“Conscious faith is freedom. Emotional faith is slavery. Mechanical faith is foolishness.”
G.I. Gurdjieff, 1872–1949
Erik Parsons, father to Angela Weiss, was born October 29, same birthday. She in 1929, the opening day of the last “Great Depression.” Erik, in 1905. A Centenarian.
Erik Edward Parsons preceded another Parsons. That one, John Whiteside Parsons, was a favorite of Science Fiction Writers, Laboratory Scientists, and Occultists, but: a genius plagued with many problems, culminating in a mysterious explosion, cutting his life short at the early age of thirty-seven.
Erik Edward, Double-E, was exactly that: an Electrical Engineer. But it was a very long time ago. Eclectic researcher, uncannily healthy, now fabulously wealthy; Father remained active physically and intellectually; turning in early AM, usually about 02:00. Staggering from mental fatigue, cursing in his peculiarly unique style. Daughter Angela attributed Father’s longevity to genetics, insanity, and luck.
Vitor Weiss idled the dark 2012 Corvette Grand Sport with the cracked windshield into the parking area beneath the fabulous cliff-home at the very end of a potentially lethal narrow strip of asphalt which called itself a private road. Parrot Cove, on the Atlantic Sea in Skyhaven, New Hampshire, USA was at the highest point above the waters on that eighteen-mile stretch of US Route 1A connecting Salisbury, Massachusetts to Kittery, Maine.
His accomplice, a certain Mister Parker, was visibly shaken by the evening’s events. Parker was accustomed to “sleeping rough,” alongside teeming others worldwide in year 2012. Vitor had yet to sleep ever. Vitor was a synthetic creation. It was old news on the World Wide Web that synthetic life had begun. Small life — cells, viruses… Subsequently an “Options For Governance” was formulated. However, Vitor Weiss wasn’t according to spec.
Vitor Weiss was designed by Erik Parsons, and daughter Angela Weiss. Exceeding common expectations of even modern science and capable of thinking beyond conventional linear time.
Angela explained Vitor to Vitor: A sponge, sweet Vitor, that is your mind. He wasn’t too happy with that! It certainly was not accurate. At the same instant she was talking, Vitor’s embedded coded memory parsed and delivered images & text about sponges, sea-beasts small and large: filter-feeding filling pores, eating bacteria; while permanently attached to a rock & reproducing hermaphroditically. Metaphor! It’s a metaphor, silly! Pores… metaphors… she giggled, pretend-scolding him.
Aleister Parker retained a death-grip on the entity Vitor called the Monkey-Mind-Machine. It kept a person calm, in focus, and more… Visions! The form-factor was that of an archaic cell-phone, not the huge bag-phones of the 1990’s… but like the cute little pre-BlackBerry variation some old codgers still kept and used daily.
It seemed metallic, cool and shiny bright, reflecting the gleaming stars as witnessed only at the world’s edge… the Atlantic Sea… Next, it turned warm and rubbery, translucent, nearly invisible. Parker had to bang it against his knee to make sure he still had it!
Like a contemporary LED LCD Monitor, The Machine projected layered images on the Corvette windshield. If one shifted perspective a bit, it behaved like a website, layers of pages, revealing the Shoals Isles, haunted. Next, strange men in massive flying machines half a world away blasting mountain villagers off the planet. Sounds, scents, feeling… in his stomach, his whole body, when that hut at the edge of Pakistan was dissipated by the dark soldiers with the RPG grenade-launcher.
Aleister Parker didn’t understand all these things: but he was pretty sure… this morning he’d have a warm bed and a nice breakfast.