Join the new world

§▲§ Past: “The Heat of the Smash” §▲§



Wide-angle shot sweeping down to a carriage path where, in the absence of 1 woman, 3 men stand, conversing about a fire that destroyed the estate’s manor earlier that night. Smoke from the blackened debris wafts across the rolling greens to mix with the haze of burning garden cuttings. The manor, which once stood tall amid the Augustan gardens of symmetrically trimmed hedges, quaint cobble walkways, and tall stately elms, now smoulders unrecognizably at the end of the lane on which the three men stand. The early hours of a 19th century morning tick by as the sun’s ruddy glow flickers from behind tall trees along the garden horizon.

The Porter: No more knocking there be now. The bell rung to alarm us of the fire will be the last I’ll be answering to.” (He snorts a short laugh)

The Tutor (Staring blankly, he speaks in a flat voice): She was to be 17 today. Fidelia…lost to us. A flame…it started with a candle…I passed it to her.

The Porter and the Shepherd exchange uneasy glances, unsure what to say. The Shepherd clears his throat and remarks.

The Shepherd: Ahem, the estate’s flocks were let out, for fear the stables would catch. Now scattered, the lost herd will take long to gather. Yet, I don’t expect the new master will be much into farming, what with his aesthetic pursuits for the manor. He is to a Garden what a taurus is to a china shop.”

The Porter: Yessir, yessir, right you are. A complete reworking of the grounds, to keep up with the times, as they say. No more pillars and rotundas. Now gargoyles and flying butteresses, whatever fits the uncanny gloom of, what they call it, the ‘Gothic Redesign.’

All three take a moment to survey the smoke wafting in the distance, hanging like fog between the trees in the morning darkness.

The Tutor (rambling mainly to himself): I will recapture her heat. Retrace the method she postulated and discover the methods that will unstir this mixing. Surely, to God, there can be a tome written to triangulate all this disorder. (Septimus shakes his head and looks to the cobblestone path besmirched with coal-black ash. He mutters.) Ah, no more speaking. What words can undo all this?

The Tutor exits in the direction of the estate’s Temple of the Four Winds, where he dwells for the remainder of his time



The Porter (once The Tutor has left the scene): Can’t but feel sorry for the poor bastard. That Septimus…what you expect for thinking with his spoon in the jam pot, aye. In the very least, Sir Coverly will be right happy to have a hermit for his hermitage.” (ironic snigger)

A clatter of horse hooves sounds off-stage, along with the creak of a carriage door opening. An impeccably dressed man, almost foppish in his extravagance and swagger, enters. It is Sir Thomas Coverly, the new estate owner.

Sir Thomas Coverly (giving a sobbing cry): My house!...Where’s my house?!

The Porter (his eye lit on the remains of a bath and what had once been a dresser and he begins to laugh. There wasn’t anything left anywhere.): Haven’t a clue, guv’nah. Was here the nigh before.”

The Shepherd: “Youth perished in those flames, yet you worry about a house. Is this not fitting for your gothic re-ordering of our gardens. A mess of moss, craggy streams, crooked underbrush complemented by this here ruin…inhabited by tragedy, a ghost in the shell of your manor. Surely, this suits your architectural designs. Is it not very fitting?”

The Porter makes heroic efforts to restrain himself, but when he remembers the crash of bricks falling and cinder rising, he convulses again in laughter. One moment the house had stood there with such dignity between the symmetrical hedges and quaint rotunda, like a man in a top hat and monocle, and then, whoosh, crackle, there wasn’t anything left – not anything.

Unable to restrain himself longer, The Porter breaks into a small fit of laughter.

Sir Thomas: How dare you laugh? It was my house. My house!

The Porter: I’m sorry. I can’t help it, Sir Thomas. There’s nothing personal, but you got to admit it’s funny.


Nor ever living thing shall grow,
Or trunk of tree, or blade of grass;
No drop shall fall, no wind shall blow,
Nor sound of any foot shall pass:
Alone of its accursèd estate,
One thing the hand of Time shall spare,
For the grim Idiot at the gate
Is deathless and eternal there.
~~The City by A. Lampman (1899)

§▲§ Present: “A Chaos of Hard Clay” §▲§


It’s been an eventful month sitting here in the diner,
watching the Congressmen come and go, talking of Michelangelo

Today marks the last of my term as Congressman in eCanada for Feb-March, 2012 (Day 1,557~Day 1587). I decided not to run again, since my plans here are uncertain and there is need to let other players fill my spot who can do better service accessing the forums, IRC, or other such additional platforms.

I do not have ready list of what I voted on and how, though I did make every in-game vote and used both my proposals. One was for a change to Import Taxes in Weapon Raw Materials, and the other was to make a donation proposal (with a small symbolic twist added).

The increase in WRM taxes from 5% to 99% did little to affect the actual price of WRM on the market. It may have negatively affected the taxes collected on WRM, yet I have not seen the data on that. The initial purpose was to protect eCanada’s currency against inflation from foreign WRM dumping. However, with the currency change, that matters little now. I am unsure if the 99% import tax is any bit necessary now, though it may offer some relief to well-established eCan citizens who want to protect their WRM sales.

To be honest, the tax change meant little to me. The bigger project was to test the in-game proposal method. Normally, it is required to submit a proposal in the forums where it requires 24 hours of discussion by Congress before it can be brought to an in-game proposal. My understanding was that any proposal that did not follow that process would be voted down. Thankfully, my notification by PM was enough to satisfy Congress’ needs for debate so the measure passed. Therefore, it does seem possible for an in-game proposal to pass without forum presentation. I am satisfied with these results.

While I did play as a strictly in-game Congressman, I was able to perform all in-game duties to full ability, although I did feel quite in the dark for certain proposals. As well, I abstained from all forum-based matters. I did not participate in the vote on Rolo’s pardon, though I did strongly disapprove of it personally. Sadly, when I heard the vote came down to 16-15 in favour, I realized my non-compliance with forum procedure did have in-game consequences. The pardon vote on the forum mean caused the loss of a number of valuable players who moved elsewhere, destabilized our standing with allies when our citizens began RWing our eUK territories, and contributed to the general climate of unease that pervades eCanadian politics. In the end, I must conclude that while it is possible to function well as a purist Congressman, the forum still figures heavily in the way things unfold in eCanada. It is best that Congressmen elected now attend the discussions held there. It is best that non-participants like me step aside to let the forum-active fill in the space.

With the elections today, I see many new players running. A great emptying needs an equal replenishing. I find it encouraging to see new players popping out of the thaw…yes, spring is here. New life comes to any blighted wasteland. However, to quote Stoppard’s Arcadia: “You can put back the bits of glass but you can't collect up the heat of the smash. It's gone.”

In other words, a certain energy is lost with each smash up or crisis in our country. Even the resilient and flexible develop minute stress fractures after each contortion of truth or surprise bend in the road. We crack invisibly and bleed out energy, bit by bit, when not haemorrhaging in large revolts. Gathering up the pieces does not recover what team spirit has been lost:

'Tis the land that our babies behold,
Deep gazing when none are aware;
And the great-hearted seers of old
And the poets have known it, there.
~A. Lampman, “Inter Vias, Alcyone


"Dewdrop" ~ M.C. Escher, 1948.

In the past couple weeks, I going over a short story by Graham Greene, “The Destructors.” The Wormsley Common gang gather in the streets of bombed out London; it is World War II. They are young boys with nothing to do except fill their days with vandalism and petty theft, with no purpose except to prove their swagger between themselves, until one new recruit suggests a prank that would impress even the grown-up gangs: bring down “Old Misery’s” mansion, a piece of architecture reminiscent of earlier times, elegant hanging staircase, dignified wood panelling, and ornate tiles. They set to work, methodically removing all supports, weakening the structure, until the fall and the smash, nothing but brick and mortar dust remain. And there is no other goal, except emulate the destruction they witness around them, to draw adult attention, perhaps even approval, but also to lash out at the perceived elite, leftovers of old wealth that the unworking class of the Wormsley Gang feels sniffs down at them. This is all a a perception ~ Mr. Thomas is nothing more than a generous and trusting old man.

To me, a set of several lines from that story exemplies the decline of eCanada, the apple in the middle of the Garden: “They’d never know. We’d do it from inside. I’ve found a way in. We’d be like worms, don’t you see, in an apple. When we came out again there’d be nothing there – nothing but just walls, and then we’d make the walls fall down – somehow.”

Eaten from the inside out. Full of wormholes. Then the collapse. That’s how it has gone, is it not? We imitate the destruction around us. Wormtongues linger to carry the Norsefire torch onward. Violent words ending in violent emotions. Some players appear regimented to destroy, not so much create. There is a distance between all of us, a coldness, that many are trying to bridge with contests, podcasts, article discussions, IRC convos, RL meet-ups…but the sad fact is that the gap remains for many, a Big Chill between each of us, a hole some wish to fill with a cheap trick out of a clown’s pocket. This is where the lulzer, the troll, the jealous misfit, and power-tripping narcissist gather to cavort. I’ve tread there myself, but always careful to heed where the tacit lines exist so as not to step over any: “All this hate and love, it’s soft, it’s hooey. There’s only things.”

Nevertheless, when we commune to create a symphony of ideas or coordinated strikes, we do make music. Though, not a choir of finely tuned instruments coordinated for one grand communal pursuit. It is the clickety-clack of cold ivories without the resonant strings. It is the clumsy xylophone rattle of skeletons wrapped in carnal embrace, seeking solace in an electronic knowledge. Mouse clicks, keyboard clacks, screen scroll after page refresh, the beat goes on. We sit and stare, type and wait, counting down the battle clock. The monitor is the mirror darkly with a cold silicon reflection shaped to whatever desire is imagined in each plugged-in e-Narcissus.

What will you bring from this game to share with others, after all this is long past? Perhaps a lesson learned is that mechanics trump common courtesy, expediency will surpass due process, the interests of one and his gathered few will bend the wills of the team. The rules allow for it and you will deal with it, and pay dearly in the bargaining process. By staying in here, you gain little and give nothing out there. The game is more of a self-pursuit than a community project…why would you stay for a ghost community when there is a living one outside your walls not found within the frame of your monitor? What is it we avoid by staying in here?

This is what I call my ‘cynical’ take on the New World. Another player here said, “I think cynicism is just what people who are afraid of the world call realism.” There’s a couple ways to cut that comment. Realism doesn’t have to be held back by game mechanics and idealism can become supported through them. You can spot it here and there in eRep. It springs up like HOPE, passes through phases like cycling new player assistance programs, and sometimes flares into being for a brief flash, perhaps like Phoenix Quinn’s concept of creating innovative community commons, a step away from the ‘broken’ feed-back loop of eRep’s current asocial economy. Greener pastures are calling. Credit cards can be left at the door upon entry. I don’t think it completely unrealistic. Time to slouch my way through this valley of darkness and into another place ~ perhaps no brighter, maybe the same pallor, yet a change of scenery is said to be a good cure for a bad case of the vapours. Beyond good and evil there is a field; I’ll meet you there, on the next loop around.


"Circle Limit IV (Heaven and Hell)" ~ M.C. Escher, 1960

“The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirred within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge--
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon their mistress had expir'd before;
The Four Winds were withered in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them--She was the Universe.”
~~ “Darkness” by Lord Byron (1816)


§▲§ Future: Butterflies in Random Patterns §▲§


Comic Fractedgy’s: “With reference to Lorentz's strange attractor the famous statement on chaos says that the flapping of a butterfly's wings in Tokyo can cause a tornado in Texas.”

In a field of crimson dust, a thick metal porthole clangs open, revealing a mechanical rabbit hole in the middle of nowhere. The hatch is set in an expanse of nothing, except whirling dust-devils kicking up the ash of expired forests and parched riverbeds. Nestled in contours of the Annapolis valley, home to Paradise, lost now in the heat of smashed thermodynamics, entropy turned on its head.

A man and woman clad in protective suits, aspirating through sealed helmets, emerge from the underground bunker. They begin to walk across the expanse, throwing up dust that swirls in loops, dancing behind their footfalls in the eddies of bone-dry winds. The sun flickers dimly behind the hills as morning approaches.

“Where are we going, again? You said it’s over, so does this mean we’ll be returning to the others? (the young assistant receives no answer from her research director, so ) Well, I’m just glad you finally found what you were looking for. This place was getting to me.”

“Yes, time to rejoin the lost tribes on the Final Migration. Though I did not discover what I expected. Only a circle, twirling maze, a labyrinth of red herring synchronicities, bound together in a thread of ironic humour where all is naught and there is no meaning to be gleaned. The methods were wrong or the tools misused. The results cannot be undone.”

They arrive at their destination, a small hole dug in the ground weeks ago. He hands his assistant a shovel and motions for her to begin excavating a deeper crater.

As the pupil digs, she complains to the Dr. of Quantum Archaeology, “So we’re back at the same spot. Come around full circle, have we? It seemed a little too easy we found it so close to the surface last time. Told you so that there was more buried deeper.”

"Yes, the numbers were crunched; superstrings were plucked; vibrations sent out from past to future. Small shifts were made yet, as I have learned, the grand arc, the controlling theme of history cannot be corrected. The pattern target was “dairy products, shepherd carpentry, and carnal livestock.” Turns out it was the products of Derry, shepard tonality, and caramelized beefstock. These multi-entendres are all emblematic of the malicious irony coded into the design, sending us round and round. There is no escaping the twisted threads in the ever shrinking disharmony. I imagine we’re meant to be entertained that the maker had some sense of humour.” Dry laugh.

“This is disappointing. I thought we were making progress. Finding a way to fix this thermodynamic inversion to bring all this to an end, to bring people back here, to Paradise. You should not give up so easily.”


Twisted trees; gnarled branches; tangled higher-arcs of EDEN

“When there are too many factors to account for in a chaotic system, one solution is to begin removing its disparate variables. Pare down the branches of possibilities from the base root, to see the bare trunk at the center of the tree of diverging paths. Then merge all possibilities into a terminal unity, like the gestalt of a black hole where all chaotic motion is pressed into one.” He drops his shovel and indicates that the digging is done as he picks up the briefcase lying at the edge of the waist-deep hole.

His assistant looks dumbfounded. “I still don’t get why you just had us dig out this pit. Nothing found. Nothing gained, only blisters on our palms.”

“Whoever created the pyramid tome did it to recover something dear that was lost, and along the way it picked up the destructive and the restrictive to balance its pursuits.” The man rests the briefcase on the dust at the base of the hole and opens it. Inside, he first places a red sigil painted on blackened char, uttering as if to no one in particular ~ “Id, for passion and fiery disorder.” Next, a burnished pyramid of metallic glint. “Ego, the three corners of symmetry pointed in unity.” Lastly, an emblem of heart and compass is laid to rest inside. “Superego, for restraint and cold reason.” He closes the case and drops a shovel full of dirt on top.

“Wait? So now…what, we just bury it?! All that work, searching then calculating all those trajectories, and we will simply leave it here to walk way?”

“Yes, that is all. I will be going. You will be staying.”

“What? I don’t think I understand,” his assistant says with a confused, pained look in her eye.

“The good news is, Thomasina, you won’t need to.” The man gives one last short laugh.

Sixty minutes into the future, the hole in the dustiscovered, no longer open to any further discovery. He thinks to himself, ‘The case is in my hand’ and feels its weight, his palm gripping the cold cross-hatched grip of the metal handle. Looking down, he confirms its absence, buried in the dusty red soil at his feet. ‘Moving on,’ he mutters as if to himself.

Over the Apple-achians, dawn is breaking on anAppleless valley. Setting his compass North by Northeast, the man turns to face a journey south west. He presses a keypad on his forearm for a tune to fill his now vacant mind, and walks on:

“He'd stop the world from turning at your command
It's always something cruel that laughter drowns.

And I'm up while the dawn is breaking.
Even though my heart is aching
I should be drinking a toast to absent friends
Instead of these comedians.”
~R. Orbison, “The Comedians”



Expediton Arcadia Series:
Preamble: (Expedition Arcadia): (Wanted) A Few Good Shepherds
eCanEgo Part 1: (Expedition Arcadia ~ Past): Arcadian Blossoms; Carnal Decay
eCanEgo Part 2: (Expedition Arcadia ~ Present): The Big Chill, feat. Addy Costner
eCanEgo Part 3: (ExArc ~ Future): Snowflakes in a Firestorm