Father and Son

If they were right, I'd agree
But it's them they know, not me
There's a way, and I know
I have to go away
I know I have to go
     --Cat Stevens, Father and Son

I understand things through their opposites. Their failures.

It's the way I'm drawn to songs about failed love and pain, because they show me what love should never do. Cat Stevens' song is like that. Not about love, but something more basic, more fundamental.

Two personalities clashing. One full of life--wanting to experience, wanting to rush forward.

Young.

One wanting to spare pain, mistakes, and straying badly off course.

Old.

And they've passed each other in the middle. The father is not the mentor. Not a wealth of understanding, guidance, and acceptance. The son is not the re-ignition of passion. Not the recaptured lust for life.

I understand this failure, this absence. I understand what I've missed. I understand why certain movies have been hitting me so hard lately.

I understand things through their opposites. But I'd like to ask Cat Stevens a question, in case he knows.

Where do you go after you've gone away?

SEED, Part 9

(Serial fiction, sci-fi)

Just joining us? Go back to Part 1.




Eve looked down on the dead girl lying on the suspension table for disposal. She already wept for her. The granddaughter she barely knew.

That girl always was the small one. The one not built for childbearing. She gave a son at age 13, barely, but something must have been damaged in her womb. After this second pregnancy at 15, they couldn't stop the bleeding. The tiny baby girl was stable, and they worked hard with their crystalline pinchers erupting and retracting from their amoeba arms. The moving minerals comprising their bodies sounded like sandpaper. Those crystals flashed faster and more precisely than any human fingers could move. Yet, they couldn't save her. Even if they knew an epoch of human anatomy and medicine, it might not have been enough. The biochemical intricacies of human life confounded even them.

There were many reasons not to weep. One death out of so many successful births. The daughters of daughters of daughters were now breeding, and 46 males training in the lower levels of the ship would be generals and leaders of men.

Eve was old. Twenty-two children had worn her thin, regardless of the early deliveries by caesarian. She respected the Mala. She even came to love the sound of their clicked and hummed language. She still smiled when she remembered the first real communication between them--when she realized that the mmmm-lll-a sound they made indicated a question. They seemed amused when she called them "Mala" after that sound. It was as if every interaction of hers with them was inquisitive.

In their pictograph language Eve helped develop, they often showed her the character meaning complete or adequate or enough. Eve often chose the smiley face. Of course, they had no faces to communicate body language with, but they certainly could see hers and what happiness looked like. They never chose the smiley face in their inquisitive and demanding sentences.

She wanted to believe that they would let her live out her life post menopause. Maybe not in luxury, but at least in health and comfort. She could still catch glimpses of her progeny and feel accomplishment. She could never talk to them, or let them know that she existed, but maybe the Mala would let them hear the volumes of human history she recorded. Maybe they would let her preserve the identity of her species.

Crystals protruded from the Mala doctor next to her and triggered transfer from the table into the disposal. A plasma wave of brilliant blue flared and advanced. She did cry a little when the wave swept back to reveal white ash. But a jolt to her back stiffened her body and cut off the tears.

She couldn't yell out when her face hit the bottom of the disposal unit. The grimace refused to form on her face.

The lid clicked down over her and the plasma wave hummed.

A sound like the Mala word for "hello."


On to Part 10.
Back to Part 8.

A Paint Brush on Skin

you were a work of art
soft and undulating
with rich chestnut waves
on smooth prickled sand
lying back and bending
in the dark I hunted you
or knelt to you
beaten or devouring
and you raise finger-twined oceans
or surrender your beating breath
and I cannot think your lines
as hands crumple sheets
and I drink your neck
while the portrait keeps
painting

To Nick Drake's Forest and My Path Nearby

I listen to evening
as I sit on a rock
by the edge of a forest
and a robin is singing a song
of goodnight, sleep-tight doors
and curtains blowing in the windows
I've been walking a path near the forest
peering at the tree shadows
tucked like blankets on a May night
the moss is like carpet in your room
when no one else is there
and that's just fine with you
I'm listening to Nick Drake
who was more withdrawn and melancholy
than life could bear
he slept peacefully with a handful of prescriptions
either on purpose or by mistake
and I listen to him now thirty years later
which might piss him off
because not many cared
before he died
but then again he might be happy
that his blood on guitar strings
was not so pointless
or a vicious disappointment
he sings in the forest under muting leaves
nearby
and I know what he's talking about
as I stroll and listen
with him not knowing I'm there
and I'm curious why my feet won't cross the boundaries
with my own version of a guitar
and the makings of a tune
where I can sing to shrews and poking mushrooms
and sing myself to sleep
but my path walks the borderline
even when I invite it to turn
so I guess I'm the one that strolls
and tells you what I hear
you who may or may not be listening
now or in thirty years
while I sit on this rock
and point out Nick
to the emerging stars
letting him say what he needs to say
as you stroll on your own path
nearby
and listen to what I need to say

SEED, Part 8

(Serial fiction, sci-fi)

Just joining us? Go back to Part 1.




A violent cramp in Jax's right arm pulled his entire body over. His biceps bulged between the straps.

He screamed.

"You will disclose the code to destroy the SEED vehicles."

Jax craned the knotted muscles of his neck to look up. "What?"

"You will disclose the code to destroy the SEED vehicles."

"There is no code!"

The cramp intensified. Jax moaned.

"You will disclose the code."

Jax blurted groups of words between waves of pain. "There was none...too dangerous...never know the future...no way to get them back...no way to stop them...once gone...."

The cramp released. Hard, iron pain yielded to a horrendous ache.

"You must terminate the SEED program."

"Even if there was a code, the transmission would take centuries to reach--"

The left arm cramped.

"No!" Jax said.

"We can execute the transmission. We can reach the vehicles. You must terminate the SEED program."

More gnashed words. "No vulnerable subroutines...you can't penetrate...always sleeping...no code...."

The arm relaxed.

Fire raged in his ripped muscles. "God.... Oh God."

"You must terminate the SEED program."

"I can't!"

"You will not disclose the information?"

"There is no information!"

"You will not disclose the information?"

"Can't!"

A pause.

Then, a statement.

"You will not disclose the information."

Jax started to cry.

Tears spattered his stained shirt, his arms, the exposed bits of chair.

Across the room, a door of light opened.

Jax drew a quivering breath. At first, he didn't understand what he was seeing. Who he was seeing.

His project chief, Mikale, the best member of his staff, stood in the doorway. He held two thin lines and a large syringe. In the slice of brightness, Jax traced the lines back to his chair. They were the IV's leading into his arms.

Mikale had bled all over himself. His scalp, hair, and underlying fat had been rolled back on the side of his head. A small bundle of wire leads poked into what looked like living brain. The skull was cut away.

"We will have the information," Mikale said.

The voice. Altered, not right. But now Jax heard the similarities to Mikale's.

Mikale, who was a medical doctor by training, moved the syringe to the lines. Jax fought to get out of the chair.


On to Part 9.
Back to Part 7.

Sometimes

sometimes I could
       never talk again
sometimes I could walk like Forrest Gump
       until I hit an ocean
sometimes I could crouch in a forest
       and hunt predators with my own teeth
sometimes I could kill the first person
       who trips through the door

Fly on the Ocean Mists

In honor of St. Patrick's Day and my Irish (well, melting pot) heritage, I offer you a journey in images from the ocean to the emerald forest and O Danny Boy on the low whistle. May spring be close by you!



(Photos and music by Jason Evans.)

SEED, Part 7

(Serial fiction, sci-fi)

Just joining us? Go back to Part 1.




She saw light.

At least her brain registered light.

She watched it, but it didn't mean anything. Light. Not light. Halos between the two. You must be conscious of a thing before it has meaning.

She blinked, and the light came and went. But this time, she felt the blink and connected the squeeze with change in the light.

The concept of distance hatched. A sense of close. The beginning of me, and a sense of not me. An observer and the observed.

She watched the light sharpen and become curious colors. There were designations for those differences, she knew, but her brain forgot the concept of words. Not "red" and "green" and "blue." Just this one being different from that one, and both floating higher in her mind than the third.

The third color was sky and water, but the images drifted like husks. Disconnected, wordless dreams. All was new, haunted by the ghostly tinge of familiar.

She squirmed and felt confined. She coughed, and her lungs felt thick and wet.

The coughs turned to gagging. She expelled globs and struggled to move. That's when the explosive seals blew. SEED4611's hatch flung to the side, and metal clanked on the floor.

She sat and gasped a breath of air. The immense importance of that first breath, and all the hours of training anchored onto it, finally sliced the veil over her sleeping consciousness.

She jolted.

The information hit her like a light in a dark room.

She was an Eve Officer on a Second Earth Elopement Device. The S.E.E.D. program. The fact that her hatch blew meant that the pod had landed without her help. Or aborted. Or never left Earth's orbit in the first place.

Hello? she tried to say. But the croak just gurgled in her throat.

She saw that someone had disassembled the pod. Computer boards chained by ribbon cable were spread on a metallic table. A glowing hose linked the array into the wall with colored lights. It looked like a servicing. Or maintenance. Had something gone wrong?

She cleared her throat again. Tried to loosen her stiff vocal cords. But another sound pulled her attention to the other side of the room before she tried to speak again.

A flash of light exploded, and her body stiffened.

A raspy sound like rubbing rocks and sand approached. And a hum. Almost musical.

Two shapes were converging on the pod.

She would have screamed if she could've broken the paralysis.

Especially when they touched her.


On to Part 8.
Back to Part 6.

Of Pillows and a Harpsichord

A chamber music
of erotic hummingbirds
thrum their crescendo

SEED, Part 6

(Serial fiction, sci-fi)

Just joining us? Go back to Part 1.




Jax's head was pounding. "I already explained this to you three times!"

Apparently, the voice wanted it again. "What is the payload yield of the SEED vehicle?"

Jax was tired, profoundly tired, so he just recited facts. No more fluff or conversation. His logical brain recited. "Human female--sixteen years old. Optimized age to survive birth six months after reanimation. Implanted fetus--male, twelve weeks gestation. Optimized for survival."

"How is the payload delivered?"

"After 100 years of travel on a random launch trajectory, the pod acquires a target star. Micro-course adjustments at 25 year intervals." He hadn't told the voice about the rest. "As it nears, the star system is scanned for a planet with life. A positive or inconclusive planet is chosen. If all planets are negative or none are found at all, the pod maintains course into the sun. They lied about that part. All those years ago. They told everyone that the pod would sling-shot with the sun's gravity and go find another star. But there wasn't enough fuel for that. The pod incinerates itself."

"How is the payload delivered?"

Jax talked faster. Angrier.

"Ninety percent of the pod's fuel and computing power are devoted to reentry and landing. The Eve Officer (that's the girl) is awakened at this point. She is trained to make adjustments if the reentry goes awry. She chooses the actual landing site. The human brain beats any computer in trying to survive. You can't program that sort of thing. Not then. Not now."

"How is the payload delivered?"

Jax fumed. "How do you think? If the planet supports life, the girl gives birth. She raises the child to sexual maturity. They mate at the maximum rate until the Eve Officer becomes infertile. Then Eve directs the mating patterns of her offspring. She's a doctor, teacher, confidant, matriarch. She passes on the human memories of our species and records as much as she can for future generations."

"The biological payload becomes operational," the voice said. Not a question this time.

"Yes," Jax said. "But how many planets support life? We haven't found any. Not from here." He shook some sweat from his hair. "You know what I think? I think what really happens is that the Eve wakes to a poisonous rock and dies a quick death. Or she craters into the planet. Or roasts in an alien atmosphere."

"The biological payload becomes operational."

"You said that already."

"SEED is a tactical program."

"And you're a cocksucker," he seethed.

It didn't take him long to regret saying that.


On to Part 7.
Back to Part 5.

Love is a Stranger

Love is a stranger in an open car
To tempt you in and drive you far away
And I want you, and I want you, and I want you
So it's an obsession
--Eurythmics, Love is a Stranger

Marcie sipped her French Roast at the coffee house. Morning chatter, a little hyperactive, bounced in and out the door. Mud and salt footprints overlapped their way to and from the counter.

He wasn't a foggy presence in her mind, because the guy frothing Cappuccino milk looked like him. He was smiling now as he talked to a customer. It was his eyes. She felt jealous.

She also saw his face on the street a short while ago. That probably started it heavy, like it was now. That man checked his watch as he waited for the light to turn green. It was his posture and the way he moved.

They weren't him, of course. She knew that. But in a way, they were him. The him in her head, at least.

The Cappuccino guy wasn't talking to the girl anymore, so she felt better.

"Hey Marcie," someone said beside her.

She looked up. It was Liz, her best friend from the office.

"You look lost in thought...," Liz said.

Marcie shrugged.

"Thinking about how much you love work?"

Marcie nodded and smiled. She tucked the thoughts away, back to the foggy presence. "Speaking of which, I better get to it, right?"

"Just give me a second to grab my coffee."

Marcie stood and took her coat from the chair.

SEED, Part 5

(Serial fiction, sci-fi)

Just joining us? Go back to Part 1.




SEED4611 crossed the margin of an interstellar gas cloud and plowed through the sea of ions.

Particles swirled in the wake. Systems registered trillions of tiny electrical discharges sparkling over the hull. But the calm ahead did not last.

Several billion kilometers into those remnants of an ancient supernova, a disturbance rippled in the cloud.

The interference beat against SEED4611. Intensified. Something huge was cutting a path ahead.

The pod's scopes noted anomalies in the light patterns of the stars ahead. A dark object began growing and obliterating stars. Proximity sensors warned SEED4611 that it was going to collide.

A precious jet of fuel pushed SEED4611 onto a new course. The mission parameters wiped--all the years of tracking, all the painstaking calculations. It would have to spot a new star and begin the calibration process again. And it would have to hope for a clear path. SEED vehicles carried enough extra fuel for three emergency thrusts. After that, their course could not be significantly changed.

The object adjusted course to match SEED4611.

The proximity alarms triggered again.

After two more bursts, it was finished. The object matched course a third time, making collision inevitable. Over six hundred years of travel was doomed.

When SEED4611 caught up to the huge, black craft, the relative speeds equalized, and a long, mechanized arm unfolded.

A claw angled open.

It gently closed around the pod.


On to Part 6.
Back to Part 4.

Anxiety Study: The Results

(Click HERE for the survey.)

Okay, time for the results of the anxiety study from last Friday! First, a little background.

If you look at any relationship under stress, one individual will act out the role of the "clinger" and one will act out the role of the "avoider." What do I mean? The clinger is the one who feels better by getting closer, hanging on, not letting go. The avoider feels better with distance, walls, and space. In a way, one begets the other. The clinger chases the avoider harder because of the avoiding, and the avoider runs faster because of clinging. However, both ultimately want the same thing, i.e., not to be alone. It's just that the clinger's primary fear is that losing this particular person will be worse than being alone, and the avoider's primary fear is that being with this particular person will hurt worse than being alone.

Clinger/avoider behaviors are relative things. People can switch sides. A hard core avoider can come up against an even greater avoider and suddenly look like a clinger. However, I believe that each person has a basic preference one way or the other. They will tend to play one of the roles in relationships repeatedly. My question is WHY? What accounts for the different approaches? What fuels it? As I try to boil human behaviors down to their lowest common denominators, I came to suspect that the basic force at work here is the physical experience of anxiety.

MY HYPOTHESIS: Avoiders are people who tend to experience substantial levels of anxiety when faced with the emotions of other people. Clingers, on the other hand, will exhibit more normal emotional boundaries, because drawing closer to a person requires you to endure more exposure to that person's feelings. I posit that avoiders cannot endure the price of clinging behaviors. It is their anxiety that drives them away.

The questions in my survey targeted a wide range of social situations which might spark anxiety. The last three questions were designed to see whether you strongly identify with either avoiding or clinging behaviors. Regardless of how my hypothesis turns out, if you answered "strongly agree" to question 21 and you scored high in many anxiety categories, then anxiety may be a powerful, negative force in your life. You may not even be aware of all of its effects. I'll be doing a follow-up post on how anxiety and "anxious attachments" might be gnawing away quality of life. Anxious attachment is a preoccupation with the fear of losing the people you care about.

Okay, so how did my hypothesis turn out? Six responders indicated high agreement with avoider behavior. Three responders indicated high agreement with clinger behaviors. Four responders did not indicate an anxious attachment style (question 21), and also did not strongly correlate with either avoiding or clinging.

RESULTS: Avoiders scored the highest overall for anxiety with an average score of 5.8 of 10. Clingers came next with an average of 5.0. Interestingly, the group without an anxious attachment style scored sharply lower with an average anxiety level of only 2.8.

It appears that my hypothesis was correct in that avoiders experience the highest levels of anxiety of the three groups. In 8 of the 20 questions, avoiders scored at least 1.0 points more anxious than clingers on average. In only 2 of the 20 questions did clingers score at least 1.0 points more anxious than avoiders on average.

What's fascinating is which questions were the most predictive of avoiders and which were the most predictive for clingers.

Avoider Predictors (Highest Comparative Anxiety)
-Watching movies full of tense drama, conflicts, and heartbreak.
-In childhood, being yelled at.
-Someone crying in front of you.
-Public speaking/group attention.
-Failing to meet your parents' expectations.

Each of these situations involve either the expression of emotion or a generalized, impersonal threat of judgment/rejection.

Only one question was a big predictor of clingers.

Clinger Predictor (Highest Comparative Anxiety)
-In childhood, being separated from your parents.

That really fits, doesn't it? The loss itself is the greatest fear. It eclipses any anxiety generated by the being with a person.

In conclusion, wide-ranging anxiety seems to correlate with anxious attachments and strong avoider/clinger behaviors. As the anxiety levels increase, especially in emotional situations, it becomes more likely that a person will react to an anxious attachment with avoiding behaviors. Clingers may experience slightly less overall anxiety, but they may exhibit a history of sharp anxiety associated with separation from parents. People without an anxious attachment style tend to experience much lower levels of anxiety overall.

SEED, Part 4

(Serial fiction, sci-fi)

Just joining us? Go back to Part 1.




At first, when the room went completely dark, Jax's body sizzled cold with terror.

He could scream. He really could. But he knew the voice was listening. So he roped that scream tight in the center of his chest and held on.

"You are needful," the voice said.

Jax flinched when something touched his lips in the dark.

He hadn't heard anything approach. He couldn't see a thing.

"Drink," the voice said.

Again, an object met his lips. He puckered and sweet water flowed into the cotton of his mouth. He hadn't realized how thirsty he'd been until the liquid washed over his tongue and soothed the cracks in his throat.

He gulped. Greedily.

He sensed minerals in the water. Something fragrant. Alluring.

The cup pulled away. Drips ran over his chin and down his neck.

"Eat," the voice said.

This time, Jax was ready. When softness touched him, he carefully bit. The sweetness of fruit exploded in his mouth. He almost laughed. Ripe, full fruit was so rare and expensive. He grinned as he chewed.

Pleasure. That's what it was. Glowing, dancing pleasure.

The meager light flicked back onto his body, but the rest of the room remained dark. No one was near him. No obvious source of the food.

"What is the tactical objective of the SEED program?" the voice said.

Jax stopped chewing. "What?"

"What is the tactical objective of the SEED program?"

"Tactical?" Jax said. "I don't understand."

He waited for an explanation.

None came.

"The SEED program is over six hundred years old," Jax said. "You know that. Everyone knows that." He licked his lips. "People learn about it in school. It's a chapter in science class. But no one cares really about it anymore. Not really."

Silence.

The lack of communication unnerved Jax. He knew the voice was there.

"We still receive scientific data from a few of the pods, even though they're so far out. The rest are either gone or out of range. That's why the program is still funded. Barely. It's a scientific program. There's only six of us anymore. Five plus me."

"You are the Director of the SEED program."

"Yes," Jax said. Then a thought made his gut sink. "Wait. Are they here too? Do you have the others?"

What were they doing to his people?

"SEED is a tactical program."

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"SEED is a tactical--"

"Do you mean war?" Jax said. "Is that what you mean?"

The euphoria had worn off. He felt hot and clammy. More and more uneasy.

"What is the tactical objective?" the voice said.

"You know the objective! The whole world knows!"

No reply.

"It's survival!" he said. "You know how the Earth was four hundred years ago! You know how everything was falling apart!"

The voice was faster now. Less patient. Emphatic.

"The SEED program was launched during a period of war. SEED is a tactical program."

"No! No, that's wrong. SEED came before the war. SEED was the last thing the world did before it all fell apart."

"The SEED program caused war."

"No! It was the last and biggest pan-national project before the war. The costs were huge, but it was something that gave everyone hope. That humans would go on. That Earth wasn't all there is. Especially after we ruined it. That this wasn't all there was ever going to be."

Sweat poured from Jax. He felt feverish. Wired.

"What are you doing to me?" he said, looking down at the tubes in his arms. "I don't feel good! What are you doing to me?"

He shook his arms, but the tubes were secure.

"Are you drugging me again?" he yelled. "Why are you asking me these questions? Who are you?"

Now it felt like ants were marching all over his skin. And biting.

"WHO ARE YOU?" he screamed.

The tone and inflection of the voice never changed.

"What is the tactical objective of the SEED program?"


On to Part 5.
Back to Part 3.