Mindspace

They indicated by turning on their illumination unit in their partol veichles cabin, pointing towards it and then turning it off. Mr.Schneider obligingly followed the instructions and pushed the button on his otherwise dimly lit dashboard, killing the light in his car. The light he had forgotten moments ago when dealing with contraband in a near-by alley. "Our protectors, our conservators," he thought "when it matters most that the order in chaos would take control, removing it completely". The streets were drenched with the constantly pouring rain, few people dwelt on this side of the city due to the fumes from the mining facilities. Perfect for hoodlums and hooligans, accompanied occasionally by contraband dealers and freelancers. There was no way the Metropolitan Police Department could keep a lid on all the dirty work going on here, but an occasional MPD patrol worked in a psychological way: keeping the goons at bay and and the media-illusion trustworthy.

Trapped in the environment

In former days Bob Arctor had run his affairs differently: there had been a wife much like other wives, two small daughters, a stable household that got swept and cleaned and emptied out daily, the dead newspapers not even opened carried from the front walk to the garbage pail, on even, sometimes, read. But then one day, while lifting out an electric corn popper from under the sink, Arctor had hit his head on the corner of a kitchen cabinet directly above him. The pain, the cut in his scalp, so unexpected and undeserved, had for some reason cleared away the cobwebs. It lashed on him instantly that he didn't hate the kitchen cabinet: he hated his wife, his two aughters, his whole house, the back yard with its power mower, the garage, the radiant heating system, the front yard, the fence, the whole fucking place and everyone in it. He wanted a divorce; he wanted to split. And so he had, very soon. And entered, by degrees, a new and somber life, lacking all of that. Probably he should have regretted his decision. He had not. That life had been one without excitement, with no adventure. It had been too safe. All the elements that made it up were right there before his eyes, and nothing new could ever be expected. It was like, he had once thought, a little plastic boat that would sail on forever, without incident, until it finally sank, which would be a secret relief to all.
But in this dark world where he now dwelt, ugly things and surprising things and once in a long while a tiny wondrous thing spilled out at him constantly; he could count on nothing. Like the deliberate, evil damage to his Altec cephalochnomoscope, around which he had built the pleasure part of his schedule, the segment of the day in which they all relaxed and got mellow. For someone to damage that made no sense, viewed rationally. But not much among these long dark evefling shadows here was truly rational, at least in the strict sense. The enigmatic act could have been done by anyone for almost any reason. By any person he knew or had ever encountered. Any one of eight dozen weird heads, assorted freaks, burned-out dopers, psychotic paranoids with hallucinatory grudges acted out in reality, not fantasy. Somebody, in fact, he'd never met, who'd picked him at random from the phonebook. Or his closest friend.

- Philip K. Dick "A Scanner Darkly"

A darkened scanner

...

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer
With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of Abstract Justice—which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him
Must command but may not govern—shall enthral but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,
That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male

- Rudyard Kipling "The Female of the Species"

My dark passenger

Oui la torturatrice

Crazy is not how you look, how you think or how you talk. It´s not what you feel, what you do or what you hope. Crazy can´t be defined with boundaries. It´s unordinary. Unstable. Chaos in order. The innermost subjective sense of yourself.

For tomorrow

He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy;
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity’s sun rise

- William Blake

When I close my eyes, the world´s still there

Ikka ja jälle: where do we get our values from?. Ühiskondlike õigusnormide järgi tituleeritud kurjategija pannakse vangi. Rehabilitatsioon. Ja kõik peaks korras olema. Scrape up the pieces that pierce the skin. Kurjategija saab vangist välja ja miks ta peaks muutunud olema. Fight fire with fire (vallutatavad panevad linna põlema ja põgenevad, et vallutajatel midagi lootida poleks). Ühiskonna siseselt on tal üsna haisev märk küljes. Once a crook, always a crook. Aga inimesed ei sünni ju halbadena. Keegi ei ole villain lihtsalt sellepärast, et halba teha. Where do they get their values from? Võibolla pole viga üksikutes inimestes. Võibolla on viga selles enamuses millel on eelis norme määrata. Paratamatult loogiline. Ent sellest hoolimata ollakse hirmul. Turvalisuse illusioon paistab läbi. Mees (ainsuses vaid visuaalsel eesmärgil) kes kardina taga kange tõmbab teeb seda samuti kõigest nii hästi kui oskab. Where does he get his values from? Muutus on ainsaks konstandiks, igal pool (asjad mis on näiliselt paigal on tegelikult pidevas liikumises, nii ajas kui ruumis). Ja ometigi elatakse hetkes, hetkes mis algas 2000 aastat tagasi. Hoolimata intellektuaalsest evolutsioonist. Mõni ime siis et me iseendale ohuks oleme.