If I teach you the definition of a mistake, can you change?
As long as you bring in the meaning, I won't mind, even if the future forgets us.
(via weaknuclear)
“Adventures Through the Multiverse”
Joy looks up as the console beeps, alerting her to the fact that one of the spheres within her holo-map of the giant, seemingly limitless Multiverse has registered a hit… She touches the sphere to check the data, and it’s clear: she found yet another version of herself in a parallel reality.
And now, just like before, there is only one option: she must murder this version of herself before this version of her kills her own version of herself first.
Since discovering the methods and technology that could enable one to travel between the various alternate universes via the nebulous void that connects all versions of reality, Joy quickly came to the realization that if this version of herself could make this discovery, then the other Joys could too…
And as her first thought immediately was “I must kill them and rob them of their life savings before they do the same to me”, she knows it was likely their first thought as well. And so, obviously, the only proper thing to do is to find them and kill them first (which the other Joys may rudely be trying to do to her as well).
Luckily, in all of the Multiverses she’s found herself in so far, she is the first version of herself to make this discovery and has gotten the jump on every single version of Joy she has encountered yet. Most weren’t even scientists working on the Hidden Multiverse Project, so it was comically easy to take advantage of their shock from realizing they were seeing a perfect replica of themselves and shoot them in the face before they could even process it.
Or, she’d pretend that she was them from the future and that she needed their help to save the galaxy, and then they’d foolishly trust her as she lured them to a safe place for her to shoot them in the face.
From there, she’d pose as herself and withdraw all of that parallel reality’s Joy’s money from the bank, and then escape back into the nebulous void before anyone’s the wiser and on her way to a new universe, with a new Joy to kill…
Since she’s only killing and robbing herself, it’s perfectly okay, Joy reasons. It’s a victimless crime.
And there just isn’t room in the Multiverse for two Joys to exist peacefully. She knows it, they’d know it, and ya know what? It’s a shame but dangit it’s just a fact of life. There can only be one.
With the wormhole closing around her and having successfully escaped back into the nebulous void after yet another murder/robbery, Joy smiles as she crosses another Joy off the list…
831 Joys dead, and only possibly an infinity left to go.
Posted 6/28/2012
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Yep. Definitely kept this book stashed in my guitar case for two and a half years before my mom found it and was like “…Uhm, why is this hidden? You live in our house. We have access to your internet history, Lauren. It’s 2007; catch up.”
…except that she actually did not say that because my life is not a cartoon (despite my best efforts).
(Source: fyeahqueerteenlit, via oureffortwasadmirable)
![remash:
subtilitas:
Blank Studio - Xeros Residence, Phoenix, 2002
A lot of authors talk about finding a place that helped them learn how to write. Usually they describe visiting/moving to a foreign place, and the rush of getting swept up in all the new sensations, but I think that this (^) would be a great place to learn to write stories.
Waking up every morning in the privacy and familiarity of the room, and then choosing at a certain point to pull back the curtain, and literally open up one wall of what had been a closed system, would be… ideal. Sort of a convenient metaphor, a ritual to jog the mind (1). I also think that watching other people doing familiar, daily things in the calm surroundings would help me keep a steady “pace” in a long story, which I have trouble with (2).
However- this is, I think, one of the things that’s been holding me back. I would be comfortable here because the surroundings look familiar to me. That’s why I like it; it’s the new, stimulating idea of that studio, against the backdrop of a place with a climate and structure that I recognize, a car that I’ve seen driving around before, and the same trash and recycle bins that my parents and neighbors line up outside their houses on Monday nights. People whose routines, I imagine, I could learn to predict within days.
I’m never going to get anywhere if I never take any risks. I’m never going to get anywhere if I never get anywhere, if I just spend my life sitting on my couch, on my front lawn, watching the same TV shows over and over (telling myself the same stories, over and over). But here I am.
[1- when I played water polo regularly, the last thing I would imagine most nights before going to sleep was a random game sequence. Three things were always true: I was always the hero (obviously), we always won (I don’t have much of a stomach for tragedy), and, if I was going to be able to sleep, the story was all about movement. I always wondered about the exact process that was going on inside my brain when I reacted on instinct during a game, either firing or misfiring based on random muscle memory. I’ve always wanted to be able to slip into that automatically- to learn which random switch to flip, to make myself sleep, to make myself write, to transport myself into another world.]
[2-I like the idea of opening up that wall and seeing exactly what you were expecting. Instead of just envisioning things in my head, I could look at this area day after day until it was like a blank canvas to me, a huge chunk of space where I could build sets and play God, and make little people to run around in my world.]](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_kuwy3mffeE1qat99uo1_500.jpg)
Blank Studio - Xeros Residence, Phoenix, 2002
A lot of authors talk about finding a place that helped them learn how to write. Usually they describe visiting/moving to a foreign place, and the rush of getting swept up in all the new sensations, but I think that this (^) would be a great place to learn to write stories.
Waking up every morning in the privacy and familiarity of the room, and then choosing at a certain point to pull back the curtain, and literally open up one wall of what had been a closed system, would be… ideal. Sort of a convenient metaphor, a ritual to jog the mind (1). I also think that watching other people doing familiar, daily things in the calm surroundings would help me keep a steady “pace” in a long story, which I have trouble with (2).
However- this is, I think, one of the things that’s been holding me back. I would be comfortable here because the surroundings look familiar to me. That’s why I like it; it’s the new, stimulating idea of that studio, against the backdrop of a place with a climate and structure that I recognize, a car that I’ve seen driving around before, and the same trash and recycle bins that my parents and neighbors line up outside their houses on Monday nights. People whose routines, I imagine, I could learn to predict within days.
I’m never going to get anywhere if I never take any risks. I’m never going to get anywhere if I never get anywhere, if I just spend my life sitting on my couch, on my front lawn, watching the same TV shows over and over (telling myself the same stories, over and over). But here I am.
[1- when I played water polo regularly, the last thing I would imagine most nights before going to sleep was a random game sequence. Three things were always true: I was always the hero (obviously), we always won (I don’t have much of a stomach for tragedy), and, if I was going to be able to sleep, the story was all about movement. I always wondered about the exact process that was going on inside my brain when I reacted on instinct during a game, either firing or misfiring based on random muscle memory. I’ve always wanted to be able to slip into that automatically- to learn which random switch to flip, to make myself sleep, to make myself write, to transport myself into another world.]
[2-I like the idea of opening up that wall and seeing exactly what you were expecting. Instead of just envisioning things in my head, I could look at this area day after day until it was like a blank canvas to me, a huge chunk of space where I could build sets and play God, and make little people to run around in my world.]
If there was an emoticon for what my heart feels while looking at this, it would be one of those smileys with waterfalls of tears coming out getting ripped to shreds by a bear.
Once upon a time, in a large forest, there lived a very furry bunny. He had one lop ear, a tiny black nose, and unusually shiny eyes. His name was Barrington. Barrington was not really a very handsome bunny. He was brown and speckled, and his ears didn’t stand up right. But he could hop, and he was, as I have said, very furry.
In a way, winter is fun for bunnies. After all, it gives them an opportunity to hop in the snow and then turn around to see where they have hopped. So, in a way, winter was fun for Barrington.
But in another way, winter made Barrington sad. For, you see, winter marked the time when all of the animal families got together in their cozy homes to celebrate Christmas. He could hop, and he was very furry. But as far as Barrington knew, he was the only bunny in the forest. When Christmas Eve finally came, Barrington did not feel like going home all by himself. So he decided he would hop for a while in the clearing in the center of the forest.
Hop. Hop. Hippity-hop. Barrington made tracks in the fresh snow. Hop. Hop. Hippity-hop. Then he cocked his head and looked back at the wonderful designs he had made.
‘Bunnies,’ he thought to himself, ‘can hop. And they are very warm, too, because of how furry they are.’ (But Barrington didn’t really know whether or not this was true of all bunnies, since he had never met another bunny.)
When it got too dark to see the tracks he was making, Barrington made up his mind to go home. On his way, however, he passed a large oak tree. High in the branches, there was a great deal of excited chattering going on. Barrington looked up. It was a squirrel family! What a marvelous time they seemed to be having.
‘Hello, up there,’ called Barrington.
‘Hello, down there,’ came the reply.
‘Having a Christmas party?’ asked Barrington.
‘Oh, yes!’ answered the squirrels. ‘It’s Christmas Eve. Everybody is having a Christmas party!’
‘May I come to your party?’ said Barrington softly.
‘Are you a squirrel?’
‘No.’
‘What are you, then?’
‘A bunny.’
‘A bunny?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, how can you come to the party if you’re a bunny? Bunnies can’t climb trees.’
‘That’s true,’ said Barrington thoughtfully. ‘But I can hop, and I’m very furry and warm.’
‘We’re sorry,’ called the squirrels. ‘We don’t know anything about hopping and being furry, but we do know that in order to come to our house, you have to be able to climb trees.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Barrington. ‘Merry Christmas.’
‘Merry Christmas,’ chattered the squirrels.
And the unfortunate bunny hopped off toward his tiny house. It was beginning to snow when Barrington reached the river. Near the river-bank was a wonderfully constructed house of sticks and mud. Inside there was singing.
‘It’s the beavers,’ thought Barrington. ‘Maybe they will let me come to their party.’ And so he knocked on the door.
‘Who’s out there?’ called a voice.
‘Barrington Bunny,’ he replied. There was a long pause and then a shiny beaver head broke the water.
‘Hello, Barrington,’ said the beaver.
‘May I come to your Christmas Party?’ asked Barrington.
The beaver thought for a while, and then he said, ‘I suppose so. Do you know how to swim?’
‘No,’ said Barrington, ‘but I can hop, and I am very furry and warm.’
‘Sorry,’ said the beaver. ‘I don’t know anything about hopping and being furry, but I do know that in order to come to our house, you have to be able to swim.’
‘Oh, well,’ Barrington muttered, his eyes filling with tears. ‘I suppose that’s true…Merry Christmas.’
‘Merry Christmas,’ called the beaver. And he disappeared beneath the surface of the water.
Even being as furry as he was, Barrington was beginning to get cold. And the snow was falling so hard that his tiny, bunny eyes could scarcely see what was ahead of him. He was almost home, however, when he heard the excited squeaking of field mice beneath the ground. ‘It’s a party,’ thought Barrington. And suddenly he blurted out through his tears, ‘Hello, field mice. This is Barrington Bunny. May I come to your party?’
But the wind was howling so loudly and Barrington was sobbing so much that no one heard him. And when there was no response at all, Barrington just sat down in the snow and began to cry with all his might.
‘Bunnies,’ he thought, ‘aren’t any good to anyone. What good is it to be furry and to be able to hop if you don’t have any family on Christmas Eve?’ Barrington cried and cried. When he stopped crying, he began to bite on his bunny’s foot, but he did not move from where he was sitting in the snow.
Suddenly, Barrington was aware that he was not alone. He looked up and strained his shiny eyes to see who was there. To his surprise, he saw a great silver wolf. The wolf was large and strong, and his eyes flashed fire. He was the most beautiful animal Barrington had ever seen.
For a long time, the silver wolf didn’t say anything at all. He just stood there and looked at Barrington with those terrible eyes.
Then slowly and deliberately the wolf spoke. ‘Barrington,’ he asked in a gentle voice, ‘why are you sitting in the snow?’
‘Because it’s Christmas Eve,’ said Barrington, ‘and I don’t have any family, and bunnies aren’t any good to anyone.’
‘Bunnies are, too, good,’ said the wolf. ‘Bunnies can hop, and they are very warm.’
‘What good is that?’ Barrington sniffed.
‘It is very good indeed,’ the wolf went on, ‘because it is a gift that bunnies are given, a free gift with no strings attached. And every gift that is given to anyone is given for a reason. Someday you will see why it is good to hop and to be warm and furry.’
‘But it’s Christmas,’ moaned Barrington, ‘and I’m all alone. I don’t have any family at all.’
‘Of course you do,’ replied the great silver wolf. ‘All of the animals in the forest are your family.’ And then the wolf disappeared. He simply wasn’t there. Barrington had only blinked his eyes, and when he looked — the wolf was gone.
‘All of the animals in the forest are my family,’ thought Barrington. ‘It’s good to be a bunny. Bunnies can hop. That’s a gift.’ And then he said it again. ‘A gift. A free gift.’
On into the night, Barrington worked. First he found the best stick that he could. (And that was difficult because of the snow.) Then hop. Hop. Hippity-hop. To beaver’s house. He left the stick just outside the door. With a note on it that read: ‘Here is a good stick for your house. It is a gift. A free gift. No strings attached. Signed, a member of your family.’
‘It is a good thing that I can hop,’ he thought, ‘because the snow is very deep.’ Then Barrington dug and dug. Soon he had gathered together enough dead leaves and grass to make the squirrels’ nest warmer. Hop. Hop. Hippity-hop. He laid the grass and leaves just under the large oak tree and attached this message: ‘A gift. A free gift. From a member of your family.’
It was late when Barrington finally started home. And what make things worse was that he knew a blizzard was beginning. Hop. Hop. Hippity-hop. Soon poor Barrington was lost. The wind howled furiously, and it was very, very cold. ‘It certainly is cold,’ he said out loud. ‘It’s a good thing I’m so furry. But if I don’t find my way home pretty soon, even I might freeze!’
‘Squeak. Squeak…’
And then he saw it…a baby field mouse lost in the snow. And the little mouse was crying. ‘Hello, little mouse,’ Barrington called. ‘Don’t cry. I’ll be right there.’ Hippity-hop, and Barrington was beside the tiny mouse.
‘I’m lost,’ sobbed the little fellow. ‘I’ll never find my way home, and I know I’m going to freeze.’
‘You won’t freeze,’ said Barrington. ‘I’m a bunny, and bunnies are very furry and warm. You stay right where you are, and I’ll cover you up.’
Barrington lay on top of the little mouse and hugged him tight. The tiny fellow felt himself surrounded by warm fur. He cried for a while, but soon, snug and warm, he fell asleep.
Barrington had only two thoughts that long, cold night. First he thought, ‘It’s good to be a bunny. Bunnies are very furry and warm.’ And then, when he felt the heart of the tiny mouse beneath him beating regularly, he thought, ‘All of the animals in the forest are my family.’
Next morning, the field mice found their little boy, asleep in the snow, warm and snug beneath the furry carcass of a dead bunny. Their relief and excitement were so great that they didn’t even think to question where the bunny had come from.
And as for the beavers and the squirrels, they still wonder which member of their family left the little gifts for them that Christmas Eve.
After the field mice had left, Barrington’s frozen body simply lay in the snow. There was no sound except that of the howling wind. And no one anywhere in the forest noticed the great silver wolf who came to stand beside that brown, lop-eared carcass.
But the wolf did come. And he stood there. Without moving or saying a word. All Christmas Day. Until it was night.
And then he disappeared into the forest.
“Barrington Bunny.” Excerpted from “The Way of the Wolf” by Martin Bell, copyright 1970, published by Ballantine Books, New York, N.Y.
Seriously. I have a LOVE and HATE relationship with this story. I love it because it’s so powerful, but I hate it because it just breaks my heart. I’m not going to explain myself; just read the full thing and you’ll understand why.
(via rafaelcaudillo)
(via wearerelative)
