The Echo-ite Observations (Part 2) “The Hermitude “
July 31, 2012 in Short Stories
The Echo-ite Observations
Part 2: “The Hermitude”
A quarter of a Star Period had passed.
They had shared, and lived, and thought. And explored their innermost feelings.Deeply.Intensely. Passionately. The Universe stretched out around them, in all directions, waiting, patiently, vast, mysterious, and beautiful. Whilst two lovers shared a small, artificial, three dimensional space. It was good. For a Time. Healing. Encouraging. Inspiring.
But there came a Time…when he felt the urge to resume the quest. He had grown restless. She had known. And understood.
Dominic 52431 had once again egressed his physical body, and in his Pure Thought State, he had swept through inter dimensional regions at indescribable speeds. Past galaxies and quasars, through pulsars and gigantic dust clouds of interstellar gas, birth places for stars, he had blazed his thoughts and emotions, his impressions, and his longings. At last, he had arrived at one of his favorite spots in the Universe. There he had paused, as he often did, for a full Star Period.
It was a lonely place, far out in interstellar Space, and light years away from even the nearest rocky asteroid. But in a strange and haunting manner, it embodied for his creative spirit some key element of Beauty and Time. From here, he could gaze in never ceasing awe at a so-called ’emission nebula’, far away in the distance, known to his race as the Eagle Nebula, in the constellation Serpens. He would come here when he needed to think, and he would gaze in wonder at the sprawling interstellar dust cloud. He would ponder the mechanics, the rays of bombarding ultra violet radiation, blasting away even the electrons from hydrogen atoms. The excited atoms and ions produced an eerily glowing effect, a multi colored, swirling extravaganza, a birth place for incredibly hot, young, blue stars. There were so many shades of color, blue and pink, mauve and red, brown and indigo, all framed against the silent backdrop of blackness. He had traveled many times through and inside the Eagle Nebula, and when he was a young Echo-ite, a mere sprat with less than ten Galactic Time Periods to guide him with wisdom, he had impatiently spent much Time there. He had wanted to grasp Understanding, not with Patience and Humility, but with the sheer force of his restless mind. He had thrown himself into the study of photo-ionization and photo-evaporation. He had studied planetary and ring nebulae, supernova remnants, and veil nebulae. He had marveled at the sheer range of colors, and how much could be learned and understood from those colors. The way you could, for instance, recognize a ‘reflection nebula’ by the faint blue hue, caused by the simple fact that shorter wave blue is scattered more efficiently than longer-wave red light…
But to stand back from it all, at a great distance, and to see it all in glorious Technicolor, and to be so aware of all the creative and destructive processes taking place there… this he never ceased to love. He marveled at the Richness of Life, the Dynamism of Creation, and the sheer Exuberance of the Universe.
He would spend much Time here, silent in his thoughts, communing with no one. Even Celesta 21268, who was closer to him than any being had ever been, knew when he needed his Space, and troubled him not. Only when his mind signaled it, when she knew he wanted her, did her gentle thoughts permeate his consciousness.
“Welcome back, darling… how was the hermitude?”
He would laugh in his heart, and often he would suddenly need her, physically, with an intensity that burned brighter than the hottest, youngest, blue star.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The Echo-ites, as a widespread culture across the Universe, had long, long since foregone wars and internecine violence. Over hundreds of galactic cycles, measured from the first birth of the first star to the final death of the last star, they had learned to cherish peaceful means of expression, including debate. What they saw all around them, in primitive societies, only served to reinforce their convictions. At frequent communal mind-lock events, where many of the brightest and best Echo-ites presented their latest findings, this horror of all things violent and aggressive was frequently expressed. Many Echo-ites believed themselves to be by far the oldest race in the Universe, but nobody was really sure. Indeed, doubts were to some degree increasing, as Time went by and Knowledge expanded. The line of Argument from those who strongly suspected that there was a Higher Race, ran as follows:
“We, the peaceful race of Echo-ites, have existed for much longer than any other advanced civilization we have encountered. We have no scientific proof of a Higher Race. But we know that we, in respect of the Universe, and the Inter Galactic Principles of Enlightenment, have made every effort to conceal our existence from lesser life forms. We have made every effort to neither frivolously exploit, damage, nor alter that Natural Flow of Developing Life Forces. How then, can we be sure, that there does not exist, above us and around us, an even higher order of intelligent beings? Who equally respect the Inter Galactic principles of Enlightenment? To whom we owe our very existence, by virtue of their tolerance, forbearance and wisdom? Dare we risk offending such benefactors, by mocking even the very question of their existence?”
There was much support for this view point, especially in the wake of startling discoveries relating to multi-dimensional awareness. It seemed that whenever Echo-ite Science had reached a point deemed to be close to Ultimate Understanding, that some extraordinary discovery, scientific or archeological, would come along, and completely upset the Scientific Status Quo. Sometimes these discoveries shed unexpected light on Ancient Scrolls, and Writings handed down by their Early Ancestors. Archeology, strangely, far from disproving the Truth as written in the Ancient Scrolls, tended to support it.
The grouping that encompassed this view point were referred to as the “Mind Open” Disciples, often shortened to “MOD’s”. Dominic 52431 was deeply involved in this Discipleship. The term “MOD’s” was often used by opposing believers with a degree of irony and mischievous amusement. Many “MOD’s” were younger Echo-ites, passionate, and serious.
Ranged against this view point,were many groupings, but chief amongst those were the so-called Believers in the Ultimate Knowledge of the Echoite Culture. Those who felt the Echo-ites reflected the highest level of Sentient Awareness. There was -simply- no higher. These believers, who essentially saw the Echo-ites as the Custodians of Ultimate Knowledge, were referred to as “the Ultimates”. In the use of this term too, an observer would note the presence of some irony. The Ultimates tended to be older, more staid, and conventional. The MOD’s privately mocked them jokingly as too self satisfied, complacent, and resistant to changing ideas.
The overwhelming revulsion towards violence, and the ancient weapons of war and destruction, was universal amongst Echo-ites. There were no exceptions. There was a genuine and deep rooted astonishment at how violent, cruel and barbaric so many observed civilizations actually were.
Of the half million planets that had been discovered so far with advanced life forms, a depressing majority were violent places, where species based their existence on the killing or raw exploitation of other members of the same species, resident on the same planet. And the additional exploitation and/or killing of any and all lower sentient species inhabiting the same biosphere. The simple but nonetheless fundamental fact that ALL were necessary to continue the viability of that biosphere, was a basic Step in Logic that was, apparently,very hard to grasp. It made the quietly observing Echo-ites as a race, completely convinced of the necessity to remain undetectable in the Universe. Not out of fear, but out of respect, and love. It was a key principle. One hoped these primitive life forms would advance and make it. But it was a rare event indeed to welcome a new species into the Echoite Civilization. There were stringent requirements. Long periods of increasing monitoring. And finally, extensive deliberations, that could last for many star cycles. Even then, History had proven that at the eleventh hour, an advanced civilization, such as Beta Zulu 666231 Omega, could suddenly destroy itself. The ill fated Omegans had been terminally exterminated by a tiny sliver of their population. The ghastly images of giant, searing, radio-active clouds would never be forgotten by the Echo-ites.
The Omegan disaster had led to renewed calls for benevolent Pre-Emptive Planetary Intervention. It was an old debate, the so-called “benevolent PEPI debate”, almost as old as the Echo-ite civilization. It was almost always settled in favor of NON-Intervention. There had been rare, limited exceptions, which in turn, had experienced decidedly varying results of success and failure.
In practice, this all led to a movement by some Echo-ites to concentrate on finding the Good amongst new civilizations. These Echo-ites, very often represented by MOD’s , with their open mind philosophy, would earnestly seek out positive Art Forms, positive and wholesome societal projects. They would study the culture, the creatures, their industry and their beliefs, their languages and literature, their means of settling disputes, and their degree of unselfish caring for their weaker members. Inevitably, some Echo-ites became experts in different civilizations, and would find themselves firmly rooting for a particular emerging planet.
However,they would find ranged against them, two different discouraging trends.
Firstly, the many difficulties that new civilizations faced on their irregular path towards Enlightenment. It seemed that, time and again, in the Real Universe, the conscience and moral compass of societies always tended to stumble and inevitably falter. Wars and armed disputes would spring up time and time again. Often with terminal consequences.
Secondly, all this observed bestiality and primitive savagery made the majority of Echo-ites, often dominated by the Ultimates, proud of their own race, and adamantly insistent on non-intervention. It made it hard for those MOD Echoites, who favored helping certain developing societies that they felt they knew well. Hard, next to impossible. It was troubling for many open minded MOD Echoites to always accept this.
Such a frustrated, disappointed, well meaning MOD Echoite, full of idealism and good intentions, was Dominic 52431. His favorite planet, his favorite society, his favorite hoped for target to, one day, make the Quantum Leap into joining the Echoite civilization, was a small, blue planet, with an extraordinarily beautiful biosphere.
Planet Sigma 610087 Epsilon Alpha…
(to be continued)
Francis Meyrick
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on August 10, 2012, 3:47 am
Reekie, the little grey kitten
July 30, 2012 in Short Story (emotions)
An animal story
The little girl, coming up our garden path, had tears pouring down her cheeks. Her face, crumpled under the weight of some unknown sorrow, reflected only heartbreak. Alarmed, fearful of what might have happened, I hastened to her side.
“What’s wrong? “, I asked, my instant compassion sharpened by a pinch of fear.
Her reply, in a quavering, unsteady voice, nonetheless left no doubt as to what had come to pass.
“Reekie is dead… “
I knew what that meant. Reekie. The friendly little grey kitten. A ferile creature, that had wandered in to our lives, motherless, only a few days earlier. And miaowed pitifully, touching the soft heart of a little girl. Who had bathed him, and fed him. Cuddled him, and named him. Reekie. After the old Scottish word for ‘smoke’. “Reek “. Which in the diminutive, had become ‘Reekie’. An apt name, for this charcoal grey, fluffy bundle, that still moved haplessly, as if each walk was an adventure. A whole new experience. The successful outcome of which always seemed vaguely in doubt.
I had watched, as little Reekie, his tummy full, had turned on his charm, purring contentedly, snoozing trustingly on his new Mama’s lap, or stretched out gloriously in the warm, May sunshine. An hour or so would go by, and he would be awake, playing. It was as if he at once had adopted us. We only had to step outside the back door, to be met by his friendly approach. His tiny little face seemed to light up happily, and he followed us with utter devotion. It was touching to walk twenty human paces, and turn around, and see Reekie advanced at least twenty inches. No matter where we went, Reekie was sure to follow.
Reekie wanted to be loved, in a simple way, and in that was no different from any of us. Unless we become corrupted, and mean spirited, and hard. As many of us do.
Reekie only lived a very short life, but brought an innocent happiness into our lives.
His adoptive Mam buried him, tenderly and sadly, in a warm, sunny spot. She said he would like it there, because he always enjoyed snoozing in the warm sun. I marveled at her thoughtfulness, even now, with her little charge and new friend gone so quickly away.
And I, for my part, soured in some measure by Life, reduced in my humanity, and embittered perhaps in some calloused fashion, by the Darkness of past events and happenings, could only marvel at this gentle little girl. This kindest of humans. This soft, tender human being, who grieved mightily over the loss of a single kitten.
Perhaps indeed, as many say, some animals are sent to teach us, and instruct us in the ways of loyalty and innocence. Patience, and simple, straightforward love.
And I could only count myself so lucky.
So very lucky, to have had this little girl, as my….
…best friend, wife and teacher for almost eighteen years.
Francis Meyrick
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on July 30, 2012, 9:51 pm
The Echo-ite Observations (Part 1) “Sigma 610087 Epsilon Alpha “
July 29, 2012 in Short Stories
The Echo-ite Observations
Part 1: Sigma 610087 Epsilon Alpha
In his consciousness, he sighed deeply.
He felt puzzled, disappointed, and above all else, mystified. Instantly, he felt the warm, compassionate telepathy emanating from his Beloved. Like a warm embrace, her ever vigilant Echo-ite awareness sent him kindness, concern, and encouragement. In reply, he sent her the equivalent of a warm smile. Celesta 21268 and he had been together for… how long? Twenty seven hundred and forty two Galactic Life Periods. She knew him better than he knew himself, and she shared his passions and his academic obsessions. He loved her more than the Universe itself. He concentrated, and beamed her his puzzled thoughts.
“Darling, it’s Planet Sigma 610087 Epsilon Alpha again”.
There was a slight pause. She was formulating her reply. She was well familiar with the subject matter. Of all the billions of planets the Echo-ites routinely monitored, studied, and observed, there was maybe one hundredth of one per cent that were beyond fascinating. Of these, some twenty million so far had been discovered to exist in the habitable zone for the likely emergence of Basic Life. Of these twenty million, amongst the half million or so that had developed advanced life forms, a few stood out for the perplexing contradictions they exhibited. Unfortunately, some of these behavioral anomalies were highly dangerous to their mother planets. It was unspeakably saddening to watch primitive life forms emerge, flourish, and then destroy their own habitat in an inexplicable orgy of stupidity. It happened far too often.
Her reply arrived, and her calm, lucid thinking shone through as usual:
“You must not worry so much. Give them time. At least they have established the first stage of primitive mind-lock…”
He pondered what she had said. She was right of course. The residents of Planet Sigma 610087 Epsilon Alpha had, thankfully, in the very recent past, made those critical first baby steps towards establishing a methodology where by many of the planetarians could indeed communicate their thoughts and feelings quickly to one another. Albeit in a painful, archaic, stupidly simple binary form. But it was the first step. His mind replied to her, quietly, softly, and his thoughts sped instantly past Quasars and endless numbers of galaxies.
“I know. I’m just so happy for them. It fills me with hope. But…”
She already knew what he was thinking. Soothingly, she beamed her next thoughts.
“You worry too much. The latest robotic survey shows the probability of primitive thermo nuclear exchange is decreasing somewhat. At least it is lower than in recent time periods. Their basic start at mind-lock is a hopeful sign. The deterrent information is now, at last, slowly becoming more available to more of their population. More of their good spirits are armed with knowledge that can prevent a final catastrophe. Knowledge is power…”
He reflected on her thoughts. He pondered the reams and reams of data they had been absorbing from the latest robotic survey. Even now, his memory and processing functions were sifting through data to the 97th exponential from the last upload. It would take time to process everything. And they were a stubborn species to understand, warlike and cruel on the one hand, and compassionate and caring on the other. These primitives could dedicate fierce energies to their own destruction, and then equally, at the drop of a hat, turn around and surprise you with their gentleness and caring. The range of behavior was abnormal. On the Nguyen Scale, the primitives ranked from abysmally low, single digit numbers, all the way up to high triple digit numbers. That meant the one, lone planet occupied so far by this race, contained truly vicious killers, only one small step above brutish carnivores, who were highly unpredictable and dangerous. But right alongside them existed caring, compassionate, feeling types. Identified as primitive researchers, thinkers, artists. Their depth of knowledge, understanding, and feeling was still pitiful. And woefully inadequate to join the local Galactic Federation. However, those first critical steps towards communal mind-lock had been made…
He formulated his thoughts, and beamed them back to his beloved.
“I know. I feel it. They are increasing in knowledge. And knowledge IS power. But their cruelty and recklessness, and their disregard for their own habitat… it distresses me. And you know what happened on Beta Zulu 666231 Omega. That still haunts me…”
There was a pause. His and her awareness of one another, instant and everywhere, rejoiced in each other. They consoled. They reflected. They pondered. Celesta 21268 knew exactly the sad story of Beta Zulu 666231 Omega. She sighed, the soft, quiet, ephemeral sigh in the spirit. It had been a stunning disappointment. For a planet to have come so far, and still be lost. The Omegans, or rather the best of them, had advanced their mind-lock to the tertiary stage. They had managed to inter connect the residents of the entire planet. They had managed huge strides in all the Great Sciences of Life. They had seemed on the verge, on the absolute cusp, of blossoming into the Light of Understanding. Many of the Echo-ite Observers had expected soon to be able to reveal themselves to them, and to warmly welcome the Omegans into the Family of Light. And then…
She shuddered in the spirit, as she saw the images play through her memory banks. The Omegans had achieved much, but the overwhelming majority had been unable to root out the greed, the hatred, the jealousy, the envy, the vindictiveness, and the folly of the crazed few. Almost overnight, the situation had escalated from thermo nuclear blackmail, via initial limited exchanges, to a final, hate filled mutual annihilation. The unseen Echo-ite observers, friends in waiting, kindred spirits, aching to extend the embrace of friendship and love, had watched, in stunned disbelief, as yet another beautiful planet, with an outstanding biosphere, was plunged into the darkness of a nuclear winter. They had watched as great, angry clouds of fire and soot, acid and radio active, had covered the planet in a smothering, terminal blanket. All the Omegans had achieved, all they had almost become, all they had nearly attained to, was casually wiped out in one final, stupendous act of utter folly.
She felt the love of her partner, unspoken, but ever present, as he too pondered those final, haunting images. Dominic 52431 was a gentle soul, even by the ancient standards of Enlightenment of the Echo-ites. She had felt his pain, his soul tearing disappointment, for many a galactic period. He would often study the last images, the final act in a never-to-be-forgotten Tragedy.
Formulating her thoughts, she beamed them carefully, with feeling:
“Darling, what happened to the Omegans was terrible, but the Epsilon Alphas are different. They are not as advanced as the Omegans in many ways, but I do detect a more positive awareness amongst them. Remember that, unlike the Omegans, the Epsilon Alphas have in fact seen first hand the horror of thermo nuclear thuggery. They have seen the images of the mushroom clouds. They know. I believe they will…survive…”
There was another pause. In the quietness of Space, seemingly, for a moment, not a proton stirred. His measured thoughts, quiet and caring, arrived in her mind with the soft glow of their understanding.
“I know. But do you see the latest?”
The 27,492 images and recordings he was pondering at that moment floated sadly through her mind’s eye.
“You see? You see this country? You see they have made cardboard and paper models of nuclear missiles? You see them carrying them, while they dance deliriously through the streets? All painted up with religious slogans? Invoking their God? And then this country, here. Look at this. Do you see all these shattered satellite receivers? You know why that is? Because this particular government got angry when it found out that their citizens were using the primitive mind-link to reach out to their arch enemy. In friendship. So they ordered their thugs to go around to people’s houses, and smash the connections. And here, you see this….?
Another upload swamped into her mind. More images, more horrors. She had seen enough.
“Darling”, she beamed to him, softly, caringly.
“Enough. Come to me…”
He acquiesced. He too had felt enough pain, and horror. It was time.
In an instant, he was egressing his Pure Thought State, and being re-absorbed into his waiting body. He felt the usual surge of physical sensation, the awareness of feeling. He could feel the soft passage of air around him, and he could hear the quiet hum of ventilation. The carpet felt soft under his bare feet. His optical vision returned, and cycled through black-and-white to color. He felt his heart beating, and his nasal passages detected her presence, close by.
He turned around, and saw she was already lying on the bed, naked, waiting for him. She stretched out an arm. Wordlessly, he ran to her, his heart full of raw emotions, hurt, despair, sadness, compassion, all mingled feelingly with unspeakable joy…
Francis Meyrick
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on August 10, 2012, 3:48 am
The King’s Great Castle
July 28, 2012 in Short Story (symbolism)
The King’s Great Castle
An allegory
It was funny, being old.
Benito would spend his days, sitting on a low, stone wall. Just outside the gates of the King’s Great Castle. He would watch, and think, and occasionally chat with those who passed by. He would lean on his gnarled old walking stick, hunched over, and slowly take it all in. He liked remembering. He filled his days with it.
Often he would ponder his early days as a shy and timid young servant, working in the King’s kitchen, washing pots and pans. Life had consisted of the inside of pots and pans. That had been his whole field of view, along with the old kitchen sink. If he did a good job, and the inside of the pots and pans were cleaned to shining perfection, there was little approbation, but at least a lack of condemnation. Life revolved around the inside of pots and pans. And wine goblets. If he did a good job, then he had a good day, and didn’t get shouted at. He would go home to his awed parents, and every night they would ask him about his day. And every night, he would tell them about his very important day, cleaning the pots and pans. His parents, who were very simple folk, were amazed at how well their boy was doing in life.
It had been many years before, at last,he had become a man servant. He would carry and fetch, open doors and windows, carry and fetch, serve and bow, and then carry and fetch. Instead of spending all day peering into pots and pans, and wine goblets,he spent his whole day now running from room to room in one of the outer wings of the King’s Great Castle. His Master was, in truth, just a very low ranking court clerk, but to Benito, his master was one step removed from the King himself. The world revolved around pleasing his new master, and running around the various rooms. In between his duties, he would fuss over the tidiness of those rooms, and often he had to deal with lower ranking servants, such as the new kitchen boy. Benito had caught him several times, asleep in a chair, instead of working at the sink. Or Benito would find traces of previous food and drink left behind on plates and drinking goblets. It was really infuriating. Benito’s life revolved around those rooms, and the cleanliness of everything inside. If he did a good job, then he had a good day, and didn’t get shouted at. He would go home to his awed parents, and every night they would ask him about his day. And every night, he would tell them about his very important day, running around the rooms, and watching over the cleanliness of everything, especially the plates and the drinking goblets. His parents, who were very simple folk, were amazed at how well their boy was doing in life.
After many years, Benito’s master, the very low ranking court clerk, passed away. To Benito, and his simple parents, the end of the world had come. It was a disaster. What would happen now? But soon Benito had a new master, who was a bishop in the King’s Great Court. Benito couldn’t believe it. Such extraordinary good fortune. Now he had to run around many more rooms, all over the King’s Great Castle, and he had a lot more responsibility. Benito’s life revolved around those rooms, and the cleanliness of everything inside. If he did a good job, then he had a good day, and didn’t get shouted at. He would go home to his awed parents, and every night they would ask him about his day. And every night, he would tell them about his very important day, running around the rooms, and watching over the cleanliness of everything, especially the plates and the drinking goblets. His parents, who were very simple folk, were amazed at how well their boy was doing in life.
Many more years went by, and then the bishop suddenly died. To Benito, and his simple parents, the end of the world had come. It was a disaster. What would happen now? But soon Benito had a new master. The King himself became Benito’s master! Benito couldn’t believe it. Such extraordinary good fortune. Now he had to run around many more rooms, all over the King’s Great Castle, and all over the country, and he had a lot more responsibility. Benito’s life revolved around the whole of the King’s Great Castle, and all the lands in the Kingdom, and the cleanliness and good order of everything inside and outside. If he did a good job, then he had a good day, and didn’t get shouted at. He would go home to his awed parents, and every night they would ask him about his day. And every night, he would tell them about his very important day, running around the King’s Great castle, and all around the King’s lands, and watching over the cleanliness and good order of everything, especially the plates and the drinking goblets. His parents, who were very simple folk, were amazed at how well their boy was doing in life.
Now as part of Benito’s duties, he would travel around the Great Country as the only passenger in the King’s coach, surrounded by soldiers and horsemen, and report back to the King on all important events. That included the latest science and discoveries. A man called Galileo was causing quite a stir, by insisting that the earth was not at the center of the Universe. Benito had always thought that (after the kitchen sink, and the clerk’s rooms) that surely the King’s Great Castle lay at the center of the Universe. Dutifully, he visited Galileo, and got the opportunity to look through the telescope, and hear firsthand all about the new theories. Then he returned and reported everything to his master, the King, who became very angry.
“Benito! How can you be so stupid! The earth revolves around the sun? What nonsense is this! There are other worlds doing the same thing? Earth is not special? How absurd! Go back to Galileo this instant, and tell him forthwith to cease this dangerous nonsense! Warn him that he is committing heresy!”
Benito bowed his head obediently, and returned to Galileo in the King’s coach. But after a few more days with the soft spoken scientist, Benito became even more convinced that Galileo was right. Benito became sad, because he knew the King would be furious. On the return journey, he told the driver to stop the King’s coach on a high mountain pass. Benito got out, and after a short walk he could look down into the mist draped valley far below, and if he squinted hard, he could just make out the tiny ant hill that was actually the King’s Great Castle. He looked up into the sky, enjoying the perfectly clear heavens above. He thought of all the planets orbiting the sun, the earth just one amongst many. The light of dawn lit up all the mountain peaks, and long fingers of light probed across an infinite sky. And he wondered how long the earth had been going around the sun, for how many thousands of years, and thousands of life times of thousands of people.
++++++++++
Yes, it was funny, being old now.
Benito, long since retired from the King’s Service,would spend his days, sitting on a low, stone wall. Just outside the gates of the King’s Great Castle. He would watch, and think, and occasionally chat with those who passed by. He would think about the King, who had died many years before, still furiously angry at Galileo. Benito would lean on his gnarled old walking stick, hunched over, and slowly take it all in. He liked remembering. He filled his days with it.
And he would look at all the passers by, the busy ones, the noisy ones, the quiet ones, and the thoughtful ones. The calculating ones, the greedy ones, and those who could never be trusted. And he would wonder how many of them limited their minds only to the inside of the pots and pans. And how many had seen the small anthill, from the distant mountain pass, that was in fact the dead King’s Great Castle. And how many had wondered about the stars, other worlds, and how trivial and unimportant the earth actually was. And Benito came to the conclusion, that few really, ever, bothered to simply look up.
It was a pity, he thought.
A Great Pity.
A slight movement on the ground caught his eye. He looked down, and saw a stream of worker ants slogging their way towards a Great Ant Mound, laboriously dragging the shriveled up corpse of a long dead worm. They hauled and they pulled, they heaved and they pushed. Their labors were mighty.
Benito slowly studied the Great Ant Mound. Then his gaze traveled to the old dead King’s Great Castle. With all the servants, frantically worrying about the insides of pots and pans and wine goblets.
Then he smiled to himself.
It was funny, being old…
Francis Meyrick
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on July 28, 2012, 2:12 pm
A Blip on the Radar (Part 30) The Grease Monkey
July 27, 2012 in Auto-biographical (tuna helicopters), Blip on the Radar
A Blip on the Radar
Part 30: The Grease Monkey
A tale of a Grease Monkey, a drive shaft, and a gibbering idiot
For most of my aviation career, I have been a dual rated fixed wing and helicopter commercial pilot. But I do hold an A+P license, obtained via a tortuous thirteen month full time course at the (now defunct) Cheyenne AeroTech, previously of Cheyenne, Wyoming. Most people would say an A+P is an “aircraft mechanic”. Officially, these days, we are actually “aircraft maintenance technicians”. Of course, some pilots look down on mere mechanics. In that case, the proper description is probably “Grease Monkey”. Well, whatever, I was (is) one.
Thus it came to pass, that my long suffering former boss was trying hard to turn me into a USEFUL grease monkey. For sure, I had my freshly printed A+P license, and proud of it I was, but I really didn’t know much. If somebody had yelled:
“Moggy, quick! Bring me a five-eights square hole drill!”
Or:
“Moggy! Quick! Bring me a left hand screw driver!”
…the chances are I would have panicked, run around in tight circles, and gone looking for one. Heck, I meant well, but I was undoubtedly not the world’s most knowledgeable Grease Monkey. I was eventually to learn to successfully change out all sorts of major helicopter components, but it was a long road getting there. I think it made me a better pilot, much more gentle on the controls, and more deeply appreciative of the finely constructed components I was torturing during normal (and sometimes highly abnormal) flight operations.
So there I was, in the old, original Big Eye Helicopters hangar in Tumon, on the island of Guam. Which is a pretty hot, humid, strange place in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Lots of earthquakes, brown tree snakes, and goofy politicians. It is actually a historic building, when you consider how many years that was THE helicopter company for tuna boats. Many hundreds of pilots and mechanics spent formative time there, and many a helicopter took off or landed on the small grass area outside. A couple crashed there, as well. The building is sadly gone these days. It was eventually sold, and a few months later, a hurricane came through and totally destroyed it.
It was there, on what was to become hallowed ground in the nostalgic memory banks of us half crazed old Tuna Critters, that I too served my apprenticeship on a Hughes 500. MY soon-to-be Hughes 500. With which I was due to depart, playing the dual role of pilot-mechanic. My boss, to be sure, had some reservations. Not about my flying skills, so he said, but about my (gut) wrenching competence. His gut. He was quite right of course, but I was determined to prove him wrong. I was determined to quickly learn the trade, and establish myself as a good old wrench. It couldn’t be that hard, I figured. There were manuals and stuff, and there was always somebody around you could ask. It was in this manner, I cheerfully, meaning well, set about to convince my patient boss that I was not really a complete gibbering idiot.
Well…
One day, we had taken a brand spanking new $25,000 Hughes 500 tail rotor drive shaft out of the brand new, factory fresh box. Then we had discovered we weren’t ready for it yet. So my boss told me to get somebody to help me and carefully carry it upstairs to the storage area. The area indicated was up a flight of twenty five steps or so, and it was like a large wooden open balcony at the back of the hangar. We stored all kinds of stuff up there. It was a logical place.
The only problem was that nobody was free that second to help me. They were all busy. Now you have to imagine this very expensive, fifteen foot long tube, worth a bazillion dollars. It makes perfect sense to have two people carry and maneuver it. Especially up a flight of twenty five wooden steps. Only a fool would try that on his own, right? A fool, or a gibbering idiot.
The minutes clicked by. I alone was unemployed, standing forlorn beside my appointed mission. I mean, everybody was wrenching at helicopters, exhibiting their A+P skills. Only one junior mechanic, a probationary grease monkey, was standing idle. And getting frustrated. Maybe feeling guilty. Hell, I don’t know. I wanted so much to be part of the gang. You know, kind of “useful”.
I’m told nobody saw me until I was three quarters of the way up the stairs. On my own, with the fifteen foot long, very expensive, brand new tail rotor drive shaft tottering precariously over my right shoulder. Then, unbeknown to me, a ripple of horror had gone around the hangar. Somebody had pointed, somebody else had pointed, and next thing twenty pairs of eyes had been following my progress very carefully. The stairs were steeper than I had realized, rather uneven, and the old banisters were rickety and wobbly. All this combined to make my progress a little more difficult than I had imagined. I’ll admit: I was maybe swaying a little. From side to side. But I HAD things all under control. I was nearly there, on maybe the second to last step from the top, when I heard my boss.
“Moggy! For flip’s sake! Be CAREFUL!”
Now I was almost offended. In answer, I slowly turned around, the fifteen foot long drive shaft pirouetting neatly around. Cool, kind of. Perfectly under control. You SEE? I stared down at the sea of upturned faces. Ha! Oh, ye of little faith! There was scorn in my voice, as I loudly remarked:
“DO YOU THINK I’M IRISH OR SUM’THIN??”
Ha! (That fixed ’em). The captive audience said nothing, but their eyes were glued on me. With a show of nonchalance, I swung around once more, demonstrating my superior skill by twirling the (very expensive) tail rotor drive shaft effortlessly back around. I think I had two more steps to go. I managed the second-to-last one no problem. What happened then, is a total mystery to me to this day…
For some bizarre reason, I tripped solidly over the last step. I kind of half recovered my balance (with a thundering wooden crash), and now at least I WAS up on the balcony section, but now I over balanced to the right. Desperate to save my expensive carrying item, I floundered madly, first one way, and then the other.
RIGHT-LEFT-RIGHT…no…LEFT !!!
(aaaaaaargh…!)
(AAAAAAAARGH…!!!!!)
I bounced painfully off a drum, sent a shelf with stuff flying, knocked over a plastic box containing nuts, bolts and washers, all the while noisily weaving, bobbing, panicking and swaying.
Eventually…
e-v-e-n-t-u-a-l-l-y…
the sound of my feet drubbing frantically on the wooden floor boards died away, and silence returned. I composed myself. All was …well. Sort of. I had knocked a few things over, but the drive shaft was…undamaged. Now came the hard part. I needed to look back down at the upturned sea of faces. I WAS aware that the hangar had gone…ominously…silent. I debated trying to pass it off as if nothing had happened. Ho-hum, sort of thing. Problem? What problem? NO problem!
I knew it was no use. Sheepishly, I looked down…
Which is why, if you ever meet my old boss, Roger, and you mention my name, I think he will probably start shaking. He may even cover his face. I know he did on that day…
Along with the horror filled faces of the other mechanics, the open mouths, the hands clasping heads, walls, each other, rosaries and prayer sticks… heck, it was a mess. I couldn’t possibly carry it off as if nothing had happened. Just my vocal accompaniment alone, during my Waltzing Mathilda solo ballet performance, had completely given me away.
The sound effects, basically. The frenzied, hysterical, panic filled, saliva drooling…
gibbering.
Francis Meyrick
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on July 27, 2012, 7:14 pm
The Fool of Auschwitz
July 11, 2012 in Short Story (spiritual quest)
The Fool of Auschwitz
The concentration camp routine brought with it a perverse, malevolent normality. Early Spring of 1944 was little different from twelve months earlier, when he had first arrived, exhausted and sleep deprived, at a place called Auschwitz. He had found himself being herded off the train like a dumb, unfeeling beast. They had almost immediately split him apart from his beautiful Anna, and her last, desperate, fleetingly helpless glance in his direction, was to be his final memory of his gentle, lifelong partner.
Now, after yet another long night in the cramped and filthy barracks, hundreds of them together, stacked on small shelves like unwanted specimens in a forgotten laboratory, hungry, filthy, and numb with distress, he stirred his painful body with the motions of a walking ghost. He shuffled now, head stooped, shoulders hunched. Past the barbed wire and the impersonal gates, and underneath the watchful gaze of machine gun towers. He walked past the baying Alsatian dogs, held back with difficulty by their handlers, snarling, baring their teeth, eager to bite.
It was all a far cry from the old days. Back at the Berlin University Hospital, when he had been a tall figure, erect and energetic, striding down the long, white corridors. With nurses, interns, and hospital administrators desperately following along behind. Trying to keep up with the great strides of his never resting mind. He had loved being a doctor, he had loved being needed, and if he had ever felt pride in his achievements, it was never the arrogance of conceit. But rather a heady, drinking in of the sheer joy of learning, teaching, exploring, and discovering the hidden beauty of the anatomy of Man. The way the human body was put together never ceased to amaze him. To him, the human body was sacred. A temple that housed man’s Spirit. He took the doctor’s oath of Hippocrates as a sacred trust, as an almost Divine Mission, to bring comfort and cure to all men. All men…
Sometimes, amidst the shouts, the abuse, the taunting and the rifle butts, he would reflect on all the young German Nazis he had treated. Those same men, who now screamed hatred and brutality, who worked themselves into outraged fury over the slightest perceived transgression, who kicked and slapped, who snarled and spat… those same men, only a few years earlier, when stricken by illness, would have flocked to his surgery. There they would have hung on every word the famed Doctor would utter. With awe in their eyes. Or they would have competed with one another for janitorial or nursing positions. He would have instructed them, guided them, encouraged them, or scolded them.
But now… those days were gone forever. To them, he was just another flea bitten skeleton, wrapped in rags. A Jew, an outcast, a usurper, a thief, and the cause of too many ills and wickedness in German society to enumerate. He would see the contempt in their faces. The loathing. There was never a doubt in the poisoned minds of these young men, that what they were doing was anything else but just and proper. Their cocksure demeanor, their unflinching expressions, the savagery of their actions, all bore witness to the complete lack of self questioning or doubt. It was all the fault of the Jews, and now they were getting their richly deserved punishments. Another kick, another slap, another fist full in somebody’s face. A rifle butt positively slamming against a human skill. There was no compassion. No gentleness. No forgiving.
For a while, they had treated him slightly better. His status as a doctor had elevated him slightly. But only for a while. The pretense had fallen away soon enough. They didn’t care if he could save lives. Relieve suffering. That was not the point. Who cared about what happened to the Jews?
Verdammte Juden!
The curses rang in his ears from early morning until late at night. At first he had been shocked. They had been told that they were going to be relocated. They had been allowed to take some prized personal possessions. He had thought he would have been continuing to work as a doctor. But the awful truth had come into full view. The ugliness, the hate, and the automated, mechanized, industrial style of Death.
The smoke…
Always the smoke. Everywhere. He knew what it meant. The way it circled, and rose, and fell again. The way it billowed, fell away, and then erupted forth in a whole new obscene blast of Death and Futility. Sometimes dark, sometimes much lighter, sometimes tantalizingly indeterminate. But always it signaled Death, and the utter Absurdity of Man. Good people, bad people, mediocre people. Artists, scientists, builders, housewives, dreamers, musicians, and mechanics. All were being killed, exterminated, cremated, like so many rodents. It was as if the sum total of their achievements, their happiness, their poetry and their songs, their ideals and the affections, their compassion and their caring, all stood only in one brief moment in time. Soon, to be destroyed, to be brought back to nothing. All for nothing. All that education, and training, and hard work, and skill, and experience. All for nothing. All the tenderness, the lips closed softly on one another in the playful light of a setting sun, the cradling of a newborn child, the cooing and the baby talk, the laughter and the tears… all for nothing. Wasted. Pointless. Futile. The Absurdity of Man.
It was easy to go mad. Rabbi Jacobson had gone mad. A cold blooded execution, a triple hanging, performed almost offhandedly by bored young soldiers, had driven the Rabbi over the edge. He had stretched out his arms, and screamed to the sky above:
“My God, my God! Why do you let them do this? These are your people they are killing!”
And in answer, from the skies above, had come, deafeningly, the sound of silence and indifference. No God had emerged to save his people. The Rabbi, waiting, arms outstretched, finally, had bowed his head. Then, turning to the assembled crowd, ashen faced, he had announced:
“There is no God!”
With that, he had walked away, finally a totally broken man, a lost man, his lifelong Faith crushed irrevocably and forever. People had watched him go, and mourned.
The doctor too had watched, and had seen the unsettling impact on his fellow Jews. It was as if even what little they had left, their Faith, the Hope and Trust in God Above, even that, was being taken away and trampled on. There was nothing left except to die. To die like those beasts, hanging limp from those gallows ropes, heads twisted grotesquely at an unnatural angle.
The doctor too had often questioned his own faith, and intellectually examined his own long held beliefs. But always, always, his logical reasoning was overwhelmed by the dazzling simplicity of his Faith. The utter conviction that, despite all his intellectual concerns, instinctively, intuitively, emotionally, he simply knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, that God was both near and True, that God cared, was aware, and that, in the long run, none of this awful suffering would be allowed to stand. He would try to tell himself that perhaps his Faith was just some sort of self protection by a desperate mind. The ultimate crutch, the ultimate self delusion, willing and surrendering, brought on by present fears and unspeakable terrors. In other words, that he was fooling himself, knowingly, deliberately, to protect his mind from the horror around him. But try as he might to believe that, he could not.
And because ye are sons, God hath sent forth the Spirit of his Son into your hearts, crying Abba, Father…
He knew in his heart, that God was true. His head, his mind, his most determined atheist reasoning, was no match for the quiet conviction in his heart. But what nonsense was that? What paradox of opposites?
He would wonder about it, puzzle about it, and shake his head. And study the smoke. How could he be so quietly sure in his Faith in the True God, whilst all around him unfolded endless acts of unspeakable brutality and inhumanity? Was it self delusion or a gift? A madness, or something precious beyond belief? Was he the fool? The fool of Auschwitz? Despite all his education and all his brilliance, was he deluded by primitive instinct? The urge to survive? Survive beyond death? Survive the smoke?
* * * * * *
The day the Doctor died, he was again studying the smoke from the burning ovens. The crematorium. The death smoke. The way it billowed, and rose. And was knocked down by the wind. And rose, and swirled, and became shredded. And always there was new smoke, and always it was buffeted, and shredded, and carried away.
And he saw the smoke, effortlessly, curl around the ugly barbed wire. The vicious barbs could not touch it, or hurt it, or stop it. Nor could the watch towers, with all their guns. The guards could not shoot it, and the snarling Alsatian dogs could not bite it.
The smoke was free. Gloriously, free.
He smiled then, knowingly, understandingly, almost amused. At last. He understood. Everything made sense…
A young guard, furiously, screamed at him:
“You old fool! Back to work! You blasted Jew! Back to work I say!”
In answer, the old Doctor, slowly turned to his accuser, and a ghost of a gentle smile played around his worn face. In his eyes was no hatred, only pity. The rifle butt that slammed down on the old Doctor’s skull was too much. It shattered his skull, and caused an instant aneurism. He fell hard, face first into the mud. With difficulty, he rolled onto his side, and looked up. The doctor’s last sight on earth, as the soldier furiously kicked the bloodied head, was the black jackboot slamming at his face. It seemed disembodied, unnatural.
But above and behind the boot, everywhere, smoke… swirled free.
And he… he saw the smoke, effortlessly, curl around the ugly barbed wire. The vicious barbs could not touch it, or hurt it, or stop it. Nor could the watch towers, with all their guns. The guards could not shoot it, and the snarling Alsatian dogs could not bite it.
Francis Meyrick
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on July 11, 2012, 9:25 pm
A Scribbling Fool
July 6, 2012 in Poetry
A Scribbling Fool
A satire to mark the occasion of Obama’s cowardly “Executive Order”, protecting the bumbling Eric Holder,in the wake of the “Fast and Furious” gun running fiasco and blatant cover up)
The world is full of highly smart
Practitioners of Government Art,
The folk who wield a mighty pen (?) 
And know much more than other men (??)
Their voices carry on the box
And knock us off our little socks,
Their verdicts rain on frailer souls
Their ethics set the highest goals, 
This staunch elite lectures all
About the Democratic call
Obama knows what is best
For HIS VOTERS (and the rest).
We should salute, and meekly play
Along with everything they say
and goose step smartly to the band
onward to the Promised Land.
But I, alas, don’t like their rule,
For I am just a scribbling fool.
I like to doodle on the wall
And leave my poetry in the hall
I have to try some opening line
Before I taste a fine French wine
I’m sure I’ll pen some catchy verse
The day they drop me in the hearse.
I’ve scribbled on the toilet door
And penned a satire on the floor
I’ve worried people on a train
Because I hummed a quaint refrain
A rebel song that told a tale
Of Liberty and guns and ale.
Freedom means I stand up tall
I work, I sweat, I sometimes fall
But always I will try and stand
Behind the line drawn in the sand.
Go burn the timbers of this ship
Or breach her with a gaping hole
Although It be her final trip
You’ll never quench her soul.
Don’t give me wealth that others earn
Don’t tell me that you need my vote.
I belong to those who coldly spurn
Your fancy speeches learned by rote.
Your teleprompter may impress
Those simpletons who’ll never guess
The self adoring haughty streams
Of delusional and dangerous dreams.
Your dismissive views of God and Man
Your grandly false Big Brother Plan
All convince me your defeat
Would be the perfect autumn treat.
So “Present!” is our mocking shout
But from us it carries clout
We’ll fight you tooth and gnarled nail
Ship Liberty… has now set sail.
Francis Meyrick
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on July 8, 2012, 11:09 am
GUIDE to YouTube SPACE EXPLORATION VIDEOS
July 2, 2012 in Uncategorized
GUIDE TO YOUTUBE SPACE EXPLORATION VIDEOS
There are some really excellent space exploration videos on YouTube. Unfortunately, they exist right alongside trash and spam.
Here is a Guide I will be quietly updating as time goes by, with recommended videos. The use of hyperlinks means all you have to do is to click on the title, and you will go straight there. It will take me a while to list all the many really good videos, so bear with me. A work in progress!
Living on Mars (HD) (1 of 5) Issues re “Terraforming” Mars
Living on Mars (HD) (2 of 5)
Living on Mars (HD) (3 of 5)
Living on Mars (HD) (4 of 5)
Living on Mars (HD) (5 of 5)
Alien Earths (HD) (1 of 5)
Alien Earths (HD) (2 of 5)
Alien Earths (HD) (3 of 5)
Alien Earths (HD) (4 of 5)
Alien Earths (HD) (5 of 5)
Weirdest Planets (HD) Kepler Space Observatory
Alien Planet (Full Documentary) Simulated journey by future Earth probe to “Darwin 4 ”
The Blue Planet (NASA IMAX Film) An appreciation of our little planet, seen from Space
Inside the Milky Way (HD)
Cosmic Journeys: The Search for Earth-like Planets
Cosmic Journeys: Alien Planets & Eyeball Earths: The Search for Habitable Planets
Cosmic Journeys: Voyage to Pandora; First Interstellar Space Flight
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on July 7, 2012, 9:55 pm
Of Helicopters and Humans (9) “Break Day “
June 8, 2012 in Helicopters and Humans
Of Helicopters and Humans
Part 9 Break day, the Real Laws of Physics, and the Poetry of belonging to the Lower Caste
(written many years ago; any reference to the living, the dead, the demented, and the delusional, is entirely unintentional)
It’s the morning of Break Day.
Thank fu-fu-fu….. goodness.
I get to go home tonight. At last. My dogs will welcome me with undisguised delight, tails wagging dementedly. My wife’s somewhat possessive cat will think: “Oh, Gawd, it’s him again. ” The donkeys will comment noisily, aswith the geese, the Guinea Fowl, the ducks, the goats and the two miniature horses.
My patient wifey will make me a cup of tea. And make soothing, sympathetic noises.
And I will be home again.
I may even rediscover my sense of humor. Which has been battered down under an avalanche of rocks. Squished under slabs of concrete. Trodden on, and (harsh, metallic, robot voice) ex-term-in-ated….
Melted down. In the humid heat of a Gulf Bee-Peeh summer.
I am reminded of the lower caste in India. The Untouchables. The dirty, unwashed, ragged ones. Who have no rights. Who just pull rickshaws, (is that how you spell it?), and run like hell, trying not to tread in the copious Holy Cow dung heaps spread out everywhere. Who have to smile sweetly at all times, and pull the really important people in this world around the place. Run like hell, try not to f…. up, and be very, very nice.
Or maybe that image belongs to the past. Maybe they are sweating taxi drivers now, demented moped riders, but still trying to avoid the dung heaps, Holy Cows, and all the other Untouchables getting in the way.
Shoot, I don’t know.
All I know is that this humble helicopter jockey, this dirty, unwashed, ragged member of the modern day Gulf of Mexico rickshaw pulling class, is tired. Tired and a trifle fed up.
But what the heck, eh? After all, I’ve got a job. The alternative is worse. Much worse.
So when the occasional customer is a real jer….. I mean, a demanding (honorable) customer, I just smile sweetly. Like the time I was told to fu-fu-fu….. well, asked to…. well, shall we say that the honorable 295 pound customer wasn’t happy when I asked him to move to another seat. For weight balancing reasons. After all, in his words, he had already fastened his seat belt. And I, the unwashed one, probably smelling to him of cow dung, had exercised the temerity to ask him to move….
I describe the full story else where. But it’s just part of being smelly and sticky. In the Gulf, On a hot, June day.
It’s hard to describe the feeling of joy as you touch down from a long flight, at your home base, with perspiration running down your brow, and other unmentionable places. It’s hard to describe being hot, tired, thirsty, and showing worrying symptoms of excess body temperature. And it’s hard to adequately convey that sinking feeling, when the sharp voice of the ‘traffic advisory service’ once again cuts in over your head sets, sarcastically berating you for yet another fu-fu-…. failing on your part. You just sigh, pause, count to ten, and deal with it.
“We’ve been parking that helicopter on Charlie row for three weeks. I want to know why are you parking it on Bravo row?? ”
You resist asking why this matter needs to be aired so pointedly on frequency. You never know who is listening. What is so cotton-picking urgent that couldn’t wait until you were happily inside the air-con-ditioned (cool) (very cool) building? And why, if you wanted it parked on Charlie row, why didn’t you say so, before I taxied all the way to an open spot on Bravo row? You resist asking why in hell’s name it even matters. There could be customers listening, and you try so hard to be professional. So you just sigh, hum the melody of the pacifist theme song “Kum-Ba-Yaaaaah ” to yourself, and explain patiently, in words of not more than two syllables, that you have only just picked up this aircraft from another base, that it is the first time it has been here for months. And you add, that if the VIP in the Tower would ask nicely, you would be happy, delighted even, to pick it up again, and taxy it around to Charlie Row. But God in the Tower remains silent, so you just leave it there. On Bravo Row. It’s the highlight of a miserable, hot, sweating, lower cast day.
A rare moment of defiance.
You have to be positive. You know you are the absolute bottom of the totem pole. You know the bosses think it would be such a really good helicopter company, if only they didn’t have to employ these lower castes. You know, these helicopter-rickshaw drivers. And if only they didn’t step in the Holy Goo all the time.
But that’s life at the bottom. Everybody can have a go at you, any time, anywhere. It’s all right. It’s part of Lower Life’s natural cycle. You even get to know a bit about the Laws of Physics.
Physics? Oh yeah…
The Speed of Light. As opposed by the Infinite Mass of the Immovable Object.
The Infinite Mass Phenomenon occurs when some customer, a Company Man, apparently goes into the Manager’s Office and talks about you. Then you, you dirt bag, you low life, you get called in to the manager’s office. This is where the Infinite Mass starts. It’s a sinking feeling. That Infinite Mass is in your stomach, as you think:
“Now what the (bleep!) have I done? “
I defy any fellow rickshaw driver, and Holy Goo side stepper, to deny this truth, that the first thought is:
“Now what? “
But no, the sinking feeling of the Infinite Mass in your stomach, this time, unusually, is misaligned.
It’s a rare event. A compliment.
God behind the desk, him with the power to make your miserable life much more miserable, tells you that the Company Man passed a compliment. Apparently he was drunk. Deranged. Off his little trolley. But he is alleged to have said:
“I want you to know I have flown all over the Gulf with this pilot for three years now. We like flying with him and he’s doing a hell of a job. I want you to know that… “
This astonishingly rare event leaves you gob smacked. You now know that you have, indeed, seen Halley’s Comet. Monica Lewinsky preaching abstinence. Komrade Obama suggest the need for smaller Federal Government and Budget cuts. The Pope in Rome slide down the Vatican bannisters.
Mark the calendar. It will not come again.
You sort of stare in dumb amazement. God -behind- the- desk says he will put it in writing, and pass it up to the Great temple in the Sky. Where the really, really Big Bosses float. Looking down on us Holy Cow Dung denizens.
Of course, days and weeks later, the promised write up has not happened. God is too busy. But he has made a mental note, he says. A reminder to himself. You bow your head, humbly. It was all a transient dream anyway.
The honorable customer had to have been drunk.
The chance of the letter, reporting the kind words, actually being written, is small. And even if written, the chance of it being noticed? The whole momentary joy, the unusual compliment, it all sinks quickly in your mind, like an object of Infinite Mass, to the bottom of the Gulf. I’m a rickshaw driver. I should know my status. My cast. My Fate in Life.
Cow plops. Lots and lots of cow plops…
The Infinite Mass Phenomenon is opposed by the Light Speed, Warp Factor Driven.
You get called in to the Office again.
And you think, wearily:
“Now what…? “
You are presented with a write up. It’s against you. Mere hours old. No discussion. Just the nuclear trigger. Triggers set to fire first. Now you are about to see the Speed of Light demonstrated.
Warp Factor.
You read the write up. It is a classic case of somebody adding two and two, and coming up with the square root of the integer value of the sinusoidal constant of the logarithmic function of 27 to the power of N.
Balloney…
But, no worries, you are informed it’s already all the way up the chain of command. In nano seconds, this object has reached the Great Temple in the Sky. My Fate, and that of my children and my children’s children, rests on my written reply. I am required to explain my heinous actions in writing, toute-suite. Chop-chop. The board room has already been assembled. A court martial is pending. The noose has been oiled, and the scaffold is erected.
I trundle off and do my write up. And wait. I fly. Side step more Cow pooh-poohs. Breath in. Breath out.
Hum the melody of “Kum-Ba-Yah ” to myself…
The verdict is delivered later. Misunderstanding. Failure to communicate.
Really?
Right.
Okay.
Say no more. I bow my head. I know my place.
Amongst the Holy Cow Poops…
It’s the morning of Break Day.
Thank fu-fu-fu….. goodness.
I get to go home tonight. At last.
I need to go home. I really, really, need a break.
Maybe I’ll even get my sense of humor back.
I sure hope so.
Before I f…ing well HEAD BUTT some troglodyte SOB smack on the kisser…
Kum-Ba-(fuk’n)-Yah my ass…
Francis Meyrick
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on June 8, 2012, 7:46 pm
Riding high in an icy sky
March 21, 2012 in Auto-biographical
A Blip in the Gulf (1)
Riding high in an icy sky
January 5, 2010. Pre-dawn. Intercoastal heliport. 05.00 am.
Ffffff…..k. It’s cold.
The temperature is down in the low thirties. A heavy frost blankets everything. Our rotor blades shine a dull white.
It’s dark, quiet, save for the distant muttering coming from the passenger lounge. Here in the pilot’s room, we busy ourselves with the morning’s preparations. Sign in, check the weather, logbook, and fill out the paper work. Nobody’s in a hurry to rush out to the flight line to start the pre flight check.
Eventually, I find myself out on Alpha row, untying my blades. Despite my leather jacket, I’m shivering like an eskimo in a nudist colony. And there’s a steady Arctic wind blowing from the North. Wind chill factor minus minus minus.
Blimey…
Even with gloves on, my f…kn fu-fingers are fu-fu-freezing. I feel the cold hollowing into my bones. I fumble with the tie-downs, trying to hurry up. The thought of the nice warm pilot’s room is a powerful incentive.
Let’s get this DONE…
I find myself giggling to myself. I’m thinking of one of my readers, a pilot up in Canada. His handle “North of 60 ” says it all! That’s where it gets REAL cold. I wonder what he’d say to me, shivering like a lump of jelly on a trampoline.
“Jeez, Moggy… you think THAT’s cold??? You WOOSE! Try bleedin’ FIFTY below… ”
The thought of what he’d probably say amused me for a full three minutes, which was at least long enough to remove and stow the tie-downs. But by the time I was trying to take the fuel samples, I was back to feeling sorry for myself again.
Holy crrrrrrrrrap….
Never mind the pilot’s room, my nice warm bed seemed to be calling out my name. How many people were moving around at this time of the morning, outside, trying to earn a living? Maybe I should have spent more time trying to be rich. Then, what the hell, I could have retired at forty, or thirty three, and been able to stay in bed. On this frigid morning.
Instead of pre-flighting this frozen, frost covered helicopter.
I look at her. My baby. November four-niner-zero-Papa Hotel. Poor thing. The wind screens are frosted solid. I climb up and look at the blades. Thick frost. Sure as heck can’t fly with that.
I continue checking out my charge, and wonder how long it would take to clear the blades by performing an engine run.
Almost in answer to my thoughts, another bird fires up. Jim is doing a maintenance run, and he will be sitting there for a while. I make a mental note to go check out his blades when he’s finished.
A few minutes later, after a ten minute run, Jim shuts down. Meanwhile, I have finished my pre-flight check. Resisting the (strong) temptation to bolt for the warmth of the pilot’s room, I steel myself, and walk over to his now stationary beast.
I grab a ladder, and climb up and check. His blades are clear and dry. Jim knows what I’m doing, and grins.
Feeling reassured, I return to my own charge, and light the fire.
I love the smell of Jet-A in the morning…
Afterwards, I head back to the pilot’s room. A cup of coffee later, I start feeling half human again.
I still wish I was back in bed. But at least I am slowly waking up.
* * * * *
I am alone.
Heading East, back to Fourchon, at 3,000 feet.
A blip in an icy sky. With the sun coming up, pale, wintery, casting long shadows over strange white fields.
I am alone.
Just rumbling along. Is that what helicopters do? Rumble? Something like that. It’s a strangely reassuring sound.
A cacophony in symphony. Music only to a helicopter pilot’s ear. Sounds of faithful rotor blades performing their never ending ceremony. The reassuring background burble of turbine wheels meshing with hot gases. And the myriad feedback from cowlings, frames, fasteners, and rushing air.
I love it.
It reminds me so much of long motorcycle trips. Just quietly burbling along. Even the slight bounce of the instrument panel, the slight vibration of the window frame, the flicker of the blades passing above my eyes, remind me of my Honda VTX1300R. That nice twin cylinder thump. Reassuring. Solid.
I check the gauges. Everything is solid in the green. And I pass a grateful mental “thank you ” to all the mechanics, who labor so faithfully to ready our steeds for each morning. The unsung heroes of the helicopter industry. Patiently working the graveyard shift, putting up with everything from mosquitoes to freezing cold, from seriously strict bosses to whining pilots, just so we lucky ones can come in every morning, and take their charges up into the sky.
I’m giggling again.
I often find this funny. The fact that if I was rich, I would probably buy a flying machine. And go fly.
And then I would have to pay for the fuel. And the machine. And the insurance. And the maintenance. And the parts.
And here I am…
These really, really nice people, actually let me fly their toy.
They put gas in it.
They wash it, and polish it.
They fix it when it’s broken.
Heck, they even give me pocket money when I fly it.
How’s that for a helluva deal?
And not only that, but it’s actually a superb machine. In really great nick. Shiny, clean, beautifully maintained…
And they give it to me, to play with. Un-believable.
These dudes that own this helicopter are a bit nuts. Nice, but really strange.
But I’m not complaining. I’ll fly their birds, anytime.
It sure beats working for a living, that’s for sure…
Francis Meyrick
Last edited by Francis Meyrick on March 21, 2012, 8:06 pm