The Lords of Brain

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The Ranger and the Rain

14 June, 01:30 AM John McKay

The ranger woke to the sound of thunder and knew that events unnatural were shaking him awake. His trail had led him well inland, over rivers and through swamps and past forest and around mountains and over the hills. But he knew he was closing on his prey. He knew where he must go, and he knew, too, the wizard was bringing his will against him. He knew of the unnatural ways of the wizard and the sway he would hold over elements. He knew this time of year, so calm especially in the twilight hours, would not turn so suddenly to such chaos. He knew it was the work of he who he sought.

In an instant he was alert, his mind focused on the events around him. There a streak of lightening, and a moment later the crescendo of thunder. In the darkness that followed, he judged the constellations and saw the moon low in the sky and waning. Midnight, he knew. The time of foreboding. The right time for his quarry to strike. He hadn’t been a fool to sleep. All creatures need sleep and he had succumbed as he knew he must. It was only fate that these foul deeds struck during his slumber. The water fell straight down as if they were stones, each drop as weighted as a boulder and crashed upon the dirt and upon the ranger equally. The ranger was on his feet. He was fully awake and the moment of the first lightening flash to the moment of his alertness was barely a second. Not even.

The air was warm, his fire gone, and his hat swept from his head. He had made a crude leanto, quick and hasty in the evening before, sufficient for the season and natural weather he had predicted, but frail and fragile before the storm he felt brewing. He leapt the length of his stormlit shadow and grabbed his hat before it was fully sweapt from his sight. He only had stormlight now to see, his fire gone, the moon unreliable in this storm. It was only the strobe flash of the lightening that served his eyes now and he knew he must act. He had choices to make and only an instant to recognize them all. He could scramble to higher ground, but the land was rough here. For days he had scrambled over only rocks and crags and not much else. His own leanto was built against the scraggliest of shrubs, barely suited to be called tree and the layers of leaves were from other, less prosperous shrubs. He had no shelter. He had no protection, he had only what he carried in this small camp.

Again he saw lightening flash and in the moment of illumination he saw the water pour into the stone circle he had created for his fire pit. What was once a source of light and warmth was now a pool. No better than any other piece of worthless ground he was camped upon. His decision, then, was made. He swooped his tin cup, now empty of tea, into his pack and quickly slung it around his shoulder. He drew his sword, for no reason other than he had nothing else to slush below the water and feel for solid ground. His footing was critical. Water was ankle deep and rising. He cast a glance at the sky and saw nothing but water, fist sized drops falling and slamming into his face and he quickly angled his head down so his wide brimmed hat would catch the worst of it. He had barely started moving, but already he was soaked. His leather jerkin weighing heavily upon his shoulders, clinging to his sides as he moved and he tried to shrug it off, to bring his arms through the sleeves with his large bag still slung around his torso. It was difficult and his joints ached. He had traveled far the day before and he hadn’t yet rested from his travails. His muscles were weary and he was taxed by this storm, so unnatural and unwelcome. He slung his jerkin over his bag, and let it lie there soaking in the pouring water and weighted ever heavier as he trudged on. His boots, though stout and sturdy, were not made for wading and were soon overflowing with floodwater. The boots sloshed against the rocks and his feet sloshed inside his boots. It was a double effort merely to walk, but on he went. His sword feeling the path before his feet and his energy spent on trying one foot in front of the other.

The ranger knew at this rate that he only had to outlast the stamina of his quarry. A wizard could only keep a storm like this for so long, and if a ranger could keep his feet under him for longer, he could prevail. The wind blew and screams of the storm deafened him. But on he marched. One foot at a time. He swept his longsword in front of him, paddling aside debris from bark and leaves and fallen flora. He thrust the sword and found rock beneath and slid his foot where his sword found purchase and moved on. It was a battle of wills, a step at time: the ranger against the rain. But the ranger was strong and determined and with each step, with each pounding moment of the rain, he gained ground. Each time he pressed one foot in front of the other, each time he was battered by rain, each drop the force of a punch, he won a little victory. It wasn’t a race of distance for the ranger, but a race of time. All he had to do was hold out just one second longer than the storm. He knew he could do it, and each slosh of his foot inside his boot told him he would.

Almost as quickly as it had begun it was over. The thunder and the fury died down long before the rain, of course, as it always would. But as the fierceness died and it was only natural rain the ranger saw, he breathed his relief. The wind was no longer a threat and he looked back and no longer saw his nighttime camp, but did see a river, a rolling stream of water that followed his trail and he knew his footing would be uncertain for a time longer. He clambered to the side and saw the edge of the water move, serpent-like, as if it were attracted to his very presence. The wizard was done with the storm, his energy spent, but he was not done with the ranger. If he could, the ranger knew, he would surely destroy him, and this night if possible. The ranger sat on a rocky promontory and frowned at the water as it rushed past, unnaturally lapping at the ranger’s high ground. The ranger crossed his legs and took off one boot and poured the water out, it was rough and brown and the ranger sniffed disdainfully, as if in that water was all the foulness and evil of his prey.

The ranger looked around again, and noted the constellations and the waning moon. He judged the hour and knew he must rest. It wouldn’t be long now. But before any battle, the flesh must be rested, the muscle prepared, else the fight would be lost before it began. Soon, the ranger knew, the fight must begin in earnest.

The Ranger and The Smoke

23 September, 08:38 PM John McKay

The ranger settled against the stony outcropping where he had made his camp. His fire was low and small, the weather wasn’t cool enough to warrant larger. It was sufficient only for warming a cup of water for tea and for lighting his pipe. He kept his pouch tucked in an inside pocket of his jerkin, and he brought it out now. He opened the pouch and breathed the bold and slightly sweet aroma of the black leaf within. His pipe, a long-stemmed type he favored in the warmer months, was likewise drawn forth and he began the exacting motions of filling the bowl with black leaf, a pinch at a time and tamping the tobacco carefully at each stage. Tobacco, especially fine black leaf such as this, was a rarity in this part of the world and it was a luxury he afforded himself only occasionally. On clear nights such as this, with the weather fine and the silvery moon high in the night sky, broad-faced and ethereal, he felt calm and longed for the taste of his pipe as he wound down his evening.

With all the care in the world, he brought a burning stick from the fire and dipped it to touch the black leaf in the bowl of his pipe. He puffed, gently, sucking the flame into the tobacco and only once his pipe was well lit did he bring the smoke fully into his mouth, at first only to taste it. Only to feel the sweetness on his tongue, and exhale it slowly through his nose. Another puff and he brought the smoke fully into his lungs and he sighed feeling the magic of the tobacco inside.

He was no great artist with the smoke. He knew of sorcerous wise men who could puff the smoke out into varied shapes and make them dance around the head as they told their tales and stories, the smoke taking shape and lives of their own as the tales unfold. He did none of that. His smoke billowed and and simply floated upwards, over the stones he was sitting under and over the trees beyond. Perhaps as high as the moon and stars but invisible to the ranger’s keen eyes well before then.

The silver light of the moon glinted from the smoke, though, and made it iridescent and somewhat entertaining to the ranger as he smoked and puffed. His smile barely visible beneath a month’s growth of beard. He had been on this trail at least that long. He had traveled from the coast, well inland and hadn’t the gear or the inclination to see to his grooming out here alone.

He studied the stars and constellations and judged the autumnal equinox soon at hand. He could feel it in the air, too, of course, and saw it in the trees. He saw it in the subtle changes of leaf and bark, the trees still green but the green duller and soon the oranges and yellow of fall would over take the green of summer. His eyes saw this and his ears, too, heard the changing ways of animals. The smallest ones, noisiest when the evening was quiet, but nothing was ever completely silent to the ranger, and the sounds of things reached his ears when other, more civilized men, might hear nothing at all.

There sat the ranger, his pipe warm in his hand, the breeze in his hair, and the small fire burning to embers beside him as he closed his eyes and slept on the trail because he was tired, and the road was long.

Some Thoughts On Capitalism

22 August, 04:48 PM Carl Miller

Not long ago I paid this old man 50$ to give me a blowjob in a Wal-Mart bathroom. He’d have done the blowjob for free but I figured if some toothless old bastard is going to be gnawing around on my Heyhowareyou then I might as well be able to shop for cheap shoes right after.

After he told me he was done I threw the 50$ into the toilet and told him he’d better fucking shave before next time. Then I smacked him a few times so as he’d know I meant business. You gotta keep these old men in line otherwise in no time they’ll be bellyaching about how they ain’t enough elderly old man representation amongst swimsuit models and then they’ll be wanting medical care and equal pay. Then one day you’ll wake up and there’ll be a parade of elderly old men shuffling up and down the street demanding that they be able to marry each other.

So there I am shopping for some shoes when it suddenly dawns on me that I gave that old man all my money. I begin to walk back to the bathroom because I figure he’s still there curled up in the corner and crying like some sort of sissy. My thought was to explain how his blowjob was most unsatisfactory and I expected my 50$ back.

When I got into the bathroom the old man was standing and looking at himself in the mirror. He looked over at me malevolently.

“Hey,” I said all friendly like. “How’s it going?”

He continued to just stare at me.

I nodded. “Yeah. Look I’m going to need that 50$ back.”

The glaring continued.

“Now don’t argue about it. I think we both know your work was substandard. And it’s not like you have breasts for god’s sake.”

He shook his head and walked past me. I tried not to flinch as he brushed against me slightly, but the dude totally skeeved me out. He muttered that it was still in the toilet so I went over to fish out my money.

But what I saw made me stop short and say, “Fuck’s sake, man. That’s not cool.”

“Yeah,” the old man shouted from the doorway as he pointed an accusing finger at me as if God had revealed to him all my many transgressions against basic human dignity. “That’s right. I took a shit on your money. Fuck you.”

I was left alone then in that Wal-Mart bathroom looking down at all my shitty money. And debating.

Obviously it was a sign from the Magical Super Jew from Outer Space. But what did it mean?

The Falling Stars of Perseus

12 August, 03:34 PM John McKay

The Perseids Meteor Shower is an annual event that peaks about every August 12; however, the actual shower begins in late July and extends through mid August. It is named after the Perseus constellation which is prominent in the sky during this season.

It may be useful to define what is meant by a “meteor shower.” Meteors are the bright streaks of light that are formed as rocks and other solids fall toward the Earth and burn up in atmospheric entry. Meteors are created by all types of space debris: sometimes its just space junk left in orbit by man from various space missions, the odd nut or bolt, for instance but usually it is from naturally occurring space rocks called meteoroids. Most of these meteoroids are pea-sized rocks of metal rich ore. It is not uncommon for these meteroids to be solid iron or even contain significant amounts of iridium. (Iridium is related to platinum and is considered to be the rarest non-radioactive solid on Earth; the amount of iridium deposited on the planet by meteroids may exceed the amount of iridium that is naturally occurring in the Earth’s crust.)

As these meteoroids fall toward the Earth, they must first pass through several miles of atmosphere. They tend to fall at a fairly high speed (in excess of 30,000 miles per hour) and almost all of their kinetic energy is transferred to heat due to ram pressure (the falling object compresses the air immediately in front of its path, causing the air to superheat around it, consequently melting the surface the meteoroid) in a process that is over 100 times more efficient than any man-made explosive. A normal gravel-sized meteoroid will heat up to over 3,000 degrees Fahrenheit and the air flow around it will blow away the melted portion creating a bright, luminescent wake which will be visible up to 60 miles away. Naturally, most of these meteoroids completely burn up before they hit the ground. However, a number of factors can affect this: size and density of the meteoroid, and angle of atmospheric entry. Given the right conditions a meteoroid can survive the trip through the atmosphere and impact with the Earth’s surface. At this point, it is called a meteorite. (To be proper on the terminology, a meteoroid is a meteoroid right up until impact, after which it is a meteorite, and a meteor describes the whole glowing phenomenon of its descent. Simple, no?)

During the Perseids shower, what is actually happening is the Earth passing through a gravelly patch in space. The Earth is passing through this wall of gravel and sand and the individual particles (or meteoroids) pass through the atmosphere and light up into meteors. Some of them may fall to the ground as meteorites. And all of this debris has at its source the Swift-Tuttle comet.

In 1862 the comet was observed independently by two astronomers, Lewis Swift and Horace Tuttle. During the months this comet was visible they managed to calculate its orbit to be 120 years or thereabouts. Its orbital period is actually closer to 130 years and it made its next visible appearance near Earth in 1992, though it was too faint to see with the naked eye at that time. Now, one very interesting fact about the Swift-Tuttle comet is that its orbit actually crosses that of the Earth. Someday the two objects may collide. Its next appearance will be in 2126 but it should be about 15 million miles from Earth. In 3044 it may get as close as a million miles. That’s spittin’ distance in the cosmic scale of things.

A comet is basically a big snowball. Swift-Tuttle is about 6 miles in diameter, so that’s a really big snowball. It also has lots of little rocks and all the different kinds of debris that make up those meteoroids we talked about earlier. Every 130 years or so, when it gets near enough to the sun, it gets a little melty. That’s what comets do. Comets are the big snowballs of the solar system and as they melt a bit, they lose mass and it gets swept away from the sun. This tail doesn’t always trail the comet, it always points away from the sun. As the comet approaches the sun, you can see the comet in front of the tail; it appears the tail follows the comet. However, as the comet travels away from the sun, the tail precedes the comet. Very untail like. That’s just the way it works. What we see as the tail is actually the sun melting bits of the comet away and the solar wind pushes it out away from the comet and the light from the sun reflects off this debris and we see a long silvery tail.

As it happens this comet has been around our sun a few times over the past few millennia. Its appearance has been recorded on Earth as early as 69BC, and every time it passes through the neighborhood it leaves tons and tons of gravel and sand in its wake and every year the Earth crosses through its debris field and we have the Perseids Meteor Shower.

Two Books

12 August, 04:52 AM Robert O.

After a long period of indulging myself in science fiction—a genre that I admit I won’t ever really give up on—I allowed myself to indulge in genre mystery and, specifically, crime fiction.

Crime fiction, for those who might not know, is a specific aspect of mystery fiction. In the popular mindset, most people consider mystery fiction to be synonymous with the detective fiction of Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes character. This is not entirely untrue, since detective and sleuth fiction by nature includes a crime as an aspect of the storytelling, but crime fiction doesn’t need the sleuth character, nor does it necessarily need the unraveling of a shrouded plot to really drive it forward. Good crime fiction can be about the committing of a crime, or the lifestyle of people whose lives are largely driven by committing criminal acts.

Some might argue with this but for me, it’s the most logical and inclusive approach, and provides an important starting point for the two novels discussed here.

The first book I want to highlight is my first real dive into the Hard Case Crime line of novels. If you haven’t heard of these (and you really should, considering they’ve been out for a while) they’re a revivalist-noir publishing line devoted to reprinting classic works of crime and noir detective fiction, printing compelling new work in the category, and packaging everything in a slick and attractive retro style that is entertaining on a level all its own.

The book, The Vengeful Virgin by Gil Brewer, is a very blue, sex-driven romp through two murders: one thoroughly planned and deliberately passive, one quick and very intense. The relatively brief amount of violence is in contrast to the sexuality that blankets the storyline almost from beginning to end. The main character whose voice forms the first-person narrative is that of a roughly-mid-thirties male TV repairman named Jack, whose background is an implied rough, street life. He begins a wild if improbable sexual relationship with eighteen-year-old Shirley Angela, a posh suburban youth whose boredom and resentment against her invalid stepfather eventually leads, with Jack’s help, to a murderous intent. This drive to murder has not only a sexual promise to it, but a lucrative financial promise as well—Shirley Angela’s stepfather is hardly starving for cash, of course, and though I won’t spill the specific ending, needless to say all does not end well.

The plot is driven by means of storytelling techniques that aren’t entirely true to reality, and at times the book skirts close to, if not over, themes of violence to women that wouldn’t be acceptable to a mainstream audience these days. However, you wouldn’t be reading it if you weren’t at least willing to read through things like that—warts and all, it’s an original example of sex-tinged noir writing.

The second is a novel I read some months ago and is an unlikely choice for crime fiction—though the book blatantly fits the category.

Never Die Alone by Donald Goines is a book that suffers from all the worst results of being stigmatized somewhat by its categorization as an African American interest title. Goines books have generally sold well for years, and have influenced urban, black and hip-hop culture in a number of ways, yet the books to my knowledge enjoy few white readers, and even fewer critical or academic readers.

Goines’s work is attractive not merely because of his reflections in contemporary culture, where he is certainly still influential, but for his vivid understanding of crime. Goines portrays all the aspects of the criminal experience—criminal, victim and innocent bystander, with an enthralling and powerful level of skill because he embodied throughout his life all three perspectives. Goines published an impressive sixteen novels between 1971 and 1975, with one novel being published posthumously after his murder during what is believed to be a botched drug deal.

Goines, like any true crime writer, is naturally obsessed with exploitation as a plot drive and a characterization motive. The previously-mentioned Gil Brewer, like most of his noir and hard-boiled counterparts, tended to use sexuality with brief, punctuating moments of violence to titillate readers. For Goines, sex is always present but never quite relevant. Goines is willing to break the taboos of illustrating scenes of rape, whether or not that might be the taste of his readers. Goines’s violent scenes tend to be drawn out and feature such a level of inventiveness as to be torturous in themselves—a torturous quality that Goines uses to further highlight the distinctions between criminal, victim and bystander.

Goines also has social motivations that few other writers of his type seem to exhibit. Mickey Spillane’s vision of society is somewhat right-wing and libertarian in tone, with an individual set apart from society and drawing upon personal determination to solve problems and achieve greatness. Goines, by contrast, offers a more progressive and unified vision of society, although it’s shrouded by a criminalized social perception. For Goines, to become a well-recognized individual simply means that one will be targeted all the more, and that one’s resources can be limited by how flagrantly one treats his or her supposed friends and allies.

Yet another more fascinating point in Goines’s books is his absolute disallowing of any character to benefit from the results of criminal activity. This isn’t entirely unlike much noir crime fiction where the motif is “crime doesn’t pay,” yet Goines chooses more complicated and subtle reasons to keep his characters from making the big score that they often spend the whole book working toward. For Goines, gaining a benefit from a crime is the result of disrupting a social framework that can have negative almost karmic results. Goines does not frame his fictionalized crimes as a result of perception of property rights or of financial values, but in terms of the physical and social tolls that crime can have on an individual or a community.

Unlike much of what is characterized as “black exploitation,” this book at least attempts to promote a socially responsible message underneath a veneer of hardened crime. Goines’s work is at least distinguishable for that reason.