Victor D. López's Blog: Victor D. Lopez, page 93
October 20, 2012
The Grasshopper and the Ants – 21st Century Version . . .
by Aesop (Project Gutenberg, new translation, http://www.gutenberg.org)
One fine day in winter some Ants were busy drying their store of corn, which had got rather damp during a long spell of rain. Presently up came a Grasshopper and begged them to spare her a few grains, “For,” she said, “I’m simply starving.” The Ants stopped work for a moment, though this was against their principles. “May we ask,” said they, “what you were doing with yourself all last summer? Why didn’t you collect a store of food for the winter?” “The fact is,” replied the Grasshopper, “I was so busy singing that I hadn’t the time.” “If you spent the summer singing,” replied the Ants, “you can’t do better than spend the winter dancing.” And they chuckled and went on with their work.
_________________________
21st Century Version of the Grasshopper and the Ants (by Victor D. Lopez, fan of ants everywhere and every when)
One fine day in winter some Ants were busy drying their store of corn,
which had got rather damp during a long spell of rain. Presently up came
a Grasshopper and demanded that they give him a fair share of their stores. The Ants stopped work for a moment, though this was against their principles. “May we ask,” said they, “what you were doing with yourself all last summer? Why didn’t you collect a store of food for the winter?” “The fact is,” replied the Grasshopper, “I was busy with more important things, like hugging trees, holding hands and singing Cumba Ya with like-minded people. Unfortunately, these activities are not not prized by the stupid elites that unfairly oppress the lower classes and try to exploit them by such means as having them do meaningless, underpaid work that is beneath their dignity.” “If you spent the summer singing, holding hands and hugging trees” replied the Ants, “when you should have been planning for the winter and building up your stores to see you and your family through the winter, you can’t do better than spend the winter dancing.” And they chuckled and went on with their work.
The grass hopper, who was a very sensitive sort, was deeply offended by the selfishness and intransigence of these wealthy ants who were unwilling to provide their fair share to support the less fortunate members of the community, like himself. “You did not build the corn you reaped through your avariciousness over the summer while more enlightened people than you were hard at work exploring their sensual and artistic natures. You did not cause it to rain, or the sun to shine, or the bees to pollinate the nascent crops. You simply reaped the benefit of the bounty of nature that belongs to everyone and greedily attempted to keep for yourself a harvest provided not by your work but by the grace of mother earth. You are thieves, hoarders, and selfish beasts that would take for yourselves that which nature provides for all of her children in equal measure.” He then stormed off, while the ants shook their heads, smiled and returned to their work.
Later that day, the grasshopper returned with hoards of like-minder people seething about the outrage and disrespect shown them by the selfish, cruel, heartless ants. They fell upon the ants beating them senseless, took the greater part of their harvest and burned what they could not take to teach these evil little ants a lesson, all the while chanting:”Yes we can,” “power to the people,” “no justice no peace” and a range of similarly catchy phrases as they beat the selfish ants, liberated their food stores and burned the rest. It was a great day for grasshoppers who danced into the night around the bonfires of their victory.
That winter, the ants starved, as did the grasshoppers who had gorged themselves upon the liberated stores of the selfish ants in a few days of round-the-clock partying and soon exhausted them, and could find no succor from the other free spirits in their village. As their last act, they gathered, held hands, hugged a tree and sang in unison their final song: “It is all the fault of the stupid ants who brought their destruction upon their heads and ours through their selfish unwillingness to share their hoarded bounty. Stupid, selfish, egotistical, greedy little ants. All their fault. All their fault. If only they had been as enlightened as we.”
_________________
Victor D. Lopez
September 11, 2012
A Modest proposal for a New Century . . .
conventions is finally over and the echoes of bombastic speeches full of sound
and fury signifying little are swept off the stage along with the confetti, it might be wise for all Americans to do some out-of-the-box thinking about what could be done to save us from a government that too often gives anarchy a good name.So, with advance apologies to Jonathan Swift, I would like to offer my own
six-point modest proposal to save our democracy via some creative
Constitutional Amendments for a new century. Since the Constitution is a
living document under the prevailing jurisprudential view, let us inject
some vibrancy and new vitality into the old, dated, dry, parchment.
1. Send every single politician in Washington D.C. on a one-way junket to any lesser-developed country on earth that still practices cannibalism as both foreign aid and a
good-will gesture that shows our respect for all cultural predilections;
2. Replace the anachronistic electoral college system and representative
democracy with direct democracy–one (live) person one vote (even in Chicago);
3. Disband the executive and legislative branches of government and their attendant bloated bureaucracies and replace
both with a supercomputer (HAL 2012?) to implement the direct wishes of the
people through appropriate legislation literally interpreted and enforced;
4. Use the savings from the dismantling of the federal bureaucracy for direct
programs at home to provide a true safety net for needy individuals, enhance
everyone’s health care, and provide practical work-related training and support
that every American may once again take pride in being a useful contributor to
and stakeholder in a great society that actually lives up to the name;
5.Send displaced federal bureaucrats for retraining that they may utilize their innate
skills for other more useful purposes–guano farming and cesspool cleaning services
come to mind (no disrespect intended to guano farmers or cesspool cleaning
professionals). Those who resist can be offered a free trip under Paragraph 1;
6. Provide the same benefit under Paragraph 1 to federal judges who
subvert the people’s will and the Constitution by interpreting square
legislative pegs as anything but square legislative pegs.
Any thoughts?
Note: I posted this message originally at Publishedauthors.org on September 5. You can see the resulting discussion it has generated at http://www.publishedauthors.org/t8768...
June 10, 2012
Short Story: To Sleep, Perchance to Dream . . .
There is a common thread in many of my short stories and even in my poetry about the nature of reality and the relationship between sleep and wakefulness and the conscious and subconscious mind. As is the case with a number of my short stories, this was inspired by a dream. It delves into one possible explanation for what lurks in the dark recesses of our mind for which science has yet to discover a clear use.
This short story appears in my Book of Dreams: Science Fiction and Speculative Fiction Short Stories, (C) Victor D. Lopez 2011 .
_________________________________
To Sleep, Perchance to Dream . . .
I am not insane, of that fact I’m certain. It matters little that nobody reading this will believe me. Frankly, I don’t much care. My death will be hardly noticed. I’m not even sure why I’m writing this; ostensibly it is to leave a warning, some vital information which is quite valuable if it is believed. But I guess it is also out of a childish need for reassurance that I leave this testimonial. I suppose I’d pray if I believed in God. How comforting that would be, to simply go to bed, close my eyes and put everything in the hands of some benevolent deity. If only I still had even the illusion of hope.
No matter. I just want to make it clear: I am sober, lucid and drug free, facts the blood and urine tests that will doubtless be performed on me post mortem will clearly verify. And I hope this letter will convince you that no illness or natural cause can explain my condition that the coma I’m sure to lapse into as soon as I am no longer able to remain awake has no physiological cause and is not rooted in some infirmity. Please, please believe that; the hope that you may is the only remaining source of comfort in these waning moments of my life.
I’m sorry if I ramble; I’ll try to be concise. I’m so damned tired, though; I’ve not slept in twenty days. That’s ironic. It’s a new record. Nobody’s been able to stay awake that long before others who’ve tried cracked in little more than a week. But then, their lives did not hang in the balance between sleep and wakefulness. In any case, it will end soon.
But to the point. It all started just over a month ago. I mean the nightmares at least that’s what they seemed to be at first. God, it felt good to wake up the first few times and know it was only a dream. I never fully appreciated the absolute bliss that awakening from a bad dream brings in its delectable deliverance from the unimaginable inner horrors of the sleeping mind; there is no pleasure quite like being rent up from the bowels of hell, squeezed up through the narrow, shimmering tunnel of our emerging consciousness to a rebirth in the warm safety of a familiar bed, the light of a new day pushing nightmarish images back into the shadows of the subconscious mind, calming the frenzied hammering in our chest back to blissful quiescence. It had never occurred to me to be thankful at such times before, or even to revel in the delicious feeling of dissipating tension as fear fades, its effects lingering in the awakening consciousness, with adrenaline still pumping and the heart pounding in a chest seemingly too small to contain it. I’d gladly sell my soul, had I one to sell, to experience that indescribable relief once more.
As I said, it appeared to me about a month ago that something was really wrong. I’d had nightmares before, of course, but not like this one. It was so devastatingly real that it took me quite some time to shake it off upon awakening. And it returned the following night, and every night thereafter until I stopped going to sleep after nearly a dozen repeat performances, when it became clear that the inhabitants of my dreams intended to take over my consciousness.
I know how that sounds; I’m not yet quite past the point of reason. I would also dismiss anyone making such a ridiculous statement immediately. But then, when you read this you will have some objective proof my comatose body. Please keep an open mind.
The nightmares I speak of were recurring, but not repetitive, as if some sort of continuing drama were being played out in my head every night. I don’t want to digress further by giving endless detail. The gist of it is as follows. I am held captive in a windowless, doorless cubicle that constantly changes in size to accommodate the beings who visit me there. I am unable to move and find myself sitting, in a reclined position or lying down, depending on the whim of my captors.
My captors, by the way, are not “nightmarish” creatures; they are for the most part quite human. I can recognize some of the languages they speak German, Spanish, Catalan, Galician and Italian, among some others I cannot place. They visit me at will, materializing individ¬ually and in groups into my little cubicle which expands as needed to encompass them. Some are dressed in almost contemporary garb, others in anachronistic styles and a few sport only a thick pelt of hair over muscular torsos and look more like gorillas than human beings.
The first two nights of my recurring dream, I’d merely spent watching a seemingly endless parade of human and nearly human forms that came to observe me, sometimes caressing, poking or pushing my motionless body as if to reassure themselves of my existence. On the third night, a group approached me and, after discussing me at length among themselves in various languages, one of its members addressed me in Spanish, my native tongue. My questioner identified himself as a Spaniard, yet his version of Spanish was unlike any variant spoken in any region of contemporary Spain. Nor did it bear a resemblance to the many, easily identifiable variants spoken in modern day South and Central America. He questioned me on politics, science, philosophy, and aesthetics. I had to answer; I was not coerced in any way, but I felt a compulsion as though I were under a hypnotic trance, while remaining fully conscious and alert.
The same thing went on for the following two nights: the group questioned me, with the same questioner acting as interpreter. By then I began to have a notion as to the purpose for their queries. From the questions they asked, and from what I could pick up from the discussions they held amongst themselves—at least the ones I could understand in English, Spanish or Galician, I theorize that these beings have lived before. Some part of that which made them unique as individuals apparently remains imprinted in a collective consciousness that is encoded into my subconscious mind, perhaps imprinted in my genetic code itself. I know that makes little sense, but it is nevertheless true. I have untold numbers of past consciousnesses living within me, normally subjugated to my conscious mind, yet nevertheless ever-present and self-aware.
That’s what scares the hell out of me, even now when little matters; in a way, I am thousands, perhaps millions of different people. They, or perhaps more accurately we, coexist and are only marginally aware of each other. Physically, they probably inhabit the major part of our brain, perhaps as large as 90 percent, for which science cannot divine specific use. There is an apparent line of demarcation separating the two a zone we cannot normally cross. Perhaps this is part of the instinct for self-preservation; without it, we’d go insane. In my case, my partners-in-self broke through in a manner I can’t understand, much less articulate. But I know that they managed to bend the rules, not break them; whatever kink in my psychic armor allowed them through does so only at the level of the subconscious, when my defenses are lowered. They can’t reach me in a state of wakefulness, although I sometimes feel them reaching out when my mind wanders or when I feel myself drifting off into sleep. The separation between the two minds seems clear from my counterparts’ intense interest in, and lack of knowledge about, matters with which I am intimately familiar, such as current events.
Perhaps that is the reason for our need to sleep a sort of tradeoff to the others within us. The subconscious, from my experience, seems to function on the level of memory. It can allow its inhabitants only an imperfect sense of self, and then only when it is able to function over the watchful eye of the conscious mind. It’s common knowledge that there is no scientific explanation for our need to sleep. Yet I’ve always needed more sleep than most; perhaps that is because my subconscious mind is stronger than the norm, and my conscious mind is proportionately weaker. In that way, my subconscious demands a greater portion of time in which to assume an active role in our mind-sharing relationship.
My experience also gives me some insight into what makes certain people very creative, and why there seems to be a notable correlation between high levels of creativity and mental instability. Highly creative people tend to be less stable than the norm; they appear to be more susceptible to mental illness and addictive disorders. Perhaps the reason is that a strong subconscious allows them access to a sort of collaborative effort as they share the input of consciousnesses not their own. But that is a dangerous and equivocal communion. A thin line separates genius and madness, and I feel certain from what I’ve seen of the others within me that there are forces of both good and evil, the best and worst of all who’ve lived before seems represented. The effect is that the extremes cancel each other out and a sort of ethical nihilism seems to prevail and guide the processes of that huge mind pool. The sense of self, however, is strong within the individual parts that form the whole, and seeks an outlet.
Therein lies the greatest danger, and there the root of my undoing. Unless the conscious mind is strong, which mine apparently is not, the subconscious can encroach upon it as it seeks to perfect its splintered sense of identity into a more recognizable form. Generally, this happens when a strong part of the subconscious takes control. In my case, however, there is clearly a joint effort involved; I will not be “possessed” by one or several dominant individual identities who could push back my own identity into the subconscious. Rather, my own conscious mind will be shared by all, to no one’s particular detriment but mine.
I am too tired to much care that what I have said will doubtless sound insane. I know I can’t hold out much longer against the others’ power. I feel myself being pulled in and I’m too drained to resist much longer. My mind is clear, but I know it’s only burning itself out quickly, a lifetime of psychic energy used up in a few weeks of futilely trying to dam up the irresistible incoming tide. I feel myself floating, even as I write these lines. I’m losing consciousness; time is slowly dilating as my senses ebb away.
A month ago I would have dismissed what I am writing here as the mad ramblings of someone who had read Jung and Freud while drunk and standing on his head. I’m not trying to philosophize or indulge in self-analysis. Actually, my view of psychology is that it’s mostly nonsense; I view the average psychiatrist as a tri-part mixture of scientist, snake oil salesman, and telephone psychic who bills by the minute and banks on the credulity of his or her clients.
Oh, yes, I tried seeking help several weeks ago. I spent a considerable rainy-day fund; what the hell, I had no other use for it anyway. I got referrals to several psychiatrists and an analyst; the latter said, in essence, that my inner conflict was rooted in a classic Oedipal complex, and that the reason I could not sleep was the guilt I felt over a transparent wish to make love to my dead mother. She suggested, among other things, therapy which would include therapeutic love-making sessions with her at $1,000 dollars per hour. The other psychiatrists were somewhat more helpful, if somewhat less honest about the true nature of their craft, but the treatment they recommended would take many months before any palpable effect of their pharmacological arsenals could be discerned. One prescribed shock treatment (with a straight face and long explanation about the renaissance of this wonderful and altogether misunderstood treatment that would have been the pride of any grand inquisitor had science or the devil provided such a tool to the precursors of that ancient learned profession), and two others suggested I voluntarily check into a sleep clinic for observation and treatment; and, of course, they all prescribed sleeping pills. I can’t really blame them, though; I wouldn’t have believed me either. In any case, I soon realized I was on my own.
I’m so damned sleepy. And resigned. Let them win. They mean me no harm; it’s as much a matter of survival for them as it is for me. I’ll still be me, somewhere in that cubicle, able to think and speak with them, for as long as my body continues to function. I’ve made a living will requiring that no extraordinary measures be undertaken to prolong my life. In this state, it will be honored. But I can’t request they take my life; euthanasia laws are anathema in this country as they interfere with the profitability of the health care business. Even if that were not the case, they wouldn’t apply; after all, I’ll soon only be in a coma, not suffering from a painful terminal condition that would justify a mercy killing. I’d take my own life. I should, in fact, but that would only make me into a nut case and my death would have no meaning.
It feels good to be doing something altruistic in the end, even if it turns out to be in vain. Doubtless a psych consult would conclude I am delusional and suffering from some sort of martyr complex. I trust the public will embrace a kinder diagnosis.
Time is definitely relative when it comes to the subconscious. The conventional wisdom is that dreams are really quite short in duration and that we have many of them every night, though we remember but a few, or none. Some, however, believe that we can dream the same dream for many hours. In either case, anyone with the ability to recollect dreams vividly knows that they can seem to last days, years or even a lifetime, yet all in the space of minutes in “real time.” The comatose can live for many years without life support equipment, and I’m only thirty two years old. At least I’ll be giving new life to billions for a subjective eternity. And I know I won’t be harmed; the others are at least partially, and perhaps exclusively, my own ancestors all the way back to the beginning of my line.
How ironic, to know there is no God, no hope for redemption, and that hell lurks just beneath the surface of consciousness in all of us. A favorite tag line of mine that rteflects my sardonic humor is simply that Hobbes was an optimist. Indeed, it seems I was right, but the joke’s on me, for life in the state of nature is not only brutal, painful and brief but it has the capacity to continue subjectively ad infinitum in each living human being. God may be dead, but it is not by any means lonely in a world without a prime mover; quite the contrary, it’s too damned crowded within us all.
If you still do not believe me, then there is only one more thing I can say: search for other egos within you and you will soon learn they are there. And if you lack the resolve to do so, then look for them in your children and children’s children, for it is they who have the weakest boundaries between the conscious and subconscious minds and in that porous condition you can best observe their other selves as they struggle to form their own conscious identities, bursting forth and asserting themselves when you least expect it.
Still not convinced? Well, time will prove me right. I have no children, but have contributed my genetic material to several sperm banks in the last month; you see, I too want to live again, if only in the subconscious minds of some future descendants; it is the only form of immortality we can have, and, more importantly for me, the only way to prove my claim.
Look within your children, those of you who receive the anonymous gift of life, for I will try with all my energy to manifest myself in future generations. I know now that it can be done, and I will attempt to prove it through my issue in every generation as yet unborn.
May 25, 2012
Has technology helped or hindered writing quality and productivity?
I began writing around the age of nine on a manual typewriter that a friend gave me. As an undergraduate in college, I wrote an average of 18 papers per semester for my gloriously “writing intensive” classes before the term was coined using an electric typewriter and small amounts of White-out. Deprived of an online library, email, Internet access and, of course, a personal computer since none had yet been invented, I soldiered on quite nicely, maintaining both a solid level of productivity and a healthy, active social life.
My first book was written on a PC Clone that I built from parts using WordStar for DOS and a dot-matrix printer built sturdier than a Sherman tank. (I still have a working copy of DOS 5.0 and WordStar 3.3 in my Compaq transportable computer that belongs in the Smithsonian but works just fine, blissfully oblivious of its obsolescence.)
I was happy and truly productive with my DOS-based desktops, transportables and laptops. Then came Windows in increasingly bloated and buggy versions, and the Mac, and the Internet and I now I have a ridiculous amounts of technology in every room of my house and at work. But am I really any more productive, and is my writing, in particular my fiction and poetry, any better? I honestly don’t know. I could write faster, more efficiently and without any distractions using my first PC and all of my DOS-based machines prior to the invention of the Internet. That is not subject to debate. WordStar with its arcane commands and stiff learning curve allowed me to all the flexibility I needed to write quickly and efficiently without WYSIWYG, GUI, unnecessary graphics or five-minute bootups and endless daily software updates–and it did it all without ever requiring me to take my hands away from the keyboard. (I can still recall the arcane WordStar commands and can use my Compaq transportable with its massive 10 MB hard disk and 5.25″ floppy drive any time I feel nostalgic.)
On balance, has technology truly improved our writing and productivity or has it simply become a crutch and a vehicle for endless creative time wasting in lieu of more productive endeavors such as, well, writing?
Any thoughts?
April 20, 2012
Short Story - To Sleep, Perchance to Dream . . .
This short story appears in my Book of Dreams: Science Fiction and Speculative Fiction Short Stories, (C) Victor D. Lopez 2011 .
_________________________________
To Sleep, Perchance to Dream . . .
I am not insane, of that fact I'm certain. It matters little that nobody reading this will believe me. Frankly, I don't much care. My death will be hardly noticed. I'm not even sure why I'm writing this; ostensibly it is to leave a warning, some vital information which is quite valuable if it is believed. But I guess it is also out of a childish need for reassurance that I leave this testimonial. I suppose I'd pray if I believed in God. How comforting that would be, to simply go to bed, close my eyes and put everything in the hands of some benevolent deity. If only I still had even the illusion of hope.
No matter. I just want to make it clear: I am sober, lucid and drug free, facts the blood and urine tests that will doubtless be performed on me post mortem will clearly verify. And I hope this letter will convince you that no illness or natural cause can explain my condition that the coma I'm sure to lapse into as soon as I am no longer able to remain awake has no physiological cause and is not rooted in some infirmity. Please, please believe that; the hope that you may is the only remaining source of comfort in these waning moments of my life.
I'm sorry if I ramble; I'll try to be concise. I'm so damned tired, though; I've not slept in twenty days. That's ironic. It’s a new record. Nobody's been able to stay awake that long before others who've tried cracked in little more than a week. But then, their lives did not hang in the balance between sleep and wakefulness. In any case, it will end soon.
But to the point. It all started just over a month ago. I mean the nightmares at least that's what they seemed to be at first. God, it felt good to wake up the first few times and know it was only a dream. I never fully appreciated the absolute bliss that awakening from a bad dream brings in its delectable deliverance from the unimaginable inner horrors of the sleeping mind; there is no pleasure quite like being rent up from the bowels of hell, squeezed up through the narrow, shimmering tunnel of our emerging consciousness to a rebirth in the warm safety of a familiar bed, the light of a new day pushing nightmarish images back into the shadows of the subconscious mind, calming the frenzied hammering in our chest back to blissful quiescence. It had never occurred to me to be thankful at such times before, or even to revel in the delicious feeling of dissipating tension as fear fades, its effects lingering in the awakening consciousness, with adrenaline still pumping and the heart pounding in a chest seemingly too small to contain it. I'd gladly sell my soul, had I one to sell, to experience that indescribable relief once more.
As I said, it appeared to me about a month ago that something was really wrong. I'd had nightmares before, of course, but not like this one. It was so devastatingly real that it took me quite some time to shake it off upon awakening. And it returned the following night, and every night thereafter until I stopped going to sleep after nearly a dozen repeat performances, when it became clear that the inhabitants of my dreams intended to take over my consciousness.
I know how that sounds; I'm not yet quite past the point of reason. I would also dismiss anyone making such a ridiculous statement immediately. But then, when you read this you will have some objective proof my comatose body. Please keep an open mind.
The nightmares I speak of were recurring, but not repetitive, as if some sort of continuing drama were being played out in my head every night. I don't want to digress further by giving endless detail. The gist of it is as follows. I am held captive in a windowless, doorless cubicle that constantly changes in size to accommodate the beings who visit me there. I am unable to move and find myself sitting, in a reclined position or lying down, depending on the whim of my captors.
My captors, by the way, are not "nightmarish" creatures; they are for the most part quite human. I can recognize some of the languages they speak German, Spanish, Catalan, Galician and Italian, among some others I cannot place. They visit me at will, materializing individ¬ually and in groups into my little cubicle which expands as needed to encompass them. Some are dressed in almost contemporary garb, others in anachronistic styles and a few sport only a thick pelt of hair over muscular torsos and look more like gorillas than human beings.
The first two nights of my recurring dream, I'd merely spent watching a seemingly endless parade of human and nearly human forms that came to observe me, sometimes caressing, poking or pushing my motionless body as if to reassure themselves of my existence. On the third night, a group approached me and, after discussing me at length among themselves in various languages, one of its members addressed me in Spanish, my native tongue. My questioner identified himself as a Spaniard, yet his version of Spanish was unlike any variant spoken in any region of contemporary Spain. Nor did it bear a resemblance to the many, easily identifiable variants spoken in modern day South and Central America. He questioned me on politics, science, philosophy, and aesthetics. I had to answer; I was not coerced in any way, but I felt a compulsion as though I were under a hypnotic trance, while remaining fully conscious and alert.
The same thing went on for the following two nights: the group questioned me, with the same questioner acting as interpreter. By then I began to have a notion as to the purpose for their queries. From the questions they asked, and from what I could pick up from the discussions they held amongst themselves—at least the ones I could understand in English, Spanish or Galician, I theorize that these beings have lived before. Some part of that which made them unique as individuals apparently remains imprinted in a collective consciousness that is encoded into my subconscious mind, perhaps imprinted in my genetic code itself. I know that makes little sense, but it is nevertheless true. I have untold numbers of past consciousnesses living within me, normally subjugated to my conscious mind, yet nevertheless ever-present and self-aware.
That's what scares the hell out of me, even now when little matters; in a way, I am thousands, perhaps millions of different people. They, or perhaps more accurately we, coexist and are only marginally aware of each other. Physically, they probably inhabit the major part of our brain, perhaps as large as 90 percent, for which science cannot divine specific use. There is an apparent line of demarcation separating the two a zone we cannot normally cross. Perhaps this is part of the instinct for self-preservation; without it, we'd go insane. In my case, my partners-in-self broke through in a manner I can't understand, much less articulate. But I know that they managed to bend the rules, not break them; whatever kink in my psychic armor allowed them through does so only at the level of the subconscious, when my defenses are lowered. They can't reach me in a state of wakefulness, although I sometimes feel them reaching out when my mind wanders or when I feel myself drifting off into sleep. The separation between the two minds seems clear from my counterparts’ intense interest in, and lack of knowledge about, matters with which I am intimately familiar, such as current events.
Perhaps that is the reason for our need to sleep a sort of tradeoff to the others within us. The subconscious, from my experience, seems to function on the level of memory. It can allow its inhabitants only an imperfect sense of self, and then only when it is able to function over the watchful eye of the conscious mind. It's common knowledge that there is no scientific explanation for our need to sleep. Yet I’ve always needed more sleep than most; perhaps that is because my subconscious mind is stronger than the norm, and my conscious mind is proportionately weaker. In that way, my subconscious demands a greater portion of time in which to assume an active role in our mind-sharing relationship.
My experience also gives me some insight into what makes certain people very creative, and why there seems to be a notable correlation between high levels of creativity and mental instability. Highly creative people tend to be less stable than the norm; they appear to be more susceptible to mental illness and addictive disorders. Perhaps the reason is that a strong subconscious allows them access to a sort of collaborative effort as they share the input of consciousnesses not their own. But that is a dangerous and equivocal communion. A thin line separates genius and madness, and I feel certain from what I've seen of the others within me that there are forces of both good and evil, the best and worst of all who've lived before seems represented. The effect is that the extremes cancel each other out and a sort of ethical nihilism seems to prevail and guide the processes of that huge mind pool. The sense of self, however, is strong within the individual parts that form the whole, and seeks an outlet.
Therein lies the greatest danger, and there the root of my undoing. Unless the conscious mind is strong, which mine apparently is not, the subconscious can encroach upon it as it seeks to perfect its splintered sense of identity into a more recognizable form. Generally, this happens when a strong part of the subconscious takes control. In my case, however, there is clearly a joint effort involved; I will not be "possessed" by one or several dominant individual identities who could push back my own identity into the subconscious. Rather, my own conscious mind will be shared by all, to no one's particular detriment but mine.
I am too tired to much care that what I have said will doubtless sound insane. I know I can't hold out much longer against the others’ power. I feel myself being pulled in and I'm too drained to resist much longer. My mind is clear, but I know it's only burning itself out quickly, a lifetime of psychic energy used up in a few weeks of futilely trying to dam up the irresistible incoming tide. I feel myself floating, even as I write these lines. I'm losing consciousness; time is slowly dilating as my senses ebb away.
A month ago I would have dismissed what I am writing here as the mad ramblings of someone who had read Jung and Freud while drunk and standing on his head. I'm not trying to philosophize or indulge in self-analysis. Actually, my view of psychology is that it's mostly nonsense; I view the average psychiatrist as a tri-part mixture of scientist, snake oil salesman, and telephone psychic who bills by the minute and banks on the credulity of his or her clients.
Oh, yes, I tried seeking help several weeks ago. I spent a considerable rainy-day fund; what the hell, I had no other use for it anyway. I got referrals to several psychiatrists and an analyst; the latter said, in essence, that my inner conflict was rooted in a classic Oedipal complex, and that the reason I could not sleep was the guilt I felt over a transparent wish to make love to my dead mother. She suggested, among other things, therapy which would include therapeutic love-making sessions with her at $1,000 dollars per hour. The other psychiatrists were somewhat more helpful, if somewhat less honest about the true nature of their craft, but the treatment they recommended would take many months before any palpable effect of their pharmacological arsenals could be discerned. One prescribed shock treatment (with a straight face and long explanation about the renaissance of this wonderful and altogether misunderstood treatment that would have been the pride of any grand inquisitor had science or the devil provided such a tool to the precursors of that ancient learned profession), and two others suggested I voluntarily check into a sleep clinic for observation and treatment; and, of course, they all prescribed sleeping pills. I can't really blame them, though; I wouldn't have believed me either. In any case, I soon realized I was on my own.
I'm so damned sleepy. And resigned. Let them win. They mean me no harm; it's as much a matter of survival for them as it is for me. I'll still be me, somewhere in that cubicle, able to think and speak with them, for as long as my body continues to function. I've made a living will requiring that no extraordinary measures be undertaken to prolong my life. In this state, it will be honored. But I can't request they take my life; euthanasia laws are anathema in this country as they interfere with the profitability of the health care business. Even if that were not the case, they wouldn't apply; after all, I'll soon only be in a coma, not suffering from a painful terminal condition that would justify a mercy killing. I'd take my own life. I should, in fact, but that would only make me into a nut case and my death would have no meaning.
It feels good to be doing something altruistic in the end, even if it turns out to be in vain. Doubtless a psych consult would conclude I am delusional and suffering from some sort of martyr complex. I trust the public will embrace a kinder diagnosis.
Time is definitely relative when it comes to the subconscious. The conventional wisdom is that dreams are really quite short in duration and that we have many of them every night, though we remember but a few, or none. Some, however, believe that we can dream the same dream for many hours. In either case, anyone with the ability to recollect dreams vividly knows that they can seem to last days, years or even a lifetime, yet all in the space of minutes in "real time." The comatose can live for many years without life support equipment, and I'm only thirty two years old. At least I'll be giving new life to billions for a subjective eternity. And I know I won't be harmed; the others are at least partially, and perhaps exclusively, my own ancestors all the way back to the beginning of my line.
How ironic, to know there is no God, no hope for redemption, and that hell lurks just beneath the surface of consciousness in all of us. A favorite tag line of mine that rteflects my sardonic humor is simply that Hobbes was an optimist. Indeed, it seems I was right, but the joke’s on me, for life in the state of nature is not only brutal, painful and brief but it has the capacity to continue subjectively ad infinitum in each living human being. God may be dead, but it is not by any means lonely in a world without a prime mover; quite the contrary, it's too damned crowded within us all.
If you still do not believe me, then there is only one more thing I can say: search for other egos within you and you will soon learn they are there. And if you lack the resolve to do so, then look for them in your children and children's children, for it is they who have the weakest boundaries between the conscious and subconscious minds and in that porous condition you can best observe their other selves as they struggle to form their own conscious identities, bursting forth and asserting themselves when you least expect it.
Still not convinced? Well, time will prove me right. I have no children, but have contributed my genetic material to several sperm banks in the last month; you see, I too want to live again, if only in the subconscious minds of some future descendants; it is the only form of immortality we can have, and, more importantly for me, the only way to prove my claim.
Look within your children, those of you who receive the anonymous gift of life, for I will try with all my energy to manifest myself in future generations. I know now that it can be done, and I will attempt to prove it through my issue in every generation as yet unborn.
Flash fiction - Justice
_______________________________
Time: The all too near future
Place: A courtroom
Setting: Final sentencing for the last remaining capital offense on the books of an apparently kinder, gentler more just world where equality is no longer a mere aspiration.
_____________________________
Justice
The prisoner stared impassively into the camera. The bright lights causing beads of sweat to form above his eyes and forcing him to squint, his perspiration-soaked thinning hair flattened unflatteringly against his forehead. No sound could be heard other than the faint hum of the air conditioning whose airflow was directed from the high ceiling above the high seats of the three judge panel, towards the three judged, keeping their immediate area comfortably cool. The camera trained on them remained a respectful distance away, and no harsh lights illuminated their somber countenances.
All three judges stared at the camera showing no emotion, their hands folded in front of them on the surface of their capacious bench on top of three equal, neat stacks of paper piled before each judge. Everywhere on earth citizens watched the unfolding drama over the neural net that provided a fully immersive experience indistinguishable from reality, effectively placing every citizen of earth in the courtroom as the Chief Judge began to speak in a deep, resonant, clear voice.
“The evidence against you has been examined. This tribunal finds you guilty of the charges against you by a unanimous vote. Have you anything you would like to add before we pass sentence?”
The camera changed back to the prisoner. The lights brighten around him and the heat rises perceptibly, adding fresh fuel to the trickle of sweat flowing down his flushed face, causing a bead of sweat to form at the end of his nose that he cannot swat away because his wrists are restrained by metal bands at the armrests of his chair, outside the viewing range of the camera which has a tight zoom on his face. “I am guilty of no crime,” the prisoner spoke in a low voice full of palpable weariness and resignation.
“You are guilty of the most heinous of crimes,” the Chief Judge contradicted. That is not open to debate. This is your final chance to make what amends you may to those whom you have harmed through your selfish, deviant act. It will have no effect on the sentencing by this Court.”
“But I have done nothing wrong,” the man emphatically repeated, the perspiration rolling down his neck deepening the growing ring of sweat absorbed by his bright orange jumper, staining a dark collar of moisture around his neck.
“Silence!” the Chief Judge hissed. “The record will show that the prisoner is unrepentant. This Court finds that the prisoner willfully, maliciously and without justification removed his neural connector with the purpose and effect of disconnecting himself from the Net. We further find that the motivating factor for this egregious, willful and repugnant crime was the attempt to abandon the Common Consciousness and establish his individuality separate and apart from the Communal Mind. We further find that the subject is in full possession of his legal faculties and capable of understanding the criminal nature of his acts, and, perhaps most tragically, that he fails to see the enormity of his crime.” The Chief Justice faltered slightly, delivering the final words of the Courts sentence with a slight tremor in his voice. After stopping a moment to compose himself as his learned colleagues looked on impassively, he continued. “It is, therefore, the judgment of this Court that you will forever remain disconnected from the nets from this day forward.”
Upon hearing the Judge’s words the prisoner’s eyes opened wider, attempting to digest their import. Could it be? Could he finally be allowed the freedom to regain his humanity? The unalienable right to be an individual for the first time in his life? The opportunity to live in a world in which he could have original thoughts, genuine emotions, and the opportunity to be different from everyone else? The joy in these words nearly made him faint with relief and unbridled joy, allowing him for the first time in his life the possibility of hope as tears welled in his eyes. He found he could not speak, could not express even the simple words “thank you” to the Court. It was as though he were emerging from a life-long nightmare, as if . . .
“The prisoner’s IP address, 999.999.999.999, shall be erased from the Nets,” the Judge continued as the prisoner’s tears flowed freely. His existence shall be forever stricken from the Collective Consciousness lest it germinate there and once again grow sedition in our midst.” The prisoner wept openly now while smiling broadly. “The death sentence for this most heinous of crimes is hereby commuted so that the prisoner may be allowed the individuality he craved for the rest of his natural life, devoid of the comfort of humanity or the distracting influences of life.”
The Chief Judge then paused and took a deep breath. “It is further ordered by this Court that the prisoner shall have his eyes, eardrums, tongue and olfactory organs surgically removed that he may not see, hear, taste, or speak with any other human being for the rest of his natural life. thereafter, he is to be remanded to a hospital where he shall be restrained to a bed and tended to by robotic life support aids. The sentence of this Court shall be carried out immediately and shall be witnessed by all Citizens of Earth as partial reparation for this most heinous of crimes against humanity.”
The prisoner’s screams lasted only a few moments as an anesthetic was administered and the cameras were re-arranged in preparation for justice to be carried out.
Flash fiction - Justice
_______________________________
Time: The all too near future
Place: A courtroom
Setting: Final sentencing for the last remaining capital offense on the books of an apparently kinder, gentler more just world where equality is no longer a mere aspiration.
_____________________________
Justice
The prisoner stared impassively into the camera. The bright lights causing beads of sweat to form above his eyes and forcing him to squint, his perspiration-soaked thinning hair flattened unflatteringly against his forehead. No sound could be heard other than the faint hum of the air conditioning whose airflow was directed from the high ceiling above the high seats of the three judge panel, towards the three judged, keeping their immediate area comfortably cool. The camera trained on them remained a respectful distance away, and no harsh lights illuminated their somber countenances.
All three judges stared at the camera showing no emotion, their hands folded in front of them on the surface of their capacious bench on top of three equal, neat stacks of paper piled before each judge. Everywhere on earth citizens watched the unfolding drama over the neural net that provided a fully immersive experience indistinguishable from reality, effectively placing every citizen of earth in the courtroom as the Chief Judge began to speak in a deep, resonant, clear voice.
“The evidence against you has been examined. This tribunal finds you guilty of the charges against you by a unanimous vote. Have you anything you would like to add before we pass sentence?”
The camera changed back to the prisoner. The lights brighten around him and the heat rises perceptibly, adding fresh fuel to the trickle of sweat flowing down his flushed face, causing a bead of sweat to form at the end of his nose that he cannot swat away because his wrists are restrained by metal bands at the armrests of his chair, outside the viewing range of the camera which has a tight zoom on his face. “I am guilty of no crime,” the prisoner spoke in a low voice full of palpable weariness and resignation.
“You are guilty of the most heinous of crimes,” the Chief Judge contradicted. That is not open to debate. This is your final chance to make what amends you may to those whom you have harmed through your selfish, deviant act. It will have no effect on the sentencing by this Court.”
“But I have done nothing wrong,” the man emphatically repeated, the perspiration rolling down his neck deepening the growing ring of sweat absorbed by his bright orange jumper, staining a dark collar of moisture around his neck.
“Silence!” the Chief Judge hissed. “The record will show that the prisoner is unrepentant. This Court finds that the prisoner willfully, maliciously and without justification removed his neural connector with the purpose and effect of disconnecting himself from the Net. We further find that the motivating factor for this egregious, willful and repugnant crime was the attempt to abandon the Common Consciousness and establish his individuality separate and apart from the Communal Mind. We further find that the subject is in full possession of his legal faculties and capable of understanding the criminal nature of his acts, and, perhaps most tragically, that he fails to see the enormity of his crime.” The Chief Justice faltered slightly, delivering the final words of the Courts sentence with a slight tremor in his voice. After stopping a moment to compose himself as his learned colleagues looked on impassively, he continued. “It is, therefore, the judgment of this Court that you will forever remain disconnected from the nets from this day forward.”
Upon hearing the Judge’s words the prisoner’s eyes opened wider, attempting to digest their import. Could it be? Could he finally be allowed the freedom to regain his humanity? The unalienable right to be an individual for the first time in his life? The opportunity to live in a world in which he could have original thoughts, genuine emotions, and the opportunity to be different from everyone else? The joy in these words nearly made him faint with relief and unbridled joy, allowing him for the first time in his life the possibility of hope as tears welled in his eyes. He found he could not speak, could not express even the simple words “thank you” to the Court. It was as though he were emerging from a life-long nightmare, as if . . .
“The prisoner’s IP address, 999.999.999.999, shall be erased from the Nets,” the Judge continued as the prisoner’s tears flowed freely. His existence shall be forever stricken from the Collective Consciousness lest it germinate there and once again grow sedition in our midst.” The prisoner wept openly now while smiling broadly. “The death sentence for this most heinous of crimes is hereby commuted so that the prisoner may be allowed the individuality he craved for the rest of his natural life, devoid of the comfort of humanity or the distracting influences of life.”
The Chief Judge then paused and took a deep breath. “It is further ordered by this Court that the prisoner shall have his eyes, eardrums, tongue and olfactory organs surgically removed that he may not see, hear, taste, or speak with any other human being for the rest of his natural life. thereafter, he is to be remanded to a hospital where he shall be restrained to a bed and tended to by robotic life support aids. The sentence of this Court shall be carried out immediately and shall be witnessed by all Citizens of Earth as partial reparation for this most heinous of crimes against humanity.”
The prisoner’s screams lasted only a few moments as an anesthetic was administered and the cameras were re-arranged in preparation for justice to be carried out.
April 17, 2012
Flash Fiction – Justice
Justice (C) 2012 Victor D. Lopez
_______________________________
Time: The all too near future
Place: A courtroom
Setting: Final sentencing for the last remaining capital offense on the books of an apparently kinder, gentler more just world where equality is no longer a mere aspiration.
_____________________________
Justice
The prisoner stared impassively into the camera. The bright lights causing beads of sweat to form above his eyes and forcing him to squint, his perspiration-soaked thinning hair flattened unflatteringly against his forehead. No sound could be heard other than the faint hum of the air conditioning whose airflow was directed from the high ceiling above the high seats of the three judge panel, towards the three judged, keeping their immediate area comfortably cool. The camera trained on them remained a respectful distance away, and no harsh lights illuminated their somber countenances.
All three judges stared at the camera showing no emotion, their hands folded in front of them on the surface of their capacious bench on top of three equal, neat stacks of paper piled before each judge. Everywhere on earth citizens watched the unfolding drama over the neural net that provided a fully immersive experience indistinguishable from reality, effectively placing every citizen of earth in the courtroom as the Chief Judge began to speak in a deep, resonant, clear voice.
“The evidence against you has been examined. This tribunal finds you guilty of the charges against you by a unanimous vote. Have you anything you would like to add before we pass sentence?”
The camera changed back to the prisoner. The lights brighten around him and the heat rises perceptibly, adding fresh fuel to the trickle of sweat flowing down his flushed face, causing a bead of sweat to form at the end of his nose that he cannot swat away because his wrists are restrained by metal bands at the armrests of his chair, outside the viewing range of the camera which has a tight zoom on his face. “I am guilty of no crime,” the prisoner spoke in a low voice full of palpable weariness and resignation.
“You are guilty of the most heinous of crimes,” the Chief Judge contradicted. That is not open to debate. This is your final chance to make what amends you may to those whom you have harmed through your selfish, deviant act. It will have no effect on the sentencing by this Court.”
“But I have done nothing wrong,” the man emphatically repeated, the perspiration rolling down his neck deepening the growing ring of sweat absorbed by his bright orange jumper, staining a dark collar of moisture around his neck.
“Silence!” the Chief Judge hissed. “The record will show that the prisoner is unrepentant. This Court finds that the prisoner willfully, maliciously and without justification removed his neural connector with the purpose and effect of disconnecting himself from the Net. We further find that the motivating factor for this egregious, willful and repugnant crime was the attempt to abandon the Common Consciousness and establish his individuality separate and apart from the Communal Mind. We further find that the subject is in full possession of his legal faculties and capable of understanding the criminal nature of his acts, and, perhaps most tragically, that he fails to see the enormity of his crime.” The Chief Justice faltered slightly, delivering the final words of the Courts sentence with a slight tremor in his voice. After stopping a moment to compose himself as his learned colleagues looked on impassively, he continued. “It is, therefore, the judgment of this Court that you will forever remain disconnected from the nets from this day forward.”
Upon hearing the Judge’s words the prisoner’s eyes opened wider, attempting to digest their import. Could it be? Could he finally be allowed the freedom to regain his humanity? The unalienable right to be an individual for the first time in his life? The opportunity to live in a world in which he could have original thoughts, genuine emotions, and the opportunity to be different from everyone else? The joy in these words nearly made him faint with relief and unbridled joy, allowing him for the first time in his life the possibility of hope as tears welled in his eyes. He found he could not speak, could not express even the simple words “thank you” to the Court. It was as though he were emerging from a life-long nightmare, as if . . .
“The prisoner’s IP address, 999.999.999.999, shall be erased from the Nets,” the Judge continued as the prisoner’s tears flowed freely. His existence shall be forever stricken from the Collective Consciousness lest it germinate there and once again grow sedition in our midst.” The prisoner wept openly now while smiling broadly. “The death sentence for this most heinous of crimes is hereby commuted so that the prisoner may be allowed the individuality he craved for the rest of his natural life, devoid of the comfort of humanity or the distracting influences of life.”
The Chief Judge then paused and took a deep breath. “It is further ordered by this Court that the prisoner shall have his eyes, eardrums, tongue and olfactory organs surgically removed that he may not see, hear, taste, or speak with any other human being for the rest of his natural life. thereafter, he is to be remanded to a hospital where he shall be restrained to a bed and tended to by robotic life support aids. The sentence of this Court shall be carried out immediately and shall be witnessed by all Citizens of Earth as partial reparation for this most heinous of crimes against humanity.”
The prisoner’s screams lasted only a few moments as an anesthetic was administered and the cameras were re-arranged in preparation for justice to be carried out.
March 31, 2012
30 Percent off Coupon Code for My Intellectual Property Book Valid through April 2012
Reblogged from Victor D. López, J.D., Esq.:
Through April 2012, I am offering a 30% off discount coupon code for the soft cover version of my Intellectual Property Law: A Practical Guide to Copyrights, Patents, Trademarks and Trade Secrets book. The code is available only for books purchased directly from CreateSpace and will not work with any of the other retailers currently offering the book for sale, including Amazon.com and Barnes and Noble (BN.com).
March 30, 2012
On Pointless Introspection
On Pointless Introspection
I am an ostrich, hiding deep within myself,
My head submerged in murky moods,
Screaming in a vacuum.
No, not a vacuum, but a sound-proof room,
With walls of ten-foot stone,
A fortress,
Clammy, cold and, dimly lit,
That admits no sound,
But the monotonous percussion,
Of a heart that knows the one eternal truth:
We are born dying,
And every breath that we take,
Every beat of our heart,
Brings us one step closer,
To the grave.
It is easy to forget a world exists outside,
My diminutive cell when my teeth chatter,
Not from the absence of warmth,
But from the absence of meaning.
Perspective, perspective, perspective,
Echoes through my fruitless cell.
I am a foolish,
Ugly bird,
Cowardly bird,
But needlessly.
I heard a song today, a soothing melody,
Sung by an angel dressed in woman's clothes;
Oh, sing again, dear love, I had
Almost forgotten your sweet voice!
From Of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems (C) 2011
Victor D. Lopez
- Victor D. López's profile
- 11 followers
