Jeff Mach's Blog, page 39

Universal Broken Heart

Everyone dies from a broken heart;
everyone.

Everyone.

What makes it worse (does it get worse?) is that it’s no longer a heart for each of us. Was that ever true? I believe it was. I remember the Before Times, because I have books. And though fiction is a notorious liar, I think that all fiction of the Pre-Impermanence Times had to tell more compelling lies because it was difficult to go back and change what you were mistruthing.

Now we have distributed heartbreak.

Oh, I’m sure individual heartbreak is a thing. But like individual emotion, or individual desire, it’s hard to go up against consensus reality. It’s hard to disagree with what everyone else knows to be true. It doesn’t even matter where that knowledge comes from.

And we all know our heart is broken.

Did we expect better of each other? Of ourselves? I’m sorry; if we’ve democratized information, then we’ve run into the Tragedy of the Commons inherent to that kind of circumstance: once we realize we can legislate that others give us happiness, we start losing the will to make ourselves happy.

Don’t worry; I’m not moralizing. (what, me, moralize?)

But if there’s one thing you get from having a vast world of electronic knowledge always nearby, it’s the simultaneous sense that you’re doing far too much, and also not doing anywhere near enough.

Our heartbeat is a drumbeat of fire, which seems extremely unhelpful, as fire makes crinkly noises and sometimes roaring noises but seldom makes rhythmic banging noises, but I’m not letting go of the idea that we feel like we have to dance like monkeys and also we’re on fire.

I’m sure there are times when it’s best to give over your heart to the rest of humanity, but this isn’t one of them. It’s hard to find one or two people who will treat your heart carefully; you can’t expect it of millions of people. It’s not like they’re kind with their OWN hearts.

The best people are busy worrying that their hearts are inadequate, which leads to panic attacks; and the worst are busy trying to drive the others into panic attacks so they can steal our stuff.

Everyone dies from a broken heart; it used to happen because of people we knew, or thought we knew; now it comes from people who don’t even pretend to know us.

I don’t know about you; I’m going to take my heart back and give it over completely to words. They’re pitiless, and they’re often wrong, but at least they never claimed to be kind.

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I Have Too Many Mouths And I’m Tired Of Hearing All The Screaming

Do you remember when things were good, the world was simple, and life was easy?

No, me neither.

As far as I can tell, every society has complained that the previous generation had it all simple, more pleasant, slower-paced and less-demanding; and pre-industrial societies said pretty much the same thing, only, lacking the printing press, they were forced to say it in profoundly more interesting stories, having relatively little ability to produce special effects without actually setting themselves on fire.

That is not to say that history, if such a thing exists, is a perpetual and unpleasant equilibrium between having a level of stress which increases proportionate to how much your labor is saved by technological and social increases, because secretly, that’s not an equilibrium, that’s a plunge straight downward. Would you direct me back to the treetops with the most bananas, please?

On the other hand, I’ll take my polio shots, my semi-flying cars, modern dentistry, and a sort-of civilization which, on average, continues increasing human lifespan and human health. But by the same token, I can’t be the only person who yearns, once in a while for the days when tobacco companies lied to us in ways we could complain about out loud, casinos used crude psychological techniques to loosen our wallets, and companies employed symbolic language to take wild shots at affecting our human drives and instincts. Now, a company wishing to hide its horrible side need merely use an inarguable social good as a shield, no matter how unrelated it is; and varying propaganda techniques can cut through to our hearts with less difficulty than a master chef coring an apple.

Hell, remember when it was socially acceptable to say “propaganda” was “propaganda”?

Now we just ride fragile life-rafts as we flounder through a mental sea that’s busy swallowing Atlantis—tsunamis tearing apart our little ships of self, on waters full of monsters we created ourselves, hoping like hell that other rafts will capsize so that we have just a bit more personal space. Our brains can’t hold it, and no, they are not handling it. There’s too much information, too much manipulation and, at the same time, too few opportunities to talk about how we actually feel.

It’s not that I think we need to take to the streets, smashing machines and screaming “NED LUDD!”—it’s that, at least once in a while, we’d like to be able to open our mouths without our voices screaming something no logical human would believe.

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Winston’s Telescreen

Winston rubbed his presumably-broken toe and moodily contemplated the bottle of something-like-bourbon which sprawled in its repurposed bottle, tormenting him with a level of sass that would have been unacceptable in any world where Winston could give himself the luxury of smashing the thing, which would be a world where he didn’t need a drink, which would be some world very different from this one.

In this world, which fiercely guarded the convenience of transliterating your sleeping subvocalizations into expressions of your most person belief, Winston had invented what he considered the ultimate privacy device, all things considered. It was, quite unoriginally, called the “telescreen”, though obviously, technology had evolved quite beyond the original concept.

Winston had arranged matters such that he almost never left his apartment, and he had used the now-trivial expedient of covering essentially every part of his living space with audio/visual transmittal equipment. They covered essentially anywhere he might spend time, and their feeds were sent out, temptingly, without any of the multiple layers of passwords, psychic walls, encryption codes, and other precautions hypothetically offered for the creation of personal and interpersonal privacy.

Winston was not an exhibitionist. He had a painful desire to keep his affairs to himself. But it’s an open secret: any technology capable of flashing images of sucrose and calories onto your retina at optimal times is certainly more aware than you are of exactly the hour at which you will indulge in the ubiquitous sin of Onan, and what secondary sexual characteristics, flickering across your optic sense, will produce the most rapid procreative response.

Pavlov popularized the understanding, and offered some of the most compelling modern proof, but the concepts involved would have been understood by the first bards, the first priests, the first torturers, the first healers: inconsistent  response is by far the more powerful, in terms of shaping a psyche, than that which is completely predictable; that knowing a certain action will bring a likely response, and that it may not be now, it may not be later, but it might be at any time.

In other words, knowing he was being watched an unknown amount, and there’d be real but uncertain response, affected Winston much more.

And after a year of offering, Winston knew: no-one would trade him total imprisonment on his own terms, for partial but far more binding imprisonment on terms to which he would never have access.

So it goes; so it went.

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The Dark Lord For President – Prologue

The Dark Lord’s vast tower gleamed with a malevolent light; it is uncertain how one would take a quality of intentionality, such as malignance, and instill it into a manifestation of the physical processes of the Universe, such as “light”; but the Tower managed, possibly through sheer force of ill-will. The nigh-endless array of battlements were interrupted only by an even greater array of larger and somehow more-menacing battlements.

Strange UFOs and other starcraft, the works of hitherto-uncontemplated but visibly hostile alien intellects buzzed, hovered, teleported, releported, and, for what appeared to be no reason other than showing off, sometimes turned themselves inside-out.

Then were the Dragons—but Robinette brainswiped away from that entire subject; even behind her blocking software, they did not bear much contemplation. They made the mind uncomfortable; and there’s no discomfort quite like having a leathery wingtip poke your inner eye.

One thing was absolutely certain: The Dark Lord’s army of assorted rabble, robots, theoretically-mythical beings, Vikings, Fierce Ones, and squadrons of interplanar warships were gearing up for a battle of unbelievable proportions.

It was bad news, but it was news just the same. She had her story. She ordered up a pot of coffee and got ready to work.

Almost automatically, she gave her searching AI a series of mental “pats” on its metaphorical head, the action being a proprioceptive “gesture” which was almost like showing physical affection to a loyal dog, lacking only the physicality, the motion, and the actual dog.

Nevertheless, it was good practice to give your AI as much feedback as possible, especially when it was very right or very wrong. She would have been unlikely to perceive any of these things unaided—not that she would have tried, since unaided human perception was full of all manner of dangers.

She settled down to write. She had time; she’d set her AI’s vision for tomorrow, and that gave her a good twenty hours to describe the situation in horrifying detail. Not for the first time, she felt a vague curiosity about how the searching-algorithms could view things that hadn’t happened yet; but the divination of today always matched the headlines of tomorrow, and thus, it was provably never, ever wrong.

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Hearts On Stakes – a recipe

“Would you kindly hand me a large hunk of meat which has been, for no apparently logical reason, impaled upon a mid-sized stick?”

-your humble narrator, at every Renaissance Faire

(Note: For those of you who guess, quite correctly, that Mr. Chris Stivers has, in fact, pictured the Apple of Discord on a stick, I’ll say: (a) I managed to commission two brilliant Apples of Discord, but did not have time to test my second, rather ambitious recipes; (b) hearts look surprisingly like apples, if you’ve ever had the chance to eat one of sufficient size, and (c) for some reason, some people thought an actual cardiovascular organ on a stick might not necessarily increase the appetite of each and every reader. And if one isn’t going to use the aforementioned heart, then what better than the similar-looking fruit which is, in some senses, even truer to the idea? –for is not the Apple of Discord truly the heart’s desire of even the Gods?)

We Villainpunks would never, ever steal ideas from Renaissance Faires…just like Renaissance Faires would never, ever do completely inauthentic things and then claim, with a straight face, that they’re traditional for their time period.  None of that stuff ever happens.  All of us are Very Serious Students Of History.

This is a recipe I like and use, but if you want a simple but truly gourmet approach, seek out the recipe in the Charles Addams Half-Baked Cookbook. Aside from excellent recipes and charmingly dark humor, you should see what the man does to oysters. Unless you’re an oyster, in which case, stay away.

Yield: 8-10

Skill Level: 1

½ cup soy sauce

¼ cup olive oil

¼ cup water

2 tablespoons molasses

2 teaspoons mustard powder

1 teaspoon ground ginger

½ teaspoon garlic powder

½ teaspoon onion powder

Crushed cilantro to taste (optional)

Sesame oil (if you want a bit of Korean flavor, or if you’re cooking for me)

2 lbs. “beef: hearts, cut into thin strips (other hearts could be substituted, especially if you are the Wicked Queen in “Snow White”)

32 long wooden skewers (note that many Vampirical persons prefer you avoid the term ‘stakes’)

optional: We like adding sesame oil, sesame seeds, green onion, and a bit of brown sugar, for a bit of Korean barbecue effect.

DIRECTIONS:

In a large re-sealable bag, combine the soy sauce, olive oil, water, molasses, mustard powder, ginger, garlic powder and onion powder. Seal and shake the bag to mix together.

Carefully open the bag, insert heart strips, and re-seal. Refrigerate for at least 8 hours to marinate.

Soak the skewers in water for 20 minutes. Preheat the oven’s broiler and/or stoke your Dragon with plenty of coal.

(Can also be cooked over an open flame, like marshmallows. In fact, in dim light, hearts MIGHT be mistaken for marshmallows. Not that we’re saying you should try this at your next Halloween party. We’re just saying, if you come to OUR Halloween party, be forewarned.

But we’re sure you won’t use that knowledge for evil….right?)

Stab meat viciously but neatly onto skewers and place on a broiling rack. Broil the hearts to taste; we like ours just a little rare, which is probably no surprise. Arrange on a platter to serve.

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Fire-Breathing Brandy Chai – A Villainous (but real!) recipe

             Recommendation: Serve this in a tea-cup and saucer, and nobody’ll know it’s not altogether innocent. (Then again, if they think you’re innocent, they clearly aren’t looking closely.) This recipe serves two. Or several more, than two, if you’ve got a lot of brandy, some dragonfire, and a really massive tea-cup.  

Some things that add a bit of punch—oh, fine, a bit of bite—to this brew:

* Candied Lemon (we know, we keep coming back to that. You’ll see why, once you’ve tried it.)

* Mulling. (Go ahead, add mulling spices to your brandy and warm it before adding it to chai. You can pick up ‘mulling spice mix’ fairly easily; you can even get it at quite a discount if you get it after Yule. Otherwise, you just need some citrus, some crushed cinnamon sticks, peppercorns, cloves, perhaps a bit of apple or some apple cider, star anise, rare poisonous berries from the sentient murder-bushes which grow profusely ‘round the chicken-legs of Baba Yaga’s hut, perhaps some nutmegs, or bay leaves. Alternate to your taste; some people like to add fresh mint or basil, and some people reach through that pesky hole into That Other Dimension and pull out some Triffid sprigs, which make a lovely infusion. In any case, pour your fruits and spices into a cauldron (or pot) of brandy, and warm it up for about a quarter hour. (Do NOT let it come to boil, unless, for some obscure reason, you want to retain most of the flavor but lose all that lovely alcohol.)

* Pixy Stix. Okay, frankly, we think that anyone who’d put Pixie Stix into good brandy, or even into terrible brandy, deserves an unexpected and unwelcome visit from a hungry horde of Tooth Faeries. But, as I once remarked to the crocodile which swallowed Captain Hook, there’s no accounting for taste.

Right then! The rest of the recipe is fairly straightforward; at least, as much as we’re straightforward about anything:

300ml whole milk. (You can substitute a certain amount of sweetened condensed milk to taste We won’t tell on you.)

4 tsp loose chai tea (or 2 chai teabags; or, if need be, regular tea with cinnamon and cardamom. Especially if you’ve got some left over from that mulling you might have tried earlier.)

50ml clear honey (as local as possible; we’ve got friends who say that local honey is not only the freshest, but also helps you resist certain pollen allergies. We continue to get our honey infused with whiskey, which, as far as we’re concerned, will either cure or kill absolutely anything anyway.

50ml Somerset cider brandy (or something fancier; we won’t tell).

Put everything bar the brandy in a pan and simmer for two minutes. Take off the heat and leave to steep for 10 minutes or until you sense, by the pricking of your thumbs, that there’s appropriate wickedness about. Slowly bring the whole brew up to a suitable drinking temperature, strain once or twice, and serve.

Note: Brandy, of course, tastes terrible. But it sounds very classy, and we’re sure that someone, somewhere, likes drinking it neat. For the rest of you, we can assure you that this recipe will make your brandy more delicious, although, frankly, we think you can make brandy more delicious simply by pouring it all into the sink, washing the bottle thoroughly, and substituting some Monkey Shoulder Scotch. But (as happens so often!) – we digress.

 

Don’t be afraid to experiment with other spices; at best, they’ll add something really lovely, and at worst, seriously, honestly, there’s no more horrible fate than just plain swallowing brandy, unless, perhaps, it’s sipping Everclear on the rocks. We enjoy brown sugar, cloves, confectioner’s sugar, dried cranberries, filet of a fenny snake, anise, some other sugar of any kind whatsoever, a little bit of cayenne, a blasphemous hint of pumpkin spice, and, if you must, nutmeg.

If you add fruit, slice it thin. Be careful: If you cut yourself in the process. Certain Forces may decide you have made an appropriate Blood Sacrifice, and…

 

…but let’s not worry about that. You’ll be careful, right?

We’ll emphasize again: once you’ve finished experimenting with your spices, warm the brandy, but do not bring it to a boil; boiling kills the precious, precious alcohol.

Drop the spices in.

If you don’t want to time the process, simply do what we do: wait impatiently until it seems done, and, to speed the process, stir the whole thing threateningly with a wooden spoon.

 

Once the brandy doesn’t taste terrible, you’re good. Don’t burn your tongue.

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A Brief Missive To An Inimical Dullard

Author’s note: While we do not necessarily live in an age of politeness, and while politeness has not always been a hallmark of promoters throughout the ages, I do, in fact, seek to keep relations not just professional, but, if at all possible, amicable, and, preferably, friendly. I have had the extraordinary joy of being friends with many of our performers, vendors, creators, attendees, speakers, venue managers, and others with whom we do business; after all, Jeff Mach Events is out to create fantastic imaginary worlds for incredible weirdos.

However, ever since my Cancellation, certain persons have taken it upon themselves, not to simply avoid me (which is neither kind, nor helpful to their supposed cause; but at least I can understand it) – but rather, to make very active attempts to gaslight me.

Under those circumstances, I feel entirely justified in taking their petty attempts to undermine my sanity and happiness, and transforming them into lovely little bits of dopamine.

Here’s an email I sent today. Despite the fact that I am quite certain that this vendor, in telling their tale of woe, will mention me by my full name, I have redacted their name, as well as the name of their business. Because I don’t need to attempt to bring down a cancel mob upon them; I am a Mad Scientist, not some idiot with a torch and pitchfork.

I am, specifically, a Mad Scientist with access to a keyboard, and the freedom of my own mind; and I’ll choose those weapons over an angry mob any day of the week.

________

Dear [name of business owner redacted] –

In response to your email stating,

“I have responded several times to these emails that I am not interested in vending any events associated with Jeff Mach. ”

Allow me to assure you that a very thorough check of my inboxes suggests that such an event is unlikely in the extreme. You replied directly to me, which means that you have my correct email address; that my emails are not bouncing; and that had you sent me an email, almost definitely would have received it. Had you sent me ‘several’ such missives, the chances that I would have missed all of them would approach zero.

In fact, all evidence shows that you have most definitely never sent me an email of that nature. There is no evidence of even one such missive in this inbox, my spam folder, my other spam folder, my deleted emails for the past year, my other inbox, or my alternative email account, or the info@jeffmachevents.com account.

So while it’s theoretically possible that you sent an email asking to be removed—in which case, please re-send that email and I’ll forward an apology—

the vastly greater likelihood seems to be that you, for reasons of your own, unknown to me and unexplained to me, changed your mind about applying to our events sometime after your acceptance and, rather than informing us, you first took the ambiguous step of canceling your invoice (something vendors do for numerous reasons, including mistakes in math, uncertainty over booth size, inability to pay at a certain time, etc.)—

and then took the extraordinary step of sending me what is frankly a rather gaslighting email, stating that you have emailed me ‘several’ times, in what appears to be an effort on your own part to create the artificial (and frankly highly distasteful) idea that I would, for unknown reasons, pursue the subject of your vending with us after you said you didn’t want to do so.

I understand that it’s a much more pleasant circumstance to imagine that you have been wronged, and to then attempt to convince the other party to share that ugly little fantasy, than to recognize that your passive-aggressive inactions have led to your receiving significantly greater contact with me than, I presume, you would have preferred.

Allow me to assure you that the length of this missive is not to taunt, tease, or harm you; it is merely to illustrate the degree to which I absolutely, categorically refuse to be manipulated or gaslighted at this time in my life, and I will respond to it, not with foolish hostility or aggression, but with logic, reason, and, frankly a certain level of ironic disdain whose sole purpose is to transmute your attempt at causing me discomfort into an opportunity for me to enjoy the small but significant pleasures of rebuking someone who has shown an odorous hostility.

Furthermore, I might note that you have not even achieved the tiny goal of suggesting that I have said or done something to deserve your unprofessional treatment; you have essentially suggested that my existence is, in and of itself, noxious and painful to you. And while I am not an unkind being, I will note that, under these circumstances, few things could give me greater pleasure than knowing that, apparently, my existence, which I plan to prolong and continue to enjoy, brings unhappiness to you, my mysterious if unimaginative foe.

Now, I can make certain guesses, of course.

The likeliest explanation is that you have decided somewhere in your own mind that I, or my team, or my events, are undesirable for any number of possible thoughtcrimes or other crimes against the groupthink to which you potentially subscribe, and you have chosen a rude method of expressing it, partly because you believe we deserve unkindness, and, again, partly because, if you have an unkind opinion of us, you can raise your status in certain places by suggesting that we have caused you intentional harm when, in fact, the actions you suggest appear to be nonexistent.

I thank you for your time; but I stopped falling for that sort of thing quite some time ago. Either you are fairly rude, in which case, we are fortunate to be devoid of your presence; or you’re trying to gaslight us, in which case, it is my hope you will take this email of disdain as a suitably unpleasant response.

With respect,

Jeff Mach,
Dark Lord

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the story this is

This is the story of a Princess who had no story.

This is the tale of a tale which was never told before, and won’t be told now.

Tonight, I’ll speak you hosts of ghosts which will terrify you vastly. But I’ll wait ’til you’re asleep, because you need your rest.

This is why you must leave out milk and cookies for the Faeries: in the vain hope that they’ll leave your whiskey alone.

This is a tale you will never forget, because I shan’t speak of it at all, and thus, you won’t have anything to remember in the first place.

This is the myth no mouth can speak, no letters reveal. It does work pretty well if you picture it as a little pink bunny-wunny, though.

And THIS knowledge will allow you to crack the walls of Reality and enter Another Place, which would probably make a good story, only the story is over there, and we’re over here, so I hope YOU enjoy it, because we can’t.

This story begins with “this story”, and doesn’t go anywhere from there.

This cautionary tale is what happens when you let a sentient pen explain everything for you, and thus, nothing will ever make it out of your skull.

This is an ancient yarn about a piece of very thick string.

This, ah, this, THIS is an ending without a beginning, and as long as you are willing to believe that the author is a master storyteller, or a teacher of Zen, or a knower of nameless mysteries, then that might be a satisfying, even a powerful ending. So let’s just assume that I’m a Zen master reading aloud from the Necronomicon. We’ll both be happier that way, all right?

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No Ghosts

there are
no ghosts
within
the wall,

no spectral
things
who walk each hall,

whose footsteps step
in time with yours,

no murdered spirits
with ageless scores,

there are no things,
lacking all name
who mold our minds
to shame and same,

there’s nothing here
your soul to borrow,
they’re not here,
and you’re gone tomorrow,

for no ghosts hide
beneath these floors,
this strange architecture
which year-to-year stores

the energy of Creation-times,
no creatures remembering
ageless crimes,

perpetuating now,
upon those that breathe
a heart to bearn,
a head to seethe,

there are no demons,
never human,
whose language is torture,
and whose acumen

is pain, pain, a whole library
of hurts never felt
by the ordinary,

there’s not,
within this place most haunted
the things by which
most minds are daunted,

there are no spirits in the garden,
there’s nothing that thinks
it owes you
pardon,

there are no specters,
ghouls,
or shamblers,

no quaint spirits
of murdered gamblers,

there are no souls
within the walls
and that voice
which quietly,
eternally calls,

belongs to no spirit,
no thing not of man,
your head has no veto,
your heart has no ban,

there are no ghosts
and not a single curse;
there’s only me
and I’m far worse.

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In the minds of your enemies

There is no actual “worst thing you could possibly do” to your enemies; even Dante had trouble figuring out how to really torture the damned, and he had all the faculties of both poetry and his idea of Hell to help him.But if I truly had to wish Hell on anyone, it would look like this:1. They would decide I had done something horrible to them,2. something I have never done to them,3. and have all their friends reinforce it and say, “Whatever it is, I believe you!”,4. and have their friends start thinking, “and if he did THAT horrible thing to THAT horrible person, I wonder what horrible things happened to me,”5. “…or MIGHT have happened to me, such that, if I was even in the same building as he was, I was probably in horrifying danger,”6. and have THEIR friends say, “as long as I exist in the same UNIVERSE as that Monster, horrible things might happen to me,”7. so the original person has tons of reinforcement of people who say, “the worst things have happened to you!”,8. so that person believes, “The worst things have happened to me!”,9. and that becomes the story in their head, forever,10. and I, I don’t even know that they think this thing happened,11. so they can never resolve it, and12. they block me to make sure I never know what it is they think I did and,13. their pain goes on forever.

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