Humans have been telling stories to each other since time immemorial. They serve a deep psychological and sociological need. Let us examine a few key concepts:

WHAT IS A STORY?

Quite simply, it is a journey of inter-connected events with a beginning, middle and an end providing

• dramatic fulfillment
• education
• knowledge
• entertainment
• emotional stimulation and,
• a satisfying conclusion (we love closure)

Stories began as visual medium when our forebearers painted images on cave walls. or drew with sticks in the sand. They were accompanied by words or grunts. As complex language developed, stories were increasingly verbalized, and later on written. Stories today can be exclusively composed of images, written words or speech, but often times are a combination. Cinema is primarily a visual medium, with a lesser proportion of words (dialogue). Television is more dialogue based than cinema in general.

A story must have a purpose. For instance, the Australian Aboriginal woman at a rock formation called “The Devil’s Marbles” in the Northern Territory told stories to keep youngsters away from these rocks to avoid danger. A story can be as dry as a depiction of actual events or “life-like” events. Even fantasy fairy tales emulate “life-like” events through suspension of disbelief. Whatever dungeons and dragons we use, the events in a story must feel authentic .

Stories also need a theme (exploration of the human condition). What topics or concepts is your story exploring? Racism? The power of the human spirit during disaster? Love always triumphs over evil? Revenge? And the list goes on. This has been discussed in an earlier blog in the 36 dramatic situations by Georges Polti.  Be careful that you are only exploring one central theme and perhaps one or two minor ones. Otherwise your story loses focus which must be found.

In order to make a story compelling, there must be a protagonist (hero), a goal, a dilemma, conflict, an antagonist (nemesis) and a moral (leading to growth) to create a complete experience. And more importantly, an audience. Stories help us communicate with each other, and add meaning and enrichment to our lives. They bring people together through sharing and help us evolve and grow stronger.

Dramatica defines story as a grand argument dealing with a problem or an inequity. Huh? Basically, it raises the issue of a hero with a conflict as they are yanked from their natural world through a critical or inciting incident, and how they go about solving it.

During a recent seminar by Jen Grisanti (a Hollywood writers’ consultant and wonderful person too), she spoke of the importance of finding your story. What is the writer specifically trying to say? Why are they taking up her with a series of events? Is your story too episodic? What do you want your audience to get from watching your film? What message are you trying to convey to your audience?

The movie “Tootsie” spent close to a decade in development until the writer Larry Gelbart finally decided that ‘Tootsie” was a story about a man who had to become a woman in order to better understand them and himself. It wasn’t so much a story of desperation, the lengths people go to to make it as an actor, or about a guy liking to dress up. Consider “What Women Want” with Mel Gibson and Helen Hunt which was essentially the same story with body rather than clothes swapping.

Jen Grisanti sees stories as media for building communities. Pretty powerful stuff. A good story must have clarity and must be relevant to the times. How does the story make you feel? These are primal concepts, but difficult to nail down. It must also possess deeper symbolism to have a greater impact on us. She sees the important aspects of raising the emotional stakes in a story as being

• anticipation
• expectation
• participation
• surprise and,
• a delayed payoff

WHAT IS A PLOT?

A plot is simply the way a story is executed, or a cause and effect series of events. A road map. It is the mechanics of your story; how the sequence of events are put together. Many writers confuse the two and think writing event after event constitutes a story, especially in action films. Is your plot linear, non-linear or avariant? Classic examples of unconventional plotting include “Memento”, “Reservoir Dogs” and “Run Lola Run”. Plot also relates to structure, the most common being the Aristotelian three act structure. Is there a clear concept or story idea, which is more specific than a theme? Good versus evil isn’t a story concept.  Is there a well defined central/main character with a clear motivation, goal, a dilemma and obstacles. One way to enhance your plotting is to consider what is the worse case scenario if your main character doesn’t achieve their goal. The ultimate failure to achieve a goal is death.

Subplots are secondary or tertiary storylines. Some readers have complained that, because a writer hasn’t really found their story, some subplots are actually more intriguing than the main plot. It happens in unpolished scripts. Even to me! Another problem I recently grappled with is my choice of main character to drive the plot. In the end I switched the boy to a girl (literally not surgically) and everything fell into  place.

FINDING YOUR VOICE

These are the less tangible qualities that define you as a writer. Jen Grisanti claims that many newer writers lack a distinct voice which distinguishes them from other writers.

This is a difficult process of self exploration. It means that we need to delve deeper into our psyches than ever before. She made us define a critical or life changing incident where the rug was pulled from under our feet and we are forced to deal with a new reality. Sound familiar? In doing so, we help shape our characters which are products of our creativity and therefore ourselves. Imagine placing your profile on a social website. Think of how you would describe your personality? What are your likes and dislikes? What do you value most in your relationships with other people? Certain patterns will emerge which define you as an individual. Are you easy going? Wound up tight? Chatty? Pensive? Conventional? Alternative? Think about how a producer might discuss what qualities you possess as a writer. If a project is greenlit and a producer is looking for a writer and they say “This project is perfect for xxxx (insert your name)”, it’s because of your voice.

Part of finding your voice involves common themes in the stories we like to tell. Are we animal lovers? Philanthropists? Comedians? Feminists? Optimists? Cynical? Interested in human suffering? Are your characters strong, successful people? Are you strong and successful or do you aspire to be? Are characters underdogs? What is their disposition? Happy? Smarmy? Cheerful? Quirks?

Finding your story and finding your voice is rather like wanting a quick definition of the meaning of life. The only way to find it is to keep searching. And the search lies in the writing. So what are you waiting for?

La crisis golpea a quienes no la causaron.

Film: Tum Haseen Main Jawan (1970)

Language: Hindi

Slide Show Link:

Click Here

Hej hej!

Idag fortsätter vi i teamet att visa upp våra tolkningar av dekorationutmaningen. Om du vill skapa efter någon av listorna är du välkommen att göra detta. Skicka in ett foto av din tolkning till scrapptorget@gmail.com.

***

Jag fick |Lindas| lista som var:

1. Något stämplat

2. Ribbat band (grosgrain)

3. Knappar

4. Vit penna (jaaa jag vet det kanske inte är en deko., men ändå!)

5. Mist

Jag gjorde ett kort till min vän som har namnsdag snart. Min första tanke var: vad tusan är grosgrain och var ska jag få tag på sånt där mist? Jag fick lite hjälp av min utmanare och de andra i teamet att reda ut vissa begrepp och här är resultatet:

Den mittersta cirkeln är mist…ad? Och mask..ad? Färgen heter Graphite och är riktigt läcker! Det krävdes ett par försök innan jag fick till det. Jag har fäst banden med häftapparat och doodleblomman är utklippt ur ett mönstrat papper.

Något stämplat? Ja, det här är en av mina favoriter från ett clearstampkit. Vingarna har jag stämplat på OH-plast som jag först mistade och sen embossade med ett clear EP. Det blev riktigt läckert men syns inte så bra på bilden. Först var det tänkt att hela den mittersta cirkeln skulle vara i mistad, embossad OH men det krullade sig lite för mycket.

Närbild på blommorna som är fästa i olika höjder för 3d-effekt. Gjorde två av blommorna i grosgrain – pilligt men det passar ju mig!

Tack  |Linda| för en riktigt utmanande utmaning

Kramar

***

Helén fick Annelis lista som var:

1. Spetsar

2. Dekorationsnål

3. Massor av blommor

4. Glimmermist

5. Minst 5 mönstrade papper

Jag hade ju “turen” att få en lista precis i min smak, med spets, blommor osv. Det är ju sånt jag älskar att dekorera med även i vanliga fall!

Det blev ett kort till den här utmaningen och jag passade på att inviga min ganska nya stämpel, som jag tycker passar bra nu när det är så mörkt och trist!

Fem olika mönstrade papper som sagt, alla rivna och distressade. Spets fick jag med, både svart och naturfärgad. En hög med blommor och ett par dekorationsnålar såklart. Men sen blev det värre, för någon glimmermist hade jag inte! Skam den som ger sig – jag gav mig på att försöka göra min egen… jag blandade ut lite Stickles med vatten och sen stänkte jag det på ett av papperen. Jag hoppas att det gills, Anneli!

Det var min tolkning det! Jag hoppas att Anneli är nöjd! Tack för en rolig utmaning och en snäll lista! *hihi*

Kram Helén

Hälsningar/ Scrapptorget

]]> http://dismanibus156.wordpress.com/2009/11/18/eddie-izzard-archaeology/ Wed, 18 Nov 2009 20:51:48 +0000 Dis Manibus http://dismanibus156.wordpress.com/2009/11/18/eddie-izzard-archaeology/ http://scrapptorget.wordpress.com/2009/11/18/jul-i-olika-former/ Wed, 18 Nov 2009 16:40:52 +0000 Helén http://scrapptorget.wordpress.com/2009/11/18/jul-i-olika-former/

Hej!

Vi i teamet har blivit sponsrade med några underbara julkit från en helt ny scrapbutik – Pion Design, som har massor med härliga produkter i sitt sortiment!  Så framöver kommer vi att visa lite juliga inspirationsalster skapat med deras produkter.

Jag hade turen att få ett av dessa härligt sammansatta, matchande kit och jag fick ett i den röda färgskalan.  Titta bara så mycket fint!

Det första jag kom på var att skapa juletiketter, eller tags om man så vill.  En snygg tag kan förgylla det enklaste paket! Jag stansade ut tagsen i crèmefärgad cardstock med Cuttlebugen och klädde dem med mönstrat papper. Självklart blev det en del distresser… På den översta har jag stämplat och embossat med genomskinligt pulver, texten God Jul.

Nästa alster blev en liten ask, en minipizzabox. Ovansidan har jag dekorerat med vad som ska föreställa en julkula.  Även här har jag embossat texten. På sidorna har jag satt samma mönstrade papper som på ovansidan, men stansat först med en doily lace punch. Perfekt när man vill ge bort något litet till jul!

Sist ut för dagen blir ett julkort med lite skrynklat papper, rivna kanter och mycket distresser – helt  i min smak! Visst är väl de små rosenknopparna söta?!

Allt material kommer från Pion Design, utom stämplarna som är mina egna. De underbara papperen kommer från Vivi Gade, ett helt nytt märke för mig, men de blev genast en favorit!

Ett stort tack till Pion Design som gav mig chansen att skapa med det superfina kitet!!

Det var allt för mig idag, hoppas att jag kunnat ge er lite inspiration inför kommande julpyssel!

Kram Helén

Dear Family,

This year I am thankful to have you as my family rather than a normal American family.  I say that because Sarah Palin is fond of talking about her family being a normal American family.

Last time I checked everyone in my family knows where Africa is on a globe. Everyone goes to college after high school.  We’ve had no teen pregnancies as of yet and no one has appeared in Playgirl.  If the Palins are a normal American family, I guess my bunch of anti-American socialists are fine by me.

But we have our own issues.   For instance, some of us are Aggies and others are Longhorns.   Which makes for interesting choices for some of you.  If a football game is more important than Thanksgiving, then consider this my last will  and testament:  When I die, it’s all going to charity. 

Thanksgiving dinner will be moved to Friday after all of you have returned from your important tailgating party.  And now that I have made that little sacrifice, I am sure you will all work extra hard to comply with a few rules.

1.  Cloe.  I am begging you honey.  None of that Jello crap.  No one eats it and the garbage stinks for a week after I throw it out.  You and Jello are like Palin and McCain.   How many times before you learn no one wants seconds much less firsts.
2. Jennifer.  Your children are cute.  We all can agree on that.  Your husband’s video camera capturing every runny nose and  bowel movement– not so much.  Keep this up honey and you’ll have one posing for Playgirl before you know it.  It’s just not natural to be that comfortable in front of a camera. Ten minutes of video when you first arrive and then the camera goes back into the camera bag. 
3. Trudy.  If your brother and sister want to come, they can be on time like everyone else.  If they are late again this year, they can eat what the dogs don’t finish. 
4. Rhonda.   It’s my oven and once again I’ll  be using it right up until mealtime.  If you can’t bring something that doesn’t require heating, then don’t bring anything at all.
5. Mary.    Your kid’s dirty shoes and my clean sofa have never met.  Let’s keep it that way.
6. If you are a meat-eater, try a vegetable for your health.   If you are a vegetarian, try the stuffing for the bacon.  Either way, you’ll be cured of what ails you.
7. If I see one grandchild doing that texting stuff, there will be no pie for dessert.  If I see one parent checking email… scratch that – new rule.  Leave your cell phone in your car.  They used to be called mobile phones for a reason.  Now-a-days the only thing mobile about your phone is your thumbs.  Trust me.  Skinny thumbs and a fat ass are not a good look.
8. Jonathan.  How a Republican ended up in this family is beyond me, but we love you all the same.  That said, Reagan is dead darling.   Get over it.
9. I cooked the meal.  Your grandfather paid for it.  You can clean the kitchen and we’ll call it even.
10. Honestly, if you insist on bringing anything, bring some butter.  I go through about 20 sticks to get this meal on the table and I might as well start stocking up for Christmas now.
11. Marshall.  I am sure you believe that your children sing beautifully.  Don’t put me in a situation where I have to make you question your beliefs.
12. Grandpa Harold says if the Longhorns win, the bar is open.  If they lose, the party is BYOB.

Well that about covers it.  I’m almost 84.  I know what I like and what I don’t like.  Humor me and we’ll all have a good time.  Unlike Robert Bryd, when I no longer know which side my turkey is basted on, I will step down and let someone else take over the holiday preparation.  Until then, come and enjoy the meal and the company.

To all my new friends out there, I say this.  Life is short.  Don’t squabble over the little things like Jello and Sarah Palin.  If we are going to fight, let’s fight about the things that matter like world peace and apple pie.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.  Harold is doing fine.  Thanks for asking.  I mean it.

Europrapress.es nos ofrece esta video de Helen Swedin en la presentación de la nueva colección de joyas de Chamilia en Madrid.
La bella modelo, se encuentra encantada de la firma de la que es prescriptora y de su nueva vuelta a Madrid.
Con un precioso vestido azul y alguna de las pulseras y joyas que representa, nos cuenta que lo que mas le gusta de España es la luz y la comida.

Con Chamilia puedes hacer que cada día sea tu día…
Porque, tú diseñas tu mundo.

Chamilia. Your Life. Your style
(Video ofrecido por europapress.es)

Generika’s Queer Quarter began to develop a similar reputation to San Fransisco, Manchester, Soho, Cape Town.  There was a solid core of “alternative” businesses and the local securiforces, unlike most of the world’s, actively looked out for them.  Online, the Quarter’s massive pink pyramids of data needed ever increasingly complex security measures woven around them by Veto, Sam and their trainees, to ward off constant pings and forays by rogue hackers and corporate and state invasions.  Generika’s queer community became well known for their tech agility and ability and soon “queer” and “tech” became as interchangeable as “gay” and “hairdresser” once were.

In Blue’s absence, Helen became more and more involved in the Queer Control panel.  Scar pictured it as a kind of navigation system, with plenty of switches and flashing pink lights.  Scar’s intolerance of green was growing and she knew that if it matched her problem with purple, her cyberspace time would be pretty much over.  There was still too much DOS colour out there in the data wastes.  She spent more time in her forge then, with the metal and fire.

She was working on an eight (of course) foot high Sheela Na Gig one day, when Seti arrived.  She crept in and sat in a corner for who knows how long until Scar noticed her, ears blasted numb by PJ Harvey through her earfeeds.  Seti had arrived with one of the many groups of refugees to the Quarter, from some far out community that didn’t want her, because she wasn’t conforming to what they thought a girl should be.

Skinny, with a shaved head and bruised eyes, Seti never spoke.  The medic who counted her scars said she probably never would.  She was diagnosed with severe trauma and there seemed to be no place for her, even in the Quarter.  Helen had started to take her cycling, they’d go for miles on wheels and if Seti didn’t look happy, she seemed to be at peace with the buzz of the tar beneath her and the air rushing past.

She pitched up at the forge the following day too, seeming perfectly content to just sit and watch.  Scar flicked the musicfeed room-wide and Seti swayed her head very gently to the beat.  “I don’t know what happened to you, kid,” said Scar, “but maybe it’s time to beat that out.”  She began to teach Seti to shape steel.  Seti hammered and twisted with the music blasted, totally focused on her tongs and tools.   Scar hauled her off from time to time so she’d eat and drink, she got the feeling that, left to her own devices, Seti would just keep going till she dropped.

The Sheela Na Gig was completed, eight feet of her standing in the workshop, ready to take on the world.  Seti welded and shaped what was looking more like a copy of the Sheela every day.  Scar began work on another figure, same dimensions.  Hammers, tongs, flames, welding torches … eventually Seti just stopped, arms at her sides.  The figure stood tall, proud and completely bare of features – or gender either.  “Androgyne,” said Scar to Seti, “androgynous.”  She looked at the figure, looked at Seti and then said, “Genderno?”  Seti nodded and pointed to herself, Scar nodded too.  “Can you talk?” asked Scar and Seti nodded.  “Are you going to?” she asked and Seti shook her head.  No.  “OK,” said Scar, “most people talk too much shit anyway.”  That was the first smile anyone ever saw on Seti’s lips.

In the end, Seti built fifteen of those genderno figures and Scar built the fifteen hackers, surgeons and slashers who’d been out there the day that Blue didn’t make it back.  And she built Samanth0r in her coma.  She told Seti the story and Seti feverishly designed and animated it on Scar’s old terminal.  “We’re making our memories solid,” said Scar to Seti, “this is good shit and I think other people should look at it.  I haven’t sold a thing for about six months, so how about we show the fuckers this stuff for free?”  Seti nodded and grinned and the two of them started getting their creations out there into the air, on to some empty dock space.  Fifteen gendernos lining up, looking like lost souls and the fifteen, fighting fit and ready for anything in front of them, a steel/human barrier.

The only way to see the “insteelation” was from the top of the walls around the otherwise bare concrete space; you got a kind of angled bird’s eye view of challenging and disturbing humanity.  Scar wondered if anyone would care, let alone understand.

After Veto and Sam saw the photos, Veto built mercurial silver 3D copies of them online and Sam sent them, like little on-screen envoys, like spam, like a virus; out into the world.  And nobody really did know what to make of them, but they liked their shapes, especially the minimalist gendernos.  Alessi and Ikea were the first to incorporate the stylised figures into their designs and a fast threat of copyright litigation convinced them to credit the original artists, as well as labelling them “genderno.”  Bingo, it was a gender[free] meme, now in a loft apartment near you … and a magazine, website, screenfeed, coffee table, restaurant, you name it.

The fashionista world was the next on the uptake and both virtual and corporeal mannequins began to look genderno, with clothing cut to challenge gender.  It was a very postmodern little revolution and entirely unexpected.  It was the kind of viral, street and cyberhighway branding that could only ever be exploited, never planned.  Seti became a cult figure and was paid insane amounts to go to places without saying a thing.  She probably varied her (should we still be saying “she”?) facial expression about once a session and the clips became instant YouTube hits.  Gender confusion was fashionable again for the first time since it’s last brief appearance in the 1970’s.  David Bowie was God again.  Drag Kings and Queens ruled the streets and on occasion, had to be discouraged from roaming around in gangs beating up anyone who looked too male or too female.  By the end of the year, the Genderno figure was more recognisable than the Oscar.  “Gender!” yelled a Bowie wannabee from a sold out stadium and the audience roared, “NO!” in response.

The whole thing didn’t affect gender on a global scale, but the fact that it became cool and as one fast food ad had it, “hip to have no hips,” meant that the “freaks” escaping their satellites to get to cities, were welcomed by instant acceptance and probably modelling contracts.  everyone was also, of course, still trying to be far too thin.

I have seen many mujra songs in Bollywood movies, and this song is a mujra song, but with a difference. Mujra songs tend to be depressing because the female dancer performing mujra tends to be wallowing in self pity. But this song is different.

Asha Bhonsle has sung some very well known fast cabarat songs. Here she sings a fast mujra song. Yes, a fast mujra number is what it is. And who is the dancer ? It is Helen ! Yes, Helen, who danced so many cabarat dances on songs typically sung by Asha Bhonsle, dances on this mujra song.

As all Helen watchers know, she is not one to wallow in self pity while dancing. She would enjoy her dances and convey that enjoy to her watchers. Typical mujra dances depict the dancer as if she was forced into this dancing. Here Helen looks like she is enjoying the dance, and that makes it such a refreshing change from the usual mujra songs.

The song is written by Sahir Ludhianvi, and he has excelled himself. What wonderful poetry he has come up with ! And music is composed by Roshan.

With such an assembly of talent, this song should be a treat to the senses, and indeed that is the case.

For all that, I was not aware of this song till today. It just goes on to show how many gems are lying forgotten with time. And this song from “Bahu Begam” (1967) is certainly a gem.

Song-Nikle the kahaan jaane ke liye (Bahu Begam) (1967) Singer-Asha Bhonsle, Lyrics-Sahir Ludhianvi,MD-Roshan

Lyrics

nikle the kahaan jaane ke liye, pahunche hain kahaan maaloom nahin
pahunche hain kahaan maaloom nahin

nikle the kahaan jaane ke liye, pahunche hain kahaan maaloom nahin
pahunche hain kahaan maaloom nahin
ab apne bhatakte qadmon ko, manzil kaa nishaan maaloom nahin
manzil kaa nishaan maaloom nahin

hamne bhi kabhi ho
hamne bhi kabhi is gulshan mein, ek khwaab-e-bahaara dekhaa thaa
ek khwaab-e-bahaara dekhaa thaa
kab phool jhade
kab phool jhade, kab gard udi, kab aayi khizaan maaloom nahin
kab aayi khizaan maaloom nahin
ab apne bhatakte qadmon ko, manzil kaa nishaan maaloom nahin
manzil kaa nishaan maaloom nahin

dil sholaa-e-gham se ho
dil sholaa-e-gham se khaak huaa, yaa aag lagi armaanon mein
yaa aag lagi armaanon mein
kyaa cheez jali
kyaa cheez jali kyun seene se uthaa hai dhuaan maaloom nahin
uthaa hai dhuaan maaloom nahin
ab apne bhatakte qadmon ko, manzil kaa nishaan maaloom nahin
manzil kaa nishaan maaloom nahin

barbaad wafaa
ho
barbaad wafaa kaa afsaanaa ham kisase kahen aur kaise kahen
ham kisase kahen aur kaise kahen
khaamosh hain lab
khaamosh hain lab aur duniyaa ko ashkon ki zubaan maaloom nahin
ashkon ki zubaan maaloom nahin
nikle the kahaan jaane ke liye, pahunche hain kahaan maaloom nahin
pahunche hain kahaan maaloom nahin
ab apne bhatakte qadmon ko, manzil kaa nishaan maaloom nahin
manzil kaa nishaan maaloom nahin

Sorry for the long wait for the update folks. So many pictures.

Friday the 13th celebrated Olivia’s 25th birthday (again) aka End of Season, lol, and also the going away party for Nick Chaney aka Massive Clearance, as he’s moving back to New Zealand.

Olivia has WAY more amazing photos than me, her with her wicked pro camera and photography skills and all. You can view her photos here.

What a celebration it was! We started off at Hook, the basement bar beside the 711 behind Luxy. Then moved on to Dark + Light put on by A State of Sound at Luxy, featuring Burn Electric (Stefan & Dom) and Genetically Modified Beats (GMB – Eben & Matt), with DJ Hooker (Dom) playing at the end of the night.

Max, looking oh so HUGE mag man:

Marcus’ mismatched Nikes:

Audrey’s bare back, why is this girl single again? Oh right, cuz she’s that hot. Don’t be afraid to talk to her!

Olivia looking fierce in my H&M dress:

She has always been one for masks:

Lesley and I:

Jer double fisting it:

Lilian rockin her Rhianna nails, they are sharp! (Drew in the background)

Abe and Liam:

Stefan and his girlfriend… (what’s her name?? I forget, sorry I am bad with names…someone please tell me!)

Nikki in Rice Society!!

Nick Chaney, oh how we will miss you!!

Carol looking so sleek. Nice hair, girl!

Marika rocking her Rice Society chain! The hacksaw

Brian and Jessica looking fine in glasses. Sexy secretary look is working for ya!

Ben’s cool shirt – had to cut out his head.

Vicki and Lisa:

Amanda with her Rice Society earrings:

Bathroom door at Hook, this is what I felt like waiting for the 4 people to get outta the only stall:

Dom yelling again:

Sandi and Cresencio. Justin said it best about Sandi when he said, “She is so rock n’ roll tonight. Look at her in the spotlight. It’s like Nancy looking for her Sid.”

This was in Hook near the entrance. it reminds me of the movie Big where he gets his wish:

Star Wars figures in the box gets points every time:

Two rad girls who I wish were my friends. Sen Sen is the one on the right.

Jer and Max, I’m gonna miss you guys when you go on vacation!

Me on a cop scooter. Ya, I asked him. He said it was cool. I was laughing so hard:

Moved to Luxy, finally and watched the glow stick/lazer dancers. (Special thanks to Daryl who got me in )

Marcus did not go to Luxy.

Toby was having fun! He wasn’t even listening to Ween, and he was having fun!

Stefan rocking out for Burn Electric on the guitar this time. Nice surprise change to the keyboard. This man is talented in the music department.

Burn Electric:

Dom introducing GMB, Eben pictured here:

I repeat, Marcus did not come to Luxy and he did not buy Justin and I drinks either. Eben & Matt in their awesome outfits:

Timmy! (but said in the South Park kinda way, hehe) Timmay!

GMB:

Jeff, that’s a nice leather jacket. Shop more.

Shelly looking saucy. Really love the spring on the strap.

This girl followed us here from Hook. I think she may have been on her way to Fly, or maybe she was slanging some sponsered alcohol. either way, she was super happy to pose for my picture!

Dom made a mixtape. Around his neck. And now he wants to eat it. Hmmmm….

Jack and Dom:

Abe, you need to keep this tiger on a short leash! Liking that color on Tasha:

Sandi in the washroom looking all Nancy again:

Ran into Helen:

Abe and Johnnie. Abe’s obviously having fun!

Nick and Justin, the last goodbye!

Doesn’t that shirt look like Nick’s, above? DJ Hooker (Dom) rounding out the night. Lookit that chick in that background, total celeb shock – OMG it’s HOOKER!

One of the coolest parts of the night was signing Nick’s Adidas and also the Jenga blocks. I think the blocks were Rachel’s idea. Great memories! Happy Birthday to Ola and Til Next Time, Nick!

We were too few to surround whatever the sangoma was and not even necessarily quick enough to give chase.  As it turned to face us, we changed shape to become a five legged starfish; it would be better to stay together, but if necessary, separate units would still have a hope, still be able to keep fighting.

The sangoma began to morph; unwilling to expend energy continuing to customise itself to cater for our individual fears, it resolved itself into what it clearly assumed would terrify a bunch of queers on the march most.  Something between an SS officer and a Gundam, was what it settled on.  Metal jackboots, steel exoskeleton, grinning death’s head and a really well-tailored trench coat.  Jake commed us collectively,

u think that’s genuine hugo boss?

And then,

go!

It would have been great to describe this in some fantastical way; light shooting laser-like from outstretched hands and so forth, but that isn’t how it went at all.  The only reason for the “physical” proximity to this monster, was that we had to get our code into the core of its data and that fucker wasn’t accepting emails.  There’s no shoot-out scene to describe here; all there is to say, is that it felt long, frightening and tricky – but more like operating on an unwilling patient than any Jackie Chan kickout.

Everybody got out of there too.  Once the sangoma had been eviscerated, Veto neutralised it and funnelled it off on to some other net to analyse.  The globals went back to their quarters and we surfaced in ours, feeling as if our souls had shifted and our skin had lagged somehow.  We felt like a crack fighter team, like Top Gun.  We looked, at best, somewhat haute geek.  And most of us had pissed ourselves.

Turned out that even though Veto could get Sam defragged and all, the physical rehab would be impossible unless she got ridiculously specialised help.  The data dependency was irreversible, which would suit her fine, all that meant was that she could not be offline too long, or she’d be catatonic again.  But ditto online and somebody, somewhere would need to work out that exact formula for her.  Veto knew some guy in Tokyo (naturally) who he reckoned could do it and within 24 hours, Sam, Helen and I were on the Shuriken Shuteye to Tokyo.

Log On, Log Off

Even slightly doped on pills, Sam was back and sharp as a razor.  She and Helen spent most of the four hour trip from Agulhas International to Narito arguing about whether post-cyberpunk was a valid social theory and blah blah blah who knows, actually.  Google Dr Helen Cherry, you’ll no doubt find some tediously impenetrable paper on the subject.  Scar played Tetris and drank too many Irish whiskey miniatures, then got too dehydrated, but hey, four hours wasn’t long enough to do any serious damage.  She got a lively debate going in her own head about the similarity between Eddie Vedder’s voice and Lou Reed’s and then she decided she’d always wanted to try Pocari Sweat and what on earth did the servbot mean when it bleeped, “Choice not available” at her?

She refused point blank Sam’s plea to go to one of those coffin/capsule/love hotels; space was at a premium, sure, but Veto had hooked them up with as much space as any gaijin got i.e. a suite in a Formula Two hotel.  They’d arranged to get hold of Veto from there.

There was Pocari Sweat in the mini bar and Scar got the feeling that, as a gaijin, she was probably fairly standard.  There were also screenfeeds on just about every available surface bar the toilet seats.  Sam typed in “blue rolitoboy” on the feed at the main door.  Around an hour later, a bot appeared with one and enough to buy a new liver was added to our bill.  When the other two started making faces at her, Sam said, “Chillax for fucksakes, it’s for Veto.  Trust me.”

That night they went to meet Veto at a place called Sans Sushi, which turned out to be a burger joint and Death Note gaming cafe, much to the consternation of the other six westerners who’d just walked in hell-bent on eating raw fish.

“Wow, it’s like meeting heroes from a graphic novel!” said a willowy goth.  Sam grinned, Helen and Scar looked stupified and then she put them out of their misery, “So … I’m not a 14 year old boy.  Hi, it’s Veto, pleased to meet you.”  “Not quite otaku!” said Helen, grinning, and Veto replied, “It’s fun to fuck with stereotypes and perception from time to time.”

Sam handed over the Rolito, Veto went, “Squee!” and they proceeded to spend the rest of the evening bonding, while Scar and Helen gave each other knowing looks and grins.  Maybe Sam had found her own girlfriend after all.

The newsfeed in the corner started showing scenes from home.  A ghetto invaded, a riot broken.  Same old, same old in so many wounded ways, Scar supposed, but those girls were getting rescued … they’d have to get involved, offline, when they got back.  There was no avoiding it.

Meantime, delirious with the unaccustomed freedom of international travel in a place way more sophisticated than Generika could ever hope to be, apart from hooking Sam up with some kind of rehab, all they had to do was gawk and relax.  They met up with Veto again the next morning for a coffee jolt.  The dude Veto knew turned out to be a Miyagi-clone, of course.  He fixed Sam with a fierce gaze, jabbed a finger at her and said, “Programming and kickboxing, kickboxing and programming!” and Sam looked fairly stoked actually.

“Wonder if she’ll ever come home again,” muttered Scar moodily and Helen hugged her.  “I think she will babe,” she replied, “and you know she’ll be online quite a lot, we can connect there in the meantime hey?”  “Yeah,” said Scar, “besides, this is a good place for her to learn and work – Africa’s maybe a little too dusty for her right now.”

They got a kind of hi-tech low-life tour of Tokyo with Veto.  How the hell could those eyefeeds be so cheap?  They were net-ready, GPS systems, music feeds, still and vid camera and more and more and more – and so sleekly matte black beautiful that they should probably have been illegal.  “Weapons grade!” squawked Scar, lustfully reading labels on gadgets.  “Museum grade!” she yelped, drooling at a heap of retro repro denim jeans.  “Cayce Pollard would shop there!” she yowled, passing the Muji mothership store.  “If you drag me to one more fucking shopping maul,” growled Helen, “I will not be held responsible for my actions.”

They spent what they could on stuff, feeling, as Africans often do, like the poor and distant relatives of the first world.  Currency was a global thing, sure, but Africa still had fewer of those damn numbers than the rest of the planet.  The sheer mass of humanity fried Scar, the intense consumerism fried Helen – as much of a jol as it surely was, they were glad to go home again.

Africa’s Not For Sissies

Back to Agulhas on the Shuriken; home to the dockside.

Back at the Quarter, it seemed like everyone was working hard to recreate the twentieth century.  Quarter Control was rushing around, liaising with Generika securiforces to work on ways to educate communities, root out the curative rape thing.  A lot of the city’s lesbians were writing a lot of poetry about it too.  “Do they do it to boys too?” wondered Scar.  How were they going to keep anyone safe?  How?

There was time then, for a decent memorial service for Blue – her loss was felt keenly and it seemed like some kind of milestone.  The community in general kept growing, changing; Scar felt like an ancient warhorse.  She got lost in her forge for days and nobody ever bought what she made then either.  Out of violent flames, came a tangled mass of female forms in agony; she called it “Rape.”

In cyberspace, it was business as usual.  Or hacking as usual, depending on where you were standing at the time.  Quarter Control still administered Quarter Online, but ongoing property sales and shifts meant that frankly, the meatspace Quarter just wasn’t completely Queer anymore.  Friendly Hets were a positive presence and they had to be acknowledged as part of the community.  So did the transgendered, the intersexed and the bisexual.  There were deputations from asexual people, polysexual people and then – pomosexual people.  Scar had had to google that one before she could give the concept her full humanitarian respect.  “They’re all just human rights,” she muttered, as acronyms split, joined, replicated and spread like viruses.  The mainstream media wanted to know where it would end and how long it would be before people started marrying goats.  “Blurred lines and firm ones,” muttered Scar, as she began to beat metal into and out of shape in her workshop again, “blurry gender, firm species.”

Samanth0r was, to put it mildly, in her element back in Tokyo.  She and Veto had indeed hooked up and Sam was finding her balance between “fresh” air and kickboxing and the airless online world.

Started out with a fun variant strength workout: two power cleans on the minute for 10 minutes, using 85% of my max. I used 130lbs, and it felt really good. I didn’t have any problem completing the required reps, and it felt more like a warm-up for Helen than anything else.

“Helen”
Three rounds for time of:
400 m run
21 kettlebell swings (50# dumbbell, in my case)
12 pull-ups

I did my running outside, cold autumn be damned. I clocked a time of 11:35, which is three seconds longer than when I did this one in April. Back then I used 5lbs less on the swings, and I had less ground to cover between where I ran and where I did my swings and pull-ups. All in all, I’m pretty happy with that time: it’d have been nice to go faster, but I’ve been lax with my running and this felt respectable.

Film: The Train (1970)

Language: Hindi

Slide Show Link:

Click Here

[did a gentle edit, wrote some stuff to get the last 2 posts to make more sense and then wrote a whole bunch more. this is the whole bunch more]

Somewhere Over the Rainbow Nation

Q-Topia failed to emerge, but Ikea flat packs were shipped down to the Quarter openly now and serious building work began, rehabilitating docklands property.  When the Hets started trying to buy loft apartments in groovily restored factory space, the queers figured they’d hit paydirt and many of them immediately sold out.  Still, the Quarter remained pretty queer.

Charmageddon stayed exactly as it was.  Subterfuge would always hold its own mystique and exclusivity can turn a fat profit.  Somebody opened a feminist bookshop next door to it, which went bust within six months.

When they cleaned up the docks, Scar’s mass of fallen eights got a clean up and the title, “Infinity Sideways” and apparently, Scar became An Artist.  Bemused by the title, her new workshop and a pocket full of paper, Scar immediately grabbed an aerosol and sprayed COPYWRONG all over town.  Then she went back to twisting and welding eights and as soon as something looked big enough, somebody came and bought it.

Working more or less legally, the dream team of fifteen still existed, under Sam’s control and ever remote, ever mysterious, Veto.  They weren’t just collecting data now, they were manipulating it, proving it, creating it and to Scar, it felt pretty much like bending eights back at the foundry.  The fifteen looped and circled through cyberspace, building the Quarter Online.  A pissed off committee finally accepted Scar’s antipathy to purple and agreed to predominately pink branding.  Scar quietly built an installation, darlings, of every queer symbol and logo you could ever think of or dream up – and she painted every single one of them blue.  She never sold that piece.

Did I mention it’s damn hard to kick life into a plot format?  Fuck me, it’s horrible.  I went back and rewrote this bitch; added shit, took out shit and fixed some total fuck ups along the way.  When I’d finished the cyberpunk bit, the story felt kind of finished – looked that way too.  Like … here I am trying to write this bastard of a thing and snip and stretch it to fit 50 000 words and suddenly *BAM!* the car-chase scene’s been done and the shoot-out too and all we need now is a kiss and a sunset.  Well, sorry for you, my year wasn’t that tidy.

[The Dream Fifteen Team

Scar: yours truly
Helen: Scar’s main squeeze
Samanth0r: team leader and deep geek
Jake
Dave the Bear
Deano
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15

16 .... to replace samanth0r if nec.  And it became necessary.]

Thursday’s Wild

It was probably a Thursday, shitty things always seemed to happen on a Thursday.  Blue hauled the fifteen back to meatspace and we all got our meat eyes back except Sam, who was convulsing at her deck.  Blue roared, “Get a medic!” and somebody did.  A space blanket, a hypodermic, a massage and about an hour later, Sam slid into a fitful sleep and didn’t talk for three days.  She never said much anyway, but suddenly her silence was discordant.

“What the hell did you see out there?” asked Blue, when Sam had finally rejoined the talkstream with one single word, “Fuck.”  We listened, the fifteen of us and Blue, to words that didn’t make sense at first.  “Sangoma,” said Sam, “right, there’s this … thing out there … Sangoma …” then she typed into her feed and showed us: 54|\/90|\/|4 – sangoma, in leet old school nineties hackerspeak.  Hax0r … Sangoma means shaman – you knew that, right?  Good.

Sangoma had frozen Sam out there and then almost burned her with a datastorm of raw code.  Sam could only process it by typing it out, this is what she said:

you gonna burn you gonna burn you gonna burn we gonna rape your evil asses!!11!!1  you got generikkka clean but it ain’t all that way, skinny geek.  got a army here yo we gonna rape every fuckn lesbian looks like a lesbian we gonna cure your disease you all gotta get straight or die, sisterfuckers.

The bastard had looped it into a mobius too and without a defrag, Sam was in severe danger of going under and then flatlining.

Sam typed some digits and then passed out again.

0826090958

What the suffering fuck was that?

Accessing the open interface, Scar googled it and got as far as finding out it was a rogue cellphone number.  She hadn’t even known that cellphones still existed.  They did, but only on a rigidly controlled registered network and that number wasn’t on the list – neither were the ten consecutive numbers before and after it.  After a few hours wrestling with software, Helen got a program installed to comm with the cellphone.  VOIP software just reached distortion and white noise and snow visuals, further digging got them to a text channel.  What to say?

samanth0r hit by 54|\/90|\/|4 pls advise.

Wait.

Fourteen plus Blue, sitting staring at a screen, waiting.

Beep!

scar jack in

Scar jacked in.

Straight into Quarter Online, branded pink and inverted goddamn pyramids everywhere.  Man, Scar loathed graphic designers.  OK, where would Veto be?  Adjusting her eyefeed and her movements, Scar started to do what only she could do – desaturate the environment.  It wasn’t a structural change, merely a perceptive one.  Pink faded to green and the green got stronger and with a bird’s eye view of the ghetto, Scar started seeing blue, a chink of it like light that broadened as she neared it.

You’re Not in Troyville Anymore

Scar surfed right into the blue and suddenly there weren’t any edges any more.  Curves everywhere – if gravity had existed in cyberspace, she’d have been lost for sure.  In amongst the ever shifting blue, was a drop of mercury and it felt important somehow.  Letting herself hang there, she focused hard on it and then, when nothing happened, she let the focus drift.

good

The word floated on to her eyefeed, but barely; monochrome and like something about to take off in a hurry.

VETO?
yeh. don’t talk, there’s no time, just remember what i say. we gotta be quick or you’ll crash too.
k
ok. this sangoma, who nine inch nailed sam, is serious shit.  that data he looped into sam is all true and there’s no way in any dimension i can fix it

Scar’s heart sank.  Veto had never, ever, not been able to accomplish a tech rescue before, it was terrifying.  Who the hell, or what, was sangoma?

what you gotta get, is global attention on it and then hope for help. i’ll give you pathways, contacts and then i’ll do what i can, but it’s gonna be indiana jonestown from here. work in pairs; one surgeon, one slasher. sneak through – if you’re damn lucky, you can sneak back.

It was as chilling as that ill wind people talk about so much.  Scar ventured one question before she flipped back to meatspace.

where r u?
girl you’ve read gibson – i’m where all mastermind hacker genius types end up

Aha.  Tokyo.

Flip.

The stomach cramps were straight from hell.  Scar puked, then sucked on some glucose, shrugged and then started typing.  Subliminal data showers sprayed as she three finger hunt and peck typed, as the rest of the fifteen plus Blue read over her shoulder.  It was pure code and Helen got to work on it as soon as Scar dropped back, hauling maps out of the text file.  Eight packets of data, eight maps – eight again and they’d better not fall.  Fifteen divided into pairs was an uneven seven and a half, unless they’d rewritten things since Scar jacked in.

Blue was going in.  Without a word, Jake brought another terminal across, they all assembled a deck, goggles, cables, nodes.  Dave went off to find a new wingman, to stand and watch them when they jacked.  Blue prepped the noob and Helen prepped Blue and everybody flexed their fingers as they pasted each other up, applied the nodes, put on their goggles and hot power switches.

They jacked in and there, in the corner of their eyefeeds, were their maps.  Scar had paired up with Helen, obviously – well, you know lesbians, joined at the hip when they’re not slicing each other’s backs.  It didn’t feel remotely heroic.

Surgeon in the lead, Helen motored along invisible gridlines, pausing to cut a pathway that Scar closed up like it was Tetris blocks afterwards.  Shape into shape, colour to colour, Scar had to remind herself to keep one eye on Helen, not to get left behind in the unthinking dance.  There was no communication between teams, it was strictly a stealth mission and they’d all known going in that they might not get out.

What happens if you get lost in cyberspace?  Simple.  Your body atrophies out there in what looks 100% like a coma.  On the net, surrounded by pure data, you last as long as your body does, but you fray at the edges as bits of you wheel off to join the Gibson-Stacks.  One day you’re not even a memory, just a fragmented, dispersed code string.  After a certain point, nobody can bring you back.  They say it’s a painless way to go, but they say that about drowning too and there’s no-one with irrefutable proof.  If you’re lucky, you become myth.

Waiting for Helen to untangle and cut some particularly dense data as they made their way through the offshore banking sector, Scar studied the map, feeling the need to memorise it.  Past that sector, they were into mostly open space, the data desert, where you found the really interesting stuff, if you had the time to look.  They didn’t.

La-fucking-duma!  Helen and Scar were at the edge of the Marais Matrix, the French queer nation state’s online presence.  Back in the day, the Marais was Paris’ queer quarter – filthy streets and delightfully dodgy bars … Scar had no idea whether that even existed anymore.  With the code and credentials Veto supplied, they’re soon interfacing with the French.  Humour wasn’t lacking, despite the circs and they were soon in very serious conversation with three avatars; a beret, a clove of garlic and an accordion.

Back in French meatspace, three people were getting scrolling updates on their eyefeeds from Scar and Helen.  There was silence once the scrolling ceased; deep, dark, velvety, abysmal silence.  Scar considered offering everyone slices of it just to break the ice, but thought better of it.

you can get back?
yes – hopefully.
we have to talk, to think. there are no safe global channels.
yes.
48hrs.
ok
go

They went.

48 hours … from when?  Time, was not a factor in cyberspace, only data.  Helen punched the figure in somewhere near her left temple, logging it in.  They’d find it in her goggles even if she didn’t make it out again.

The risk getting out was far greater than on the inward journey.  Who knew how many bots had been crawling their pathway since and if there was so much as a nano out of place, they’d be hunted by every security system around.  Before they left the Marais Matrix, Scar and Helen took another careful look at their maps and then they commed, just quickly.

i’m holding ur hand
i’m holding urs
8
yes. 8

In the interests of accuracy and transparency, I should have written a whole bunch of tension between me and Helen into this mother, I know.  Apart from anything else, can you honestly imagine a lesbo relationship, 8 months old by then – and yes, the symbolism didn’t escape me – without a whole shitload of snot ‘n trane?  nah, neither can I.  We had our fair share, sure, but sorry for the rest of you miserable cretins out there, on the whole we were damn happy and every time we bitched and growled at each other, we made progress too.  Sometimes in those days, I wondered whether we’d survive the loss of the revolution (but we did) and then the following crises … but we did.  And yes, when I bitch on in italics about what my girlfriend said about my writing, I’m talking about Helen.  Always Helen.

How did we survive the peace?  What peace?  We stay cordial, on the whole, the rest of the world doesn’t.  It’s human nature, innit?

So Scar followed Helen outwards, wishing Helen had an ass to stare at in there too, it would have made things easier.  No comms on the journey, because there were no secure channels.  Scar’s audio feed cut in though, she’d programmed it back at the basement, to start up after 4 hours – danger time as far as cyberspace time went.  She pictured her body back there, starting to bleed from the ears a little, maybe.  Hopefully the wingman would be making sure none of them dehydrated, but there was fuck all he could do, he’d been ordered not to interfere, not to haul them out, until they gave the signal.  No matter what.  She decided not to alert Helen to her music alarm, it could throw her focus and they were both fucked if that happened.

Helen was moving like a Sufi then, elegantly circling through data she’d seen before, cut before.  Good thing data didn’t scar … well, not itself, anyway.  How long would it take them to get back, realtime?  How far over the 4 hour limit would they go?  What shape would they be in when they got back?  How were the rest of the fifteen plus Blue doing?  Fuck, it was awesome to have the space and energy to get neurotic.  The thought of Samanth0r lying dying back there bummed Scar out though.

Sam was such a savant.  All she needed was some kind of support structure around her and then she flew, made magic, danced through cyber skies and then came back to impress everyone with her brains and her ridiculous jokes.  If they all made it, Scar was going to talk to Helen about getting sam a girlfriend, dammit there must be someone good enough out there – to cope and to get the benefits too.  In so many ways, Sam reminded Scar of herself and she just plain couldn’t bear the thought of losing her.  It was bullshit.

Back at the basement, meantime, the wingman was starting to shit himself seriously.  Unused to the sight of gormlessly twitching deckhands, he’d hysterically called everyone he knew, so by the time I was hearing music, apparently we all had a couple of nurses each, dabbing on water, trickling glucose on to our gums, cleaning up the piss we’d let go of involuntarily.

In cyberspace, I wasn’t even hearing my music.  I’d loaded up all of my R.E.M. albums and hoped like hell I wouldn’t be hearing them all, there was almost a day’s worth of music there.

It was getting harder to keep up with Helen and Scar started worrying too.  That time Helen stopped breathing was terrifying and that wasn’t even half as intense as their current mission.  She pulled herself together and started muttering om mane padme hum over and over and over in time with her Tetris movements.  It must have worked, because the next thing Scar knew, Quarter Online’s faggot-flamboyant pyramids were in sight – they were fucking beautiful.  Facing each other, Scar and Helen punched out their signal and …

… and didn’t regain consciousness for 24 hours.  Apparently.  Helen hadn’t stopped breathing after all and although they’d both got some fairly serious earbleed, dull hearing seemed like a small price to pay.  With any luck, it would be temporary, if not, they’d just have to deal with it.

Scar had wanted to watch the other pilots get home, but by the time she surfaced, it was all over.  The fifteen made it.  Plus Blue … didn’t.  Hearing that little piece of news smashed through their swagger like dynamite.  She’d made it so far – all the way to Tokyo Online, with Deano as surgeon.  She’d made it almost all the way back too; she’d fucked out somewhere near the Quarter and all Deano could do was his own slasherwork to get back.  He couldn’t stay in there with her without his body too, there wasn’t even any point going back in there after her.

Helen wept like a waterfall, incessantly.  Scar didn’t, but Scar’s reactions were frequently fucked.  She felt her jaw grow rigid and a cold pain set in.  Blue had been an unlikely mother figure, perhaps, by Het terms anyway, but that is exactly what she’d been to the fifteen.  She’d even wiped their goddamned asses if necessary and now she was gone, face stuck in a rictus that would relax long before the rest of them could.

“She’s getting a hero’s burial,” said Dave through clenched teeth, “just as soon as we got time.”

24 hours left until the other four queer quarters (yeah, leave it to the queers to get five quarters together) did whatever they were going to do, if they were going to do it.  24 hours until they could make a plan to destroy the sangoma, get Sam out of her immobile shell.  24 hours to find a way to decode the sangoma and stop the curative rapes of lesbians in other Generika ghettoes.

No time for sleep.  Time for Scar to go find Veto again, hope like fuck he was still there and that he’d have advice.

Scar jacked in, with the fifteen minus Blue standing around her, willing her on, Helen rubbing her shoulders non stop.

The shoulder massage is completely underrated man!  Got someone in distress, under stress, whatever?  Rub. Their. Shoulders.  Hard too.  Trust me on this one.

The Quarter’s pyramids looked like a friendly Vegas to Scar that time and she missioned quickly through the data and the desaturation and found Veto’s blue fast, in a different space to the time before.  He wasn’t mercury then either, he was, of course, a 14 year old boy.

jebus!
no, vet
har har
u gonna diss me, dyke?
n0 fuckn way man, ur a fuckn her0 y0
yeh, true, but shuttup
*zips*
heh. good. ok, i’m up to date. got comms from france, japan, somalia + malaysia. they coming y0.
thank fuck
yeh. ok. listen scar. that 48hrs is up, u 15 jack in, line up here + meet the globals. i got a map for u, u get it then + code. code synthesised from 5 1/4’s. if u can get that code into teh sangoma, u disable his control and then ground team can get into the ghetto, stop that shit. got police and media on the alert but ain’t nothin gonna work unless u decode the fucker.
gottit.
scar …
good luck
veto?
yeh?
u otaku?
yeh
<3

*FLIP*

Knowing more of Veto’s identity made Scar want to fly to Tokyo and buy the boy a thousand Gundams or whatever the fuck he was into.  She wanted to hug him, adopt him, she … she better get her ass into gear and report back.

“What’s the time?” were her first words, but Helen had already checked her readouts, done the math and so the first words she heard were, “We’ve got 20 hours, babe.”  She’d been online for a mercifully short space of time, considering how much was at stake, considering what kind of shape the previous jaunt had left her in, considering what was up ahead.

“OK,” said Scar, “here’s the deal.”  She’d only just stopped herself from saying “dealio” – she was looking forward to going post-cyberpunk, when hopefully the slang would improve.  She briefed the fifteen and all their newly acquired wingmen about the general plan and then they split into groups to strategise and try to get themselves into something resembling a healthy state.

They didn’t have time to sleep … they had to sleep … if only Blue was there, oh man.  Time to call in the medics, time for seriously precise sleepers.  Four anaesthetists from the city put them under and then brought them round again.  Five hours gone.  Another hour spent washing, finding comfortable clothes and food.  T minus 14 hours and counting …

Time for Scar to jack in again, quick in and quick out.

veto
4tw scar? u shouldnt be here y0
i no. veto, if it all goes shitshaped
o fuck me no – dyke drama
har listen l0ser
whut
r u safe?
yes
u got money?
hell yes
whatcha need veto
fokol scar i’m good man
no veto what u need?
…
whut? c’mon boy dammit
friends scar. how bout u get thru the mission safely + be my friend

*FLIP*

Scar hadn’t even signalled, the little fucker had booted her offline.  She grinned.

Mawkish, huh?  Ah fuck you.  You had to be there to understand that moment.

Otaku asking for a friend – was that a global first?  Not the impulse, certainly, but the expression of it.  Veto was OK somehow, still human.

T minus the remaining 11 hours was spent checking and testing the computers and equipment.  A malfunction would mean too great a failure.  The fifteen and the wingmen ate together, checked each other’s equipment and got ready.  Helen suddenly yelled like a politician, “Genderno!!” and then everyone else yelled it and by that time they were all jazzed like a rugby team before the Currie Cup, like Bafana Bafana before 2010, or some damn thing.  “For Blue!” yelled Deano.  “For Sam!” yelled Dave and Scar countered with, “Alriiiight, let’s jack the fuck in!”  Fuck it, thought Scar, Sam is gonna go batshit when she hears she missed this.

The fifteen lined up in the Quarter Online, Scar desaturated and cut them all right through to Veto, who was there with about 50 avatars, all hopping up and down like animated gif’s.  The same information uploaded, scrolling across all of their eyefeeds at once.

there is no alarm call on this
there is no safety net
lives are at stake, far more than just urs
commit now or fuck off

Nobody fucked off.

if ur using a controlled or uncontrolled substance, fuck off

Nobody fucked off.

if u got kids, fuck off

Three avatars flipped out.

if u got 2nd thoughts, fuck off

Nobody fucked off.

map + code uploading now. when u got the files u gonna see a diagram of who goes where. n0 fuckn hissy fits or i flip u. u form the shape u see in the position u see + then u keep ur fuckn heads down and cut like it sez. understand?

Hell yes.  Scar wondered whether the group would be quite so obedient if they knew Veto was 14.  She’d only told Helen, she’d probably only ever tell Helen.

u lose a player, u keep playing.
yes, sensei …
u all got the data so anyone, everyone can do the work
yes, sensei …
if u get as far as sangoma ur in more shit than u ever seen y0
yes, sensei …
u know how to plant a virus?
yes, sensei
good. go

And Veto was gone.

[ASCII here]

And that’s how they rolled, fiftywhatever avatars all in a tight hexagon, five triangles, the five quarters.

Scrollfeed: securibots disabled.

That done, their only problem would be SangomaNet.  No point in stealth this time round, just by gathering there, they had effectively declared war.  The shaman would be wrapping itself in code now, to deflect attack.  Their only real hope was speed and so they flew.

The scene was as ugly as Tony Blair’s missus first thing in the morning.  There was no surgery at all, just a maelstrom of slashing right round that hexagon, like Boudicca’s chariot spikes.

Someone (if I tell you who know I’ll blow my own punchlines) recreated the whole thing graphically afterwards and it was freaking gorgeous.  All those stacks giving way to this bright silver, swirling disc.  What a trip man, what a fucking trip.

The sangoma had wisely positioned itself out in the data desert, giving itself room to move, but hey, that gave us room to move too and hopefully we were enough so that if we could find a corner to chase it into we’d damn well make one.

What it looked like online had no relation to what it looked like back in meatspace and it really didn’t matter either.  What we saw though, was intimidating.  Comparing notes later, we all saw whatever we feared the most, in true mythical monster style.  I got a ten foot tall angry purple woman and I felt my blood run cold.  A few others out of the fifteen saw women too – Dave got his ex wife, which is something we really haven’t stopped laughing about yet.

Lesbian bars probably exist down at the end of some shady little rip in the space-time continuum.  The decor might change, the clientele rarely does.  Well OK that’s a given if you’re only thinking as far as “lesbian” as a descriptor, but within any subculture are still more subcultures.  Think yoghurt flavours.  Or yeast-based irritations.  The flavours hadn’t changed much since Scar’s last visit to the place and nor had the decor.  Same old tired looking bar counter, with some tired old regulars propping it up.  Same kind of hustle going on around the pool tables.  A babydyke feeding chips into the jukebox, making it howl along to her own heartbreak.  Vagina music, Scar’s mates used to call it, back in the day.  Oestrogen soaked heartstrung folkie country pop ballads galore.  It drove Scar demented, but she grinned wryly and thought Helen would feel right at home.  It was probably a good thing there were some dyke stereotypes Scar didn’t fit, anyway.

Scar ordered a Tiger beer, hunched over it and unwittingly, habitually, began to destroy its label.  By the time’s she’s nearing the lees, the lager’s warm and so’s Scar and by the third beer, she’s officially pissed.  By beer number five, she’s in deep conversation with Blue, who evidently wandered in at some stage of the evening.  It’s going the way inebriated conversations tend to go – Scar pontificating, with all the solutions to all of the world’s problems in her hip pocket, Blue nodding and saying, “Hmmm,” from time to time.  From time to time, Scar lurched off to piss like a horse and play, yet again, one of three male vocals she’d managed to find on the jukebox.  Blue probably hauled her sorry arse out of there and back dockside before she got booted out.  It was one of those maudlin nights.

You might be surprised to learn that I have some Hetero friends out there too.  Two of them asked me to send them this story, so with heavy misgivings, I did.  This was the first reaction: “Thanks for sending this – I am only 2 pages into it and it makes me so sad, I have tears in my eyes.  Is that good or bad for a writer, I suppose its good to have strong reactions to writing?”  I reply, “It’s good, it’s good.”  What I want to say is, right now I am too damn emo to write anyway and part of it is, I suppose, this poxy story.

Scar woke up wondering just how many parrots had shat into her mouth and why demons were chipping away at her cranium with tiny axes.  Milliseconds later, the whole experience took its proper shape and form as a fully-fledged hangover – at which point, Scar felt even worse.  She was definitely too old for this kak.  She cleaned off the previous night’s stale aura under a tap outside and hoped like hell somebody had scavenged some decent food recently, she definitely wasn’t up to grazing and browsing the dump herself just then.  And if she had to chew her way through one lukewarm McJunk burger, her liver would probably reach out and throttle her to death.  Right at that moment, Scar would have welcomed the oblivion, but it was a painful route to get it.

That was the blissful moment when the archest of archangels, Helen the hero walked in, bearing seriously potent coffee and the fluffiest muffins from the coffee shop.

Write through the grind, write through the grind.  I can tell you right now I am way more interested in musing on the The and downloading things that “sound like the Jesus and Mary Chain” and checking Facebook and anydamnthing other than writing this puppy.  Did anyone get that this bit’s title is a little rip-off of a the The song?  If you did, I just want to tell you that I probably love you.  And yes I know it’s complete bullshit adding this drivel in on the pretext of being pomo and meta.  Since I am doing it, however, I should also inform you that I am also currently being thrashed mercilessly at Lexulous.  Apparently they accept “unqueen” though – who knew?  It’s probably what people with speech impediments yell at lepers.  Alright, enough digression, where was I?

So … Scar and Helen ate muffins and drank coffee while Helen laughed at Scar’s hangover and they both made incredibly bad muffin and muffing jokes.  You’re sort of obliged to if, you’re a lesbian.  Or a 14 year old boy.  Helen caught Scar up with the news of her risky refugee runs and Scar enlightened helen about the state of grungy street art and dumpster scavenging.  They discussed their feelings, in true touchy-feely feminist fashion and then they may or may not have had hot lesbian sex.

Blue was clanking and bashing around in the next room, with what sounded like a herd of armour plated elephants.  Eventually, our heroic pair stirred their stumps and went to find her.  She had had yet another of those emergency meetings and had still more news and decisions.  Helen’s cover had been blown, as they all knew it would be, sooner or later.  Scar was silently delighted, Helen looked fairly stricken.  Blue looked sympathetic, “I’m afraid it’s gomi duty for you too, till we get this server up and running and then you guys will be manning the decks.”  Scar perked up.  Manning decks.  Decks!  Now that was tech.

Now, you’ve probably been wondering why on earth any “novel” that dares to call itself cyberpunk has reached 15 thousand words with no sign of any decks, any 3D visuals, any jacking in and any ears bleeding.  Well that’s what it’s like being Queer here in Generika City.  It’s like being on dial up in a broadband world.  Scar couldn’t even remember seeing any Queers with those handy headphone-jack shaped ports in their skulls, the kind that rich code kids showed off in public and that real hackers concealed badly with terrible hairstyles.  Even the mere speculation of decks meant that Queer tech was about to catch up.

In which Addison makes a shocking find

Addison is staring into the Last Supper, imagining himself to be the big fisherman: a Galilean, brawny and not inclined to fancies; invited to fish men, by a gentle stranger who knew how to raise people from the grave…

He wonders if he’d have taken any more notice than the real Peter did when the Lord warned that Peter would deny him three times before the cock crowed.

Surely he’d have been on the lookout for the mean trick the High Priest’s servants played on him, insinuating by their rough comments that he might deserve the same fate? Surely Peter should have known they’d get him on the sly, and kept his eyes open? Addison would rather have died than suffer the humiliation of denial Peter endured.

But he must have been an amazing guy to bounce back. Addison is not sure he could have done that after such a breakdown of loyalty.

The reverie gives way to the ringing of the telephone. Addison jumps up guiltily, wondering how long he has ignored it; counts the rings as if they were the cock-crow. He straightens his long legs and reaches the bookshelf in a stride.

‘Yes?’

‘Helen here, Addison. Sorry it’s late. Just back from Wolverhampton. Is Carla in?’

‘Sorry. She’s out at Natalie’s.’

He never thinks to call her Talie like the others do. Keeping a formal distance reminds him it is his group of Followers, although he never exercises this role when he is with them.

There is a pause, as though Helen is surprised to find Carla not there.

He says, ‘Shall I take a message?’

‘No, no… It’s nothing important. Sorry to have rung.’

Addison feels remorse at his treatment of her. She is not like Rebecca imagines at all. Has he been gullible, as if he, too, were a fussy old woman? He should think things through for himself as he used to. If only he were not so tired.

‘It’s okay, Helen. God bless you.’ He tries to reach out to her, offer something more. ‘I wanted to thank you for acting fast on the lads’ house. They’re getting on jus’ fine. I’ll be down there tomorrow afternoon to keep an eye. Pete is sharing the responsibility when he’s not at work. They’re so keen, they work all day and evening!’

‘I’m glad,’ Helen replies. ‘Look, I’ll pop over tomorrow and meet you there. I’ve some wallpaper donated to us by a local firm. Might prove useful. And… I’ve something to tell you and I want to ask your advice too.’

‘Great.’

Addison puts the receiver down and feels lighter inside. So she wants to ask him something and tell him something. ‘Yeah!’ he breathes. The good Lord’s been working in this practical, efficient lady after all. Is she about to become normal? Well, he has something she needs and he will offer it freely. Ask and it shall be given you, seek and you shall find.

The words develop into the popular song they sing so often, and he hums himself upstairs to change for bed. Carla will not be long.

He pops into the spare bedroom that is now Dinah’s and checks on the baby. Probably Carla will be in and out of bed all night worrying about her and checking her breathing, but he for one is relieved at the new arrangement. He even helped clear up after Rebecca and install the cot and changing mat and nappies. A man and wife should be able to have a room to themselves. It helps them relax. After all, they’ve had the baby with them one way and another all the time so far. He grins as he remembers watching Dinah kick from the inside as the pregnancy had progressed. Such a miracle!

Searching through the tiny wardrobe for a new pair of bottoms, he comes across a carrier. He opens it without thinking and onto his arm falls a slinky black garment in lace and satin. He jumps back as if stung and it falls to the floor in a slithery heap.

continue reading

Prima racheta românească, Helen, va  fi   lansată în spaţiu mâine dimineaţă l-a Constanta după ce evenimentul fusese amânat ieri din cauza condiţiilor meteo nefavorabile.

Operaţiunile de lansare au fost începute astăzi la ora 10.00 pentru umflarea balonului solar care trebuia să trimită racheta  spre spaţiu. Lansarea propriu-zisă urma să aibă loc în jurul orei 12,00. Organizatorii au declarat pentru Realitatea TV că lansarea a fost amânată pentru mâine din cauza înrăutăţirii condiţiilor meteorologice. Nava militară la bordul căreia se află echipamentele care ajută la lansarea acesteia a plecat de aseară în largul mării.

Asociatia Română pentru Cosmonautică şi Aeronautică (ARCA) va lansa vehiculul în trei trepte în largul Mării Negre, cu spijinul Marinei Militare.
Evenimentul va dura aproximativ două ore, interval in care balonul solar va fi umflat cu aer cald, după care îşi va lua zborul până la altitudinea de   80 km.
Apoi,vor fi iniţiate motoarele celor trei trepte ale rachetei,care va fi propulsată în zbor suborbital.
Faza finală a testului va consta în recuperarea din Marea Neagră a modulului care va transporta echipamente video si radio.
Racheta Helen este ridicată de cel mai mare balon solar din lume şi foloseşte un sistem de stabilizare inovativ.
Misiunea este una dintre cele mai complexe misiuni desfăşurate vreodată în domeniul aerospaţial.
Potrivit reprezentantilor ARCA, peste 95% din materialele folosite în construcţie sunt romăneşti, doar echipamentele electronice provenind din alte ţări.

Misiunea este testul final înaintea competiţiei Google Lunar X Prize, din 2012, când românii vor să ajungă pe Lună.

„Este un test foarte important. În plus, pentru România este o premieră, pentru că nu s-a mai lansat de pe apă nicio navă“, a declarat Bogdan Sburlea, unul dintre membrii echipajului.

ARCA şi Marina Militară lansează mâine din largul Mării Negre racheta Helen, probabil de la bordul navei 281 Constanţa. Proiectul participă la competiţia Google Lunar X Prize. Despre ARCA pe site-ul competiţiei aici.

Helen va fi ridicată până la circa 14000m de un balon cu aer cald, apoi îşi va aprinde motoarele. Racheta are trei trepte de propulsie şi o capsulă presurizată.

Lansarea va fi transmisă de Realitatea pe net aici. Mai multe imagini aici.

Whilst strolling through the beautiful town of Helen, GA (a favorite spot of stayclassygeorgia), a person was seen walking by wearing a t-shirt that read, “There’s room for all God’s creatures; right next to the mashed potatoes and gravy!”. Ah, you vegetarians be damned! We North Georgian’s eat MEAT!

Stay classy, North Georgia!