Prophecies part 1: Que Sera, sera

 

  

 

 

  

Like many I’m interested in knowing the future, Our country, our world our humanity is rapidly changing. In a series of visions I may have caught sight of what’s happening and what’s to come, though I not sure I understand some of them. Some of you will ignore or dismiss them as I seem to suffer from Cassandra syndrome but I want to record my thoughts so maybe in the future someone will say “she saw right.” For what it’s worth. These are written in the style of the great prophet Nostradamus. Metaphors, puns, play on words, allegories are used to make one think. Also, some stanzas may describe multiple events. There are more to post if necessary.

1 When the Sun shines bright, water vanishes, ICE melts.

The tree long planted bears bitter fruit.

The Mill stone cracks, No name leaves without a trace.

2 A letter in the sky, sworn to secrecy, unleashes the cold beast,

devouring the innocents. The taken disappear to despair.

Nations gasp at the naked ruin, insolent guardians misguide the size.

3 See the lake empty, when the crescent moon rises,

the buried Satyr had his fill, the feast is over.

The Shepard, his crock broken, his flock scatters.

4 The Queen, star and fool align, too late the house burned down.

The high guardians beg for reprieve, scales restored,

the Vought and Heritage reviled, driven out naked.

5 The bear pokes the jester, too nimble to trip,

Blue, yellow prevail to reunite old bonds.

Pluto must be contained for all our sake.

6 Wheat grows strong against the cold wind,

to numbers never seen before, reverse the tide.

The scythe is dull, before the sharp harvest.

7 Janus endows himself madness, confusion consumes him.

 Anger builds with each blow of the horn.

The false name removed from the Theatre signals the end.

8 Cassandra calls, but the heroes are asleep, 

the devil dances while the sheep walk in the mud.

The artless beast has no soul for refinement.

I'm Back and here's the Big Race from Stay Airtight

It’s been a few months since I posted on the blog. Like everyone else I’m exhausted and terrified by the current state of the world.

Many friends have noted my favorite bike helmet design. When I inform them of it’s origin in my Sci Fi novel Stay Airtight they look kind of confused so as a nice distraction I present an edited excerpt to explain it. It takes place in Pahrump Nevada in the future when we have contact with aliens and I'm hired to be a co pilot for the Jova Sergei in air race. Enjoy.

Oh let’s hope this year is better than last year. Please.

From Stay Airtight

The Big Race

I have to get some gear so I head over to a shop that caters to racers. One doesn't climb into a high powered ship and race over hundreds of square kilometers without some preparation. The place is crammed with military surplus, aviation and space gear of every style and quality. I find a dark blue flight suit that I can easily alter to my short height and a brown leather bombardier jacket that instantly becomes a favorite.

I have to pay for this equipment out of pocket and I'm aghast at the prices. Most of the helmets are out of my range but I finally see an early Terran Defense trainer that fits my tiny head. It's black and gold with red accents and a side mount for a light. It's taken a beating over the years but it's functional and I'll take function over pretty any day.

While the Jova delegation is feted at the UN and hash out relations, Sergei and crew arrive in with the flyer--and she's a beauty. The sleek metallic silver ship resembles a delta wing fighter on steroids with a rooster's comb on top. It's not designed for a short woman either and getting into it is a chore, thank God for the hand holds and a runner board.

" I have made an adjustment to your seat, I hope you approve," Sergei informs me. The side by side cockpit is a tight fit for a Jova but the co-pilot seat is roomy for a human. I open the door to discover what looks exactly like a child's car seat.

"Oh thanks," I say, my ego utterly deflated. I get in and find it comfortable and functional with a lever that slides the seat forward so I can easily reach the controls. I give it a thumbs up and Sergei is pleased. I notice a small wire lock around the gattan* control on the dash.

"Just a reminder," Sergei say with considerable regret. Honestly, why these guys think it's manly to push themselves to the point of blacking out from gee forces is beyond me.

"Not like that's going to stop anyone," I'm not impressed with the restraint and give it a small flick.

I adjust to the seat as we do a dry run through the course. I spot obstacles, give directions and coordinates along the way as my job as navigator requires.

*the gattan is the artificial gravity function banned from the race because it’s considered an advantage.

Everyone takes a keen interest in the aliens and their ships. They openly gape at the oversized Arn and the media swarms in whenever Sergei or Korya the mechanic, do some fine tuning on the ship. I'm pretty much ignored as the obligatory human sidekick when I show up for our timed run. I show Sergei my helmet and he inspects it with approval then pulls a stylus out of his jumpsuit pocket.

"May I?" he asks.

I have no idea what he intends to do but give him a go ahead. He quickly writes in bold red ink some Jova script on either side of the top center ridge and hands it to me.

"What does it say?"

"Courage is taking the first step," He says with dramatic flair.

"Ooh I like it," I gush.

The race is divided into three stages. A solo to determine qualifiers, two semi final elimination rounds, then a three lap finale with the top three plus a runner up. We ace the timed run, as Sergei is quite the speed demon and we easily qualify. As we arrive for the part two semi final and walk pass the line of testosterone powered ships, I spot a familiar face among our competitors and stop in my tracks.

"What the hell," I exclaim with irritation.

"What?" Sergei nearly runs into me from behind.

" I can't believe it. It's Mason of all people," I groan. He's shaved his head and acquired a deep tan but still has the arrogant swagger. He sees me and quickly glances away like a kid who cheated his way into a contest. I give him a sour look and shake my head. So this is why he skipped out on Mark's Station. Sergei is not the only alien in this race, Mason is the pilot for a doughy Cassarian.

"Is he good?" Sergei asks.

"From what I've heard, yeah, but he's reckless," I can't decide if that's dangerous or gives us an edge.

There are six flyers in this round. Aside from Sergei and Mason, there is a Saudi prince in glossy green top of the line McKinley Radical that is barely legal, a Russian in a candy apple red that looks like a heavily modified MIG. Two aces from France with white flyers have a personal rivalry as they regard each other with Gallic disdain.

The course covers 380 kilometers in a big circle through the Nevada desert, crosses into New Sonoma, turns east into the "Star Wars" canyon, across Death Valley then back to Pahrump over an endless landscape of sagebrush, sand and bone dry brown dirt broken occasionally by motorcycle and ATV tracks.

Everyone climbs aboard their ships for the pre flight check. Sergei is already secure, wearing a dull silver helmet adorned with his clan crest in purple. As I put on my helmet and strap into the three point harness, I can hear the Saudi next to us yelling at his navigator through the open door.

The start horn blares and there is a thunderous roar as engines fire up. Unlike regular jets these are capable of almost vertical lift and they leap into the sky like a flock of birds.

The race starts off fast as everyone wants the lead. By the time we pass the second flag and turn north at Rabbit Hole, Sergei, French number one and Mason are ahead. We ascend sharply as we pass Cosco Peak then plunge down--thank God I had a light breakfast-- and turn back east.

Rainbow Canyon, nicknamed "The Jedi Transition" has been a favorite training spot of jet pilots for decades. "Five and a half miles, five hundred feet at five hundred knots" goes the saying. We scream by an overlook where people gather to watch and photograph the action. I don't give a cursory wave to the onlookers as I'm busy being terrified by Mason coming in close behind us. He climbs sharply as we exit the canyon.

"What is he doing?" Sergei did not expect this.

"He's looking for an opening from above," I yell into the mic.

Sergei nods and does the opposite, practically hugging the flat desert, flying in a sinuous pattern as we head to the finish line ninety kilometers away. The others jockey to keep their position but I know Mason is up to something and sure enough, he drops out of the sky like a bird of prey and two others are forced apart. Sergei, Mason and French number one come in win, place and show. The others are mighty pissed at Mason's pushy tactics. Man, these aces play for high stakes that's for sure. The Saudi lodges a challenge, not a surprise, as he is always complaining.

The next day, I report to the hanger where Brusha is being prepped for the final. Sergei has adopted our custom of naming the ship and I'm amused with his honoring my boss and his coba.

The final round will be us, Mason, Julien the French guy, who is actually very nice, and runner up Sandra, a wicked good retired US Air Force pilot, in a cobalt blue lightweight Gossamer.

Before the big race, the contestants are trotted out and stand behind a safety barrier for a carefully orchestrated meet and greet of the press, VIPS, and donors. Everyone wants to meet the aliens but Tartalas the Cassarian is visibly uncomfortable with our gravity, speaks terrible AIL and spits a lot in a guttural voice. The media prefers Sergei with his courtly manners, handsome features and blond hair contrasted against his sepia complexion. Sergei watches curiously as Julien flirts with the ladies.

I tire of answering the same old questions: No, I'm not the pilot just the navigator, I guess they think Sergei is a stand in like Tartalas. No, I haven't been brain washed by the aliens, I'm here of my own free will. No, I've never had sex with an alien but thanks for asking a totally inappropriate question in public. Sandra handles the equally sexist questions with aplomb but I really want to hit them with a rock.

Done with the presentation, we head to the racers when I hear a familiar voice. I turn to see Jesus (my tour guide) approach and he hands me a medal on a silver chain.

"Via con Dios, senora," he says, clasping my hand.

" Amen amigo, gracias." I run to catch up with Sergei.

"You know him?" he asks casually.

"Oh yeah Jesus is a friend of mine," I say for my own amusement.

This is it, the race we have spent months preparing for. The competition is collective rather than solo in a high speed dance where every movement, every tilt of the wings and maneuver is potentially fatal.

We climb aboard and go through the pre flight check. I'm already sweating under my helmet while Sergei is cool as usual. He puts a large hand on his breast and offers up a prayer to the Three Powers. He is not the religious type so the gesture surprises me.

"It's a custom, for good luck," he explains with a grin, as he puts on his gloves. I check to make sure the medal is in the arm pocket just below the Defense League patch sewn on my jumpsuit.

The start horn sounds and within seconds we are airborne and head west over the mountains. Sandra the top gun, proves to be a fierce competitor as she quickly takes the lead by the end of lap one. Mason follows close behind her as we pass the second gate leaving Sergei and Julien in a dead run for third place. I fret and resist urging Sergei to pull ahead. He knows what he's doing as we climb to the high point and pass the other two before a steep dive on the last leg.

At the start of lap three, Sergei leads with Sandra, followed by Mason. Julien is having trouble of some kind and drops back as we head to the canyon-- Sergei scares the shit out of me making fast, tight turns along the narrow canyon as we play cat and mouse with Sandra. Mason is a creature of habit as he climbs above like last time.

I relax a bit as we break out to the wide open flats on the homestretch, in the lead. Sandra keeps pace but I'm sure we have this. I forgot about Mason until he swoops down and tries to separate the distance between us but Sandra doesn’t budge. I glance through the canopy to see the underside of his ship just above us.

Damn it, all this open desert and he is trying to squeeze in as close as possible. Sergei doesn't budge either so Mason shifts position and the three of us speed in a line to the finish.

When people are impatient they do stupid or dangerous things. Mason is both and tries to shake the two of us off by hedging in again but by gust of wind, misjudgment or sheer arrogance comes in too close and clips Sandra's wing causing her to veer dangerously. In an attempt to regain control she bumps into us and Sergei struggles to stay even. Mason speeds away from the impending disaster as our flyers plunge toward the ground two kilometers below. I stare paralyzed in terror as the ground rushes up and realize we are dead.

The force of the dive pushes me into my seat until there is a sudden lurch and I'm at one gee. I turn to see Sergei has ripped the lock off the gattan to capture Sandra in the gravity field. It's not designed to handle the mass of another ship but the lightweight Gossamer does not pull us down any faster than we are already falling. I brace for the inevitable crash as we are about to lawn dart into the desert.

"Disengage the gattan on my command," Sergei coolly commands. I put my hand on the control as we level out several meters from the ground. Sandra follows and we brace for a hard landing.

"Now," he barks, I immediately yank off the control. The comfortable one gee is replaced by a jerk as the two crafts separate from the influence. Sandra's ship trips and tumbles across the desert floor in huge clouds of dust. We bounces twice a few hundred meters away, slide sideways a few more before coming to a shuddering stop. Silence.

I have never heaved so hard in my life as I slowly realize we are still alive. I slow my breathing and feel my way back to awareness.

The sound of Julien's ship roaring overhead wakens me from my stupor. I turn to see Sergei sitting still, staring ahead until he too is brought back by the sound.

"Well, there goes the race," he sighs, throwing up his hands in casual defeat. I quickly unbuckle my restraints, fling open the door, lean out and promptly throw up. And there goes my lunch.

 

Photo of the Day

 

 Pretty sure this is a portal to a another dimension 

disguised as a cat excerise wheel.

 

Sit Down - It’s Good for Business

 

 I was shopping at the local Albertson's and asked the cashiers why they have to stand and was told it’s corporate policy. Their expressions revealed the awful effect of this.

 “InAmerica, cashiers stand… due to managerial expectations of customer service and buying into myths about productivity—and customers who have never seen anything else simply accepting it. But in Europe and the U.K., though responsibilities somewhat differ, cashiers are seated, and productivity is often higher. In recent years, U.S. cashiers have filed lawsuits citing age-old “right to sit” laws, with mixed results. But grocery companies continue to fight hard against such regulations, and there’s a lack of union strength to counter it.”

Companies resist any change that might benefit the worker. It reflects an indifference to employees well being and is a low level power move. This is a recipe for worker burnout -remember downsizing from the 80’s? Yeah that worked out. Let’s keep doing the same thing and expect different results. I am appalled at how hard working people are treated like dirt and not just at the grocery store, so I wrote the following letter to Albertson’s about this issue.

 

Ms Susan Morris CEO,

I shop regularly at Albertson’s in Eugene Oregon. I see the cashiers standing and asked why they don’t sit and was told it’s policy. In Europe they can sit. Standing or sitting for prolonged periods is unhealthy. Cashiers have to move around, so rotating between sitting and standing should not be an issue.

Allowing cashiers and other staff to sit for short periods will save money in the long run. Fewer law suits filed over “the right to sit” alone will reduce costs, less turnover of workers who quit because of bad knees, feet and back issues, not to mention lower medical insurance costs. It’s also better PR-how? Fair treatment of workers reduces the demand for unionizing. Sitting for a bit allows better attention to customers. Not to mention the perception of customers who know from their own experience the effect of standing for long hours. That appreciation extends to Albertson’s that appears to care for its workers (unless you think they are disposable and I can shop somewhere else).You once worked at a customer service desk, have a manager work four hour shift and they’ll see how hard it is.

Be bold, try a pilot program here in Eugene to challenge the “it’s always been this way, why change it” policy that is the foundation of American business with no room for innovation that ironically stifles the increase in business the change would produce. I hope you consider this suggestion to improve working conditions, public relations and profitablity.

Regards,

Alisa McLaughlin

Nobody Evers Listens to Alisa McLaughlin

Here is some advice to autistics on how to deal with the world-you normal folks can take it or leave it too.

Lower your expectations, not as in “dumb down” rather, don’t expect things to turn out the way you wanted. Always have a back up plan, consider what could go awry and don’t blame yourself if it doesn’t work. Disappointment is a part of life.

Never accept anything at face value. People promise they are going to (fill in the blank) but often don’t. Most of the time it’s isn’t malicious, they just don’t follow thru for whatever reasons. “I can do that,” “I’ll be there for you,” or the rarely accurate “I’ll be on time.”

Don’t hold a grudge. Canta che ti passa -sing and let it pass, as the Italians say. Holding on to past hurts or mistakes by going over and over them, is a waste of time and energy because chances are the whatever happened is done will never be resolved.

If you really want to prevent grudges-apologize when you realize you have erred or when called on it. The sooner the better and be sincere. We often are unaware or downplay some offense and wonder why someone doesn’t speak to us or acts weird. Too many relationships have failed because of a fault, real or imagined couldn’t be repaired out of pride, ignorance or just plain stubbornness. Lack of communication is a big one.

Apologies are healing and the injured will take comfort from them. We live in an age where they are considered a weakness but it takes courage to admit you screwed up. Be a decent, honest person, own up to a mistake, you will be forgiven. Likewise, accept an apology in kind. If the other person doesn’t accept the apology it’s not your fault either.

Cherish little moments of happiness and precious time with those you love, when someone offers you a gift say thank you, and most of all be kind, it’s worth it.