Categories
Just Shelley

George and the Mixture

Robert approached the area with caution, continuously checking to make sure he wasn’t followed. At one point he stopped, sure that he heard the soft sound of footsteps echoing faintly behind him. Listening, hardly daring to breath, he strained his hearing until his head ached with the effort. “Must be my imagination”, he thought to himself.

Entering the room, his eyes were drawn to the containers on the table. Two contained the Substances necessary for the work he was about to perform — inert and non-reactive, looking as harmless as he knew them to be in their separate, isolated state. Combined, however, and they transformed, becoming a Mixture unique in the world, most likely the Universe.

The Crew had chosen straws this year to see who would have the task of making the Mixture, and Robert had chosen the short straw. Looking at the rest of the Crew with suspicion — he always seemed to get the short straw for tasks such as these — he had demanded assistance from the other: they had to keep George away from the mixing area until he, Robert, was finished. George must not be allowed near the Mixture.

In an odd way, George was not unlike the Substances used to make the Mixture. He was friendly and pleasant to be around, totally innocuous. However, let him once be exposed to the Mixture and something seemed to take him over, transforming him as much as the Substances were transformed. He would get an obsessive, mad glint in his eyes and determinedly move towards the Mixture, almost as if the stuff had a mind of its own and called to him in a voice no one but he heard. No matter how hard the Crew tried, nothing they did seemed to be able to stop him in his quest.

Though George’s headlong, mindless flight towards the Mixture was bad enough, the consequences of him actually reaching it was more than anyone wanted to contemplate, or consider. George and the Mixture meeting must be stopped, by any means and at any costs.

Robert shook off his considerations of George and began the process of carefully preparing the Substances. He heated Substance A, slowly, until it lost its solid shape. He also measured and poured Substance B into the Mixture container. Once Substance A reached the appropriate state of liquidity, Robert carefully poured it over Substance B, doing everything possible to make sure none of the Substance or the Mixture got onto him or his clothes. “Now”, he thought to himself. “If I can only get these mixed without George hearing me, we’re out of the woods for this year.”

Robert began to slowly stir the two Substances together, watching as the transformation began to occur. The stirring became more difficult as the effort progressed, but he would rest a moment and then keep on stirring. Stir and rest. Stir and rest.

He tried to keep all noise of his efforts to a minimum, but this was virtually impossible as the Mixture seemed to fight his efforts with each stir, and he began to hit the sides of the container with increasing frequency, wincing at each clang that resulted.

Finally, just as the Mixture looked to be at its final stages of transformation, and an exhausted Robert was beginning to hope that this year, there would be no problems, some sixth sense warned him that he was no longer alone in the room. Turning with a mixed sense of dread and resigned hopelessness, he saw him standing there, in the doorway. George.

George looked curiously at Robert and seemed about ready to speak — until he saw what Robert had in his hands. Then the strange obsessive gleam that Robert feared above all things appeared in George’s eyes. He began to move towards Robert, slowly at first, but more quickly as he got closer.

In sheer terror, Robert screamed out at the top of his lungs for help from the Crew and far off in the distance he could hear multiple footsteps, running towards him as fast as they could. However, he knew they would be too late.

Maintaining his fright-stiffened grasp on the Mixture container, Robert turned away from George, trying to keep his body between the stalker and the stalked. However, George was nimble and quick, and no matter how Robert turned and no matter where he ran in the room, George was there. George was always there. At times it seemed to Robert as if a hundred, then a thousand Georges surrounded him; no matter where he turned, George was always in front of him, always getting closer.

In desperation, Robert dropped a little of the Mixture on the floor, hoping to slow George down and keep him away from the bulk, but no such luck — George wasn’t going to be fooled by a pathetic attempt such as that. He glanced at it with a look of scorn and continued his remorseless progress closer towards Robert. Towards the Mixture.

As happens in times such as this, when Robert next ran over the floor in that area, he actually slipped on the spill and down he fell, him and the container of Mixture clasped so carefully in his arms.

George sensed his chance and sprang for the Container. Robert tried to keep him away, and was astonished when George actually bit him. As he yelled out from the pain, the other Crew members ran into the room, taking in the events at a glance. They also tried to grab at George, and were subjected to bites from George and elbows in the face from each other.

Finally, the inevitable, as inevitable events always go, happened: George and the Mixture met.

The Mixture oozed out of the container under its own volition, and coated George until nothing could be seen of him but his eyes — crazed, demented eyes, no longer recognizable as the eyes of their old friend.

Once coated, George then fled around the room in an insane fury of movement, transferring Mixture to walls, furniture, and floor, anything that George touched.

Robert and the Crew, previously doing everything to capture George, were now fleeing from him just as strenuously… and just as futilely. George would catch them.

George always caught them.

Eventually the Mixture — now tripled in volume, a normal occurrence when it connected with George — soon spread over them just as completely and devastatingly as it did George. In their hair, in their eyes, even up their noses and in their ears; the stuff was literally everywhere.

One of the Crew, in a desperate bid for safety, ran into a closet and George followed. The rest of the Crew shut the door and jammed a chair underneath to keep George and the hapless Crew member inside. Ignoring the screams he could hear on the other side of the door, Robert took a moment to survey the devastation surrounding him. Only one thing to do. Call Doc Bronson.

Robert dialed the doctor’s number and was relieved when the phone was answered on the second ring. “Doc, this is Robert.” he said. “George got into the Mixture again this year. We’re going to need a sedative to calm him until we can get things fixed up.”

“Dammit, Robert! You promised me you’d be more careful this year!”

“Next year you’re going to have to buy your Rice Krispie treats, or get rid of the cat!”

Categories
Photography

Phantoms in the Photographs

As I was building my albums in my new photo gallery, I noticed that very, very few of my photographs have people in them. And if people are present, they’re distant, anonymous, face hidden from the camera.

I didn’t, consciously set out to stage photographs in such a way that no human is in them. However, I have found myself, time and again, holding on a shot until a person is no longer in the frame, even if the person could add to the picture. For instance, when taking a group of rocks in the desert, putting a person into the scene adds depth and perspective. Still, I hold on the shot until it is people free.

My people-less photography has nothing to do with photographic preference, as I love ‘people’ photographs. When I lived in San Francisco, the frame and art gallery across the street from my condo used to feature wonderful B&W; male nudes, usually showing one man against a natural background, such as amidst rocks at the ocean. And there was a set of photographs from years ago of naked women who were painted so that it looked like they were wearing clothes. My memory is fragmented, but I believe the photos were for Vogue. I think these were fascinating, and beautifully staged and colored.

I have, also, long admired those who can capture the essence of a person, or of the human experience, in just one photo, be it a portrait or a scene. It’s an extraordinary gift.

However, the more I work with my photography, the more I’m finding that, for me, the photograph isn’t the end in itself. Each picture is nothing more than a stage, a backdrop for a story waiting for the actors.

Either that or I see my world populated only by phantoms.

Categories
Technology

All you need is PHP

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

Sam Ruby says life changed for him, for the better, when he discovered PHP:

Later this month I turn 41. For me, the last three felt like ten. In a good way.
…

What changed it all for me? PHP

I’m writing the first release of Post Content in PHP, so I’m hoping that the magic works for me, too. However, I’m also using Perl — will this block the good stuff?

Categories
Connecting Weblogging

Looking Glass Self

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

Jonathon wrote today:

Surely much of the joy and many of the rewards of any relationship come from having our beliefs challenged, from having the opportunity to experience the world through someone else’s eyes.

We talk of “weblogging avatars” as if we can each be so easily classified. We see each other through words on a screen and we think we know all there is to know about our neighbors, only to find out in a shattering instant that those who agree strongly with us on some topics do not agree, just as strongly, on others. As weblogging matures, we’re going to need to come to the truth that each of us is not a looking glass reflection of those who read what we write.

In response to Mike’s questions on gender stereotypes, Dorothea answers with far more courage than I. She writes:

But Mike, as best I can tell, would rather I kill the category, summarily execute this part of my written self. He has an image of women (not just his wife, but all women, including me and Shelley and Tish and Jeneane and Halley) that he wants desperately to cling to unmodified, to believe in, to advocate, to proclaim, indeed to deify. I think I threaten that image. No, I know I do. Who am I to be a goddess? Yet if I am not a goddess in Mike’s eyes, what can I be to him?

I don’t know. I wanted to be a person, but in all honesty, his cherished image of people who happen to be female won’t leave me free to be the kind of person I know myself to be. I want to be that person, not any kind of goddess, not any kind of ideal. I do feel diminished in comparison with Mike’s ideal. How could I not? But I must still refuse to try to inhabit it. I must still refuse to endorse it. I must still challenge it.

Viewing each other flatly, through the reflection of companionship engineered by the newness of this medium will only last so long. “We are writing ourselves into existence”, only lasts until it reaches the barrier of the real world, and we realize that each of us is a three-dimensional person who existed before weblogging. Can we accept that, and accept each other’s differences? More than that, can we look beyond our expectations, and shatter the looking glass?

Dorothea also writes:

No, take that back—I like these people now. I do. I am upset and bewildered that this should be such a barrier, that this self I am constructing is so difficult for other selves to accept. I don’t know how best to handle my own thoughts and feelings, much less those of others concerned.

I have no answers, any more than I ever have. I don’t feel good about any of this; I feel tired and empty, unheard and valueless. I used to think that I could best contribute (whatever that means; I have tried three times to define what I mean by it and failed) by telling my stories, airing my hurts and fears and angers and suggestions, making this self I am writing as whole a one as I can.

…making this self I am writing as whole a one as I can.

We have gone beyond the stage of crying out “All we need is love, love, love” and moving in for a virtual group hug. And this transcends silly issues of delinking and blogging popularity.

Can we accept each other’s differences. No, let me phrase that differently: can we celebrate each other’s differences, regardless of the strengths of our own beliefs? I don’t know. I really don’t know.

Lastly, Dorothea also writes:

If I continue blogging, that is. As I said, I am a bare few inches from the end of my rope.

Dorothea, all I can say is that if you left, I would miss your self, badly. Your whole self.

Categories
Government

Learned terrorism

Michael sent me a link to an editorial that talks about Learned Helplessness and its association with the current ‘war on terror’. The author. Kriselda Jarnsaxa, writes:

The experience of the last 15 months here in America seems to be producing a nation suffering from learned helplessness. Fear is induced through the constant, but oh-so-vague, warnings emanating from the government. Another attack is imminent, we are told, they may be coming to blow up our banks, our hotels, our apartments, our holiday celebrations. They may be coming in hidden on boats, or scuba-diving to our shores. They may already be here, hidden among us, and we don’t even know it. They may use suicide bombers or shoulder-mounted surface-to-air misses can knock planes from the sky. Crop dusters may be used to spread biological agents, or they may load a conventional bomb with nuclear waste to spread radiation throughout a large city. May… may… may… may. The list of horrors is nearly endless, as is the imagination of those whose job it is to come up with new warnings, it seems. We see no escape from this fear, and are told our only hope is to sacrifice our freedoms, our cherished liberties, our very way of life, on the altar of security, so we do – willingly, it seems – and never realizing that maybe, we should be afraid of our government, too.

I didn’t think to equate my country’s seeming inability to wake up and see the nightmare with Learned Helplessness. An interesting twist.

This follows on Bush cutting federal employee pay raise, because, as he says, the money is needed for the War on Terror:

In a letter sent Friday to congressional leaders, Bush announced he was using his authority to change workers’ pay structure in times of “national emergency or serious economic conditions” to limit raises to 3.1 percent.

Of course, one can ask why Bush doesn’t roll back the tax cuts, which only benefit the wealthy.

I don’t know why we just don’t send the Congress home. Bush has been given powers that allow him to alter or change any law he wishes in the ‘name of national security”, and Congress lets him. The American public lets him.

As long as Bush plans on bombing Iraq and, we presume, to follow through to other countries such as Iran (Israel’s personal favorite), and Saudi Arabia (the US personal favorite), the voting public of this country seems indifferent to what Bush does. However, I don’t think the public reaction (or lack of same) is based on Learned Helplessness: I think it’s based on equal parts fear, retribution, greed, and a desire to show the world that the US is top dog and can kick anyone’s butt.

Cry “Havoc!” and let loose the dogs of war

Shakespeare, Julius Caesar