Friends. Countrymen. Countrywomen. The clock is staring me in the face. Mocking. Taunting. And — smiling too. Yeah, Mr Tick Clock is not all bad.

I am a man divided. Philosopher, I am content to stand still for eternities. With face to the sky I ask questions like, “Why?” and “How come?” and “When?”. It makes me good at strategy and I see things in terms of decades. A futurist? I create the future, but I choose not to live there. And this is where I am torn.

At all other times I am aggressive and stalwart. I pull a lot of weight. And I fight my way foolhardily towards long-off goals that are nearly impossible to predict with any degree of accuracy. In terms of time.

Thus, I am perpetually switching. I leap-frog across time-zones by the hour, day, or week. And sometimes I exist in both places at once — the now and the then. Together it oft can drive me mad. Particularly when there are other forces involved other than myself. Friends, family, clients — markets. Economies. Political hemispheres.

Tick tick tick. Tock.

Now — mes amis — please ’scuze me a moment. I have something heavy to push just a touch further.

S’S”

I hold children at higher regard than most adults. There is a certain kind of magic that spells from within their imagination. With each kid who trots before my gaze I muse, “Little genius, you are my rare smile.”

Today I wondered what it would be like to create such life and I was moved by the simple realization that fatherhood would not be about passing on knowledge or some sort of legacy. Humbled, I believe the true power lay in that my children would teach me.

J’H”

PS__

Tomorrow I see my niece for the first time in nearly a year! And I’m firkin excited like you wouldn’t believe. Peace y’all.

Saddling up to my tempered glass desk (à la EQ3) my hands begin to twitch. Millions of nerve endings begin to fire across my body. From behind hundreds of secret panels displaced throughout my brain, an army of creative folks come running. These are the little guys that fire up and run the machinery. The Chief Creative Officer hits the big red button mounted on his console. The machinery of the brain roars to life. The Juice of Imagination begins to flow. And here, mes amis, is where I work.

Sometimes I’m asked where I get my ideas and the truth is that I’ve got no clue. I never know what’s going to come out of the murky depths of my brain. It’s magic, really. Or like fishing. From a subconscious ocean, ideas just come.

The process is always the same: I wade into the waters — I toss out my line — and then they start to Nibble, Bite, Chomp! — I reel ‘em in. (And sometimes they’ll jump out willingly — right into my lap.) All sorts of sizes and types — such as Rainbow Trout, Narwhals and Mermaids.

So what’s my next big idea? Who knows? It could be something I’ve snagged before. It might be something completely new. (Dear Reader, I’ll tell you if you like — all you have to do is ask.)

“Heeeere fishy, fishy, fisheeeey!”

J’H”

“Love is elementary my dear Jason,” the perfunctory know-it-all explains. “It’s a mechanism to inspire reproduction. And your ambitious drive—well that’s simple too. Your hunter-gatherer traits are part of a process of self-sustenance and a support system of human gestation. You make babies, you need to care for them. And of course, it’s more complex than that, for you see there’s the matter of human evolution. And the evolutionary tract of life itself. You’re an organism that shares a symbiosis with every other organism on this planet. Your drive and feelings of romantic attachment are all just incitation that contributes to the processes of our planet and I daresay, the Universe.”

Symbiosis. That’s a great word. I suppose lovers become symbiotic as their lives begin to intertwine. In this case love exists as attachment and partnership. Support systems. And soul mates? Mayhap all that “magic” is just the effectuation of a lot of personality traits and systems matching up nicely.

Or maybe… Maybe it really is somehow magical. I mean—it’s all so god damned complicated—it’s truly a miracle that anybody ever gets together. Magic. Or science? Heh. It could be that love is just some sort of parasitic infection that one catches and simply needs to cure.

Who knows?

Fictions Birthed of Boredom

The man in black looks both ways as he steps down from his porch. A grey dust blows past him carried into town by the wind. It’s time to leave, he reckons.

The desert has been reaching out to him and this morning he will heed its call. He takes his first step and draws his jacket collar all the way up to his ears. It’s Friday morning and it’s cold.

—change of scene—

There is civility within this man. There are layers of culture in his blood. At the center of his being exist some of the greatest civilizations in single-cell history: the Sarcodona, the Ciliophora, the Zoomastigophora and the Apicomplexa.

These are great nations of creativity and science that are as essential to his life as he is to theirs. He hosts them and they create emotions, muse and thought. Their lands extend beyond measurable distance and yet they have need to expand. A council has been called. Their elders must act. Now.

—change of scene—

In a secret bunker within his heart the Tribunal of Amoeba Nations holds an emergency session. The elders are stone-faced and grim.

“If he is aware of our deceit, then all is now lost!” the Sarcidonan chief cries out to quell the chattering council. “We need to move our people. He must be made to lust. He needs to reproduce. We must set sail on the maiden’s voyage! He must be fooled to love.”

—change of scene—

Deep drums beat loudly within his heart and hundreds of thousands have answered the elders’ call. There are raging fires built throughout the caverns and around each they dance.

Their movement is primal, though there is nothing simple in their intent. In purpose they are united and in their rhythmic motion they are one. They dance to inspire his heart.

—change of scene—

The man in black shakes his head and his eyelids flutter. He feels a rumbling from deep down within. His step falters and he casts a curious glance over his shoulder. His animalism stirs and he feels a longing to stay and desire her as he did last night. He pauses. He…

—change of scene—

“It’s working!” the chief calls out. “It’s working!”

—change of scene—

The drums sound louder. Faster. Their feet are stomping.

—change of scene—

His feet stop moving. His heart is pounding.

—change of scene—

“We’ve done it!” the chief cries as he thrusts his triumphant fist towards the sky. “We’ve done… Wait. No!”

—change of scene—

The man in black is… The man in black is… writing… writing this story. His own god damned story.

The man in black is me. And those dirty lying amoebae can blow me if they think that I’m going to stay here much longer.

Inward I grunt, “Make me feel whatever you want, assholes, it matters not.”

—change of scene—

The man in black looks both ways as he steps down from his porch. A grey dust blows past him carried into town by the wind. It’s time to leave, he reckons.

The desert has been reaching out to him and this morning he will heed its call. He takes his first step and draws his jacket collar all the way up to his ears. It’s Friday morning and it’s cold.

I’m flying downwards as an arrow. You would incorrectly guess that I was falling if you failed to notice my perfect form. In truth I am swan diving gracefully towards my core, with purpose.

And rarely have I appeared in such fine fashion. My hands are clasped and stretched beyond my head. My muscled back is slightly arched and my toes point upwards towards God’s sky. Anchored by gravity and a need for amnesty I am plummeting downward as lightning. My destination is the ocean that lays deep below the surface—an entry point that marks the first of the paths to the source.

Flying and falling and splash! I am warm and everything fades to white. In luminescence I dissolve.

I exit the first iteration and enter something new. And it is from a pinpoint of bright pink light where I bear witness to new truths. I am electricity that charges alone at the center of my own Universe—yes, alone. I have a purpose and so I am unique.

And yet—I am aware that there are others. Billions of individuals. We are each cogs who spin circles in nature’s greatest clock. We turn apart, and at times we turn together. We share purpose in friendships and partnerships—for pleasure, love, family or business. Our linked stories are brought together by chance, and maintained always by choice.

We choose to discover new truths by sharing and accepting our perceptions. The same event is witnessed by different eyes. A city finds identity through the pulsing of a million like minds. Through sharing I evolve myself, we evolve each other—this world and all worlds change and take steps forward.

We are an unbalanced equation trying to balance itself. Symmetry is our destination and there, stasis is another springboard. Thus story telling could be perceived as enlightenment—and the path to truth.

So? Lets leap———

º

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////// EDITOR’S NOTE

This is what the Soulular level meant to Jason. That’s firkin deep yoh!

— Bourne . :. :. : November 20, 2007

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