The world is a mask that hides the real world.
Thatâs what everybody suspects, though the world we see wonât let us dwell on it long.
The world has ways - more masks - of getting our attention.
The suspicion sneaks in now and again, between the cracks of everyday existenceâ¦the bird song dips, rises, dips, trails off into blue sky silence before the note that would reveal the shape of a melody that, somehow, would tie everything together, on the verge of unmasking the hidden armature that frames this sky, this tree, this bird, this quivering green leaf, jewels in a crown.â¦
As the song dies, the secret withdraws.
The tree is a mask.
The sky is a mask.
The quivering green leaf is a mask.
The song is a mask.
The singing bird is a mask.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
A package arrives
A package was delivered to my house this morning. No return address, wrapped in plain brown poly, and the tracking barcode had been obliterated, angry-looking zig-zags scratched with the point of a penknife. I can’t remember the last time I received a package delivery here instead of at Central Repository.
I feared the worst, expecting the Mummy’s hand or something equally disgusting, I guess, as the paranoia is getting deep around here these days, with the elevated terrorist threat levels and increased security. I was shocked that the package had gotten through Security into the residential compound.
Inside the box lay a museum-quality hand-held computer-telephone mash-up, circa 2007 (but I’m no expert). Narrow enough to slip into my shirt pocket, the length of the checkbooks they used to use back then, before bank cards got smart.
I flipped open the brushed aluminum case. I expected it to power up; it did.
But, instead of the telephone call that I expected, from some Mysterious Stranger who is Going to Change My Life...the device logged itself on to a computer server somewhere, a direct connection, not through the public net.
ASCII gibberish scrambled the screen for 63 seconds before the following message appeared:
Welcome, Redactor!
That was a shocker. The only place I’ve used that name is in this journal, nowhere else. And this journal is private. Or so I thought. My gut began to tighten.
You’re not going to find what you’re looking for in the servers you have access to, Redactor.
The screen offered a text box where I could enter a response and tapped the keyboard for a moment.
Who are you? I typed.
Check this out. I’ll get back to you later.
The screen went blank as the email clicked off. A few moments passed.
The screen burst to life with chimes playing the melody from the eternal "Stairway to Heaven."
An email message opened.
Don't even think of telling anybody about this, if you know what's good for you.
Hmmm.
Threat? I typed.
Reality, I'm afraid. OK, later.
The screen scrambled then went blank as it began another download.
Through the window I watched half a dozen outraged mockingbirds dive-bomb a huge raven perched on the decapitated fir tree in the widow lady's yard across the street. The raven puffed out its chest and talked back to the mockingbirds who continued to scream as they swooped perilously close to the corvid's hooked black beak. The raven fled south on Downey, mocks in hot pursuit. Seems to be a nest they were protecting in that fir tree, as there is in the tree out at the curb, visible from my office window here, a tree whose name I, lamentably, do not know, bursting this week into hot pink blossom.
I feared the worst, expecting the Mummy’s hand or something equally disgusting, I guess, as the paranoia is getting deep around here these days, with the elevated terrorist threat levels and increased security. I was shocked that the package had gotten through Security into the residential compound.
Inside the box lay a museum-quality hand-held computer-telephone mash-up, circa 2007 (but I’m no expert). Narrow enough to slip into my shirt pocket, the length of the checkbooks they used to use back then, before bank cards got smart.
I flipped open the brushed aluminum case. I expected it to power up; it did.
But, instead of the telephone call that I expected, from some Mysterious Stranger who is Going to Change My Life...the device logged itself on to a computer server somewhere, a direct connection, not through the public net.
ASCII gibberish scrambled the screen for 63 seconds before the following message appeared:
Welcome, Redactor!
That was a shocker. The only place I’ve used that name is in this journal, nowhere else. And this journal is private. Or so I thought. My gut began to tighten.
You’re not going to find what you’re looking for in the servers you have access to, Redactor.
The screen offered a text box where I could enter a response and tapped the keyboard for a moment.
Who are you? I typed.
Check this out. I’ll get back to you later.
The screen went blank as the email clicked off. A few moments passed.
The screen burst to life with chimes playing the melody from the eternal "Stairway to Heaven."
An email message opened.
Don't even think of telling anybody about this, if you know what's good for you.
Hmmm.
Threat? I typed.
Reality, I'm afraid. OK, later.
The screen scrambled then went blank as it began another download.
Through the window I watched half a dozen outraged mockingbirds dive-bomb a huge raven perched on the decapitated fir tree in the widow lady's yard across the street. The raven puffed out its chest and talked back to the mockingbirds who continued to scream as they swooped perilously close to the corvid's hooked black beak. The raven fled south on Downey, mocks in hot pursuit. Seems to be a nest they were protecting in that fir tree, as there is in the tree out at the curb, visible from my office window here, a tree whose name I, lamentably, do not know, bursting this week into hot pink blossom.
