Good morning. Another day. More pain. More disappointment. More anger. For a person who has solved the puzzle of life, answered the deepest questions of meaning and purpose and the nature of reality, ze is a pretty unsatisfied, unhappy little person. For a person who considers zirself to be so fucking smarter than anyone else, ze is a pretty dumb little person. Anxious, nervous, depressed. Small and fearful. Fearful of losing zir mind. Fearful of being exposed as a fraud. But most of all, scared to death that zir mask will slip, that zir selfhood will be exposed as false. Ze is frightened out of zir wits that the truth will be revealed. The truth of zir life not being a life but rather a play in three acts: birth, life and death. With everyone else on the planet refusing to suspend disbelief willingly or unwillingly. Ze cannot stop thinking about masks. Do others wear them? And if so, do they know they wear them? Always? Specially at work? But also at home? In company? And alone? Do others construct their personhood in real time, as zir is forced to do? Oh, it's a tricky, tricky thing. Frequently, mistakes happen. The mask slips and the fake is exposed. Or is it that the real person is exposed? Who knows? Either way, cheating is exposed. The mask slips: the life is revealed to be an act. The real person behind the mask is exposed: naked and shivering, ashamed and humiliated. Small. Limited. Selfish. Ugly. Stupid. Bad. It is happening more and more, mainly at work, but also at home. Ze is in a meeting. Someone asks zem a question. Or ze asks a question. Or makes a statement. But before getting to the end of zir train of thought, ze forgets where ze is going. (Often ze embarks on the train without a destination in mind. So really, ze only has himself to blame. Which ze does.) Sometimes ze stumbles, loses track, loses zir footing before getting to the end of a sentence. The mask slips. The truth is revealed, that the life is not a life, it is a play. That the pro is not a pro but a con. That the person is not a person but a shadow. © Copyright S R Schwarz 2007. All rights reserved.
the person is someone else
Labels: autophagy, clumsily ironic, personal worst, psychopathy, selfhood
see what you made me do
As the anger rose, the killing frenzy intensified. Pints of blood became gallons of blood and then rivers, then oceans… vast glaciers of sap, and ooze and alien life force liquids and all that kind of stuff… crushed cockroach juice everywhere, everything covered in rotting gel…
Eventually, when ze had killed every single living thing in an entire universe, ze paused and took a deep breath, panting from his exertions, and enquired of the heavens: “Happy now? See what you’ve made me do!” And the heavens shrugged and continued their merry doings. But the shrug of the heavens killed many billions of lifeform units across reality including the being who had killed every single thing in an entire universe, and who had enquired of the heavens, “Happy now? See what you’ve made me do!”
And when the great pendulum had swung all the way to death, in the moment just before the turnaround---the hesitation of immeasurable duration, the great question between each cycle, will we or won’t we, and if not, whence, and if not us, then whither?---that same sour being caught a sudden fright to contemplate the sweet poison of eternal loneliness with guilt the only companion perched like a cruel and misbegotten demon on zer shoulder…
Copyright © S R Schwarz 2007. All rights reserved.
vox clamantis in deserto
Once was born Cassandra, a little girl who could have changed the world, if she'd been permitted, or at least, that was how she would come to see it, many years later.
Cassandra had been given many gifts at birth by Apollo and other Supernatural Beings (SB's) which abounded in that part of the multiverse, in those days. Among her many gifts was that of a big, juicy brain with lots of neurons and dendrites, all of which were of course invisible from outside her skull. Another gift was that of an extra brain lobe, which was well and truly visible from outside her skull. In fact only a blind person could have failed to notice the big, fat bulge on the side of her head.
As I was saying, Cassandra could have changed the world, had she been permitted to make full use of her extra brain lobe, in which was to be found a special if almost but not quite unique re-entrant network/circuit (neurons that wire together fire together) pattern that when activated gave rise to the power of true prophecy.
Who would not permit her to use her power of true prophecy? Why, the bookmakers of course, bookies for short. Clearly, they would be bankrupt in no time at all if the future could be accurately predicted and the prediction acted upon, ie bet upon.
So the bookies hired a huntsperson (these days we call them hitpersons or hitpeople depending on how stupid one wishes to be) to kidnap Cassandra and get rid of her. Which ze did: the hitperson grabbed her on her way back from her local Ladbrokes, bundled her up into zer car, and sped away, heading for the hills. The drove for hours and hours, until they were well and truly in the Wilderness. Then the hitperson tossed Cassandra out of the car and left her in the Wilderness to die.
Now, naturally enough, Cassandra was quite upset at this turn of events. She was upset, scared, and hungry. And there were no locusts or wild honey within a thousand miles. So what did Cassandra do? Well, first she sobbed a little, then she whined for a while, and then, as the true hopelessness of her position dawned on her, she began to cry, loudly and long. No-one heard her sobbing. No-one heard her whining. Nor did anyone hear her voice crying in the Wilderness.
Two days later she was dead, and ants and scorpions feasted on her extra brain lobe. Did she see it all coming? You betcha! And what about the bookies? Well, to this day, bookies continue to prophet. From people who could change the world, if they were only permitted to do so.
very short stories | portal to the multiverse
Labels: attempted humor, clumsily ironic, pointless, trivia convivia
toxic culture shock syndrome (TCCS)
People live within the framework of the culture they create. But sometimes the culture is unsustainable. Sometimes the culture works against the interests of the culture makers. Sometimes the culture limits rather than enhances the prospects for longer term survival of the culture makers. The culture into which Cassandra was born had not always been sick. It had become sick as a result of infection, invasion to be precise. Did people know their culture was sick? Sadly, not. But they should have or at least could have. Because there were plenty of signs that things were not going according to plan. Including the increasing incidence of suicide, self-mutilation, and eating disorders among younger people. As the death of a canary can signify the presence of toxic gas in a coal mine, so too was the presence of toxic culture-shock syndrome (TCSS) signified by the rising trend of self-destructive behaviours among younger people in those days. Of course, most people failed to notice (or pretended not to notice) the signs. Because if they had noticed they might have felt obliged to respond in some way, eg by changing some aspects of the culture. Which they didn't want to do. Stupid, stupid people. However, there was a downside to the gift of true prophecy. Just as most people ignored or pretended to be ignorant about the onset of TCSS, so too did people not believe (or pretended not to believe) Cassandra's prophecies. She, and others like her, could have saved the world, if only they had been permitted to do so. They could have been the antibodies fighting the TCSS cells within the bloodstream of the body cultural. Who would not permit her to use her power of true prophecy? Why, bookmakers of course, bookies for short. As well as actuaries, statisticians, insurance claim assessors, and other followers of the serpent Nidhogg. In fact, everyone and anyone whose livelihood depended on prognostication and prefiguration. back to "as you were, wolf" © Copyright S R Schwarz 2007. All rights reserved.
