I'm sometimes depressed by the duality of existence. Not the dichotomy, which I have always thought of as the ying and yang. There will always be opposites. For good there will always be evil. For light there will always be dark.
I'm talking about the filter, or lack of one, that people impose on their lives in judgment of others. I work with women now, more so as when I was in veterinary sales. As a sales rep I called on mainly women but didn't have the daily in-your-face relationship as I would soon be off and on to the next call.
Wednesday, October 18, 2017
Thursday, October 12, 2017
Continuance
Continuance
In a world of clones that begin existence at the exact moment and with all their memories and experiences intact, it is illegal to clone a living person. However, in a loophole, rich patrons have been routinely "saving" their DNA at strategic intervals so they can be resurrected after they die.
Save your DNA from before you fell in love?
Man falls off cliff lands on precarious ledge, ledge is crumbling death is imminent.
Scientist at top of cliff realizes victim drank from his bottle only minutes before and the scientist can make an exact duplicate clone, with memories and experiences intact, as of the moment the DNA was left on the bottle. Timing is limited so the man has to decide to either save his clone or send his friend for help.
Victim objects, stating his desire to be saved vs simply replaced by clone.
"That's OK, you probably want to forget the last few minutes, and certainly the next 5, anyway. I imagine that the next 5 are going to be rather unpleasant."
"A bottle? What fucking bottle?" David was, to say the least, a touch upset at having been clumsy enough to have ended up here. It seemed like forever but had only been an hour or so.
The hike had been uneventful so far. What was meant to be a brisk walk through the woods with his colleague to commune with nature quickly turned bad when, thinking his footing secure, David's foot had slipped as he looked over the edge of the cliff and was roughly deposited on a small rock ledge about 12 feet down the steep vertical slope. As he stood up he began to regain his breath and take better stock of his surroundings. What he saw didn't calm his demeanor.
"You just took a huge swig from your new water bottle a few minutes ago. I saw you. The lid is probably crawling with viable DNA."
David looked up at his friend as he patted his jeans to get some of the dirt and sand off. Martin had been well back from the ledge when his friend fell. David was to far away when all Martin could do was turn in time to see him drop out of site. He heard the thump and as he ran to the lip he was relieved to see his friend on the ledge looking a bit worse for wear but still alive. Had he missed the ledge he would be long gone at the bottom of the valley.
"What the heck does the bottle have to do with anything? Get me out of here."
"How?" Martin knew they had not brought any rope. They were not survivalists, just a couple of guys out for a healthy hike in the hills. They brought water bottles and cigarettes and that was about it. Their phones were great for pictures but there was no service this far out of town.
David knew it to, but as he looked at his footing he noticed that the ledge was rather loosely lodged into the rock face. And was that crack there when he landed? He couldn't remember but it did begin to raise the level of panic. "Throw me your jacket, maybe I can catch the sleeve."
For several minutes David and Martin experimented with whatever they had on them. Sadly, they lacked both the necessary raw materials and the required physical prowess to enable anything they did to facilitate David climbing up the rock face. Both men were in T-Shirts and shorts and had brought no other equipment. Clothes tied in a rope ripped, or were simply to undependable an instrument to risk holding you in the air while he tried to scramble up the rock face. David also noticed with every failed climb attempt that the ledge seemed to shift under his weight every time he landed back down. After several minutes David found himself weak, tired, and more than past the point of panic. The sun beat down overhead. The initial enjoyment of a sunny day soon became overwhelming when there was no respite or shade and the prospect of being left here, or worse, became very real.
After a while, exhausted, both men sat down. David on his ledge which both men now noticed was on a definite slant, and Martin on a small patch of grass where he could still see and talk to his friend below.
"I'm sorry D." Martin began, running his hands through his matted and dirty hair. "We've tried everything. The phones don't work, the jacket ripped and I hate to say it but that ledge won't hold much longer."
Both men were silent. There was no point in protesting. But neither man wanted to give up.
Ends with him waiting, undecided. hanging.
In a world of clones that begin existence at the exact moment and with all their memories and experiences intact, it is illegal to clone a living person. However, in a loophole, rich patrons have been routinely "saving" their DNA at strategic intervals so they can be resurrected after they die.
Save your DNA from before you fell in love?
Man falls off cliff lands on precarious ledge, ledge is crumbling death is imminent.
Scientist at top of cliff realizes victim drank from his bottle only minutes before and the scientist can make an exact duplicate clone, with memories and experiences intact, as of the moment the DNA was left on the bottle. Timing is limited so the man has to decide to either save his clone or send his friend for help.
Victim objects, stating his desire to be saved vs simply replaced by clone.
"That's OK, you probably want to forget the last few minutes, and certainly the next 5, anyway. I imagine that the next 5 are going to be rather unpleasant."
"A bottle? What fucking bottle?" David was, to say the least, a touch upset at having been clumsy enough to have ended up here. It seemed like forever but had only been an hour or so.
The hike had been uneventful so far. What was meant to be a brisk walk through the woods with his colleague to commune with nature quickly turned bad when, thinking his footing secure, David's foot had slipped as he looked over the edge of the cliff and was roughly deposited on a small rock ledge about 12 feet down the steep vertical slope. As he stood up he began to regain his breath and take better stock of his surroundings. What he saw didn't calm his demeanor.
"You just took a huge swig from your new water bottle a few minutes ago. I saw you. The lid is probably crawling with viable DNA."
David looked up at his friend as he patted his jeans to get some of the dirt and sand off. Martin had been well back from the ledge when his friend fell. David was to far away when all Martin could do was turn in time to see him drop out of site. He heard the thump and as he ran to the lip he was relieved to see his friend on the ledge looking a bit worse for wear but still alive. Had he missed the ledge he would be long gone at the bottom of the valley.
"What the heck does the bottle have to do with anything? Get me out of here."
"How?" Martin knew they had not brought any rope. They were not survivalists, just a couple of guys out for a healthy hike in the hills. They brought water bottles and cigarettes and that was about it. Their phones were great for pictures but there was no service this far out of town.
David knew it to, but as he looked at his footing he noticed that the ledge was rather loosely lodged into the rock face. And was that crack there when he landed? He couldn't remember but it did begin to raise the level of panic. "Throw me your jacket, maybe I can catch the sleeve."
For several minutes David and Martin experimented with whatever they had on them. Sadly, they lacked both the necessary raw materials and the required physical prowess to enable anything they did to facilitate David climbing up the rock face. Both men were in T-Shirts and shorts and had brought no other equipment. Clothes tied in a rope ripped, or were simply to undependable an instrument to risk holding you in the air while he tried to scramble up the rock face. David also noticed with every failed climb attempt that the ledge seemed to shift under his weight every time he landed back down. After several minutes David found himself weak, tired, and more than past the point of panic. The sun beat down overhead. The initial enjoyment of a sunny day soon became overwhelming when there was no respite or shade and the prospect of being left here, or worse, became very real.
After a while, exhausted, both men sat down. David on his ledge which both men now noticed was on a definite slant, and Martin on a small patch of grass where he could still see and talk to his friend below.
"I'm sorry D." Martin began, running his hands through his matted and dirty hair. "We've tried everything. The phones don't work, the jacket ripped and I hate to say it but that ledge won't hold much longer."
Both men were silent. There was no point in protesting. But neither man wanted to give up.
Ends with him waiting, undecided. hanging.
3 Weeks
It's been three weeks since I last told someone I loved them.
Not a huge span of time by any means. I'm sure there are some poor souls who go their lifetimes without having the opportunity or the ability to speak or hear those words. But for me, who used to send daily affirmations to my significant other, the time has been painful.
She was never a cuddly or demonstrative spouse. I was the one to write poems or stories or to do things that in my mind showed I loved her. I was the one in the initial stages of our relationship that struggled with how to show feelings or how to show someone you loved them. I think I echo my father in that regard. My parents were never big on public displays of affection. Having lived through depressions and the death of family members as children maybe takes some of the "spark" out of people. But as a child I remember that my dad was the work horse. If he ever had a day off my father would wash the car, or mow the lawn, or paint a room, or do something
The reason I like authors like Robertson Davies is that I find him what I call an "honest" writer. Something I have neither the skill nor the temperament to become. His characters have flaws to illustrate the human stain and make them relatable. I'm to afraid of what posting some of my stories might do to my reputation, whatever state that is in at any given time. Stories reveal some of the mindset of the writer, but sometimes things are done ironically or satirically, but what if the sentiment of the author is distorted or warped to fit someone else's narrative? What if the reader just doesn't "get it"? If I write about killing black people, will it be read as a moving story that holds up a mirror to the current state of race relations in our country, or will it just be seen that I want to kill black people?
Not a huge span of time by any means. I'm sure there are some poor souls who go their lifetimes without having the opportunity or the ability to speak or hear those words. But for me, who used to send daily affirmations to my significant other, the time has been painful.
She was never a cuddly or demonstrative spouse. I was the one to write poems or stories or to do things that in my mind showed I loved her. I was the one in the initial stages of our relationship that struggled with how to show feelings or how to show someone you loved them. I think I echo my father in that regard. My parents were never big on public displays of affection. Having lived through depressions and the death of family members as children maybe takes some of the "spark" out of people. But as a child I remember that my dad was the work horse. If he ever had a day off my father would wash the car, or mow the lawn, or paint a room, or do something
The reason I like authors like Robertson Davies is that I find him what I call an "honest" writer. Something I have neither the skill nor the temperament to become. His characters have flaws to illustrate the human stain and make them relatable. I'm to afraid of what posting some of my stories might do to my reputation, whatever state that is in at any given time. Stories reveal some of the mindset of the writer, but sometimes things are done ironically or satirically, but what if the sentiment of the author is distorted or warped to fit someone else's narrative? What if the reader just doesn't "get it"? If I write about killing black people, will it be read as a moving story that holds up a mirror to the current state of race relations in our country, or will it just be seen that I want to kill black people?
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