Devices For Curving

The boomerang accumulated so much leaf and feather on its way back, we mistook it for a bird, attacking the dog.  And we yelled “What the hell is that thing doing to Fluffs!” Forgetting our boomerang, that, had it not been the bird attacking Fluffs, would still have been on its way to our heads. In religious terms we were the Christians eying the Messiah, abandoning all else, while a Jew would have still been waiting for the Real Deal. Either way, Fluffs was fighting his attacker, and we panicked while hair, leaf, feather, and dust were twirling around the playground in anxious urgency. It goes without saying that this scene went down in slow-motion. People gathered ‘round, mouths dropped open, arms slowly swung into the air, stretched barks of the dog came from the tornado of particles. We waited.

When the dust settled, a heroic dog with a bump on his head, and some fur missing, stood firm on his paws, holding in his mouth a clean yet tooth-marked boomerang. We turned around to the part of the sky in which we had thrown that particular piece of wood, and then back to Fluffs.

We then, feeling quite sure this somehow needed an announcement, yelled out the final score in this fight; “The Bird took our Boomerang!” The gathered audience shook their heads in astonishment. “But Fluffs saved it!” Applause from the hands of the relieved passers-by; they could now calmly continue their otherwise somewhat lame Sunday morning walks, knowing they had their epic story for the home-front already in their pockets.

One of them said to an other while walking away; “Can you imagine a bird swallowing that entire Boomerang, and the Dog devouring the thing alive! Incredible!” Yet another whispered to a friend; “I heard they went to some place somewhere in Africa, and got that Boomerang from a Voodoo Master. I wouldn’t want to play with things like that! Who knows what kind of spells you bring home with you!” A father told his Child to be careful playing in the park next time; “There are some extremely dangerous animals in this park, you should always be very, very cautious!” Nobody seemed interested in verifying either story, or statements made. Therefore it was not a long jump to the conclusion that Sunday morning souls are rather attached to whatever it is that causes commotion. Abandoning all else.

We took Fluffs by the collar and petted him on his head, making sure not to touch the bump. The three of us stood silently in the mess of leaf, and hair, and feather, watching the people go about their day contentedly. “The show is over guys,”  you said in a soft voice, almost sad that the ado had run its course. I took the boomerang from Fluffs, and cast it back into the air, staring patiently in the distance for its return.

We'll Always Have Paris

 It wasn’t even that much of a change at first. It was more like a discovery than a real change, people acknowledged it, tilted their heads to say “hmm” and went on with their lives as if it didn’t concern them. For years people kept pretending, as people often do, that these things only happen somewhere else. “Those scientists sure were crafty to think all of this up, but they can’t mean us, down here in <stupid backwater city on the other side of nowhere>, so we’ll just keep things as they were...”

Then, very slowly, people started noticing the cracks. Little things that slipped between the bars of their mind to make them realize that nothing would ever be the same. Agencies were founded, that counted the number of people that thought of you daily, semi-daily or sometimes. Still, most people were able to ignore them. Only the truly scared were members back then. But when they started hiring people to fill the gaps, they couldn’t be ignored anymore.

Some people paid good money to be thought of and didn’t care who did it. Anybody could rent a sometimer, but to be able to buy a real dailier was a luxury reserved only for the ultra-rich. But I’m getting ahead of myself, I’ll have to start, at least near the beginning.

The first clue that led to all of this, was Paris herself. During her third marriage, people started noticing that her husband (what was his name again?) started to get old, while sweet young Paris stayed exactly the same.

During that time, she herself believed that this was because of the care she gave her appearance. She kept repeating that line in every interview, for so long, everyone started to believe it.

By the time she was in her nineties, her grandson died. The boy, infamous for his unnewsworthy face and life, had rejected the Paris name and legacy long ago. He went on to become a college professor who specialized in 18th century cotton farmers. He went out like a common house cat: of old age and in his sleep. The only thing the papers said (besides the huge pictures of his grandmother’s new line of swim-wear) was that in the weekends, he liked collecting miniature trains.

Paris, realistic as ever, hired a team of scientists to interpret her new found immortality. They quickly discovered that attention, when harvested correctly, could be more powerful than time itself. By this time, the news was all over the world and the We’ll Always Have Paris Corporation (WOHP) quickly became the front man of this newfound science. Being the oldest and richest woman alive, Paris quickly adjusted to this new position and took up her throne as unquestioned Queen of Earth.

When new companies were stealing members away from WOHP, it was only a matter of time before Paris would launch the next step: the constant. The constants were people bred purely to think of others. They were kept in stimulus free environments and were never introduced to anyone except their specific member.

The balance quickly shifted as the rich now not only had better living standards, but never seemed to die. From the hatred of the poor, the Anti-media arose, a group of violent guerrilla warriors set out to rid the world of all media. The papers were quickly defeated and so were television stations. A building can be bombed, a CEO can be shot. Eventually, only the Internet remained as an all powerful information source. The Anti-media tried to stop the Internet by bombing power plants and hacking sites, but the information still came through. The Internet splintered into an endless amount of little news outlets. Everyone of them clinging to their readers because they were the only way for the poor to attain sometimers.

I had just finished my blog around midnight, when suddenly I thought of Paris. I hadn’t thought of her in quite a while. Long ago, when her need for thought was less, I was one of her dailiers. Suddenly I couldn’t suppress the need to see her, but that might have been a side effect of my work as a daily. I drove to the Paris estate and took the employees entrance. The only security guard there was caught up in a vLog made by the best friend of a girl that looked like Paris the way I remember her from my dailier-days. There was a lot of mail on the kitchen table and since no one was around, I read it. There was a letter from WOHP that spoke of the growing need for constants and the absence of payment. I skipped through it quickly because there was also a printout of an article about the girl that looked like Paris. Turns out she went by the name of ParisX and the article was about the illegitimate child she had after a fling with a European prince. She had raised her in secret, but had no choice but to give her up when she was forced to go to rehab. The daughter was now suing her for that and the pictures were showing ParisX, crying. Even with her make-up running, she was lovely. I couldn’t believe she was 20 years older than me...

Still holding the print-out, I walked into the living room. There, behind her laptop, was Paris, the other one. She was a horrible sight, her gray skin barely covered her bones. I carefully pushed her body aside to go search for more about ParisX, when I saw that her blog (http://wellalwayshaveparis.prs) was opened and she herself had been her only visitor. (kinda desperate, really) Her latest entry consisted only of one sentence over and over again: “everybody dies alone” I looked at her and frowned. “The old coot was on to something there,” I thought while looking at a couple of pictures of ParisX naked under a waterfall.

I think that this will be enough to start you off. The men outside said five to fifteen minutes, but I simply don’t know what else I should talk about. I’ll be back to visit you next week. Oh wait, no I have a conference on Wednesday... Probably in two week, okay my sweet? I promise.

Until then, remember:

Think of me.

Always.

There Is Something About Time That Numbs Us

I am not going to do it anymore.

I said, I am NOT going to do it anymore. My head has been in speed-mode for years and years and it is spinning so fast and so controlled that nothing has been able to stop it. There’s schedules and agendas, appointments and deadlines, I can’t even find time to go to the toilet.

Yes you did hear that right, I have been constipated for ages.

It is always buzzing around me, something is always making a sound.

I see my husbands shape in the heap of blankets beside me when I leave for work in the morning, and I believe he is able to define the curves of my hips and waist in the blankets when he comes home from work at night. I consider the times he talks in his sleep to be the most valuable conversations we have. I whisper back sometimes, just soft enough for him not to wake up. The sun comes up, the sun goes down, I crawl in and out of bed, and the moments in between are filled with buzzing sounds. Buzzing sounds and yellow post-its.

We have a system, my husband and I. The yellow post-its are for general information, the pink post-its are for emergencies, and the blue ones are for personal comments.

The other day when I woke up in the morning and went to the kitchen to get some breakfast, there was a yellow post-it on the refrigerator door saying there was left over Chinese in the plastic bag on the vegetable shelve inside the fridge. There was a pink one stating he had to cancel dinner appointments with my parents on Saturday because there were problems at the office, and there was a blue post-it that said;  “I think it’s time for a baby.”

I stared blankly at the refrigerator, and fell with  my knees to the floor a few seconds after the glass did that I had just dropped from my hand.

I remembered what I used to dream about, I thought of the birthday parties, the dinners and the trips to the park. I remembered the fresh air that always seemed to breeze through my future dreams. Back when impulsiveness didn’t make me angry. I looked down. Back when I felt things. I took a yellow post-it and wrote; “I am at the hospital, my knees needed some stitches”.  I took a blue post-it and wrote; “I quit my job,” and on the pink post-it I wrote; “We need to talk”.