The meaning of life is a nighttime bike ride and a fresh IPA.
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A brief look at Michael Crichton’s approach to storytelling. Followed up by an exploration of what makes a great yarn. Let me know what you think!
The music used in this video is my own. The intro entirely so. The second with my jam band and some borrowing from Bach Preludes.
I also make music! https://soundcloud.com/alex-weir-12291520
I hope you enjoyed the video!
Help buy me time to make more content! You can use Patreon or Subscribestar. Linked below!
The shine kissed the hills.
Warm grasses swayed beneath the pulling of the wind.
Cross legged and decidedly unclenched….uncloistered….
I gazed at gulls in their fleeting circles….
Should I tread down, once more, to the shoreline?
Should I kick the salty texture of the sea?
Which odd assortment of neural fire must I stoke?
Locomotion was such a drag.
A ritual for sluggards.
So, I sat, like the coastal grasses, heeding only the wind.
Would I become like the bleached driftwood?
Light but substantive…. yielding but substantial….
Was it even a worthy goal?
What is ‘worth’ anyway?
Besides a synapse thwarted…
The remaining sunlight had many hours.
I would keep them.
Stillness, what a joke…
Everything rebels against that clown.
To sit…eschewing motion…
The heart itself knows there is no escape…
And so it moves…so it rhymes…
So it keeps the tension.
So it produces time.
My lips want beer.
My skin wants touch…
Corpus cannot drift cannot wooden be…
Just effulgent suds…
Ethereal…
Uncatchable…
Without a bottle…
Glistening polychromatic in the shine
Kissing the hills
Swaying the grasses
Warmth
Legs grip to behold guls circumscribing
Exulting in direction
Choosing none
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The world is there
And its on fire
With force rise bare
No muck no mire
Just simple steps
Not a procession
How water laps
Decisive in possession
Of turbulent
Made
Heaven sending
How rayed
Effulggent
And descending
The honest reed
To timber taut
Who here shall heed
What the wind brought
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“Try again.”
Gary pulled the string.
The dark failed to dissipate.
“Sometimes it takes two or three yanks. Just… the right way to turn it on.”
Gary had to simultaneously suppress both his growing annoyance and a chuckle.
“Yea. Well its still off.”
“Damn. That’s the weirdest….you saw the power on upstairs….”
“Well, the wiring down here is older. Probably a lot older.”
“I get that….but…it always worked when I was down here before.”
Thomas replied shining his way over and testing the switch for himself.
“Ah…hell…looks like we’re going to have to work in the dark.”
“We have flashlights.”
“Yeah…but like I said you’re going to need both hands for balance.”
“Well…we should have brought headlamps.”
“Yeah, well we didn’t…besides you really need all the light you can get.”
“What so we can really easily be caught trespassing.”
“NO one is gonna come down here dude….not with how dangerous it is…that’s why we need the lights…”
“But this is just one…”
“Do you ever pay attention….it has to have power flowing through it for the others to turn on.”
“That’s weird…is there a circuit breaker anywhere around here.”
“What are you an electrician now?”
“No…but I have a router and you know how sometimes turning it on and off gets it working again.” Gary replied shining his light around room.
“It could be upstairs for all we know.”
“Yeah….or it could be that thing over there…” Gary retorted smugly as he shined his light on a metal panel.
Despite the dark he felt like he could hear Thomas rolling his eyes.
“Yeah, well good luck with that, if you shut off the power to the building or even just the wing…”
“Bro, the thing is probably labeled right?” Gary replied approaching and opening the panel.
Sure enough he saw very faded but legible penciled in legends: Main Hall, Dining Room, Theater, Library, Lecture 101, 103, 105, he scanned down a few dozen more switches…Cellar. “Eureka!”
It was sitting there kind of in the half way position. So, he turned it off and…there was a fizz, a spark…sickly yellow light.
He’d known that the cellar was big but wow…
“Holy shit … this place is massive….what the hell is all that….”
“Beats me man…” Thomas said stepping over pipe and wire … “but I know the trap is just under that machine there.”
The pair hopped and dodged what must have been thousands of machine parts, bolts, and other mechanical bric-a-brac till they made it to a chest high semi cylindrical bit of metal with some kind of doubled up copper coil on the side.
Thomas opened a panel on the opposing side revealing two copper pipes hovering over some kind of mesh and a trap door.
With a self-satisfied smirk he gazed from Gary to an inky set of rungs.
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Temporary Wet Cement
temporary
temporary
im
temporary
temporary
down
temporary
temporary here
temporary tehre
temporary
in trafalagar square
iiiim
the
wet cement
and i am bleeding
through the topsoil
i dont even know
what im going to spoil next
im temporary
temporary
taste of cherries in my mouth
gin and tonic
its just sonic
sonic confucison
in my miiiiind
my clock is ein
ein eiiiiiin
its mine
my temporary
so wooden and precise
it ticks away
the hours
thrice
and turns again
into temporary
up and own
around
the sound the ground
its wet cement
and i
i ……….aaaaaa….iiiiii
bleeding through the topsoil
find my couse
bleeding throuhg topsoil find my course
iiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
embracing
chasing chasing chasing rabbits in my
fevers
fleeting
fever so fleeting
and im left so empty full of scorn
im remporay
tmeporary
i bloom
i rot
iii
o\
im wet cement
wet cement
i cant produce any comment
wet cement
im wet cement
i smell prosaic
temorary
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The world was a brilliant green. Although there wasn’t much to it. When the waves were calm it didn’t look too different from a field. An endless field in every direction only broken by the distant hulking target.
For the uninitiated it would be unnerving.
Aden checked the rebreather one final time and broke the surface with nary a splash. Not that it mattered at this distance. The environs were as limitless as before. Though now without the stars the world had grown more alien than an interstellar cruise.
Unhooking the scooter from the rubber hull and pointing northwest he engaged a trio of silent jets. This was his favorite part. Plunging toward insertion with all the sonic fanfare of a minnow, he reveled in the weightless flight.
Three and half miles and some adjustments later he was within range. He left the scooter letting it hover. After assuring the thing was synched with his watch he swam the remaining mile and half to the colossal hull of the Mortimer.
I was on the shore.
The pier was a few miles distant.
I exited the hatchback.
My wingtips scraping up wet sand and sullying my slacks.
It was empty.
Not a soul in sight.
An occasional seagull or distant pelican were my only companions.
The grey cloud littered sky threatened neither rain nor shine in its resigned indifference.
I was not indifferent.
I had to know.
The old man lived on an island just a half mile from the coast.
The pier was ancient. Whatever lumber or process had been used was definitely excellent. The antique bolts and joists spoke of a long forgotten century.
The dinghy was moored to a post.
I should have dressed more appropriately.
But I also should have been warned of a swim.
That was all irrelevant.
I waded almost to my waist and awkwardly hauled myself into the boat.
Motor traffic was strictly prohibited in the cove.
I began to row.
It’s so calm in the mountains.
The rain hitting the tin roof.
It’s absolute bliss.
I could lay forever in this cot.
It’s so rare to achieve perfect stillness.
I’ve achieved it.
For now.
I’ll only lay here for the duration of the rain.
Stillness in respite.
That sort of thing is fine.
An even finer thing is motion.
Or the smoothing of mental turbulence through footfalls.
Footfalls as regular as drops of rain.
I’d soon fall into rhythm.
There were just a few things to secure in the ruck.
Just a few more indeterminate eternities to cascade onto tin.
Just a few more to bathe my soul.
The smell of damp earth, dead leaves, and pine drifted in among the timber aroma of the cabin.
A perfect touch of cool refreshing air through a slightly cracked window.
An invitation beckoning my strides.
Yet the rain, so right, so rhythmic kept them resting till the appointed stave.
Unbidden through the stillness harmony speaks.
Not Science
Not Philosophy
Not Art
Not Language
Math is math
QUANTITY AND QUANTATIVE RELATIONS EXPRESSED AS ARABIC SYMBOLS AND THEIR STAND INS
NOTHING MORE
NOTHING LESS
The Fractal Journal 