I suddenly found myself, groggy-eyed, in a factory. Either the building was infinite or mirrors have been placed on both ends, for I saw no end, looking either way.
Stumbling to my feet, I pulled myself up. Before me was a conveyor belt. I surveyed around me; workers were sparsely scattered throughout the factory. Perchance that it was an assembly line, but one in which each item travelled a few hundred metres to the next worker. Inefficient design with such limited workers, I mused to myself, although empirically my brain registered that there must be an infinite number of workers, if what I see is any good approximation of the number of workers per unit area.
Unless, of course, mirrors have been placed on both ends. But for some reason my senses and perceptive abilities lagged like that of a good aged computer associated with William Doors. Excuse me. Gates. Man what is wrong with me…
My legs temporarily weakened, and in a reflex arc my arm shot out for the nearest object to support my body, which happened to be the conveyor belt. Lucky for me that it was travelling at a surprisingly low velocity. Adds to the inefficient design, I guess. Inches from my hand was a book titled…Da…Das Kay-pi…Das Kapital. However you pronounce it. Sounded familiar…chess book? No… that was Mine System by Capablanca…wait that’s not right. Shaking my head, I threw the book back on the inefficient conveyor, watching it inch slowly towards infinity. Unless, of course, mirrors have been placed on both ends. Ow my brain hurts.
I awoke again. A group of workers surrounded me. Surprised, I stood up. I was still in the factory. One of the workers came up to me and explained in Russian that I was struck in the head by Michelangelo’s David statue. I nodded, although I stopped to think how I suddenly understood Russian. David Statue?! And I turned. Sure enough, it was there standing, life-sized, on the conveyor belt. But it doesn’t fit…the conveyor is too small. Ahh nothing makes sense. I knew what was going on. Aha! I am dreaming! But I just woke up. Unless mirrors have been placed on both ends. I got up and walked away, leaving the group of Dutch workmen behind in confusion.
I staggered down the corridor towards the mirror. Unless the factory was infinite. I caught up to the David statue, and then Das Kapital, unlike what Xeno told me. Suddenly a worker picked up Das Kapital and started ironing it. Don’t ask me…he just had a clothes iron in his hand and started applying to the cover. A shiver shot up my spine. I love chess books. Suddenly I found myself on top of the worker, furiously strangling him while trying to pry the book from his hands. He would likely have given me seven degree burns with the copper in his hands…I mean iron, had a man not gently nudged me off of the choking worker. The worker, unperturbed, returned to ironing the book. I turned to the man.
“Why hello. It’s nice to have visitors,” the man said. “My name is Charles A. Mosser. The manager Alex Quickling is not here today, so I am in charge. Touring the factory, I see. Do you have any questions?”
I stood up. “Sorry about…err, your worker. But why is he ironing the book?”
“Ahh,” Charles explained. “He’s an avativator.”
“Avati-what?” I questioned, quite confused. “And is this factory infinite?”
Charles shrugged. “I’m not sure. That you’ll have to consult with the creators in the theoretical physics department. A group of Dutch destroyers told me you were knocked out by David?”
What kind of a question was that? But I nodded. I asked Charles, “Why are you here?”
“Why, I’m an avativator. Undeniably the highest rank in this factory, for all the creators do is just stuff silly things onto the conveyor, and while the destroyers are pretty good at negating the creators, they have not yet learned the true art.” Charles declared in an air of pride. “Why don’t you observe them yourself? The rank of each worker is displayed on a badge. I must be off now,” and with that, he produced a clothes iron from his sleeve and walked away. I saw him pick up an idea (don’t ask me. He just saw an idea and picked it up from the conveyor) and iron it in the distance.
I turned back to the man ironing the chess book. Suddenly, it was just not one book he was ironing, but a whole stack. I walked up to inspect it. Titles such as The New Theory of Economics and The Communist Manifesto jumped out at me. The worker, sure enough, had a badge with a big A displayed on it. It appeared to have some sort of a red circle going around it, and the A, also in red, intersected it in several places. Or maybe I was imagining things, for the circle and red ink disappeared upon a second viewing. There was this sadistic flame in his eyes, as he hacked away at the stack in the iron. Then, with a triumphant flick of the wrist, the iron disappeared into his sleeve, and he walked away, leaving me with the stack of books, surprisingly undamaged. I flipped open Das Kapital. Suddenly, it was as if all the interesting economic theories in there were erased and replaced with rubbish. The book was hilarious—absolute nonsense.
I never knew how I realized Das Kapital was not a chess book, but don’t ask me. I continued my stroll. Beside me the group of Dutch destroyers I saw earlier were hacking at the David statue with axes and ice picks. I walked on. Novices, I thought, although it never occurred to me what they might be novices in.
Gradually, I realized that everything was on the conveyors. Uh that made no sense whatsoever. Never mind. But creators would walk by and place something on the conveyor, and then watch as avativators and destroyers came and reduced (and oxidized. Hah. Wait what does that mean again…never mind) whatever noun was placed on the belt. The creator would look at them forlornly with a sad look in his eyes, but do nothing. Other times a group of creators would stare at the avativators and destroyers, shake their heads, and walk away.
Further down the infinite corridor—need I say, give the possibility of feigned infinitude by means of double mirrors at the extremities of this factory—I saw myself. Wait. But I’m standing here…Maybe it was a mirror. I walked closer. But it was me. I ran up to him…or should I say me. But that would be grammatically incorrect (lest of course grammar accounts for such strange incidents). He was wearing the exact same clothes as I was, the same mole on the ear, and…well same everything, with the exception of that badge on his chest that read A. And then I realized that I was wearing the same badge. Strange. Thought I would have noticed that earlier.
I tried talking to me, but I ignored myself (haha see what I did there?). He (or I) walked up to a mirror. Before I can say anything, he produced a…well it wasn’t really an iron, more like a steamroller (don’t ask me. He just took out a steamroller from his sleeves), and rolled it up and down the mirror. Then suddenly he turned and charged at me with the steamroller. He was surprisingly stronger than I am, which is rather strange considering how we have the same genes. I fell over, but he was already running the other way, flaying the weapon around, attacking the very factory itself.
Then finally he stopped. He turned to me and smiled. I stood up angrily. “Are you insane? You have two essays to finish that are due on Monday! (of course I didn’t know that, but seeing how I had two essays to finish, it was a safe assumption) Why are you in this factory anyways?”
He didn’t say anything, but instead swept his hands in an expansive gesture. I turned and looked. The whole factory suddenly looked ridiculous. The destroyers, the creators…my what nonsense are they throwing onto the conveyor. It’s just not right. The avativators are the most awesome. I had to do something…and then I realized I was holding a steamroller (don’t ask me. It was just in my sleeve). I saw the thought of a history and literature essay coming down the conveyor, but a destroyer came and smashed it with a hammer with a banner attached. Haha hammer with a banner attached. They should call it a banhammer. And I realized my twin was gone, and I proceeded, steamrolling down the infinite corridor. There was no mirror on either side.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Logos
He peered over the control console, at the interplanetary equivalent of a radar set. The dots approached slowly. He gritted his teeth, pounding his fist against the screen. They had prepared for everything...except this. Such cowardly tactics he had not counted on. It was terrorism. And yet now they were caught completely by surprise.
"What is it, captain?" Garry asked.
Sergei ground his teeth. "The Americans," he mumbled underneath his breath, if he had actually breathed to say that.
America, that peaceful nation with all its grand talk of peace and liberty. What a joke. America's reign of terror began in 2010, when the president Obama and his whiteshirts completely eliminated the House through violent means. The Communist party of America became the ruling party, and all opposition paid in blood. Obama immediately withdrew America from every single international organization, a prelude to the forced annexation of Canada. With the motto "from pole to pole", he soon had all of North and South America united under the stars and stripes. Meanwhile, the rest of the world watched, terrified and helpless. Any nuclear engagement with America was bound to result in world destruction, and so both sides held back from nuclear warfare, although the stockpiles have long been cut down since the Reykjavik conference of 2009.
Alas, Russia was the only superpower that could withstand the power of the American army and its nuclear arsenal. Sergei smiled at the thought. The 2012 invasion of Britain, a massive amphibious invasion across the Atlantic with half the airforce, navy, just over thirteen hundred divisions of men and backed up by non-nuclear intercontinental ballistic missiles made the Normandy invasion a mere pinprick. All of Europe was eliminated within forty-two weeks. But the Americans knew that the Russia, for the time being, was impenetrable. So they stopped. Where the iron curtain used to be now descended the titanium curtain, cutting the globe into half. America was halfway to world domination. And the great waiting game began.
It became apparent in 2015 that the resources of the Earth can no longer sustain the world. And both Russia and America turned to the same sole orbiting natural satellite of the Earth: the moon. The cold war now also took place on the moon, as the respective countries seized lands and set up defensive barriers guarding their own chunk of moon. If the moon was not instrumental in the trajectory of the Earth's orbit or did not have any important effect on the biological systems of the Earth, it would have likely been blown apart; but as it stands, it remains intact. Space travel to the moon was perfected; shuttles went in armed convoys, and the space equivalent of battleships, frigates, and carriers were created.
But as terrifying as the leadership was, America was divided internally. And in the summer of 2020, seven months ago, the second American Civil War broke out. But they were not going to invade America. Sergei knew that. His nation was a peace-loving one, quite unlike their barbaric adversary, and this civil war can only weaken the Americans, much to the benefit of the Russians. As the Prime Minister Mikhail Talivich said, an invasion while the enemy is sedated is a cowardly tactic. They would wait calmly, supplying the orangeshirts and supporting them in their attack against the tyrant Obama. And with the Americans struggling on Earth, the Russians had a free hand to conquer space. And here they were, inside the Z1 shuttle, bounded for Mars.
The Z1 was a marvel of engineering, but at the same time it was highly experimental. A large carrier-like shuttle, smaller ships and fighters could take off from the large shuttle. Utilizing a combination of nuclear and solar power, it overcame the restrictions of the smaller ships--a lack of fuel. The smaller ships exhaust their main supplies of fuel to leave Earth, rendering them rather unmanoeuvrable in space, travelling in unchangeable velocities until the need to land comes. Whereas the Z1 was free to accelerate and turn. However, no ship of such large proportions has ever been built, and the Z1 is mostly a research craft, armed with only four phasers that mostly function to blast apart obstacles such as asteroids.
For fear of American attacks on the Z1, the shuttle was escorted by a massive convoy in the beginning of its journey. They felt secure seeing the massive fleet around them, but at the same time thought it superfluous; after all, the Americans were way behind in space technology and were too wrapped up in their civil war to deal with Russian conquests. And a few million kilometres away from the moon, the fleet turned back as they had limited fuel. Z1 cruised on towards the boundaries of explored space, where no spacecraft had ever gone before. Sergei was filled with excitement. The Americans may be the first to land a man on the moon, but they will soon have a man on Mars.
Some worries arose a few days ago, when the intelligence reported that the Americans have launched a fleet of nearly a hundred small fighter spacecraft from the moon. But the Russians ignored it. The Americans couldn't possibly intercept Z1, they said. Such small spacecraft couldn't possibly carry enough fuel to do so. But slightly disturbed, Sergei received instructions from Earth to accelerate. They couldn't do it, Sergei thought. Flying to where they were now in tiny crafts was suicide. They would run out of fuel to turn around, and eventually they would run out of oxygen or freeze to death in the desolate vacuum of space.
But now they approach. Sergei watched the dots. They must be travelling at nearly a hundredth the speed of light. He knew what they were going to do. They had no plans of a round-trip flight back to Earth; they were simply going to try and hijack the Z1 and carry on to Mars. It was on the level of the former Japanese kamikaze pilots; they had simply carried as much fuel as they possibly could, and exhausted it completely upon leaving the Earth, travelling as fast as they possibly could, give or take a tiny bit of fuel to finally manoeuvre and land on the Z1.
The radio crackled. "Attention Z1. This is the American fighter space fleet division aleph-null. Open your landing docks, or we'll open fire on the ship." The voice faded out into static. Garry shifted in his chair, staring out into space.
Sergei angrily turned. "Quick. Call for reinforcements," he commanded. Garry nodded and turned to the radio. Two light-minutes they were from the Earth, meaning that every radio message they send, they will only receive a response four minutes later. And Garry spoke. "Help. The Americans are trailing us. We need reinforcements." And he stopped. What hope was there? Two light-minutes from the Earth, nothing could help them. They were essentially stranded on an island empty-handed with a bunch of thugs with assault rifles. They can only run, but they were slowly being caught up. The Z1, while capable of enormous speeds, accelerated with agonizing slowness.
The crew was in a panic. Sergei considered their options. They could comply and open up the docks, whereupon the Americans would board the Z1. Seeing the savages they were, they would have no hope of surviving and will likely be shot by the American phasers. Whereas if they refused, they would likely perish in the Z1, but it would not fall into the hands of the Americans, who would also die in their expired fighter crafts. The decision was not difficult.
"Nobody open the landing dock!" Sergei shouted to the crew. "The Americans will not set foot inside this shuttle!"
Garry bent over the radio. The message finally came. "Our ships will not make it in time. The only weapons we have now are our interplanetary ballistic missiles now. Can you not fend them off with your phasers? The Americans are not to take over the Z1 under any circumstances!"
Sergei and Garry looked at each other. They were vastly outnumbered; only one Russian ship was in the reserve landing dock, an unarmed exploration vessel capable of holding the entire crew. "What about the interplanetary ballistic missiles?" Garry asked.
Sergei shook his head. "Oh those will kill the Americans alright...and completely destroy the Z1."
"But we cannot save the Z1 anyhow," Garry said dejectedly. "Either it is destroyed or the Americans will take it. Unless we escape from the Z1 somehow and have it destroyed..."
Sergei crinkled his brow. That sounded like a good idea. "Yeah...and we can have it destroyed with the missiles." He rubbed his hands together. "Those damn Americans. They may destroy the Z1, but they will go down with it." He turned to the crew. "Everybody into the exploration craft in the reserve landing dock. We are escaping."
Some crewmembers protested, but Sergei stood firmly. "We have no other choice. Go!" This imperious command none of his subordinates dare defied, and everybody hurriedly left the control room.
Sergei glanced at the relativistically adjusted atomic clock aboard the Z1. An hour past midnight in the glorious city of Moscow right now, March 28, 2021. He shook his head. The Z1 will not be around in a few hours. He did some quick figuring. At their current velocities, the Americans will surely catch up in an hour and a half; they cannot escape too early as the aleph-null division will not yet have run out of fuel, and they will likely be shot by the fighters. The plan materialized quickly. They will lock every single door in the ship, and escape via the craft. This will give them enough time to escape as the Americans make their way through the Z1 (as it is more than 200m in length, not to mention all the locked doors impeding their progress). When they will finally make it to the control room, it will be too late. Yes. Sergei rubbed his hands together. The Z1 will not go down in vain. America's largest and most feared kamikaze space crew will be eliminated. And all this will take place in two hours.
He took the radio speaker and spoke the commands confidently. "This is the Z1 captain. In exactly two hours, 0300 time in the capital Moscow, send two missiles on a direct collision course with the Z1. But do not worry. The Z1 will not be filled with Russian lives in two hours."
The reply came in five minutes: "We have received your message. At 0300 time in Moscow, two missiles will be delivered."
Sergei nodded to Garry. Walking over to the control panel, he shut off all lights in the Z1 and deployed smoke bombs in every single corridor--anything to stall the Americans once they make it inside the Z1. He hovered his hand over the big orange button, hesitating, but finally pressed it. The main landing dock opened. Garry still did not believe it, that after all these years of hard work, the Z1 would be destroyed by their own missiles. They quickly made their way to the exploration craft in the reserve dock. There was not much they can do now, but wait.
At three o'clock ante meridiem, the commander-in-charge of the main control station in Moscow pressed the button. The button that will send a signal to the nearest Russian geosynchronous satellite, relaying it to the moon, where the two of the most fearful weapons ever known to man will be launched.
The time was two hours after midnight on the clocks of the Z1, synchronized to the glorious capital of Moscow. The crew all sat in the craft, waiting for Sergei to take off. The numbers on the clock increased, one by one. Sergei sat there, sweaty hands gripping the controls, an emotionless face staring into infinity; and yet inside he was filled with both ecstasy and anger. In an hour. An hour...sixty minutes. Thirty-six hundred seconds. That was how much time the Americans, and the Z1, had yet to exist. He shifted his hand over the engine starter, but then moved it away. It was not yet time. Five more minutes. Then they will take off.
They did not; the Z1 was gone after five minutes, the crew vaporizing with it...
*signal received-- from Z1 to earth--Z1 destroyed at 0305 time in the glorious capital of Moscow*
And nobody will ever know what trick Chronos has played on us this time.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
...and THIS is why daylight saving time sucks. Alas, we can only think what wonderous things Sergei and his crew would have accomplished, had the evil curse of the daylight saving time not come to fruition! Any sentient being with a blood-pumping organ sometimes associated with emotion would come to agree that daylight saving time, that wicked beast, is the very predecessor of every evil there is on this planet! Yet people support it; and this is only because they themselves are possessed by the flames of evil themselves! And so, I appeal to the rational ones among you, the ones with any feeling left in your souls...please! Dispel this pestilence of doom among us!
"What is it, captain?" Garry asked.
Sergei ground his teeth. "The Americans," he mumbled underneath his breath, if he had actually breathed to say that.
America, that peaceful nation with all its grand talk of peace and liberty. What a joke. America's reign of terror began in 2010, when the president Obama and his whiteshirts completely eliminated the House through violent means. The Communist party of America became the ruling party, and all opposition paid in blood. Obama immediately withdrew America from every single international organization, a prelude to the forced annexation of Canada. With the motto "from pole to pole", he soon had all of North and South America united under the stars and stripes. Meanwhile, the rest of the world watched, terrified and helpless. Any nuclear engagement with America was bound to result in world destruction, and so both sides held back from nuclear warfare, although the stockpiles have long been cut down since the Reykjavik conference of 2009.
Alas, Russia was the only superpower that could withstand the power of the American army and its nuclear arsenal. Sergei smiled at the thought. The 2012 invasion of Britain, a massive amphibious invasion across the Atlantic with half the airforce, navy, just over thirteen hundred divisions of men and backed up by non-nuclear intercontinental ballistic missiles made the Normandy invasion a mere pinprick. All of Europe was eliminated within forty-two weeks. But the Americans knew that the Russia, for the time being, was impenetrable. So they stopped. Where the iron curtain used to be now descended the titanium curtain, cutting the globe into half. America was halfway to world domination. And the great waiting game began.
It became apparent in 2015 that the resources of the Earth can no longer sustain the world. And both Russia and America turned to the same sole orbiting natural satellite of the Earth: the moon. The cold war now also took place on the moon, as the respective countries seized lands and set up defensive barriers guarding their own chunk of moon. If the moon was not instrumental in the trajectory of the Earth's orbit or did not have any important effect on the biological systems of the Earth, it would have likely been blown apart; but as it stands, it remains intact. Space travel to the moon was perfected; shuttles went in armed convoys, and the space equivalent of battleships, frigates, and carriers were created.
But as terrifying as the leadership was, America was divided internally. And in the summer of 2020, seven months ago, the second American Civil War broke out. But they were not going to invade America. Sergei knew that. His nation was a peace-loving one, quite unlike their barbaric adversary, and this civil war can only weaken the Americans, much to the benefit of the Russians. As the Prime Minister Mikhail Talivich said, an invasion while the enemy is sedated is a cowardly tactic. They would wait calmly, supplying the orangeshirts and supporting them in their attack against the tyrant Obama. And with the Americans struggling on Earth, the Russians had a free hand to conquer space. And here they were, inside the Z1 shuttle, bounded for Mars.
The Z1 was a marvel of engineering, but at the same time it was highly experimental. A large carrier-like shuttle, smaller ships and fighters could take off from the large shuttle. Utilizing a combination of nuclear and solar power, it overcame the restrictions of the smaller ships--a lack of fuel. The smaller ships exhaust their main supplies of fuel to leave Earth, rendering them rather unmanoeuvrable in space, travelling in unchangeable velocities until the need to land comes. Whereas the Z1 was free to accelerate and turn. However, no ship of such large proportions has ever been built, and the Z1 is mostly a research craft, armed with only four phasers that mostly function to blast apart obstacles such as asteroids.
For fear of American attacks on the Z1, the shuttle was escorted by a massive convoy in the beginning of its journey. They felt secure seeing the massive fleet around them, but at the same time thought it superfluous; after all, the Americans were way behind in space technology and were too wrapped up in their civil war to deal with Russian conquests. And a few million kilometres away from the moon, the fleet turned back as they had limited fuel. Z1 cruised on towards the boundaries of explored space, where no spacecraft had ever gone before. Sergei was filled with excitement. The Americans may be the first to land a man on the moon, but they will soon have a man on Mars.
Some worries arose a few days ago, when the intelligence reported that the Americans have launched a fleet of nearly a hundred small fighter spacecraft from the moon. But the Russians ignored it. The Americans couldn't possibly intercept Z1, they said. Such small spacecraft couldn't possibly carry enough fuel to do so. But slightly disturbed, Sergei received instructions from Earth to accelerate. They couldn't do it, Sergei thought. Flying to where they were now in tiny crafts was suicide. They would run out of fuel to turn around, and eventually they would run out of oxygen or freeze to death in the desolate vacuum of space.
But now they approach. Sergei watched the dots. They must be travelling at nearly a hundredth the speed of light. He knew what they were going to do. They had no plans of a round-trip flight back to Earth; they were simply going to try and hijack the Z1 and carry on to Mars. It was on the level of the former Japanese kamikaze pilots; they had simply carried as much fuel as they possibly could, and exhausted it completely upon leaving the Earth, travelling as fast as they possibly could, give or take a tiny bit of fuel to finally manoeuvre and land on the Z1.
The radio crackled. "Attention Z1. This is the American fighter space fleet division aleph-null. Open your landing docks, or we'll open fire on the ship." The voice faded out into static. Garry shifted in his chair, staring out into space.
Sergei angrily turned. "Quick. Call for reinforcements," he commanded. Garry nodded and turned to the radio. Two light-minutes they were from the Earth, meaning that every radio message they send, they will only receive a response four minutes later. And Garry spoke. "Help. The Americans are trailing us. We need reinforcements." And he stopped. What hope was there? Two light-minutes from the Earth, nothing could help them. They were essentially stranded on an island empty-handed with a bunch of thugs with assault rifles. They can only run, but they were slowly being caught up. The Z1, while capable of enormous speeds, accelerated with agonizing slowness.
The crew was in a panic. Sergei considered their options. They could comply and open up the docks, whereupon the Americans would board the Z1. Seeing the savages they were, they would have no hope of surviving and will likely be shot by the American phasers. Whereas if they refused, they would likely perish in the Z1, but it would not fall into the hands of the Americans, who would also die in their expired fighter crafts. The decision was not difficult.
"Nobody open the landing dock!" Sergei shouted to the crew. "The Americans will not set foot inside this shuttle!"
Garry bent over the radio. The message finally came. "Our ships will not make it in time. The only weapons we have now are our interplanetary ballistic missiles now. Can you not fend them off with your phasers? The Americans are not to take over the Z1 under any circumstances!"
Sergei and Garry looked at each other. They were vastly outnumbered; only one Russian ship was in the reserve landing dock, an unarmed exploration vessel capable of holding the entire crew. "What about the interplanetary ballistic missiles?" Garry asked.
Sergei shook his head. "Oh those will kill the Americans alright...and completely destroy the Z1."
"But we cannot save the Z1 anyhow," Garry said dejectedly. "Either it is destroyed or the Americans will take it. Unless we escape from the Z1 somehow and have it destroyed..."
Sergei crinkled his brow. That sounded like a good idea. "Yeah...and we can have it destroyed with the missiles." He rubbed his hands together. "Those damn Americans. They may destroy the Z1, but they will go down with it." He turned to the crew. "Everybody into the exploration craft in the reserve landing dock. We are escaping."
Some crewmembers protested, but Sergei stood firmly. "We have no other choice. Go!" This imperious command none of his subordinates dare defied, and everybody hurriedly left the control room.
Sergei glanced at the relativistically adjusted atomic clock aboard the Z1. An hour past midnight in the glorious city of Moscow right now, March 28, 2021. He shook his head. The Z1 will not be around in a few hours. He did some quick figuring. At their current velocities, the Americans will surely catch up in an hour and a half; they cannot escape too early as the aleph-null division will not yet have run out of fuel, and they will likely be shot by the fighters. The plan materialized quickly. They will lock every single door in the ship, and escape via the craft. This will give them enough time to escape as the Americans make their way through the Z1 (as it is more than 200m in length, not to mention all the locked doors impeding their progress). When they will finally make it to the control room, it will be too late. Yes. Sergei rubbed his hands together. The Z1 will not go down in vain. America's largest and most feared kamikaze space crew will be eliminated. And all this will take place in two hours.
He took the radio speaker and spoke the commands confidently. "This is the Z1 captain. In exactly two hours, 0300 time in the capital Moscow, send two missiles on a direct collision course with the Z1. But do not worry. The Z1 will not be filled with Russian lives in two hours."
The reply came in five minutes: "We have received your message. At 0300 time in Moscow, two missiles will be delivered."
Sergei nodded to Garry. Walking over to the control panel, he shut off all lights in the Z1 and deployed smoke bombs in every single corridor--anything to stall the Americans once they make it inside the Z1. He hovered his hand over the big orange button, hesitating, but finally pressed it. The main landing dock opened. Garry still did not believe it, that after all these years of hard work, the Z1 would be destroyed by their own missiles. They quickly made their way to the exploration craft in the reserve dock. There was not much they can do now, but wait.
At three o'clock ante meridiem, the commander-in-charge of the main control station in Moscow pressed the button. The button that will send a signal to the nearest Russian geosynchronous satellite, relaying it to the moon, where the two of the most fearful weapons ever known to man will be launched.
The time was two hours after midnight on the clocks of the Z1, synchronized to the glorious capital of Moscow. The crew all sat in the craft, waiting for Sergei to take off. The numbers on the clock increased, one by one. Sergei sat there, sweaty hands gripping the controls, an emotionless face staring into infinity; and yet inside he was filled with both ecstasy and anger. In an hour. An hour...sixty minutes. Thirty-six hundred seconds. That was how much time the Americans, and the Z1, had yet to exist. He shifted his hand over the engine starter, but then moved it away. It was not yet time. Five more minutes. Then they will take off.
They did not; the Z1 was gone after five minutes, the crew vaporizing with it...
*signal received-- from Z1 to earth--Z1 destroyed at 0305 time in the glorious capital of Moscow*
And nobody will ever know what trick Chronos has played on us this time.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
...and THIS is why daylight saving time sucks. Alas, we can only think what wonderous things Sergei and his crew would have accomplished, had the evil curse of the daylight saving time not come to fruition! Any sentient being with a blood-pumping organ sometimes associated with emotion would come to agree that daylight saving time, that wicked beast, is the very predecessor of every evil there is on this planet! Yet people support it; and this is only because they themselves are possessed by the flames of evil themselves! And so, I appeal to the rational ones among you, the ones with any feeling left in your souls...please! Dispel this pestilence of doom among us!
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Pathos and Ethos
The tundra seemed infinite, and the visibility was impaired by a light, haze-like snowfall.
I saw troops and various machinations of war all about me. Climbing atop a small hill, I noticed that a considerable portion of the visible forces was united under a white banner. They paraded about, and, in this very act, they seemed to radiate a whitish light, as if they were attracting those other forces in the area. The other army, of similar vastness but differing in design, was considered to be its rival (although perhaps this conception only held true as a self-fulfilling prophecy), and was thus compelled to perform similar maneuvers at some distance under its red banner. I found the marching tune of the whites, whose camp I was more or less in the middle of, rather disturbing. It was not motivational or intimidating. It resembled something more like propaganda to be announced over loudspeaker. Phrases such as “a human life is a human life,” “murder is wrong,” and “714 weeks is life” were repeated in what was by any means an eerie voice. I asked a soldier nearby (one without a banner, all of the whites were busy parading), he simply looked at me strangely and then reverted his attention to watching the parade. I could not even find the source of the sound; there were no speakers of any sort. I left the whites and approached the reds. As the sound of the whites’ parade and the eerie voice gradually let out, I began to hear something similar from the reds. “We must respect individuals’ rights to their own bodies,” “it’s a mother’s choice,” “freeeedoooommmm.” Not that I had any means of quantifying them, but the eerie sounds of the whites and reds seemed to be centered at the heart of their parading, and seemed to decrease in volume as I moved away (or increase as I approached, in the case of the reds). In fact, it seemed that there was an entire aura to the affair, a combination of the voices, the radiant light, and what seemed to me more or less the effect of an intoxicating drug. To the soldiers, the showing of the red force had a similar effect as the whites’ did: the conglomerate of red forces seemed to draw some of the surrounding forces under its banner. Most of the groups not already red or white were resilient, however, either forming their own groups or refusing to be colored altogether. Interestingly, most of the alternate groups were merely shades of pink. It did not seem that they were partially convinced or partway between the two banners; the troops that had a hard time deciding, and there were plenty, often switched rapidly between banners before choosing one. No, the pinks, as was the case with the few other present colors (such as blue and green), had a different attitude altogether. They seemed to find that their ideal state was a combination of the reds’ and whites’ qualities. Their technique of battle was a combination of qualities from both. The blues, whom I only spared a glance (by now, I wasn’t particularly optimistic), had founded a completely different technique of combat. The armies seemed to gain in ranks from their showings of power through battle or parade, but such demonstrations were limited in their effect on troops who already loyally belonged to a faction (as they were firm in their belief in the red or white school of warfare).
However, gathering up the courage, I inspected closer. Upon this inspection, the differences between the reds and whites turned out to be much smaller in practice than they appeared to be, and in fact they only seemed to distinguish between the particular manners in which the army was ineffective. The white army's vehicles had wheels without any sort of tires (rather, they had metal ridges), while the red vehicles were large and operated on three mechanized legs. The reds considered their vehicles large and menacing and the whites' small and harmless, while the whites considered the reds' vehicles inefficient and easy targets while their own small and difficult to strike. The blues, similarly, could only be seen on unarmored horses.
At the break of battle, which was more of a continuous state of warfare than actual individual battles, it became apparent that the weapons of the troops were all identical in function, however different they may have appeared. While the vehicles and other machinations still managed to find distinct ways to fail spectacularly, the only differences between the weapons seemed to be their appearance. Merriam machine guns versed Harper machine guns and Webster howitzers versed Collins howitzers. Perhaps some were more effective; it was difficult to tell. I discovered adhominium powder, which powered almost all of the projectile weapons on all sides.
There was a special band of uncolored forces that did not fly any banner. They were not like the rest of the uncolored. They were not undecided, but rather decided in their abstention. There were no Webster howitzers or adhominium-powered guns to be seen amongst them. They did not have any means of war, in fact. Weapons had no effect on them, nor did they seem to particularly care about the potential of this seemingly amazing ability they had. They seemed almost detached and transcendental. They wandered about and often made strange noises at troops of various banners. But these noises were not battle cries or calls of orders to soldiers. These noises made didn’t seem to have any purpose in intimidation or military tactic. I slowly considered this in my mind; it seemed as if I was missing something. It was only at this point that I realized that I had forgotten language and communication altogether. It had been such an easy process, sliding into this world, that I had not even noticed. In a rush, I remembered everything. Language, logic, reason. I saw the bewildered troops around me, still in the state I had been seconds earlier. They stood bewildered at what these uncolored people could possibly be doing, making these noises with their mouths, and of course already in awe having learned, in practice, that their weapons have no effect on them.
And at this point, the true nature of this world became apparent to me. It was clear that the troops hadn’t the slightest common sense. They were caught up in their banners, armies, and those eerily voiced beliefs that they saw nothing else. The uncolored ones tried to communicate rationally, rather than fight, but it was a lost cause. And even within their intent, they were horrid at judging the best method of warfare. They saw no actual communication of reason; the only important thing was… Well, what was it? Did they value their military might more, or their banner more? Did the banner just symbolize the military might? What was with those eerie voices anyway; could the soldiers even understand them?
I awoke to the slam of a heavy textbook on my desk. I wearily looked around the classroom and gradually the sound of conversation (strangely loud) overcame my ears. I scowled at the student next to me who had felt the need to ensure that I remained attentive. The memories of my dream were gradually replaced by those of what I was doing prior to sleep. Everyone was adorned in either red, white, or pink t-shirts; it was one of those “breast cancer awareness day” things that schools do (of course, there were some students who had forgotten, and they had been forced to wear an embarrassing grey smock over their shirt in class). What were we discussing again? Ah, right, abortion. Well, I wasn’t the only one not participating. There were only a handful of debaters on both sides of the argument, together about half the class. As I listened to them argue, I noticed that they were really only repeating the same things over and over. I probably hadn’t missed much. The one side’s argument was that killing any human being was always wrong no matter what (amongst various other and less secular claims), while the other seemed to repeatedly make some variation of an appeal to individual liberty and rights to one’s body. Of course, now being awake, I was then a target of some members of both sides. Both attempted to turn me to their cause with talk of rights and freedoms or of moral righteousness. Although they were at first surprised that these appeals did not move me in the slightest, they eventually desisted and left me be. I asked one of the more vigilant debaters nearer to me a few questions. “What is so special about a human life?” Rather than try to introspect and actually determine what, intuitively, is to be valued in a human life (for, clearly, we value human lives very much, but we never stop to question whether it is purely because it is a human life or because of what a human life entails), he simply gave me a weird look, muttered something under his breath, and returned to his verbal foray with someone diagonally across the room. It did not seem that anyone was up for any real consideration of the question at hand, so I returned to my doze.
It seemed for a moment that the reds and whites were actually diminishing in strength due to their constant warfare. After quite a while, they weren’t much smaller (the forces seemed infinite, nor did any direction on the horizon reveal anything other than more distant combatants), but they were spent. During a lull in the combat, I paid more attention to the individual details. The troops did not seem to be any different in demeanor or stature, but the aftermaths of the combat was apparent in the holes in their uniforms and the damage to their equipment. Some of the banners were tainted slightly, too. However, despite this, and the battle had been raging for quite some time without much variance in tactics or intensity, the combatants paraded with the same amount of vigor, tattered uniforms and equipment or not. The radiating light was no less intense, but of a slightly darker shade. The continuous voice had not changed in the slightest. Suddenly, all movement ceased, all weapon fire and parading stopped. For a second, only the voice hung in the air, with no other movement or sound.
This time, the bell awoke me. The vigilant debaters ceased in their combat at the sound. With parting glares, they collected their materials and joined the other half or so of the class (who were already partway to the door) in leaving the room. For whatever reason, I seemed to look at them in a worse light than I had before. It did not seem that a single one of them had shifted so much as a concession on their beliefs. They still held their beliefs strong, but only departed with hatred and a pugnacious air about them.
I saw troops and various machinations of war all about me. Climbing atop a small hill, I noticed that a considerable portion of the visible forces was united under a white banner. They paraded about, and, in this very act, they seemed to radiate a whitish light, as if they were attracting those other forces in the area. The other army, of similar vastness but differing in design, was considered to be its rival (although perhaps this conception only held true as a self-fulfilling prophecy), and was thus compelled to perform similar maneuvers at some distance under its red banner. I found the marching tune of the whites, whose camp I was more or less in the middle of, rather disturbing. It was not motivational or intimidating. It resembled something more like propaganda to be announced over loudspeaker. Phrases such as “a human life is a human life,” “murder is wrong,” and “714 weeks is life” were repeated in what was by any means an eerie voice. I asked a soldier nearby (one without a banner, all of the whites were busy parading), he simply looked at me strangely and then reverted his attention to watching the parade. I could not even find the source of the sound; there were no speakers of any sort. I left the whites and approached the reds. As the sound of the whites’ parade and the eerie voice gradually let out, I began to hear something similar from the reds. “We must respect individuals’ rights to their own bodies,” “it’s a mother’s choice,” “freeeedoooommmm.” Not that I had any means of quantifying them, but the eerie sounds of the whites and reds seemed to be centered at the heart of their parading, and seemed to decrease in volume as I moved away (or increase as I approached, in the case of the reds). In fact, it seemed that there was an entire aura to the affair, a combination of the voices, the radiant light, and what seemed to me more or less the effect of an intoxicating drug. To the soldiers, the showing of the red force had a similar effect as the whites’ did: the conglomerate of red forces seemed to draw some of the surrounding forces under its banner. Most of the groups not already red or white were resilient, however, either forming their own groups or refusing to be colored altogether. Interestingly, most of the alternate groups were merely shades of pink. It did not seem that they were partially convinced or partway between the two banners; the troops that had a hard time deciding, and there were plenty, often switched rapidly between banners before choosing one. No, the pinks, as was the case with the few other present colors (such as blue and green), had a different attitude altogether. They seemed to find that their ideal state was a combination of the reds’ and whites’ qualities. Their technique of battle was a combination of qualities from both. The blues, whom I only spared a glance (by now, I wasn’t particularly optimistic), had founded a completely different technique of combat. The armies seemed to gain in ranks from their showings of power through battle or parade, but such demonstrations were limited in their effect on troops who already loyally belonged to a faction (as they were firm in their belief in the red or white school of warfare).
However, gathering up the courage, I inspected closer. Upon this inspection, the differences between the reds and whites turned out to be much smaller in practice than they appeared to be, and in fact they only seemed to distinguish between the particular manners in which the army was ineffective. The white army's vehicles had wheels without any sort of tires (rather, they had metal ridges), while the red vehicles were large and operated on three mechanized legs. The reds considered their vehicles large and menacing and the whites' small and harmless, while the whites considered the reds' vehicles inefficient and easy targets while their own small and difficult to strike. The blues, similarly, could only be seen on unarmored horses.
At the break of battle, which was more of a continuous state of warfare than actual individual battles, it became apparent that the weapons of the troops were all identical in function, however different they may have appeared. While the vehicles and other machinations still managed to find distinct ways to fail spectacularly, the only differences between the weapons seemed to be their appearance. Merriam machine guns versed Harper machine guns and Webster howitzers versed Collins howitzers. Perhaps some were more effective; it was difficult to tell. I discovered adhominium powder, which powered almost all of the projectile weapons on all sides.
There was a special band of uncolored forces that did not fly any banner. They were not like the rest of the uncolored. They were not undecided, but rather decided in their abstention. There were no Webster howitzers or adhominium-powered guns to be seen amongst them. They did not have any means of war, in fact. Weapons had no effect on them, nor did they seem to particularly care about the potential of this seemingly amazing ability they had. They seemed almost detached and transcendental. They wandered about and often made strange noises at troops of various banners. But these noises were not battle cries or calls of orders to soldiers. These noises made didn’t seem to have any purpose in intimidation or military tactic. I slowly considered this in my mind; it seemed as if I was missing something. It was only at this point that I realized that I had forgotten language and communication altogether. It had been such an easy process, sliding into this world, that I had not even noticed. In a rush, I remembered everything. Language, logic, reason. I saw the bewildered troops around me, still in the state I had been seconds earlier. They stood bewildered at what these uncolored people could possibly be doing, making these noises with their mouths, and of course already in awe having learned, in practice, that their weapons have no effect on them.
And at this point, the true nature of this world became apparent to me. It was clear that the troops hadn’t the slightest common sense. They were caught up in their banners, armies, and those eerily voiced beliefs that they saw nothing else. The uncolored ones tried to communicate rationally, rather than fight, but it was a lost cause. And even within their intent, they were horrid at judging the best method of warfare. They saw no actual communication of reason; the only important thing was… Well, what was it? Did they value their military might more, or their banner more? Did the banner just symbolize the military might? What was with those eerie voices anyway; could the soldiers even understand them?
I awoke to the slam of a heavy textbook on my desk. I wearily looked around the classroom and gradually the sound of conversation (strangely loud) overcame my ears. I scowled at the student next to me who had felt the need to ensure that I remained attentive. The memories of my dream were gradually replaced by those of what I was doing prior to sleep. Everyone was adorned in either red, white, or pink t-shirts; it was one of those “breast cancer awareness day” things that schools do (of course, there were some students who had forgotten, and they had been forced to wear an embarrassing grey smock over their shirt in class). What were we discussing again? Ah, right, abortion. Well, I wasn’t the only one not participating. There were only a handful of debaters on both sides of the argument, together about half the class. As I listened to them argue, I noticed that they were really only repeating the same things over and over. I probably hadn’t missed much. The one side’s argument was that killing any human being was always wrong no matter what (amongst various other and less secular claims), while the other seemed to repeatedly make some variation of an appeal to individual liberty and rights to one’s body. Of course, now being awake, I was then a target of some members of both sides. Both attempted to turn me to their cause with talk of rights and freedoms or of moral righteousness. Although they were at first surprised that these appeals did not move me in the slightest, they eventually desisted and left me be. I asked one of the more vigilant debaters nearer to me a few questions. “What is so special about a human life?” Rather than try to introspect and actually determine what, intuitively, is to be valued in a human life (for, clearly, we value human lives very much, but we never stop to question whether it is purely because it is a human life or because of what a human life entails), he simply gave me a weird look, muttered something under his breath, and returned to his verbal foray with someone diagonally across the room. It did not seem that anyone was up for any real consideration of the question at hand, so I returned to my doze.
It seemed for a moment that the reds and whites were actually diminishing in strength due to their constant warfare. After quite a while, they weren’t much smaller (the forces seemed infinite, nor did any direction on the horizon reveal anything other than more distant combatants), but they were spent. During a lull in the combat, I paid more attention to the individual details. The troops did not seem to be any different in demeanor or stature, but the aftermaths of the combat was apparent in the holes in their uniforms and the damage to their equipment. Some of the banners were tainted slightly, too. However, despite this, and the battle had been raging for quite some time without much variance in tactics or intensity, the combatants paraded with the same amount of vigor, tattered uniforms and equipment or not. The radiating light was no less intense, but of a slightly darker shade. The continuous voice had not changed in the slightest. Suddenly, all movement ceased, all weapon fire and parading stopped. For a second, only the voice hung in the air, with no other movement or sound.
This time, the bell awoke me. The vigilant debaters ceased in their combat at the sound. With parting glares, they collected their materials and joined the other half or so of the class (who were already partway to the door) in leaving the room. For whatever reason, I seemed to look at them in a worse light than I had before. It did not seem that a single one of them had shifted so much as a concession on their beliefs. They still held their beliefs strong, but only departed with hatred and a pugnacious air about them.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
The End of the Pax Februaria
The firestorm of chaos begins, and the first wave struck today. Sadly, this reflection was meant for brilliant things, but yet the thoughts themselves fled, terrified at the prospect of being caught and pinned to binary digits, forever wandering the infinity of the interwebs.
Alas. Terrible things come not in embers nor legions, but in firestorms of fluorine.
Lab. Ah, the sleepless, terrible... Lab. Surrender...I commandeer this computer is the name of... struggle. Struggle. STRUGGLE... ... Push! Shove! Cursed thumb drive--¶
Paragraph markers?! Son of a pilcrow...¶ Another one! The rush...cries of "Mayday!" Fumbling. The orphanage overflowing...The firmament overcasting.
Crazed. Deranged. Meta meta meta meta...sleep. Sleep. SLEEP. Murder, assassin...the cookies falling...Maelstrom! pull up...pull up.
Waterloo, Stalingrad... Kepler! Charge!! The ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk... synthesis failing. Kamikaze quad radicals, sparking radios. Struggle. Struggle¶ What's this?! Treason!
Lab. Lab. LAB! Blah. Ah, the sleepless, terrible... Lab. Surrender...I commandeer this computer is the name of...Wait I said this. Sorry. Comic relief. Comic relief. Relief. BE RELIEVED!
Irony, wit, humour...LAUGH. LAUGH, wretch! Oxalic molar rush split hack chiesel...Allemandes! Allemandes! Go on my comrade...charge with your double permium! Crack... Russian soldier charges for rifle... My buret...mine! Fall fail flail but no avail. Titrate or die! White. White. Pink. RED?! Onomatopoeia, onomatopoeia, cacophablargh!
Four or three? Drip! Drip! dripping, falling...incendiary flames of doom. Hyperbola! Tick. tick. dirty wares of glass...
Tears. Relief? Survival. Survival. I will survive! Humour. Reference. It's funny. LAUGH, wretch.
Wait I said this. Sorry. Wait I said this. Sorry. Wait I said this. Sorry. Meta meta meta meta meta...
*hugs*
Lab. Cruel...fateful words, sealed up in ink... Extension, but alas! Fools...buffoons. Rigoletto! Interruption in chronology. Resume. Music. Subsets. the decaying ions...leaving. leavening?! leaving. silence. silence.
¶¶¶¶¶
Firestorms of flourine.
Alas. Terrible things come not in embers nor legions, but in firestorms of fluorine.
Lab. Ah, the sleepless, terrible... Lab. Surrender...I commandeer this computer is the name of... struggle. Struggle. STRUGGLE... ... Push! Shove! Cursed thumb drive--¶
Paragraph markers?! Son of a pilcrow...¶ Another one! The rush...cries of "Mayday!" Fumbling. The orphanage overflowing...The firmament overcasting.
Crazed. Deranged. Meta meta meta meta...sleep. Sleep. SLEEP. Murder, assassin...the cookies falling...Maelstrom! pull up...pull up.
Waterloo, Stalingrad... Kepler! Charge!! The ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk... synthesis failing. Kamikaze quad radicals, sparking radios. Struggle. Struggle¶ What's this?! Treason!
Lab. Lab. LAB! Blah. Ah, the sleepless, terrible... Lab. Surrender...I commandeer this computer is the name of...Wait I said this. Sorry. Comic relief. Comic relief. Relief. BE RELIEVED!
Irony, wit, humour...LAUGH. LAUGH, wretch! Oxalic molar rush split hack chiesel...Allemandes! Allemandes! Go on my comrade...charge with your double permium! Crack... Russian soldier charges for rifle... My buret...mine! Fall fail flail but no avail. Titrate or die! White. White. Pink. RED?! Onomatopoeia, onomatopoeia, cacophablargh!
Four or three? Drip! Drip! dripping, falling...incendiary flames of doom. Hyperbola! Tick. tick. dirty wares of glass...
Tears. Relief? Survival. Survival. I will survive! Humour. Reference. It's funny. LAUGH, wretch.
Wait I said this. Sorry. Wait I said this. Sorry. Wait I said this. Sorry. Meta meta meta meta meta...
*hugs*
Lab. Cruel...fateful words, sealed up in ink... Extension, but alas! Fools...buffoons. Rigoletto! Interruption in chronology. Resume. Music. Subsets. the decaying ions...leaving. leavening?! leaving. silence. silence.
¶¶¶¶¶
Firestorms of flourine.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Coming to Terms
Today, I came to terms with sunlight, lab reports, geometry sets, and electromagnetism.
I never really liked sunlight. In Florida, it was the general state of the weather, and things like overcast and rain were welcome rarities. Overcast meant that the sun wasn't in my eyes, and rain meant that I'd be able to cool off a little. Similarly, having been raised until seven in Chicago, gray and fog were more nostalgic and reminiscent than irritating. So although the sun was generally a welcome thing in Chicago, the sort of affinity that people have for the sun did not stick with me long after I left.
I never really liked the physics of electromagnetism. It was always some sort of weird force that couldn't be understood in the same, fundamental, way that kinematics could be understood. Things like equal opposite reactions, mass times gravity, friction, and whatnot make sense. Magnets and electricity do not. It's not that I didn't read those children's books and sit through science courses about it, it's just that those sorts of explanations and understandings never rang through for me in the way that solid, tangible things like kinematics do.
I probably don't have to say much about my history regarding lab reports.
First of all, part of my peace with lab reports comes from today being the first day I was completely finished with my report when I woke up in the morning. I felt insanely good about it, a sort of exuberant and radiating joy. Upon the ringing of my alarm, I bolted out of bed, ready to face the clichéd day. And that was quite a feat, given that I slept about four hours total the previous night and afternoon (power nap).
Secondly, my love of geometry sets today started with the Fermat test. They didn't give the diagram to scale, so I made my own.
However, the main period of time that is responsible for my accordance with the aforementioned lab reports, sunlight, geometry sets, and electromagnetism, was after school. The thought of the sun was forefront on my mind as I walked back with the damn thing in my eye. I had the drawings for a certain physics lab to finish. I probably would not have if Karlming had not been there, for I had little idea what the drawings were supposed to be anyway. He was nice enough to help me out by describing just what the drawings had to be of.
Now, these were perhaps the most fun lab drawings I have ever done. I had something beyond just a perfectionist attitude towards the drawings - it was something more like my process in making an n level. It wasn't perfectionist at all in that I allowed some errors to go without white out or erasing. It still had to be good, but I also obsessively followed any whim that came to mind for the sake of it. I drew a top down view of the CRT with the magnet near it, with much help from my geometry set. The idea was to make a single elaborate drawing so that I could afford to make the four drawings of the deflections with varying magnetic field strengths a bit more simplistic. I had spent enough time on it, especially the lines of the magnetic field (which had to be done by hand without aid of any tool), that I did not want to repeat it on the next page for the solenoid acting on the CRT. I especially cannot draw things twice. It is a curse placed upon me, that if I should draw something, the heavens inevitably feel that I never shall again. And, indeed, the solenoid drawing was in most any effect the same, with a coil instead of a bar magnet. The magnetic field lines would not differ. I wished that I had some way of tracing it, alike to those lighted surfaces that paper can be placed upon and permeated by light. Woe, even a makeshift solution to the problem was not supplied, though it would have taken but the smallest twist of fate to do so. Even 'twas denied me.
Then I remembered the sun, that old dog, and the glassed front door. In that instant of epiphany, it was the most perfect tracing pad conceivable. The sun had been my most despicable foe for the past years, and these minutes of tracing upon the door were a reacquaintance with the old friend behind the heartless, merciless waves of radiation. In meeting with that friend again, and seeing the good in such a despised enemy, I in a rush regretted all the time I had focused my hatred so. It had been my madness that led me to such a rash aversion, with little regard or consideration.
Enlightened in a sense, or at least in increased consciousness, I set about continuing my drawings. In this new world vision, I was considerate of the good in all things around me. I even saw application to my current task in them; a loonie and two varyingly sized cups proved excellent for drawing circles about the magnet field. Perhaps by a by-product of my then-current state, the natures of electric and magnetic forces seemed to make themselves clearer to me. In the least, it was a step towards the level of familiarity I hold regarding the more tangible kinematics.
Without further event, I completed the drawings. My geometry set, having consisted of the various gallant machinations necessary for the work, was crippled. Little remained of its former glory, and I mourned its loss, but I knew not to linger overly on such an inevitable passing. As surely as the seasons change, the noblest of souls in all planes of existence must do their duty and accept the possibility of an untimely demise as undeniable side effect of their heroism.
This was a lesson I should have actually learned from the last lab: that doing physics labs is actually quite fun and should not be hurried by tardiness. But while I blundered in a sense this time too, it did not end at all badly. In the end, it is clear that while I had once thought that the fates had conspired against me, they had rather brought several adverse circumstances together for a greater good.
I never really liked sunlight. In Florida, it was the general state of the weather, and things like overcast and rain were welcome rarities. Overcast meant that the sun wasn't in my eyes, and rain meant that I'd be able to cool off a little. Similarly, having been raised until seven in Chicago, gray and fog were more nostalgic and reminiscent than irritating. So although the sun was generally a welcome thing in Chicago, the sort of affinity that people have for the sun did not stick with me long after I left.
I never really liked the physics of electromagnetism. It was always some sort of weird force that couldn't be understood in the same, fundamental, way that kinematics could be understood. Things like equal opposite reactions, mass times gravity, friction, and whatnot make sense. Magnets and electricity do not. It's not that I didn't read those children's books and sit through science courses about it, it's just that those sorts of explanations and understandings never rang through for me in the way that solid, tangible things like kinematics do.
I probably don't have to say much about my history regarding lab reports.
First of all, part of my peace with lab reports comes from today being the first day I was completely finished with my report when I woke up in the morning. I felt insanely good about it, a sort of exuberant and radiating joy. Upon the ringing of my alarm, I bolted out of bed, ready to face the clichéd day. And that was quite a feat, given that I slept about four hours total the previous night and afternoon (power nap).
Secondly, my love of geometry sets today started with the Fermat test. They didn't give the diagram to scale, so I made my own.
However, the main period of time that is responsible for my accordance with the aforementioned lab reports, sunlight, geometry sets, and electromagnetism, was after school. The thought of the sun was forefront on my mind as I walked back with the damn thing in my eye. I had the drawings for a certain physics lab to finish. I probably would not have if Karlming had not been there, for I had little idea what the drawings were supposed to be anyway. He was nice enough to help me out by describing just what the drawings had to be of.
Now, these were perhaps the most fun lab drawings I have ever done. I had something beyond just a perfectionist attitude towards the drawings - it was something more like my process in making an n level. It wasn't perfectionist at all in that I allowed some errors to go without white out or erasing. It still had to be good, but I also obsessively followed any whim that came to mind for the sake of it. I drew a top down view of the CRT with the magnet near it, with much help from my geometry set. The idea was to make a single elaborate drawing so that I could afford to make the four drawings of the deflections with varying magnetic field strengths a bit more simplistic. I had spent enough time on it, especially the lines of the magnetic field (which had to be done by hand without aid of any tool), that I did not want to repeat it on the next page for the solenoid acting on the CRT. I especially cannot draw things twice. It is a curse placed upon me, that if I should draw something, the heavens inevitably feel that I never shall again. And, indeed, the solenoid drawing was in most any effect the same, with a coil instead of a bar magnet. The magnetic field lines would not differ. I wished that I had some way of tracing it, alike to those lighted surfaces that paper can be placed upon and permeated by light. Woe, even a makeshift solution to the problem was not supplied, though it would have taken but the smallest twist of fate to do so. Even 'twas denied me.
Then I remembered the sun, that old dog, and the glassed front door. In that instant of epiphany, it was the most perfect tracing pad conceivable. The sun had been my most despicable foe for the past years, and these minutes of tracing upon the door were a reacquaintance with the old friend behind the heartless, merciless waves of radiation. In meeting with that friend again, and seeing the good in such a despised enemy, I in a rush regretted all the time I had focused my hatred so. It had been my madness that led me to such a rash aversion, with little regard or consideration.
Enlightened in a sense, or at least in increased consciousness, I set about continuing my drawings. In this new world vision, I was considerate of the good in all things around me. I even saw application to my current task in them; a loonie and two varyingly sized cups proved excellent for drawing circles about the magnet field. Perhaps by a by-product of my then-current state, the natures of electric and magnetic forces seemed to make themselves clearer to me. In the least, it was a step towards the level of familiarity I hold regarding the more tangible kinematics.
Without further event, I completed the drawings. My geometry set, having consisted of the various gallant machinations necessary for the work, was crippled. Little remained of its former glory, and I mourned its loss, but I knew not to linger overly on such an inevitable passing. As surely as the seasons change, the noblest of souls in all planes of existence must do their duty and accept the possibility of an untimely demise as undeniable side effect of their heroism.
This was a lesson I should have actually learned from the last lab: that doing physics labs is actually quite fun and should not be hurried by tardiness. But while I blundered in a sense this time too, it did not end at all badly. In the end, it is clear that while I had once thought that the fates had conspired against me, they had rather brought several adverse circumstances together for a greater good.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
So Turns the Circle of Life
We are convened here today at the end of February. Perhaps the most important message now is that we should not mourn the matter overly. Do not be mistaken, as it would not be right to pretend that the passing of February is any kind of insignificant matter. It is simply that we are already aware of the matter at hand. It is not as if we are arrogant Odysseuses, so proud, so cock-sure, prancing about with our heads devoid of eyeballs - nay, we already know of the enormity of the moment. Any extravagant and eulogical mourning for the passing of February would be nothing beyond shameless conceit, as nothing would be achieved but preaching righteousness to a community of holy men. It would serve only to further our sorrow at the thought of a February past and an inevitable eleven months of hell.
February may not be humble, and rightfully should not be so, but he is not irrational. So, rather than tarry overly on expressing our sorrow, let us remember the cause of it. Unlike the lamentation of Persephone as her purview in heaven passed and her eternally fated stint in hell began, ours is not just one out of concern for our future mood. Our sadness is a product only of our heedfulness for the fineness and glory of February, and thus the inevitable truism that life during any other month is in comparison a rafflesia arnoldii to a rose. The eleven months may have in achievement their volume and size, but with that they do not manage to have so much as a saving grace of grandeur in comparison to the magnificence of February. The rose of February, perfect as is conceivably possible, brings the only thorn of the possibility of non-February, as is universal to all things of beauty. For any good thing, there must be the potential bad of the lack of that good thing. And so, we must now feel the thorns of non-February, all the sharper for its beauty and perfection. But, with this understanding, that our sorrow is product only of our previous joy for and love of February, that the thorn is only sharp because the rose beautiful, perhaps we can manage it a bit better. Not that the sorrow can be vanquished (for how genuine could it have been then?), but it can be toned out, our focus can be shifted. With this understanding, do not feel pain when looking about and seeing the happy faces unaware of the moment. Do not hate them for being simple minded, but rather recall what you would have sacrificed not to have places switched with them just hours ago, still under the illustriousness of February.
February may not be humble, and rightfully should not be so, but he is not irrational. So, rather than tarry overly on expressing our sorrow, let us remember the cause of it. Unlike the lamentation of Persephone as her purview in heaven passed and her eternally fated stint in hell began, ours is not just one out of concern for our future mood. Our sadness is a product only of our heedfulness for the fineness and glory of February, and thus the inevitable truism that life during any other month is in comparison a rafflesia arnoldii to a rose. The eleven months may have in achievement their volume and size, but with that they do not manage to have so much as a saving grace of grandeur in comparison to the magnificence of February. The rose of February, perfect as is conceivably possible, brings the only thorn of the possibility of non-February, as is universal to all things of beauty. For any good thing, there must be the potential bad of the lack of that good thing. And so, we must now feel the thorns of non-February, all the sharper for its beauty and perfection. But, with this understanding, that our sorrow is product only of our previous joy for and love of February, that the thorn is only sharp because the rose beautiful, perhaps we can manage it a bit better. Not that the sorrow can be vanquished (for how genuine could it have been then?), but it can be toned out, our focus can be shifted. With this understanding, do not feel pain when looking about and seeing the happy faces unaware of the moment. Do not hate them for being simple minded, but rather recall what you would have sacrificed not to have places switched with them just hours ago, still under the illustriousness of February.
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