NaNoWriMo Pt. 2: The Siege Engine

The next chapter in my story:

Are you there?

Just the next hill over… and the next…

Do you taunt me?  Are you so cruel as to play with my longing to see you?  You have ever been close, but a few steps off, or within earshot, or within eyesight, or waiting where you promised to, at least.  But now, you surely flee from me, for I can only catch your glow, and whenever I think to catch sight of you at the next dune’s crest, your light lurches away.  Could you have slipped?  I must catch you, and hold you up, should you stumble!

I run now, swallowing up the dunes in leaps and bounds.  I fall and fall again, scrambling back up, and even crawling onwards as I recover.  The skies and sands blur and tumble as I roll down the next dune, landing flat on my back in the dust.

And I hear a voice.

No, voices.

One voice stands out, in a continuous cheer.  It must be a prayer, an invocation, perhaps a mantra.  The other voices chant in response.  What they say, I cannot tell.  Curious, I gather myself up out of the sand and begin climbing this next dune.

As I climb, the rise and fall of the voices takes me back to the sea.

There was a single boat on the beach.  No, a plank in the sand.  Wood where none should exist, where trees were an unheard-of fantasy to the grey cliffs at my back, the ravings of a madman to the stones crunching underfoot.  I had nearly tripped over it as I followed you, running up to catch you after days of your distance.  Lying in the sand, I saw you waiting expectantly.  As I stood up and looked to you, the cheer and response of the waves roared in my ear.

I crest the dune to the next call, and I see the source of this tidal mantra:  a clattering behemoth crawls up the near dune.  From this distance, I cannot tell how it moves, but it seems to move as a litter of incredible proportions; the siege engine’s muzzein calls lustily from what looks to be a pale belltower, and I can hear him peal:

“…and even now, you beckon!  To us, to us and us alone, your chosen!  What can we do?”

The crowd, pressing forth with the litter echoes, “What can we do?  We must push!”

“Oh, how blind were we, how deaf, that you could have welcomed us to your city for so long, and we, we fools, we pitiful fools.  And that you persisted, that you, you light, you beautiful light, welcomed us still!  To the deaf, you appeared, and to the blind, you called, and even now, you beckon…”

As I draw near, I notice the motion of the throng:  Many simply mill about, gaping at the structure, conversing with each other, or even catching naps, before sprinting to the front to lie down again; a few run between napping and lifting the colossus, or weakly hold the siege engine as they walk along; deep in the crowd, only feet are visible of the figures hunched beneath the enormity of the tower.  All of these figures seem incomplete:  some blind, some unheeding of sound, some lame, others grotesque; all proceed together despite themselves, following the muzzein’s sightless calls.

I stare along the shore, and see pebbles clacking against each other, rolling as one mass, into the sea, as if in search of the wave that had stranded them.  The board rises out of these tumbling rocks and seems to flow in them as I lose my balance for a moment.  I reach into the sand, scooping out handfuls, armfuls, cartloads.  Time disappears, but I need only look at you to see that this is right.  And a small skiff rises from the sands and stones, and arises with the tide’s fall.

From within the swell of figures, it appears that one of these figures comes out, straightens up, and rises onto the platform, seemingly weightless, and joins a ring of hooded figures hanging at the platform’s edge, who glide out from time to time to raise a sleeping figure or guide another to the center of the throng, that they may hear the caller better and push.  Behind the shades, I can now make out the tower – there is no wood, no stone here, but bodies – the dry, pale bodies of other, wizened men sit atop each other, all the way to the herald’s feet.  But they are far from dead; now and again, one turns to another, and a whisper passes up the pyramid, bringing new words to the lips of the column’s mouthpiece.

As I marvel at the pulsing, flowing structure ascending, I catch sight of another tower, a small ways off.  It could be a carbon copy, were it not a hill to the former’s mountain.  As I circle the first litter to see the second, I note a hole in the colossus’ base, where the miniature could have come in seamlessly.  This tower has no great, milling crowd, as its few thralls are focused intensely upon the tower, and they seem to be facing away from the greater uniformly.  I see one glance back, but his brethren immediately seize upon him, and he again faces away.

As I observe the towers, I see both callers holding a bright torch aloft, the torches that fooled me into seeing you, and each calls of the ineffability of their direction, and ape you in their promises of your city, of your peace, of your promise of a place in your glory.  For all the calling of each, neither acknowledges the other, whether deaf to them or offended, yet they seem to move together, and their track appears to have run alongside for some time.

My footprints trail the path of the skiff as I press it down the shore to low water; the prow glides an arm’s length behind you, and I fear that I may run you down if you pause at the water.  But you do not stop, but step through the spray, the water gliding about your feet and glowing in your light.  I follow unswervingly and jump into the boat as it glides out with the last pulls of the tide.  Only looking back from you do I realize what I have done:  I have no hope of guiding this vessel, my feet will be of no use to march through the calm, my eyes can do naught in the swirling seas, and my hands cannot trace any map of whence I came or where I go – if I would turn back, if I would abandon my pursuit of you, if I were to doubt your promises, I should never find my way home, I should never find that beach again.

The oasis is well lost to me, but perhaps I could retrace the tracks of these human behemoths to their source.  As I turn away, I pause.  Where did you go?  Can I find you in this expanse?  Have you left me for the ears of those callers?

You cannot have forsaken me.  I followed you into the sea once, and I will again, for you abandoned me not through any brewing storm, through any raging tempest, through any sky-devouring hurricane that occludes the world in a grey whorl of brine.

Again I must abandon my home for you.

Morpho

I would like to think of myself as a manly man.  No over-bearing machismo, no great bravado, but an honest man-hood.  So it is with some trepidation that I admit to this:  I like butterflies.  They are resplendent creatures, thriving in their brash colors where their cousins scrape by in drabness.  Of these, the iridescent varieties hold a dear place, if only for their attainment of colors in the absolute:  especially the greens, surpassing all foliage, and the blues, to which even bright skies may seem pale.

In wandering the Carnegie Museum of Natural History, one may come across an otherwise unremarkable atrium, empty as it is of puzzling artworks or the stolen faces of temples and cathedrals, but for a grid of pinned insects on one wall.  Out from between bright yellow, deep black, delicate white, and warm orange, there shone iridescent blue and green.

And most striking of these was the blue.

This is deep blue.  This is true blue.  This is blue at the atomic level.  This is a blue which, as the viewing angle changes, goes through its spectrum and so summarizes the essential quality of "blue".

It seems natural to modify the shape of their wings to become the lapels, cuffs, and pockets of a coat, and even to replicate the scalloped edges of the wing on the edges of the coat itself.  Hopefully, the brightness of these details would make for something beautiful, rather than gaudy.

Lately, I have taught myself a new trick, as well:  the tying of a bow tie.  For once, it was something I learned overnight, with little practice, perhaps thanks to an excellent tutorial I found.  The shape of a bow tie, and its function as an accessory, makes it an excellent candidate for becoming a butterfly, as well.

NaNoWriMo Pt. 1: The Oasis

So, to the uninitiated, November is, to those so inclined, a month for the celebration of writing - National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo.  As part of this, I have decided to create a short chapter each week, the first of which follows:

Where did you go?

I have followed you so far.  I followed you across deserts so hot and dry, my skin turned to cracked mud; through forests so cold and damp, I would breathe rain; along shores so dull and grey, the sea and sky joined at one forgotten horizon, so that they formed a great wave that threatened to drown the cliffs and shore.

I followed you past scores of others, their bodies long dried out, but in fresh clothes, or freshly dead of body, but in ragged robes.  I had wondered whether you had once walked with them, whether you were the only one to make it There, and now lead future visitors.  Were they your friends?  Were they your rivals?  Was one your lover, your father, your sister, your son?  Do any remember you know, and would they recognize you in your glowing rainment, with your incandescent hair and shining hands?  For I know those clothes, that hair, those hands; in imagining your sight and repeating your promises like a prayer each night, I made you a transcendent being, the living proof of your promise.

And now I have lost you.  Here, in this oasis.  In this bright place, which seems as a dream to my wearied feet.  Where have you gone, among the flowers, sweeter than any perfume I have found, amidst the trees, bent low with fruits I could not have imagined, for I had never known their sweetness?  Have you made yourself a guest amongst the peoples here, who so freely give, and let me give?  I cannot find you.

I first saw you long ago, as my mother told me stories of your kingdom, of the land you promised to share with me.  My sweet, you glowed so brightly, even then, to my young eyes, ever dancing away from my grasping hands.

How they would laugh at my flailing, they who could not see you.  For I was your keeper, and you my treasure, my jewel, my dearest one.  None could see you but for my showing, even as you gracefully flitted about the one or the other, as if smelling a flower along the way.  You, mine, my own, and now, you vanish.  But none had known!  I had never betrayed you to them!  I knew what would become of their hearts, how they would covet you for themselves, and kidnap you from me.  So I protected you from them, my silence a great armor about your bosom, that none could touch nor tear.  And yet, I much have failed, for you are gone.  I am accursed, that my eyes had wavered but a moment.

For I had, my dear, closed my eyes here, even those eyes as are blind to this world, even they had shut as I lay to rest my scorched feet on the grasses, to cool the fevered heat of my brow by the stream.  In my great struggle, never had I lost sight of you; yet here I lie, alone.

Do you think the journey over?  Do you see our goal achieved?  You beckoned me to unsurpassed riches, you whispered to my ear of delights beyond my reckoning, you told me all and more, sweet confidante.  The flowers here are like none I have seen, the fruits of tastes beyond my imagination, the water of clarity unchallenged.  You spoke of this, of a splendor above all I had known, or could contrive to know; you spoke of a golden city, filled with peoples who readily served, and still more readily needed me, and me alone.  You promised me that crown among them, of joining them in the endless song of that realm, and I recognized my birthright before it had left your lips.

Is this it, then?  Have you seen me safe to your promise, and abandoned me?  Or have you been stolen away – does some covetous blackguard follow you to my city even now? 

Or perhaps this is what I saw, what you showed me in my fevered visions.  Perhaps that golden wall I had seen was actually the warm desert sands now surrounding me.  Perhaps the tall, wrought streetlamps were merely the shining palms, and the spacious gardens but the greenery abounding here.  The grand ball-gowns and luxurious costumes must have actually been the feathered dresses of the oasis residents.  And certainly, the fantastic beasts that soared above my head were, in truth, the lazy clouds that hover over my head, and the shimmering palace a distortion of the lush oasis lake, its golden fence the filigree of tall, thin reeds.

I would stay here for some time, recovering from the bitter cold and hot, the oppressive damp and dry, from lack of light, of color, of shade.  It was a peaceful time, and one in which I had only the barest awareness of what went on about me, seeing the world just as I had in my visions – a blur of numbed, bare experience, swaddled in emotion and the simple questioning of an infant?  What is this?  Who is that?  Can I…

But I eventually came out of that malaise, returning or regrowing into the world-weary sight of a being that has suffered much, whose face is pocked, scarred, and burned, even as it heals in such a paradise, whose legs are torn, hard, and calloused, even as they soften in the grass.  And I spend my days staring out into the desert, even as I enjoy the fruits of the oasis and bathe in its cool waters.

But, sitting at the edge of the oasis, I have noticed a disturbing thing:  a body, long dried and fading, sitting just as I sit, but a few paces away.  And another, further on a bit, also facing out.  I then notice the bones, hands rested where knees once were, missing teeth gritted in consternation, hollow eye sockets staring longingly into the desert.  I now notice the ground itself here, a chalky white soil, with flakes of bone scattered about.  My thoughts have had a great deal of silent companionship.  They, too, must have wondered as I do – is this what I sought, or could there be greater still?

My curiosity finally wins over, as it had not for the others, as I must know whether there could ever be a greater thing than what I see here; I have seen that otherwise, the question should never leave me, until the day I freeze in place, too, eyes turned to the desert beyond.  As the sands behind me shift and the oasis disappears from my sight, I see a faint, white glow out on the horizon.

Panellus

The glowing mushroom has an interesting sort of hold upon the popular mushroom.  A natural phenomenon, bioluminescence has that sort of rarity and pageantry that renders is magical, luciferin-reactions-be-damned.  Be it known as will-o'-wisp, jack-o'-lantern, foxfire, or ignis fatuus, the natural lights of the night have always been portentous, heralds of good or ill, and spirits unto themselves.

The above is panellus stipticus, one of several score species of glowing mushroom known to man, in a rather wonderfully-patterned arrangement here.  Now, I need to set this pattern upon a man or woman - a simple enough task if used sparingly, for fear of creating a ruffles, glowing, green pinata instead of a tractable design; thus, the focus turns to accessories.  As an effect of such wonder and rarity, thoughts on such luminescent life turn to formal dress - a splash tie, perhaps?  No - an entire tie would overpower the ensemble in the dark, while it would pale in the light.  The next option is the pocket square - something which could easily be a simple color an pattern by day and light, and come to colored glow by night or shadow:

Within moderation, a tie, too, could work, if the glow is but a support to the body of the piece.  In the same vein, a sort of boa could serve as the same for the fairer sex, or provide an interesting touch to an elegant gown, detailed in places by black folds that later prove to be panellus plates.

The key here, as in the concept's origin, is surprise and rarity; that defines the boundary between an unbearable Day-Glo cacophony and a spirited twist.

Arthropoda

Several nights of frenetic sketching, modeling, and designing later, the legs have come together.  While there may yet be a few kinks to iron out (e.g. the effective transmission of torque from the wheel to the cranks), there is a definite shape to the thing, one which now only wants for a shell.

The previous iteration was an abomination of white plastic, an attempt to print everything in one go, and at twice the size of the current model.  The result was a terrible mess, as the 3-D printer had managed to take 11 hours to print the part, and the support raft had warped terribly, leaving the parts deformed.  Where there had been no deformation, I found that I had not anticipated the thickness of the plastic deposited, leaving the pins too large and the holes too small.

This run had its parts printed individually, with the pins speced out to radii of 1/4 mm less than the corresponding holes, which has worked marvelously, allowing the parts to join, and holding the parts together along the ridges formed by the plastic along the circumferences.  The individual parts are small, but the assembly fits comfortably in one's hand, and gives an idea of the final size - something fist-sized, yet light.

Paguro-idea

The job-hunting season approaches here.  In a sense, my classmates and I are outgrowing our old shells, and now need to select and compete for our new shells, our new selves, and, in a sense, our new homes.  But there is nothing new under the sun, and we are simply playing out our pale imitation of what has been, continues, and has yet to pass.

Consider the hermit crab.  It may be as good a metaphor for the modern student as any, choosing some façade in a panic at every new stage, and attempting to persist in it until the next stage of our growth forces us into the open, soft, vulnerable, and malleable, until we can scramble into our next identity.  And nothing is wasted - the old shells are downcycled to our eager successors.

The metaphor only struck me after my design idea, though.  For a while now, I have been extremely interested in the workings of Theo Jansen's walking linkage, and now, I have gained access to a 3-D printer (specifically, a Makerbot Replicator).  Naturally, much of my spare time has been dedicated to considering what I may make with the printer, and the idea of a toy version of the linkage came up.  However, the bare mechanism would not do - it had to have a structure, a context!

Fortunately, I found that in looking at several great animations of this mechanism, ones which, looking at only the front limbs, suggested something skittering about, some sort of arthropod.  At the same time, I was considering the benefits of such legs over wheels, and one advantage I noted was that, for every height of clearance below the axle, the mechanism needed less space above it than in a wheel.  The idea then turned to  a Jansen mechanism under a bowl - with just the legs protruding out - and the rest followed through to hermit crabs.

Now I just needed to give it a purpose.  This brings us to the jumping-off point.  These fairs generally feature  trinkets from each company as it tries to imprint its brand upon its prospective applicants; now, I can turn the process on its head with a toy of my own.

Trilobita

This is something special.  A single, simple body plan that gave birth to an incomprehensible variety, one which opened my eyes to the diversity of nature as nothing else could.  The trilobite - a world contained within a word.

Within this great range of configurations, articulations, and manifestations of the order, one combination must have sparked this idea:  a hat.  A trilobite hat.  Three lobes to cover the one over my two; creature, skull, and brain.  One year ago, I writ it warm upon the world - a felt trilobite for my head.

While there have been no predators for its armor to ward off, I am glad to say that it has performed admirably against a different killer - the cold of winter.