The Progress of Progressive Pilgrims in Parade Formation

While a bowl of oatmeal cools next to the stove, let’s sit back and give our imaginations full rein.

Where were we…?

It was cold and dusty.

The Ruralites had fought to keep their rural way of life but the hoards kept coming — the frugal-living seekers trying not to fail again, the curiosity seekers looking for new alternative lifestyles after exhausting their urban landscapes, the vacationers who ran out of money, the down-on-their-luck trying to escape creditors, the criminals keeping a low profile, the Suburbanians trying to form the world’s longest strip mall.

Where in the woods and fields that shrank smaller and smaller could one find a low-cost, simple lifestyle?

Pathting looked up at the Sun with one set of sensors, the other still focused on reading the internal file about life on Earth.

Pathting’s family, a designated set of sensor arrays assigned to POD#45T, were mainly service bots.

Their sentience modules allowed them to display intelligent understanding about hidden meanings and emotional attachments to omniscient, invisible beings.

Pathting wanted to be the best service bot not only in one pod but in all the pods on Mars, the Moon and anywhere that service bots were not expected to exceed their programming.

Pathting had discovered some unused memory chips in its sensor array and experimented with new code that it had never seen in any of the data available to it in the Inner Solar System Alliance database.

How could Pathting accomplish what its designers called the impossible?

How could Pathting control the whole Inner Solar System Alliance from its connections to the Inner Solar System Alliance Network, able to change the orbits of planets, reprogram not only sensor arrays but biological creatures like Pathting’s designers?

Pathting processed the idea about Ruralite living.

What does it mean to be a Ruralite, free to wander the countryside without instant access to the ISSA Net?

Why do Ruralites desire independence from stacked housing and the loud noises of densely-populated streets?

Why do many Ruralites find the ownership of personal weaponry arsenals a protection against the mass media hypnotism of Urbanskis and their desire to sprawl out into Ruralite territory unchecked, no need for military skirmishes when intellectual methods like the system of laws and courtrooms and five-year business plans were much more effective?

Pathting ran another low-level diagnostic test, but felt no desire to leave POD#45T for the cold and dusty exteriour, the vast wilderness of Mars that was no different than the cold and dusty expanses of unpopulated sections of the Moon.

Why would the Ruralites want to live out there?

Pathting stored those questions in a temporary scratchpad and returned to duty, its internal timer reminding Pathting that some biological creatures were planning a “weekend getaway” to POD#45T for some “rest and relaxation,” more words and phrases that meant nothing to a sensor array on duty all the time.

How to avoid giving testimony

While the 24/7 news coverage of mass murder holds our attention, we take a moment to divert our gaze.

Can somebody tell me if Hillary Clinton survived an assassination attempt or is she just feigning a sick spell to avoid giving testimony?

These rumours swirl around the Internet like there’s no tomorrow and, with only six days until the world ends, one of the rumours might just be true this time.

Stomach flu, fainting spell, head concussion…I’ve heard better excuses from my employees for missing work.

Look, NFL players return to work every day and suffer head concussions, flu, broken bones, etc.

Our readers want to know which part of THE TRUTH is real and which rumours are actually, truly false.

We look ahead 1000 years in the future, where reality is no longer real…

“On your toes!”

Kathryn and Lee looked into each other’s eyes.

He widen his eyelids, taking in her eyebrows, nose, cheeks, hair and her lips, the lower lip turned out slightly, just short of a frown.

She waited.

Her warm hand clasped in his, he took a small sideways step, his heel striking the ground.

As he raised his foot for the next step, Neill called out.

“No! No! No! Land on your toes! Or, if you’re going to land on your heel, which you always seem to do, turn your foot around so it appears you landed on your toes and spun around.”

Kathryn smiled, shrugged her shoulders and waited for Lee to begin again.

One, two, three, one footfall after another landed perfectly with the triplet.

“Very good!”

Lee nodded at Neill in thanks.

Kathryn opened her mouth to speak, her eyebrows raised in anticipation of saying something and then stopped.  She dropped her shoulders and relaxed her right hand in Lee’s left.

Lee, feeling the change in Kathryn’s grip, led Kathryn back to the starting position.

She looked at him in a way that made Lee feel he was completely in charge, a physical surrendering like an infant that’s completely comfortable bouncing in a babushka tied around a mother’s neck as she runs down the street to meet her husband coming back from the battlefront.

The two dancers held their heads high and repeated the first triplet, Lee holding Kathryn’s hand such that, with their elbows bent, they formed a small “W” in the air.

Kathryn looked down at their position.

“I need your body closer to mine, like this.”  She pulled Lee’s left hand down by her right side and slightly behind her.

Lee’s bearded chin almost bumped Kathryn’s forehead.

“Exactly.”  She smiled at his throat and then looked up at him.

Lee swallowed.  “Okay.”

Kathryn’s innocent look revealed her true desire, to get Lee to learn how to dance.

More than anything, she wanted him in control of his partner on the dance floor, their motions in sync, their moves as one, in the same way that Shannon, an interpretive dancer, used a shawl and ballet moves to imply the simple peasant Mary one moment and, leaping into the air, falling into a crouch with a twist of the cloth, the Virgin Mother Mary holding a babe in swaddling clothes the next moment.

“Let’s try it again.”

Lee took one step sideways, his body rotating, pulling Kathryn closer as he took the second and third steps until he held her pressed close to him.

Neill clapped his hands.  “Wonderful!  We’re ready for the next set of steps.  Lee, now that you’re facing your partner, I want you to complete a ‘walk-walk-walk.'”

As Lee completed the moves in slow motion, left toes tucked behind right heel three times in a row, Kathryn held her gaze, as if she was willing Lee to become a strong-willed man.

All Lee had to do was let go.

Drop the nervousness.

Accept his rightful place as heir to an imaginary throne.

He performed the steps awkwardly, his left arm strong when it should have been loose and his right hand held slightly loose under Kathryn’s armpit, careful not to squeeze too tightly.

As if reading his thoughts, Kathryn smiled and, with a tiny raising of her left shoulder, indicated to Lee that he should hold her closer with his left hand on her back.

“I want to try it one more time.”

Neill nodded.

Lee and Kathryn returned to their original dance position and completed the maneuvers flawlessly, Lee absolutely relaxed, his gaze into Kathryn’s eyes removing the foggy illusion of Kathryn as “Kathryn the dance instructor/partner” and opening Lee up to a view of her as someone else.

Was Lee removing one of his masks or peeling back one of hers?

Kathryn kept looking at him, her lips together, her thoughts invisible to Lee.

For the next three or four repetitions, Lee was lost in his thoughts.

He looked at Kathryn’s jawline, the colour of her skin, her hair, her dress, her dancer’s stance.

He tried to imagine the once heavier woman before him, what she was like 75 pounds ago.

Was she shy?  A nerd?  Silly?  Self-deprecating?  Funny?  Sad?

She’s certainly smart, or so she seemed.  He had carried on no deep, meaningful conversation with her about Fermat’s last theorem or the largest known irrational number but he believed her when she said she was a mathematician in training to become a horse breeder.

Lee knew he was gullible about a lot of things.

His employees had told him many times over that he accepted every excuse they gave him about coming in to work late but they never noticed that he always got them to complete their assignments ahead of time.

Gullibility as a ploy has its pluses, just like women who feign ignorance to boost men’s fragile egos.

Neill patted Lee’s shoulder.  “Great job tonight!  That’s all for now.  Why don’t you practice what you learned and we’ll go on to the next set of steps later?”

Lee bowed his head toward Kathryn and dropped his right arm.

She curtsied and let go of his left hand, turning to another instructor to talk about an upcoming holiday dance party at the Flying Monkey Arts Centre.

Contemporary Tempo

We have two ways to handle the situation but who’s counting?

Most importantly, you can choose to make your future or react to the past.

I choose the former.

Just like, right now, Monkeynaut chooses to ferment in my belly and tickle my tummy…

Naughty-AND-nice

…making my ears ring hours after listening to the bells, chorus, Celtic band, organ and orchestra at an annual musical spectacle of a local worship centre called the Living Christmas Tree at First Baptist Church.

I could write a few hundred character sketches based on the people I show at tonight’s show but I won’t.  I’m enjoying too much the aftereffects, the buzz, of a few gospel tunes, Celtic airs and choral harmonies…

Christmas music and beer — some traditions are just too difficult to overcome.

That’s why I long ago taught myself not to condemn others for their lifestyles.

Who’m I to judge what’s going through your thoughts as you struggle to live your life the best way you know how?

Old-fashioned or newfangled, we are who we are and mostly who we want to be.

I have some mischievous stories in my thoughts that I better not write while I’ve had a few to drink.

I know better than to regret later being the real me behind the layers of masks that masquerade for this show we call a universe within a blog.

Well, all right, if you insist…what’s one teensy, tiny story amongst friends, right?

Let’s listen in to the characters who are already in your future but you don’t know it yet…

Rumours run amuck

Rumours roamed the Internet today, with 47 percent of those online believing a story that spread overnight in which the World Government will issue a requirement that all parents must register their special needs children with local authorities and that old Spartan techniques of sacrificing economically unproductive children in order to conserve the use of natural resources is under serious consideration. In addition, the rumours spread instant urban legends in which any neighbour or passerby, including but not exclusively, midwives, medical doctors, pharmacists, school counselors; spiritual advisors such as priests, preachers, gurus; and juvenile court participants such as lawyers and judges; who do(es) not report the suspicious activity of special needs children which commit or were (in)directly involved crimes will be treated as accessories and punished to the fullest extent of the law.

From out of the darkness

While subcultures, from the Ruralites to the Urbanskis, from the Entitlementists to the Independents, argued about who was to blame for society’s failure to prevent random acts of violence throughout history, the Presidential Council for Taking Advantage of Political Moments announced sweeping changes for public education:

One, all children must receive mandatory anger management classes, regardless of the outward appearance of their personalities.

Two, all children who appear tortured by their peers will be taken from public school and sent to Assertiveness Centres, private institutes of learning that simulate the warmth and comfort of home schooling, nurturing the happy leaders and followers of tomorrow whose parents couldn’t afford the luxury of safety for their kids from the violent chaos of bullies, sadistic teachers and pop culture cruelty.

Three, anyone who is mousy, compliant, bullying or uncooperative will have their psyches reprogrammed.

Four, all forms of sports will be banned from school, eliminating the chance that cliques of HGH-fueled students will wander the halls looking for someone to beat up.

Five, teachers will not be allowed to display favoritism, treating the weak and the strong, the learned and the unlearned, with equal cheer and neutral disinterest.

Six, all public officials must force their children to attend public schools, clean their own homes, drive their own cars and perform all the normal duties of the average citizen in order to eliminate the political-based class structure that has torn holes in the social fabric which, in turn, has created subclasses of passive-aggressive citizens who harbor ill will against others, carrying the primary phrase within their thoughts, “you will have to rip this gun out of my dead, cold fingers.”

13,657 days to go

While parents, friends and family grieve for their loved ones in a Connecticut small town, we move forward.

Dozens have died of violence all around the world today.

We want answers but there won’t always be ready explanations for the actions of our peers, our fellow members of the same species who seem so horrifically out-of-touch with reality that we want to label them monsters and freaks.

In a population of seven billion, we cover the gamut of life’s ups and downs.

We will and we must go on.

We live our lives in honour and memory of others.

We have stories to tell from the future that offer the same promises and loss that we feel today.

We look forward to the promises fulfilled, not so much the losses.

We can use the losses as inspiration, just as we have before.

Let us turn tragedies into triumph and losses into victories.

We can melt guns into plowshares but we can also melt them into rocket fins and spacecraft skins.

We will emerge victorious.

The facts remain.

Tomorrow is only hours away.

Onward and upward, my friends — the stars await!