still have to placate to the whims of a caterer who thinks its their turn to overwork other wage slaves earning a digit or two less one day after the next” , Kevin interjected with soft frustration that had become a healthy habit from getting things off his chest at a men’s group every now and then.

El Salvador Dalai Llama

2003-04-13T12:16:00.000-07:00

Sea Gate Falls Community College CRN # 00251
Intro to Synaptic Dissection- Class Description

1. Defining Visual Dreams In The Anabolistic State, From Visual Memories In the Catabolistic State of an Organism.

2. Workplace Applications of Synaptic Discernment.

3. Profesors notes:

The class definition has a flaw. Do you know what it is? What is the difference between terrify and terrific. Something as simple as a suffix. The State of Catabolism contrasted with the State of Anabolism is what this semester is about. determining the difference between a wet dream and a real life sexual experience.

When we are trying to isolate an instant it is hard to tell the difference. However, we don't want to send an entire shipment of people into the subjects head. Very messy clean up. We want to send them out into the world outside the subjects head in there visual range.

The scientific word for this comes from Portugese definition twoof the verb saia: meaning to exit into the world. Ex. Saia de roda. Exit the protection of ones home and into the outside world.

We will review different outcomes or types of outcomes that are considered Saias': As well as those with unfavorable endings that could result in a backmaintainance attempt.

Since backmaintainance never seems to work we have this class to avoid fatalities.

The first memory we will use for our anonymous subject case is called 'El Salvador Dalai Llama'

Image Of a Pearl

2003-03-28T06:30:00.000-08:00

I bit of aduna stuck in the anthropamophic mouth of a clam can cause a lot of agitation with the creature.

(insect war leads to lost refractive wing)

Smirking At The Wrong Conclusion

2001-04-07T21:24:00.000-07:00

Isaac means, he who smiles. With the mathematical and temporal feasibility of massive gravity wells opening up an entirely new realm of exploration it seemed Isaac's grin would go from ear to ear on him; and from creation to eternity for everyone else.

Fender had a slight grin every moment he thought of how cool it was that he was working on something that people had dreamed about for centuries, purhaps even hundreds of milenia. He knew he had the power to let modern mankind find out exactly how long ago it was.

The switch from coffee to mate mid morning sent him soring with excitement and crashing into the feasibility of the physics necessary to make it happen. It was his professionalism that held him down to a mean between the underwhelming chemical based mood swings which set off the same broken smile of mod self confidence.

"What would you like today?", the art tart twinkled as she spoke from behind the chocolet, marionberry, cream, and bread pudding filled pastry case.
"I dunno" having never been in the cafe before, and too preoccupied with the project Fender hadn't looked at the chaulk board menu. He still didn't read it as he was looking at the younger woman and then noticing the geometric folds of baked goods right in front of him.
The barista stood there waiting for him to order. For a tenth of a second he tried to think of a way to flirt with her. But he resigned that she must get that from every sausage, and blouse & skirt homo-girl that she spoke to on her shift. The let down from his last triple shot mocha, let the pinening feeling built up from dozens of crushes and hundreds of hottie sightings, hit him alittle harder than it would without the cafaine/sugar let down.

Snapping out of it with a smirk he thought he was avoiding her noticing him stair, he decided to set her off gaurd, "Are you stairing at me?"
"No" she replied quickly in an even voice; falling for his slide of intent. The question was meant to be more playful and disarming that serious. She could have out witted this; had she thought enough about it. But she didn't. So he quickly ordered a Turkish Forest in the time this small roda had baught him to look at the menu.
"Sorry we ran out of dragonfly chamomelle."
"Oh', he replied. " Its still on the chaulk....' He held the next word in as he noticed the nanos were rearanging the chaulk to move the rest of the menu up a line.
"I'll have a triple shot of Furtle Soil Brown or Black... liquid cooking chocolet, two spoons of pure caine sugar (or laverder honey), a heaping tea-spoon of cyanne, and a side of soy."

She took a quick mental note and scribbled inteligible enough for the next worker to know what she meant while holding a border between work mode and deliberately casual exchange: "Of course the chocolet is going to be liquid. What did you think: I was going to hand you the brick. Like yeah, heres your dried book of Manderin currency with your side of soy.' She broke a smile. "Here I assume?" She asked in the manner of a server.
"Yes, here." She took the stone ware from the reaching hand of a plump arm adorned with blue jean blue, light verde, and l'range-redbrick designs on its curves that one could assume was attached to a velupcious gal, or gal-a-like not ashamed to be working, and was working until something better came along. This was Fenders quick subconcious take, as his beverage was handed to him across the counter.
"Cayanne you can do yourself, with a lot of people its a mental thing, even if the coffee evens out the kick. She started to pour in the lavender oil', she paused; "The honey. Yeah?" she asked before the drip stretched to break the tension of the cup.
"I gotcha.", he responded as he turn to the self serving area she just pointed to with a look while carfully not spilling the hot drink on him.
"Here is your soy', her voice went up a note as if to indicate a conclusion to there dialog was reaching an end. He took the soy in his left hand.
"Set that down and come back. I have a guess that a twist of lemon and some zest will be good with that. I'll let you try it in an expresso cup. One with lemon and the second with orange.

he looked at the

"Who knows..."

Something was missing.

Someday Is Not Tomorrow.

1997-10-15T03:44:00.000-07:00

Text:

Deep Orange-red and yellow bulges protruding from a ivy green whisky box supported by seventy or eighty yellow pear tomatoes, some cucumbers and serono’s. Mix in some zebra and tiger strip stuff in the box ad stagger out the ripness so that it all isn’t rip at once and you have the contents of the box.

The airlooms had been growing to a bulge for many weeks now, and were being buried under fresher greener tomatoes that would turn rich merlot colors, as well as tiger striped patterns of yellow-green & red-green. Many vine romas’ filled canted curves in among the brandywines in the box; as luscious to the eye as a woman’s upper hip.

The box was a recycle from a liquor store that had come home with a purchase for a birthday party. But the band on the logoed cardboard wasn’t a mixer in the party drink mixing pantheon this time out.

Tracy picked up his box in his dirt and vegetation soiled hands and fingers; his palm and print spread wide on the box hoisting what to him was a light load onto his shoulder: He began walking toward the street to the new stop several blocks away to catch transportation to work.

As he sauntered toward the cross street, with one arm neatly snugged over the box on which ever shoulder you choose to imagine him carrying it on- the light crystal wave that glows brighter under the tri county bus slowed quickly to a static glow that he wasn’t expecting. The bureau had closed the stop the week earlier- and he wasn’t standing at the stop waiting either.

Still no one go on or off. And the bus waited for him to run the 20 feet or so into the intersection where no vehicles (wheeled or super-conducted) were approaching or passing.

Tracy ran out into the intersection, over the un-lit gray top crystal road-setting a footstep on the grey sidewalk then the next on the first step of the bus.

“Thanks for stopping! I thought that stop was closed”, Tracy applauded with not too much gratitude more than was necessary for the un-present dispatcher of the unmanned (not so manned) bus.

“I only stopped ‘cause of the box”, the driver smirked out after a moment to check traffic and pull away from the curb. Tracy was still thinking proudly about his tomato harvest, was eager to show it off by giving it away to his coworkers and friends. But the dispatcher/driver posed it as if Tracy should know that the Irish Whisky that comes in the box was his brand/ or fave’ inebriant.
For the first time Tracy looked at the box. “Eleven times distilled” must be smooth’ He thought to himself. Although Tracy had no way of knowing the difference between not-so-smooth and smooth whisky, as he wasn’t much of a drinker, let alone a whisky drinker. He mostly drinks whisky with Lemon juice and honey to cure a cold now and then.

No-one wants their totie to be smooth; I know I want it to rip the cold from my throat. What about you?

Tracy took passing notice, because dispatchers have so many busses to manage it was unique for them to notice one bus. Let alone focus on the periphery rider approaching a closed stop on a single line.
“The guy must be able to dispatch in his sleep”, Tracy though to himself without the thought quite reaching his linguistic conscious mind from his idea based place of lucid centered cognition.

He got off the bus near work, but not before walking to the front and looking in the camera to thank the dispatcher a second time for picking him up.
The dispatch didn’t notice the tomatoes, “next time you can leave me a bottle right there.” Acknowledging with humor the space where drivers used to site or still do on some of the wheeled buses in use for nostalgia. It was kind-of implied the a bottle was to expensive to just give away.

Tracy go off the bus and kept walking toward work.
He was worried about what would happen to his garden if he left is alone for three weeks to make up for the time he was gone on his business trip. The paperwork approving his catch-up travel time had not gone through. He was worried he gain three weeks time on his children- and he used the lives of friends who nearly never traveled to gauge the progression of his age in an un-crochet life span.

A man passing on the street looked at the whisky box, gave a polite smile and said hello. As if to say, ‘That’s my brand/drink’. Tracy found the cult of this Irish whisky surprising. But he kept walking.

He reached the security gate. He thought about reaching for his ID card in motion. But the guard had already looked at the green box and smirked; letting him through without a question while the other guard looked at the surrounding unchanging square block area like it was suspect for its proximity alone.

Anything could have been in the tomato filled Irish Whisky box. But anything wasn’t: Just luscious, ornate tomatoes.
He through the halls and down the ramp he was assigned to, still carrying the box. And he was more aware of the box. He felt like he was in an commercial where everyone was secretly in love with product X. He thought this was ridiculous. He was damn proud of his garden and the tomatoes in Irish whisky box.

Once he reached the alloy box, he set the mixture of purple and green tomatillos, tomatoes, European & Japanese eggplants, and pickling cucumbers in the green box down on and open section of Jenkins consol.

The welding shut them in, and he injected Jenkins with a harmless herb to wake him back up now that the weld has closed them in.

“Brought you the rest of what I have in my garden, didn’t want it to go to waste.” , Tracy used the gift as an good will affection for his coworker rather than an actual hello.

“You know I haven’t got the clearance from budgeting to send you forward so that you are even aged.”, Jenkins replied in a familiar voice that didn’t need to thank Tracy for the tomatoes. Concern for his well being covered that without saying.
“I put in for it, it may take them a year to budget it in. But they will get back to us. Keeps travelers employed. Going off to get things done on time. I may be back for thirty seconds or so while they open the welded seals, but a year from now the finance department will send the approval-go ahead back.”, Tracy replied.

“Yep they are trying to stay on top of that- or reach back on that – these days- but I just wanted you to know. Cause you know the next time you go to the liquor store I may need you to go in and by me a bottle of all that Irish Whisky you’ve been drinking sulking about how much older than me you’ve become.”- Jenkins joked with a wideish ‘I know I’m witty’ smile on face that exaggerated his long since healed broken nose cartilage.

Tracy and Jenkins started out the same age, but after ten years tenure; Tracy had aged almost twenty. So while Jenkins was in his thirties, Tracy was a few years into his forties, although he was legally the same age as Tracy due to being born in the same year.

Both men were aware of the effect this would have when Tracy was physically aged enough to retire. Something unions were still negotiating with the government and industry over. Retirement based on the age of the workers body, not the date of birth.

Tracy would be gone for less than a minute. And get three weeks pay for being gone traveling for three weeks. But retirement law still needs to be re thought.

This is the first reason why Jenkins thought to himself that he might want to time travel someday, but that ‘someday is not going to be tomorrow;’ as he puts it.

Jenkins took advantage of the photonic bonds between now and the large photo of the future to pass that was on the far wall.

Its causal for them to know they are nearly in two places at once when the rain from the moon lit sky fell into the alloy room, and the white barking sand blew from the beach into the room. Tracy washed his hands in the shower he had stepped into while chatting with Jenkins. Turned it off. Put on the uniform of the company that subcontracted his service, and walked off into the beach until he was more there than in the alloy room from Jenkins perspective. Then Jenkins shut the photo down.

For security reasons Jenkins injected himself with an enzyme to clear his visual memory of the moments after the weld. But he could remember the event from a blind as the heel of a foot point of view. So, for example he saw the white beach, and the bulging tomatoes in the Irish Whisky box: But he could not see it in his minds eye. Even though he knew it was green, or white, and also orange to amarillo like a sunrise captured in the skin of the fruit. Like the visual you get from this description.

This protocol added to his somewhat justified paranoia.

He was not at all a conspiracy person, but the fact is that the company didn’t want him to get abducted and dissected for his photonic memory of these quarter hourly event advantages that make up his ten hour shift. But the company was a private one. Jenkins didn’t want to be too much toe company man by living on campus. He among several other thousand counterparts where exposed to more singularity dualism that the actual travelers. He didn’t want to add to his kidnap value by being an actual traveler too. Jenkin’s reasoning ad hoc as it is, is his. And conviction was always his motivation.

That is why he was hired. Jenkins is determined to do the right thing by the analyst of his employers.

To add to his paranoia was a truth. Often on Jenkins watch, travelers would use there own synaptic memory to get back to the point where they left in his airtight cube. He knew to not block them out if a second singularity opened in the room. But now and then, the returning traveler would be in there nineties, trying to get the traveler to not go warning that on that trip they would be lost too long.

Most of the time the younger counter part would step through anyway- at least knowing that they would find a synaptic way back. Sometimes the retuning traveler would fade with the picture. And the very act of seeing ones older self evaporate into thin air would discourage a traveler from making that trip if it was deemed to be routine.

This defied the laws of physics and even radical logic, but he’d recalled seeing it happen.

Jenkins felt that the traveler refusing to step through; and asking for the foto to be shut down is the result of the fade away.

He is required to interview the traveler from the other time line if this occurs, but it would change too fast based on the reason of the younger traveler for any reasonable questions to be asked.

He had read about a traveler trying to use the last few seconds to communicate what his timeline had been like, but freaked out at the reality that by convincing there younger counter part to not saia into the universe of the photo they had just ended their own existence as they know it. Too many instances for scientific study in real time without the Cyrabillic.

Cyrabillic was not used because others times didn’t have it at this point. People coming with temporal passes from what was linearly determined at this point and era as the future Had Cyrabillic enabled cortex links to the web. But they were traveling to the now; not before this/that.

He had read about a box that filled with singularities from other views--Non of them were determined in the article to be from the tech thanks to injection—In this box the other physhers technitians tried to immediatedly arrive at the point of the event and shoot at dart into the cortex of the traveler to communicate with him before the fade. But no one remembered this event.

The article had been written by a ghost.

Take Out

1997-05-06T15:05:00.000-07:00

Every day for five years, twelve hundred plus people came through as loyal customers of the drive window.

The flavors of chives and various kinds of sauces designed for diverse palettes' took hold of the hunger in any given patrons nose, pulling that same hunger in by the fumes that summoned currency from their wallet and into the electric coffer of the establishments central bank that only existed for twenty years, some seven hundred plus years later at an undisclosed location.

The manager had worked here for thirty years.

Most managers need to skim or cook the books in-order to get doubled paid. And often they get fired, or run away with the money.

but the manager of the 'Brass Pear', seemed to be content on the outside. While he was being double paid very well to sit in one era, and get old.

He had his pain to keep him company. In the era he was from he would have been destitute. Most of his life to that point had been plagued with depression, which is anger without enthusiasm.

he suffered from a sexual injury that pinched his sciatic nerve. And it was this constant twinge that now comforted him and chased away the free time for depression with the will to move about despite fairly intense pain. A pain that he learned to laugh at, even while he was riddled sleepless on his apartment floor in the new era he'd been hired to live in.

He was told to seek out help from a physician. But in his era witch craft was a load of trickery for the ill informed and he couldn't bring himself to the point of risking being taken in by it.
So the treatable condition riddled him still as it would any man his age back in his own era.

He was like a dog, staying in a cage after the gates been riped off.

After many years he associated the pain with laughter. Something he didn't allow himself to do before the pain had started in his life. He subconsciously felt that if the pain were to be cured he would run out of excuses to laugh, and be light hearted. Much as if the pain where a magical drug he'd become addicted to a an emotional excuse to be natural.

One morn after wincing all night long laughing at and through his pain in a pj'ed ball, with tears in his eyes from the steady sharp strain a message went off in the device they gave him to remind him of important events. He stretched himself out through the strain and into his work uniform.

And half way through his shift, he saw her for the first time after five years of waiting. He was not in love with her, though you would think so by the joy that crossed his face at the sight of this newest customer. She was not his lover, she was not even his mark. His job was simple. Thirty five years from now; when the six years after the company adds soup to the menu, he is to slip powder that will arrive by registered mail at his home, into her soup and see that she eats it in front of him.

Thirty some years from now, he has to know hr well enough for her to trust him when he asked her to eat in the store rather than going home.

"To do this, I'll have to be her friend. Keep her coming here." So he greeted her with a smile.

"How are you today mai'me, have you decided what you'd like to order?", His back muscles spasmed at the thought of how long and thorough this deception would have to be, as he caught himself from falling backward while he was talking, and the pain kept him from stuttering of getting nerveous.

He saw her the first time she came in, his mark that is. He had watched her grow from a fast adolescent, into acward fifty something.

He was now in his sixties himself and ager to get out of this temporally backward era/ or place.

He'd asked many times for and earlier date to put the drug in her food, but his employers were not on the same time schedule he was, and blindly stuck to a less practical time frame they could understand without putting too much thought into it.

Today was the day.

Homovierta

1995-05-12T23:32:00.000-07:00

The people of openess were actually shut-ins. Living germ free for hundreds of years as a society has a cost.

Rumspringa & Nihongo

Among the forest floor of black gum with a clumping redcedar evergreen scale tip canopy ten yards above: Flash lights are being powered down causing the shimmer against the the autumn red leaves to fade from diernal vision. As the hiking formations pace down to creeping below the waist high brush Surrounding the multiple car light glow parked on the back forty of an Penn's Woods (Pennsylvania) farm.

And incryption banks from a blue tooth in the approaching group, off a mirror not more than twenty miles up.

A national gaurd computer processed the information as helocopters came to converge on the teenagers--droping more police, government, state and international agents onto this euporic experiment in the English world from above on ropes .

The kids begain to scatter. The usual cramming of paraphania went up rectums, vagina's, down throats into horses released from buggies to run free. Which is how the gun fire started, trying to bring down the horses. A necessity to collect evidence.

the weapons discharge braught in the gun fire of a second security force. Bullets flew for a short while into cops from more calculated angles than they could comprehend.

"Stop the fucking shooting! I repeat stop shooting the animals damn it. We are hitting each other!' Only one had taken a shot in the knee. "But keep the riot going.' 'Only arrest who ever seems to be unable to handle a good couple of hits. That is who we are looking for'".

All sorts of kids starting being bluggined by the authorities. The other security force sat quiet.
An Amish girl got punched nine times in the ribs. Her white dress had blood on it from her knuckles from splatter breaking her thumb punching the face mask and knight stick of one state trooper. Who was crying while doing his job. She thought that was why he stoped. But he knew he was supposed to be looking for someone too weak to fight back.

The troop was after Io, Rowan, Lula, Clara, Ashley & Gideon but they didn't know what they were looking for. How many to find. How to decearn them from the other Amish kids, they were also Amish. Reered from time to time by a woman called Ida since conception as thier "Dutch mother", and with everyone drunk and slurred, there was very little to distinguish any of the six of them from the other seven to eight hundred kids raving & running about trying to figure out thier intellegent hell for Rumspringa.

If fact the six were the only ones out of place. For them, this was the first time among trees so large, fields so grassy. And other people so strong and energetic.

A young man tried to dance with Ashley, with just a little playfulness he nearly tour her under porportionantly developed muscles free of her bones.

Had the first force noticed who got hurt the easiest they would have caught all six kids.

The baggy clothing made them accurately look like an atempt to survive in the english world, and shaded out the less obvious, but more accurate attempt to survive in the non sterile and very terrestrial.

Several of them waggered their way into the back of a pick up truck that was headed back to New York from the look of the lisence plate. Another slipt into a buggy, snd the last mixed in with some other kids walking to the nearest train station.

In Saga the pagent try was just about to start. Gentu headed for the next train with his paper mache' 'alien head' and a sign welcoming the new comming aliens to join the party in disguise and mix in with the open population.

In 1985 an 11 year old girl sets up her proposal for entry into a compition to have her experiment and theory tested out on the shuttle. She believes that we can study the long term effects of wieghtlessness on the human body by studying how weightlessness and escape volocity g-forces effect insects and smaller animals with markably shorter life spans than humans.

Marathon- game instructions.

1994-04-04T02:29:00.000-07:00

Discription of the game:

The game sits where a coffee table might be. At the top there are red and blue pieces that are each sitting on their own leaf, or leaves.

Each leaf can be turned at: its base; or the stem can be turned at each fork leading back to the base of the main trunk of the tree/bush.

The Marbels do not roll in this game. They are round because the designer liked it. They are meant to be moved by hand.

The bush and leaves are made of plastic.

The goal is to start with very many red and blue team pieces/marbels and bottle neck them onto a path: Then remove the Marbels(runners): Change the trails the players are racing through: Be the first to reach the bottom of the course.

Someone can choose to have another color on the board. However, in most cases that would be pointless. Due to the fact that one isn't just trying to get a red or blue piece to the finish line at the bottom of the tree. They are trying to be the one who puts the running marbel across the finish line first no matter what the original color they started playing with.

The marbels are sized differently to make it easier for blind jogodors to participate.

Turns: One can only move a single limb off a joint/fork, a marbel, or a rabbit (runner sent ahead to take out another runner)* once a turn. The player has to choose which of the three types of moves they are going to do in any given turn.

The game can begin from the start line with all the marbels/runners placed on the starting field at the top of the tree. Or they can begin from construction of the corse itself; letting whom ever finishes the starting field with the last piece(having constructed the entire course) to be able to place all thier color on the starting field(uppermost level) first. The next player can place one each turn: Or manuever the position of the leves and stems of the course field one time per move. They can also opt to give up two turns but must place half thier remaining runners on the startfield each turn.

To move a Marbel/Runner throught the course one has to move the leaves one at a time to connect the disjointed sections of the path needed. The Runner can only move to an ajacent leaf: Or one within the obvious radius to desend to the lower ring. However, the Runner can also jump an oposing runner ad remove they from play.*

The course is designed to look like art in the room that is its host. The leaves can be positioned to support plates, and mugs. The stem, truck and leaves have a crystal quality that fits in most any decor as an interesting multifunctional utilitarian art piece.

Players can bring stem pieces from other courses, the joints are universal. This adds a new dimension tothe game. The caveat is that the tree must be able to support itself, or be supported by its suroundings so as not to topple while the Marathonners is are afoot.

If the structure cannot support itself during game play, then the looser of the game is the jogador who placed the last piece into the starting field. If the game was free standing in a previous game, but a new peace added at the start of the next game causes the entire game to be off balance; then the player who placed the last peace looses. This is the rule even if another player shifts another part of the game in such a way as to change the leverage of the game.

No leaves or limbs can be removed afterthe race has started. In building the course only off balance limbs and leaves can be removed after the instability is revealed. Beforethat every Leaf & limb placed is in place.

If a piece of the tree course is moved back and forth fifteen times each consecutively, by each player then there is a draw and noone wins.
----------------------
*This is done in a similar manner to checkers. The Rule is that the rabbit has to befrom another team, and can jump out over a three leaf span in any angle, from any direction.

Bait...

1993-07-12T21:52:00.000-07:00

Trafficing in merchandise of slavery of persons. Steal me from this image....

A sect of shivers' fight back.

The Receptionist

1992-04-29T18:54:00.000-07:00

the receptionist was the same as before. But today they had forgotten her. She was a woman in her mid fifties that held her age well; slightly over weight, with hair dyed frizzy purple/auburn that deeply needed a habit breaking beauty tip refresher.

She was slightly overworked. Not by any malice on the part of the management of the sperm-bank. In fact they loved her. If they'd not felt awkward giving her the necessary hair tip, they would have. But not knowing what style she was going for they each individually thought it best to let her be, to be sure they didn't offend her.

She was a good worker, and for many years handled the stream of incoming donors in a way that mad the clinic run very smoothly. This offset the oddity of her over processed hair,outdated glasses, and lip stick that always was the exact shade of her purleish auburn highlights. If they didn't know her they would have thought her a bit ill.

And without gossiping to each other unprofessionally ever, they all individually did think that the routine and stability of the job held her together over the years.

the receptionist saw the group from the bus come in all at once. Suddenly the room was busy.

And she thought to herself, "this is why I'm tired all day", ever since people had to be screened to get in. And were brought in by groups of one to two hundred at a time; rather than a manageable steady stream.

Since the security issue due to this clinic being added to the genocidal target list; sh would have her memory wiped at th end of her work day. This was so that she would not be a kidnapping target in the developing war's pan-temporal diaspora.

Illian and his father were among the people she processes with less and less personal charm since now people arrived several hundred at a time once or twice at day, rather than on their own as had been the usual way.

As far as the memory wipe: It was just like trying to breath after being awake on a respirator then given drugs to forget the trauma of it; figuratively After the surgery you can't remember the surgery you were needing to be awake for.

She would feel tired, now that her memory was wiped, but still tired from the work.
Soon after eating take out that got emptied and then joined the piles her children were to inconsiderate to dispose of for there hard working mother: She would fall asleep either on her couch, the floor in her bedroom, with her kids, or perhaps make it out of the shower and into her own bed.

All after dropping the boxes, barely folded shut that she ritually picked up after work everyday.

And although she was screened by the local temporal security bureaucracies for not having been photographed too much, before she was hired- today she was digitally snapped in the driveway of the of the fast food chain.

She was picked because she was publicly seen before as as the receptionist, and although she had been fired on record, clearly had not looked for another job, and held the same hours and schedule with regard to the long standing daily habits in her life, which included being photographed carrying the take out home.

Anger Leaves an Echo

1992-04-13T03:03:00.000-07:00

Billy heard the racket through his wall.
"Goddamnit, He muttered to himself: 'every ross clot night', the oder of it wrang in his nostils again. They had fallen asleep and the net radio they had blaring was echoing itself loudly.
"I can't fucking sleep, and I can't fucking think. Turn off your gaddamn music ass holes!" He yelled in vain at the wall. He hit the wall with a clinched and fist backed pinkie and palm base.

Crack!!! His nerves split with the plaster. His family barely afforded food, let and now he needed to find some plaster to keep his room from looking ghetto.

And still the raggae overlayed uninteligibly like a screechless reverb. Billy's "ijuice" look alike was being blasted out even with the speakers nestled in his ear canals'.

"I have fucking homework to do", He avoid going over to the door cause that would cause a fight that his father would have to solve the nasty way.

A break between songs provided a moment of clarity while the first round of the song started.
But before the second round ended an acustic ballad rolled out overlaying the raggaeton that still has two minutes left in the long play.

"Fuck!!! These assholes can't be quiet even hen they are sleeping. Fucking 'guai-ass drug addicted fallen angel Amish mother fuckers, learn how to use a fucking computer before you steal one. Freck! Keep it long enough to use the mother fucker!!", he yelled knowing they were too asleep to hear him yelling. And if they were awake-if you can call it that; they noise was way louder than him.

He flipped open his mother's cellie, "Non-emergency" he told the voice prompt in the Kreckit system. "I did not understand the request, did you say Donald Glasko?", the phone responded.

The echo of the dou tracks had become up tempo: The resulting 8:8 crashed against his aching booked out eyeballs as if the singing backing up itself was fast fucking to the right side hip like in Clockworks time @ 16:16 like 4th annual finally; when it should just be a Friday night dancing Sunday school teacher dancing for innocent enough fun in her blouse and skirt.

A moment of clarity came as one song broke the mood at its finish, but the new tangent rolled in out of the fadeaway creating chaos from organisation.

Those aging Amish cats were vibrating somewere between full Orange alert and and the Penn Wood version of 'City of God's Rush'.

"Did you say Donald Glasko? is this correct?"

"No I did not say Danold Glasko", he thought to himself and a commercial echoed a netradio plug in stereo.

"You can sign up today for rewarding customer service at no charge compliments of ...."

Now three things rambled in his head, "I! DID! NOT SAY! FRECKING! DONALD! FUCKING! PUNTAECLOT! GLASKO!, son of a frosted' ross in Detroit!!!

He hung up and dialed nine one one.

And immediately the second player glitched while one kept playing ,"Call on Ja and he'll come right over, and you'll never never Die, all you have to do is praise the most high and He'll come right over."

The opporators voice came on: "911 emergency fire, police and medical: Mr. Glasko did you say your son was lost in Detroit?"

"No, how did you here that? I hadn't dialed yet, and my last name is not Glasko. This is the emergency line sir; what is the nature of the emergency?"

"My neighbors are High."

"That is not an emergency, let me connect you with the nonemergecy police number in Detroit, this line is for Sea Gate Falls please hold!"

"I! AM ! IN! SEA GATE FALL'! FRECKIN! OREGON!! AND MY NEIGHBORS WON'T TURN OFF ONE PLAYER ON THEIR GODBLESSIT MACHINE, CAUSE THEY HAVE ALL PAST OUT--WAIT.", a moment of clarity hit him, aftertwisting its way between the rain drops of sound coming from the doubled streamed netradio: He hung up and dialed back.

"911 emergency, police fire and medical, what is the nature of the emergency?"

"There seems to be smoke coming though the wall, there is a crack in the plaster... but the room is smokey..."

Where is the smoke coming from?"

"Coming from the apartment next door. they are there. They have there music on, but I can't get them to come to the door."

"Are you on a cell phone?"

"Yes why?"

"Get out of their. Is anyone else with you? and what is the address?"

"Unt, zero, ichi, ichi, soust Abandoned Blvd. Place NNE. Apt M"

The opporator repeated the address, "...doned Blvd. Place WNE Apt M. Is that correct?"

"NNE not WNE"

"NNE", she replied.

"Yes"

"?What letter is the appartment that seems to be....", he interupted her question with the answer--"N. Apartment N."

The Fire Department arrived at apartment N. They were going to find no smoke, or fire.
But the noise polution was enough to raise an eyebrow of alarm, and the firedeptment kicked the door in only to greet the scenario inside.

The boy knew noone would steal anything in front of the firefighters', so he let the door unlocked with a note on taped to the table asking them to lock the doorknob behind them.

A female firefighter plucked his "iberry" from his room where they found the crack between apartments M and N. She liked its cidar color. She thought that nearly getting burned to death every couple days made up kharmically for her kliptomania. She didn't quite grasp the idea of trying to not create kharma good or bad. And rather do the right thing because its right.

Forty and some years later, according to the time line of the life span of a Doug Fir living on the side of a hill in its grove in any forest- the neighborhood had gone though some seasons of change. But unlike the nearby firs’ it shed more than coned seeds and needles.

Buildings along Abandoned Blvd were left dusty, then renovated, then left dusty again. It shed families and economic ethnocentricities like leaves turning colors on a maple in fall season after less predictably algorithmic monetary season. This syncopation was broader than a solitary year: Each one of its seasons lasted eight to ten years here under the light of the nearby economic sun called California.

It was nearly fall according to the weather the birds and the trees; but in the life span of a neighborhood it was the spring time of this minor hood in SGF. Its haunted corners were being swept out and painted; corners and corners of buildings were being reshaped in a way similar to what the coenobita (hermit crabs) of the coast of Sea Gate Falls were also doing in the abandoned columella of vacant mollusk shells that waif in the hour off moon tide of the resulting ocean floor.

Ron Glenco is a leaf about to bud in the life cycle of the neighborhood. He was actually grafting in from Detroit by coincidence.

He stood watching the fireplace burn old cherry wood steps while his iConnect buzzed in his pocket. The fire cut a vertical breakaway in another pine plank he just laid down moments before ….

His display was not set up yet on the phone he’d bought off the ‘new-to-you’ url that everyone else was about to abandon for a now’er pasture in order to graze in the wheat grass/germ shot fields of the technologically hip.

The return display wasn’t set to him yet, and the caller might not wait until his voice mail came on.

The phone call was missed while fumbling though his receipts wadding up his right pocket and inner pockets.

He decided to change the display name then:
He hit the image of the access key. He felt the impression it simulates for the benefit of the blind user, and the sound of angel chimes it made after the “cherp” “Welcome to f(x) phones so economically benevolent we named them after locus, because everybody has at least one” well it didn’t say that exactly, but you know the brand now. “Welcome to F(x) Mr. Ronald Franklyn Glenco.

It seems that the sender has already changed it for me. He thought to himself without directly thinking it out in nouns, verbs, and sentence fragments.

The sun started coming in heavy in the bay window he’d replaced. He kept scooting to the left to get away from the bright settling sun that shined through the window he had re-exposed during the renovation project. This building had once been a single quadroplex separated from the other groups of units in the immediate area. And the seller had split it back into its original zoning.

There were so many details. The M was still on the doorway leading to the room with this fireplace he sat in front of.

The sun kept creeping into the afternoon windows of Drs.’ M & K Olson Blvd. That had been renamed after the twin ambassadors from the then well used Abandoned Blvd. 40 years earlier. A name change which had hurt most of all a niche art supply store that survived due to the unintended charm of being an art related business thriving in subtlety under the ol’ Abandoned Blvd street address. With the name change comes renovation and most of the old residents were eventually priced out of the neighborhood for smarter, more generic pastures to walk our food stamp cards to the troft in.

Ronald; on the other hand; is kharmicless in the battle between good/evil and just plan being over gentrification and a neighborhoods mini renaissances’.

He simply bought an affordable place to live in an area he likes, with enough rooms for housemates to make the mortgage payment and also host a small hostel in the lower two levels in the future.

Ron kept burning stuff. Not all if it legal, but flammable enough to burn long and heat the room while he watched the flames that never ceased to memorize him since he could remember. And the sun kept creeping it bright light through the window into his eyes.

The window was expensive. He knew why it was covered up by whatever management company that had decided it was more expensive than it was worth. But to a home owner it was a find. Except for the nearly wall size view of the party store across the street and the loud chatter from the Green Peace office next to it.

As his ear-crack buzzed again in his pocket, the notion of the GP having a hostel across from it would insure his success if he made beds available for good people to turn it in exchange for a place to sleep and be addressed at. He flipped open the locus converted iCrack to see who sent him a….

The sun lost its intensity while he was waiting for the fortysomething fembot to arrive and make good on her intentions and texts, and he continued brushing out details in the woodwork.

He was making progress on the wood work; but the fembot wasn’t making progress on arriving. He’d accidentally turned off his phone while checking it to see what she was saying. After slipping it back into his pocket the room took on a silence it handn’t had in many years. After shedding its people, furniture that vibrated Swedish and Shiatsu massages into backs and necks that were connect to heads relaxing in surround sound, and then HD, and its animal inhabitants were 86ed by natural causes or some other kind of displacement, the quiet seemed to leave room for everything else that was there. Every echo, every thought, every feeling has a place it occurred in. Every corner o the building (shadowed or light) had a moment hidden in it under all the noise of life. Life now removed. And as the fire started to die down, and even its red and yellow pop and crackle took a back seat to the quiet so still that even the resenant ring we often hear in our ears seemed to give up imposing on conciousness.

Clear as a bell in the wind blowing in your direction he thought he heard him.
“Ronald! Franklyn! Glenco!”, he thought it was angry at him.
“You left a son named Ross in Detroit”.

Ron had had sex with a few women there. He’d used a condem each time and had felt the IUD in each of there curvexs’. Although the IUD could have torn the condem, he knew pregnancy was unlikely. But he was involved in the big brother program there.
In the dark his superstition took a hold of him a chill went from his rib cage to his spine.

The Museum of Modern Argotology

1991-11-02T08:33:00.000-08:00

...with the rolled up hip that brought back the thought she placed in his mind, he slipt his cock inside her and fucked her into the next chapter of her life.

Never. Again. - Second Coming - logged on as:Jenifer_the_mean_Hearted logged on as: callous destruction by fire.

1990-08-08T09:06:00.000-07:00

(Jennifer_the_mean_hearted)

Much smaller than the molecules that add density to the rushing flow of the swaying wind, a valence bowed out from the light of day, running against the rise of the sun, into the darkness of an oncoming nightfall, falling deeper beyond the pitch like a jet liner moving quick and calm away from day break. Its vibration and crests latching onto tangible memories of experiencing the present. Its charge pressed in an indefinable direction; like a ripple of water being pressed up against the rushing stream by steely frame of a salmon returning against the flow to spawn, swimming and leaping from pool to pool, over mossy logs & rock obstacles, with amazing strength common to its kind.

(callous destruction by fire)

Much smaller than the molecules that add density to the rushing flow of the swaying wind, a valence bowed out from the light of day, running against the rise of the sun, into the darkness of an oncoming nightfall, falling deeper beyond the pitch like a jet liner moving quick and calm away from day break. The vibration of the valence and its valance of accumulated crests latching onto tangible memories of experiencing the present. Its charge pressed in an indefinable direction; like a ripple of water being pressed up against the rushing stream by steely frame of a salmon returning against the flow to spawn, swimming and leaping from pool to pool, over mossy logs & rock obstacles, with amazing strength common to its kind.

Jennifer_the_mean_hearted:(editing notes) what is a valance?
Callous destruction by fire: (editing notes) Valance of a curtain. The top part of a curtain that sits out a bit, similar to a large fringe at the top.

Satchel and Levi

Section Twenty Three

1973-08-24T06:20:00.000-07:00

Well over four hundred years later in the linear future: a father came home from teaching at school. He still saw his own son as a small child. Although everyday he heard the parabola of the sexual experimentation bell curve. This particular day he was looking at these relatively cute innocent young faces. Four boys walked by that were not in his classes ever. He is a stranger to them. (Pardon my need to be straight forward) He heard one boy say to the others three, "I just wanna fuck." And he was snapped back into the reality that thousands of years ago these boys would in most of the world been considered men. That is our biology. But socially, memetically they are still children.

He then went to a meeting where the teachers of his own son suggested some kind of mood altering drug for his son's tendency to not pay enough attention in school. This community were mostly conception desendants' of several colonies of clones, who'd found themselves cast out of other portions of Siberian society. So being pro-medical was nothing new to this community or its school systems.

The father came home to see his son on not only a crash from too much sugar- but he could also tell from his dishoveld look that he had masterbated and fallen asleep with out anything to carry his son from the high of ejaculation back to regular go mode.

He new from his own experience that masterbation was great and all. But if the nerves didn't get touched and cuddled afterwords it lead to depression. Depression gets in the way of getting homework done.

He had Latin friends in the colony that had been set up with a woman to teach them how to make love and please a woman dliberately by their parents and Guardians. His first notion was that his boy needed to calm down. Or that if he was rewarded with sexual gratification from a women who did this kind of work already- his son would have the motivation to complete his tasks and pay attention. Not only was it too expensive of an idea. There is VD to consider, and what if it was just conservatively the wrong thing to do. Once done their would be no going back. So he let the notion go.

He later sat down to talk to his wife about their son.

“I’m so worried how he’ll do once girls come into the picture”, the thirty something mother said while sitting down, and rubbing her forehead.

“He’s not the first one, and if we’ve learned from the first five, we know we can’t totally stop them.', The voice of her husband was pleasant with a slight endearing whine that manned up at the end of each idea.

"We need to have damage control. I saw on the internet that Amish teens are allowed to sleep in the room together, and what happens happens. And that this is after the parents have an influence over who the child is seeing."

"We can wait, and watch to see who is looking at him. Teach him how to find out who is looking at him, rather than chase after girls he is looking at that may not be interested in him."

"From those girls we can see which set of parents will be agreeable to allow our children to study together."

The mother added with a question. "They'd have to be people we feel comfortable talking about contraception too. And in this community we both know that contraception is a dirty word. Everyone is still thinking about forced subversive sterilization. We can't even get a shipment from Alaska without it having been tampered with."

"That reminds me we all have an appointment at the genetic diversity clinic next Tuesday. This will be Illian's first donation to the community. Even if it is in a private room; I'm a little sceptical about the clenical eviornment. I don't want him to get freaked out.", the father continued.

Illian's mother interupted, "Our son is a master-bater. That is what he is in there doing when he is too board to do his homework. He thinks I can't hear. But I pretend i can't, for the sake of his privacy. I'd leave the house but I have the younger ones to tend too. And its so damn cold, I put on a movie. I know the other kids can't hear him or I'd make up an excuse to get him to quiet down. But i can hear him muffling himself as it is.'

"I tried to unblock a suitable tame nudie sight, with the kinds of women I see him glance at..."

"You did that?", the father interupted with a grinning suprise.

"Well its better than leaving the centerfold of the Sunday paper outside his doorway, am I right?", she replied in jest.

"Beside', she continued... "I think he'll enjoy being in a clean place where he is expected to donate for the good of the community, in a sound proof room in total privacy into the receptcal."

"Stop', the father begged. "Your giving me images. Why do you always have to be so graphic?"

"Since when do you mind me being graphic?", the mother replied with a smile that Illian's father adored.

"Okay he said, lets see what girls look at our son in service over the next few days."

Then the couple retired to satisfy they're own aspiring grins'. Illians' mother ran out and grabbed some white clothes she liked out of Illian's dresser ran to the laundry room tossed them in the wash n' dry. Then she trotted back her bedroom doorway and walked though it sultry. As if the line of the door itself transformed her into sensual person.

{section twenty-three point one one five}

Illian's mother was getting dressed. She called out to him as she left her husband resting on the otherside of the bedroom door. "Illian Honey, have you seen my left white shoe. I must have lost it wrestling with your father in the kitchen before you got home? I need the pair to match my dress and the white paints I got you."

"Thank you for washing the paints mom. But we should really think about not wearing white this time of year. Especially shoes. Tis not the season.", Illian replied trying hard to have a note or respectfulness in his voice while proclaiming his fashion protest."A girl that like's him for who he is. Not who you are.", Illian's father whispered from under the comfy feminine covers of the bed with his arm, collar bone, neck, and head exposed and propped up by a light powder blue stripped pillows & pillow-cases.

{section twenty-three point one two five}

Helga wasn't into boys yet. And her parents were just fine with it staying that way for the time being. She had a pregnant older sister. And no one in the family was particularly fond of the baby's daddy.

It seemed that he wasn't even employed, let alone gainfully. He had not motivation at all. Helga's parents constantly tried to encurage the youngman, and it seemed he only came around to eat Helga's mother's cooking. But he was around, and Helga's family knew that was a start. But he still got on Helga's nerves. And it bugged her that her sister is completely in love with the guy.

The community however welcomed the child's coming with strong support. The region didn't inter act with the clone desendent population. This forced the community of several hundred thousand to strongly look at its future, and the future of probable inbreeding. So this child was welcome, and to some, already known before his birth. Although he is not a natural born clone; he is the great great grand child of a maternal clone. This heritage would at this relative point in time-shape his future. The future present past that some of his kinsmen already know.

The church had the usual preserved tattooed markers of this congregation's deceased members. A new plaque was mounted from an elder who'd died in a fire. Several hundred people came to see it at each two hour service.

It was thought that the marking of his desires and accomplishments in service to himself, the community and his higher power was lost in the fire. However it was retrieved from a younger version of himself who agreed to let go of his out come, and accepted a skin graph paid for by the state. Paid for in-order to preserve the linear connected history of the church incase a temperal conflict ever isolated a section of the future from that past beyond the borders of violence that already existed between residents of different eras' and locations.

The man was well supported in his accomplishments and failures. And to his credit he had supported many himself. Everyone thought he was a clone since he only spoke of one parent and centered his political rambling in conversation around the divine right of the clone. He loved the Pope's quote, and he would often repeat it:'"Eve was/ and is a clone of adam. Spawned directly into adolesence in a way that mankind cannot yet repeat. All clones currently are natural born from a mother or the like as well as nonclones. Eve was/and is a clone of Adam. And God saw that it was good. as was Adam by the very definition of his name, a clone of dirt."'

So many people were incuraged by this: Since in a temporally vulnerable world his photo could not be mounted in public, considering his own safety in the past. The tattoos of his upper arms and back, let the community morn his passing with something to remember him by.

"I'll bet there are so many pilgrims mixed in here today", Helga's mother ventured as they pulled up and rested the craft into a snow print. The print had melted against the warmth of similarly built models and frozen again into a half schell that made a squeek as they lowered into the slight depression in the snows surface.

By pilgrims she meant time travelers mostlikely from the communities future who'd looked the date up.

"Its funny how a good section of a communities resources can go to persuading the daunting amount of tourist from other eras to let the day exist in peace. I doubt today is being recored anywhere for fear that if anything this guy said or did gets too popular in the future we would not be able to handle the tourist traffic from thousands of years worth of interest in a particular moment. ', Holga's father replied.

"Imagine the mess Rome must have been last year in Rome because The LDS High Priest and the Pope happened to be talented Classical Bosa Nova pianists'. Here at the most maybe sixteen or seventeen. And hopefully no terrorists."

Illians family had pulled up to the ceremony a few minutes early to be sure to get in before any photos got taken outside the church. Its almost impossible to avoid someones visual memory. Still risking getting caught accidentally on film was too foolish of a risk to take.

The line was long to get into the service. And many people were paying their respects to the passed man on the way into the congregation hall.

The spark was lit in her body in her body before she knew he existed. Across the snow that was recollecting against the already shoveled ground, a glow stood out from the audibly laughing face of this boyish soon to be young man’s face. As a powdery snowball puffed into frosty bits when it hit the mass of his warm face.

He jerked away trying to avoid the retaliating shot from his brother and friends. He had snuck up on them, and they were happily retaliating.

Everyone’s feet were slightly firmly planted above the snow line. The boots where designed to polarize over snow. With the weight of the human body the super-conducting soles left shallow prints in the snow: Much like snow shoes do.

She watched the boy toss himself off the leverage of his boots and fall two feet deep into the snow below him, ask he quickly started struggling to get out f the hole and back on top of the drifting snow’s floor before more season’s greetings arrived via the throwing arms of his brother and their present friends.

The fallen boy’s mother honed in on the young girl’s attraction like a psychic sonar. From that moment one she went with her gut. She looked the woman, the girls mother up and down.

The woman looked around the parking lot, as if she could sense someone watching her.

When the woman’s husband asked her what she was looking for. The boy’s mother quickly looked elsewhere.

And when that connection was lost, so was the intuitive trace. So the mother of the girl said, “nothing, I felt like someone was watching, must have been my imagination, oh well. Lets get into the service.”

Illian, hadn’t noticed girls sexually beyond being attracted to the idea of kissing a beautiful face. And he had no problem with accepting that. It was natural for him.

When he went into the genetic diversity clinic to preserve a place for his sperm. He had no apprehension about donating to the welfare of his community. More people meant less birth defects’. Cloning was also encouraged to be able to broadly extend a combination of coitally resulting traits through out the growing colony.

“Young man, your parents designated age appropriate material for you to choose from in the donation room.’, a woman dressed in a lab coat told him after checking him in.

She weighed him, and measured his stature.

“Rest assured that no one can here you in there. And I’ll leave it at that.'

“Thank you for donating today to the genetic diversity of our mutual community.”, She added while taking filted safe x-rays of his bones, growth plates, and organs.

As he walked into the donation room, a sultry automated voice came online as he entered the receptacle explaining in detail how to donate and collect the material with in the receptacle protruding from the wall that was three feet around the curve of the small room beyond direct view of the windowless door:

“Here is the age appropriate viewing material that has been selected as a visual aid for you to complete your donation to our community,’ The voice said as if it was real and exhaling at the end of the sentence. It was a naturally sultry alto professional feminine automation. It was not intended to be grotesquely sensual. It was practically designed not to offend the reservationist sentiment of almost any variety.

He thumb nailed through web page adds advertising clothing, music and beach get-aways’. And his thoughts of these faces were the most modest in nature. And his thoughts of these faces were the most modest in nature. The images were as happy and robust as looking out the window of the transportation on the way to the donation bank. Beautiful people abound.

At the last moment his thoughts were focused on pegging Holga with a snowball in the face as she laughed loudly in his hearts recollecting though Ilian’s mind’s eye.

His donation was collected in a synthetic bag that sealed itself at a molecular level.

While he was walking out the private exit; to where his parents were waiting in a lobby to take him home: An automated system scanned the sample with non-radiating sound waves. The waves were not strong enough to tear down the cell life in the sample.

And below the clinic it was labelled, catagorised, devided in three sealed sections. One section stayed below in a quietly constructed nuclear weapon proof vault/shelter. They other two were preserved as a primary and a back up. For the program set up by the colony leaders for each family to choose a donor quality themselves and at the righ time for them, add this diversity to their existing family.

Illian noticed a sweet-cheeked girl who walked by in a down jacket. The jacket was baby blue. Her straight blond hair was held back by a wide, white hairband. His subconscious picked up on her cute frame.

Yuri, the social groups cad dork, who professed to know all things perverse and worldly, sauntered over above the snow when he noticed Illian looking at the girl. “Look at the ass on that one”, he said.

“Yuri your such a perve, she is just a nice girl, I think she is cute.”, Illian replied.

“I’ll go tell her you want to ‘do’ her”, He threatened trying to get a rise out of Illian.

“Go ahead, knock yourself out. You only say that because your afraid to talk to her yourself like a real person”, Illian put the ball back into Yuri’s court.

A tuffed on snow flew by Illian’s face as he dodged it. The blond was out of sight, out of mind. Yuri wasn’t interested in her until Ilian mentioned the idea. So he causally made his way disappearing into the building in a way that no one noticed; so he could avoid being teased. No one would have. But Yuri as a teaser trouble maker himself did not no that.

Illian, fell into the snow. When he cleared his face he noticed another girl laughing at him while getting in line to go into the service and see the elder’s marked peel.

He got up out of the snow. And after a bit more horseplay with his brother and friends; found a place in line several large families behind her, and hers.

He kept two ice-balls the size of American softballs cupped in his knit-gloved hands. The snow that he’d formed around the ice-balls, to give them a civil look, was melting with the heat of his hands. The thin-knit gloves already had that soggy purple look that wool knit gets when its wet.

The snow-balls were polite. There was no rock at the center to add too much density to the intended blow. In the school year play ground that was not the case. There a snowball delimited actually being a weapon: If refreezing slush- from the ground, or the maker’s breath-was redensifying around pebbles or a small stone.

Illian was brave, it would only take him weeks to warm up enough to actually talk to her. Some men never go against this kind of fear.

His mother walked up noticing that he was looking at Holga. She knew not to put him on the spot or tease him. “I have a dare for you…’, she whispered in his ear. “….but while I’m talking I want you to peg your brother who is coming around the large bus to try to get behind you. I don’t want anyone to pick up on what I’m going to dare you to do.

I must really want you to take my dare. You know I would never give your brother up to you like that if I wasn’t playfully serious. He is cresting the edge,’… she paused … ‘now’.

He turned and missed his laughing brother who pulled back like a turtle into its shell. The cover of the bus turned the ice-ball to sludge and snow-powder.

“I dare you to hug five women, and three girls that you think are cute.”, she said

“Mom leave me alone.”, he said.

“I’m serious Illian. I’ll have your favorite food cooked separately from anyone else’s for a week.” He was aware of how good this tactic could be since his mother deliberately lost bets this way often.

“But what if they think I’m creepy?”, he replied.

“That is for you to figure out which ones don’t think that, and which ones do.”

“I’m not psychic mom”, Illian argued.

“You don’t have to be. Look for who looks at you. And if you think they are cute too. Walk up-find something nice to say about them and don’t”

“Why?”

“Because that will be exactly what everyone says to them in most cases. Complement them on something that has nothing to do with the eyes, hair.” , she held he breath as her son interrupted as the lined moved forward as a large family moved on from observing the tattoo in the foyer, and proceeded to be seated in the round of the inner main lecture hall.

“Fine mom I’ll hug a bunch of people if that will make you happy- this is service- I hug people here all the time. I just want to avoid looking like that pervie kid Yuri”

“Yuri is a rude ass kid, but he is on to something that he takes too far. He will learn. But I’m not responsible for him. I am responsible for you. So know church hugs. Make sure they know that you let them know that you notice them, and you think they are interesting. You don’t have any need to go further than that.’

“Chances are they will think the same thing. And they don’t want to look “pervie” either. So by you taking the risk for them they will feel relieved. Think of it as just like opening a door for an older person, and more precisely an older lady who has been sweet you to. You don’t want to make her look or feel helpless, because she isn’t. your just being chivalrous.

“Okay mom- I’ll think about it”, he said.

“That is all I’m asking. By the way if she lets you touch he hair, you can go ahead and kis her without asking. If she pulls away, bail out then and don’t waste your time. Life is too short. Now go give your respect to the passing elder, and find your own seat in service today.”, she concluded.

Illian sat at home trying to look up one of the symbols he’d seen on the elder’s tattoo while observing the ink under a microscope. The family setting on the index interface was set to restricted-subtle. This meant that certain content considered non family oriented material was blocked: But it also meant that the page wouldn’t load, rathe than having a large icon pop up that read ‘you are attempting to access restricted material’.

Illian was aware though that the content may legitimately not loading or that it maybe blocked by the parental settings. So he asked his mother to unblock the site where one definition of the symbol was offered.

Illian’s mother sat down at the computer to help him for a minute. And she felt now was an appropriate time to bring it up. “Do I owe you some home cooked meals”, she asked him with the meme of many generations of charm and tact backing up her benevolent bearing.

“Yes mom, you do”, he replied with a smile turned on so bright the family dog ran up to listen to his inflection with its’ own wide rapid wag on.

If you’re an Anglophone you would have about as easy of a time understanding Illian. His required ingredient request are so far down the dialect train that you might catch on to basic commands and body language, but not much else.

“I take brusslesprouts with my special if you have um.”, he continued.

The family ‘sit down’ was only fifteen to thirty minutes long tonight. Illian’s mother already had several cake vegetable dishes marinating for the dinner. Her job didn’t take her aback, but she cooked like it did.

She’d been undone at some community socials by a women two whom she new had no talent. They had literally held her food in their envious little mouths, to cough it up three days earlier in a lab beaker. Forcing a girlfriend by peer-pressure to analyzed and deduce.

So she practiced on her kids. She cooked meals so good--from such abstract sources, that even if each ingredient was identified in a bite or stomach full; the exact temp times, and an ritual zen involved could not be undone, or reversed engineered easily.

“Okay cut these, dip them in the dry batter over in the bag, place them in that sauce and set the timer for thirteen and a half minutes.”, his mother motioned to each step as it set in its place on the table. She knew what he was going to ask for before he’d asked. She just hadn’t started making it. She did that inorder to give him room to be spontaneous.

“So who did you hug?”, she asked politely as the worked together in the kitchen.

He described a few very interesting maturing ‘Sally Walkers’; that he’d turned on his charm to. He described their eyes smiles and hair, with some omissions. He was after all talking with his mother.

His mother found his modesty reassuring.

He kept referencing one girl in more detail. “…When our cheeks touched mom it was like a tingling firecrackers with the power of an m80 filled with love chemical x instead of gun powder went off in both our heads. If I think about it, I can feel it now.”

“I like it when you smile”, his mother told him. She knew better than to comment that he was grinning from ear to ear.

“She was the one watching me get almost pelted with snow, outside the community center.”, he continued explaining.

“I have that families number in the directory”, making a subtle suggestion that he should call her.

“Won’t they think its weird me calling out of the blue like that.”, he voiced his hesitation.

“You won’t be the last boy to come calling. If they are not used to it they better get used to it. And your one of the nicer boys that they have in the past or will experience over time. Why don’t you break her parents in, and be polite enough to again make the second first move, so that Holga doesn’t have too.”, his mother finished.

“I never told you her name was Holga. How did you know?”, he asked.

“I have been living here along time Illian, I was friends with Holga’s Aunt before you two were born.”, she finished explaining.

Holga turned around and looked into the reflective glass at the framed skin, among the auburn inks depicting nebulas and star clusters set over black, under white overcast with transparent yellow that depicted light galactic dust she saw a shape sitting quietly in the picture. I was only visible if the observer looked close enough.

The shape was the outline of an almost spherical are that defiantly had walls to it and an odd piece that was removed from the sphere- like a missing piece of pie that dragged some of the other adjoining pieces with it.

As she was staring at piece to see if the shape had any other place in the multi-themed images her depth of focus moved in and out. In the reflection she noticed a woman looking from behind her at her in the reflection. The woman looked away. In the direction that the woman had turned her head away she saw Illian also staring at her in the reflection, standing there smiling.

She would have mentioned something like ‘talk a picture-it will last longer- but no one took pictures anymore, and to encourage it was not the safest thing to do. But that was the look she had on her face. The only tell that she thought he was attractive is that she smiled a bit.

Before she smiled Illian shrugged his shoulders. And had almost faked turning away, then pretended to still have a snowball in his hand that he’d follow through on releasing on her. She darted away from the frame and the path between them was filled with the next people stepping up to pay respects to the elder’s linear passing.

He darted after her, moving around the back of the crowd. He had to go slow since he was inside the building, which gave her enough time to pack a snowball that she released on his face once he cleared the fellowship doors. Then it was on.

The snow was loosely packed and she got his attention good since he inhaled the cold ball while taking a breath in through his nose.

“Oh yes!” She yelled quietly enough for just the two of them to here.

“You must like inhaling snow.” She said smiling widely while looking over her right shoulder to find enough room to run, anticipanly knowing he’s about the chase her.

Holga almost didn’t run as she watched him scoop snow in a full charge. It was like time stood still. Perhaps for her it did for a moment or two. As she looked at his strong, agile frame. His locks bounding around his head in the glistening day, Brown contrasting against all the white snow. And she fell back into time, as she heard the laughing boys charging steps above the snow.

She ran through the parking area, weaving and laughing as her hair whipped in each opposite direction that her body dodged in order to avoid the impending kenetic snow ball projectile. Holga ran at acute angles that only a preteen came manage. Any one of the turn abouts could twist a less pliable teenagers kneecap out. Her hair whipped into one direction after the next by the glance of her head, first where she was going and then back at the cute boy chasing her. She favored thrusting at opposite angles with her right leg. This was a detail that Illian was moving too fast himself to observe. If he’d noticed, he could have caught her with much less effort, and educated guess on where to toss the snow ball next.

His frame carried the fabric that insulated everything but his head and hands. She couldn’t see it through the winter gear. But clean geometric doesn’t lie, She never imagined it literally, but on an instinctual level she was attracted to it.

She froze from it. “Why am I just standing here? She thought to herself. I couldn’t possibly want to be caught? What is wrong with me?”, she thought to herself.

She had gotten far enough away from him that the thrill of him possibly catching her had died down for her. She was more flexible than him by nature. She could bob and weave around the park transports easier. And he instinct wanted to be caught, not her intellect; well not so much in that way.

Her intellect came back online. “She started running once the thrill became impending. She was too close to the boy to get away again- if that is what she chose to do.

She chose to do something else. “Don’t hit me!”, she said laughing.

“What makes you think I’m chasing you?”, he said.

He wanted her to question why she was running, and her own insecurity long enough for him to get closer.

He ran a few more steps looking past her intently with a smile. This would have been a good time for her to pick up some snow and call the bluff. But she didn’t. Instead looking back at her she ran a little slower. She actually thought he was chasing someone else. And in a moment she wondered both who it was, and if his attention span was that short. She turned to see who it was he was actually chasing, and she got her answer: Noone was in-front of her. He ran by her, and sprint-stoped to start back at her with a pleased grin.

“Don’t hit me with the snow!' she yelled. “Will you buy ‘cuz I’m a girl and cute?”, she said standing on her tiptoes as if that would make her look cuter.

She wondered, and also knew why she was acting this way.

“Nah…Not buying”, he replied.

“But you don’t have to”, she said.

“Well that’s true”, he replied.

“Good then its settled. I’m Holga.”

“Nice to meet you Holga, but it isn’t ‘settled’”, he grinned without restraint.

Holga was looking at his lips, she wanted to burst out and kiss him. But she was too gun shy from almost being rejected in the bluff that had lead to her getting caught.

“Please don’t hit me. I’ll do almost anything you want.” , Holga tried not to sound like she was begging. Forget a poker face, she never played go fish, but her game face for that wasn’t very developed either.

“Hug me!” He said.

Holga thought she was dreaming. “Did you just ask me to hug you?’, she said.

“Yes my mom dared me to hug five people I’m attracted to, and five who are attracted to me.”

“How many girls have you chased down on threat of hug today?”

She wasn’t the first hug. But she was the first one he’d chased down.

“Only you. Your the only one I’ve chased down.”

Holga felt a bit empowered, hugging this boy would have as easily gotten out of the snowball pound-o-rama. Instead she decided to play with him for a bit.

“If your mom wants to hug me, why does she have to get you to do it for her.”, she said while thinking in her own head-“Is that the best I can come up with. He thinks I’m dumb now. Great one Holga, just great.”

The inflection of that thought came across he face for e brief moment, but he didn’t know her well enough to see it pass between smiles, and playful seriousness.

His legs began to shake with fear of rejection. The feeling rose from his thighs. Then it revealed that it had secretly started deep in his stomach inside his internal organs and that he fist felt it in his thighs simple because in his mind the nerves were more the conscious kind, or closer to the surface since the center of his legs are made of bone and not organs.

The fear took over his chest and arms, and almost left a speechless lump in his throat. His face took on a blank look. He almost ran away.

But he fought the fear and instead started to lob the snowball at her. Not out of aggression, but rather in an attempt to hold himself in the moment and do something to shake the feeling of fear.

“Don’t hit me with it!”, she yelled as she ran up inside the length of his swing and hugged him. “I’m already cold”.

And for the first time, a very warm feeling came over both of them. He felt her warm arms around him. She felt his waste tucked against hers.

There ears warmed and tingled at the touch of the other’s ear. They snuggled ears naturally. She curled her hair and head under a side of his chin, and placed her lips against the nap of his neck, unpuckered, closed and natural.

He felt her lips rest against him. They are the softest pedals he’d ever felt. The cushiest pillows. Her shoulders pushed against him just under his so that her arms reached under his and around his back. And she decided to extend her reach and hug him fuller. Her knees first knocked, then rested slightly inside his. She made his fear melt away and be forgotten.

They should have kissed. But neither of them wanted to separate enough to then reconnect with what could have been their lips first touch with each other, or ever.

Illian’s mother saw on his face that Holga was the one she was looking for. "The first love. The way it should be', she thought. "A girl falls in love impressionable, with a boy who is impressionable. They have no history, or baggage. If they come together before the world cuts in, and are encouraged to trust and rely on each other. Than they will have a rich relationship with each other. That is if the first love is encouraged, not discouraged."

She looked up the directory, and gave his sister’s old friend a call.

After a wrong number, and a referral to an older directory that had more accurate nick-names, pseudonyms, out right numbers, cerebral junctions, and decodable street addresses she accurately proved to, who she is: Which is part of the custom in this era of temporal enslavitude. Even in a press for normalcy, part of that press is the necessity for personal safety.

Holga’s Mother was in another room.

“Hello, who is this?’, The Swahili mixed with an Arabic Key that she spoke had for decades been graphed with a very xenophobic Basque argot that had only opened after a life long marriage between two beloved and now mostly forgotten matriarch and patriarch who grown up together under the shroud of one of the many fall out cities that provided a cover from ethnic cleansing for descendants of clones. That is the grand children of the cloned and beyond that bench mark for the most part.

The Cyribilic in the devices only translated directly to idea. But intent was set to bluff on one of the communication devices. Not at all unlike blocked called ID.

“This is Mrs. Freed’ Mont”, Illian’s mother answered.

She could tell by the pause that on the other end of the ID distorter that is wasn’t Holga’s mother.

Holga hesitated. She wasn’t sure if she was in trouble somehow for her crush on this woman’s son.

Holga knew waiting would make things worse, so she took the transponder to her mother who was sewing in her neo-shaker yellow toned office slash project room.

Holga’s mother had invited Illian Freed’ Mont’s mother over several times in the last few weeks. After weekly community social, once while she was having particular trouble on a concept she couldn’t get the die right on and needed a break.

Mrs. Freed’ Mont stood at the doorway. She held up a camera detector to the eyehole in the doorway. It didn’t sound, so she allowed herself to be seen through it.

Her exyma dried her skin at odd times. This was one of them. She admired the neatly adorned porch complete with swinging love seat. She imagined her son laughing on it with Holga. And she didn’t want to be scratching herself when they came back to the door. So she fought the urge to scratch or lotion. Considering what she was there to talk about she also didn’t feel comfortable lathering her legs when they can back either.
So she settled on the itch. Her tricemnitdone was at home anyway.

The door opened and Holga’s mother stood there in the entrance.

“Hello Erin; come in please.” She said pleasantly enough.

Illian’s mother did a good job of hiding her itch, and her need to medicate or scratch it as she walked through the door with poise.

The door opened and Holga’s mother stood there strong willed, stocky, some would say voluptuous, in the entrance.

“Hello Erin; come in please.” She said pleasantly enough.

Illian’s mother did a good job of hiding her itch, and her need to medicate or scratch it as she walked through the door with poise.

The two women could see in each other’s face, instantly what they were going to talk about. There was no need for privacy. They both smiled and knew they were coming from common ground.

They didn’t want to confuse their own sex life with their husbands’ in the issue they were mutually not needing to talk about. However one of the two women was concealing a rope burn pattern with a wide designed bracelet set on each wrist, that they both noticed: Angain naturally letting the moment move on with silent modesty.

“My son needs a study partner so that he can focus on his studies, rather than the needful distractions that can plague the mind of a boy his age with worries. He is a good natured boy, and I know that with the correct guidance he can help his study partner not feel insecure about herself, and together they can focus on gaining the necessary momentum to pass many educational exams staring with this year and over the next few years.”

As the girls went to tend to the baby in the house, Erin closed the deal:

“Our son has donated to the Community Genetic Diversity Project. We will call and make an appointment with the clinic for them to take in a sample to save for Illian when he is older, and we will schedule something reversible. Because we know when young people study together things can happen.

'We also need to let them develop naturally, incase another arrangement would be better suited than what we’ve envisioned at first.

“Damage control takes on many forms doesn’t it Erin”, Holga’s mother added.

“I prefer to think of as sound stewardship of the reality of adolescence. The farthest away from that I will deviate is to entertain the idea that its sound prevention.

'Besides, how do we know if the natural way is for them to imprint on each other’s emotions when they are young, resilient, free bad cultural choices, both from us and what society thinks should happen.

'It works for the Amish, it can work for us.”

“Holga!, her mother called out lightly to her from across the house. Illian that boy from the community gatherings that you ….”

Holga’s face grew flush with embarrassment and bashfulness as her mother spoke.

Her mother found her demeiner adorable. And Erin found it endearing, and felt that this girl was the right one, and would be a good influence on her son, if just in the shorter long term.

“Holga’s mother was still specking on the border of lecturing,… have been hanging out with. His mother has invited you to come over and be a study partner with her some Illian.”

The largest smile came across Holga’s face. She showed her white teeth as her grin extended.

“I’ll expect that your room will be clean for your guest to visit you here where you can concentrate without too many distractions.

‘I want everything in order, in your room before you can visit at someone else’s”

Holga bolted to go clean her room chanting, “Illian Illian…” Merrily as she skipped off to her conditional chore.

Holga’s mother turned back to Erin and said politely, “And I think we have a winner.

She paused: She couldn’t avoid pondering between thoughts… It will take her about four days to get her room in order. That will give you enough time to get Illian the reversible vasectomy you mentioned.” She made a point to mention it again so that it was clear that it was part of the arrangement.

Holga was in the middle of organizing her collections of bugs, coins, rare rubber stamps with her father’s critical supervision keeping her on task; and organizing each board game icon aback into the correct box, some of which she also refurbish with a product similar to transparent duct tape borrowed from the family medicine cabinet.

Illian walked with his father into the appointment at the sperm bank, to give up one more sample. The sperm bank would hold the material for him in-case his vasectomy failed to be reversible, or if he needed it in the future for some other personal pro-creative reason; with the idea that the children coming from this batch would be his to raise in his meme as well as the meme of whomever he might choose to fertilize them with.

Going to the bank was much different this time than the last. Everyone was a bit excited.
Illian and his father were stopped several miles away from the Sperm Bank.

A lot of people were already agitated that they were impeded from getting about there business as quickly as usual. A visually impaired woman was being scrutinized with a bit more detail. She was having to provide physical proof of her blindness on the spot. And she was being detained while her doctors office sent documentation confirming the permanence of her condition. Due to the pressure she was nervous and having trouble finding the I.D. card imprinted with her D.N.A. sample. And someone commented into the air like, “Can’t she bring someone with her!”-in a way that was more agitated over the entire situation, than with any individual per say.

“Please state your name”, one clearly agitated policewoman said clearly in a demanding tone that rendered the word please out of any polite request. What Illian and his father heard her say was –STATE YOUR NAME NOW!-

Illian’s father responded with his name and tried to continue, “…and this is.”

“I will ask who the boy is myself”, she insisted as if she was either convinced Illians father would not tell the truth; or she was not taking any liberty to give him a chance to not tell the truth.

Illian felt offended and offered up the answer before she had the chance to ask him directly and separately, leaving the first word ready to be repeated resting silent on her tongue unlaunched. “Illian ….”

She shot them each with biomagnetic needles smaller than those used in modern electric acupuncture.

““Ouch””, they both said reactively within the same meme, only differentiated by the vocal tonality of there respective age differences.

She took blood sample from them both, as the needle stuck in the same spot on both of them individually because it was designed to be magnetized to gravitate to a certain area of the epidermal organ so that the needles could be freely propelled from any angle and not maim accidentally or deliberately.

“They are who they say they are.", Another guard replied as if asked without mention.

And they joined others stopped at the road block getting on a bus and headed to the Sperm Bank.

As the bus traversed through that section of the city it was clear to anyone there that the entire neighborhood had been evacuated surrounding the Bank.

(Troops), Men and women who used sonar to “see” by feeling by ear how sound is absorbed or reflected by surfaces, mostly scow-erred listening for sounds and textures, or changes in distance of objects and surfaces.

“Then are listening for a change in the wind, or in the distance and texture of the way sound is absorbed by a texture.”, Illian’s father softly commented. Illian was like, “I know that. What I don’t know is what the threat is.”

‘Apparently something was attacked here in the future to pass, and formal foreknowledge of it has been established. But we are narrowing down the how. Or taking no chances and blocking out other possible hows’.”

“I bet they are searching for an photonic anomaly that is buried under sound cover” , Illian finished what he was likeing his concept to.

“We must have already been cleared from being evolved in any logical sequence of events that will lead to the action”, his father added.

Another passenger, in his middle age, was like, “Or we’re bait, because one of us gets to have our brain dissected before this normalizes itself”, concluding back to his own thoughts after exclaiming his observation into thee conversation for the entire bus to make something of his interjection.

Illian’s father had an epiphany that rolled with the schema the other rider set as a thought in his mind.

He said it like this, “I just realized we are looking a troops. The bus driver is looking at troops. If any of us are ever taken, the anyone traversing the photonic bounds between now and our memory of now. Will stay away from these points. And try to arrive at the points where we are not seeing troops. And I’ll be they have those covered too from other angles.”

Another women looked up to see if she could see birds above looking down, Here reaction to what she saw was like this, “See all that cloud cover, that is bird repellent. You can bet the edge of those clouds have got robots with light sensors and no light sensitive memory banks, transistors parts or surfaces training down guns on the rim of that repellent”.

Then she was like, “do you think ‘they’(meaning the attackers) went after the meeting hall?”

No one thought of the biobank they were headed too.

Everyone on the bus knew they are possible cameras' that propagators of anti -clone genocide could be watching through them now from the future of their own personal time line.

A feeling that had become familiar to everyone one, and unsettling to the older people who had not grown up under the of this oppressive awareness.

No one thought of the bank they were headed too. The roadways were lines with marching troops, and rooftops, windows, and crevices with snipers.

The heads and guns of the troops were all pointing in different directions even though they marched in lines together. Everyone knew they were blind, or temporarily blind in order to train in this infantry. And their vocal cords were impeded from making any sounds at speeds that keyed up with light via duotones.

Among the troops were men and women who carried pesticides, and others carried tranquilizers. They were clicking down toward the ground, into the bark of trees, on walls, and quite a few of them were combing the ground; shrub by shrub- lawn after lawn systematically letting out a compound that would temporarily or often permanently blind and deafen birds, rats, bees and smaller things that can hear or see.

“They are trying not to just kill the environment to save us from temporal terrorism. They could just kill every living thing. Hell that’s what I’d do. Fuck the environment”, a man said sitting behind the man hired to be sure the bus didn’t go off its computer directed course.

That driver was like, “If I’m a vegetarian for moral reasons, and I kill all the leaf eating insects in my garden because I was too self centered, plan for that in the first place; then what’s to point.” Speaking rhetorically he turned away from the clear path, what you’d call a roadway or corridor, to casually exclamated his thought. He really didn’t need to look at the road.

No one cared to drop in on his responding troll that curved nonsequiter in the minds of the riders into vegetarianism even though the point landing and drifted off the mental page just as comments do on the linear vertical electronic page.

“If they are blind or blinded, what are the lenses for?”, a boy asked who was seated midway between Illian’s father and the two divergent troller’s at the front of the bus.

“Yeah..,’, Illian hesitated to take in half a breadth, physically showing his mental wheels turning while he hesitated to finish his thought for a bit of a second. “… they have them around their eyes?, He finished his statement raising his voice at the end conveying that he was really also asking a question.

The driver, (distracted from his polite habit of sneaking in a palatable rant) was like, “They just have the bigger ones wedged into the two eye sockets. They also have them all around the head. Notice how the helmets’ have non-reflective disks.”

A blind passenger couldn’t resist her turn to troll, and took over on the breath between syllables, “No, I really don’t.”

The driver responded in like, with a pinch more dry humor, “would you like to get off the bus here, and go feel it out for yourself.”

The passenger fantasized about telling all these ‘temporarily able’ folk represented to her in the person of the driver- that infact she did want to stop the bus, have it wait while she felt up the soldiers. Since in her perception most people showed outwardly the disability of impatience if they as strangers to her were impeded by it talking a second or so longer for her to be self sufficient.

She’d been some friends’ one of whom tried this manipulation with the friend who was driving. She recalled that she felt the friend who got left on the side of the road was being a pill, and reactionary.

She had places to be, so she let the infraction slide, and instead was like, “There are this microscopic animals that live in dust that is actually the shit of microscopic insects. Their wings –the wings of the animals-I forget if they are insects too, something else or whatever- but the wings trap light: Just like a photograph does of the images around it.” she concluded having let go of her troll, and putting(or keeping) the conversation on topic.

Subconsciously tapping her brailler for almost everyone to see she continued without letting anyone interrupt her at her breath, “I read online that when the wings are growing back out after being lost for what ever reason the first light they are exposed to creates the coloring. And researchers spent years trying to discover the reason for different colors only to discover that it isn’t genetic. Instead its chemical photonic bonding.”

If the bus had wheels it would be bouncing over rocks and holes that filled the wide passage. With a advent of energy efficient hovering cars, the roadways that were not up dated to supply crystal/ quartz conduction had become cracked, over grown, or just foot worn from all sorts of hoofed, toed, footed, and writhing beast or mechanics: Like paths, corridos, trials, and city roads were before the wheel drive engine.

The bus glided to a stop, and settled in disturbing dust by landing that its arrival had not yet disheveled. The weight of the bus still pushed air causing a dry dusty splash like displacement of loose dirt.

“Alright everyone headed into the sperm bank hold out an arm. You will be cognitive inside but for security reasons you can remember any details. We all know too well that some sound equals light, and light equals time.”

When the blind woman took one hand off her brailler, and the mark of a genetically defective slave was slightly exposed everyone else complied as well.

“I’m used to needles in this arm” she said, with sincerity.

She couldn’t see the exposed mark, until she heard several people wince at the thought it invoked even while partially covered by her sleeve.

She heard them exhale seemingly all at once yet one by one, changing heart rates, and generally comply with earnest. She was an example of why such tight aparently random security was necessary. The alternative was death and/or slavery.

The women were there to help the genetic diversity project by carrying children for a few months until they could be safely nurtured to term artificially-donate eggs – or create a genetically diverse person to raise themselves or with a partnering parent.

The needles came out of their arms having administered solvents to reverse the effects of the anesthetics.

The bus was already rising to glide away.

Illian’s father awoke holding a receipt for the services performed with instructions.

Illian also was holding a letter. That explained that he should not masturbate for at least three days while the micro surgery healed. It also said that they had the name of the surgeon on file, and that his procedure was unique in its ability to be reversible since the procedure is dependant heavily on the surgeons hand dexterity, using another surgeon would have less of a chance of success.

Link to the receptionist: Link to section 23 continued:

[Section 23.~ has 29 more outline bullet points that need to be added. Please continue reading. The story will loop back]