Anomaly
I'd like to be the first person to publicly come out against the use of the phrase "Whodunnit" in any other sense than in gritty detective crime novels. This is no longer to be used in order to describe the plot of a movie, a mysterious situation (which, more often than not, are less "murder" and more "who-took-the-stapler-from-the-mailroom" oriented) or, perhaps the greatest transgression, the title for a new story involving a serious crime investigation.
No more of this. Stop it. This is a phrase that should have gone to the shoulder of the "everyday conversation" highway a long time ago, but still is somehow managing to coast along in between traffic on two blown out tires with smoke pouring from under the hood and I hate it I HATE IT.
...
I have a theory. It concerns time-travel.
I have said this on numerous occasions, but the state that the world is in right now is unacceptable. Somewhere between the 1940's and now (possibly brought on by the realism and harship brought on by the Great Depression and the subsequent socio-emotional ripples it still causes to this day) we have lost something that made us the progressive, decidedly amazing creatures that humans are supposed to be. I'm not saying all people were amazing, not by a long shot. J.P. Morgan springs to mind when I try to think of someone from the Antevapidian who dedicated his life, in a high-profile manner, to something that ultimately didn't make a damn bit of differend in the greater human experience. Call it art, call it compassion, call it a need to live beyond staying alive, we no longer have what we had then, and something needs to be done to correct it.
But perhaps, later on, once we've worked past this rough patch, we'll be able to look back and see changes we could have made. See ways we could have done better. If only there were a way we could communicate with the past and let them know. Let them know their eventual fate and somehow influence their thinking to help us. If only there were some way.
For a long time we've known we can't have time travel, because if we could, certainly we would have had visitors from the future by now. I contend we already have.
I think the future is using the Internet to communicate with us.
It makes a lot of sense if you think about it. It started off as a noble endeavor, let's let the past know what they should be doing correctly by subtlely influencing them through the content and communication available through the Internet. It's almost complete anonymity, and the amount of actual people using the Internet protects the feeds from the future by leaving innumerable possible threads of idenitity to check before ever finding one that belonged to a non-person. And even if you did find a site or a person that was from the future... how would you even know? What could you do?
Soon, though, once the word got out of the plan, the J.P. Morgans of the future got hold of the technology and began using it to their own ends. Has it ever struck anyone as odd that there are seemingly limitless amounts of porn out there? You'd think you'd see only a few participants over and over again, but no! A seemingly infinite number of females exist! How is possible?! THE FUTURE, IS HOW.
The best, most advanced products are available, seemingly, only on the Internet (not too advanced, as J.P. Morgan IX wouldn't want anyone to become suspicious, it may affect sales), We recieve so much information through the Internet, enough indeed to suggest an overlying purpose piercing every aspect of it, and we spend so much of our time on the Internet that it seems to have been made the primary source for all, if any, influential media.
The question is this: Will someone stop me before I can post this? Is this one voice quiet enough that it will never be heard through the cacophony from posterity? Or has it simply never been found, truth lost within the beast that the hereafter itself created as a jungle of concealment, of obscurity. Perhaps, if they ever did find this, they simply could not find out who it was. Perhaps they don't want to stop me. Perhaps they don't think one voice will change anyone's mind.
Perhaps they know it won't.
Or perhaps... just maybe... while I'm typing this, there's a man outside my door. He's dressed in clothes that, at a glance, look normal enough, but on closer inspection seem sterile, almost mechanical. As if the fashion of today was somehow fed into a precision machine and churned out, not in the mass-production means of everyday life now, but the painstakingly specific characteristics of a made-to-order supercomputer. A suit of specification.
Perhaps he's waiting, the future being cloudy at best. Perhaps you can't know whether I will or will not click this final button. Perhaps my own uncertainty is known to him, and the chance that I might just become spooked at the whole prospect and delete the writing, nothing lost, is enough that he's waiting. Waiting with some ugly, shining thing is his hand that doesn't operate as we might assume it would. No lasers or plasma blasts, no bright flashes of light, no pulsing drone, just a quick click as a switch is flicked or a button is engaged, and a blood vessel explodes in my brain. Aneurisms happen all the time, no explanation. Perhaps this is why.
Perhaps they've already figured out who the two people who read this thing are. Perhaps they're prepared to let me post it, so long as they can keep tabs on us. Perhaps I'm never meant to be more than this, typing away at nothing in a mechanation of their own design, using it to chip away at an edifice too giant to comprehend and too indestructible to entertain the thought of destroying.
Or perhaps he's just waiting. Waiting outside. Waiting for me to get just too close to the button.
Waiting for my choice.
Of course, the one thing he didn't count on... the one thing he... coudln't... count on... was that
I'm faster than him!
Tell my cat I love her.
No more of this. Stop it. This is a phrase that should have gone to the shoulder of the "everyday conversation" highway a long time ago, but still is somehow managing to coast along in between traffic on two blown out tires with smoke pouring from under the hood and I hate it I HATE IT.
...
I have a theory. It concerns time-travel.
I have said this on numerous occasions, but the state that the world is in right now is unacceptable. Somewhere between the 1940's and now (possibly brought on by the realism and harship brought on by the Great Depression and the subsequent socio-emotional ripples it still causes to this day) we have lost something that made us the progressive, decidedly amazing creatures that humans are supposed to be. I'm not saying all people were amazing, not by a long shot. J.P. Morgan springs to mind when I try to think of someone from the Antevapidian who dedicated his life, in a high-profile manner, to something that ultimately didn't make a damn bit of differend in the greater human experience. Call it art, call it compassion, call it a need to live beyond staying alive, we no longer have what we had then, and something needs to be done to correct it.
But perhaps, later on, once we've worked past this rough patch, we'll be able to look back and see changes we could have made. See ways we could have done better. If only there were a way we could communicate with the past and let them know. Let them know their eventual fate and somehow influence their thinking to help us. If only there were some way.
For a long time we've known we can't have time travel, because if we could, certainly we would have had visitors from the future by now. I contend we already have.
I think the future is using the Internet to communicate with us.
It makes a lot of sense if you think about it. It started off as a noble endeavor, let's let the past know what they should be doing correctly by subtlely influencing them through the content and communication available through the Internet. It's almost complete anonymity, and the amount of actual people using the Internet protects the feeds from the future by leaving innumerable possible threads of idenitity to check before ever finding one that belonged to a non-person. And even if you did find a site or a person that was from the future... how would you even know? What could you do?
Soon, though, once the word got out of the plan, the J.P. Morgans of the future got hold of the technology and began using it to their own ends. Has it ever struck anyone as odd that there are seemingly limitless amounts of porn out there? You'd think you'd see only a few participants over and over again, but no! A seemingly infinite number of females exist! How is possible?! THE FUTURE, IS HOW.
The best, most advanced products are available, seemingly, only on the Internet (not too advanced, as J.P. Morgan IX wouldn't want anyone to become suspicious, it may affect sales), We recieve so much information through the Internet, enough indeed to suggest an overlying purpose piercing every aspect of it, and we spend so much of our time on the Internet that it seems to have been made the primary source for all, if any, influential media.
The question is this: Will someone stop me before I can post this? Is this one voice quiet enough that it will never be heard through the cacophony from posterity? Or has it simply never been found, truth lost within the beast that the hereafter itself created as a jungle of concealment, of obscurity. Perhaps, if they ever did find this, they simply could not find out who it was. Perhaps they don't want to stop me. Perhaps they don't think one voice will change anyone's mind.
Perhaps they know it won't.
Or perhaps... just maybe... while I'm typing this, there's a man outside my door. He's dressed in clothes that, at a glance, look normal enough, but on closer inspection seem sterile, almost mechanical. As if the fashion of today was somehow fed into a precision machine and churned out, not in the mass-production means of everyday life now, but the painstakingly specific characteristics of a made-to-order supercomputer. A suit of specification.
Perhaps he's waiting, the future being cloudy at best. Perhaps you can't know whether I will or will not click this final button. Perhaps my own uncertainty is known to him, and the chance that I might just become spooked at the whole prospect and delete the writing, nothing lost, is enough that he's waiting. Waiting with some ugly, shining thing is his hand that doesn't operate as we might assume it would. No lasers or plasma blasts, no bright flashes of light, no pulsing drone, just a quick click as a switch is flicked or a button is engaged, and a blood vessel explodes in my brain. Aneurisms happen all the time, no explanation. Perhaps this is why.
Perhaps they've already figured out who the two people who read this thing are. Perhaps they're prepared to let me post it, so long as they can keep tabs on us. Perhaps I'm never meant to be more than this, typing away at nothing in a mechanation of their own design, using it to chip away at an edifice too giant to comprehend and too indestructible to entertain the thought of destroying.
Or perhaps he's just waiting. Waiting outside. Waiting for me to get just too close to the button.
Waiting for my choice.
Of course, the one thing he didn't count on... the one thing he... coudln't... count on... was that
I'm faster than him!
Tell my cat I love her.
posted by DeadLanguage at 8:03 PM
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