Jeff Mach's Blog, page 32

The Cardboard Game

This is the game, and it’s very challenging.

Let’s say you’re not real; not by the standards of those who believe that a living, breathing, 3D human being with thoughts and feelings is really, and a chunk of cardboard is not.

But you’re a semi-sentient chunk of cardboard, with a desire to fit in and a desire to have what humans have. Or maybe not what they have; it seems messy. But the attention feels great. And pretending to feel those things feels great.

So you spray the cardboard with any scent you can find. You make cunning slits in the facial mask so you can imitate human motion

And then you set out for where the big points are: getting someone to fall in love!

It helps if you find a real sucker, someone who believes your tone of voice and constant proclamations of love actually – now, don’t laugh out loud! – mean that YOU love THEM. Make sure you get them to say it a lot.

Make sure things presumably feel good. The human gets what they think is love, and you get to giggle at how close you come to mimicking human enotion.

THEN YOU’RE FOUND OUT! WHAT DO YOU DO?

Oh, it’s easy. You might have communicated with this person 6 hours a day, across multiple platforms. Maybe you even planned to spend a particular time talking to this person – but have a surprise visitor instead. Nothing will make that person feel less like they mattered than an anonymous visit, one you won’t speak about, one which takes precedence over you for no reason you care to explain.

When the person begs to talk to you, wondering where their lover has gone, deny, deny, deny, and build up pain, frustration and fury. Hold out the chance of very, very, very limited, icy cold communication–and give that person a tenth of a second to decide. If they say no, even if they were going to say yes as soon as they had a second to breathe–

TURN!

TURN SIDEWAYS!

Now you’re just the thin slice of cardboard – no face, no words, no humanity, nothing anyone can reach. You’re not invisible, but you’re gone, completely gone.

And then…you win!

I’m not sure what you win, but, uh, being whatever kind of thing you are, I guess it makes you happy.

So, uh. Enjoy that, okay?

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Dark Lord Wisdom

-When everything’s made to be broken, open a china shop and charge people a thousand dollars for three minutes with a sledgehammer.

-Technically, skateboarding is not a crime, although, due to some perversity of law, all reference to the criminality of skateboarding, or the lack thereof, IS a crime.

– I really like drunken Kung Fu. The difficulty is convincing your opponent to get drunk before she attacks you.

-As of now, The Magical Mystery Tour is refusing to take you away.

-On the other hand, if you do not take me down to Funky Town this instant, you shall know my wrath.

– If you haven’t maxed out your credit cards on buying my books, please do so now, before you can give in to the wasteful urge to simply blow the dough on something dumb, like food, clothing, or shelter.

-The fire of my heart burns like a mighty forge which has once again gotten double-dared into eating a fistful of wasabi.

-Every oak tree was once a nut that stood its ground until it was essentially completely decomposed by the soil around it and the pitiless ravages of time.

-Why not DAZZLE your customers with a STUNNING array of spotlights beamed right into their RETINAS?

-Brb. Taking the Hobbits to Isengard for some Orc-milk and cookies.

-This is the story of a girl who cried a river and drowned the whole world, so we hired her, and command her fiendish superpowers, and now, we want one hundred billion dollars, or it’s Atlantis-time for you.

-I Believe in a Thing Called Love, but with the proper amulets and countercharms, one can fight it off and still stand a very good chance of survival.( )

-Similarly, if you want to destroy my sweater, I’ll be confused, because that seems simultaneously needlessly unkind and also oddly specific.

-I really don’t understand how something can make me lose my remaining faith in Humanity. Since when do I HAVE any remaining faith in Humanity?

-It’s like Moore’s Law, but for stupidity.

-I assure you that when I tell you that you look scrumptious, my interests are purely culinary.

-Darling, I could have danced all night. Then I would have been late to work and fallen asleep at my job and gotten fired, and that would be terrible. So I think I’ll swear off the romance and get back to reading.

-If life has taught you anything, it’s that every once in a while, you need to look up from your phone, stare hard at whatever’s straight in front of you, and mutter softly but audibly, “There’s good eatin’ on one o’ those.”

-When life hands you an infinite number of monkeys with typewriters, make lemonade.

-Today’s eschatological conundrum is brought to you by Glibtor, the God of Not Being God Of Anything.

 

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I. Who can say what it was about Humans which made Great ...

I. Who can say what it was about Humans which made Great Zeus despise those upstarts?

Oh, ask any anthropologist, anyone enlightened enough to know that the Gods aren’t real. Mankind made the Gods in our image because it made them comprehensible to us.

In this are two concepts, each sufficient to make the Father of the Gods even more furious than your average embodiment-of-the-Tempest. The first is that, if this were true, it was sheer sadism on the part of Humanity. And the second is, even the Gods hate a dogmatic academic. Humans left off the study of the Gods in order to study Humans. Even if one might forgive the slight, who’d forgive the narcissism?

II. So Zeus went to Hephaestus. They say Hephaestus, who bore the horns of his Goddess-wife’s infidelity, commanded little respect among his peers. But this is not wholly so. None could work a forge like the great Implementor. If he was the subject of more barbs by his peers than any other of the Pantheon, perhaps it was not so much that the Lord of Bellows and Flame was as weak as they say; perhaps he merely spent all of his days at his great forge, and had neither time nor inclination to lie about in the drinking-halls of Olympus, bragging.

It is not known if Zeus asked with respect or with insolence; if Hephaestus acted because he feared to disobey the Summoner of Thunderbolts, or because he relished the work.

He took a metal, one he had made over many long aons, one which has never appeared in myth or story, because he never gave unto any Humans a glance at the substance. He made chains. Chains of unbreakable metal. Many of them.

III. And finally, fleet Hermes flew Earthward to implement the plan: to scout, to find a city or two upon which to begin, to hurl the first chains, and keep twirling them ’round that upstart species until it was in pinions whose numinous strength would bring them eternal despair.

He sped.

He looked.

He saw.

He turned his head, once, and looked away.

He returned in sorrow.

Spoke Hermes:

“We are too late; their prisons of the mind are superior to any confinement we might forge.”

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A Vignette: The Werewolves of New Jersey

The Werewolves of New Jersey live rather unfulfilled lives.

On the one hand, being caught in the classic dilemma of having no desire to rip out the lungs of the unsuspecting, it is good that they suffer from a certain deep depression which turns their transformations from helpless explosions of uncontrolled bestial murder, into rather more passive circumstances.

On the other hand, they spend every full Moon sitting beneath lonely street lamps, listening to The Cure on headphones and reading the lesser works of Emily Dickenson.

(You’d think at least some of them would be listening to Mitski or something, but perhaps certain kinds of existential despair simply go better with Robert Smith than anything else.)

It’s not their fault. No-one fears them; and while, in theory, this should be some relief, it causes a certain malaise. As we all know, the most common skinshifter is a tragic figure, one who wishes to remain human and to retain conscious thought, but who becomes a beast under the full Moon, returning to human sentience only after the Sun rises and unspeakable horrors have been committed.

Actually, that’s part of the problem: at some point, somebody said, “Well, if I can’t help being a beast, then the consequences aren’t really my fault, are they, now? I’m not the one in control. It’s not even my body; it’s this weird, magical, anatomically-impractical wolf-human hybrid doing all the murders. What if the Wolf has some sort of logic? I mean, it must be smart enough to escape, say, being shot, even in a world with lots of guns; and it’s never seen on camera, even if there’s now a camera on every phone and a phone infecting every brain. Why all the angst? Why is it more important for me to try to get briefly locked up, thus frustrating any potential reason or logic the Wolf may have for the actions it takes, than for me to observe the pattern of throat-tearing and see if, possibly, some of it wasn’t for the better?”

The challenge is that self-reflection is best in those who are truly prepared to look at themselves in the metaphorical mirror. And when the Werewolves of New Jersey look into that shadowy glass, they see… nothing.

People care about the Werewolves of London.

They care about the Jersey Devil.

They care about whatever supernatural television show is currently distracting everyone away from this visible world takeover by paranormal forces.

The Werewolves of Jersey did a lot of soul-searching before they realized: they really have very little soul. Maybe enough to dance a little bit, but certainly not enough to play the blues with any sincerity.

If you see a Werewolf of New Jersey coming your way, be kind. Attempt to be afraid. Act as though you’re really concerned about your immanent death. But they’ve realized: it doesn’t matter if they’re murderous beasts masquerading as humans, or innocent humans trapped in murderous supernatural bodies.

Maybe that sort of thing is interesting in New York, but here in Jersey, it’s just everyday life.

 

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Chasm-Keeper

And the Troll of the Bridge asks,

“Do I not deserve your coin?
You say my price is high, but where were you,
where were you,
you who would judge,

when there was nothing here but chasm?

No thinking creature wants to look
into desolation;

but look,
look, if you will,
if you disagree with the cost
of crossing,

consider
what you have
without a bridge.

There is nothing which feels so helplessly huge
as nothing;
and there is a great nothing underneath,
a great nothing between here and sky,
a great nothing without the bridge,

so great you feared to even go near it,
built fences
at the edges

despite the fact that on both sides
of where I am

people want, need, hope
to cross the divide,
to move with freedom from one place
to another.

I don’t have that freedom,”
says the Troll of the Bridge;

“I don’t have that freedom,
but I have a freedom from fear.
I am not concerned what will happen next.
I am at the joining
of two places
which thought they’d never touch.

“I have broken what others believed;
you ought give me your thanks,
as well as your currency.

“You could have made a bridge,
you,
with tools,
and clever hands,
or simply with numbers,
many of you,
working together.

You did not.

You still could,
if you truly don’t want
to pay this toll.

…but bridges are hard to make.

You prefer to make divisions,
and that is why
you have not come together
to build a bridge
of your own.

Sincerely: go ahead.
I won’t be offended.
I used to hate you, I won’t lie,
and I thought of this,
at first,
as an opportunity to take your money.

But I have had time to think,
and I would not regret
if you built a chasm-crossing of your own.

I would not be sad
to lose the dosh;

I hear it’s good to rest,
and perhaps I would rest.

Or perhaps I would find another chasm.

It took me years to grow tall,
and each year,
I thought you’d take away my opportunity,
and build a bridge.

But it was too difficult for you.
I lived in a cave
of the chasm,

its acoustics were excellent.

I heard you complain,
yell,
accuse both humans and Gods,
scream curses,
fight battles,
do everything
but make a bridge.

Where were you
When, having grown enough
(I hoped) –
I made the Leap,

spanning the chasm,
scrabbling huge and heavy hands
for purchase on one side,
hooking my great, awkward feet
at the very last moment,
to rocks and stone
on the other side.

Where were you
when I stretched out,
risked my life,
drew my body taut with pain
and elation,
and became the Bridge?

“Pay my toll,”
says the Troll Bridge,
the bridge made of troll.

“Pay my toll,
for though I have little use for money,
I would extend you the kindness
of extracting a price
for my services.

“Thus I become part of a teaching;
you’ve heard it:

‘All things have a cost.’

“I spent my animation,
my flesh,
became mostly stone,

that I might make a change in the world.

“For a while, I gloried
in being on your maps,
in having my brethren laud me
when they collected your money,
and then throw great drunken parties
on my now-unbreathing chest,
daring themselves towards the edges of my
unmoving body,
admiring the Leap,
and fearing it themselves.

All thinking beings fear the Chasm inside,
the divide in soul and heart
which marks the ragged boundary between
fleshly Animal
and freeflowing Mind.

But this is the joy of building a bridge:
I no longer fear that Chasm.

Pay the damn toll;
it is my gift to you,
it is the pain which will someday
force you to build a bridge of your own.

…perhaps.

Or perhaps,
in fact, more likely,
despite your desperate need to cross,
you will,
someday,
come to me with sledgehammers and acid
and shatter my feet or hands,

plunging me to death,
and leaving you one step farther from
ever being whole.

And that, too, is good.

I will help lift you, as I lifted myself,
or I will have my revenge.

One is a good life,
one is a good death,

and meanwhile,

I am the Bridge:
I persist.

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Better Chains

Once upon a time, there was a great Mage. Perhaps she was pleased by this, but did not consider her achievements quite so extraordinary as others might, because sometimes extraordinary sorcery is a combination of intense work, deep study, the good fortune of being found by a few of the right books of Names, deep passion, and a slightly fanatical rejection of most of the pleasures and safeties of life; and most people really don’t want the last part. And in that way, perhaps most people are smarter than Mages.

There is a longer tale to tell, of the spells she built, of the enchantments she wrought, of the ways it was sometimes easier for her to be cryptic than speak directly, because sometimes, knowing certain secrets might give you the ability to do things which can’t be found by those who lack those understandings, but any attempt to speak clearly about what you do ends up sounding incomprehensible.

Many Mages fall in love with this; they delight in telling pieces of a larger whole, feeling that since they know a bigger thing than what most listeners have experienced, it means the Mage is greater.

Perhaps it does. If you find something which has the ultimate authority to keep score and rate on being against another, perhaps you could ask it.

This particular Mage had never had such an interest, not because she was unambitious or modest, but because she figured that if she could see some vast scorekeeping God that others do not know, the score might only be useful to things the size of that God, and to believe that you’ve found the best force because you’ve found something bigger means forgetting that somewhere, or everywhere, there might be some other thing much more vast that you’ll never know, because you’ve decided your search has ended.

I only know a little of her story. So forgive me if not every piece of it is told as an epic. She loves epics; I do, myself. But she never did like talking about her life that way unless it was a performance. Sometimes, deciding that you are the star of some vast and important Saga can motivate you, and propel that tale into existence; but sometimes, it’s just a trap.

To be a Mage, you need to be released from many kinds of fetters – of soul, of body, of nature – perhaps not entirely, but enough to make you a bit less human.

You need to free yourself from the traps of the mind if you want true Power.

And also, the greatest trap of the mind is true Power.

That’s not a riddle. That’s a problem.

I don’t know what your solution is.

I know what hers is, because it’s mine as well.

Start every day in the trap of being human. Fight your way out. Build another piece of the biggest spell you can.

Then reforge the trap, and step back inside. If tomorrow’s spell is to be stronger, then you need to find the mad intensity to defeat what you have woven before.

Every day, bind yourself in stronger chains. Then fight them until you are strong enough to break them. Then build another piece of the World.

Repeat it until you die, or until you’ve built the World you want.

I can’t tell you which happens first. I’m not there yet.

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The Airless Kingdom

Once upon a time, there was a fairytale kingdom that had no air in it.

This could have been a charming and intriguing idea for a magical world where people don’t need oxygen.

Or it could be a lovely mermaid tale (might we, as people in a hypothetically-modern era, create a treaty of mutual destruction, wherein we no longer even suggest that a story about mer-persons be a “mermaid tail”, just as no things-of Halloween ought be “spooktacular” in a caring Universe?) – wherein we speak of the curious and wonderful life beneath briny waves.

But no. This fairytale world was simply at the whim of the sinister Narrator, who decided, one day, to suck all the air out of the entire Realm (and, one presumes, the whole World).

And everyone died. Unpleasantly, if truth be told, though (since this is a charming fairytale) – we shan’t dwell too long upon that.

Some things are the work of wrathful Gods, some things are the work of uncaring physics, and some things are simply awful and make no sense.

This wasn’t any of those.

For though the actions of the Narrator were both cruel and arbitrary, it turns out that Dragons are not like other beings, and don’t need air. They don’t even require it to fly; the wings are for other purposes altogether, though we shan’t tell you precisely what those are, as you do not have a need to know certain details of Draconic anatomy (and amatories, if truth be told.)

Thus it was that whilst all the silly beings of land and sea were lying about as ridiculous corpses, the Great Lizards buzzed and spun and dived and danced all their secret dances and told all the stories that they never let outsiders hear, and in general, had a marvelous time.

And they all lived happily ever after, if by “all”, we mean “all the Dragons”, and if you know me, then you know that’s the only thing that counts.

As for the humans, they probably would’ve killed each other off, or turned the castles into condominiums, and so, who cares?

 

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A Field Of Poppies

In ancient days, I wrote one of the first Steampunk rock operas, “Absinthe Heroes”. I wanted to follow the ancient musical-theatre tradition of explaining the Villain’s plan in a single song. It’s not been performed in five years, and I thought I might, just might, explain how Dr. Antikythera intended to Take Over The World.

Does it matter
What the tools are?
I have figures, I have charts
I’m a master of machines
But I will win through the human heart

I’ve said before
I’ll say again
At heart I am a chocolatier
You gain a world, not with a gun,
For desire conquers fear

I’ve got of field of poppies
Skillfully cross-bred
And a dozen tiny pistons
In each flower-head

Don’t stifle hope
For if you do
You can be sure one day
Some upstart brat
With shining eyes
Will wipe your works away

Don’t be a tyrant
Don’t be a parent
Those rulers last not long
But let humans
Be human beings
And you might not go far wrong

I’ve got a field of poppies
They’ve mild telepathic powers
They sometimes use them to seduce
Other sorts of flowers

Don’t assume
They won’t be stupid
For humans often will
Don’t assume
They won’t be brilliant
They’ll be both–
It’s a skill

But give them something
They can love
Something they’ll covet
Not chemically addictive but
Hard to forget

Oh, in my field of poppies
Clockwork men stand guard
To nurture them and care for them
(And sometimes to play cards)

I grow my own
Intoxicants
Better than wine
Better than any drug
Harder to decline

Nothing’s so sweet–
And yet the tongue
Is carefully seduced
It’s done with science–
Or magic; I
Forget which I produced

I’ll take your antigravity
For my microgametophytes
The pollen of my poppies will
Achieve transatlantic flight

They’ll seed the Earth –
For just one Spring
And after that will die
Only one man
Can bring them back
As you might assume – I

Could it go wrong?
Of course it could.
We don’t control all fate.
But experiments
Will keep me young
I can afford to wait.

It won’t be easy; it won’t be safe
There’ll be some death and such
But relatively speaking
It probably won’t be too much

Does it matter
What the tools are?
I have figures, I have charts
I’m a master of machines
But I will win through the human heart.

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The First Thing

It’s not always necessary to begin at the beginning; sometimes you can begin somewhere better, like the always. And this is what you should know:

This is always true. And it’s always easy. And it’s always right. And it’s always good.That’s all you really need to know, although you have my promise I’ll tell you a thousand more things, but each thing is just another part of the comforting never-puzzle of our very basic truth: all of this feels wonderful. Like a hot bath, if you like hot baths; like a moment of cool rain that refreshes before you dry off and enter a peaceful wakefulness; like the fragrance of something from your youth, something that made you magically happy, something you probably can’t remember, but it’s grand.It feels amazing, and the fact that it takes away your choices and decisions and replaces them with the illusion of action is just pointless philosophy; you’ve made the decision to be right, you’ve put in the hard work of joining the anointed, you’ve entered the war of that which is meaningful and kind against the freakishly monstrous. There need never be anything better than knowing you’re doing the right thing, for the right reasons, and that’s why it feels righ%t, and that’s why you are right, and that’s why the others are wrong; and you sink, sink, sink into the pillowy puffy clouds of soft, gentle joy, and you need never feel discomfort again, except when confronted with things that are wrong.Any amateur hypnotist, any harsh-spirited stoic, anyone who believes that strength is built though overcoming more often than submerging, will tell you that everything above is, if not definite malicious misthought, then (at least) likely self-deception. There’s comfort in a mind that can act without thought; but there’s also comfort in a mind that acts because it has burned out thought like an old electroshock therapist burning off neural connections.But there’s no room for doubters here. Believe, or be damned. What I say will be true, and it will feel nice; wouldn’t you prefer that to torment and self-doubt?Stay here. Stay in those words, the ones above. Even if they don’t appeal to you precisely, you can move them around a bit so that they touch on your best memories, your happiest beliefs, your simplest pleasures.Whereas to continue is to (likely) be torn apart by doubt. To be uncertain. To question.To be, in short, unblissed, disquieted, made uneasy.Everything above is dessert; everything below is vitamins infused into bitter iron pills.Go no farther. You don’t need any more. Your life is hard enough.You’ve read all there is to read; everything beyond it is probably a lie. Everything above is lovely; a glass of pink wine, a few words of a beloved voice, a place where justice is simple and happiness creates truth.Stop now. You’re done. Thank you for your time.___Or you could come with me, I guess. There’s these big chunks of pain, and they might be the majority of what’s left.. It’s funny sometimes, but only the kind of humor where it hurts when you laugh. There’s loss. There’s a lack of clarity. Rewards and outcomes are uncertain, and you don’t even have the comfort of knowing that you will ultimately be correct.All you’ll know is that you chose the uncertainty over the lobotomy.And I’m not sure it’s even ethical for me to suggest you should do that.On the plus side, it only hurts when you laugh.Or when you don’t.

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Superpowered Job Hassles

What’s the worst thing about being a superhero?

Some might say it’s the way your home planet was not only gigantic beyond belief, but also somehow made out of igneous formations, the merest sliver of a pebble of which will kill you. Bad death, too. One minute you’re flying, you’re a God, and the next, there’s a tiny piece of rock zooming towards you and then you die.

Some might say it’s the stress and tension of keeping up a secret identity. Those people are idiots, of course. We’ve long passed the point where humans essentially put on secret identities wherever they go and whatever they do, and they wear the fake personalities so hard that they forget which was the original version.

(Clark Kent loves Lois Lane. Lois loves Superman. Superman spurns her because he wants her to love her for who he is, namely, Clark Kent. Except Clark Kent is NOT who he is; Kent is, in fact, as opposite to Superman as possible. So what we have here is someone with a desirable real self who wants to be loved for his specifically-undesirable fake self, and somehow, this makes sense to us. What even HAPPENED to us?)

Having origins and backstories that keep changing, just as you’ve got some kind of handle on who and what you are? Yeah, that’s terrible, but it’s not the worst.

The worst is when you have to pretend to be a Supervillain and get punched out.

But it’s quite necessary.

Whatever happens in the world, we cannot let the mundane folks, much less criminologists and generals and the various Heads of Secret Services know that, this whole time, there was never a “them”. It was always “us”.

Why in the world would superpowered beings divide up into heroes and villains? It’s impossible to maintain that level of consistency, especially if you’re going to operate in more than one culture.

That’s why our Villains spend so much time going on about how evil they are. They focus us on their self-identity as Villains, in a rather cruel mockery of ordinary human actions, and they do it to make sure you KNOW you’re being robbed by mega-jerks, and ONLY mega-heroes can save you. Conveniently.

Nobody likes the part where you do a heel turn and tell everyone you’re a monster, but on the plus side, it’s one of very few professions where you get to claim the reward money issued for your capture.

Perverse incentives are a wonderful thing. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a building. I’m going to knock it down, then put glasses on to disguise myself, and rebuild it.

I own the building, so the insurance money pays for the loss and then the rebuilding. It’s worth a couple ultra-powered wallops to the nose to collect on it; having a secret identity means that you never have to worry about double indemnity.

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