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January 21st, 2010
Blog entry: 49
I want my mind
I want my mind
I want it!
More than you know.
I want my own mind
I want it clever, clearer than any of you
Than whatever it may be….
I must admit that my previous post was ridiculously morbid. So much so that I didn’t want anyone to see it, so I made it private. My apologies to anyone who did read that mess
(Ha, like anyone is reading…)
shh. Maybe I can work on it a little more. Make it more lyrically likable.
Like everyone,
(That’s what you tell yourself, so you won’t go mad.)
I’m having one of those terrible weeks. Well to be sure it’s been more than a week. More like 6 months, quite possibly from birth. And when I say terrible I mean…
(You really don’t have to tell them. Just because it’s a blog doesn’t mean you have to spill everything. Save some for me. For later.)
But the thing is, I’m supposed to be better by now. I’m taking the sugar pills. Sugar pills, because they look like granulated sweetness, and I don’t believe that they’re really going to work. My lover, Paramour, angrily disapproves of my disposition, she said I had to have some faith. I laughed at her, because faith has never been one of my strong points. This is my second week and apparently it’s supposed to kick in by now. I can’t say that I’ve noticed a difference, but then again, maybe I’d have to dissociate myself from myself to really see what I look like.
Did that sentence make sense?
Am I making sense?
I must be.
Hmm…
Well, this is just a draft anyway. I’ll return when I have another fever and with fresh new eyes, fewer friends, and no family, I’ll make my repairs.
Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yes, dissociation.
But aren’t we doing that right now? Maybe the key is to look at how people around you react when you do something, anything .
(Maybe you should periodically make yelping sounds, hahaha).
Ah now that can be informative. Even if it’s based on assumptions, it’s informative?
(Okay, this is boring).
There’s some level of knowing, there are tells.
Maybe I should talk about my visit to the Cognitive Corrective Repair Clinic (CCRC), and the three words to remember: red, shoe, …?
Yes, Yes, Yes!
I’m not fond of the CCRC, with good reasons that I can list, but what would be the point of that? It was the analyst’s recommendation. It was the analyst who kept pressing the issue of a visit to the CCRC after each private forum session (PFS). The analyst worked really hard to convince me, but what pushed me over the edge was another one of those malfunctioning processor episodes that lasted for more than a week. I decided to try. See what happens, if anything I’ll have more data than before
(Yeah, but what type of data: spam or recycled ideations?).
Idempotent, Idempotent, Idempotent!
At the CCRC, the receptionist with her two screens for her mainframe, one for maintaining the live records of all old and new seekers that’s directly linked to the Health Corp–the global health cartel–, and the other for calendars, directories, notices, announcements. She didn’t believe my clean suit was exactly that, clean. I was the best well-dressed seeker ever. Unfortunately, I didn’t win a prize for looking functional. Oh, but she could care less that I wanted to look good, especially if they were going to probe my mainframe.
Well, maybe it’s because the receptionist thought you were a guy.
(Come on now, no more sidetracking, and who is this talking? There’s only room for one. The room is filled!).
Focus, focus. Hocus, Pocus!
Okay yeah, the receptionist did label me ”sir”. But it could be that she’s a Neo-Luddite, against all forms of advancement, technology or otherwise, and refuses to do an upgrade.
Then, how is she not relieved of her post? How is she not relieved of her post. She’s not relieved of her post? Relieved of her post. Her post. Post.
(It’s the CCRC, and no one gives a shit).
At this point, I really don’t care. Besides they usually overcompensate with pinkness and apologies.
She didn’t. Didn’t she? Did, did, did, did, did, did, did, did, did….
(Great Scire! You’re so long winded. No wonder you’re a blogger).
Can I just say, that this is the most fun all week.
Anyway, the receptionist, didn’t listen to the soundwave I sent her which said loud and clear–I was on my best behavior, I practiced using a simulation, rehearsing my script–that I was there to see the Scientist. But the receptionist heard something else and sent me on a wild goose chase which involved going through double doors that locked behind you. And you don’t have a key. With the aid of a lost janitor– first day on the job– I survived the trap doors and came right back where I started: at the receptionist’s desk. And I sent her another soundwave, “I’m here to see the Scientist.” She then informed me that I had given her three different characters, “And each of them are unique you see,” she informed me. Defending myself was useless even in my clean suit.
Well, honestly your hair was still very messy.
I had been waiting for an hour.
Because I was gone for awhile and the reprimand from the receptionist after, I lost my place as just a spectator. I had to sit next to an elderly lady. Every five minutes she sent a loud wave to no one in particular, “How long have you been waiting? I’ve been waiting for 3 hours. I’ve given up on my mainframe.”
There was another guy talking to the receptionist. His wave was impaired, it kept buffering. Too slow. His eyes were bloodshot. Like all of us, he came because he wanted answers. A Scientist came and gave the guy a survey: When was your last…? How much….? Do you get the…? Have you ever….? The Scientist waved that there wasn’t sufficient grounds to conduct an experiment, because this seeker, the guy, did not have any toxins seeping out of his pores like vapor. I instantly went up to the guy and offered him some Prosecco, the good kind. Because he had a reason to celebrate.
(What? That didn’t happen. You couldn’t even look at the guy. And where exactly were you hiding the “good kind” of Prosecco?)
Well, if I had Prosecco, I would have offered it to this guy just so toxins could seep out of his pores like vapor.
(Stop rambling and get to the point.)
What, where’s the point? There’s a point? Isn’t is a point? There are only loops and algorithms.
Sad.
A woman about my age approached me. She looked normal, I guess
(Oh come on! She seemed too content).
How can someone seem too content?
I wondered if she was on sugar pills, too? She waved, “Excuse me, sorry, but I don’t think you should sit there. There was this guy sitting here, bugs were falling off of him. I think they were living on him.”
I leapt up, as the elderly woman, like clock work, chimed in, “I’ve given up on my mainframe. How long have you been sitting here?!”
I then thought, perhaps she
(the mirror, the true normal one, that you could never aspire too, and can’t!) accidentally broadcasted a corrupted simulation. Sometimes if the software is corrupted, simulations can become infected. I guess the software might just be that good, but it will simply torment if it isn’t applied to a particular purpose.
(Whatever, you had already decided to believe that bagbiter. Spaz!).
Of course I was scratching myself.
(You’re such a compooter, if it wasn’t for me, you’d still be scratching, ha!).
By the time the Provisioner came for me, I was over stimulated and couldn’t focus.
Hocus! Pocus! Shazam!
(I’m going to swat you, I’m so going to swat you. You fly!)
Repeat after me, all of us: Maintain eye contact. Simulate before you wave. Make sure it’s logic and not the absurd.
I was waiting for someone, for the Provisioner maybe to come instead of The Scientist…? I wanted a Provisioner here
(Even while you, we, shouldn’t trust anyone, but me?).
Introducing, The Provisioner, here, and right now.
(What makes them exactly different?)
Whatever! I’m still telling the story. I’m still in control? Right? So shut-up!
Get Out!
Provisioners are the middle ground -most of the time- genuinely kinder and seemingly interested in more than control supplements.
This one looks tired. Really tired, like she had seen too much already and it was only 1:00pm on a Monday. She did some test runs, and gave me a survey. And I’m not going to fail. With my cheat screen and my script, I’m average. Well, that’s if I maintain function. It’s always a question: when will the crash happen? She idled and then waved, “Are you transitioning”. I laughed. She apologized for making me uncomfortable. I wasn’t.
She prompted those three words to remember.
I thought, “red, shoe, …?”
I couldn’t remember the last one. I must remember the last word.
January 30th, 2010
Blog entry: 50
I’m not sure which trigger ignited the sparks that lead to the explosion. Maybe it’s the weather. I heard on Good Morning World that for most, the change in spells and the after the holidays time causes the dysphoric Black Bile affliction. Or maybe it’s the recurring nightmare I’ve been having, where I’m being chased by vampires. Maybe it’s of all these things: Weather, Black Bile, Vampires.
All I remember was my heart and my mind was in a race, which can go faster than my motions in real time. And he was there, louder and angrier than ever before.
(Well of-course. You were feeding me elixirs all night).
“That’s because you wouldn’t stop talking.”
(It’s what I do best hon. You wouldn’t clip a bird’s wings, or lock him up in a cage when flying is the best thing he can do? Or would you?)
It was 8:00am and Paramour was already dressed and trying to ignore the pace I was going at. I was rambling something with conviction, and she casually agreed. I felt her kissing my cheek, as I lay on the sleep levitator with my eyes closed, head hot with thoughts. I then heard the front door open and closed. I wanted to tell her not to leave me alone with him. But I didn’t want her to worry. I told myself to suck it up.
He was rummaging through all of the possible outcomes. Like a monkey, he swung on each thought,
(First, you’d be relieved from your position and replaced. After a month or so of no work, Paramour will leave you for Alex, the Information Scientist. LOL! You’d have to move out, but where to? You’d probably end up like the homeless woman you see everyday at the teleport. Hair all in a mess like it never ever saw a comb. Dirty with duck tape wrapping around your infected leg. And yes, you’d scream, dance, and do whatever for a sip. You know she’s probably around your age. LMAO, destitution really sucks. Eventually, you’d lose it and assault a pedestrian. Then finally, you’d be banished. Now if you listen to me, things won’t have to go this far, don’t pass go, don’t collect $200 won’t even have to apply to you ever again.)
Knowing what his solution was, I decided to wave the analyst,
“Hello, hello…,” and then my sonic Bluetooth chip lost the signal. I waved again, nothing. And again, until finally the analyst waved me back.
“Hello, Nicodemus?” Here is where everything becomes a blur. All I remember is my head overheating. And the door rang, and I was letting in five Robo-commandos.
I offered them coffee, and waved, “Do you like micro-organic eggs, scrambled micro-eggs?” They were indifferent. But really, was it me, him, or the elixir that was offering Robo-commandos coffee, waving if they liked micro scrambled eggs?
(What does it matter now who offered them coffee? That future is dead.)
Getting down to the lobby area, the building’s super was waving with five more Robo-commandos. I wasn’t embarrassed then. No, in a strange way I was excited, but I wasn’t sure what I was excited about.
We were getting close to the door, and I was trying not to trigger my flight simulation program, where I run up the block as fast as Neo from the Matrix. So, I created a simple pop-up code in my mainframe, a cute funny distraction that waved, “I feel like one of our luminary deities needing protection from the Web-Paps with their web-cam eyes waiting to take ‘The Picture’.” One of the Robo-commandos however, read my mind and overrode the code I was using to distract them. He demanded that we wait in the lobby for the airbus’s arrival.
(Ha, like anyone ever outran a Robo-commando, at least not all 10 of them in a hail storm.)
On the airbus, I was incredibly chatty with the Robo-Emergency Action Figures (R-EAF). I was hoping to overload their inboxes with instant messages. I’ve never been that chatty even in a chat room with close friends.
(That’s because you could have never thought that up by yourself. Using your tabs as an evasion tacit, to open up chat windows instead of going into a sleep mode that you thought could stop them…ROFL. Don’t fret I’m not going to tell. We’ve went through this before.)
“And did that really help? Like we could stop their advanced cookies from tracking those thought waves, as they run a diagnostic on my cerebral cortex.”
Even with all the pop-ups, they read those thought waves and they made their assessment, and gave no reply to my invitation for coffee that day. At some point one of them asked if I had anyone they should contact. I sonic waved Paramour of course. She was in high court when I interrupted with my inappropriate euphoria. She panicked as I laughed nonsensically.
Once I arrived at the Panopticon, I waited for my preliminary interview. Robo-takers (RTs) did the interview. RTs never make eye-contact. The first RT ran a diagnostic on my mainframe. Questions that I rudely re-routed to the RT’s inbox. Useless. I was becoming more anxious, looking for ways to escape.
Once the preliminary interview was over, I was whisked away to my second, where I was asked the same questions again. I gave them shit for the obvious lack of communication between their servers. I was becoming less charming and entertaining, and more irritable and a nuisance. I kept pushing their buttons while the RT scanned my body for any irregularities. They wanted to make sure I was healthy enough for the experiments that the Scientists were to perform. They discovered that my heart rate was unusually high. I joked that my unusual heart rate was due to probing overload. They asked if I used any accelerant RAM. “Never, only elixirs. Accels would completely overload my mainframe, and I’d crash,” I giggled. It was becoming difficult to sit still and to hold back the laughter.
They took my Earth shoes and gave me their socks with traction at the base. Then, they escorted me to the day room where the others were.
The Panopticon was exactly what you’d think a Panopticon to be: with us, there were RTs locked inside the circular space of the Panopticon, and even though the watch tower wasn’t high above in the clouds, the eye was still capable of seeing everything. Somewhat like the eye of Sauron from Lord of the Rings.
I was introduced to the head RT on shift. His face was emotionless and cold. I timidly walked into the day room where everyone was downloading. There was a woman waving loudly in a thick Brooklyn accent, “I’m not going to stand this sort of treatment anymore. For 20 years they’ve been probing me. I know the Governor, wait until he hears about this.” Then this kid, who couldn’t be more than 18 yells back, “Shut up already!”
“All these probing and experiments. For 20 years… I refuse this non-sense.”
“Well then go, no one wants to hear about it. Damn, yo!”
“Do you want an apple?” A guy with a huge scar across his face waved me. I didn’t dare look him in the eye when I waved no.
(Hahaha, that’s because you were afraid. And he was completely harmless).
Even though internally I was leaping out of my skin, I maintained all of the impulsive neurons signaling that I should start singing a song, like the one my mother sang everyday, “Oh what a friend we have in Jesus.” The giggling was insatiable, the worst to subdue. But I was still in control. I wasn’t going to give up. I remember the old woman at the CCRC. I started to giggle a little. I took a deep breath and mumbled. “I’m not going to give up on my mainframe.”
(Maybe your mainframe will give up on you. What then? My solution is your best bet.)
“Just shut-up, alright.” I said too loudly, one of the RTs tried to scan my thoughts but I caught her eyes just in time to divert to another page.
Knowing was terrifying. Knowing that anything can happen to me in the Panopticon. I had to get out and before sleep mode sets in. My head was throbbing badly. Like the walls of my skull were closing in on my brain. I waved to the nurse, “How long are they going to keep me?”
“If you do exactly what we say and take your control supplements, you will be out of here in no time.” I got the feeling that it was a hologram I was speaking to not a real nurse.
In the Panopticon you’re allowed 15 minutes on a regular payphone. I called the analyst, “You have to get me out of here. I don’t belong here, my mainframe is salvageable, but if I stay here it will die.”
“Nicodemus, do you remember our agreement. Do you remember the contract you signed? Pause. Well do you?”
“I do, I do, but this isn’t the time for contracts and who waved what. I can’t stay here.”
“I’ll see what I can do, but I’m not hopeful. The things the R-EAF discovered on your mainframe were disturbing.”
“Just try!”
I heard my entire title being waved, “Nicodemus of South America,” I turned, and it was the head RT.
“You have a visitor,” and he escorted me to the visitor room that was covered with spy-ware. It was Paramour. We embraced. She looked like she was about to break down. I held her firmly.
“Are you ok?”
“Yes, I just need to get out of here.”
“I spoke to the analyst… She doesn’t think they will let you go. The things on your mainframe make it less likely. Do you remember what you waved?”
“No. I lost all the footage for some weird reason. It’s there but as soon as I try accessing those scenes, my memory starts skipping or freezes up.”
“Your mainframe is getting worse.”
“I know,” I snapped, and then quickly held her hand apologizing. She started to cry.
“Para, please don’t… Not here… I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”
According to 
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