8.15.2008
Afterthought.
A few posts ago I wrote about having "to nimbly negotiate a panoply of Skyllas and Charybdises", and now realize that I could have instead invoked a Star Wars reference, bringing up having "to maneuver like Han Solo in the Millennium Falcon through an asteroid field, with a chortling wookie and psychologically-fraught, golden robot in tow". This would have been, I think, just as effective, and am almost sad to have pretermitted it.
8.14.2008
Odelaly, Golly What a Day: Strange Sleep and St. Maximillian
My day started at 3am.
No pity, please; that's not why I'm telling you. And anyway, it's not that bad given the circumstances surrounding my day's start.
Those circumstances were as follows:
I went to bed around 3pm yesterday and slept until 1:45am, at which point I finally took my contacts out (Pity me, do; please), then tried to sleep more, sloth that I am. After an hour and 15 minutes of listening and quietly snickering to myself at Daniel's elaborate and monstrous snoring patterns, I gave up. Hence the fantastically early starting time of my day.
At this point, I started goofing around on the internet, writing blog posts that did not need to exist in this universe, and almost became disgusted with my own writing voice, a dangerous state to be in for one who likes to write.
Then, after I did violence to my shins on my morning run, I was in the process of stretching in the ante-chamber to Bilbo's library (the room outside my room) and fell asleep mid-stretch. It's strange to fall asleep smack dab in the middle of something in which one is actively and consciously involved.
The one other time I remember that happening to me is when I was tidying up my senior thesis the night before it was due. I woke up the next morning livid and laughing: I'd been had by the universe. Ah! It makes me laugh even now. I remember spending most of the day elatedly running around campus, meeting my parents, making cursory jokes, attending to senior presentations, frantically working on my own presentation, all with a loose tie around my neck. Ah, life.
Anyway, this morning, the morning that started at 3am, the morning I fell asleep mid-stretch, I woke up just in time to drape myself quickly and wildly in a dress-shirt (one of two clean shirts in my war-torn room) and book it over to Mass, incidentally wearing no socks.
Here's the part I wanted to record here in my blog post: the part of my day that all this has been leading up to.
Walking up the steps to the church in dishabille despite my nice clothes, standing in perfect symmetry with the building, looking down the center aisle at the priest at the front of the church who was leading the service to which I was 3 minutes late, while yet outside, I said to myself, surprised, "Homeboy's wearing red."
The priest's vestments, which are usually green, were red today. Quelle surprise!
I later found out why.
Apparently, of the four vestment colors: green, red, white, and purple, priests wear red whenever the feast day is in honor of a saint who was martyred. Today's saint is St. Maximilian Mary Kolbe, who was a 19th/20th-century Polish martyr. I encourage you to read the blurb they have about him here.
No pity, please; that's not why I'm telling you. And anyway, it's not that bad given the circumstances surrounding my day's start.
Those circumstances were as follows:
I went to bed around 3pm yesterday and slept until 1:45am, at which point I finally took my contacts out (Pity me, do; please), then tried to sleep more, sloth that I am. After an hour and 15 minutes of listening and quietly snickering to myself at Daniel's elaborate and monstrous snoring patterns, I gave up. Hence the fantastically early starting time of my day.
At this point, I started goofing around on the internet, writing blog posts that did not need to exist in this universe, and almost became disgusted with my own writing voice, a dangerous state to be in for one who likes to write.
Then, after I did violence to my shins on my morning run, I was in the process of stretching in the ante-chamber to Bilbo's library (the room outside my room) and fell asleep mid-stretch. It's strange to fall asleep smack dab in the middle of something in which one is actively and consciously involved.
The one other time I remember that happening to me is when I was tidying up my senior thesis the night before it was due. I woke up the next morning livid and laughing: I'd been had by the universe. Ah! It makes me laugh even now. I remember spending most of the day elatedly running around campus, meeting my parents, making cursory jokes, attending to senior presentations, frantically working on my own presentation, all with a loose tie around my neck. Ah, life.
Anyway, this morning, the morning that started at 3am, the morning I fell asleep mid-stretch, I woke up just in time to drape myself quickly and wildly in a dress-shirt (one of two clean shirts in my war-torn room) and book it over to Mass, incidentally wearing no socks.
Here's the part I wanted to record here in my blog post: the part of my day that all this has been leading up to.
Walking up the steps to the church in dishabille despite my nice clothes, standing in perfect symmetry with the building, looking down the center aisle at the priest at the front of the church who was leading the service to which I was 3 minutes late, while yet outside, I said to myself, surprised, "Homeboy's wearing red."
The priest's vestments, which are usually green, were red today. Quelle surprise!
I later found out why.
Apparently, of the four vestment colors: green, red, white, and purple, priests wear red whenever the feast day is in honor of a saint who was martyred. Today's saint is St. Maximilian Mary Kolbe, who was a 19th/20th-century Polish martyr. I encourage you to read the blurb they have about him here.
Oh dear.
After looking over the previous post, I genuinely, non-jokingly think I may have a personal/psychological problem.
Volition-Piloted Literature. Chapter 2 Voting Results Tie-Breaker Solution Voting Results.
Well, you're a refractory bunch.
The only definite vote I can count for one of the proposed options is Amy's vote for #2.
The rest of you either proposed your own options, voted for more than one, or were downright vague.
No, no, I'm not upset. I enjoy the challenge.
If I count all of these heterodox votes, and do so liberally, the score is something like this:
Solution #1a: 2 (I take Derek's "casting lots" suggestion as tacitly voting for this solution.)
Solution #1b: 1
Solution #1c: 1
Solution #2: 1 (Thank you, Amy.)
Solution #3a: 1.5 (The .5 here is an approximation of Portia's hesitancy in writing "but...". Also, I can glean only clever derision from Leisy concerning the 3s, and so have not counted her as voting for them.)
Solution #3b: 1.5
Solution #4 (proposed by Portia): 2
Solution #5 (proposed by Jenny): 1
This, as you can see, is hairy. But, of course, that's the fun.
I am torn. Part of me wants to go with the spirit of your commentary and then quickly choose which course seems best given that. But this is not spoken to or provided for by our project's specifications. If we discard voting procedure whenever it strikes us as expedient or even as wise, then we undermine the very virtues of adopting an unbiased and formally structured voting procedure.
It reminds one of the agony Thomas Jefferson experienced in shaking proverbial hands with Napoleon Bonaparte as per the Louisiana Purchase: he said of the purchase that "perhaps nothing since the revolutionary war has produced more uneasy sensations through the body of the nation." Uneasy sensations were in him too. His personal qualms, he said, were due to the fact that the constitution did not provide for any such purchase, however wise it may have been. Strict constructionist that he was, this posed a serious problem.
So to for me does how to resolve our tie pose a spiritual dilemma. The stakes in the present case are not so high as they were for Jefferson, but they are there.
Where Jefferson risked the freedom of his nation for its good, I risk the fun of my project for its.
Half of the fun for me of Volition-Piloted Literature; nay, of Jonathan Charles Wright's Blog, is the technical prolixity it generates and the difficulties met by faithfully adhering thereto. To move according to rigidly defined rules, yet managing to nimbly negotiate a panoply of Skyllas and Charybdises, themselves perhaps constituted by the rigidly defined rules by which I operate: this, this is fun.
I feel myself lapsing into my Roast Rebuttal Speech from about 6 months ago. Allow me to quote myself:
May Plato's beard grow long, so that once we take Ockham's razor to it, it will provide for a more difficult and an ultimately more satisfying shave!
But I digress.
It looks as if, technically, I am committed to going with Solution #2, since it was the only one to get a single, definite vote.
However, looks can be deceiving.
If I am ultimately concerned with adhering to the stated specifications and rules governing Volition-Piloted Literature, then little problem actually exists, since there are no stated specifications or rules governing what counts as a vote or what course to adopt in resolving ties. The whole tie-breaking process was just an entertaining run-around for the sake of the fun of formality.
As such, I can technically do whatever the hell I want in the present case.
Now, I would hate to nullify all your comments and votes just by doing something arbitrary, so I'll do whatever the hell I want within the spirit of your expressed interests and desires {and luckily for me, following the spirit of the law does not here entail flouting the letter, as it may have for Jefferson [unless we adopt a strict constructionist position concerning Volition-Piloted Literature's specifications and rules, since then whether the specifications and rules fail to speak to a given topic avails executives of those specifications and rules little (however, the specifications and rules in question are so meager, that I do not think a strict constructionist position is in any way plausible for us; how much have we done in the name of our Volition-Piloted Literature project that has not been provided for us by our specifications and rules!?)]}
If we consolidate our loosey-goosey votes for tie-breaker solution by number (disregarding the subcategories represented by letters) we have:
Solution #1: 4
Solution #2: 1
Solution #3: 3
Solution #4: 2
Solution #5: 1
Now, consolidating these into two larger categories of "Writing one Chapter 3" and "Writing two Chapter 3s", which seems to me the crux of the issue, (and ruling out #5, since it would entail breaking laws and/or bones,) we have:
Write one Chapter 3s: 5
Write two Chapter 3s: 5
Oh, now you've done it.
I foresaw this problem.
The problem in voting on how to resolve a tie is, you might end up with another, bigger, more annoying tie.
Because, (A) I am almost actually sick of this blog post (fun, remember, is the thing tying me to adhering to technical prolixity) and (B) we're already being loosey-goosey, I am adopting the following rough-and-ready method for solving this meta-tie:
I am counting Derek's disparaging comments against 1b as being a negative vote (-1) and I am glossing over Portia's hesitancy in saying 3 is "fun, but...", which makes it 4 to 6 (or so), and thus I am going to write two Chapter 3s, the writing of which, in my prescience, I see entailing a host of problems itself.
But again, that's the fun.
At least one Chapter 3 will be posted by Monday; both by next Wednesday.
The only definite vote I can count for one of the proposed options is Amy's vote for #2.
The rest of you either proposed your own options, voted for more than one, or were downright vague.
No, no, I'm not upset. I enjoy the challenge.
If I count all of these heterodox votes, and do so liberally, the score is something like this:
Solution #1a: 2 (I take Derek's "casting lots" suggestion as tacitly voting for this solution.)
Solution #1b: 1
Solution #1c: 1
Solution #2: 1 (Thank you, Amy.)
Solution #3a: 1.5 (The .5 here is an approximation of Portia's hesitancy in writing "but...". Also, I can glean only clever derision from Leisy concerning the 3s, and so have not counted her as voting for them.)
Solution #3b: 1.5
Solution #4 (proposed by Portia): 2
Solution #5 (proposed by Jenny): 1
This, as you can see, is hairy. But, of course, that's the fun.
I am torn. Part of me wants to go with the spirit of your commentary and then quickly choose which course seems best given that. But this is not spoken to or provided for by our project's specifications. If we discard voting procedure whenever it strikes us as expedient or even as wise, then we undermine the very virtues of adopting an unbiased and formally structured voting procedure.
It reminds one of the agony Thomas Jefferson experienced in shaking proverbial hands with Napoleon Bonaparte as per the Louisiana Purchase: he said of the purchase that "perhaps nothing since the revolutionary war has produced more uneasy sensations through the body of the nation." Uneasy sensations were in him too. His personal qualms, he said, were due to the fact that the constitution did not provide for any such purchase, however wise it may have been. Strict constructionist that he was, this posed a serious problem.
So to for me does how to resolve our tie pose a spiritual dilemma. The stakes in the present case are not so high as they were for Jefferson, but they are there.
Where Jefferson risked the freedom of his nation for its good, I risk the fun of my project for its.
Half of the fun for me of Volition-Piloted Literature; nay, of Jonathan Charles Wright's Blog, is the technical prolixity it generates and the difficulties met by faithfully adhering thereto. To move according to rigidly defined rules, yet managing to nimbly negotiate a panoply of Skyllas and Charybdises, themselves perhaps constituted by the rigidly defined rules by which I operate: this, this is fun.
I feel myself lapsing into my Roast Rebuttal Speech from about 6 months ago. Allow me to quote myself:
"Faced with a given problem, I oft intentionally leave its terms undefined; I allow ill-made presuppositions to lie dormant; I go out of my way to accept patently faulty interpretations for the mere sake of applying my categorical proficiency, to make the specification of abstract parameters along with the act of conceiving and deciding the nature and significance of a given theoretical issue all the more entertaining and glorious. I am a rat who constructs the maze from which I intend to escape; I am the ninja who refuses to wear a gun when faced with Robert E. Lee and his tightly regimented yet belligerent Confederate army (I pass over why a ninja is fighting the Confederates in this instance); I am the ballerina who gets wildly drunk 30 minutes before opening night; I bomb the hell out of foreign nations simply to coordinate sending them aid with swift dictatorial rigor!"And so on. Suffice it to say, complexity is fun.
May Plato's beard grow long, so that once we take Ockham's razor to it, it will provide for a more difficult and an ultimately more satisfying shave!
But I digress.
It looks as if, technically, I am committed to going with Solution #2, since it was the only one to get a single, definite vote.
However, looks can be deceiving.
If I am ultimately concerned with adhering to the stated specifications and rules governing Volition-Piloted Literature, then little problem actually exists, since there are no stated specifications or rules governing what counts as a vote or what course to adopt in resolving ties. The whole tie-breaking process was just an entertaining run-around for the sake of the fun of formality.
As such, I can technically do whatever the hell I want in the present case.
Now, I would hate to nullify all your comments and votes just by doing something arbitrary, so I'll do whatever the hell I want within the spirit of your expressed interests and desires {and luckily for me, following the spirit of the law does not here entail flouting the letter, as it may have for Jefferson [unless we adopt a strict constructionist position concerning Volition-Piloted Literature's specifications and rules, since then whether the specifications and rules fail to speak to a given topic avails executives of those specifications and rules little (however, the specifications and rules in question are so meager, that I do not think a strict constructionist position is in any way plausible for us; how much have we done in the name of our Volition-Piloted Literature project that has not been provided for us by our specifications and rules!?)]}
If we consolidate our loosey-goosey votes for tie-breaker solution by number (disregarding the subcategories represented by letters) we have:
Solution #1: 4
Solution #2: 1
Solution #3: 3
Solution #4: 2
Solution #5: 1
Now, consolidating these into two larger categories of "Writing one Chapter 3" and "Writing two Chapter 3s", which seems to me the crux of the issue, (and ruling out #5, since it would entail breaking laws and/or bones,) we have:
Write one Chapter 3s: 5
Write two Chapter 3s: 5
Oh, now you've done it.
I foresaw this problem.
The problem in voting on how to resolve a tie is, you might end up with another, bigger, more annoying tie.
Because, (A) I am almost actually sick of this blog post (fun, remember, is the thing tying me to adhering to technical prolixity) and (B) we're already being loosey-goosey, I am adopting the following rough-and-ready method for solving this meta-tie:
I am counting Derek's disparaging comments against 1b as being a negative vote (-1) and I am glossing over Portia's hesitancy in saying 3 is "fun, but...", which makes it 4 to 6 (or so), and thus I am going to write two Chapter 3s, the writing of which, in my prescience, I see entailing a host of problems itself.
But again, that's the fun.
At least one Chapter 3 will be posted by Monday; both by next Wednesday.
8.12.2008
Enumerated Things.
0. If you are looking for the Volition-Piloted Literature Chapter 2 Voting Results, look here. If not, read on.
A strange combination of 2 trivial and subtle, yet striking happenings made this morning's Mass a little distracting.
Luckily, the liturgy is not about and does not depend on me or my focus.
1. The Priest, immediately after holding up the cup, and saying "The blood of Christ", gave way to the heftiest hiccup I may have ever heard.
2. There was a single, distracting, unexplained Cheerio on the pew in front of me. ???
In other news, I have more enumeratable things:
3a. Today's saint, according to the Catholic Calendar, is St. Louis of Toulouse, who died at the age of 23, by which time he was already a bishop. I, incidentally, am 22 (I had to ask Louis and Brianna what age I was, because I had forgotten. I write it here in part to contrast St. Louis of Toulouse's age with mine, and in part to remind myself).
3b. Donatello, the Italian artist, not the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, sculpted St. Louis of Toulouse. It looks like this:
3c. There is a statue of Donatello outside the Uffizi gallery in Florence. It looks like this:
not like this:
4. I am not a Catholic; don't read too much into my morning routine.
5a. St. Louis of Toulouse is not related in any relevant sense of which I am aware to Henri Toulouse-Lautrec, the putatively decadent, decidedly dwarfed, 18th/19th century painter.
5b. Henri Toulouse-Lautrec's full name is Comte Henri Mary Raymond de Toulouse-Lautrec-Monfa.
5c. Homeboy painted a self-portrait. It looks like this:
6. I had thought to enumerate more things in this blog post than I have.
A strange combination of 2 trivial and subtle, yet striking happenings made this morning's Mass a little distracting.
Luckily, the liturgy is not about and does not depend on me or my focus.
1. The Priest, immediately after holding up the cup, and saying "The blood of Christ", gave way to the heftiest hiccup I may have ever heard.
2. There was a single, distracting, unexplained Cheerio on the pew in front of me. ???
In other news, I have more enumeratable things:
3a. Today's saint, according to the Catholic Calendar, is St. Louis of Toulouse, who died at the age of 23, by which time he was already a bishop. I, incidentally, am 22 (I had to ask Louis and Brianna what age I was, because I had forgotten. I write it here in part to contrast St. Louis of Toulouse's age with mine, and in part to remind myself).
3b. Donatello, the Italian artist, not the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle, sculpted St. Louis of Toulouse. It looks like this:
3c. There is a statue of Donatello outside the Uffizi gallery in Florence. It looks like this:
not like this:
4. I am not a Catholic; don't read too much into my morning routine.
5a. St. Louis of Toulouse is not related in any relevant sense of which I am aware to Henri Toulouse-Lautrec, the putatively decadent, decidedly dwarfed, 18th/19th century painter.
5b. Henri Toulouse-Lautrec's full name is Comte Henri Mary Raymond de Toulouse-Lautrec-Monfa.
5c. Homeboy painted a self-portrait. It looks like this:
6. I had thought to enumerate more things in this blog post than I have.
Volition-Piloted Literature. Chapter 2 Voting Results.
The votes for Chapter 2 of The Runes of Chaos have been tallied.
And, in tallying the votes, I have found again that we are beset with problems in deciding what course to adopt.
Take a look for yourself:
Votes:
Option #1: 5
Option #2: 0
Option #3: 5
Option #4: 0
We have a tie.
Two ties, in fact: one for first place and one for last place. But I think we all know with which tie our concerns lie.
But before we begin to manufacture some solvent to our quagmire, let me ask you all a question:
Why do you all hate even numbers?
No, but seriously, I am genuinely curious about what you think the deficiencies in #2 and #4 are. Louis has commented to me that they are both too trusting; one of the mysterious caller, the other of the mysterious scientists. Since my readership is solely composed of cynics, pessimists, and skeptics, this argument makes sense to me, but it does make me think, makes me question, makes me wonder:
What are the tacitly held, recondite standards by which you're piloting this frivolous narrative?
What are the guiding critical principles that are darkly bubbling in your conscious or subconscious minds?
Into what cryptic literary hands have I placed my document?
Whose volition is really behind The Runes of Chaos?
So, please feel free to comment on this blog post, articulating
1. What you think of options #2 and #4, letting me know in which ways you think they suck,
and
2. Voice the criteria against which you weigh the narrative-options. [For instance, are you acting in accordance with a desire to engender the most entertaining story possible? If so, what counts as entertaining for you? Are you acting in accordance with a desire to see our protagonist (antagonist, whatever) act reasonably/believably? Or what?]
However, if you don't want to divulge your literary penchants, because part of the fun is concealing your intentions and standards, feel free to comment with a "no comment".
************************************************************************
Okay, now that that's behind us, we must turn to the problem before us.
There exist, I think, at least 3 multi-pronged solutions we may adopt to solve this problem, cut this knot, untie this tie.
Solution 1: Devise a tie-breaker.
There are at least 3 different kinds of tie-breaker we could employ.
1a. One way to devise a tie-breaker would be to pick some arbitrary, chancy, (dare I say it, "chaotic"?) means to resolve the tie. Flipping a coin, for instance, or 'eeny, meeny, miny, moe'.
1b. A second means to break the tie is for me to simply pick which option I prefer more, letting my volition come into play.
1c. Another tie-breaker solution available to us is come up with a principled means of resolving the conflict. This could include letting you, the readers, duke it out argumentatively in the comment-section of Chapter 2, until people change their votes in favor #1 or #3, (similar to the concept of overtime or extra innings) (we could, of course, decide amongst ourselves whether or not to allow new voters to vote as well).
Solution 2: Try to 'escape between the horns', writing Chapter 3 in accordance to both #1 and #3, despite their evidently being mutually exclusive. A potentially perilous means of escape, indeed.
Solution 3: Write two Chapter 3s, one for each option, thereby propelling the scope of this narrative-project far beyond that originally intended and specified. Instead of an ultimate 8 chapters (Chapter 1-4 and 4 distinct Chapter 5s) we would end up with an ultimate 14 chapters (Chapter 1-2, 2 distinct Chapter 3s, 2 distinct Chapter 4s, and 8 distinct Chapter 5s).
We could do this at least 2 different ways.
3a. Go back and revise the original specifications, with Louis' permission, to allow explicitly for the writing of two instances of a given chapter. As of yet, the specifications don't speak to ties. Specification 7 says that "I, Jonathan Charles Wright, may not write any chapters before votes have been tallied and a particular chapter elected. At that time I may write the so-elected chapter and only the so-elected chapter." Depending on how we hash out our definition of "elected", #1 and #3 might both qualify. The specifications have been previously edited (Specification 4, on 7/21/08), so we shouldn't feel too ashamed at simply clarifying them for our present predicament.
3b. Act without Louis' permission, and simply relegate one of our two Chapter 3s to renegade status. So, there would be an orthodox, canonical The Runes of Chaos document as per the original Volition-Piloted Literature specifications, which would adhere to one of the tied options, AND there would be another, apocryphal series of documents outside the stipulated bounds of the Volition-Piloted Literature project. We needn't break any technical rules or stipulations; we just won't count the renegade chapters as being part of the Volition-Piloted Literature project, which gets us off the hook; the renegade chapters will just be some aggregates of words I happened to compose and post, which happen to be strikingly similar to the Volition-Piloted Literature project in kind, but in fact are not connected to it. Louis need never know. (A problem facing this solution: how to decide which string of narrative is to earn legitimacy and the other apostasy? How are we to determine which ought to be considered the orthodox text, and the other apocryphal? Perhaps we could employ the means proposed by Solution 1 to this end?)
Okay, so, which do you prefer?
In keeping with the Volition-Piloted Literature M.O., lets put it to a vote. To give you all plenty of time, I'll say that the 'Tie-breaker Solution' voting-period will end tomorrow night at midnight; that's Wednesday, August 13, 2008.
For the sakes of formality and fun, let me prescribe a comment format. Your comments to this post should have two parts, and A part and B part.
The A section will entail your thoughts/critiques of Options #2 and #4 from Chapter 2, and/or whatever literary standards you would like to share with me concerning Volition-Piloted Literature, as per my line of questioning in the first half of this post;
The B section will entail your vote for the Tie-Breaker Solution, along with any commentary/arguments concerning your vote, as per usual. Your comments, accordingly, should look like this:
And, in tallying the votes, I have found again that we are beset with problems in deciding what course to adopt.
Take a look for yourself:
Votes:
Option #1: 5
Option #2: 0
Option #3: 5
Option #4: 0
We have a tie.
Two ties, in fact: one for first place and one for last place. But I think we all know with which tie our concerns lie.
But before we begin to manufacture some solvent to our quagmire, let me ask you all a question:
Why do you all hate even numbers?
No, but seriously, I am genuinely curious about what you think the deficiencies in #2 and #4 are. Louis has commented to me that they are both too trusting; one of the mysterious caller, the other of the mysterious scientists. Since my readership is solely composed of cynics, pessimists, and skeptics, this argument makes sense to me, but it does make me think, makes me question, makes me wonder:
What are the tacitly held, recondite standards by which you're piloting this frivolous narrative?
What are the guiding critical principles that are darkly bubbling in your conscious or subconscious minds?
Into what cryptic literary hands have I placed my document?
Whose volition is really behind The Runes of Chaos?
So, please feel free to comment on this blog post, articulating
1. What you think of options #2 and #4, letting me know in which ways you think they suck,
and
2. Voice the criteria against which you weigh the narrative-options. [For instance, are you acting in accordance with a desire to engender the most entertaining story possible? If so, what counts as entertaining for you? Are you acting in accordance with a desire to see our protagonist (antagonist, whatever) act reasonably/believably? Or what?]
However, if you don't want to divulge your literary penchants, because part of the fun is concealing your intentions and standards, feel free to comment with a "no comment".
************************************************************************
Okay, now that that's behind us, we must turn to the problem before us.
There exist, I think, at least 3 multi-pronged solutions we may adopt to solve this problem, cut this knot, untie this tie.
Solution 1: Devise a tie-breaker.
There are at least 3 different kinds of tie-breaker we could employ.
1a. One way to devise a tie-breaker would be to pick some arbitrary, chancy, (dare I say it, "chaotic"?) means to resolve the tie. Flipping a coin, for instance, or 'eeny, meeny, miny, moe'.
1b. A second means to break the tie is for me to simply pick which option I prefer more, letting my volition come into play.
1c. Another tie-breaker solution available to us is come up with a principled means of resolving the conflict. This could include letting you, the readers, duke it out argumentatively in the comment-section of Chapter 2, until people change their votes in favor #1 or #3, (similar to the concept of overtime or extra innings) (we could, of course, decide amongst ourselves whether or not to allow new voters to vote as well).
Solution 2: Try to 'escape between the horns', writing Chapter 3 in accordance to both #1 and #3, despite their evidently being mutually exclusive. A potentially perilous means of escape, indeed.
Solution 3: Write two Chapter 3s, one for each option, thereby propelling the scope of this narrative-project far beyond that originally intended and specified. Instead of an ultimate 8 chapters (Chapter 1-4 and 4 distinct Chapter 5s) we would end up with an ultimate 14 chapters (Chapter 1-2, 2 distinct Chapter 3s, 2 distinct Chapter 4s, and 8 distinct Chapter 5s).
We could do this at least 2 different ways.
3a. Go back and revise the original specifications, with Louis' permission, to allow explicitly for the writing of two instances of a given chapter. As of yet, the specifications don't speak to ties. Specification 7 says that "I, Jonathan Charles Wright, may not write any chapters before votes have been tallied and a particular chapter elected. At that time I may write the so-elected chapter and only the so-elected chapter." Depending on how we hash out our definition of "elected", #1 and #3 might both qualify. The specifications have been previously edited (Specification 4, on 7/21/08), so we shouldn't feel too ashamed at simply clarifying them for our present predicament.
3b. Act without Louis' permission, and simply relegate one of our two Chapter 3s to renegade status. So, there would be an orthodox, canonical The Runes of Chaos document as per the original Volition-Piloted Literature specifications, which would adhere to one of the tied options, AND there would be another, apocryphal series of documents outside the stipulated bounds of the Volition-Piloted Literature project. We needn't break any technical rules or stipulations; we just won't count the renegade chapters as being part of the Volition-Piloted Literature project, which gets us off the hook; the renegade chapters will just be some aggregates of words I happened to compose and post, which happen to be strikingly similar to the Volition-Piloted Literature project in kind, but in fact are not connected to it. Louis need never know. (A problem facing this solution: how to decide which string of narrative is to earn legitimacy and the other apostasy? How are we to determine which ought to be considered the orthodox text, and the other apocryphal? Perhaps we could employ the means proposed by Solution 1 to this end?)
Okay, so, which do you prefer?
In keeping with the Volition-Piloted Literature M.O., lets put it to a vote. To give you all plenty of time, I'll say that the 'Tie-breaker Solution' voting-period will end tomorrow night at midnight; that's Wednesday, August 13, 2008.
For the sakes of formality and fun, let me prescribe a comment format. Your comments to this post should have two parts, and A part and B part.
The A section will entail your thoughts/critiques of Options #2 and #4 from Chapter 2, and/or whatever literary standards you would like to share with me concerning Volition-Piloted Literature, as per my line of questioning in the first half of this post;
The B section will entail your vote for the Tie-Breaker Solution, along with any commentary/arguments concerning your vote, as per usual. Your comments, accordingly, should look like this:
A. "I think 'blah blah blah.'" or "No comment."Then, having voted and blathered, please wait patiently, hands in or out of your pockets.
B. "Solution #, please. 'blah blah blah'."
8.08.2008
Idahepisodes: Part I
If you're looking for the Runes of Chaos, Chapter 2, go here. If not, read on.
**********************************************************************************
1. Coffee Cleansing; Coffee Consolations.
When I first got up here to Idaho, I thought I might get a job to support my extravagant lifestyle as a reclusive bookworm. I applied to many places, and I landed two interviews for two different Starbucks stores. At the first, I felt a strange sense of safety, being asked personal questions by an impersonal representative of an impersonal organization—I embraced the scene as an avenue for catharsis: I bared my soul, and I was cleansed. At the second, I duplicated my answers from the previous, down to the slightest word and intonation. No job; two free coffees: success.
2. Gooey’s with Louis, Gooey’s with Louis, and Gooey’s with Louis.
I have thrice gone with Louis to the dessert place at ‘The Resort’.
The first time we went, our server was beautiful and friendly; she snuck us free soda with bubbly affability. Louis’ plans for her and my wedding ultimately fell through.
The second time, accustomed to free drink, Louis tried weaseling free coffee from another server, beautiful and unfriendly—so doing, Louis came off artlessly flirtatious and we suffered awkwardness the duration of the evening.
The third time, we got the best server ever, beautiful and clever, who discussed with us at length the typographical errors present in our menus.
3. One should either be a work of art, or spill a work of art.
A friend of a friend of a friend of a friend got me a one-time job serving wine for three hours at a fancy art gallery auction. I encountered lots of rich people, a female jazz singer (singing jazz, of all things), non-struggling artists, and ‘freelance servers’. I was smirking the entire evening, thinking that a smirking wine-server in the background was just the aesthetic colophon needed to perfect the event as an artwork itself. My smirking was briefly suspended however, when a tipsy dilettante backed into me, hurtling my tray of wine glasses to the floor—I then uncontrollably beamed.
4. "Every moving thing that liveth shall be meat for you; even as the green herb have I given you all things".
Max and I were intent on cooking and devouring duck or rabbit. This brought us to a ‘rare meats’ store. Having found a suitable duck, which we would later imbrue in salt and brandy before ingurgitating with ligonberry jus and ‘haricot verts’ (snob for ‘green beans’), Max casually asked if this Idahoan abattoir ever had alligator-meat. An older butcher with thick glasses responded, “You wanna see an alligator?” We paraded past elaborate hacking machines and gory carcasses into a freezer, where we beheld a 10-foot-long reptile with a gaping wound the size of a silver dollar on its forehead.
5. "The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo".
Max and I have taken to reading Shakespeare plays aloud together. We get theatrical. Legendary names from English literature have been tinged in my mind, perhaps forever, with our portrayals. Here follow standout names we incarnated.
Max: Julius Caesar, Antony (an emotional peformance), Proteus, Don Adriano de Armado, Henry Bolingbroke.
Jon: Cleopatra, Brutus, Berowne (be sad that you missed flirtatious repartee between my Berowne and Max’s Rosaline), Launce.
Guest appearances:
Louis: Richard II (an angry performance);
Daniel: Princess of France (lines delivered in a deep baritone), Moth (lines delivered in a piercing falsetto);
Colby: Crab, the dog (a refractory performance).
6. "Lastly, you come upon a body of water...".
Max, Daniel, and I drove an hour north to see Aria at an immense and beautiful lake, upon which we wakeboarded and rode Sea Doos. Daniel and I both managed to stand on the wakeboard; Max did not. In retaliation to our success, Max took it upon himself to launch us from the Sea Doo at high speeds whenever the opportunity availed itself to him.
3. One should either be a work of art, or spill a work of art.
A friend of a friend of a friend of a friend got me a one-time job serving wine for three hours at a fancy art gallery auction. I encountered lots of rich people, a female jazz singer (singing jazz, of all things), non-struggling artists, and ‘freelance servers’. I was smirking the entire evening, thinking that a smirking wine-server in the background was just the aesthetic colophon needed to perfect the event as an artwork itself. My smirking was briefly suspended however, when a tipsy dilettante backed into me, hurtling my tray of wine glasses to the floor—I then uncontrollably beamed.
4. "Every moving thing that liveth shall be meat for you; even as the green herb have I given you all things".
Max and I were intent on cooking and devouring duck or rabbit. This brought us to a ‘rare meats’ store. Having found a suitable duck, which we would later imbrue in salt and brandy before ingurgitating with ligonberry jus and ‘haricot verts’ (snob for ‘green beans’), Max casually asked if this Idahoan abattoir ever had alligator-meat. An older butcher with thick glasses responded, “You wanna see an alligator?” We paraded past elaborate hacking machines and gory carcasses into a freezer, where we beheld a 10-foot-long reptile with a gaping wound the size of a silver dollar on its forehead.
5. "The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo".
Max and I have taken to reading Shakespeare plays aloud together. We get theatrical. Legendary names from English literature have been tinged in my mind, perhaps forever, with our portrayals. Here follow standout names we incarnated.
Max: Julius Caesar, Antony (an emotional peformance), Proteus, Don Adriano de Armado, Henry Bolingbroke.
Jon: Cleopatra, Brutus, Berowne (be sad that you missed flirtatious repartee between my Berowne and Max’s Rosaline), Launce.
Guest appearances:
Louis: Richard II (an angry performance);
Daniel: Princess of France (lines delivered in a deep baritone), Moth (lines delivered in a piercing falsetto);
Colby: Crab, the dog (a refractory performance).
6. "Lastly, you come upon a body of water...".
Max, Daniel, and I drove an hour north to see Aria at an immense and beautiful lake, upon which we wakeboarded and rode Sea Doos. Daniel and I both managed to stand on the wakeboard; Max did not. In retaliation to our success, Max took it upon himself to launch us from the Sea Doo at high speeds whenever the opportunity availed itself to him.
We three also played cards with Aria, during which time she deigned to play our frivolous conversational games. It may have been the first time I have net more enjoyment than awkwardness during a nunner-encounter.
7. A Congruent Coffee Couple.
There is a coffee shop in town that Louis religiously frequents, called ‘Java on Sherman’. I’ve been with him there numerous times, and am familiar with the baristas by sight. I thought one particularly attractive: she had cymotrichous brown hair, large eyes, olive skin; a soothing Mediterranean look. After a five-minute crush, I resolved that it would never work, but that I wished her the best.
7. A Congruent Coffee Couple.
There is a coffee shop in town that Louis religiously frequents, called ‘Java on Sherman’. I’ve been with him there numerous times, and am familiar with the baristas by sight. I thought one particularly attractive: she had cymotrichous brown hair, large eyes, olive skin; a soothing Mediterranean look. After a five-minute crush, I resolved that it would never work, but that I wished her the best.
I realized after a while she was dating a co-worker, who himself had cymotrichous brown hair, large eyes, olive skin; a soothing Mediterranean look. With elation, I secretly wished for their lifelong happiness together.
8. 卡车零件.
Vocational exiguity, for all its delight, nevertheless begets financial exiguity—a fact of life, brought home to me by Idaho. The gripping bite of indigence upon me, I took upon myself a job doing copywriting work for the most cheerful website-guru I’ve ever met. The nature of this work, however, is nothing less than writing keyword-rich product descriptions about diesel truck paraphernalia.
8. 卡车零件.
Vocational exiguity, for all its delight, nevertheless begets financial exiguity—a fact of life, brought home to me by Idaho. The gripping bite of indigence upon me, I took upon myself a job doing copywriting work for the most cheerful website-guru I’ve ever met. The nature of this work, however, is nothing less than writing keyword-rich product descriptions about diesel truck paraphernalia.
The comedy in this has not been overlooked by my housemates.
Louis has noted that my writing persuasive and detailed descriptions about Bully Dog Truck Modules is actually a real-world application of the Chinese Room thought experiment.
9. The straw that broke the tire's tread.
We four guys met at COSTCO for cheap and greasy hot dogs and pizza—an occasion for fellowship if any. Afterwards, we were driving away as an irregular thumping sound following the car led me to believe that either my vehicle had been adorned with cans and a “JUST MARRIED” sign, or that I had a flat tire.
9. The straw that broke the tire's tread.
We four guys met at COSTCO for cheap and greasy hot dogs and pizza—an occasion for fellowship if any. Afterwards, we were driving away as an irregular thumping sound following the car led me to believe that either my vehicle had been adorned with cans and a “JUST MARRIED” sign, or that I had a flat tire.
Sadly, this day I was not to enjoy conjugal bliss.
A fantastically obliging COSTCO automotive employee with Civil-War-Era facial hair referred me to the cheapest tire place ever, where I purchased the cheapest tire ever. This purchase, incidentally, would overdraw my checking account.
10. Iron Men on a Fragile Night.
Roughly an hour before midnight, after steadfastly losing against Lindsey and Louis in spades, Max and I decided to go downtown to watch the final IronMan Triathlon racers come in. We skipped through the streets as we went; the moon was full and bright, the streets empty and dark. As I gamboled, an independent, trivial young man, my sensations felt more potent, more acute. Skipping to the races in the dark, I felt overwhelmed by the world.
After we sang rock songs with other spectators on the bleachers and watched the last Iron stragglers finish their race, we strolled home.
10. Iron Men on a Fragile Night.
Roughly an hour before midnight, after steadfastly losing against Lindsey and Louis in spades, Max and I decided to go downtown to watch the final IronMan Triathlon racers come in. We skipped through the streets as we went; the moon was full and bright, the streets empty and dark. As I gamboled, an independent, trivial young man, my sensations felt more potent, more acute. Skipping to the races in the dark, I felt overwhelmed by the world.
After we sang rock songs with other spectators on the bleachers and watched the last Iron stragglers finish their race, we strolled home.
8.07.2008
Volition-Piloted Literature. Runes of Chaos: Chapter 2.
To read Chapter 1 first, (as you should) go here.
Chapter 2.
After hieing back to Gondalekar’s office with all the celerity their middle-aged, academic bodies could muster, our professors spent their gasps more on the accruement of oxygen and less on the expression of shock at the paucity of corpses on the floor. There were no bodies to be found—the office carpet was, however, immaculately clean. Gondalekar noted as much:
“Well, I would have liked to see a murder victim, but I must say that my carpet is immaculately clean.”
“I’m telling you, Gabriel, two men hit the floor after one threw a knife and the other fired a gun. I could have been killed! I’m calling campus safety.”
Gondelakar laughed.
“Campus safety!? And how will Joe-undergrad-Physical-Education-major help?”
“Then I’ll call the police!” snapped Wdowczak, nearly hectic.
“And tell them what!? That my office smells like shampoo? Look, I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but I do think you need to cool your jets a second. At least before you do anything, show me this supernatural ore you’re babbling about. We can go from there.”
Wdowczak breathed; he thought to himself: I don’t know with whom or what I’m dealing, and there’s no obvious reason to involve the police immediately.
“Okay.” Carefully, he pulled the stone out of his pocket, set it on the desk, and unraveled the thick cloth.
Gondalekar began to watch with ignorant interest. And then he saw the orb. He kneeled and squinted at it. His jaw was slightly slack from something more than ignorant interest. He looked up at Wdowczak.
“Describe what happened.”
“This guy arranged some tiles around the stone—four of them. Then he spilt his blood over the stone. Then, a thick black vapor started steaming from the stone. It looked like…like—”
“—like space was decomposing?”
Wdowczak’s focus locked upon Gondalekar.
Gondalekar stood up slowly. His countenance changed from wary awe to wary excitement, his eyes more open than usual, his pupils infinitesimally darting in thought.
“I’ve heard of this.”
He immediately wrapped the orb up again and handed it to Wdowczak.
“Blaise, follow me.”
Gondalekar walked as briskly as he talked, at a canter. “There’s this research group in theoretical physics, to which I’ve been trying to gain admittance for the past three years,” huff huff huff. “They’re looking for ways to break down matter to its small constituents,” huff huff, “the smallest discovered,” huff, “down to mathematically projected strings below the subatomic level!”
Gondalekar spoke further and faster about this unprecedented research as they walked farther and faster across campus. He told Wdowczak at length about the discovery of a rare substance that could dissolve the smallest heretofore-conceivable atomic composites; about how these scientists were desperately searching for it; about how this object might be that substance; about how if they brought it to these scientists, Gondelakar might have the opportunity to contribute to their study; about how he shouldn’t even know about their research—that it was technically illegal.
“Gabriel, I’m not sure—”
“—Blaise,” burst Gondalekar, “This is important. This research promises serious significant breakthroughs, and this stone could be the linchpin of it all. Its importance stands to outstrip Archimedes, Galileo, Kepler, Einstein—this beats the wheel. Please, let me at least show them this stone.”
They came to the research lab secretary.
“Hello,” said Gondalekar. “We’d like to see Dr. Odegaard.”
“Neither Dr. Odegaard is presently at the lab—you’ll have to come ba—“
“Tell them we have a mineral in our pocket that generates particle-warping electro-gravitational disturbances.” He smiled politely.
Less than two minutes later, two Dr. Odegaards, husband and wife particle physicists, were congenially introducing themselves. Gondalekar had heard of them, had worked in the same department and university as them, yet hadn’t seen them until now.
The couple was clearly Scandinavian: svelte, blonde, clean, hairless bodies. Their voices were reminiscent of thick gurgling.
Linus Odegaard was tactically complimenting Gondalekar with a beaming countenance. “Oh yes, we know your work, Dr. Gondalekar; we have often considered offering you a fellowship in Ragnarök; though, we’ve had reservations that you were perhaps too clever for us.” Cordial laughter.
“Ragnarök?” asked Wdowczak?
“Oh: our research institute.”
“‘Ragnarök’,” Yvla Odegaard interpolated, “in Norse mythology, is a prophesied recreation of the world.”
“I will be frank,” continued Linus, “time is precious to us, and we are interested in this mineral you’ve brought; but before we allow you into our laboratory, you’ll have to sign these.” He pulled two mounds of paper out of his desk. “You needn’t read them: I can tell you simply that they commit you to never revealing anything you see or hear in our laboratory to anyone ever. It’s complicated, because as you’re probably aware, the applications of our research in engineering are illegal in the United States—this document accordingly then, in a sense, commits you to concealing criminal activity. The reason it is nevertheless legally binding is because it's written according to Japanese law. All of our equipment, workspace, so on, belongs to the University of Tokyo—Japanese law is friendlier to our projects. While you could not be tried in the U.S. for breaking the terms of this document, you would have a substantial fee levied against you by Japanese courts, which, due to the exploitation of various complexities of international law, would be enforceable in the U.S.”
“What about your institute is illegal, exactly?”
“Oh, Dr. Gondalekar must not have told you,” casually grinned Linus. “We are nearing the completion of the construction of a particle accelerator whose circumference is roughly quadruple that of the Earth. We are acting without permission.”
This constituted for Wdowczak one of those statements the meaning of which induces unpleasant conceptual vertigo when understood, and so are expediently dismissed as meaningless.
“However it’s not only for protection against the government that we bind colleagues to secrecy,” Yvla interpolated again, “we have also met opposition from a fanatic religious terrorist group, a cult, that could prove a serious liability to our progress should they gain information about our research.”
“But how would this stone help your—“
A secretary interrupted Wdowczak:
“There is a phone call for Professor Wdowczak.’
“Oh. It must be the humanities secretary,” Wdowczak lied by way of explanation, “I told her to forward important calls for me to this office.”
On his way to the lab office’s phone, he conjectured to himself about his grounds for this fabricated explanation. Did he distrust these Scandinavian-Japanese criminal physicists? No, surprisingly, he thought. Something about the combination of candidly explained illicit astro-architecture, Gondalekar’s earnest and exaggerative plaudits, and the visual impression of white lab coats, inspired confidence in the connubial physicists from this peculiar institute.
“Hello?” he said into the phone.
“Hello. You speak Greek?” replied a female voice in Greek.
“What?” replied our Professor of Ancient Philosophy, as if to say, “What the hell?”
“Speak in Greek please—they are listening from another phone.”
“What do you want?” demanded Wdowczak in English.
“Listen. I work for the government and need your help. Those scientists not only are breaking federal and international law, but their project will endanger millions of innocent lives. I need you to learn all you can about their operation—the instant you discover anything that implicates them of prosecutable crimes, inform us immediately by calling 1-562-325-2541.”
A slight, nonplussed pause.
“Why should I believe you?” managed Wdowczak’s poor Greek.
“You have very little reason to,” said the voice, almost with delight, “But you must. If I’m speaking truly, what I’m saying is more important than anything you have to lose should I prove dishonest.” (This brought to Wdowczak’s mind similar feckless philosophical arguments; see Pascal’s Wager.)
“Tell you what,” continued the Greek voice, “when we meet, I’ll let you hold my government-issued sidearm as proof. Remember: learn all you can, contact me soon.” Click.
Muddled, Wdowczak muddled his way back through the lab, unsure of what to think or where to go. He thought to himself as he distractedly walked though the corridors to find his physicist associates:
My problem isn’t that I suspect everyone, but that I trust everyone. I believe the Greek spy lady--that these Scandinavians are up to no good; I trust Gabriel—that these Scandinavians mean to and will make scientific breakthroughs for the good of humanity—I really do.
The Runes of Chaos.
“Nothing shocks me. I’m a scientist.”-- Indiana Jones
Chapter 2.
After hieing back to Gondalekar’s office with all the celerity their middle-aged, academic bodies could muster, our professors spent their gasps more on the accruement of oxygen and less on the expression of shock at the paucity of corpses on the floor. There were no bodies to be found—the office carpet was, however, immaculately clean. Gondalekar noted as much:
“Well, I would have liked to see a murder victim, but I must say that my carpet is immaculately clean.”
“I’m telling you, Gabriel, two men hit the floor after one threw a knife and the other fired a gun. I could have been killed! I’m calling campus safety.”
Gondelakar laughed.
“Campus safety!? And how will Joe-undergrad-Physical-Education-major help?”
“Then I’ll call the police!” snapped Wdowczak, nearly hectic.
“And tell them what!? That my office smells like shampoo? Look, I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but I do think you need to cool your jets a second. At least before you do anything, show me this supernatural ore you’re babbling about. We can go from there.”
Wdowczak breathed; he thought to himself: I don’t know with whom or what I’m dealing, and there’s no obvious reason to involve the police immediately.
“Okay.” Carefully, he pulled the stone out of his pocket, set it on the desk, and unraveled the thick cloth.
Gondalekar began to watch with ignorant interest. And then he saw the orb. He kneeled and squinted at it. His jaw was slightly slack from something more than ignorant interest. He looked up at Wdowczak.
“Describe what happened.”
“This guy arranged some tiles around the stone—four of them. Then he spilt his blood over the stone. Then, a thick black vapor started steaming from the stone. It looked like…like—”
“—like space was decomposing?”
Wdowczak’s focus locked upon Gondalekar.
Gondalekar stood up slowly. His countenance changed from wary awe to wary excitement, his eyes more open than usual, his pupils infinitesimally darting in thought.
“I’ve heard of this.”
He immediately wrapped the orb up again and handed it to Wdowczak.
“Blaise, follow me.”
Gondalekar walked as briskly as he talked, at a canter. “There’s this research group in theoretical physics, to which I’ve been trying to gain admittance for the past three years,” huff huff huff. “They’re looking for ways to break down matter to its small constituents,” huff huff, “the smallest discovered,” huff, “down to mathematically projected strings below the subatomic level!”
Gondalekar spoke further and faster about this unprecedented research as they walked farther and faster across campus. He told Wdowczak at length about the discovery of a rare substance that could dissolve the smallest heretofore-conceivable atomic composites; about how these scientists were desperately searching for it; about how this object might be that substance; about how if they brought it to these scientists, Gondelakar might have the opportunity to contribute to their study; about how he shouldn’t even know about their research—that it was technically illegal.
“Gabriel, I’m not sure—”
“—Blaise,” burst Gondalekar, “This is important. This research promises serious significant breakthroughs, and this stone could be the linchpin of it all. Its importance stands to outstrip Archimedes, Galileo, Kepler, Einstein—this beats the wheel. Please, let me at least show them this stone.”
They came to the research lab secretary.
“Hello,” said Gondalekar. “We’d like to see Dr. Odegaard.”
“Neither Dr. Odegaard is presently at the lab—you’ll have to come ba—“
“Tell them we have a mineral in our pocket that generates particle-warping electro-gravitational disturbances.” He smiled politely.
Less than two minutes later, two Dr. Odegaards, husband and wife particle physicists, were congenially introducing themselves. Gondalekar had heard of them, had worked in the same department and university as them, yet hadn’t seen them until now.
The couple was clearly Scandinavian: svelte, blonde, clean, hairless bodies. Their voices were reminiscent of thick gurgling.
Linus Odegaard was tactically complimenting Gondalekar with a beaming countenance. “Oh yes, we know your work, Dr. Gondalekar; we have often considered offering you a fellowship in Ragnarök; though, we’ve had reservations that you were perhaps too clever for us.” Cordial laughter.
“Ragnarök?” asked Wdowczak?
“Oh: our research institute.”
“‘Ragnarök’,” Yvla Odegaard interpolated, “in Norse mythology, is a prophesied recreation of the world.”
“I will be frank,” continued Linus, “time is precious to us, and we are interested in this mineral you’ve brought; but before we allow you into our laboratory, you’ll have to sign these.” He pulled two mounds of paper out of his desk. “You needn’t read them: I can tell you simply that they commit you to never revealing anything you see or hear in our laboratory to anyone ever. It’s complicated, because as you’re probably aware, the applications of our research in engineering are illegal in the United States—this document accordingly then, in a sense, commits you to concealing criminal activity. The reason it is nevertheless legally binding is because it's written according to Japanese law. All of our equipment, workspace, so on, belongs to the University of Tokyo—Japanese law is friendlier to our projects. While you could not be tried in the U.S. for breaking the terms of this document, you would have a substantial fee levied against you by Japanese courts, which, due to the exploitation of various complexities of international law, would be enforceable in the U.S.”
“What about your institute is illegal, exactly?”
“Oh, Dr. Gondalekar must not have told you,” casually grinned Linus. “We are nearing the completion of the construction of a particle accelerator whose circumference is roughly quadruple that of the Earth. We are acting without permission.”
This constituted for Wdowczak one of those statements the meaning of which induces unpleasant conceptual vertigo when understood, and so are expediently dismissed as meaningless.
“However it’s not only for protection against the government that we bind colleagues to secrecy,” Yvla interpolated again, “we have also met opposition from a fanatic religious terrorist group, a cult, that could prove a serious liability to our progress should they gain information about our research.”
“But how would this stone help your—“
A secretary interrupted Wdowczak:
“There is a phone call for Professor Wdowczak.’
“Oh. It must be the humanities secretary,” Wdowczak lied by way of explanation, “I told her to forward important calls for me to this office.”
On his way to the lab office’s phone, he conjectured to himself about his grounds for this fabricated explanation. Did he distrust these Scandinavian-Japanese criminal physicists? No, surprisingly, he thought. Something about the combination of candidly explained illicit astro-architecture, Gondalekar’s earnest and exaggerative plaudits, and the visual impression of white lab coats, inspired confidence in the connubial physicists from this peculiar institute.
But then, why lie?
I have subconsciously been put on guard—that’s all. Too much has happened too quickly for me not to incline towards holding my cards close to my chest.
I have subconsciously been put on guard—that’s all. Too much has happened too quickly for me not to incline towards holding my cards close to my chest.
“Hello?” he said into the phone.
“Hello. You speak Greek?” replied a female voice in Greek.
“What?” replied our Professor of Ancient Philosophy, as if to say, “What the hell?”
“Speak in Greek please—they are listening from another phone.”
“What do you want?” demanded Wdowczak in English.
“Listen. I work for the government and need your help. Those scientists not only are breaking federal and international law, but their project will endanger millions of innocent lives. I need you to learn all you can about their operation—the instant you discover anything that implicates them of prosecutable crimes, inform us immediately by calling 1-562-325-2541.”
A slight, nonplussed pause.
“Why should I believe you?” managed Wdowczak’s poor Greek.
“You have very little reason to,” said the voice, almost with delight, “But you must. If I’m speaking truly, what I’m saying is more important than anything you have to lose should I prove dishonest.” (This brought to Wdowczak’s mind similar feckless philosophical arguments; see Pascal’s Wager.)
“Tell you what,” continued the Greek voice, “when we meet, I’ll let you hold my government-issued sidearm as proof. Remember: learn all you can, contact me soon.” Click.
Muddled, Wdowczak muddled his way back through the lab, unsure of what to think or where to go. He thought to himself as he distractedly walked though the corridors to find his physicist associates:
My problem isn’t that I suspect everyone, but that I trust everyone. I believe the Greek spy lady--that these Scandinavians are up to no good; I trust Gabriel—that these Scandinavians mean to and will make scientific breakthroughs for the good of humanity—I really do.
Hell, I even have faith in that stranger with the knife who introduced this worrisome rock in the first place.
This mental homily from our fidimplicitary hero on the first of the three Christian virtues here was cut short and subverted, as he absentmindedly passed through a door to see a pale body lying on what looked like an operating table. It happened to be “that stranger with the knife who introduced this worrisome rock in the first place”.
He heard a door open behind him at the corridor's end.
This mental homily from our fidimplicitary hero on the first of the three Christian virtues here was cut short and subverted, as he absentmindedly passed through a door to see a pale body lying on what looked like an operating table. It happened to be “that stranger with the knife who introduced this worrisome rock in the first place”.
He heard a door open behind him at the corridor's end.
“Professor Wdowczak,” said a female voice reminiscent of thick gurgling, “you should come with me.”
*****************************************************
Now, which would you prefer?
1. The word 'DEATH' flashes across Wdowczak's mind. Aghast at the body and fearful for his life (these scientists, after all, have no qualms defying international law, are in possession of the body he saw shot to the floor, and are actively interested in the stone in his pocket, for what must be a gadzillion-dollar inter-stellar project), he does whatever he can to get out of the lab and to see the Dr. DiGerlando referenced by the index card. Due to the stranger-turned-corpse's recent promotion to victim-status, Wdowczak now realizes how genuine and likeable he had seemed before--perhaps fulfilling his dying wish in seeing this DiGerlando will somehow help to discover what this is really all about.
2. Wdowczak, wary that more lives may ultimately be at stake, runs, not without fear or exigency, to someplace wherefrom he can contact "the Greek spy lady". Possession of a dead body, the likes of which he previously beheld gunned down in Gondalekar's office, seems to Wdowczak sufficient evidence to implicate the criminal-scientists of a prosecutable offense, and that Greek voice had sounded legitimately urgent.
3. Thinking that perhaps what the government actually needs is more substantial information about the research at hand, and being genuinely curious himself, Wdowczak decides to stay to discover the true nature and the concrete details of the Ragnarök project. He will pretend to have seen nothing out of the ordinary, return to the Odegaards, and do his best to the get the bottom of things. That dead body isn't getting any deader, and this information will give him leverage with "the Greek spy lady", should he need to use it.
4. Wdowczak, thinking Ylva saw him see the body, decides to broach the subject and ask her outright about it, letting her explain. After all, he thinks, I have more good reasons to believe these university scientists than an anonymous voice over a phone--just because a voice cavalierly admits I have no reason to trust it does not somehow provide me a reason to do so. What's more, there are plausible explanations about why they would have this body, if they're dealing with terrorist cults and have to keep out of the government's eye. Thus he decides to give the scientists the benefit of the doubt, and to confer with Gondalekar before making any radical decisions.
*****************************************************
To Vote:
1. Leave a comment on this blog post, non-equivocally expressing your preference for one of the narrative options.
2. Note, that you may only vote once, and that if your vote is accompanied by anything reminiscent of stupidity, I reserve the right to feign misunderstanding about everything you ever say or type again, including, but not limited to, your preferred narrative option from this chapter, thereby effectively nullifying your vote.
3. Wait patiently, hands in or out of your pockets.
1. Leave a comment on this blog post, non-equivocally expressing your preference for one of the narrative options.
2. Note, that you may only vote once, and that if your vote is accompanied by anything reminiscent of stupidity, I reserve the right to feign misunderstanding about everything you ever say or type again, including, but not limited to, your preferred narrative option from this chapter, thereby effectively nullifying your vote.
3. Wait patiently, hands in or out of your pockets.
Voting ends Monday, August 11, 2007.
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