Lancelot Schaubert's Blog, page 80

NO ATTORNEY, JUDGE, OR JURY NEEDED

Nancy Smiler Levinson over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

I never heard of her
I never met her in my life
She’s confusing me with someone else
I was never ever in that hotel/city/country
She is not my type
She is lying
Flat-out lying
She has a history
Of prostitution
This is nothing but extortion
She is after my money
This is all a sick joke
And besides
She is not my type

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The Porchlight

Peter Coe Verbica over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

Being mortal, death stalks us

like a silent shadow during the day

and rests under our beds at night.

Like a lamb sleeping

with a freshly fed lion,

we become acclimated

to the beast’s mercy.

As years pass,

doom becomes uneasy

and hungers for us.

There are critical epiphanies,

before death finally feasts

upon our expiration –

when we see its teeth and claws,

its foreboding and longing,

and smell the dampness in its breath:

those near misses

like a bus barreling in front of us.

Fate warns us, “Not yet!”

and we pause

before stepping off the sidewalk.

In our youth,

death watches us with patience,

from a tree branch,

from the blind of tall grass,

from an embankment

as we happily slake

from the stream of life.

For years, death’s pining is muted,

but, as I say, not always.

There are startling instances

when death reveals its nature,

shows us its incisors

and glistening drool.

Such an event occurred to me recently.

Caused all that is innermost

to awaken with alarm;

forced me to review my life’s experiences

with cold-eyed sobriety.

You are the bystander,

the passenger on a train

I grab by the coat lapels

with the urgency of one who knows

he is pursued but

has an urgent, essential message.

The spider of time

is spinning its web

so, I hand you these pages of me,

before I am eaten from inside.

Before I am a husk

animated by the wind.

Before I am

pierced by the porchlight.

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Ensouled Languages

Anjali Sarkar over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

The maternity nurses in the tiny German hill-town were exasperated. ‘The black one’s bawling again,’ my mother heard them whisper among themselves. I was a talkative child and before I could talk I cried. I cried till neighbors peeked in enquiring what the pandemonium was all about.

My first five years, the formative years, were spent listening to and speaking almost exclusively German. In Remcheid, then West Germany, any taxicab would take you to Fischer Strasse 13, where the little ‘German-speaking black girl’ lived. In fact, my German came out with such immaculate enunciation and gusto that our Kindergarten teacher, Frau Lissen, chose me over native German-speaking kids to mentor non-German speaking newcomers so that they could pick up the language faster.

I recall prattling, a pair of whimpering Swedish twins and a quiet Turkish boy in tow, urging them to respond in German during our pie casting expeditions at the sandbox and as we maneuvered the ginormous seesaw in unwieldy layers of stockings, sweaters and coats. Frau Küper, my 80-year old adopted grandmother who lived next door, befriended no doubt during my squealing sessions in early infancy, told me stories of how she had survived the war, interspersed with lectures on how you should never waste food or leave curtains undrawn in the evening, further stretching my repertoire of German vocabulary and syntax.

As a child, one of my mother’s loving nicknames for me was Kelti. Since the German word for cold is kalt, and I was just beginning to acquire a few English phrases, I assumed my nickname had something to do with coolness. It was only after we moved to India when I was six and I was simultaneously expected to learn Bangla (more popularly known as Bengali), Hindi, Urdu, Sanskrit, and pick up scraps of Oriya, Assamese and Punjabi along the way, that I understood my name originated from the Bangla kalo, and the Hindi kali, both in turn derived from the Sanskrit kaalam, meaning black. Therefore an English translation of my nickname would be Blackie.

It was not essentially derogatory in the Indian context, where almost every shrine and Hindu household I visited, appeared to be dominated by an idol of a much-revered naked blue-black goddess standing regally over a prone pale man, who I later learnt was Shiva. In fact, in spite of a bias for light-skinned women when it comes to mating rituals, respectable synonyms of the more colloquial Kelti, such as Shyama or Krishna are household names in Indian families. It was only when I moved to the US that I realized it would be hopeless to expect my always politically-correct African-American spouse to call me by my familiar childhood nickname. We’ve been married six years now and she still calls me Anjali (On-joe-lee) in the honeydew moments before bed, or by my German middle name Angelika (Ung-gay-li-ka) when she’s less than pleased with me.

Growing up in an Irish missionary convent school while immersed in a quintessential Indian family in Eastern India, Tennyson and Tagore, Goethe and Gandhi, Joyce and Jamini Roy, Max Müller and Madhushudan Dutta, Christ and Krishna speckled my consciousness as naturally as multicolored confetti on New Year’s Day. People around me commonly spoke and wrote multiple languages fluently, seemingly effortlessly switching from one language to another mid-sentence. Even taxicab drivers could manage to converse in at least three. My teachers certainly did not consider it any bravado on my part when my attempts at writing verse blossomed in two or three languages simultaneously. At the variety shows we staged at school, it wasn’t uncommon to have Ghalib’s ghazals, recitations from Tagore, Irish folksongs and a Shakespearean act all in the same program, often performed by the same group of students.

Not all my encounters, however, with the adoption and application of languages have been this joyously inclusive or benign. My ex-husband, a Calcuttan from a family of award-winning intellectuals who took pride in their contribution to Bangla language and literature through their articles published in prominent newspapers, their contributions to updated editions of authoritative Bangla dictionaries, and their knowhow of the latest fads in Bangla fiction, thought it a heinous offense that I wrote my journals, poems and other scribbles primarily in English.

I am not sure exactly when or why I came to choose English to write in over the other languages I knew. It must’ve been somewhere between choosing ink over oil as my medium in artwork and yoga over karate as my daily fitness regimen. The point is that none of these transitions were premeditated. Looking back now, I think I would still choose English to write in, over the other languages that layer my psyche. Not because I think it’s the most beautiful. English can only aspire to the preciseness of Sanskrit or German, the subtlety of Urdu or Hindi, or the effortless lyricism of Bangla or French. Yet, writing in English is the most convenient and practical as it’s the most widely understood. With over fifty percent of the lexicon liberally borrowed from other languages, I think of English more like a collage than a painting, more like a carnival than a play. Although, as any linguist will tell you, it’s not just the words that are the identity of a language, but the way a language allows you to use its words. And American English or Amerikanishe as the Germans call it, as well as British English, sets up strict flagpoles of acceptable usage where clichés inevitably sink and swim with the tide.

In the beginning, when the honeymoon period of our marriage had still not mellowed, he would read the Bangla historical short stories and novels of Sharodindu Bandopadhyay to me in bed. That is still my only good memory of our time together. Perhaps he thought he could crowd out the other languages from my mind. I will never know. Of all the things he grew to loath about me during our brief marriage, the most piercing perhaps was my inclination to read or recite Shakespeare aloud to myself or cuddle up with PG Wodehaus or Sidney Sheldon, when I was feeling low. On his part, he could not reconcile why Indians still acted as indentured slaves of the bloody British by holding on to their language long after they’ve been purged from the country. Such traitors, if he could have had his way, should be hanged. On my part, I couldn’t fathom how language could belong to a people like excavated pottery, particularly a people whose mission has been to plunder and enslave the rest of the world, scattering their language and cultural artifacts like a philanderer does his semen. I couldn’t fathom why the deplorable couldn’t be shaken off from the pleasurable at the doorstep of every intellect. And I couldn’t for the world fathom why Sharodindu and Shakespeare could not coexist on the same altar.

Although I did try to make the marriage work through days when dinner dripped from the walls following one of his episodes, I finally let go. I figured conditional love was a poor bargain for the freedom to read and scribble as I please. It’s one of the best decisions I’ve made.

Immigrating to the US in my late twenties, I immediately felt the brunt of isolation on account of the way I speak and write. My professors, colleagues, the university administrators and officers of governmental research funding organizations spared no opportunity in labeling me an alien, perhaps taking their cue from the immigration office. In those days when my dreams of dedicating myself to neuroscience research had not yet died untimely, I found myself chastised as an illiterate bum and later largely ostracized for speaking in an un-American manner when I used an uncommon metaphor or an unusual turn of a phrase. Nevertheless, I was thrilled to wrap up my research efforts that were going nowhere in such hostile surroundings and transition to a teaching faculty position. I’ve always enjoyed teaching and looked forward to expose youngsters to the quantum leaps in biology made in the past decade. When I finally decided to give up teaching as a career-goal altogether and leave the college teaching position partially because students complained about my outlandish accent and manner of speaking, it was more than hurt. It was the final snuffing out of a cherished dream.

Yet always the pragmatist, I enrolled in American accent classes, not just to make myself less obtrusive to the sensitive American ear but also to develop my hobby of narrating audiobooks into a viable career far from the condescending clutches of academia. However, my instructor, unhelpfully enamored by my speech, refused to help me alter my accent and usage. She said I should stick to what I have and not try to take speech classes unless I’m recovering from brain surgery. She believed in time our culture will become more inclusive. I recall smiling back at her earnest, well-meaning face and thinking, if the current political climate is any indication, inclusivity will definitely not be on the rise anytime soon.

I do believe my accent coach had a point but I also knew, having grown up as part of the bonafide American fabric she has no clue of the degree of alienation and isolation immigrants experience owing to differences in language. Diverse as we are, there are very few bridges between our social compartments or our languages, and there certainly is no consideration for the immigrants’ linguistic contributions except for a pat on the back for succumbing to the overpowering forces of assimilation and homogenization. The multilingual mind generates layers of subtle nuances in meaning across languages. Although the production and basic understanding of language is a conscious neural activity, the mechanism of arriving at profound realizations and generating associations through creative leaps is largely mysterious and subconscious.

I am no linguist but in my experience, one way layering of languages happens to distinguish multilingual speech and comprehension is through the overlapping of phonetic elements of one language on another, subconsciously, to create an emotional response that is not possible when awareness is acute and elements of distinct languages are clearly categorized. The monolingual can estimate this in how speakers in any language deftly deal with homonymns and all the consequent ambiguity they impart to the spoken word.

Here’s a crude example. An English interjection used often in text messages and scripts to convey or simulate laughter is: Ha Ha! No English-only speaking person would associate it with anything but lightheartedness. However in a variety of Indian languages this is an interjection close to alas! It is actually not a true interjection. It is an abbreviation of the Sanskrit word hahakaar retained unchanged in a number of derivative languages such as Hindi, Bangla, Punjabi, Oriya and Assamese, and means a piercing cry of grief or physical pain.

It is not that the person conversant in any or all of the Indian languages and English mistakes the meaning of one for the other. The language police in the front brain is too alert for such slips. But there is a certain hesitance all the same in using the interjection as lightheartedly as a person speaking only English. Perhaps in the face of such subconscious quandaries and faced with spur of the moment decisions in speech, the multilingual chooses a different mode of expression, distinguishing her overall manner of speaking from the monolingual as such decisions pile up.

I have been translating Hindi, Bangla and Sanskrit stories and verses into English for over a decade and although I enjoy some gifts of translation such as seeing the spark of understanding in a yoga student’s eyes when she hears the story behind the naming of a yoga pose, or the doting look in my wife’s eyes when she understands the meaning of the love-song I sing to her, more often translations still feel like transgressions. In Bangla, a word for the verb ‘to look’ is the same as the word for ‘to want’ (chai). This has been used skillfully in poems and songs such as,

Pran chai chokkhu na chai

mori eki tobo dustoro lojja

which would translate in English as,

The heart desires but the eye doesn’t glance,

darn this discretion that can’t be overcome

Although a fair translation into English as far as meaning goes, it cannot capture the intended ambiguity that makes you do a double take. The meaning though translatable, the emotional effect and with it any possibility of appreciating the level of the poet’s refined craft, is lost. Odi et amo (I love and I hate) translations, as the Latin poet Valerius Catallus put it succinctly. However, I’ve learnt a lot about compromising from my auto-didactic efforts in translating. After all, the translation of languages, as any art, is not about being perfect. Most times it’s just about daring to throw a plank over the unknown.

In a recent interview for a science writer-editor position for a reputable biomedical foundation, the interviewers asked me whether I was a native speaker of English. I wondered whether I was a native speaker of German because that is the first language I spoke, or a native speaker of any or all of the Indian languages I know on grounds of ancestry, or a native speaker of English because that is what I’ve used in my academic sojourns and in my attempts at writing. I took a moment and answered that I considered English to be one of my native languages. Apparently that did not satisfy the board and although I answered their other queries satisfactorily, I did not get the job. Although like many prospective employers I’ve come across they too did not provide any reasons for their rejection, I take it they had a bias toward native speakers of English.

Those taking their first steps in the internet era, I suspect, will have a far greater exposure to global culture and languages, each imbibing distinct combinations to nurture their unique personalities and enriching their panoramic perspectives. Perhaps this will finally blur the borders that foster the use of language as a weapon for patriotism or terrorism, as a historical entitlement, or a crutch for identity.

But isn’t it paradoxical for a writer to try to distance herself from the language she inhabits so intimately by resisting to identify with the language as a native speaker or getting bogged down in the minutiae of the objective measure of native-ness to a language?

Even though it might seem paradoxical it’s not a trivial choice. Just as I am convinced it is high time we give up identifying ourselves as denizens of politically bounded cubbyholes and measure our acts and impacts in the global context, I also agree global empathy and integration does not need an Esperanto or for every sapien to be a polyglot.

What it needs is reverence for all languages. What it needs is the application of expertise and technology to transplant thoughts and ideas quickly and holistically form one lingual framework to another and not just translate linearly, forced to abandon untranslatable terabytes. Perhaps someday, like in Star Trek, we’ll all be carrying miniscule universal translators that convey the full scope of a sentence in any language.

But more than these technicalities, what is needed is the realization that the thoughts, ideas, stories and emotions conveyed are far more valuable than the language they are conveyed in. That is what I mean when I say I am reluctant to identify as a native speaker of any language. I have ensouled many.

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Ardent Spirit

Alexa Mergen over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

This afternoon I’ll help my friend’s dog die
A malamute, husky, shepherd mix she named Sky.
I met him first in the high desert 10 years ago
His shift from stray to pet was rocky and slow.
He jumped the fence to roam the brush
Chasing jackrabbits under stars’ milky hush.
Dogs who run every moment risk death
But those who do, value freedom more, life less.
Eventually, though, an ardent spirit dims
And so week-by-week it happened for him,
With food and water, praise, a place soft to sleep,
Someone, yes! to watch over him, for him to also keep.
I won’t debate with you the veracity of animals’ souls
Nor whether death a compact completely annuls.
The heart knoweth a friend, Ralph Waldo in an essay writes
The challenge: to remain worthy as each day bleeds to night.
I’ve watched the fading course of many final breaths
While I’ve shared time with our eventual visitor (death).
And so for Sky, as for others, human, pet, creatures wild
Death’s breath will shape itself sour, sweet, strong or mild.
Irrefutably life consists of both death and birth
And both we must carefully, wholly, fairly nurse.

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i am

Natalie Moe over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

i am lost

but i do not

know

to whom

i belonged

i am alone

but i do not

know

to whom

i can call

i am unsure

but i do not

know

to whom

it would be certain

as to why i cannot

exist in happiness

for longer than

the drops

of hatred

sprinkle

on me

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Seventh Heaven

Kenneth Norton over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

The October colors of the sugar maple trees along the sidewalk flickered in the slight breeze. Maples did not do well in the Phoenix climate, but that did not matter. These trees were artificial. It would take a close examination by an arborist to tell the trees were an imitation. In fact, many people preferred the fake trees. The trees never lost their leaves. The colors changed with the seasons or could be programmed to keep their fall colors year-round. At night, the orange leaves could glow to offer a delightful view.

By the middle of the twenty-first century, scientists developed the ability to artificialize any plant to such a degree even experts had a hard time telling the difference. The fake trees and plants had the ability to convert carbon to oxygen at a higher rate than real plants. In many cities, it became illegal to grow natural grass lawns. Artificial grass did not need watering or mowing, thus saving resources and eliminating carbon output. Some people speculated nature was becoming obsolete.

Ethan Smith stepped out of the self-driving Uber car in front of the Seventh Heaven Technology building. He moved down the walk lined with the artificial trees and grass. Along with others, he was attending an orientation meeting with Seventh Heaven representatives to find out what they offered. There were three of these federally approved companies. All three pretty much offered the same thing. Maybe having several companies was the government’s way of giving the appearance of choice. One thing he did not have a choice about, like all thirty-year-olds, he had to make a decision today.

The program started sixteen years before, so it’s not like this day snuck up on him or anyone else. He remembered what his older sister went through on her decision day. After a motorcycle accident when he was twenty-three where he broke a pelvis, a leg, several vertebrae in his back and neck, received a concussion, and lost vision in one eye, he was certain what his decision would be.

But medical advances in the last half of the twenty-first century allowed for an amazing recovery. Pain was no longer treated with opioids. Small computer chips placed in his brain controlled suffering and repaired brain damage. By this time, the rapid healing of broken bones was old technology and artificial eyes were nothing new. His physical recovery was almost complete, but he never rode a motorcycle again. Today, he felt like new.

Once inside, he took the elevator to the fifth floor and found room 512. People sat six per table. Smith picked up his name tag, information packet and received his table assignment.

Smith sat. A tablet lay on the table in front of him. A man, Smith’s age, offered a handshake. “My name is Harmon. The tablet just shows a tour of the building. Nothing special.”

“I did a pre-orientation tour last week, so I don’t need another one.”

Harmon moved his chair closer to Smith. “I didn’t do one. Didn’t want one. I’ve already desided.”

At the front of the room, curtains opened to reveal a large screen. A young woman and a middle-aged man walked onto the stage. “My name is Patricia, and this is Dr. Karson. We will be your hosts and following a short screening, we will moderate a discussion. After this, each of you will meet privately with a Seventh Heaven employee to make your decision. Patricia looked to Karson. He stepped forward.

“This isn’t a long presentation. I’m sure you know most of this information. I’m also sure there are some misunderstandings. So, as federal regulations require, we’ll get started with our program.”

Patricia waved her hand as a magician might wave while performing a trick, and a woman appeared on the screen.

“Good morning. I’m Amanda. I’m glad you decided to investigate what Seventh Heaven offers. Like any potential client, we understand your curiosity about the Seventh Heaven experience. First, allow me to begin with some history. In the twenty-first century, virtual reality or VR, continued to develop at a rapid pace. Once neuroscientists gained the ability to map the human brain, VR scientists were able to use this knowledge to increase the effectiveness of VR fivefold.”

Smith rested his elbows on the table and squinted. Others squirmed and changed their positions.

“In other words, it became impossible for an individual to tell the difference between their own reality and VR. Not only this, but any occurrence, existence or lifestyle, and we do mean any, can be programmed for you to experience. It is now possible to intensify any sensation or emotion to a level two to four times greater than what you presently experience.

For example, you may live the life of a young, world-renowned musician. The pleasure you gain from producing and performing music is three times greater than present reality. You will experience the adulation of millions of fans and live the life of a multimillionaire. The number of experiences with the opposite sex or your own sex is up to you. The pleasure of these experiences will be magnified far beyond anything you’ve known. You can have perfect health, achieve perfect love, and obtain access to the knowledge accumulated by artificial intelligence. You can even have a family and kids, only with fewer problems.”

A number of people suppressed their laughter.

“Since we’ve developed the ability to transform your mind into a computer program, there is no need for your body. If you make the transition, you’ll never experience old age, or any illness. In fact, you may choose to experience the body of a world class athlete or model for eternity.

Now that you are thirty years old, and as the Federal Government stipulates, Seventh Heaven can offer this opportunity for free, but you will only be offered this chance once in your lifetime. This is brought on by the overpopulation of the earth. Food, water, and material things are not necessary in VR so this will decrease pollution and depletion of resources. By making this choice, you help the environment.

Thank you for attending this Seventh Heaven presentation. Patricia and Dr. Karson will answer questions and lead a discussion.”

The picture on the screen faded into a scene of mountains, a clear stream and people playing with children. But no one could tell whether this was a simulation or real.

Smith’s hand shot up.

Patricia smiled. “Mr. Smith, I believe. How can we help you?”

“Okay, let me get this straight. In the VR world I can be anything? A man, a woman, a child, an animal, a professional football player, the world’s greatest guitarist… anything?”

Dr. Karson leaned forward. “Yes, anything. Remember, your experience will be better than what you feel in this world. Of course, you will not recognize you are experiencing VR. To you, it will be as if it is happening in real time.”

A blonde woman at the table next to Smith stood. “My name is Nicki. What about free will? Won’t we lose our free will if we transfer into the VR world?”

“Good question,” Karson said. “Some philosophers believe humans don’t possess free will. I would say one is exercising her free will when one makes the choice.”

A man with a scar on his face spoke up. “What if someone wants to become a master criminal? What about that?”

“That is not allowed,” Karson said. “Only positive emotions are programmed. What we see as criminal behavior is not allowed in VR. You might know that within the criminal justice system some criminals are sentenced to VR in an attempt to rehabilitate them. This is another use we discovered for this technology.”

A short, petite woman waved her hand. “Dr. Karson, I know the information about what happens to one’s body after conversion is on your website, but are there any alternatives?”

“A lot of people choose to donate their bodies to science or the organ donor program. One may also choose cremation or tradition burial.”

“What about cryonics?” someone said.

“If one chooses to convert to VR, cryonics isn’t allowed. We call that ‘double dipping.’ Think about it. If we convert your brain to VR and your body to cryonics, you have two chances for an extended life. We’ve determined that is not fair. Remember, some people don’t get either of these opportunities.”

A woman in a black dress jumped to her feet. “My name is Melinda. I don’t care what happens to my body. Dr. Karson, can you tell me what happens to my soul?”

Karson rubbed his nose. “No, Melinda, I can’t. We consider the belief in the human soul, a personal belief.”

Melinda pointed to the ceiling “I tell you this is against God’s plan. If I live in the VR world where will my soul go? I’ll never do this. I want to go to heaven and spend eternity with God. Not eternity as a computer chip.” Several people nodded.

A man with a tattooed face waved both arms. “Let’s face it, human nature is a failure. VR is the next step in human evolution. Virtual reality offers humans the opportunity to live in a world near perfection. Remember how some people used to say, ‘God is dead?’ Well, VR means God isn’t necessary.”

Melinda pointed at the man. “That’s BS. God can’t die or be unnecessary. God was not created, he always existed. If he is eternal, then he will always be necessary.”

The woman next to Melinda spoke. “Not only is human nature a failure; reality is outdated and old fashioned. We’ve given present reality the chance to make humans happy, it failed. VR is the answer to hate, poverty, racism, climate change, war, depression and disease. We no longer need to settle for reality. We can move to VR and allow this world to return to its natural state.”

“This is evil,” someone said.

Melinda and several others nodded. Some shook their heads.

“This is evolution,” someone declared.

Dr. Karson raised his hands. “Hold up. Let’s take a timeout. I must say this is probably the most thoughtful group I’ve had in one of these orientations. Wouldn’t you say, Patricia?”

“Dr. Karson, no doubt about it. This group is sharp. Let me add, we realize people have a vast diversity of ideas, and that is fine. Remember to respect others, and also remember, no one is forced to make a decision one way or the other.”

A man with hair down to the middle of his back raised his hand. “Dr. Karson, you say no one will be forced to do this, but isn’t this the first step toward the government requiring everyone to switch over to VR?”

A wave of grumbling rolled throughout the room.

“I took part in the development of this technology, and I’ve never seen any indication of that. In fact, I wouldn’t go along with it. I believe this will remain a personal choice.”

A tall curly haired man at the back of the room stood. “My name is Cullen, and I’m a doctoral student in physics. I’ve thought about this issue a lot. I think this comes down to an issue of authenticity. Here’s a thought experiment to help clarify my point. Everyone has a favorite ice cream flavor or food. When you eat, you receive pleasure from the taste. Let’s say you can lay your hand on a simulator and receive the exact same pleasure. Does that matter to you? Should it matter? Is authentic taste better simply because it is authentic? In other words, is there something inherent in authenticity that makes it better than a simulation? Remember, you can’t tell the difference.”

No one moved or responded. The question lingered in the air.

Dr. Karson moved to the edge of the stage. “Cullen, that’s another great question. I don’t know the answer. Only an individual can answer that according to their values.”

Patricia moved alongside Karson. “This is a fantastic discussion. But, as federal guidelines specify, we must move on. As you realize, this is the day you must decide if you will convert to VR or stay in this reality. Let me reiterate, this is the only opportunity you will be given in your lifetime.

This is our procedure. Each person will go to a small counseling room to meet with a Seventh Heaven employee. You will get one more chance for final questions. Then you must make your decision. Let me add, I will be turning thirty soon, so I understand the anxiety that goes along with this.”

Dr. Karson spoke. “Let me assure you, if you decide to convert, we can help you with your apprehension. We’ve developed specific drugs to help you through your transition.”

“We’ll take one more question before we move on,” Patricia said.

Smith raised his hand again, “What about memories? If we convert to VR, will we have memories of our past?”

“I can answer that,” Karson said. “The answer is no. We’ve stated you will not be able to tell the difference between VR and this reality. If you carry your memories with you, you would be able to compare your VR life to your past and you would recognize your VR life is not authentic. Memories cause conflict. This is why memories aren’t allowed.”

“It’s time to move into your individual counseling session,” Patricia said. “The rooms are lettered. You’ll find your assigned room in the information you were given. So, let’s go ahead and move to your rooms.”

Smith stood among the sounds of scooting chairs and mumbling. He shook his head and took several deep breaths. He knew this day would come, but now, confronted with the decision, the idea of converting was confusing and upsetting. Except for his accident, Smith considered his life satisfactory. His fifty-two-year-old mother, who married three times, said she would convert if she had the opportunity. His long-term girlfriend, who had broken up with him several months ago, said she would never transition. Smith worried about job security. His computer engineering job was becoming progressively threatened by sophisticated robots. Computers working on computers. On top of this, he had a gnawing feeling that if he did not convert, he would miss out on something.

He went to counseling room G. The room had a small table and two chairs. He sat. It wasn’t long before there was a knock at the door. The door opened. It was Patricia.

“It’s me. I also handle the final decision process.” She sat. “Did our presentation and discussion help?”

“It did. Several issues came up I hadn’t thought about. Tell me, what happens if I decide not to transition?”

No problem,” she said. “You sign a release and go on living like before. You take your chances with this world and your life. You will age and eventually die. This is outlined in the agreement you signed before you came in today. Remember, this offer will not be made again.”

“And if I decide to go through with this?”

“Once you make your choice, your decision is irrevocable. You cannot come back. During the experimental stage, people were allowed to come back and report. This is why we are sure of our process and the outcome.”

“So, I must decide today?”

“Yes, as the agreement stipulates,” Patricia said. “Each potential client is allotted a certain amount of time until one needs to decide. What’s your decision, Mr. Smith?”

…

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River’s Branches

Hongvan Nguyen over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

I see the child plunge into the swift stream
near the river bank where I am standing.
  It swims beautiful butterfly strokes and
  free strokes. The river carries in its images
my recollections of the river from the city
which I was many times familiar with during
my child hood. Barges, and ferries loaded
with hucksters, office workers, soldiers, students,
factory workers were running up and down the
stream brought with them the active, flowing
blood of lines of a beating heart.

On the two sides of the river, old houses,
and every corner’s trees of the town submerged
quietly into the dim light behind the thick fog.
The smell of houses, of trees, and of flowers
that was found nowhere else in the world
had kept an ultimate memory in my mind.

Standing on the ferry as a child, I saw other children
swimming near the bank and in the swift stream
while ferries drifting away from it. Now, that same
child, who was reflecting the eighteen years of life
in a different position, didn’t know that one day 
another child could experience the same things it did.

The child crept forward and tried to reach the
toy globe with its hand. It was as if the child had
been trying to grasp the world being estranged to
its understanding. The child did not even look back
behind where its mother had just put it down on
the floor and let it fumble to crawl by itself.
It didn’t want to go back to the world of the mother
which it had been so much familiar and felt bored.

And then it didn’t any longer remember what had
passed until it began to walk speedily and to run      
stably with a more understanding of everything
around it including abstract concepts that it learned
through television or from the teachings of the schools.
For a while the child started to have more acquaintances—
the teachers, the classmates, the neighbors, and it
was no longer alone by itself between the walls of its
mother’s own house; instead, it was stepping into
a broader world, the one that it had tried to reach
when it was unable to walk and still crawling. After
having crossed over the four walls of its own house
and no longer in that familiar world, it became a person
called an adult who now is doing almost the same things
we had done while we’re in the adult’s world. 

We lived on the mountains but loved to look down
on the plains and tried to live like as if we had been
close to the rivers. We grumbled when we could not
move the body, or we cried when we had too much
space to take up. Our minds sometimes wandered back
to the anecdotes of the past molesting the present and
inciting the futures. The gist could never be found living
only in the idleness or in the tranquility of the soul, but
in motley, troublesome situations. Our thinking changed
according to different reasons; many complaints in winter,
business in spring and fall, and lots of reaching-out in summer.
Each year would be written anew with new faces to see,
new stories to tell, and new discoveries to be made as if
nothing were to be saved.

We have worn out our bodies through the years of
our lives and have been challenged by the Creator, only
with prayers that allowed us to continue our hard
journeys through time. Satisfactions were to know that
God was always with us in any happy or sad situation
that we experienced.

Now I still continue to watch the children playing,
learning and even facing and dealing with their own
lives. I am seeing the child of my child thirty years ago
walking, running, carrying its life like the one I heavily
carried years ago. 

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Similitude

Hongvan Nguyen over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

I beat him endlessly, the man who
once expressed his sexual interests
in my body when I was nine, and
continued to do it steadily. He followed
me many times, and sneaked into my ears
some words uncomfortable to hear.
He was half-awaked and half-dreaming,
lunatic man whose insanity many of
my relatives had mentioned of. But then,
I became careless toward his actions and
his attitudes after I had known that
he was just a delirious, lonely human
being, a modern Frankenstein, for whom
I should have shown a little bit of merciful
affection. I stopped beating and paying
him more attentions. 

One day, my grandmother died.  He came
and brought with him a steal-made coffin,
a golden one with real gold plated around
the trims of the coffin. Nobody could
afford such an expensive coffin and never
had I seen such a beautiful coffin before.
He insisted to have my grandma’s body
put in it, but none of the members in my
family listened to his idea.  Finally, she
was buried in a regular wooden coffin.

The last day or mourning, I was wearing
the white dress and was lamenting in front
of her wooden coffin. In front of the house,
on the other side of the street, a crowd of
Cho-Lon Chinese was performing the kung-fu
art; they were a mix of burly, muscular men
with elegant, pretty women jumping, climbing,
tumbling and hanging themselves in all kinds
of tricks and juggling artifices.

At the next few blocks, another Chinese
crowd was carrying out another funeral process.
Scattered around were the remains of children
with broken limbs, legs and some unwanted
fetuses; all were bundled up in burial, white
linen and being put in little wooden coffins.

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Musing

Hongvan Nguyen over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

Most of the places were sleeping in peace
in the year when I was ten, but the place
where I lived was different with a war going on.
Extinction, execution, lament happened every day.

There was much of fear, horror, and grief.
Yet inside me, there was always a love mixed
between affection and responsibility. Every
moment, I found myself in an imminent situation
of obligation and disciplinary. Among those moods
were conceptions, definitions, lessons, and vice versa.
Besides, I always found myself obsessed with queer
questions such as how would a person see the world
if the retinas of his or her eyes were made of concave
lens instead of convex lens? And would a small bug
appearing in front of that person become as big as a
ten-story building? And the world would blind him
or her with its huge panoramic scene? Or what would
we feel if we put a finger into an electrical socket.
Do we die or just get hurt? Then there were innumerable
strange matters such as a giant rat in the underground
sewer that went up to eat the rice left overnight
in the kitchen sink could cause a huge epidemic
of cholera for the whole country; on the moon, there
was no Moon Goddess and fairy scenes, but
only rocks and stones and darkness.

I knew much of those matters that I learned like a parent
who knew everything about her child. Like me, some
children in my classes wanted to spend the whole day
dragging on the desk just to learn about scientific things.
For a few, they hung out to tell sentimental love stories.

Every day, after school, I had to find some ways to help
my mind return back to the naturally peaceful mood of
my soul by allowing me to live in illusions of imaginary
objects and images of inanimate things. Happiness, to me
was to find tranquil images such as a row of sublime trees
on the two sides of a familiar street, a fancy story between
two lovers, or to anticipate good chats with friends, and the
biggest dream about the visitations of my mother who
was not living with me for the time being.

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The Greatest of All Time

David R. Bowne, Ph.D. over at The Showbear Family Circus - Lancelot Schaubert's and Tara Schaubert's liberal arts circus. said ::

The question I am most frequently asked is this: “How did you get to be the greatest of all time?” My response is always the same: “I didn’t get to be the greatest, I made myself the greatest.” No one gave it to me, I earned the title, I took it; I willed it to be true. You don’t achieve what I’ve achieved by luck or the kindness of strangers. No, I’m the greatest because of who I am. It’s as easy as that. No one, not now, not then, plays the game like I do. People say I operate on another level. Lots of people say this, many of them extremely smart; all of them extremely envious. They beg me to know more. Truly, I’ve had grown men, and many beautiful, beautiful women, beg me to teach them. It’s embarrassing really, the begging and the pleading. But even the greatest of all time can’t resist the adoration forever. That’s why I’ve agreed to write this piece; well that and the money. Money is most important. See I’m already doling out words of wisdom. So for all of my adoring fans, here’s what you’ve been waiting for. Here’s how I became the greatest Monopoly player of all time.

I wasn’t born the greatest player. I didn’t emerge from my mother’s birth canal clutching a pewter top hat and stack of golden $500 bills. No, for one thing, I was born via caesarean section, as God intended for the most successful families. Keep to a schedule, make it happen when you need it to happen. That’s a good line – you should highlight it. It’s as true in playing Monopoly as it is for deliveries, whatever the package.

I started playing Monopoly when I was seven. Yes, a whole year earlier than the suggested age range printed on the box. Obviously, I was advanced, a board game prodigy. I’ll accept that label but I don’t agree with suggested age ranges. It’s a bunch of PC bullshit designed to keep us down. Hell, if a three year old wants to play the game, let him. Worst that can happen is he swallows the iron. We all need a little iron in our diet, so no big deal.

As I was saying, I started playing Monopoly when I was seven. I mostly played with my younger sister and routinely destroyed her. I think maybe she won once. I was much, much better than her. And don’t make this out like I’m some sexist. She wasn’t bad because females don’t have a mind for business. She was bad in comparison to me. Honestly, everyone else it too. Sex is irrelevant, except of course if the woman is really smoking hot. No beautiful woman is ever irrelevant. You can quote me on that, as long as I get royalties.

A few years went by and growing weary of pummeling my sister, I turned to new opponents – classmates at the boarding school I attended for middle school. I won’t lie, these kids knew their way around a Monopoly board. They didn’t mess around. One kid would snatch up railroads like they were candy and then jack up the price. Everyone called him Vanderbilt but the nickname never made sense to me – his real name was Smith. I’ll admit I lost a few times to Vanderbilt and some of the others, but nothing was going to keep me down. I experimented a lot – trying out utilities, working on the best trades, avoiding the allure of Boardwalk and Park Place. I learned how to build, what to build, and when to build. My hotels spread across the board. It was a beautiful sight. A sight I didn’t want to end. But all beautiful things must end, or so I thought.

As I played into high school, I became increasingly frustrated with the game. I’d spend a Saturday afternoon at the board, earning money, creating developments, all to have it end when I forced my opponents into bankruptcy. I won but still my empire would crumble as we’d fold the board, hotels and houses sloughing off the surface like cheap buildings in an earthquake. And then a week later, my previously vanquished competitors would be back. We’d all be at square one, duking it out again on the hard streets. This never-ending cycle seemed wrong to me. I would accumulate a fortune in property and dollars, but then it would all be taken from me the very moment I claimed victory. It was completely unfair. Why shouldn’t I be able to hold onto what I earned rather than have it redistributed to the masses with the start of each new game? For a game based on capitalism, the rules reeked of socialism. The rules obviously needed to be changed.

Then one day in my senior year, I had just wiped the floor with these two classmates. Total losers, I don’t even remember their names. But a third kid had been watching. Him I remember – Joey Polanowski. He was always talking smack, like he was God’s gift to real estate transactions. So I said in front of everyone, “Hey Joey, if you think you’re so great, why don’t you prove it? Play me.” I knew Joey couldn’t back down, not in front of everyone. He mumbled something about anytime, anywhere. So I said, pointing to the board, “right here, right now.” He looked around the room, obviously looking for an out, but the other guys weren’t having it. So he just shrugged his shoulders and said something lame like “yeah, let’s do it.” He moved to clear the board, but I wouldn’t let him. Because at that moment, I had an epiphany. I knew what I had to do and knew I was about to change everything. I said, “No Joey. If you’re so great, prove it by beating me with the current board.” His eyes grew wide at the suggestion. I held monopolies with hotels on the purple and gold properties, but the rest of the board was pretty undeveloped. “Just think of what that would do for your reputation if you beat me under these conditions,” I said. I could see him considering it, but I knew deep down that he had to say yes. He couldn’t pass up the possibility to humiliate me. I knew him well enough to know that. And that’s another key to my success – you play the person, not the board. Yeah, someone said something similar about poker, but this wasn’t a silly card game. This was Monopoly, the greatest board game ever created.

He agreed. I kept all my built monopolies, but returned all the undeveloped properties and utilities to the bank. I also kept my money, while poor Joey started with the standard $1500. I crushed him. It was almost funny. Towards the end, he was whining about it being unfair. Unfair? Has there ever been a loser that hasn’t complained about something being unfair? Winners never complain about fairness. If he was better than me, he would have won. That’s a simple fact. I earned my status, and there was nothing unfair about him being unable to knock me down. He just couldn’t compete with my awesomeness.

Joey wasn’t alone. All of the kids at my boarding school wanted the chance to unseat me. Each wanted to prove his mettle against me, against the titan of Monopoly. They willingly played against my established wealth, and each lost. But they kept trying. I’ll give that to them. They did keep trying, but none fared any different than Joey. I was just too good, too skilled at deal making, too talented at real estate transactions. In my mercy, I would throw them a bone; let them have a few houses on Connecticut Avenue, maybe a railroad or two. Give them enough to stay active, stay fighting but not enough to pose an actual threat. One kid during college had the bright idea of adding another board to the mix, to free up more properties. It was one of those special edition versions, with properties named after movie locations. He hoped it would throw me off my game. It didn’t. My dominance just spread to the other board, and the one after that.

I haven’t lost a game of Monopoly for 30 years. Just think about that incredible record. Clearly, I am the greatest of all time. The greatest deal maker, the greatest strategist that has ever lived. Perhaps the greatest that will ever live. Time will tell. If anyone does unseat me, it will probably be one of my children. They’ve already struck gold in the genetics mine, what with my brains and my wife’s unbelievable body. I have no doubt they will be achieve great success on their own. They’re already pretty good at Monopoly, and will be even better once they inherit all of my properties. But I’m not ready to pass along the deeds quite yet, not to them or anyone else. No, I still have a lot of game in me. So to everyone who has read this memoir, I hope you’ve gained insight into how I made myself the greatest player of all time. Just don’t expect to replicate my success. After all, there can be only one GOAT. And we all know who he is.

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