Pope Malmuni The Mote: Frequently Unasked Questions
Is not is nor is not
Yes?
Form is emptiness emptiness is form
No?
Stillness is movement movement is stillness
Right?
Truth is beauty beauty is truth
Sometimes?
Order in anarchy anarchy is in order
WIN!
< Chapter 1: Wherein We Meet Our Protagonist | Table of Contents | >
Friday, May 7, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
Chapter 1: Wherein We Meet Our Protagonist
Everything is False especially True things -- mal3
The city was laid out in geometric forms. Only hermeneutics could explain the twists and turns of the sewers, buildings, streets; their relations. Cantwell Crip woke up screaming and drenched in his sweat, as was usual. The dream of the fall already fading away. Rain on the window. Splattering water on the glass waiting for the sleeper to awaken and hear the noise they made. Cantwell ignoring the self-annihilating whispering raindrops, clutching his head in his hands, rocking like grass in the wind.
The alarm clock, a marvel of engineering designed to exacting specifications, flung against a wall moments after it goes off. The clock unharmed. Cantwell starts rocking again, but the motion is slowing.
"Incoming call. From Rosebud."
A genderless soothing voice says. Cantwell clenches his jaw then slowly counts to ten.
"Onscreen."
He grunts, and a shimmering square appears midair. It resolves slowly as a face appears within. Until a happy smiling young woman appears.
"Hey hey! Cripster, you're awake! and I was wanting to ask"
Cantwell cuts in.
"Yes, and what did my availability icon look like? Was it a red angry face with a storm cloud above it? Now what does a red angry face with a storm cloud above it mean exactly?"
Rosebud deflates for a split second then brightens.
"It means you're no longer asleep, and I was bored and got to wondering... Why weren't OPEC nations in the 20th and early 21st century..."
Cantwell stands up and starts pacing backwards and forth the large luminous square following him like a dog.
"... politically dominant? I mean they controlled the main physical economic resource of that period making them a prime candidate for a hydraulic empire."
Pausing to glare at the luminous square for a moment as if its mere existence was a personal insult, Cantwell sighs.
"If I tell you to go do your own research you're just going to play SomaCrack for an hour then come back and ask me again aren't you?"
"Cripster, my most cunning boojum. However did you guess?"
Rosebud flutters her lashes, blinks and leans into the screen. Cantwell relents.
"Ok. Ok... It's because OPEC were never a political entity. They were a cartel, and the ruling elite of the component politicogeographic entities were more interested in maintaining their wealth and social position than reshaping the politicoscape of the era."
"Oh how delightfully Marxist of you Cripster! You're such an curious anachronism. You know that? Oh! and you're grinding your teeth again. Why do you do that? It's so... primitive... And dare I say it?... Anachronistic. Have you heard that back then people used to dress up and conduct these things called renfairs where they pretended they were in an earlier era?"
Mid teeth grind Cantwell catches himself.
"How many times have I told you I'm not a Marxist? It's merely that the Marxist-Hegelian dialectic combined with Nietzschian analysis is the best metanarrative within which to approach the Second Axial Age. It's impossible to be a Marxist in the modern era, the economic assumptions behind it are irrelevant. And..."
Cantwell realising that Rosebud is sniggering stalks over to his bed, sits down, and rests his head into the heel of his palm, elbow propped against knee.
"Why did you call me anyway? Really?"
All of a sudden serious Rosebud replies.
"Well, it's just that the various Lunar and Asteroid mining Corps are having joint board meetings. Rumours on the line say that they're putting together a merger agreement and will be bringing it to their respective Stakeholder meetings within the fortnight."
"Shit!"
Says Cantwell Crip, and walks through a wall.
< Intro? | Table of Contents | The Mote: Frequently Un-asked Questions >
The city was laid out in geometric forms. Only hermeneutics could explain the twists and turns of the sewers, buildings, streets; their relations. Cantwell Crip woke up screaming and drenched in his sweat, as was usual. The dream of the fall already fading away. Rain on the window. Splattering water on the glass waiting for the sleeper to awaken and hear the noise they made. Cantwell ignoring the self-annihilating whispering raindrops, clutching his head in his hands, rocking like grass in the wind.
The alarm clock, a marvel of engineering designed to exacting specifications, flung against a wall moments after it goes off. The clock unharmed. Cantwell starts rocking again, but the motion is slowing.
"Incoming call. From Rosebud."
A genderless soothing voice says. Cantwell clenches his jaw then slowly counts to ten.
"Onscreen."
He grunts, and a shimmering square appears midair. It resolves slowly as a face appears within. Until a happy smiling young woman appears.
"Hey hey! Cripster, you're awake! and I was wanting to ask"
Cantwell cuts in.
"Yes, and what did my availability icon look like? Was it a red angry face with a storm cloud above it? Now what does a red angry face with a storm cloud above it mean exactly?"
Rosebud deflates for a split second then brightens.
"It means you're no longer asleep, and I was bored and got to wondering... Why weren't OPEC nations in the 20th and early 21st century..."
Cantwell stands up and starts pacing backwards and forth the large luminous square following him like a dog.
"... politically dominant? I mean they controlled the main physical economic resource of that period making them a prime candidate for a hydraulic empire."
Pausing to glare at the luminous square for a moment as if its mere existence was a personal insult, Cantwell sighs.
"If I tell you to go do your own research you're just going to play SomaCrack for an hour then come back and ask me again aren't you?"
"Cripster, my most cunning boojum. However did you guess?"
Rosebud flutters her lashes, blinks and leans into the screen. Cantwell relents.
"Ok. Ok... It's because OPEC were never a political entity. They were a cartel, and the ruling elite of the component politicogeographic entities were more interested in maintaining their wealth and social position than reshaping the politicoscape of the era."
"Oh how delightfully Marxist of you Cripster! You're such an curious anachronism. You know that? Oh! and you're grinding your teeth again. Why do you do that? It's so... primitive... And dare I say it?... Anachronistic. Have you heard that back then people used to dress up and conduct these things called renfairs where they pretended they were in an earlier era?"
Mid teeth grind Cantwell catches himself.
"How many times have I told you I'm not a Marxist? It's merely that the Marxist-Hegelian dialectic combined with Nietzschian analysis is the best metanarrative within which to approach the Second Axial Age. It's impossible to be a Marxist in the modern era, the economic assumptions behind it are irrelevant. And..."
Cantwell realising that Rosebud is sniggering stalks over to his bed, sits down, and rests his head into the heel of his palm, elbow propped against knee.
"Why did you call me anyway? Really?"
All of a sudden serious Rosebud replies.
"Well, it's just that the various Lunar and Asteroid mining Corps are having joint board meetings. Rumours on the line say that they're putting together a merger agreement and will be bringing it to their respective Stakeholder meetings within the fortnight."
"Shit!"
Says Cantwell Crip, and walks through a wall.
< Intro? | Table of Contents | The Mote: Frequently Un-asked Questions >
Intro?
Intro? What intro? What use, an introduction for a Work yet unwritten, unbound by anything? Unbound, even, by the air beneath my wings, the air I need to breath. Soar away with me. Break on through the cone of causality into light everlasting, emanating exactly equally, always from every vector and all directions. Beyond infinity and returning recurrently for all Eternity.
I can see for miles up here, and you can see me not. Circles within circles, wheels within wheels, unwound. For when we tell stories and listen, when we write stories and read, for but a brief moment, but an everlasting eternal kairos, this mortal coil unwinds. We walk through a dream and become immortal. We see not through a scanner darkly or a shadowplay on the wall.
We see that is is not and what is not is not nought or naught.
As below so above, so, as above so below. This is the Law. Therefore with Gay abandon write on your wall; ABANDON ALL MOPE ALL YE WHO HAVE ENTERED HERE. For I have been told that there are two kinds of prophets.
Those who speak to try, attempt, to divine the future, the vulgar vagaries of fate. Those cryptic oracles, fortune-tellers, profoundly obscure.
Those who speak out foreseeing a future that must not come to pass, hoping against all hope that their voice will be heard.
I tap my nose, for I share a secret. A third kind of prophet exists in ourselves. A Monadic Synthesis, we know them full well. That Gestalt inside us that tells Tales. Small tales, Tall Tales, short tales, tales about our selves and our world. We believe these tales. We have faith. Without them we are nothing. Thus, with tales we become, with tales we construct, with tales we de(con?)struct. Tales are all we understand and with no understanding, things exist still, but never compassion, caring, freewill, true love, real hate. Those little illusions that makes us, cease to (merely) exist, Human, and fully... Real.
These prophets create, always, our future. Without them we are zombies, cardboard cutouts, no Soul.
Slaves possess their chains, just as their chains do possess them. This is the Law of equivalent exchange. Therefore these, Binding, chains do I place in your possession; CC-BY-SA^. This Work is Free, Keep it so. This is the law.
Beyond these restrictions, do what you Will. Love is the law, love under will.
So sing my pretty little Daemons. Sing, in awesome consonance and glorious dissonance. Be an organic organ and pump out; Vice, Virture, Tragedy, Joy, Laughter and Screaming, Sobbing and Smiles, Truth loaded lies, and lies mining Truth.
'Struth.
So, Let us Begin.
Let us abandon all sense and sensibility, pride and prejudice, abandon your breathe and lend me your mind. Abandon your fire and ice and blood and guts and gore (for What? What for?) and let...
... The ...
... Evil and Good Beyond Travelling Theatre present to you, for your reading pleasure [!]
The Amazing Adventures of Cantwell Crip
^ This work is licenced under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.5 Australia License.
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5/au/
< | Table of Contents | Chapter 1: Wherein We Meet Our Protagonist >
I can see for miles up here, and you can see me not. Circles within circles, wheels within wheels, unwound. For when we tell stories and listen, when we write stories and read, for but a brief moment, but an everlasting eternal kairos, this mortal coil unwinds. We walk through a dream and become immortal. We see not through a scanner darkly or a shadowplay on the wall.
We see that is is not and what is not is not nought or naught.
As below so above, so, as above so below. This is the Law. Therefore with Gay abandon write on your wall; ABANDON ALL MOPE ALL YE WHO HAVE ENTERED HERE. For I have been told that there are two kinds of prophets.
Those who speak to try, attempt, to divine the future, the vulgar vagaries of fate. Those cryptic oracles, fortune-tellers, profoundly obscure.
Those who speak out foreseeing a future that must not come to pass, hoping against all hope that their voice will be heard.
I tap my nose, for I share a secret. A third kind of prophet exists in ourselves. A Monadic Synthesis, we know them full well. That Gestalt inside us that tells Tales. Small tales, Tall Tales, short tales, tales about our selves and our world. We believe these tales. We have faith. Without them we are nothing. Thus, with tales we become, with tales we construct, with tales we de(con?)struct. Tales are all we understand and with no understanding, things exist still, but never compassion, caring, freewill, true love, real hate. Those little illusions that makes us, cease to (merely) exist, Human, and fully... Real.
These prophets create, always, our future. Without them we are zombies, cardboard cutouts, no Soul.
Slaves possess their chains, just as their chains do possess them. This is the Law of equivalent exchange. Therefore these, Binding, chains do I place in your possession; CC-BY-SA^. This Work is Free, Keep it so. This is the law.
Beyond these restrictions, do what you Will. Love is the law, love under will.
So sing my pretty little Daemons. Sing, in awesome consonance and glorious dissonance. Be an organic organ and pump out; Vice, Virture, Tragedy, Joy, Laughter and Screaming, Sobbing and Smiles, Truth loaded lies, and lies mining Truth.
'Struth.
So, Let us Begin.
Let us abandon all sense and sensibility, pride and prejudice, abandon your breathe and lend me your mind. Abandon your fire and ice and blood and guts and gore (for What? What for?) and let...
... The ...
... Evil and Good Beyond Travelling Theatre present to you, for your reading pleasure [!]
The Amazing Adventures of Cantwell Crip
^ This work is licenced under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.5 Australia License.
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5/au/
< | Table of Contents | Chapter 1: Wherein We Meet Our Protagonist >
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
