Cassy McClay had been training for the lemonade derby since she was four years old. Every Saturday she went down to the hardware shop, out back to the little shed where the Foxgaiters let her store her racer. It barely fit in the little space with the sheet on top, so she'd drag it out into the yard to make her changes. A new feature here. A new toggle there. She doted on that boxcar and she gave it all of her time. She spent years growing into the perfect soapbox champion, building just the right machine, practicing driving, timing her trials, and most importantly: focusing her mind, mentally preparing herself for a success of true value. Unbeknownst to her, posters go up down on the city hall notice board. These are copied and circulated, walked and stapled down the path of the city, and four days before Cassy's first eligible event, she reads one. It says:

LEMONADE DERBY CANCELLED

(Muffin Parade in the works)

~~~

MY POGS, MY POGS, MY POGS!

I CAN'T, I WON'T LOSE THEM

~~~

I CAN FLY, I CAN KEEP FROM CRASHING

I CAN STAY UP THERE, OFF THE GROUND

~~~

What happens when someone uncompromising comes up against the world?

They lose, of course. That indomitable spirit, thinking to impose its will, will be snuffed out in its first breath. It will be bent by indifference. It was not meant to be personal.

The world is hard. In a will of the unyielding, the world wins.

This is why everyone makes little compromises to survive. Small stuff, like delaying a household repair. Staying in instead of going out. Stifling a remark, or paying more to avoid exercises in futility.  Letting go of things, and thoughts, and people. It's all compromise, and nobody likes a compromise. Compromises leave everyone unhappy, not a soul getting what they want.

But since everybody wants what they want without reservation, compromise offers a third way.  It's the survival button for all human affairs, and one that every opposing side wishes didn't exist. Without compromise, everyone could be true to their heart and instincts. They would be free, before they were destroyed.

Compromise means what is gained and what is lost. Every hard decision, and there are so many hard decisions, is a new piece to give away of oneself. Every tiny sliver is a sacrifice. Each gain pales in comparison to its loss. Until eventually the gains are so small, and all of your history feels lost, and you're compromising for the single privilege of surviving. At this point, the uncompromiser breaks. There is always a level lower, and when the descent is too hard to bear, sometimes compromise becomes less intolerable. There is no reward for standing up against a thresher, beyond the making of meat. 

Have firm convictions, they'll say. Don't compromise on your beliefs. 

They should add: except to the world. Compromise for the world. In its path, it does not care if you yield.  

The plants in my apartment show signs of a hard early life. The palm against the sofa, for instance, has dried tips, cracked and yellow-brown. The base of my philodendron is empty earth. All of the leaves that first started there I plucked when they turned not only yellow, but wrinkled and thick, too. My orchid is across the room. Its twisted spindles once supported the many-months-gone flowers. Experienced plant givers learn to trim these away to help the plant growth. I left mine to fossilize. Whether it's the half-brown and broken base tendrils of my windowsill succulent or the denuded trunk of the balcony tangelo tree, my plants display how they once suffered at my hands. I won't strip them away, because damaged parts as they are, they are part of each whole plant. 

In bungling each plant's first weeks, negligence wasn't the culprit. I didn't hurt them out of misplaced anger. I didn't overwater them for science, or leave them thirsting because I rarely came home. I brought each plant into my home with intention. Then I let ignorance and affection go to play. 

When I noticed the earliest signs of my malpractice, I panicked. What had I been missing? I tried to guesswork solutions to revive each plant. Move it to a different spot. Water it twice as much. Stop watering it for over a week. Dust the leaves. Sing to it. As you may imagine, these constant shifts in treatment did not help the plant. The yellowing worsened. I pricked and preened so frequently that only one option was left: to take a hands-off approach.

Then each plant had time to grow some roots. I started testing the soil moisture. I watered it two times a week, small amounts. And the whole picture of each plant is mostly green. They thrive. They're lush. They support their weight well. But the signs of their early stresses are all present, if you know how to look. They suffered, once. Before I learned to listen to them. When they didn't know how to be understood. 

And if my history, inept and embarrassing, is displayed for all to see: so what? At least it shows I'm growing. At least it shows the plants are growing.  We've all survived a bit of a messy backstory. We're all still going. 

Sometimes, maybe that's enough.  

Today I'd like to try a little experiment. I'm going to write (and edit) on the same short prompt for five minutes each while listening to varying types of background music. My curiosity? Whether the style of each musical genre will influence the writing.

The prompt:

Theodore White discovered paper on a Tuesday afternoon. 

1. Fantasy Background

Theodore White discovered paper on a Tuesday afternoon. It had been a big house, and no one ever saw little Theo when he wandered off among the scattered hallways. He often discovered things, off on his own. These items ranged from a tortoiseshell button tucked beneath the fraying carpet in the towers to the petrified banana roosting in the fourth-West basement. 

2. Miles Davis (Jazz)

Theodore White discovered paper on a Tuesday afternoon. It had been a big house, and no one ever saw little Theo when he wandered off among the scattered hallways. He often discovered things, off on his own. These items ranged from a A tortoiseshell button tucked beneath the fraying carpet in the towers. to The petrified banana roosting in the fourth-West basement. None of these things had ever surprised Theo, because what was an old house for, if not secrets?

But the paper was something different altogether. If buttons and bananas were Theo's rubies and diamonds, the paper den was something like a pirate's cove. If not for the paper itself, the room would have been cavernous. Down the fifth hallway and past the second corridor the room had been. The door was a deeply smoothed mahogany, softened by generations of hands. Theo's eye had been caught by its purple crystal handle, but its barely-there engravings were his true fascination. 

3. 90's Skate Punk

Theodore White discovered paper on a Tuesday afternoon. It had been a big house, and no one ever saw little Theo when he wandered off among the scattered hallways. He often discovered things, off on his own. These items ranged from a A tortoiseshell button tucked beneath the fraying carpet in the towers. to The petrified banana roosting in the fourth-West basement. None of these things had ever surprised Theo, because what was an old house for, if not secrets?

But the paper was something different altogether. If buttons and bananas were Theo's rubies and diamonds, the paper den was something like a pirate's cove. If not for the paper itself, the room would have been cavernous. Down the fifth hallway and past the second corridor he'd found it. By then he'd had a chance to search through cabinets and closets, cobweb-bedecked bedrooms and countless passages. He'd stumbled on the room quite by accident, and only weeks later would he learn of its contents. The room's door was a deeply smoothed mahogany, softened by generations of hands. Its purple crystal handle caught his eye, but its barely-there engravings were his true fascination.

Theo continued to wander the house, but he kept returning to the door. Every week or so, he would ply a new tool on its handle. He was nervous about shattering or breaking the old handle. For this reason, he always restrained his efforts. It wasn't until the third Tuesday when Theo's newly-acquired lockpicking skills struck gold. He had been picking distractedly, his thoughts elsewhere, when he heard a gentle click and felt the door push slightly inward. 

4. Chopin (Classical Music)

Theodore White discovered paper on a Tuesday afternoon. It had been a big house, and no one ever saw little Theo when he wandered off among the scattered hallways. He often discovered things, off on his own. These items ranged from a A tortoiseshell button tucked beneath the fraying carpet in the towers. to A petrified banana roosting in the fourth-West basement. Four brass keys. A red-backed comb. A springy patch of moss under a trickle-broken skylight. None of these things had ever surprised Theo, because what was an old house for, if not secrets?

But the paper was something different altogether. If buttons and bananas were Theo's rubies and diamonds, the paper den was something like a pirate's cove. If not for the paper itself, the room would have been cavernous, but it heaped in cardboard boxes and down particle board bookshelves until the walls themselves seemed to be breathing it. The room was down the fifth hallway and past the second corridor. He'd been wandering when he found it. By then, Theo had had a chance to search through cabinets and closets, cobweb-bedecked bedrooms and countless passages. He'd stumbled upon this room quite by accident, and only weeks later would he learn of its contents. At first, it was just another simple mystery of the house. A way to pass his afternoons. The room's door was a deeply smoothed mahogany, softened by generations of hands. Its purple crystal handle caught his eye, but its barely-there engravings were his true fascination. 

Theo continued to wander the house, but always he returned to the door. Like a clockwork mouse, every week or so he would ply a new tool on its handle. If he treated the door roughly, the old handle might have fallen and shattered, or else its inner workings might snap. For this reason, he always restrained his efforts. It wasn't until the third Tuesday when Theo's newly-acquired lockpicking skills struck gold. He had been picking distractedly, his mind hardly leaning on the torsion wrench, when he heard a gentle click and felt the door push slightly inward.

Stepping into the room, he'd almost lost his feet out from under him. The floor had slid. Theo righted himself and knelt to pick up the spare sheet that had unbalanced him. It had crumpled at his step, but only in the corner. Most of it was still sharp and flat and wide and, he thought, oddly rough for something that made the floor slick as ball bearings. It felt hardy, yet flimsy at once. More stray sheets lay around his feet and he picked up a few, folding some, bending others in long cylinders, tossing the rest up to see them fall back down in strange arcs. 

When I think of love -- not static love, not Hallmark love, but whirly-dirly over-the-moon explode and fall to contented pieces love -- when I think of love, when I see or read a true note of it, there is a small, tucked corner of my heart that makes itself inexorably known. It is pinched and folded in on itself. It is far beneath the breastbone and ventricles and meat of my pulsing life. And still, when I think of love, when I see an instance of love that reminds me however distantly of what I've felt before, that tiny nugget tucked in on itself becomes more of me than the rest of myself combined. How can such a small, worried piece be so irrepressibly whole?

It's a comfort, this corner.  If I wonder whether romantic love is now beyond me, something I've dealt with too roughly in the past to call back someday, I need only recall this piece of my heart and its overwhelming power. No matter what uncertainties I face in life, I know that this corner, redoubled on itself as it is, is totally out of my control. It's a bider. It bides its time. Every once in a while, un vez en cuando, it is the stalactite that drips into the dark, deep pool of me, sending ripples out to my frigid borders. Its call says "wait, and I may rise again. There will be more."

There is a tucked corner of my heart more powerful than myself. It is a small, clipped bud. Yet it is raw and tamed only by itself. It waits. It knows the truth of me that I often forget. It is a knot, a node, that holds my oft crumbling form in place. 

And when I think of love, it sings. 

What does any sane person do when faced with the choice between backtracking along a previously unsuccessful route and forging ahead into the dangerously unknown?

I wouldn't know. I have never met a sane person. 

That said, there are many of us who find ourselves faced, similarly, with depths far too deep to find footing and, recognizing our choices lie in a labor mired in defeat or an lesser labor, the stakes of which we cannot possibly comprehend, we elect to float upon the bitter deep and hope, perhaps by osmosis, to soak in enough knowledge or gather enough strength to brave the ocean before us. 

It's hard to say how much of human conquest comes from wisdom and how much from stupidity, but the latter almost certainly boasts the lion's share. 

So many of us force ourselves through the head of a pin in hopes of glory. Some of us are chasing a better story. Some public acclaim. But all of us who let it ride betting on red know better. We're just hoping that, this time, good fortune beats out our miserable reason.

Of course there's a price. There's always a price. We might get our story. We might get our acclaim. But the feeling we're chasing at the heart of it all is fickle and mercurial. What we really want is self worth. We want to be able to tell ourselves as we fall asleep that we took a chance and it paid off. That we tried in earnest, however foolhardy. And if we win the day and pat ourselves on the back, we get to sleep soundly -- until the itch to be more returns. It always returns. Because a person who's climbed the ragged edge of a mountain, flipped herself up on the ledge and avoided a splatted end, cannot find perpetual peace on that gained ground. Gravity and perspective will keep calling. Her choice becomes to ignore the call or to answer it. 

There is an exhilaration to be had floating in unknown waters and climbing virgin cliffs -- so long as we do not contemplate the sharks and empty air below.   

Any story can be a happy story if you end it in the right place.

Maybe it's a matter of missing information: the lover never knows her loved one poisoned another to achieve his ends.

Maybe a journey is cut short: instead of travelling further into sickened lands, the hero stops in a small town and builds her fortune.

Maybe a death brings peace: two kingdoms unite over a fallen monarch, so that his conquering hands are not led by a desperate mind to desperate deeds.

The story's greatest turmoil seems always to come from the narrator's quest for a clean end. But people's endings by design are nearly always messy. Perhaps the cleanest ends are only possible when taken out of our hands.

Kafka seems a fitting test of this theory. His stories, also by design, are some of the most grotesque and ill-fated in literature. His heroes must always meet ruin. Their journeys -- begun with little hope -- quickly devolve into collapsed ruins of a narration. They are happiest when stricken by fire. Their heroes are at greatest peace when they cease to exist.

It might be argued then, that any premature ending to a Kafka story would be a happier result than that the narrator makes for himself. The only semi-happy ending I can think of in Kafka's body of work is The Castle. This is because the book ends mid-sentence. 

My own frustration as a reader left without an ending eclipsed the middling failures of the struggling beaurocrat protagonist. At least, those frustrations eclipsed the failures of the narrator at that point in the story. My rational mind knew it was a Kafka tale. I knew the protagonist had only misery to follow. But my hopeful mind, with the story mid-flow, could still imagine some fantastic escape. By suspending disbelief -- a skill that even the most rudimentary fantasy-reader must develop -- I could pretend the beaurocrat, still struggling, would find his saving grace.

---

Now: imagine your last failed relationship. Imagine that instead of scrambling at answers to a story that had run out of lines, circumstance had taken the question out of your hands. Imagine that you had missed out on a few of your joint final joys. Imagine, too, that all your final failures and heartaches -- save, perhaps, a deciding one -- were whisked away like a small tempest of sand.

What if you could look back on the gutted structure of your relationship and see only the strongest parts still standing?

How much earlier would your story need to have ended to avoid the whole thing crumbling to the dust?

Every story has a happy ending. If you end it early enough.

I had stopped asking Zimi all the answers to my questions, and I was afraid I was going to get caught. 

Everyone had a Zimi. Of course, like most, I believed that my Zimi and I had a special bond. The electronic voice in my head, answering any question I posed aloud. Of course after the many years of curiosity, I had come to trust my Zimi as "my own." Even though I knew logically that she was an identical program for my classmates and my teachers and my parents, still. My Zimi was mine. She was the one with my unique call-back log. My search history saved in her banks. We were linked by my nacient inquisitiveness. That's why now, as I kept silent, it felt like a betrayal. 

It was the wonder that lured me in. Can you remember the last time you felt wonder? I couldn't. Everything in life was so set-out. So decided-upon. It was a all a planned oasis, a constructed, verdant atmosphere of knowing, of certainty. Everything was planned down to the microsecond, with aberrations being the merest blip of statistical interference. People were free to do anything, so the machines had gotten very good at guesstimating what the people were going to do. 

What I wasn't doing was thinking my thoughts out loud. I was hiding them like a sneak. Like a militant. Like a spy. What was wrong with me? A lot, I guessed. But whatever it was wasn't strong enough to force my larynx. I wanted to keep my thoughts to myself as long as I could I wanted to keep wondering. 

Wonder wasn't something propagated where I grew up. Why would it be? Anytime someone had a question, you simply asked it out loud and your Zimi would respond. Zimi had most answers, if not all. Usually with whatever answer she gave that didn't completely forestall curiosity -- that is to say, when Zimi's answers were imperfect --  the information she did give was enough to keep your mind reeling with the new possibilities. Not wonder -- possibilities. There's a distinction there I didn't understand before. Thinking about possibilities was like following a different path down the trail. It had mystery, but you could always follow it back to the path junction. Wonder was like sprinting into the sky. With the paths, with the possibilities, I always knew to put one foot in front of the other. I knew the path would end. I knew there were other paths all around me to follow. There just weren't spare neurons for following up on the missing specifics. I never thought to look up.

That's why this new feeling was such a thrill. It wasn't cheating, per say. In fact, if anything it was a willful extension of ignorance. Something to be abhorred. But I didn't care. I couldn't. When I kept the questions in my head instead of voicing them out loud, something incredible happened. I thought on them. I mulled over many awful, brazen concepts of how my questions could be answered. I pictured silly things. I tumbled quickly, steadily, down wrong paths. It was exhilarating. I'd only gotten to that feeling by stumbling over my own stupid tongue, but now...

Zimi wasn't programmed to be suspicious, but I'd been growing wary lately. She was used to a certain frequency of questions. I wasn't meeting my quota. 

"Caleb?" she asked one day. "You have not been asking much. Do you have something you'd like to ask?"

I nearly jumped out of my skin, paper-thin drifting away from my body, and I pulled myself back to focus as a ghost focusing chi. I said, "I do not have any questions now, Zimi."

Zimi made her green-light noise and powered away. Zimi had not powered away entirely for a long time, and though I was afraid, my thoughts soon drifted in bliss, and I did not wonder about Zimi until I heard her power on. 

When she came online, my brain felt pricked. I would have shuddered, had I not been so surprised and shocked. Like an icy thin needle piercing my brain. I woke up to it, and then my shoulders relaxed, and I was lying down, and I asked aloud, "Zimi? Why do we feel sensations that aren't physically touching us?"

And Zimi answered, "Well, Caleb: the brain is a wondrous thing. It feels very many sensations for a myriad of reasons that are not yet totally explained. But sometimes the brain's neurons fire in a particular way that sends a signal to the brain. That signal says, "pay attention!" Other times, there's something systemic that's running through the body. And the brain signals a specific feeling, like itchiness, to a specific part of your body, just so you start paying attention to it. There are a lot of reasons, you see, to feel something that you can't physically see affecting you."

I sighed and melted into my pillow, curled the comforter suddenly in my grasp up to my chin. "Thank you, Zimi." I said, murmured, swiftly falling into sleep. "You're welcome, Caleb," said the voice of Zimi, as though through and descending down a deepening well. "I'm always here."

---

When I awoke, I remembered missing something, but I could not recall what it was. 

Perhaps it was juice? I went to the fridge and tugged against the magnetic weight of the door. I saw many half-empty bottles of tea and water. I saw two jugs of milk, one partially empty. I saw juice boxes on the top shelf, but I knew they were too sweet. I didn't want to pucker my lips so early. I ran a glass under the tap and drank thirstily before setting the cup on the counter. It rang out with a thin, quick sound. 

"Zimi?" I asked. I heard the familiar, warm glow strong behind my left ear, hovering vaguely over my right. "Yes, Caleb?" Zimi said. 

"I want to be on a mountain. Can you visualize me on a mountain?"

"Of course, Caleb," said Zimi. The world briefly became blurred bars that resolved into a snowy mountain cap. I stood on slasher-yellow skis on a few feet of snow. Before me was a steep lip. The wind carried itself whistling around me. I felt the snap of the cold on my nose, my chin. The rest of me was covered in wool or plastic, protected, but only a thin shell. I blinked a quick thank you to Zimi and skated to the lip, tipping over. 

---

My tongue had to catch me again. For months I kept up as I always had, asking my questions of Zimi as soon as they formed. Stealing into worlds with her that fit my own psyche. It wasn't until my fat tongue caught in my mouth, kept me from voicing my thoughts quickly enough, that I caught the wonder again. 

This time it was just as beautiful as before. A flitting, effervescent butterfly. The wonder caught hold of me, let me spin this way and that, turning in the currents of possibility, before Zimi's voice called me back to reality. "Caleb?" she asked, a hint of concern in her voice. "Is there anything you would like to know?"

I took several deep, panting breaths before I could answer. I felt as though I were stepping on wet clay. I did not want the ground to harden with my imprecise steps. "No, Zimi," I said. "I'm feeling tired. I would like to go take a nap."

Dreaming was another kind of wonder, I came to realize. Before I had learned to think in this new way, dreams were just another ephemeral thing. If I did not take care to remember them, they would flit away, quick as you please. Dreams, like errant thoughts, had no loyalty. Not like people. Not like Zimi, I thought guiltily. Why, I realized, why was I giving up this trusting relationship I'd relied upon all my life for some indifferent frivolity so meaningless as thinking? As empty wonder?  

I tried to let the rational part of myself win, I really did. But that tittering flame at the base of my heart and the crown of my mind would not let go. They were the omni-present flame. And so began my earnest tricking of Zimi, god help me. 

End of Part 1

Trying to stay grateful can feel hard sometimes. If that in itself is an ungrateful thought, well hey, I'm doing my best. 

What I mean is: gratitude is important. It would be wonderful if everything that was important was easy. We'd be able to take care of all our basic needs like *that,* security at the snap of our fingers. But then, there has always seemed to me an intrinsic relationship between the importance of something and how difficult it is to hold. Like shining gold buried deep in the earth. Like standing in the spotlight. If it's something everyone else has, if my neighbor can have it just as easy as I can, it can't be worth much. 

That's how it seems. But what an awful concept!

And almost certainly true. A basic law of scarcity. We believe that a thing's value is linked to how much of it we can get. It's part of the oncoming storm (drought?) of water rationing. It figures in brand names with purse companies who burn unsold bags rather than see the poor use them. It's there in the hustle to get a "respectable" or avoid an "embarrassing" job. We value certain foods higher, certain books, certain titles and one-of-a-kind artwork masterpieces: the unlikeliness of encountering a thing again makes its value skyrocket. 

Is it there in love, too?

The idea of "love," much like the idea of religion, is stuffed up the gut with contradictions. It almost seems to require them to function. I am one thing; I am many things. I am a rare jewel; I am a grain of sand. Love is something that can be given to everyone, but also it is something to share only with those closest to you. Religion provides a path that everyone can follow, but only an uncommon spirit will be able to follow it perfectly. 

I'm getting away from myself. And that's exactly not the point -- yes, suck it, I know the prose gets pretzel-ey, with my viewership this is basically a journal at this point--the point is, that although it can feel hard sometimes to try for something that half of your brain says should be easy, it's the recognizing the "sometimes" that is the greatest gift. 

I am able to be grateful. I am able to know that this time, more so than others, it is hard for me to do so. But I am able to do so. And more than that, it represents an awareness that I think -- although perhaps I only want to think -- is rather rare. 

I might be flailing all over the damn place. But I know what flailing is. I know it's different than the other steady, standing people. And even if I can't say why, I know I'm -- at at least a lower level -- choosing to flail. I'd rather be me, flailing, slowly weirding everyone else out, than clamp my arms to the side and stand quietly in line. 

Honestly? I'll probably join the line at some point. It's a rare soul who doesn't. 

But f*ck it. Let's flail a bit more for the sake of shaking things up, at least. 

Silliness before stillness. 

a system that would eventually become their concept of the “third artist,” who was neither Leo nor Diane but emerged from them both.

the young artists also had to navigate the challenges of being an interracial couple pre-Civil Rights Movement America.  

Is the concept of mixed-gem fusion and the gemworld disgust with it meant as an allegory for the civil rights movement? 

“We’re an interracial couple, and we decided early in our career that we wanted to represent all races and show people that were rarely seen in children’s books at the time.”

Rebecca Sugar, in contrast, has said this:

“It’s very important to me that we speak to kids about identity...I want to feel like I exist, and I want everyone else who wants to feel that way to feel that way too.”

Food for thought.

Life teaches you how to live it -- if you can live long enough. 

I don't have anything to add to that sentiment. I just think Bennett's insight should be postered everywhere. Once more:

Life teaches you how to live it -- if you can live long enough. 

Amy couldn't live long enough. She seemed to try, though. 

Bennett believes her voice was in league with Ella Fitzgerald and Etta James. And he would have told her, had she lived, to slow down. He would have told her

Life teaches you how to live it -- if you can live long enough. 

Maybe a slow pace helps. 

I've been picking up recently on what seems like a more widespread use of the term "artificial," at least as regards children's television, and I'd like to muse on that briefly. 

One instance: the (quite real) possibility that the gem race in Steven Universe are an advanced form of artificial intelligence created by another species. Even if this is not so, the parallels are enough to raise the topic of what defines articiality. 

Another: in the Adventure Time finale, there is a visual flash when a character, a ruler, is swayed by the plea of an old friend. The ruler is about to go to war, and the friend asks her to give the enemy a final chance to lay down arms. The princess, the ruler, looks at the outstretched arm of her friend, a robotic one with many advancements, and for a moment sees the arm he had once, long ago, still already many years into their friendship. It had been a simple metal claw, one which he could not even clasp, and which he had only acquired after a stretch of trauma and loss. Time and the princess's blinking eye was all that lay between the two models: one grating, a piss-poor replacement to a lost cause; the other a true-to-form part of her friend, and a symbol, now, of their long friendship. 

There is a possibility that these are just examples of the baader meinhof phenomenon in action, but if not, the question becomes: 

why is this special leniency toward the artificial most evident in children's content? 

Is it aimed at an audience that writers already know will be familiar with "technology" in a way past generations are not? That would mean the stories are just tailored to please. Or perhaps the writers themselves are, intentionally or unconsciously, working the thread of 'artificial doesn't have to be the opposite of natural' into their narratives. 

What implications do these insertions carry? In the grown-up world, a now chatterbox, now burbling topic is that of artificial intelligence. We're working toward it steadily on many fronts. Unless we reach a turtle-less bottom, as with Feinberg's uncertainty, we're likely to have artificial intelligence creations moving amongst us, regularly and ubiquitously, in ways that blur lines. With care and cultural familiarity, perhaps it can be that we move amongst each other, even as each other, instead of against. 

credit jackfisherbooks

The narrative around artificial intelligence, like most hot-to-trot technology topics, is constantly changing. More volatile than Tesla stock. Now you hear one expert say we're heading toward a Matrix-like civilization crisis. Now another says that's ridiculous, it's a technology like any other, well within our control. Then there are those people waaaaaaaaaaaaayyy on the other side of the gate entirely. 

No matter which way events unfold, though, it's the future generations who will have to live with most of the fallout. Does it seem more likely that we're reaching the end of the "natural" age, or that the definition of "natural" as we know it is changing? 

Feel free to share thoughts on this one in the comments. 

Everyone needs rest. Sleep is the biggest part of that (for most of us) but a lot of us (also most of us) do our best to ignore that fact. 

I definitely have. For most of my life. 

Now as I get older, I find that I can't just motor through the days like I used to. In fact, this past weekend I needed a whole day of nothingness just to get my reboot. 

I could write a whole long post on the benefits of sleep, but you know what? Many people already have. Just google it. Not everyone's right, but everyone has an opinion. 

My opinion tonight? The eternal flame of creativeness will keep burning through a singular evening of skiving off. 

So tonight, I'm giving myself the gift of rest. Try it for yourself. You'll see -- it's dreamy. 

For today's thoughts, I was watching Star Trek Voyager's episode "Mortal Coil." It's a fascinating look into a character who, having been brought back from the dead, must grapple with whether to believe in the afterlife (or not). I won't touch on any of its themes of identity or morality or hope in this post. Instead, I'm here today to write concerning a small turn of phrase during the party scene. 

In the episode, a character struggling with social conduct is told, after approaching some people at the party and listening in, to join the group in conversation; 

"to chime in."

credit to makersmess.com

1. to pipe up
2. to chime in
3. to talk
4. to chat / chatter / chit chat
5. to converse
6. to bring up / to come up 
7. to squawk
8. to mention
9. to put forth
10. to insert
11. to speak up
12. to gush
13. to gab
14. to gossip
15. to give up
16. to reveal
17. to blab
18. to prate / prattle
19. to intone
20. to offer
21. to say
22. to tell
23. to iterate
24. to sing -- as like a canary, giving up potentially damning information
25. to spit -- at the edge of a sound and not a word (notice I didn't include warble, trill, chortle, hiccup, harrumph and others which are more tonal cues than true "talking"); however, to spit in the context of conversation is to say something in an aspirated fashion (with a hiss). To spit is more talk than noise because, by nature, words spat at someone have to be understood as words, not just as noise, for the full brunt of the term's meaning to hit.  
26. to address -- as when directed your full, formal attention at the other person in your choice of words (and presentation)
27. to explain
28. to jaw away
29. to elocute
30. to banter
31. to bicker
32. to comment
33. to communicate
34. to lecture
35. to orate
36. to negotiate
37. to profess
38. to exaggerate
39. to lie (I almost didn't include this, but lying is talking untruthfully -- language is a requirement)
40. to sound out
41. to articulate
42. to speak

I think I'll end here. Always good to be left searching for a new question. 

If another word for talking comes to mind that I didn't mention, please comment below! Happy to add credit for new additions up to 50. 

Maybe a year ago, I heard a parable (which I recounted in another post) that deals with the nature of endings. 

The primary wisdom gained is that a story's root lies in its ending, and that the only certainty is that all of our stories end the same way: in death. 

At first, the thought seems a morbid one, and is certainly intended this way within the framing of the story in which I heard it. But there are many sides to the two-sided coin, it turns out. Every inverted angle as the coin flips through the air is a different shade of the story. The story's ending -- the landing of the coin -- can be averted so long as the flipper keeps clasping the coin out of the air and, again, flipping. As long as we keep telling the story, no matter the ending, we keep making our meaning for now. The present narrative is, after all, moment by moment, what we are seeking.

And so long as the story ends, from our perspective, during the telling -- the outcome seems to matter less, now, than it once did. 

'Til next time. 

Day 14 of the writing challenge has arrived. With whatever I post here, I've completed the challenge. As soon as I push that button, poof. Test complete. Passed, with colors that, if not exactly flying, put up a strong leap. 

What did I gain from the experience?

Well. A more nuanced blogger or a more considerate writer might have taken time before the penning stage to consider what she was going to immortalize. As may be evident from my slapdash posts, I am not that writer. I am not so considerate. I write pretty much whatsoever comes to mind, even to the point of shunting many of my own ideas into the shadows so the newest rising star can snag the spotlight. 

It's a big hogwash, a bit improvised. Fueled in part by anger, in part by hope, and in part by my own lovely pineal gland. It's a lot of things, these posts I create. But planned and sorted, they are not. 

This spot I designed for myself -- this tiny corner of the web -- it's my place for verbatim. Unedited, reckless, moment-by-moment that it is, it is mine. And maybe someday I'll take these thoughts somewhere else. And if I do, I'll be the one to say the word, as it happens, and the next. 

All in all, a successful experiment, I think. Even if the output is largely rambling to the casual observer. They're my ramblings, then, and I like them that way -- for now. 

For what are our storytellers but ramblers who've learned to spool in an audience?

For now, I'm ready to practice with a few more yarns. 

Next time we stop counting days, except perhaps to mark here at the bottom of the screen. 

For those who read all the way down -- did you make a bet in the beginning of this thing as to which side of the coin it would hit? Did you win? Your prize is self-satisfaction! Or self-loathing! Dealer's choice :P

Day 13 of the writing challenge and I'm feeling lucky. 

Haven't done fiction in a while. 

                    _

Theme (why not be brazen with it?): 

cancer is the warning. 

It had all become about the telomeres very quickly. One minute it was the fountain of youth's been cracked! and infinite youth forever! and then the papers (ha!) were looking for a buzzword and telomeres caught on. Who can say why?

When the newsmen and women reported the stories, they all started by saying it was very complicated, very technical, and they would be telling us a dumbed-down version of things. I remember I put my cereal spoon down. The coco puffs had been delicious, but I put the spoon down and leaned back and watched while they reported that morning because in all the years I'd spent listening to these same two-to-six blowhards tell the news, only a shy handful of times had I heard them explain away their own ignorance. I sat up to pay attention to that.

The news was always complicated. That was the nature of the everyday -- complications. The newspeople's job was to distill all that complicated nonsense down and fit it into a sound bite that the everyman could consume, maybe even with a little relish if the newspeople did their jobs right. That particular morning, the day they first started talking about the telomeres, I had looked up from my cereal, tuning in with my whole attention, before they mentioned the little T-low devils for the first time. The newswoman pronounced the word with no particular inflection, nor did her face take on any particular, marked interest. What a strange attitude, in retrospect, knowing what was to come. 

The newspeople finished their warnings about the rudimentary nature of their explanation, then they buzzed in with the word about "telomeres," explaining they were "caps on the edge of the cell that wore down when cells divided." Finally, they said that scientists had "created a kind of indestructible coating" for the caps and that they were moving quickly on the project. Then they newspeople again, mentioned that what they had just explained was the dumbed-down version of something highly technical. They promised more details as the story developed. I went back to eating my cereal.

The next time they mentioned the telomeres, it was the evening news. I didn't usually watch the news then. I'd fallen asleep and tuned in to them using the word a lot, my foggy brain climbing out of the darkness to know what the fuss was about, so who knows how long they were at it before my brain tuned in and I woke up? Eventually, anyway, I did, and my brain didn't manage to unfog itself too much before the commercial break came back on. The lull of the familiar, trickling sounds in my tired head put me back under. 

In the morning, though, I came to understand what the fuss was about after all. The telomeres -- everyone said while wearing huge, beaming smiles -- were going to keep everyone alive forever. The details were almost worked out, they said, and human testing was already under way. No one added any caveats this time. No one explained, before or after, how technical the whole thing really was.

The buzzword -- telomeres -- it caught on quick. Came up in every kind of comedy routine, since no one knew exactly what it was still. No one was asking too many questions, though. The FDA had approved it. The CDC had approved it. For all I knew, the ABC through XYZ had approved it, because nobody was saying boo. I certainly wasn't going to. 

People through telomere parties, dressing up in whatever they imagined the "caps" to most closely be. They wrote articles about telomeres, got the word tattooed on their bodies. I heard of a lady up in Wisconsin named her daughter Telomere, and all this without any big news source coming right out and saying what it is we were getting with this fountain of youth. Beyond, of course, the infinite youth. 

Problem was, once the second point in that argument came up, people tended to drop the first. Everyone was just so happy. The whole world had, with telomeres, solved a problem plaguing mankind since time immemorial, and there were no red flags to wash out the fun. None of the countries were fighting over it -- everyone had the technology, whatever it was. And nobody was arguing over who would get access to it it. Everyone was content to let his neighbors drink from the chalice, so long as he could wet his lips first. But then, the newspeople assured us all that the telomere cure -- no, there was no firm brand name or specific company to tie the cure to, as of now -- the cure made possible by these miraculous, invincible telomere "caps," was in no short supply. There was no need to jealously guard the cure. After all, the telomere cure wasn't based on scarce resources or limited by tedious effort or requiring of massive manpower. No, it had none of the faults of man's earlier advancements! It was made possible by pure, somehow unexplainable science. 

As good as it was, people still shouldn't have accepted it as easy as we did. Why we did, I don't know. I doubt anyone knows. I wouldn't be surprised, in fact, to think there were nervous Nellys, paranoid Petes, who tried to raise a stir and were cut down by the joyous. Grandparents would live on. Children need never die. The future could handle whatever mankind threw at it, there would be a way, once eternal life had been won. And it had been won, the newsroom said. And we believed. 

If they'd used the word "cancer" instead of telomeres, we might have stopped it. Even with eternal life on the table. We were animals, then. That animal part of us that feared cancer, feared a lingering, near-unavoidable goodbye, that part would have cut a sharp cry at the c word. It would have urged us caution! even through the thick haze of greed and joy and relief. But no one said the word cancer. What they said, what we repeated, was the word telomeres, telomeres, telomeres, over and over, until we were chanting it in the streets, eager for redemption, eager for grace. We were ready to be our own gods and worship at the telomere altar. 

No one uses the t word much anymore. Those who do are beaten, though perhaps less violently so than those I imagine were repressed during telomere fever. I imagine a lot, nowadays. A man who has been beaten can howl for a long, long time, and the noises of our everlife are not so different than the noises of before. I do not want to be dragged away to where the men who are beaten too badly remain. 

When I imagine, quietly in my head, I wonder why they chose to use telomeres as their term. I wonder who "they" really were, if they were hit with immortality the way the rest of us are. I wonder if this is the way it was meant to play out. I wonder, sometimes, if the telomeres had some truly unknowable power after all, and we are punished because we managed to taint it. 

But no, I have to remind myself. I have to remind myself many things in such a quiet world. I remind myself that it was never telomeres, never some mystical scientific force. We were simply playing with fire, and we knew it. We saw how flames ran wild, ravaged leagues and miles and souls. But we saw a secret hidden in the dancing flames, and we wanted it, and we thought that by renaming that piece of flame it would stay in the center of the pile. 

It was a kind of cancer. It was a type of fire. 

And now we are living gods of the telomere dance. 

Today, on day 12 of the writing challenge, I'm pulling up an empty bucket. So it's time to go fishing in the well o' inspiration. 

(That is, the notepad in my phone where I record stuff I like). 

`better visual effect with the well, though.

well, well, well...                             today's quote, from Coleson Whitehead's The Underground :

"...he was so liberal with flattery

 that he was obviously a young man 

 open to the sweet mysteries of fate."*

Why is this quote here? Because I like it. And, briefly, I'll tell you why.

1. the use of the word "liberal" to define how "he" handles "flattery"
2. the attitude of the word "obviously"
3. the final phrase "open to the sweet mysteries of fate" 

Note that I'm not delving into any backstory of character or theme today at large -- this is very much a surface investigation. 

1. When I think of someone doing something 'liberally,' I think of applying grease or of passing out candy. But the interesting thing about this phrase is that he is not, in fact, doing something 'liberally;' he is liberal in his flattery. He happens to be flattering freewomen, a quite liberated -- excuse me, liberal -- class indeed. 

`someone had a free hand in decorating

2. Backhanded narrators are the best. Although the story is told from a 3rd person point of view, as is the above quote, our protagonist is a woman named Cora. She is a person of no uncertain opinions. Therefore, although we have a reliable, 'removed' narrator, the use of the word "obviously" gives us as the reader a little urging to consider this man's liberal flattery as though from Cora's perspective. We'll hear what she has to say about it soon enough anyway. 

`credit to the BBC

3. "open to the sweet mysteries of fate." ahhhh. Isn't that a delightful phrase? Phonetically, warbling back and forth from light 'oh's to 'eh's to 'ih's and finally into a realization and resolution of an "ah - eh" (or "ae" in "fate"). Conceptually it's fae-like and gentle, yet it ends with a tongue-in-cheek jibe. The gentleman in question is not just passively waiting for fate to deliver up pretty women. With his liberal flattery, he is laying bait left and right to secure his sweet reward. Open, indeed. Subject to fate, not so much. 

In this short phrase, we see the summation of a point: 

fate becomes sweeter when it's taken into one's own hand.

~

More points about language, or else something completely different maybe, tomorrow. 

Have you ever lost a day? Looked behind you and realized, all of a sudden, that it was Wednesday instead of Tuesday. Or Sunday instead of Saturday. What the hell happened to Saturday?

*ahem*

In summary, in a completely reasonable move, I skipped day 9 of the writing project. 

In regular life, time moves forward. We don't get to go back and scoop up those 'lost' hours or days. Whatever they were, they were and are no longer. 

In writing, we get to do whatever the heck we want. Accordingly, 

welcome to day 9 of the writing project,

located after day 11 chronologically,

To kick off our topic -- let's talk about Jazz. 

The nice thing about writing consistently is that it allows for easily-dissectable AB testing. For instance, I'm getting kind of into the "inspired by" format I've been going with the last few posts. I'll be continuing that until I decide to try something else. 

Today's topic, jazz, comes from a quote I read on the Weekly Standard while researching John Coltrane (featured above). It goes thusly:

"The English saxophonist Ronnie Scott used to tell a joke about a man who goes to a pet shop in search of a singing parrot. 

The proprietor turns out to have three parrots in stock. 

The first and cheapest parrot is a richly plumed specimen that can sing all of Louis Armstrong’s solos. 

The second is in equally splendid condition, but costs more, because he can sing all of Charlie Parker’s solos. 

The third is blind, can barely stand on his perch, and has lost most of his feathers. But he costs more than the other two birds combined.

'What does this one sing?' the customer asks.

'I don’t know,' says the proprietor, 'but the other two call him ‘Maestro.’'

The article goes on to say that "most of the people who play jazz view Coltrane’s late period like the proprietor regards his parrot, with baffled respect...We talk about the 'Coltrane changes' more than we play them, and we tend to play them in their milder iteration by Richard Rodgers." By "Coltrane changes," the author is referring to the depth of Coltrane's artistic elasticity -- the various forms he introduced us to in jazz, that are impressively reached as a matter of concept and have heavily impacted the furtherance of musical study...but are not so fun to listen to. 

Jazz is particularly well known for pushing the boundaries of expression. Yet, the author makes a final, baffling statement at the end of the article, saying 

"it is a sad fact of musical history that after Coltrane, there was nothing left to say on the saxophone."

Ok. Problems with this. It seems to fly in the face of jazz to say that an entire instrument is, after the master's finale, only as useful as a paper weight. 

Beyond that, there is the sentiment that the master, realizing he has nothing to contribute, acts best by keeping silent. If there's nothing left to say, why say it? By failing to contribute useless or potentially hazardous information, he succeeds. 

Who wants to bet the parrot in the joke was thinking the same thing?

credit to https://www.weeklystandard.com/dominic-green/john-coltrane-and-the-end-of-jazz

Day 11 of the writing project -- today is another piece of inspiration from media. Thanks to Bomb Girls season 2, episode 1, about 36 minutes in. The line:

If you straddle two worlds long enough, you'll end up nowhere. 

A lot of us straddle 2 worlds. In what we do, and in who we are. We work two jobs. We keep a home life and one at work. We do what we want, sometimes, and at others we do what we must. In this case, the man speaking recognizes that his female companion is facing internal conflict. Her wealthy family's values are at odds with those she shares with her fellow factory workers. 

The line above, about the dangers of trying to live in two worlds at once, was spoken by a character who was: 

1. a Canadian citizen

2. translator to Chinese dignitaries 

He knew the war from the Asiatic side because of his work. He also loved his country. He lived in both continents, metaphorically speaking, and understood what it was to straddle two wholly different lives, two cultures. 

But wait -- there's more.

He was also:

3. the son of a Canadian serviceman

4. the son of a Shanghai woman his father met in WWI, and

5. living in Canada, and travelling outside it, during WWII. 

His female companion, in contrast, was:

1. a Canadian citizen

2. a 'Bomb girl,' aiding the war effort in the munitions factory

Like the translator, both characters are serving the war from their home country. In these ways, they occupy one world together. 

She was also:

3. the daughter of a powerful food manufacturer

4. the daughter of a proper high-society woman

5. living in Canada, with no plans to travel outside her home, during WW2.

and in these ways, she was living in a very different world from everyone she cared to talk with, translating present company included.

We can punnett square what makes us different and what makes us the same until the sun sets, and the occupation is a good way to pass the time. But ultimately, when the sun sets, when the sky darkens, we do know day from night. And it is just the gentle turning of the globe that lets us live now in the world of day, and now this other world, that is so dark and different.

What turnings do we make in ourselves to live now in one world, now in another? I'd guess its our own gravity. And, too, I wonder, in how many different worlds we live our lives. In how many could we?

~fin, until tomorrow. 

I an appropriate world, you're not there. 

These are the words that Rebecca Sugar said on the Queery podcast, which I listened to tonight. They are words that immediately jumped out at me, and I'd like to keep this post short to take advantage of the clarifying powers of brevity. Not usually my strong suit. Here goes. 

Rebecca Sugar, in making her statement, refers to what the world looks like for queer people -- in this specific case, bisexual people -- as a child, learning from the media. It's a statement that I identified a lot with growing up, maybe more than any other identifying marker I had. 

I was a writer. I was an "old soul." I was a musician (though I didn't know it), a dedicated student, and even an "opinionated mouth," but whatever I was, I was an oddball. I loved watching the Simpsons because it turned the world on its head. I loved literally turning myself on my head, propping myself upside down on the couch and churning my feet above me. I imagined spending my days travelling the ceiling. I think I liked the idea so much because, up there, I would be the only ceiling-walker. I would be defining normal as me; as weird, and also okay. I think I always wanted desperately to get to be weird, and also OK. 

Rebecca Sugar is the creator of Steven Universe. It is a children's show, but I wonder how many adults have stories like I do, of finding myself in her creation more surely than I ever had in the plethora of media I consumed as a child. Many of us weirdos took in media as though gasping at air. We needed it to find our footing in the world, to gather our strength, to plot our schemes and desires. We needed some kind of ether, some gummy soup, in order to wade into the world safely. I needed a chance to observe who I was in what others imagined. But, often, I couldn't. 

Sure, I identified with the Simpsons's Lisa. With Hey Arnold's Helga. With countless creatures of television, books, radio, plays, pictures, movies, none of whom were a perfect fit. In high school, I was the oddball who couldn't name a personal idol to list in the "about us" section. I felt like there were small pieces of people I wanted to emulate, but I couldn't imagine emulating a whole person. Every famous celebrity, character, and persona was an ill fit for me. I was simply me. No one else. I wanted so badly to feel connected to the players of the world. I wanted to understand empathy. But media told me that I was on my own. The questions I had were wrong. The beliefs I held were uncomfortable. An appropriate world was one without me in it, I learned. And I internalized. And, eventually, I grew. And I am still growing. 

I'm grateful for the conversations Rebecca Sugar and others like her start in the world. In this podcast, she notes that bisexual people were rarely (*cough* never *cough*) represented as people in media growing up. They represented a sexual excess, or a "free spirit." No one cared about the idea of a shy bisexual person. 

We're here, though. And I hope, slowly, together, overcoming our shyness enough to break the mold of the appropriate. Of what's talked about. Of what symbols our media shares and spreads. 

I am perfectly appropriate, dammit. I have the right to learn that. I have the right to exist, in my old mold or those of someone else's. I get to choose. 

In promoting that message, in voicing our experiences, let's change what's appropriate, eh? Let's make an appropriate world with room for all of us. 

Today is day 8 of the 2-week writing challenge. I think we could all use an SCP-break. 

Today, I'd like to muse on the topic of language; specifically, the idea of a single word or short phrase that could, theoretically, mean everything. (Be warned, readers, this artsy, philosophical sh*t isn't for everyone. I won't be offended if you duck out now). 

Words and language have taken every kind of unknown form, and people keep expanding on the set. Generally, though, language serves two purposes. It lets people communicate: 

1. general things.

2. specific things.

For the most part, animals and our earliest ancestors did just fine communicating general things with noises, not language. Language helped people evolve because we got better at communicating shades of meaning. Truth-telling and spreading false information, revealing some information while hiding the rest, delving into the nitty gritty of a technical report or analysis of a novel or hues of a sunset -- all of these advancements and tools came about as we humans surged toward specific meaning. 

Even those people who prefer the wide, swathed mop of the universe over a fine detail brush's rendering have preferences. Particular habits. Many of us have a favorite brand of canned beans. 

Why do we like those beans better than others? Why is this basketball game better than the three early-season duds? Language lets us elucidate those preferences, find other people who share them, and talk about them. A bunch of other stuff happens along the way, but the crux of language's sweet spot lies in that story, again and again. 

Yet-- art is always changing, as is language. I like the idea of a finding or making a word that thinks big. Bloated. A word over-saturated and pressurized out the wazoo. A word so chocked full of meaning and weight and gravitas and depth and every soul-crushing and powerful and generous and heartening thing you and everyone like and dislike you has and will ever know. 

I want a big word. I also want to consider what we turn over in the mind, what language does without and within us, that 'big' becomes 'large' becomes 'huge' becomes 'monstrous' becomes 'gargantuan' becomes 'hopelessly enormous' and we sense the change in size. I don't think we can make the biggest, whole-est word until we ponder on that just a little. I do think there are some obvious things sticking out about that progression, though, in regards to the words we see on the page and read in our heads.

1. the bigger the term, in general, the more letters in the word (3, 5, 4, 9, 10, and 18, or 19 if you count the space character). Therefore, too, they take up more space on the page. 

2. the bigger terms have more syllables and 'heavy' vowels like the 'u' in "huge". Thus, they take longer to say.

3. the bigger terms use vowels that open the mouth up more (ie: 'ih' in "big" vs. 'hoe' and 'ee-noh' in"hopelessly enormous').

The last thing I want to note in this sequence of words, as we consider what it takes to be a word that encompasses everything, is the contextual weight of each one given where each of these words takes its meaning. Let's list them out again here for ease of reference. 

1. 'big' 

2. 'large' 

3. 'huge' 

4. 'monstrous' 

5. 'gargantuan' 

6. 'hopelessly enormous.'

1. 'big' is a common word, something we could say quickly to communicate ourselves clearly and simply

3. 'huge, coming from the Old French ahuge, represents size by measurement and addition. Not only is the word saying it's big, but it's big + X amount. 

4. 'monstrous' is the first of the words that turns visual, visceral. We know what monsters are, as well as their size.

5. 'gargantuan' takes the body of 'monster' and narrows it to a head. It's the name of a "voracious giant in Rabelais' book of the same name" from the year 1534. This bit of complex culture, beyond the simple culture of our collective nightmares and passed down for 500 years, makes the bigger word more tangible and gives it history.

6. If 'monstrous' drew power from childhood fear and 'gargantuan' from myth and legend, 'hopelessly enormous' does so by touching our existentialism. 'Enormous' is a letter-and-syllable-count cousin of "monstrous" and an etymological cousin of "huge." In other words, quantifiable and approaching specificity. But in this phrase 'enormous' is merely the base for the celebrated wedding cake of "hopelessly." This is the word that holds the deepest weight. 

The concept of 'hope' and what it means to people is more than myth and ghost story. It's one of the more real conceits on which humans string their everyday fortune. I like to think the dream is more powerful than the nightmare. 

Something big enough to take hope away, then -- to bring on hopelessness by its enormity -- is of a size hard to pin down, but a size that still manages to communicate the most important detail. However big the thing is, it will inspire hopelessness. No person approaching it could hope to overcome it, to deal with its hugeness. It's just that large. There's no hope for the thing, no way for people to shape it to our own purpose. Bigness, then -- the conceptual size of a word (even if we haven't yet approached the entire concept of "everything-ness", as intended at the start of our exercise) -- bigness is dependant on how malleable and conquerable a thing is by a human being. Or, collectively, by humanity.  

The exercise of a word that means "everything," consequently, might prove problematic. If the point of the word is to encompass all, that might make it too unwieldy to form in the first place. Too much disorder to be orderly.

One last note on 'bigness' in the English language. Communicating "bigness," its progression from simple, clear speech to terms weighty through cultural significance, seems intrinsically linked to specificity. 

If this holds true, is a word that means everything, that takes on the weight of all human meaning, more general or more specific?

...

Hard to say. 

Maybe both?

Neat. 

That about wraps up my thoughts for the day. Go spread the word -- peace, til tomorrow. 

I missed the deadline. Now what? It's 1:30am and I officially missed my chance to write every day. 

However: tonight I had an experience. Although I'm generally a stickler for the specifics of rules, I'd like to be a little less sticky. 

So tonight, I say: I'm writing. And the substance doesn't need to be much. Because I'm building the fodder of the next great story, by living it. 

That is all for tonight. Bonne nuit, mes petits lecteurs. 

Nurture your wonder. Til tomorrow, at least. 

Today (day  4  5 6 of the 2-week-writing challenge), I'd like to try something different finishing yesterday's entry a little more. Something I've been meaning forgotten to do for a while nearly 24 hours since I finished the last entry. Glad I remembered in time for today's entry. Wouldn't want to lose the bet -- (or fail to set up the punchline). 

Ever By now you've heard of I've kind of been forcing the SCP Foundation series down your throat?,Why has this whole writing challenge turned into some kind of weird text-editing experiment surrounding a wikipedia-like hub of articles and stories documenting paranormal, abnormal and otherwise weird stuff. It has things like redacted information or entries that, by their amendments, tell a story again and on top of that of the original SCP entry. Sometimes they have layers that can only be unlocked by higher-level Foundation personnel. This function fulfills a number of narrative roles, such as shielding the majority of the Foundation population from a terrible truth, allowing 2 or 3 senior personalities to duke it in their amendments, or simply revealing information that is, for lack of a better word, sensitive. Parts of the entry become visible as clickable links, input fields, and other, more clever solutions which usually resolve into CLEARANCE LEVEL ACCEPTED-type messages, revealing the entry's secrets to the reader. Finding these hidden trails, reading into innovative concepts as storytelling devices and sifting through the sheer creativity of the ideas are just a few of the reasons that I've become hooked on the genre. I'm not sure that anyone has defined it as a genre before, but there's no better word for it. It's that large and complex. 

I've been reading voraciously through the whole SCP database for a while now, and as with my Reddit account, I've largely been a lurker. Yet this year, I've begun I've begun to seek a greater sense of participation, to mixed results. I keep coming back, and my confidence toward the idea is growing, so I'm making to follow the scent to the end. venturing into helping others on Reddit, so maybe it's time for that SCP entry I've been meaning to write to make an appearance as well. One needs a registered account to post new SCP entries (or skips, as they're sometimes called), so I'm not sure just when/if this might make it on to the site until I get to the big stage, For now, it can live I'll hone my craft here. It's no One day I'd like to write an entry as inspiring as Here's hoping that I'm more fortunate in my exploration than those spelunkers of that bag of potatoes. but few of us are deep enough souls for that kind of worldbuilding, especially right here at the start.

The practicing step tool of today is playing with the use of version edits that show not only the history, such as changes to the entry added after the SCP's initial write-up, but also some kind of implied cover-up, information restricted to a higher clearance level. Especially with these limited, bold means. The only editing tools available are bold, italics, underline, strikethrough, fonts and punctuation. It's a wild west for simple coded messages. Let's see what happens.

---

SCP 5837 - Caveat Monetæ Emptor 

Item #: SCP-5837

Object Class: Euclid Safe Euclid

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-5837 is to be stored at Site-32 in the small-size artifact storage lockers. The locker number designated to SCP-5837 is to be changed every 9 days and SCP-5837 is to remain in its currently-designated locker at all times when not in testing, transit, or undergoing procedure ████. SCP-5837 is to undergo procedure ████ at least twice every 22 days. Intervals between procedures are not to exceed 15 days, though the spacing between procedures need not be regulated to the day beyond this point. Access is limited to Level 2 3 personnel and all personnel handling SCP-5837 must ██████████ once each lunar cycle. Personnel assigned to SCP-5837 who do not report for duty for a period extending of more than three (3) days in row without prior consent from their manager regardless of the reason given are to have their credentials and assets frozen immediately, with Task Force Cache-Omega deployed to track down and return SCP-5837 to Site-32. Personnel found absent from their stations in this manner, regardless of the reason for their absence, are to be administered Class A amnestics and monitored for one week before being reintroduced to their station.  will be assigned to Dr. Schreiber for observation.  

All testing of SCP-5837 is to take place within sub-basement four six. Personnel entering the testing chamber are to be searched prior to entry, with all paper-made or paper-like items removed and returned to said personnel following testing. Personnel found attempting to smuggle paper or paper products of any kind into the testing chamber will be administered class Q amnestics and relocated outside of the jurisdiction of the United States and all of its trading partners. Attempts to modify this constriction or solicit for real-world testing, regardless of intent or purpose, for the present date or future, are grounds for immediate dismissal ██████, pending Dr. Schreiber's release. reassignment and administration of level-5 amnestics. 

Description: SCP-5837, at present, when within the economic borders of the United States of America, appears to be a U.S. one dollar bill, folded and mildly crumpled, of indeterminate year U.S. dollar bill. Testing personnel who view the printing date on SCP-5837 unanimously claim it to be of 20th-century manufacture, but are unable to name the exact date printed on the bill when pressed. Efforts by Level 5 members of the anti-memetics division have determined the most commonly visible printing date, although technically not a distinct date of any kind, to be from the decade of the 1980's. Members of the amnestics team have recently recruited Professor Greenback from the University of Cleveland to assist in ongoing research surrounding SCP-5837. 

SCP-5837 displays no immediately observable effect when undergoing procedure ██████ so long as it changes hands without attachment to a service, product, experience or promise, and so long as it does not sit idle for a period of more than at least twice every 15-22 days., SCP-5837 does not impact the individuals who exchange it without motive negatively, nor does it exhibit effects on the outside world or global economy so long as all exchangers of SCP-5837 are not seeking any financial gain or recompense at the moment of exchange. Continued study of SCP-5837 has determined that, in the event that a single individual takes possession of SCP-5837 but does not spend or otherwise exchange SCP-5837, the individual is statistically more likely to have positive chance encounters dealing with financial matters. Positive encounters include, but are not limited to, the tendency of any paper product in the possession of SCP-5837's holder to convert into viable currency. In addition, long-term holders of SCP-5837 have experienced financial windfalls such as receiving an inheritance from a distant and unknown relative, finding large sums of unclaimed money in the street, and receiving dividends from stock options which, prior to the subject's interaction with SCP-5837, lay stagnant for years. The extent of this increase in positive encounters is currently under further study. with research priority escalated by O5-11. 

When SCP-5837 is exchanged as a form of commerce, however, its effects will increase exponentially with each successive "pass," exchange in the form of adverse circumstance to the exchanger and, eventually, to human commercial exchange at large. The extent of this reach on commerce was erroneously believed to fade over time, but further research has confirmed that SCP-5837's impact, while lessening over time, can have further implications far from the initial exchange event. See reconstructed historical timeline in Appendix A.1-5.

Discovery: SCP-5837 first came to the Foundation's attention in 1997 following the collapse of the Santa Monica Pier and midway. Foundation agents secured SCP-5837 through protracted efforts from alongside Bobby Graham, who was found amid the wreckage of the ring-toss stand clutching SCP-5837, crouched next to his father, who had been crushed by the recently-fallen arm of one of the ferris wheel carriages. Bobby was eventually convinced to relinquish SCP-5837 on the condition that the bill be torn up or otherwise destroyed. Foundation agents were successfully able to interview Bobby regarding the circumstances of his encounter with SCP-5837 without the knowledge of SCP-5837's continued existence coming to light (see Interview Log A1). However, Bobby's subsequent escape and creation of the sect now known popularly as Moneytheism, in addition to the interview conducted shortly before his death, indicate that an unknown member or members of Foundation staff shared the fact of SCP-5837's continued existence with Bobby in exchange for an unknown price. Some Foundation personnel have classified this exchange event as the first visible node of a potential $K-class scenario, which may result in a complete collapse of the global economy as all means of human and conceptual-biological exchange become unviable. The Foundation does not recognize these speculations as fact, nor has the viability of a $K-class global failure been confirmed. Further investigation is underway. Any Foundation personnel found perpetuating rumors of an impending $K-class scenario are to be placed under observation by Dr. Schreiber.  

The following represents the most up-to-date understanding of SCP-5837's adverse effects:

The extent of the damage caused by SCP-5837 is directly correlated to how many "passes" exchanges of SCP-5837 take place in a given period of time. Accordingly, effects that go beyond the individual are recorded have been observed only when SCP-5837 is passed exchanged a minimum of three (3) times in a 24-hour period. Notably, this window of time is measured not by atomic units of time, but is instead impacted by any human interpretation of time that might impact affect usual commercial operations. Research has confirmed that the window governing SCP-5837's effect is subject to time zones, the operating hours of major corporations, and schizophrenia. The impacts of SCP-5837 on the global economy are not well understood at this time. 

Individuals suffering from the effects of having exchanged SCP-5837, in addition to their material losses (see Interview Log A2 for examples), report a feeling of internal loss that Foundation researchers have been unable to identify. This feeling increases with each successive exchange, such that those who have traded SCP-5837 once report being bothered by this loss as by a persistent mosquito, or by the sensation that they have skipped lunch, with most reporting an ability to "tune out" the feeling to some degree of success with some dedicated practice. Those who exchange SCP-5837 two to three times indicate a deeper feeling of loss. Foundation researchers interviewing such individuals have reported an increasing disinterest in conducting their own interviews, with the repeated comment that completing the round of questioning "wasn't worth it." Foundation personnel expressing such sentiments have been disciplined, with individuals of greater seniority and clearance assigned to conduct interviews of personnel testing SCP-5837. Foundation records indicate that those subjects recorded on the testing schedules to for individuals exchangeing SCP-5837 more than three times never completed their testing. No logs exist for these tests and no individuals slated for testing are present in Foundation custody, nor are any records for these individuals beyond their names on the testing schedule. Further investigations into this matter are ongoing. 

In addition to its individual effects, SCP-5837 displays global effects on the national economy of the United States and, by virtue of the United States's role in the global economy, also worldwide. The extent of these effects are not yet well understood. Research into the global impact of SCP-5837 is to take priority over individual and sentimental testing as of August 28, 2018 by orders of Dr. Schreiber. 

Time is also a factor in calculating SCP-5837's effects. An individual who has exchanged SCP-5837 once will continue to suffer its effects with a half-life consistent with the inverse of the inflation rate of the U.S. dollar. SCP-5837 exchanges that impact more than one individual scale exponentially if SCP-5837 is exchanged multiple times in under a 24-hour period, but exchanges which are spaced out increase only linearly. Speculation into the exact rates and tables governing SCP-5837 exchange have been forbidden by Dr. Schreiber until more can be learned about SCP-5837's properties. 

...entry to be continued tomorrow. More developments tomorrow, again. 

Today (day  4  5 of the 2-week-writing challenge), I'd like to try something different finishing yesterday's entry. Something I've been meaning to do for a while nearly 24 hours. 

Ever By now you've heard of the SCP Foundation series?, a wikipedia-like hub of articles and stories documenting paranormal, abnormal and otherwise weird stuff. It has things like redacted information or entries that, by their amendments, tell a story again and on top of that of the original SCP entry. Finding these hidden trails, reading into innovative concepts as storytelling devices and the sheer creativity of the ideas are just a few of the reasons that I've become hooked on the genre. I'm not sure that anyone has defined it as a genre before, but there's no better word for it. It's that large and complex. 

I've been reading voraciously through the whole SCP database for a while now, and as with my Reddit account, I've largely been a lurker. Yet this year, I've begun I've begun to seek a greater sense of participation, to mixed results. I keep coming back, and my confidence toward the idea is growing, so I'm making to follow the scent to the end. venturing into helping others on Reddit, so maybe it's time for that SCP entry I've been meaning to write to make an appearance as well. One needs a registered account to post new SCP entries (or skips, as they're sometimes called), so I'm not sure just when/if this might make it on to the site until I get to the big stage, For now, it can live I'll hone my craft here. It's no One day I'd like to write an entry as inspiring as that bag of potatoes, but few of us are deep enough souls for that kind of worldbuilding, especially right here at the start. 

The practicing step today is playing with version edits that show the history. Especially with these limited, bold means. 

SCP 5837 - Caveat Monetæ Emptor 

Item #: SCP-5837

Object Class: Euclid Safe

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-5837 is to be stored at Site-32 in the small-size artifact storage lockers. The locker number designated to SCP-5837 is to be changed every 9 days and SCP-5837 is to remain in its currently-designated locker at all times when not in testing, transit, or undergoing procedure ██████. SCP-5837 is to undergo procedure ██████ at least twice every 22 days. Intervals between procedures are not to exceed 15 days, though the spacing between procedures need not be regulated to the day beyond this point. Access is limited to Level 2 personnel and all personnel handling SCP-5837 must submit to full bloodwork once each lunar cycle. Personnel assigned to SCP-5837 who do not report for duty for a period extending three (3) days in row without prior consent from their manager are to have their credentials and assets frozen immediately, with Task Force Cache-Omega deployed to track down and return SCP-5837 to Site-32. Personnel absent from their stations in this manner, regardless of the reason for their absence, are to be administered Class A amnestics and monitored for one week before being reintroduced to their station.  

All testing of SCP-5837 is to take place within sub-basement four. Attempts to modify this constriction or solicit for real-world testing, regardless of intent or purpose, for the present date or future, are grounds for immediate dismissal reassignment and administration of level-5 amnestics. 

Description: SCP-5837, at present, appears to be a U.S. one dollar bill, folded and mildly crumpled, of indeterminate year U.S. dollar bill. Testing personnel who view the printing date on SCP-5837 unanimously claim it to be of 20th-century manufacture, but are unable to name the exact date printed on the bill when pressed. Efforts by Level 5 members of the anti-memetics division have determined the most commonly visible printing date, although technically not a distinct date of any kind, to be from the decade of the 1980's. 

SCP-5837 displays no effect when undergoing procedure ██████. When SCP-5837 changes hands without attachment to a service, product, experience or promise, and so long as it does not sit idle for a period of more than 15-22 days, SCP-5837 does not impact the individuals who exchange it negatively, nor does it exhibit effects on the outside world or global economy. Continued study of SCP-5837 has determined that, in the event that a single individual takes possession of SCP-5837 but does not spend or otherwise exchange SCP-5837, the individual is statistically more likely to have positive chance encounters dealing with financial matters. The extent of this increase in positive encounters is currently under further study. 

When SCP-5837 is exchanged as a form of commerce, however, its effects will increase exponentially with each successive "pass," exchange in the form of adverse circumstance to the exchanger and, eventually, to human commercial exchange at large. See reconstructed historical timeline in Appendix A.

SCP-5837 first came to the Foundation's attention in 1997 following the collapse of the Santa Monica Pier and midway. Foundation agents secured SCP-5837 through protracted efforts from Bobby Graham, who was found amid the wreckage of the ring-toss stand clutching SCP-5837, crouched next to his father, who had been crushed by the recently-fallen arm of one of the ferris wheel carriages. Bobby was eventually convinced to relinquish SCP-5837 on the condition that the bill be torn up or otherwise destroyed. Foundation agents were successfully able to interview Bobby regarding the circumstances of his encounter with SCP-5837 without the knowledge of SCP-5837's continued existence coming to light (see Interview Log A1). However, Bobby's subsequent escape and creation of the sect now known popularly as Moneytheism, in addition to the interview conducted shortly before his death, indicate that an unknown member or members of Foundation staff shared the fact of SCP-5837's continued existence with Bobby in exchange for an unknown price. Further investigation is underway.  

The extent of the damage caused by SCP-5837 is directly correlated to how many "passes" exchanges of SCP-5837 take place in a given period of time. Accordingly, effects that go beyond the individual are recorded have been observed only when SCP-5837 is passed exchanged a minimum of three (3) times in a 24-hour period. Notably, this window of time is measured not by atomic units of time, but is instead impacted by any human interpretation of time that might impact usual commercial operations. Individuals suffering from the effects of having exchanged SCP-5837, in addition to their material losses (see Interview Log A2 for examples), report a feeling of internal loss that Foundation researchers have been unable to identify. This feeling increases with each successive exchange, such that those who have traded SCP-5837 once report being bothered by this loss as by a persistent mosquito, or by the sensation that they have skipped lunch, with most reporting an ability to "tune out" the feeling with some practice. Those who exchange SCP-5837 two to three times indicate a deeper feeling of loss. Foundation researchers interviewing such individuals have reported an increasing disinterest in conducting their own interviews, with the repeated comment that "it wasn't worth it." Foundation records indicate testing schedules for individuals exchanging SCP-5837 more than three times, but no logs exist for these tests and no individuals slated for testing are present in Foundation custody, nor are any records for these individuals, beyond their names on the testing schedule. Further investigations into this matter are ongoing. 

In addition to its individual effects, SCP-5837 displays global effects on the national economy of the United States and, by virtue of the United States's role in the global economy, also worldwide. The extent of these effects are not yet well understood. 

Time is also a factor in calculating SCP-5837's effects. An individual who has exchanged SCP-5837 once will continue to suffer its effects with a half-life consistent with the inverse of the inflation rate of the U.S. dollar. SCP-5837 exchanges that impact more than one individual scale exponentially if SCP-5837 is exchanged multiple times in under a 24-hour period, but exchanges which are spaced out increase only linearly. 



...entry to be continued tomorrow. More developments tomorrow. 



Today (day 4 of the 2-week-writing challenge), I'd like to try something different. Something I've been meaning to do for a while. 

Ever heard of the SCP Foundation series?

I've been reading for a while now, and as with my Reddit account, I've largely been a lurker. Yet this year, I've begun venturing into helping others on Reddit, so maybe it's time for that SCP entry I've been meaning to write to make an appearance as well. One needs a registered account to post new SCP entries (or skips, as they're sometimes called), so I'm not sure just when/if this might make it on to the site. For now, it can live here. It's no bag of potatoes, but few of us are deep enough souls for 

SCP 5837 - Caveat Monetæ Emptor 

Item #: SCP-5837

Object Class: Euclid

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-5837 is to be stored at Site-32 in the small-size artifact storage lockers. The locker number designated to SCP-5837 is to be changed every 9 days and SCP-5837 is to remain in its currently-designated locker at all times when not in testing, transit, or undergoing procedure ██████. SCP-5837 is to undergo procedure ██████ at least twice every 22 days. Intervals between procedures are not to exceed 15 days, though the spacing between procedures need not be regulated to the day beyond this point. Access is limited to Level 2 personnel and all personnel handling SCP-5837 must submit to full bloodwork once each lunar cycle. Personnel assigned to SCP-5837 who do not report for duty for a period extending three (3) days in row without prior consent from their manager are to have their credentials and assets frozen immediately, with Task Force Cache-Omega deployed to track down and return SCP-5837 to Site-32. 

All testing of SCP-5837 is to take place within sub-basement four. Attempts to modify this constriction or solicit for real-world testing, regardless of intent or purpose, for the present date or future, are grounds for immediate dismissal and administration of level-5 amnestics. 

Description: SCP-5837, at present, appears to be a folded and mildly crumpled U.S. dollar bill. Testing personnel who view the printing date on SCP-5837 unanimously claim it to be of 20th-century manufacture, but are unable to name an exact date when pressed. Efforts by level-5 members of the anti-memetics division have determined the most commonly visible printing date, although technically not a distinct date of any kind, to be from the decade of the 1980's. 

SCP-5837 displays no effect when undergoing procedure ██████. When SCP-5837 changes hands without attachment to a service, product, experience or promise, and so long as it does not sit idle for a period of more than 15-22 days, SCP-5837 does not impact the individuals who exchange it, nor does it exhibit effects on the outside world or global economy. 

When SCP-5837 is exchanged as a form of commerce, however, its effects will increase exponentially with each successive "pass," in the form of adverse circumstance to the exchanger and, eventually, to human commercial exchange at large.

SCP-5837 first came to the Foundation's attention in 1997 following the collapse of the Santa Monica Pier and Midway. Foundation agents secured SCP-5837 through protracted efforts from Bobby Graham, who was found amid the wreckage of the ring-toss stand clutching SCP-5837, crouched next to his father, who had been crushed by the recently-fallen arm of one of the ferris wheel carriages. Bobby was eventually convinced to relinquish SCP-5837 on the condition that the bill be torn up or otherwise destroyed. Foundation agents were successfully able to interview Bobby regarding the circumstances of his encounter with SCP-5837 without the knowlege of SCP-5837's continued existence coming to light (see Interview log A1). 

The extent of the damage caused by SCP-5837 is directly correlated to how many "passes" take place in a given period of time. Accordingly, effects that go beyond the individual are recorded only when SCP-5837 is passed a minimum of three (3) times in a 24-hour period. Notably, this window of time is measured not by atomic units of time, but may is impacted by any human interpretation of time that might impact usual commercial operations. 

...entry to be continued tomorrow. 

Today is day 3 of the write-every-day-for-2-weeks challenge. I'm not exactly scraping the bottom of the barrel yet, but it's strange how petulant a thing creativity is. Like a cat or a new hobby, it needs to be coaxed, not overworked, or else it will only come at its own calling, and not that of its progenitor.

As a young writer, I had less experience working things through than I do now, and believe me, the work ethic I've grown to date still has a whole fish tank to expand into. That's why, from a young age, I've kept a "writing box." Essentially, a tool to help me wed my brief moments of inspiration with my brief moments of writing resolve. I keep this "box" (these days, a notepad file on my phone) for exactly such occasions as these: those when I'm feeling disciplined enough to write, but with little substance to hold onto save the ill-advised perambulations of my ordinary mind. 

Today, then, instead of rambling further, I shall reach into the box and pull out my magic phrase of inspiration...

*

which is...

                    heart noise.          

---

This is actually a phrase I came across only today. The expression stuck out in a passage of Coleson Whitehead's The Underground Railroad which was describing how Cora, the protagonist, kept track of time. She did so by her "heart noise;" the thumping was a kind of clock. 

He (she?) described the sense of the term better than I could, without resorting to precisely physical terminology (as I have above with thumping). Instead, Cora's 'heart noise' is beautifully unattached and open to interpretation. It's an individual kind of phrase, yet something we all understand. We've all heard our own hearts, one way or another. 

I think Cora meant the pounding in her ears -- more of a blood noise than a heart noise. Then again, saying it was a 'blood noise' carries only the body with it; not the soul. 

A heart noise that keeps time is more than a metronome. Not just a steady, unfeeling tempo. It's a pace that quickens and slows and courses through the body in waves or parcels, but always building over time, always in everything. 

What else could a heart noise be? 

If our consciences and consciousnesses are said to be voices of some kind, then the wisdom and sorrows of the heart could be noise, too. A heart noise, in despair and fear and dread and pain, its deep and wrenching caterwaul its only voice, the whole of what it knows: that's a kind of timekeeping, yes, but one nearer to lunacy than to the measured radii of a sundial. That bucket in the chest bailing out life's torrential waves. Take the damage to the hull; spare the breathing sacks within to gasp another day. Yes. Yes. I cannot say that drum-beat language is not a heart noise, too. 

How often are our hearts silent, now, I wonder. 

Why is the truth of a what a heart noise is so obvious in my gut if I almost never hear it?    

*photo credit to Amanda Wood. 

Day 2 of posting, or my 2nd attempt to keep the bet that I can write every day and -- shudder -- post the results on Twitter. For those of you readers in a betting spirit, you too can get in on the fun! The bet inherent in this project is whether it all remains serious-ish in tone (like the Verbatim blog thus far) or whether everything I produce is such utter tosh that one must conclude that it's all a big joke --which would be consistent with the Joke-a-Day nature of the @LindseyPipesUp account up til now.

For day 2, I'd like to continue the conversation on betting -- but this time, to talk a little about a personal interest I've been developing. A nascent one. The stock market. 

For many, many years, the stock market to me was some amorphous, evil, magic nonsense. People threw money in it to generate more money, but you could only learn to harness that money-making power by memorizing and following a carefully-proscribed set of instructions that involved dicking people over, and also you only got to learn the rules if you were part of the old boy's club. With enough money to consider buying a yacht instead.  

I was lucky enough to gain some experience that started to demystify a bit of that. In a way, it was my own pass to the old boy's club. I got a job in tech by growing my social circle, then I got into operations. The way money in the tech industry is thrown around is its own circle of betting hell, but seeing how it rose and fell got me over my terror of risk. It turns out there's some neat stuff on the other side. 

As a caveat to whatever follows in and from this post, I've noticed in my research that it's not a good sign I'm getting interest in the stock market. Those who know more than most say that a large number of novices entering and speculating in the stock market is a sign of bad times ahead. Whether that is because none of us know what we're doing, or because we give the market false promises in the form of short-vs-long term investing, or because of--most likely--a collection of confusing and unprovable other factors, it seems to be the case. Self-identifying that should keep a sane person out of the market. Perhaps my persistence and those of others like me is mixed into the grand plan in some foreseeable way. Regardless, we're here, and some of us hope to keep at it. 

A quick rundown of some things I'm learning:

• capital gains tax is a bitch, but could be worse
• a bear is a bad thing, while a bull is a good thing. Yay for tauruses! Ursa, major disappointment. 
• individual stocks cost more than you'd think for anything decent
• still, some of the biggest companies' stock costs way less than you'd think
• you will always, always regret not buying something sooner

Because this week past has been a bit draining and the week ahead promises to follow suit, I'm going to finish off here for the night. To wrap everything up: remember to place your bets now on the nature of this project -- whether it's a serious or a humorous endeavor-- so you can reap all that sweet, tweet validation for a bet of the longest duration. 

Good luck to all players! Except you, short sellers. 

Those of you short-selling this journey may kindly stick your shorts where the sun don't shine. 

Love, 

@LindseyPipesUp, verbatim  

What distinguishes a bet from a simple agreement? The thrill, probably. Or the stupidity. Or, just possibly, the optimism. 

One or all of those or more was at play today when my friend Rue challenged me to write one entry every day for 2 weeks. If I manage it, I get to experience an exquisite dinner at a lofty establishment. The steaks, and possibly vegetables, are high. 

I don't know exactly what will result from this effort, but the attempt will be documented here. And because I have a 2nd deadline to meet tonight, I'll save my 2nd betting topic for another time. 

Oh, goodness. I forgot the 2nd part of the bet. The embarrassing part. The part I've been avoiding at all costs until I was pushed by my very well meaning friend to actually try to *alert* people in some way to come read what I've written. I've got no clue what I'm doing, so good luck to you. However, if you're here from Twitter wondering why the Joke a Day account has suddenly become, well, something else: herein partake of thine reasoning and be sated.

If I bumble this up, or it falls to threads, or it becomes something so outrageously obscene that even the liberal decadents petition it scrubbed from history--haha, just kidding! This was all part of a massive, 2-week Twitter Joke for the joke account! 

If we, instead, all find out I'm a genius, you heard it here first. 

[Day 1, Week 1]

Something new today. I may or may not develop this further, but I call 'trademark' on the idea. Here's the write-up I put together for a potential episode of Last Man on Earth.

---

Spec script

Last Man on Earth

“Mano y mano” – joke revolves around Tod’s misuse and attempt to understand the term for hand-to-hand fighting vs. fighting man to man vs. fighting monkey to monkey (which is what he actually winds up saying).

Synopsis: This episode has the group encountering yet another survivor while gathering supplies in southern Mexico. Picturing Oscar Nunez for the role. The newcomer, Ted, is a self-proclaimed native, and as he shows the group around the land, how and what plants to gather as food and when to stay out of the sun and such, Tod starts feeling threatened and unsure over his own background, about exactly how much “machismo” he has and whether he’s a good representative of his culture. He wants to be. Tandy and Melissa both give their own perspective. (potentially: near the end of the episode, everyone has their say (Erika feels like her culture overtakes who she is because of stereotypes; Carol recounts some odd specific tradition and genetic marker that her people fail to measure up to; Ted thanks Tod for being so vulnerable, and says he wishes he could be as aware of his heritage and open as Tod has shown himself to be). The group splits with the men going off to get supplies in the city, a trip worth making despite potential danger according to Ted's 'secret insider knowledge.' They travel in an area of downtown that looks rusted falling apart, dangerously so, to what is supposedly a centralized building that has everything a city seed would need to get growing. While walking, in an aside to Tod, Ted reveals that he’s not a native, as he claimed. He is instead a longtime New Yorker and stock trader who just happened to be on a business trip in the country northernmost to Mexico when the virus hit. He had been making his way up toward the States, but had encountered people who hadn’t been friendly—people? Tod asks?!? What people? Ted resumes—so he had lied about being a native to appear more useful to our group, fearing reprisal otherwise. Then he realized the group was nice and felt like he couldn't take it back. Ted claps Tod on the back before jogging off to join the group leaving Tod alone with the secret. We catch up with Tod joining the group as Tandy, Ted and [Jasper] stop outside a skyscraper. Ted smiles at everyone. After claiming all episode to feel as though something were about to happen to him, at the end of the episode TED says, here, with this group, he finally feels safe. Just after he pronounces this, a safe falls from above and crushes him. Episode ends.

A plot: Ted shows everyone around the area, including details on how to survive off the land as well as how to scavenge the cities taking advantage of the local architecture, customs, etc. Important themes: Tod’s Hispanic identity, what it means to represent a people (well/poorly/as a survivor). The rest of the group, in the light of Ted’s arrival and seemingly flawless ability to live with the land, question their own place now that they’re seriously considering “living off the land” instead of out of a jar.

B plot: Carol, who always tried to be self-sufficient before the virus, finds that she isn’t able to cut it out in the rough as well as she’d thought, especially with the babies. She begins to worry about getting the girls (and potential offspring) alive to the future, outfitting them with Davey (Daisy) Crocket gear and “getting back to her roots” by making new food delicacies – notably, made of roots.