Archive for February, 2012

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HEARTH

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags , , , , , on February 29, 2012 by javedbabar

Amy and David were excited by their new HEARTH home. An enhanced home had always seemed out of reach, so when they heard about “50% OFF” this January – making it as cheap as a regular home – they jumped at the chance.

They knew that they were the man and woman of each other’s dreams, and their next step was making a home together. But everything was so expensive – how could young people afford anything these days? Well they could if they were happy to live in debt for 30 years. David said that they shouldn’t have a mortgage. He invoked the symbolism of Jesus upturning the money changers’ tables at the Temple. People didn’t realize that everyone borrowing money simply meant that everyone had more money available, and supply and demand – basic economics – ensured that prices went up. So ultimately, borrowing money was worthless. In fact, with inflation, it was less than worthless.

They used their savings to buy a plot of land, and lived in an RV there for three years. Their house fund built up quickly, and they were set to self-build, so visited the Ideal Home Show for ideas. That’s where they saw the HEARTH home.

“Darling, let’s go in there,” Amy had said. “I like the look of it.”

“Doesn’t that one look better?” said David, pointing to a glassy structure with pronounced, angled timbers, which gave the effect of ascending and expanding.

“It looks like the Transparent Temple’s unwanted child.” said Amy. “You know what happened to the budget of our beloved community centre. Let’s not go there.”

“I just don’t see the attraction?” said David. “It looks like a shiny black box to me; hardly West Coast architecture.”

“Darling, I’m drawn to it,” said Amy. “Can we go see?”

They were dazzled by their walk around the HEARTH home, and booked a full demo at the City factory, which was followed by a bubbly sales lunch. This was where the salesman had mentioned the “50% OFF” promotion for “selected customers” like them. The only condition was that they had to choose from an existing model. They were allowed minor modifications, but no structural changes, or they would be back to “50% ON”.

Amy and David were the first people in the Village to own a HEARTH home. They required a month to lay the foundations and get utilities primed. The HEARTH home was delivered on the Monday after. Its components came on four tractor trailers, and the eight-man construction crew completed it by Friday.

They were told to stay out for the weekend to allow adhesives, paints, and varnishes to cure. The HEARTH home would require a further month of commissioning, giving time for the structure to settle. “There will be thumps, cracks, snaps, creaks, ooh’s and aah’s,” said the salesman by video call. “The house needs to get to know you. It needs to understand your physical movements, and your personal behaviour. Our structural work is the easy part. It is the house that does all the hard work.” He beamed hugely. So many teeth, thought Amy. “It is filled with components that you’ll never see – there are heat, sound, respiration, odour, electromagnetic, and tension sensors, plus as a bonus to my favourite customers I’ve authorized ECG and EEG feedback loops, that pick up your heartbeats and thoughts, which become the house’s heartbeat and thoughts. Can you hear them?”

“The sensors pick up our thoughts?” said David. “How do they do that?”

“I don’t understand the details myself,” said the salesman. “Only the principles. Once your personal pattern is established, the house identifies key emotional stages of your desired outcome, and then works through them progressively. It’s all very subtle though, very natural. You won’t even know. In Ancient Persia, every house had a hearth at its centre, a holy place for offering sacrifices and prayers. This is what we have recreated in this modern house. You are its hearth.”

Even within its first few days, the house functioned beautifully. Rooms lit up as they approached them; just the right music played; beautiful fragrances created delight; micro-cleaners didn’t allow a speck of dust or a stain to remain; the water’s temperature was perfect always, both in the kitchen sink and in the bath. The HEARTH home ensured that their dinners were awesome, their conversations sublime, their yoga divine, their work productive, and their sex out of this world.

The HEARTH home never got in their way. It took them to where they wanted to be, and left them to continue alone. “Darling, this is perfect,” said Amy. “This is how I wanted our life to be.”

“I guess you were right about the house,” said David. “It’s helped us to become more ourselves.” He kissed her passionately, causing classical guitars to play, and roses to scent the room. “Our neighbour’s houses have taken over their lives. They live for their houses. They spend their weeks working to pay their mortgage, and their weekends scrubbing and fixing them. Here we can just be ourselves.”

But one day they had a silly argument about cheese. Amy said that it was still alive, and David said it wasn’t. And because it was a silly argument, the house didn’t know how to behave. Rather than reason, its response was passion. Red colours flashed, whisky smells filled room corners, rap music thumped harder, the air became hotter and steamier, and chilli tastes heightened their emotional disharmony into physical distress. Amy grabbed the cutlery nearby. The HEARTH house played The Ride of the Valkyries, and she became a winged maiden choosing slain warriors. “God help us!” cried David. Both his and their home’s heartbeats stopped together.

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Open Relationship

Posted in Lucerne Village, Uncategorized with tags , , , , on February 28, 2012 by javedbabar

It is a long haul home in one sense, thought Antonio – three long ladders, all strapped together, rising thirty feet. It seems like an endless series of steps, like railway sleepers running past you at increasing speed; plus it’s trickier when you have shopping bags.

The fourth floor isn’t that high, he thought, but the ladder isn’t going straight up like a ship’s ladder. It’s angled about 45o, so the only things it touches are the ground and my apartment – my apartment, not theirs – on its √30ft2 x 30ft2, approx 45 ft length using Pythagoras’ formula for triangles. Clever guy that Pythagoras; I wonder if he would have approved of this solution.

Antonio’s ascent was somewhat awkward and entirely outdoors, but still quicker than walking all the way round to the apartment block entrance – up three sets of stairs – along many corridors – though endless sets of fire doors – past fire alarms – sprinklers –

CCTV – all to get to his apartment. It had been a year since Antonio had walked into the manager’s office and said to him, “I’m not paying any more management fees.”

“Why not?” he’d asked.

“Because I own this apartment, and pay $800/month to the bank for the privilege. And then for some unknown reason, I must pay a further $800 to you. That’s disgusting.”

The manager looked away, and fiddled with his desk toy. Five steel balls on wires were set in motion – by pulling away and releasing a ball at one end that bashed the others, and sent a ball at the opposite end outwards, which returned and continued the motion in reverse – and never stopped. Then he said, “But you must pay your fees to cover facilities. You have signed a contract. It is your obligation.”

“Screw my obligation. There is no such thing. There is free will and choice. That’s it.” He fixed a stare to the manager. “I’m not going to use your facilities. I’ve got my apartment. That’s all I need.”

“How will you do that?” said the manager, staring at his desk toy. “How will you get up there? How will you get in and out? You need our facilities.”

“You’ll see,” Antonio had said. “You’ll see.” He didn’t have a clue, but had set things in motion now and didn’t wish to back down. He realized that the management company fully owned the paved approach, the entrance lobby, the stairs, the corridors, and safety doors. He couldn’t set foot, or lay hand, on any of them without owing dues. So there was only one solution – an external approach.

He borrowed long ladders from a builder friend, and engaged the spirit of Pythagoras. Pythagoras was a mighty mathematician, of course, but more than that he was an idealist – some would say extremist. His commune in Croton, South Italy was a radical place, where all activity was directed towards the study of mathematics. Eating beans was banned – as flatulence was distracting. Like many great philosophers, Pythagoras was persecuted by the State. The great Socrates, for example, had been made to drink a cup of hemlock. Antonio decided that he would not allow the System to treat him like Socrates, but neither would he hide away like Pythagoras. He was a landowner, dammit! A man’s home is his castle. And a castle is home to a king.

The management company tried everything to remove Antonio. He was locked in, locked out, and kicked out. He was roughed up, blackmailed, threatened, and arrested. But his strength as an orator from his fourth floor window, and his unkempt, philosophical persona, saw him through these trials. People were moved by his arguments for the dignity of man; they were inspired by his notions of free will and free action. He said to them, “No one is free who has not obtained the empire of himself.” Here was someone to believe in at last; a true person. The manager sensed the local mood and stopped hassling him for now, saying they were looking into “structured legal positions”.

Despite his successful ladder setup, it was tiring getting in and out, so Antonio spent much of his time in his apartment reading Karl Marx. Yes, workers were duped by capitalists all over the world; they must rise up to reclaim their dignity. What was this bullshit notional rent they were charging for facilities he owned already? The apartment was his, so his access was implicit; he had eternal right-of-way. He would not accept their hidden charges; a filthy mixture of corruption, theft, profit, and tax.

Antonio’s neighbours liked his style. They hated paying management fees too, and never really understood their purpose, or where they went. The block’s facilities were functional and complete; the only ongoing costs were hallway lighting, lift operation, and occasional cleaning – how did that cost $800/month per owner? The managers were clearly crooks that must be challenged and resisted. Why should honest, hard-working folk shell out for made-up, bullshit costs? The apartment owners locked out the manager, and elected Antonio their leader. When the manager complained, Antonio said to him, “Be silent or let thy words be worth more than silence.” The manager kept quiet.

On his first day in the manager’s office, Antonio calculated the monthly bill for communal services. It came to $600 per property owner. So they had been ripping him off, the bastards! He drew up bills for his comrade-owners – $600 costs plus $200 admin charges for all his efforts. This was much fairer. Every man must be rewarded for his labour.

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Vote Night

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village with tags , , , , on February 27, 2012 by javedbabar

The Election Officer addressed the assembly. “Here are the results for all candidates standing for Mayor of Lucerne.” Excited murmuring ran throughout the Great Hall. To people passing, the Transparent Temple seemed like an aquarium with larvae wriggling within, one of whom would gobble up all others and become the Big Fish.

The Election Officer continued, “I shall announce them in alphabetical order by surname, with their stated affiliations.” The room hushed.

“Samir Bungawalla, Ethnic People’s Alliance: 200 votes.” People whispered that the Doctor’s son should really have done much better than this; the party founded by his father was on the wane.

“Davy Choo, Sustainable Fuels Forum: 50 votes.” Davy was a popular guy, but everyone knew that he was simply a front man for failing logging companies.

“Pinky Dada, Ethnic People’s Gay Alliance: 150 votes.” People congratulated Pinky, who blew kisses to everyone. Her breakaway group had done quite well.

“Simonique Jahanara, Ethnic People’s Gay Disabled Alliance: 120 votes.” People said that Simonique shouldn’t have stood, for she had split the ethnic and gay votes. Her response to this was, “Kick a queer black girl in a wheelchair, sugar, why don’t you?”

“Breda Mopa, Ethnic People’s Gay Disabled Autistic Alliance: 60 votes.” There was a time when the EPA was a rising star in local multi-cultural politics – but it had split into ineffective shards that continued to break further.

“Simon Palmer, Lucerne Valley First: 499 votes.” There was a general cheer. The current mayor had done very well, as hoped for and expected. It was almost a given that he would make his second term.

“Gracious Trabant-Berliner, Equestrian Horizons: 110 votes.” There was a time when horsey people were very popular, but people had, frankly, just got bored with their endless whinnying.

Di@ne W@tkins, Future Focus: 499 votes.” People gasped around the room. Di@ne W@tkins had a clear space around her, in which she stood surprised. Lucerne’s first-ever robot candidate had done very well and matched the incumbent!

The Election Officer asked for quiet; she had yet to finish announcing the results. “Toni Wicca, Ethnic People’s Gay Disabled Autistic Psychic Alliance: 12 votes.” This was clearly one split too far.

“And finally, Bongo Zephaniah, Ganga Potty Party: 160 votes.” A respectable showing from someone who had been treated by the press as a clown. Pot was no laughing matter in BC. Well it was – when smoking it in your yard with friends – but not in municipal elections.

“So there is a tie between Simon Palmer and Di@ne W@tkins. I will consult with my colleagues and shortly make further comment.”

A din of voices, like spring insects buzzing, rose around the Great Hall. There were jovial conversations and hidden whispers. The hottest topic was the robot candidate, Di@ne W@tkins. She was a petite woman with long dark hair, who had lived in the Village quietly for five years. Last year she’d announced that she no longer wished to live as a closet-robot; she publically declared that she had undergone the HST – Homo Sapiens Technology – Program, and was proud to represent this new branch of humanity.

Local people were shocked. There was a robot living right amongst them, undetected for years! They felt for some reason that robots existed only in the City – near factories, technicians, and charging stations. How could they exist out here? Their information however was out of date. Yes people over 50% android must exist near technical facilities, but the 50% boundary was rarely approached.

Most robots were under 20% android. Some were just cosmetic conversions, but most were medical enhancements of various degrees – a nose enlargement to assist breathing; a new heart for one that was failing; new lungs for those about to collapse; a new penis for erectile dysfunction; new legs for paraplegics; a new voice box for those with throat cancer. Robotics was the marvel of the age.

Having electrodes, polymers, and metals in bodies, however, frightened people who didn’t have them. “Are these people less human than we are?” they wondered. In truth many of these people were more human – because they had suffered and faced their mortality. Their alien structures made them whole, and they were compassionate to others who seemed weak or afraid. Test cases had challenged their legal status, but the Supreme Court had declared them equal and deserving of all rights, though the question of robots with extra powers was yet to be resolved.

The crowd hushed as the Election Officer returned. She said, “As you know, the most accurate and efficient form of assessing the electorates’ wishes is electronic voting. However, mistakes are occasionally made. Under advice from Legal Counsel, we will have a recount for the two leading candidates. This simply involves myself pressing a button, and the computer re-running the vote counting program. I will do this right now.” She pushed a button and the Great Hall remained hushed. Then she announced the recounted results. “Simon Palmer: 498 votes. Di@ne W@tkins: 500 votes.”

Most people cheered, as Di@ne was popular in Lucerne. She was hoisted onto shoulders amid flashing cameras. However others in the room stared at the petite, dark-haired robot suspiciously, thinking, “How did she do that?” and, “Is she connected to that computer?” and “Is this the first step towards Overmind?”

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Always Sunshine

Posted in Alternative Energy, World Myths with tags , , , , on February 26, 2012 by javedbabar

Safra preferred the children’s sections of waiting rooms. They were often orange or yellow, had funny seating, and a range of wooden and cuddly toys. The adult sections were always so boring – full of old chairs, old magazines, and old people – and if you were visiting a medical professional, they generally made you feel worse. It had been a year since he’d last visited a doctor, and it was never something he looked forward to. But at least he was seeing Dr. Bungawalla – healer of his family for fifty years. Safra sat in the adult section, enviously watching the children playing.

As a boy he’d loved the sun and wished that there was “always sunshine”. You should be careful what you wish for! The world was now four degrees warmer, and there was lots more sunshine – most would say too much. Climate change had caused global upheavals, but for the owner of GPS: Gaia Power Systems, that hadn’t been a bad thing.

“Mr Safra?” the fake blonde receptionist called out. He walked over to the desk. “Would you please complete this form before seeing the doctor? It’s just lifestyle information for our metrics.”

“Is that you?” he said. “On the poster behind? What’s it for?”

“Oh, it’s a sponsored walk I do every year. We raise money for children’s charities, mainly for skin cancer.”

“That’s very good of you,” said Safra. “When’s the next one?”

“Next month we’re walking from Mt. Alba to Mt. Negra; that’s 100 km.”

“Wow! Put me down for a dollar-a-kilometre. Make sure you’re wearing plenty of sunscreen though. That will be a pretty hot haul.”

“Thank you Mr. Safra. That’s very kind of you. Now, if you wouldn’t mind completing the form, the doctor will see you shortly.”

Safra filled in the personal data and then began the travel section. There was never enough space. His work as an alternative energy specialist took him all over the world. He spent weeks on end in deserts during installation, and his larger projects required annual checks. This year he had already visited solar farms in Texas, Morocco, Arabia, and Tibet; places where there was “always sunshine”.

Someday he’d like to visit the Southern Wind Belt – joints like Congo, Brazil, and Indonesia – but with all their crazy storms – a hurricane here and tornado there – you were putting your life at risk. Those were adventures for men younger and braver than he.

There was always the option to explore the Northern Wind Belt – American East Coast, Central Europe, and Upper China – but what would he do there? Their populations had shifted, their monuments were crumbling, and infrastructure destroyed.

There were no opportunities in the Wind Belts for energy production; the elements were just too fierce. Maybe there would be stronger materials soon, and more robust systems, but for now GPS would stick with solar power in central deserts, and wind power in polar seas. Leave the hair-raising stuff to the kids, he thought.

He returned the completed form to the receptionist. “My, we are a world traveller,” she said. “We’re lucky to have you in Lucerne.”

“Well, even a salmon returns to its river once in its lifetime,” he said. “This is home.”

“I’ve been here for two years, Mr. Safra. I’ve never seen you before. You must be an extraordinarily healthy man. Good for you!”

“If I had seen you before,” he said. “I would also have remembered.” She blushed as he said this. “Miss…?”

“Mrs.” She emphasized, and looked at him in a mock-stern manner. “Mrs. Bungawalla.”

“Mrs. Bungawalla! So Dr. Bungawalla is your…?”

`           “Dr. Bungawalla is my husband.”

Boy he’d kept that quiet, the old rascal. He was in his seventies, and she was in her – forties? Fifty, tops. Wasn’t this the fifth wife in as many decades? What was his secret? “How is the good Doctor?” he said to fill the silence.

“You can ask him yourself. He’s expecting you now.”

Safra felt foolish hitting on the doctor’s wife/receptionist. He wondered if she would tell her husband. He knocked on the door marked “Dr. A.K. Bungawalla” and entered upon hearing a muffled hailing. Dr. Bungawalla was a small, dark man with luminous skin, which absorbed and reflected all light in the room. Despite having treated Safra since boyhood, he maintained his professional air. “How can I help you, Mr. Safra?”

“I’ve got these strange blotches on my skin. I’m concerned it could be skin cancer. Can you please take a look at them?”

Dr. Bungawalla examined the blotches and said, “Nothing of concern.”

“My eyes have been hurting on the insides. I wonder if my retinas are burned.”

Dr. Bungawalla pulled Safra’s eyelids and peered in with a small torch. He said, “All quite normal.”

“Also I’m feeling feverish. Do men have menopause? I didn’t think so.”

Dr. Bungawalla said, “Well not quite, but tell me more.”

Safra told him about the hot flushes and panic attacks; the temper tantrums; the insomnia and self-loathing.

“Mr. Safra, it’s good that you came to see me about this. I am not able to help you personally, but can recommend a good psychotherapist. It’s a common complaint these days called “Oedipal Overheating”. As the world’s temperature continues to rise, people feel guilty about humanity’s part in climate change. They feel that they have caused their Mother, Earth, so much pain that they must punish themselves continuously. A few sessions of Alternative Therapy – to match your Alternative Energy; how’s that going by the way? – should do the trick.”

Safra told Dr. Bungawalla about GPS, then prepared to go.

“Wait! I have some good advice for you,” said Dr. Bungawalla. “Keep your face always toward the sunshine – and shadows will fall behind you.”

“That’s very good. Is it yours?”

“If you were a lady, Mr. Safra, I’d say yes. But I will admit to you that those words are Mr. Whitman’s.”

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Leaving Party

Posted in Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, World Myths with tags , , , , on February 25, 2012 by javedbabar

“Hey, I’m glad you could make it!” said Anna. “You’re just in time!”

“It was nice to be invited,” said Max, stepping into the third-floor apartment. “I’m sorry to hear you’re leaving. We’ve only just met really.”

“Never mind, I’m sure there will be other occasions. Just come in and make yourself at home. What can I get you?” Max saw a well-stocked bar behind her – there was beer and wine; whisky, vodka, rum, and gin; ports and sherries; some mysterious bright bottles of Mexican liquor. He also noticed many different smiling photos, likely friends.

“Just a beer to warm up, thank you,” he said. “I’ll pace myself.”

“Hey man, don’t be shy. Me casa es su casa! Here’s a cinnamon whisky – cheers!”

Max became conscious that he was the only guest present. “Am I too early?” he said. “You did say around nine didn’t you?”

“No, you’re right on time,” said Anna. “I’m not sure who else is coming tonight. I have a leaving party every week, so people don’t come every time.”

“You have a leaving party every week?” said Max. “Where do you go?”

“Well I don’t go anywhere really. But I could go. That’s the point.”

“Huh?” said Max. He wondered now if coming here was such a good idea.

Anna looked at him closely and said, “I have a medical condition. My kidney – I only have one – has reverse functionality. Instead of cleaning my body, it makes toxins which seep into all of my organs. So every week I am full of poison, and on Mondays I go to the health centre; they hook me up to their computers for checks.”

“Whoa, babe!” said Max. “That’s pretty heavy stuff.” She smiled at him broadly. “Well, I guess you’re right to celebrate… I think.” He scanned the bar again. “But what’s with all the booze? Wouldn’t it be better to cut back on that a bit?”

“I’m just like most people,” said Anna. “I do my drinking at weekends. But the difference is that I have a check up every Monday morning. Pretty responsible of me really, wouldn’t you say?” Max could only nod. “Hey, wanna help me with a jigsaw? I need to get it done by tomorrow.” He nodded again, and thought, what a strange girl I’ve met. She seemed so normal when we chatted in the library, and now its reverse-kidneys, full-bars, and urgent jigsaws.

Anna handed him a banana-rum, and led him to the dining table. Upon it was a giant goddess jigsaw, mainly completed, whose capacity was difficult to gauge. The image was of a starry woman floating in the heavens; so it had cosmic scale. However its physical size was the same as the dining table – so about human-size. The starry borders had been completed first, and pieces worked inwards from there. The outline of the goddess was finished, as were her limbs. The space within her however required completion.

“So what do you think?” said Anna. “Pretty neat puzzle, huh?” Max raised his eyebrows. “Well, shall we start?”

“Looks like you’ve done most of the hard work already,” he said. She looked at him strangely – nervously, he felt – and handed him pieces from the remaining pile. He spread them out; they all seemed approximately the same shape, and somewhat pinky-blue. Was there any real difference between them, he wondered? Were they interchangeable? He noticed the pieces’ strange texture – they were slippery to the touch, maybe waxed.

He hadn’t completed a jigsaw in years. It was a good test of patience, and exercised your peripheral vision, he knew. But it seemed pretty pointless. Instead of re-making something that existed already, why not make something new and better?

Max knew that the shapes were formed of rigid cardboard, but they also seemed malleable. He squashed them between his fingers. Anna was perspiring and looking dazed. “Are you ok?” he said.

“Actually, I’m feeling a little dizzy,” she said, “and a little silly. Maybe you were right about the booze. Do you mind if I go and lie down for a while?”

“Er, sure. Do you want me to go home?”

“No, please don’t,” she said. “Can you help me to finish the jigsaw?”

“I think I’m getting a feel for it now. I’ll do my best.”

Anna poured him a cherry gin, then went into her bedroom and closed the door. Max continued toying with the waxy, squashy pieces. There seemed to be too many to fit into the space remaining, and their shapes were strangely ill-defined. They sort of fitted together, but they also didn’t. The more he tried to squeeze them together, the more rebellious they became. Some popped out again after he’d fitted them; some slid into new arrangements; some were just plain impossible to fit. After an hour – maybe – he’d managed – amazingly – to squeeze them all in, though he was not sure how. Well he’d done as requested, and had better go home. He finished the lemon-flavoured firewater he’d poured himself, and put on his coat and shoes.

As he was about to go, the bedroom door opened, and out came beaming Anna. “Boy, I feel good again!” she said. “Thank you!”

“Me?” said Max. “What did I do?”

She said, “Please don’t be scared; it’s called sympathetic magic, used for thousands of years. What you did to the goddess, she did to me. You helped me to rebuild myself, piece by piece. Those clinic people can never believe that I’m still alive. I have my friends to thank for that. For me every leaving party is a living party; the day that no-one comes to my party is the day that I die.”

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100%

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry with tags , , , , on February 24, 2012 by javedbabar

BBC is a global brand, thought Ram, so this BBC10X must be a good product. His friend Amir always gave him good stuff. But printing was misaligned on one side of the box, which was itself a poor fit for the contents. He’d heard that private corporations were putting heavy pressure on BBC funding. They said that state-funded broadcasters had an unfair advantage and stifled healthy competition. Was cheaper packaging the BBC’s way of saving money?

Installation was straightforward – you just plugged it into your computer. The instructions recommended using your laptop rather than your smartphone, whose screen was too small. If you used the latter then expect reduced results. For a big brain you needed a big screen. A plasma TV or screen projector was even better.

The software self-loaded and started immediately. A dark graphic of a human brain began sparking red in various locations. These red sections lifted up and were brought together at the front of the brain. Their combined total area was much smaller than expected. A graphic appeared saying “1%”, and then, “Only 1% of your brain is used at any moment!”

Is that all, thought Ram?

The sparking expanded and came together again; its combined area once more smaller than expected. A graphic said, “10%”, and then, “Only 10% of your brain is ever used!”

That’s it, thought Ram?

Then the whole brain sparked like a coal that had become a firework. A graphic appeared saying, “100%”, and then, “With BBC10X you can access 100% of your brainpower!” There was a disclaimer saying, “BBC10X can only multiply your brainpower 10X. 100% target is conditional on user having 10% current usage. For 5% usage, maximum brainpower will be 50%.”

A gallery of “Successful Users,” showed portraits of Albert Einstein, Thomas Edison, Sir Isaac Newton, Buddha, Jesus Christ, and Lao Tzu. Then another disclaimer saying, “These geniuses all used advanced brain training methods of their time. BBC10X is the modern equivalent, but has only been available since 2010.”

Ram noticed that the “Successful Users” were scientific or spiritual geniuses; people whose notions had changed the world. Is that how they did it – by using 100% of their brainpower?

Three selection screens required completion. The first was a choice between “Religion” and “Science”. Ram thought about this for a while. Both were paths to knowledge of a sort – science to testable, provable knowledge, and religion to knowledge inherent in faith. Both sources were trustworthy if you believed what they had to offer was worthwhile. Ram was drawn towards mystical experience over rational experimentation. He chose “Religion”.

A quote appeared saying, “Credo ut Intelligam: I believe in order to understand.”

The second screen was a choice between “Introvert” and “Extravert”. This was a tough one, for Ram liked to spend much time alone, but also enjoyed laughing and joking at social gatherings. He was by nature a friendly fellow, but if he didn’t have quiet time alone, he felt his life was one of pointless activity, never alone with deep thoughts. He liked being both but had to choose, so clicked “Introvert”.

A quote appeared saying, “Solitude is essential to man.”

The third screen was a choice between “Reason” and “Passion”. This was probably about being a philosopher versus a poet. He’d never liked philosophy – endless navel-gazing – so he chose “Passion”.

A quote appeared saying “Nothing great in the world has ever been accomplished without passion.”

It was time to begin the process. The exercises were simple initially – just matching words and numbers. They got faster and harder, and moved onto colours, shapes, and sounds, which became faster and harder, and began to include smells and tastes. Ram was immersed fully in the process. He didn’t stop to think how he was performing smell and taste tasks through the keyboard with his fingers. There followed purely mental tasks. Objects appeared and disappeared on screen; he was somehow receiving and sending thoughts. All of his senses were united. He was aware of a medical condition called Synaesthesia, where people “smelt” sounds, and “tasted” colours – but that was mixing pairs of senses, not all of them combined. Ram felt that he knew everything, all at once, without need to either ask or wonder. His brain had expanded to its full human potential – which included the instincts of many lower animals: our ancestors; and the intuition of higher beings: our descendents. Once you had reached this plane there was no returning to the realm of ordinary mortals.

However there was one final choice for him to make within his soul, now with full awareness. Having witnessed the unlimited possibility of the universe, did he wish to become its Supreme Enjoyer; an eternal hedonist in a world of light? Or having also acknowledged the ultimate pointlessness of existence, did he wish to declare himself a nihilist in a world of darkness, and become an Extinguished Soul?

There was really no rush though. He had eternity to choose.

Brain Box China, makers of BBC10X, were unhappy with their new product launch. It was their highest performance gadget ever, and they thought that it would sell really well. But not one customer had recommended it to their friends, or become a repeat buyer. Trying to pass themselves off as the real BBC clearly hadn’t worked. They’d better sell off their remaining units and develop something else.

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Free Living

Posted in Sacred Geometry, Uncategorized with tags , , , , on February 23, 2012 by javedbabar

Sandy didn’t think of himself as homeless; he thought of himself as nomadic. Like great peoples of the ancient world – Mongols, Tibetans, Bedouin, and Hebrews – he moved around. He accepted that his “people” numbered only one person, but every people has to start somewhere. The great peoples were herders, and moved with their beasts. Sandy did too till his dog ran away. Now he was both herder and beast.

He spent much of his time in the forest. He’d found a good spot a little ways uphill, just out of town, to place his sleeping bag nightly. There was a deep rock ledge there, almost a cave. He was comfortable enough from spring to fall, but wintered elsewhere – usually the City – where they had better facilities and wealthier people – not that he ever begged. But if people wanted to give him five bucks to make themselves feel better, that was their business.

His rock ledge in Lucerne was near the park. Friendly runners passed close by and often said, “Good morning,” though an increasing number were now saying, “Gooday”. That was another tribe of nomads – Australians. A tall Aussie girl – she must be a six-footer – ran by daily. Today, as always, she beamed a huge smile and stopped to chat. “Gooday,” she said. “Did you sleep well last night, Forest Saint? Any great dreams?”

“Well actually I did,” said Sandy. “I dreamt that I was a very lucky man living freely in the forest, chatting to pretty girls.”

“Well it looks like your dreams have come true then!” she said, and bounded off like a doe.

He chatted to East Indians. The best thing about them was their food; and of course the fact that they offered it freely at their gleaming temple, which used to be a church with a holy congregation of seven, but now held fifty turbaned warriors. They called him Sandy Sahib – which means Sir Sandy. He loved their steel platters filled with steaming food, followed by sticky cubes of dessert, and hot sweet tea. The elders told him about their journeys to get here from rural Punjab, but they were immigrants rather than nomads. Their holy book was installed in the temple, and they were staying put in Lucerne.

Sandy had no travel costs; he hitchhiked everywhere. Today he fancied heading up the Valley, and was picked up by a South African guy in a blue Tacoma. “Howzit?” he said.

Sandy had accepted rides from South Africans before, and knew that the answer to this greeting was not, “It is truly fine Sir, and what about yours?” The appropriate response to “Howzit?” was “Howzit?” right back; like he’d been taught by kids in the park that the answer to “Wassup?” was always, “Wassup?” as the answer to “Wag1?” (What’s going on?) was “Wag1?” There were only ever questions with some people. Everything was left open.

Sandy bathed daily in the spring – but of course downstream from where people filled their 18.9L gas station water bottles. Refill them once and you’ve repaid your deposit, and after that, its water free forever. Isn’t that how life should be always – free?

Sandy’s life previously had not been free. It had at times felt like a cauldron burning dry, and at other times, a roof leaking in many places; and now and then, somewhere in the middle; and too often, both at once. It was exciting to live in the City for sure; a world of commerce, industry, and architecture; untold opportunities; power lunches and grand dinners; urban music festivals; blockbuster action movies; dramas, operas, ballet, and modern dance. But there were also millions of other people chasing those very same things, leading to endless noise, overcrowding, pollution, traffic jams, bad tempers, no time to smile or talk to strangers, pushing and shoving, clock-watching, trying to succeed at your job and keep your head above water. The City was stressful. Those people weren’t free at all.

One day he’d said to his boss, “I can’t do this anymore.”

His boss had looked at him oddly and said, “You never could.”

“What do you mean?” said Sandy. “I always did well here. I hit my targets and achieved my goals.”

“You know what I mean,” said his manager. “This was never the right place for you. You should have married into a gypsy clan, or worked for the circus, and spent your life on the road.” He’d shaken his head and said, “I like you, Sandy, but you will never be a respectable member of society. You don’t believe in any kind of structure or fair exchange.”

Leaving full-time work meant that he could no longer pay his mortgage, and his house was repossessed. His wife was not impressed by this turn of events and left him soon after, moving far away so he couldn’t see the kids. He began to wonder whether families provided synergy – making everything better for each other – or were merely parasites – sucking each other’s life blood. Anyway, he was free of them; so that was that.

Sandy’s goal was to live in the now. Not in the past or the future, but only in the present moment which truly exists. And who existed really? In truth his consciousness extended only to himself. So maybe only he existed.

He began talking to himself more: the only True Being. He said, “I am living freely, without baggage, with neither obstructions nor obligations; I have no money and need no money; this world is generous, bountiful, and abundant. This moment is perfect, and I am free.” But in a secret place, a little voice said “Am I a star, alone in outer space? A ship cast adrift on the ocean? A forsaken lizard creeping through wasteland? The last snowflake on a sunny day? Am I no longer a herder but a beast?”

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Fresh Foods

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Lucerne Village, Organic Farming with tags , , , , on February 22, 2012 by javedbabar

“Darling will you get me some mint?” said Claire.

“Sure, how much do you want?” said Daved to his wife, cheerful despite nursing a hangover. “Just a handful?”

“One of my handfuls, honey – not one of yours.” Daved clipped young stalks from the container using chained-up-scissors. The rush of freshness cleared his head, but the dullness returned. “Oh, and while you’re there, can you get some cilantro?”

“Sure honey,” he said, and moved to other containers.

“Is my hunky husband in the mood for some heavy digging” said Claire, her trailing arm circling his waist. “Some spuds and carrots please. Not too many. Just what we need for the weekend.” Daved pushed his hands into the soil and rooted around. He yanked up ten medium-sized russets, and a dozen purple carrots. The freshness of food these days was astonishing. Since the implementation of Local Food Laws, supermarkets grew produce right on their shelves. It was all fresh, local, healthy food. What could be better for you?

“Perfect,” she said. “Let’s get some tomatoes. Where’s the hothouse section? Why do they keep moving it around? Oh, there it is, I think. Or is that exotics?” She ambled over and pulled open a flap. “No, it’s tomatoes.” Claire snipped off a pound each of Black Princes and Green Zebras. The peppers looked good, and she decided to get some of those, selecting ripe Hungarian Wax, Jalapeno, Cayenne, and – what the hell! – Habanero peppers; all conveniently growing on the same bush.

“What else do we need, love?” she called out of the hothouse.

“I fancy fish today,” said Daved. “What about you?”

“Ok, go catch something Ahab. I’ll be in the dairy.” Claire was still pulling the Gau MataTM  udders – invented by the great Indian scientist Dr. A.W. Cooraswamy-Muchilinda-Moghlai – when Daved appeared with his catch.

“He had some spirit, this one,” he said. “Zipping around the tank like crazy. I couldn’t get him with the line so zapped him. Anyway, we have grilled wild salmon with coriander potatoes and minted carrots on the menu for tonight.”

Claire finished her milking. She loved the feeling of pulling these udders, it was so authentic; just like the rosy-cheeked farm girl in the ads. She wiped her hands and said, “Ok, just some beef now. I think we’ve got everything else.”

The meat section was always quieter in the afternoons. People liked “fresh” beef grown overnight – they said it was more tender – but Claire had never noticed the difference. She felt that they were kidding themselves; they just didn’t want to pay the extra for Veal. Daved carved thick strips of soft red flesh from the block, each piece well textured. That Indian Doctor was a genius, he thought– it’s a shame he was assassinated; think what else he could have invented. The meat block shook and made a squealing sound. The Butcher rushed over and said, “I’m so sorry Sir. Some of these meats are restless this morning. I’m not sure why.”

“The fish are pretty spirited too,” said Daved. “I felt like I was chasing Moby Dick.”

The Butcher smiled and said, “Well Buster here’s not going anywhere. Would you like me to finish carving? How much do you need?” He wrapped up their bloody meat and said, “Enjoy your meal. By the way, have you visited our new Fair Trade Department? It’s across the other side of the store.”

“No, we haven’t heard about it,” said Claire.

“We’ve kept it quiet deliberately; we don’t want any trouble. Look what happened to Dr. Cooraswamy-Muchilinda-Moghlai. That SFPF is dangerous; they say that they don’t condone violence but every terrorist incident seems to involve one of their members. Anyway, good folk like you won’t cause any trouble, I’m sure. Why don’t you take a look?”

A uniformed security guard allowed them entry to what must have been a previously unused warehouse at the back of the store. Daved and Claire gasped in amazement. It was ten degrees hotter than outside, and pretty humid; the lush green area was divided into continents. In “South America” they saw tattooed Amazon tribesmen picking Brazil Nuts. In “Africa”, red-blanketed Maasai warriors tended coffee bushes. In “Asia” Saffron-robed Sadhus picked orange pekoe tea. “Australia” had ochre-smeared Aborigines tending mangoes. “North America” featured Navajo squaws growing corn, beans, and squash. “Europe” had men in black berets and women in bright dresses treading barrels of grapes.

“What do you think?” said the Manager, catching up with them. “We need to fine-tune the costumes, I know, but not bad, eh? Sorry I didn’t welcome you earlier, but I was keeping my eye on the protest outside. It’s those Slow Food People’s Front extremists. Some people just don’t see progress when it slaps them in the face. Whatever we do is never enough for them. I mean, ten years ago who would have thought that our entire food chain would be fresh, local, and organic?”

He chatted with Claire and Daved for a while, and then asked if he could show them something special. “We always like to run things by our customers first.” He showed them a device that the grocery store was testing, called MORE (Modern Organism Replicator Engine). “Wait till we get this going next month. You’ve never tasted food so fresh!”

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Cross-Ditch

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Conceptual Art, Unknown with tags , , , , on February 21, 2012 by javedbabar

It’s great that they’re fixing up the road, thought Stewart. It’s been getting worse since they stopped logging across the western face of Mt. Alba, and over the other side. It’s funny how forty-ton logging trucks don’t cause much damage to forestry roads, but a few rain drops running down them together make them to fall apart. It’s right when people say that water is the strongest force in the world; nothing can resist it. I hope the dark clouds up there won’t cause too much bother; they will add drama to my photos.

That’s a hefty cross-ditch, Stewart thought; a foot deep, and four feet wide – there’s no danger of any cross-flow getting out of that. It’s more that you need at the bottom of the road, but someone’s done a good job. He wondered when they made the cross-ditch, and whose excavator they used.

A hundred metres along, he came to another cross-ditch, also freshly dug, almost two feet deep. Better not to stress the front suspension – cause the truck’s nose to hit the ground – so he crossed it at an angle.

A hundred metres further there was another cross-ditch, which he also crossed sideways. He remembered when he’d first driven up the Syon River Forestry Road in his new Nissan truck, excited about off-roading – except no-one had told him about cross-ditches. He lost traction at the bottom of the first ditch, spinning foolishly, and then remembered that there was a reason why this was called a four-wheel drive truck. Because it had four-wheel drive. It was much easier going after that, till he hit the Mother of All Moats. He misjudged the bottom of the rocky river running through. He’d bashed both his front and rear ends, and damaged the cat-con. It had cost him $2,000 to fix.

There was a set of three cross-ditches all close together. Was there really that much water flowing across this road? It seemed pretty level here and sloping away on both sides. Someone had gotten really carried away. Maybe they were doing piece-work, being paid by the ditch. Was that a worker ahead wearing a purple safety vest? It was an unusual colour for a road worker. He had his thumb out like a hitchhiker. The next set of cross-ditches – deeper than the others – began here, and Stewart didn’t have another two grand to spare, so this was a stroke of luck. “Good job you’re here, buddy!” he called out. “I could do with a second pair of eyes.”

“Second pair of eyes?” said the man, looking confused. He had a strange accent. Stewart had heard the Dalai Lama speak at UBC in a halting, cheerful manner, which sounded pretty close. Could he be Tibetan?

“Yes, can you please help me get through the cross-ditches?”

The man grasped the idea, and guided Stewart mainly from the side, with occasional forays to the front and back. When they’d made it through, Stewart said, “Thanks buddy. Do you need a ride somewhere?”

The man looked confused again, and said, “Yes, up.”

“Ok then, jump in pal.” The man indicated for Stewart to wait, ran into the bush, and returned tapping a long white stick, and grasping a roll of black cable. He threw these items into the truck bed, and jumped into the cab. “Are you surveying the road?” asked Stewart. “It’s nice to see people using old school tools. I thought that everyone used GPS these days, rather than a rod and chain.”

“Rod and chain?” said the man.

“Yes – what you’ve got in the back there. You know, the long pole and cable – yes?” The man didn’t understand. They continued driving to the next set of cross-ditches, where the man indicated to stop. He said an approximation of thank you, took his rod and chain, and disappeared into the bush. That’s helpful, thought Stewart – just when I needed him. Hiring foreign workers was ridiculous; they didn’t have a clue. They must do a good job though; otherwise no one would hire them.

Another worker appeared ahead with his thumb up. “Second pair of eyes!” he called out, and guided Stewart through the cross-ditches. Then he went into the bush, and returned tapping a white stick and carrying a roll of cable. He threw them into the back and said, “Rod and chain.”

This pattern continued right up the road. There were dozens of new cross-ditches –

singles and sets of three or five – each with a Tibetan man standing nearby wanting a ride, who produced a white stick and roll of cable, then disappeared at the next set. Stewart considered abandoning his photography. But that meant not fulfilling his contract with the Village for a monthly photo from the top; and he was almost there anyway.

The sets of ditches got closer together, and eventually were only a few metres apart. What on earth were they doing up here? Were they digging out the road bed to reinforce it somehow? Stewart reached the meadow at the top of the mountain. It looked really different. The grass was all gone and replaced by a pattern of ditches. He stopped his truck and got out to see. He was right in the middle of a labyrinth.

A beam of light and a rush of energy lifted him somewhere. The next thing he knew he was among shifting clouds, bursting with energy. They seemed to be alive, engaging him, and he understood their language. There was a rich, dark cloud, surrounded by smaller white ones. The dark cloud was crackling; sparks flying about it. The white clouds were shrinking. “You fools!” the black cloud crackled. “Incompetents! You had all the research provided to you – Braille, tallies, signage, maps, survey marks, ley lines, and Morse code. But what did you do? You mixed it all up! Your road markings were incomprehensible to the being; your agents mixed up visual impairment aids and land measuring tools; they jumbled their roles too – workmen and hitchhikers are not the same. Now we have him here, totally confused. What do you suggest we do? I don’t want another one of those ‘kidnapped by aliens’ stories getting out.”

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Dicewoman

Posted in Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags , , , , on February 20, 2012 by javedbabar

“May I ask you a silly question?” said Martha to the shop assistant.

“Of course, Madam. I am at your service.”

Martha relaxed. “Ok then. Why do some people call a dice a die?”

“Die is singular, Madam, and dice is plural.”

“Ah!” she said involuntarily. “That solves the mystery. Thank you.”

“You are welcome.” He waited for a further question; when there wasn’t one, he busied himself with arranging figures in a minutely-detailed miniature castle.

Martha realized she had another question. “Excuse me.” The assistant half-turned and looked up. “Is the word for this….er, gambling device,” she flashed a smile, “related to the word for a…. metal mould?” She looked unsure of herself. “The one you use to make models; you know, when they say something is die-cast.”

“I’m sure that it is, Madam. Do you have an interest in models?”

“Not really,” said Martha. “But my brothers used to play fantasy games. I remember their ugly little monsters; they used to scare me.”

“There’s no need to be scared, Madam.” The assistant smiled kindly. “It’s only a game, after all.”

She also wanted to ask if die and dice were related to the word for the end of life, but felt embarrassed. All she wanted was an ordinary die to replace her lost one, so she could play Snakes and Ladders with her husband. Their bedroom routine had been disrupted. Most nights they played quick games of Snakes and Ladders, Chess, Ludo, and Strip-Poker; took all of their clothes off and then put on their pyjamas. On Saturday nights they kept their clothes off. She hadn’t got pregnant in eight years yet. Her husband had given up, but she felt that there was no harm in still trying.

Martha looked at the display case and said, “Could you please tell me about the different dice?”

“Certainly Madam.” The assistant opened the case. “These ones are common Western dice. See how their spots are widely spaced out? These Asian dice are smaller and rounder; their spots are closer together; notice how the ‘one’ and ‘four’ are coloured red for good luck. These clear ones are casino dice. Their markings are drilled, rather than moulded, then filled with similar density paint – so differing number of spots will not affect their performance – then polished and given serial numbers.” He threw the casino dice and scored double-six.

He pointed to some others. “Now these ones you may know already,” Martha nodded. “Role Playing Game dice with ten, twenty, and one hundred sides.” She hadn’t seen the latter before; the assistant passed it to her and said, “It is called a Zocchihedron.”

He indicated what appeared to be mathematical and biological models. “These Platonic dice are collectors’ items; each has a different number of sides. These talus bones from Sudan are the original form of dice used in ancient societies. This set of three, twelve-sided dice – used for astrology – are printed with planets, lunar nodes, and astrological houses. And this single-sided die is a joke die; nothing but a sphere with the number one.”

Martha had never seen so many; she was dazzled by the dice. Knowing their purposes enhanced her fascination, but something was bugging her. This huge variety of dice had one thing in common: their outcome was random. If that was the case then what was the point? She said “Is there any kind of die which is not random?”

The assistant gave her a severe look and said, “There are many kinds of loaded dice – mercury tappers, those with melting resins, and electromagnetic kits – but this is a reputable establishment, Madam. We do not carry any of those.”

“Oh,” she said. “I wasn’t trying to break the bank of Monte Carlo. I was just curious.” She looked around the store and eventually returned to the dice counter. “Ok, I’d better get what I came in for. Just an ordinary dice please, for Snakes and Ladders.”

“An ordinary die?” He reminded her of her grammatical error. “I’m afraid there is no such thing Madam.”

“I mean that one there with six sides, and one to six spots.”

“That is a die, indeed,” he said. “But it is not an ordinary one.”

“What do you mean?” said Martha.

“Madam, every style of die has its own magic. I wasn’t entirely honest with you earlier when you asked about non-random dice. Just take a look at this Western die. See how the spots are arranged? That’s right, numbers on opposite sides always add to seven. That’s because of its internal vertex, where all possible outcomes merge, and are then manifested according to the moment’s needs. There is in truth no randomness in dice.” He stared at her intensely. “Don’t you imagine that Indian and Greek gods, Biblical prophets, and medieval knights used them for a reason? Your Snakes and Ladders, by way of example, is an ancient game revealing the journey of life; each ladder is a virtue and each snake is a vice; which your soul must experience, and learn from, on its royal road to perfection. The outcome of every game is known. The die merely starts the action.”

Martha fingered the dice nervously. He continued, “Take this die as a gift from us, Madam. Use it to play Snakes and Ladders tonight. You may be surprised at the outcome. I think you know already. We look forward to you returning soon to purchase some children’s games.”

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