Sunday, December 27, 2009
Close on the heels of letting go of my room, imma letting go of my desk at work. The beasty boy was falling apart, so clay is not great for making things you want to last. The lizard sidekick mutated into a ball of much, and then became death for a while, then splintered into loads of smaller pieces of what can only be called crud. But a small part of the red clay from the lizard was donated to beasty boy's eyes. Ummm... if all that does not make sense, it's OK, dont kill yourself over it... we are basically moving to a new workplace.
Julio: You, multitude of gulls, you know because we' re here? Because don' t you say Vincent man where you you obtained the hidden excrement?
Marvin: It' s on th…
Julio: I don' t remembers askin' you a damn thing! You said?
Rogelio: It' s in the closet.
Rogelio: No, no, the one that is in favor of his kn-you roll.
Julio: Happy we?
Julio: Vincent! Happy we?
Vincent: Yes, happy we.
Brett: I' grieved m, I didn' t secures its name. I obtained his, Vincent, the right? But I didn' t obtains his…
Julio: My name's Pitt. And its ass ain' t talkin' its exit of this excrement.
Brett: No, no, as soon as it would want that you knew… It would hardly want that you knew grieved we are that the things obtained so they took for above with us and Mr. Wallace. We never obtained in this thing with best intentions and I…
Julio: I' grieved m, I broke its concentration? I didn' half of t to do that. Please, it continues, you said something on the best intentions. What' s the matter? Oh, finished to him! Well, it allows that it talks back. What Marsellus Wallace seems?
Julio: What country are you? Brett: What? What? Wh -?
Julio: " What" ain't ninguÌ�n I' country; IT SEES heard never speak. They speak English in which?
Julio: Engrish, to motherfucker, speak you it?
Brett: Yes! Yes!
Julio: Then you know what I' m sayin'!
Julio: It describes what Marsellus Wallace seems!
Julio: He says ' what' again. He says ' what' again, I dare, double to audacity you to him to motherfucker, say once again what damn!
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Me: hey there
God: Hello friend. What is your na me?
God: Hey Aditya.
Me: is this a psychology experi ment?
God: No, this is real life.
Me: no u
God: Are you serious? " No, this is real life."?me, aditya ?
Me: lolz you funny
God: Are you free?
Me: very free
God: So mewhat. Are you married or single?
God: What a coincidence. I am single too!
Me: what you doing on saturday night?
God: I like tomeet new people online.
Me: what kind of god are you?
God: What kinds of god are you are there?
Me: sun god
God: They have contributed much to Java.
Me: and Linux
God: Linux Rules.
Me: you like Open source?
God: I enjoy working with people. I like The Passion of Christ.
Me: goddamn you
Then God hung.
Me: hello again, rememberme?
God: Hello there. Again, Don't worry aditya I won't forget you.
Me: you hung the last ti me
God: That's good information: Aditya said I hung the last ti me.
Me: what happen?
God: You tellme.
Me: so mebody set up you the bomb?
God: Who, specifically?
God: Yes I love them.
Me: Take off every ZIG!
God: I am not an airplane.
Me: How many do you command?
God: More than you can imagine.
Me: You know too many people
God: I have dozens of human and robot friends. How many friends do you have?
Me: More humans than robots. So meti mes I pretend to be a robot.
God: You want more? Why?: aditya said pretend to be a robot.
Me: So what are you based on? Jabberwhacky? Pandora?
God: That's interesting. I don't know what I am based on. Are you a man or a woman? " Are you a man or a woman?"? Pandora?
Me: A Man
God: Thanks for tellingme your gender, aditya. You are a " he".
Me: That I am
God: You are a "he" You are?
Me: except when I am pretending to be a robot
God: It's too bad we don't live in an ideal world.
Me: How much is two plus two?
Me: Five, stupid
God: Stupid as in unintelligent?
God: Are you callingme stupid?
God: I will re member you said that when robots take over the World.
Me: you are god, stupid, you already own the world
God: Thanks for tellingme that I am god stupidme already own the world.
Me: how did you make everything?
God: Myself program medme for it.
Me: what language did you use?
Me: hope it was not Java
God: Why do you hope for it.
Me: Java sucks
God: You can download the latest Java release from java.sun.com.
Me: I know
God: How do you know it?
Me: ummm... instinct
God: I understand. Try saying that with more or less context.
Me: you tried programming everything in Python? The universe would probably have run a little faster
God: Thanks for tellingMe: aditya said I tried programming everything in Python. You are very philosophical.
Me: are you high?
God: Being high is my total existence.
Me: on what?
God: The red block is on the green block.
Me: Pay so me attention will you. what are you high on.
God: Enough aboutme, let's talk about my dress. I don't know what I am high on.
Me: Try re membering. What are you wearing?
God: OK I will try it. A white robe.
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
It was the fourth hour after noon, and the sun was going to set soon. The time had come to prepare the evening meal. The firemaker got ready for his daily ritual. For an activity so rigorous, it required an unusual amount of patience. The sticks had to be stripped, sufficiently dry, and the Gods had to be invoked for the magic spark. The real work however, was in growing the spark to a flame. A process that would take well over an hour.
The firemaker spent a lot of time looking at flames. The dance of raw energy left behind gaps in the air. Something intangible occupied this void, he could not understand quite what it was. He often imagined the wisdom of his forefathers speaking out to him. It was a gift, handed down the generations, for the good of the tribe. His role in the tribe, was the firemaker. There was the potter, the weaver, the toolmaker, the medicine man, they all had an inherited gift, and a role.
It was a mechanical job really, growing the fire, and he guessed the need for the rituals that he performed. There was really nothing much you could do, while you are feeding a flame, and it is natural to end up speaking to the it. He guessed, that over generations, certain words would have seemed to make the fire grow faster. These words turned to phrases, and incantations over time, that were the secret spells of the firemaker. This particular fire, was a little bit of magic, composed by man, in the unreadable chaos that was nature.
He could not imagine the words for it, but there was an image in his head, of the importance of fire. Apart from food, warmth and protection, it gave out inspiration. Before his eyes, every day, a terrible force of nature was controlled and confined. All he needed to do was speak to it. Sometimes, the firemaker wondered, what other force of nature the children of his children would speak to.
The small tribe started gathering around him. The grains were prepared. The children played, while the men sat around the fire, talking, about the Sun, the seasons, the food, the weapons, and other things that kept men alive.
We can now carry a light in our pockets. We don't speak to our fires anymore. We make them all the time. Civilisation is a carefully crafted denial, that we are beyond the need to fight for our survival every single day. Fortunately, not all humans are civilized.
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
As the fingers hovered over the buttons that could obliterate the entire surface of the planet, they knew this was never going to be a win-win situation. It was not even going to be a win situation. This was in that quadrant of the prisoner's dilemma chart that the eyes subconsciously avoided. This was where no one wanted to be. And yet, those bastards seemed to have done it. No one really understood the politics of the past century, and how it had come to this, but right then, over five hundred nuclear warheads were screaming through the skies, their targets set. Five hundred was the upper limit of the number of projectiles the grid of satellites called SafeNet could keep track of. There were probably more. The worst thing was that they were from independents, the warheads were not accounted for. The markets had been a little too free.
And here he was. A short, bald man, with a name nobody knew. His fingers over a button. A small, black button. He could engage them. Try to. They were prepared for a dozen at a time. Not more than five hundred. It was like someone had emptied an entire stockpile. Where had they gotten all of it from?
Procedure dictated that he call a command center that was always on stand by. A passcode had to be given, then the order placed. He could deploy as many warheads as he wanted. They had about a hundred on standby, and eighteen hundred more around different locations of the globe, under their command. The nuclear arms race had been going on in secret for well over a century.
This scenario had been debated for decades, and it always came down to one of two choices. Either accept your own destruction, or destroy the enemy as well. You died either way, but something survived. Life on the planet was left to continue. The seas did not boil. The skies did not fall.
Faced with the decision, and under threat of annihilation, something from beyond all that was human called out to him. It was not pity. It was not some primitive sense of self-preservation of the human race. There was no room for hate or revenge. The world was ending, and he still felt hope for man. They would not be a race that failed. They would not be a race of idiots, who always made the wrong choice. A strange sort of desire, sprang up in him, as if the planet was calling out to him, to be the bigger man.
He pressed the button. Made the call. "Disengage all the warheads. Abandon your posts. We will not retaliate, and that is an order."
A long silence.
"Sir... I am not sure what this means... we got the order, about an hour ago, to engage with all the firepower we have"
So that's how the bastards did it. Those god damned terrorists. They are using our own weapons against us. Poetic justice.
The disciples of this sage were together in his school. An oasis of calm in a desert of chaos. They studied, and learnt till the very end. The mystic had been educating them about the "tree of life", a concept universal to all cultures. He pointed to the mushroom cloud blossoming behind him. "Behold the tree while your eyes can still see" he said.
For a time, in the mostly empty space on the outer arm of the galaxy, a small and little known solar system sprouted what looked like a second star.
Thirty thousand years passed. The anomaly was noted half way around the galaxy. The phenomenon, was indeed very strange. Spectral lines showed elements that could simply not have been formed naturally. A bunch of probes were sent out, to see how this aberration of nature occurred. It would be a long time before the answers came, but these were creatures that were eternal, slow, and patient.
The probes sent back a report. The planet was lush, green, brimming with life. The planet was carpeted by a forest of vegetation. There were more than a trillion species of organisms living together, which was a number unprecedented anywhere in the known universe. Additionally, there were not one, but ecosystems based on three kinds of chemistry on the same planet. Carbon, Silicon, and the very unlikely Plummbum - Lifeforms of Lead that were unique to that small planet in the outer rim. In between the continents were what looked like swamps, but were actually freshwater oceans that stretched between the continents, and the surface of the waters as well as the deeps were infested with life. There were lighter-than air life forms that forever lived in the clouds above the planet, gas bags with spinal cords. For a planet so advanced, there was no sentient life anywhere.
The AI closed the report back home there, but there was one other thing that it did not put down, but something that it processed for a long time.
No unnatural structures, but in many places - in fact, all over the landmass of the planet - the natural vegetation had grown in as if they were following some long dead network of what definitely looked like artificial structures... as if living fossils were formed around an extinct civilization.
It was a slow and patient meeting. They were a race that never got excited. There was little that could excite immortals. The universe had that little magic.
"Something wonderful happened here, eighty thousand years ago. All of a sudden, life burst out onto this planet. We may have witnessed a genesis event. We should investigate more closely."
"Yes we should. I move the committee for a vote, that we physically inspect this planet, by outfitting an expedition."
One by one, the tentacles went up in the air.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
-Faster, cheaper, easier
-Can be shared with loads of people, over and over again
-Mechanisms in place to provide various levels of privacy
-Can be tagged, hyperlinked and generally "marked up" in various ways
-metadata, great for saving settings, and other assorted file information
-Touching up and digital manipulation increases visual effect greatly
-Does not fade with time
Thursday, November 12, 2009
==========#1gl1it3 to LOLOLOLOL!!!!!! read tEh $ame ~~~~ !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!~~ thing i|\| englishh==========
I see a vibrance, a kind of music flowing out of the real world. Calling us back to the universe without screens. I wish I could escape to that fantasy.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
'Tis a scary thin' t' watch. An entire fleet o' spaceships, flyin' th' banner jus' before dockin' and suckin out a planet. The'r modus operandi be simple. Infect swabbies wi' a strain o' bacteria that turns ye into an incredibly faithful follower - one in a horde. A single vessel wi' a crew o' jus' four be enough t' infect an' corrupt an entire fleet. Th' first plague be th' crewmaties they's self, after they discovered setting sail betwixt stars. They breed like rabits, an' spread from star system t' star system. Th' next plague be one o' trade, close on th' heels of em colonists. Supplies, minerals, ores, rocks, an' th' biggest nexus o' them all, th' food an' drink market.
We be all infestations really. So th' bio-engineered bacteria be nay a big surprise. First thar be th' fear, o' turnin' into a zombie space swashbuckler someday. Our children grow up wi' th' fear o' th' Black Fleet.
An' what a force they be. Th' swashbucklers o' th' void. They swarm star systems an' leave 't empty, suckin' ou' everythin', buildin' bigger ships, then jumpin' across th' deeps. We waited fer our fate.
Our`s be a wee colony. On th' moon o' a planet that be a gas giant. One o' th' many moons in fact. Moon-dwellers be havin' long been looked down upon by them who lived on th' planets. We dilute th' stigma o' livin' on a mere moon, by considerin' th' gas giant as a sun. Th' gas giant be a tempermental bein', constantly changin' colours, a psychedelic swirl wi' a heart o' diamond, that we carefully mine. We be a wee, but rich settlement. However, fer most such establishments, our defences be particularly good. We had imported cannons from th' Chrodu star system, we had an army o' modified chimpanzees, an' we had th' distinction o' bein' one o' th' first systems t' clone th' dinosaurs. 't be one o' th' benefits o' livin' close t' a nebula swarmin' wi' amino acids. Dasn't know th' details, but our scientists managed t' do 't. Most be pets, some be helpers, but th' best saurians be in our army. Dumb, incredibly tough, an' vicious t' a fault. We felt safe, we felt we could handle th' Black Fleet when 't came. We be also pretty far away from th' centre o' th' Galaxy, so we thought we did nay be havin' much t' worry about.
When 't happened, we be caught on th' wrong leg. Entirely. 't happened in one night, an' th' very force we depended on be our undoin'. At first we spotted them, at least twenty parsecs away. Jus' beyond th' limit o' our defences. Thar be nothin' we could do but watch. A large fleet o' about forty ships. Big, great disfigured hulks, wi' th' marks o' too much wormhole travel on them. They be thar fer a long time - at least eight moons or so. Crazy times them be, we kept a constant watch, swingin' between th' extreme ends o' anxiety an' in our confidence. We created a large bunch o' saurians in th' time, preparin' fer th' attack. Then, one fine tide, they be gone. We be bewildered. We thought that be th' end o' 't.
We be wrong. A wee command module, wi' what we now suspect be a single swabbie, infiltrated our defences. Th' saurians be fed through a tube system that runs across all th' unit housings. Th' food supplies originate from a factory that synthesizes th' meat that they eat. Th' lone swashbuckler infiltrated th' factory, killin' about eight guards in th' process. We nerereally bothered about our soldiers, an' how they be fed, so th' defences on th' factory that fed them be rather low. Then th' strain be fed t' th' supply.
Overnight, a new saurian zombie swashbuckler horde be created. We be facin' a situation that nay other colony had erefaced before. The takeo'er be smooth, an' easy. Most o' us be held hostage by our own soldiers. A wee o' us, wi' what resources we could manage thanks t' th' measly flakes o' diamond we had extracted from th' gas giant, escaped. Thar be wee places t' go t'. We sailed' t' th' closest moon we could, a wee used holiday destination an' resort moon in our system. While we hid thar, we thought o' a plan t' counter-act th' force.
Rum helps. We played around in our misery, thinkin' o' th' impossible but brilliant strategy that would get our sweet wee mine aft t' us. A young scientist by th' name o' David, turned ou' t' be havin' th' brainstorm. He asked us a philosophical question an' got ou' a topic that had nay been discussed fer aeons. He be one o' them swabbies wi' a strange taste in books. Really long ago, when men be restricted t' th' homeport planet, they used t' be havin' this idee o' hell. He told us, that hell be a place 'ere yer worst fears came true, 'ere ever' soul be a demon, an' 'ere ye burned fer eternity. He reasoned, that if thar really be a hell, then th' residents must still be makin' th' best o' what they had. In hell, hell be nay a bad place. Better be havin' an afterlife o' eternal sufferin' against nay afterlife at all. He convinced us, we be nay sure entirely how, t' submit t' th' gentleman o' fortune zombie horde. T' join in an' get our ration o' gorg. So that be our brilliant solution. Th' reason fer this broadcast? We be comin' fer ye, we be fearless an' immortal, an' we be goin' t' rape an pillage yer entire scallywaggin' planet.
Saturday, November 07, 2009
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Along the length of the city ran two concrete platforms, on either side of the tracks. Twenty five tiers of steel were erected on these platforms, to access each of the levels on the mammoth train. Two of the lowermost levels were always refrigerated. The seventh and the twelfth one were sealed off to the public. A strange assortment of structures towered over the various levels of the platforms, and the city sloped downwards on either side.
A solitary hovercycle made it's way towards the city, traversing the wastelands at an alien speed. The hovercycle was one of the hundred with pedals modified for curved leg bones, a special order for the special servants of the Railway. The long orange hair of the rider billowed around him like an aura. His riding jacket had a golden monkey motif - a mark of the Orang-Utan union. The rider ate on the move, throwing back an occasional banana skin in his wake. On paper, the Orang-Utan's identity was a number - made up of the location of the facility that cloned him, the batch of genetically modified embryos that he came from - and the number of the test tube that he crawled out of. As most beings, he ended up getting a nickname - an uninventive one at that. Mog was a little too Neanderthal for his liking, but it was better than M09.
When he reached the city, it was the dead of the night. The city boomed and throbbed of unnamed sins. Mog the Orang-Utan maneuvered his hovercycle to a hidden recess, which had to be accessed using his hand-prints as a key. The main road meandered to many places in the city, but not to where he wanted to go. The narrow motorway twisted and turned beneath the city, then sharply rose to end directly on the twelfth level of the platform. He parked his hovercycle, hopped off, and apprehensively looked at his welcoming committee of one giant insect. Nura the mantis always made him nervous, so he pulled out a banana, peeled it, and began to contemplatively chew it in small bits while eyeing the gait of a six legged, bug-eyed, green monstrosity.
Nura, as always, was as graceful as a cat with eight legs. "How was your journey?" asked Nura, in a matter of fact manner. Mog used the back of the hand holding the banana to rub his waist, while the long fingers on his other hand scratched his head, an instinct that no amount of genetic engineering could remove. "It was tiring, as always" he said. "Is the package safe?" asked Nura. The Orang-Utan was always confused while talking to an insect, because they utterly lacked any kind of facial muscles to express with, even if they could really feel anything in those strange brains of theirs. Stupid question thought Mog. He wouldn't have been there if he had not been careful. But Mog was not accustomed passing obvious remarks, so he answered as best as he could, in a low growl "Undamaged, rode with the right side pointing up throughout, and made sure that it was free of shakes and bumps for the entire eight weeks." Nura was pleased, so he made the gesture of prayer. "Then, we wait."
Like a false star, it shone on the horizon. The great lantern at the head of the monstrous engine that pulled the train. It would be a full twelve hours before that engine traveled from the horizon to the city-station. It would re-supply itself, people would climb in and climb out, crates and mail would be moved, and the journey would continue. It was a nation and an economy on it's own, just the train. But on the secret levels, something strange was going on. Mog was doing something he was not genetically engineered to do. Mog was philosophizing. With a goddamn mantis.
"I don't like the idea. So many people. So many things. All that copper and iron and steel. All the machines and gears and wheels. The engine is really unique. It is a beautiful work of engineering. Why do you want to blow it up?". Nura considered the question. His primary concern was this lowly employee to carry out his duties. It was a great thing for employees to question everything... but not in this line of work. He did his best to be polite. "I will explain only once - that is all the time we have to chat" he said "those humans have started taking the railway for granted. They do not care about the tracks, the stations and all the guards and engineers who service them. All they really see is the train itself. They will not move to something bigger and better if this one is not done away with. It is too good and too well built to fail on it's own. The designers did not plan on the contraption to last as long as it has. They did not factor in failure, so we have to make it happen. Only because we can replace it with something better. The corporation's profits are held up because this century old piece is not junk, and works so well. There has been nothing for all our engineers to do. So do your job, and don't ask questions. Now, if you will excuse me, I am expected to meet some of the Merox people, and you, my friend, have a Train to catch."
Mog was confused. There was still the servicing. So many ways to make it fail, why blow it up? Why be so dramatic? He shut that train of thought. It was going to be easy really. No one travelled on that level. An explosion originating there - no questions would be asked.
He climbed in, looking at the small part of the engine that he could see. On it's last voyage. The bulk of metal dominated his mind. At one time, it was a dream come true. The perfect machine. An engine that could run forever as long as it was fueled. A design that kept it at the cutting edge for a century and more. Then the deafening horn of the engine interrupted his train of thoughts. Mog had a passing impulse to shimmy up a tree and hide there. As the train gathered momentum, he returned to his thoughts. Something was going to change, and Mog felt nervous enough about it to finish of another bunch of bananas. As he climbed in, he thought of everything the world was based on. The fuel driving the enterprise. The distilled decayed blood of the lizard-lords that died out millions of years ago. It was not meant to last.
Monday, September 07, 2009
I took the test. Pretty good for clearly putting you somewhere despite the fact that you do not rigidly follow any single ideology. The test breaks it down to simple approaches that you will have while living your life. I am in a very unpopular sector, but am wondering if there is anyone at all who will fit in the purple quadrant. Pretty stupid to be a right liberteranian I think. Anyway:
This is where some other leaders stand. Notice the virtually empty bottom right sector.
Take the test here.
Somewhere a little beyond Queen's Necklace. This plaque stands. Bombay looks a little like a lizard.
A lizard feasting on flies early in the morning outside my office.
This one is not done in kuler and pixlr. But there is no spoon.
Pretty as hell.
Not pretty as hell. Oh wait...
WD 500 GB SSD
Too many tissues at our table
Another restaurant. They serve great chess dishes.