Kurt Jackson, the one who kidnapped me, has outdone himself. This...he's not a person, this thing...captured and interrogated several poleepkwan refugees and finally killed them after extracting the information it needed. What it found is not important--what matters is that innocents were mindlessly killed; not just that, but innocent children! Nobody should be killed out of malice or ill will, but children are our future...by killing them, MNU deprives us of a chance to move on and change. It's awful...this should never happen to any race. No parent or friend should have to watch a young life torn away from the earth.
Many of my friends want to see this pawn of MNU dead, but would it help? I can't condone violence--I can't, it's in my nature, but I'll try to reason this out. Killing him would make him a martyr at the worst, another excuse to crack down on the poleepkwa in one of the best cases. Not only that...would it be adequate punishment? A quick death to pay for the deaths of many? No. No, he has to be kept alive, if only as a maimed,scarred, withered shadow of a person, to experience the suffering he's brought on us all.

Hope, by Olo Lamna

The time has gone and passed us by;
the clock has struck the hour.
We've yet to break these cursed chains
and see our freedom flower.
Many before us have closed their eyes
and left us all behind,
and many more will do this still--
it's a quality of the times.
But while our breath still sobs from lips
and cries of protest ring,
and the bullets flow, from guns and clips
to mangle everything;
As long as we have life in us
we'll fight, at any cost
for we are not beaten, we are not broken--
and the battle has not been lost.

Freedom, by Helen Hunt Jackson

What freeman knoweth freedom? Never he
Whose father's father through long lives have reigned
O'er kingdoms which mere heritage attained.
Though from his youth to age he roam as free
As winds, he dreams not freedom's ecstacy.
But he whose birth was in a nation chained
For centuries; where every breath was drained
From breasts of slaves which knew not there could be
Such thing as freedom,--he beholds the light
Burst, dazzling; though the glory blind his sight
He knows the joy. Fools laugh because he reels
And weilds confusedly his infant will;
The wise man watching with a heart that feels
Says: "Cure for freedom's harms is freedom still."

Reading.

We need to teach our children how to read and write--not only in our own language, but in others. So much knowledge can be found in books if only one can read them...for most of my life the only sources of knowledge I had were abandoned books that I would find, and (please let me not be vain in saying this) I'm intelligent today. That's not it though. Books can be teachers, but they offer something else; other viewpoints. With a good book and a good mind you can see through other's eyes and understand the world as they do. This may be a sentimental thing to say, but I believe it to be true, and I believe that we poleepkwa have plenty of good minds. The only problem is supplying them with books and works of literature.
I can guess what some of you may be thinking...'why read works by humans?' 'Why should we see the world as they do?' 'How would they know what we have suffered through?' and many variations of this. I understand that MNU tries to suppress our minds by feeding us human ways and forbidding us from learning of our own culture. This cannot go on...we have to know who and what we are and where we came from; that's a right that everyone should, could and must have. But being proud of your people shouldn't mean you deny the knowledge of other cultures--that's the viewpoint MNU seems to have, and it's thinking like that that has gotten us here in the first place.
By reading and learning of others you can understand them; by understanding them you can make peace with them; by making peace with them you prevent war and bloodshed. Too many have died for us to not jump at the chance to make things right.
We need to read and write in as many languages as we can--human, poleepkwa, or others alike. Reading may not come easily to everyone, but it must be done. The cries of the poleepkwa for freedom can be found not only on our lips, but in the written words of the humans that suffered before us. We are not the only ones who've been through this, and we can learn from them.
http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/thematic_poems/freedom_poems.html
http://www.poemhunter.com/poems/freedom/
http://www.poets.org/
http://www.everypoet.net/poetry/

Memories, or lack of them.

Have you ever been so afraid that you can feel the apprehension resting inside you like a chuck of lead? There's a sinker lodged right here in between my plates--there's got to be a hook in here, even though I can't feel it--and the line stretches out to somewhere I can't see, the thin wire getting fainter and fainter as I look back into my memory until it fades away totally. I don't know who's got the other end, but something tells me I can't just ignore this one...
Please don't ask me what happened, because I can't remember. My last memories are of carving pumpkins with Jack and Jill; the thin blade sinking into the orange flesh of the fruit and the appreciative 'eww' and 'yeech' noises coming from the pair of kids...putting the two jack o'lanterns out in front of the house, telling the story behind the tradition and snapping a few photos. I think I uploaded them after, but I can't be sure. The recollections get hazy and foggy, all conversations and actions slurring together into vague ideas: I think I went to work, so that means if I did then I played this music, did those kind of things. Just generalisations and mountains of circular logic. That's it...
... and then I'm waking up by the side of a road, vomiting into wet grass and dimly realising three things: one, I'm sleepy, two, I don't know where I am, and three--I'm scared. Not dread or apprehension, but hot animal terror--the kind that makes you want to run away or strike out at the first thing that moves in your sight. I can't adequately describe it in words, because I think I was beyond words...it's a miracle I could still read and type when I noticed the laptop computer. Whoever took me left it with me; I logged onto facebook and the rest is history.
I'm so glad I'm home and this is over, but is it over? This 'Kurt' did what he did for a reason; what was it?

In learning about different human societies, I've come across some very interesting points. The similarities between the ancient 'Varna system' in India and the (supposed) structure of our civilization's society are striking. The religious aspect may have been replaced with a biological one (for more on this idea, read the "poleepkwa phenotype paradox" post from a few days ago), but overall the two may be very alike. Here's an overview of the classic Varna/"caste" system, with possible parallels in poleepkwan society:
Brahmin: top caste--priests, scholars, teachers; lived in the best environment and had the (overall) best education for the time. Smallest percentage of population. *This could be the niche the 'queen' fills, making most decisions and passing laws.*
Kshatriyas: kings and warriors; defenders of the different 'kingdoms/districts'. 2nd-smallest percentage of population. *'Engineers' could fit in here, having higher standards of intelligence then the other classes but still subject to the queen's decisions. Presumably the ones who took care of the ship.*
Vaishyas: farmers, traders, artisans; grew and maintained food supplies and bartered goods with other castes. Association with a vaishya was not viewed as such a deplorable thing, but higher castes still spoke with them only when necessary. 2nd-largest percentage of population. *
Shudras: slaves, peasant farmers; the general 'worker class'. They took up the largest percentage of the overall population and were the least educated. *'Guards' and the like, who acted as 'citizen soldiers' and acted when the higher 'classes couldn't*
Another caste, the Untouchables, lived separately from all other castes and were the lowest of the low. Their jobs usually included tanning, cleaning trash and waste from the streets, and cremating the dead. To associate with an untouchable in any way was viewed as a crime. *I have not been able to think of nor hypothesize of an equivalent class in poleepkwan society. I personally hope we're above treating our fellow brethren this way.*
Each city or settlement was divided into 'districts' which were planned and deliberately designed to keep the different classes separate. *Perhaps a single ship acted as a settlement, with the 'command module' being the places where the queen and engineers lived and worked. The area where MNU originally cut in could be where the 'worker class' lived, but as the leaders had died by that time it really can't be proved.*
*Another interesting note to make was that the original varna system was based on skin color: lighter-skinned people at the top, darker-skinned ones at the bottom. It seems to be that the majority of us (the 'worker class') are dark-colored, without the markings or coloration of the 'guard' and higher castes that I've heard about.
**For more reading, I've included reference sites:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caste_system_in_India
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caste_system

Don't worry...about a thing...
'cuz every little thing gonna be alright.
Sure. Bob Marley was right about a lot of things, but when it comes to that, he was sadly mistaken. Things don't always turn out alright, even when you do worry. You can't just roll with the punches all the time...sooner or later you'll get slap-happy and forget why you're doing this in the first place, and that's the last thing we need: aimlessness.

If using acid is the closest you can get to schizophrenia without actually being insane, then withdrawal is the closest you can get to being bipolar without having the real deal. I'm not joking...it's hard to concentrate enough to even type this thing up now. One moment I'll be ecstatic and happy that my life is changing--I'm going to be a teacher and caretaker, I'm kicking my habits, I'm actually going to function as an involved member of an organisation again, woohoo! Vale la pena!--and then the nausea and insomnia (all things that end in 'a', especially when dealing with medicine, are awful) slaps me in the face and I crash into a shivering, irritable lump of misery. I'm trying not to complain a lot right now, but not sleeping really sucks when its coupled with a total digestive backup. It's not even nausea...it's your stomach backflipping and trying to crawl out your esophagus whenever you smell something cooking.
Christ, I miss being normal--or at least my kind of normal--when I could windowpane and lubricate myself with acid and alcohol to the point in which I was alone with my thoughts. Will I still be able to continue being a psychonaut, or has it closed off forever...that's the only thing I'm good at, damnit, except for being a disc jockey! I loved it, all of it, even though it was selfish and twisted and masochistic and antisocial...you learn so much about everything when you use acid...it doesn't matter if its good or bad. You learn, and I don't want to forget it all now that I'm sober.
I hope this rapid-cycling of mine doesn't scare the kids. Jack and Jill...they still seem to hate my guts but they aren't actually that bad. Even though they aren't related they could be siblings; they stick together and watch each other's backs--I honestly think they sleep in shifts, one watching over the other, because I've never seen them both resting at once. Whatever happened to them in D9 and D10 made them this close, I think...maybe that's not an exactly good or an exactly bad thing. They've got good heads on their shoulders--they could easily learn anything they wanted to learn, no problem. In the long run, it's up to them if they want to start trusting me and learn about things; in the same way I guess it's up to me if I want to break the habit.

The Darkling Thrush, by Thomas Hardy

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

Things have changed a lot since I left Virginia, and as soon as I got back home I was forced to adapt to those changes. Miss Miss had dyed her hair a bright pinkish color ("for breast cancer"), the woods had turned a dull red-brown as the leaves died, and a new collection of poleepkwa had been successfully snuck into the United States. Overall things were one hell of a lot different, and it's still hard to believe that this all happened in what...a few weeks?
The biggest difference? The appearance of two blurs of plating and energy named Jack and Jill. I'm not joking--Jack and Jill are their actual names. Apparently the two met while being smuggled out of D10 and joined forces to make--in my opinion--one of the most terrifying duos in history. Approximately fifteen seconds after I was introduced to them by Miss Miss, I was flat on my back and pinned beneath the two; I learned shortly after that they're fascinated with human wrestling, especially the move known as a 'mailbox' which involves one person driving the victim back while another crouches down and trips them.
I'm supposed to take care of them.
So this means no more acid trips, no more psychonautic activities. I have to keep these two out of trouble and keep them from running away from Miss Miss' place. If there is a god, please let him help me...

"The Poleepkwa Phenotype Paradox"

**This is a response to a question that was raised a short while ago. Thomas, if you want to discuss this in greater depth, email me at spacekricket@aol.com.
Our species is hermaphroditic, for those of you who may or may not know that. To clarify any questions that may arise from ignorance, I will briefly outline the birth process. We possess both 'male' and 'female' sexual organs, fertilise our own eggs with sperm, and carry the egg within our bodies until it is laid. After that, it must develop more outside the parent's body; soon it hatches into a child.
The entire process is pretty simple, in my opinion, and much easier and efficient from organisms that have only one gender. Poleepkwa can reproduce on their own without a mate, which increases the chances of the survival as a species. An individual can create an entire population; a single human would not be able to reproduce on their own. At the same time, this may be the ultimate genetic flaw in our species. Every child is essentially a clone of the parent, save for the times in which recessive genes--if they exist for poleepkwa--are brought to the surface and manifest. This explains how we all tend to look similar, excepting plating color and the presence of spikes or markings. We are all genetically alike, to the extent that (according to evolution) if our environment changed drastically or a disease that affected those of a specific gene sequence came up, we would not be able to adapt as quickly as organisms that reproduce sexually.
(On a side note, this may be the cause of our biological 'caste' system: a genetic mutation may have caused a poleepkwa to lay an egg that hatched into a poleepkwa of a different phenotype. Over time these developed through the generations into the different 'classes'. Keep in mind that I'm guessing on this, please. I'd rather not be 'flamed' or 'trolled'.)
Hypothetically then, if such a situation was to arise, would we survive? Unless we all began to mutate and produce offspring that carried the same mutation, it's unlikely. Evolution, according to Darwin, can take millions of years and countless generations. Perhaps we could speed up the process by removing sperm and eggs from two different poleepkwa and swapping them, but this would most likely be extremely painful and dangerous and therefore SHOULD NOT be attempted by anyone, professionals or amateurs alike. Seriously guys, don't try it. It's stupid to endanger anyone like that.
In conclusion: our method of reproduction allows for a population to be established quickly in a given environment, but it may or may not survive if said environment changed quickly.

Perhaps there is no 'right' or 'wrong' way to see the world, and the only way we will ever understand things is from our own perspective. If this is true then all the study I've done is useless...all those isms nothing but bloodless text on bloodless paper that relates to nothing in my life; someone else thought this way, and I never can or will or should think along the same lines. My thoughts will forever be just that: my thoughts, and no one else will understand them or share them with me.
Is my opinion worth anything then? Probably not...I can't change the way you think, no matter what I write. You'll think the way you think, as will MNU and everyone else who practices injustice and cruelty in this world. It can't be changed...human nature can't be changed, and neither can poleepkwa nature.

An egg is not something to be bought or sold like a commodity! An egg is not lumber or steel to be weighed and tested and auctioned to the highest bidder. Eggs are children...not things. The destruction of an egg is like the murder of a human infant, and it should not happen to our offspring--it shouldn't happen to anyone's children.
Who started this sick trade? It doesn't matter--what matters is that we try to stop it as soon as we can. Our children must not be trafficked.

Happy Birthday, George.

Today is George's birthday, but I can't send him a gift or bake him one of those overdecorated pastries or host a party in his name like most humans do. I don't think he'd mind, though. Birthday parties don't make a lot of sense...it's good that the person has lived through another year, but the main idea seems to be that the person instantly matures on the date of their birth, on that exact day. A birthday is a celebration of someone managing to get through another 365.25 days...that doesn't automatically mean that they're bigger or smarter or better then the last time Earth was in that point in space. Growth, mental and physical growth, takes time; it doesn't just happen. For some, it may never happen at all, while others are forced to grow up far too soon...
Back on track. Today is George's birthday, and since I can't give him a gift I wrote this post. Maybe wherever he is he'll know that I did this and be thankful. It's not much--just flashes of light converted to zeros and ones and converted again into text on the internet--but it's the thought that counts, right?

I hope this is a dream. My plates are all peeling off like old wallpaper...I can hear them hitting the ground as they fall off. Plunk. Plunk. Plunk. I'm unravelling...I can't say it any other way. I'm not anything now, not human, not poleepkwa. Just a loosely joined mass of tissue and nerves and thoughts. My organs are lying on the ground.
Am I still all here or was I more then the sum of my parts? I hope Humpty Dumpty was wrong and that I can still be put back together again, else I'm screwed.

Metamorphasis

No, this isn't about Kafka, although that is a good book. Read it...seriously. It's all about existentialism.
I'm not that alarmed at this turn of events; my mind's done stranger things...I've seen worse. I'm actually surprised at how sane most of the world is...it makes a lot of sense for eating about 20 pieces of blotter paper. Right now I can see my poleepkwa hands, but layered over that, like in double-exposure, are five fingers and smooth, shell-less skin. I'm seeing myself as human right now.
The thing that I'd really like to know is what part of my mind decided the gender. Most people tend to use male pronouns with poleepkwa and I have a male name, but right now I think I'm a girl...I can't be sure because I don't know much about human anatomy. Is it because stereotypically females are more verbal that I'm seeing myself as one? Maybe, or maybe it's because I don't see myself as strong enough to be a guy. Either way, this is so odd...I feel my mandibles, but only dimly, and my legs and arms are hard to move. Typing's getting hard too; I keep expecting five fingers when I only have three. My brain's probably going berserk, poor thing...having to decide what viewpoint to use: poleepkwa or human.
Are you what you think, or what you physically are? Seth's a poleepkwa now, but he's been human for all of his life. He thinks like one, probably still acts like one, but is he human anymore? Does identity depend on your thoughts or is it determined by the particular meat structure you find yourself in? If this weird transformation I find myself in became permanent, would I be poleepkwa or human? Could it be that I'm something totally different right now?

Awful things like MNU and oppression happen because other people are content to listen to what their government tells them and nothing else. What you hear can be very different then what is...Districts 9 and 10 are a result of that. The public was misinformed and cajoled into allowing the rights of an entire race to be stolen away and the poleepkwa flung into slums and death camps; this continues to this very day, this very second. As you sit here and read these words, my people are dying at the hands of MNU or each other, our children 'educated', beaten and--I will say it--brainwashed into believing they are worthless, that they are the property of MNU and not people with thoughts and rights...nothing like this should ever happen to children. It shouldn't happen to anybody.
Would all of this have still happened if you knew what was going on in D-9 all along? I'd like to think not...I'd like to think that humans can still feel compassion. Perhaps I am wrong and the proletariat is too apathetic to care anymore; if this is true then we are too late and we will never be free. Or do you trust your organisations and governments still? You have to realise that these 'governors' and leaders are nothing more then individuals themselves...albeit individuals that find themselves with a lot of power. The government, for all of its wealth and ability, is nothing more then a group of people who decide for others. People are not perfect. Governments and corporations are not perfect.
I'm just trying to say that you need to look elsewhere for information. Don't trust the likes of MNU.

You can tell who wields power by the way they act. In the 'modern', 'civilized' world, you can't, but at raves, in the 'bad' part of town, in dank alleys so full of refuse that they make you feel like trash, you can. It's all in the stance...relaxed, back straight but not rigid, hands open as if to say 'hey, I don't need a weapon or a fist to bring you down. I can get someone to kill you for me.' It's true; they can kill you, a million different ways. Junkies vanish or OD or get mowed down in a drive-by every day, and nobody really wonders why. "Maybe it was their fault, but maybe, just maybe--no, that can't be true." Thoughts like this are too hard to dislodge...nobody will care if you're gone.
Dealers know this, and they show it in everything they do. They don't care who notices. They are the ones who hold raw power, and they don't need a suit or handcuffs to show it. Dealers--the real dealers, not the runners and hawkers who negotiate time, place, amount, and price--can be spotted a mile away, once you know what to look for.

Trench Town--Bob Marley

Up a cane river to wash my dread
Upon a rock I rest my head
There I vision through the seas of oppression
Don't make my life a prison
We come from Trench Town, Trench Town
Most of them come from Trench Town
We free the people with music, sweet music
Can we free the people with music
Can we free our people with music, with music
With music, oh music
Whoa my head, in desolate places we'll find our bread
And everyone see what's taking place
Whoa-yo another page in history...
...They say it's hard to speak
They feel so strong to say we're weak
But through the eyes the love of our people
Whoa-a they got to repay
We come from Trench Town
We come from Trench Town, Trench, Trench Town
They say can anything good come out of Trench Town?
That's what they say, Trench Town
Say we're the underpriveleged people
So they keep us in chains
Pay pay pay tribute to Trench Town, Trench Town
We come from Trench Town, not because we come from Trench Town
Just because we come from Trench Town.

We must not act in violence. I've said that time and again, but I guess I've never had the chance to practice what I've been preaching. Well, don't worry--I have now. Apparently some people in the rave subculture haven't gotten used to there being poleepkwa disc jockeys...so a few of them decided to talk it out tonight, in an alley, over lead pipes and spilled blood.
You'd think I'd have expected it when they called me. "Hey, Prawn." Why do they always call us prawns? I can understand the resemblance to grasshoppers or shrimp to an extent, but the word's gotten out that the correct term is poleepkwa. People should know that's the right name for us...then again, I don't really think those 5 or so guys cared what I was called. Nope, they ignored my comment of 'it's poleepkwa' and formed a silent circle, grinning with that cold smile that isn't a smile at all...it's the showing of teeth. I knew what was coming--I've been at clubs long enough to recognise a streetfight when I see one--but where could I run? They all hung back, then by a silent consent rushed forward. I'll spare the details, but it wasn't fun to me, however much they were laughing.
And you know what? I didn't fight back. I didn't whimper, didn't cry for help or plead for mercy. Defending myself would have added to the image of a 'prawn' being a big violent monster; crying out for help would have goaded them to further cruelty. The best thing you can do with people like that is let them have their sick fun and leave them when you can. They'll get what's coming to them--you don't need to sink to their level and fight. We must not act in violence.

To MNU.

You think we're done, now that there's an empty sky,
But above the clouds, our angel flies.
And you think we are finished, but among us, we know
That he’ll stretch out a hand to those below.
For so long we’ve waited to see our land…
Like a dream that you try to hold in your hand.
When he comes back, this nightmare will end,
We can only hope that it doesn’t happen again.

You think we're done, our knees on the floor,
A boot in our face, But this is not '84!
You can push us down, but we’ll come right back,
Your cruelty—you’ll be caught in the act.
The world will know what you’re doing is wrong;
The world will know that we do belong,
And when the world chooses to think this way--
We will fight, we will triumph, we will seize the day.

I don't know about the rest of you, but I've been wondering on and off about catfood. What makes that stuff so addictive in the first place? Is it the presence of refined meat coupled with preservatives, or is it just the chemicals themselves?Even though I really don't know what I'm doing, I've been conducting my own little experiments and trying to find out the main ingredient that causes this effect.

Last night I borrowed a couple of pots from the Nevada base, set up a Bunsen-burner kind of thing and began boiling it down. The setup was pretty simple: a pot on a heat source with an oversized lid on top, tilted down with a bowl under the lip. The 'steam' rose up, hit the cooler metal, condensed and dripped into the bowl, leaving the solid stuff in the pot. Unfortunately it overheated and exploded, but not before I got a cupful of this foul-smelling greyish stuff. I won't go into detail, but I found out that this was NOT the part that acted as a narcotic.

So now I've got a little setup in my room. I'm going to 'bake' the catfood (extract the liquid, heat it and distill it into a concentrated powder) and then see if the science people at the Nevada base can analyze it for the most active chemical components. I was actually able to 'rent' some 'baking' equipment for a pretty good price--only about 30 bucks--from my supplier. The one catch? I have to tell the guy how I concentrated the catfood. If you can believe it, this guy (I'm not saying his name, because he'd cut off my supply or worse if I did) wants to actually sell this 'super-catfood' (that's what he called it) to the poleepkwa and human population in America. I'm not sure what I'm going to do about that...I think I'll simply give him my original results and pray to god that he doesn't find out that it doesn't work. I'm not going to inadvertantly help get others addicted on something worse then regular catfood, even if I think drugs aren't as bad as people say they are.

In the meantime, I'm going to use this stuff and maybe make a duplicate set so I don't owe him. So far, I've got about...half a pot of liquid. The smell coming from it is unbearable--it doesn't even smell like meat anymore, it just smells like putrification and chemicals, even through the cheap little gas mask I'm wearing. Right now I'm trying to make sure it only stinks in here; I've got cloth shoved in the frame of the door so I don't accidentally gas the entire base and I'm not going to open the door until I'm done baking the stuff. I don't know if I should open a window, though--will people outside notice? I think so, but goddamn it smells so bad in here...I think I just may have to.

Everything is so fragmented...mind, space, time, sight--shattered pieces of different things stuck and adhered together in a mosaic of life. Was what I experienced the sum of its parts or something more, Gestalt whispered from a corner of my brain. I ignore his pessimistic stuttering and gaze around at my sleeping-space. To some, this may seem like a confining gesture, locking myself in here without food or water for hours. If they only knew it's a tesseract in here, with the inside infinately bigger then the outside. How can I possibly grasp the world beyind the foot or so of door if I can't even see the end of the space in here? I think Jake and Max were right...I don't have my own 'zone', I have my own universe, and it keeps getting bigger.

When I move, I move with the help from the air, the light, the thought of others and my own muscles, it seems; I speak and type only with the assistance of all on earth and beyond, their voices and thoughts combining with the energy to produce this post. Actions are all so interconnected--you cannot act without the help of others. They may not even be people you know or care about--they can be your dearest friends or your bitterest enemies, but they aid you in everyday life. Would there be an ARFA without MNU? Poleepkwa pride without the crushing shame of captivity? No, not at all...they created each other and define each other even as we speak.

It seems like Timothy Leary was right...acid does enhance creativity. I've tried to capture the image in this picture...forgive me for its bad quality. I'm not an artist, I'm just someone who sees art and tries to duplicate its style and method.

History repeats itself. Almost 20 years before we came here, "African-Americans"--humans with a darker skin color then most--cried out for justice and freedom from undeserved oppression. They were thought of as beasts; unintelligent, lower creatures that could be beat down and squashed by hate without ever putting up a fight. But they did fight; they fought undyingly. There were some--Malcolm X, the Black Panthers--who advocated violence. 'Why be kind to those who kill you and your friends?' they said, 'We must strike back,' and strike back they did, until they were killed in one of their many fights.
Others reached out with tolerance and love to those who knew of neither. Even when met with anger and agression they continued to act with nothing but acceptance in places where such things were unheard of. One of these nonviolent fighters for freedom was Martin Luther King, Jr. He put aside his own hopes and dreams to guide others and fight for freedom from hatred, preaching endlessly "We Shall Overcome."
We shall overcome! Just as those before us shook off the iron chains of captivity we will escape this enslavement! We will beat those who have beaten us time and again, but our weapons will be words and diplomacy rather then blows and bullets. I know this is a hard thing to ask for, but we must act in peace--unified, organised, understanding peace--if we are to ever end the reign of cruelty that MNU has forced upon us. It will be hard--others will die and many will be hurt in the battle, but I will gladly lay down my life if it ensures a better future for those who will come after us; I beg of you to do the same, not as a superior but as an equal. If not for yourselves, do this for the children who know nothing other then MNU law and captivity. One day we will all be free, and we will all be proud. We will be judged by the content of our character, as MLK said all those years ago, and not by our appearance. We shall overcome.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Civil_disobediance

Assurance.

You've been through a lot; we all have. There hasn't been a war yet that causes no casualites and no trauma afterwards. Some wounds heal, others scar over and never go away. So much pain has been shared already in this crazy world...its a pity that it all has to happen to kind people who don't deserve it, but it does. We all must grin and bear it--in one way or another--and wait for the three years to pass. No one knows if things like this will ever happen in the future, but it will not happen to you as long as I have something to do with it. Those who were so cruel to you will pay for their crimes, have no doubt about that.
You're scared that this may not be real...no one can say what is real and what is just a dream for sure. Perhaps the solipsists are right and nothing is real but thoughts and images in the mind. But even if this is all in your head, your own thoughts have made it real. Memory and dreams only differ in the amount of weight they put on your mind. Real or not, we're here, and we're always going to be here for you. We're all in the same boat.

This was new. I was just sitting at the computer, speaking with Seth and Sherry and reading her newest blog entry. Perhaps I shouldn’t read things when coming down from a trip…I don’t blame you, Sherry, don’t worry. My stupid idea, not yours, don’t be scared. Unbidden, a craving sprung up…it seemed like a great idea to start pulling at the still-healing crack in my leg. It hurt but was so much fun—like humans picking at scabs, I think. The pain is there but it’s overpowered by the fun of seeing little sections of yourself peel away. How far could it go? An inch—two inches? A foot—could I rip the section off entirely? As I peeled, I began to think. Everything was falling apart…it wouldn’t work, any of it. I could be fighting, but I can’t be fighting…I’d be useless in a fight and yet here I was, useless. I couldn’t stand it—this was wrong—I was wrong. So much pain was in this world…thank god there were only three years to go. Three years and it will all be over—how much worse can it get?
Acting on a new impulse, I got up and walked away from the computer, strolling until I got to another room. Perfect…I ran towards a wall, jumping and twisting as I got close to the brick so that I could see every detail, the singular fibers of the straw embedded in the clay, packed together to make such a wonderful, strong contraption…the object of my newest actions, my own stupid actions that had nothing to do with anyone else...my folly, not yours, don’t worry.
It exploded in a flash of red and brightened to white as heat trickled through my skull, quickly setting my brain on fire. Reeling from the impact, I buckled, stood up, ran again—not done yet. The cracking sound was wonderful…like fireworks; it matched the myriad of colors inside my head that flickered on and off. This was the right thing to do—I knew it as I ran again and again and again. After a time the impulse died down and shifted; it told me to lie on the ground. I stared up at the ceiling as George leaned over me, his voice deadly soft and filled with hatred. “You idiot—you think this is the end? MNU isn’t going down without a fight. . You think this is pain? Think again, Olo. Worse things are coming down the road.” The light shining from his body no longer seemed warm and serene—it was cold and glaring, like the light that shines on a specimen about to be cut and laid open on a dissecting table.
“Get up—you aren’t dead yet.”
I jolted out of the haze of pain to find myself at the computer, picking at my exoskeleton. I was in pain, yes, but it was not as extreme as the pain I had just been in—it was a hallucination, wasn’t it? I’d dreamed the whole thing, that’s why George was there. Only about ten minutes had passed…that was all? It had seemed like more—this had to be another dream. Fearfully I wait now—I’m going to wake up any second now to find that it’s just another hallucination, or maybe time will repeat itself and I’ll have to do the whole thing again. I hope not, but in a way I do. Worse things are coming down the road. Going back to past pains will soon be a luxury, I think.

I'm going to step back for a moment and take a look at another group who have been denied rights: the LGBT (gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender) group. Being both asexual and hermaphroditic--as are all poleepkwa--I don't have the best viewpoint on this; I always thought that relationships were based on the drive to reproduce and 'love' was in fact a subsequent trait of this drive. "Turn-ons" were ways of picking out good genes to pass on to the offspring, while "romance" and "courting" were simply highly-developed mating rituals. From a purely biological point of view, homosexuality may not make sense, which can--and I'm not saying it does--imply that it is a "defect". I'm just saying that for someone who reproduces singly, it isn't the most logical thing around. I'm not going to even go near the "choice vs. born" issue...what matters is that people are homosexual or bisexual, and some people have a problem with that.
However, that does not condone violence and discrimination against members of the LGBT community. Having personal opinions is a universal right, but I've heard horror stories of people "coming out of the closet" (still don't understand that term) to peers and family only to be beaten, scorned and abused horribly. Harming or degrading someone on the basis of personal choice or biological identity is NOT right under any circumstances, and I will stand by that fiercely. After all, who am I to hate others and hold bigoted ideas? I'm an ALIEN, for god's sake! On what grounds can I hate, especially when those that have cared for me are gay or bisexual?
So, my conclusion? Homosexual love may not make an awful lot of sense to me, but then again neither does "regular", heterosexual love. People "in love" do things that most people may never consider otherwise; they may even risk their own lives for their significant others. There are a great many "straight" people who can't care for anyone besides themselves and wouldn't bat an eye if someone else was hurt--this I know all too well. If you are happy in a relationship and are not harming anyone else, then power to you. As long as you're happy, others should be willing to accept that.
*I hereby make this blog a safe zone for LGBT youth, as well as poleepkwa. I'm not sure what that will do, but it's the thought that counts, right? I'm here for you, people.

You cannot shake hands with a closed fist.
But closed fists are all around, on both sides. They have to be: death hangs over D-10 like a sick cloud, a fog of hopelessness that is pierced through at times by acts of hope and--yes, I will say it--love. MNU will fight us and will continue to enslave poleepkwa reguardless of what they do. They've educated the society, and now our children, that we are violent monsters only kept alive for as long as we are useful. When others are trying to destroy you, the only course of action is to destroy them. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, kill or be killed, because if you do not then you will be another corpse in the pile...another casuality.
But Hammurabi's code doesn't work...the more violent actions taken by the resistance, the more examples MNU will have to justify their cruelty. We're trying to crawl out of hell but only make the hole deeper with each action we make. It's a horrific paradox. How will it ever be resolved?

Well, this trip was…interesting, to say the least. I’m still not fully back on earth, so please be patient if it takes a while for me to pull the bits of my brain back together and put everything in a ‘normal’ sequence of events.
This time I agreed to be observed when I took the ketamine. I politely asked those who were present (who I will leave unnamed) to leave me mostly alone and only offer medical attention if I really became destructive to myself or needed to be resusitated. I recalled how I had collapsed the last time I tripped; I didn’t want to be prematurely ‘brought back' before I learned anything. Quickly I consumed the small packet of what looked like sugar crystals—I refused their offer of a ‘controlled dose’. Their ‘safe amount’ wouldn’t be enough—and began waiting.
Tripping alone is one thing, but tripping with other people around you is even more bizarre. They try to anchor you, asking things like ‘how do you feel’ or ‘can you understand me’ even though it’s useless in the end; their words melt away and distort into sounds that have no meaning and all that’s left is the slow shifting pattern of emotion on their faces. I felt as if I should tell them what’s going on, explain my behavior because it makes perfect sense to me but it didn’t really seems to make sense to them. But when I spoke they looked at me and confusion inched across their features; to my vision it takes forever to understand and did nothing. I was given a box of crayons and pencils and paper; I tried to write down what I was feeling but I’d forgotten English and my poleepkwan characters turned into batches of squiggles and intersecting lines. It’s so beautiful, a new language all its own, but they can’t read it. I began drawing what I saw, but they didn’t understand what I was doing and rumbled at me with voices too far away to hear. Eventually I ignored them altogether and focus instead on the trip. The white fog was swiftly returning…I sat down on the floor and waited for my consciousness to slip away. It did, my body vanished from view, and I was once again in that odd blankness.
George was waiting for me serenely. He was glowing again. “Hey. Back so soon?”
“Is this the hive mind?” I cut to the chase, not wanting to waste time. “Or is this heaven or some afterlife?” I was angered when he shrugged.
"Beats me. Whatever it is, everyone's here."
"Yes, you said that last time, but what do you mean everyone? Are they dead? Is the Queen here? How can i be talking to you--"
He cut my stream of questions short. "Olo, look. I know what your saying...but I can't describe it. I'm sorry, but I can't answer your questions." George was quiet for a moment, then both his expression and plating brightened. "Hey--I know. Maybe you can see it the way I do."
How? Would I have to die? I mean, I'd done that before, but it was useless if I found the answers only stay dead and not be able to tell others. George shook his head. "No, you won't die."
He could hear my thoughts? "Yup." George nodded. "But anyway, you know when you tried to hug me? Maybe we can try that again--if we overlap it might work." Before I could even think of a responce he darted forward and passed through me.
What happened next I cannot remember lucidly enough—only bits and snatches of memory remains. The bottom seemed to drop out of the world; I was bent and twisted into a mobius strip and sundered from time and space. Voices came from all around me even though I could not hear. Somewhere in that sequence of events I somehow forgot who I was and what I was thinking; I began observing my own thoughts while unaware that they were my thoughts. Olo was everywhere, nowhere, and anywhere, but he wasn't me...does that make sense?
The next memory was of waking up and seeing an unfamiliar poleepkwa face hovering just over mine. The nausea came again and slammed me; I rolled over--I was lying on the floor?--and vomited. When i was done I looked around--where was I and what am i doing here? I curled in in a corner and protected my head with my hands.
"Olo?" The poleepkwa spoke. The voice; I knew that voice--Viktor! The memory slapped me in the face and I remembered where I was and what the hell was going on. I grinned weakly and wiped vomit from my mandibles. "Hey Viktor."
And here I am now. I'll write more when I can figure out what happened.

I'm eating for the first time in two days. I'm surprised how easy it is to forget such a vital need...I wasn't even aware that I was hungry until now. Strange.Anyway, on to the original purpose of this post...my personal experiences have no relevance right now...this is utilitarian hedonism, not egoist hedonism.
Is it right to be happy when others aren't? Out there, poleepkwa are dying of thirst, hunger, overwork, or at the hands of MNU; here I am, in a comfortable place. I have shelter, food, water...but why me? Why should an acidhead poleepkwa melting their brain with drugs get this, and the people who deserve it much more are left in the chaos of District 10 without anything? I'd trade places with anyone there right now, because they deserve it more then I do...but does that make me ungrateful? I really appreciate what I've gotten in life, I just think that others should have it instead of me; but is that right? I don't know.

This trip was, in a nutshell, different. From the very beginning I could tell. With acid, the changes in perception had been gradual; my mind had seemed to expand with the passing moments. With ketamine, I became disoriented and numb rather quickly. Soon I not only couldn't move my limbs, but I couldn't feel them. Sleep seemed like a great idea as the floor swayed and walking became too difficult and risky. I curled up on the floor and closed my eyes.
The next thing I became aware of--after hours had seemed to pass--was that I was no longer in my body. No, I was completely sundered from myself; I couldn't feel or control my body at all, but simply floated on the gentle updrafts of air, simply watching my corpse. Eventually I got tired of the sight and turned my attention to my present environment. Wherever I was now was not where I had been before: the room with its sparse furniture had been replaced by a vast blank expanse, populated by a thick white fog, my consciousness, and my body--which quickly vanished from view once I stopped paying attention to it. Occasionally bright flashes of light would appear, followed closely by a low-pitched humming almost like thunder. Other then that, it was quiet and blank. Nothing happened. Once again, I have no clue how long this experience lasted. Time had no relevance...eons or milliseconds could have been ticking by and it would be impossible to tell the difference. Honestly, it was turning out to be a bum trip. I wasn't seeing anything, wasn't feeling anything, wasn't learning anything--I might as well have been sober. At least then I could have moved and interacted with tangible objects.
Eventually the fog solidified into what looked like the world I had left behind some indeterminate time ago. Color and sound returned, but touch, smell, and taste didn't. It was all so uninvolved, like watching a movie; you watch and listen but can't do anything to change what's going on. There's a human term for this, I believe: ghost.
Just as I said that--or thought it, I really couldn't tell--a figure slowly materialized, appearing each layer at a time: organs, flesh, plating, features. He was bigger then I expected, still a bit stiff from rigor mortis it seemed, but it was
"George?" This time I knew I had spoken aloud, but in what language I could not fathom. "What are you doing here?"
He shrugged, and the gesture was so familiar that I wanted to cry and embrace him. I willed my--what? spirit? shadow? mind?--forward and we almost hugged...we were both incorporeal and could not touch. Instead, we faded into each other, passing through one another's intangible bodies and briefly overlapping. After a time we drew apart.
"So, how are things going?" George scratched at his neck, where the breathing-plates were permanently splayed out, stuck gasping for oxygen that wasn't there when he died and probably wasn't wherever we both were now, either. "Anything new?"
Anything new? Where the fook would I begin? "There's crackdowns in D10. MNU has decided to stop outright killing us and start making us into willing slaves. It's like something out of 1984--" With a jolt I realise that talk like this was what drove him into the darkness in the first place. "I'm sorry. You don't want to hear this."
"Not really." George sardonically grinned. "Basically its all the same. MNU sucks, poleepkwa have no power, and its never going to change." His voice was candid and bitter, softening as he continued. "And you know what? The world keeps turning. Regardless of what's going on."
That was true, and ended the conversation with its infallibility. We sat on the floor--which still had no texture associated with it--and talked about things of no real importance, as if this was a normal day, just another day when we had nothing better to do then chat and joke around. It was bizarre, so normal and yet abnormal; George was dead...I couldn't be talking to him, but here he was, wherever here was, talking to me instead of being in an afterlife of some sort. I inquired about this.
"Hey George?"
"Yeah?"
"What was dying like?"
His mandibles twitched slightly. "It wasn't like anything. It just was. I was so sick of living in a world where everything was turning too fast...I guess I just wanted to be somewhere where none of that mattered." He waved a hand around, encompassing the entire place we found ourselves in now. "And here I am."
I did and didn't understand. George had wanted serenity and silence, and he'd certainly gotten that--was still getting it, even with me here--but it still seemed so cold. "Doesn't it get lonely here, by yourself all the time?"
George laughed and got to his feet, and this time he was not bitter or sarcastic. "Lonely? Olo, you can't be lonely here." Light flared beneath his shell, which became clear like glass and allowed the rippling patterns to show through unhindered. My friend was transformed from a dull black 'prawn' to a shining being of light. Behind him others shone, appearing behind him in flashes of light. That strange humming was back in the air...they were all connected, I felt, but could not understand. I shrunk back in amazement.
George put a hand on--through--my shoulder and an electric current tugged at me. His voice came from all around. "We all go here in the end, Olo. Every single one of us. We're all connected." His eyes narrowed slightly. "I think its time for you to wake up, Olo."
I could feel my body tugging at me, like my heart was a fish on a line that was being pulled in. Frantically I looked over at my body--it was stirring slightly. "No--wait--I don't get it! Where is this--"
Feeling returned in a rush and my eyes snapped open. I was back among the living and feeling nauseous--the walls were crawling, the ceiling flipped and sung to me. I wasn't back down to earth quite yet, but that place where I had been with George was firmly behind me.
Was it all a dream? I can't deny that I took the drug; it influenced my body and brain and--it would make sense--my mind as well, but I don't think it was a hallucination. Whatever I experienced was something more...something real. Somewhere beyond the stars, where time and space don't matter, I think George is waiting with the uncountable millions of our people.

New choices.

I've developed a tolerance, it seems. I tried windowpaning LSD--that's worked for me and it seems so awfully poetic in nature--but it didn't work. I only got a mild effect; not even a Level 1 trip. I've heard about this. The mind adapts to the new input of information and accepts it as 'normal', the drug therefore becoming useless. The treatment is simple, thank god. All I have to do is not take acid for a week or so; when I restart my program the trips will be as intense as they were at first.
That's all well and good, but 7 days sober, locked in my limited point of view? Not going to happen. I feel this yawning need, not like a physical craving but a mental requirement...I must go back to that blissful state of environment. I've got to trip again, if not on LSD then on something else.
Ketamine. It's called "special K" and was synthesized for use as an anesthetic; that's most definitely not the case nowadays. Effects are said to include mental detatchment, relaxation, and above all hallucinations. That's what I'm looking for, and luckily I've actually got a supply--two doses thrust upon me one day by a raver who didn't know what to do with them. I'd never really thought about them until now. I'll try this--one dose will just about cover someone of my size and will do me good for a few more days. The learning sessions will continue at the school of the mind...I wonder if I'll wind up in a different place with a different drug. Good night. I'll write again when I come down.

Who runs MNU? I don't mean the person, but the thoughts. I like to think that when this all began the intentions were good, that humanity stretched out a helping hand to Outlanders and didn't expect anything in return. But no, that's stupid...there's that saying, 'there's no such thing as a free lunch.' No such thing as free salvation, either. We had to pay for the resources we used--we began to work to pay off the debt we owed this species that had housed us. I'm reminded of how pimps buy fresh meat for their markets of prostitution...create a huge 'charge' that will never, ever be paid off. MNU has cut and cut at the resources we poleepkwa can get and increased the workload so very much; we should have paid off our debt long ago. But it's still there, bigger then ever...will it ever go away?

MNU is flattening us, in more ways then one. The constant oppression bears down on our people and tries to squeeze out our hope and our spirit, like an orange under a rock. The life is covered, hidden from view--the only thing one can see is the blood. Some of us--against which no grudge should be held, there are always reasons and motives for everything--have succumbed and have had the depth driven from them. They become two-dimensional, paper cutouts, not people; their thoughts the length and breadth of MNU policy and fear--which can extend onwards to the stars but has been groomed and manicured by MNU education and discipline. Please, please listen: death is painful, that is true, and it is also marked by fear, but it is not the worst that can happen. Would you rather die in an instant of untold terror or live like an automation, guided by others wants and rules rather then your own desires?
The two-dimensional people scowl; they say, wide-eyed, 'I don't want to die. I want to live, however I can.' Is it living, what you now do? Is it really living? Others say no. The three-dimensional people, those who not only cast shadows on the ground but on themselves as well. Hope has not fled their hearts--they look to the sky with pride, not foreboding or shame. But the weight is piled on and the pressure increases as others give up around them, gifting their burdens onto these people until it seems they shoulder the world.
Don't give up, my friends. Two-dimensional your comrades may be, but even playing cards can be assembled into a structure with skilled hands and a steady gaze. Don't abandon all, and above all don't allow yourself to be squashed beneath the despair and desertion of District 10.

Done.

The fire has died down and the flames no longer lick at my plating, boiling the flesh underneath without a care. My exoskeleton is now a brittle collection of segments, the tissue beneath it ash and sand, not the living stuff that was there just a short while ago. The job is done, the knowledge so much like electricity, like fire, like the hand of some god has left and Olo Lamna is left behind to pick up the diamonds scattered all over the floor and polish them. Later they will be either put on display or buried with the carcass out back...no matter, it's done. My job is done and I am used up.
Used-up, burned to a crisp, but something has been done here. I can only hope that it is good and will shed light on...on what it was that beckoned to me so very long ago and screamed to be accounted for and told. Three days...that's all it's been? Time has no meaning, not when you have a job to do and not when you are tired and ground to dust. I am so weary...the sleep sticks to me like molasses but is not sweet at all. It is as the greeks said so long ago, a little death to prepare all for the bigger, less temporary one to come. It will come sooner then later if the fight does not end.

Fear.

Should one take each being singly and clarify its nature independently, making individual studies of, say man or lion, or ox and so on, or should one first posit the attributes common to all in respect of something common?
Something common. What is that? Poleepkwa and Humans are too different, too separate and too bound by an animosity almost 30 years in the making to ever be alike. From another star we came, in technology far beyond theirs and with bodies radically different then anything they had seen. Our languages, our skills, our society are all different; there is no common ground.
That's wrong. We're the same--we think, we love, we protect our own. We are willing to commit acts of unimaginable horror to protect what we love--we blow up biuldings, we slaughter our enemies without second thoughts and keep charging headfirst into the oblivion. Grief for the fallen and hope for those who will come next are instilled in both our hearts, our collective hearts that might as well beat at the same fucking time for how alike they are. Can't you see? Can't anyone see? We're the same, we're been fighting ourselves this entire time! The house is divided and might as well fucking crumble to dust now, because no one will ever believe me and listen! If humans were in the position of the poleepkwa things may have turned out alike the way they are now, the roles reversing and details changing to fit the situation. The proof isn't in the details, my friends, it's in the big picture, and right now that's all that should be seen.

Perhaps Jake was right all along and this was a bad idea. The chemical compounds I’ve been pouring into my bloodstream week by day by hour just don’t leave when the effects wear off—they stay inside me like a heavy weight and push down on my brain. The pressure makes the thoughts glow white-hot but such pain comes with the thinking…I’d start on painkillers if I didn’t know that the agony isn’t real, at least to everyone else. There’s a difference in pains; the ones that are bared for everyone to see and the ones that are hidden deep inside you, lacerations left in the folds of your soul that fester and burn no matter what you do to ease them. Each slice is a byproduct of another realization, another epiphany that’s sent out through you to the world from somewhere else, a diamond that scrapes and scrapes at you. I wonder how the copper wire copes with the power from the generator…does it become egotistical? Maybe not, or else it would have been fired by now.
I must remember that this blog was not to be about me, but the thoughts that I find. It's getting harder and harder to tell what I think from what I am...fuck you Socrates. These diamonds are fine, but the coal that they come from is me--little pieces of me that are squashed and recrystallised into something not-me, something better. It's worth it, that's all, it's worth gving up oneself for the greater good, right? Of course it is. People will learn something from this account, be it good or bad.
But surely no one will read this torrent of opinion? No matter. I can’t let it fade away: I must not let the embers die, because the flame will never again be rekindled. All I can do is keep conducting, be copper and remain humble so that the force that sent these burning thoughts to me doesn't decide to fix its firey gaze on me. If that ever happens, the bottom will drop out of the world and I'll vanish from view, that I know. I must keep writing.

Dream

It is nighttime, and I dream of dancers.
Not the kind of dancers I usually see, not rave dancers. These people are not clad in neon clothing torn to bare midriffs and thighs, nor are they dancing in abandon, madly gyrating and jumping to the beat of the music. No, these people are calm, collected. Their attire lacks the color of raves and is instead largely black and white; occasionally a splotch of color—a rose pinned to a lapel, a brilliant necklace or ornament—will show as the dancers go about their movements. The atmosphere is odd. There’s a feeling of great joy, but no animal desires beneath it. There isn’t an undertone of sex or lust or violence at this dance; no, the people—with a jolt, I see that the dancers are both human and poleepkwa alike—are here to have fun and nothing more. It’s so clean, so innocent…I’ve never seen anything like this. I smile as I see Sherry, her wounds healed and unscarred, awkwardly stepping through a waltz with Ryan, who grins. Nearby Viktor waves to me, standing next to Jake and Christian—everyone is here, and they look like they’ve been here for a while. I wonder where I was so that I missed the invitation.
A voice is at my ear.
“You know, you won’t get a dance partner looking like that.”
Startled, I look to the source of the voice and look at myself. I am wearing what looks like a tuxedo jacket… where I got it is anyone’s guess. A cockeyed smile is on my face as I stare at myself. “What’s the matter? Afraid of your own shadow?” I don’t know who’s talking or where I am—if I’m here and there, where am I? In both places or neither of them? As if to be sure that I am there I look down at my body; unlike my doppelganger, I am clad in ratty raver pants and am streaked with what smells and looks like ash. The attire is so out of place that I feel as if I should sink into the ground so as to not disturb the dance. Everyone is so happy and peaceful here…why would anyone want to interrupt this, for any reason? I’m quite beside myself.
“It’s okay,” I hear myself say. “Just go home and change, that’s all. It won’t take long.” With that, I’m guiding myself out of the door and down a small dirt road. I turn as if to leave myself behind; quickly I grab onto my arm. “Wait—where am I going?”
The reply is immediate. “Home. You need to change, Olo.”
With a jolt I wake up.

Memory.

The one thing that really gets me about acid is the total lack of unpredictably. Not only when you're actually taking it, but after, when you pick up the pieces of your mind and rush for the door, only to find that there is no door and there's no escape; there's no going back to the way you were before. The memory of what I saw--is it seeing, per se? It was all in my head, in my thoughts, my brain was interpreting the electrical signals sent up my optic nerves differently, that's all...was I thinking of seeing or actually seeing? I couldn't have actually seen the things I think I saw; they weren't real...they couldn't have been real and they can't still be here, so close I can touch them, like smoke, like gossamer, like a whisper at your ears or a breeze at your antennae, just out of reach but oh so beautiful. It's just my mind, that's all. That's all it will ever be; just in my mind.
But, by thinking of them, do I make them real to me? I can taste these thoughts, hear them, touch them, smell and see them--that's what most people consider real anyway. My 'thoughts' are closer to me then a war half a world away that I am obliged to fight in because of my species, but they aren't real, the death and pain and suffering that I wish wasn't real is. Who decided that, and why--it isn't fair; why can't we all live in peace? Who decided to exile us from Eden and end the glastnost? Who brought the ship here two decades ago and who made the company that bought us little by little when they should have helped us?
Who made it all happen?

Required first post.

For me to begin anything I have to have two things: anything and a beginning. So, this is the beginning. From now on my thoughts are easily converted to text format and put out on the electric egregore that is the World Wide Web. It's comforting and frightening...it's out there for anyone to see...the musings and crackbrained commentary of an acidhead poleepkwa.
For those who may not know me (which consist of about 7.2 billion sentient beings, plus the few million bacteria on your keyboard right now--made you flinch) I'm called Olo Lamna. Don't ask me what Olo means, because I have no clue; Lamna is latin for shell, which is pretty damn accurate considering I'm a space cricket. Suck on that, MNU.
Oh dear...I seem to have run out of interesting things to say. Perhaps this was not a good idea. I'm not like Sherry or Bradley or Akra Weaver--I don't struggle for life every day in D-10 or help to burn down MNU buildings or liberate the enslaved. People like that should tell the world about what they do and why they do it, because its people like that who change things and make the world a better place for everyone, human and poleepkwa alike, in ways that maybe aren't as obvious at first but still vitally important...I'm just a regular person; what do I have to say that's worth listening to?
Nothing worth noting. Nothing that will aid you in a firefight or inform you of D-10 occurances or even entertain you very much, I think. I'm probably like the unfathomable numbers of minds out there who play the harlot to their great god, the Internet; the people who post everyday thoughts and actions and words so that, in some bizarre, borderline way, they can live forever. When I wake up tomorrow morning and think that this was a stupid idea and delete this blog, the words and the thoughts behind them will still be there, somewhere, and they'll never leave. Nothing can be nothing unless it was nothing to begin with...
So I don't have anything important to speak of. That's true--that's more then true, that's a given. But, I do have myself to offer. My brain, my thoughts, they're all yours. No returns.