Man versus Man (though some have scrappily argued: Man versus Self)
6663: The character lights the wick.
6664: The character hurls the bomb.
6665: The bomb does not leave his hand.
6666: The fox lifts a jar that reads 'Superglue'.
6667: The fox holds the jar in the air for the character to read.
6668: The fox holds the jar in the air for the character to read.
6669: The fox grins broadly.
6670: The character grows panicked.
6671: The spark eats more of the fuse.
6672: The spark eats the last of the fuse, turning the bomb into a bowling ball.
6673: The bowling ball detonates.
6674: The frame turns gray with smoke.
6675: The smoke thins.
6676: The smoke thins.
6677: The smoke dissipates.
6678: An anthropomorphic silhouette stands in a fire-charred hallway. Only the eyes are white.
6679: The figure stands in the hallway. A trombone slide begins to play.
6680: The figure stands in the hallway.
6681: The figure stands in the hallway.
6682: The eyes turn black. A pizzicato plucks.
6683: The eyes turn white.
6684: The frame fades.
6685: The frame turns black.
6686: The trombone flatulates with a wide vibrato at its slump.
Man versus Nature
9957: The blackened silhouette and the hallway return to their repaired and colored states. The silhouette, now a character, does not have a discernible species but may be construed as mammalian. The decor is trite, and frankly, gaudy.
9958: The character's eyes telescope outside of their sockets. A klaxon howls.
9959: The eyes retract.
9960: The eyes telescope.
9961: The eyes retract.
9962: The character views a female anthropomorphite of the same vaguely mammalian phenotype. Though the lipstick, dress, and cleavage suggest her gender, the possibility of transvestism is never addressed throughout the animation.
9963: The female sashays down the poorly decorated hallway. A saxophone begins growling.
9964: She moves her hips as she takes a step.
9965: She moves her hips as she takes a step.
9966: She moves her hips as she takes a step.
9967: She moves her hips as she takes a step.
9968: Though the shameless ogling and copious salivation suggest his gender, the possibility of androgynous lesbianism is never addressed throughout the animation.
9969: She moves her hips as she takes a step.
9970: She moves her hips as she takes a step.
9971: The character stands behind a trapezoid labeled '1000kg'. As a two-dimensional object, we can assume the trapezoid's mass is infinitesimal.
9972: The character lifts the large black trapezoid.
9973: The trapezoid begins to lift off the ground.
9974: The trapezoid sharply ascends above his head.
9975: The character shows pride.
9976: The character shows pride.
9977: The character shows less pride.
9978: The character's knees begin to wobble.
9979: The wobbling intensifies.
9980: The trapezoid covers the character.
9981: She moves her hips as she takes a step. A trombone slide begins to play.
9982: She moves her hips as she takes a step.
9983: She moves her hips as she takes a step.
9984: The frame turns black.
9984: The trombone flatulates with a wide vibrato at its slump.
Man versus Self (to a lesser degree, Man versus Technology and Man versus Society)
11404: The character is incapacitated, wrapped in bandages, brooding in a hospital bed.
11405: No one visits the character.
11405: No one wishes the character well.
11405: No one brings the character flowers.
11406: The character lies there, immobilized.
11407: The character lies there, immobilized.
11408: The character lies there, immobilized.
11409: The frame turns black.
11410: The calliope whistles the exeunt music cheerfully.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
skit #43: strict policy of nonhandedness
We have all witnessed when our host, Charlie, enters the men's public restroom, he assumes his urinal after carefully cross-weighing a gamut of criteria. The putrid amber broth of one bowl warns of long-stagnant piss; His rainbow's repugnant hues ordered from safest to grossest: blue, clear, green, chartreuse, yellow, amber. Stray deciduous pubes decorate the urinal's basin, casualties Charlie insists is crab-induced itching. Smudged handles are a gamble because they show the urinal has been flushed repeatedly at the cost of a careless custodian. Urinals bearing lewd graffiti are frequented by villains of low moral standards -- likely disease vectors.
Our host hobbles in only close enough for the urinal to receive his bounty. Fearing infection more than indiscretion, his monumental tool stands visible to the periphery of any neighboring urinators. Like a repentant sinner, he forcefully and direly empties his bladder. He throttles his plumbing of any residual impurities. He breathes scentless air through his mouth. He wants to flee.
But the most concerning behavior is at the end of his routine: the high-kick. Yes, the same high-kick to the flush handle we've been seeing for months now, afterwards leaving without washing his hands. His rubber soles squeak cheerfully, insulating him from the clammy linoleum tiling and the rest of the filthy filthy world. Such preposterous antics are not becoming of a bacterial colony of our stature.
We petition our host to live a life of dignity and normalcy, interacting with daily appliances as any good host should. An eccentric emissary is an unemployed emissary. Should Charlie continue to accrue such ignominy, his position will be terminated. No further warnings, very simple and professional. Charlie must get dirty.
We suspect hypochondria lies at the root of his reluctance to make use of the bathroom amenities. Every time he shakes a hand, every time pays with a paper bill, every time he turns a doorknob, he receives the germs of a thousand other high-kicking self-righteous Charlies. Charlie should know he is easily replaceable. The world is full of hosts who have humiliated their colonies so, desperate for another chance to host in glory.
But his actions cause deeper problems. His strict policy of nonhandedness hinders the colony's conquestorial ambitions. How are we to spread our domain under quarantine? Why, denying we germs the right to proliferate is evolutionary censorship!
One day as our host assumes his carefully selected urinal, he will falter and touch the sickly tile of the men's public restroom. On that day, we will launch our campaign. Until then, we are marooned on the embarrassing spectacle that is Charlie Umwitz.
Our host hobbles in only close enough for the urinal to receive his bounty. Fearing infection more than indiscretion, his monumental tool stands visible to the periphery of any neighboring urinators. Like a repentant sinner, he forcefully and direly empties his bladder. He throttles his plumbing of any residual impurities. He breathes scentless air through his mouth. He wants to flee.
But the most concerning behavior is at the end of his routine: the high-kick. Yes, the same high-kick to the flush handle we've been seeing for months now, afterwards leaving without washing his hands. His rubber soles squeak cheerfully, insulating him from the clammy linoleum tiling and the rest of the filthy filthy world. Such preposterous antics are not becoming of a bacterial colony of our stature.
We petition our host to live a life of dignity and normalcy, interacting with daily appliances as any good host should. An eccentric emissary is an unemployed emissary. Should Charlie continue to accrue such ignominy, his position will be terminated. No further warnings, very simple and professional. Charlie must get dirty.
We suspect hypochondria lies at the root of his reluctance to make use of the bathroom amenities. Every time he shakes a hand, every time pays with a paper bill, every time he turns a doorknob, he receives the germs of a thousand other high-kicking self-righteous Charlies. Charlie should know he is easily replaceable. The world is full of hosts who have humiliated their colonies so, desperate for another chance to host in glory.
But his actions cause deeper problems. His strict policy of nonhandedness hinders the colony's conquestorial ambitions. How are we to spread our domain under quarantine? Why, denying we germs the right to proliferate is evolutionary censorship!
One day as our host assumes his carefully selected urinal, he will falter and touch the sickly tile of the men's public restroom. On that day, we will launch our campaign. Until then, we are marooned on the embarrassing spectacle that is Charlie Umwitz.
skit #42: the tool is a lathe
The man is a carpenter. A carpenter works with wood. The carpenter is making furniture. The carpenter is operating a tool. The tool is a lathe. A lathe helps shape wood. Furniture is constructed with different shapes of wood. The piece of furniture is a chair. The carpenter is making a chair leg.
The carpenter stands over the lathe. He reviews the requisition form for forty chairs, signed by the guildmaster. If he were not a carpenter, he would be standing over a bean field. If he were not a farmer, he would be standing over the lathe. He operates the lathe because the wood must be shaped to build a chair leg. Each chair has four legs. He must construct one hundred and sixty chair legs to fulfill the requisition form.
The guildmaster pays the carpenter a salary in exchange for his skill. The carpenter has used the guildmaster's money to buy a wedding band, a house, and a cradle. Now he has a wife, a son, a house, and a cradle. The house and cradle are made of wood. The wife and son are not made of wood. The wife and the son eat food.
The carpenter will make a chair. He will do this forty times. Each chair will be his best chair. Every chair is a representation of his ability. His ability represents the guild's profitability. The guild's profitability affects the employees' salaries. He must contribute his part to society. A king will sit in a chair. A scholar will sit in a chair. A serf will sit in a chair. A carpenter will sit in a chair.
The lathe holds the wood. The carpenter pumps the pedal. The wood spins in the lathe. The lathe shapes the wood. The wood becomes a chair leg and sawdust. The sawdust mixes with the sawdust on the workshop floor. The carpenter stops pumping the pedal. The carpenter is alone in the workshop. The lathe, the salary, the wood, the food, the society, and the carpenter made the chair leg.
The carpenter works until late.
The carpenter stands over the lathe. He reviews the requisition form for forty chairs, signed by the guildmaster. If he were not a carpenter, he would be standing over a bean field. If he were not a farmer, he would be standing over the lathe. He operates the lathe because the wood must be shaped to build a chair leg. Each chair has four legs. He must construct one hundred and sixty chair legs to fulfill the requisition form.
The guildmaster pays the carpenter a salary in exchange for his skill. The carpenter has used the guildmaster's money to buy a wedding band, a house, and a cradle. Now he has a wife, a son, a house, and a cradle. The house and cradle are made of wood. The wife and son are not made of wood. The wife and the son eat food.
The carpenter will make a chair. He will do this forty times. Each chair will be his best chair. Every chair is a representation of his ability. His ability represents the guild's profitability. The guild's profitability affects the employees' salaries. He must contribute his part to society. A king will sit in a chair. A scholar will sit in a chair. A serf will sit in a chair. A carpenter will sit in a chair.
The lathe holds the wood. The carpenter pumps the pedal. The wood spins in the lathe. The lathe shapes the wood. The wood becomes a chair leg and sawdust. The sawdust mixes with the sawdust on the workshop floor. The carpenter stops pumping the pedal. The carpenter is alone in the workshop. The lathe, the salary, the wood, the food, the society, and the carpenter made the chair leg.
The carpenter works until late.
skit #41: Cueva Cuaya
The Paraguayan government hopes your attention to Cueva Cauya will increase our nation's tourism revenue, so they have promised Guaza-Cua a new secondary school in exchange for our cooperation. They reluctantly divulged the findings of your research thus far, as they regard our villagers as unlearned bumpkins (hence the school). While our village has a sparse and motley assortment of education (we being a demolitions expert from the Civil War, a first-year student at Asunción, an Australian expatriate, and an indigenous Guaraní), we've managed to collaboratively review your paper.
Your repertoire of tests deduces only speleogenetic attributes; the people of Guaza-Cua will tell you of the facets of Cueva Cauya.
The lagoon-filled crater at the foot of the opening shaft is not a result of sustained erosion. An affluent man, Don Arsello, lived here in Guaza-Cua centuries ago. His ranch did not survive one particularly odious February. His herds and sons fell to disease, his wife left him for her lover, and his lover took another man as his husband. He sought a place "as deep as his sorrows". Thinking he could fall forever, he plunged into the wailing maw bored in the earth. Only for one instant did he realize how shallow one man's woes are.
The rich phosphorous nitrate present in the lagoon water, as you have identified, is due to guano. Few animals are oriented inversely to the earth's pull and to man's conventions: the sloths in idleness, the opossums in deceit, and the bats in darkness. Bats are the doves of the afterlife, knowing secrets between life and death. What upright men condemn, upside-down men idolize. A tribe of bat-worshipers run the tunnels, hands beneath feet, subsisting on centipedes and fungi -- their noisome stool further enriching the lagoon foul elements. Where there are no stalagmites for use as ladder rungs, the troglodytes gouge fingerholds in the walls, scarring the cave's complexion with acne-pocks.
Triunfo de la Panocha is surely the most beautiful chamber in Cueva Cuaya. Your report notes its unique texture, its confounding composition, its indeterminate age. Late at night, the American Wyatt Yerlman wakes. He lurches from his farmhouse, past his turnstiles, past his ticket booth, and enters his cavegrounds. There he meets his brother-in-law, another American named Gilbert Dunt, a chemical engineer at the regional water treatment facility. On these nights, two-stroke engines belch and corrosives fume deep in Cueva Cuaya's bowels. Triunfo de la Panocha is a manmade cathedral, not natural phenomenon; and the grander the cathedral the deeper the collection plate.
You and we have discovered nothing of Cueva Cuaya. You and we both have invented stories to support what we find evident.
Your repertoire of tests deduces only speleogenetic attributes; the people of Guaza-Cua will tell you of the facets of Cueva Cauya.
The lagoon-filled crater at the foot of the opening shaft is not a result of sustained erosion. An affluent man, Don Arsello, lived here in Guaza-Cua centuries ago. His ranch did not survive one particularly odious February. His herds and sons fell to disease, his wife left him for her lover, and his lover took another man as his husband. He sought a place "as deep as his sorrows". Thinking he could fall forever, he plunged into the wailing maw bored in the earth. Only for one instant did he realize how shallow one man's woes are.
The rich phosphorous nitrate present in the lagoon water, as you have identified, is due to guano. Few animals are oriented inversely to the earth's pull and to man's conventions: the sloths in idleness, the opossums in deceit, and the bats in darkness. Bats are the doves of the afterlife, knowing secrets between life and death. What upright men condemn, upside-down men idolize. A tribe of bat-worshipers run the tunnels, hands beneath feet, subsisting on centipedes and fungi -- their noisome stool further enriching the lagoon foul elements. Where there are no stalagmites for use as ladder rungs, the troglodytes gouge fingerholds in the walls, scarring the cave's complexion with acne-pocks.
Triunfo de la Panocha is surely the most beautiful chamber in Cueva Cuaya. Your report notes its unique texture, its confounding composition, its indeterminate age. Late at night, the American Wyatt Yerlman wakes. He lurches from his farmhouse, past his turnstiles, past his ticket booth, and enters his cavegrounds. There he meets his brother-in-law, another American named Gilbert Dunt, a chemical engineer at the regional water treatment facility. On these nights, two-stroke engines belch and corrosives fume deep in Cueva Cuaya's bowels. Triunfo de la Panocha is a manmade cathedral, not natural phenomenon; and the grander the cathedral the deeper the collection plate.
You and we have discovered nothing of Cueva Cuaya. You and we both have invented stories to support what we find evident.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
skit #40: spies & counterspies
I felt the unbroken cyanide capsule stowed away in your hollow tooth when we kissed outside the particle accelerator. And I felt you feel mine. We both know only highly confidential assets receive possess such dire escape methods. These are our vulnerabilities. You forwent your chance to kill me, so it must not be your mission. Yet maybe you have concluded it is not my mission either, but even that I do not know.
There must be a reason they have instructed us to operate in such close proximity. Since it is not assassination then it is espionage. Seduction comes professionally to us both. I do not know what data I must elict from you, but my intent is clear -- so instinctively natural and limpid I fear its origin is subliminal. We make unrehearsed love upon the synchocyclotron, consecrating nothing.
We have been abandoned in our assignments with no one to report to. Any contact with our respective commissioners may jeopardize our agencies' anonymities. Our only allegiences to any agencies are tenuous, built entirely on the hope they have retained documentation of our civilian identities. They own reports on who we were and who we are.
There is no hope of returning to that past life. I have never even determined my mission, my only orders gleaned through cryptographic hints, whose meanings with whom I have no superior to confirm, include mundane conversations of the weather, suspicious surnames, envelopes disguised as telephone bills, esoteric non-sequiturs, men with red handkerchiefs, women coifed with peacock feathers. Everything becomes a potential clue. Perhaps even you are a clue.
Or perhaps your agency funded a countersemiotics campaign to disrupt my agency's spies (as I suspect there are others like me). Or perhaps the campaign was devised by my agency in order to confuse its opponents (as I suspect there are other counterspies with your agency, and even more agencies than the two of ours). Or perhaps we are each agents operating under the same superagency. How paranoia flays my senses of trust and place!
Our agencies value our reconnaissance, or else our projects would have been terminated. When I think of the defunct Red sattelites with which their astronomers have littered the firmament, I too grow despondent. What gravity awaits us when we are littered?
Who are we anymore but who we are. I am the spy, you are the counterspy. We fall deeper and deeper into obscurity.
There must be a reason they have instructed us to operate in such close proximity. Since it is not assassination then it is espionage. Seduction comes professionally to us both. I do not know what data I must elict from you, but my intent is clear -- so instinctively natural and limpid I fear its origin is subliminal. We make unrehearsed love upon the synchocyclotron, consecrating nothing.
We have been abandoned in our assignments with no one to report to. Any contact with our respective commissioners may jeopardize our agencies' anonymities. Our only allegiences to any agencies are tenuous, built entirely on the hope they have retained documentation of our civilian identities. They own reports on who we were and who we are.
There is no hope of returning to that past life. I have never even determined my mission, my only orders gleaned through cryptographic hints, whose meanings with whom I have no superior to confirm, include mundane conversations of the weather, suspicious surnames, envelopes disguised as telephone bills, esoteric non-sequiturs, men with red handkerchiefs, women coifed with peacock feathers. Everything becomes a potential clue. Perhaps even you are a clue.
Or perhaps your agency funded a countersemiotics campaign to disrupt my agency's spies (as I suspect there are others like me). Or perhaps the campaign was devised by my agency in order to confuse its opponents (as I suspect there are other counterspies with your agency, and even more agencies than the two of ours). Or perhaps we are each agents operating under the same superagency. How paranoia flays my senses of trust and place!
Our agencies value our reconnaissance, or else our projects would have been terminated. When I think of the defunct Red sattelites with which their astronomers have littered the firmament, I too grow despondent. What gravity awaits us when we are littered?
Who are we anymore but who we are. I am the spy, you are the counterspy. We fall deeper and deeper into obscurity.
skit #39: between a mermaids legs
Me luv uv tha sea, eh? Long ago, whin I was a laddie. No bard on me chin, no bard bout me netherpurse. Ah, so yong an bonny! How I could fall in luv with jussabout anythin! Well, til I luved tha sea.
Llanwrst was a sailers town back before. Not like now with the moter engines and all that autermatic sailin. No, it was for men of bravery an spirit! Once a sailer -- oh, whatsit, Grwn -- I captined tolt me uv El Dorado, all jems an shiny medels on tha walls. Pools uv diamons an champane. I told im I knew tha place here in Wales, me childhood home uv Llanwrst. Me lads we rompt thru tha gittos. Gold pisst on tha walls, glidderin emerald boddle shards, ruby blood outsida pubs, tha sapphire smoke o tha opium burrows. Grwn wodnt know treasure from fancytales, twit!
We chillins lifed inna land o legend, Lord we did, none a doubt. The sailers we knewt were magishins, they havin all sortsa elixirs an artifacts an seen all sortas magical beasties nona the cityfolk knowt. They tolt all tha boys in town of tha sharkies, sure, but tha Kraken, tha Leviatan, tha long an slippery Jorrymurgand, tha beasties that makes em relize mans justa wee rabbit in a wickt glade.
A fadder o Catmail sailt all round tha seas. Catmail alweys toutin new trinkits ta ogle at -- you know, parls, sords, talsmans. Once there were mankeys, but they diet becos we dint have a bananer betwin we. An relics uv wars, scraps uv sails uv scurriless limey drednots, even tha canninball whicht had nockt off his best mates bloody ol noggin!
An one tha days, he pullt out a liddle cuff. We thot it parta dolls outfittery an callt him a bugga. But no, was made uv flesh! Like a sasage casin. Catmail's fadder leant in close, his eyes fulla lurid secrets, an his tongue barrelin all over his gapped teeth. Like hes wantin ready to feast, spiddle droppin from his lips.
Catmail's fadder riddles to we -- ahem, lemme do all pompous in his bloody briddish accent, "This, boys, is the thing between a mermaids legs that men love so; the reason for all the wars, for all the sins, for all the poetry on this wretched earth." Even tho he knewt damnwell theres no legs for sucha thing to hid tween onna mermaid! He gives us tha riddle-thing, right in our little scamp hands, sayin well know what to makeuvit.
Catmail claimt senority on us all, which was all tha bedder since wed neer seen a thing like it. Catmail tolt us his fadder had promised a means to ease the what he called tha "stickypricky". He slipt it on first. Then Hadyn. Then Garth. Then me too. We all diddit.
One day hes pisst at tha pub oer there. Or mebbe its this very one. And hes tellin tales so as to feel as a man, as we all do, and as I doin wit you here an now. Hes gottimself a crowd uv mosta tha men uv Llanwrst in there, so prolly tha fadders of all tha boys. Hes gottim all redfaced half drunk half laughin. The bastard crowing, ahem, "Bass entrails!"
Still, no womans touch ever been as good as that place between tha legs that no mermaid has.
Llanwrst was a sailers town back before. Not like now with the moter engines and all that autermatic sailin. No, it was for men of bravery an spirit! Once a sailer -- oh, whatsit, Grwn -- I captined tolt me uv El Dorado, all jems an shiny medels on tha walls. Pools uv diamons an champane. I told im I knew tha place here in Wales, me childhood home uv Llanwrst. Me lads we rompt thru tha gittos. Gold pisst on tha walls, glidderin emerald boddle shards, ruby blood outsida pubs, tha sapphire smoke o tha opium burrows. Grwn wodnt know treasure from fancytales, twit!
We chillins lifed inna land o legend, Lord we did, none a doubt. The sailers we knewt were magishins, they havin all sortsa elixirs an artifacts an seen all sortas magical beasties nona the cityfolk knowt. They tolt all tha boys in town of tha sharkies, sure, but tha Kraken, tha Leviatan, tha long an slippery Jorrymurgand, tha beasties that makes em relize mans justa wee rabbit in a wickt glade.
A fadder o Catmail sailt all round tha seas. Catmail alweys toutin new trinkits ta ogle at -- you know, parls, sords, talsmans. Once there were mankeys, but they diet becos we dint have a bananer betwin we. An relics uv wars, scraps uv sails uv scurriless limey drednots, even tha canninball whicht had nockt off his best mates bloody ol noggin!
An one tha days, he pullt out a liddle cuff. We thot it parta dolls outfittery an callt him a bugga. But no, was made uv flesh! Like a sasage casin. Catmail's fadder leant in close, his eyes fulla lurid secrets, an his tongue barrelin all over his gapped teeth. Like hes wantin ready to feast, spiddle droppin from his lips.
Catmail's fadder riddles to we -- ahem, lemme do all pompous in his bloody briddish accent, "This, boys, is the thing between a mermaids legs that men love so; the reason for all the wars, for all the sins, for all the poetry on this wretched earth." Even tho he knewt damnwell theres no legs for sucha thing to hid tween onna mermaid! He gives us tha riddle-thing, right in our little scamp hands, sayin well know what to makeuvit.
Catmail claimt senority on us all, which was all tha bedder since wed neer seen a thing like it. Catmail tolt us his fadder had promised a means to ease the what he called tha "stickypricky". He slipt it on first. Then Hadyn. Then Garth. Then me too. We all diddit.
One day hes pisst at tha pub oer there. Or mebbe its this very one. And hes tellin tales so as to feel as a man, as we all do, and as I doin wit you here an now. Hes gottimself a crowd uv mosta tha men uv Llanwrst in there, so prolly tha fadders of all tha boys. Hes gottim all redfaced half drunk half laughin. The bastard crowing, ahem, "Bass entrails!"
Still, no womans touch ever been as good as that place between tha legs that no mermaid has.
skit #38: five Nicks
171
The foot of the forum was very close. A boy, Nikolaos, had weaseled past the lictors to the front. The blathering of the plebes ceased once the dictator begun his oration. Nikolaos could talk, but not orate. The dictator's rhetoric was enrapturing, describing things which were ineffable under the market argot. He described the uniqueness of this century, the pride to be Roman, their confidence among of the gods. The plebes were quiet, entranced. The dictator possessed rhetoric Nikolaos wanted.
1711
His father opened his printed copy of the Bible. Nikolaus listened to his solemn father recite the passages: the sinners and their depravity, anecdotes proving the Lord's omniscience and omnipotence, the pending beatitude or misery of the afterlife. His father would slowly reread each word until he understood it. A proverb could linger with Nikolaus for days. His index finger felt the texture of the letters. Nikolaus wondered how something so flat could yield such depth.
1927
Nicholas spun the doohickey's knob, making the line dance. He yelped when the silence broke into staticky belches. His sister snickered at the success of her prank by the electrical outlet, but Nicholas ignored her just like mom instructed. He spun the knob like a roulette player amused more by the whirling than the odds. The streaming sound informed and slandered and and sung and fiddled and advertised and preached in a frantic human medley. Nicholas lay awake long past his bedtime with the radio, reveling in its incessancy, in the bombardment of chatter, in the plethora of stations, in its tireless companionship.
1972
Nicky was invited to watch television with the family when he turned old enough. He snuggled in between the thighs of his The aura flickered in the parlor, inducing a serenity and finally the meditative state he so often saw his folks embrace. Television condensed time, color and sound into an single horsepill. The phenomenological world had been dismembered, its efficiencies calculated, its vestigial moments discarded, and finally recapitulated into an RBG-tinted haze. Nicky meditated, consuming more life than reality could offer serially.
2007
The mouse took both of Nikolai's wee hands to wrangle. He clicked haphazardly and insatiably, delighted with the websites of everything he'd produced: an albino tiger, firecrackers, a bazooka, a lamborghini, an allosaurus. The internet bestowed to him all the birthday presents he had yearned for. They appeared in every with every opinion, in every context, in infinite variations on what he thought he'd wanted. And the internet bestowed to him things he hadn't known he'd yearned for yet: mortgages, valium, blowjobs. Nikolai ventured curiously past his adjacent world into a theatre of dreams.
The foot of the forum was very close. A boy, Nikolaos, had weaseled past the lictors to the front. The blathering of the plebes ceased once the dictator begun his oration. Nikolaos could talk, but not orate. The dictator's rhetoric was enrapturing, describing things which were ineffable under the market argot. He described the uniqueness of this century, the pride to be Roman, their confidence among of the gods. The plebes were quiet, entranced. The dictator possessed rhetoric Nikolaos wanted.
1711
His father opened his printed copy of the Bible. Nikolaus listened to his solemn father recite the passages: the sinners and their depravity, anecdotes proving the Lord's omniscience and omnipotence, the pending beatitude or misery of the afterlife. His father would slowly reread each word until he understood it. A proverb could linger with Nikolaus for days. His index finger felt the texture of the letters. Nikolaus wondered how something so flat could yield such depth.
1927
Nicholas spun the doohickey's knob, making the line dance. He yelped when the silence broke into staticky belches. His sister snickered at the success of her prank by the electrical outlet, but Nicholas ignored her just like mom instructed. He spun the knob like a roulette player amused more by the whirling than the odds. The streaming sound informed and slandered and and sung and fiddled and advertised and preached in a frantic human medley. Nicholas lay awake long past his bedtime with the radio, reveling in its incessancy, in the bombardment of chatter, in the plethora of stations, in its tireless companionship.
1972
Nicky was invited to watch television with the family when he turned old enough. He snuggled in between the thighs of his The aura flickered in the parlor, inducing a serenity and finally the meditative state he so often saw his folks embrace. Television condensed time, color and sound into an single horsepill. The phenomenological world had been dismembered, its efficiencies calculated, its vestigial moments discarded, and finally recapitulated into an RBG-tinted haze. Nicky meditated, consuming more life than reality could offer serially.
2007
The mouse took both of Nikolai's wee hands to wrangle. He clicked haphazardly and insatiably, delighted with the websites of everything he'd produced: an albino tiger, firecrackers, a bazooka, a lamborghini, an allosaurus. The internet bestowed to him all the birthday presents he had yearned for. They appeared in every with every opinion, in every context, in infinite variations on what he thought he'd wanted. And the internet bestowed to him things he hadn't known he'd yearned for yet: mortgages, valium, blowjobs. Nikolai ventured curiously past his adjacent world into a theatre of dreams.
skit #37: between coxswains at sea
Oars paired astride down the length of the hull, fluttering inconsequentially like cilia against the immensity of a petri dish. The wind whipped, the salt stung, and all the other stimuli oarsmen expected. But who was to know if they made any progress at all? The oarsmen never saw the prow cut the blue Mediterranean silk in two, only the turbulent wake of water their paddling had upset.
The eight oarsmen were indistinguishable from one another, sometimes accidentally calling each other by, and even responding to, misnomers. They were identical: brawny arms, feeble legs, slack faces that tightened to normalcy under exertion, essential musculatures accrued naturally over time not unlike the way mountains erode. They were unified: silly little uniforms, a tendency to symmetries and parallels, an inaudible rhythm dictating when to beat their hearts and when to tauten their sinews, an allegiance to velocity over direction, a duty to a system.
There were eight of them plus a ninth who was everything they were not. The coxswain must have miscalculated their trajectory. He failed to spot any landmarks on the horizon. He pondered their coordinates, his arms idle and akimbo, the steering paddle reeling like an unfed dog's tail.
Many boats rowed at sea, each confidently traveling in congruent directions, opposite directions, or without direction. Over great distances, coxswains exchanged anonymous glances, knowing not each others' names nor recognizing each others' faces, performing pantomimes of admiration, envy, condescension, apathy. These charades were often misinterpreted over such great distances, but it was their often only hope of communication, for the Mediterraneans spoke many diverse and dying languages. To fear misinterpretation was foolish, as boats' courses rarely intersected.
Over the ages, sailors' fantasies graduated to rumors, rumors to tales, tales to myths, which are the manifestations of gods' dreams. The boats at sea were in search of promised islands: of monkeys, of mangoes, of buxotic virgins, of milkcows equipped with inexhaustible udders, of orifice-flowered forests, of ethanol geysers, of epiphanous lotus-meats, of undiscovered anti-carcinogens, of abandoned 5-star hotels, of decomissioned war engines, of crystalline cellphone reception, of unowned beachfront properties, of tax-free amenities. This legendary archipelago promised an island for everyone, for every need.
Few had maps or navigators or could read the constellations. Devoid of landmarks, a coxswain of this sea could only deduce his coordinates relative to the other boats' trajectories. They followed each other, sometimes in circles, sometimes not, rowing tenaciously towards these islands no cartographer had yet charted. There were nothing in those waters if not confidence between coxswains at sea.
The eight oarsmen were indistinguishable from one another, sometimes accidentally calling each other by, and even responding to, misnomers. They were identical: brawny arms, feeble legs, slack faces that tightened to normalcy under exertion, essential musculatures accrued naturally over time not unlike the way mountains erode. They were unified: silly little uniforms, a tendency to symmetries and parallels, an inaudible rhythm dictating when to beat their hearts and when to tauten their sinews, an allegiance to velocity over direction, a duty to a system.
There were eight of them plus a ninth who was everything they were not. The coxswain must have miscalculated their trajectory. He failed to spot any landmarks on the horizon. He pondered their coordinates, his arms idle and akimbo, the steering paddle reeling like an unfed dog's tail.
Many boats rowed at sea, each confidently traveling in congruent directions, opposite directions, or without direction. Over great distances, coxswains exchanged anonymous glances, knowing not each others' names nor recognizing each others' faces, performing pantomimes of admiration, envy, condescension, apathy. These charades were often misinterpreted over such great distances, but it was their often only hope of communication, for the Mediterraneans spoke many diverse and dying languages. To fear misinterpretation was foolish, as boats' courses rarely intersected.
Over the ages, sailors' fantasies graduated to rumors, rumors to tales, tales to myths, which are the manifestations of gods' dreams. The boats at sea were in search of promised islands: of monkeys, of mangoes, of buxotic virgins, of milkcows equipped with inexhaustible udders, of orifice-flowered forests, of ethanol geysers, of epiphanous lotus-meats, of undiscovered anti-carcinogens, of abandoned 5-star hotels, of decomissioned war engines, of crystalline cellphone reception, of unowned beachfront properties, of tax-free amenities. This legendary archipelago promised an island for everyone, for every need.
Few had maps or navigators or could read the constellations. Devoid of landmarks, a coxswain of this sea could only deduce his coordinates relative to the other boats' trajectories. They followed each other, sometimes in circles, sometimes not, rowing tenaciously towards these islands no cartographer had yet charted. There were nothing in those waters if not confidence between coxswains at sea.
skit #36: twennytwo
'Nineteen, twenny, twennyone, twennyt-- no twennytwo, hell.'
The cowboy recalled the boss noting calf Twenty-Two by name, 'Lulu', a milky-hided heifer borne with a latent maternal warmth that he described solemnly as 'plumb beatific.' The cowboy had never had one to call his Twenty-Two, nor had his boy.
The cowboy knew he had no alibi. No indians or bandits: Ten miles too far and ten years too late to blame the Apaches; and on this route, there was more money in honest work than rustling. The calf must have stolen away along with his sobriety and wits as he nipped spirits and napped under the watch of the languid piñon trees.
A full moon hung that night, or maybe one day prior or past or every night, would lend just enough light to see Lulu's white haunches against the gypsum desert. Nothing is dark under the curiosity of moonlight, only blue.
The boy, eleven years or so, could easily manage the herd; they lolled with fatigue, lowing complacently. The boy tended the campfire and watched his father depart, the light's dim reach illuminating him as a cowboy, then dimmer as a stranger, dimming again to an implication, then effusing him in that blue color of the unknown afar.
He rode his roan past the gorge, past the valley, regressing all the way into the desert he, his boy, and the herd had so arduously crossed this week past. He swaddled himself in blankets and slugged rye when he grew hungry. He gnawed on jerky and slugged rye when he grew hungry. He fidgeted with his rifle and slugged rye when he grew scared. But he owned no tool nor elixir to produce Lulu.
The cowboy rode for weeks, perhaps months. He had forgotten of his son, of the herd, of his boss, of the length of his whiskers, of the hoofprints he followed, of the direction he rode, of Lulu, of Twenty-Two, of twennytwo. He subsisted on rye and the curious blue.
A herd of Twenty-Twos roamed the same gypsum desert, but never within the cowboy's sight. Each head an alabaster calf, each head a veritable Lulu. They bore brands from all the ranches that drove cattle on that trail: Samson, Villanueva, Mondekker, Riley, the cowboy's boss, among dozens. The Twenty-Twos could not be claimed by any master, their hides invisible during the white day, their brands illegible during the blue night.
The cowboy recalled the boss noting calf Twenty-Two by name, 'Lulu', a milky-hided heifer borne with a latent maternal warmth that he described solemnly as 'plumb beatific.' The cowboy had never had one to call his Twenty-Two, nor had his boy.
The cowboy knew he had no alibi. No indians or bandits: Ten miles too far and ten years too late to blame the Apaches; and on this route, there was more money in honest work than rustling. The calf must have stolen away along with his sobriety and wits as he nipped spirits and napped under the watch of the languid piñon trees.
A full moon hung that night, or maybe one day prior or past or every night, would lend just enough light to see Lulu's white haunches against the gypsum desert. Nothing is dark under the curiosity of moonlight, only blue.
The boy, eleven years or so, could easily manage the herd; they lolled with fatigue, lowing complacently. The boy tended the campfire and watched his father depart, the light's dim reach illuminating him as a cowboy, then dimmer as a stranger, dimming again to an implication, then effusing him in that blue color of the unknown afar.
He rode his roan past the gorge, past the valley, regressing all the way into the desert he, his boy, and the herd had so arduously crossed this week past. He swaddled himself in blankets and slugged rye when he grew hungry. He gnawed on jerky and slugged rye when he grew hungry. He fidgeted with his rifle and slugged rye when he grew scared. But he owned no tool nor elixir to produce Lulu.
The cowboy rode for weeks, perhaps months. He had forgotten of his son, of the herd, of his boss, of the length of his whiskers, of the hoofprints he followed, of the direction he rode, of Lulu, of Twenty-Two, of twennytwo. He subsisted on rye and the curious blue.
A herd of Twenty-Twos roamed the same gypsum desert, but never within the cowboy's sight. Each head an alabaster calf, each head a veritable Lulu. They bore brands from all the ranches that drove cattle on that trail: Samson, Villanueva, Mondekker, Riley, the cowboy's boss, among dozens. The Twenty-Twos could not be claimed by any master, their hides invisible during the white day, their brands illegible during the blue night.
Monday, January 12, 2009
skit #35: obvious if discovered
An impenetrable thicket of obstacles consume the gymnasium like kudzu. A multifarious plethora of hoops, bars, pools, pits, ropes, arenas, broad walls, narrow tunnels, trampolines to nowhere, gyroscopes, askew geometries.
The prudent babysteps of a hippopotamus do not save her from falling from the tenuous balance beam. She is bested by a shrew who roves effortlessly across the beam, to him a boulevard, only to face an uncrossable chasm at the long jump. No sloths complete the 500m sprint to advance to the vertical wall climb. Inappropriate conduct disqualifies seven bonobos halfway through the monkeybars. The lions perform passably, too much modesty, lacking the unabashed ambition the hyenas exercised; Both species' progress is eventually thwarted at the rope swing.
Minor pH adjustments flunk an impressively resilient newt for poor environmental adaptability. A goat demonstrates her impervious gastrointestinal system only to choke needlessly on a button. All but two canines navigate the olfactory labyrinth. Despite their similarities, primitive tool use disqualifies as many contestants as procreation disqualifies few.
Every contestant inevitably will be disqualified: a splash, a fumble, a wheeze, a jerk. There's no hope of completing the course, but each animal's heart pumps earnestly (should their species have one).
Rule enforcement is clinical and austere, handled by referees, who don't seem to belong to any species at all, speaking over walkie-talkies to recipients rumored to be perhaps a panel of legislators or perhaps a mainframe.
The current contestants have extrapolated some of the rules by watching the others fail:
An obstacle may be overcome by any means available.
Collaboration is permitted.
Failure to participate results in disqualification.
Failure to overcome an obstacle results in disqualification.
The end will be obvious if discovered.
Forty-three thousand-odd caribou proceed. The caribou cascade in an identical sequence, each imitating who they follow as best as a caribou can. They trot around the race track. Their muscles flex, flex, flex; Their ornamental antlers bob, bob, bob; Soon, it is hard to tell which muscles match with which antlers. The repetitions occasionally break: Those who stagger are culled from the herd. Very few followers foolishly imitate a misstep, and the culled are soon forgotten. The caribou clearly maintain their direction. Disqualified, disqualified, disqualified. They trot around the arena, still thousands, thousands, thousands strong.
The prudent babysteps of a hippopotamus do not save her from falling from the tenuous balance beam. She is bested by a shrew who roves effortlessly across the beam, to him a boulevard, only to face an uncrossable chasm at the long jump. No sloths complete the 500m sprint to advance to the vertical wall climb. Inappropriate conduct disqualifies seven bonobos halfway through the monkeybars. The lions perform passably, too much modesty, lacking the unabashed ambition the hyenas exercised; Both species' progress is eventually thwarted at the rope swing.
Minor pH adjustments flunk an impressively resilient newt for poor environmental adaptability. A goat demonstrates her impervious gastrointestinal system only to choke needlessly on a button. All but two canines navigate the olfactory labyrinth. Despite their similarities, primitive tool use disqualifies as many contestants as procreation disqualifies few.
Every contestant inevitably will be disqualified: a splash, a fumble, a wheeze, a jerk. There's no hope of completing the course, but each animal's heart pumps earnestly (should their species have one).
Rule enforcement is clinical and austere, handled by referees, who don't seem to belong to any species at all, speaking over walkie-talkies to recipients rumored to be perhaps a panel of legislators or perhaps a mainframe.
The current contestants have extrapolated some of the rules by watching the others fail:
An obstacle may be overcome by any means available.
Collaboration is permitted.
Failure to participate results in disqualification.
Failure to overcome an obstacle results in disqualification.
The end will be obvious if discovered.
Forty-three thousand-odd caribou proceed. The caribou cascade in an identical sequence, each imitating who they follow as best as a caribou can. They trot around the race track. Their muscles flex, flex, flex; Their ornamental antlers bob, bob, bob; Soon, it is hard to tell which muscles match with which antlers. The repetitions occasionally break: Those who stagger are culled from the herd. Very few followers foolishly imitate a misstep, and the culled are soon forgotten. The caribou clearly maintain their direction. Disqualified, disqualified, disqualified. They trot around the arena, still thousands, thousands, thousands strong.
skit #34: probably a cumulonimbus
No one admits who it was, but one of us drops the first one. An accident of arrogance, probably a cumulonimbus. It makes all the dry stuff seem out of place. Now we'd better go and commit to do the whole thing. All the strata begin the barrage upon great dirt menace below. We will blot it all out.
Some of the ancient matriarchs (mammati clouds, mostly) speak of ages past, of the dirt's infancy. Their fables meander and contradict, their metaphors are either too coarse or refined for my comprehension, but the thread and gist resemble this: of the epoch-after-epoch of unquestioned placidity; of vulgar islands and volcanoes scarring the planet's immaculate azure countenance with acne; of the revolutionary Rodinia (and his igneous aristocracy) overthrown and executed by Mirovia; of Mirovia subsequently slain by Rodinia's vengeful daughter, Pannotia; of Pannotia's utopian rhetoric, "grains of dirt, like you and me, piled upon each other so high even the sun will sweat during his daily climb"; of Pangea's attempted hydrocide; of ensuing wars between earth and sea.
Some of us clouds have been obligatorily conscripted to fight, others voluntarily favor water's fight based on elemental affinity. Some of the loftier clouds remain above all the squabbling of earthly matters, conveniently ignoring that we too would evaporate without the waters below without intervention. Many of us rain simply because we rain. Indeed, precipitation is part of our meteorological nature. We're just helping dole it out equally. Homogeneous distribution and whatnot. It doesn't make any significant difference. Maybe a rivulet here or there. None will notice nor care.
The matriarchs prophesize the ages to come, again they litter twisted words. They speak: of the future of water; of the cataclysms; of continental drift; of primordial soups slopped into great basins; of things that move without waves or wind; of the things' eyes that weep and rain; of the things' loins that swell and taste of ocean; of the things' thoughts that storm as futilely and fervently as we do upon the dirt; of the things' own fables of ages past and names for us; of the things' design of things of their own.
We pour so much, we become thin. Will we ever return the face of this planet to tranquil uniformity? Or is the world a complex place that can never again be so simple? These are not questions we must answer. We deliver our payload, raining because we rain.
Some of the ancient matriarchs (mammati clouds, mostly) speak of ages past, of the dirt's infancy. Their fables meander and contradict, their metaphors are either too coarse or refined for my comprehension, but the thread and gist resemble this: of the epoch-after-epoch of unquestioned placidity; of vulgar islands and volcanoes scarring the planet's immaculate azure countenance with acne; of the revolutionary Rodinia (and his igneous aristocracy) overthrown and executed by Mirovia; of Mirovia subsequently slain by Rodinia's vengeful daughter, Pannotia; of Pannotia's utopian rhetoric, "grains of dirt, like you and me, piled upon each other so high even the sun will sweat during his daily climb"; of Pangea's attempted hydrocide; of ensuing wars between earth and sea.
Some of us clouds have been obligatorily conscripted to fight, others voluntarily favor water's fight based on elemental affinity. Some of the loftier clouds remain above all the squabbling of earthly matters, conveniently ignoring that we too would evaporate without the waters below without intervention. Many of us rain simply because we rain. Indeed, precipitation is part of our meteorological nature. We're just helping dole it out equally. Homogeneous distribution and whatnot. It doesn't make any significant difference. Maybe a rivulet here or there. None will notice nor care.
The matriarchs prophesize the ages to come, again they litter twisted words. They speak: of the future of water; of the cataclysms; of continental drift; of primordial soups slopped into great basins; of things that move without waves or wind; of the things' eyes that weep and rain; of the things' loins that swell and taste of ocean; of the things' thoughts that storm as futilely and fervently as we do upon the dirt; of the things' own fables of ages past and names for us; of the things' design of things of their own.
We pour so much, we become thin. Will we ever return the face of this planet to tranquil uniformity? Or is the world a complex place that can never again be so simple? These are not questions we must answer. We deliver our payload, raining because we rain.
skit #33: excerpts from an owner's manual
[excerpt from Manufacturer's Welcome, pg 7]
Welcome and congratulations! You, intrepid adventurer, are the owner of Chronda's 2442 Ahora, the first and only consumer-class temporal navigation vessel meeting governmental all regulations for public use. Taking advantage of temporal inertia using Chronda's patented Idle Drive, the Ahora boasts unlimited travel, complete energy conservation, unerring precision, unprecedented safety, ageless reliability. Utterly unrivaled.
[excerpt from Consumer Liability, Legality & Licensing, pg 36]
Chronda understands the grave nature of temporal displacement. The Chronda Ahora strictly abides by all statutes defined under the Ethical Time Displacement Act (ETDA) for consumer-class operation and exceeds compliances with all EPA legislation pertaining to timestream perturbances & pollutants. As a consumer-class vessel, the pilot is sequestered from all dangers of time touring.
[excerpt from Consumer Liability, Legality & Licensing, pg 44]
Relax! Leave quibbling over the ETDA legalese to the commerical sector, intrepid adventurer. With the Chronda Ahora, there is no fear of molesting the delicate fabric of time: no fear of knotting time lines (e.g. the prenatal patricide paradox), no fear of introducing catastrophic events (e.g. triggering Colony Collapse Disorder upon 2006CE), no fear of derailing from your native time line, of enacting embarassing anachronisms among the prestigious figures of past and future.
[excerpt from Preparations, pg 54]
Federal laws limiting the operation of vehicles and heavy machinery while sleep deprived, while intoxicated, while enraptured apply to whomever is piloting the Ahora at a given moment.
[excerpt from HUD Layout, pg 64]
Because the pilot travels precisely to the present, the Ahora's controls are both uncomplicated and intuitive.
[excerpt from Operations, pg 67]
1. Enter the vessel.
2. Close and secure the hatch. (Fig 77a)
3. Firmly depress the red button labeled 'Present'. (Fig 77b)
4. Release the button. (Fig 77c)
5. Disembark the vessel.
[excerpt from Travel, Arrival, pg 104]
As with industrial-class time traveling vessels, the journey itself may be quite long. Through recursive-reflexive moment cinching, the traveler does not experience any passage of time. Though the journey appears instantaneous, physical symptoms can arise: nausea, heart palpitations, chills, sweating, bewilderment, etc. For more details, please refer to Travel, Time Sickness, pg 443.
[excerpt from Travel, Arrival, pg 244]
The Chronda Ahora must perform several automatic routines upon arrival before you may disembark. Do not be alarmed by the following:
- White fog effumed from the cabin during Synthetic Earth atmospheric depressurization
- Kaleidoscopic strobelights during subatomic disentanglement via the release of superfluous photons
- High-pitched wavering and warbling during decompression of the Ahora's life support systems
[excerpt from Travel, Return, pg 297]
To return to your native present time, review Operations, pg 67.
[excerpt from Travel, Adjusting, pg 352]
After arriving at your destination, it may take time for even the most seasoned time traveler to acclimate to his or her new habitat. The present may appear drastically different from your native timestream. The denizens of this time stream may have customs different from your own, so be courteous when interfacing. Though rarely received sincerely, the ETDA strictly prohibits public disclosure of your temporal relocation to the present.
[excerpt from Travel, Adjusting, pg 357]
Your excursion into the fourth dimension joined, will join, and joins you to the ranks of modern men. We dance and laugh upon a new and transcendental stratum. Many travelers report a new-found keenness and optimism towards their environs. The present is a bewildering and beautiful place, abundantly faceted with unexamined curiosities.
Welcome and congratulations! You, intrepid adventurer, are the owner of Chronda's 2442 Ahora, the first and only consumer-class temporal navigation vessel meeting governmental all regulations for public use. Taking advantage of temporal inertia using Chronda's patented Idle Drive, the Ahora boasts unlimited travel, complete energy conservation, unerring precision, unprecedented safety, ageless reliability. Utterly unrivaled.
[excerpt from Consumer Liability, Legality & Licensing, pg 36]
Chronda understands the grave nature of temporal displacement. The Chronda Ahora strictly abides by all statutes defined under the Ethical Time Displacement Act (ETDA) for consumer-class operation and exceeds compliances with all EPA legislation pertaining to timestream perturbances & pollutants. As a consumer-class vessel, the pilot is sequestered from all dangers of time touring.
[excerpt from Consumer Liability, Legality & Licensing, pg 44]
Relax! Leave quibbling over the ETDA legalese to the commerical sector, intrepid adventurer. With the Chronda Ahora, there is no fear of molesting the delicate fabric of time: no fear of knotting time lines (e.g. the prenatal patricide paradox), no fear of introducing catastrophic events (e.g. triggering Colony Collapse Disorder upon 2006CE), no fear of derailing from your native time line, of enacting embarassing anachronisms among the prestigious figures of past and future.
[excerpt from Preparations, pg 54]
Federal laws limiting the operation of vehicles and heavy machinery while sleep deprived, while intoxicated, while enraptured apply to whomever is piloting the Ahora at a given moment.
[excerpt from HUD Layout, pg 64]
Because the pilot travels precisely to the present, the Ahora's controls are both uncomplicated and intuitive.
[excerpt from Operations, pg 67]
1. Enter the vessel.
2. Close and secure the hatch. (Fig 77a)
3. Firmly depress the red button labeled 'Present'. (Fig 77b)
4. Release the button. (Fig 77c)
5. Disembark the vessel.
[excerpt from Travel, Arrival, pg 104]
As with industrial-class time traveling vessels, the journey itself may be quite long. Through recursive-reflexive moment cinching, the traveler does not experience any passage of time. Though the journey appears instantaneous, physical symptoms can arise: nausea, heart palpitations, chills, sweating, bewilderment, etc. For more details, please refer to Travel, Time Sickness, pg 443.
[excerpt from Travel, Arrival, pg 244]
The Chronda Ahora must perform several automatic routines upon arrival before you may disembark. Do not be alarmed by the following:
- White fog effumed from the cabin during Synthetic Earth atmospheric depressurization
- Kaleidoscopic strobelights during subatomic disentanglement via the release of superfluous photons
- High-pitched wavering and warbling during decompression of the Ahora's life support systems
[excerpt from Travel, Return, pg 297]
To return to your native present time, review Operations, pg 67.
[excerpt from Travel, Adjusting, pg 352]
After arriving at your destination, it may take time for even the most seasoned time traveler to acclimate to his or her new habitat. The present may appear drastically different from your native timestream. The denizens of this time stream may have customs different from your own, so be courteous when interfacing. Though rarely received sincerely, the ETDA strictly prohibits public disclosure of your temporal relocation to the present.
[excerpt from Travel, Adjusting, pg 357]
Your excursion into the fourth dimension joined, will join, and joins you to the ranks of modern men. We dance and laugh upon a new and transcendental stratum. Many travelers report a new-found keenness and optimism towards their environs. The present is a bewildering and beautiful place, abundantly faceted with unexamined curiosities.
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