YOU ARE CURRENTLY SEEING BLOG POSTS IN PROPER CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER. While in this mode, the links at the bottom and top of each page are not correctly labeled. However, the left pointing arrow always advances forward in time, and the right pointing arrow retreats.
Like not post about the Present in the Present and give things away to certain folks.
True, most of it Happened in the Past, but it’s going to catch up to the Now pretty darn Soon, and I must start Yesterday to have Space Tomorrow.
(How Einsteinly Zen of me, eh?)
Janice is too sick just now to talk to you all in person. But the beautiful words she already wrote will speak for her just fine. — Ox
Because I’m saying all kinds of brilliant stuff, full of allegories and shit?
Or maybe you just want to get to know me better?
Anyway, we’ll be underground with Francine and the others pretty soon, just hang.
Greetings friends. I have read your kind words about the partially “auto” and thoroughly biographical narrative The Hafeem Saul. I thank you.
I appear here now at the request of Janice, who has asked me to comment on the most recently released issue of The Hospice. She is concerned that it might seem irrelevant or petty, and would like me to explicate it. I am glad to do so. And, with the aid of a creature that I am reliably informed is a not a creature at all, but a soft mechanism, namely “ObservingAll,” I have sufficiently mastered the art of “posting” to write the following.
As this “installment” describes, a typically egocentric neurosurgeon, Dr. Ogsbury, attempted to reassure Janice regarding her upcoming brain surgery by informing her that, although she was about to endure said surgery in a fully conscious condition, she would not remember any of it; therefore, in his opinion, matters would stand the same had it never occurred at all. Janice retorted that by the same logic he could have no objection to his own murder. This perceptive remark (by a remarkable young woman) set off a train of reflections in my mind that have not yet run out.
Epictetus wrote: Why should I fear death? If I am, death is not. If death is, I am not. Why should I fear that which can only exist when I do not?
Very true. Yet I have never met the man who found these words comforting. (Bear in mind I write this as a person who has had the honor of meeting Epictetus.) But exactly why they fail to comfort remains unclear to me, and I have puzzled over the question much of my life.
When I heard Janice’s riposte to the sadly unphilosophical surgeon, I recognized that she had, in her uniquely individual way, raised a penetrating analogy to the problem. I believe it touches the heart of the matter, though in a manner I am still attempting to fathom. How shall I frame it? Perhaps like this:
Suppose I know that I shall soon undergo a savaging at the hands of a surgeon; say, for example, as is typical, he desires to earn the title “sawbones” by so removing my leg. Suppose that I know I shall not receive any anesthesia during this highly anticipated event, and will necessarily savor each tooth of the blade as it hews through my femur. And suppose finally that I will remember none of it.
Have I any cause for complaint? For concern? For demurral? For lawsuit?
At the present moment, I feel no pain. In the future I will remember no pain. If there is anyone who will be harmed by the event, it is therefore not me.
Strangely, though, I do not find this comforting.
Why do I not? — Saul
This is all still past tense — last winter. But in about six more installments you’ll reach the present tense. And it’s a tense time for me, I can tell you.
Not only can I, but I will. Only, not just now, because someone is banging down my door. Back at you soon. –Ox
Remember that little finger I said was keeping me safe? Well, she isn’t keeping me safe anymore. She’s stepped away right when things are craziest, the way she likes to. She hasn’t said no, she hasn’t said yes. She’s letting chance decide. As is her way.
The only thing protecting us now is that the Illuminati don’t know where we are. Not going to last long. But we’re up to an eyeful and more than meets the eye also, I promise you that. It’s just a race to see if we can finish what we’re up to before they get here. My prediction: It will all be over, one way or the other, in a couple of weeks. Either they win or we do.
In the mean time, my own lifespan has become more indefinite, but in a bad way. So I’ve handed over everything I’ve written to ObservingAll. No matter what happens to me you’ll get to read it.
I’m also writing up some reflections Menniss politely shouted in my ears a bit ago after battering my door down and half throttling me. Those will go up too. And then … well, we’ll see.
Back to the quill. — Ox
As per Oxadrenal’s instructions, I shall rapidly post the seven short installments that will bring you up to date with what happened on October 7th, 2010. — ObservingAll
I know it’s going to be hard to keep track of the time frame with the narratives zooming up toward the present while the present itself keeps moseying along at its usual slow-poke rate of one day per day.
Here’s a sign post: Today, Janice asked me, “What kind of shivering do you have to do on your way up from death to immortality?”
When you read her saying that, which won’t be too long, you’ll know you’re getting filled in on something that happened on October 8th, 2010 — Ox
For another, this blog gets mentioned.
Also, it covers several months and brings the narrative right up to October 3rd, 2010.
Remember what happened then? — Ox
Well, as long as I’m here I’m going to comment. Can’t help. My nature.
The parts going up tomorrow are pretty darn exciting. I really ought to parcel them out over a couple of days, but, naah. I’m not mean enough. The rest of Narrative 7 will appear in one burst.– Ox
P.S. Though, of course, as probably some of you have noticed, installments sometimes appear over there before I mention them here. Just saying …
Francine and Lemon had been talking about using a retrovirus to put immortality genes in someone’s DNA. The Eldest overheard them, and said this:
I have had myself taught about this DNA. I have learned of these words inscribed on a scripture hidden deep within the bodies of all beings. Words inscribed by some god or goddess who knew of writing four billion years before humans learned. And this creature you possess [she means the retrovirus], it shall on your instructions reinscribe this scripture?
Is that not sacrilege? Can I permit it? Can I sanction offense to a god or goddess I do not know, and one so powerful?
What Francine said in response didn’t exactly help, but, in in the end, Saul and Janice convinced her.
(Actually, what Saul says is pretty much the same as what Bob and a few other people commenting on this blog have said. Only he’s a heck of a lot more polite.) — Ox
Since, amazingly, I’m still around, we’re starting the next — and probably the last — narrative. I’m calling it “The Asclepion.” Which (for those lots of you who don’t know ancient Greek and those few who don’t know how to Google) refers to a healing temple.
There will be lots of authors for this part, not just me or Janice. Also, it might get into real time. I’ve set things up so Menniss can insert things by himself.
That seems to make him nervous so he’s sending things to me and I’m fixing em up a bit. I asked Francine if she’d contribute too, but she hasn’t said yes. (She hasn’t said no either. She’s frying size-dwarfing fish.) So, in the mean time, I’m going to write her parts all on my own, with a lot of poetic license. — Ox