31 October 2016

Notes - definitions / on humanity/metaphysics / anomalous workings / ch. 1 Stuck



       Mid-afternoon. Today Paul bought lunch at BiBiBop Asian Cuisine at Polaris. Paul says BiBiBop means ‘Mixed Rice’ and is pronounced ‘ViViVop’. While at Polaris you stopped at Apple and bought ‘Microsoft Office Home and Student 2016’ software and are now using it for the first time. – Amorella

       1543 hours. It appears to be working fine. The last time I bought a Mac Office was 2003. Kim shared her new one in 2007. I like this cleaner layout better.

       Humanity is metaphysics. First, definitions. - Amorella

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humanity - noun (plural humanities)

1 the human race; human beings collectively: appalling crimes against humanity.

• the fact or condition of being human; human nature: music is the universal language with which we can express our common humanity.

2 humaneness; benevolence: he praised them for their standards of humanity, care, and dignity.

3 (humanities) learning or literature concerned with human culture, especially literature, history, art, music, and philosophy.

ORIGIN

Middle English: from Old French humanite, from Latin humanitas, from humanus.

***

metaphysics  - pl.noun [usually treated as singular]

the branch of philosophy that deals with the first principles of things, including abstract concepts such as being, knowing, substance, cause, identity, time, and space.

• abstract theory or talk with no basis in reality: his concept of society as an organic entity is, for market liberals, simply metaphysics.

Metaphysics has two main strands: that which holds that what exists lies beyond experience (as argued by Plato), and that which holds that objects of experience constitute the only reality (as argued by Kant, the logical positivists, and Hume). Metaphysics has also concerned itself with a discussion of whether what exists is made of one substance or many, and whether what exists is inevitable or driven by chance.

ORIGIN

mid 16th century: representing medieval Latin metaphysica (neuter plural), based on Greek ta meta ta phusika ‘the things after the Physics,’ referring to the sequence of Aristotle's works: the title came to denote the branch of study treated in the books, later interpreted as meaning ‘the science of things transcending what is physical or natural.’

Selected and edited from Oxford/American software

** **

       The definitions above encompass the meaning of humanity and metaphysics. The metaphysics here is in reference to Kant and Hume – which holds that objects of experience constitute the only reality not Platonic which holds that what exists lies beyond experience. Being human is here and now; i.e. people are human. When the book’s setting is in Humanity Center the reference is Platonic; that which normally lies beyond living human experience, i.e. after physical death. – Amorella

       1640 hours. I had not thought to include the differences between Kant, Hume and Plato, but this is significant to note. The vast amount of wordage on ‘unconscious’ and ‘consciousness’ in yesterday’s posting is important to me because I need to know my ‘knowledge base’ but it does not appear necessary to explain in such detail in Soki’s Choice.

       Without reading the definitions first you would not have come to the simple conclusion that humanity is metaphysics. You have to become aware in your own skin, so to speak. – .Amorella

       1646. That was a Eureka-like moment. Our humanity is what makes us ‘appear’ alien on Earth. Lesser animals also show these human-like traits from time to time but to me this is a reinforcement that shows higher-like consciousness is a part of an evolutionary-like process.


       Post. - Amorella


       Dusk. Carol and Linda are giving out treats while Kim and Paul are walking around with the boys. Carol had a two-hour nap before supper and you had one, the boys and the others had already left when you awoke. – Amorella

       1842 hours. There have been lots of boys and girls coming around for treats. It is fun to see the excitement on the little ones in particular. At home I’m the one who gave out the goodies – always enjoyable. Most of those in our neighborhood are grown and gone from home these days. It’s a fun evening. Such holidays can keep you thinking young in any case. Darkness descends through the thick of clouds and brisk cool winds. It is all so cozy sitting inside as it grows dark – love the twilight this time of morning and evening.

       When you awoke this morning it was dark but the nightlight stretched across the ceiling reminding you of Rod Serling’s “Twilight Zone”. – Amorella

       1856 hours. Here is the opening from that wonderful show.

** **

There is a fifth dimension, beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call The Twilight Zone.

— Rod Serling

Selected and edited from Wikipedia – The Twilight Zone (1959 TV series)

** **

       The middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, is the setting for my book; however it is not the dimension of imagination, it is the dimension of Soki’s Choice. – Amorella

       1904 hours. Good one, Amorella. What is the dimension of Soki’s Choice?


       The anomalous inner workings of your own heartansoulanmind, boy. Post. - Amorella

       2121 hours. I have been considering your options here, Amorella. I read over the first chapter of Stuck. Friendly and Fargo are in separate places and a crew is included. Ship is stuck and the finding is that Ship has recognized another Earth, one in which most of those people survived because there was no plague to kill all but a handful of humanity. This is how it is.

** **

Stuck

[Chapter] One

          Trexer rubbed the dark sweat from his forehead, we’re out of the water, and we’re soon dead. “Problem,” he mumbled, “we have a captain.” He scanned for his mate, Hartolite. Oh, pond in my life, where are you? Trexer’s heart poured into an eddy. His reasoning shifted into a conscious flood of trained equations balanced against survival instincts. If Ship sits, stress will break his machinery, and his new engine is a mixinthewoods. We shall languish here waiting for death’s sleep. The gravobars trickle by Ship’s engine, as does our escape. Ship lies as an exposed withering vine clung on a hollow stump amongst the stars. We shall be eaten by life’s ever sharp, tearing, and internal teeth. Oh, my Hartolite, where are you? Trexer stood a thoughtful theatre and raised a curtain of fingers to stop his stubborn tongue from speaking. This has happened in a nanosecond, he thought, then careless courage struck haphazardly, and his bright green eyes swiftly refocused. I am Tall Trexer, Ship’s master engineer, and with resolution, he said, “Captain, we have a problem.”
         “Is blackenot on?” inquired Captain Fargo. Give me the sun’s blueberries Trexer. The captain’s fingers danced nervously as he stood barefoot on Ship’s grassy floor. Childhood conditioning reinforced from two hundred years earlier popped into his head as though it were yesterday, ‘the brighter the berries the more shade in the head.’ Receiving no reply to his previous question, Fargo queried, “Is beacontohome on?”
          “Yes, said Trexer, reflecting the resonance of his old friend’s secure voice, “but the power to run home is off. I don’t know why.”
          Captain Fargo’s eyes reflected a flashing storm cloud. We are stuckinagray with no power. Is this the event foreshadowed? I am a good runner, a very good runner. Ship is a good runner too and normally follows his instincts as I follow mine. I am ready to serve with my feet in service, but we stand and wait. Homepeople at PrimeThree have not reported. Perhaps they do not see us as missing. Trexer’s charcoal eyes set like dead rocks in a stream. No engineers on Ship but Trexer and me. We four marsupials, and only I am experienced with earthlings. Why did PrimeThree keep my Friendly home? She is my best mate and put off on lesser missions. Though we were successfully in our first earth mission, homeplanets put us through two years of near solitary quarantined containment.
          Beacontohome is on. Blackenot is on. We had a flawless first trip - no doubt because Friendly was the captain and I crew. His eyes drew to Ship’s living, grassy floor. Friendly saved the one bad day we had. He shuddered - finding the remains of billions of earthlings a year dead. O Godofamily, where is Friendly when I need her? Fargo, scratching his cheek with his left hand, uttered to Trexer, “How long before the problem’s critical?”
          Trexer, with eyes looking as old tree knots, responded, “One week, before end-of-the-road pill time.”
          “One week?” We’re not dead yet, Trex, he thought. “Time wise, gravoskimming is nearly done. We must be near earth’s star. Can’t we pushanpull blackenot to off and navigate by sight?” PrimeThree surely is doing what it can.
          “We can’t risk exposure. Blackenot remains on,” said Trexer strongly; besides, he thought, we could disrupt solar functions if we are too close to a star or planet. Hartolite saved my life for this? To fail?
          “Rules are running,” grumbled Fargo. He scratched his nose, “We have to run the natural laws.”
          “Running gets us home, Captain,” said the thin-lipped engineer. We run from the whirlwind only to be cast across death’s river later. Trexer turned from Ship’s instruments and dug his toes into the well-manicured grasses. I draw my eyes to the rocks between the wildflowers. I stand in Ship’s central breeze and smell the tall and wild-leafed bushes of home. I view Ship’s California blue sky streaked with white spidery wisps; long stretches of spinets set to dim Ship’s artificial sunlight. The distant crooked limbs of wild swamp oak stand thirty to eighty feet tall. Trees, running only at the roots, grow taller and older than people. Trexer watched for the playful antics of the squirrel-like rodents who lived in the wooded environment. Food, he thought, fishes and furry rodents. The fish freely swim, unknowing they will be pulled for food. Nature sucks us in only to gobble us down. Why people worship nature I will never know. Look how serene and tree-like the captain stands, thought Trexer.
          I love Ship, reflected Captain Fargo. I see the doldrums in Trexer’s eyes. “There will be no returning to homeplanets until we complete our mission,” snapped Fargo. He ruminated - thirteen years ago, Friendly and I made our culture’s first direct contact with the natives.
          We found two women and two men after a plague killed more than six billion people. Now I return with a crew of three. The survivors did not want our direct help except for the donated medical supplies. Friendly and I did biochemical studies and found no hint of an environmental problem that may have lead to those many quick deaths. Everyone should have died. Each native had a lifesaving genetic mutation that allowed herorhis survival, but we never have discovered what it was.
         Our spiritual ministers had foretold we would have a like plague years ago, but nothing has happened to us. One malcontent even predicted our sun would become dark for a few seconds; that our star would blink out then on again. Scientists still keep close tabs on our ever-consistent sun. Where do our peoples’ outlandish fears come from?
         Our species is educated. We know better than to believe in the implied injunctions of our spiritual ministers. Yet, here is Trex terrified at the prospect that we are stuck in the mythical gray, in the blink between this universe and another. He now thinks we are in a pulled-the-trigger voyage, that we marsupials, like the natives, are doomed by a long ago foreshadowed calamity. I think there is no difference between us. The natives and we can be as alien to ourselves as we are to them.
          “I’m checking Ship’s machinery,” said Trexer. I’m built to run, he thought, if we survive, this will be my last hop-and-skip from home. PrimeThree can find others for the sacrifice.
          “We have a week,” muttered Captain Fargo. “We . . ..”
          “We have a working Shuttlevator.” interrupted Trexer with renewing confidence.
          “Good,” grinned Fargo, “Shuttlevator will take us to earth.” He double-checked the instrumentation. “Shuttlevator is not functioning, Trex.” My eyes focus on my toes-in the-grass. It’s hard to ask naked feet to stand on grassy floor and do nothing.

***
          Fargo’s right, thought Hartolite, we can’t afford to disrupt the gravity of a sun or planet when we do not know where we are. She slid her hands into her pouch through the slit in her overalls and struck a conversation with Yermey. “What do you think? We should be within a day of earth,” she ruminated, “There should be a way to check this without pushanpulling blackenot off even for a nanosecond.”
          “I don’t think there is,” replied Yermey, “but there might be a solution to our navigational problem through a side door.”
          Hartolite gave him one of her finest disgruntled looks, “Fine, Yermey. What shall we do? No doorways appear in navigation. Shall we climb down into Ship’s basement and position ourselves to work up, or shall we climb to roof’s escape and venture down to the basement to grasp our heading?” Yermey tolerates my anger. Why? I once thought he believed himself intellectually superior to everyone. But he is arrogant beyond belief.
         Yermey beamed. “We have a week. We should be securing our materials for these few remaining native earthlings. Hartolite, your green eyes are dark and somber. Lighten up.” He thought, she is always like this when she sleeps with Trexer. He is younger, but his mindansoul always sees things half-empty. Yermey continued, “Surely PrimeThree will direct Ship Two to search us out. Our purpose is to help these few remaining natives survive as a species.” All the arguing to return to earth, he thought. It has taken years to convince our prime-parents. We have had no contact.
         Yermey silently reflected on Godofamily, and the ancient story of Marsupials’ Great Fall. I don’t believe the myths, or our ministers - yet old stories hint the truths about our basic nature.
We need to find why the few natives did not die. Hartolite needs to study the genetics closely, particularly if they have had more children. I need to look at the genetic nature of their survival spirit. There must be a connection between the concept of Godofamily and the madness of massive death. I cannot find it amongst us; but the earthlings have similar ideas and concepts - even stories of the fall of angels before the universe was created. These far seeded myths must be genetically predisposed. Our similar environments feed on these spiritual feelings, but the feelings are inborn first. I am sure it is a part of the natural law of life no matter where higher consciousness originates.
          Hartolite quipped, “I told Fargo you would solve Ship’s problem.”
          Yermey frowned, and pushanpulled the chute for his clothes, then, frustrated, he scratched himself unperturbed. He looked directly at Hartolite as if to say, ‘Yes, I am a slovenly male who scratches, so what?’ He said, “We’re close to Earth, I can calculate it in my head.” He paused to scratch his nose, “Where in the cleaner-chute are my overalls?”
          “We can work the Shuttlevator, it’ll work in a pinch,” stated Hartolite confidently. Chuckling, she added, “You still look the cutie, older and naked, but still the cutie.”
          “You women think men folk look cute naked. We have nothing much to show. That’s the reason, you know.” While laughing, he commented, “We men know why the womenfolk really want to visit earth.” Women created those straws after Friendly returned. What a humiliation. I’ll not use a straw for drinking no matter what.
Breaking into short smile, Hartolite returned, “You men are a crumpled lot, with a squatters-bush of pubic hairs constantly in need of scratching. Scratching what? The mighty and bendable twig, the soft and slow, the calculated and uncurling of a twiginatwig.”  “Yeah,” he responded sarcastically, “you like our fingers crawl-to-pouches though. Luckily for you your slender fingers arouse our sensibilities.”
          Hartolite hesitating with a feigned blushing said, “And you arouse our patience.”
          “Yeah, well,” he crabbed while dressing cock-of-the-walk slow, one leg at a time into the pulled from the chute overalls.
***
          Later, Trexer spoke directly to his amour, “Hartolite, I don’t like this situation any better than you. You keep staring at your darksouled suicide capsules as though you are about to take one. We have a week. Yermey will solve the problem.”
          Cocking her head strongly, Hartolite replied, “Yermey can’t solve a stuckinagray.” You said so yourself not more than ten minutes ago, she thought. Every time I visit, you put me in a depression. I’m supposed to administer crew psychological testing too. I come to cheer you up, and you find something negative. She remembered gravoskimming’s first night out. I was thinking, Ship, who is a mile in diameter and a quarter mile vertical, should have more grass, trees, and streams. Top level is nothing but sky with an old-fashioned gravorunning tube for escape. We need more hills, streams, and lakes on the ground floor; we need Ship to be twice this size. I knocked on Trexer’s door.
          “Come in, Hartolite,” he said. I do not think the men folk really want me around, but I am here yet. I have to keep the men under control. It is a pouch master’s duty. The men always focus on every detail of their work. We are built to snuggle and give them quiet time, but women folk are secondary. Men will snuggle and even place their hand in a pouch or hold hands, but they want little to do with our private nature unless their biological needs come up. And, that would be once a year at most.
          She entered feeling elevated, “I thought I’d come for a snuggle.”
          Trexer mirrored her slight smile, “Come over here, and bed with me.”
          Seeing the look in his eyes, I sauntered over, sat beside him for a moment. I giggled to myself. Trexer needs a little action. It’ll be the first time in seven months. I stood and dropped may blue overalls to her waist. He actually wants in my pouch, I thought. So, I hesitated to reinforce this rarely found desire. The pause snapped in a blank look, and I could tell he was ready to return to other things. I quickly pulled my overalls off, lay down beside him, and automatically eased his right hand into my pouch before he could roll over and go to sleep. I teased and murmured playfully. I thought, Trexer is one of my true, old, friends and I am forcing his pouched fingers to play. Trexer, who is younger than I by sixty years, became the best patient I ever had. We held hands for the whole time he recovered from the fevers. Now, he wants to entertain me again. Wonderful.
          “You want me to play dead,” panned Trexer, “like a tree rodent?” You teasing fool, he thought, and put his left hand out to give her neck a rubbing.
          Hartolite immediately used his hand as a pillow. They fell slowly into the bedinabox. “Pop your overalls, Trex. Let’s see what I can get cooking,” she said gleefully.
          “I’m not in the mood,” he suddenly asserted, “I’m under too much stress.”
          “Men are never in the mood. You silly boys.” Hartolite reached down with her right hand and cooed, “Don’t you want to slide your hand into my pouch as you did on our first sleeping?”
          He rumbled with resignation, “Just for a minute,” and garbled a, “maybe.” His usual sluggish-to-be-moving hand stayed at his side.
          “Don’t you feel good when I do this?” laughed Hartolite as she leaned to kiss his stomach. “Too bad you boys don’t have pouches too.”
          Trexer muttered, “Why? What would we do with pouches?”
          “Well,” she said coyly, “I could slide my hand further in and down.”
          Trexer’s voice took on a stubborn boyish tone, “We’re all pouchbabes. You put your hand in your girlfriend’s pouch just as easily as our holding hands.”
          Hartolite whispered, “But boysanmen don’t have to share-a-pouch.”
          Trexer stubbornly sat up, “We share,” he said. “I’m sharing myself and my bedinabox, what else is a friend supposed to do? You should respect my being tired.”
          Hartolite smirked teasingly and whispered, “Trexer,” And other privacies.
          Trexer suddenly nurtured a deep, sexual laugh. “So you decided to bed each of us, playing away, thinking it will induce a creative means out of our situation.”
          Hartolite rolled over rakishly. “Not quite, but I thought it would do you some good,” she retorted. Then she returned to her outwardly nature. “Rub my back, will you, and my thighs. I’m all tensed up, Trex.”
          He begrudgingly complied, and quickly adopted his unpretentiously contented and sanguine smile. He whispered intimately, “Okay, let’s get this physical lovemaking done so we can cuddle and sleep.”

***
          The next morning Trexer awoke and said, “What do you want to do, lay here and play dead? Ship’s not going to work because you jump into a suicidal pout. Friendly is always upbeat and positive like Yermey. I can never move her to gloom.” Well, sometimes, he thought, but you my Hartolite, are a cuddle babe. You are no doubt manipulating old Yermey and me. Women folk. Sex is Godofamily’s private joke. We men would just as soon do our public works in peace then sit around and tell ourselves stories. The women folk pop us in those pouches when we are little and never let us go. Centuries popped in and out. One would think the women folk would get tired. “Don’t be so dramatic with those pills. Do you want me to take mine too? Is that what you want?” he said with anger.  He thought, I might, and then what would you do?
          Hartolite stood resigned and glum, “I’m really not going to take the pill, Trexer.” Now, will you leave me along, she thought. She gaped at the two medium sized red capsules and considered - with one pill, I become terribly sick and the other kills me quickly and painlessly. Both pills appear the same and if I take both I become terribly and painfully sick. I always flow to different gravities. We women carry too many points of view for our own good. I must raise myself to the runner’s challenge - and stand still for a change. Men folk always run. We have to corral them. The men folk have a lazy, self-centered wildness in them. For our greater Families’ sake, we have to keep them tame. I don’t know why they don’t see themselves as we can see them. They always look at us in subtle arrogance and disdain, like ‘we men folk allow you women to be the leaders of homeplanets because, frankly, we don’t want the job.’

***
          Sitting at the communal dinner, Trexer said, “The problem is in our machinery.”
          Hartolite quipped, “This is yet another reason for Ship to be referred in the male gender, even with new gravoengines, middle-aged Ship, like you men, isn’t even running slowly. You three have egos to be pumped, so here I am, as the sole woman on board to get you men to work. You need to get cracking and stand Ship on the top of his non-navigating head.”
          The men laughed in a childhood glee. Captain Fargo smirked, “Sometimes we each jog to solve a problem and end up nearly dying of exhaustion.”
          “I’d rather work myself to death,” commented Trexer dryly, “than dally for Death’s Great Ship to stop hereabouts.”
          “I must say I agree with Trexer,” responded Yermey. “We need a solution before an untimely one is made for us. Our lady here, will hold it against us unless we do something about controlling Ship’s situation.” He continued, “Why don’t we shut down blackenot, and head where we can?”
          The captain looked piqued, “Shuttlevator will not move because Ship thinks he’s home.”
          “Actually,” said Yermey, “Ship thinks he is home, and I think he is near earth.”
          “Can’t we trick Ship then?” asked Hartolite. “Ship’s an entire silicon chipinthebox system and half ego-bionics. He has an animal-like consciousness. Ship knows to run for home when things are not right, and he thinks he is home like Yermey said.”
          Captain Fargo commented, “So Ship thinks two opposites are both true, and he has developed a kind of cantonic schizophrenia. This stuckinagray may be psychological not a navigational malfunction.”
          Trexer commented, “Ship is what he is. Ship hasn’t the brains to think in hidden self-referential.”
          Hartolite raised her left eyebrow, “No, Ship does not. I agree with you Trexer.”
          “Can’t we give Ship a perspective he does not have?” asked Yermey. “Perhaps, a sense of freedom will arise, and he’ll naturally think to run.”
          “That’s good, Yermey,” recited Hartolite as she turned, relieved, to Trexer.
          Yermey smiled confidently and turned to philosophizing, “Marsupials used to be cannibals; we shared the bodies of the dead to survive the Great Starvation. What was that historical struggle for?” Yermey paused, thinking of Friendly, the first marsupial to make herself known to an earthling. “Darkensoul,” he muttered, “We need to busy ourselves. As a last resort, before pill time, I am willing to turn blackenot off and hope the gravobars don’t turn on us. We are runners. Stopanstill is not for us. Let’s remake Ship grammatical and fluent enough to finish his own sentence and ours too.”
          Fargo smiled; the crew will now work on a plan. Hartolite was right. She was such a good cuddle the day before we left. I cannot believe she was right. How can women be right most of the time? It does not make biological sense. If we are wrong or lazy like they say, then why are we men folk here at all? Women don’t need us to have pouchbabes. Some wanted an all female culture. I don’t know why they all didn’t. We men wouldn’t mind. We could do what we wanted to do - sit around, play games or work. His memory drifted - when Friendly and I did our first gaming study in human history we concluded our original trip would be somewhat analogous to the first European explorers making contact with the American natives. We were sure the native peoples of earth would think of us as conquerors as the Native Americans came to think of the Europeans.
          We have better built and more lasting machinery. Our goods and knowledge, we concluded, would sway Earth natives. The natives would grow to dislike us. They would fear our colonization and our possible diseases. Humans would fear the loss of their worth and dignity. Self-identity would dry cultural nations into escaping air. Our secret fear was that earth natives would follow the forebodings of our public landings and fight us tooth and nail.
         Fargo scratched his left ear, and then rubbed the back of his neck. He stood quietly in contemplation, focusing on the food on the table rather than his crew. Earthlings would stand and fight while we would run away. We were and are not pedantic European settlers, and the earth cultures of today are not exactly analogous with the indigenous Americans of yesteryear. When we finally arrived on earth, there was no one to greet or to destroy us. When we arrived, the earth was not as we wished or as we expected.
          Fargo suddenly looked up, smiled broadly, and said, “I am a shy and slow man with a twig of manhood as Hartolite knows. She knows us all. Women folk teach and raise us up with their deliberate and measured methods. We need to work this stuckinagray in a woman’s meticulous and subtle manner. We need Ship’s immediate psychological profile, and we must provide him with a broader point of view, with a less stubborn source of navigation. We must toy and humor him.” The captain wanted to end with a quip about Hartolite to whisper sweet nothings to Ship’s navigation system, but he caught her look and decided to let it go.

***
          Unknown to Fargo and the crew, I, Friendly, sat in the wall chair directing the class A Shuttlevator from homeplanets through a quick slide of gravobars to stop near the orbit of Mars. My objective was to land with blackenot on and wait for Fargo and crew before setting out to find the remaining human colony. I hoped I would not cause any unusual solar activity or earthquakes when my modified Shuttlevator shut the down the gravobars. Shortly, instruments on board automatically focused on human life signs. Data filled on data and quickly shut down. Shuttlevator’s machinery froze near earth’s moon. I rose from my chair cautiously and confused. I thought, ‘I am not where I am supposed to be. Blackenot is on.’ I pushanpulled the manual blackenot defaults, but Godofamily - data showed billions of human people existing. How could this be? The city near the lake appeared a good target so I set for it.
          I pushanpulled switches and maneuvered Shuttlevator to earth. Near lone trees stood adjacent to a small stream and outer wood. A few homes set on the woods’ edges nearby. I thought, ‘I can ease in and hover invisibly just above the trees. Blackenot is on. Billions of these people died.’ I did not and to this day do not know how this is. I fought myself and decided I would not run.
          PrimeThree will send a directive to wait for Fargo, that’s what I thought. The new datum flashed before me. The earth date: 14 June 00ce. Fargo and I arrived 14 June 88ce. This is exactly thirteen years after the great plague, twelve years after we first found four adults and a babe alive on the planet. Whatever plague occurred earlier has not happened here. Billions of people are today alive, but plague or no plague, they too will be dead some day. I smiled; our first trip now seemed a joke. I said to myself; ‘these people are dead and don’t know it. This is a very odd, very strange circumstance.’

***
          >Hello. I, the Soki have some observations. These marsupials are presently stuck in Ship of their own making. Living people touch death the moment of birth, and they are stuck in their own self-being. The individual has herorhis own voice, and as such, herorhis own stage appears to stand relatively taller than the neighbors. In here, theatre is a rule the living share. I have discovered that the dead individual also has a voice and rules of theatre too. The dead have rules that end up being played in a metaphysical court with the privacy curtain closed.
         What are the rules for a genuine non-being, a floater like me? Presently, I have only a vague notion. <

The above is Chapter One, Stuck by O. Richards, © 2001  

** **

       ‘One’ is needed to show the problem you are anticipating – how to show in the ‘Address’ that Friendly and all are arriving on an Earth in 2001 that did not suffer the killing plague that nearly destroyed humanity on the first Earth where they arrived in 1988. This anxiety is due to your colossal arrogance more than anything else. Post. - Amorella

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