The station platform is crowded. So crowded.
But it's an ordered crowd. Given the time, the clothing, the general observance of transport etiquette, you can tell the group is made up largely of commuters.
Everytime you are here, you dedicate a good percentage of your consciousness to suppressing claustrophobia.
[Look]
You are being swept gently along with the tide of human bodies. It is sweaty, gritty and soothing.
There is an escalator here.
To the north, is the train carriage - still regurgitating tired-looking passengers.
[Use escalator] - removes train carriage from available locations, changes this room to the station exterior.
You bide your time. You are Buddha. You are the reed. You are supple. You will bend, but not break.
The train carried you here.
The crowd carries you onto the escalator.
The escalator carries you to the station proper.
And now - nothing is left to carry you.
You are an individual. Responsible for your own actions.
Such a burden.
[Look]
You are standing in the body an inner-city train station.
There is a noticeable absence of rubbish bins. The threat of trash-concealed improvised explosive devices is obviously worthy of bin-removal.
Legitimate, official Police Officers assure that nobody jumps the ticket gates.
You are serious. Real gun-wielding police officers. Here. Dedicated to protecting a private corporation.
It must be some consolation to the man with his teeth knocked-out, the woman who has been pack-raped, the father stabbed in the queue at the kebab shop - that at least - in this chaotic world - train tickets are being properly paid-for.
The ticket gates stand smugly, awaiting your approach.
[Look at ticket gate]
You've encountered this before. Ticket in, Gate opens, Ticket out.
Conversely, you can squeeze through the gates.
The solitary perk of being a healthy individual amid veritable planets of public healthcare endorsed sows.
[Use ticket gate] - changes scene to city street
You line up behind an excessively-sized woman. Her bra-strap forces the formation of two distinct backs - an upper and a lower back.
Her flanks grind wetly against the sides of the gate as she labors to maintain inertia.
You prepare to place a helpful boot in the small of her back - for a gentlemanly push - but she makes it.
You move close to her and put your hand out, collecting an imaginary ticket.
She smells like icecream.
The police don't move.
You have just been positively-reinforced.
Ah, the outdoors. What a seething nightmare you are.
[Use ticket on gate] - changes scene to city street
You slip the ticket into the gate, and pass through. For a second, you yearn for the days of wagons and horses and shotguns.
You would definitely become a serial killer.
The city. You are a beast of gravel and unbelievable promiscuity. I love you so.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Episode Two: Train Carriage
Trains used to cause you a high level of anxiety - the lack of control, the hurtling toward uncertain destinations at the whim of an unseen and potentially-questionable individual.
As you aged, that became a good thing - for a brief window of time, you relinquish control, and are thus innocent of any wrongdoing.
It's like being drunk.
[Look]
Let us enter the social quagmire!
The train carriage is divided into two aisles - an aisle of two-seat benches, and an aisle of three-seat benches.
You prefer the two-seat variety. Less human in your sphere of personal space, less logistics for entry and exit.
There is a free seat to the left. An entirely-free seat. A rarity.
To the north, the platform.
[Look at seat]
The seat is both empty, and covered in chalk graffiti.
You can't pinpoint when chalking seats became a practiced art - but you appreciate the sheer sociopathy involved. For the dark-suit wearing professional subset of the commuter market, it's a nightmare.
[Use seat] - blocks exit to north (platform).
You sit in the seat, and shuffle about until you reach a point of equilibrium.
The doors close, the train sighs, and inertia gently pushes a wave of blood to the back of your brain.
[Look]
Here you are, surging toward unknown shores. A bold adventurer. An intrepid explorer.
A bored commuter.
A young lady sits to your right.
An elderly man has taken a seat beside you.
A well-dressed young man sits in front of you, talking on his phone.
[Note: The next scene will not open until a defined amount of time has passed. Each action will move the individual closer to that amount of time]
[Look at lady]
An attractive young woman, in a white blouse with a grey dress.
She is wearing a pair of thick, rectangular-rimmed glasses, and her lipstick is slightly more bold than average.
Your internal category for these women is "Saucy secretary".
You understand the latent sexism in that category designation.
But you've never seen a woman wearing that outfit who wasn't a secretary.
And you can't ignore the power of observation.
You suspect that she is a complete animal.
[Look at old man]
The polo shirt - the uniform of the over-50s.
And the color scheme is largely pastels.
You assume that old people buy clothes in their 30's - clothes of bold, bright, enthusiastic colors - and they fade and loosen over the years until they become the loose-fitting, desaturated, grey/khaki/yellow affair you see today.
Don't look directly at him - he may just attempt to speak to you.
[Look at young man]
You can only see the back of his head, but you dislike what you see.
His hair is black or dark brown, but the tips have been bleached, and the whole affair has been styled into a pointy mess.
He has a thin plait running down his neck. It makes you shudder.
Apart from this, he is wearing a very nice suit - that looks to be in good condition.
So weighing the evidence:
Young man. Poor choice of subculture. Nice suit that has been worn rarely.
Hypothesis: This young man is on his way to a court appearance.
His obnoxious phone conversation lends credence to this:
"Yeah bro. Nah mate. Nah mate. Wot-de-fuck."
Something about a car. Something about a bitch. Something about his mother taking care of everything. Something about how tough he is.
Reaffirmation: Neuter everything to the left of the bell-curve.
[Use enthusiasm on lady]
You wait until you catch the lady's glance and - before she can look away with discomfort, you smile.
It clearly throws her reaction. She gives you an uncertain smile and looks away.
That should hold you for the rest of the day.
[Use confidence on lady]
You wait until the woman is looking in your direction and execute your patented - 'independent movement of eyebrows' technique.
It's always a longshot.
Today, it doesn't elicit a smile.
Tight-fisted whore.
[Use intelligence on lady]
You look at the lady. Pretty. Viable age. Obviously confident.
It's a mainstream attractiveness too. You wouldn't have been the only person to notice this.
You can therefore extrapolate...
She has been with many many partners, and if your 'saucy secretary' theory is correct - they may not have been of the most elevated socio-economic class.
She is commuting, so she may live in a more regional location than yourself.
The whole affair spells....
Chlamydia.
Your intelligence says: Leave that business.
[Use confidence on young man]
You prop yourself up a little, to allow yourself a bit of hip-torque.
When the man turns to look out the window, phone still glued to ear, mouth still violating the English language bitterly - you ram drive fist into his temple.
His neck goes limp for a second, and before he can reorient himself, you take a handful of his hair and smash his face into the window. Again and again, until the window is opaque with grease.
The pretty lady opposite you stands up. She is beaming. She gives you a long, deep kiss. Your heart is beating with pure joy. Your Father meets you on the platform. He is proud of you. You walk into the sunset, with the smell of the cool ocean in your nostrils.
Microsleep concluded. You turn to look out the window. Your adrenaline levels are uncomfortably high.
Your confidence is good, but not that good.
[Use book]
You read the first thirty pages of the book - Silas Marner, by George Eliot.
By page twenty, something bothers you about this novel.
By page thirty, you are certain that you can't read anymore.
There is something distinctly wrong with the style that Mr. George Eliot has approached this tale.
You have a suspicion.
You flip to the foreword and read a little about the author.
You cannot believe the scam you have just been involved with....
George Eliot is a woman!
It all makes sense now.
You've read many books in your life. Many, many books. And of those, a quarter were by women. And of those, you have only read one that you remotely enjoyed.
Your taste is not pure sexism - it's pure experience.
If we begin to ignore experience in order to apply equal rights, we'll be touching fire and petting snakes all day long.
Not all snakes are venomous, but it's unwise to assume individuals are not.
You feel so cheated.
[Use lady]
You stand up. Your heart is beating heavily. Forget about all of this nasty business - the rent, the power, the water, the documents, the email, the teamwork. Forget it.
You are a man. And this - this is a woman.
You move to her. She looks at you with innocent eyes. You have an unspoken bond. Her skin is flushed. You take her in your arms. The world slips away.
You get the call the next week - you are having a baby. You reserve a ticket to Denmark and throw your phone in the waste basket.
Your cynical worldview is applauded across the European Union. You are asked to host a guest lecture at Oxford.
Mid-lecture, a man stands up.
"Do you have a question?" - you dip your glasses.
"Father!" he cries.
You feel the bullet before you see the muzzle-flash.
Your last wish is that you had been less considerate.
Microsleep concluded.
You are on the train. You hope you hadn't been speaking aloud.
[Use your brain]
You think.
Maybe I could become a profitable musician?
Five years ago, it would have been 'a famous musician'.
But fame? Seems to be like 'popularity' or 'family' or 'professionalism'. All concepts requiring constant maintenance for a fickle cluster of people who will hen-peck your face clean off at the slightest provocation.
What could you do...
Maybe you could sing? Something that you could practice without equipment.
But then you would likely need to stop smoking. And rehearse. And the inevitable interpersonal challenges inherent in coordinating a group of people in order to achieve a goal.
And in this case, the goal is subjective, so you have the added challenge of an indistinct end-point.
You could probably earn more money by forcing your way into an apartment every month or so - torturing the occupant with a screwdriver and emptying their bank accounts, sealing them up in the bathroom while you eat their food.
Building a career is tricky.
[Use enthusiasm on lady] - repeat
You've sewed the seeds. The ball is in her court now.
That seemed so much like a euphemism. A cruder person than yourself could probably have twisted that into a joke.
[Use confidence on lady] - repeat
All romance is just the threat of violence painted in a delicate manner.
So what... manicure and a punch in the face?
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood - one is the road of the psychopath, one is the road of the socialite. The car is fuelled by confidence.
See the danger here?
[Use intelligence on lady] - repeat
If you think about anything too deeply it becomes obvious that it is a bad idea.
Nothing is a good idea, in reality.
Stand up - you will fall down.
Maybe you'll finally snap and just sit on this train forever, riding back and forth. The drivers will learn your name and bring you sandwiches.
On white bread!
That thought scares you straight.
[Use confidence on young man] - repeat
Every violent hypothetical brings you one step closer to forgetting the line between fantasy and reality. One step closer to that imaginary brick becoming a tangible brick, and the blood with quite literally fly.
And in that alternate timeline, you would be in the clinic every second day - checking on the progress of your AIDS test.
[Use book] - repeat
You understand the authoresses desire to suppress her gender identity. Given the time period she lived in, this may have been a fair move.
But in this - the age of equal rights and...
...everybody being just as good as everybody else and having no positive or negative characteristics that in any way differentiate them from every other person...
Why... the just seems out of keeping with the zeitgeist.
[Use lady] - repeat
You feel as if you should double-wrap your imagination before attempting this again.
Better to stop now.
Don't want the power of your mind giving you placebo-Gonorrhea or anything.
[Use your brain] - repeat
You think...
Do fat people have more nerve-endings on their enormous bodies?
Or, on a per-inch basis, are they less sensitive than a normal, healthy individual?
If the former - do they have more nerve-endings per inch if they lose weight drastically? And if so - do they become super-sensitive?
You will need to run an experiment.
If only there were a small subset of the population who were both stupid, frequently-unhealthy, and often fat - who would permit you - an individual with no ties to medicine or science - to do strange things to their bodies, in return for cash.
It's not a perfect world, you guess.
[Use your brain] - repeat
You have a headache. Without external input, thoughts just turn upon themselves.
That's paranoia.
The first assumption forms the basis of the second, which forms the basis of the third...
But without verification of the first, the entire effort is fundamentally incorrect.
[Look]
You have arrived!
No tingle of achievement. No sense of satisfaction.
You feel that an implied contract has been broken.
A line has formed for the door. You must carefully balance your good breeding with your inherent dislike of everything and everybody - and pick an opportune time to enter the queue.
To the north, the crowded-platform.
As you aged, that became a good thing - for a brief window of time, you relinquish control, and are thus innocent of any wrongdoing.
It's like being drunk.
[Look]
Let us enter the social quagmire!
The train carriage is divided into two aisles - an aisle of two-seat benches, and an aisle of three-seat benches.
You prefer the two-seat variety. Less human in your sphere of personal space, less logistics for entry and exit.
There is a free seat to the left. An entirely-free seat. A rarity.
To the north, the platform.
[Look at seat]
The seat is both empty, and covered in chalk graffiti.
You can't pinpoint when chalking seats became a practiced art - but you appreciate the sheer sociopathy involved. For the dark-suit wearing professional subset of the commuter market, it's a nightmare.
[Use seat] - blocks exit to north (platform).
You sit in the seat, and shuffle about until you reach a point of equilibrium.
The doors close, the train sighs, and inertia gently pushes a wave of blood to the back of your brain.
[Look]
Here you are, surging toward unknown shores. A bold adventurer. An intrepid explorer.
A bored commuter.
A young lady sits to your right.
An elderly man has taken a seat beside you.
A well-dressed young man sits in front of you, talking on his phone.
[Note: The next scene will not open until a defined amount of time has passed. Each action will move the individual closer to that amount of time]
[Look at lady]
An attractive young woman, in a white blouse with a grey dress.
She is wearing a pair of thick, rectangular-rimmed glasses, and her lipstick is slightly more bold than average.
Your internal category for these women is "Saucy secretary".
You understand the latent sexism in that category designation.
But you've never seen a woman wearing that outfit who wasn't a secretary.
And you can't ignore the power of observation.
You suspect that she is a complete animal.
[Look at old man]
The polo shirt - the uniform of the over-50s.
And the color scheme is largely pastels.
You assume that old people buy clothes in their 30's - clothes of bold, bright, enthusiastic colors - and they fade and loosen over the years until they become the loose-fitting, desaturated, grey/khaki/yellow affair you see today.
Don't look directly at him - he may just attempt to speak to you.
[Look at young man]
You can only see the back of his head, but you dislike what you see.
His hair is black or dark brown, but the tips have been bleached, and the whole affair has been styled into a pointy mess.
He has a thin plait running down his neck. It makes you shudder.
Apart from this, he is wearing a very nice suit - that looks to be in good condition.
So weighing the evidence:
Young man. Poor choice of subculture. Nice suit that has been worn rarely.
Hypothesis: This young man is on his way to a court appearance.
His obnoxious phone conversation lends credence to this:
"Yeah bro. Nah mate. Nah mate. Wot-de-fuck."
Something about a car. Something about a bitch. Something about his mother taking care of everything. Something about how tough he is.
Reaffirmation: Neuter everything to the left of the bell-curve.
[Use enthusiasm on lady]
You wait until you catch the lady's glance and - before she can look away with discomfort, you smile.
It clearly throws her reaction. She gives you an uncertain smile and looks away.
That should hold you for the rest of the day.
[Use confidence on lady]
You wait until the woman is looking in your direction and execute your patented - 'independent movement of eyebrows' technique.
It's always a longshot.
Today, it doesn't elicit a smile.
Tight-fisted whore.
[Use intelligence on lady]
You look at the lady. Pretty. Viable age. Obviously confident.
It's a mainstream attractiveness too. You wouldn't have been the only person to notice this.
You can therefore extrapolate...
She has been with many many partners, and if your 'saucy secretary' theory is correct - they may not have been of the most elevated socio-economic class.
She is commuting, so she may live in a more regional location than yourself.
The whole affair spells....
Chlamydia.
Your intelligence says: Leave that business.
[Use confidence on young man]
You prop yourself up a little, to allow yourself a bit of hip-torque.
When the man turns to look out the window, phone still glued to ear, mouth still violating the English language bitterly - you ram drive fist into his temple.
His neck goes limp for a second, and before he can reorient himself, you take a handful of his hair and smash his face into the window. Again and again, until the window is opaque with grease.
The pretty lady opposite you stands up. She is beaming. She gives you a long, deep kiss. Your heart is beating with pure joy. Your Father meets you on the platform. He is proud of you. You walk into the sunset, with the smell of the cool ocean in your nostrils.
Microsleep concluded. You turn to look out the window. Your adrenaline levels are uncomfortably high.
Your confidence is good, but not that good.
[Use book]
You read the first thirty pages of the book - Silas Marner, by George Eliot.
By page twenty, something bothers you about this novel.
By page thirty, you are certain that you can't read anymore.
There is something distinctly wrong with the style that Mr. George Eliot has approached this tale.
You have a suspicion.
You flip to the foreword and read a little about the author.
You cannot believe the scam you have just been involved with....
George Eliot is a woman!
It all makes sense now.
You've read many books in your life. Many, many books. And of those, a quarter were by women. And of those, you have only read one that you remotely enjoyed.
Your taste is not pure sexism - it's pure experience.
If we begin to ignore experience in order to apply equal rights, we'll be touching fire and petting snakes all day long.
Not all snakes are venomous, but it's unwise to assume individuals are not.
You feel so cheated.
[Use lady]
You stand up. Your heart is beating heavily. Forget about all of this nasty business - the rent, the power, the water, the documents, the email, the teamwork. Forget it.
You are a man. And this - this is a woman.
You move to her. She looks at you with innocent eyes. You have an unspoken bond. Her skin is flushed. You take her in your arms. The world slips away.
You get the call the next week - you are having a baby. You reserve a ticket to Denmark and throw your phone in the waste basket.
Your cynical worldview is applauded across the European Union. You are asked to host a guest lecture at Oxford.
Mid-lecture, a man stands up.
"Do you have a question?" - you dip your glasses.
"Father!" he cries.
You feel the bullet before you see the muzzle-flash.
Your last wish is that you had been less considerate.
Microsleep concluded.
You are on the train. You hope you hadn't been speaking aloud.
[Use your brain]
You think.
Maybe I could become a profitable musician?
Five years ago, it would have been 'a famous musician'.
But fame? Seems to be like 'popularity' or 'family' or 'professionalism'. All concepts requiring constant maintenance for a fickle cluster of people who will hen-peck your face clean off at the slightest provocation.
What could you do...
Maybe you could sing? Something that you could practice without equipment.
But then you would likely need to stop smoking. And rehearse. And the inevitable interpersonal challenges inherent in coordinating a group of people in order to achieve a goal.
And in this case, the goal is subjective, so you have the added challenge of an indistinct end-point.
You could probably earn more money by forcing your way into an apartment every month or so - torturing the occupant with a screwdriver and emptying their bank accounts, sealing them up in the bathroom while you eat their food.
Building a career is tricky.
[Use enthusiasm on lady] - repeat
You've sewed the seeds. The ball is in her court now.
That seemed so much like a euphemism. A cruder person than yourself could probably have twisted that into a joke.
[Use confidence on lady] - repeat
All romance is just the threat of violence painted in a delicate manner.
So what... manicure and a punch in the face?
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood - one is the road of the psychopath, one is the road of the socialite. The car is fuelled by confidence.
See the danger here?
[Use intelligence on lady] - repeat
If you think about anything too deeply it becomes obvious that it is a bad idea.
Nothing is a good idea, in reality.
Stand up - you will fall down.
Maybe you'll finally snap and just sit on this train forever, riding back and forth. The drivers will learn your name and bring you sandwiches.
On white bread!
That thought scares you straight.
[Use confidence on young man] - repeat
Every violent hypothetical brings you one step closer to forgetting the line between fantasy and reality. One step closer to that imaginary brick becoming a tangible brick, and the blood with quite literally fly.
And in that alternate timeline, you would be in the clinic every second day - checking on the progress of your AIDS test.
[Use book] - repeat
You understand the authoresses desire to suppress her gender identity. Given the time period she lived in, this may have been a fair move.
But in this - the age of equal rights and...
...everybody being just as good as everybody else and having no positive or negative characteristics that in any way differentiate them from every other person...
Why... the just seems out of keeping with the zeitgeist.
[Use lady] - repeat
You feel as if you should double-wrap your imagination before attempting this again.
Better to stop now.
Don't want the power of your mind giving you placebo-Gonorrhea or anything.
[Use your brain] - repeat
You think...
Do fat people have more nerve-endings on their enormous bodies?
Or, on a per-inch basis, are they less sensitive than a normal, healthy individual?
If the former - do they have more nerve-endings per inch if they lose weight drastically? And if so - do they become super-sensitive?
You will need to run an experiment.
If only there were a small subset of the population who were both stupid, frequently-unhealthy, and often fat - who would permit you - an individual with no ties to medicine or science - to do strange things to their bodies, in return for cash.
It's not a perfect world, you guess.
[Use your brain] - repeat
You have a headache. Without external input, thoughts just turn upon themselves.
That's paranoia.
The first assumption forms the basis of the second, which forms the basis of the third...
But without verification of the first, the entire effort is fundamentally incorrect.
[Look]
You have arrived!
No tingle of achievement. No sense of satisfaction.
You feel that an implied contract has been broken.
A line has formed for the door. You must carefully balance your good breeding with your inherent dislike of everything and everybody - and pick an opportune time to enter the queue.
To the north, the crowded-platform.
Episode Two: Train Station - Platform
It smells like progress.
It smells like exhaust, yes. And human odor. And ink.
But progress, beyond all.
You've ascribed it a certain ... romantic quality. You know it.
At any second a great industrialist - suit jacket rolled to forearms, great iron wrench in one fist - schematics in the other - is going to storm the platform. A bronze steam locomotive will roll to a halt.
"Efficiency!" he will cry - "Performance!" he will shout - "Purpose!"
And the socialists will cry into their beards.
But the pensioners are massing for an optimum seat, and the single-parents are nudging you with their prams.
Public transport.
[Look]
You are standing on your local train platform. It is relatively clean - a hot breeze sweeps the platform at regular intervals.
A crowd of senior citizens stands at the centre of the platform.
Parents and children are locked in domestic warfare at sporadic locations.
For a place that commuters are obliged to linger in for extended periods of time, there is a limited amount to look at. The advertisements are uninspired and dull.
To the north, are the gates.
To the south, a train awaits passengers. Anxiously. Jittering.
[Look at advertisements]
Aftershave, insurance, legal advice, distance education.
The market segment research is in:
Unhappy with direction in life, paranoid, victimised, source of foul odors.
That could be anybody! Talk about your cold reading scams.
[Look at seniors]
You can't assume they are ignorant of social decorum. You can only assume they no longer care.
There's still a smoldering desperation there - but you assume that most of them are spiritually D.N.R
[Look at parents]
What a choice. What - a - choice.
Still... make a poor choice today - a poor, life-creating, life-altering choice today - and expect society to shoulder the results tomorrow.
After all... it's only fair.
Speaking of which, I'm thinking of building a bomb....
[Look at children]
That - is the future.
What is the average life expectancy again?
Not too long.
You scoff. Doesn't look like THAT future is YOUR problem.
[Look at train]
Some creative individual has written something illegible along the breadth of the nearest carriage.
If you have a message to convey to society, that's just fine.
And if you feel the need to damage other people's property in order to convey it... well... it must be urgent...
But given that urgency - one would assume the resulting message would be legible.
Unless it's a weird piece of reverse-viral-socio-advertisement...
"Neuter everything to the left of the bell-curve..."
[South]
It smells like exhaust, yes. And human odor. And ink.
But progress, beyond all.
You've ascribed it a certain ... romantic quality. You know it.
At any second a great industrialist - suit jacket rolled to forearms, great iron wrench in one fist - schematics in the other - is going to storm the platform. A bronze steam locomotive will roll to a halt.
"Efficiency!" he will cry - "Performance!" he will shout - "Purpose!"
And the socialists will cry into their beards.
But the pensioners are massing for an optimum seat, and the single-parents are nudging you with their prams.
Public transport.
[Look]
You are standing on your local train platform. It is relatively clean - a hot breeze sweeps the platform at regular intervals.
A crowd of senior citizens stands at the centre of the platform.
Parents and children are locked in domestic warfare at sporadic locations.
For a place that commuters are obliged to linger in for extended periods of time, there is a limited amount to look at. The advertisements are uninspired and dull.
To the north, are the gates.
To the south, a train awaits passengers. Anxiously. Jittering.
[Look at advertisements]
Aftershave, insurance, legal advice, distance education.
The market segment research is in:
Unhappy with direction in life, paranoid, victimised, source of foul odors.
That could be anybody! Talk about your cold reading scams.
[Look at seniors]
You can't assume they are ignorant of social decorum. You can only assume they no longer care.
There's still a smoldering desperation there - but you assume that most of them are spiritually D.N.R
[Look at parents]
What a choice. What - a - choice.
Still... make a poor choice today - a poor, life-creating, life-altering choice today - and expect society to shoulder the results tomorrow.
After all... it's only fair.
Speaking of which, I'm thinking of building a bomb....
[Look at children]
That - is the future.
What is the average life expectancy again?
Not too long.
You scoff. Doesn't look like THAT future is YOUR problem.
[Look at train]
Some creative individual has written something illegible along the breadth of the nearest carriage.
If you have a message to convey to society, that's just fine.
And if you feel the need to damage other people's property in order to convey it... well... it must be urgent...
But given that urgency - one would assume the resulting message would be legible.
Unless it's a weird piece of reverse-viral-socio-advertisement...
"Neuter everything to the left of the bell-curve..."
[South]
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Episode Two: Train Station Exterior
[South]
Train stations are composed of three tones of stain.
The grey stain. Indeterminate liquid. Usually... coffee, cola.
The mustard stain. Vomit. Always.
The brown stain. Congealed blood. Always.
But you must pass through this place twice daily - so you have to rationalize:
The tiles are slippery, they tripped and fell.
The rails are crooked, they must have motion sickness.
But YOU know - YOU know.
[Look]
Once-white tiles, once-blue trims; four promotional posters for this - the sole rail corporation in the state.
As transport staging-areas go - it's certainly not glorious. But you've been here for at least thirty seconds, and your teeth are still intact- so you feel this has been an even-handed review.
A heavily-vandalised ticket machine stands against the wall.
A metal waste bin stands in the corner.
To the south - waist-high ticket gates lead to the platform.
[Look at ticket machine]
Say what you like about the dehumanization of society - you certainly like vending machines.
Coin in for dinner, coin in for conversation, coin in for procreation, coin in for burial.
This isn't the most noble argument for your technocentric philosophy, but it still beats shouting through pockmarked plastic at a station attendant with limited capacities.
Its operation is relatively straightforward. Cash in, ticket out.
[Look at posters]
The posters are reassuring you that - by using their services - you are less likely to endure personal harm, loss of property or major inconvenience than if you had have employed other - nondisclosed - services.
Conversely - the posters inform you that, if you fail to purchase a ticket, put your feet on the seats, fail to stand for an elderly passenger, fail to look away awkwardly when you meet another commuters eyes - you will be punished swiftly, harshly, and disproportionately.
[Look at gates]
Impotent, dead-eyed sentries, operating mainly via two systems of obstruction:
System a) A card in / card out system whereby the gate will verify that you are semi-honest, and allow you to pass through.
System b) A system of cultural and insidious fear, by which the potential user is frightened into believing that one to many omnipotent agencies - including both God and Government, are aware of their every move - and will punish and reward arbitrarily and excessively.
Ironically, both systems are defeated with a simple spring of the ankles.
[Look at bin]
A metal bin. The majority of its intended contents seem to have missed the opening, and are piled around it.
A faint haze is emanating from the bin. Likely a smoldering cigarette.
[Use ticket machine]
You punch in your destination, your age, your weight, your political affiliations, orientation, martial status - and the machine displays a government-mandated price that is deemed fair for an individual from your background.
You are glad you live in a fair and equitable society.
The ticket-machine awaits payment expectantly.
[Use cash on ticket machine]
You enter your requirements, click your tongue at the expected cash amount, and enter coin after coin into the insatiable slot.
A ticket appears.
The system works - In a manner of speaking.
[Look at ticket]
A slip of cardboard - an apparantely-magnetic strip.
Estimated lifespan: Less than a day, in a standard wallet.
[Take ticket]
You take the ticket, snap it in your palm, and feel as if you are part of some brave endeavour.
[Use bin]
You catiously lean over the bin. A brightly-colored tube sits atop a pile of... myriad organic material.
[Look at tube]
It seems to be... a can of spray paint. Red. Bright red.
[Take tube]
You take the can of spray paint, and give it a gentle shake. There are perhaps ten politically-ignorant visual comments left in the bottle.
[Use paint on posters]
You shake the can and draw a red 'X' across each poster.
No commentary required. You disagree. An 'X' should convey that.
Ironically, the paint will likely attract more attention to the posters.
You have just, unwittingly, assisted in the persistence of propaganda.
[Look at posters]
A set of simply-defaced posters. Where once stood passive-aggressive corporate branding, now stands ... Corporate branding struck-through.
[Use paint on posters]
You look at the posters... the red X may be too subtle. You need to give it some context. This work needs more of the creator in it.
You write: 'Nothing good is happening'.
You think that summarises your feelings.
We can leave that one to history now.
[Use paint on posters]
The work belongs to the world now.
If you were to change it now - that would be vandalism.
And that would be bad.
[South]
You'll need to navigate those gates in some manner first.
[Use gate]- changes scene to platform
You put a hand on either side of the gate, and jump the turnstile.
You feel a twinge, but you doubt there is a God.
[Use ticket on gate] - changes scene to platform
You feed the ticket into the gate. It rolls it around, observes the mantle, gentle bouquet - a spicy little number!
The gate opens, you reclaim your ticket.
The affair feels empty without a hollow 'Thankyou, good day'.
Train stations are composed of three tones of stain.
The grey stain. Indeterminate liquid. Usually... coffee, cola.
The mustard stain. Vomit. Always.
The brown stain. Congealed blood. Always.
But you must pass through this place twice daily - so you have to rationalize:
The tiles are slippery, they tripped and fell.
The rails are crooked, they must have motion sickness.
But YOU know - YOU know.
[Look]
Once-white tiles, once-blue trims; four promotional posters for this - the sole rail corporation in the state.
As transport staging-areas go - it's certainly not glorious. But you've been here for at least thirty seconds, and your teeth are still intact- so you feel this has been an even-handed review.
A heavily-vandalised ticket machine stands against the wall.
A metal waste bin stands in the corner.
To the south - waist-high ticket gates lead to the platform.
[Look at ticket machine]
Say what you like about the dehumanization of society - you certainly like vending machines.
Coin in for dinner, coin in for conversation, coin in for procreation, coin in for burial.
This isn't the most noble argument for your technocentric philosophy, but it still beats shouting through pockmarked plastic at a station attendant with limited capacities.
Its operation is relatively straightforward. Cash in, ticket out.
[Look at posters]
The posters are reassuring you that - by using their services - you are less likely to endure personal harm, loss of property or major inconvenience than if you had have employed other - nondisclosed - services.
Conversely - the posters inform you that, if you fail to purchase a ticket, put your feet on the seats, fail to stand for an elderly passenger, fail to look away awkwardly when you meet another commuters eyes - you will be punished swiftly, harshly, and disproportionately.
[Look at gates]
Impotent, dead-eyed sentries, operating mainly via two systems of obstruction:
System a) A card in / card out system whereby the gate will verify that you are semi-honest, and allow you to pass through.
System b) A system of cultural and insidious fear, by which the potential user is frightened into believing that one to many omnipotent agencies - including both God and Government, are aware of their every move - and will punish and reward arbitrarily and excessively.
Ironically, both systems are defeated with a simple spring of the ankles.
[Look at bin]
A metal bin. The majority of its intended contents seem to have missed the opening, and are piled around it.
A faint haze is emanating from the bin. Likely a smoldering cigarette.
[Use ticket machine]
You punch in your destination, your age, your weight, your political affiliations, orientation, martial status - and the machine displays a government-mandated price that is deemed fair for an individual from your background.
You are glad you live in a fair and equitable society.
The ticket-machine awaits payment expectantly.
[Use cash on ticket machine]
You enter your requirements, click your tongue at the expected cash amount, and enter coin after coin into the insatiable slot.
A ticket appears.
The system works - In a manner of speaking.
[Look at ticket]
A slip of cardboard - an apparantely-magnetic strip.
Estimated lifespan: Less than a day, in a standard wallet.
[Take ticket]
You take the ticket, snap it in your palm, and feel as if you are part of some brave endeavour.
[Use bin]
You catiously lean over the bin. A brightly-colored tube sits atop a pile of... myriad organic material.
[Look at tube]
It seems to be... a can of spray paint. Red. Bright red.
[Take tube]
You take the can of spray paint, and give it a gentle shake. There are perhaps ten politically-ignorant visual comments left in the bottle.
[Use paint on posters]
You shake the can and draw a red 'X' across each poster.
No commentary required. You disagree. An 'X' should convey that.
Ironically, the paint will likely attract more attention to the posters.
You have just, unwittingly, assisted in the persistence of propaganda.
[Look at posters]
A set of simply-defaced posters. Where once stood passive-aggressive corporate branding, now stands ... Corporate branding struck-through.
[Use paint on posters]
You look at the posters... the red X may be too subtle. You need to give it some context. This work needs more of the creator in it.
You write: 'Nothing good is happening'.
You think that summarises your feelings.
We can leave that one to history now.
[Use paint on posters]
The work belongs to the world now.
If you were to change it now - that would be vandalism.
And that would be bad.
[South]
You'll need to navigate those gates in some manner first.
[Use gate]- changes scene to platform
You put a hand on either side of the gate, and jump the turnstile.
You feel a twinge, but you doubt there is a God.
[Use ticket on gate] - changes scene to platform
You feed the ticket into the gate. It rolls it around, observes the mantle, gentle bouquet - a spicy little number!
The gate opens, you reclaim your ticket.
The affair feels empty without a hollow 'Thankyou, good day'.
Episode Two: Retail Center
How one small neighbourhood could require so many hairdressers, fried-chicken stores and euphemistic nail-artists is completely beyond your comprehension.
But here you are. And here they are.
It's reality, you just have to swallow it.
[Look]
You are on a street lined with small stores. Only a small percentage is convenient or useful. You have no idea who is occupying the demanding niche market that supports the others.
To the south, the train station.
To the north - the long road to your apartment.
[Look at shops]
Let's break it down - micro-economics style:
Four nail salons. Also providing waxing!
Three hair dressers. Two barbers.
Two bakeries.
Two real estate agents.
A video store.
Four fried-chicken stores.
Two fruit stores.
An indian take-away.
To summarise:
Food. The management of keratin. Audio visual entertainment and sleazy property-slinging.
None of which you desire at present.
[Look at video store]
Upcoming releases....
One man shoots, and learns to love.
One man loves, and learns to shoot.
A man and a woman overcome their differences, adversity, and learn to love.
A 3D animated bowling ball and a group of bowling pins teach us - via allegory, that anything is possible with the power of love.
Tagline: You'll love it!
[Look at chicken store]
It's like some poultry Auschwitz. Chicken Dachau.
In one hundred years, we'll be headed toward a barnyard reconciliation. Enshrining the rights of poultry within the constitution. Every business must meet a goose-hiring quota. A rooster for President in 3011!
"Yes - we cluck."
[Look at fruit store]
Bananas, apples. They're the staples.
Oranges, mandarins... drink a juice. They're really too labor-intensive.
Anything with a seed capable of choking an adolescent.... keep walking.
And spines? That's not even a fruit. It's a tree-borne insult.
[Look at real estate]
"You will be happy here"
There is something ominous about that statement. You imagine dark hoods painted with luminous smiling faces - they wear blood spattered smocks. You wake with a start but it's too late.
You've never met an estate agent that you didn't want to see chopped-up.
Statistically - that's either owing to your lack of experience, or the fact that estate agents are generally fodder.
You'll reserve judgement until you establish a good sample size.
[Look at bakery]
Refined flour. Refined sugar. Ironically, there is nothing refined about the people who enjoy this business.
Occasionally.... once a year, you will eat an eclair. Before the fact, you will think: I'm sure they're great. It's a dessert. It should be great.
After the fact, you will think: I cannot believe I have committed the next few hours of my life to digesting this business.
[Look at hairdresser]
Short back and sides. Leave the top a little longer than average. No product. No water. Ten dollars.
You can summarise the way the industry should operate in a few simple directives.
But, that's scarcely the reality.
You - you have turned to kitchen scissors.
It bothers you that hairdressers don't tend to wear gloves. You couldn't be paid enough to touch some stranger's greasy hair.
[Look at nail artist]
You look at your nails. You look at the posters. Back to your nails. Back to the posters.
You don't understand the nail aspect. That's a given.
You're reasonably sure that Strippers are the majority supporters of the nail salon, fake tan, baby wipe and faux-leather coat industries.
Resources - Tourism - Banking - Stripping. The four pillars of the economy!
But here you are. And here they are.
It's reality, you just have to swallow it.
[Look]
You are on a street lined with small stores. Only a small percentage is convenient or useful. You have no idea who is occupying the demanding niche market that supports the others.
To the south, the train station.
To the north - the long road to your apartment.
[Look at shops]
Let's break it down - micro-economics style:
Four nail salons. Also providing waxing!
Three hair dressers. Two barbers.
Two bakeries.
Two real estate agents.
A video store.
Four fried-chicken stores.
Two fruit stores.
An indian take-away.
To summarise:
Food. The management of keratin. Audio visual entertainment and sleazy property-slinging.
None of which you desire at present.
[Look at video store]
Upcoming releases....
One man shoots, and learns to love.
One man loves, and learns to shoot.
A man and a woman overcome their differences, adversity, and learn to love.
A 3D animated bowling ball and a group of bowling pins teach us - via allegory, that anything is possible with the power of love.
Tagline: You'll love it!
[Look at chicken store]
It's like some poultry Auschwitz. Chicken Dachau.
In one hundred years, we'll be headed toward a barnyard reconciliation. Enshrining the rights of poultry within the constitution. Every business must meet a goose-hiring quota. A rooster for President in 3011!
"Yes - we cluck."
[Look at fruit store]
Bananas, apples. They're the staples.
Oranges, mandarins... drink a juice. They're really too labor-intensive.
Anything with a seed capable of choking an adolescent.... keep walking.
And spines? That's not even a fruit. It's a tree-borne insult.
[Look at real estate]
"You will be happy here"
There is something ominous about that statement. You imagine dark hoods painted with luminous smiling faces - they wear blood spattered smocks. You wake with a start but it's too late.
You've never met an estate agent that you didn't want to see chopped-up.
Statistically - that's either owing to your lack of experience, or the fact that estate agents are generally fodder.
You'll reserve judgement until you establish a good sample size.
[Look at bakery]
Refined flour. Refined sugar. Ironically, there is nothing refined about the people who enjoy this business.
Occasionally.... once a year, you will eat an eclair. Before the fact, you will think: I'm sure they're great. It's a dessert. It should be great.
After the fact, you will think: I cannot believe I have committed the next few hours of my life to digesting this business.
[Look at hairdresser]
Short back and sides. Leave the top a little longer than average. No product. No water. Ten dollars.
You can summarise the way the industry should operate in a few simple directives.
But, that's scarcely the reality.
You - you have turned to kitchen scissors.
It bothers you that hairdressers don't tend to wear gloves. You couldn't be paid enough to touch some stranger's greasy hair.
[Look at nail artist]
You look at your nails. You look at the posters. Back to your nails. Back to the posters.
You don't understand the nail aspect. That's a given.
You're reasonably sure that Strippers are the majority supporters of the nail salon, fake tan, baby wipe and faux-leather coat industries.
Resources - Tourism - Banking - Stripping. The four pillars of the economy!
Episode Two: Street
The road is almost perfectly straight, lined with cars, flanked by sidewalk, by low bushes, trees, mail-slots in blonde-brick walls, and balconies - proudly displaying their damp clothes on drying racks.
Still suburbia. Still existent.
[Look]
You are on the footpath. No matter how many years you live here, how many times you walk the path - every day you exclaim to yourself: "I have never noticed that x before".
To the north lies your apartment block.
To the south, the street continues.
[South]
This street is a wonder of ideological symmetry, you can say that with certainty.
You remember, in art class at school - you would create brown paint by mixing every other color together.
Inelegant? Yes.
This street-scene, it reminds you of that little anecdote.
[Look]
The street is grey, the sky is blue, the clouds are white, the trees are dusty, the cars likewise.
A long-silent construction area has been fenced-off to the right. At some stage somebody has decided to construct an apartment block, and... pre-completion, the project had just petered out.
You imagine they're at home, constructing toy railways or... playing with slotcars.
Their wife walks in... "Honey, are you ever going to finish that apartment?"
A silence. He stares into space.
"Oh. I don't know. Maybe".
Back to the slot cars.
To the north, the street approaches your apartment.
To the south, there is a small cluster of stores.
[Look at building site]
Building sites are universally dark places. Windows had been fitted, now all but shattered by bored adolescents.
A pile of loose stones and chunks of brick rests against a makeshift wall of timber.
[Look at pile]
The stones are roughly the size of golf-balls. But dense.
You wonder if they were a side-effect of the construction effort, or a side effect of the desire to smash the windows. Somebody seems to have stockpiled them either way. This is definitely a manufactured effort.
[Take brick]
You take a chunk of brick from the pile.
[Look at brick]
A quarter house-brick, in a burnt-orange color.
[South]
Still suburbia. Still existent.
[Look]
You are on the footpath. No matter how many years you live here, how many times you walk the path - every day you exclaim to yourself: "I have never noticed that x before".
To the north lies your apartment block.
To the south, the street continues.
[South]
This street is a wonder of ideological symmetry, you can say that with certainty.
You remember, in art class at school - you would create brown paint by mixing every other color together.
Inelegant? Yes.
This street-scene, it reminds you of that little anecdote.
[Look]
The street is grey, the sky is blue, the clouds are white, the trees are dusty, the cars likewise.
A long-silent construction area has been fenced-off to the right. At some stage somebody has decided to construct an apartment block, and... pre-completion, the project had just petered out.
You imagine they're at home, constructing toy railways or... playing with slotcars.
Their wife walks in... "Honey, are you ever going to finish that apartment?"
A silence. He stares into space.
"Oh. I don't know. Maybe".
Back to the slot cars.
To the north, the street approaches your apartment.
To the south, there is a small cluster of stores.
[Look at building site]
Building sites are universally dark places. Windows had been fitted, now all but shattered by bored adolescents.
A pile of loose stones and chunks of brick rests against a makeshift wall of timber.
[Look at pile]
The stones are roughly the size of golf-balls. But dense.
You wonder if they were a side-effect of the construction effort, or a side effect of the desire to smash the windows. Somebody seems to have stockpiled them either way. This is definitely a manufactured effort.
[Take brick]
You take a chunk of brick from the pile.
[Look at brick]
A quarter house-brick, in a burnt-orange color.
[South]
Episode Two: Front of house
Well here you are. The wide, wild world. It's all ... dusty and... loud and... disturbingly non-theoretical.
The wind carries the combined scent of dogs and diesel and toast and alcohol-heavy perfume, and your shoes kick up pebbles along the asphalt.
Everything is happening... simultaneously. You're in a domestic petri dish.
Here outside your little subset of the world.
You aren't in Kansas anymore, Toto.
[Look]
You are on the street, in front of your apartment block. It is a dull, temperate, moderate, average day.
An obnoxiously-colored sports-utility-vehicle is parked both on the road and on the sidewalk.
Your mailbox is smirking maliciously from its place along a low brick wall.
To the north, your apartment.
To the south - the street continues.
[Look at car]
It's bright blue. Bright - royal - 100% saturated blue. It has bright silver rims, and pitch black tinting over the windows.
Whoever owns this piece of engineering... you rest easy knowing that he is likely rotting slowly from VD and hair-gel poisoning.
[Look at mailbox]
Once - it was an efficient method of communication over distance. Now, it is an obnoxious method by which to rub your face in bureaucracy.
Every time you are given "Warm Regards" or "Kind Regards" or "Best Wishes" - the doomsday clock inches one tick closer to midnight.
[Use mailbox]
You open the mailbox. It is empty. You heart-rate slows slightly. You sigh. For now - you are safe. For now - the world is safe.
[South]
The wind carries the combined scent of dogs and diesel and toast and alcohol-heavy perfume, and your shoes kick up pebbles along the asphalt.
Everything is happening... simultaneously. You're in a domestic petri dish.
Here outside your little subset of the world.
You aren't in Kansas anymore, Toto.
[Look]
You are on the street, in front of your apartment block. It is a dull, temperate, moderate, average day.
An obnoxiously-colored sports-utility-vehicle is parked both on the road and on the sidewalk.
Your mailbox is smirking maliciously from its place along a low brick wall.
To the north, your apartment.
To the south - the street continues.
[Look at car]
It's bright blue. Bright - royal - 100% saturated blue. It has bright silver rims, and pitch black tinting over the windows.
Whoever owns this piece of engineering... you rest easy knowing that he is likely rotting slowly from VD and hair-gel poisoning.
[Look at mailbox]
Once - it was an efficient method of communication over distance. Now, it is an obnoxious method by which to rub your face in bureaucracy.
Every time you are given "Warm Regards" or "Kind Regards" or "Best Wishes" - the doomsday clock inches one tick closer to midnight.
[Use mailbox]
You open the mailbox. It is empty. You heart-rate slows slightly. You sigh. For now - you are safe. For now - the world is safe.
[South]
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Episode One: Balcony
*Living Room*
To the east lies the hallway.
To the west lies the balcony.
To the north lies the kitchen.
(To the south, the wide, wild world.) - Upon using keys.
[West]
The world. It's all.... there. Cars drive past below you, people are in various domestic poses... hanging out the washing, retrieving the washing, buckling a child into a seat.
It's warm, and the breeze only serves to move the warmth around.
[Look]
You are on the balcony. A small outdoor setting with two chairs is here, along with a handful of dead potplants.
The floor is littered with water-swollen cigarette butts. At some stage, you guess it was raining.
A pack of cigarettes sits on the table, along with a lighter.
[Look at potplants]
Long dead potplants. Potentially a fire hazard.
Occasionally something new will grow - with no input from you. Some bizarre phoenix or... sea monkey effect.
And then, inevitably, it will die. And the cycle will begin anew.
Now that you have observed it, you feel an obligation to leave the potplants alone. They seem to have a system going. Better that you don't interfere.
[Look at setting]
A table, two chairs. An empty coffee cup. A long-finished candle.
A pack of cigarettes and a lighter sit on the table. You hope they have avoided the morning dew.
[Look at cigarettes]
A pack of cigarettes. Tax rise after tax rise has driven them to inflationary prices, but fortunately their intrinsic value still exceeds their economic value.
One day the moral panic will subside, and migrate toward the too-deserving realm of liquor. Then it will be your turn to laugh.
[Look at lighter]
A plain, black, plastic lighter. You peeled the warning label off long ago. Come to think of it... there are very few labels that can survive more than three minutes with you.
[Use cigarettes]
Probably not now. It's too early. Better to save it until you need it.
[Take cigarettes]
You take the cigarettes. Nobody can hurt you now - not any more than you can hurt yourself.
[Take lighter]
You take the lighter. Who knows - if everything goes fubar, you can always burn it to the ground.
[East]
To the east lies the hallway.
To the west lies the balcony.
To the north lies the kitchen.
(To the south, the wide, wild world.) - Upon using keys.
[West]
The world. It's all.... there. Cars drive past below you, people are in various domestic poses... hanging out the washing, retrieving the washing, buckling a child into a seat.
It's warm, and the breeze only serves to move the warmth around.
[Look]
You are on the balcony. A small outdoor setting with two chairs is here, along with a handful of dead potplants.
The floor is littered with water-swollen cigarette butts. At some stage, you guess it was raining.
A pack of cigarettes sits on the table, along with a lighter.
[Look at potplants]
Long dead potplants. Potentially a fire hazard.
Occasionally something new will grow - with no input from you. Some bizarre phoenix or... sea monkey effect.
And then, inevitably, it will die. And the cycle will begin anew.
Now that you have observed it, you feel an obligation to leave the potplants alone. They seem to have a system going. Better that you don't interfere.
[Look at setting]
A table, two chairs. An empty coffee cup. A long-finished candle.
A pack of cigarettes and a lighter sit on the table. You hope they have avoided the morning dew.
[Look at cigarettes]
A pack of cigarettes. Tax rise after tax rise has driven them to inflationary prices, but fortunately their intrinsic value still exceeds their economic value.
One day the moral panic will subside, and migrate toward the too-deserving realm of liquor. Then it will be your turn to laugh.
[Look at lighter]
A plain, black, plastic lighter. You peeled the warning label off long ago. Come to think of it... there are very few labels that can survive more than three minutes with you.
[Use cigarettes]
Probably not now. It's too early. Better to save it until you need it.
[Take cigarettes]
You take the cigarettes. Nobody can hurt you now - not any more than you can hurt yourself.
[Take lighter]
You take the lighter. Who knows - if everything goes fubar, you can always burn it to the ground.
[East]
Episode One: Kitchen
*Living Room*
To the east lies the hallway.
To the west lies the balcony.
To the north lies the kitchen.
(To the south, the wide, wild world.) - Upon using keys.
[North]
Ah, the kitchen. The domestic nerve centre of the modern home.
A place for the modification and refinement of one form of caloric conveyance into another.
It sounds almost like some noble form of engineering.
...Until you see the ultimate result.
You try to spend as little time as possible here.
[Look]
You are in a mid-90s apartment kitchen. No larger than it need be. Near-completely constructed from plywood and veneer.
A refrigerator stands in the corner... vibrating.
The counter is lined with vitamins and supplements.
You cat sits atop the microwave, looking out the window. She doesn't acknowledge your presence.
The living room lies to the south.
[Look at vitamins]
Uppers, downers, bloopers, tinglers.
Not so much.
You've got your Fish Oils, your multivitamins, your additional Iron and Vitamin C.
You've got your experimental vitamins, your testosterone boosters, your 'energy enhancers'.
If you've got to suffer through this business, you'll suffer through it at peak efficiency.
[Use vitamins] - Adds [Your Enthusiasm] to inventory.
You take the vitamins. One or two or three of each of them. Swallowing them in handfuls with gulps of water direct from the faucet.
Well... you've done something. Whether it is good or bad, that remains to be seen.
Chew on a bit of newspaper, eat a spoonful of honey, and that'll about complete your dietary needs for the day. Theoretically.
[Use vitamins]
You doubt your heart could take any more vitamins. The B-12 alone threatens to blow the valves clean off that purple dynamo.
[Look at refrigerator]
You don't remember where you got it... you certainly didn't buy it. You'd sooner wrap a wooden box in wet hessian that go refrigerator shopping.
[Open refrigerator]
The refrigerator is open. Rejoice.
[Close refrigerator]
The refrigerator is closed.
[Open refrigerator]
The refrigerator is open. Rejoice.
[Look at refrigerator]
The refrigerator contains an array of condiments.... some milk... various half-opened tins, and a single apple.
[Look at apple]
A red apple. You don't know apple names. Some are red, some are green... maybe one is yellow. But they are all self-contained fructose-delivery systems of various states of deliciousness.
[Take apple]
You take the apple. It's cold. You have no idea why it was in the refrigerator.
[Use apple]
It's too early to eat. You need to keep light and agile in order to be prepared for the surprise attacks that lay in wait just outside your door.
Who will ambush you today??
The breeders?
The elderly?
The cripples?
The dark?
The light?
The hungry?
The obese?
Time will tell.
[Look at milk]
Of all the animal secretions in the world, you most enjoy milk.
You easily consume over a litre a day.
Have you ever seen a cow? They are enormous.
Is this correlated to milk? You are unsure.
But you aren't taking any chances.
[Use milk]
You take a long gulp of milk. Your stomach now feels adequately-lined. Thankyou, distant bovine friend. You have sustained me for another day.
[Use milk]
You are satisfied. Don't risk becoming over-satisfied. You may accidentally start a family or get a mortgage.
And that is one small step away from blowing your brains out in a department store changing room.
[Look at cat]
She is a good cat. Pretty by cat standards. White and orange and brown and black. A tortoiseshell.
Her stomach is disproportionately large compared to her body - a feature with its root in her ability to scratch your eyelids as you sleep unless you provide her with food.
She seems to be watching birds out the window. You certainly can't see them. But you trust that they are there.
[Pat cat] - adds [Your Charms] to inventory.
You pat the cat. She makes an unhappy noise but doesn't acknowledge your attention.
The tip of her tail begins to move back and forth, and you believe you have reached the tolerance limit for patting this cat.
[Pat cat]
You've probably given her enough attention for one sitting. One day her claws will hit a vein or such, and then it will be a bigger deal than just blotting out the blood with toilet tissue and ignoring it.
[South]
To the east lies the hallway.
To the west lies the balcony.
To the north lies the kitchen.
(To the south, the wide, wild world.) - Upon using keys.
[North]
Ah, the kitchen. The domestic nerve centre of the modern home.
A place for the modification and refinement of one form of caloric conveyance into another.
It sounds almost like some noble form of engineering.
...Until you see the ultimate result.
You try to spend as little time as possible here.
[Look]
You are in a mid-90s apartment kitchen. No larger than it need be. Near-completely constructed from plywood and veneer.
A refrigerator stands in the corner... vibrating.
The counter is lined with vitamins and supplements.
You cat sits atop the microwave, looking out the window. She doesn't acknowledge your presence.
The living room lies to the south.
[Look at vitamins]
Uppers, downers, bloopers, tinglers.
Not so much.
You've got your Fish Oils, your multivitamins, your additional Iron and Vitamin C.
You've got your experimental vitamins, your testosterone boosters, your 'energy enhancers'.
If you've got to suffer through this business, you'll suffer through it at peak efficiency.
[Use vitamins] - Adds [Your Enthusiasm] to inventory.
You take the vitamins. One or two or three of each of them. Swallowing them in handfuls with gulps of water direct from the faucet.
Well... you've done something. Whether it is good or bad, that remains to be seen.
Chew on a bit of newspaper, eat a spoonful of honey, and that'll about complete your dietary needs for the day. Theoretically.
[Use vitamins]
You doubt your heart could take any more vitamins. The B-12 alone threatens to blow the valves clean off that purple dynamo.
[Look at refrigerator]
You don't remember where you got it... you certainly didn't buy it. You'd sooner wrap a wooden box in wet hessian that go refrigerator shopping.
[Open refrigerator]
The refrigerator is open. Rejoice.
[Close refrigerator]
The refrigerator is closed.
[Open refrigerator]
The refrigerator is open. Rejoice.
[Look at refrigerator]
The refrigerator contains an array of condiments.... some milk... various half-opened tins, and a single apple.
[Look at apple]
A red apple. You don't know apple names. Some are red, some are green... maybe one is yellow. But they are all self-contained fructose-delivery systems of various states of deliciousness.
[Take apple]
You take the apple. It's cold. You have no idea why it was in the refrigerator.
[Use apple]
It's too early to eat. You need to keep light and agile in order to be prepared for the surprise attacks that lay in wait just outside your door.
Who will ambush you today??
The breeders?
The elderly?
The cripples?
The dark?
The light?
The hungry?
The obese?
Time will tell.
[Look at milk]
Of all the animal secretions in the world, you most enjoy milk.
You easily consume over a litre a day.
Have you ever seen a cow? They are enormous.
Is this correlated to milk? You are unsure.
But you aren't taking any chances.
[Use milk]
You take a long gulp of milk. Your stomach now feels adequately-lined. Thankyou, distant bovine friend. You have sustained me for another day.
[Use milk]
You are satisfied. Don't risk becoming over-satisfied. You may accidentally start a family or get a mortgage.
And that is one small step away from blowing your brains out in a department store changing room.
[Look at cat]
She is a good cat. Pretty by cat standards. White and orange and brown and black. A tortoiseshell.
Her stomach is disproportionately large compared to her body - a feature with its root in her ability to scratch your eyelids as you sleep unless you provide her with food.
She seems to be watching birds out the window. You certainly can't see them. But you trust that they are there.
[Pat cat] - adds [Your Charms] to inventory.
You pat the cat. She makes an unhappy noise but doesn't acknowledge your attention.
The tip of her tail begins to move back and forth, and you believe you have reached the tolerance limit for patting this cat.
[Pat cat]
You've probably given her enough attention for one sitting. One day her claws will hit a vein or such, and then it will be a bigger deal than just blotting out the blood with toilet tissue and ignoring it.
[South]
Episode One: Living Room
*Hallway*
To the north is the bathroom.
To the south is the bedroom.
To the west is the living room.
To the east is the spare room.
[West]
Ah, the living room. Commonly referred to as the 'lounge room'. But it doesn't feel correct to call it that. You barely use the 'lounge'. Which you call a 'couch'.
Until now, you didn't realise what a linguistic trap your living room was.
There are little flecks of paper everywhere. Notes, the corners of envelopes, bills in uncertain stages of payment.
Windows cover one entire wall, floor to ceiling. The room is customarily at the extreme of the weather. From what you gather about the furnace you are standing in - it will be a warm day.
[Look]
You are in the living room. Curtains cannot stop the assault of the day here. It is bright.
A pile of clothes is draped over an armchair.
Your mobile phone sits on the floor.
A pile of hastily-opened envelopes sits on the table.
Your wallet is in front of the television.
The front door is here. Stoic. Silent. Locked.
To the east lies the hallway.
To the west lies the balcony.
To the north lies the kitchen.
(To the south, the wide, wild world.) - Upon using keys.
[Look at couch]
It's a fairly standard couch. Blue. Covered in cat fur. The arms have been adequately ripped up by the multitudinous scratching of claws.
Your forearms can vouch for the effectiveness of sharpening claws via armrest.
Definitely.
[Use couch]
You sit on the couch. You try folding your legs beneath you. You lie down. You prop one leg on the top. You sit on the armrest.
Nope. You just don't get the allure.
[Use couch]
You tried. You failed. Better to leave that one to the philosophers.
[Look at clothes]
You get a definite color scheme vibe from the pile. High contrast. All roughly in the same color range.
Black, white, red, grey.
Purple for boxer shorts.
Your public-image costume is woven in there somewhere.
[Use clothes]
You carefully extract your costume. Suit jacket. Button-up. Trousers. The freshest pair of socks you can muster. A belt.
You don't know how they became so tightly integrated with the rest of the pile - seeing as you haven't touched the other clothes in a while.
Mystery of the universe.
[Use clothes]
Sir Edmund Hillary you are not. You've got your costume. Better to leave that business to the professionals.
[Look at costume]
A basic suit/shirt/slacks get-up. You're sure to fool 99% of people with this business.
The trick is to wear it like you're naked. And thus have nothing to lose.
Self-destructiveness is the inverse path to confidence.
The other is skill. But that requires constant, careful maintenance... and what are you - a doctor?
[Use costume] - (the office is now open)
You pull on the slacks, button up the shirt, throw on your jacket... after many false-starts, you thread your belt through the waistband.
You work your feet into the socks, and buckle yourself into a pair of barely-functional leather shoes.
Tread softly.
An carry a big stick.
[Use costume]
You could get naked - dance around - feel the cool breeze against your skin.
But you'd still be you. The rest is just denial.
[Look at phone]
It's your phone. It dings when you have email. It dings when you have a message. It subjects you constantly to the whim of any barely-sentient ape with access to oppose-able thumbs.
And that's exactly why you got it.
The time is currently [the time].
[Use phone]
You have: 2 new emails.
Email 1: Did you know that you could get some form of super-special deal on some rewards card that you registered for on a complete whim, for a service you never use?
Well... you can.
Email 2: Hello. How are you? I am fine. Events happened. Anecdote of import. Notification of desire to 'catch up'. Sign off. Friends name.
You aren't sure which one was generated via template.
[Use phone]
No new messages. No new emails. Nothing but a 2/3rds full battery bar and the possibility of tapping into a vast network of dynamic information.
[Take phone]
You take the phone, with a little fancy flip - catching it between two fingers by the top.
You don't know who you are impressing - but you're certain they're damned impressed.
[Look at envelopes]
You hate mail. Every day, in every way - some whore is trying to wet their beak.
In some weird type of Pavlovian-conditioning - your anxiety levels shoot through the roof at even the sight of an address.
There's something under the pile - something irregularly-shaped.
[Use envelopes]
You brush the envelopes to the floor and kick them into a corner. Ahh... they were obscuring your keys.
[Use envelopes]
They're dead now. They can't hurt you, or anybody else.
Their authors, however... will need to be taken care of.
[Look at keys]
Your keys. A purely utilitarian affair. You keep a pair of nail clippers on your keyring - and insist that they are must-have.
Nobody seems to believe you. But once you have seen a slightly-too-long thumbnail, you cannot un-see a slightly-too-long thumbnail.
And it will eat you up inside.
[Take keys]
You take your keys. The percussive jingling is quite soothing.
[Use keys] - you can now exit: South
The front door is now prepped for thoroughfare. You spin your keyring around like a trick-shooter, and make a subtle pose.
[Look at wallet]
The masculine of the handbag.
It is crammed with the evidence of your participation in petty commerce.... along with a small amount of cash... and proof of your identifying statistics as a functioning member of society.
[Take wallet]
You take your wallet. Ahh... a little bit of money... a little bit of power.
[Use wallet] - creates cash in Inventory, creates identification in Inventory.
You open the wallet and take stock of your financial situation. Enough cash to tolerate a day of standard events with a chaos-variance of maybe... five-percent.
[Look at cash]
Cash. You won't count it. You aren't a shopkeep.
[Look at identification]
Is that who I am???
I guess that is who you are.
Mr. Hunter Fielding.
Date of birth: 12th March, 1982.
License type: Full - standard vehicle.
Organ donor: Most definitely not. Most positively not.
The photo is certainly of you... but you feel cheated that your existence is somehow summarised by four lines.
[Look at television]
Flat-screened. Black. Of moderate size. You barely use it. But tomorrow they could make it illegal to scoff at the proletariat - and you know for sure they won't send you a courtesy email to notify you of the change.
So you mount your tele-screen, and let them talk incessantly at you.
[Use television]
You turn the television on and scroll about the free-to-air channels. All of the children's cartoons are in 3D now. Nothing 2D. Nothing fun. It seems like everybody is having and enjoying a dramatic adventure.
You can't think of anything worse to start the day than a heaping helping of drama.
You have a tenuous grasp on the metre of your heartbeats as it is.
[Use television]
You've been there. It was a disappointment. A niche hobby. This television thing will never catch on.
[Look at windows]
A sprawling suburban vista. The sun, the clouds, the delicate haze of pollution, some leaves, television antennae... it's got it all. Talk about your attention to detail.
The brief: Sir, I need a scene that I can look at for decades and never find anything of interest.
The reviews: A triumph!
To the north is the bathroom.
To the south is the bedroom.
To the west is the living room.
To the east is the spare room.
[West]
Ah, the living room. Commonly referred to as the 'lounge room'. But it doesn't feel correct to call it that. You barely use the 'lounge'. Which you call a 'couch'.
Until now, you didn't realise what a linguistic trap your living room was.
There are little flecks of paper everywhere. Notes, the corners of envelopes, bills in uncertain stages of payment.
Windows cover one entire wall, floor to ceiling. The room is customarily at the extreme of the weather. From what you gather about the furnace you are standing in - it will be a warm day.
[Look]
You are in the living room. Curtains cannot stop the assault of the day here. It is bright.
A pile of clothes is draped over an armchair.
Your mobile phone sits on the floor.
A pile of hastily-opened envelopes sits on the table.
Your wallet is in front of the television.
The front door is here. Stoic. Silent. Locked.
To the east lies the hallway.
To the west lies the balcony.
To the north lies the kitchen.
(To the south, the wide, wild world.) - Upon using keys.
[Look at couch]
It's a fairly standard couch. Blue. Covered in cat fur. The arms have been adequately ripped up by the multitudinous scratching of claws.
Your forearms can vouch for the effectiveness of sharpening claws via armrest.
Definitely.
[Use couch]
You sit on the couch. You try folding your legs beneath you. You lie down. You prop one leg on the top. You sit on the armrest.
Nope. You just don't get the allure.
[Use couch]
You tried. You failed. Better to leave that one to the philosophers.
[Look at clothes]
You get a definite color scheme vibe from the pile. High contrast. All roughly in the same color range.
Black, white, red, grey.
Purple for boxer shorts.
Your public-image costume is woven in there somewhere.
[Use clothes]
You carefully extract your costume. Suit jacket. Button-up. Trousers. The freshest pair of socks you can muster. A belt.
You don't know how they became so tightly integrated with the rest of the pile - seeing as you haven't touched the other clothes in a while.
Mystery of the universe.
[Use clothes]
Sir Edmund Hillary you are not. You've got your costume. Better to leave that business to the professionals.
[Look at costume]
A basic suit/shirt/slacks get-up. You're sure to fool 99% of people with this business.
The trick is to wear it like you're naked. And thus have nothing to lose.
Self-destructiveness is the inverse path to confidence.
The other is skill. But that requires constant, careful maintenance... and what are you - a doctor?
[Use costume] - (the office is now open)
You pull on the slacks, button up the shirt, throw on your jacket... after many false-starts, you thread your belt through the waistband.
You work your feet into the socks, and buckle yourself into a pair of barely-functional leather shoes.
Tread softly.
An carry a big stick.
[Use costume]
You could get naked - dance around - feel the cool breeze against your skin.
But you'd still be you. The rest is just denial.
[Look at phone]
It's your phone. It dings when you have email. It dings when you have a message. It subjects you constantly to the whim of any barely-sentient ape with access to oppose-able thumbs.
And that's exactly why you got it.
The time is currently [the time].
[Use phone]
You have: 2 new emails.
Email 1: Did you know that you could get some form of super-special deal on some rewards card that you registered for on a complete whim, for a service you never use?
Well... you can.
Email 2: Hello. How are you? I am fine. Events happened. Anecdote of import. Notification of desire to 'catch up'. Sign off. Friends name.
You aren't sure which one was generated via template.
[Use phone]
No new messages. No new emails. Nothing but a 2/3rds full battery bar and the possibility of tapping into a vast network of dynamic information.
[Take phone]
You take the phone, with a little fancy flip - catching it between two fingers by the top.
You don't know who you are impressing - but you're certain they're damned impressed.
[Look at envelopes]
You hate mail. Every day, in every way - some whore is trying to wet their beak.
In some weird type of Pavlovian-conditioning - your anxiety levels shoot through the roof at even the sight of an address.
There's something under the pile - something irregularly-shaped.
[Use envelopes]
You brush the envelopes to the floor and kick them into a corner. Ahh... they were obscuring your keys.
[Use envelopes]
They're dead now. They can't hurt you, or anybody else.
Their authors, however... will need to be taken care of.
[Look at keys]
Your keys. A purely utilitarian affair. You keep a pair of nail clippers on your keyring - and insist that they are must-have.
Nobody seems to believe you. But once you have seen a slightly-too-long thumbnail, you cannot un-see a slightly-too-long thumbnail.
And it will eat you up inside.
[Take keys]
You take your keys. The percussive jingling is quite soothing.
[Use keys] - you can now exit: South
The front door is now prepped for thoroughfare. You spin your keyring around like a trick-shooter, and make a subtle pose.
[Look at wallet]
The masculine of the handbag.
It is crammed with the evidence of your participation in petty commerce.... along with a small amount of cash... and proof of your identifying statistics as a functioning member of society.
[Take wallet]
You take your wallet. Ahh... a little bit of money... a little bit of power.
[Use wallet] - creates cash in Inventory, creates identification in Inventory.
You open the wallet and take stock of your financial situation. Enough cash to tolerate a day of standard events with a chaos-variance of maybe... five-percent.
[Look at cash]
Cash. You won't count it. You aren't a shopkeep.
[Look at identification]
Is that who I am???
I guess that is who you are.
Mr. Hunter Fielding.
Date of birth: 12th March, 1982.
License type: Full - standard vehicle.
Organ donor: Most definitely not. Most positively not.
The photo is certainly of you... but you feel cheated that your existence is somehow summarised by four lines.
[Look at television]
Flat-screened. Black. Of moderate size. You barely use it. But tomorrow they could make it illegal to scoff at the proletariat - and you know for sure they won't send you a courtesy email to notify you of the change.
So you mount your tele-screen, and let them talk incessantly at you.
[Use television]
You turn the television on and scroll about the free-to-air channels. All of the children's cartoons are in 3D now. Nothing 2D. Nothing fun. It seems like everybody is having and enjoying a dramatic adventure.
You can't think of anything worse to start the day than a heaping helping of drama.
You have a tenuous grasp on the metre of your heartbeats as it is.
[Use television]
You've been there. It was a disappointment. A niche hobby. This television thing will never catch on.
[Look at windows]
A sprawling suburban vista. The sun, the clouds, the delicate haze of pollution, some leaves, television antennae... it's got it all. Talk about your attention to detail.
The brief: Sir, I need a scene that I can look at for decades and never find anything of interest.
The reviews: A triumph!
Episode One: Bathroom Continued
[Look at toothbrush]
The bristles are well-worn - and flange outward. Although given the Amazonian orientation of your teeth - it's barely a surprise.
It's purple. That's your favorite color. Fun fact.
[Look at toothpaste]
An almost-full tube of toothpaste. When you squeeze it, the toothpaste comes out in three stripes - blue, green and white.
You slept at somebody's house once and remember that their toothpaste came out all green... and it chilled you to the very core.
[Look at razor]
Three blades, for maximum comfort. You saw an advertisement for a four-blade razor recently.
Eventually, it will be a perfect sphere of razors and lubricating strips, and you'll have to bounce it off the bathroom wall and let it slide over your face to get:
"The closest shave you have ever experienced".
[Look at shaving cream]
You just wanted shaving cream. Nothing that smelled like anything. Nothing that did anything. It should just cushion the application of razor-to-skin.
This is close. It comes out as foam. It doesn't smell like anything in particular.
But you regard it with suspicion nonetheless.
[Look at mirror]
You have no idea how to clean a mirror. If you did, you might. As it is - after every shower, you take one wet hand and force a moderately clean streak down the middle of the mirror.
[Use mirror]
There you are. You assume. You are always hesitant to regard that doppelganger as you.
You don't remember getting so old. And you certainly don't feel so tired. And you're concerned with how bloodshot that eye is getting.
You straighten your hair a little. Re-orient your eyebrows.
There. Sense of self: Achieved.
[Use mirror]
You know who you are.
Plus, you're slightly frightened that if you use the mirror again, you'll see somebody entirely different. And you don't have the tolerance or motivation required to re-orient yourself to a whole new sense of self.
The bristles are well-worn - and flange outward. Although given the Amazonian orientation of your teeth - it's barely a surprise.
It's purple. That's your favorite color. Fun fact.
[Look at toothpaste]
An almost-full tube of toothpaste. When you squeeze it, the toothpaste comes out in three stripes - blue, green and white.
You slept at somebody's house once and remember that their toothpaste came out all green... and it chilled you to the very core.
[Look at razor]
Three blades, for maximum comfort. You saw an advertisement for a four-blade razor recently.
Eventually, it will be a perfect sphere of razors and lubricating strips, and you'll have to bounce it off the bathroom wall and let it slide over your face to get:
"The closest shave you have ever experienced".
[Look at shaving cream]
You just wanted shaving cream. Nothing that smelled like anything. Nothing that did anything. It should just cushion the application of razor-to-skin.
This is close. It comes out as foam. It doesn't smell like anything in particular.
But you regard it with suspicion nonetheless.
[Look at mirror]
You have no idea how to clean a mirror. If you did, you might. As it is - after every shower, you take one wet hand and force a moderately clean streak down the middle of the mirror.
[Use mirror]
There you are. You assume. You are always hesitant to regard that doppelganger as you.
You don't remember getting so old. And you certainly don't feel so tired. And you're concerned with how bloodshot that eye is getting.
You straighten your hair a little. Re-orient your eyebrows.
There. Sense of self: Achieved.
[Use mirror]
You know who you are.
Plus, you're slightly frightened that if you use the mirror again, you'll see somebody entirely different. And you don't have the tolerance or motivation required to re-orient yourself to a whole new sense of self.
Episode One: The Bedroom, The Hallway, The Bathroom, The Spare Room
You are awake. It is Tuesday. The date? You can't remember. Definitely not pay-day. Not your birthday. Not Christmas. Unlikely Easter.
Your mouth is thick with sleep, and your stomach churns as acid sucks hungrily at its lining.
Good morning, world.
You're going to have to get through this one. One way - or another.
And tomorrow you will think the same thing.
And - the day after.
Repeat. Ad nauseam.
And then in some glorious deus ex machina - something amazing will happen and it will all become meaningful.
Yes. That's exactly what's going to happen.
To meditate, and ponder the range of available actions in life - request [Help]
[Help]
The world is a large and seemingly-complex place... that can be navigated by a few simple, repetitive, depressing actions.
To cast your lofty gaze upon the meaningless of it all, summon [Help].
To pat your pockets and take stock of your empire, invoke [Inventory].
To summarise the bizarre and swirling mass of obscure objects that confront you, you must [Look].
And, having seen - you must [Use] these things in order to bend them to your will.
Conversely - channel your inner rodent, and [Take] what you desire. You are - what you own!
To investigate a discrete object with the patience, care and obsessive-clutching of a methed-out watchmaker - simply [Look] at the thing. All will be revealed.
Implement some sort of sick Venn-modifications, and [Use] one item on another.
But remember ... the world is a broad affair. Sometimes you may have to [Kill], sometimes you may have to [Love] - but above all... you must [Triumph].
[Look]
You are in a beige room. The whole affair is... off-white.
The morning sun leaks in through the gap in the curtains.
An alarm clock provides a rusty, irritating percussion.
The bed is like some seething vortex of body fluids and minute particles of skin and hair. Your love for it is... disturbing at best.
To the north lies the hallway.
[Look at curtains]
The curtains are... fittingly... a tan color. You didn't buy them. You didn't hang them. They were here when you got here. And if they were burnt horribly tomorrow, you probably wouldn't replace them. Modesty has an effective radius. Yours is thirty feet.
[Use curtains]
You throw the curtains aside. The grandiose movement directly contrasts your shabby attire.
The light streams into the room. Outside, red brick building swell sickeningly across the vista.
[Use curtains]
They're as open as they're going to get. Plus, every touch sends out a cloud of dust. Better to minimize contact.
[Look at alarm clock]
You don't remember setting the time, or the alarm. If the power goes out, you'll probably just rely on your body clock. Or find a spouse to wake you up.
The numbers are composed of red lines. You've lost countless hours of sleep attempting to spell words with the lines.
Once you discovered that - if turned ninety-degrees - the time looked like a man with a beard - or a bow-tie - or glasses... and it freaked you royally out.
[Use alarm clock]
You haphazardly press buttons. Their labels have long since faded. The alarm stops. A minor success.
It is quiet now, but for the tittering of birds and the rushing of gray-water through distant drainpipes.
[Use alarm clock]
You hit some buttons but don't achieve much.
[Look at bed]
The bed is not off-white. It is not brown. You don't remember the motivation, or the action - but at some stage you bought an Asian-esque bedding set. You can't read the writing... nor do you know if the characters are Chinese... Korean... Japanese...
The whole acquisition likely stemmed from some perverted mid-afternoon dream.
But all-in-all, it's the most stylish thing in your house.
And that fact is depressing.
[Make bed]
You throw the covers about mindlessly. Somehow - stasis is achieved.
The bed has been silenced. Neutered. It sits in silent, defeated geometry. You feel as if you have destroyed something beautiful.
[Make bed]
You can't do anything more with the bed. You've heard of something called 'hospital corners' but you have no idea what that means.
[North]
The hallway is a strange entity. Oft-travelled, seldom-analysed. You have propped yourself against its doorframes ... cast your discarded clothing on its floor... but you don't think you could identify it given a collection of similar hallways.
[Look]
You are in the hallway. The walls are cream-coloured and cold.
The floor has been swept-clean by lazy footsteps.
A crooked hanging on the wall depicts a Japanese fisherman in front of a mountain. The lack of perspective bothers you.
To the north is the bathroom.
To the south is the bedroom.
To the west is the living room.
To the east is the spare room.
[Use hanging]
You straighten the wall-hanging. The newly-angled lines are no more sensible than previously.
A piece of oriental artwork hangs on the wall. The lack of depth or scale bothers you. That fisherman is going to have a heck of a time conquering that quantum nightmare.
[Use hanging]
The hanging is already straight. And you feel you would destroy the fabric of space by manipulating those bizarre lines any further.
[North]
The bathroom - a high-volume, high-tenure room in any household. Here is no exception. Whether it is pressing your skull into the tiles beneath the steaming showerhead, or digging ingrown hairs from your face with a safety-pin, this room has been the focal point of nearly all of your philosophical crises.
[Look]
You are in the bathroom. Brown tiles mostly cover the floor. Where tiles fail, gray grout triumphs.
The shower stands in the corner. It knows. And you know it knows.
The basin has two taps and a substantial amount of grime.
A mirror hangs above the basin, its edges slightly obscured by old shaving cream and soap residue.
The toilet is to your left.
A toothbrush rests on the basin.
A tube of toothpaste balances on the edge of the vanity.
A razor is perched in a filthy glass.
A can of shaving cream has fallen to the floor.
To the south - the hallway.
[Look at shower]
You have spent a disproportionate amount of time in this shower. The showerhead only reaches the base of your neck, but you've made an art of bending backward to rinse your hair.
[Use shower]
You take a hot shower.
You think about... nothing.
Or more... you attempt to think about nothing.
In reality... you obsess over the events of the previous day.
Before your minute failures and social faux-pas' drive you to a fatal anxiety attack, the water turns cold, and you dry yourself off.
[Use shower]
You don't feel much like an ice-cold shower. You doubt your heart could take it.
[Look at basin]
Consistently... world over... the basin is a disgusting place. Toothbrushes laying in puddles of dark water. Hair. Scum. Discolored cotton buds.
This is, predictably, no exception.
[Use basin]
You wash your face, rinse your mouth, scrub your nails and generally attempt to add a bit of sparkle to the whole affair.
[Use basin]
You're just distributing the dirt around now. There's a golden dirt-to-cleanliness ratio - and you're right at the intersection.
[Use toothbrush]
You clean your teeth. It never really feels like the day has started until you do that. Though you often wonder exactly what is dirtying your teeth during the alleged incapacitation of sleep.
[Use toothbrush]
Cleaning your teeth too much is bad for the enamel. Apparantely.
[Use toothpaste]
You take a mouthful of toothpaste and swish it around a bit. You don't feel much fresher.
[Use toothpaste]
With all the chalk and... freshness in that stuff, you barely want to aim it near your face, let alone risk repeated exposure to it.
[Use toothpaste on toothbrush]
You put the toothpaste on your toothbrush. You wonder if - in the bathroom accessories world... that is some sort of euphemism.
A pasted-toothbrush sits on the bench. You are concerned that the weight will drag it face-down into that thin layer of dirty water.
[Look at pasted-toothbrush]
It's all pasted-up and ready to go. You think you see a twinge of enthusiasm ripple through it. But that could be the lack of calories talking.
[Use pasted-toothbrush]
You lead a frenzied assault on plaque... bacteria... oral communism... all forms of mouth undesireables.
You feel like some form of bathroom Conan.
[Use pasted-toothbrush]
You are spent. This must be how Napoleon felt. Give the reported size of his meals - his tooth cleaning regime may have rivalled yours.
[Use razor]
You run the razor over your face, cultivating that - 'I haven't shaved today but I did shave recently' feel.
[Use razor]
You're tripping perilously close to vivisection as it is, hombre. Better put the shiv down.
[Use shaving cream]
Your put the shaving cream on your face and heat the razor under the tap. You hear a lot of talk about a 'lather' but you've no idea how to achieve it, or what it is. You imagine that pearl of wisdom is acquired from the Father. Ah - the glory of the modern family structure.
A warm razor sits on the basin. That ought to bring those stubborn hairs down to a manageable size.
[Look at warm razor]
Visibly, the razor is the same as it was before. Experience tells you that it should be hot now. But your eyes... they can't judge that. You're getting some severe sensory dissonance - look away!
[Use shaving cream]
You imagine that foaming behavior is achieved by dangerous gases. Potentially of ex-military applications. Better to leave it.
[Use warm razor]
You want to say... the razor slides through your stubble like a knife through butter.
And it would be true - it would - bar for the fact that the razor is months old, and has sliced well above its allotment of hairs.
At best, it forces the hair into grudging submission. The hair - along with your skin - your nerve endings - and your motivation.
[Use warm razor]
The ordeal is over - lets not repeat it until entirely necessary.
[Use toilet]
You sit - and you feel your body lighten. You stare at the floor, the wall, the roof...
Some sort of Zen trance has overtaken you. It's like being on some form of fecal pilgrimage.
You flush the toilet and make a vain effort to shield the basin from invisible airborne germs. But the lazy flailing of your arms betrays the futility of it all.
[Use toilet]
It's a relaxing, but fundamentally unpleasant experience. Let's not manufacture any fetishes, my dear.
[South]
*Hallway*
To the north is the bathroom.
To the south is the bedroom.
To the west is the living room.
To the east is the spare room.
[East]
The spare room was intended to be your sanctuary; the place where you could close the door and enter some Buddhist-styled trance and magically achieve all of your unrelated goals.
Of course, this didn't occur.
[Look]
The curtains in the spare room are perpetually open - and the whole affair has the cold and sterile feel of a new car.
A crowded bookshelf rests beside the window.
A set of free weights is in the middle of the room - and a flat-bench covered with expired employment contracts runs along the wall.
Three guitars are propped against the wall - in various states of string-ed-ness.
To the west is the ubiquitous hallway.
[Look at bookshelf]
When you just can't resist your O.C.D any longer - you organise and re-organise this bookshelf. Today - the books are arranged by tone, subject and your personal rating.
You're sure if you explored a bit - you would find a book you feel like reading.
[Use bookshelf] - adds [Your Brain] to inventory
You gradually scan each shelf - left to right. The disembodied plot highlights of a hundred books bust your synapses wide open.
You find a book! This is the book - you're sure of it.
[Look at book]
The book is titled 'Silas Marner' - by some individual named George Eliot. You've never read any of his books before - but you're feeling adventurous.
[Take book]
You take the book. Along with passing the time, it will assure that you look intellectual to any potential mates. All of your books have passed your own harsh cover-verification testing.
That is: Will the cover of this book look ridiculous if read in public?
[Use bookshelf]
The book-hunting process is a long and tiring affair. You doubt your tired vessels could handle another.
[Use book]
You don't have time to read it now. Even if you did - it would feel weird to just sit and read when there are so many other things to do.
[Look at weights]
Two dumbells and one barbell, along with a handful of weight plates. At one stage - your worked out nightly. Then you got a gym membership - and it became thrice-weekly. Now you write endless workout plans that you never follow.
Progress!
[Use weights] - Adds [Your confidence] to inventory.
You do a few uninspired arm curls - some shoulder presses. You stand on your toes and precariously lower yourself into a squat.
It feels good to get a little blood flowing.
But bittersweet that the cortisol and the seething anger will likely degenerate your muscles to the point of being thin black strands of pure organic hatred.
[Use weights]
You aren't tired, but you also aren't motivated. Maybe one day. When you get your diet right. When your sleep pattern is stable. When you aren't as busy.
Maybe - one - day.
[Look at guitars]
A long time ago you learned how to put together a few chords... a pentatonic minor scale... and gained the capacity to grow facial hair... and all of this aligned to make you believe that you were some breed of musician.
Well, here is the result of that. And clinically - you can still understand the compulsion to collect these ultimately-pointless articles.
And then... there's always that obsession with wood. You see raw wood... you must have it.
Only one of the guitars is in a playable state. It's a Fender Telecaster Thinline. Dual humbuckers. Semi-hollow body. You're so frightened of breaking it that you barely play it.
[Use guitar]
You pick out a rambling tune up and down the A Pentatonic minor scale... You've been favoring the same sequence of notes for nearly four years now.
You wish your knowledge of music theory was more advanced... and you toy with the idea of buying a book about it... but you know you'll only do it if that cute individual is working behind the counter at the bookstore.
And you haven't seen them in a while.
[Use guitar]
You're barely sustaining the illusion of aptitude here. You don't think your self-esteem could handle the strain of justifying your deviations from consonance.
[West]
*Hallway*
To the north is the bathroom.
To the south is the bedroom.
To the west is the living room.
To the east is the spare room.
Your mouth is thick with sleep, and your stomach churns as acid sucks hungrily at its lining.
Good morning, world.
You're going to have to get through this one. One way - or another.
And tomorrow you will think the same thing.
And - the day after.
Repeat. Ad nauseam.
And then in some glorious deus ex machina - something amazing will happen and it will all become meaningful.
Yes. That's exactly what's going to happen.
To meditate, and ponder the range of available actions in life - request [Help]
[Help]
The world is a large and seemingly-complex place... that can be navigated by a few simple, repetitive, depressing actions.
To cast your lofty gaze upon the meaningless of it all, summon [Help].
To pat your pockets and take stock of your empire, invoke [Inventory].
To summarise the bizarre and swirling mass of obscure objects that confront you, you must [Look].
And, having seen - you must [Use] these things in order to bend them to your will.
Conversely - channel your inner rodent, and [Take] what you desire. You are - what you own!
To investigate a discrete object with the patience, care and obsessive-clutching of a methed-out watchmaker - simply [Look] at the thing. All will be revealed.
Implement some sort of sick Venn-modifications, and [Use] one item on another.
But remember ... the world is a broad affair. Sometimes you may have to [Kill], sometimes you may have to [Love] - but above all... you must [Triumph].
[Look]
You are in a beige room. The whole affair is... off-white.
The morning sun leaks in through the gap in the curtains.
An alarm clock provides a rusty, irritating percussion.
The bed is like some seething vortex of body fluids and minute particles of skin and hair. Your love for it is... disturbing at best.
To the north lies the hallway.
[Look at curtains]
The curtains are... fittingly... a tan color. You didn't buy them. You didn't hang them. They were here when you got here. And if they were burnt horribly tomorrow, you probably wouldn't replace them. Modesty has an effective radius. Yours is thirty feet.
[Use curtains]
You throw the curtains aside. The grandiose movement directly contrasts your shabby attire.
The light streams into the room. Outside, red brick building swell sickeningly across the vista.
[Use curtains]
They're as open as they're going to get. Plus, every touch sends out a cloud of dust. Better to minimize contact.
[Look at alarm clock]
You don't remember setting the time, or the alarm. If the power goes out, you'll probably just rely on your body clock. Or find a spouse to wake you up.
The numbers are composed of red lines. You've lost countless hours of sleep attempting to spell words with the lines.
Once you discovered that - if turned ninety-degrees - the time looked like a man with a beard - or a bow-tie - or glasses... and it freaked you royally out.
[Use alarm clock]
You haphazardly press buttons. Their labels have long since faded. The alarm stops. A minor success.
It is quiet now, but for the tittering of birds and the rushing of gray-water through distant drainpipes.
[Use alarm clock]
You hit some buttons but don't achieve much.
[Look at bed]
The bed is not off-white. It is not brown. You don't remember the motivation, or the action - but at some stage you bought an Asian-esque bedding set. You can't read the writing... nor do you know if the characters are Chinese... Korean... Japanese...
The whole acquisition likely stemmed from some perverted mid-afternoon dream.
But all-in-all, it's the most stylish thing in your house.
And that fact is depressing.
[Make bed]
You throw the covers about mindlessly. Somehow - stasis is achieved.
The bed has been silenced. Neutered. It sits in silent, defeated geometry. You feel as if you have destroyed something beautiful.
[Make bed]
You can't do anything more with the bed. You've heard of something called 'hospital corners' but you have no idea what that means.
[North]
The hallway is a strange entity. Oft-travelled, seldom-analysed. You have propped yourself against its doorframes ... cast your discarded clothing on its floor... but you don't think you could identify it given a collection of similar hallways.
[Look]
You are in the hallway. The walls are cream-coloured and cold.
The floor has been swept-clean by lazy footsteps.
A crooked hanging on the wall depicts a Japanese fisherman in front of a mountain. The lack of perspective bothers you.
To the north is the bathroom.
To the south is the bedroom.
To the west is the living room.
To the east is the spare room.
[Use hanging]
You straighten the wall-hanging. The newly-angled lines are no more sensible than previously.
A piece of oriental artwork hangs on the wall. The lack of depth or scale bothers you. That fisherman is going to have a heck of a time conquering that quantum nightmare.
[Use hanging]
The hanging is already straight. And you feel you would destroy the fabric of space by manipulating those bizarre lines any further.
[North]
The bathroom - a high-volume, high-tenure room in any household. Here is no exception. Whether it is pressing your skull into the tiles beneath the steaming showerhead, or digging ingrown hairs from your face with a safety-pin, this room has been the focal point of nearly all of your philosophical crises.
[Look]
You are in the bathroom. Brown tiles mostly cover the floor. Where tiles fail, gray grout triumphs.
The shower stands in the corner. It knows. And you know it knows.
The basin has two taps and a substantial amount of grime.
A mirror hangs above the basin, its edges slightly obscured by old shaving cream and soap residue.
The toilet is to your left.
A toothbrush rests on the basin.
A tube of toothpaste balances on the edge of the vanity.
A razor is perched in a filthy glass.
A can of shaving cream has fallen to the floor.
To the south - the hallway.
[Look at shower]
You have spent a disproportionate amount of time in this shower. The showerhead only reaches the base of your neck, but you've made an art of bending backward to rinse your hair.
[Use shower]
You take a hot shower.
You think about... nothing.
Or more... you attempt to think about nothing.
In reality... you obsess over the events of the previous day.
Before your minute failures and social faux-pas' drive you to a fatal anxiety attack, the water turns cold, and you dry yourself off.
[Use shower]
You don't feel much like an ice-cold shower. You doubt your heart could take it.
[Look at basin]
Consistently... world over... the basin is a disgusting place. Toothbrushes laying in puddles of dark water. Hair. Scum. Discolored cotton buds.
This is, predictably, no exception.
[Use basin]
You wash your face, rinse your mouth, scrub your nails and generally attempt to add a bit of sparkle to the whole affair.
[Use basin]
You're just distributing the dirt around now. There's a golden dirt-to-cleanliness ratio - and you're right at the intersection.
[Use toothbrush]
You clean your teeth. It never really feels like the day has started until you do that. Though you often wonder exactly what is dirtying your teeth during the alleged incapacitation of sleep.
[Use toothbrush]
Cleaning your teeth too much is bad for the enamel. Apparantely.
[Use toothpaste]
You take a mouthful of toothpaste and swish it around a bit. You don't feel much fresher.
[Use toothpaste]
With all the chalk and... freshness in that stuff, you barely want to aim it near your face, let alone risk repeated exposure to it.
[Use toothpaste on toothbrush]
You put the toothpaste on your toothbrush. You wonder if - in the bathroom accessories world... that is some sort of euphemism.
A pasted-toothbrush sits on the bench. You are concerned that the weight will drag it face-down into that thin layer of dirty water.
[Look at pasted-toothbrush]
It's all pasted-up and ready to go. You think you see a twinge of enthusiasm ripple through it. But that could be the lack of calories talking.
[Use pasted-toothbrush]
You lead a frenzied assault on plaque... bacteria... oral communism... all forms of mouth undesireables.
You feel like some form of bathroom Conan.
[Use pasted-toothbrush]
You are spent. This must be how Napoleon felt. Give the reported size of his meals - his tooth cleaning regime may have rivalled yours.
[Use razor]
You run the razor over your face, cultivating that - 'I haven't shaved today but I did shave recently' feel.
[Use razor]
You're tripping perilously close to vivisection as it is, hombre. Better put the shiv down.
[Use shaving cream]
Your put the shaving cream on your face and heat the razor under the tap. You hear a lot of talk about a 'lather' but you've no idea how to achieve it, or what it is. You imagine that pearl of wisdom is acquired from the Father. Ah - the glory of the modern family structure.
A warm razor sits on the basin. That ought to bring those stubborn hairs down to a manageable size.
[Look at warm razor]
Visibly, the razor is the same as it was before. Experience tells you that it should be hot now. But your eyes... they can't judge that. You're getting some severe sensory dissonance - look away!
[Use shaving cream]
You imagine that foaming behavior is achieved by dangerous gases. Potentially of ex-military applications. Better to leave it.
[Use warm razor]
You want to say... the razor slides through your stubble like a knife through butter.
And it would be true - it would - bar for the fact that the razor is months old, and has sliced well above its allotment of hairs.
At best, it forces the hair into grudging submission. The hair - along with your skin - your nerve endings - and your motivation.
[Use warm razor]
The ordeal is over - lets not repeat it until entirely necessary.
[Use toilet]
You sit - and you feel your body lighten. You stare at the floor, the wall, the roof...
Some sort of Zen trance has overtaken you. It's like being on some form of fecal pilgrimage.
You flush the toilet and make a vain effort to shield the basin from invisible airborne germs. But the lazy flailing of your arms betrays the futility of it all.
[Use toilet]
It's a relaxing, but fundamentally unpleasant experience. Let's not manufacture any fetishes, my dear.
[South]
*Hallway*
To the north is the bathroom.
To the south is the bedroom.
To the west is the living room.
To the east is the spare room.
[East]
The spare room was intended to be your sanctuary; the place where you could close the door and enter some Buddhist-styled trance and magically achieve all of your unrelated goals.
Of course, this didn't occur.
[Look]
The curtains in the spare room are perpetually open - and the whole affair has the cold and sterile feel of a new car.
A crowded bookshelf rests beside the window.
A set of free weights is in the middle of the room - and a flat-bench covered with expired employment contracts runs along the wall.
Three guitars are propped against the wall - in various states of string-ed-ness.
To the west is the ubiquitous hallway.
[Look at bookshelf]
When you just can't resist your O.C.D any longer - you organise and re-organise this bookshelf. Today - the books are arranged by tone, subject and your personal rating.
You're sure if you explored a bit - you would find a book you feel like reading.
[Use bookshelf] - adds [Your Brain] to inventory
You gradually scan each shelf - left to right. The disembodied plot highlights of a hundred books bust your synapses wide open.
You find a book! This is the book - you're sure of it.
[Look at book]
The book is titled 'Silas Marner' - by some individual named George Eliot. You've never read any of his books before - but you're feeling adventurous.
[Take book]
You take the book. Along with passing the time, it will assure that you look intellectual to any potential mates. All of your books have passed your own harsh cover-verification testing.
That is: Will the cover of this book look ridiculous if read in public?
[Use bookshelf]
The book-hunting process is a long and tiring affair. You doubt your tired vessels could handle another.
[Use book]
You don't have time to read it now. Even if you did - it would feel weird to just sit and read when there are so many other things to do.
[Look at weights]
Two dumbells and one barbell, along with a handful of weight plates. At one stage - your worked out nightly. Then you got a gym membership - and it became thrice-weekly. Now you write endless workout plans that you never follow.
Progress!
[Use weights] - Adds [Your confidence] to inventory.
You do a few uninspired arm curls - some shoulder presses. You stand on your toes and precariously lower yourself into a squat.
It feels good to get a little blood flowing.
But bittersweet that the cortisol and the seething anger will likely degenerate your muscles to the point of being thin black strands of pure organic hatred.
[Use weights]
You aren't tired, but you also aren't motivated. Maybe one day. When you get your diet right. When your sleep pattern is stable. When you aren't as busy.
Maybe - one - day.
[Look at guitars]
A long time ago you learned how to put together a few chords... a pentatonic minor scale... and gained the capacity to grow facial hair... and all of this aligned to make you believe that you were some breed of musician.
Well, here is the result of that. And clinically - you can still understand the compulsion to collect these ultimately-pointless articles.
And then... there's always that obsession with wood. You see raw wood... you must have it.
Only one of the guitars is in a playable state. It's a Fender Telecaster Thinline. Dual humbuckers. Semi-hollow body. You're so frightened of breaking it that you barely play it.
[Use guitar]
You pick out a rambling tune up and down the A Pentatonic minor scale... You've been favoring the same sequence of notes for nearly four years now.
You wish your knowledge of music theory was more advanced... and you toy with the idea of buying a book about it... but you know you'll only do it if that cute individual is working behind the counter at the bookstore.
And you haven't seen them in a while.
[Use guitar]
You're barely sustaining the illusion of aptitude here. You don't think your self-esteem could handle the strain of justifying your deviations from consonance.
[West]
*Hallway*
To the north is the bathroom.
To the south is the bedroom.
To the west is the living room.
To the east is the spare room.
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