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dhspgt
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Posted: Sun 14 Aug , 2005 5:40 pm
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Jn

“I was bidden to show to thee—to thee in especial, if thou shouldst dare to come.”

Think of it as a present “to thee in especial” in gratitude for all your labors. I give to thee as a gift, the life story of dhspgt, beginning to end, birth to death.

Last edited by dhspgt on Fri 09 Sep , 2005 9:02 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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Jnyusa
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Posted: Mon 15 Aug , 2005 12:51 am
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Think of it as a present “to thee in especial” in gratitude for all your labors. I give to thee as a gift, the life story of dhspgt, beginning to end, birth to death.

Thank you! :hug:

June 28, 2556 (my birthday)

Happy belated birthday!

Well, I have some thoughts about the shape of space-time ... and why the directionality of the Teller matters ... On Monday afternoon/evening there will be time to compose it.

Jn

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IdylleSeethes
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Posted: Mon 15 Aug , 2005 4:34 am
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dhspgt,

This is phenomenal. Thank you very much for taking my concern to heart and exploring the implications in the time-netspace continuum. It seems that at various times, you have addressed all of the relationships within a thread in practice. Brilliant analysis of the theory, on your part, as a grad student. That is an interesting observation on the future.

Jnyusa,
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June 28, 2556 (my birthday))

Happy belated birthday!
Hmmm


Somebody needs to explain how this ended up in There and Back Again.

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Jnyusa
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Posted: Tue 16 Aug , 2005 1:55 am
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Not a proper discipline

Last edited by Jnyusa on Mon 01 May , 2006 5:31 am, edited 2 times in total.

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Jnyusa
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Posted: Tue 16 Aug , 2005 1:55 am
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Now this is a story that you have never heard and will never hear unless you are patient. As patient as a glacier to reach the sea. As patient as light to reach us from the event horizon of the expanding universe. As patient as entropy to snuff the last quantum of heat from the last hydrogen atom.

Aboard the Starship Enterprise, 2267 CE, Captain James T. Kirk, Mr. Spock and Dr. ‘Bones’ McCoy were conferring in the Captain’s quarters. The third deck lounge and the Captain’s quarters were the two places on ship where three hundred year old Flor de Cana could be had for the asking, and the third deck lounge was not the sort of place where three officers would have this sort of conversation. The three spoke in subdued voices and sipped their Flor de Cana

“I take it our guest has spoken at last?” Captain Kirk addressed Mr. Spock.

“Yes,” answered Spock, "but the universal translator cannot make any sense of her language. It seems distantly related to the languages of 20th century Earth, but must have evolved and gone extinct before the universal translators were programmed. She is speaking,” Spock’s eyebrow rose, “a dead language.”

“Evolved ... and became ... exTINCT ... beFORE the universal translators were programmed?”

“That is correct, Captain.”

Captain James T. Kirk took a swig of rum and jiggled his glass in his hand so that the ice cubes twirled and clinked against one another. This sound annoyed Mr. Spock no end, but he remained stoically silent, not wishing to drive Captain Kirk off topic.

“Bones!” said Kirk, abruptly, causing Dr. McCoy to flinch.

“Yes, Captain.”

“What to you make of this?”

“Good lord, Jim. I’m a doctor, not a semiotician.”

“But you must be able to do .... SOMEthing ... determine if there’s brain damage ... SOMEthing.”

“I’ll do my best, Jim but on a brain that primitive noninvasive procedures might not work.”

“If we have to use invasive procedures ...

“But Jim, the Prime Directive says ...”

“Don’t quote me the Prime Directive, Bones. I know it by heart. But ... the SAFety ... of ... THE SHIP ... comes first.”

“There might be another way,” intruded Spock. “People once lived on Earth who would understand her language. If we could find a way to travel into the past ....”

“Spock,” intruded the Captain, “Is this going to be another one of your ... WHALE ideas?”

“Highly improbable, Captain” answered Spock, barely raising his voice. In the case of the whales, we had already located an alien life form who could understand them. This time it’s just a shot in the dark.”

“I love a shot in the dark. Where should we aim, Spock?”

Spock took out a hand calculator from a secret pocket in the terry cloth robe he had taken to wearing all the time since he returned from the dead and punched in some astrophysical data.

“According to my calculations, Captain, we must travel at least 45,000 years into the past.”

Captain Kirk whistled. “Then we’d better get going.”

“Good lord, Jim,” said Bones, “at least let us finish our drinks. The past isn’t going anywhere.”

“Don’t be too sure of that, Doctor,” Spock concluded with his usual cryptic aplomb.

[to be continued]

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Jnyusa
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Not a proper discipline

Last edited by Jnyusa on Mon 01 May , 2006 5:32 am, edited 1 time in total.

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dhspgt
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Posted: Tue 16 Aug , 2005 5:31 am
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In praise of new-born gods made of things past

It was mid-afternoon, when the stranger walked into town. There was not a cloud in the sky; the sun was hot; and there was no breeze. All things considered, the stranger found the weather of the day pleasant. She was attracted to the shade of a large tree near the center of town but not as a refuge from the heat. She was not certain what she was going to do next, but she supposed she should try to talk to some of the town’s people. She had not seen anyone yet and thought she might find someone in the shade of that big tree. She should have known better. Ordinarily, no one should be there during this part of the day. If she walked into town and no one from the town saw her, would she be a stranger? Then what would we name her? Fortunately, some one was there.

Mathew Laguson should have been back home with his family but he had been drawn away, back to the place where he was last near her, the young woman who occupied his mind, who was betrothed to another. He had made no conscious decision to do so; he simply followed the echo of her presence. He was so lost in thought as he strolled along that he walked past the stranger without noticing her until she spoke. “Stand a moment and speak with me.”

Mathew stopped and turned toward the voice that, at first, seemed to come from the still air. The voice was marvelously pure and musical. An instant later, he looked without fear at the face of the stranger. It was a face marked deeply by pride; pride of birth, of intellect, of culture; the face of a scholar and poet; but it was more—it was the countenance of one fairly staggering under a secret burden.

He had no experience speaking with strangers and did not want to lose the trace of the echo but he could think of no reason to ignore her request. As a result, he remained poised between staying and leaving. She reached out a skinny hand to hold him. He shrank politely away from her touch and turned as though to go. She held him with her glittering eye. “I am very glad to meet you. I fear that I am lost.”

Young Matt Laguson tried but failed to find a context for her statement and failing, could make no response. It was as if she were speaking a foreign language though he understood her words. She spoke again, “It seems that we are both lost. Do you think we could return to your home?”

“I do’n’ know.”

“Neither do I, but I can not think of any other choices that make sense. I am too tired and confused to continue walking. I do not know whether I am hungry but I can not seem to remember the last time I ate anything. You do not seem to have a purpose here that I am interrupting.” She half-hoped her last statement would challenge him to respond, and she half-hoped he would not respond so they could simply go to his home. He might have responded had he better understood why he was there; or he might have told her to mind her own business and go on her way, but he was not equipped to do so in these circumstances. As it was, the stranger led her mute companion to his home.

That evening, the stranger ate dinner with the Laguson family. Though none of the family had ever met a stranger, they demonstrated no curiosity regarding her place of origin or journey. They politely ignored her presence unless the necessity of the moment required communication. At long last, the elder Laguson, Young Matt’s father, became the lone exception. Old Matt spoke: “You live in ‘nother town, then, when you’re t’home?”

“I lived in a town when I had a home; I cannot say that I live anywhere now.”

Old Matt leaned forward as if to speak again; then paused and glanced away; the stranger followed the man’s gaze toward his son and a young woman who were some distance away, standing close together, half in shadow, half in the moon’s light. In silence, the two watched the moon’s light tease the shadow as both the pale light and the pale shadow caressed the young couple. It was a weird scene, almost supernatural in its beauty.

The young man put his hands under her shoulders and lifted her face high above his so as to move her out of his shadow, and for a brief moment her face glowed as if lit from within. The teasing light vanished as the young woman placed her hands on young Matt’s shoulders, and as she felt the play of the swelling muscles that swung her to the ground so easily, her face flushed with admiration. For the fraction of a minute she stood facing him, her hands still on his arms, her lips parted as if to speak; then she turned quickly away, and without a word walked toward her house.

Young Matt watched her until she disappeared from sight and then returned to the dinner table. The elder man laid his hand on the broad shoulder of the lad so like him, and looked full into the clear eyes. “Is it alright, son?” he asked gruffly; and the boy answered, as he returned his father's look, “It’s alright, Dad.”

The stranger waited until the son walked away, then asked the father, “Why aren’t those two joined together?”

“She’s Sammy Galansin. You should ask her father that question. My Mathew and his Sammy had been sort of paired t’each other ever since they could walk. We all naturally thought those two’d be joined—‘til her mother passed on. Sammy seemed to lose her way after that. She began spendin’ time with the Leakward boy listenin’ to his fanc’ful daydreams about life outside the village. With mother Galansin gone, there wuz no one to set him straight. Course, I could say the same ‘bout most folks ‘round heah.”

The stranger started to speak and stopped. She somehow felt that, if she began asking questions at this moment, she would never stop. Besides, the old man did not seem to be inviting her into a conversation. He was mostly just talking to himself. The stranger slept that night in the Laguson home, well fed but hardly satisfied. As she fell asleep, mind and body spent, she realized that she had no idea how her story would unfold when the sun rose.

When she woke, she discovered that she was still thinking about Sammy and Young Matt. Old Matt told her last night that she should ask the father, so she set out to do so. She found him that morning working in the garden. Because it seemed like the thing to do, she joined him in his labor and waited until she thought of a way to begin a conversation about the two young people who last night in the moonlight appeared in her eyes made for each other. She almost started by saying, “It is none of my business…” But, it did not ring true. She thought of saying, “I could not help but notice…” That was true but, from the mouth of a stranger, too familiar and awkward. She thought of a hundred other things to say while she worked, until the conversation she was having with herself faded into the background and she let her mind and body join in the rhythm of the day’s labor. Sometime later, she felt her body begin to tire in a pleasing sort of way, and she said without thinking, “I hope I have earned my supper.”

“That’s not for me to say.”

Startled by this response, she stopped working, stood straight and faced him squarely: “What is your name?”

“Jim Galansin.” He answered without looking at the speaker or interrupting his labor.

“I thought so. You are the father of that beautiful young girl I saw last night. She was with young Mathew Laguson.” She continued standing still, staring at him.

“She was also with me and with everyone else—except you.” He continued working.

She returned to her work, saying, “I was just trying to start a conversation.”

He stopped working and looked at her for the first time, “You were aiming to do more than that. You wanted to start in on me about Sammy and Young Matt. Why should you be different than anybody else around here?”

“I guess I am not.” The conversation, such as it was, was over.

Since we did not find out who Sammy was going to marry or why she picked him over Young Matt from that conversation (which was where we were supposed to hear it), we will have to get at it another way.

The stranger found that no one offered to say that she had earned her supper that day—which is another way of saying that no one invited her to join them. She was unsure how to start a conversation that would result her getting such an invitation. Yesterday, she had been compelled by the apparent necessity of survival to impose herself on the Laguson family. But today the context was different and she did not know how this sort of thing was supposed to be done. Neither did anyone else. She needed to eat and she needed to talk to these people, but she felt that there had to be something more than her own need involved before she would know how to eat and how to talk. She decided it would be best if they needed her to eat and if they needed her to talk. That may not seem to be a big decision, but it was at least a small step in a particular direction. When feeling your way in the dark, it is best to take small steps. It also helps to follow in someone else’s footsteps.

The stranger returned to the Laguson family table for lack of a better way. She once again attempted to engage members of the family in conversation, but no one followed her leads. Young Matt finally blurted, “Look, ma’am, no one here knows how to talk to strangers.”

The stranger paused a while to process his defensive plea, then whispered in a quiet voice sounding almost like a young girl: “I do not want to be a stranger. Something is not right but I can not tell what it is.” No one spoke. Young Matt got up and left the table.

After a bit, Old Matt started talking to her. “You shore seen it true. Thing’s been mighty queer ‘round here—unsettled like. Its ‘cause we lost mother Galansin years ago. At fust, seemed it’d be alright. Her girl Sammy kept things goin’ ‘long normal like, though she wuz hardle more’n a baby. She acted like her ma wuz still ‘round, comin’ back anytime soon. Aftuh while… I dunno… Some say Mother Gallasin comes back at night as a haunt, an that’s why Sammy’s all mest up. She kin hear ‘er. Seem like none of us know what tuh think. Tain’t nach’ral. Wha’ if she do come back? Wha’ll she do t’us?” He paused and stared away from the table, then looked back at the stranger. “You been other places. Do you reckon folks ever come back once they’re dead and gone?”

The stranger saw that her host was terribly in earnest, and answered quietly, “I do not know; but if it should be true, I do not see why we should fear their return.”

While she spoke, Young Matt and Sammy seated themselves at the table, and Mrs. Laguson rejoined the group. No one spoke again for some time. “Jes ain’ right, sittin’ here like we doan have no sense. We jes gotta fine somebody to start tellin’ the ol’ tales ‘gin after dinner, Dad,” said the son.

Suddenly Sammy sprang from the table and began walking toward a group of people gathered nearby. But she hesitated and looked back at the Laguson family.

“It’s no use, honey," said mother Laguson, breaking the silence. “It just ain’t no use,” and the young girl came slowly back to the table.

Some time later, after Young Matt and Sammy moved away, Old Matt said to the stranger, “It’s like I wuz sayin’. Sammy s’posed to have the knack for tellin’ stories—jes like her ma. But she wuz too young when her ma passed and she just cain’t do it. I think that’s why she took up with the Leakward boy. His grandpa lived pract’ly fu’evuh, and, after mother Galansin passed, he wuz always talkin’ ‘bout what happens when folks pass on and how there is more world on the outside. He never could tell a proper story, mind you, but he did keep jabberin’ all the time, and it wuz like we needed somethin’ tuh listen to.”

Mother Laguson was busy weaving cloth as she sat and she pointed to the garden visible from the table where they sat. There was sufficient light to see it to full effect though the sun had set. “I tell you, ma’am, this garden is pretty to look at, but there ain’t much here for a girl like Sammy, so full of spirit wantin’ to bust out, and I don’t blame her a mite for wantin’ to hear that there might be somethin’ more elsewheres. It’s a mighty hard place to live without somethin’ else to think on.”

The stranger responded: “The outside world has its hardships and its dangers too, mother Laguson; life there demands almost too much at times; I often wonder if it is worth the struggle.”

“That may be so,” replied mother Laguson. “I tell father Laguson we’ve clean forgot the ways of our folk since mother Galansin passed on.”

The old scholar looked at the sturdy figure in its plain calico dress; at the worn hands, busy with their homely task; and the patient, kindly face, across which time had ploughed many a furrow, in which to plant the seeds of character and worth. She knew there were stories written in that face, but she could not quite hear them.

The next morning she set out to find Sammy—obviously the thing to do at this point, if it could be accomplished. She found her wandering near the garden. The stranger approached her as directly as she might, considering that the target never quite stopped moving. Sammy Galansin was a story just in describing her appearance. She was tall; beautifully tall, with the trimness of a young pine, deep bosomed, with limbs full-rounded, fairly tingling with the life and strength of perfect womanhood; and it may be said that her face was a face to go with one through the years, and to live still in one’s dreams when the sap of life is gone, and, withered and old, one sits shaking before the fire; a generous, loving mouth, red lipped, full arched, with the corners tucked in and perfect teeth between; a womanly chin and nose, with character enough to save them from being pretty; hair dark, showing a touch of gold with umber in the shadows; a brow, full broad, set over brown eyes that revealed depth of soul within. She was perfectly erect and her every movement was one of indescribable grace. Though one could sense that it had not always been so, it had become a sad face when in repose; yet, still wonderfully responsive to every passing thought and mood. The eyes, with their strange expression, and shifting light, proclaimed her mental condition.

The stranger looked long and thoughtfully at the young woman. This, then, was Sammy. “My girl,” whispered the woman; then she said, half aloud, “Jill.”

The young woman turned her face and smiled; “That ain’t her name, ma’am; her name’s Sammy. Sammy seen you yesterday and the day before. You been stayin’ with Young Matt and his folk. Sammy heard the earth and the garden start singin’ when you talked; and the gray mist things come out and danced ‘cause they was so glad you come. Do you like Sammy’s people, ma’am?” She waved her hands to include the garden, the earth and the sky; and there was a note of anxiety in the sweet voice as she asked again: “Do you like Sammy’s people?”

“Yes, indeed, I like your people, and I like you, too.”

The young woman shook her head. “Not me; not me,” she said. “Do you like Sammy?”

The stranger was puzzled. “Are you not Sammy?” she asked.

The delicate face grew sad: “No, no, no,” she said in a low moaning tone. “I’m not Sammy. Sammy, she lives in here.” She touched herself on the breast. “I am… I am…” A look of hopeless bewilderment crept into her eyes. “I don’t know who I am; I’m jest nobody. Nobody can’t have no name, can she?”

A sudden thought came to the old scholar. “Who is your mother, my girl?”

The young girl’s face went dark and sad. “I ain’t got no mother. I ain’t me; nobody can’t have no mother, can she?”

The other spoke quickly, “But Sammy had a mother. Who was Sammy’s mother?” Instantly the gloom was gone and the face was bright. “Sure, Sammy’s got a mother. Don’t you know? Everybody knows that. Look!” She pointed up to the sky. She waved her hands back and forth above the earth as if caressing a loved one. She waved at the big shade tree nearby and the garden beyond. “She lives in the sky and in the earth and this here tree and all through the garden over there. See her, ma’am? Sometimes she takes Sammy with her up through the sky, and course I go along. We go inside all our people. Sammy says mother will take me away, some day, and we won’t never come back again; and I won’t be nobody no more. ‘Course, I’d hate mighty much to go away from the Laguson’s, ‘cause they’re mighty good to me; but I jest got to go where Sammy goes, you see, ‘cause I ain’t nobody, and nobody can’t be nothin’, can she?”

“I had heard that you were going to be joined with a young man from another family, some one named Leakward. Is that not true?”

The girl’s face darkened and she said, “Sammy promised.” Then the girl drifted away and the woman did not follow.

The stranger went inside the Laguson home that afternoon and helped the family prepare the evening meal. She was now too caught up in Sammy’s story to worry about how she should start the conversation. So, she related what she had heard from Sammy that morning and then exclaimed: “How can you people let that girl marry anyone, much less that Leakward boy? She is more than half out of her mind!”

Mother Laguson answered, “You must have caught her on a bad day. She’s not like that all the time. It’s worse when she’s outside or when she starts talkin’. If she stays inside and stays quiet like, she’s stays pretty sensible. And what’s she sposed tuh do? She’s got tuh git joined and like she said. She promised him. She promised him back when she was still almost a child. She warn’t bad at all, back then.”

Mother Laguson’s speech took most of the wind out of her sails and then Old Matt finished her off. “What business is it of yourn anyhow?”

“I do not know for certain. I thought I knew the story this morning. I remembered a name and I thought it belonged to Sammy somehow. But I could not hold onto it.”

Young Matt suddenly came close to the stranger, obviously struggling to control himself, and the words came out as objects thrown with force: “If you know somethin’ that would fix things between Sammy and me, you had better out with it.”

“I wish all the world I could, my son. I just know that if you and Sammy could get together, it would somehow make everything all right, and I would know what to say.”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried? It don’t work that way. No one’s ever heard of a way to change it and make it right. I don’t think even Ollie still really wants it to happen, specially now that Sammy’s mind has gotten so confused.”

To that, the old scholar had no response, and she left the house. She went searching for Ollie Leakward and found him at his family home helping prepare the evening meal.

She offered to help and they did not say no, so she joined them. “I have been meaning to ask you a question, Ollie. I understand that your grandfather used to go on long walks beyond the borders of the town. Did you ever go with him?”

“No.”

“What did he tell you about it?”

He said t’wuz a hole in the ground an’ he spake inta hit an’ it swallowed all his words.”

“Why did he do that?”

“He wuz tryin’ to get a new thing tuh grow—like in the old tales.”

“It seems like everyone has heard that, but no one can tell me why he wanted to get a new thing to grow—other than just so he could do something that had been done in one of the old tales. Do you know why he did it?”

“No, but I think Sammy knows. Leas’ wize, I think she used tuh know ‘fore she got all confused like. Grandpa said she yust tuh talk to him ‘bout his walks outside when she wuz a real little girl, even before her ma passed on.”

“What made you ask Sammy to be joined with you and why did she agree?”

Ollie struggled for a moment, deciding whether to answer her question. For the struggle was whether to answer or not answer—not whether to answer truthfully. This was a people who did not know how to lie. He finally shrugged and answered: “Everyone said she was the best looking, smartest girl there ever was—an’ knowed the most. I didn’t really love her or felt I needed her, not like the old ones tell us we’s s’posed tuh feel about the one we bond tuh. But I never felt those things as pow’ful as they say you’re s’posed tuh an’, anyways, after her ma passed on, it didn’t seemed tuh matter as much as it yust tuh. So, I figgered I’d lot rather have the best girl ‘stead of the one I’s s’posed to git. I knowed I had to git ‘er ‘fore things settled in ‘twixt Young Matt an’ her an’ whilst she wuz unsettled on account of her ma. She wuz mighty int’rested in grandpa’s doin’s. So, I kept yammerin’ ‘bout that. After a time, Sammy said she needed to know where my grandpa’s hole in the ground wuz, and I told her I would tell her where he told me it wuz if she ‘greed to be joined tuh me. I didn’t know she wuz gonna keep on bein’ unsettled an’ getting’ even worse or I wouldn’t a done it.”

The stranger ate dinner that evening with the Galansin family though she had not been asked, nor had she helped in its preparation. She simply sat down at their table and broke bread with the father and his two children. No one spoke. When the meal was finished, she looked at the father and pleaded, “Please speak with me!”

“What would you have me say to you?”

“I wish I knew. There is something wrong here. I only know what I feel. I have no clear memory of myself, only of other things outside myself. I do not where I was before I came here, but I feel that I am here to help make things right. To make things right, I need you to talk with me. I need Young Matt to bond with Sammy, and I need you to talk with me.”

Jim Galansin stared at the stranger for a long, long time. His children left the table. Everyone went to their homes. Still, he stared, and still she waited. The moon rose, waxed and waned. At the darkest moment before the dawn, he spoke: “I know who you are, though you do not know yourself. I was not certain at first, but I am certain now. I can not help you. You can go to the hell you have made for yourself. You already put the rest of us there.” So saying, he stood and left her sitting at the table, alone in the dark.

The stranger spoke out loud to no one present: “Forgive me.” The old poet realized, without knowing why she knew, that she had returned to the bitter harvest of her own sowing. She fell to the ground and wept.

As the morning sun began to rise, Sammy found her there, sobbing though asleep. Sammy knelt on the ground next to her and began stroking her hair. As she did, she sang a song to herself. When the sun reached midday, the stranger awoke and saw her daughter kneeling next to her, singing quietly. She looked up and her daughter smiled. The young girl said, “In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit.”

The mother opened her eyes in amazement, silently exclaiming, “You know?” It was as though a door opened to a part of her mind hidden from her, and the old poet remembered who she was and the story of her world.

Her daughter smiled and spoke again, “There’s a hole in the ground, and all the stories that have ever been told or ever will be told are swallowed up in it. I went to the cave, mother. I found the window. I read the cave stories, and I am now returned to myself. I went last night while you and father sat in silence together at the table.” She paused and looked away from the old woman whose face she still cradled. The smile left her face and she looked away as she spoke: “I was gone one night. You were gone thirty years.”

The old woman struggled to stand and then looked down to the young woman still kneeling on the ground. It might have looked like a picture of a student listening at the foot of her mentor, but the dialogue did not match the scene. The standing woman spoke and there was a plea for forgiveness in her voice if not her words: “You were stronger. Your power was greater.”

The young woman did not look up at the speaker or make answer. The speaker waited for a response but then continued, modulating her voice from entreaty to resolution: “I did what I had to do. What would have me answer, daughter?”

Sammy Galansin rose to her feet as gracefully as a dancer in the middle of a dance. “Though I love you as a mother, Sammy is not your daughter. You are the stranger, not mother Galansin. We inhabit this tale, and you remain a character in it.”

The two women stared at each other for a moment wondering together how they should stage the next scene. They settled at the table, in much the same pose the stranger and Jim Galansin spent the night. The old poet spoke first: “I am confused. I thought I had returned home.”

The young girl answered: “You could not simply pick up the narrative thread of your old life. You can no longer be the Teller.”

“I still feel the love—love for you, my daughter; love for my son; love for my husband. He remembers me.”

“Father is extraordinary, is he not? His strength gives him wisdom. He understands. You still do not understand. When all was said, you made a choice. You would like now to narrate the story of your return home, your return to the love given and received as wife and mother.”

“Yes. Yes, I would. That is why I am here. Is it not?” The other did not respond. The stranger continued: “You are right. I do not understand.”

“You are here because I brought you here. I knew you would find the cave. I did not know whether you would return to us from the cave. All Tellers seek the unspoken story. In that, you were no different. It is a necessary instinct for a Teller, but your power was more than necessary. Why should that be? Our world should have achieved perfect balance, if it achieved nothing else. Why should your gift, your story-telling power, be stronger than needed to fulfill your role as Teller? Even as a young child before you left the village, I knew that your power was out of balance, and that mine was yet again many times stronger than yours. I knew you would find the cave, but I did not know whether your love of life would hold you to that life, or whether you would lose your self in the cave.”

“I was lost and now I am found.”

“Stop it! Your love of cliché will not save you. You did not find yourself. I found you and brought you here.”

“You? How? Why?”

“To know whether it is possible for me to live as both Teller and daughter.”

“You have been Teller all along—from the very beginning when I first heard the unspoken story? Something deep inside me almost understood that you were. But you have brought me to a story in which the daughter has no mother and the Teller is a stranger?”

“It is a story you read in the cave world. It is necessary. I can only bring you back through the cave story world in which you lost yourself. It had to be a story you read and you had to be a character in that story.”

“So, I can not make things right—you can.”

“I am a half-demented girl who speaks gibberish most of the time. Sign, sign, everywhere a sign. I had a dream and it shot me. Wake me when the party is over.”

“No, no, no! Please tell me it does not end like this. I want his strong arms holding me again. I need his love. I can’t go on this way--with no power to make things right.”

“You will go on, though. Life does. Live this life, stranger. You don’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you get what you need.”

Last edited by dhspgt on Tue 10 Jul , 2007 5:17 am, edited 9 times in total.

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Alatar
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Ok. I'm officially lost....

I'm not smart enough for this thread!

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Eruname
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Don't worry Alatar, you're not the only one who's IQ isn't high enough! Sorry dhspgt. :(

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abandon yourself.
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Jnyusa
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Not a proper discipline

Last edited by Jnyusa on Mon 01 May , 2006 5:33 am, edited 1 time in total.

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dhspgt
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If you edit it, he will come. I wish I had the faith. I have the passion—misdirected though it may be—but I lack the faith. I do not believe in evidence of things unseen. I searched the world over and hoped to find true love, but there are no entings. The ents forgot. They deleted the entwives—but that was not the real problem. The real problem was that the ents searched the world in front of them for the deleted entwives. They should have looked in the deletion.

It is safe to assume that the posts will not be posted by those who have posted. In saying so, I find no fault in you good posters. Posters post—that is what posters do: post, post, post, ‘til the last syllable of recorded time. So, I do not complain. I did not want a chair. I did not need a chair. But I will say this: too much thought control and too little thought.

Jynusa said:

“Perhaps you could hang a lantern in the window (translation - a 'bump' post at the bottom of the thread). A treasure hunt is great fun, but people have to know that the game is afoot.”

I filed all the appropriate paperwork.

A life has been taken, but there is no grief here (and there is no where else to post). Perhaps a visit to “Grief” at the Rock Creek Cemetery would help. Henry Adams commissioned Saint-Gaudens to create the statute as a memorial for his late wife. She was late for her appointment with life and likely to remain late. Clover Adams was an amateur photographer. She took a picture of her life by swallowing the chemicals used to “fix” the photograph—a rather sudden method of finishing the portrait of a life. There are verbs of life and verbs of death, but these are the verbs of life and death: take, fix, finish. Henry Adams took his life by fixing it in the autobiographical Education of Henry Adams which required 505 pages to finish. The answer to Henry’s life was 505.
Jynusa said:

“Besides, the answer is not 42. Really not. 42 was a glitch in the program. Someone put a gene in the strand that makes us yearn for simple answers, but there are only two simple answers in the Universe: 'Up/Down' and 'Food/NotFood'

Everything else is more than 42.”

The answer for dhspgt is not pictures or pages but posts. There had to be a fixed number of posts to finish the life of dhspgt. The answer to the question of dhspgt’s life (how many posts?) is 42.

The universe is a game of connect-the-dots. The existence of a binary opposition is not an answer. ‘Up/Down’ and ‘Food/Not-food’ are dots. Choosing one, “fixing” one instead of the other, in order to make an answer, is a destructive act. It is a dramatization of the fall of man. But it is also the only way to connect the dots. Without an ANSWER, there can be no story. We have to take a life to make a story of a life. There can be no new posts.

PM: What about the past? How can you post in the past without changing the story?

Last edited by dhspgt on Sun 15 Apr , 2007 3:18 pm, edited 7 times in total.

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dhspgt
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Good bye and thanks for all the fish.

Last edited by dhspgt on Sun 28 Jan , 2007 7:06 am, edited 4 times in total.

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laureanna
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***Runs in, frantically out of breath, and a little disoriented, having just done a word search on her name, which she found, inexplicably, listed herein.***

"Did I miss something?...Hello? ....hello? ...."


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Jnyusa
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dhspgt has pulled a Mad Baggins. :Q

Jn

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laureanna
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***she staggers out of the thread, having read the entire thing in one sitting. Questions ramble through her mind....***

Technology is "art/skill - word/theory" - knowing the theory behind the skill to do something. If you don't know the theory, it looks like magic. How can there be unknown technology?

Enchantment is literally to control something by word/song.

How can the other clans bear such horrific sameness in their daily life? Only the Teller is allowed to create something new each day.

Where is the river that they speak of? How can the Teller know of a river if a river doesn't run through it? (The village, that is.)

Note to self: develop piezoelectric cells to harvest the energy of the vehicles that pound the pavement. And perhaps use some of that spare energy in the road to run maglev cars?

Da spigot is a girl????!?!?!?!1111 ... Is dhspgt Jane Teller?

My hat doesn't fit my head any more. dhsgpt's writtings have a tendency to do that. I will miss you and your mind benders. Do you believe in reincarnation? Will you pop up somewhere else? Or must you continue to recycle your 42 posts, caught in the subways under B77 forever? Can you speak to us through quotes in others' posts or throught the ministrations of PM? Will you pop up in the Istari thread, the Count thread, or the General Discussion thread again? I will have to keep a weather eye.

I hate time travel. Though your theory of time as an expanding bubble, unperturbed by activity in the past/gas within was strangely comforting. Why did you ever invite me to write a time travel story? Let me think about it. I'll get back to you yesterday on that. ;)


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IdylleSeethes
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I guess he didn't like his chair. Oh well, we tried.

I will remember dhspgt as one of the most unique and interesting posters on any board I have ventured into. Like Laureanna, I hope for reincarnation, if it is necessary. Jane Teller lived(?) in the future and I suppose death in the future is as final as in the present. I do wonder if the spirit has just returned to its host and may re-emerge some day under a new assumed identity. I can always hope.

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laureanna
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laureanna, on August 14th, wrote:
I am old. So old. I have seen so much come and go, flooding over me, smothering, drowning, reviving, refreshing, devastating, and even boring me. But for a long time now, it has been so quiet. My joints grow weary and stiff. My skin is red and dry and dusty. I am so alone. There are no children at my breast for me to nourish, no children at my knees for me to teach. No song of birds or rumble of hooves or hum of insect. No song of cello or rumble of train or hum of sewing machine. For a while there were the patriotic songs, the rumbling tanks, the humming bombers. Then the searing pain. Then nothing. For so long. For so long I can hardly remember. I am a dusty old hag. I will be this way forever. There is no procreativity left in me. I am as barren as my sole companions through the endless void, the enigmatic Moon and the burning Sun.

---

What's this? A shiny silver craft arrives with a heraldic comet plume. Its hum is different than the old hums, more whining, and yet it is good to hear something besides the howling wind and the seething sand.

People! I haven't seen people in so long! They look the same, yet different. A little sadder, perhaps a little wiser? (One can always hope.) They shake their heads and put their hands on their hips and survey the limitless expanse of red, dry, dust. Then they go to work.

The moon circles and watches. The sun circles and watches. I watch and listen and feel them down to my bones. At last they are done with their rumbling and singing. In the middle of the landscape burned red and barren by men and women so long ago lies a small oasis built by these new men and women. All sorts of plants grow in the center of the oasis. Small dwellings surround the plants, built of materials that look like earth and stone, timeless and classic. The technology to keep this little bubble of life in a lifeless landscape is so well hidden, it cannot be called "technology" - the "craft-knowledge". It appears to be simply the "nature" - the "inborn qualities" of the place. The automated well pumps and dirigibles that supply the "rain" (complete with appropriate pharmaceuticals) at night are located far from the oasis. The solar cells that supply the evening indoor lighting look remarkably like slate roof tiles. The medical technology residing in the Healer's dwelling is mind boggling, both for its sophistication and its expert disguise. It is an idyllic, innocent Eden, yet it is not, for it is based upon guile and deceit.

Time passes. The shiny silver craft departs, leaving six men and six women. Every day they garden, eat, drink, excrete, bathe, make things, and make love. But most importantly, they make up history. The one called Edward is the repository of the new history. In his head lie all the new fiction that the people have created here in this new Eden. In his head as well are all the stories from their real history, in all the languages they were spoken, which he must never tell. From this day forward is his motto. No stories of butterflies over savannahs or mushroom clouds over cities. The stories they fabricate for the new Eden are not the stories of shiny silver crafts leaving comet trails in the sky, but much more organic and poetic origins - of sucking at my tits until I brings forth water and food. A set of stories that seem to go back to the beginning of time. The stories they will tell their innocent children in this innocent new world. They will again be the children at my knees.

They want so much for their children to have innocence. The one thing they could not have. The gift of ingnorance and happiness, unmarred by the horrors of their forebearers. "But you can't expect them to stay in the garden forever, as children forever," protests the one called Beatrix, "They will grow and learn and be curious and exploratory."

"The teaching monitor is in place," the one called Erle reminds her. "When someone comes looking for the Apple, it will be there. The student will learn enough to lead them out of the Garden. Let's hope those poor buggers do a better job than we did."

Time passes. The great-great-great grandchildren of the original dozen continue to garden, make bread, make pots, make cloth, make night soil, make stories, and make love. For them, this is how it has always been. This is how it will always be.

Until the one called Jane Teller finds the Apple.


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Sassafras
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Posted: Wed 17 Aug , 2005 9:53 pm
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Quote:
Or must you continue to recycle your 42 posts, caught in the subways under B77 forever?
Talk about symbolic.

42 is the number of dhspgt posts on TORC as well.

But then you already knew that.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Until the one called Jane Teller finds the Apple.

Exactly!

And I suppose her middle initials are RR.


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laureanna
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:bawl:


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Jnyusa
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Posted: Thu 18 Aug , 2005 5:52 pm
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Beautiful prose, laureanna. :hug:

The rest is not proper discipline

Last edited by Jnyusa on Mon 01 May , 2006 5:34 am, edited 1 time in total.

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