A Voice in Anger

Or, how the goons of Rocket City (the Huntsville Utilities tree trimming crew) ruined my wife’s day and thus mine.

It has been a long year.

First, my wife’s mother fell ill back last March/April and died in November.

Then, immediately following, my father’s health declined rapidly.

Sure, it’s the cycle of life and all that, but it’s also emotionally/physically draining.

Then, to make matters worse, a crape myrtle I have protected year after year from the butchery of power line tree trimmers was nearly slaughtered by the uncaring, untrained hands of those less-educated brutes who attacked my wife’s favourite blooming bush at the end of the driveway this morning.

From a 20-foot tall beauty to a 3-foot stump in a matter of minutes.

All while my mother, sister, niece and I fret over the care my father receives with the caring, trained hands of the medical staff at the local VA hospital.

In addition, an heirloom Rose of Sharon was damaged, along with two smaller crape myrtle bushes.

This, my friends, in the town that helped put men on the Moon!

So, let us serve as a warning to those wanting to move to Huntsville, Alabama, USA.

Yes, it is in the state where George Wallace stood on the steps of the University of Alabama, barring African-Americans from crossing the threshold of higher education.

Butchers still live in this area of the world.

They hide behind chainsaws and cherry pickers, taking out the frustrations of their home lives on the helpless hybrid plants growing beneath the hazardous, humming harbingers of electrical shocks and high monthly utility bills.

They exist to make your life miserable.

They succeeded today.

Where’s a city forester to provide an educated point of view about how to carefully trim trees and bushes for the health of citizens?

Today, I am very unhappy…modern civilisation has let me down.

But then again, based on recent reports of 8th graders, science is not their best subject, which leads directly (through misunderstanding a tree’s anatomy and human psychology) to why government tree trimmers have a lack of understanding the need to aesthetically please the people who pay their salaries.

Maybe I ought to lobby to fire a few tree trimmers or heavily reduce their income to balance the local government budget?

Or at least educate today’s kids to become better qualified tree trimmers in the future.

Even after writing this blog entry, I still don’t feel better.

There’s a stump in the yard where a majestic myrtle once stood and there’s not a single thing I do about it from here, except shoot pictures and ask questions later about Huntsville Utilities departmental budgets and personnel files (nothing like an inside job to build a paper trail and get revenge the cold, hard way — expense report abuse and timecard fraud are common offenses, for starters — local government officials failing the newspaper test right before fall elections).

We may be on the verge of populating space habitats, making a lot of us very busy, but there’s still time to play games with people’s lives who cross my path and upset my wife in the process…

Packed Pact with the Pack Rat of the Rat Pack Pact

After we genetically modified a tree to have a central nervous system, could we still call it a tree?

It cannot uproot itself.

It depends upon photosynthesis for energy conversion.

It still produces flowers and makes seeds.

But it can more easily move its limbs and leaves to capture sunlight and raindrops.

It can secrete chemical combinations that fight off insect attacks.

Strong winds can break it apart.  So, too, lightning and floods.

It can tell me when a bird has built a nest into a hole where a limb broke off and the tree couldn’t heal itself fast enough.

It knows that it will die one day.

It can’t escape the blades of a chainsaw or the flames of a forest fire.

It knows that it came from the seed of another tree but doesn’t feel a familial allegiance to the bearer of that seed.

It has no gland-based emotional feedback system.

Pain is not a feeling or thought to the tree.

It knows its existence and what it can do with the limited means to enhance its survival.

It cannot speak but it can send signals to an interface that translates tree nervous system output into a language we can understand.

We can, in turn, send signals back to the tree that we see what the tree is thinking, making suggestions for places to extend its root system or tweak its protective chemical combinations.

The tree cannot bend its limbs fast enough to avoid approaching, predicted storm systems.

To the tree, our measure of time is irrelevant.

Its very nature is slow contemplation and meditation.

But a tree’s wisdom is truly only good for another tree.

However, with a central nervous system, the tree can store our memories — our effects on its life.

We had hoped to use trees as nodes in our planetary network of memory storage and retrieval, perhaps even a little arithmetic calculation, but the energy required was less efficient than letting the trees serve us as trees have served us for years, staying focused on being the best trees a thinking tree can be.

Genetic modification in moderation, that’s our motto.

Where is Watson?

Instead of coding my new app, I’m sitting here, pondering the itches at my elbows that hint at a poison ivy infection picked up from hacking away the brush in the front yard ditches.

Brush?  A generic term, standing in for periwinkle (both Vinca major and its variegated leaf variety), privet, sweetgum, hickory, cedar, sumac, poison ivy, Virginia creeper, forsythia, deciduous ivy, and an unknown set of grasses that manage to push up into the sunlight.

Hackers aren’t just mainly guys who try to script their way into computer systems.

Speaking of which, where is that omniscient Watson computer system that can look at a person’s EMR set and determine one’s major illnesses?  Do I have to keep depending on the limited brainwave combinations of people to assess my father’s health?

Hey, I’m all about socialising in the moment, getting to know people and their motivations, giving back to them whatever makes them feel happy/wanted/needed/fulfilled.

However, I want most of all to put our social network to use for the sake of my father and his nuclear family right now.

Otherwise, I’ll open up the case that cradles the crystal ball and share with you the next few decades and centuries of technological advances that will make a subset of our global population very successful, including the means of complete ownership of political officeholders, with no cares about hiding how our population really works in every so-called enlightened age.

Do you know how many people’s backs, both local and foreign, you’re living on to create the time you call leisure and the objects you call luxury?

Do you know how many people, both local and foreign, are living off of you to support the time they call leisure and the objects they call luxury?

I’ll save those questions for a scenario in a future chapter of the story of our lives together.

Time to return to writing my app.  After all, so far I haven’t found a way to get apps to write themselves by reading my thoughts and figuring out exactly what I want and how to implement it on incompatible technology platforms, just like I haven’t found an automatic way to get doctors to act as one “the buck stops here” stop to solve my father’s medical problems.

I’ll catch up on thanking others soon.

Cheap purchase of the day: keyboard/cover for iPad2

Mixing hobbies

For the next project, taking an Arduino starter set, a box of servos from my old RC airplane hobby, and a robotic hand kit I received on my birthday to create…something to go along with my space buddies, E-stache and E-crab (wasn’t that their names? hmm…memory lapse due to sugar high from eating a handful of candy cane Hershey kisses…mmm…), adding more to their “family.”

Coming soon!

= = = = =

A shoutout to the road crew guys who cleaned out the drainage ditch pipes in the front yard earlier today:

BTW, Eastern redbud (Cercis canadensis), vinca (Vinca major) and marsh marigold (Caltha palustris) are blooming at the same time this year:

You can see berries of the nandina (Nandina domestica) and leaves of the surprise lily (Lycoris squamigera) in this photo:

Quintana Roo

Yesterday, I got an emergency call.

Eliza B Gentle, our field biologist, had just tracked down the last breeding site of the elusive Yucatan flying tree kangaroo.

Talk about ecstatic!  Or maybe the ex-static cling jacket I was wearing that repels excess charged particles from taking residence on my person.

The last time I had seen a Yucatan flying tree was…oh, I don’t know, scribbled on a torn page dangling from the molded, faded journal of Enrique Soulever Janemail I found at a trinket shop in Marrakesh when I was a midshipman aboard the trawler, King ‘Enry The 18th Man.

How these trees’ve evaded capture, let alone discovery, amazes me even more.

Looks like a walking stick with wings.

To avoid letting these half-plant/half-animal creatures fall into the wrong hands, biologists and others unable to handle working in an office environment (say, almost every scientist in existence, and most who’re dead tired of pushing up daisies), no Latin name has been assigned to these miraculous survivors of the early days of cross-species breeding.

In these cautious, late planetary maturity times, most species stick to their own kind.  But there were the glory days — call it Paradise, Eden, Shangri-La or any place but a modern, smog-filled metropolis we call Progress — when sets of states of energy intermixed without regard to genetic incompatibility.

Eliza contacted me via through our secret subwavelength network (if you eat a submarine sandwich at a certain pace, your mandible becomes an antenna that can broadcast signals through any medium (as long as the medium hasn’t been drinking too much laudanum filled with a flagellating paramecium or two — you’d be amazed how much media like the ocean, mantle or magma can drink!)).

I pulled the folding bicycle out of my backpack, turned a few screws, which transformed the bike into a one-person capacity autonomous drone, hopped aboard, pressed the energy transformation button which converted me and my stuff into a stream of dark matter that allowed me to pass through Earth from my location in Turkmenistan straight to Eliza’s undisclosed location in Quintana Roo.

And that’s how I got here, in this form, for all intents and purposes a direct relation of the Yucatan flying tree kangaroo.

Squirrelly being!

The kangaroo mimics the behaviour of the Yucatan flying tree in order to lure its prey to get close enough to be blasted into cosmic oblivion.

The kangaroo feeds off the energy as solids become liquids, liquids become solids and lipids join the incredible Mr. Limpet in a serenade to evolutionary deadends.

The kangaroo is not completely cruel, however.

It takes the leftover energy and does its best to reconstruct its prey into a unique combination of the prey’s self and a likeness of the Yucatan flying tree kangaroo, which has a God complex second only to members of Atheists for a Romney-Putin-Ahmadinejad Triumvirate Trifecta, mixed with a little Merkel, Singh, Gillard, Cameron, and Chavez for a spicy effect.

I’m thinking about becoming a runway fashion model, what with my sticklike legs, winglike arms and insectlike skeletal head, very much opposite of the puffy-faced effect Lindsay Lohan is going for in her appearance as Saturday Night Live hostess-with-the-mostess tonight.

Carlin would be proud — the Mass Media (an ephemeral, if not effeminate collection of prune-faced producers who were constantly made fun of as kids) has reinstituted the list of banned words in order to pretend to be a decent group of control freaks.  The new list:

  • slut
  • chink
  • bitch
  • employed
  • happy
  • optimistic
  • intelligent

Eliza wants to clarify that she is in no way related to the field reporter named Elizabeth Gentle who was credited with creating the “bed intruder” meme.

Time for me to hop on out of here.

Despite my many disguises, the Committee hasn’t forgotten about me and wants me back in charge of deciding the fate of a species on an obscure planet in a tiny solar system of the Milky Way — the countdown clock says we’ve only got 13943 days left!

Re-versed Psychology

A black fly taunts me, buzzing in close, just long enough for me to take a mis-aimed swipe, and then flaps its little numb-brained membraned wings up into the hard-to-reach edge of the intersection of the two trapezoidal picture frame windows of our cathedral-ceilinged living room.

Translate that sentence into the language of the colonists in the depths of the ice lakes of Space Base 45Zed9Alpha.

They haven’t seen flies there in over 20,000,000 generations, or about two years to the rest of you reading this on Earth.

My parents and their clones singing for supper -- whoohoo!

You see, we populated this solar system so far back in time with energised molecules that you’ve come to believe either you evolved from dust clouds in the formation of the solar system or some Being-related faith-based system created you.

You just don’t get it, and through consultation with the “professional” couch-talk, tablet PC scribbling, overeducated psychological psychiatrists — supposedly fellow members of your species — I’ve come to the conclusion that you never will.

Look at it this way — you’re a beehive, God is dead, the European Space Agency is just as clueless about the EU as the rest of us, Wolfgang is a name (not a gang sign (or is it?)), and if I could just see one tree leaf blow across the Martian plains, I’d go for a walk looking for another, instead of sitting in this space habitat waiting for my parents to assign me a job to do in this kid-free exploratory zone.

Send a male and female to Mars without birth control technology and I am the result!

So much for your modern science.

Now where is that nuclear fusion experiment I invented last night and was playing with this morning…?

Time to obviously send messages in open secrets under broad daylight to members of my gang to cause another prominent person getting in the way of our agenda to die of a “natural” heart attack.

If only you fools knew who we were.  Hahahahahaha….

If only I knew how to tell you…sigh…

What I wouldn’t give to hear a single severe thunderstorm warning on this planet!