Short peices



Think of the perfect woman.

For sake of arguement, let's call her something. We'll give her the name Nova. She's everything you could ever want and anything you've ever thought a romantic or loving relationship could give you.

She's as (personality archetype) as you've always wished they would be and as (morality archetype) as practically no one you've met ever is.

Let's put aside for a moment all the self-absorbed mishmash about how the search for love, romance or Nova is really some selfish search for yourself. Maybe we all are searching for ourselves or trying to recreate our partner in our own image like Eve ascendent from our spare ribs. This is a purely academic pursuit.

Besides, you don't look for you in a relationship because you don't want you. Nobody does. Even at its most basic level we prefer a living being over masturbation. Nova is not inside of us. Or more accurately she is but she's also outside. The world is an excersize in the all. Not just your lurid fantasies, buddy.

The only impoartant part of this arguement is that Nova, as you've seen her or imagined her is dead. More clearly, she never quite existed in that way. You weren't really dreaming of Nova at the beginning of this. You were dreaming of something that ultimately just wasn't Nova enough.

Nova doesn't live in your skull. Nova doesn't live in the cynical imaginings of the comedians, poets, or screenplay weavers. Nova lives in that infinite zone. That place that no one ever understands. The only thing you can be sure about when that place is concerned, is that anyone who says they understand it, REALLY doesn't.

Why did we do this? Why did we bother with Nova? What the hell was ever so great about her?

Because this isn't about just Nova anymore than this is just about you. This is about an idea. An idea that we deserve the best that we have to offer. An idea that not only are we already Nova but we're already someone else's Nova.

And we don't live inside of the one dreaming about us anymore than dear old Nova lives solely inside of us.

Think of the perfect car. . .


So what about the collective unconscious? If a billion dream, can they create an new Archetype? Can they dream the world anew?

No. Dreams are also a factor of time. Thought travels along axes. In order to reweave the Superorganism we need to infect the minds of the All with our transcendent truth.

People and time are not a vaccum. Idea has inertia. As certain as you feel the inertia of the ones you love when they arrive and fall out of your life, the inertia of the sixty billion Homo Sapiens Sapiens that have ever lived on this world crowds the power of the fragile 3-5% of all humanity alive at this moment.

We have a lot to do. The ghosts of centuries of rapes and wars and peasants dying in the fog of utter irrelevance weigh on us. The cycle is only an illusion. The goal is to be the end of the cycle. Live it. Breathe it. Be it.



Let me tell you about beauty.

For the longest time beauty came to me in the form of a perfect woman. She had midnight blue hair and the kind of curves you'd kill to find. Her skin wasn't pale so much as it was shimmering color that isn't color. The hue of a snowy night; blue, white, grey and pure like the skin of Artemis.

She was a woman with three distinct sides. Sometimes she was as regal and unattainable as a clasical statue, other days she was the ice which seared at a touch. Days when she was around me she was warmth; real and more alive than anything else.

Let me tell you about our world.

We lived together for what felt like an age. A time of being and new places so blissfully distant they became another world's shores.

We lived in an appartment. We had a lot of fun there. On Saturday and Sunday mornings we had the hardest time getting out of bed. We'd lie there naked and drink in one another's presence. There was a little radio on the bedside table. I would sing to her whenever it played something I knew. I loved singing to her. Years ago I gave up music lessons because I couldn't see myself following a career in music. I don't know why I ever did that now.

If I never had a career in music, all those lessons would still have been worth it for her. It would still have been worth it to cultivate the best voice the world has ever known. Lying naked on that bed under a high ceiling on a Sunday morning I would've sang symphonies for her.

I lost her in the accident. A brief second of Intersection that threw her into the dark for ten years.

Ten years ending now.

I can hear her melting in from the frost of the crystalline prison that keeps her. I hear her voice as it struggles to find mine. A voice panicked from waking up and finding me gone. She knows I'm not the same person. She knows something must have happened to me when the wall of quantum space ripped us apart. Her voice sounds exactly the same. Ten years too young.

So what if -- oh, God.

What if I've been living on the wrong side of the wall for ten years? The air seems suddenly heavy. . .

South America, 2058

They call it Inti-Pacha. It is the eternal kingdom of the sun promised by Athaualpa to his people. It took a british scientist named Daniel Halley to make it real. In thirty years the legendary Incas will fly. Their country will pull together from the separated jumble of old colonies and shine clean electricity to the world.

In the old west and the old United States there will be no one alive more hated than Daniel Halley. A billion people in the ragged and stone strewn lands that held the world pinned for two millenia will simmer in baleful rage at the one who took it all from them and gave it to people who's skins come in colors. People who touch too much and speak in Quechuan dialects.

History will remember the year that everything changed. They will know it started with one word:


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