General

Coding for other people

Thursday, September 1st, 2011

I’m a coder, amongst other things.

I’m not a business type person, despite the fact that I have an MSc in E-Business, I’m too  much of a hippy to actually DO business, I hate taking money from people and I hate chasing them for it.  In the past I’ve learned that that I don’t have enough clout to sue people when they rip me off, and I don’t charge enough.

Recently I’ve learned that I can never charge enough if I’m coding for other people.

The problem here is that code is complex, very complex, and much of it is given away, (see Dan Pink, the Surprising Truth about what Motivates us, wait for the programming part).

And that’s a problem, because as an individual I can’t explain what takes time, and I’m often paid for my time, not my output, except…

…I’m paid for my output not my time, when the truth of it comes, because no-one seems to understand what takes time.

Because I code web things, I have to have to hand knowledge of at minimum, four programming or query languages, three different systems setups, two different operating systems, possibly across continents, etc. etc., all the paraphernalia that comes with coding, and people say “wow that’s intense”.  This is often followed by, “Can you just…”

No, I can’t.

I’ve been involved in coding projects recently, I took over from someone else who had left the code in the middle.  I didn’t know how much was involved, because one cannot.  I wasn’t given a proper spec, I wasn’t insistent enough about that, and I should have been.  I didn’t draw lines around what I was expected to do.  Given the amount of time that I’ve put in, now to the detriment of other projects, I cannot probably catch up with those projects properly.

Alright that’s bad.  But eventually, fixable.

But what isn’t fixable is that I do NOTHING else but code right now.  I don’t write, I don’t cycle, I don’t motorcycle with my friend, I don’t see my kids, I don’t work on my teaching material for next year, and I’ve turned into a HORRIBLE person.

I want silence in the house, (the kids are on summer break), I argue with my girlfriend, I argue with my ex-wife, I’m impatient with my boys, I’m impatient with my girlfriend’s kids.  I haven’t been to my roleplay club.  Basically I’m a moody fuck.

Studying for my MSc was easier on my life than coding.

I know this is a bit rambly and a moan, but you know, put up with it.

I have clients from years ago now that I still host, none of them paying, and I don’t even know what status their sites are at because I’m now realising that my American host  changed DNS on me a while back, and though they say there was an email I don’t see it.

So I have to go around changing this stuff, except that I’m going tom write and say I can’t do this any more, not “I can’t do this for free any more”, just I can’t do this, I can’t host, I can’t do code for people any more.

It does not pay enough, because no-one understands what code involves, it makes me tense.

To hell with the money argument, stuff the money.

Coding makes me tense.  Ten cups of coffee a day, (I had gone down a lot, except that Uni gives me a bad coffee habit), makes me tense.

I have realised, finally, that I don’t LIKE coding for other people, and it does’t like me.

I love coding, for me.

I don’t love myself very much when I’m coding, but when it’s for me, I can put it down and become a human being again.

Here’s the thing, no more coding for other people, no more hosting, no more horrible person.

I’m going to dedicate myself to teaching in Uni, and getting my PhD.  I’ll probably write come code for that, but at the end of it, I’ll have a PhD.  I’ll probably teach people to code a bit, but I won’t be doing it.

…and I’ll be a better, nicer person at the end of it.

Strings…

Friday, July 8th, 2011

Complaint from #lovelyGF about strings on Thunderbirds…

“You can see the strings!”

 

You can see the strings

Spammer tries to keep it quiet

Thursday, March 3rd, 2011

I’m a contrary person, live with it.

Here a spammer tries to look legit, and inserts a confidentiality clause, meaningless of course, at the end.

I’m f the opinion that since email is inherently not secure, if one does not know who the recipient is, one cannot expect any kind of security or confidentiality.  If one does know the recipient, then one might be bound by contract or common decency.  In this case however…

(And for those still waiting, Snow 16 will be coming soon.

+++++++++++++++++++++++

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Freedom 2 – A ray of light

Monday, December 13th, 2010

As a matter of public record.

I ranted on this in this month’s freedom column about taking responsibility for us, collectively, on demonstrations.

I’ve been remonstrated with for taking that stance, and I note as a result, that there are other points of view, which I don’t agree with, but which nevertheless are valid, sound view which deserve consideration.

However, I’m not really addressing those arguments here because they were put forward in an another forum.

What I would like to note as an addenda to the foregoing, is that Thersa May in Parliament today, publicly noted that the Police felt that most of the protesters were genuinely upset, genuinely protesting, and that there was a hard core of separate trouble-makers around who were out to cause trouble.  Well done on the Police for identifying this and being willing to say it, well done on Theresa May on saying it in Parliament.

Here is the statement.  http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-11986536 This is right on statement.

It is these people that we must eject from protests that arise as a matter of genuine unrest.

Violence only detracts from the message.

Don’t let them do it to you people.

BUT, remember this moment, it is a moment of acknowledgement, a light in the darkness.

It’s not the Miners strike after all.

It’s nice to be wrong sometimes.

Freedom

Friday, December 10th, 2010

I’m writing in the UK and I’m a UK citizen, I was born and bred here.  Any remarks I make have the full set of prejudices that I carry with me as a result of this, and must be considered in this light.

This said, racially I have some Asian background, but no culture because I was discouraged from having any.  I’m aware of it though and it has had influence previously in my life.

_____________________

We enjoy a certain amount of freedom in this country, and although we frown at the CCTV, the actions of the Police, (Protests, photography), we can roam the street with a certain amount of immunity from violence, (generally, there is always the criminal element), random arrests, spying, (but bear in mind what I said about CCTV) and the other trappings of rule that is an indication of an insecure culture and government.

I’m aware that people are fed up with our current government already, if the tweets and news I see are anything to go by, then they are very fed up indeed.  I think the Lib-Dems shall not see power again this century.  I think that people feel betrayed.

There is a time-line here.

In 2008 we had another financial crash.  Commentators doing the analysis called the recovery and rescue of the banks “Socialisation of the debt” and “Privatisation of the profit”.  The banks have us over a barrel, “the best will leave” if we are too punitive.  Banks will offshore their activities, more than they do already, and the government will lose billions in tax revenue.

That’s a problem, where does the power truly lie?  From the little scenario above, it seems that it lies in the hand of the banks who certainly do not answer to the will of the people.

But it seems from the unrest that the government do not actually answer to the will of the people.  There are many fine words about compromise, but they cut no ice when jobs are going, and we are approaching the one in ten of the famous song about hard times in the eighties.  People are angry, very angry.  Angry at the protests, angry at the cuts, angry at the damage, angry.

They have every right to be angry.  We should be angry.

We should be absolutely hopping mad.

Oh look there’s a student or hanger on throwing a half brick.

STOP

I started by saying that we enjoy freedoms in this country, and we do.  We can be dissidents, unlike say, oh I don’t know Liu Xiaobo, who today got Nobel Peace Prize, denounced by China as interference.  China needs to be put under pressure to free Liu Xiaobo, but it will not respond to it.  China was praised by Thorbjorn Jagland, according to the BBC, for “Lifting millions of people out of poverty.”

I’ve met plenty of Chinese Students, they are proud of their country.  I know people who have gone their and travelled freely, taught, lived, loved.  The everyday experience of the Chinese seems to be improving.  The government lets go of control slowly.

Liu Xiaobo should be freed, but rapid change in governmental policy is chaotic, sudden freedoms mean that one is free, as Heinlein once wrote, “free to starve too…” because economic changes come too rapidly for the government of the day to make sure that everyone eats, the trash is collected and that people are not too corrupt.  I invite the reader, and I’m going to apologise in advance to an entire country here, to compare and contrast Russia’s experience with China.  Forward to freedom, but not too fast, because otherwise there are no queues for bread or rice, because is no bread or rice.  Take a look, and I’m NOT apologising here, at North Korea.

The Chinese don’t riot not just because their government will oppress them, but because things are getting better.  Students have told me this.  They recognise that there are problems, but if you change everything all at once, things will go very wrong, and that there will  be unrest.  They have the assurance of a consistent government, even if we in the west think it is a bad government in many ways.  China creeps towards freedom, and Liu Xiaobo pays the price, because China needs activists, but the government will assert its power when it feels threatened, and thus he is in prison.  It is not a travesty of justice so much as a result of an individual losing the argument by might, the government’s might.  Free Liu Xiaobo.

We, here in the UK are changing things quickly, the new inexperienced government thinks that all the changes are necessary and good, and we do not.  We have good reason, people bandy about figures for how much tax is avoided on the part of big companies and rich individuals and I could do that too, but it is just sufficient in my view to say that rich individuals and big companies can afford big lawyers and fat fees and off-shoring to help them avoid tax, and I can tell you that in every contact I have had with the tax system weather as student, a company bod, a consultant or whatever, the same message comes, don’t pay tax if you don’t have to.

Fine, but now we say that there is a moral obligation for companies &c. to pay the tax they morally owe, because we subsidised the banks when they were in trouble.  Are they doing the same for us?   No.

No, they are not. They are in profit once more, and we are suffering the cuts.  And so student fees triple, the Lib-Dems guarantee that they are basically seen as liars, (I get that they are in coalition, but emotionally I feel the same, intellectually, more complex), and students are on the streets protesting.

I have seen interesting pictures around this, school girls protecting a police van, (well done those girls), random protesters protecting policemen under attack, and most clearly of all, someone saying “Wind the  window up !” to Prince Charles and Camilla.

Ah, now we arrive at it.

Remember the miner’s strike?  What happened?  It turned nasty, and new, and in my view pretty draconian laws were enacted to prevent secondary strike action, striking without some pretty severe rules on balloting, (think BA in the summer stopped several times by the courts, because that is what companies turn to now even for the smallest infraction of the ballot rules), and generally tore the heart of the unions, and I feel for the country.

France still strikes, rebels when the people get hacked off.  We laugh at them, then sympathise.

But oh, oh you protesters yesterday, you waste your time and effort, because we have already seen violence, and that is wrong.

Oh deface a building or a statue, these things can be repaired, though you risk offence if you deface, I dunno, the Cenotaph, when soldiers are still dying for Afghanistan, so doing that would be dumb right?

And say, attacking the Prince of Wales, who just happens to be Chancellor of the University of Wales, (as we are reminded in a typically flippant student council agenda), which includes Bangor, which I happen to be an Alumni thereof, and having participated a little bit in student democracy happen to that his Chancellorship is fully supported by the student body and has been for a long time.

I went off on one.

Point is, you dumb-asses, don’t attack the most “right on” eccentric royal and don’t attack the chancellor because now Cameron is going to rain a very large drum of Whoop ass on your heads and prosecutions will follow.  And then there will be new laws.

Stop cocking the protests up.  STOP.

Protest peacefully, give the police the run around, disobey, be dissident, but stop being violent, because you’re making a right mess of it if you do that, because the media does not then get the message across that we’re really really un-happy, it just shows a few more pictures of some arse-hole putting the boot in or swingin on the flag, or god forbid that damned silly still of Charles and Camilla looking horrified.

Stop being stupid, stop getting us in a situation in which the government is going  to punish us all by creating even more draconian and daft laws than the last one did.

And by the way, I’m no great lover of the police as the state enforcers, but these people have lives and families, and some of them even sympathise because they do not live in isolation from the rest of us.  Show them some respect by not beating the living daylights out of them and maybe they will not act out of fear either.

Yes, protest, disobey, be dissident, but do so peacefully; because unlike Liu Xiaobo, you don’t face being locked up just for being dissident.  Remember that you are essentially free.

_

Addendum, and Police, remember that we don’t need this sort of bollocks from you either.  It cuts both ways.

_

Corrected for grammar and spelling.

Sociologists the scientists

Monday, December 6th, 2010

This will probably be short.  Or not, I don’t know.

I have decided, while writing Snow, that Sociologists, and by this I mean social workers and the like, are the ultimate experiential experimenters.

They look, like any scientist, for causes.

This idea, this search for causes infects us like the greatest of memes.  It enters our daily life, this seeking for causes, it drives our justice system, at least, in the UK, (not presuming to speak for other places I don’t have experience of…), drives our social policy, our policing, our television, (think Discovery Channel), but not unfortunately our politicians, (see http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-11923644, can you say “pillocks”?)

Anyway, I’m not ranting about that now, I wanted to reflect that while writing Snow I constantly return to causes.  I’m driven to it even while the writing is driven by the stream of consciousness kind of outpouring that gives my creativity a space to play in, and some of the more bizarre parts a space to get out.

It’s hard to open that channel.

But even when that outpouring happens, I find myself looking for causes, and when I look, and in my head I am looking around a vista of the world that I am reporting, muchly, and sometimes that world is a memory of the past, (the character’s past, I’m trying to cut down on the hideous revenge shooting and subsequent torture these days, because it sets a bad example for the boys, and I don’t their mother rolling their eyes in exasperation, so no, I pass on that.  Even for some interface designers, though in my darker moments wresting with some new program….  )

Moving on.

I look for causes, and I think and increasing number of us look for causes, because we have become social scientists, chemists, physicists, biologists, and practically anything in fact, with an “ology” in it, even on occasion, oologists; studiers of eggs.  Particularly when associated with the study of Pigs, or Baconology.

Point is, I remember what my character remembers, which is a particularly difficult thing to do, because I “see” what I am writing, and “live” memories of characters I write in the first person, and sometimes I get these flashbacks because I am seeking the causes.

We have all been made scientists, to some degree.

What we could do with, is the mathematical language with which to express it.  For sociologists, that doesn’t always exist, yet.

The Santa Chronicles, and why I’m truly evil

Monday, December 6th, 2010

Go away children this isn’t for you, it’s for adults, even though it contains no actual “adult” material, where “adult” is used as a euphemism for scatology or sex.

________________

I had trouble with Christmas when I was first married, hated it, always stressy, always dreadful at childhood home in later years.

Actually in the very early years, I remember it being quite pleasant, masses of family around, toys, lots of baking and Aunts.  I really enjoyed that.  It was jolly, not because my parents were believers, but because there was always something good going on.  I like to hang on to that thought, because it’s quite a good memory.

By the time the boys came along, Paula had gone mad every Christmas and spoiled me rotten, as she does now with the boys, and jollied me up again.  And we spent a lot of time off at Christmas and visited, and hung out and it was generally wonderful.

But the boys started asking questions to which I had not which I had not any answers.

Like how could Santa get around the world in one day?  How does he know if we’ve been bad or good?  Who decorates the Christmas tree on the evening of Uly’s birthday, (six days before Christmas).  Why don’t we park on Yellow lines?

We don’t park on yellow lines because they have a compound that melts tyres, and then the ticket is for littering.

So, in the style of Calvin’s Dad, I answered the questions as best I could.

It’s clear to me that when I die I’m going to hell.

For example,

How could Santa get around the world in one day?

Ah, well, you see Santa doesn’t actually have get around the world in a single day.  The Dutch, to pick someone at random, have their gifts on December 5th.  Different people do things at different times.  Santa has a holiday in the summer like everyone else, as depicted in Father Christmas goes on Holiday.

How does Santa afford all the presents?

Hobbes, the tiger philosopher seems to think that Santa is just getting into debt, but this is clearly not the case.  Santa can easily afford anything thanks to his lucrative sponsorships deals, (Dom pointed this one out to me when he was very young and we were not sure how we were going to do Christmas one time, so we were trying to manage his expectations), with the life of Coca Cola.  Dom seemed to think at the time that any information on the internet saying that Santa, (no children here, right?), wasn’t real, was an adult conspiracy, was clearly just part of that conspiracy.  We had to “have a word” with Uly before he went to Big School, because we were not sure what his belief status was.  Thanks to my clever evil explanations, his belief was extremely sound indeed.  Um.

How does Santa know if we’ve been good?

Easy one this.  Despite all the spying work they do on the side, Santa’s sponsorship deals are so very lucrative, do a simple search on the web to see how many places his images appear, all that royalty can pay for a great deal of information, and it is the CIA, cleverly disguised as the USA’s Central Intelligence Agency, that collects this information.   Three simple words, Keyhole Satellite Imagery.  It also explains why NORAD are so willing to tracks Santa’s progress on Christmas Eve. It’s actually the CHRISTMAS Intelligence Agency, it just does spying and stuff on the side, because you know, as you’ve got it, might as well use it for terrorism protection and stuff, no point in doubling up.

Who puts up the Christmas tree?

That would be the Christmas Fairy.  Ulysses asks,

“But I saw Mum putting it up one year, couldn’t the Christmas Fairy come?”

“Ah, no son, she is the Christmas Fairy.  She gave up an immortal life to be with me.”

“Oh, cool.”

And that was just fine until we got divorced, (and I can I just say that, as I’m referring to this, that our divorce is basically my fault and not hers, and she still has my utmost respect and love.  More so actually, because she has behaved with openness, grace and dignity throughout.  She still behaves with love and respect towards me and we co-parent.  I go to stay and we get on well.  She is the epitome of a dignified and loving woman).

So Ulysses one day said to me..

“So I just want to get one thing straight Dad.”

“What’s that son?”

“You remember you said Mum was the Christmas Fairy?”

“Ye-es.”

“And you said that she was the Christmas Fairy and that she had given up an immortal life to be with you…”

“Uh, yes.”

“And now you’re divorced.  Just saying , you know.”

___________

Oh, I’m going to hell.  In a hand basket.

Snow 13

Friday, December 3rd, 2010

It is some hours later.

Ellie and I have removed out suits at last, and Ellie spent some time checking the operation of them.  She showed me at one point what looked like a burnt out valve, this was what caused Sweet’s suit to fail.  Sweet in the meantime has been stripped and put in the medical unit, which seems to consists of a tank and breathing apparatus.  We have to rouse her before she goes in, so that she does not panic.  It’s not easy.  Her fingers and toes look very damaged, terminally so, but Ellie assures me that the machine will repair all things.

While she busied herself with Sweets’ recovery, I looked around the space station, pardon me, void ship.

It was like a space station in every respect that I expected, doors that seal with manual releases, computers, comfy chairs at work-stations, exercise machinery.  There is an air reclamation plant that looks more modern than anything I have ever seen, but flushing toilets, which lead via brass pipes into a garden hung out of one side of the station with a huge dome overhead, and lights which I soon discover are dispensing a healthy dose of UV to plants which, well we’ll just say they are overgrown and leave it at that.

The rest of the station is mad with brass and wood, it looks like the inside of a steam age machine.  There are little handles which turn to activate functions which are not always clear.  The nice for the computes are complex affairs with bar at the top and side tracing the position of smoothly running but mechanical pointers.  I see the screens regularly turn into mush as some function is worked out, sometimes with little square remaining in corners where things that need constantly displaying reside, and once I see Ellie dip her finger into the scree and move something from somewhere to somewhere.  I reach and poke at a screen.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”  I pause and look over. “I’m a programmer by trade, ” she says, “I know how to hack the machine.”  I put my hand behind my back.

I spend some time looking out the window again.  I have been very introspective for the last few months, but this is not a good trait in my profession, well, one of my professions.  I realise something for the first time, that all the emotional energy that I would otherwise put into life, and that would interfere with my killing.  I don’t feel like that belongs to me any more.   I’m not sure who I am any more.

I was someone who killed for a living, professionally.  I have been employed by corporations and governments, small and large.  I kill cleanly and quickly, leaving no trace of my presence and existence, until now.  I have made sure that the widows and orphans of those I kill are well provided for, and I don’t kill anyone powerless.  I do not regard myself as a common murderer.  That is for street people.

I write romantic novels of such passion and depth that I am called on to write more every month.  I use a front-woman to sign for me, she, I am famous.  And we are famously recluse.  I tell my neighbours that I am an author and they leave me alone, most of the time.  I have a barbecue in summer, and a foursome for bridge, when I am at home.  I live in a modest house, because I have need for anything more.

Ellie is listening to my history.  She nods sagely as we are sitting and eating, she has found supplies, all dried food and vacuum packed, she says is is years old, but it will be ok.  She has done remarkable things with it.

I have many questions, so many, but my first is simple.

“Where are we?”

_________________

A long, really long, conversation ensues.

We ‘re aboard a space station, void ship in 1929.  Verne tried his bullet to the moon almost eighty years ago, it mashed the original astronauts flat and earned Verne a turn in jail for “reckless endangerment.”  When he came out he was a changed man, secretive, reclusive and, apparently, educated in explosives and charges.  His second experiment put a man in orbit about the earth and returned him safely.  Verne was hailed a hero, and the French were thus the first people in space.  The British soon followed, not wanting their cross channel rivals to gain a march on them, and with the 10 year delay due to Verne’s sentence, and some investigations on the part of the British Secret Service, a second manned flight was launched from outside Birmingham shortly after the first flight in 1867.  In the next ten years the Empire launched no less than sixty flights, compared to France’s three, and Verne died in 1905 a broken man, his dream dashed by a government that didn’t care.

The Empire prevailed by dogged persistence.  When the Russian and the Germans both launched disastrous but instructive missions, Britain stepped into high gear and built in a few short years a space station that would justifiably allow them to claim dominion of space.  The “Void Ships” cast into space, and soon reached the moon, launched from this space station and thus needing little of the massive investment in launch mass that it appears in my time, is required.

Except that this is not my time, or before my time.  Ellie explains that it is more likely that I have been “side-slipped”, because travelling into the past is simply not possible.  It seems that times do not always align, though this may be an accident of the calendar.  There is no way to tell.

I listen to this story with growing incredulity, the only reason I have to believe it is that I’m sitting here, tapping my fingers on the wooden surface of a table in space.

“How does the gravity work?”  I ask.

I didn’t know this, but moving things acquire mass.  If they are moving very fast, they acquire a lot of mass.  We’re sitting on top of spinning plates, which somehow are frictionless, totally frictionless, which are spinning so that portions of them are moving very quickly, nearly speed of light quickly, powered by our occasional exposure to the sun and cosmic radiation.  I press for details, but she is no a physicist, she’s a programmer, and I get nothing further.

I try for the important to stuff, why am I here?

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“What do you mean?”

We are supposed to be down there.”  I think about this, it does not seem an attractive prospect, but there is a prize here, and I must stay focused.

“Why?”

“Because we need to you to kill someone.”

[more]

Snow 6

Friday, November 26th, 2010

Polokov shakes and shakes when he sees it, he’s not even holding the gun pointing at me now, he’s too disturbed.  I move towards him cautiously, and then rapidly as his eyes turn up in his head.  The gun drops and I catch it, placing it on the ground immediately so that it doesn’t go off, and I can catch him.  He’s a limp mass and I can’t hold him, but I lower him to the ground as gently as I can.  He is shaking and foaming, I’m not sure what is wrong with him, but I can see that he’s in a bad way.

It’s a vigil, and too near the, doll, but I stay paying attention to him, avoiding looking in the table’s reflective surface.  He calms after a while and his eyes look fairly normal.  I’m not sure what has caused this fit, and I can do nothing about it.  His breathing eases, and he slips into what seems to me to be a normal sleep.  I don’t know how much time has passed, but I’m thirsty, that’s a bad sign.

Polokov wakes and I discover than I have been dozing on the floor by him.  He is sitting up by the time I come to, and he looks at the gun, discarded only inches away from his hand.  He picks it up by the barrel and hands it to me.

“Here,” he looks ashamed, I think, of his behaviour, “For you, you are more rational than I am it seems.”  He starts to get to his feet.  ”You took care of me.   I appreciate it.”  I nod, and he reaches down to me.  I swap the gun from hand to hand, and take his, it’s the first thing resembling a handshake I’ve had in years.  I don’t generally touch people if I can help it.

It strikes me that his hand is warm, yielding but strong, I had forgotten how strong people can be.  I write about emotions and relationships, but I have not known the touch of others.  I have avoided it.  It is a guilt.

I kill people for a living.

The grotesque doll is still lying there, how we have come in a circle is a matter for some debate, but I assume we have, other possibilities are too complex to contemplate.  The fact remains however, that we are lost in this place.

“You should walk some distance away, and we can asses how big this place is.  You think you can manage that?”

“I can do that.”  he says, accent thickening.  Without another word he walks off.  Perspective is warped, I should be able to see him for a long time, but within thirty places or so he becomes a speck and disappears.

“Polokov!” I shout.  He answers from behind me, I jump.

“There is no need to shout friend.  I seem to have gotten turned around again.”  I look at him.  I would have seen him turn, I’m sure of it.

“No, Polokov.  This is an impossible place.”

“How can that be, we are in it?”  I think for a moment.

“I will walk backwards and look at you, you will see.”

“What will I see?  A man falling over when he misses a step?”

“No, watch.”  I turn and start walking backwards.  Polokov just looks at me, I point with two fingers to my eyes and to him, and he nods.  The perspective trick happens again, and just as I lose sight of him, I bump into something.  A second of terror forms in me, and Polokov catches me as I fall.  I curse and curse and curse, and Polokov waits for me to finish venting my frustration and not a little fear.

“This is an impossible place.”  I say it, eventually, without emotion.

“Yes.” He says, “Impossible.”  And somehow he has the gun, and I cannot move quickly enough as he raises it to his head, and shoots himself.

There is no body, no blood this time, I am alone.  And no gun either, I cannot escape like that.  Polokov is gone, with nothing to say that he has been here.  I look around the whiteness.  I’m thirsty.

The table is still there, and I go to look in it, the shiny surface reflecting me for a brief second, and the as I blink, not me.  She’s there again.  There is nothing else there in he image, and when I look around, the hideous flesh doll is gone, and this little perspective is lost to me, apart from the table and her, there is nothing here and all is white with the world.

I miss Polokov already, but I think that I am dreaming, and this knowledge, or belief, finally is a revelation for me.  It is like a wave of consciousness, and as I look into the reflection in the table I see she has had the same revelation, and I nod and smile as does she.  It is a moment of clarity.

The light diminishes and I see  a darkness coming from all sides as the ceiling lights go out.  I’m at peace, for now, and the girl and I wave at each other with exactly the same gestures, the same smile, the same shrug of our shoulders, and the lights finally come to be just the one, which goes out.

__________________________

I wake up in the hospital.  Polokov is there, sitting in a chair, dozing, but he becomes instantly alert as I move.

“So, you’re real.” I say weakly, “you escaped.”  He nods, and opens his jacket a little to reveal a small handgun with a silencer.  He speaks, his accent much more pronounced in what I assume is the real world.

“I have been sent to kill you.”  He says quietly, “but you have been in my dream, or I have been in yours.  I waited for you there for a long time you know.  Years.  Fortunately I am not a complicated man.  Still, I was mad when you found me.  Mad.  I am not sure I am not mad now.  I have been sent to kill you, but I cannot.  It would kill her I’m sure, and we have a higher purpose now.  I must run, my friend, so that I live for that purpose.”  He holds his hand out.  ”You saved me.  You are my brother.”  I look at him, not entirely understanding, but one thing I do understand.

I say with a dry throat…

“Run, my brother.  Run.”

[more]

Funniest Spam Ever

Saturday, November 20th, 2010

Because sometimes people post some class bullshit.  From my junk mail.

(In a review, which I rarely carry out).

________________________________________

OFFICE OF THE PRIME MINISTER
TREASURY AND MINISTER FOR CIVIL SERVICE,
LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM.

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IMMEDIATE PAYMENT NOTIFICATION.

I am The Rt Hon David Cameron, Prime Minister British Government. This letter is to officially inform you that (ATM Card Number 4900101775551222) has been accredited with your favor. Your Personal Identification Number is 413. The VISA Card Value is Ј3,000,000.00(Three Million Great British Pounds Sterling).

This office will send to you a Visa/ATM CARD that you will use to withdraw your funds in any ATM MACHINE CENTER or Visa card outlet in the world with a maximum of  Ј5000 Pounds daily.Further more,You will be required to re-confirm the following information to enable;The Rt Hon William Hague Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs. begin in processing of your VISA CARD.

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Forward Reply To: fco-gov@info.al

TAKE NOTICE: That you are warned to stop further communications with any other person(s) or office(s) different from the staff of the State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs to avoid hitches in receiving your payment.

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The Rt Hon David Cameron MP
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