«The Screen»

04-08-2309

Walking home last night, it was about 6 or 7 when I saw this girl on the other side of the street watching a video on her touchi. As we both pressed buttons on either side of the crosswalk, I caught her take a peek at me, then quickly return her attention to whatever she was watching on a screen that took up the entire side of her phone. As we passed each other in the middle, she focused as hard as she could on the digital image, intent on pretending I wasn’t there. I shook my head to myself as I reached the other side.

It’s said we spend over 12 hours a day staring a screen. It seems like a lot until you consider your phone, PDA, GPS, HUD, etc; think about your computer screen. Hell, I watched the news while I was taking a shower this morning. Even though when we have screens everywhere from our vehicles to our vanities, 12 hours a day staring at CRTs, LCDs or optic diode arrays is still a lot.

It’s also said that a little under half that time is spent staring at the teli screen alone. The TV world is a dangerous place to expose yourself to for extended periods of time. All the people that exist there are so beautiful and rich, and more successful than we’ll ever be. They lead fantastic lives and go on compelling and extravagant adventures. Stories that don’t have to be good, must just have exciting enough sequences to make the cut for TV audiences. These plots are still are automatically on a par more astounding than any real life event could be.

I think this leads to a supreme disconnect in our society. I’ve noticed everywhere I go, if someone is walking they’ll have their ears and/or eyes occupied with some form of gadgetry. Typically they’re listening to music emitted into their ears directly by tiny earbuds. No biggie, people have been listening to headphones with portable players for years. But these days, its always on their phone– and always texting. Seems you pull your texti or touchi out reflexively as soon as you’re about to walk by someone.

Best to have a good excuse for not making eye contact with someone, rather you get caught in an awkward staring match as you pass, because you’d rather not say anything to a stranger, right? Does anyone remember when people used to greet everyone they met all day? Does anyone care about a person they don’t know if they don’t look like they’re someone who can give you something?  How can you be sure they actually have what you need?

We know we can get it from the screen. Whatever we want or need, we know we just have to ask a screen to give it to us.

In order to develop properly, Allan says, one must establish stable, long term relationships with other people they trust and know, real face to face interaction with other humans. I think we’ve all but substituted these, creating relationships with people we don’t know–celebrities and media personalities. Just characters, fake people. We’ve mistaken our aliases and handles for our real names, our screennames becoming more synonymous with who we think we are. I almost wonder what reality is to some people, if they feel like they’re just playing a part. Do you realize there are no characters you can become cast as, you can always change your role.

And whenever I think about loneliness or feeling disconnected, I quickly realize there are at least half a thousand people living in Villa Venusia, and another two thousand in this square mile. Everyone’s in their own little world though, the screen their only eyes to see it with. And when nothing seen is real, they forget that the people and things they see out in the world aren‘t just fake too.

Meanwhile, just around the corner is a person whom I may have something I common with, someone I can have a conversation with and be friends with. Who knows, maybe even a girl I could be falling in love with.

I’m looking in all the wrong places and my eyes hurt too much. I have to stop staring at the screen.

«Sleeping on the Floor»

02-10-2309

     I can’t tell you how much it thrills me to be able to sleep in a comfortable bed tonight. For the past 7 weeks I’ve been making nests of various piles of blankets and sleeping bags, ever since I got kicked out of my last apartment. In almost two months I’ve jumped at every chance I’ve gotten just to lay down on someone’s bed and prayed I could get a couch wherever I crashed. Even when I went home to Earth, I had to sleep on the floor of my old room cause my brother commandeered my bed after my cat pissed on his. I was too amused by the situation to care at the time.

     All that time tossing on unsporting floorboards and thin carpet just reminded me of when I first moved to Mars and had no where to stay but Linda’s house. Hell, even after I moved into my first apartment with Pashan, where I just had that broken futon, I still spent almost every night sleeping on the ground in my girlfriend’s bedroom. Even this past summer I spent a lot of time on Allan‘s floor because I still lived half an hour away from my life. But now that’s all over.

     Yes, now I am coming to you from my new apartment on the other side of Costa Mensa. I may have mentioned a complex I looked up, last year while I was first trying to move, called Villa Venusia. If not, it’s a beautifully spacious gated community with an artificial lake that runs through the entire complex. Even in between the rows of buildings where walkways and driveways would belong, deceptively shallow streams and tributaries meander about, trickling over boulders or spewing with fountains. The fortunate residents that live within the inner units even have balconies that rest on the water where one could sit on the edge and dangle your toes if you so chose.

     I may not be that fortunate, but I’m still lucky I got the place I did. It’s a small 2-Bedroom on the second story of one of the units in the back, but far from a shabby residence. I found the room online through one of those sketchy classified services, so I was expecting the worst when it came to the roommate I picked. It turned out for the best, thankfully.

     Witt is a nice Ganymedean woman and we share a few things in common, including a birth sign and roots in Keret, where she grew up and where my father‘s family is from. Although, there is definitely a generation gap pervading our conversations, though deep and insightful, what with her being my own mother’s age. She does like to drag me into these long talks as I’m trying to get back to my room or out the front door, but I don’t mind cause sometimes I do actually want to respond, and any other time her busy schedule keeps her out of the house.

     It only took me a couple days to get all my stuff from Manna and Justene’s garage up to my room and unpacked, and now I’m surrounded by the familiar knickknacks and images from parts of the Solar system I’ve never even been. My portable workstation seems relieved to be unpacked and has been successfully integrated into it’s new homesphere–no need to buccaneer my way into a random unsecured network. I remain seated at it most of the day and night since I don’t have a teli to keep me inebriated, but sometimes when my back is hurting from being hunched over a keyboard and computer screen, I take a few minutes to thumb through one of my books or pluck a few chords on my guitar.

     Actually, now that I mention it, I’ve been on the nets all day researching tourism on Jupiter and Saturn, instead of looking for a job to pay for such a holiday. My back is murdering me and I feel like I’m starting to get sick, so I’m gonna go turn in for the night and lay down on a fluffy, inviting mattress.

«The Year of Hair»

12-02-2308

     I still can’t help but pause at every mirrored surface in my house. I didn’t even walk past the flat teli hung on the living room wall without admiring my reflection. The handsome youth staring back in the inert screen is unfamiliar to me, and seeing him smile with a sick new confidence puts a new stride in my step.

«←→»

     Lexi stood at the check in counter, anxiously awaiting the news the neither of the people we were supposed to meet were showing up.

     “I could do you, if you like,” she started, looking up from the books on her side of the desk at me. I tried hard not to show any weakness in her light blue eyes. “Should my model not check in, that is.”

     “Yeah, that would be electric,” I replied glancing around, half hoping they wouldn’t arrive suddenly, half embarrassed that I just described something as electric.

     “Alright, rad!” She smiled rosy, herself possibly embarrassed for saying rad. “Just hang out around here while I get my instructor’s approval.”

     It wasn’t the first time I had to bum around this salon. I used to work at a bookstore in this mall, and Linda’s sister, Liz, used to be a color specialist here, so I would spend a lot of my breaks hanging out with her and her boyfriend that worked the bar upstairs. This was how I learned the trick to getting a free haircut.

     It had been months since I’d stepped into this place and doubted that I even knew anyone who was still going though the classes. It didn’t matter though, you just have to ask if anyone needs a model for a cut, and you must be willing to take whatever they need to knock out of their portfolio. I’ve walked out of this place with faux-hawks, mullets and streaks in every primary color because I couldn’t be picky.

     Tonight was my lucky night after all. Lexi appeared a moment later and beckoned me follow her to the back with a pale finger. Those same little fingers soon found their way to my scalp, massaging gently under the rush or warm water. I fancied it as the best head rub I’d ever received, but like all good things, it didn’t last long enough. Over the next hour I’d gain her story, lose a year of hair and rediscover my swagger.

     Lexi came from Luna, just another emigrant to Martian soil. She had moved here two months ago from a small settlement near Kepler City. Surely you’ve been through there, anyone traveling past the Earth system finds themselves spending an hour of layover in Kepler’s main concourse at least once or twice in their life. One reason she left the moon behind was to flee a bad relationship, a story I had been hearing all too often these days. She had also been working with hair since she was 17 and wanted to crystallize her seven years of experience as a stylist, certified by this salon’s training program.

     She felt defiant here though; it was obvious she knew more about cosmetology than most of the instructors telling her what to do. This was only reinforced when she finished, her delicate hands put the final touches on the magnificently avant-garde work of hair. Not only did seeing my new hair renew a sense of confidence in me, but it also rekindled the hope that I could make something of myself still.

     I was slowly giving up hope on my chances of success with the end of each passing day. That was, of course, before a haircut made me realize I just had to stick to what I wanted through all the shit, and eventually I’d shine through from underneath it all. Until then I just had to keep my head up and walk tall. And remind myself I even had the courage to ask for Lexi’s number afterword.

«←→»

     I resist the urge to comb by hair out in the mirror by the front door. Realizing I’m already too god-damn-good-looking to waste another moment on vanity, I pop my collar and strut out of my house. Taking a look up at Phobos and all the stars in the clear night sky I begin to smile, well amused with myself.

     “I’m gonna shuck this oyster.”

«Everyone Comes Here»

11-25-2308

     I wished goodbye to my three Earthling neighbors as they left my apartment. Then, after shaking my head in amusement, I turned to sit and light a Martian Spirit, almost choking as I took that first drag. I pulled up my scarf, leaned back and closed my eyes to the night’s brisk coastal wind as I pondered.

     In the two years I’ve lived here, I don’t believe I’ve ever been drawn to any group of people as much as those not from this place. Whether my friends were Venusian, Saturnian or Jovian, it never mattered as long as they were not a native born Martian. Within the past few months, though, I’ve noticed a startling empathy for the people of my world, Earth.

     They say birds of a feather flock together, and I could never have denied my attraction to like-minded individuals, especially ones who’ve felt just as lonely and alien on this planet as I. Somehow we could tell, there was just a raw magnetism between our kind, and I found it more than coincidence that every time I’d end up vibing off someone I had a conversation with, they turned out to be from home or Luna almost every time.

     My roommate, Tohm, was a lanky Earthling from New Tros who came out to Mars, ironically, to sober up 2 years ago. Our neighbor, Charae, was a stacked Lunarian that wanted to be a wealthy star but ended up a weekend dancer instead. Duke, a friend I still had from my last job, was born in Earth’s cold north and never complained about the weather here, though his family was from one of Saturn’s more tropical moons. Allan may have been the only Martian on the planet I didn’t want to bludgeon yet.

     What I found absolutely tickling, though, were the amount of people I’d run into not just from earth, but from the suburbs of DT where I grew up. A week after I moved to Costa Mensa I helped a group of girls carry furniture into our apartment complex. Justene was born in Chesapeake and lived in Dominia until she was three, and Manna was born and raised just down the street from me in McLean, leaving the Earth about the same time I did. Eon, of course, was a high school friend that came to Mars 6 months ago who now, by some sort of luck, came to be my second roommate two weeks ago. Manna even knew little Lou, having been a friend of her poor brother. 

     A half dozen other friends already came and went, either back to Earth or on through the rest of the solar system. And I asked everyone I knew the same question, why did you want to come to Mars? Startled, I found out each person had a very similar reason to mine.

     Everyone came here to follow a dream, whether it was success or fame, wealth or power, or just taking control of the life that was rightfully theirs. Each person felt like they’d never have accomplished their goals where they were, and some light drew them in to this place like a co-dependant moth. Everyone held this magical esteem of Mars, be it projected upon us by movies or teli, handed off from the prosperous antenna-clad travelers who came to Earth, or if it was just a figment of our collective imagination.

     I never gave up the hope that I would achieve what I set out to do here, but I’ve conceded that I may need to start on the other side of the planet. I snuffed the cig out and went back inside to discuss travel with Tohm and Eon.

     I wished goodbye to my three Earthling neighbors as they left my apartment. Then, after shaking my head in amusement, I turned to sit and light a Martian Spirit, almost choking as I took that first drag. I pulled up my scarf, leaned back and closed my eyes to the night’s brisk coastal wind as I pondered.

     In the two years I’ve lived here, I don’t believe I’ve ever been drawn to any group of people as much as those not from this place. Whether my friends were Venusian, Saturnian or Jovian, it never mattered as long as they were not a native born Martian. Within the past few months, though, I’ve noticed a startling empathy for the people of my world, Earth.

     They say birds of a feather flock together, and I could never have denied my attraction to like-minded individuals, especially ones who’ve felt just as lonely and alien on this planet as I. Somehow we could tell, there was just a raw magnetism between our kind, and I found it more than coincidence that every time I’d end up vibing off someone I had a conversation with, they turned out to be from home or Luna almost every time.

     My roommate, Tohm, was a lanky Earthling from New Tros who came out to Mars, ironically, to sober up 2 years ago. Our neighbor, Charae, was a stacked Lunarian that wanted to be a wealthy star but ended up a weekend dancer instead. Duke, a friend I still had from my last job, was born in Earth’s cold north and never complained about the weather here, though his family was from one of Saturn’s more tropical moons. Allan may have been the only Martian on the planet I didn’t want to bludgeon yet.

     What I found absolutely tickling, though, were the amount of people I’d run into not just from earth, but from the suburbs of DT where I grew up. A week after I moved to Costa Mensa I helped a group of girls carry furniture into our apartment complex. Justene was born in Chesapeake and lived in Dominia until she was three, and Manna was born and raised just down the street from me in McLean, leaving the Earth about the same time I did. Eon, of course, was a high school friend that came to Mars 6 months ago who now, by some sort of luck, came to be my second roommate two weeks ago. Manna even knew little Lou, having been a friend of her poor brother. 

     A half dozen other friends already came and went, either back to Earth or on through the rest of the solar system. And I asked everyone I knew the same question, why did you want to come to Mars? Startled, I found out each person had a very similar reason to mine.

     Everyone came here to follow a dream, whether it was success or fame, wealth or power, or just taking control of the life that was rightfully theirs. Each person felt like they’d never have accomplished their goals where they were, and some light drew them in to this place like a co-dependant moth. Everyone held this magical esteem of Mars, be it projected upon us by movies or teli, handed off from the prosperous antenna-clad travelers who came to Earth, or if it was just a figment of our collective imagination.

     I never gave up the hope that I would achieve what I set out to do here, but I’ve conceded that I may need to start on the other side of the planet. I snuffed the cig out and went back inside to discuss travel with Tohm and Eon.

«I Hate Martian Girls»

04-17-2308

     I have to admit, some of the largest pieces of fuel to my dream, and a most of the motivating factors for me to move here, have been the girls of Mars. For years, 3Ds, and even 2Ds have been trying to capture the beauty and mystique of the Martian Female. Long blond hair, bare tan bodies and enough baggage to power a star-cruiser.

     They are a puzzling creature to study or pursue, and even it’s more fascinating to learn that they’re exactly how they seem in the old movies–two dimensional. One of the most disappointing discoveries has been to find out that most of the ad-worthy, model-ready chicks lining the boardwalks and crowding the outdoor malls really don’t have much more going on than what you see. Dealing with emotions and personalities that never evolved passed a giddy school girl level, the ignorance to the value of money, and a refusal to accept the realism or seriousness of any situation, even their own life, are simply hazards of the occupation of courting Martian women.

     Now, if it were just as easy as getting over a few childish flaws in a girl and looking to the good, this would be a much more concise transmission. It gets a little tricky here though, and there’s very little good in there, so don’t strain yourself looking for it. It doesn’t matter who you are, where you’re from or what you have to offer to Martian Girls, they only want guys with three things; money, wheels and an ID.

     I can’t lie, I thought the women here would be artistic,  or even just cultured, since the atmosphere lends to such creativity of others. I merely assumed that something about this place drove everyone’s will to create. I was sorely mistaken. I also thought the women here loved artists, loved watching a man turn raw materials into a brilliant work or plucking the sweetness from the air to play her a song. Two Strikes. Finally, I thought they would dig my old world charm; this handsome young man from the solar system’s capital with his ideas and languages, untainted by the city or the people of Mars, powered by an artist’s burning soul; doesn’t quite cut it–everything is older than Mars, anyway.

     No, girls just want someone to be their chauffeur, their personal accountant, and provide them with entertainment and an eventful evening when too lazy or unimaginative to concoct one themselves. All they care about is not having to work or think for themselves while they get to reap the fruit of another’s labors, and look fabulous doing it. They want the world served to them on a silver platter, as it has been since birth surely, and they refuse to see one that exists any other way but this. In short; most Martian girls are egotistical, egocentric and tend to have a serious Electra Complex.

     They have always been an immense motivation to me, but if women were the strongest factor in my ongoing life here, I would have packed up and went home the moment I got dumped here. Its all about the art and the culture, and expanding both within myself, and I’ll just as soon lay down and die as let my dreams do the same. I bet there’s a lady or two somewhere on this planet with redeeming factors, and I refuse to believe a rotten bunch of apples contains no keepers. Call it stubborn, but I’m sure there’s someone out there who paints and sings and sees the world like I do, or who wants to see the world as I do. Yeah, there has to be girl out there for me, I hear for every planet you have at least one soul mate.

     I am fairly certain now that I just landed on the wrong half of this one.

     I have to admit, some of the largest pieces of fuel to my dream, and a most of the motivating factors for me to move here, have been the girls of Mars. For years 3D films, and even 2Ds, have been trying to capture the beauty and mystique of the Martian Female. Long blond hair, bare tan bodies and enough baggage to power a star-cruiser.

     They are a puzzling creature to study or pursue, and even it’s more fascinating to learn that they’re exactly how they seem in the old movies–two dimensional. One of the most disappointing discoveries has been to find out that most of the ad-worthy, model-ready chicks lining the boardwalks and crowding the outdoor malls really don’t have much more going on than what you see. Dealing with emotions and personalities that never evolved passed a giddy school girl level, the ignorance to the value of money, and a refusal to accept the realism or seriousness of any situation, even their own life, are simply hazards of the occupation of courting Martian women.

     Now, if it were just as easy as getting over a few childish flaws in a girl and looking to the good, this would be a much more concise transmission. It gets a little tricky here though, and there’s very little good in there, so don’t strain yourself looking for it. It doesn’t matter who you are, where you’re from or what you have to offer to Martian Girls, they only want guys with three things; money, wheels and an ID.

     I can’t lie, I thought the women here would be artistic,  or even just cultured, since the atmosphere lends to such creativity of others. I merely assumed that something about this place drove everyone’s will to create. I was sorely mistaken. I also thought the women here loved artists, loved watching a man turn raw materials into a brilliant work or plucking the sweetness from the air to play her a song. Two Strikes. Finally, I thought they would dig my old world charm; this handsome young man from the solar system’s capital with his ideas and languages, untainted by the city or the people of Mars, powered by an artist’s burning soul; doesn’t quite cut it–everything is older than Mars, anyway.

     No, girls just want someone to be their chauffeur, their personal accountant, and provide them with entertainment and an eventful evening when too lazy or unimaginative to concoct one themselves. All they care about is not having to work or think for themselves while they get to reap the fruit of another’s labors, and look fabulous doing it. They want the world served to them on a silver platter, as it has been since birth surely, and they refuse to see one that exists any other way but this. In short; most Martian girls are egotistical, egocentric and tend to have a serious Electra Complex.

     They have always been an immense motivation to me, but if women were the strongest factor in my ongoing life here, I would have packed up and went home the moment I got dumped here. Its all about the art and the culture, and expanding both within myself, and I’ll just as soon lay down and die as let my dreams do the same. I bet there’s a lady or two somewhere on this planet with redeeming factors, and I refuse to believe a rotten bunch of apples contains no keepers. Call it stubborn, but I’m sure there’s someone out there who paints and sings and sees the world like I do, or who wants to see the world as I do. Yeah, there has to be girl out there for me, I hear for every planet you have at least one soul mate.

     I am fairly certain now that I just landed on the wrong half of this one.

 

«My Minifeed»

03-03-2308

     For the entire time I’ve shared the unit with my Jovian roommate we’ve complained about our occupations as wannabe net pirates. A wireless receiver, which can be found in practically anything from a texti to soda can, will only keep you connected if you’re within radius of a point. Meager is the minimum wage compared to cost of life in OC and my roomie knew as well as I did it couldn’t win the battle over food and electricity; and why should we really? The signal from a modem isn’t diminished by walls or floors, as one is intended to spread over a whole residence, and there are plenty of units in proximity with higher incomes, or handy relatives, who unwittingly donate a little bandwidth. The only problems you face with buccaneering some spheres are the measures people take to prevent hacking or leeching. You might think it simple since the obsolescence of the coaxial or the push away from fiber optics–you don’t have to splice your neighbors line anymore, rather you can just hop right into their feed.

     Although, its not as easy as I’m making it sound. Most people end up taking an unprotected signal versus tangle with password protection. Some people get too frustrated with a cramped jacuzzi they keep losing their place in. But if you’re really willing to go the extra step, and you can get through a password, be warned you’ll likely be faced with a myriad of firewalls, hack traps, or even bots programmed to infect intruders with crippling viri. Some are particularly destructive strains, capable of mortally wounding key hardware components. I’m sure the Jovian Pashan is as unwilling as I am to seek such an encounter, so we came to a consensus and decided it was time to go legit and invest in our own access point.

     I really shouldn‘t be trying to afford anything else though, what with being recently unemployed. I didn’t even save enough money when I was working at the bookstore, barely making it out of there every Friday with my paycheck intact. There are so many unread hardcovers and trades just collecting dust in the living room, which is also probably coated by a thin layer of neglect. Clothbound novelties on all manner of subject from prehistoric art to goddess literature and studies of shamanic cultures throughout the solar system. But I fancy I could read a few pages in the time saved from not taking 20 minutes just to check my mail with this weak signal. You don’t want to know how long it takes to get my minifeed. Archaics and old fashioned families usually take in a full cast from the teli, but anyone who’s young or just hep and living on the go needs it in a more readily accessible, swallowable shape. I take my cast on the fly, not even really gripping it’s implications till I’m half way to work.

     With Martian traffic though, it’s sometimes all you have to stay sane.

     For the entire time I’ve shared the unit with my Jovian roommate we’ve complained about our occupations as wannabe net pirates. A wireless receiver, which can be found in practically anything from a texti to soda can, will only keep you connected if you’re within radius of a point. Meager is the minimum wage compared to cost of life in OC and my roomie knew as well as I did it couldn’t win the battle over food and electricity; and why should we really? The signal from a modem isn’t diminished by walls or floors, as one is intended to spread over a whole residence, and there are plenty of units in proximity with higher incomes, or handy relatives, who unwittingly donate a little bandwidth. The only problems you face with buccaneering some spheres are the measures people take to prevent hacking or leeching. You might think it simple since the obsolescence of the coaxial or the push away from fiber optics–you don’t have to splice your neighbors line anymore, rather you can just hop right into their feed.

     Although, its not as easy as I’m making it sound. Most people end up taking an unprotected signal versus tangle with password protection. Some people get too frustrated with a cramped jacuzzi they keep losing their place in. But if you’re really willing to go the extra step, and you can get through a password, be warned you’ll likely be faced with a myriad of firewalls, hack traps, or even bots programmed to infect intruders with crippling viri. Some are particularly destructive strains, capable of mortally wounding key hardware components. I’m sure the Jovian Pashan is as unwilling as I am to seek such an encounter, so we came to a consensus and decided it was time to go legit and invest in our own access point.

     I really shouldn‘t be trying to afford anything else though, what with being recently unemployed. I didn’t even save enough money when I was working at the bookstore, barely making it out of there every Friday with my paycheck intact. There are so many unread hardcovers and trades just collecting dust in the living room, which is also probably coated by a thin layer of neglect. Clothbound novelties on all manner of subject from prehistoric art to goddess literature and studies of shamanic cultures throughout the solar system. But I fancy I could read a few pages in the time saved from not taking 20 minutes just to check my mail with this weak signal. You don’t want to know how long it takes to get my minifeed. Archaics and old fashioned families usually take in a full cast from the teli, but anyone who’s young or just hep and living on the go needs it in a more readily accessible, swallowable shape. I take my cast on the fly, not even really gripping it’s implications till I’m half way to work.

     With Martian traffic though, it’s sometimes all you have to stay sane.