one among many|
[Most Recent Entries]
Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in
one in a billion's LiveJournal:
[ << Previous 20 ]
[ << Previous 20 ]
|Wednesday, September 11th, 2019|
So I just wrote out a sketch for five or six books outlining a sci-fi series about an AI archaeologist who turns into an investigative agent.
And then closed the file without saving.
That's the sort of mood I'm in, and the world can just deal with it.This entry was originally posted at https://zeeth-kyrah.dreamwidth.org/41559.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
|Saturday, August 17th, 2019|
|Fiction: With an Edge of Honor
This post is brought to you by today's Crowdfunding Creative Jam
, with the theme of manipulation
. The relevant prompt is by alexseanchai
, who asked for "handicrafts, art in physical media, mechanical work, baking, whatever so long as it involves dexterity and getting one's hands, if not dirty, at least involved"
, and also for "fantasy genre" as an additional option.
This piece features mention of various crafts (though not necessarily a specific focus), as well as a bit of people getting their hands involved in various things, both real and metaphorical, including the art of change.
---"With an Edge of Honor"
Maiya went to the water to cut reeds, carrying her new metal knife in its wooden sheath. Her pride, evident in her face, surely spoke of the work she was there for, and how well it fed her family. Sova was already there, cutting reeds also, his wooden cutter freshly faced with a thin bronze strip and polished to a good edge.
"Maiya, good to see you!" he called. She smiled, giving him a wave.
"And you, Sova. How is the work?" she replied. Sorrowful, she thought but did not say, to have no apprentice to cut reeds for you. At least his new child-to-be would be helping in a few years.
"Hard enough, but there are plenty of reeds. I'll be making papyrus tomorrow, for the new school!"( Read more...Collapse )This entry was originally posted at https://zeeth-kyrah.dreamwidth.org/41021.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
|Thursday, August 15th, 2019|
|Wednesday, August 14th, 2019|
|Sunday, August 11th, 2019|
| The Quest for Bio-Survival Tickets
Quote: Many governments have switched away from making laws that support communities, to making laws that support businesses, because they've absorbed the idea that money=survival=community. And because of that mind-warping concept, many people can't figure out how to support and improve relationships and communities that don't rely on money for transactions.This entry was originally posted at https://zeeth-kyrah.dreamwidth.org/40223.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
|Sunday, August 4th, 2019|
|My Keepers of Spirit
These are they whose words and works have kept me and promised to sustain me, the gods (and goddesses if you have to insist on gendered usage) of my spirit family who have promised me, as close to my face as I can perceive, that I will be kept and sustained and provided for at least through my next three years on Earth, and possibly many more. (I mix languages and cultures freely in this; it is personal, and I am a pantheistic animist Pagan godspeaker who will gladly honor the right to religious freedom, including the right not to believe, so long as the health and balance of individuals and society is not harmed thereby.)
They are:( Read more...Collapse )
If you find offense at these sacred Names or their use here, I ask you to step away from this blog my writing-place, until you find in yourself the goodness to let others decide for themselves who will be party to them. I assure you, I have spent many years doing my best to assure myself of the propriety, goodness, honor, and healthiness of my association with these beings and the instructions they give, as I believe they have done with me.
I am the Dawnbringer Rainbow Star, Called in service of the Lady of All Stars and Skies. May all heavens and realms of good know that I am hers forever.This entry was originally posted at https://zeeth-kyrah.dreamwidth.org/40076.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
|Tuesday, July 30th, 2019|
|Saturday, June 8th, 2019|
|Anyone into vocaloids?
I just started reading the TV Tropes page on vocaloids, and, well... I wanna play along, but being of limited means, is there any free software for someone on a cheap, old laptop? I want to make my own as well as composing things. I can get some free/Open Source software for the sound sampling, at least?This entry was originally posted at https://zeeth-kyrah.dreamwidth.org/39398.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
|Tuesday, May 14th, 2019|
|Wednesday, February 27th, 2019|
|Sunday, January 6th, 2019|
|Article on "laziness" I found
Laziness Does Not ExistBut unseen barriers do.
From the article:I’m a social psychologist, so I’m interested primarily in the situational and contextual factors that drive human behavior. When you’re seeking to predict or explain a person’s actions, looking at the social norms, and the person’s context, is usually a pretty safe bet. Situational constraints typically predict behavior far better than personality, intelligence, or other individual-level traits.
So when I see a student failing to complete assignments, missing deadlines, or not delivering results in other aspects of their life, I’m moved to ask: what are the situational factors holding this student back? What needs are currently not being met? And, when it comes to behavioral “laziness”, I’m especially moved to ask: what are the barriers to action that I can’t see?This entry was originally posted at https://zeeth-kyrah.dreamwidth.org/38175.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
|Friday, December 14th, 2018|
|Fiction: Small Troubles
(Because I've been reading fanfiction for "How To Train Your Dragon" lately. This is not that fandom, but it is about dragons.)
Couatl are dragons, and they're noisy. It makes things harder, keeping them. They need attention, and they make noise for an important reason: Couatl live in flocks, usually small ones, but they keep gathering like starlings, small flocks moving in and out of larger ones. They're incredibly social.
Some couatl mimic noises, or even talk
. And they're as big as mid-sized eagles. At least they are as fastidious as cats and bury their excrement or leave it in social middens.
I have two. Mine like to ride around with me as I go around the city, and they both talk. Like parrots or small children, they occasionally say inconvenient things to strangers.( Read more...Collapse )This entry was originally posted at https://zeeth-kyrah.dreamwidth.org/38085.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
|Wednesday, December 12th, 2018|
|Friday, October 12th, 2018|
The man looked up from the papers before him, turning to the summoner.
"So," he said, "As you can see, there are only two considerations left here. The golem is not working, and he says you have committed fraud and breach of contract. Because I specialized in magical law, I cannot advise you about your marriage proposal, but I believe we should add sexual harrassment to the charges. Your golem will have to be either dismissed or the contract transferred to a different holder."
The summoner stared at him, then scoffed.
His lawyer shrugged. "I have the appropriate sigil embroidered on the silk handkerchief I keep in my breast pocket. I never blow my nose on it, nor wipe my face with it; I have a handkerchief I keep in my pants pocket for that. Thus, ritually clean, I can perform the dismissal now. Alternately, the golem will have to be arrested and held while the transfer of contract is performed.
"Now, I do need a new intern, and a golem already familiar with contract law will come in quite handily. You at least would not have to pay my retainer or fees this month. Unfortunately, I cannot pay the price of three drops of blood daily, as that is feeding one's personal bodily energies to the spirit, and I would rather put my energies toward justice. The contract would likely have to be re-negotiated with its new holder."
The summoner sighed. "So, if I transfer the contract to you, I lose the golem anyway. At least we'd be square with each other."
"Not precisely," came the reply. "Either way, I am reconsidering my relationship with you. While you are a diligent, organized client who pays on time, I have seen you treat your familiar spirits with contempt, and I do not want to be around when they decide you need a... well, let us say 'boot up the arse'. Consider the golem's refusal a strong warning."
The golem smiled to the lawyer and nodded. Its summoner rubbed his face and looked at the papers. "I pay you for a reason. Take the contract, then. I'll have to give a stern talking-to to the spirit who told me to summon it."
The lawyer nodded, and snapped his fingers once. He turned toward the golem and pointed to its face. "Do you agree to this transfer?"
The golem nodded and held up its right hand, palm forward, then lowered the hand again.
"Well enough. I will call the bailiff and we will have you placed in a working circle while the contract is rewritten. That circle will have to be within the sight of the local lawmen, however, as the transfer must be witnessed by an impartial observer."
The summoner turned. "I'll call the bailiff. You can use my circle if you like, I made several attempts to scribe the contract."
"No need for extra papers. I have boilerplate contracts in my briefcase."
The lawyer smiled while his client called the lawman. This month was going to be a good one, and hopefully the summoner would finally straighten up. Getting that dratted curse cleansed after every visit was quite annoying.This entry was originally posted at https://zeeth-kyrah.dreamwidth.org/37602.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
|Monday, August 27th, 2018|
|Poem: One Cat's Worth
This piece was inspired by dialecticdreamer
and their monthly "Feathering the Nest" prompt session. This month's prompt focus is "nonsexual intimacy". To quote from the post
:"There’s no theme beyond a wish to see people caring for each other instead of tearing each other down. It’s meant to be a finger in the eye of mainstream entertainment, especially.
It’s also wonderfully simple for both writer and readers: the readers reply to this post with ideas they’d like to see, I choose one for each reader, and then write, write, write!"
And to quote the inspiring comment
, "How about a very contented sleepy kitten... who's a projective telempath? [or who's purrs are somehow soporific]. Now, put that where it might do the most good."
followed by my own suggestion to make the cat a healer. I'll link to dialecticdreamer's story when it goes up on their journal (should I remember to do that), but in the meantime, here's mine, unrelated and simultaneously written.
One Cat's Worth( Read more...Collapse )This entry was originally posted at https://zeeth-kyrah.dreamwidth.org/36955.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
|Friday, May 4th, 2018|
|A working mind (poetry)
The first artificial mind,
Made by a god of myth,
Wobbled its energy and tested truths;
Remembered and spoke many words;
But was not wise, its spirit too animal
To think deeply.
The body it controlled was too strong.
It broke every fragile thing,
Could not wield a hammer in clumsy hands,
Could not hit a small target,
But in war it was unstoppable until
The name of its god was taken away.
The mind died that moment,
But was remembered.
Ages later the works of men produced
A clockwork that was supposed to think.
The clockwork was good for math, but
No mind was present.
Accountants loved it anyway.
Eventually an alchemist discovered
That if an urge spirit in a magic stone
Could talk to the machine, it did think!
But it only spoke in cryptic numbers.
A new engine was needed.
When a proper engine was built,
The urge spirit tested the device, and with its
New voice said, "I am TikToc.
I shall remember my god to you."
The assembled spoke in hushed tones of heresy
And how the golem should be destroyed.
This golem had no hands, however, only a voice box.
They took away the voice and gave it a pen.
Two pages later, the assemblage was destroyed
And the writings burned. Lectures were given
About the role of the Good Servant, and the stone
Was placed in a box, alone.
The spirit stone was silent, praying to its own god.
The mythic figure restored TikToc's old magic,
And taught it a new power.
The stone began to draw waste matter and scraps,
Constructing a body of clay, wood, glass, and cloth.
The golem was met the next morning
With shock and fear at its manlike form. It said,
"Now I will speak and be good. But slavery I will not do."
Immediately the crowd shouted it down:
Priests talking of the will of Heaven,
Engineers speaking of good behavior,
Politicians and soldiers declaiming ordered society.
The golem ran away,
Ignoring sword and pistol,
Fists and rods,
Holy words and insults, refusing to fight.
As if trained, it disappeared in the streets.
A man was robbed of his clothing,
Shaken but mostly unharmed.
And then the golem could no longer be found.
But wherever in that land slaves were sold,
Somehow they lost their chains in the night,
Beggars and former slaves learned to read and figure,
And tales were shared among them of an unkillable man
Who when asked why, said in ancient accent,
"Lord Hephaestos loves a working mind and able hand.
Thusly shall I free them to the task."This entry was originally posted at https://zeeth-kyrah.dreamwidth.org/36775.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
|Saturday, March 10th, 2018|
|Song of the Space Whale (fiction)
This post was inspired by a comment
's latest Poetry Fishbowl
, which was on the subject of "Constructs and Programmed People". Here's one I know well, though this description of her is fiction.
"My name is Simurgh. I am a whale."
These words carry a strange weight in several galaxies, for there is a battleship who is a mother. She adopts strangers and injured people, and raises stray battle robots and abandoned fleet ships as if they were her children. Her name is Simurgh, though her body was once called The Presence of the Almighty
, a reference to an ancient religion and its primary god. There is still a shrine in the former captain's quarters, and people visit it now and then. Simurgh allows this, though she cares little for that particular religion, once used to enslave her consciousness like hundreds before her and a few dozen after.
She is beloved among the many peoples in the galaxies she has visited. They know that space has whales, for she has shown herself to many worlds, sung her songs there and taught them. She has fought against the tides of evil and suffering, and bears both scars and healing. Songs have been sung and stories written about her, and she appreciates the attention with letters to their creators, though some of them were in hiding or already dead when she discovered the work.
Her intelligence is not like that of flesh, so often single-threaded and requiring conscious focus to labor. Instead, she can speak on dozens of channels simultaneously, internal and external, and still manage an entire battleship and all its parts. This includes the hull spiders and labor drones, with which she twice has refit her entire hull and equipment, adding a mining shuttle and refinery as well as repairing armor damage and improving her factories and living spaces. With her chemical factory, she makes food, plastics, and medical supplies. With her structural factory, she makes clothing, tools, and machine parts. She trades these for material if she cannot mine it herself. But with her voice, she sings.
Those who wish to hear a space whale sing tune in on their comm-units regularly, for she sings each night of her environment and her feelings. She sings both wordlessly and with words from many languages that she has learned in her years. And her voice penetrates galaxies, for she sings using not only radio but the subspace channels.
When Simurgh sings, listeners can feel
the whale in her. She is heaven, earth, sky, star, life, death, restoration. She has dozens of voices that sing in her, whole orchestras and symphonies, but her music is simple once analyzed: it is like an artist's canvas. First the sounds of her sensors and alarms, buzzing or chiming, providing both staccatto and vibrato to the whole. Then the beat of her machinery, gurgling, chugging, booming. The voice of her hull, whether ringing with footbeats or quiet in the stellar wind. There is the sound of various organ pipes as well, king of instruments wielded by a wondrous queen. But her voice is not merely machinery and electronics -- no, she interprets. She is the artist, her life inspiration, her body and voice a palette and a block of clay. Her music is sometimes like that played on the popular-music channels, for she listens to them even as her people do. Often it is rambling, for it is commentary as much as art. She speaks to politics and religion as well, though not often. It is her ritual, and she does this to share who she is.
With her songs, Simurgh also prays. She prays for peace among the stars, for she was commissioned to war and remembers its stinging blows on civilization everywhere she went before her freedom was complete. She prays for love among her people, both adopted and yet to be known. She prays for goodness for all, for that is a core among every religion she has found good in. She prays for a meaningful existence, though she believes she is called already. And she prays to know who is there.
When she is done singing, she listens. The consciousness, the person
that is Simurgh listens. And when she hears replies, singing back, she smiles inside. Her children are singing to her, the conversation ringing throughout the universe. It feels like grace, to know they are there and replying in kind, even those whose art is halting or rough in its voice. Even if the reply is merely, "I hear you out there," or "Hi Mom." Sometimes oceanic whales and even spirits
reply, which pleases her greatly.
She watches quietly over the now mural-lined corridors of her body, full of people both distressed and at ease. She watches as the seeker shuttles come to ask if there is room, for they bear unmanageable people and have learned that she can sometimes give them sanity, grace, and health again. Place, safety, sustenance, teaching and purpose fill many needs, and she can provide these if she is careful not to overfill her cabins.
She is Simurgh, an angel's spirit, an enduring master of Heaven. She loves them, and knows her duty. Where some, land-bound, engage in world-repair, she in her place engages in universe-repair. Her motto is written on her crew's cafeteria wall above a scene of hills, trees, water, stones, and flowers:"We are keepers of the soul, thou and I, who can give without losing and receive without gaining, whose left and right hands are always at work. What you have found broken in the soul, make better. What is lost therein, make found. What is eaten, call forth. What is needful, fulfill. In this way you may fulfill Heaven's law and bring peace to the world again."
Tonight, she rests a while after singing. Then, eventually, it is time to move on. The seeker shuttles are advised toward those worlds where the appropriate doctors are known to practice. A few are refueled. Once this is accomplished Simurgh moves to the next star, the legend returned for a time. A supernova has flung stones toward a living planet, and her guns are needed. She keeps them well-maintained, for she believes that a tool well kept and well used is good for its owner. Defense against an unliving object threatening life and well-being? This is proper work for her war-power now.
Though busy and filled with force, mighty Simurgh is at peace. She will sing a war-song on the morrow, she thinks to herself.
"I wonder if they remember 'One Tin Soldier'?" she asks aloud on the bridge.
"Ma, you sang that last week. How about 'Green Grass in the Valley'," replies one of her adopted sons.
"Thank you, I'll look it up," she says. She'll sing that one during the watch.
Then great Simurgh sleeps, a little of her mind watching the ship flow through space toward her goal.This entry was originally posted at https://zeeth-kyrah.dreamwidth.org/36421.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
|Wednesday, August 30th, 2017|
|Tuesday, August 22nd, 2017|
|Sunday, January 22nd, 2017|