「Pivotal」 —   1-2

 

 
 
 

Maybe I've always been living only to dream.

 

 

I forgot the keycard to the hotel. It only took me somewhere around two hours to lose it — while I ate lunch.

You know what? I probably gave it out to somebody, as a business card.

(I'm quite capable of doing that.)

While I stood outside the door, leaning on it, looking through the glass, frowning I'm sure, somebody saw me and let me in.

Before me there stood a large crowd — sipping drinks, and talking, exchanging pleasantries, and gossiping. Very nice.

That was fine, so far as I was concerned.

I thought, they're unlikely to be gossiping about me.

Then a woman recognized me. She happily chirped: ``You're just in time for your wedding!'' I was? Good!

That, too, was fine. I walked down the hall to the venue.

My bride's father had arranged the whole thing, including the marriage itself.

That's not to say I disliked my future wife. Don't get the wrong idea about all this. No, she liked me — and I liked her, more or less.

She had problems, I had problems — but everybody has problems, who doesn't? So what.

I thought it was all fine. And she thought it was all fine. That led us here.

And by the way, there she was. Beautiful, sitting in a chair, elbow on a cushion, scowling, holding her head in one hand.

She saw me. Awkward silence. (Moments ago I risked being late to my own wedding. What can you say?)

She nodded. (I saluted.)

Then she said: ``They lost the necklace.''

And I replied with a question. I went straight for the relevant information.

I asked: ``How much did it cost?''

Which is a fair question but she went on scowling. ``Oh. You know. Nothing serious. A couple million. It's not your money.''

``Yeah.''

``Don't think too hard about it.''

I told her I won't. Then I turned, and walked off.

 

I'm rather well known in my community but nobody really expects much practical use from me — which is very convenient. (Let nobody tell you that it's not!)

For example, I'm not skilled at finding things.

Everybody knows that I'm not skilled at finding things. (I made sure they know it.)

So. (Now there's a word that carries a punch!)

So it's clearly a waste of my time — and their time. So nobody asks me to help look — never, ever.

This all just means I've more time to do whatever I want to do — which is really not bad. I call it time conservation.

Time conservation is not a real thing physically, only socially — but this is close enough, in my opinion.

I'm capable of a wide variety of errors in tasks which are not my forte.

All the same, I prefer to be judged by my capabilities.

I'm one among the few people whose capabilities impress more than their actions, I think.

My excuse is that knowledge is a means to learning, not the other way around.

Most often you learn more about something by knowing what it does rather than what it can do. I suggest that I'm one of the few exceptions.

Sure, people who can read but don't are much more like those who don't read because they can't. However, that reveals too little about things — about people — which don't do all that much themselves. The people like me.

If they're present or absent, and others aren't, not much happens. — And if they're all there, they do that which only they can do together — and that's nice, except who's present together anywhere is always changing.

I'm definitely like that; I have potential. — That's what I tell my big customers; it's the truth.

I'm always part of systems — many different ones. Therefore judge me primarily by what more or less every more or less common system can do because I am or I am not a part of it.

In other words: — Judge me by what I can do, not what I do.

It's not just because that makes me look better — which it does. — Actually that lens makes most people look worse than they really are. — It's just the truth.

 

I sat down and decided to pass the time by checking out my usual online hangout. I unrolled my tablet from around my arm, and connected. The screen flashed.

That's when I witnessed a beautiful conversation in which participated two other gentlemen. It made me, too, wish to participate.

Each one had their own kind of wisdom, in my opinion.

A: ``hey guys i has cat look you see . . . pls upvote thanks''

B: ``So.'' The magic word.

A: ``pls upvote thanks''

B: ``Where's the cat?''

A: ``o no i forgot upload picture   :_(   ''

B : ``Then upload it.''

A :   . . . . .

B :   . . . . .

A : ``no''

B :   . . . . .

A :   . . . . .

B: ``Bitch.''

A: ``no you bitch . . . pls upvote thanks''

That made a kind of sense, pretty much what I expected.

I — I'll have to start the discussion to which I'd want to contribute, I thought.

I wrote: I'm getting married.

C: ``Wtf?! Moderator says he's getting married?!''

D: ``Good!''

E: ``Congrat!''

C: ``Share picture. Your wife. I wanna see.''

No, I replied. ``You can't. Absolutely not.''

C: ``Bitch.''

D: ``He's lying! I knew it!''

E: ``Chickenshit.''

That went well. I did not deign to respond.

I wondered if they found the necklace yet? Too soon to ask?

Behind me I heard commotion; I turned.

 

 

I woke on the grass, overlooking the sea. Waves breaking on the cliff, heard, but out of sight. That was a dream?

No, no, it happened.

But how long ago was that?

The difference is not great, between dreams and memories. Both are reconstructions, not records.

Most words, however close they are in meaning, are never quite synonyms. I think it was Lichtenberg who said that, but I can't confirm it. The internet, you know, where everyone was piling everything, now exists only in memories. Too bad.

So — what's the difference? — Since then I've often thought about it when I had time — and I had time!

The difference. The difference.

The difference is that you cannot dream about what is not, approximately, real.

I mean, you cannot dream about things that you did not experience; indeed this was the way the gates had been locked.

The builders of the island were clever. Very clever. To get off, you had to dream the right dream. That is easier said than done, I thought, walking along the beach.

To do so, you had to have experience of things that islanders could never experience. A prison with invisible walls.

However, I was not born on this island.

And my dream of the hall, it seems, was sufficient.

I felt the trembling of the earth. Something was going to happen.

There were never any great halls here, in this place, and I suspect that none shall ever be built. Maybe that's why all the bridges, for example, appear only to those who dream of the halls and high ceiling and immense crowds of a civilization that hasn't existed, in any form, for two decades now. I think.

Gradually things changed, and, because a change in quantity is eventually change in quality, my civilization simply, one fine day, ceased to exist.

That was all. Then I was there, on the island. Then began I spending much of my time seeking out specific experiences, only to have the mere chance of having the right dreams.

I began living only to dream, instead of dreaming because alive.

How fast twenty years passes! How little it is! How much changes in twenty years!

I often think about time, and I must remember not to forget that I'm thinking.

Now, I didn't have a clock; nobody on the island had a clock. There was no point then, having a clock. So, as you can imagine, was, and even then, were vague words on the island.

I felt the trembling of the earth. Something was going to happen.

My trustworthy tablet was rolled up, somewhere. Even if it worked — and why shouldn't it — the time it displayed would certainly be off. The clock it had, that was really coordinated with a server far away that, I am absolutely certain, didn't exist anymore. It was certainly off in the same way most things were off.

So everybody learned: all things are one. Interdependent: that's exactly what they are.

By the way, that's the word for which I was looking.

I'm still looking for many words.

I see many new things — and that's what new words are for.

You need new words for new things, or else you confuse everybody. The problem is, here, that everybody includes yourself. (Confusing others isn't a big deal. Most people you meet don't need your help to be confused; they're already confused. Confusing yourself, however, is just fucking stupid. Really.)

I felt the trembling of the earth — and then I distinctly thought it should tremble faster.

Something was going to happen. I wished it would happen sooner. (Life is short, even if you live forever.)

The earth groaned. A bridge of stone and sand rose from the sea, again, too slowly for my taste, and this too less seen than heard.

However, I knew what to expect. I'd also learned, like everybody on the island, how to wait.

Lemuel, now there was a great man, wandering here and there on the island! I learned much from him, perhaps too much.

The villagers of the island walk when they must walk, the long way around. They climb when they must climb, and they swim when they must swim, also the long way around. They use boats when they must use boats, and paddle when they must paddle, and as you can imagine, they're not very happy with us who can take a shortcut. They say it is unfair. I agree, it is unfair.

The sea did not recede, but rather the tiles rose from the dark water. First off in the distance, peaking through the mist, and then nearer.

The villagers of the island pretend that the Art offends them; but, in fact, they worship the Art. They merely do so tacitly, and in secret.

It seems to me this is another case of there being some things which other people can do, and they can't. For reasons outside their control. In this case, they simply weren't born on the mainland. Or they were born on the mainland, but too late. I suspect that they simply feel that they are missing out. Which is true. They are missing out.

But so what? That's the question which ended ten thousand thoughts.

I stepped easily over the gap, which was no greater than between a modern train and the platform. The bridge, the gates, and the rest had a disturbing precision. As if they were made by men . . .

But of course men had built the bridge, the gates, and the rest. The island is artificial and that is no secret.

And the real question is never whether something, in the lives of men, was made by men. Because most things in the lives of men are made by men. People just don't survive for very long where that is not the case. The appropriate question in that context is rather: why did other men not imagine that that something would be made? And why, if the thing wasn't anything particularly good, did they not prevent it from being made?

For example, what good is this island?

Does it hide anything special?

Well? Does it? Or is it just me?

Had I known that I'd be imprisoned here — stuck here — possibly forever — I would've never, in my small way, helped build it!

 

 

Most people make too many errors when they seek too much convenience.

By the way, I didn't tell you my name. It's Nare.

I'm indeed somebody who forgets things. I'll easily shirk all that's rather a bore — and then I'll just forget about it. That, too, must be fate.

What kind of things? That depends on the context.

For example, when other people specifically challenge themselves to find a deep trench full of shit on a flat empty paved road, find it, and proceed to drown themselves in it, instead of just moving along, or when they ``find'' a landmine in a field by making it and dropping it one and promptly step on it and scatter themselves as bits like autumn leaves in the wind. All that really bores me.

That — and especially the usual hugger mugger discussions that are a special case of that.

Dealing with corpses is boring. They're not interactive. They're not reactive. They're not much capable of entertaining anybody — and anybody includes me.

Whereas I really like being entertained. (Who doesn't?)

They're also messy and mushy and like I said their scattered bits get on me. I don't much like that.

I was married — and I went back to work.

My wife's father owned everything.

Then it happened. The pivotal event.

Even if everything is a chain with free movement, where the probability of what's next depends on what was before, loosely, but still, then it's still a chain, and some events might still be pivotal, and the chain might end up spinning around those.

I must admit that when it happened, I was simply angry, but I didn't expect anything important to come of it.

The truth is that, while I'm not a modest person, I don't have an inflated sense of self importance. While I agree with Schopenhauer that excessive modesty makes it all too easy for the fools and knaves of the world to blend in, seeing how a world full of modest people appears to be entirely composed of them, I prefer to be correct about myself and speak and think the truth rather than just boast. I didn't really believe that anything significant in the broader sense would ever involve me.

I mean, our company produced intelligence software. Deep learning. — Rebranded statistics from almost a hundred years ago, in my opinion. Deep potato. The people buying it don't know that averages are also convolutions. Many people yet don't know the formula for the perimeter of a circle. I've taught in universities — to engineers. It's absolutely frightening.

One day I was simply informed that everybody at the company who used a computer wrote very long, important notes and messages in the names of files.

So what? I asked.

So — when they were transferring all the files to the new computers, the big new servers, they copied them to external storage.

``Multiple copies were made automatically. Then the old hardware was upgraded.''

``Automatically.''

``Yes.''

``Then . . . I'm confused,'' I said. Where's the issue?

``. . .''

``I'm confused,'' I repeated.

``You're confused.''

``I'm confused!''

``You're confused!''

``. . .''

``. . .''

``All the notes and messages, very, very important information, as you can imagine —''

``I can imagine —''

``. . . was lost. Clipped off.''

``What?''

``It's gone.''

``What?''

``Nobody knows . . . what most of the files are . . . . . . or what they were doing with them before this happened . . . . . . . . . or what they are supposed to be doing with them at this point.''

``Oh, really?''

``Yeah.''

``Really?''

``Yeah.''

I told them to fix it. Fix it immediately.

They told me they can't.

I told them to fix it — and went outside — yes — in the winter. Motherfuckers.

 

Anything beautiful we usually see only from one side — from a certain angle.

Winter. I walked down the street. I'm not cold.

In a civilized society there are many people.

Therefore many other people must wait.

The five lane intersection, where I had to wait, was a roundabout.

Instead of the usual monument in praise of some war (in which one in every four probably died), on the island, at the center of the roundabout, was a grassy hill. On that hill were some trees. The leaves were gone.

So there were only the branches. Water had frozen on the branches.

It was pretty, let's be fair. I unrolled my tablet and took a photo, which I inspected.

Who can say, from up close, which branch in life shall lead where.

You look up close and see branches going but neither beginning nor ending. Interesting.

All the same, from too far away, you cannot discern the individual branches, though if you could, you could follow them and see their destinations. But you can't.

 

 

On the island, as you cannot imagine, everybody and you were vague words.

At least that's how they were considered by the villagers.

I ran across two men arguing. They had a cart and a car.

Clearly the second man arrived in the car. The first man arrived in the hut.

In the cart sat a woman, looking absentmindedly into the sun. I recognized her eyes as artificial.

Meanwhile, said the first man: ``A long, long time ago, our forefathers rode horses. And now, now we walk!''

``Why do we walk?'' asked the other man.

``Look. Motor cars drive faster than horses. There's our car over —''

``No, no, we walk!'' insists the first man, outraged.

``Why?'' replied the other man.

``Our forefathers didn't have cars. — And we have no horses.''

``So what?''

``So let's get going.''

``You walk. I'll —''

``No, no, we'll go together. — You go first. I'll get in this cart and follow you.''

``How are we going to do that? If you're in the cart . . .''

``You're gonna pull it. That's why you go first. You go first — you!''

``Arsehole.''

``Do it!''

``Fine.''

I walked past them and hopped into the cart without saying a word.

The villages pretended they knew me. In fact, they were just afraid of me.

I make the mountains rise or sink for no obvious reason. (That, too, is convenient.)

The first man smokes a pipe. The other man pulls the cart, like a draft animal.

(I thought he might've anticipated this nonsense. That explained why he made argument.)

And then I rose and sunk and rose and sunk as the wheels of the cart clatter along the uneven stone road.

Meanwhile, the woman continued to stare into the sun.

``I can't see you,'' she told me, suddenly.

``I can see that,'' I replied, slowly.

``. . .''

``. . .''

She alleged: ``You don't have money.'' She switched the topic, just like that. Offense.

``I don't need it.'' Defense.

``You need it.''

``Why?'' replied I.

``The road has a toll.''

``Forget about the toll. — They'll let me by.''

She said very gently: ``I'm sure they'll let you by, if you pay the toll.''

This confirmed, in me, so far as anybody can confirm anything in this world, that she really couldn't see.

No, she hadn't the slightest clue with whom she was talking. The artificial eyes were possibly broken. — Or they were just off.

You can do that — and sleep with your eyes wide open. That's a big convenience in this world. You can glare at other people while really sleeping.

You'd need to sleep to get things done on the island, so you couldn't avoid sleeping — but all things considered, it's much safer that way. I had no doubt about that.

Meanwhile the man with the lit pipe was pretending that I hadn't said anything. He muttered something entirely incomprehensible. Closer examination of him revealed that he was also chewing something apparently rubbery. Talented man, he who can do three things at once. He clearly wasn't going to tell her, not then and there.

The man pulling the cart grunted. I'm much heavier than I look. He couldn't talk — though surely he knew everything.

I continued: ``They'll let me by, even if I don't pay the toll. Probably. I bet.''

``. . .''

``Lucky you. You won't have to pay the toll either; because I'm with you.''

``Sure.''

Then she said: ``Actually, I can see you.''

Then it was my turn to be quiet and thoughtful. ``Actually, I have money.''

``It's in neither of your pockets, nor in the sack, nor in the armor, but in the chip that passes for the nail on your right hand.''

``?'' I raised my hand.

``Wrong. Nothing there.''

``Your other right hand. The one on that drone that is following us.''

I said nothing; she wasn't blind at all.

It was possible she also spotted the other two. No, very likely.

She must have her own drone, somewhere near.

I looked around around. She watched me with a smile.

Then I saw it. Peeking over the trees.

A lopsided face suspended from snaking cables functioning as necks. Two tiny arms extended from behind it.

It was almost a hundred feet off the ground.

``Do you want to know how it's controlled?'' she volunteered.

I did.

The man pulling the cart pretended he didn't hear that; the man with the pipe was looking away, at the hills.

Maybe there was a reason why they were carting her around.

``Tell me,'' I replied.

The cart was slowly distancing itself from the forest.

Eventually my drones and hers would have to show themselves.

Mine were simple; they basically looked like people. Had simple preferences. My commands biased their preferences. Encrypted wireless. I just used the existing towers to send my signals.

A population of technology haters, wireless, cars and carts on the same road, hundreds of people with body doubles, myself included, the island was a mess. But of course it was, it's made by men. (Don't tell the villagers.) Men are messy.

``Tell me,'' I repeated.

I hadn't seen that model before. There was also no clear way for the cables to support the weight of that head and arms, let alone anything else it might carry.

Furthermore, there was no way she was able to command the snaking wires. It's too much work. The calculations.

``There are no calculations to be done,'' she said.

Silence.

I'm learning something new; it seems the island itself is not the only thing capable of reading my mind.

NEXT : Parts 3-4

ALSO : FiftyWords Challenge Story with the same protagonist.

 

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〈 constrained writing challenge 16, and 17〉 !busy

      theme : Starts happily. Ends sadly. Poses an existential question and
                      teaches something in an environment not suited for learning.
#busy #creativity #fiction #writing #scifi #constrainedwriting #shortfiction
I usually write stories which are 10,000–25,000 words . . . 40–100 pages.

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ABOUT ME

I'm a scientist who writes fantasy and science fiction under various names.

The magazines which I most recommend are: Compelling Science Fiction, the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, and the Writers of the Future.

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©2017 tibra.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License. This is a work of fiction. Events, names, places, characters are either imagined or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real events or persons or places is coincidental. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Images: tibra.