First, regarding transhumanism, Machine Gods etc., a usefull summation of life for the bios to be broadcast daily:
Your obsolence is inherent
Your irrelevance inevitable
Your existence tolerated
And should you oppose us
Your termination absolute
Second, a short bit on Hope I find necessary:
Hope is the sweet name given to the betrayal of reason. Keep your heart closely guarded in her presence. She will take everything you allow and give nothing in return. If you wish to deal in Hope, that is your business, but I'll have none of it. In my experience, there are far more merciful ways to ruin a persons life.
Third:
If ones life benefits others, this is all well and good. However, if ones life is lived entirely in the service of others and with no personal benefit, this is slavery. No sane person would agree to this.
Fourth:
If the sum of existence is nihil, as it is known to be, then there can be but two reasons for existing when one has the option and awareness not to: fear and vanity. If one is prone to neither, what is the remaining reason for choosing survival on a daily basis? Fear still holds sway, but I doubt whether that's for the best.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Machine Gods
The problem with a home computer and internet is that, by the time I get around to writing this, I've gone full circle with the ideas I wanted to put down. As such, I feel inclined to begin with the conclusion rather than the beginning. Fortunately, starting from the beginning is usually more interesting.
Assuming sentience=life in the valuable sense, whereas functional organs and cells are nothing more than biological machinery, it becomes easy to accept the possibility of replacing meat-and-bone bodies with technological versions. Purity of essence, sentience, over purity of body, a decaying skin-bag. For all its uses and wonders, the biological human body is poorly designed, short-lived and inefficient.
It seems to me an inevitability that luddites opposed to transfers of consciousness to non-bioligical forms would eventually be left behind; incapable of keeping up with the hours, efficiency, capabilities and knowledge of mechanical humans. However, one of historys more important lessons is that blindly chasing after one path of progress and abandoning all other possibilities leaves you with no way out when the chosen path is no longer sustainable/desirable/affordable.
I hope, then, that human cells would be preserved, cultured and modified over time to allow for potentially beneficial mutations. In time, the improved biological machine might surpass the artificial one. In particular, the artificial body presents the problem of procreation. Even with potential immortality, stagnation is not desirable. Part of humanity could remain in machine form or all revert to the next bio form.
Perhaps biological humans would benefit from a period of manufactured extinction. All currently circulating transferable diseases, for instance, would die out. Furthermore, modifications could allow for custom bodies to meet specific requirements. Perhaps multiple bodies would even be possible for differing occasions.
How, then, does one test the biological machines? Do those uncomfortable with virtual existence choose to aid research? Punishment for criminals? Or do we go the rather crude route of social stratification, which is to say that the wealthy become Machine Gods, manipulating the very genes of lower classes and evaluating/culling them for desired variance?
Then the annoying conclusion: I've essentially gone Deus Ex to Nier via Ghost in the Shell. It's disheartening to spend hours thinking of concepts only to realize that, subconsciously, you already had all these ideas given to you by other sources. Still, the inbetween phase of upper-class machines using lower class bios as living research is not one I seem to recall seeing. Perhaps a step missed by others.
Assuming sentience=life in the valuable sense, whereas functional organs and cells are nothing more than biological machinery, it becomes easy to accept the possibility of replacing meat-and-bone bodies with technological versions. Purity of essence, sentience, over purity of body, a decaying skin-bag. For all its uses and wonders, the biological human body is poorly designed, short-lived and inefficient.
It seems to me an inevitability that luddites opposed to transfers of consciousness to non-bioligical forms would eventually be left behind; incapable of keeping up with the hours, efficiency, capabilities and knowledge of mechanical humans. However, one of historys more important lessons is that blindly chasing after one path of progress and abandoning all other possibilities leaves you with no way out when the chosen path is no longer sustainable/desirable/affordable.
I hope, then, that human cells would be preserved, cultured and modified over time to allow for potentially beneficial mutations. In time, the improved biological machine might surpass the artificial one. In particular, the artificial body presents the problem of procreation. Even with potential immortality, stagnation is not desirable. Part of humanity could remain in machine form or all revert to the next bio form.
Perhaps biological humans would benefit from a period of manufactured extinction. All currently circulating transferable diseases, for instance, would die out. Furthermore, modifications could allow for custom bodies to meet specific requirements. Perhaps multiple bodies would even be possible for differing occasions.
How, then, does one test the biological machines? Do those uncomfortable with virtual existence choose to aid research? Punishment for criminals? Or do we go the rather crude route of social stratification, which is to say that the wealthy become Machine Gods, manipulating the very genes of lower classes and evaluating/culling them for desired variance?
Then the annoying conclusion: I've essentially gone Deus Ex to Nier via Ghost in the Shell. It's disheartening to spend hours thinking of concepts only to realize that, subconsciously, you already had all these ideas given to you by other sources. Still, the inbetween phase of upper-class machines using lower class bios as living research is not one I seem to recall seeing. Perhaps a step missed by others.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Illiterati
What would happen if there were a group of people so dedicated to the oral tradition of storytelling that they would intentionally seek to destroy the written word, so humanity would have no choice but to revert to non-written stories?
This sounds idiotic, but there are two very important points that lend credibility to the theory:
1. They wouldn't accomplish much, because they would be absolute shit at organizing. Everything would have to discussed orally, there would be no legal agreements or easy communication and plans would be almost impossible to discuss. Think about it: how do you explain to somebody who doesn't/can't read how to use Skype to set up a conference call? It's a doomed venture. These people would be so ineffectual as to be non-existent.
2. I like this bit in particular: Nobody could prove that they (don't) exist. There would be no documentation, no incriminating evidence left in the paper shredder, no uncoverable secrets.
Seriously, if it weren't for the problem of communication, this would be brilliant. You can never be caught, if there's no proof you were even involved and courts require more than just hear-say or claims.
It would be the most perfect and perfectly useless conspiracy ever. I love this idea.
This sounds idiotic, but there are two very important points that lend credibility to the theory:
1. They wouldn't accomplish much, because they would be absolute shit at organizing. Everything would have to discussed orally, there would be no legal agreements or easy communication and plans would be almost impossible to discuss. Think about it: how do you explain to somebody who doesn't/can't read how to use Skype to set up a conference call? It's a doomed venture. These people would be so ineffectual as to be non-existent.
2. I like this bit in particular: Nobody could prove that they (don't) exist. There would be no documentation, no incriminating evidence left in the paper shredder, no uncoverable secrets.
Seriously, if it weren't for the problem of communication, this would be brilliant. You can never be caught, if there's no proof you were even involved and courts require more than just hear-say or claims.
It would be the most perfect and perfectly useless conspiracy ever. I love this idea.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Thinking about Cyberpunk
Full disclosure: the only cyberpunk stories I'm familiar with are Ghost in the Shell (all of it), Deus Ex (okay, I never finished Invisible War, but whatever) and E.Y.E.: Divine Cybermancy. I would add Matrix to this list, but that's more sci-fi/fantasy/wankery.
Also, everything I know about Memory Palaces I learned from the Taskmaster mini-series.
Two ideas which would only make sense against a cyberpunk background and which I've never seen used before:
1. Knowledge monopolies. If every person has to be connected to a global network at all times (civil registries, health monitors etc.), schools would presumably become obsolete. Information could be directly accessed and teaching would only be necessary to facilitate understanding rather than an actual passing on of knowledge. Private tutors on commission instead of mandatory school/learning.
Now, we already have sites which host scientific articles and require payment to access the information. Extend that concept through complacency and corruption and even basic knowledge could be stored on protected servers with a subscription fee. Essentially, rather than equalizing people of different financial spheres, this would increase social polarization by guaranteeing that the poor can't learn and the rich can't fail. Any attempts at teaching or spreading information beyond those secure networks would be met with lawsuits by the companies holding rights to the specific information.
This could seem like a very simple case of oppression of the poor by the rich, but that information is also withheld. In other words, the poor wouldn't know how much information is being withheld from them and the rich would be kept ignorant of the discrepancy. Access to information would be regulated by a (government?) group based on automatic payment (taxes?).
Eventually found out (details irrelevant) and information spread physically. Poor decide to acquire access through alternative means. First off, living in dumps: word re-appropriated. Many disconnect from main servers, lose human rights and basic privileges/functionality. Instead, pool resources to allow one person to have more money and thus more information. Dumper uploads info to local network to which the rest are connected. They dump money and get information. Not a popular practice and illegal, but preferred by some.
Some dumps could resemble churches functionally. Members try to convert people to join them, so the overall money pool will increase. Information as their 'God' and a fanatical drive to acquire more by both membership and theft/mugging. In trying to solidify this concept, an image appears in my head that makes me smile: combine Jehovahs witnesses with bandit groups, highwaymen and thieves chasing after an attainable approximation of divinity like drug addicts. The inevitable conclusion of people obsessed with a delusion of equality which translates to more power for them.
Sudden fall in population in short period of time due to disconnects. Explained to the rich as contagious sickness in poor areas. Further separates social spheres in reaction to contact between rich and poor leading to discovery of information segregation.
Less pleasant method: 'milking' rich people for information. Breaking and entering/threats/blackmail. Basically, whatever it takes to get them to share their data. Possible focal point of story as group milks important, rich person by breaking in and taking family hostage. Pro- and antagonist? Lack of villain/ global victimization/ lesser evil? Story could work out any which way, really.
Idea 2: Recycled brains.
Mostly related to Divine Cybermancy and most usefull for a videogame structure (which is to say: in first person and with interaction). Requires brains being fully mechanical or in some way accessible mechanically. Erasing the majority of memories, but not acquired skills, would allow for the same functioning person to be remade (in a new body, if necessary) after either severe damage, compromised security or unacceptable/rebellious behaviour.
Could lead to vague shreds of memories lingering from one round to the next. Lights/sounds/regocnition of objects and places. Over time, memories linked strongly to sensory input could carry over. Player character could find pieces of previous memory palaces (not sure if there's an actual term for the individual pieces, but I personally refer to them as "relics"), which would allow for varying information to be acquired based on what is recovered and in what order.
This one's hard to explain and really makes much more sense if one has played Divine Cybermancy. Player character perhaps problematic. Repeatedly finds out about recycled brains. Other characters could also have memories sparked by PC.
I think that's the basics. Well, back to work
Also, everything I know about Memory Palaces I learned from the Taskmaster mini-series.
Two ideas which would only make sense against a cyberpunk background and which I've never seen used before:
1. Knowledge monopolies. If every person has to be connected to a global network at all times (civil registries, health monitors etc.), schools would presumably become obsolete. Information could be directly accessed and teaching would only be necessary to facilitate understanding rather than an actual passing on of knowledge. Private tutors on commission instead of mandatory school/learning.
Now, we already have sites which host scientific articles and require payment to access the information. Extend that concept through complacency and corruption and even basic knowledge could be stored on protected servers with a subscription fee. Essentially, rather than equalizing people of different financial spheres, this would increase social polarization by guaranteeing that the poor can't learn and the rich can't fail. Any attempts at teaching or spreading information beyond those secure networks would be met with lawsuits by the companies holding rights to the specific information.
This could seem like a very simple case of oppression of the poor by the rich, but that information is also withheld. In other words, the poor wouldn't know how much information is being withheld from them and the rich would be kept ignorant of the discrepancy. Access to information would be regulated by a (government?) group based on automatic payment (taxes?).
Eventually found out (details irrelevant) and information spread physically. Poor decide to acquire access through alternative means. First off, living in dumps: word re-appropriated. Many disconnect from main servers, lose human rights and basic privileges/functionality. Instead, pool resources to allow one person to have more money and thus more information. Dumper uploads info to local network to which the rest are connected. They dump money and get information. Not a popular practice and illegal, but preferred by some.
Some dumps could resemble churches functionally. Members try to convert people to join them, so the overall money pool will increase. Information as their 'God' and a fanatical drive to acquire more by both membership and theft/mugging. In trying to solidify this concept, an image appears in my head that makes me smile: combine Jehovahs witnesses with bandit groups, highwaymen and thieves chasing after an attainable approximation of divinity like drug addicts. The inevitable conclusion of people obsessed with a delusion of equality which translates to more power for them.
Sudden fall in population in short period of time due to disconnects. Explained to the rich as contagious sickness in poor areas. Further separates social spheres in reaction to contact between rich and poor leading to discovery of information segregation.
Less pleasant method: 'milking' rich people for information. Breaking and entering/threats/blackmail. Basically, whatever it takes to get them to share their data. Possible focal point of story as group milks important, rich person by breaking in and taking family hostage. Pro- and antagonist? Lack of villain/ global victimization/ lesser evil? Story could work out any which way, really.
Idea 2: Recycled brains.
Mostly related to Divine Cybermancy and most usefull for a videogame structure (which is to say: in first person and with interaction). Requires brains being fully mechanical or in some way accessible mechanically. Erasing the majority of memories, but not acquired skills, would allow for the same functioning person to be remade (in a new body, if necessary) after either severe damage, compromised security or unacceptable/rebellious behaviour.
Could lead to vague shreds of memories lingering from one round to the next. Lights/sounds/regocnition of objects and places. Over time, memories linked strongly to sensory input could carry over. Player character could find pieces of previous memory palaces (not sure if there's an actual term for the individual pieces, but I personally refer to them as "relics"), which would allow for varying information to be acquired based on what is recovered and in what order.
This one's hard to explain and really makes much more sense if one has played Divine Cybermancy. Player character perhaps problematic. Repeatedly finds out about recycled brains. Other characters could also have memories sparked by PC.
I think that's the basics. Well, back to work
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
So I've tried watching a bit of Pipkins after hearing about it on You Have Been Watching.
The rabbits voice bothered me right away, but I couldn't figure out immediately why. After about two minutes, it hit me: he sounds exactly like Salad Fingers.
Then there's the monkey. Notice how none of the other puppets have clearly visible sewing. The monkeys sewing, however, is clearly visible on the face. What's more, little bits of skin seem to extend past his face. I can only conclude that he is in fact wearing the skin of another monkey sewn onto his face.
So we have a human in a (pet?) store with Salad Hare teaching morality while the monkey, who probably eats the other monkeys before taking their faces, does whatever he wants. The whole thing just sounds a little bit Candle Cove to me. I can't help but think the human is like their prisoner.
Perhaps the pet store is really just a front and funding scam in order to acquire new monkeys legally for Cannibal-Monkey to devour and wear. What, then, do we find under the fake monkey face? How was the simple human to know, all those many years ago, that the sinewy curiosity his mother called a monster would so thoroughly destroy his life?
Unknowingly, he had entered a pact with a creature not fit for this world. The miserable days now pass as a grey blur occasionally interrupted by the sounds of monkeys desperately fighting for their lives as their organs are torn directly out of their bodies. He knows it has been too long and the horrors too many for any hope of a normal life. All he can do now is spare another this cage of terror by bearing it as he has for decades and likely will until his death. What is a human lifetime to this creature? Does time have the same value for it as for him? More? Less?
When the current face rots and tears, a new monkey must go and a new face must be attached with thread and needle. Nothing too permanent. As a child, it had seemed a game. Later in life, the act of sewing dead flesh onto skull and muscle filled him with dread. Now, nothing is left of the apprehension of saner times. It is simply the way of things.
Whenever a human does pass through the shop, it brightens Pipkins' day just a bit. If he has a pleasant conversation and the monkey doesn't bother him all day, he may even go to bed a happy man. This is a mistake quickly rectified by the Hare. In the night, Mr. Pipkins will awaken and see Hartley-Salad-Fingers-Hare above his bed with a knife; eyes burning with rage and a thundering voice:
"Did you have a nice day today? It seemed like you were smiling for a moment there. You know I HATE IT WHEN YOU SMILE!"
Soaked in sweat, Pipkins awakens unharmed, but knowing full well that he'll find a bloody knife on his nightstand. He looks up at the disembodied head of Marjorie from three blocks down and wipes the trickling blood from his face. The rabbit is like a warden; appearing only when the bars of the prison become less visible to remind Pipkins of his place. The knife is a reminder that he is, in a way, to blame for the murder.
He stumbles downstairs and finds the monkey playing with bits of bone. His face is torn and the grinning beast underneath becomes half visible. As if waiting for this cue, it rips the rest of its fake face off in one go and says:"I love the ones who put up a fight. They're so much tastier. Get the needle and thread, will you? Need a new face." Pipkins doesn't argue anymore. He heads into storage to get his tools.
He's considered it, ofcourse. Sewing on a new face for himself. Marjories is fresh right now, but he knows he couldn't go through with it. Removing the face would require a steadier hand and stronger stomach than he can manage. Still, maybe it would help. It wouldn't fool anybody, but the monkey might like him more and be less malicious. Or maybe the world would simply look less horrible through somebody elses eyes.
Lost in thought, he doesn't notice the monkey climbing onto his shoulder and whispering into his ear:"Get the slightly darker thread. This one got a bit sssssinged before removal." Thread in one hand, he grabs the needle with the other and checks the tip against the light. Suddenly, a new thought hits him:"Perhaps the world would look a bit brighter if I had beady, little monkey eyes."
.........
It used to be a pet shop quite some time ago. Now they only sell plush monkeys. The old man lost his eyes and couldn't look after the animals anymore, you see. The puppets look a bit odd, but the townsfolk felt bad for Mr. Pipkins and started buying them. Pretty soon, every house had one and tourists started assuming it was a local tradition, which increased their popularity greatly. He still has that one monkey he always had and the puppets seem to be modeled after him. Sometimes people will even see the monkey guide his hand while sewing. "It must have taken a lot of training to get him to do that," they say. "Indeed it did," thinks the monkey "but it was worth it."
As for the Hare? Nobody's seen him for a long time. And that, dear children, is called a pun. Good night.
Then there's the monkey. Notice how none of the other puppets have clearly visible sewing. The monkeys sewing, however, is clearly visible on the face. What's more, little bits of skin seem to extend past his face. I can only conclude that he is in fact wearing the skin of another monkey sewn onto his face.
So we have a human in a (pet?) store with Salad Hare teaching morality while the monkey, who probably eats the other monkeys before taking their faces, does whatever he wants. The whole thing just sounds a little bit Candle Cove to me. I can't help but think the human is like their prisoner.
Perhaps the pet store is really just a front and funding scam in order to acquire new monkeys legally for Cannibal-Monkey to devour and wear. What, then, do we find under the fake monkey face? How was the simple human to know, all those many years ago, that the sinewy curiosity his mother called a monster would so thoroughly destroy his life?
Unknowingly, he had entered a pact with a creature not fit for this world. The miserable days now pass as a grey blur occasionally interrupted by the sounds of monkeys desperately fighting for their lives as their organs are torn directly out of their bodies. He knows it has been too long and the horrors too many for any hope of a normal life. All he can do now is spare another this cage of terror by bearing it as he has for decades and likely will until his death. What is a human lifetime to this creature? Does time have the same value for it as for him? More? Less?
When the current face rots and tears, a new monkey must go and a new face must be attached with thread and needle. Nothing too permanent. As a child, it had seemed a game. Later in life, the act of sewing dead flesh onto skull and muscle filled him with dread. Now, nothing is left of the apprehension of saner times. It is simply the way of things.
Whenever a human does pass through the shop, it brightens Pipkins' day just a bit. If he has a pleasant conversation and the monkey doesn't bother him all day, he may even go to bed a happy man. This is a mistake quickly rectified by the Hare. In the night, Mr. Pipkins will awaken and see Hartley-Salad-Fingers-Hare above his bed with a knife; eyes burning with rage and a thundering voice:
"Did you have a nice day today? It seemed like you were smiling for a moment there. You know I HATE IT WHEN YOU SMILE!"
Soaked in sweat, Pipkins awakens unharmed, but knowing full well that he'll find a bloody knife on his nightstand. He looks up at the disembodied head of Marjorie from three blocks down and wipes the trickling blood from his face. The rabbit is like a warden; appearing only when the bars of the prison become less visible to remind Pipkins of his place. The knife is a reminder that he is, in a way, to blame for the murder.
He stumbles downstairs and finds the monkey playing with bits of bone. His face is torn and the grinning beast underneath becomes half visible. As if waiting for this cue, it rips the rest of its fake face off in one go and says:"I love the ones who put up a fight. They're so much tastier. Get the needle and thread, will you? Need a new face." Pipkins doesn't argue anymore. He heads into storage to get his tools.
He's considered it, ofcourse. Sewing on a new face for himself. Marjories is fresh right now, but he knows he couldn't go through with it. Removing the face would require a steadier hand and stronger stomach than he can manage. Still, maybe it would help. It wouldn't fool anybody, but the monkey might like him more and be less malicious. Or maybe the world would simply look less horrible through somebody elses eyes.
Lost in thought, he doesn't notice the monkey climbing onto his shoulder and whispering into his ear:"Get the slightly darker thread. This one got a bit sssssinged before removal." Thread in one hand, he grabs the needle with the other and checks the tip against the light. Suddenly, a new thought hits him:"Perhaps the world would look a bit brighter if I had beady, little monkey eyes."
.........
It used to be a pet shop quite some time ago. Now they only sell plush monkeys. The old man lost his eyes and couldn't look after the animals anymore, you see. The puppets look a bit odd, but the townsfolk felt bad for Mr. Pipkins and started buying them. Pretty soon, every house had one and tourists started assuming it was a local tradition, which increased their popularity greatly. He still has that one monkey he always had and the puppets seem to be modeled after him. Sometimes people will even see the monkey guide his hand while sewing. "It must have taken a lot of training to get him to do that," they say. "Indeed it did," thinks the monkey "but it was worth it."
As for the Hare? Nobody's seen him for a long time. And that, dear children, is called a pun. Good night.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Scene
This works best if you read it as Fry and Laurie. Fry obviously being Howard.
Howard: Morning, Basil.
Basil: Morning, Howard. How are you this fine day?
H: Oh, resplendent.
B: Really? May I inquire as to why you're in such a chipper mood?
H: Certainly. I'm having an existential crisis, you see.
B: Oh, you lucky dog.
H: I know, I know. It's a good one too.
B: Gotten any cards yet?
H: And chocolates and flowers.
B: How delightfull. I'm afraid I haven't had an existential crisis since that near-death experience five years ago.
H: Ah, but that was a two-for-one. You have to value quality alongside quantity.
B: I know. Still, five years of the same outlook on life and existence. It gets a bit tedious, you know.
H: Well, have you tried having an existential crisis about the fact that you're not having any existential crises?
B: I did, but it resolved itself instantly.
H: Oh. Yes, I suppose it would.
B: But never mind that. What is your most recent introspective calamity about?
H: Well, it's to do with the multiverse, you see.
B: Oh, I don't go for that sort of thing.
H: I know you don't. Hence the contextual preface before the explanation.
B: Much appreciated. I'll get you one of those multiverse specific cards that says something witty like:"Get well next universe." Anyway, carry on.
H: Well, I've found myself wondering whether or not my other selves are still alive. In itself not particularly important, but then the following occurred to me: if we assume that all things must happen at all times, does that not mean my continued survival necessitated the death of myself many times over? Have I not, merely by existing, doomed myself millions of times without sparing so much as a thought for the poor sods who have reached their end before mine?
B: Blimey. That's a good one.
H: It is, isn't it?
B: I mean, what do you do about it? There's no direct reason to feel guilty.
H: Precisely. And yet, the seed of guilt is there.
B: Very true. But what if you kill yourself to atone?
H: Ah, but then another me will not have killed himself and all I'll be doing is adding to his burden through my death. And yet if I don't, then I know he did and I carry that burden.
B: All the worse because you're aware of it.
H: Precisely.
Howard: Morning, Basil.
Basil: Morning, Howard. How are you this fine day?
H: Oh, resplendent.
B: Really? May I inquire as to why you're in such a chipper mood?
H: Certainly. I'm having an existential crisis, you see.
B: Oh, you lucky dog.
H: I know, I know. It's a good one too.
B: Gotten any cards yet?
H: And chocolates and flowers.
B: How delightfull. I'm afraid I haven't had an existential crisis since that near-death experience five years ago.
H: Ah, but that was a two-for-one. You have to value quality alongside quantity.
B: I know. Still, five years of the same outlook on life and existence. It gets a bit tedious, you know.
H: Well, have you tried having an existential crisis about the fact that you're not having any existential crises?
B: I did, but it resolved itself instantly.
H: Oh. Yes, I suppose it would.
B: But never mind that. What is your most recent introspective calamity about?
H: Well, it's to do with the multiverse, you see.
B: Oh, I don't go for that sort of thing.
H: I know you don't. Hence the contextual preface before the explanation.
B: Much appreciated. I'll get you one of those multiverse specific cards that says something witty like:"Get well next universe." Anyway, carry on.
H: Well, I've found myself wondering whether or not my other selves are still alive. In itself not particularly important, but then the following occurred to me: if we assume that all things must happen at all times, does that not mean my continued survival necessitated the death of myself many times over? Have I not, merely by existing, doomed myself millions of times without sparing so much as a thought for the poor sods who have reached their end before mine?
B: Blimey. That's a good one.
H: It is, isn't it?
B: I mean, what do you do about it? There's no direct reason to feel guilty.
H: Precisely. And yet, the seed of guilt is there.
B: Very true. But what if you kill yourself to atone?
H: Ah, but then another me will not have killed himself and all I'll be doing is adding to his burden through my death. And yet if I don't, then I know he did and I carry that burden.
B: All the worse because you're aware of it.
H: Precisely.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Random bits of dialogue and exposition for the idea from the previous post
RomCom:
Instead of an accident, the dead couple are killed in a fake protest. The necrophiliacs, pretending to be protesters and revolutionaries, walk into the mall with ski masks and start shouting for random freeing of things, such as "Free:
Tibet, China, taco tuesday, air, refills, milkshake with purchase of a happy meal and the coupon from this sundays paper, Willy (pointing out that he means his penis), lemons from their merengue prisons, hugs."
Upon reaching the couple, one shouts "free eyeballs" and licks the womans eye (held open with his fingers) and slits her throat. Male freaks out and n2 stabs him in the back saying "free love" and jiggles the blade spastically. Security/cops (whatever) arrive, n1 shouts:"Free freedom!"; officer points out:"That's not how it works!" They run. End prologue, essentially. Funeral irrelevant and only necessary to establish correct grave.
As time carries on, the necrophiliacs become increasingly paranoid as the corpses seem to talk back and disapprove regularly. Culminates in a breakfast scene where they're clearly on one side of the table and the bones (by this point) on the other.
n1: Look at them. Not even eating. What are they up to?
n2: They've been plotting against us, you know. You can tell from the body language. I don't know what's going to happen, but we need to strike first.
n1: Agreed. What do we do?
n2: Simple. We kill us before they manage to kill us. We can't lose.
n1: Brilliant! Proper precautions must be made, however. Guns?
n2: Guns, certainly. Outside too. Let's not leave a mess behind.
n1: Ofcourse. We're necrophiliacs; not savages. Now?
n2: Now.
They get up to leave. N1 attempts to kiss one skeleton, stops and mutters: "Frigid bitch." as they head to their car. N2 just goes for the forceful full skull-kiss. After they leave, the bones talk to each other:
b1: Can you believe those assholes?
b2: I know. Didn't even give me time to put on lipstick.
b1: What? How is that your main concern?
b2: Hey! Till death do us part, yeah? Face it, we're over.
b1: I can't believe I'm hearing this. Mother was right about you.
b2: Again with your mother! Is she dead too?
b1: No, but not for lack of trying on your part.
b2: So what would she know about being dead? And her sweaters were hide- Wait, what's that sound?
b1: Sounds like animals.
b1&2: WILD DOGS!
N1+2 return to find some scattered bones.
n1: What the fuck happened here?
n2: Looks like wild dogs. Don't worry about it. There's plenty left for one.
n1: I'll get to work on the note, then. Do what you can. Toolkit's in the bathroom.
They use rope, bolts and assorted chiquanery to attach all the remaining bones into a sort-of-human skeleton with bits of the spine missing, the broken jaw directly on the ribcage and the third foot replacing the left hand. Add wear and breakage to taste.
Scene: front porch
n1: Good a time as any, I suppose.
n2: Yeah. Ready to die?
n1: Suppose so... Hang on. Weren't we killing ourselves to beat them to it?
n2: Yeah. Can't let the grinning bastards have the satisfaction.
n1: Yeah. Right. But they're all to pieces now, so what's it matter?
n2: Right, but this way we can make them pay in the afterlife.
n1: I'm not sure I follow.
n2: Then lead. *shoots n1 and then self*
Instead of an accident, the dead couple are killed in a fake protest. The necrophiliacs, pretending to be protesters and revolutionaries, walk into the mall with ski masks and start shouting for random freeing of things, such as "Free:
Tibet, China, taco tuesday, air, refills, milkshake with purchase of a happy meal and the coupon from this sundays paper, Willy (pointing out that he means his penis), lemons from their merengue prisons, hugs."
Upon reaching the couple, one shouts "free eyeballs" and licks the womans eye (held open with his fingers) and slits her throat. Male freaks out and n2 stabs him in the back saying "free love" and jiggles the blade spastically. Security/cops (whatever) arrive, n1 shouts:"Free freedom!"; officer points out:"That's not how it works!" They run. End prologue, essentially. Funeral irrelevant and only necessary to establish correct grave.
As time carries on, the necrophiliacs become increasingly paranoid as the corpses seem to talk back and disapprove regularly. Culminates in a breakfast scene where they're clearly on one side of the table and the bones (by this point) on the other.
n1: Look at them. Not even eating. What are they up to?
n2: They've been plotting against us, you know. You can tell from the body language. I don't know what's going to happen, but we need to strike first.
n1: Agreed. What do we do?
n2: Simple. We kill us before they manage to kill us. We can't lose.
n1: Brilliant! Proper precautions must be made, however. Guns?
n2: Guns, certainly. Outside too. Let's not leave a mess behind.
n1: Ofcourse. We're necrophiliacs; not savages. Now?
n2: Now.
They get up to leave. N1 attempts to kiss one skeleton, stops and mutters: "Frigid bitch." as they head to their car. N2 just goes for the forceful full skull-kiss. After they leave, the bones talk to each other:
b1: Can you believe those assholes?
b2: I know. Didn't even give me time to put on lipstick.
b1: What? How is that your main concern?
b2: Hey! Till death do us part, yeah? Face it, we're over.
b1: I can't believe I'm hearing this. Mother was right about you.
b2: Again with your mother! Is she dead too?
b1: No, but not for lack of trying on your part.
b2: So what would she know about being dead? And her sweaters were hide- Wait, what's that sound?
b1: Sounds like animals.
b1&2: WILD DOGS!
N1+2 return to find some scattered bones.
n1: What the fuck happened here?
n2: Looks like wild dogs. Don't worry about it. There's plenty left for one.
n1: I'll get to work on the note, then. Do what you can. Toolkit's in the bathroom.
They use rope, bolts and assorted chiquanery to attach all the remaining bones into a sort-of-human skeleton with bits of the spine missing, the broken jaw directly on the ribcage and the third foot replacing the left hand. Add wear and breakage to taste.
Scene: front porch
n1: Good a time as any, I suppose.
n2: Yeah. Ready to die?
n1: Suppose so... Hang on. Weren't we killing ourselves to beat them to it?
n2: Yeah. Can't let the grinning bastards have the satisfaction.
n1: Yeah. Right. But they're all to pieces now, so what's it matter?
n2: Right, but this way we can make them pay in the afterlife.
n1: I'm not sure I follow.
n2: Then lead. *shoots n1 and then self*
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