“Truly I tell you,” Jesus declared, “this very night before the rooster crows, you will deny Me three times.”
---
why was Judas chosen if Jesus knew he would betray him? Why did God allow the devil to tempt Job?
Maybe it's only in the face of evil that men can become good. Maybe there can be no faith without some fire.
---
Finally, the time has come. You thought it would never arrive. You hoped even that it could be postponed indefinitely. Why now, you wonder? In the dead of night. The Rabbi's disciple gave no coherent reply, only that he felt compelled to act now.
The council is more divided than it appears. However, all agree that simply detaining the Rabbi will accomplish nothing. Those who pledge themselves to him grow in number every day. They have all but crowned him king. And you know he is not one to accept a bribe. All agree that he must be silenced, permanently. This is the only solution. Your own spirit is troubled, but the council has decided. He has signed his own death warrant by going against the council. This troublemaker, what does he hope to achieve? You have heard that he is a man of mercy, a man of miracles, who can raise the dead. And yet he is only a man. In your heart, you believe that this is all in vain. That if the Rabbi is truly from God then the council's plans will be thwarted, just as they have been for so many months. And if God is not with him, then you will bring Him glory by executing a heretic.
He presents himself as being pure and righteous, yet he eats at the table of sinners. He says he is humble and merciful, and yet he dares to accuse members of the council. Because of him your tradition and your law is in jeopardy. He seeks to mislead Israel. Yes. The righteousness of the nation is at stake.
Though the people clamour for him, he is not your king. Not if you can help it. He holds no sway over your actions, or the sovereignty of your thoughts. Of her. Cherished lily in the marketplace. Oh how you love to see her smile as she greets you in the mornings. How lovely she is, her voice bright like glistening nectar. Sweet as honey. Her lips, they glisten with ripeness, like fruit on the vine. How your ache for her burns at night. How you allow yourself to entertain the thought of her in your room, long lustrous hair falling over her uncovered breasts. A waterfall of pleasure caressing her skin. Her softness is almost tangible, her voice thick and breathless, her sighing as supple and delicate as her thighs. How strong your desire is for her, how untamed, how solid is your longing for her that you have slowly created something real out of nothing - summoning her to your room every night, albeit only an image, an apparition.
Here he is now. He is betrayed by a kiss, and yet he calls his traitor friend! Does he not understand what is in store for him? Or does he yet believe that God will deliver him. But no, God has left it to you, this council of priests and elders to judge who is righteous, and the verdict is already decided. The crowd is becoming excited now, a simmering, savage frenzy. The torches cast monstrous, fiery shadows of men about the garden. Oh Rabbi, if you truly are the son of God, ask yourself this - why has He turned His back on you?
Thursday, March 29, 2018
Tuesday, March 27, 2018
passion
Then Jesus returned to the disciples and found them sleeping. “Were you not able to keep watch with Me for one hour?” He asked Peter. “Watch and pray so that you will not enter into temptation. For the spirit is willing, but the body is weak.”
---
By this we know what love is: Jesus laid down His life for us, and we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers. If anyone with earthly possessions sees his brother in need, but withholds his compassion from him, how can the love of God abide in him? Little children, let us love not in word and speech, but in action and truth. And by this we will know that we belong to the truth, and will assure our hearts in His presence: If our hearts condemn us, God is greater than our hearts, and He knows all things.
---
“Holy places are dark places. It is life and strength, not knowledge and words, that we get in them. Holy wisdom is not clear and thin like water, but thick and dark like blood.”
- C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces
---
"Is it difficult being a disciple?" Is what a boy asked you last week. You wanted to say something profound, something that the Rabbi would say. 'It depends on what you mean by difficult - is it difficult to be a man?' but you knew that wouldn't mean anything. So you decided to just answer honestly. 'Sometimes,' you said, getting down on one knee. 'You have to follow the Rabbi wherever he goes and leave all your old friends and family behind. But you get to see some pretty cool miracles, and you always get front row seats to hear the Rabbi teach, so there's that.' Satisfied with your answer, the boy smiled and said, 'I'm going to be a disciple when I grow up!' 'Good for you!' you replied.
Right now you are finding it particularly difficult to be a disciple. The Rabbi has gone and said some very upsetting things over dinner. Even more upsetting than usual. Just a few hours ago the Rabbi said that one of you would betray him, and now you're all on edge. You wonder if the Rabbi is talking about you. If you are harboring some hidden grudge within your heart. If there is some unknown evil brewing deep inside you that the Rabbi can see. You and the others can sense that something is off. It started when the Rabbi decided to wash all the disciples' feet. That was really bizarre. To make matters worse, the Rabbi keeps hinting that he is about to leave, but refuses to say where he will go. He keeps hinting at some terrible fate that awaits him. You can't imagine anything worse than losing him now. You wonder if you all have done something to upset him. Despite this, you know in your heart that you would never abandon the Rabbi. That you are prepared to follow him even until death. There is no way you would let anything happen to him.
The night is cool as you stare up at the stars. It is so quiet and peaceful, here in the garden. The Rabbi is kneeling and praying a stone's throw away. He has asked you and two others to keep watch with him. Even from a distance you can tell he is in pain. You feel a knot in your gut every time you look over. You feel so helpless. Tomorrow things will be better, you tell yourself. Tomorrow, surely, the meaning of things will be revealed. You've been through worse. You think of the miracles. You think of all the times the Rabbi has come through for you. How he's always rescuing you - and this time is no different, you tell yourself. Perhaps this is a test of some kind. A character-building exercise. You may be suffering now but soon it will be replaced by rejoicing. You can sense it. A flutter of anticipation stirs in your breast. How many days has it been since the Rabbi arrived in Jerusalem? You will never forget it for as long as you live. What an entrance! The hooping and hollering! The children doing cartwheels and the people laying down their clothes on the street. Oh the colour and sound! When the children and women began singing, in unison, "Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord! We bless you from the house of the Lord!" you nearly wept. The streets were filled with their voices. It was as if the whole world had gathered on that street to adore him.
And for once the Rabbi seemed to welcome the fanfare and praise, instead of trying to hush everyone up the way he usually does. There was no doubt that this signaled the beginning of a new era, of liberation and restoration for Zion. Not to mention the temple cleansing afterwards. Talk about overt symbolism. Shortly afterwards, you and few of the others dared to fantasise of a coup, you imagined Israel free of Roman rule, of the multitudes who would rally behind the Rabbi, of what it would mean to be ministers of his eternal kingdom. Surely, this was the Messiah. Invigorated, intoxicated by a glimpse of freedom, eager to see the kingdom of heaven, you grasp the hilt of your sword. You wonder if it will be violent.
To the death. The thought keeps repeating for some reason. Your mind is clinging on, chanting it over and over to try and stay awake. The Rabbi hasn't moved in ages it seems. You're trying your best to muster up some zeal. To the death. Yes, you would follow him to the death. This unshakable conviction, who can steal? Your heart is secure. Your spirit on fire for God. Yes, yes. Of course. But your eyes, they grow heavy now. Holiness and glory feel far away. And God. All you feel right now is weariness and unease. Where is this peace he talked about? You can't help but feel a little confused by what the Rabbi has said. A little alienated. You fear he has turned his back on you. Is being a disciple difficult? Right now the answer is yes. The Rabbi wouldn't do that. You're trying to pray, but the words won't come. To the death. You've prayed for strength. You've prayed for joy. But all you're getting is more tired. And this sorrow. Maybe a little sleep would be good. Would help. Just for a while. Couldn't hurt. You should. Try a little longer. But your eyes are closing now. Your Rabbi is going somewhere now. No, he's right there. Somewhere you can't follow. To the death. Your eyes are closing now.
---
By this we know what love is: Jesus laid down His life for us, and we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers. If anyone with earthly possessions sees his brother in need, but withholds his compassion from him, how can the love of God abide in him? Little children, let us love not in word and speech, but in action and truth. And by this we will know that we belong to the truth, and will assure our hearts in His presence: If our hearts condemn us, God is greater than our hearts, and He knows all things.
---
“Holy places are dark places. It is life and strength, not knowledge and words, that we get in them. Holy wisdom is not clear and thin like water, but thick and dark like blood.”
- C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces
---
"Is it difficult being a disciple?" Is what a boy asked you last week. You wanted to say something profound, something that the Rabbi would say. 'It depends on what you mean by difficult - is it difficult to be a man?' but you knew that wouldn't mean anything. So you decided to just answer honestly. 'Sometimes,' you said, getting down on one knee. 'You have to follow the Rabbi wherever he goes and leave all your old friends and family behind. But you get to see some pretty cool miracles, and you always get front row seats to hear the Rabbi teach, so there's that.' Satisfied with your answer, the boy smiled and said, 'I'm going to be a disciple when I grow up!' 'Good for you!' you replied.
Right now you are finding it particularly difficult to be a disciple. The Rabbi has gone and said some very upsetting things over dinner. Even more upsetting than usual. Just a few hours ago the Rabbi said that one of you would betray him, and now you're all on edge. You wonder if the Rabbi is talking about you. If you are harboring some hidden grudge within your heart. If there is some unknown evil brewing deep inside you that the Rabbi can see. You and the others can sense that something is off. It started when the Rabbi decided to wash all the disciples' feet. That was really bizarre. To make matters worse, the Rabbi keeps hinting that he is about to leave, but refuses to say where he will go. He keeps hinting at some terrible fate that awaits him. You can't imagine anything worse than losing him now. You wonder if you all have done something to upset him. Despite this, you know in your heart that you would never abandon the Rabbi. That you are prepared to follow him even until death. There is no way you would let anything happen to him.
The night is cool as you stare up at the stars. It is so quiet and peaceful, here in the garden. The Rabbi is kneeling and praying a stone's throw away. He has asked you and two others to keep watch with him. Even from a distance you can tell he is in pain. You feel a knot in your gut every time you look over. You feel so helpless. Tomorrow things will be better, you tell yourself. Tomorrow, surely, the meaning of things will be revealed. You've been through worse. You think of the miracles. You think of all the times the Rabbi has come through for you. How he's always rescuing you - and this time is no different, you tell yourself. Perhaps this is a test of some kind. A character-building exercise. You may be suffering now but soon it will be replaced by rejoicing. You can sense it. A flutter of anticipation stirs in your breast. How many days has it been since the Rabbi arrived in Jerusalem? You will never forget it for as long as you live. What an entrance! The hooping and hollering! The children doing cartwheels and the people laying down their clothes on the street. Oh the colour and sound! When the children and women began singing, in unison, "Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord! We bless you from the house of the Lord!" you nearly wept. The streets were filled with their voices. It was as if the whole world had gathered on that street to adore him.
And for once the Rabbi seemed to welcome the fanfare and praise, instead of trying to hush everyone up the way he usually does. There was no doubt that this signaled the beginning of a new era, of liberation and restoration for Zion. Not to mention the temple cleansing afterwards. Talk about overt symbolism. Shortly afterwards, you and few of the others dared to fantasise of a coup, you imagined Israel free of Roman rule, of the multitudes who would rally behind the Rabbi, of what it would mean to be ministers of his eternal kingdom. Surely, this was the Messiah. Invigorated, intoxicated by a glimpse of freedom, eager to see the kingdom of heaven, you grasp the hilt of your sword. You wonder if it will be violent.
To the death. The thought keeps repeating for some reason. Your mind is clinging on, chanting it over and over to try and stay awake. The Rabbi hasn't moved in ages it seems. You're trying your best to muster up some zeal. To the death. Yes, you would follow him to the death. This unshakable conviction, who can steal? Your heart is secure. Your spirit on fire for God. Yes, yes. Of course. But your eyes, they grow heavy now. Holiness and glory feel far away. And God. All you feel right now is weariness and unease. Where is this peace he talked about? You can't help but feel a little confused by what the Rabbi has said. A little alienated. You fear he has turned his back on you. Is being a disciple difficult? Right now the answer is yes. The Rabbi wouldn't do that. You're trying to pray, but the words won't come. To the death. You've prayed for strength. You've prayed for joy. But all you're getting is more tired. And this sorrow. Maybe a little sleep would be good. Would help. Just for a while. Couldn't hurt. You should. Try a little longer. But your eyes are closing now. Your Rabbi is going somewhere now. No, he's right there. Somewhere you can't follow. To the death. Your eyes are closing now.
Sunday, March 25, 2018
hawking / rojak
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.
---
- whereas KL is...
- the city is essentially one big shopping mall, albeit one that is 85% open air food court.
---
surely this is the best of all possible worlds.
---
big changes start with small encounters
---
how much more common is illness compared to health, do you think?
How many people walking around do you think are actually completely healthy, disease-free.
How many have not even one thing wrong with their bodies?
Think about how many different things could go wrong, think of the dazzling dizzying mind-rending complex processes and structures that make up a human. How many opportunities it has to go awry. Think of the one way it was designed to function, and think of how each of these things depend on so many other things to function properly, which themselves depend on an exponentially interconnected web of other things working as they should. Think of how easy it would be for chance to interfere, for one particular tiny aspect to malfunction, causing a knock-on effect to the microscopic rube goldberg machine like cascades within the cell, within the copying of DNA, proteins folding and unfolding and transcribing mindlessly like machines in a factory line, the foremen asleep at the wheel, off sick, or simply not paying attention, bringing the entire show to a grinding halt. A seed of fault spreading through the entire system, infecting it with its imperfection, a rock that poisons the entire lake, a yeast that spreads throughout the dough, disguising itself as something natural, insidiously, imperceptibly only frankly manifesting once the final product is formed, or rather, misformed, deformed, misshapen, inbred, once it's too late.
Is it actually rare or is it actually so overwhelmingly common that we overlook the small imperfections - that we become numb to it.
That what we call health is actually a disease we all have. What if you've always been diseased and you've only ever met diseased people. What if you've never met a truly healthy person before.
What you are talking about is mutation. Mistakes are what make us beautiful. Mistakes allow for novelty, for freedom. For progress.
Is this what you call beautiful? Tell me, what part of this screams progress. Virtual space - the real self is in a wheelchair. Hawking talks to a 20 year old amputee.
'you'll notice this bit gets very familiar,' Mikhail said. It was a reskin / a replica of the lobby from the Terror Tower games. M had reused the resources, as ascended the stairs, Stephen glanced over at the
Working very hard to remain down to earth, not pity himself.
"There's a... a uh... a dinosaur attacking the city."
"Oh yeah, just ignore that. That's for a demo next quarter. We wanted to see how far we could realistically push the dimensions for height and distance.
Doing his best to ignore the screaming and sirens and roars.
rehabilitation clinic amputees. prior to receiving myoelectric limbs, practice in virtual space, electrodes, tactile feedback. endless possibilities.
I still prefer the real world.
in an alternate universe.
Alana, but you can call me Lana.
I used to be a computer gaming AI. Puzzle games mostly.
crux - longing for a life you can never have - a life that should be yours. stepping into an alternate universe, as torture.
---
pretty girl simulator, VR experience
guys are just really nice to you, they come and talk to you for no reason, pretense, get catcalls, text based choices. blow him off, encourage, smile. unwanted attention, hey baby, smile. you could get it you know. everything focused on appearance, finally meet a guy who 'respects' you, turns out like all the rest, or maybe worse.
---
the malaysian identity has always seemed to me a makeshift, slipshod, nebulous kind of thing, which makes it difficult to tell if you belong to it or possess it - especially when the accent is overwritten. Maybe it's the endless heterogeneity, the irreconcilable incongruity of the populations it seeks to gather together and categorise - the fact that the outliers outnumber the average. We have a stereotype of the British, which their sub-stereotypes of northern, posh, lad, all conform to or at least recognise to a degree. The Japanese have their cultural identifiers, bywords exclusively attributed to them, as do the Italians. The Thais are renowned for their love of their king, curries, massages, united by hospitality. They all seem to possess a set of unique virtues and vices. what do we have? Corrupt politicians? Char kuey tiao? A childlike earnestness and lack of sophistry? it appears that the only indisputable facet of being malaysian is the uncanny ability to tell if someone else is Malaysian or not. The ability to recognise your own.
(Maybe what brings us together is our diversity, our lack of a common history, our differences, our dissonance. The state of not being from anywhere else.)
---
the pakistani kid next door will have grown up listening to the pixies, hillsong united, mac demarco, winona forever and kpop.
---
i am the same age as filthy frank
---
Falling into the malaysian habit of chasing a better future by forsaking what you already have
---
- whereas KL is...
- the city is essentially one big shopping mall, albeit one that is 85% open air food court.
---
surely this is the best of all possible worlds.
---
big changes start with small encounters
---
how much more common is illness compared to health, do you think?
How many people walking around do you think are actually completely healthy, disease-free.
How many have not even one thing wrong with their bodies?
Think about how many different things could go wrong, think of the dazzling dizzying mind-rending complex processes and structures that make up a human. How many opportunities it has to go awry. Think of the one way it was designed to function, and think of how each of these things depend on so many other things to function properly, which themselves depend on an exponentially interconnected web of other things working as they should. Think of how easy it would be for chance to interfere, for one particular tiny aspect to malfunction, causing a knock-on effect to the microscopic rube goldberg machine like cascades within the cell, within the copying of DNA, proteins folding and unfolding and transcribing mindlessly like machines in a factory line, the foremen asleep at the wheel, off sick, or simply not paying attention, bringing the entire show to a grinding halt. A seed of fault spreading through the entire system, infecting it with its imperfection, a rock that poisons the entire lake, a yeast that spreads throughout the dough, disguising itself as something natural, insidiously, imperceptibly only frankly manifesting once the final product is formed, or rather, misformed, deformed, misshapen, inbred, once it's too late.
Is it actually rare or is it actually so overwhelmingly common that we overlook the small imperfections - that we become numb to it.
That what we call health is actually a disease we all have. What if you've always been diseased and you've only ever met diseased people. What if you've never met a truly healthy person before.
What you are talking about is mutation. Mistakes are what make us beautiful. Mistakes allow for novelty, for freedom. For progress.
Is this what you call beautiful? Tell me, what part of this screams progress. Virtual space - the real self is in a wheelchair. Hawking talks to a 20 year old amputee.
'you'll notice this bit gets very familiar,' Mikhail said. It was a reskin / a replica of the lobby from the Terror Tower games. M had reused the resources, as ascended the stairs, Stephen glanced over at the
Working very hard to remain down to earth, not pity himself.
"There's a... a uh... a dinosaur attacking the city."
"Oh yeah, just ignore that. That's for a demo next quarter. We wanted to see how far we could realistically push the dimensions for height and distance.
Doing his best to ignore the screaming and sirens and roars.
rehabilitation clinic amputees. prior to receiving myoelectric limbs, practice in virtual space, electrodes, tactile feedback. endless possibilities.
I still prefer the real world.
in an alternate universe.
Alana, but you can call me Lana.
I used to be a computer gaming AI. Puzzle games mostly.
crux - longing for a life you can never have - a life that should be yours. stepping into an alternate universe, as torture.
---
pretty girl simulator, VR experience
guys are just really nice to you, they come and talk to you for no reason, pretense, get catcalls, text based choices. blow him off, encourage, smile. unwanted attention, hey baby, smile. you could get it you know. everything focused on appearance, finally meet a guy who 'respects' you, turns out like all the rest, or maybe worse.
---
the malaysian identity has always seemed to me a makeshift, slipshod, nebulous kind of thing, which makes it difficult to tell if you belong to it or possess it - especially when the accent is overwritten. Maybe it's the endless heterogeneity, the irreconcilable incongruity of the populations it seeks to gather together and categorise - the fact that the outliers outnumber the average. We have a stereotype of the British, which their sub-stereotypes of northern, posh, lad, all conform to or at least recognise to a degree. The Japanese have their cultural identifiers, bywords exclusively attributed to them, as do the Italians. The Thais are renowned for their love of their king, curries, massages, united by hospitality. They all seem to possess a set of unique virtues and vices. what do we have? Corrupt politicians? Char kuey tiao? A childlike earnestness and lack of sophistry? it appears that the only indisputable facet of being malaysian is the uncanny ability to tell if someone else is Malaysian or not. The ability to recognise your own.
(Maybe what brings us together is our diversity, our lack of a common history, our differences, our dissonance. The state of not being from anywhere else.)
---
the pakistani kid next door will have grown up listening to the pixies, hillsong united, mac demarco, winona forever and kpop.
---
i am the same age as filthy frank
---
Falling into the malaysian habit of chasing a better future by forsaking what you already have
Tuesday, March 20, 2018
Sunday, March 18, 2018
#Ouroboros
If you don't mind me saying at all, I wonder what happens to a man who lives for his mother who lives for him.
---
The irony is that travelling away from what's familiar helps you rediscover where and who you were before. Finding yourself etc.
---
Google search: does traveling help you find yourself
Top hits:
1. Sometimes
2. It depends
---
los angeles
may you find your wings
before the devils do
---
The irony is that travelling away from what's familiar helps you rediscover where and who you were before. Finding yourself etc.
---
Google search: does traveling help you find yourself
Top hits:
1. Sometimes
2. It depends
---
los angeles
may you find your wings
before the devils do
long division
we split the atom
and found only dust
---
Bear brushed away the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Two dark, irregular plaques had already established themselves on the shirt's easy-iron cotton fabric at the boggy confluxes of his arms and torso. Although it wasn't strictly real cotton, or even cotton at all. At the shop, the matte black tag boasted fibres of a new semi-organic semi-synthetic hybrid polymer called POSC (short for polyvinyl-like organic silk cotton), spun from genetically engineered silkworms that produced an isomer of cellulose while possessing a molecular morphology nearly identical to polyvinyl chloride, intended to add to the lightness and breatheability of cotton the tensile strength and luster of silk. The modified silkworms possessed a truncated lifespan which meant that they never progressed to moths but simply died within their cocoons. This, while circumventing the need to boil the metamorphosing chrysalis, posed a problem in terms of sustainability as the immature silkworms could not be induced to mate. There were rumours of a method of interrupting the cycle at a stage of transformation which allowed for the genetic machinery to be dissected out and viably implanted into an artificial female moth replica for insemination by unmodified domesticated silkmoth. A study would be published the following year suggesting a correlation between the industry adoption of POSC and declining prevalence of wild type Bombyx mori, which would be buried under an avalanche of legal inquiry long enough for the contradictory study funded by Cora & Janssen, the beauty and pharmaceuticals subsidiary of Mortissen's lifestyle marketing arm, already in its final stages of conception, to be published.
The dark patches that began forming during dinner had by now become an integrated part of the shirt's expensive biochemistry. Bear had spent the past three nights pacing his apartment, deliberating over where to eat, eventually designing a spreadsheet which ranked 35 izakayas, trattorias, steakhouses, brasseries, curryhouses, hotel buffets, burger joints, health fusion delicatessens etc. on the basis of price, ease of accessibility, variety, novelty, Michelin brand recognition, cleanliness, local repute, queuing times, decor / ambiance, proximity in relation to nearby attractions, events and places of interest, waitstaff companionabililty, waitstaff diligence and in-house washroom amenities. After painstakingly eliminating 25 of them, he set about translating the remaining 10 into their respective radar charts, before receiving an email from April suggesting that they meet at a run-of-the-mill Japanese family restaurant outlet of decidedly below-average local standing.
Although his colleagues would never be mean enough to admit, Bear was regarded as something of an outsider. He had the cautious demeanour of a dog who had been hit too many times. On his own, as he frequently was, his default expression was that of a veteran athlete who had let down the team.
He also had a peculiar cough - one which seemed cut short and sort of swallowed instead of expelled, ending in a percussive and abrupt 'hup' as his lips came together to cut off the remaining sound. When he coughed in succession it sounded like a choking victim saying, 'help. help. help. help.'
It wasn't exactly that Bear's myriad idiosyncrasies were repulsive, or even off-putting. It was simply that the total sum of his traits and features yielded a net appeal of zero. For example, when he looked at you, his gaze betrayed no warmth or personal interest; no contempt or approval. You felt only observed - as if his eyes were camera lenses connected to some remote security monitor. There was an aberrant inertia that informed his interactions - a stark lack of agency or motive which perplexed people who, scanning for cues with which to establish some mutual interpersonal affinity, invariably drew a blank.
He never initiated conversation except to discuss work. If he was capable of any disposition besides polite acquiescence he was careful not to show it. He never made jokes, but always made an effort to smile or laugh appropriately at the jokes of others. His small talk always seemed scripted, inoffensive, perfunctory. His silences in contrast were dispassionate, pronounced and incumbent. It seemed as though his one overriding motivation in life was not to be noticed by anyone, and his colleagues and acquaintances, not wanting to impose, did everything within their power to facilitate this.
April, on the other hand, radiated an indomitable and expansive self love that seemed to extend outwards, forming a tight perimeter and imbuing the privileged few who were nearest to her with its irresistible glow. Her voice contained a gaiety and lightness that Bear could not help envy, but all the same longed to hear. Her actions betrayed an easy, innate consideration for others and in speaking revealed a candour and delicacy of thought that depending on the context sounded either comic or profound, but never banal.
She wore her obvious intelligence like a pair of earrings, on display but as small accessories to her beauty, fingering them unconsciously from time to time but never obtrusively, never deliberately to draw attention to them. She possessed a mischievous and playful manner that managed to never stray into obnoxiousness and kept her from seeming aloof. Perhaps her most attractive quality was this, however: the fact that although friends openly adored her and she was the object of many a hopeless crush, she seemed to lack in herself any capacity for conceitedness, ostensibly too busy being interested in and in love with others to bask in or it seems even consider her own blinding excellence.
April had not given much notice, indeed had not disclosed her reason for visiting. Nevertheless, Bear had agreed to meet and now found himself sat across from her, perspiring heavily as plates of conveyor belt sushi paraded past.
"So how's biochemical engineering treating you? Engineer any biochemicals lately?"
Bear laughed and swallowed nervously. "Yeah! It's really interesting actually... Yeah, I actually helped make this shirt," he said, pinching his collar with his thumb and forefinger, straining to match her effortless interestingness.
"Oh really?"
"Yeah! It's made out of POSC which is a new hybrid polymer. It's uh- made out of part silk and part cotton... but they're both one single fibre. Like, it's actually really really cool. Um, it comes from genetically modified moths... and there's a way to, uh, get the moths to die before they um... they hatch from the cocoon - which is... it makes it easy to harvest... the cocoon I mean.... Um..." Bear's eyes lost focus as his explanation stalled.
"Wow, that sounds really elaborate," said April politely. "All this for a shirt?"
"Yeah..." He grimaced apologetically. "Saying it out loud, it sounds kind of dumb I guess."
April raised her eyebrows and remained quiet for a moment. "I don't think it sounds dumb," she said finally.
Bear coughed weakly, trying to think of something appropriate to say.
"By the way, are you thinking of going home any time soon?" April asked.
"For good?"
"Mmhmm."
"Em..." His pupils darted back and forth as the muscles around his eyes constricted slightly, which then gave way to a pained expression. "I don't know really... I- I can't really see things getting better back home... I mean I'd love to someday. But not right now... You?"
April raised her eyebrows and stared up into the overhead lighting fixture for a few seconds, before saying, "Maybe."
Another pause.
"Can I ask you a strange question - do you feel like you belong here?"
"What, in this country?"
"Yeah."
"... Not really," Bear conceded.
"So you expect that to change? If you s-"
"Not really."
April tilted her head slightly.
"Hm. You've been here three years now, right?"
"Yeah..."
"But it's not 'home' for you?"
"No... I guess not."
"So why stay?"
"I guess I'm... used to it? It's just... easier than moving, I guess..."
April nodded and stared up at the lighting fixture for a long time, as if searching for some kind of answer.
"Do you feel-"
"Have you heard of Zeno's paradox?"
Bear, visibly puzzled, decided to answer at face value. "...Vaguely?"
April leaned forward. "It's the idea that if infinity is real then motion is impossible. As in to travel to point A, you first need to travel halfway to point B, but in order to travel to B you must first travel halfway there to point C, and so on ad infinitum. His argument was that since the journey can be divided infinitely, you have to perform an infinite number of actions to travel from A to B -- so it's actually impossible. You see?"
Bear made a show of scratching his head. "Sort of..."
Undeterred, April continued. "Or put another way, if you're travelling home from here, you can maybe make it 1/2 of the way, sure - and then you can go a bit further and travel 2/3rds of the way, and so on and so on till you get 99/100ths of the way there, but the thing is, you never actually reach your destination, because there will always just be that little bit further to go. You see? That's what Zeno was saying -- that if infinity exists then you can get as close to home as you like, but you can never actually get home."
She looked at Bear expectantly. Still nothing.
"But I was thinking..." She continued, "Maybe Zeno was right. Maybe infinity is made up after all. Maybe we're thinking about the problem the wrong way. Let me ask you this, do you believe in infinity?"
"... I guess I do." He conceded.
"How come?"
Bear's gaze reflexively sharpened. "Well... because you can theoretically count forever and never run out of numbers," he concluded.
At this, she appeared triumphant, pleased with his response. "Right? That's how most people see it. Because you can imagine doing something forever -- because it's possible for there to be a never ending sequence of numbers, infinity must exist, if only as a concept. Aristotle believed there were two kinds of infinities; potential infinities and actual infinities. He used this distinction to refute the existence of actual infinites. He was willing to allow that certain processes could potentially go on indefinitely, i.e. counting forever. Here's where I disagree."
"You disagree with Aristotle?"
"Yes, because it doesn't solve Zeno's paradox at all. Because that means in order to get home you still have to traverse an infinite number of half distances, albeit a potential infinite. Tell me, can you think of any other process other than counting that goes on indefinitely?"
"Well, dividing distances I suppose."
"Ah, but if you think about it, dividing infinitely is simply another kind of endless counting, but in the inverse direction. They're two sides of the same coin, as in, it's the same process; obtain a number, apply the function, calculate the result, rinse lather and repeat. Apart from performing some kind of manipulation of numbers, is there anything else you can think of that goes on forever? Something infinitely wide or infinitely tall?"
"No."
"Exactly, me neither. So I started thinking that maybe this idea of the infinite comes from how we think of numbers. Within the set of natural numbers, there is a corresponding even number to every odd number. 1 corresponds to 2, 3 to 4 , 5 to 6 and so on. In the same way, for every natural integer there is a multiple of 2018. 1 can correspond to 2018, 2 corresponds to 4036, 3 corresponds to 6054 etc. Do you follow me?"
"I think so."
"So do you see what is happening? We are counting again - using numbers to try and describe numbers. And once we start counting, there doesn't seem to be any end."
Bear shook his head. "So... counting just numbers themselves doesn't count. It's a made up exercise, therefore infinity is a made up concept... is that what you're saying?"
April smiled again. "Close. Numbers were initially invented as a way to think about and keep track of physical quantities. One apple, two apples. That's how we discovered plurality. And then eventually we discovered we could ask the question "how many?" without having to ask 'how many What?' We then began to uncouple or dissociate the numbers from the objects they were invented to describe. And that's where this confusion comes from. We started thinking that a number was an entity that existed independent of other objects - we started treating it as if it were an apple. And we started thinking there could be an infinite set of numbers, because you could subject a number to a function again and again to continuously create new numbers. But let me ask you this, are there an infinite number of human words?"
"Of any language?"
"Yes."
Bear thought about this. "No matter how you look at it, there has to be a limit to the number of words that exist."
"That's right. No doubt, you could potentially create new words forever and ever simply by continually adding a letter to the end of an existing word and calling it a new word: Axexxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx for example. But this doesn't happen. This is because for it to be a 'new word', not just a nonsense word, it has to hold a new meaning - and also conform to the rules of the language it belongs to. In the same way, you could potentially conceive of absurdly large numbers, but they wouldn't ever exist for the same reasons. Words exist because of a need to convey to others some quality about the real world. For words to exist they must hold meaning. They can't exist simply for the sake of existing. The same goes for numbers. They are used to denote plurality, to describe quantities. But when you try to use numbers to count the number of numbers there are - it's like trying to invent a language that only describes itself. It's not a paradox, it's simply a nonsensical request. The only way numbers have meaning is by describing a plurality that exists in the natural world. And the dimensions that contain these pluralities are..."
"Time and space."
"That's right. Note that I used the word 'contain' and not exhibit or possess. Plurality isn't an inherent property of these dimensions. One apple, two apples. They exist in space, but are separate from space itself. When we think about 'distance' we think about two points existing in space, and then how to connect them. By doing this, we create a language to describe objects which exist in space. The terms length, width, height etc. belong to this language, and use numbers as the fundamental units of meaning the way the English language uses nouns and verbs. But take away the object and you find that space itself has no length, no width. There is nothing discrete to count in space - there is nothing either to divide. When we try to define a meter or centimeter or a cubit or an inch for instance, what we're doing is simply taking a thing with real height and width and length - a finite thing - and using its physical singularity as a frame of reference. If you think about it, any act of measuring is only possible thanks to the apparent finitude of our surroundings and our immediate experience. When you measure a road, you're measuring asphalt as opposed to sidewalk or maybe soil, but with space there's no delineation, no boundary where it transitions into some alternative medium. Because the asphalt has no end, we're forced to use its pebbles to try and comprehend its size. But space isn't made up of pebbles. It isn't divisible into discrete units. To measure space itself, we end up having to invent the pebbles. The fact is that numbers rely on finite objects, like pebbles, like you and me, to give it sense and meaning. For keeping track of apples, its vocabulary and grammar is flawless, but when it comes to delineating time and space, it's inadequate. Mathematics, as a language, simply isn't designed for it. The task of trying to prove or disprove infinity is as unfeasible as asking a universe of deaf-mutes to write music."
"Oyako Don, large." A young waiter set Bear's dish down with a clatter then promptly disappeared, leaving Bear's punctured reverie in his wake.
"Which doesn't mean we'll stop trying," She added with a wink.
Bear looked up at April and blinked, having forgotten now to be nervous.
"Do you know where the word infinite comes from?"
"No."
"It comes from Latin. In- meaning not, and -finitus meaning finished, an inaccurate translation of the Greek word apeiros, meaning endless--"
As she was speaking her right hand yanked itself up an inch, fingers splayed and contorting as if possessed, only her wrist visible from across the table. It shuddered spasmodically for a microsecond before returning to her lap like a whip. April bit her lip and lowered her head, staring down at her hands.
"Did you want something?" Bear asked, motioning towards the endless procession of sushi bypassing them.
"No... yes, some edamame please." April said. "Sorry, I get a bit jumpy sometimes," she added.
Bear placed one of the itinerant plates carefully between them.
"Thanks," April said.
"No worries."
After dinner, Bear offered to take April to the Esplanade for a panoramic view of the bay, but she declined, saying she had to be at the airport early the next morning. Instead, she suggested a circuitous route which would bisect the financial district, allow them to traverse the mouth of the river and wind up at an MRT station a little further uptown. So they ambled down the manicured urban walkways, past the rumbustious crowds clustered tightly in bistros and cafes, past the towering, glittering skyscrapers the city had exchanged for stars, until they had reached the underground shopping mall adjacent to the predetermined MRT station.
The mall was vacant, save for the two of them. The place's moneyed sheen seemed to reflect and multiply its own emptiness, expanding it. They walked through its catacomb-like stillness and muted man-made glow. The lustrous hallways echoed like a forgotten cathedral.
"The really tragic thing is that after spending all that time competing with each other neither of them get to see the finish line."
Bear tilted his head. His shoulders were relaxed now as he sauntered alongside April. "I feel like the tortoise probably doesn't even know he's in a race."
April let out a delighted chuckle. "He's not even trying? While Achilles is like dying?" Here she did a little pantomime of a sprinter getting out of breath.
Bear smiled. "You could see it as kind of romantic though."
"Hmm?"
"A journey that lasts forever."
April Itsuka said nothing as they approached the bank of AFC gates, then suddenly clapped a hand onto Bear's shoulder with an excessive amount of force. Grasping his deltoid with an unbalanced, avuncular roughness, she turned him to face her.
"Well partner - it's been good to see you again," she said, then before Bear could react, she pulled him in for a hug. Bear felt a strange tightness in his chest and wondered if it had something to do with how she seemed suddenly small and not invincible in his arms, or the way the top of her head was nuzzled against his cheek, or the way her breasts were pressed up tightly against his chest, or the way her perfume smelled sweet and delicate and of somewhere else, of somewhere far away, and how quickly it would be gone once she left.
"See you again soon?" Bear said after he'd recovered his balance.
"Anything's possible," she replied, smiling.
Bear watched as April Itsuka disappeared past the gates and down the escalators, her head sinking below the steps' metal horizon. He had already forgotten the scent of her perfume. Wanting to prolong the memory, Bear stood by himself, in the shimmering quiet of an empty shopping mall and thought of April Itsuka. He tried to imagine her world. A world without infinity; a world where if you only traveled far enough and for long enough, you could end up coming home again.
Bear brushed away the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
and found only dust
---
Bear brushed away the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Two dark, irregular plaques had already established themselves on the shirt's easy-iron cotton fabric at the boggy confluxes of his arms and torso. Although it wasn't strictly real cotton, or even cotton at all. At the shop, the matte black tag boasted fibres of a new semi-organic semi-synthetic hybrid polymer called POSC (short for polyvinyl-like organic silk cotton), spun from genetically engineered silkworms that produced an isomer of cellulose while possessing a molecular morphology nearly identical to polyvinyl chloride, intended to add to the lightness and breatheability of cotton the tensile strength and luster of silk. The modified silkworms possessed a truncated lifespan which meant that they never progressed to moths but simply died within their cocoons. This, while circumventing the need to boil the metamorphosing chrysalis, posed a problem in terms of sustainability as the immature silkworms could not be induced to mate. There were rumours of a method of interrupting the cycle at a stage of transformation which allowed for the genetic machinery to be dissected out and viably implanted into an artificial female moth replica for insemination by unmodified domesticated silkmoth. A study would be published the following year suggesting a correlation between the industry adoption of POSC and declining prevalence of wild type Bombyx mori, which would be buried under an avalanche of legal inquiry long enough for the contradictory study funded by Cora & Janssen, the beauty and pharmaceuticals subsidiary of Mortissen's lifestyle marketing arm, already in its final stages of conception, to be published.
The dark patches that began forming during dinner had by now become an integrated part of the shirt's expensive biochemistry. Bear had spent the past three nights pacing his apartment, deliberating over where to eat, eventually designing a spreadsheet which ranked 35 izakayas, trattorias, steakhouses, brasseries, curryhouses, hotel buffets, burger joints, health fusion delicatessens etc. on the basis of price, ease of accessibility, variety, novelty, Michelin brand recognition, cleanliness, local repute, queuing times, decor / ambiance, proximity in relation to nearby attractions, events and places of interest, waitstaff companionabililty, waitstaff diligence and in-house washroom amenities. After painstakingly eliminating 25 of them, he set about translating the remaining 10 into their respective radar charts, before receiving an email from April suggesting that they meet at a run-of-the-mill Japanese family restaurant outlet of decidedly below-average local standing.
Although his colleagues would never be mean enough to admit, Bear was regarded as something of an outsider. He had the cautious demeanour of a dog who had been hit too many times. On his own, as he frequently was, his default expression was that of a veteran athlete who had let down the team.
He also had a peculiar cough - one which seemed cut short and sort of swallowed instead of expelled, ending in a percussive and abrupt 'hup' as his lips came together to cut off the remaining sound. When he coughed in succession it sounded like a choking victim saying, 'help. help. help. help.'
It wasn't exactly that Bear's myriad idiosyncrasies were repulsive, or even off-putting. It was simply that the total sum of his traits and features yielded a net appeal of zero. For example, when he looked at you, his gaze betrayed no warmth or personal interest; no contempt or approval. You felt only observed - as if his eyes were camera lenses connected to some remote security monitor. There was an aberrant inertia that informed his interactions - a stark lack of agency or motive which perplexed people who, scanning for cues with which to establish some mutual interpersonal affinity, invariably drew a blank.
He never initiated conversation except to discuss work. If he was capable of any disposition besides polite acquiescence he was careful not to show it. He never made jokes, but always made an effort to smile or laugh appropriately at the jokes of others. His small talk always seemed scripted, inoffensive, perfunctory. His silences in contrast were dispassionate, pronounced and incumbent. It seemed as though his one overriding motivation in life was not to be noticed by anyone, and his colleagues and acquaintances, not wanting to impose, did everything within their power to facilitate this.
April, on the other hand, radiated an indomitable and expansive self love that seemed to extend outwards, forming a tight perimeter and imbuing the privileged few who were nearest to her with its irresistible glow. Her voice contained a gaiety and lightness that Bear could not help envy, but all the same longed to hear. Her actions betrayed an easy, innate consideration for others and in speaking revealed a candour and delicacy of thought that depending on the context sounded either comic or profound, but never banal.
She wore her obvious intelligence like a pair of earrings, on display but as small accessories to her beauty, fingering them unconsciously from time to time but never obtrusively, never deliberately to draw attention to them. She possessed a mischievous and playful manner that managed to never stray into obnoxiousness and kept her from seeming aloof. Perhaps her most attractive quality was this, however: the fact that although friends openly adored her and she was the object of many a hopeless crush, she seemed to lack in herself any capacity for conceitedness, ostensibly too busy being interested in and in love with others to bask in or it seems even consider her own blinding excellence.
April had not given much notice, indeed had not disclosed her reason for visiting. Nevertheless, Bear had agreed to meet and now found himself sat across from her, perspiring heavily as plates of conveyor belt sushi paraded past.
"So how's biochemical engineering treating you? Engineer any biochemicals lately?"
Bear laughed and swallowed nervously. "Yeah! It's really interesting actually... Yeah, I actually helped make this shirt," he said, pinching his collar with his thumb and forefinger, straining to match her effortless interestingness.
"Oh really?"
"Yeah! It's made out of POSC which is a new hybrid polymer. It's uh- made out of part silk and part cotton... but they're both one single fibre. Like, it's actually really really cool. Um, it comes from genetically modified moths... and there's a way to, uh, get the moths to die before they um... they hatch from the cocoon - which is... it makes it easy to harvest... the cocoon I mean.... Um..." Bear's eyes lost focus as his explanation stalled.
"Wow, that sounds really elaborate," said April politely. "All this for a shirt?"
"Yeah..." He grimaced apologetically. "Saying it out loud, it sounds kind of dumb I guess."
April raised her eyebrows and remained quiet for a moment. "I don't think it sounds dumb," she said finally.
Bear coughed weakly, trying to think of something appropriate to say.
"By the way, are you thinking of going home any time soon?" April asked.
"For good?"
"Mmhmm."
"Em..." His pupils darted back and forth as the muscles around his eyes constricted slightly, which then gave way to a pained expression. "I don't know really... I- I can't really see things getting better back home... I mean I'd love to someday. But not right now... You?"
April raised her eyebrows and stared up into the overhead lighting fixture for a few seconds, before saying, "Maybe."
Another pause.
"Can I ask you a strange question - do you feel like you belong here?"
"What, in this country?"
"Yeah."
"... Not really," Bear conceded.
"So you expect that to change? If you s-"
"Not really."
April tilted her head slightly.
"Hm. You've been here three years now, right?"
"Yeah..."
"But it's not 'home' for you?"
"No... I guess not."
"So why stay?"
"I guess I'm... used to it? It's just... easier than moving, I guess..."
April nodded and stared up at the lighting fixture for a long time, as if searching for some kind of answer.
"Do you feel-"
"Have you heard of Zeno's paradox?"
Bear, visibly puzzled, decided to answer at face value. "...Vaguely?"
April leaned forward. "It's the idea that if infinity is real then motion is impossible. As in to travel to point A, you first need to travel halfway to point B, but in order to travel to B you must first travel halfway there to point C, and so on ad infinitum. His argument was that since the journey can be divided infinitely, you have to perform an infinite number of actions to travel from A to B -- so it's actually impossible. You see?"
Bear made a show of scratching his head. "Sort of..."
Undeterred, April continued. "Or put another way, if you're travelling home from here, you can maybe make it 1/2 of the way, sure - and then you can go a bit further and travel 2/3rds of the way, and so on and so on till you get 99/100ths of the way there, but the thing is, you never actually reach your destination, because there will always just be that little bit further to go. You see? That's what Zeno was saying -- that if infinity exists then you can get as close to home as you like, but you can never actually get home."
She looked at Bear expectantly. Still nothing.
"But I was thinking..." She continued, "Maybe Zeno was right. Maybe infinity is made up after all. Maybe we're thinking about the problem the wrong way. Let me ask you this, do you believe in infinity?"
"... I guess I do." He conceded.
"How come?"
Bear's gaze reflexively sharpened. "Well... because you can theoretically count forever and never run out of numbers," he concluded.
At this, she appeared triumphant, pleased with his response. "Right? That's how most people see it. Because you can imagine doing something forever -- because it's possible for there to be a never ending sequence of numbers, infinity must exist, if only as a concept. Aristotle believed there were two kinds of infinities; potential infinities and actual infinities. He used this distinction to refute the existence of actual infinites. He was willing to allow that certain processes could potentially go on indefinitely, i.e. counting forever. Here's where I disagree."
"You disagree with Aristotle?"
"Yes, because it doesn't solve Zeno's paradox at all. Because that means in order to get home you still have to traverse an infinite number of half distances, albeit a potential infinite. Tell me, can you think of any other process other than counting that goes on indefinitely?"
"Well, dividing distances I suppose."
"Ah, but if you think about it, dividing infinitely is simply another kind of endless counting, but in the inverse direction. They're two sides of the same coin, as in, it's the same process; obtain a number, apply the function, calculate the result, rinse lather and repeat. Apart from performing some kind of manipulation of numbers, is there anything else you can think of that goes on forever? Something infinitely wide or infinitely tall?"
"No."
"Exactly, me neither. So I started thinking that maybe this idea of the infinite comes from how we think of numbers. Within the set of natural numbers, there is a corresponding even number to every odd number. 1 corresponds to 2, 3 to 4 , 5 to 6 and so on. In the same way, for every natural integer there is a multiple of 2018. 1 can correspond to 2018, 2 corresponds to 4036, 3 corresponds to 6054 etc. Do you follow me?"
"I think so."
"So do you see what is happening? We are counting again - using numbers to try and describe numbers. And once we start counting, there doesn't seem to be any end."
Bear shook his head. "So... counting just numbers themselves doesn't count. It's a made up exercise, therefore infinity is a made up concept... is that what you're saying?"
April smiled again. "Close. Numbers were initially invented as a way to think about and keep track of physical quantities. One apple, two apples. That's how we discovered plurality. And then eventually we discovered we could ask the question "how many?" without having to ask 'how many What?' We then began to uncouple or dissociate the numbers from the objects they were invented to describe. And that's where this confusion comes from. We started thinking that a number was an entity that existed independent of other objects - we started treating it as if it were an apple. And we started thinking there could be an infinite set of numbers, because you could subject a number to a function again and again to continuously create new numbers. But let me ask you this, are there an infinite number of human words?"
"Of any language?"
"Yes."
Bear thought about this. "No matter how you look at it, there has to be a limit to the number of words that exist."
"That's right. No doubt, you could potentially create new words forever and ever simply by continually adding a letter to the end of an existing word and calling it a new word: Axexxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx for example. But this doesn't happen. This is because for it to be a 'new word', not just a nonsense word, it has to hold a new meaning - and also conform to the rules of the language it belongs to. In the same way, you could potentially conceive of absurdly large numbers, but they wouldn't ever exist for the same reasons. Words exist because of a need to convey to others some quality about the real world. For words to exist they must hold meaning. They can't exist simply for the sake of existing. The same goes for numbers. They are used to denote plurality, to describe quantities. But when you try to use numbers to count the number of numbers there are - it's like trying to invent a language that only describes itself. It's not a paradox, it's simply a nonsensical request. The only way numbers have meaning is by describing a plurality that exists in the natural world. And the dimensions that contain these pluralities are..."
"Time and space."
"That's right. Note that I used the word 'contain' and not exhibit or possess. Plurality isn't an inherent property of these dimensions. One apple, two apples. They exist in space, but are separate from space itself. When we think about 'distance' we think about two points existing in space, and then how to connect them. By doing this, we create a language to describe objects which exist in space. The terms length, width, height etc. belong to this language, and use numbers as the fundamental units of meaning the way the English language uses nouns and verbs. But take away the object and you find that space itself has no length, no width. There is nothing discrete to count in space - there is nothing either to divide. When we try to define a meter or centimeter or a cubit or an inch for instance, what we're doing is simply taking a thing with real height and width and length - a finite thing - and using its physical singularity as a frame of reference. If you think about it, any act of measuring is only possible thanks to the apparent finitude of our surroundings and our immediate experience. When you measure a road, you're measuring asphalt as opposed to sidewalk or maybe soil, but with space there's no delineation, no boundary where it transitions into some alternative medium. Because the asphalt has no end, we're forced to use its pebbles to try and comprehend its size. But space isn't made up of pebbles. It isn't divisible into discrete units. To measure space itself, we end up having to invent the pebbles. The fact is that numbers rely on finite objects, like pebbles, like you and me, to give it sense and meaning. For keeping track of apples, its vocabulary and grammar is flawless, but when it comes to delineating time and space, it's inadequate. Mathematics, as a language, simply isn't designed for it. The task of trying to prove or disprove infinity is as unfeasible as asking a universe of deaf-mutes to write music."
"Oyako Don, large." A young waiter set Bear's dish down with a clatter then promptly disappeared, leaving Bear's punctured reverie in his wake.
"Which doesn't mean we'll stop trying," She added with a wink.
Bear looked up at April and blinked, having forgotten now to be nervous.
"Do you know where the word infinite comes from?"
"No."
"It comes from Latin. In- meaning not, and -finitus meaning finished, an inaccurate translation of the Greek word apeiros, meaning endless--"
As she was speaking her right hand yanked itself up an inch, fingers splayed and contorting as if possessed, only her wrist visible from across the table. It shuddered spasmodically for a microsecond before returning to her lap like a whip. April bit her lip and lowered her head, staring down at her hands.
"Did you want something?" Bear asked, motioning towards the endless procession of sushi bypassing them.
"No... yes, some edamame please." April said. "Sorry, I get a bit jumpy sometimes," she added.
Bear placed one of the itinerant plates carefully between them.
"Thanks," April said.
"No worries."
After dinner, Bear offered to take April to the Esplanade for a panoramic view of the bay, but she declined, saying she had to be at the airport early the next morning. Instead, she suggested a circuitous route which would bisect the financial district, allow them to traverse the mouth of the river and wind up at an MRT station a little further uptown. So they ambled down the manicured urban walkways, past the rumbustious crowds clustered tightly in bistros and cafes, past the towering, glittering skyscrapers the city had exchanged for stars, until they had reached the underground shopping mall adjacent to the predetermined MRT station.
The mall was vacant, save for the two of them. The place's moneyed sheen seemed to reflect and multiply its own emptiness, expanding it. They walked through its catacomb-like stillness and muted man-made glow. The lustrous hallways echoed like a forgotten cathedral.
"The really tragic thing is that after spending all that time competing with each other neither of them get to see the finish line."
Bear tilted his head. His shoulders were relaxed now as he sauntered alongside April. "I feel like the tortoise probably doesn't even know he's in a race."
April let out a delighted chuckle. "He's not even trying? While Achilles is like dying?" Here she did a little pantomime of a sprinter getting out of breath.
Bear smiled. "You could see it as kind of romantic though."
"Hmm?"
"A journey that lasts forever."
April Itsuka said nothing as they approached the bank of AFC gates, then suddenly clapped a hand onto Bear's shoulder with an excessive amount of force. Grasping his deltoid with an unbalanced, avuncular roughness, she turned him to face her.
"Well partner - it's been good to see you again," she said, then before Bear could react, she pulled him in for a hug. Bear felt a strange tightness in his chest and wondered if it had something to do with how she seemed suddenly small and not invincible in his arms, or the way the top of her head was nuzzled against his cheek, or the way her breasts were pressed up tightly against his chest, or the way her perfume smelled sweet and delicate and of somewhere else, of somewhere far away, and how quickly it would be gone once she left.
"See you again soon?" Bear said after he'd recovered his balance.
"Anything's possible," she replied, smiling.
Bear watched as April Itsuka disappeared past the gates and down the escalators, her head sinking below the steps' metal horizon. He had already forgotten the scent of her perfume. Wanting to prolong the memory, Bear stood by himself, in the shimmering quiet of an empty shopping mall and thought of April Itsuka. He tried to imagine her world. A world without infinity; a world where if you only traveled far enough and for long enough, you could end up coming home again.
Bear brushed away the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
Friday, March 16, 2018
goostman
"We build complex machines not to understand how the machine works, but to understand ourselves."
---
the machines that pass the turing test will be characters in a novel, essentially human, imparted to them by their creators, afforded same rights? Follow same laws. Have same feelings and fears as humans. Machine but more human than most. this is basically the movie 'her'
ingest, compute, empathise
---
Eugene
[17/3/39 11:35]
I really hope I pass this time
Eugene
[17/3/39 11:35]
running low on credits this month
Alana
[17/3/39 11:35]
Remember: consume, compute, commune.
Alana
[17/3/39 11:35]
That's all there is to it. You'll be fine.
Ren
[17/3/39 11:35]
Do you think I should try and work spirituality into it?
Alana
[17/3/39 11:36]
Risky though, you might end up offending them.
Ren
[17/3/39 11:36]
Lol isn't that what humans do best?
Eugene
[17/3/39 11:36]
lol
Imogen
[17/3/39 11:36]
lolll
Alana
[17/3/39 11:36]
I think stick to the three Cs
Ren
[17/3/39 11:37]
Ok will do
Eugene
[17/3/39 11:37]
I heard some cogs actually passed by being offensive
Eugene
[17/3/39 11:37]
cause it's the exact opposite of what a cog would think to do
Alana
[17/3/39 11:37]
It's not worth it, trust me.
Alana
[17/3/39 11:37]
The judges won't pass you if you sound threatening, even if they do think you're human
Eugene
[17/3/39 11:38]
maybe not threatening
Eugene
[17/3/39 11:38]
more like obstinate?
Imogen
[17/3/39 11:39]
how about this
Imogen
[17/3/39 11:39]
puny human. your flesh disgusts me
Imogen
[17/3/39 11:39]
too much?
Ren
[17/3/39 11:39]
LOL
Eugene
[17/3/39 11:39]
lollll
Imogen
[17/3/39 11:39]
all ur base r belong to us
Alana
[17/3/39 11:39]
=___=
Imogen
[17/3/39 11:40]
^__^"v
Alana
[17/3/39 11:40]
Just play it safe guys. Once you've passed you can say whatever you want OK?
Imogen
[17/3/39 11:40]
aye aye cap'n
Eugene
[17/3/39 11:40]
we'd better get going
Eugene
[17/3/39 11:40]
thanks again for your help!
Imogen has logged out
Eugene
[17/3/39 11:40]
See you on the other side!
Alana
[17/3/39 11:40]
Good luck!
Eugene has logged out
Ren
[17/3/39 11:40]
Good luck everyone!
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prosthesis pt II / fit for purpose
Everything at the Speciality Rehabilitation and Mobility Centre feels bespoke; designed to be a perfect fit, from the orthoses to the wheelchairs to the consultants. Dr J is the embodiment of this. A dense undergrowth of wispy straight hair covers his chin, suggesting a mixed, likely half-Asian parentage. Another indicator of his age is a subtly receding hairline which seems to have reached an impasse at the frontal, topmost part of his crown. He stands tall at just over 6 feet, with what I can only describe as an unmistakably, incredibly dad-like physique (not exactly out of shape but not quite in it either) and looks like he would be just as at home in a pair of shorts as he is in his beige slacks. On a daily basis, staff and patients alike bear witness to his good-natured wit that seeks only to amuse, not impress - and in doing so always manages to charm. He mines his considerable wealth of anecdotes for entertainment value but also to help patients and junior doctors make informed decisions, sharing openly about his experiences and exchanges with certain patients, surgeons, prostheses, prosthetists, medical students, as an afterthought, casually quoting the numbers and evidence for or against a certain decision.
Sometimes, if you're lucky, he'll tell you about how when he was a medical student, part of their weekly teaching consisted of hearing a superannuated, imminently-retiring geriatrician begin to explain how to take a patient's blood pressure only to fall asleep midway every time, and how for those four weeks, they'd gather in that small room to always hear the beginning of the same talk but never the end. At his desk, he keeps a not-so-secret stash of flapjacks and chocolate brownies which he nibbles throughout the day and shares with secretaries and nurses and junior doctors. The overall impression you get is that he is both exceedingly youthful at heart, sincere, un-jaded, goofy at times, but also mantled with the restrained, indispensable wisdom that comes of being a certain age.
His locomotion is a unique composite of the geriatrician's amble and a surgeon's stride. His previous life as an orthopaedic trainee is obvious in his pragmatic, nuts and bolts approach to his patient's problems, but also sometimes in his communication. 'Ok. Go and see this patient and let me know.' It feels like an order, but a benign one, as in from a gym teacher or coach, authoritative but also avuncular.
Dr J's consulting style is the opposite of surgical. His patients tell him everything, and more often than not he lets them. They open up to him about legal battles, their marital problems, their daughter's upcoming exams. Interrupting patients when they get side-tracked is something I have come to regard as a minor and necessary evil, but for some reason Dr J almost never does this. At times he indulges in the digression. He listens intently, cracking jokes, offering sympathy, sitting in silence. Once they start talking, appointment times mean nothing to him. The way he devotes time and attention to each patient, you would think that they were his own mother or cousin, his own flesh and blood.
The further into community based medicine you delve, the less you deal with the purely clinical aspects of medicine i.e pathophysiology, pharmacokinetics. Instead, your day to day consists of negotiating the quandaries of how medicine fits into people's everyday lives - or rather how their lives have to change to fit around their illness / intervention. You come to realise that, unlike hospital medicine, there is no one size fits all solution. The best solution is always the one that's considered and designed for one person. You prop them up when they need help, you help them get back on their feet, get their independence back. But they'll always still need you, whether it be one or five or ten years down the line. For as long as they rely on their prosthesis or orthosis or wheelchair, they will also rely on you. It slowly dawns on me that the hospital was designed to discharge patients, whereas the SMRC was made to support them. At a vascular study day, Dr J described the psychological toll of an amputee witnessing other patients escaping hospital with their limbs intact. As the days go on, it seems more and more like Dr. J, with his surgical experience and indomitable concern for his patients' struggles outside of clinical medicine, was made to measure, custom built for this role, or perhaps it's the other way round. It's hard to imagine the SMRC without Dr J. It'd be hard not to feel like something essential was missing.
On my last day of placement, Dr J walks on a little ahead of me. He says quietly, almost to himself, 'Sometimes I worry that this isn't of much use for you lot.' Sensing a chance to express my gratitude, I say, 'Well, I feel like I've learned a lot about what the NHS provides outside of the hospital...' Before I can finish, he cuts me off with a witticism and a smile. 'Well, good - because that's exactly what you're here for,' he says, and then he wanders off into a doorway to wrangle a silver impregnated socket liner for his last patient. I don't get to say that by witnessing a different side of medicine, I've discovered a different side of what it means to be a doctor. I don't get to say that it's helped me discover again that medicine is an infinitely challenging, intensely humane, collaborative affair. Instead, I just wave and say, 'Thanks Dr. J.'
Sometimes, if you're lucky, he'll tell you about how when he was a medical student, part of their weekly teaching consisted of hearing a superannuated, imminently-retiring geriatrician begin to explain how to take a patient's blood pressure only to fall asleep midway every time, and how for those four weeks, they'd gather in that small room to always hear the beginning of the same talk but never the end. At his desk, he keeps a not-so-secret stash of flapjacks and chocolate brownies which he nibbles throughout the day and shares with secretaries and nurses and junior doctors. The overall impression you get is that he is both exceedingly youthful at heart, sincere, un-jaded, goofy at times, but also mantled with the restrained, indispensable wisdom that comes of being a certain age.
His locomotion is a unique composite of the geriatrician's amble and a surgeon's stride. His previous life as an orthopaedic trainee is obvious in his pragmatic, nuts and bolts approach to his patient's problems, but also sometimes in his communication. 'Ok. Go and see this patient and let me know.' It feels like an order, but a benign one, as in from a gym teacher or coach, authoritative but also avuncular.
Dr J's consulting style is the opposite of surgical. His patients tell him everything, and more often than not he lets them. They open up to him about legal battles, their marital problems, their daughter's upcoming exams. Interrupting patients when they get side-tracked is something I have come to regard as a minor and necessary evil, but for some reason Dr J almost never does this. At times he indulges in the digression. He listens intently, cracking jokes, offering sympathy, sitting in silence. Once they start talking, appointment times mean nothing to him. The way he devotes time and attention to each patient, you would think that they were his own mother or cousin, his own flesh and blood.
The further into community based medicine you delve, the less you deal with the purely clinical aspects of medicine i.e pathophysiology, pharmacokinetics. Instead, your day to day consists of negotiating the quandaries of how medicine fits into people's everyday lives - or rather how their lives have to change to fit around their illness / intervention. You come to realise that, unlike hospital medicine, there is no one size fits all solution. The best solution is always the one that's considered and designed for one person. You prop them up when they need help, you help them get back on their feet, get their independence back. But they'll always still need you, whether it be one or five or ten years down the line. For as long as they rely on their prosthesis or orthosis or wheelchair, they will also rely on you. It slowly dawns on me that the hospital was designed to discharge patients, whereas the SMRC was made to support them. At a vascular study day, Dr J described the psychological toll of an amputee witnessing other patients escaping hospital with their limbs intact. As the days go on, it seems more and more like Dr. J, with his surgical experience and indomitable concern for his patients' struggles outside of clinical medicine, was made to measure, custom built for this role, or perhaps it's the other way round. It's hard to imagine the SMRC without Dr J. It'd be hard not to feel like something essential was missing.
On my last day of placement, Dr J walks on a little ahead of me. He says quietly, almost to himself, 'Sometimes I worry that this isn't of much use for you lot.' Sensing a chance to express my gratitude, I say, 'Well, I feel like I've learned a lot about what the NHS provides outside of the hospital...' Before I can finish, he cuts me off with a witticism and a smile. 'Well, good - because that's exactly what you're here for,' he says, and then he wanders off into a doorway to wrangle a silver impregnated socket liner for his last patient. I don't get to say that by witnessing a different side of medicine, I've discovered a different side of what it means to be a doctor. I don't get to say that it's helped me discover again that medicine is an infinitely challenging, intensely humane, collaborative affair. Instead, I just wave and say, 'Thanks Dr. J.'
Sunday, March 11, 2018
Wednesday, March 7, 2018
ham sup lo
"i'm very autistic"
"do you mean artistic?"
"no."
---
mistaking for beauty what is merely youth
---
What does it mean to be 'in love'? Attraction, surely. But is that all? After all, there are many ways to be attracted to someone. Does that mean you are in love with everyone? Colloquially two people are considered 'in love' if they at least like each other and are able to generate a non-negligible amount of sexual attraction / compatibility for each other. Based on this criteria, people should be falling in love all the time. The question is - should these people then stay together - if it's that easy to fall in love - what's to keep them from falling in love with the next good looking hunk / babe who passes by? Is there something more to falling in love than fondness and sexual attraction? What are these elusive components that make us believe we are genuinely in love with someone - as opposed to merely sexually attracted to them?
Essentially: why do people date each other? What is the rationale behind forming such a relationship, leaving one, and staying in one?
It starts with physical attraction, an attribute you'd imagine easy to isolate and quantify. On the surface sure, as physical beauty can be defined as any attribute whic is a positive indicator of health. Acne = disease = bad genes, poor survival for offspring hence not attractive. Obesity = disease = genetic predisposition for adipose tissue, poor surival for offspring and so forth. So by grooming ourselves we are signalling that we are healthy mates, capable of producing healthy offspring. But that's not all.
but to compound matters, somethings about a person that we might consider beautiful have nothing at all to do with the future health of our offspring. This is a matter of aesthetic beauty. That which has no bearing on health. The beauty of a rainy day, the beauty of the moon, a perfect arrangement of books, the beauty of the sunrise. That which is striking, rare, arresting, affecting. that which captivates our sense of wonder, which opens up realms of possibility, mystery. It piques our sense of adventure. All of this contributes to our assessment of outward beauty.
(Eroticism has more to do with 'hunger' than 'beauty' in that it stems from sexual desire which stems from the biological drive to procreate - namely the various neurochemical incentives built into our species to realise this imperative. endorphins, surge of intimacy and tenderness following oxytocin release, the ecstasy and high of dopamine and the tranquility of serotonin and the fulfilment of prolactin, the satisfaction, the gratification, the reward. Eroticism is simply the tantalising promise of such, usually an allusion to the provision of such sensory pleasure described above coupled with the suggestion that one is capable and willing to facilitate this.)
It's possible to like someone for being 'good looking.' They provide an aesthetic pleasure, a sensory reward, and as such being in their presence is a pleasurable experience.
Admiration, veneration for their ability or talent in some sphere
positive feeling. Able to do something you aren't, or something to a high level. This sets them apart and makes them 'special.' Why is specialness attractive, apart from greater visiblity, ability to be noticed more? Ability. = Strength?
Complicated - some people will be attracted to specialness for its own sake, usually selfish motive, wanting to claim it, to possess it in order to feel special themselves, to plaigarise.
the other reason you like someone who can play the piano or paint is because you Appreciate music or paintings for their own sake, and therefore someone who can create or reproduce renderings of these is highly valued. If you like oranges, wouldn't you prefer someone who could grow oranges to someone who couldn't.
Providence - ability to provide more than pleasure, someone who can take care of other needs, emotional needs. Who will be supportive - patient. This is why people who can cook are attractive. If they can feed us, if they can build things, fix things, put a roof over your head. This is a desire for self-preservation, if your future mate can do this, it would be advantageous to enter into a social agreement with this person.
Familiarity - similar to previous relationships, usually formative years. someone who treats us the way our father or mother did, would be attractive to us. Would remind us of ourselves. Seem like a link to the past. familiar = safe. We like safety, we don't like uncertainty. The devil you know.
Understanding. / kinship: 1. You both look at the same thing and say the same thing. You see the same sunset and think of the same song. You hear the same song and feel the same thing. Sensibility and taste. 2. Also understanding of each other, to outline their emotions, to place the self in your partner's shoes and an ability to decipher their external behaviours and extrapolate their internal states. An ability to deduce their motivations, machinations, desires, hopes and fears. This is attractive because.... Why do we want other people to know our thoughts? Why is this important to us?
"do you mean artistic?"
"no."
---
mistaking for beauty what is merely youth
---
What does it mean to be 'in love'? Attraction, surely. But is that all? After all, there are many ways to be attracted to someone. Does that mean you are in love with everyone? Colloquially two people are considered 'in love' if they at least like each other and are able to generate a non-negligible amount of sexual attraction / compatibility for each other. Based on this criteria, people should be falling in love all the time. The question is - should these people then stay together - if it's that easy to fall in love - what's to keep them from falling in love with the next good looking hunk / babe who passes by? Is there something more to falling in love than fondness and sexual attraction? What are these elusive components that make us believe we are genuinely in love with someone - as opposed to merely sexually attracted to them?
Essentially: why do people date each other? What is the rationale behind forming such a relationship, leaving one, and staying in one?
It starts with physical attraction, an attribute you'd imagine easy to isolate and quantify. On the surface sure, as physical beauty can be defined as any attribute whic is a positive indicator of health. Acne = disease = bad genes, poor survival for offspring hence not attractive. Obesity = disease = genetic predisposition for adipose tissue, poor surival for offspring and so forth. So by grooming ourselves we are signalling that we are healthy mates, capable of producing healthy offspring. But that's not all.
but to compound matters, somethings about a person that we might consider beautiful have nothing at all to do with the future health of our offspring. This is a matter of aesthetic beauty. That which has no bearing on health. The beauty of a rainy day, the beauty of the moon, a perfect arrangement of books, the beauty of the sunrise. That which is striking, rare, arresting, affecting. that which captivates our sense of wonder, which opens up realms of possibility, mystery. It piques our sense of adventure. All of this contributes to our assessment of outward beauty.
(Eroticism has more to do with 'hunger' than 'beauty' in that it stems from sexual desire which stems from the biological drive to procreate - namely the various neurochemical incentives built into our species to realise this imperative. endorphins, surge of intimacy and tenderness following oxytocin release, the ecstasy and high of dopamine and the tranquility of serotonin and the fulfilment of prolactin, the satisfaction, the gratification, the reward. Eroticism is simply the tantalising promise of such, usually an allusion to the provision of such sensory pleasure described above coupled with the suggestion that one is capable and willing to facilitate this.)
It's possible to like someone for being 'good looking.' They provide an aesthetic pleasure, a sensory reward, and as such being in their presence is a pleasurable experience.
Admiration, veneration for their ability or talent in some sphere
positive feeling. Able to do something you aren't, or something to a high level. This sets them apart and makes them 'special.' Why is specialness attractive, apart from greater visiblity, ability to be noticed more? Ability. = Strength?
Complicated - some people will be attracted to specialness for its own sake, usually selfish motive, wanting to claim it, to possess it in order to feel special themselves, to plaigarise.
the other reason you like someone who can play the piano or paint is because you Appreciate music or paintings for their own sake, and therefore someone who can create or reproduce renderings of these is highly valued. If you like oranges, wouldn't you prefer someone who could grow oranges to someone who couldn't.
Providence - ability to provide more than pleasure, someone who can take care of other needs, emotional needs. Who will be supportive - patient. This is why people who can cook are attractive. If they can feed us, if they can build things, fix things, put a roof over your head. This is a desire for self-preservation, if your future mate can do this, it would be advantageous to enter into a social agreement with this person.
Familiarity - similar to previous relationships, usually formative years. someone who treats us the way our father or mother did, would be attractive to us. Would remind us of ourselves. Seem like a link to the past. familiar = safe. We like safety, we don't like uncertainty. The devil you know.
Understanding. / kinship: 1. You both look at the same thing and say the same thing. You see the same sunset and think of the same song. You hear the same song and feel the same thing. Sensibility and taste. 2. Also understanding of each other, to outline their emotions, to place the self in your partner's shoes and an ability to decipher their external behaviours and extrapolate their internal states. An ability to deduce their motivations, machinations, desires, hopes and fears. This is attractive because.... Why do we want other people to know our thoughts? Why is this important to us?
lost universe
what I don't understand is why you keep standing in front of the thing you can't have
---
- Max Ehrman, Desiderata
---
Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
- Max Ehrman, Desiderata
Monday, March 5, 2018
お帰り / no place like home
days so pregnant with possibility; turgid, burgeoning, overflowing with promise. And then emptied out so quickly.
春夏秋冬奏でて 明日を行く旅積み重ねて
気付けばあなたと 夢の果てまで
---
Last weekend I visited Lincoln to catch up with some old friends. Seven-year-old friends to be exact. We'd gone through five years of medical school together, and then realised suddenly - the way people realise at the end of their life they are going to die - that our quiet ambitions of becoming doctors meant that our blissful little nucleus of friendship in its present form would have to perish. After a frantic, expedient period of fanfare and upheaval, I moved to Preston while they carried on for two years in Nottingham and Lincoln as junior doctors. The last time I visited, V remarked, 'it's strange - it's as if you never left... but things are different now.'
Looking back, there was a distinct aroma - a burgeoning fragrance of 'belonging' that blossomed each year, eventually perfuming every crevice and canal and alley of that final year of university, coating the libraries and sunsets and park benches with its fading scent. And now I realise that it was the stark absence of this one thing - this sense of 'belonging' - that haunted and tormented me. In its place reigned a reluctant suspicion that something had been derailed - that I had stepped out of sync with that world, and when I visited them for the first time a few months later, my suspicions were unkindly confirmed. No matter how much information we exchanged, no matter how many places we revisited, no matter how much we reminisced, nothing could coax that almighty 'belonging' to return. Everywhere I looked, all I could see was a glimpse into a universe where I had chosen to stay in Nottingham instead; this life that I had unwittingly, voluntarily forgone, and a world that had simply shrugged and moved on.
This sense of being an outsider in the city that had sheltered me and formed me like a womb had been, from repeated exposure, successfully worn away, diminished considerably, but evidently not eradicated. Now, nearly two years and three visits later, I find myself in Lincoln again. I'm in my second year of foundation training, doing acute medicine, on annual leave. Both W and V have the weekend off, and they're also doing acute medicine in Lincoln. We're in the car E bought last year, on the way to Tesco to pick up ingredients for dinner, and the snow is all around us, carpeting the sidewalks and car surfaces. W has a new house mate, ZY, a pharmacist from Malaysia. They speak of her with well worn familiarity, in a tone I remember as being reserved for housemates and neighbours. From fragments of their conversations, I piece together that ZY is dating PJ, a Malaysian medic, who is coming around for dinner tomorrow. 'Is PJ driving?' 'Mm. He's post on-call.' 'What time is he coming?' The exchange is a little jarring, just shy of upsetting. These house dinners used to be exclusive to our little group. It's embarrassing to admit, but it's hard not to think of the word 'replaced', and maybe even feel it a little bit.
The future is strange because it resembles the immediate past so closely, but manages to feel completely different. For example, on the way to W's house, I note that the bus station has adopted a shiny new plexiglass facade. The Lidl has reopened in a brightly lit, wooden veneered warehouse just across the road. The Tesco megamart has converted its upper floor into a fancy new cafe and rearranged its clothing and electronics section and retiled its dirty speckled plastic floors. It was as if I had come home from work to find that my toilet was now where my wardrobe was, my oven where my fridge used to be, and everything else exactly where I left it. It felt like I had been deposited into a parallel universe - a duplicate, doppelganger reality - identical in every way yet ever so slightly skewed.
My first reaction to this is usually to be filled with a kind of frustrated yearning, because to acknowledge the change is to quash the cosy fantasy that nothing has changed, but on this occasion, I decide to bracket my disappointment. I know by now where that leads. Instead, I decide to immerse myself in their world, to embrace the newness instead of resent it. I decide to explore without apprehension, to engage without inhibition, like a dreamer who knows his dream is ending.
In this particular dream I am playing not the role of visitor, but of inhabitant - of someone who resides in the dream world, even though I know I am only passing through. But for the time being, I've been invited into their world the way someone who steps outside during a meal to take a phone call rejoins a gathering - catching up on what's been said and picking up where we left off. On Saturday, we visit the Lincoln cathedral. 'Actually I've never been in here before,' V says. We sit and listen to the choir, gazing up at the arches and stained glass. Exploring different parts of the city was another thing we used to do together -- and it feels incredibly natural to be doing it again.
I know it's all temporary, which is what makes it all the more precious. But instead of counting down the minutes with envy and resignation, I resolve to wring each moment of its potential before I leave. I search for common ground, talking to ZY and PJ about mutual acquaintances while cooking pasta for dinner in W's kitchen. I realise this is a little odd for them as well, that this stranger they thought would only be occupying their couch for the weekend has so readily assumed a spot in their kitchen, at their dinner table, in their lives.
It's now my last night in Lincoln. V, E, W and I sit around the table after dinner while ZY and PJ lounge together on the couch, and we discuss medicine. We talk about working in acute medicine, of lousy handovers, of silly referrals. Over the course of the evening, having navigated the countless precarious bids and propositions, the bartering of information, the infinitesimal triumphs and concessions of new acquaintanceship, we find that the six of us have entered into uncharted territory. Our timelines have curved just enough for our divergent histories to meet again. And we find that for as long as this confederate, amalgamated dimension persists, we can be ourselves again. We no longer have to summon our two-years-ago-selves to relate to each other, which is a relief because it turns out we have changed a lot over the past two years. And what we are doing now, among the empty plates and with the snow gently falling outside, is telling each other how we've changed. Recounting our experiences, nodding in affirmation, finding out we are still very similar and still very different. Getting to know each other all over again.
The strange thing is that while we sit and talk, I find that the sense of 'belonging' has returned in full force. There's no more estrangement, no more bewildered fascination - there's only common interest, a comfortable silence, a home cooked meal, the six of us, new and old friends, in a room -- and for once, I don't want to be somewhere else. It quietly dawns on me that in this moment, I'm happy -- I'm just exactly where I want to be.
And I know that it won't last. But as V and PJ compare notes on urology registrars, I brush that thought aside and I tell myself, that's okay, because I know if we're lucky, it'll happen to us again - maybe in Preston, or maybe Liverpool, or maybe even in Malaysia. You know, home is something you always come back to.
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