Tuesday, March 8, 2016

Microstory 272: Perspective Forty-Seven

Perspective Forty-Six

We’re trying to build an artificial neural network. The ultimate goal of our project is to develop artificial lifeforms that resemble humans, but are far superior in practically every way. Our organization is extremely secretive of this department, and goes to great lengths to prevent so much as whispers that we even exist. Everyone has a cover job in some other department, but we are the elite. At least, everyone else in the department is; I’m different. Most of my coworkers are programmers, linguists, geneticists, and other highly educated people. The guy I get along with the most is a neurobiologist. I’m nothing like any of them. I am speculative fiction writer. The company founders decided that, along with people necessary to actually develop a true artificial intelligence, they would need someone who understood the ramifications of such a thing. They were worried about what happens following the singularity; a point in technological progress where machines become so powerful and self-sufficient that predicting later events is nearly impossible. But writers have been doing just that for ages. My contribution comes, not from the stories I’ve written myself, but those that I’ve enjoyed by others. I’ve not read or watched more science fiction than anyone else in the world, but I’m right up there in the high numbers. It’s my job to analyze decisions that the rest of the team is making, and suggest decisions for the future. In that regard, I work closely with our ethicists. We’re there to determine what place in society an AI would hold, and what rights it would have. Most importantly, we work on ways to make sure our creations will have rights in the first place. We’re not trying to create robot slaves. We’re trying to create life. From scratch. The scientists are actually working on the chemicals and materials that might be used to generate an actual brain and body. Very Victor Frankenstein, I know. But they’re amazing, and I can’t wait to see what we come up with.

Perspective Forty-Eight

Monday, March 7, 2016

Microstory 271: Perspective Forty-Six

Perspective Forty-Five

My best friend is a girl. People say that men and women can’t be friends, because there will always be some level of sexual tension, and one person will always want something more. But I say that’s bullshit. Those kinds of things are said by sexually frustrated people who think too much about sex, and don’t have many—if any—genuine friendships. Sure, she’s attractive, and I would never deny it. But I’m not just constantly trying to get out of the “friend zone” or some nonsense like that. We have a real relationship. We tell each other nearly everything, we call each other when something big happens, and sometimes we just send random emojis to see if the other can decipher the meaning. I would say that she’s the only real friend I have. I grew up awkward and quiet, not really coming out of my shell until university. When I started taking neuroscience classes, I suddenly needed volunteers for experiments and studies. I didn’t know a whole lot of people, so I contacted guys I knew in high school who happened to go to my same college. They agreed to help me out, but there was never any indication that they would want to hang out in a social setting with me. So I have a number of contacts who will pull me out of a jam when I’m rather desperate, but no one who just wants to go catch a movie or something. I’ve always found that odd, but those are the cards I’ve been dealt. My only real friend is an agent for artists. She likes subjective beauty, and isn’t really interested in logic. In fact, I’m not sure she believes in it. I, on the other hand, am always looking for the rational answer using science. We couldn’t be more different, but somehow we just work. I couldn’t imagine my life without her. Now, I assume you’re waiting for me to slip up and reveal how I truly feel about her, but I assure you that the romance is simply not there. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you’re wrong. If you still don’t believe me, then maybe you need to reexamine your hypothesis. Have you ever considered that, or are you capable of nothing more than drawing on your own experiences, or just agreeing with what the other sheep have told you?

Perspective Forty-Seven

Sunday, March 6, 2016

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: May 11, 2065

Mateo tentatively pulled himself into the lifeboat, nearly tipping it over a few times. Okay, so this was supposed to be a recreation of Life of Pi. Believe it or not, Mateo had actually read the book twice, and seen the movie three times. The visuals were just amazing in the adaptation, and so he couldn’t help but watch it every year before his first time jump. As he was sitting on the bench, back pressed against the frontmost possible, he let out a mild laugh. There was that part with the flying fish crashing into the boat like a gift for Pi and the tiger to eat. They were almost like salmon.
There was no zebra, and no orangutan. He lowered his head and tried to get a peek under the tarpaulin at the back of the boat, but he could see nothing. There still could be a hyena and tiger under there, but he was just too scared to check. He grabbed one of the oars and began to row. Pi never did that in the movie, and it was important to remember that The Rogue had an obsession with movies. Any difference in the adaptation needed to be ignored. Source material was irrelevant. But Mateo had to row, because he was on his way to find Leona. He wouldn’t be able to follow the story to the letter. Fortunately, it seemed that this tactic was not against the rules.
As he continued to row forwards—with no clue what the hell is was doing, or where he was going—he frequently looked back at the tarpaulin, just waiting for a tiger to leap out and tear him to shreds. There was a part in the movie where Pi tries to train the tiger, Richard Parker by getting it to associate isolation with seasickening waves, and calm waters with Pi and rewards. It was too early in the reenactment for that, but there was definitely some kind of moaning sound from under the tarp. Mateo adjusted the oar so that it was in position to be either a spear or a bat. But a tiger did not leap out from the darkness and attack him. Instead it was a human man. He was rubbing his head and trying to wake himself up. He stopped crawling out upon seeing Mateo. “Who are you?”
“Mateo Matic. You’re Richard Parker?”
“I am.” That was a pretty significant deviation from the film. The story told is a bit open to interpretation, and it’s possible that the animals actually represent people, but the tiger would have been representative of Pi himself, and wasn’t Mateo supposed to be Pi? No. Maybe he was the hyena.
“How did you get here?”
Richard Parker stood up but had to immediately take a rest on top of the tarp while he continued to massage his head. “The last thing I remember, I was being sent into space. My boss was testing a probe, and I was just his guinea pig.”
That was too familiar. “What year was this?”
“2036. Don’t tell me I’ve been reawoken after centuries in stasis. That’s just...too predictable.”
“Not stasis. Time travel. Let me guess, it was April? Around the twelfth? And your boss is Horace Reaver.”
“That’s exactly right. Who are you?”
“That probe was supposed to be unmanned.”
“Yeah, Reaver said there were legal problems with that, so we lied on the documentation. I didn’t feel like arguing, and honestly wasn’t worried about dying. Plus, my brother was on the moon, so I was hoping to surprise him.”
“I think I met your brother. On the moon. He was very welcoming when we found ourselves stranded there.”
“If you’re a time traveler, what happens to me?”
“Reaver said that you died, but never said how. You’re Richard.”
“Yeah, I told you that.”
“No, I mean that you’re the Richard.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“All three of us are time travelers. Horace Reaver knew you in an alternate timeline, along with your husband. Then he went back and changed your timeline so that you never married, but for some reason, he felt the need to hire you.”
“Nonsense.”
“Why do you think your boss was so successful? He was always defining state of the art, wasn’t he? That’s because he was from the future, and knew how to develop technology. Did you ever see him gamble? He never lost, did he? Not once. That’s because he had already seen the game.”
“But you have no proof.” He shook his head and looked for another oar. “I need to get back to Reaver so I can get this all straightened out.”
“Your boss is dead. That was ten years ago; ten days for me.”
Richard stared into Mateo’s eyes for a few moments. “I’m going to believe you for now...but only because I like what you’re saying.” He looked across the ocean all around him. “Now, where are we?”
“A fourth time traveler has put us both here to reenact Life of Pi. I think we’re going to be here for 227 days.”
Richard stared for a few moments again, and then he burst into nearly uncontrollable laughter. “My name is Richard Parker!”
Mateo laughed with him. “I never your last name, so when my enemy told me you would be here, I thought it would be an actual tiger!”
He laughed even louder upon hearing this. “Your enemy is one clever boy, I’ll give you that. What’s his name?”
“The Rogue.”
Even greater laughter. “Are we gonna die out here?”
“Not unless you’re vegetarian!”
They harmonized their laughter.

The two new friends spent a couple hundred days together on the boat, learning how to fish, but mostly just talking. Mateo spoke of his first jump, of meeting Leona, his battle with and ultimate victory over Reaver, the Rogue and The Cleanser, and everything in between. Richard’s life had been interesting, but could not quite compare. Many of the same things happened to them as they did in the movie. Sharks showed up every once in awhile. Flying fish did eventually jump into the boat and feed them. A gargantuan whale jumped up and caused them to lose a great deal of their supplies. A few things were out of order, but he was willing to give the Rogue leeway on that, especially since there was only one day and one night. It was mightily impressive how he was somehow able to manipulate the patterns of the animals. Time manipulation was one thing, but an orchestrated jellyfish lightshow was on a different level. The floating carnivorous island was glaringly absent from the tribulation. But that was to be expected since such a thing does not exist, and would take a lot more effort to generate than anything else the Rogue had done to them. And of course, since there was no tiger, the whole premise was sort of thrown out. A significant amount of the original story was about trying to survive with a dangerous wild animal. Richard, as a person, was actually rather tame and easy-going.
Time continued to pass at a far slower rate on the outside of the time bubble than it did on the inside. It probably moved a little faster than the day before, though, since Pi was written to have been on the boat less than a year. They rowed in a single direction, which was easier than it normally would be since the sun and stars were stuck in the firmament. Finally, once it was all over, they came up on some land. It was not a beautiful Mexican beach with a lush jungle behind it. No, that would be too easy. The rocky beach backed up to death and desolation. The air was packed with near blinding particulates and smelled of sulfur. A volcano simmered and steamed in the background. They didn’t bother finding a way to tie the lifeboat down. The Life of Pi tribulation had been completed. They were somewhere else. They just needed to figure out where.
A man walked up to them with a gorgeous black horse. “Excuse me, could you tell us where we are?”
“Why, you’re in the nation of Glubbdubdrib,” he answered.
Mateo and Richard just gave each other this look. “Are you the Lord of Glubbdubdrib?”
“Heavens no,” the man replied.
“Is that good or bad?” Richard asked of Mateo.
“I do not yet know.”
“He lives up there,” the man said on. “I can take you to him. I’m going that way.”
Mateo took Richard to the side and spoke in whispers. “An island or a lifeboat is one thing, but fabricating an entire country should be practically impossible, even by 2065 standards. People would know about it. Even the awesome power of the Rogue shouldn’t be enough for this. Something stranger than usual is happening here.”
“Well, what else would we do but play out your tribulation?” Richard returned.
“Good point. At least there is one thing we can count on when it comes to what happens today.”
“What’s that?” They began to follow the man who had already left without worrying about whether they were following him.
“The Rogue definitely has the ability to summon dead people through a mirror.”

Saturday, March 5, 2016

The Odds: Twenty-Four (Part II)

On Saturday, February 24, 2007, I went off to the movies to see five films in a row. I saw Music and Lyrics, The Number 23, Rush Hour 3, The Astronaut Farmer, and Reno 911!: Miami. In that order. Now don’t worry, I don’t have an eidetic memory. I wrote it down on my calendar. That’s about as many as I could see at the theatre (yes, that’s how you spell that word) in the town where I went to college before they closed for the night. Trust me, I timed it out many times. That second movie was terrible; just the worst. It’s about a guy who is obsessed with the number 23 (obviously) and seems to think that it’s controlling every facet of his life, or something like that. He turns out to be a serial killer, or something. I don’t really remember, and it was really confusing because...eeso baaad. The plot was evidently lifted from a preexisting theory known as the 23 Enigma. It is probably one of the most famous examples of apophenia, which is the assumption of patterns that do not exist. 23 only seems like it appears all over the place because you’ve had the notion that it does, and every time it does show up, it confirms your suspicions. This psychological phenomena, and related conditions, are some of my favorite that do not involve language.
I decided to call this story The Odds because it’s kind of about the lottery, but perhaps I should have instead called in Tangent, because there is no way you have any clue just what the hell is happening here. There’s this psychological phenomenon involving language called logorrhea where you basically can’t stop goddamn talking. And so I’m using this story as a mean of spitting out my thoughts as they come, mashing up my personal experience with this bullshit story about winning the lottery. I don’t really think it through that much, and I believe that it shows. Just remember that you don’t have to read it, and I fully expect this to be my least popular stories, besides that godawful Siftens Landing; Jesus Christ. What am I doing right now? I mean there’s meta...and then there’s this. This thing. It’s freaking me out. Are you freaking out?
Moving on. The 23 Enigma is important, because that’s what this lottery story all comes down to. For the most part, numbers only hold relevance as you expect them to. Twenty-three doesn’t appear any more often than any other number, but someone arbitrarily settled on it once, and now people can’t get away from it. For me, however, Twenty-Four is one of the numbers. Twenty-three actually is too, because it’s one of the LOST numbers (4, 8, 15, 16, 23, 42). But Twenty-Four was the very first number I chose, long before I had any aim to play the lottery. Are you ready for another tangent story about my childhood? No? Good. Here we go. When I was thirteen years old (don’t worry, that’s not one of “the numbers) I was...crap, I need to go back further. When I was a little baby child baby, I fell in love with science. I had a laboratory in our basement that was really just a microscope, a book on genetics, and some graphing paper. Dexter would be disappoint. At some point I was going to be a Quantum Physicist, a Biochemist, and a Meteorologist. Respectively, I chose these from Quantum Leap, a science field trip I took in fourth grade, and doing well in meteorology in seventh grade. Tell me please that I’m not still such a basic bitch.
Come eighth grade, I start failing science class. And wouldn’t you know it, it’s all because of balancing chemical equations. Damn. I remember standing in the hallway where the grades were posted for a couple minutes, rapidly resigning myself to the fact that science was absolutely, positively, inarguably not my thing. But writing was. I was always good with language, and don’t remember having to learn the alphabet. I had intended to write science textbooks, but now I needed to shift my paradigm over to writing full time. I experienced two years of experimentation; Quantum Leap and Harry Potter fanfiction, mostly. Following a trip to the Florida Keys in the summer of aught-two (yeah, I’m using that word wrong, but I don’t even care cuz I’m a rebel), I found inspiration for my first novel, and things really got started. But one thing I determined during that experimentation period was that I would always write in terms of Twenty-Four. My novels would each have twenty-four chapters, my anthologies would be published in collections of twenty-four, and—after I started writing television—my TV series would contain twenty-four episodes per season.
Despite all of the rules I’ve set up, broken down, rearranged, and twisted throughout years of honing my skills, the Rule of Twenty-Four has held strong. In fact, I believe that it is the only early thing to survive my tenure thus far (save for the Anti-magic clause of 2003), and I see no reason to change it now. There isn’t really any specific reason why I chose it, however. Sure there are twenty-four timezones and hours in a day, but can you think of anything else? I just now looked it up on Wikipedia and found there to be very few uses of the number significant enough to publish online. It’s a nice enough number that’s easy to utilize in everyday life, so it’s not outcast like Eleven is, but I dunno. I like it despite how great it is, and I don’t think there’s anything more I can say on the matter. I have to get ready for class, but I may write more tomorrow after reading it with a fresh...perspective. Heyo, perspective reference. I can’t be stopped! If you read this in published form, independent from my website, then that doesn’t mean anything to you. But I’m currently running a series of microstories that each belong to a different character’s perspective. Now does it make sense? Crap, I’m gonna be late. Hey guys, I’m back. It’s tomorrow and I’ve added very little to this story. I guess I’ll just have to settle with what’s here. I know you won’t like it, so I just hope that you’re at least okay with it.
Do you see that? I think Forty-Two is on his way.

Friday, March 4, 2016

Microstory 270: Perspective Forty-Five

Perspective Forty-Four

I done screwed up. No one who knows me would refer to me as a saint, but this time, I went too far. I represent an artist with a special level of amazing. I’ve always been rather smarmy, and the only thing I love more than art is money. I get that from my parents, if you can believe it. My mother said, on more than one occasion, “the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen is that dollar dollar bill.” I took her ludicrous words to heart and went into the business of selling art since I wasn’t talented enough to produce my own beauty anyway. I spent years searching for that one creator who could make my career and set me up for life. I finally found him, and I fear that I’m the one responsible for corrupting his soul. This guy is the real deal. He’s not just some schmuck I picked off the street to mold and manipulate into doing what I want. I’m bad, but I’m not that bad. No, his work is life-changing, and I mean that literally. I set him up at a gallery and put the word out, and things were going well. But then he started taking drugs so that he could make better and more enthralling stuff. I didn’t actually tell him to do this, but looking back, some of the things I told him could be perceived as damaging. I would regularly address the fact that most of the great artists had messed up lives. Van Gogh cut off his ear and killed himself. Jackson Pollock was an alcoholic recluse. Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera were in an open but abusive relationship with each other. But these are just examples. Not all artists have such problems. It’s true that experts have found correlations between mental illness and creativity, but that’s not a causal connection, and those findings are not agreed upon by all. My little artist was basically taking performance enhancing drugs, and I should have been there to help him. Sure, we continued to make money, but the cost was just too great. I was not only his agent, but his friend, and he was my responsibility. He’s better now, and he wants me to continue representing him because he doesn’t blame me, but I think it might be best if we part ways. I’m no good for him. This chapter in both of our lives needs to be over.

Thursday, March 3, 2016

Microstory 269: Perspective Forty-Four

Perspective Forty-Three

Hi, my name is Forty-Four, and I’m an addict. I’m not going to stand here and tell you that “it all started with my mother” or something like that. Not to say that family issues are below me, or there is something wrong with that; it’s just that I had a pretty happy childhood. My parents were loving and encouraging. They never smoked, never gave the impression that they did drugs, and always drank in moderation. No, I didn’t become an addict because of trauma or stress or anxiety. I began to experiment with drugs several years ago in order to open up my mind. You see, I’m an artist, and I consider it my primary job—not to literally make the art—but to alter perception. I figured that I couldn’t do that to the best if my ability if I was bound to only my one perspective. I started slow, just a little marijuana now and again, before  working up to harder and harder things...and more often. I did this on purpose, not because I just kept getting roped into “a little bit more”. I actually wrote up a plan on the computer, with a timeline and other charts. I could show it to you if you have an hour or two. Things were going well, and I mean extremely well. I was churning out what I considered to be not only my best work, but some of the best work I’ve seen from the modern world. And I didn’t only think this while under the influence. This stuff looked good while sober, and others seemed to agree with me.
I was making boatloads of money, and I always felt in control. I never had any significant memory problems, and my family and friends made no move to give me an intervention, because my relationships weren’t suffering. But then things started spiraling out of control. I tried a medication that’s meant to get you to fall asleep, but at the same time chugging energy drinks so that I would be forced to stay awake, along with lithium salts. This was a bad combination, but one that I couldn’t stop myself from continuing. They gave me bad thoughts, and feelings of invincibility. I was suddenly interested in understanding the perspective of serial killers. I didn’t hurt anyone, mind you, this isn’t a confession. But I believe that I became uncomfortably close to “trying it out”. So I had to get out of that life. Like any good artist, I didn’t enter a rehabilitation program. I literally locked myself in a room for days with gallons of water, canned food, and no toilet or cell phone. I waited for the my neighbors to call the authorities about the smell, thinking that that would hail the completion of my sobering period, and also become a story that would sell more art. I realize now that this was just as dangerous and stupid as the drugs. My sponsor, Forty-Three has fortunately been here to help me realize that I was only really ever addicted to both the success and torture of creating beauty. I’m not out of the woods yet, but I’m getting there. Thank you.

Perspective Forty-Five

Wednesday, March 2, 2016

Microstory 268: Perspective Forty-Three

Perspective Forty-Two

I’m not a gorram stalker. There is this thing called frequency illusion. Basically, once you first encounter something (or someone) notable, you suddenly start seeing it everywhere. It’s important to recognize that the only reason this is happening is because this person or thing had not yet made an impact on your memory. So of course you didn’t notice it before. That’s the point. There is also this psychological phenomenon that’s commonly referred to as paranoia. I assure you that this is what’s happening here. I moved to town a few months back. I’ve been doing yoga pretty much my whole life, and needed to find a new place. I tried a class with this one guy who shouldn’t be allowed to call himself a yogi. He’s obviously there for the women. I can see the way he looks at his students and smiles without showing any teeth. It’s creepy and disturbing how he “assists” the ladies with their poses. I know that instructors are supposed to do that, to some degree, but I noticed he never once helped the men. And there were some guys there who were obviously new to the practice and could have used some help. So I stopped taking classes from him, and didn’t give it much thought. But I did end up meeting a nice old lady there who happened to live in one of the apartments above the studio. I go over there on the regular to help her with her bills and other errands. I don’t get anything out of this relationship, but I don’t have much family, and I guess I’m hoping someone randomly shows up to do that for me when I’m that old. But that yoga instructor lives up there too, and he seems to think that I’m following him. I tried to explain what’s really happening, but he is convinced of his own irresistibility. There is nothing less attractive than a man who think girls around him can barely hold in their lust. He’s not ugly, but he’s not that great. And besides, I know how hot I am. If I wanted a guy, I could probably get him. I would never feel the need to stalk him. Dude needs a reality check. And I need to get to a meeting.

Perspective Forty-Four

Tuesday, March 1, 2016

Microstory 267: Perspective Forty-Two

Perspective Forty-One

As long as this is a safe space, I’ll be honest. I got into yoga in order to “meet chicks”. Whenever it was portrayed in movies, the characters were played by pretty people in tight clothing, obviously suggesting that yoga “works”. But man oh man, I just love it. The first day was tough. Looking back, I shouldn’t have gone with hot yoga for my first day, like an idiot. But once I got into things and found my groove, it was like I had truly found my home. Sure, I did meet a few women here and there, and I didn’t exactly kick them out of bed. But on the whole, I was there to learn, and learn I did. Once I felt enlightened, I found work at the rec center as an instructor. After a few years of being a yogi, I was able save enough money to open up my own studio. It’s nice to have a place on the physical plane of existence to call my own. Here’s my problem. There’s this girl from one of my classes that has been stalking me, and she knows where I live because my apartment is right above the studio. You would think that she would attend as many classes of mine as she could handle, but she doesn’t. She seems to think that I won’t notice her harassment if I can’t actually see her all that often, or that she won’t get in trouble for it. I’m not sure if she attended the one class and fell in love right away, or if she knows me by some other means and the class was just to get close to me. It’s really weird, but because of how much distance she gives me, the authorities can do nothing about it. Stalking isn’t legal, per se, but it’s also incredibly hard to prove. And law enforcement is much better equipped to investigate and punish crimes that have already happened. Stopping a threat before its acted upon is kind of a gray area when it comes to the constitution. It’s like that one movie about people who can see future murders. I’m getting off on a tangent. My stalker. I confronted her about it a few weeks ago, but she completely denies it. I guess all those emails, gifts, and times when I feel like I’m being followed are just a coincidence, huh? She’s such a liar. Ya know what, that’s what I hate the most—okay, it’s all right. Find your bliss. Breathe. There is nothing in this world , or the next, that I can’t survive. That goes for you too. Namaste.

Perspective Forty-Three