Stopping at the party #1

He had lost the lights but had he lost the trzcjerz?  He rode out of the sunken woods to the open grounds of a house that backed on tothesea.  An old friend of his had told him that there would be a party that night.  It was way late fora party, but the house was still fully lit from within. He left his horse and his dogs outside and went in.

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Night of The Full Moon #3

Night of The Full Moon #3

That night there was to be a full moon.  He met the others mid-evening at “The Coal Exchenge” pub in [village name redacted] where they drank a little and ate a supper to keep them going dduring the hours ahead.

On midnight they set out and went their own ways, heading West and North across the lands of The Lord of [name redacted].  He was in a playful mood and as he rode he decided what he would try to do this evening.  He hoped that he might start some rumours among the Lord’s men.

As he rode the woods thickened so that before long he had passed from open heathland to deeper and deeper woods.  On the way the moon was still below the horizon.  He whistled to his dogs to be quiet, and he heard his friends whiste the same command to their dogs.  Soon they would be at the border to the Lord’s lands.

In those days the transition was not dangerous at all.  This was before man-traps had been invented, and in a time where reasonable hunting was still freely allowed and even encouraged. It would be several centuries before this would change. He and his friends were wealthly enough and free.  Enough so that they could own horses and avoid work if they felt the need.  He and his friends would take the oppotunity for a day off in the morning.  It was their tradition, and their    right.

Now it was time to set ruses in the woods.  They did not want to be followed and this was the reason that they rode separately and stealthily.  But if they were picked up they had certain tricks.  For instance if they saw lights and were followed they would aautomatically begin a diversion.  Not one of plain and simple retreat though, for the night was still young and they still looked forward to do some hunting to do.

Still unseen, he passed on to the older land of the Lord’s core domain. Here there a slope began.  Before long he was riding along the open middle of a long escarment. At one time this had been flat land but over the years it began to tilt to the South. In several places there were open grounds where The Game had been played for generations. Tradition demanded that anyone crossing had to beat the ground to their side, and this was done “to encourage the sea to right what it was claiming”.  He beat the ground and rode for while like that, trying to change the very shaps of the Earth. He made the noise, but it was meant for nothing.  The only thing that he knew was that the Lord’s men – if there were any about – would pick up on his beating noises, and using them would pick his track and try to follow him.  This was when contact could be made and lost again.  He headed back South and looked for the sign of lights to the North further up the slope of the escarpment.

Eventually he saw lights and he made his turn to the South.  He stopped the beating to make bettter progress and before long he could see the moon rising in the East.  The lights were not making any progress towards him, but they were definitely following him. He carried on, heading South and when he reached some cover he stopped and counted his dogs.  Now it was time to head back to the East for  home.

Trailing trackers as he was he tried to make as good progress as possible.  He passed down long driveways that led him South until he could see the Moon on the water and he could look back and no longer see lights following him.  He turned East and before long was in the thickest, oldest part of the forest.  Here the track dropped deeper into the woods and he was forced to slow down to watch his horse’s footing.


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The scent of the pork is on my …

I ate downtown.  I bought meat from a vendor and I finished one of my last poppy seed rolls.  The meat tasted OK when I ate it but it had warmed up getting to the park and the consistency had changed.  Eventually I threw a third of it away in a toilet and grabbed a tube hotel near the train station.  Even my beer had turned warm in the short. time I had it open.  It was a hot day.

By the time I was awake again it was well into the early evening.  My time zone had been twelve hours ahead.  I was still dazed and feeling more than a little skanky.  I had not showered in thirty-six hours.  My breath or my hands or my clothes started to make me aware how I smelled.  The scent of the pork would          come and go.  Sometimes it seemed spicy, other times less pleasant.   I wondered how long it would take me to throw up.  My hands  and my fingers reeked.  I washed them with soap and it seemed better.

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In no man’s land / Today I am a spy

This was a meeting, trading and transitioning place. Like Anchorage airport on a busy day but not confined to aeroplanes, their goods and passengers. The location was out in the Far East and somewhere in the Far North. It was an Internet destination, sometimes short-lived. It had at one time been very busy for “the electronic traveller”, that is to say those people who travelled with and defined their progress using one or more electronic sensors. These started with cell phones of course, but the bots that could be installed on them had many characteristics. Some were social media, often used as a narrow means of identification. Facebook and Google+ speak for themselves. Also there were what I will call the image intensive “sub apps” like Singular and Pinterest. But many players also ran a lot of custom apps

New breeds of bot and types of sensor continued to appear as the cyberwars got hotter and more vicious.  RFC-capable devices and applications like payments were increasingly popular, becoming more personal and innovative.  The main identification keys were derived from your passport and extensions to it.  Your professional associations were also important.  “Are you an engineer, and if so what kind?”.  Your language, dialect, and so on became features of your appearance.  You might search and look to associate with all native persons from Kobe, Japan but not necessarily Tokyo or even or Japan in general. Your mode of travel might be single or in a group.  How large was  your group?  Did this indicate your need to travel using a private rather than a commercial carrier?  The private traveller is usually seen only fleetingly and in passing, whereas group members often have to rendezvous and wait around.

In extreme times whole city areas providing shelter and support for travellers could be filled or empty very quickly. Also, people could actually die if they were waiting at a remote location for transport that never arrived.  The waiting areas could also be blocked at will by  the authorities.  They could also be turned into kill zones.


One afternoon all East-West identification sharing just stopped working.  Situations like this were quite common but rarely for the same reasons.  This one was at least partly due to problems between DPRK and the West. It was expected to be resolved quickly but the timing was uncertain.  It could take a while, leaving some people without recognition entirely and consequently unable to travel or buy temporary food and accommodation.  What was usually a whole city block full of waiting areas was completely available, and people were reduced to walking across the tundra without contact with others at all.

On a simulator, the tundra looked just like that.  Frozen fields of empty snow with a few black dots moving across it.  Then, as service started to come back, different types of of ID start to be recognized. Slowly for individuals and then suddenly for groups.  One minute you could find yourself on your own walking across the tundra, perhaps dealing with threats from hostile border agents.  Then, all of a sudden you would be sitting in a waiting room full of people in the process of being discovered.  Members were still being associated with their groups and interests but no conversations were up.  Then, before very long people you didn’t know would start saying hi to you and and even be wanting to make deals with you.

Earlier on there that day there had been just one waiting area open. This was unusual.  People were holding up their credentials to one another.  There might be different reactions.  Someone  else’s handset might flash red to indicate that it was blocked, or it might flash green to indicate a successful pairing.  But there could be danger too, and agents might start to follow you.  People you did not know.  On an earlier occasion I had to try to disappear more than once to shake such a pursuit.  “Today I am a spy”, I thought.

This time the outage was short-lived and things opened up quickly.  All the old halls came back within half an hour, with multiple levels, services and signage.  Even the food court opened quickly.  But it was  confusing.  All of a sudden “Mr.Itoh” was waving at me from the entrance to a restaurant three floors up.  It turned out he was interested in someone else who was standing behind me.  Too bad because I was getting hungry myself.  And then there was Ms.Shih.







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Lagonda Dream

One time I was out driving the Lagonda late at  night. It was shortly after I had bought it, and it was the first time I realized what a magical ride it gave.  I was driving back to town along what is basically a dirt road along the West side of The Floodway.  It was high Summer, moonless, about two in the morning. The grass was high, just a sea of seed pods, those miraculous things that look like grand wheat but they are impossible to eat. I could barely see where I was going, just a gap in the ocean of grass ahead. The car was a beast. It ran in high gear at what must have been eighty all the way. It seemed to know the road. The suspension and the tires were so massive hardly any vibration came though. After a while I realized that I need to change down and run at a more sensible speed.

I learned even more that night about The Program. I had been in a part of town where I had not visited for several years. Before I moved away, in fact. Even more, I was visiting the [morning] meeting at places where I had only gone before [in the evening]. The first place I was recognized by at least a  couple of the people. The conversation was way off topic but one of our number had wanted to air some “outside issues”, and this involved talking about drugs, in that town of all towns, so that it seemed everybody could relate. Everybody that didn’t relate didn’t speak, at least. The conversation was so fleeting I could barely track it, but the issue I glommed onto involved the  discovery that you are who you are and not able to change it. So much of our experience involves trying out different personas “to see if they fit us”.  They rarely do because we are all on a roll, which can be a very dishonest business.  We get stuck on who and what we are, and we often hate it for various reasons. It can take quite a epiphany to shed the scales from our eyes. This can be a painful process.

After the first meeting wound down I walked along by the park and the railway station to another old group. They were in full swing. My mind was still trying to process the output of the first meeting and by now I thought I had it down. There was quite a reaction to what I said.  Raucous laughter in places, especially from the more bellicose men. But one of the other members put it best, by juxtaposing how you might try to avoid a drug-induced stroke by taking a third substance. The best solution was always to stop taking everything. The conversation seguayed into some comments about “The Ticket That Exploded” or  some such work, but it still missed the real point. The best high is no high at all and the limitless pleasure that comes from living right. It never involves having to try to brainwash oneself or explore another galaxy.

I got lost on the way back to find my car and ended up at a third meeting. This was a meeting involving many of the wealthier members. They were usually telling each other  where they had just got back from, and so it tended to be more refined and less in depth. I recounted my experiences of the morning but was mostly ignored.


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Researching grouping of objects and methods in the real world

How to research grouping of objects and methods in the real world?

[First posted 26th June 2017].


1) Filing or listing the composition of artificial surfaces, for example walls or floors (interior or exterior) made out of recyclable or non-recyclable man-made or non-man-made materials:

An example would be walls made out of or accumulated from found objects like plastic bags:
These would have different qualities:


  • Light reflectance
  • Density
  • Load-bearing capabilities (or not)
  • Size
  • How common is the type of compositio

2) Ex 2.How to research grouping of objects and methods in the real world?

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The Recombinator

At 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning at the end of April he was still asleep. He got up and went to the bathroom.  “Three old ladies”, he said to himself, trying to ward off premature micturition.  The charm only worked sporadically.  The light was breaking as he walked back into the bedroom from his bathroom. There was a pinkish-orange blush in the East, but in the West the sky was darker in successively deeper shades of grey. He thought about going back to sleep, but the dream came back to him and he sat down at the keyboard with a cold cup of coffee and started to type.

He was approaching his seventieth birthday.  It which would fall in two days right after the weekend.  He had nothing planned that day except a visit to the dentist.  The girls in the dentist’s office thought he should not book an appointment on his birthday, but he took the opposite view.  This was the same as yesterday, when he decided to sell five thousand dollars worth of bank stock.  It had lost more than six per cent of its book value in the space of a week.  Some story about working conditions and forced sales. He had spent six months delaying his purchase but now he decided he could do without the uncertainty.  It was more important to hang on to his hard-earned cash. The five thousand dollars had come from a tax return two years ago.  He would have liked to have kept more tax returns.

Sleeping was very important to him, these days a lot more so than sex. The older he got sex seemed to require more stimulation and gave much less interesting results.  But dreaming had become a circular thing.  Years ago he would have experienced a dream as a serial flow of different events. Now his mind just seemed to want to play variations of the same theme over and over again. Last night it was The Recombinator.  Like a travel-stained survivor of  life a century before in the deep South West, The Recombinator lived a harsh life expressing different aspects of his ethos, his philosophy, and his way of life, mostly with his revolver.  His justice was brutal and simple. It involved his very survival more than it had anything at all to do with the law.  This seemed to be mostly a pretext.  He thought of his hero as a savage, but really he was just a product of his lifestyle.  He recycled lives the way these days you recycled soft drink cans.  You crushed them and collected nothing at all on exit.


What a world! A young refugee was drowned and his body washed up on a beach.  Once alive it became suddenly lifeless and inert.  Picked up by a patrolman it became the centrepiece of a new pieta.  Once photographed in a fleeting news cycle it became the object of universal pity.  A week later it was mostly forgotten.  Whole boatloads of adult refugees perished daily.  Even a pieta was something he knew of only from pictures.  He had witnessed such a scene once high up on the dark wall of a Catholic church, but it seemed somehow contrived and foreign.  Not real, and not in my world, he felt.  But it left an indefinable kind of a  taste in his mouth.  Like of salt water, the non-taste of sand, and fluids leaking from the guts of the corpse.  Heavily diluted, but still there.


He had a mind that was stuck on History and he could not shake some of the ideas he had collected through his life.  Having lived a life in unbroken peace in the West, he had little to compare with Events In The Real World.  He had never seen a dead body, unless it was fleetingly from the window of a bus passing down Lillie Road about 1973. He saw the image of a man’s face, turned to the left and pressed to the road.  He saw  the man’s two arms thrown ahead.  Had he seen a trace of blood under the head?  The bus passed, and the conductor made a comment of finality.  “He’s laid out, then.”  Or were they the words of a train driver when they had had to stop after hitting a body on the way  down to St.Pancras.  Even when his mother had died, he did not go to see her body.  She had paid for it, but he had been too tired to go to the viewing he had arranged.


Money in everything.

The lie of Capitalism.

The Evil that is in the World.

As Jesus saved the World, why might he not invent a new  solution.



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