Dropping out of the societal Tarantella is so much easier than I would have thought. All one has to do is spend a few months refraining from public expression and voila! Just like that, I have achieved the near-total obscurity so few seem to believe possible in this age of insecure high-tech self-promotion.
Sometimes– rarely, mind you — I miss hearing from some of those once-familiar voices, but then I remember that communication is a two-way street and that I have nothing to contribute to such exchanges.
Conversely, Jesse and I seem to understand each other better every day now that I’ve adapted so fully to speechless interactions. We communicate through grunts, wheezes and nuzzles, and that’s sufficient.
I contemplated making this post a series of grunts, wheezes and nuzzles to be more illustrative of my current lifestyle, but I don’t think that would have made for a very sensible transmission.
The last time we talked like this, Bob Saget was still alive, and nobody cared. Now he’s dead and everyone is singing his praises. The moral? There are some fates worse than death and being Bob Saget might just be one of ’em.
This 1500 word opening chapter is a rehash of something I started years ago.
The idea that a generational starship is the exact wrong way to send humanity (and its supporting environment of plants and animals and bacteria and fungus) out into the stars, is why I started this story. Generational ships are just plain stupid. Nobody wants to live and die traveling in a tin can. And cryogenic preservation of grown humans will probably never work.
So, how does humanity infect the galaxy with its ilk? With a starship designed to travel, arrive, and then grow humans, as well as all other fauna and flora, from zygotes and seeds; with android “Mother” and “Father” figures to raise children (Raised by Wolves’esque) once orbit around a distant candidate planet was attained.
The problem with such a system is that the ship itself must be the primary caretaker. But how can an intellect survive, sane, the hundreds of years necessary to travel to the target system? I propose the ship be equipped with a duality of intellects. Janus-like.
(I’ll get my editor to review and correct obvious mistakes. She, however, hesitates when tasked with serious wordgery. So, no doubt this piece will suffer from the lack of stronger skills than my own.)
Creativity may flow from an endless tank, once it’s activated. But, if you have access to multiple tanks, they can only be turned on one at a time.
The creative faucet I’ve been wielding recently has nothing to do with writing fiction. Which I lament. No, not just lament, I bemoan the fact that my energies are being spent toward a creation I despise: software that will be used to promote the further promulgation of the evil duo consumerism & capitalism. Yuck. And it’s not just the building of solutions, it’s the monitoring, worrying, fiddling, responding to “incidents”, and the exhaustive fixing of code that worked—and then just didn’t anymore.
It could be due to the fact that during this joyous season of giving, this data-broker middleman company is positioned exactly where the most “giving” flows. Literally millions of orders a day grinding through this system. What worked for five-hundred thousand cannot deal with two-million. And so the hours of hand-wringing, the feverish typing-testing-deploying of code. Oy! The humanity.
And throughout it all, the sad fact that I’d rather be writing fiction. But can’t. Because I can only turn on one creative spigot at a time. I’ve tried to run two. Can’t. The code flows—or the story does. But never the twain. Dream-time brings visions of syntax checks and semaphores dancing in my head. Of event-streams and data-queues, stacked and awaiting their processing turns.
Maybe when I was thirty I could have maneuvered and managed both. But here at sixty, what a sad number is sixty, I can only handle the one.