Monday, February 23, 2004

The Aufbau Principle

So yeah. I'm reading Chemistry and this crap isn't making sense. The teacher explains it so much better than this book does.

Anyway, it's my mom's birthday today. I think everyone should hear this because my mom matters just as much as everyone else.

I've also noticed it's Aleia's birthday too (unless she put a false date down. . .) so happy B-day to her as well. I've also noticed it's Noryko's birthday too (an older member from OB) so happy B-day to him as well, even if he might not read this.

Now. I have two posts I could post. I'm considering waiting until tomorrow for the one I have, but I might just post it after this one. We'll see.

What I have here is a story I started for my mom. It's an odd story, but I'm an odd boy. Odd Sotry + Odd Boy= ?.

Whatever it equals I'll post what I have done here.

"As It Lives"

The world is a clicking clacking clamor of gears, and spinning what-you-have-its, and what-you-make-its. It spins in its gears, over—over—and over again, and meshes here and there, and speeds and slows then and on that.

A large factory building with harsh conditions and its collection of people. Here things are made, created, in quick succession with each worker's hand assembling one part of it all. And the machines that run the whole factory spin—spin—and spin. This factory, like the world, is a clicking clamor of gears, the spinning of what-you-have-its, and what-you-make-its. And it's here we find her.

She is a fresh-faced, interesting woman. Perceptive eyes, facile hands, green eyes like a thick green-walled forest. Of the young age of nineteen she thinks few know. Of the struggles she thinks few remember. But she is living this struggle right now.

In the factory, she is the one who assembles the curves on the frames. She takes the lifeless matter given to her, and changes it to resemblance of something that could go as alive. Her task is simple: she takes the aid of the machine at her disposal, directs it along its cut, and there she makes the form of a being; there's the hands—the round, oval face—the wry hands—the curving waist—the little eyes. From there, the lifeless mass is taken to another factory worker's midst. Then another. Until, come to its final stage, like Frankenstein's monster, the lifeless mass is hit by lightning—only this lightning comes from a machine.

And then and there, life is created. A new being breathes and lives. She's seen so many of them they mean nothing to her.

These now-living beings then go eternally along the conveyor belt. Inside their minds they are living a real life, and what they see in there they think is reality. But of course, it is not. They are simply living machines that are studied and are a breakthrough in science, and that is all. They move endlessly, their full lifespan, and then are thrown in a recycling machine when of no use that recycles their parts and brings those parts back to her for her to create. Then it's back to fashioning the eyes, the lungs, the body; and from there the body is brought to its varying stages of creation and given life.

She's at her home in bed right now. The alarm goes off. It's beeping, and she cups her hand over its top and pushes inward the button. It stops blearing, and tired-eyed and lethargic, she pulls herself out of bed. Her body is loose and nice from her sleep. She would rather just lie in this bed all the morning, but it is time to get up. In around an hour it is time for her to go to work, to form the frames at the factory.

Her husband stirs on his side of the bed. He mumbles, "What's for breakfast?" his mouth on his pillow.

"What would you like?" she asks, pulling herself out of the covers of the bed, taking off her pajama bottoms to go for a shower.

"Eggs and bacon sound good?"

"Okay. Guess it's bacon and eggs." And she's off into the shower. Her body, pretty and naked, is soon covered in steam as the water hits against it in torrents. She shampoos her hair, soaps her body, and gets out. A towel rapped around her, she gets it held around her and, hands free, brushes her teeth. Combs her hair.

In their room she looks out the window as she's putting on her bra. The nice light of the sun is shining through, and some trees blow in the soft, hushed wind. It seems like a good day. She puts on her work habiliments, and comes to the kitchen.

"Good morning," she says to her husband.

"Good morning."

"Still going on bacon and eggs?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. I'll get it going." She looks at the digital clock read. "Work in half an hour. I should be able to make it."

Soon the smell of sizzling bacon is scenting the air, and scrambled eggs cook on the stove. When those are done, she puts them on some plates, puts them on the kitchen table, and they sit down and eat.

"How's work at the factory going?" he asks her. He drinks from his cup of OJ and then digs into his eggs.

She swirls her fork around in her eggs, looking at their texture. Yellow and spongy. "As good as it can be."

"That's good."

"And how's work for you?" she asks, taking a forkful of eggs to her mouth, chewing it, feeling the warm sponge of the eggs.

"The same. As good as it can be." He works at a nuclear power plant.

She's eaten most of her eggs now. She swallows another mouth of the yellow warm eggs. "How's the bacon and eggs? Up to your expectations?"

"Oh yeah. The least I could expect from you, Tathrine. You know you've always been a good cook. You know that, right?" he puts his fork up in questioning, teasing manner.

"Yeah, I do."

"Well, that's good." He smiles. "No one can make them as good as you, you know."

"You sure? What about your mom?"

"My mom? Hah, that's a good one. As you know, she could cook well, but not as good as you, Tath."

"Sure you aren't lying?" her lips purse in a teasing smirk.

"Oh, sure, I'm lying. Here's the truth: you're a terrible cook. I can cook better than this." He points to his almost gone food, and his voice tinges with his hard-to-read sarcasm.

"Is that so?"

"Hah. Sure, whatever you say." He gets up, puts his plates in the sink.

"Whatever I say? Well, do you know what I say?" she says, also getting up, putting her plates in the sink, standing beside him.

"What do you say, Tath?"

"I say you couldn't cook if your life depended on it. You need me to do it."

"I guess I'd have to agree. I'm something like a loser, wouldn't you agree?"

"You sure are, Jame."

"And you know what makes me more of a loser?"

"What?"

"I couldn't do anything if my life depended on it without you. I need you to do it."

"Isn't that the truth? Where do you think you'd be without me, Jamey Honey?" They were eye-to-eye, and her eyes were full of shimmering humor, his full of the half-smile that seemed to come there.

"Probably be with my mom that's a better cook than you," he teases, letting out his ha-ha-ha funny dry laugh.

"Oh, you meanie!" she said. Their faces move in on each other. They nuzzle their noses. "You're just the meanest guy I know, you know."

"Really? Well, you're the meanest woman I know."

"Let's keep it that way, then." She turns her head a little as they come into a kiss and reads the time. As their lips left one another, she said, "Well, it's time I'm off. Have a good day, won't you? And you should be glad you get to be away from this wicked witch too."

"Hah. You have a good day too, Tath. Have fun being away from this wicked man."

She was out the door. She hears his voice from inside, just a little murmur. "My mom's still a better cook."

She smiles. She drove off in her car. Soon she is at work.

2
It is the same monotony at work for her. Sitting there all day, using the machine to make the figure etched in the lifeless mass.

While she's working she's thinking. She wishes she could have a child, but they don't allow it. Not anymore. When she had been just a little girl, they had allowed it. But now they don't. It is wide-known law now that each year the government chooses people who may have a child, and those and only those people get them. The world is now too populated for families to be procreating in a rapid level. The world is now far too weighted with humans, and so there is the law of having no children. Many people each year protest against this law, but are often punished for their show of distaste at the law to off others from doing the same.

Tath had long had the thought of taking one of these beings and raising it in secrecy as a child. But she had never acted on it, fearing the consequences. Her husband also had voiced his want of a child too. Many times they had talked over how they wanted a child and what they'd do with it. They were still young, they'd tell one another. Maybe the law would be lifted. She doubted it, and so did he. There were just too many people on the earth now, and the government wouldn't allow it. They would have illegally had a child together in secrecy, but it was the norm of the government to now make it so that wouldn't happen by gene therapy of babies being born. If they would be called to be able to have a child, they would have been sent pills which allowed them to procreate.

The thoughts went through her mind, the streets of her thoughts leading to other streets, and to alleys, and to dead ends, and to corners and sharp turns and fresh lain roads

It is lunch break. She sits. Beside her is coworker Anthrane Rin. She is a black woman, rotund but beautiful, with luscious, full lips. The lips are always the first feature noticeable on her. "So how's things for you, Tath?" she asks through her mouthfuls of food.

"Pretty good. It's mostly the same old same old, but you knew that."

"Yeah."

"How's things with you, Anth?" Tath digs in on her food, forks it in, chews, chew chews. It's so mechanical. The daily humdrum.

"Same old same old here too, I'd say. Too bad I can't lie and say things are just marvelous, and tell you it's all good. But that wouldn't be good of me, would it?" Anth let out her dainty, kind laugh.

"No, I guess it wouldn't."

Back at the machine. The gears spinning, moving, clicking. Her thoughts going. She will ask Jame about stealing one of them. See what he thinks. Because she already knows the government won't choose them. The government only chooses the rich, high class people to procreate. And that they aren't—they aren't rich at all.

When work is over, she feels the time had passed so slow. It always seems to pass slow lately. She just doesn't have the will, but tries to keep going the same. She hates how time has the way of going so slow on you. To control time would be the best. To be able to speed it up in the lame parts, slow it down in the good parts. Too bad time has that way to it where the good parts go fast, and the monotonous, miserable moments go painful slow. But what can you do. Not much. Suffer it out. Live it out.

She drove home. The only thing on her mind is what she's going to say to Jame. How she's going to approach him about stealing one of the beings and raising it. Maybe it's foolish. Right now it feels like a hope. Like a dream. It probably won't happen. But she needs to try.

She'll ask him, "You know what, Jame?"

And he'll say, "What is it, Tath?" in his kind voice.

And she'll say, "I've been thinking."

He'll say, "What've you been thinking about?"

She'll say, "Well, about stealing one of them. And raising it."

And what would he say from here. Maybe "Are you serious about this?" or maybe "You know the rules, Tath. We can't do it" or maybe "Think it's worth it, darling?" or maybe "No, we can't" or maybe something else she couldn't even think about. But whatever he said, she knew she would probably do it. She would steal the being anyway. She's sick of living her life in this humdrum world. She wants it in her own hands.

Her own hands.

She pulled into the driveway. She would ask him during bed that night, after they made love. She would let it play out as it would. Opening the door, she let out a captured breath and stepped in the house. He was already home, as usual.
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