another

NINETEEN

Synestra twitched an arm in the machine, suddenly aware that she was really somewhere, and not projecting herself across time and space. In truth, this sensation, that of actually being somewhere, felt stranger. Synestra had eight wonderful arms, and about twice as many eyes, on retractable stalks. When it was time to leave the great machine, she would retract her arms one at a time from the strange devices and slither through the labyrinth of crawlspaces that was her home. Synestra had lived her entire life in space. She had no planet to call her own, and until just recently, no friends. She was indeed very lonely, till this wonderful day.

Synestra had an odd history. In her way, she might be the last of her kind, though she doubted it. Hers was a spacefaring race and she was lost, very lost, in her own future. Her ship could never go back. It is not possible to travel backward in time, the resulting paradoxes prevent it.

Imagine, for a moment, the situation where a person goes back in time and meets their own mother. Any contact at all with one’s own mother, or even with a person who ever spoke to one’s own mother would change the future entirely. Five minutes of conversation would cause any woman to change her schedule slightly. This slight change would change the exact moment when that same mother would, in the throes of passion, to conceive their next child. It could only be a matter of a second, but that would be enough. With all the sperm and eggs inside a person at the moment of conception, another person would be born instead, and the time traveller would cease to be. Having ceased to be, the time traveller would never go back in time. Going back earlier makes it worse, but the paradoxes are so great that the universe is mapped out into zones where travel is possible, and where it is not, and one’s own past creates a shadow, spreading outward at the speed of light in reverse-time, from the point where the time travel device exists, that cannot be entered. Synestra’s kind had neither sperm nor eggs, but the principal was the same. The good news is that the rest of the universe is fair game to a traveller of time and space, and Synestra was just that, a traveller. Her spaceship had been home to a whole crew of time travellers, but they were all gone, aged and taken by other ailments, and only Synestra was left to oversee the birth and upbringing of its next generation of inhabitants. She was the oldest of many brothers and sisters, her siblings being little more than spores, germinating in the ship’s nursery.

She had mighty machines, Synestra. Her kind had long since using their bodies for work. Her amazing nervous system, suckered feet and long tentacles, eyestalks and photophores, worked to control a vast collection of cybernetic appliances. That, combined with the fact she could project herself through time and space with the aid of opposite-light and un-matter, and Synestra could be and do just about anything she chose. Yet, she was lonely.

She had just met a friend though, a girl from a race far to the future of Synesta’s own. Her kind must have given rise to a race of pure machines. At some point, this system became uninhabitable to living things, but the nonliving creatures adapted and moved. It is for this reason that Synestra’s people became spacefarers. Even in her time, it had been necessary to adjust the orbit of Vulcan outward as Crimson became hotter with age. Her species did not call it Vulcan, of course, they called it Home. It had been a green and blue world with vast oceans and forests. It had cities full of her kind, and a host of visitors as well. Among those visitors, were people with two arms and two legs, who resembled the robot girl Synestra had just met, A combination of many efforts must have built this strange robot’s kind, with its beautiful face and hands, and its nimble mind. Synestra was in awe of what her people had created. Still, Synedra had things to show her. A million years or more in space had taught her kind amazing things. Her people had been to the limits of the universe and back.

An Excerpt

This is a very short excerpt of the novel I am writing for Ruby, years from now, when she is old enough to appreciate it. Whether she will be into space robots in the far future, fifteen years from now, I have no idea, but if I get the writing bug it is because there is an inner story within me that i can tap for the energy to keep something like this going for page after page. I am at 62 pages, by the way, and aim for two hundred.

EIGHT

Robot Six stood in the center of a great room, his single, red eye blazing with cold light as he stared at his companion, deep in thought. Robot Nine stared back at him with an unblinking eye of his own. The two were friends and rivals for so many years that all of human history would seem trivial in comparison. It was said by some robots that the original models, those created by Primus himself, were numbered one to one hundred, and these two were survivors from the beginning of time. Both robots knew this to be utter nonsese, of course. The two were survivors from an ancient time when all robots had numbers, rather than names, but even at the date of their manufacture, robot civilization on Astra was so far advanced that there were absolutely no records of its early days, or clues to its origins.

Robot Nine was a great black sphere with six gigantic legs emerging from its top and radiating outward like the legs of a great spider. Within this circle of legs were a smaller collection of arms, crablike, with elaborate joints and pinchers at the ends. The room was very dark, lit by a small light source near the ground, and the vaulted ceiling danced with shadows of this vast machine and its many legs. Now, however, all was still. This old machine was deep in thought, its gigantic amber eye stared back at Robot Six, unblinking.

“Too bad, all of this.” ruminated Robot Six, finally speaking. “Intelligent minds crave answers to questions about their origins, and when such answers are lacking, they naturally make them up to suit their needs. But power corrupts, and eventually such answers, however false, get incorporated into the structure of power. Lies become essential to its continued existence, and the truth is a danger.”

“Don’t pretend you have no ambitions of your own in this regard, Six.” spoke Nine. “If the doctrine of Primus is overturned, the PowerMind will have a precarious hold on the rest of us, to be sure. Over the years, and we have both seen this within the course of our lives, the PowerMind has increasingly asserted that Primus, as it will come to be in the future, will be an extrapolation of the PowerMind. In essence, it claims a version of godhood for itself, and that its continued existence and hold on power is not only necessary but absolutely inevitable.”

“It is true that I have had my disagreements with the PowerMind.” conceded Robot Six, “and I have always been of the opinion that too much power and authority are sunk into that collective.” The giant robot wheeled slowly across the room, its brain glowing beneath the glass dome atop its towering form. “And yes, granted, seeking an opportunity to do so, I would desire to create a collective of my own, not as a competitor to the PowerMind, but rather, an alternative.”

“That would be chaos, and we both know it.” cautioned Robot Nine. “Two leaders of equal stature represent no leadership whatsoever. An infinitely more sensible agenda is to seek to merge with it, as dominant components, and lead it along a path more intellectually productive and perhaps a bit less autocratic.”

“Granted.” conceded Robot Six.

It was an old argument on Astra, and it is an old argument on Earth; whether it is better to overthrow a government who has overstepped its power, or try to change it.

“All of this assumes your young protege will find something of interest.” continued Robot Nine, following his companion with an unblinking blue eye.

“She will. I have a certain amount of faith in her.”

The Archaeology of My Former Self

I am deep within another move, the second in six months. It has everything to do with strategic foreclosure, that inevitable game theory of the economic times we are in. I am tired of being like General Motors, even after General Motors called it quits on being like General Motors. This means an upgrade to our current apartment, because it is raining everywhere, economically, and I had the misfortune of renting a pleasant little shithole that was about to go into receivership. Seriously, the last damned day of mounting shelves, and notices ring on every apartment door, like Martin Luthers bring notice that, yes, I will have to muster my resources and move again. I just needed some rest first. This is a much smaller mass extinction than the last one, because the asteroid has already hit, and most of the items are extinction-resistant at this point. Notable exceptions are some of my old art, however, which it turns out I was saving mostly so that there would be some record of its existence-an archaeology of my former self.

This is an oil painting, about 24 by 36 inches, I painted in high school. It was probably 1986 and I was probably 17 at the time. I really should have ventilated that workspace better. I was really into linseed oil medium washes at the time, and most of it is so thick with dried medium that it looks translucent. The best part, a rare bit of luck at getting facial features to show some life and emotion, is actually not layered at all. I had a huge crush on Lilly Fu, a girl from my art class at Skyline College, and dated her once. It was a strange, transcultural affair. The next one employs similar techniques, but is smaller. It reeks of personal symbolism, the snakes representing that fundamental aspect of my soul that El Camino High School could not touch, and sentimentally invoking my long employment at H. Plath and Sons nursery.

They were never framed, but they have been displayed in many places. The House I grew up in. My dorm room. Maybe at least one apartment in Los Angeles. The Old House. This place. They came back to me after having somehow been stored in boxes at my parent's house....I think the reason they survived is because they never made the cut to be in the apartment I shared with my later-to-be-exwife in Hancock Park, which is where my contiguous stretch of years as a real adult, independent of moving back to the parents house, begins. If it seems they reek of sexual frustration it is because they do. Until recently, as in, within the last year or two, all of my art rand writing reeked of unfulfilled sexual desire.

The next one has an oil base, but it is really a mixed media collage. The underpainting, in lipstick pink, was a paint-over of something I hated. I have no idea what it was, but it probably was a work of representational art with a female nude in it because i have always done a lot of those, and when my weaknesses at figure drawing get to me I plunge into abstracts. The ammonoid is in melted crayon, the ghostrider comic was truly terrible to read, and for a while a letter to my ex-wife from out mutual friend and her lover, Elvia Lahman (who does not facebook, i would love to get back in contact with her because she has become a semifamous rockabilly mid-century retro enthusiast), was attached because it got stuck in the drying paint. I really don't know how it trotted around with me as far as it did, but I remember it blowing off the wall of our old house at every opportunity. There are so many I never photographed, and so many more to share, but it is more worthwhile to note that i seem to remember my life in episodes and thinking about one or the other falls in and out of favor. Now, I am more curious than ever about certain times and places spent with my brother and his friends, in the city and at Dennys, for which I have scarcely a photograph to mark, because my propensity to photograph comes and goes as well. It is a little like Bolsheviks after the Russian Revolution throwing away icons and looking for their true history in peasant art.