Jack P Rocket-Man Chronicle, REV.07.
Jack P Rocket-Man is ONLY FICTION. No warranties expressed or implied.
“Almost to the zenith … Where the strings are stretched out tight … Is it insight or insanity … If the way is etched in fright …” Richard Schamach, Songwriter, Eden’s Children, 1968.
REM: The “Khabiru Topic” motivated me do a little research.
JPRM: I knew it would. Starting with a popular search engine is a beginning. It’s OK to ping that widely used on-line encyclopedia. Keep going. A few more “educated guesses.” Bear in mind that the most opinionated, vernaculated, vulgaristic sites yield the least empirical stuff. Luck and context and speed. You need time to study what you found.
That’s enough thinking for now. Don’t hurt yourself. Let me to continue with the alien visitors in the black jet who are temporally, temporarily stuck at the THT International Airport in year 2003.
Louise and I live on the Atlantic Edge. The reasons she and I are together are neurological and historical. We see the world from a minority perspective. The two of us old, but not fried. Clams are fried, dough is fried, my vacuum-tube stereo amplifier is permanently fried.
My co-conspirator Gregory Johnstone is fried, but differently. Like I tell you, words and context … There’s not enough descriptions. Language can’t keep up.
It was not always that way.
Computers were created by man in his own image. It makes for unintended consequences, which can be considered trouble, OR opportunity.
In a computer, CAD programs, HTML web pages, et cetera, use things called color palettes. How hard can it be! Color palettes make adjustments to RGB, HLS, HEX TRIPLET, PIXELS, BYTES, and BITS, and more. Plenty of time for the important stuff, like making editorials, stories, and videos, right?
By contrast, at the junction of land and sea, the world is infinite, imprecise …
Dynamic. The subtle gradations of azure, that mysterious pink haze a hundred yards off shore, the eclectic cloud formations, scents, wind changes, the tungsten fire of a new dawn … Unparalleled. Undefinable.
This is the way the Aliens have to be described. They are digital, analog, and other.
They have rediscovered themselves, more than humans. They’re effective at it, but they have other troubles. The good news is that we share the universe together. Safety in numbers.
REM: Are you going to tell me about them, or string together clichés?
JPRM: I’m trying. You get distracted too easily, that’s all.
There’s now SIX of us there in the room at Six-Point-Five. Security supervisor Mickey Rodriguez has left to relieve my security partner, Patrick. It’s looking like I don’t have to manage the traffic and sociopaths during the morning rush today. Time off, with pay, it better … What do I put in my notebook, “Hidden room. Floor 6.5, time with black jet visitors who are stranded?”
Do you know what a GIF is? Another acronym, … nothing to do with goats or sex. There’s enough bad taste in our world. I’m referring to the Graphics Interchange Format (GIF). The Aliens, they’re like a GIF image when you gaze upon them.
I was explaining the way the horizon is pink near the ocean reefs; it’s possible to imagine roses, pink bunnies, or murderous vikings out there! When I examine the Aliens, they shimmer. Like the GIF images, they consist of interleaved scan lines, in tech-speak.
What it means is they shift … yes, shape shifters … they become progressively more solid like a GIF on a PC Monitor, except … they change some more. No matter how much you stare or memorize or draw, IF you know how to draw, they remain … shifty!
Another comparison to them is attending a social gathering, a party. Lots of people, small talk, white noise, heated debates, occasional fiasco. Most of the time, the next day someone will ask, “how was the party,” and you answer, “it was a good time!”
Unless: some pretty girl at the event was revealing her freshly minted tattoo on an R-rated location … that you remember in exact detail!
The Aliens are the first category, no tattoos, but their vibe persists. They’re ghosts …
REM: Ghostly, shifty, are they scary? Do you think they could be dangerous?
JPRM: Don’t forget, this was way back in ’03, plus they let me KEEP that strange MACHINE! Think of them as benign, matte-black, whirly bipedal frog folks from across the pond!
I told you they’re stuck. I suppose you want to know, why did they come over? Just to become stranded, and what am I supposed to do, fix their damn jet, which isn’t really a jet … plus … Alien Two, Gracie, is asking me what about Gregory Johnstone!
REM: You did mention Gregory was uniquely talented.
JPRM: Yes, uniquely talented: much like an automobile lug wrench. Ninety-eight percent of the time, he didn’t do squat! That’s why I’m out there freezing my butt for eleven dollars an hour in ’03. Louise says he so smart he’s stupid! That Massachusetts Engineering firm couldn’t cope with the technological tides due to people who wouldn’t adapt.
That leaves the other two of the aliens, who I named Karl and Slim. How I named them, I’m not sure. But Karl and Slim were GUYS, although it was just a feeling, a guess. The four of them together made me think of a Quad-Core CPU.
Karl was up at bat, after Gracie’s concise but effective way of saying they were up shit creek without a paddle … The “men” sat on the right at the table. Karl and Slim as well as us humans, Mr. Director, and me, that geek rent-a-cop.
The gals, they were talkative, sociable. Karl is right-hemisphere-oriented, I think; the four of the visitors seemed to form a communal brain, and their seating and gender was a reflection of it’s function.
Karl’s not very wordy. He has said nothing. The right-hemisphere is the fountain of visions; the palace of poets, prophets, and dark angels. Karl is irresistible.
Suddenly the meeting room lights are dimming. Outside, the azure dawn segues into indigo. The earthly aircraft and machinery on the runway dissolve into titanium wireframe wraiths , then collapse into tiny sparks falling on the tarmac, then nothing. The sun has fled, only darkness remains even though it’s about 07:00.
Far below us, percussive sounds. Something, someone wants to join our party in the hidden room. I rise, and descend stairs spiralling downward, clockwise, dizzily, to the entryway. The entryway looks different, it was white and rectangular. Now it is shaped like a Roman Arch, which is moving, scraping, yielding.
In my hand, I recognize the familiar warmth of the MACHINE, but it’s changing, lengthening, and forming into a Katana, a Samurai Sword. I’ve never held ANY sword, but I’m extremely familiar with the mechanics of axes, sledges and wood-splitters.
The sword greets me. I respond to its demand for full commitment, crushing its grip in affirmation. What’s coming when that door swings aside will require unwavering torque, leverage, and speed or it will be bad. Very bad.