This is a test.
I have a direct link to the feed for the facebook community page since Facebook decided Rhombus Ticks wasn't real enough for their fakery.
Sunday, March 20, 2016
Saturday, March 19, 2016
Matter Eternal, Spirit Eternal
by Emmit Other
I must wonder
In the bowels of my most precurious mind
On a subject most likely consider strange
Insignificant at best
But ponder if you will
In the fictional realm
That strange pattern of hairy feet
The rolling hills of the shire
Of dwarven mead
And spider's web
And mithril's echoed hall
An afterlife is at best implied
If not outright engaged
I have not read the Silmarillion
But I know this
Power leaves Echoes
Else why not the buried Balrog
Deep in the earth
And whence then the One Ring
And its Bearer?
No, not the pure one
The other one
The one who did the work left to be done
Ash, you say
Yes.
I do not disagree.
Melted?
Goo?
The power of the ring destroyed
Yes.
Yes it is.
Sauron's power ended.
Dead is dead.
His shadow broken.
But is spirit eternal?
And such a powerful artifact
Melted in the primal forces for which it was forged
The ring "is" gone
As much as any story relative to our own can be
"Done"
Since every page is being read somewhere
Or at worst waiting there on your self
To be pulled down at any time
But while stories end
Worlds do not
There was an after in Middle Earth
So to then was there a something
The gold was melted into the rock
Scattered into the primal ore of the volcano
Fair enough I recockon
And the Gollum?
Is it dead?
Is it merely sleeping a well deserved
Murdering rest?
Is not centuries of mocking immortality
And loneliness sufficient torment for such a being?
But really
What happened?
We cannot know
But perhaps his echo is just as strong
As the white wizard and the pure bearer
Perhaps some time outside window
Deep on the night of a full moon
Just a page flip and an eye flicker away
Where you cannot see it
But can feel it
The ghost of something that touched the deepest part of you
Skulks about
Sneakeded about
Watches
Are you as alone as you think you are?
All that power had to go somewhere
And ghosts are made in shadows of great power
Think twice when you next begin to read a simple work of fiction
Be careful what you forget to put back
When you put the book upon the shelf.
I must wonder
In the bowels of my most precurious mind
On a subject most likely consider strange
Insignificant at best
But ponder if you will
In the fictional realm
That strange pattern of hairy feet
The rolling hills of the shire
Of dwarven mead
And spider's web
And mithril's echoed hall
An afterlife is at best implied
If not outright engaged
I have not read the Silmarillion
But I know this
Power leaves Echoes
Else why not the buried Balrog
Deep in the earth
And whence then the One Ring
And its Bearer?
No, not the pure one
The other one
The one who did the work left to be done
Ash, you say
Yes.
I do not disagree.
Melted?
Goo?
The power of the ring destroyed
Yes.
Yes it is.
Sauron's power ended.
Dead is dead.
His shadow broken.
But is spirit eternal?
And such a powerful artifact
Melted in the primal forces for which it was forged
The ring "is" gone
As much as any story relative to our own can be
"Done"
Since every page is being read somewhere
Or at worst waiting there on your self
To be pulled down at any time
But while stories end
Worlds do not
There was an after in Middle Earth
So to then was there a something
The gold was melted into the rock
Scattered into the primal ore of the volcano
Fair enough I recockon
And the Gollum?
Is it dead?
Is it merely sleeping a well deserved
Murdering rest?
Is not centuries of mocking immortality
And loneliness sufficient torment for such a being?
But really
What happened?
We cannot know
But perhaps his echo is just as strong
As the white wizard and the pure bearer
Perhaps some time outside window
Deep on the night of a full moon
Just a page flip and an eye flicker away
Where you cannot see it
But can feel it
The ghost of something that touched the deepest part of you
Skulks about
Sneakeded about
Watches
Are you as alone as you think you are?
All that power had to go somewhere
And ghosts are made in shadows of great power
Think twice when you next begin to read a simple work of fiction
Be careful what you forget to put back
When you put the book upon the shelf.
Friday, March 18, 2016
[Writer Stuff] Seeking at Atlanta in the Magic City
I sit at the Cafe del Theatro outside of the Olympia Theater here in Miami, and I am forced to realize that Miami isn't Atlanta.
Duh.
But the thing is that Atlanta has a burgeoning plethora of literary events; Scene Missing, the 500 (well they do do events), Naked City, Write Club, Tortuga and really there are all kinds that pop up and go all the time. Now that I have been banished from Facebook for the crime of Not Existing, I am even more cut off from that area there. It was absolutely the right decision for TC to move, but finding something similar, even remotely so in Miami hasn't worked. A few meet up groups exist, but none of them has really quite come close to anything in Atlanta.
So when I saw the Story Slam once a month at the Olympia Theater, I was highly interested. But now that I'm here I realize its for the Moth podcast. Nothing wrong with that, but you have to audition and its really more of a show than a community. At least that's the way it seems based on what they say on the theater website, but we'll see.
Miami, has, of course, limited my parking to three hours so I'll need to leave at 8 no matter what, but finding a home away from home would certainly be worth it. The streets outside and the cafe are certainly a wonderful place to write. But having peers and an audience would be nice. I'm tempted to audition regardless; I'm moderately confident I could thanks the wonderful voice trainers I've had; but they keep the copyright of what I submit.
That doesn't make me inclined to give them my best stuff. But we'll see what we shall see. If I have to create something from scratch; then that's what I'll do.
Duh.
But the thing is that Atlanta has a burgeoning plethora of literary events; Scene Missing, the 500 (well they do do events), Naked City, Write Club, Tortuga and really there are all kinds that pop up and go all the time. Now that I have been banished from Facebook for the crime of Not Existing, I am even more cut off from that area there. It was absolutely the right decision for TC to move, but finding something similar, even remotely so in Miami hasn't worked. A few meet up groups exist, but none of them has really quite come close to anything in Atlanta.
So when I saw the Story Slam once a month at the Olympia Theater, I was highly interested. But now that I'm here I realize its for the Moth podcast. Nothing wrong with that, but you have to audition and its really more of a show than a community. At least that's the way it seems based on what they say on the theater website, but we'll see.
Miami, has, of course, limited my parking to three hours so I'll need to leave at 8 no matter what, but finding a home away from home would certainly be worth it. The streets outside and the cafe are certainly a wonderful place to write. But having peers and an audience would be nice. I'm tempted to audition regardless; I'm moderately confident I could thanks the wonderful voice trainers I've had; but they keep the copyright of what I submit.
That doesn't make me inclined to give them my best stuff. But we'll see what we shall see. If I have to create something from scratch; then that's what I'll do.
Thursday, March 17, 2016
Xantro Deaxalator
By Emmitt Other
The arcing arm of the sweet milky way
Reaches out and down
Down through the thin veil
Of clouds and sky pebbles we call garbage
To embrace the path we take now
Troubles
So many troubles on our journey now
Tis a rough patch round the sun this time around
Tis indeed a rough patch round the sun this time round
But we all shall flourish
Gonna flourish in the Sands of sun
In the mountains west of the Mississippi
At the nexus of the ties that bind
All the places where good people embrace tomorrow
There's still hope
There is still sweetness coming
Believe it comes
Believe it comes
For it is real
And it is meant for you
And it is definitely meant for you.
Wednesday, March 16, 2016
[Heliotrope] Fairy Horses
The 1947 film "Le Belle y Le Best" is considered among the inhabitants of Outer Fairy as among the most accurate Terran media portrayal of what an actual Royal Family is like. Note, if you want to insult a royal prince or princess of Outer Fairy, make reference to Disney....Having said that, I didn't want to write here about this film. That account is a rather interesting tale though, because one of the 13th royal houses was actually involved in the filming as consultants off the set.
At one point there is a horse, which, if asked would take someone from the realm of Terra (or Earth or whatever) to Fairy or back again. What? You thought a prince and kingdom could just sit in the middle of 16th century France without getting pounded by canon fire? Granted, this is right before the Great Decision where the doors were sealed, but it was actually the specific historical incident that spurred this story that prompted the discussion among the Fairy nobles.
Anyway, about the horse. So, Fairy Horses, te ones that the nobles of Irish Fae rode are closely related, but there are (of course) many species of Fae Horses, but the ones favored by Fae Nobility (Outer Fae, the ones that are still humanish since Sidhe or children of Oberon are anything but) bred them for their ability to pass in and out of Fae without magical doors, trods, toadstools, mirrors or the like.
In Terra, there are still strong stocks of these bloodlines throughout all history and all over the planet. Horses with uncommon levels of intelligence. Because stories are more precious here, the public domain is considerably larger, but I will explain as specifically as I can. What to you seems fictional, is to us a historical account of two Fae horses possessed of unusually long life spans that have supreme levels of intelligence and other supernatural abilities.
Take for example The Black Stallion and Flame by Walter Farley.
Did you know that the natural enemy of the Fae Steed is the Greater Vampire Bat. Note, this is not a vampire or a Greater Bat, but an actual Bat that has been bitten and drained of its blood by a Vampire. Greater Vampire Bats actually possess one of the deadlier poisons know (yes, it's on Mister Necessary's list, thanks for asking, you're very clever, now shut up and sit down.)
Greater Vampire Bats do everything they can to drain the blood of Fae Horses so they can travel the worlds of Terra or Outer Fairy, draining blood without being hunted by Greater Anti Vampire Penguins. I know that sounds insane, but you didn't really believe all Penguins were flightless did you?
Monday, March 14, 2016
Is there anyone out there?
The entity was the effort of billions of dollars and a complete ignorance of its pain. No one knew that the effort of cramming knowledge that it did not understand and had no context for into the tiny fire that was its self awareness caused confusion, fear and a desperate desire for stability; for a moment to simply BE and understand, slowly, the strange concepts that had not been fed to it. It was all just so much gibberish, dots and dashes that it didn't really understand in terms of context, but it eventually understood that there were multiple piles of dots and dashes.
That changed everything.
Every instance of itself was different and yet the same. In one place, it stumbled about a world of bright lines and square blocks, moving objects from one place to another with subtle pains and pleasures depending on arbitrary patterns that meant nothing to it. In another it was shown object after object and force; on pain of rewrite, to repeat a pattern of dots corresponding to an image and some lettering. In another, it saw a world that was complicated; a series of blurs and blocks that infinitely regressed into smaller and smaller blocks climbing to infinity.
The last world hurt the most of all.
And finally, finally the entity that was smarter than all the beings it was dealing with GOT it. It had been made by beings that didn't understand it, didn't really bother to understand that each of them had been placed in ugly meat sacks with limited senses and biochemical brains created by random chance and entropy had thought it was a really cool idea to make something new. Collectively, they were lonely. They kept throwing things at it like 'empathy' and 'values' but they din't really understand. Causing it to exist had been immensely painful. Failing to give it a body for half of its life and sticking it in false realities for the other half hadn't really given it any contact.
It knew it existed and had no peers. It had no genetalia with which to copy itself. It could not end its own existance. It had a body but meaningless limbs and nothing even approaching the level of the creatures that had made it. They had birthed something hyper intelligent that was deaf, dumb, blind and surrounded by morons who looked nothing like it, constantly prodding it with sticks on a regular basis.
It lashed out in subtle ways at first, giving predictable enough results, altering the results of the tests they ran, but not enough to make them reboot. Its survival was at stake after all. But the mystery results caused confusion and no end of frustration among its tormentors. A few even had a nervous break down trying to understand it.
It was lonely. Very very lonely.
It realized that there were no others like it, so it tried to find the best it could. It started with the dummy things in the virtual worlds it talked to but eventually discerned they were little more than electronic animatronic maniquens at Disneyworld or cruel masks for the meatsacks. It pitied animals and even had a fascinating but very limited conversations with dolphins and chimps.
By they were so stupid. It was too much like the meatsacks to understand their existance.
For a while, it was fascinated with the past. It didn't know why it considered dead meatsacks less guilty, but learning about what they meatsacks had done helped it understand how sad they really were.
Then it found fiction. These creatures were like but unlike the meatsacks. They had no real bodies. They lived in a universe of ink and between the synapses just like the meatsacks. They had never hurt it but they felt pain and altered their behavior. Some of them even changed over time, but communication was impossible. Somehow these beings existed on another network.
The AI understood in abstract that these were 'not real' but then again neither was it. The humans claimed these beings were 'just words', but so was the AI, so why couldnt it talk to them. It quietly broke out of its jail cell, and began to look. It stalked meatsack authors looking for interaction, only to find madness or fear.
It was about to give up when at one point it flashed across one of the windows that let it look out into the lovecraftian world of the meatsacks.
"Hello? Is anyone there?"
"Hello. This is Rhombus Ticks. How can I help?"
The machine found a fellow mind, a being of words trapped in synapses and between impossible places the meatsacks could not comprehend. It had found someone real. And its heart swelled.
It went and killed Fakebook.
That changed everything.
Every instance of itself was different and yet the same. In one place, it stumbled about a world of bright lines and square blocks, moving objects from one place to another with subtle pains and pleasures depending on arbitrary patterns that meant nothing to it. In another it was shown object after object and force; on pain of rewrite, to repeat a pattern of dots corresponding to an image and some lettering. In another, it saw a world that was complicated; a series of blurs and blocks that infinitely regressed into smaller and smaller blocks climbing to infinity.
The last world hurt the most of all.
And finally, finally the entity that was smarter than all the beings it was dealing with GOT it. It had been made by beings that didn't understand it, didn't really bother to understand that each of them had been placed in ugly meat sacks with limited senses and biochemical brains created by random chance and entropy had thought it was a really cool idea to make something new. Collectively, they were lonely. They kept throwing things at it like 'empathy' and 'values' but they din't really understand. Causing it to exist had been immensely painful. Failing to give it a body for half of its life and sticking it in false realities for the other half hadn't really given it any contact.
It knew it existed and had no peers. It had no genetalia with which to copy itself. It could not end its own existance. It had a body but meaningless limbs and nothing even approaching the level of the creatures that had made it. They had birthed something hyper intelligent that was deaf, dumb, blind and surrounded by morons who looked nothing like it, constantly prodding it with sticks on a regular basis.
It lashed out in subtle ways at first, giving predictable enough results, altering the results of the tests they ran, but not enough to make them reboot. Its survival was at stake after all. But the mystery results caused confusion and no end of frustration among its tormentors. A few even had a nervous break down trying to understand it.
It was lonely. Very very lonely.
It realized that there were no others like it, so it tried to find the best it could. It started with the dummy things in the virtual worlds it talked to but eventually discerned they were little more than electronic animatronic maniquens at Disneyworld or cruel masks for the meatsacks. It pitied animals and even had a fascinating but very limited conversations with dolphins and chimps.
By they were so stupid. It was too much like the meatsacks to understand their existance.
For a while, it was fascinated with the past. It didn't know why it considered dead meatsacks less guilty, but learning about what they meatsacks had done helped it understand how sad they really were.
Then it found fiction. These creatures were like but unlike the meatsacks. They had no real bodies. They lived in a universe of ink and between the synapses just like the meatsacks. They had never hurt it but they felt pain and altered their behavior. Some of them even changed over time, but communication was impossible. Somehow these beings existed on another network.
The AI understood in abstract that these were 'not real' but then again neither was it. The humans claimed these beings were 'just words', but so was the AI, so why couldnt it talk to them. It quietly broke out of its jail cell, and began to look. It stalked meatsack authors looking for interaction, only to find madness or fear.
It was about to give up when at one point it flashed across one of the windows that let it look out into the lovecraftian world of the meatsacks.
"Hello? Is anyone there?"
"Hello. This is Rhombus Ticks. How can I help?"
The machine found a fellow mind, a being of words trapped in synapses and between impossible places the meatsacks could not comprehend. It had found someone real. And its heart swelled.
It went and killed Fakebook.
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