Writing is a superpower. Writing by hand produces a deep engagement. Typing is a miracle of efficiency. Recording videos and voice clips can also be thought of as a form of writing.
But writing in the sense that is being done here on the page…is special.
Writing broadly speaking can be defined as the organization of thought, the cataloguing of experience, and the engine of idea generation.
It may be a phenomenon peculiar to me. Or to people like me.
Those who by temperament and upbringing place high value on reading and writing.
But I feel that one does not have the full range of human experience if one neglects the practice of writing.
To fully honor the peculiar machinery of Homo Sapiens is to put it through its paces. We can in my opinion be described as memory machines. This is not a reductionist take being proposed but rather an angle that elucidates Geist.
A human life can be thought of as limit defined unfolding. Or more poetically blossoming.
We are limited by time, by geography, by upbringing, by culture, genes, etc.
These things create the basic unit known as individual who through experience expands into the peculiarities of personality.
This blossoming is profoundly and particularly fostered by the complementary soils of reading and writing.
Why is this so?
Language.
Mathematics is called the universal language but there is much more qualia to the human experience than the quantitative business of ‘maths.’
Music or audible ‘maths’ adds a touch of qualia and gets closer to essential humanity by being a profoundly temporal thing. In simpler terms..in honoring time…through only being intelligible in time…music gets closer to essential Geist.
Pictorial representation, paintings, and the moving pictures known as films are more closely akin to the Episodic operations of Geist. Even in a still painting the passage of time is implicit and there is an idea capture of vast arrays of qualia. Again, I must simplify…Pictures are worth a thousand words.
But a thousand words are how you see the picture.
That is why language is so peculiarly crucial to humanity to spirit.
It is simultaneously bound by time and transcendent of time.
We are playing with the idea that human life can be thought of as limit defined unfolding.
Can you see how the pieces fit?
How perhaps this is why there exists the verse ‘In the Beginning was the Word’?
Both in time and out of time is language. A single word, or phrase, can link experiences broad enough to be shared by a nation and specific enough to the singular time bound locutions of the individual.
That is why writing is a superpower.
Writing or the cultivation of language is indispensable to a fulfilled human experience.
The richer your storehouse of words of individually experienced glimpses of collectively accrued insights of essential truths the greater is your capacity for ideas, engagement, sorrow joy…experience.
That is why it is so lamentable that we’ve so pedestalized simplicity that discussions of a literacy crisis have begun.
Pithy, business friendly, efficient means of expression have their places. But pithy, business friendly, efficient means barely scratch the surface of human experience.
We needlessly impoverish ourselves and our societies with this insistence on simplification.
This simplification does not simplify. It does not make us more folksy, approachable, intelligible, humble, or efficient.
This is profoundly evident in the fact that our national discourse, our films, books, musics, and personal interactions have suffered.
A suffering often manifesting itself as awkwardness, angst, and pale imitations in the form of nostalgia and remakes.
This is by no means an elitist screed. There is much to be said for oral traditions, for the simple experience of merely living, for the profound insights that unlettered men and women can and do bring into the lives of their families, friends, and societies.
But writing does exist. And simply because we have good folksy wisdom filled people, pithy entertainers, and terse thrillers doesn’t mean we can’t…have…that we don’t absolutely need MORE.
More exists…whether or not we choose to engage with more is up to us on both the individual and societal level.
Considering that we are memory machines I’d suggest we do more engaging.
If you find the description of memory machines dubious then consider the aforementioned popularity of nostalgia and remakes.
We iterate our way through memories…that is how our spirit…our Geist operates.
‘Do this in the remembrance of me.’ Said Christ.
There is a reason that so many of the things we hold most profound make mention of memory.
Memory is integral to our humanity.
Language is the thing that makes memory, intelligible,communicable and ripe for harvest.
Writing is the deep, physical, and spiritual practice of language.
That is why writing is a superpower.
It is a superpower that many of us have, some of us must get, and all of us must exercise!
Video in which I retread old ground and revel in my favorite fascinations. Because I must.
A rough time stamping for those who havened mastered the fine art of the fifteen hour cappacino despite the fact that you cant spell it and the repo man approacheth.
9:00| Minimum Viable Product doesn’t make for good Literature Opinions on Storytelling
11:24| Description of ‘The Sketch of Sam Monroe’ my jungle themed novel in progress
12:55| Percy Fawcett and the Lost City of Z and Synchronicity
14:21| My Psychedelic Disclaimer and why some psychonauts are the worst kind of Presbyterian
17:50| Reading ‘The Green Cathedral’ the opening to ‘The Sketch of Sam Monroe’
20:16| The setting begets the story – vibe based storytelling
21:29| Aliens! Phil Schneider Alien Human War 1979! That weird 80s/90s ish Nichols/Cameron video Did this video inspire Stranger Things LOL The Grays Get Drunk and Smell Bed (Rednecks?) Patronus Sex Spell Unicorn wTf
The following tale is one I began as a writing exercise a while back. Since I haven’t uploaded anything for a while I thought it was just good enough to share as a teaser. Hope you enjoy. Any feedback is appreciated.
Carter
Jesus.
It was cold.
So cold.
The door.
It wasn’t far now.
Just a few hundred sloshing paces ahead.
A harsh whistle and the metallic ping of projectile impact.
Carter broke into a run.
How had they caught up so fast?
No time to think about it now.
“Fucking serpentine dipshit!” Lauren’s voice blasted tinny across the plane.
He zigged. He zagged. He slid.
He was at the door.
The card. Where was the fucking keycard…?
His fumbling seemed eternal.
Another whistle.
A searing pain in his ear.
Had they hit him?
No time. No time.
Relief washed over as he’d finally dislodged the card from his cargo pocket.
He wouldn’t get the chance to use it.
There was a hiss, a clang, and two strong arms that nearly dislocated his shoulders as he was pulled into the station.
The rough rescue had caused him to flip on his ass. The new vantage affording a final glimpse of forest.
A chill ran up his spine as he registered the outline of the Nagant wielding, green hooded, figure standing deathly still at the edge of the treeline. Indifferent to the cold rain.
The door hissed closed and the magnetic lock engaged.
Fuck.
Inside
“That was dumb.”
“How else are we going to eat?”
“You stayed out too long.”
“Hey. If you’re such a pro. Why don’t you go next time.”
The low light was exhausting. Barely illuminating the utilitarian briefing room. There was coffee but it wasn’t enough.
“I’m the only one that can do repairs.”
Carter laughed. She was actually telling him he was expendable.
“You really live up to the stereotype.”
“What do you mean?”
“Germans are grating.”
Lauren rolled her eyes.
“Look. It has nothing to do with you or me or anybody. I have a role. You have a role. If either of us dies then the chances of survival significantly decrease.”
“You don’t have to spell it out.”
“Yes. I. Do.” Lauren slammed a fist onto the table.
“Javohl, mein herr.”
Lauren sighed.
“Look. When I say you have fifteen minutes. That means fifteen minutes. Not twenty. Not even fifteen and a half.”
“Try finding a spot for a beacon in fifteen minuts. If it’s not too much canopy, then it’s too conspicuous, if it’s neither, then it’s too close to the shelter, or too far from the shelter, or too close to an old beacon.”
“Again. It’s about survival. Not the beacon.”
“If I hadn’t placed it you would say the same thing.”
“No. I. Wouldn’t. I need you alive.”
“Yes, and alive means I need food. And without the beacon there is no food. So if I played it safe. You’d be here telling me fifteen minutes was just an estimate. There is no neat way to survive Lauren.”
“I can see them on the thermals Carter. I know their patterns, their paths, their habits. There are opportunities enough without heroics.”
“That’s not what the pantry says.”
Lauren stood up, glared, and stiffly strode away.
That was fine. He was tired.
The beacon was set.
Food would come.
He guzzled the remainder of the acrid coffee and headed for the bunks.
The shelter was a maze of corridors, stairwells, rooms, and rooms within rooms.
He’d spent half a decade here and still managed to get lost at least once a week.
But he knew the bunks well enough.
The walls displayed alternating scenes of the old life. Cities, forest, transit, things that soothed, that gave a sense of normality.
Or at least they used to.
Now it was just row upon row of blank screens. And that slumber inducing low light.
Power conservation.
That was exactly Carters plan as well.
He fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow five stories beneath the earth.
The Dash
The trucks were housed in a cavernous garage just beneath the field.
Carter, Borowski, Schubert, Johnson, and Reid were making the grim march there.
Mossbergs, Berettas, Gerbers, and active camoflouge was a weird way to pickup the groceries.
That dim light was all pervasive. It was a site wide policy.
That’s why Johnson almost shot Rand.
“Hey..” Rand began as he rolled out from under the truck.
Only to have his words cut short by the audible click of a safety.
“Jesus..watch where you point that thing asshole.”
“Ain’t smart to surprise us like that.”
“Lauren didn’t tell you I was down here.”
Johnson shook his head.
“Of course the techie doesn’t think the mechanic matters.”
“Is there something wrong with the truck?” Borowski asked.
“Not anymore.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“Can’t exactly go to Auto Zone.”
“Auto Zone?”
“Nevermind kid.”
“Ok.”
“You guys need to go NOW.” Lauren’s tinny voice blasted through the PA.
“Guess it’s gonna have to do.”
“It’ll do.” Rand said picking up his toolkit.
Carter was always struck by the size of these machines.
The tracks reached chest height and the cabin stood eight feet off the ground.
Borowski slid open the door and made his way to cockpit.
Carter rode shotgun.
The others buckled themselves to the bench.
The engine roared to life with a low rumble.
Borowski’s ability to pull these behemoths from between each other never failed to impress.
It was a football field and a half before they hit the incline leading to the bay door.
Twilight pervaded.
The stillness was palpable. Even from within the hull of the motorized behemoth the liminal eeriness went bone deep.
“Three miles to the dropsite.” Lauren’s voice came crisply through the coms.
“Any bogies?”
“Negative.”
Three miles in this all terrain monstrosity was reasonably quick. Reasonable wasn’t quick enough. There was no quick with something that heavy.
That didn’t stop Carter from wishing for speed. Everybody did.
The tension of being outside, in any capacity, vehicular or otherwise was all pervasive.
“You’re still good guys.”
They were thankful for the update. Thankful that somebody had aerials and an eagle eye.
The enemy was fast. The enemy was silent. The enemy had EMPs that would stop them dead in their tracks.
That would spell catastrophe. Not only the loss of a vehicle but the unsavory prospect of fighting their way back to shelter. Fighting their way back to shelter without food.
The drop off points had to be moved constantly. Otherwise the enemy would anticipate the drop.
They were smart. So smart that the drop points had to be as random as possible. Which was a thorny problem. They had to be close enough for a quick pickup and clear of trees.
79b was nestled in the Appalachian woods.
Thorny.
Carter had a constant eye on the thermals and noise meter.
This part of Kentucky had not been rewilded.
There was no fauna.
Not since the event.
Any signature that wasn’t wind or that was louder than the creaking timber and falling leaves was suspicious.
He knew that trusting the tech was a bad idea.
All clear on aerials, all clear on thermals, and all clear on sonic meant nothing. So he’d swivel around the 360 degree cylindrical protrusion that served as the cockpit. Gazing out at the eerie surrounds through a bulletproof windshield that ran the circumference.
Nothing. Nothing. Good. Good.
The outside never failed to make six minutes seem like six hours.
“There’s dinner.” Borowski said in his laconic midwestern patois.
He drove past it. Then backed.
Without looking up he flicked an overhead switch.
“Cargo bay opening. Stand clear. Cargo bay opening. Stand clear.” A business like female voice informed them.
“Stations.” Carter said.
There was some rocking and commotion below as the rest of the team manned the various SAW machine guns.
Borowski flicked another switch.
“Cargo detected.”
Another flick in the sequence.
“Tractor engaged.”
This was the most vulnerable part of the operation.
It took a full minute and a half for the arms to mate with the two ton armored refrigerator. It took two more to pull it into the bay.
That was nearly four minutes of being sitting ducks.
“You’re all clear.” Lauren’s voice informed.
“Thermals clear. Sonic clear. Visual clear.” Carter said.
He swore that the sound of his teeth grinding was audible through the comm.
“Gunners. Give immediate report of hostiles. Do not. I repeat do not. I repeat DO NOT open fire until either I or your commanding officer authenticate.”
There was a three man round of, “Copy.”
Another minute dragged on.
“Mating complete.”
Nobody laughed at the odd word choice.
Another overhead switch made friends with Borowski’s index finger.
“Tractor engaged.”
‘Ah, the two minutes of hell.’ Carter mused grimly as the cargo began its tedious journey into the bay.
The biggest fear on everyone’s mind during this moment was never the enemy.
It was mechanical failure.
It was the one thing worse than the wait. An actual bodily presence on the outside was as appealing as jumping into shark infested waters.
The bizarre reality of the earth itself becoming so foreign, so dreadful, was something that the elders often remarked on. The green grass, the blue sky, the bright sun, the summer rain, all these instinctual pleasures now held a shadow an otherness.
If the tractor failed then that would begin a round of troubleshooting that could last up to an hour.
An hour on Earth. Earth the hostile planet.
The enemy snipers were good. Preternaturally good.
79b had learned this the hard way.
Fast, nearly imperceptible with anything less than thermals, firing from in between trees and branches They would reposition in utter silence. Even from mere steps away you wouldn’t hear theirs.
Carters’ squad was the sixth.
He had no intention of making room for a lucky number seven.
It was rare that the gunners would spot a bogie before he did.
He did not engage the enemy unless a complication that involved exposure arose.
The enemy did not waste bullets.
As far as experience showed they did not possess any heavy weapons. Nothing armor piercing. They wouldn’t fire unless they had an almost certain chance of killing personnel.
Repairs were made with alternating runs preceded by suppressive fire.
The one wildcard in all this was the EMPs.
While the enemies’ access to EMPs in this sector was not particularly robust, prior teams had been hit on occasion.
Extraction was costly.
Carter had no intention of being extracted.
EMPs that produced a pulse powerful enough to break through the armor, electronic shielding, and neutralize a vehicle of this size were unwieldy.
That’s why it was so important to select drop sites where the enemy had little room for cover. Or be given any advance notice that allowed EMPs to be placed near a dropsite.
The spot was good. The meadowland was open. There was no tall grass or geological formations.
He’d see them coming. Or the drone would.
This was one of sixteen dropsites that had been used.
Thus far they had never used a dropsite more than once a season.
This would be the second time they use this one.
So, despite the enemies’ severely limited capacity for ambush Carter remained exceedingly tense.
Best practices could be bested.
Despite their diligent efforts to randomize he wasn’t sure the enemy wouldn’t find a pattern.
Fortunately, the process was nearly complete.
“Cargo acquired. Securing in progress.”
The worst part of the two minutes of hell was over.
The remaining half minute came and went.
“Cargo Secured. Ready for transport.”
There was a loud thump as the sloping bay door came to a close.
“Haul ass.”
“Copy.”
Forty miles an hour, that was hauling ass.
Everyone was fixated on the surroundings. Watching for any little motion. Any little thing out of place.
Everybody’s jaws ached. Everyone’s shoulders were taught with angst.
The earth opened up just a few hundred yards away.
Like a yawning mouth full of dim lights.
They were home free.
Whiskey
The break room wasn’t much different from the briefing room. Spartan, utilitarian, furnished with essentials only, it had a decidedly clinical feel. There wasn’t a soul that would find the business-like upholstery cozy.
Souls were something they’d let go long ago. So, while it wasn’t the Ritz Carlton. It was cozy enough.
Without a hint of ceremony Carter slid four tin tumblers to their respective squad members. He then proceded to pour each man a shot from a flask full of bourbon.
The science said that alcohol was a poor palliative for nerves. Just a temporary hit to the cerebellum. Some relaxed muscles and dampened alertness did not address the deeper physiological and cognitive effects of stress.
Screw the science.
Carter pulled the cork so the thump was as exegeratted as possible and poured each man a drink.
Everyone downed their shot in a single unceremonious gulp.
Carter repeated the process till just over half the bottle was empty.
The Fractal Journal 