sun-and-flower

[sun-and-flower]

Future Day

--- begin Mr Sun ---

The sun rays shine into my bedroom, piercing through the translucent window panes. My alarm clock reads 10:00 AM. It perturbs the silence with a loud ringing noise, like the sound of a noisy train rolling through a busy city. I slap my alarm’s Turn Off button before I even open my sleep-crusted eyes. 

Like a zombie climbing out of a grave, I pull myself out of the warm comfort of my bedsheets with the little strength in my tiresome body. I stare at the streets below my apartment window - already there are signs of life as a crowds of all sorts of people busily move through the streets. Business men and women dressed in brown and beige trench coats, talking incessantly on cellphones and carrying briefcases and handbags, move with amazing speed through the crowds. Like schools of fish, everybody walks so quickly without making contact with one another. 

It had also rained last night. The grayish puddles on the muddy cobblestones show reflections of nearby buildings - a cottage house, a bakery, a stationery store, and a book store about to open for business. In the distance, a column of smoke rises from the industrial district of the city. The hazy smoke rises into the iridescent sky and mixes with the white clouds. 

Enough staring, I thought to myself. I turn away from the window and start making my way towards the bathroom. However, immediately I notice a small letter in a beige envelope with a red seal had been pushed through the bottom crack of my door. Sitting on the wooden floor, the letter waits for me to pick it up and read it. I could not help but let a smile spread across my face. Today will be a special day. 

--- end Mr Sun, begin Miss Flower ---

But first, let’s back up a bit. There’s a fair bit of explaining to do about the chain of events that got me here in the first place - I’m not talking about the half-empty bottle of gin on the nightstand; that’s normal - and why this envelope ended up in my (for now) apartment. Let’s start at the beginning of 2007, when I was still a freshly-minted newbie hitman and had zero kills to my name.

My family wasn’t anything out of the ordinary on the surface. My harpy of a mother worked as an accountant at some paper-manufacturing company during the day, and by night she freelanced in micromanaging me, my father, and my brother wherever she saw the chance to. My father, on the other hand, was possibly the biggest pushover that I will ever meet in my entire life. He worked at the local hospital doing god-knows-what - he wasn’t a doctor, spent too much time at home to be one - and I’m pretty sure he actually enjoyed being bossed around by my mother. At least, that’s how things were before he started drug dealing on the side (which I didn’t find out about until much later). It all makes sense in retrospect - how his personality became colder, and how he started avoiding us by working nights at the hospital, but that’s skipping too far ahead. Oh, and as for my brother Kyle, well, he was caught in the passionate throes of puberty, so there isn’t much to say on that front. Posters of half-naked girls in his room, playing his useless computer games - you know, the usual for thirteen-year-old boys.

As for me: I’d like to pretend that I was as kickass as I am today, but that’s not the truth. Back then, I was every inch the typical blonde bimbo, from my salon-treated hair, to my gemstone-studded navel, to my brown Steve Madden mules. I had even collected every single flavour of Lip Smackers known to man. I knew nothing about guns, and I certainly couldn’t have taken anyone down in hand-to-hand combat if my life had depended on it. If I had to partition my brain usage into categories, I’d say about 50% was spent on TV shows and shopping, 30% on boys, and the rest on being maximum beyotch. Don’t knock it - trying to be a beyotch is actually very taxing. Anyways, I spent most of my time trying to emulate Regina George (but in all honesty, I probably ended up as more of a Gretchen Weiners, since I always came off slightly neurotic).

Those two paragraphs up there, they’re a good summary of what day-to-day life was like before that happened. Before Dad got his ass, and consequently the rest of our asses, into some deep shit. Before they took him and my mother down. Before they took Kyle into their ranks.

I mentioned my dad worked at a hospital, right? I still don’t know what his official role was, but it turns out that he was whipping up a dangerous drug on the side for a black market organization. The drug is called Fentanyl - an opioid, like heroin and morphine, but worse, and more difficult to make. I guess the demand was high, because the old man started to make larger and larger batches, and one day the hospital became suspicious about something. They took him down before the hospital could trace it back to the black market. 

What I remember, though, more vividly than anything else that day, was this:

--- end Miss Flower, begin Mr Sun ---

Smoke billows out from the flame-consumed room. Bright embers and the wicked flickers of white hot fire reduce everything around me to ash and rubble. There was certainly no way to escape - my life would end here. I can feel the tears stream down my soot-covered face. I’m crying, but the immense crackling from the fire drowns out the quivering sound of my voice crying for help. The moisture from my tears only infuses with the smoke, blurring my vision and obscuring the pandemonium around me.

I hated my father for what he was like - always so mysterious and taciturn at the dinner table and always refusing to ever tell me about his work whenever I asked. “It doesn’t concern you”, he would say. Whenever I think about my childhood, he was always absent - always working in his secret workshop, formally the garage, on his “projects and work”. He would always warn Kyle and me to never set foot in his work area as it was simply “too dangerous” for us. Although what he really meant was that he feared we would mess up whatever he was working on. My father’s attitude when my mother was around was much better. He would have normal conversations at the dinner table, asking how everyone’s day was going, and talking about his renovation plans for the house. During those short-lived times, he seemed like an actual father. However, those moments were indeed short-lived. Ever since he began his new job working at Kaiser Permanente Hospital, he seemed to grow more distant after work. Something was bothering him at work, and he refused to talk about it. He hid it, even though it was all apparent to us that his mind was troubled. He was cold often, even around my mother, who also sensed his gradual detachment from family conversations, which eventually lead to his absence from family meals. On some nights, he would even return from work in the middle of the night. 

That was when I decided enough was enough. I would find out what my father is up to, and why he refused so adamantly to talk his family about his troubles. I knew that whatever it was, it was probably in that workshop lair of his that he always retreated to after dinner. On one night that I would remember for the rest of my life, my father called the house phone before dinner. He said that he would have to work late and not to wait for him for dinner. It was the perfect opportunity for me. I hadn’t told anyone about my plans, because the fewer people that knew, the better. Late after supper, when my mother was watching the television and my brother gaming away on his computer in his room, I snuck out from the back kitchen door unnoticed. It wasn’t difficult to evade my parents, who were always preoccupied - mother with the TV, and father with his work, and sneak out during the night. I made my way through the garden towards the garage, my silhouette illuminated into shadows by the light from my brother’s room. The door to the garage had been padlocked by my father, undoubtedly meant to keep out his family. Luckily, I had experience with basic lock-picking. It was one of those peculiar skills that you wouldn’t expect an angsty fashion-centric teenage girl to have, but I learned it from an ex-boyfriend who used it to impress me. Man, I used to be so dumb. With a hairpin as a torque wrench, I used a thin screwdriver to pick at the tumble lock pins. Within a few moments of half skill and half guesswork, I felt the familiar click of a successfully opened lock. I took a deep breath - this would be it, this would be when I finally discover what my father had been hiding from us all this time. I took another breath, bracing myself for whatever I may see beyond the door. One last breath, and I gently push the door open...

I expected to see a workshop full of chemicals and other dangerous lab equipment, but to my surprise the garage was empty. With the exception of a few cardboard boxes in the corner of the room, there was nothing. I felt dumb and disappointed, but mostly confused. I didn’t understand.

But then I noticed. The streaks of dust across the floor, as if boxes were dragged across them. The stack of leftover unassembled moving boxes learning against the wall. The areas of floor which had no dust - indicative of where former boxes were stacked and tables stood. Whatever was in here, my father moved everything.  

--- end Mr Sun, begin Miss Flower ---

I figured that since I was already in here, I might as well take a look around. After all, I hadn’t read all those Nancy Drew books in my childhood for nothing. That, and my father had been outrageously stingy with the allowance lately - I mean, how else was I supposed to keep up my nail art hobby? 

The garage was as empty as I had ever seen it. Before my father had claimed it as his personal workshop, we used to store all sorts of things in here: the old yellow lawnmower from our previous home (now defunct because we didn’t have a lawn anymore), my trombone from elementary school band class, our three bikes (all different sizes), and several rusty toasters that had outlived Kyle’s attempt at being an antiques collector at age eleven. The list went on. But Dad had cleared out all of that stuff last year when he uncharacteristically took over the garage for some��“quality assurance work that the hospital had given him”. Now that I think about it, that was the first time he’d ever shown voluntary interest in something. Funny, that. 

I walked around the empty boxes, scuffing the dust a bit with my shoes. There wasn’t anything of interest here. I figured Dad had moved his “quality assurance” equipment back to the office, which hopefully meant that we’d have the garage back as a communal area. I felt silly for imagining my own father making illegal chemical substances in here - that was the stuff of daydreams and TV shows. But still, if he wasn’t doing something illegal, then why had he tried so hard to hide it from his own family?

At that moment, I heard the familiar sound of our family car down the street. It didn’t quite sound like other cars, because Kyle (at age twelve) had thought that it would be funny to remove the muffler as a bad imitation of a sports car. Unfortunately for him, my mother caught him red-handed, and made him put the muffler back in, but due to his lack of vehicular expertise, the car has sounded funny every since. After that incident, I refused to ride in the family car for fear of dying in embarrassment. I mean, rolling up to school in that mess would mean social suicide. No, thank you.

Dad would go absolutely ballistic on me if he ever found out that I had broken into his workspace. I turned and jetted out the door, resealed the padlock quickly, and dove behind the dead hydrangea bushes below my brother’s window. At any rate, Kyle having blackmail material over me was better than being spotted by either of my parents in this situation. Hopefully he wouldn’t get too curious about the noise and look down. I made myself as small as possible, curling up into a ball with my knees drawn to my chest. 

It was hard to see clearly through the bushes in the dark, but I didn’t need to. I could hear the car pull up to the curb on the other side of the house, and then someone’s heavy footsteps coming into the garden from the alleyway. It was strange, because no one in our family walked heavily like that. We were all rather slim for our heights (thank the family genetics for blessing me with one good thing). Maybe Dad was wearing his heavy duty boots. I held my breath with each passing step, heart hammering away in my chest. If he spotted me, I would be grounded for at least a year.

Except...it wasn’t my father who rounded the corner of the house. It was (as clearly as I could see) a large bald man, dragging what looked to be a huge bag behind him on the ground. I was dead sure that I hadn’t seen him before. Maybe he was going to rob us. Part of me wanted to jump out and confront him, but I knew that that wouldn’t end well for me. I’d left my cellphone in my bedroom, so calling for help now wasn’t an option. It was better to lay low and watch him, and then I could get into the house through my brother’s window, if need be. The bald man walked past the hydrangea bushes, and stopped at the garage door. He pulled out a ring of keys from his pocket.

That was my father’s key ring. I could tell by one of the charms hanging off of the end.

Holy shit, what was going on here? Did my father send him here to retrieve something? That was the better option...because if he hadn’t, then how had the bald man gotten my father’s keys? 

Suddenly, it dawned on me that the large bag was the right size and shape to hold a body. 

No. I was blowing this out of proportion. There was no way that my father’s dead body was in that bag. This was probably just a regular robbery, and that guy had probably found the keys and our address by breaking into our car. Yeah, that was it. No bodies involved. The large bag was probably his loot from previous raids. Now was the time to go back into the house quietly, and call the cops on the bald guy’s ass. No bodies involved. My father would come home later, and everything would be fine.

As I made to open the window above me, I heard a second set of footsteps coming around the side of the house, causing me to freeze and then retreat into my hiding spot. 

“Joe, is that you? What are you doing back so early? I thought you were working late tonight?” my mother called as she rounded the corner of the house.

Oh, shit.

--- end Miss Flower, begin Mr Sun ---

[sun-and-flower]

Day ???

Hey y’all, it’s Miss Flower. Again.

Seeing as both I and Mr. Sun have seriously fallen off the wagon (writing-wise, I mean, and with the abstinence and resumption bits reversed, and this is really not a good metaphor, is it), I figured that it shouldn’t matter anymore whose turn it is to post, so here I am! Also, I no longer know how to correctly number post titles. Oh well.

(Can you tell I’m bored at work? Fun fact of the day: in order to stay healthy, script monkeys require distraction in their day-to-day lives.)

This morning I had a nightmare about a child wearing one of those heavy-looking carved wooden masks. I think it was painted in a black and white colour scheme. My first thought upon waking up was “Wow, this would be a really good scary story!”, and then I promptly fell back asleep. That was in the wee hours of the morning. It’s now 6:30 PM and I’ve forgotten everything up until the very end of the nightmare, so today’s post is my attempt at filling in the blanks! 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

jk I don’t want to write any more scary stories for a while. That’s not going to become my trademark default thing.

Instead, imagine that you’re sitting in a busy coffee shop in the middle of winter. Everyone is bundled up in their thick winter coats, scarves, and hats, and gloves are discarded in favour of steaming cups of hot and warm. You can’t help but overhear some snippets of conversation floating through the air:

“ -- and so I said, ‘Woman, you may have mistaken me for a hetero, but don’t mistake me for a fool!’, and Sylvia absolutely lost it -- ”

“ -- somehow, she has the nerve to show up at the office and talk about money in that tone of hers! I’ll teach her a lesson about messing with my penguins -- ”

“ -- my dad’s in a right state about it, you know - there’s only so much asparagus a man can eat before he goes insane -- ”

“ -- she says she’s seen one! Can you believe it, a micropig! What do they make with those, mini-bacon sandwiches? Oh...I’m sorry, was that inappropriate -- ”

“ -- we started a betting pool at work, of course. I put down ten dollars for John Cena and a potato -- ”

These stolen moments of other peoples’ lives make little to no sense when they’re lacking context...so for the next while, I’ll be trying to write short pieces that include these snippets! I’ve already gotten started on the first one ^_^

I think I’ll call them the coffee shop series. As you may have noticed, I do quite like the idea of coffee shops, even though I almost never drink coffee because the taste is bleueuuuurgh puke puke puke

Miss Flower OUT

(ps. I didn’t realize it before but my alias reminds me of the miss flower & mr honey series T_T serious AB addict here)

[sun-and-flower]

Day X: A Pleasant Morning

It’s 7:30 AM. The crisp morning rays of sunlight dance across the dew on the freshly-cut grass, producing an iridescent sparkle over the entire green field. The smell of last night’s rain still lingers in the fresh bucolic air. A chirp is made from a red bird, who wakes up from a deep slumber in a cozy nest, high above the field in the tallest tree. The wet blades of grass tickle my bare feet as I make my way through the boundary-less field. I inhale and smell the sweet scent of wet pine, and exhale to see my vapory breath condense into a cloud.This is my favorite place. 

Starting with a brisk walk, I quickly speed into a light jog. The grass and colorful autumn foliage crunch beneath my feet with every step. Then, tightening all the muscles in my body, I explode into a sprint. My heart doubles in rate, and the adrenaline surges through every vein in my body. I am unstoppable. My legs move so quickly beneath me that they appear blurry - but my eyes focused. Nothing else matters. The sharp autumn wind cuts into my bare face as I race through the grassy field, dodging tall trees and dense bushes left and right. My lungs urge at me to stop - to take a breather and admire the scenery. Instead, my stubbornness ignores any physical limitation that my body is trying to tell me. So short of breathe, my sight blurs as the details in my vision dance before my eyes. On the verge of fainting, I take one last stride as I exhale my last breath - and behold! My target sits before my eyes, a mere half body length away, concealed by some brown fern leaves. This object, so desirable yet so unattainable sits right before me! It taunts me with its stillness. Without even thinking, I dive forward and tightly grip it with my teeth. Happiness fills my pounding heart as I have finally retrieved my trophy! Only one individual can be worthy of such an esteemed prize as this that I hold before me. With that thought in mind, I turn around and pace back to my master, who stands in the same place from where I had left. A wide grin forms on my master’s face. Underneath the beautiful dark strands of her hair, her almond-brown eyes glitter with happiness. I know my master is proud of me. Bowing before her, I gentle drop my treasure at her feet. She looks at me with happy eyes, and says “Good boy, Kobi. Let’s do that again.” 

[sun-and-flower]

*looks inside myself* - “umm guys I can’t see anything but my internal organs”

http://iglovequotes.net/

[sun-and-flower]

Today, I fucked up... by pranking my wife

So I have been setting this prank up for about 3 weeks now, but unfortunately the fruits of my labor came to fruition yesterday. All for the best I guess.

Background: My wife and I are very healthy and we eat the same thing for breakfast every day, well maybe a solid 350 days a year. It is egg whites and toast. It has got to the point that if I don’t eat this for breakfast my entire day feels “off.” I put salsa on my eggs while she uses ketchup and she has to have ketchup or else she will not eat breakfast. We have a backup bottle or two in the pantry just in case she runs out.

3 weeks ago: I notice that her bottle is running pretty low and she has to actively shake the bottle to get the last remnants out. We are pretty earth conscious as well, so nothing goes to waste, use until the last drop! There is still just enough left in the bottle that I can tell she is thinking that she shouldn’t recycle it just yet and puts it back into the fridge. I notice this thought process going on in her head and decide I should mess with her. Once we finish up breakfast she goes to get ready. I take one of the full bottles of ketchup and add just enough to the almost empty bottle so that she will have the amount needed for breakfast the next day. Breakfast the next day rolls around and she does the same thing adds ketchup to her breakfast and decides there is just enough to save and puts it back in the fridge. I again refill the bottle with just enough for the next day. I should also mention that she is short, I hid the refill bottle at the top of the pantry so she could not see that it had been opened and used.

2 weeks ago: After 7 days slyly watching her add ketchup to her breakfast I can begin to see an intrigued look on her face when she is prepping her breakfast. She doesn’t say anything, but you can tell she has taken notice of the bottle. This goes on for another 7 days.

1 week ago: Breakfast continues to go off without a hitch and every time she adds the ketchup to her breakfast she gets a little twinkle in her eye, like she really really wants to say something about it, but doesn’t want me to make fun of her being crazy and thinking the ketchup bottle is never ending. To the point that she will look at me, start to say something and then stop herself change the subject and put the bottle away. I have never looked forward to breakfast so much in my entire life!

All this week: She is on the verge of saying something everyday. Its becoming hard to not laugh while watching her add the ketchup to her eggs, but I am laughing hysterically on the inside. At this point I have used roughly a half bottle of ketchup refilling the other one. This is all I can imagine when watching her

Yesterday: She adds ketchup to her breakfast and looks me directly in the eye and dead serious says, “/myname/ we have a fucking magical ketchup bottle.” I could not control my laughter and proceed to loose my shit while she tries to explain to me how she has used the exact same bottle of ketchup for 3 weeks and it has been almost “empty” the entire time. She now thinks I am laughing because of her belief in magic and she is trying as hard as possible to convince me that she is serious and it IS magic. I proceed to go into the pantry, take out the half empty bottle of ketchup and place it on the counter. It all finally clicks in her head and at that moment the empty ketchup bottle clicked into my head, but don’t care because I made a magic ketchup bottle happen so I am essentially Jesus.

TL;DR made my wife believe we had a magic ketchup bottle, but it hurt just as much as normal bottle when flung at my face.

[sun-and-flower]

Day 11

We had to skip Day 5 because *someone* was being forgetful. Alas, the world has not yet ended. There is still hope after all...

<edit>: I am a huge hypocrite; see end of post

It’s already becoming pretty hard to come up with interesting content for these daily posts. I feel like I need to prepare something that is thoughtful, but also funny, but also informative, but also a bit silly, etc. The list goes on. It’s a bit like walking down the centre of a very long triangle: you begin with a very large bandwidth, but as you progress down the triangle, you’re left with less and less room to move about in, until you’ve got no room at all, and then you’re forced to either jump off the triangle or return to your starting point.

So without further ado, I have resorted to writing a slightly creepy story. Please do not read any further if you have a fear of clowns. If you are indeed reading onwards, please watch your expectations as you enter, or you may injure yourself, which I am not liable for. Talk to my lawyer.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

                           OLGA

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Olga, brimming with that youthful sweetness which is observed rarely but in almost-eleven-year-old girls, is sitting on the windowsill of her mother’s bedroom. Idly fingering the well-worn pages of her favourite children’s book, The Valentine Cat, she sighs in apparent ennui as she stares out of the window into the overcast sky. Outside, the streets are painted dark by recent rainfall, and several worms are busily wriggling on the grass, having been displaced from their homes by a risen water table.

Dear Diary: Olga looks beautiful today, as she always does. She is reading The Valentine Cat again. Her white dress is very pretty.

“Olga! Time for your lunch!” 

The scent of baked sweet potatoes had entered the room some time ago.

Olga puts down her book, and in one smooth motion, swings both legs off of the ledge. Her feet make quiet pitter-patter sounds as she makes her way down the staircase, across the hall, and into the kitchen, where the golden-brown yams are sitting, waiting to be devoured. Olga’s mother gives a little start as Olga brushes past.

“Olga. What have I told you about using my makeup without asking me first? You know that’s not allowed.”

Olga shrugs one delicate shoulder. “It was on your counter, mama. I just wanted to have some fun. All the other girls in my grade are allowed. Please, mama.” She pricks a yam with her fork, deposits it onto an empty plate, and sits down at the dining table.

Olga’s mother makes a defeated sound. “All right, Olga. But just this once. And be sure to wash it off before you go to bed tonight.” She pricks a yam with her fork, deposits it onto an empty plate, and sits down opposite Olga at the dining table. 

They eat in a comfortable silence.

After lunch, Olga returns to her window seat in the bedroom. The windowsill is a little cold now. She resumes leafing through the book, tracing her fingertips over the red and blue and black pictures. Her fingertips are a little cold.

Dear Diary: Today, Olga devoured four baked yams for lunch. Her white dress is very pretty. She is reading The Valentine Cat again, in the windowsill. But the makeup...she is so young. So young...her mother would not approve, no. She would not.

The next day, the sky continues to wear its thick blanket of gray. The wind pushes gently at tall trees, swaying their branches to and fro. Olga waits for the school bus at the mouth of her gated community, just past the swimming pool and opposite model house. Her backpack is a shiny, cherry red. She is sitting on the curb with her knees drawn up to her chest when the school bus sighs to a stop, a little ways away from where she sits. Olga springs to her feet, and her feet make eager pitter-patter sounds as she runs up to the open doors. Her radiant face is stretched in a sunny smile.

When she returns from school, the smile is replaced by a wild array of tear streaks running down her face. Olga keeps her head down as she hurries through the front door of her house, across the hall, and up the stairs into her room. She is careful to muffle her steps - there are no pitter-patter sounds echoing through the house today. The only suggestion of her return is the soft click of her bedroom door as it closes, and then, the faint sound of running water.

Dear Diary: Little Olga is sad today. I wonder why?  Little Olga is sad today. I wonder why?  Little Olga is sad today. I wonder why?  Little Olga is sad today. I wonder why?  Little Olga is sad today. I wonder why?  Little Olga is sad today. I wonder why?  Little Olga is sad today. I wonder why?  Little Olga is sad today. I wonder why?  Little Olga is sad today. I wonder why? Why? Why ? Why ? Why ? Why? 

“Olga! Time for your dinner!”

The scent of roasted meat had entered the room some time ago.

The sound of running water stops. Olga wipes at her eyes and cheeks as she steps through her bedroom door, and makes her way down the staircase, across the hall, and into the kitchen, where the roasted bird is sitting, waiting to be devoured. Her little, dainty feet make no sounds. Olga’s mother gives a little start as Olga brushes past.

“Olga, did you have a good day at school today?”

There is no answer from Olga - only silence. Olga’s mother raises her eyes from the kitchen counter to rest on Olga, but says nothing.

“Mama...the other girls at school...they didn’t like my makeup. They...they said...they said I looked like, like a little clown! Mama, I just wanted to be their friend!” At this outburst, Olga’s mother crosses the room, and cradles Olga’s head to her chest. She strokes Olga’s dark hair until the sobs slow to quiet hiccups.

“Olga. There is more than one way to make a friend, much like there is more than one kind of friend. If you think these girls truly have the potential to be real friends, then try again tomorrow, without the makeup. I’m sure they will like you for yourself, makeup or no. Alright?”

At hearing this, Olga’s sobs redouble, and then quickly fade away to soft hiccups once more. She rests her once-more tear-streaked face against her mother’s chest in a quiet comfort. Her mother lets go a hesitant, soft laugh, and then says, “Although, Olga, it does look a bit clown-like. Where did you copy it from? I can teach you how to do it better, if you like.” She smiles down at her daughter.

Olga is not smiling.

Olga blinks once, and then twice.

A slow smile stretches her blood-red mouth, like a rip across her little face.

“Mama...I can’t wash it off.”

Olga’s mother feels her heartbeat rise through her chest, and into her throat - there is something wrong with her little girl. Still, she does not let Olga out of her embrace.

“Olga. What do you mean you can’t wash it off? Did you use soap?”

Olga lets out a series of short, high-pitched giggles through her blood-red smile. It has grown wider since its first appearance.

Then, suddenly, her smile disappears. As if the rip has relocated itself, her eyes are now wide open with the whites of her eyeballs so, so visible, unblinkingly staring up at her mother’s terrified face. Olga tilts her head to the right, and speaks -

“Mama...I can’t wash it off. I used soap...so many, many, many times...so many times...I did, I did. But mama - I can’t wash it off...”

Olga whispers with her ripped-open eyes, staring - “Mama, rip it off for me. I can’t wash it off.”

Olga’s mother faints.

Olga kneels beside the fallen form of her mother. She rests one lily-white hand on her mother’s cheek, whispering, “Mama, I can’t wash it off...help me...”

The other hand is on the floor, one finger idly tracing,

‘Dear Diary - I can’t wash it off...why? I can’t wash it off...’

And that’s the end of that.

I had a mild case of writer’s block (aka annoyance at lack of ability to write in a non-boring way), so this took way longer than it should have. Sorry to Mr. Sun for holding up his turn for three days.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaand I’m out

[sun-and-flower]

apt description of monday mornings

[sun-and-flower]

Day 6: A Logical Riddle

Today’s post will be a short longer one, as I only have little time before having to fall asleep in order to attend to the duties of tomorrow. 

There is an interesting logical puzzle I saw floating around the Internet a few months ago. The puzzle deals with three Buddah statues who hold the fate of your life in their lifeless hands. You are lost in a jungle in Southeast Asia with little more than enough water to last one more day. Fortunately, you stumble upon these three magical statues who may lead you to salvation or send you to your demise. At this point, you figure you have nothing to lose, so you decide to give asking for their help a try. The Buddah statues, you recall from your pre-trip learning and planning, will only help you if you can successfully identify them. The statues look alike, but you also recall the following facts about them: one of the three statues will always tell the truth, one will always lie, and the other will sometimes tell the truth and at other times lie. The statues can only respond to yes-no questions that they have knowledge of and are directly only to one statue at a time. Oh and one more piece of information - they respond in their own language of “Ja” and “Da”, and due to their impatience, you may only ask a maximum of three questions before they unleash ultimate destruction on you for wasting their time. You realize that you were ill-prepared because you forgot to translate whether “Ja” meant “yes” or “no”. What shall you do?

You ponder at the challenge before you for a few minutes. And thankfully for your ability to reason, you come up with a plan. You decide it is most logical to determine which statue is the one that only sometimes tells the truth. Since statues can only answer questions that have known answers, you ask the left-most statue: “For a Boolean question whose answer is true, would the statue to your right answer true?” If the statue does not speak, then you know that the middle statue is the unpredictable one, since nobody knows what it will say. If the statue does answer, you repeat the question to the statue in the middle. If the statue does not answer, then the rightmost one is the unpredictable one. But if the statue does answer, then Mr. Unpredictable is in the left most position because the first question determined it could not be in the center, and the second question determined it could not be in the right-most position. Now you target either the Truthful or the Lying statue and ask it a question. You ask “For a Boolean question whose answer is true, would the Truth statue answer Ja?”. If you targeted the Truth statue, it will always reply with “Ja”, regardless of whether “Ja” actually means “yes”. Likewise, the False statue will always reply with “Da”. Don’t see it? Here’s an explanation. Let’s assume “Ja” means true. The Truth statue will reply with true, or “Ja” meaning “Yes, it would tell the truth”. The False statue on the other hand would reply with “Da” because it will mean “No, the Truth statue does not tell the truth”. Now let’s assume “Da” means true. The question becomes “would the True statue lie?”. The True status would say no, or “Ja” in this case. But if we ask the question to the False statue, the false statue will say that the True statue does indeed lie, or simply it will just say true, which is “Da”. Hence, it doesn’t matter what “Ja” or “Da” actually mean, because within three questions you successfully identified the statues. Now, you are on your way to safety from the awfully dangerous speaking-Buddah-statue-filled jungles!

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An Example of the Coordination of Magnetic Field Lines from a Bar Magnet.

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Day 4

Miss Flower here, reporting for duty. And humanity. Minus the other two Stooges. I drove off and left them stranded in a McDonalds full of old men in clown costumes, 7 miles from the nearest bus stop. 

Side note: oh god I hope that never happens to anyone *shivers*

Today’s piece is a short, crude satire on the 2010-type hipster. May you forever rest in peace.

Begin scene - George and Samuel are sitting in a cozy indie coffee shop, facing each other on vintage leather ottomans. It’s 3:30 pm in wintry Toronto, and the day is beginning to wane. George is nursing a fair-trade dark roast, while Samuel is on his third Americano of the day.

“So, I don’t know how I should feel about it right now.”

Cue a long pause. The men look at each other, quickly, and then away.

“I can’t tell you how to feel. Except - when was it that you last felt from the deepest, hidden recesses of your heart?” “I - what do you mean?” “You know - you can’t quite describe or explain it, but it’s almost the feeling of a sudden eureka. In one moment, your life is forever transformed by this incredible insurmountable feeling. And the beautiful part is that you never saw any of it coming.” “You mean love?” “No, not love. It’s as if - as if you had discovered the meaning of life within a prayer, or a hymn, or in a well-loved book, and realized that you were the first to ever realize it. That sort of feeling.” “Well. I’ve read Franny and Zooey four times now, but I can’t seem to understand what you mean. You can interpret Joyce in so many ways, you know. There isn’t just one bandwagon for everybody to jump on to. Then we’d all be so conformist. God knows there’re already too many sheep in modern-day society - I could wax poetic about the downfalls of standardized sources of literary analysis in our schools, but today’s not the day for that. Go on, tell me more.” “Alright...imagine if, on a morning which had nothing to mark it as different from any other morning you’d lived through, you reached up to the sky out of pure, thrilling, spontaneous desire, and began to fly. And imagine that upon doing so, you accepted that you were soaring into the blue horizon and there was nothing you could do about it. Imagine if you simply stopped thinking and questioning and peeling back the endless maze of lettuce leaves, and started feeling, and only feeling, for the first time.” “Did you say ‘for the pure thrill of unreluctant desire’? That’s strangely familiar.” “So you do understand what I mean!” “No, I was saying that you sounded awfully like Marie Howe. Are you quite sure you’ve never read any of her poems? She’s becoming quite a commodity these days, you know. You’d best get ahead of the crowd before they consume her work en-masse and re-purpose it for their capitalist uses, like they did with Murakami. Just look at Norwegian Wood, for Pete’s sake.” “If you would just - let go for a minute or two. If you pretend that you’re sitting in a warm alcove in space, high enough that Earth is a speck of iridescent aquamarine, and look around you at all the stars in the galaxy, you’ll realize the feeling I’m trying to describe. You’ve got to let go of your earthly thoughts and feel yourself reaching out to the corners of your existence, trying to see what’s behind the curtain of everyday consciousness.” “My god, how would you feel comfortable sitting in space? How would that even work? And it’d be terrifying, what with all that space around you and no one to occupy it. If you ask me, space exploration is overrated. The government could redirect those funds into the artistic initiative instead, like I’ve been saying for years. Canada needs to have an artistic identity like the rest of the countries. Space is both useless and terrifying. And I absolutely abhor being cold.” “But you’re dismissing the whole point of exploring! Fear won’t be important anymore when you let go of your earthly concerns and just let yourself -- ” “Look. Let’s not talk about this anymore. I haven’t got much time left before the concert starts. Actually, have you heard the new band? They’re post-modern rockers influenced by reggae and traditional Chinese music. I hear from Jylle that their lyrics are really good. Confusing at best, but everyone is saying that’s what makes them good.” “Jill? Barista Jill?” “Yeah, she changed the spelling of her name to J-y-l-l-e. Isn’t that the most original looking version of Jill you’ve ever seen? So different! I wish I could do the same, but my parents gave me this horribly commonplace name, and it’s too late now to change it. My coworkers would have questions for days.” “Sure.” “Hey, sorry if I offended you earlier. It’s just that I wasn’t in the mood to get all contemplative. Maybe another day in another coffee car?” “Don’t worry about it. I don’t know what I was thinking myself!” “I’ve got to run. See you!”

Exit Samuel.

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ded

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The person who coined the term ‘Erectile dysfunction’ really missed out by not calling it 'Ballzheimer’s disease’

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bay area: Now you have a friend in the diamond business. The Shane Company. In Cupertino, San Mateo, and Walnut Creek. Open weekdays til 8, Saturdays and Sundays til 5. Online at shaneco dot com

local commercials are so funny like….. the fact that everyone in your area knows the jingle or whatever but nobody outside of the area…. it’s like… a Secret Local Meme

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EVERY TIME

THIS IS 2 REAL

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F. Scott Fitzgerald (via quotemadness)

every time at macy’s goddamnit

People disappeared, reappeared, made plans to go somewhere, and then lost each other, searched for each other, found each other a few feet away.

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In this world, there are things you can only do alone, and things you can only do with somebody else. It’s important to combine the two in just the right amount.

Haruki Murakami (via quotemadness)

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Day 3 - A Thinking Exercise

The flower and I have talked about this example in the past, and all it did was lead us into a nebulous haze of perplexed thinking. Let us suppose that a group of individuals has so generously donated their time to partake in the exercise. Each person is instructed to behave as a neuron, responding exactly how a neuron in a person’s brain would respond, sending pulses to her neighbor and responding to stimuli. Without other people, this lone person represents nothing more than one neuron, unable to communicate with anything else. Now, suppose we greatly increase the study’s same size, such that there are as many “neurons” as there really are in a human’s brain. If each person performs her job exactly as how a neuron would, would we not just have created another conscious? 

By amassing enough “neurons”, we would create an artificial brain, capable of basic individual thought, even though it did not exist prior to the exercise. Of course, there are major simplifications made - assuming neurons are all that is required for a functioning brain, no sensory input is required, etc... But, the idea that I find so perplexing is that since this conscious is created on mere organization of information, then a conscious is nothing more than a precisely constructed abstraction. A conscious is not a physical object that has mass. Rather, it is ways in which the objects interact with each other, which provides an abstraction that we call consciousness. The next question that I want to answer is: how far in abstraction of an information organizing system do we have to go to create self-awareness and the ability to make non-deterministic decisions? We have no unit of measurement or even a metric for determining how abstract a concept is, even though abstraction is so ubiquitous. For example, computers and software incorporate abstraction so that you see the collection of copper wires and silicon before you as a computer. Fundamentally, all you are seeing are voltages jumping and bouncing through wires, causing LEDs to flash at certain times. A computer only exists the way it does because we give it meaning - because we accept the levels of abstraction that digital logic, operating systems, and GUI’s provide for us. We, individually, define a computer with the level of abstraction we find most comfortable, and we innately decline to see it as anything more fundamental. By accepting one layer of abstraction, we invariably work on creating the next, more abstract, level of abstraction, eventually reaching a level so meta that we might even call it consciousness...

Now the question is, how long until we reach there?