Cloning, a subject once the exclusive purlieu of Science Fiction authors, came onto the real-world scene in 1995-96 (Team24355) in the form of a sheep named Dolly. Hereto for the majority of Science Fiction’s treatment of the subject had produced an unrealistic idea which more closely matched the concept of a doppelganger (dictionary.com), a physically identical double which possessed all the knowledge and experiences of the original. The reality of cloning is much more mundane, and one which humanity has had experience with since time immemorial. Dolly was really just a manufactured identical twin.
That is, an identical twin is, in actuality, a clone: a creature which is genetically identical to another creature. Paranormal mythologies aside, such a creature does not share memories or experiences with the original any more than two genetically differentiated creatures do. The difference between Dolly the sheep and a traditional identical twin is her method of manufacture. Natural identical twins occur through a process known as “polyembryony” (Britannica), in which a single fertilized egg results in multiple embryos, and ultimately multiple infants with identical genes. Dolly, however, was created through a highly technical process by which the nucleus of an unfertilized egg is replaced with the nucleus of a cell from an existing animal.(team 24355) This results in the development of an embryo genetically identical to the existing animal. While there have been some discoveries that indicate that genetic material itself ages, and that successive generations of clones may be prone to increased mortality and shorter life-spans (MSNBC), this information is still under debate and undergoing scientific examination.
Scientists tend to think in terms of “how can it be done” and “can it be done successfully.” And, so far, they have been allowed to pursue cloning in this spirit of scientific inquiry. But a debate was sparked by the announcement of Dolly’s creation, an ethical debate. At the root of this debate is a basic question: is cloning morally acceptable or unacceptable? I shall endeavor to examine some of the basic positions that the various proponents and opponents have taken in this matter.
First, we will speak of a few reasons that cloning has been championed by some. Order of presentation may prove to be important, because many of the objections to cloning some as direct responses to these points.
Spare Parts: It has been concieved that a cloned zygote could be used to produce stem cells, which may be used to grow organs, nervous system components, muscle, skin, and other kinds of tissue in the event of need. In more extreme and outrageous scenarios, limbs may even be produced. Another method of producing this result might be the introduction of “cloned” cells into a non-human animal in order to grow similar replacement parts.
Genetic Screening:Another idea that has been bandied about is that of screening offspring for possible defects. An ovum (fertilized egg) could be cloned, and one of the resulting clones could be tested for defects. Should there be none, the original could be implanted. If defects are detected, the parents could destroy the ova and start over again.
Genetic duplication of experimental subjects:In genetic research, it may be ideal to use multiple identical subjects for experimentation. Having a “control” that is genetically identical to an “experiment” can produce more meaningful results with smaller sample populations. Using extensive in-breeding, there is already a breed of mouse that produces genetic clones naturally, but only cloning could produce this effect for multiple species.
Genetic preservation of species: One possible benefit of cloning would be the ability to “resurrect” populations of species or breeds of creatures who are endangered or extinct. A popular example would be the attempt to clone a wooly mammoth using an elephant egg. A more practical example would be the preservation of creatures that are still on Earth, but whose days may be numbered. If a wide enough genetic sampling were taken and preserved, viable populations of adequately varied members could be reproduced when habitat is recovered sufficiently to support them.
Genetic preservation of ideal or vital specimens: If a particular creature should prove to be ideal or vital in some way, then a genetic duplicate could be made to replace it when it has died. While there is no guarantee that a genetic duplicate would embody all the elements that made the original so vital (nature vs. nurture!), the risk of losing an irreplaceable creature may justify such an endeavor. To take an obvious example, a genetic duplicate of Albert Einstein may possibly possess the same “genius” as his original. With the proper upbringing and environment, perhaps such a clone could contribute greatly to mankind. Or a winning racehorse could be duplicated and studied to learn what made him so fast.
There are, however, many objections that have been made to cloning as a whole. And, as stated before, many of these objections deal directly with some of the supposed benefits of cloning.
Sanctity of Human Life: This is an objection that covers most of the previous arguments for the use of cloning. The premise is that human life is special, and that killing humans is morally reprehensible, even if just in zygote form. So the creation of a human being with the primary idea of using it to produce spare parts is unnacceptable from a moral standpoint. That is, the creation and destruction of a zygote is not justified, and it would be better that the original die or live in a diminished form (disabled in some way). Likewise, the destructive testing of a zygote to screen for possible genetic defects is also unacceptable. Even in a case where no defects are found, one zygote must perish. And in the case of a defect being detected, at least two zygotes die. For someone who feels that every zygote is sacrosanct, no matter how imperfect, this is homicide even in the best possible scenario.
Threatened Biodiversity: If cloning were used to preserve ideal specimens, or to perpetuate an endangered species, it is possible that the genetic diversity of the species being cloned may be compromised. That is, if a significant portion of that population is produced from a single example, then all that specimen’s weaknesses may become prevalent. Doomsday possibilities of a single virus destroying an entire population of clones, or a world filled with a specific defect or cancer susceptibility, or a species which cannot reproduce without inbreeding are all possible. Also, unknown beneficial properties of the discarded or displaced natural specimens may be lost forever. This objection is not as inescapable to its adherents as the sanctity of human life crowd, as all these scenarios are technically avoidable. But the pessimists among us may say that Murphy’s Law would make these problems inevitable.
The Superman and the Slave: This is an objection which, like cloning in general, has been explored in science fiction for decades. Cloning, combined with genetic engineering, might allow for the creation of either a race of super-humans which embody someone’s ideal of mankind, or a race of complacent and/or ignorant slaves. Two extremes of the same scenario, one might end up enslaved by or enslaving a race of modified “humans.” And, while this argument seems outlandish, adherents would request that you ask yourself what the Nazis might have done if they had access to modern genetic engineering and cloning technologies. Never underestimate mankind’s ability to creatively abuse its power, they might say.
The Tower of Babel -or- Playing God: The religious among us have said that genetic engineering in general and cloning in specific, is a lot like the biblical humans who were said to have tried to build a tower to heaven. That is, it is an attempt to act the part of God and “rise above our station.” One should not tinker with His creation, they might say. An answer to this argument might be that the alleviation of suffering or the preservation of His creatures by whatever means necessary is not bad, but may be an answer to His calling. Either way, this argument relies more upon religion than reason.
We are still at the beginning of the argument, however. All these arguments for and against cloning have yet to be resolved, and like many moral questions, may be unresolvable in anything other than a subjective manner. The one thing that I believe, above all else, is that no amount of wrangling, objecting, or banning will ultimately prevent the advance of cloning technology.
Objections to the nuclear bomb didn’t stop it from being developed. Objections to commercial genetic engineering didn’t stop it from being done. When it gets down to it, there are too many humans, with too many motivations, and too many opportunities, for any scientific possibility to go unfulfilled forever.
This author would assert that cloning is neither bad, nor good. And that it is better to proceed in a controlled manner, setting precedents along the way, than it is to attempt to halt this technology, and force it into the shadows. Put the fire in the fireplace, and tend to it well. Only then can you be safe and warm at the same time.
Works Cited
Team 24355, Kayotic Development. Conceiving a Clone [Online] 1998. URL <http://library.thinkquest.org/24355/>
Britannica.com. “Polyembryony” Encyclopedia Britannica [Online] 1999-2000. URL <http://www.britannica.com/bcom/eb/article/5/0,5716,62235+1,00.html>
Dictionary.com. “Doppelganger” Lexico LLC [Online] 2001. URL <http://www.dictionary.com/cgi-bin/dict.pl?term=doppelganger>
MSNBC. “Report:Dolly May Age Prematurely” MSNBC Health [Online] May 26, 1999. URL <http://www.msnbc.com/news/273594.asp?cp1=1#BODY>
¶ 3:36 PM 1 Comments
For those outside of the Detroit area:WNIC is an easy-listening station 11 months out of the year. For the entire month before Jesus' birthday it changes its format to nothing but Christmas standards.
James Christmas is a man with only two days to live.
He has hated his name, and hated Christmas since he was a teenager. All the bad things in his life have happened to him on Christmas; things like his wife leaving him.
Like losing his dream job at the linen pencil sharpening center.
Like his best friend becoming a Mooney.
Like the time he asked for Optimus Prime and was given StarScream.
Further, all these bad events have become associated with particular holiday tunes in his head, so that every Christmas song makes him relive another terrible moment in his life. Since his doctors tell him he is going to die within two days, and it is Dec 23rd, Jimmy Christmas has only one more bad thing to have happen to him on Christmas: his own death.
WNIC's wall-to-wall Christmas music is such torture to him, he wants to live his last few days in a world without it. So he has snuck into WNIC's offices with some antlers he stole from his father's wall. They have been sharpened to needle points, and he has strapped them to his head. He resolves to gore the program director to death with his horns of good cheer.
He wears a black turtle neck sweater, black dress slacks, black dress socks, black wingtip shoes, and a black knit cap. He is bald underneath. He has painted his face with black shoe-polish. His jolly set of sharpened antlers are strapped to his head with linen strips tied firmly under his chin. There is a stopwatch ticking down the seconds to Christmas clutched in his sweaty hands.
Rick Peterson is a program directory at WNIC during the holidays:
Rick has always been a Christmas kind of guy. The veritable opposite of Ebeneezer Scrooge. He keeps Christmas in his heart all year long, making weekly visits to Frankenmuth to buy various Christmas-y knick-knacks. His office is coated in Christmas stuff, and he spends days poring over gift catalogues deciding what perfect gift to give each of his friends. He takes great pride in always picking out the perfect gift, just so that the person receiving the gift will feel ashamed at their own inadequate reciprical gifting.
So he finds much joy in programming the Christmas season at WNIC. Getting rid of the watered down, insipid, terrible, light-weight pop music for a few weeks and replacing it with inspirational and musically invaluable selections such as “Do they know its Christmas,” “Rockin Around the Christmas Tree,” not to mention selections from “A Very Hanson Christmas” and his all time favorite: “I want a Hippopotamus for Christmas”.
He is looking forward to a late night of work, and is humming “Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer” under his breath.
He wears a holiday print, baggy Heathcliff Huxtable style sweater, a pair of dockers, christmas print socks and two penny-loafers: one blue, one red.
Rick's Office:
Rick's office is technically an outside, window office, but his window overlooks an alley and some darkened windows in the building across the way. Small, with a desk covered in Christmas print contact paper, with silver foil snowflakes hanging over it tied to the drop ceiling braces with fishline, there is a sign on the door admonishing visitors to “be good, for goodness sake!” and a fake highway sign is hung on the wall next to his clock that says “Reindeer Crossing” accompanied with the requisite silhouette of a reindeer flying.
There is a closet here, and in it is our friend, Jimmy. Rick sits at his chair, jolly snow-man coffee mug in his hand. He has a radio on his desk tuned in to the studio, listening to the music. As the music tracks change, he knods in satisfaction and recognition: he is making sure his program selection is running its course properly. The radio has Christmas decals liberally pasted all over it.
The tableau:
Jimmy will attempt to kill, but each piece of Christmas music will cause a flash back to a bad time in his past. When he finally charges Rick, he misses the dodging Rick and stabs the radio, getting electrocuted while Bruce Springstein sings, “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” Last words? “Ho, ho, ho. * die *”
¶ 6:08 AM 0 Comments
Only now do I realize that there are less violent lifestyles available for everyone's favorite polymer beauty. My daughter Samantha, for instance, keeps her population of Barbie and Barbie-like fashion dolls more or less fully clothed, and stores them all in a blue plastic tackle box.
Samantha was playing quietly with those Barbies last night as I sat down at the piano to warm up. I soon noticed that the keys felt funky and were sticking together. Closer examination showed that there were broken pieces of raw spaghetti stuck between many of the keys. First of all, my piano is allergic to semolina, and should only eat wheat noodles. Second of all, this is my only piano and I can't afford to replace it! I proceed to the living room where fifty percent of my genetic material was swapping shoes between various dollies."Samantha," I ask, "did you put spaghetti in Daddy's piano?" In answer, Sam shakes her head "no," and doubles her concentration on the Barbies' shoe choices.
"Sam. Look at me."
She looks.
"Did you put... spaghetti... in Daddy's piano?" She can't meet my eyes, and casts about the room for something to look at. Finally, she knods "yes."
"Sam, do you think its good to put spaghetti in the piano?" Her eyes register a bit of hope, and she optimistically knods her head "yes".
"Sam... do you really think its good to put spaghetti in the piano?" The hope dies along with her tentative smile, and she looks down, shaking her head.
"Then why did you put spaghetti in the piano?"
Her eyes begin to tear up and she begins nervously wringing the long hair of Rapunzel Barbie, whose head quietly creaks in protest.
"I was eating the spahzghetty, and I dropped some inna piano, and then my Care Bear was going to fix it!" Care bear? Was it going to remove the spaghetti from the piano by loving it really hard?
"Sam, you were not eating raw spaghetti. So why did you put the spaghetti in the piano?" She looks up at me with her pretty little face and I get the dubious pleasure of watching her carefully held composure crumble, and tears start running down her now-red cheeks toward her rumpled little chin.
"I don't know," she cries, dumps Barbie unceremoniously onto the floor and rushes me. With an involuntary grunt, I absorb the full brunt of her desperate hug as she begins dehydrating herself through occular emissions all over my leg. I gently turn her head up to look me in the face.
"Sammy, promise me you won't put food in the piano again."
Sobbing loudly, she increases the force of her hug to the point where she could safely stand in for a tourniquet should I ever sever a limb. "I promise!"
"What do you promise, Sam?"
"Not to put spahzgetty in the piano."
"Say, 'I promise not to have food around the piano,' ok?" She knods. "Say it, Sam."
"I promise not to eat food in the piano, Daddy."
Close enough. I spent an hour carefully taking the piano, a Roland HP-327 with complicated weighted key assemblies, apart. Spaghetti removed, I reassembled the thing and found I was in no mood to try to play Curl, a sad-sack tune, so I did the far less emotional Three In Eight instead. SafeT's Guide to Care and Feeding of Digital Pianos ¶ 9:41 AM 0 Comments
There I beheld the most enormous beetle. He was at least an inch and a half long--possibly 3 centimeters for you metrics out there. Now I'm no entymologist, but I usually don't see beetles like this around my house. (An entymologist is someone who wears insects ornamentally, especially as hats or cod-pieces) I ran for my camera and began taking pictures.
It was about that time that I began to hear the gruff voice.
"Joe," said the voice, "listen to me! This is your dad's third cousin Danny speaking." Hmm... I don't remember any Dannys."My step-father's cousin or my real father's cousin?" I ask, seeking clumsy exposition.
"What? Oh, uh..," he wagged his antennae nervously, "Real father. Yeah, thats it. Your real father's cousin Danny." He seemed to gain his confidence back. "I know we never really met," sez the beetle, "but I have a message for you--one so important that I came back as an enormous beetle to talk to you." I grabbed a notepad and a pencil, ready to take down some posthumous advice from the insect manifestation of my heretofor unknown distant cousin Dan. "OK, so here it is," he continued, "Tomorrow morning you're planning on taking a shower, am I right?" I knodded, amazed at his prescience, "It is really important that you NOT use the dandruff shampoo."
I began furiously scribbling down his celestial tip, when another ghastly green glow pulsed and faded. There, less than two feet from Danny, appeared an enormous and annoyed grasshopper. From the gloom came a woman's voice, irritated and sharp in tone.
"Danny," snapped the grasshopper, "I'm getting sick of this crap." The beetle, obviously agitated, walked in a tight circle, wagging his mandibles.
"Don't pay attention to that grasshopper, Joe," he desperately requested, "Its a, ah, a bad spirit."
"A bad spirit?" came the grasshopper's incredulous reply, "Danny, I'm your WIFE. And if you were half a man you would quit bothering people and come back to bed."
Angry now, the beetle advanced threateningly towards the grasshopper, yelling, "Maggie, just why the fuck did you have to come out here? Huh?" his carapace was shivering with rage, "A guy just wants to help his relatives out, maybe have a little bit of a good time, and what does his lovely wife do? You got nerve, Mags, you've got nerve."
"Help?" her voice rose to a shriek, "Help? Danny, I wouldn't trust you to lead a man to the toilette!" She then turned to me, "So, what was it this time? 'Don't use the mouthwash?' Or was it, 'BEWARE THE FLOSS?!?' Oh, I know, my favorite, 'sacrifice your beer to me!' Well?"
She seemed to be waiting. I lifted my jaw from the floor, cleared my throat, and told her about the shampoo taboo. She hopped in anger and landed full square in front of Danny, who began to cower, trying to hide his legs under his abdomen.
"Danny, you've gone too far." she her wings shook gently with disappointment, "You gotta stop this. You're pathetic. Every night you manifest and give advice no one needs. Just what would happen if Joe here used the shampoo, anyway?"
"Well..," the beetle tilted, looking up at the grasshopper hopefully, "he might get some in his eyes?"
"So to spare him from having to rinse his eyes out, you would have the poor man go all flakey-scalped?" she gently placed one of her left legs on my cousin's shell, "No one likes to see dandruff, Danny. C'mon home," her tone warmed considerably, "we can still catch the Johnny Carson show."
"But, surely you mean Jay Leno," I piped up, "Isn't Johnny Carson dead?" Maggie leveled an appraising gaze at me, paused thoughtfully and then said,
"So what's your point?" with that, the grasshopper bounded off into the night, leaving Danny behind momentarily.
"Well, uh," Dan stroked his front legs through his jaws thoughtfully, "I guess this is it." From the distance we heard Maggie,
"COME ON, DANNY!"
Dan turned and began crawling away. Tears welled in my eyes.
"But Dan, you could teach me so much!" I fought a sob, "We never really got a chance to talk."
"You'll be OK, kid," came the reply from the darkness, "and don't forget what I said about the shampoo!" Darkness consumed the now-quiet Michigan night and I was once again left all alone. I just knew, however, that I would never forget them, or the valuable lesson they taught me.
I love you, Dan and Maggie, and someday we'll meet again. I just know it.
These bugs actually did visit me on my back porch monday night. I took all these pictures. Wether or not there were spirits in them, I may never know. I didn't want to open the door, because that would let bugs in the house. Yuck. Click on the pictures for blow-ups. ¶ 2:13 PM 0 Comments
I dreamed this universe one night in the late nineties. I wrote it all down as an outline and began writing. I got the introduction and the barest beginning of chapter one down. For me, this sort of writing is very challenging--because I second-guess myself too often, I suppose. If I get feedback, I may return to this world.
Arrival of the Slow Ones:
Massive and beautiful, the Slow Ones’ habitat entered the solar system like a celestial glacier. So slow was it that at first it was seen as a huge wandering asteroid. Only after gradually changing course, first joining Neptune’s solar orbit and then steadily catching up to it over the course of a decade, did earth-born scientists take notice. Looking like an amorphous blob to ground-based optical telescopes, as if a smudge on a lens, it was revealed by orbital telescopes to be made up of literally millions of elements. Platforms, bubble-like objects, lumps of ice, rock and metal, unknown irregular objects of synthetic material, all these and more seemed to be tethered in a huge and disorganized web. In appearance, it could be likened to a fishing net adrift at sea, having accumulated masses of different ocean refuse. Here it was, unmistakable evidence of life from outside the human sphere. Here it was, unmistakable evidence of intelligent life not our own. What did this mean to the human race? Everything and nothing. As the years following the arrival of the Slow Ones to our solar system passed, they showed that almost every faction, clan, tribe, and clique had a differing interpretation as to the ultimate meaning and purpose of our visitors.
Perhaps it was a weapon. No-it must be a host of angels. Certainly it was evil. Surely it was good. Verily, God proclaimed it to be a divine sign calling for the extermination of those who disagree with this or that group of zealots. Perhaps it was space trash looking for a home like a fugitive barge-load of New York City trash touring the east coast. Soon a world already filled with minor conflicts and which had been disarming itself of nuclear weapons for decades began to disintegrate into conventional warfare. Small fights, large battles, a few scattered nuclear detonations, physical combat . . . these all killed a statistical few at first. But borders changed. Large nations became many small nations. Small nations died, or were changed forever. But the true holocaust was still to come.
Genetically designed illnesses were unleashed upon the Earth. Some targeted regions. Some targeted races. There were custom viruses that sterilized millions and created a race of mentally disabled people in Asia. There was a mutant strain of bacteria that caused a well-fed country to starve to death as their intestines stopped functioning. There were even a few nano-electronic microbe designs. These miniature devices spent decades quietly breeding in the spines of entire generations only to eventually destroy nervous systems when the assigned killing time came-creating a billion corpses in one night; those few who survived in the affected region started a new pass-over legend which is still told centuries later. Attack and counter attack, plagues and wasting sicknesses, within a century the population on Earth had plummeted to levels unseen in four hundred years.
For a while, defenses were developed. Nano-electronic defense forces were designed and microscopic wars were fought in the bodies of men and women everywhere. Viruses were released which altered the genetic make up of entire populations simply in order to innoculate against specific man-made diseases. Sometimes these backfired and had unforseen consequences. “Patch” viruses were developed to correct these mistakes. Unfortunately, a beta “patch” virus eventually became one of the worst diseases ever devised. Nevertheless, humanity survived...after a fashion...while the Slow Ones proceeded on their leisurely tour of our solar system.
As the humans started their killing, the Slow Ones left Neptune. Never having actually orbited the planet, they had simply chased it around the sun for 30 years or so. Years passed and there were still some humans watching as they slowly crept into Uranus’ orbit. By the time they broke orbit and drifted toward Saturn there was no one on Earth with the time to watch; the remaining technological powers struggled with their wars for survival and revenge. Decades later, when the Slow Ones visited Jupiter, there was nobody left with the means to watch. Earth had entered its second dark age, and the Slow Ones were still centuries away from our tortured blue green orb.
************
Legend of the Guard Clan:Year 1, the Calling
No matter what calendar anyone else used, the GuardClan members always counted their time in one way only: in the years that had passed since the moment of the Calling. On that fateful day, almost a billion people from what was once called South America perished. It was a quiet holocaust, without even a whimper or a single cry of pain. From the deserted dead zones of central America to the southern tip of the continent, the vast majority of people simply stopped, fell over if they were standing, and died. A continent of vitality and struggle became a continent of silence and corpses.
GuardClan elders say that the Keeper of the Roots screamed in panic that day as his gates were overrun with the newly dead.
The Roots, the elders tell, were suddenly filled with blood, and the WorldTree was flooded with life, as the souls of the Chosen watered the Earth. The WorldTree had Called, and its people had come home. Before that Call, however, the goddess of war and sacrifice interceded with the WorldTree. She plead that the remains of the people, their heritage and their possessions, should not be left unguarded. She cried that those who were not of the chosen might come and defile the homes of the dead, make their spirits unhappy and sicken the WorldTree. Furthermore, the remains of the chosen would be left without anyone to honor them, without anyone to light their pyres. The WorldTree saw the wisdom in her words and sent the goddess down to earth from her place high in the branches of the WorldTree.
Now as any elder can tell you, gods and goddesses are powerful, but cannot interact directly with physical things in either the Roots of the WorldTree or on the surface of the Earth. That is why the goddess took the names of certain men and women from the list of the chosen and decreed that they would act on her behalf.
They could no longer be among the chosen.
They would not see the Keeper and join the multitudes in the Roots when the Calling came.
They would instead be entrusted with Guarding the bodies, places and possessions of the dead while at the same time preparing the great funeral pyres. They would light those pyres and Guard them as they burned. And lastly, they and their decedents would Guard forevermore. Guard the holy sites. Guard their own people. Guard the truth and story of the WorldTree. And finally, they would Guard others in need of protection; those others who need the services of what was from then on called the GuardClan.
Guard Clan:Year 475
Guard Duty
Guarding what was precious was the sacred duty as well as the livelihood of members of the GuardClan. Mozam was now performing that duty for a team of Outsiders in the quiet darkness of the desert night. This place, made up of crumbled ruins which appeared as any other pile to Mozam’s untrained eye, was not precious to him or his family, but it was very precious to the diggers from the College of Reclamation at Slow City. They were his family’s clients. They were his clients. And that was reason enough for Mozam and the family Tueth to Guard.
Here in the wastes of Mishilohio, the scrub grass grew in tall patches interspersed with many ruins and with scattered and twisted trees. During the day you would see nothing bigger than a fox as far as the eye could see, and at night you could barely see anything at all. An Outsider he met once during a supply run to Slow City told him that Outsiders who try to guard frequently get bored during night watches, and this amazed Mozam. He told of this to others in his family unit and they were likewise surprised. Night watches were at once one of the most challenging ways to Guard and the most personally fulfilling. During a night watch Vigilance had to be raised almost constantly despite fatigue or lack of stimulation, and the darkness created some level of difficulty in identifying the exact nature and numbers of possible assailants. None of this was insurmountable to an adult GuardClan member, but challenging nonetheless. The true personal fulfillment of night-time Guard duty, however, came in the solitude. An environment where all SHOULD be still allows time for mental exercises the likes of which would be more difficult during the hustle and bustle of daytime duty. Mozam, for instance, loved to practice raising Vigilance for multiple perceptions at once. Tonight he decided to start with hearing. Concentrating, meditating until the presence of...something could be felt, he visualized a light quickly flashing and dancing in a complex pattern over and over, and soon the sounds of his own breathing and heartbeat subsided. With those relatively cacophonous sounds gone, the desert could now be heard clearly. Almost subliminally, he could hear a mouse moving in the scrub two dozen feet from the ruins he Guarded. The sound was but a hint, not even a real sound, but he KNEW it was a mouse from experience. Soon, he could hear the stealthy pad-pad-pad of a feral cat approaching the mouse from the north. Concentration....mental routines...more flashing in his mind....his eyes began seeing with higher contrast. What was but a shadow in the distance now resolved to become a silhouette. The feral cat was a dozen yards away, but moving closer. Both animal sounds stopped suddenly and he fought successfully to hold himself from smiling. The cat had halted, hunkering down and preparing to pounce on the rodent. The mouse had frozen, somehow detecting that something was wrong...a momentary impasse as the two animals thought out their next moves.
As a little boy, Mozam had practiced the ways of the Hidden Guard by protecting wandering mice like this one from predators. A clansman acting as a Hidden Guard should both provide an effective defense to, and remain undetected by, the person or persons under his or her protection. It was a specialty skill, but one which the Tueth family unit was proud to call their own. As a boy, many cats went home hungry without their prey ever knowing Mozam was watching over them nearby. But tonight Mozam was on duty; this rodent would have to fend for himself.
A moment later and the momentary silence was broken by a quiet squeak and little scraping noises as the cat bagged his kill. The cat's silhouette, holding it's head high and it's kill above the scrub grass, trotted off into the wasteland to look for privacy...or perhaps her kittens.
Momentary interlude over, Mozam allowed Vigilance to subside to the normal level needed for guard duty. The presence was still there, as it always was when Vigilance was raised, but it was distant....quiet, and from years of practice Mozam hardly needed to pay attention to it to maintain the effect. His breathing and heartbeat became audible again, although still muted slightly. His eyesight dimmed from high contrast to merely light-sensitive. High Vigilance had it's costs, and even the best guards could only hold it for a while, followed by hours without the ability to raise at all. Mozam needed to stand here with Vigilance raised at normal Night Guard level for at least another hour.
Falling into the rhythm of the duty, Mozam slowly turned his head from side to side, scanning the area exactly once per 12 heart-beats as was the family custom. Listening....watching...this was not the sort of duty which required his utmost concentration to be effective. So, visualizing the entire site, Outsider base camp and GuardClan camp in his head, Mozam silently counted his sister and brothers on duty, their relative position to himself and the landmarks of the site. Time passed, and judging by the position of the moon, Rekzah should be along very soon to relieve him.
¶ 7:45 AM 0 Comments
One of my piano pieces is a tune I've always called:"I Say It Often."
In my head, the first line of melody always plays out as
I say it all the time
I do
but just because it's often doesn't mean its not true
You may remember me mentioning once, in passing, that my wife and I have a somewhat gender-reversed relationship. Reversed, that is, in comparison to the gender stereotypes society saddles us with.
You see, while Heather is petit and cute, she is strong and capable in ways normally not considered feminine. She once physically--and painfully--subdued an escaped suspect fleeing the court room at 38th District Court. She is a probation officer, and keeps tight control of her wards. She loves sports, has a Honda Shadow motorcycle, can't stand wearing skirts (she looks mighty fine in a pair of jeans, though!) and is never squeamish around gore or injuries. She loves big dogs, doesn't care for cats, and would rather watch COPS than Oprah. She's handy around the house, and isn't afraid to tackle a project.
What about me? Well, I'm physically strong, and I exhibit many exaggerated secondary masculine characteristics. But... I like cats. I hate sports. I can't do home repair or improvement unless it involves electronics. I love to talk about relationships and feelings. I love to cuddle, and I want to lie there and talk after making love.
Heather...not so much. She has never been a cuddler, and tolerates me doing so for short stretches of time. And after making love she usually passes out for the night. I can talk to her at that point, but not with her. Heh-heh.
Opposites attract, right? We've been together for ten years come this fourth of July, and have already been married for more than 5 years. We love each other dearly.
Back when I composed the tune mentioned above, we had been together for four years. Almost the entire time we'd been together I had been telling Heather I loved her multiple times a day--another of those things I do that defies gender stereotype.
Hardly any conversation could go by without me saying, "I love you," or, "you're my favorite person." I was starting to worry that I was cheapening the statement in her eyes, and that the sincerity of my sentiments might seem to be lost due to repetition. This is still the case today.
I say it all the time
I do
but just because it's often doesn't mean its not true.
But now we have Samantha. Sam Ann Whited, age four. She's beautiful, smart, considerate (for a four year old), helpful in a destructively well-meaning sort of way, and she doles out love and affection to everyone around her, even children she meets in the park. I have been telling Sammy that I love her multiple times a day.
Hardly any conversation goes by without me saying, "I love you," or, "you're my favorite little girl." But with Sam I never worry that it my sentiments are becoming cheapened.
On the contrary, when she throws her little arms around my neck and says, "I love you too, Daddy," I know I can never say it enough.
When I was young I sometimes wondered if I would, should the situation ever arise, be able to make the ultimate sacrifice and die so that someone else might live. I doubted I would. I felt guilty about it.
After I fell in love with Heather I revisited this thought and realized I probably would, if only for her. It still seemed to me that it would be a hard decision to make, but if the need arose I would definitely die for Heather. But then Sam came along.
After Samantha was born the list of people I would die for grew by one. When I revisit the question in my head now, would I voluntarily give up my life if it would save the life of someone else, I realize that the answer, when it comes to Sam, is gladly.
And I would go with a smile, and a single tear for missing what comes next. ¶ 7:56 AM 0 Comments
