Ava had a communication problem.
Refugees from the old neurology worlds will tell you that communication requires three things. A cortex. A large number of neurones within that cortex. A large number of neurones within that cortex that speak to each other.
Ava met the cortex test.
Two out of three ain’t bad. One out of three is a disaster. Ava’s neurones barely passed the time of day with each other. Ava’s neurones were arranged in an avaricious bundle of bullying belligerence bulging out from behind eyes of crass stupidity.
Ava had a communication problem.
Ava was always hungry. Her every meal was hunted down, captured and torn apart as she wielded metaphorical axes in the killing fields which surrounded the Planet. For it was power Ava craved. As she accrued it, she grew fatter and more bloated.
It is not impossible for stupid people to become powerful. Even on Planet Psychotherapy, which prides itself on its intellectual prowess, stupid people rise to positions of influence. But Ava did not live on the Planet. Ava employed the Planet.
As the Guild of Alchemists (and Doers) became stronger and stronger, many flocked to join. No more monasteries. A quick dip into the rule books, corners cut and a ticket to gold. Well down the hierarchy, these junior alchemists sought access to visitors.
Ava the belligerent controlled a sluice gate. Opened it a little. Just a little. A few juniors took the bait, nibbled on Ava’s crumbs and were hooked. Briefly sated, Ava waited as dusk fell for bigger fish to rise.
When big M and the Chamber Crew swam past, Ava could not believe her luck. The big one. More power. A larger sluice. She licked her fat lips, grown fatter at the thought of her next meal. Stupid Ava.
The Old Cockney loved the game. Took in the big picture. Weaved, dodged, fixed. Pulled here, pushed there. There’s better bait over here Big M. Ava watched as her meal swam past into the Cockney’s net. Big M and the Chamber Crew gently landed on the beach as the Cockney reeled them in.
But Ava the belligerent is not finished. The Old Cockney needs her. The faceless bureaucrats need an image of harmony to sell to Scotty and the Naïve Banker. Ava is not finished but Ava is stupid. Plays her card too early. Too hungry, too obvious, she cannot walk away. Threatens. Bluff called. Stays put. Harmony for now.
The hunger gnaws away at Ava’s guts. No one but Ava wants the sluices to remain. The Alchemists, the faceless bureaucrats and the Old Cockney all want them to go. The Alchemists see visitors as their source of power. The bureaucrats divide and rule the powerful. The Old Cockney plays a deeper game. The game is itself the power. Ava sees the sluices as power. Poor Ava. One out of three. Her neurones passing each other by on the other side of her street. Sees only the sluices.
Ava has a communication problem.
Monday 31 August 2009
Monday 24 August 2009
Chapter 2: A Short History of the Planet Part 1
Students of Planet Psychotherapy’s history frequently remark at the curious 1st paradox whereby the Planet’s carefully secretive accumulation of words is matched only by the generation of paper accounts in madly abandoned quantities. That’s not the lone paradox. The second one is the Planet’s relative youth, accompanied by a pervasive cult of aged veneration. Here’s yet another one – the pursuit of calm nirvana is attended by an unmatched propensity for savage warfare. And that’s just three. There are many more rich Planetary seams of paradox to be mined by the thesis inclined.
For many years the Planet was unoccupied. The first colonists came from a world of science and wonder. For those with the material means, life could be extended as disease was banished. Germs were found and beaten. Renegade neurologists with left-field ideas found the Planet a happy hunting ground. Virgin territory. In fact, the more virgins the better. Words of abstinence.
Words were scarce on the Planet but the Guilds did not go hungry. Carefully husbanded word crops kept the Guilds comfortable. Governing structures were developed, orthodoxies established and the living was easy. Private incomes allowed for playtimes. The first law of Planetary paradox was established: words are confidential but paper is the currency of the Planet. Words are turned into paper.
Guild membership depends on paper. The more paper possessed, the easier it is to join a Guild. Senior Guild members, even feared Guild committees, all have their paper. Less later, of course. After all, running a Guild takes time away from paper. Some words never make it into paper. Stay hidden, confidential, lost. Personal firework displays only, soothing old Guild members to sleep.
So the second law of Planetary paradox came to be. The Planet is young, runs on the energy of youth but venerates the exhausted, rigid and empty minds of the aged. This paradox generates paradox 2(i): all paper is accumulative and none is to be replaced, even where such old paper is manifestly untrue, because old paper has been generated by the revered aged ones and must be respected.
As for the third paradox. Deep in the Guild halls, war maps adorn dark rooms. Operations planned. At first the Guilds co-existed happily. New Guilds sprang from youth. Generated their own aged. But, how to venerate all the old? Public displays of respect coupled to vicious paper wars. The youth the foot soldiers. Some would make it over the defences, score hurt with their paper. Use new visitors’ words twisted into paper spears. Others fell as strong Guilds reached deep into others’ back rooms and closed on the venerated aged leaders. But always held back, unable ultimately to violate the second law of Planetary paradox.
Of course, like all Planets, planet Psychotherapy has a wild margin land. Laws of Planetary Paradox are weak here. The writ of the Guilds does not reach to the margins. A race of wild margin dwellers grew up here. Inhabited by these Alchemists, the Doers and the Experimenters, the outlaw lands of the weird and the doings troubled the Guilds little for many years. Knowledge of what went on here was of little import. Guilds never travelled here into coarseness and banditry. Guild conflict and aged veneration bred complacency. The storm brewed in the vessels of the Alchemists. The Guilds never saw it coming.
The wild eyed Alchemists drew little energy from words. Such refinements cut no ice in the banqueting halls of experiment and doing. The Alchemists titrated and measured, watched and talked. Talked. Instructed. Advised. Some visitors’ words strayed into Alchemy land. Alchemists captured these words, sought to measure, catalogue, dissect. Heartless, disrespectful. Instruction books from the margins made their way into Guild halls. Planetary paradox turned upside down – paper can be disproved, replaced, cast aside. But only on the margins. Let them have their dirty lands.
In the dining rooms of doing, the reviled Alchemists nursed their resentments. Catalogued and stored them up as ammunition for the coming campaign. Worked on their experiments. Figured out trajectories, parabolas and angles. Prepared for the longest day. The assault on the halls of the Guilds. And that day would be long indeed, stretching into weeks, months and years. No one would come home by Christmas, neither this one nor many more to come.
The Planet held its breath.
For many years the Planet was unoccupied. The first colonists came from a world of science and wonder. For those with the material means, life could be extended as disease was banished. Germs were found and beaten. Renegade neurologists with left-field ideas found the Planet a happy hunting ground. Virgin territory. In fact, the more virgins the better. Words of abstinence.
Words were scarce on the Planet but the Guilds did not go hungry. Carefully husbanded word crops kept the Guilds comfortable. Governing structures were developed, orthodoxies established and the living was easy. Private incomes allowed for playtimes. The first law of Planetary paradox was established: words are confidential but paper is the currency of the Planet. Words are turned into paper.
Guild membership depends on paper. The more paper possessed, the easier it is to join a Guild. Senior Guild members, even feared Guild committees, all have their paper. Less later, of course. After all, running a Guild takes time away from paper. Some words never make it into paper. Stay hidden, confidential, lost. Personal firework displays only, soothing old Guild members to sleep.
So the second law of Planetary paradox came to be. The Planet is young, runs on the energy of youth but venerates the exhausted, rigid and empty minds of the aged. This paradox generates paradox 2(i): all paper is accumulative and none is to be replaced, even where such old paper is manifestly untrue, because old paper has been generated by the revered aged ones and must be respected.
As for the third paradox. Deep in the Guild halls, war maps adorn dark rooms. Operations planned. At first the Guilds co-existed happily. New Guilds sprang from youth. Generated their own aged. But, how to venerate all the old? Public displays of respect coupled to vicious paper wars. The youth the foot soldiers. Some would make it over the defences, score hurt with their paper. Use new visitors’ words twisted into paper spears. Others fell as strong Guilds reached deep into others’ back rooms and closed on the venerated aged leaders. But always held back, unable ultimately to violate the second law of Planetary paradox.
Of course, like all Planets, planet Psychotherapy has a wild margin land. Laws of Planetary Paradox are weak here. The writ of the Guilds does not reach to the margins. A race of wild margin dwellers grew up here. Inhabited by these Alchemists, the Doers and the Experimenters, the outlaw lands of the weird and the doings troubled the Guilds little for many years. Knowledge of what went on here was of little import. Guilds never travelled here into coarseness and banditry. Guild conflict and aged veneration bred complacency. The storm brewed in the vessels of the Alchemists. The Guilds never saw it coming.
The wild eyed Alchemists drew little energy from words. Such refinements cut no ice in the banqueting halls of experiment and doing. The Alchemists titrated and measured, watched and talked. Talked. Instructed. Advised. Some visitors’ words strayed into Alchemy land. Alchemists captured these words, sought to measure, catalogue, dissect. Heartless, disrespectful. Instruction books from the margins made their way into Guild halls. Planetary paradox turned upside down – paper can be disproved, replaced, cast aside. But only on the margins. Let them have their dirty lands.
In the dining rooms of doing, the reviled Alchemists nursed their resentments. Catalogued and stored them up as ammunition for the coming campaign. Worked on their experiments. Figured out trajectories, parabolas and angles. Prepared for the longest day. The assault on the halls of the Guilds. And that day would be long indeed, stretching into weeks, months and years. No one would come home by Christmas, neither this one nor many more to come.
The Planet held its breath.
Thursday 13 August 2009
Chapter 1: Welcome to Planet Psychotherapy: The Story of an Experiment
Big M and the Chamber Crew
When Big M and the Chamber Crew realised that their people were not happy, they figured they needed to do something about it. Getting the place working again was what they knew best. They reckoned this was the way to reduce the heat. Hadn’t been done for twenty years, but things don’t change that much. Mind you, couldn’t be done without a bit of brass to oil the wheels. Inward investment – clearly necessary.
Scotty was looking good for a sub but the Naïve Banker was pushing for more than a few new fast food joints. Smoke and mirrors, how were the Crew gonna pull this one off? The Naïve Banker’s into happiness. Thinks that working people are happy people. Or maybe happy people are working people. Now that was something the Crew could really get off on. Happy people are profitable people. Growth, prestige, profit. Obvious really.
The Crew got to work. Work, that they could handle. Deals, development, drive-ins. No problem. Happiness? How the hell they gonna do that? No happiness, no deal. Scotty and the Banker holding out. Can you buy happiness? Big M thought you could. Money can buy you anything, give you leisure, golf, wives, the usual stuff. Surely happiness is just another commodity.
The Naïve Banker thinks that we don’t spend enough cash on happiness. Small guy, but knows a thing or two. Well connected. Must be something in it. Big M goes over. No Dice. The Chamber Crew think again. This is a world they can’t understand. Reaper, the Capital city see. Weird place – all theatres and different languages. Chatter.
The Chamber Crew know work. They know honest toil. They know place. Hierarchy, worth, respect. You’d think it would be enough. Big M decides a way to unlock Scotty’s purse. They need ‘Planet Psychotherapy’.
Psychotherapy? The Crew thinks Big M must need it. Too much time in the capital, Big M, warm ale will see you right. No. Big M sees the total picture. If the Crew want Scotty’s millions they gotta talk the talk. Maybe even walk the walk. Maybe. The Naïve Banker’s the key but the Old Cockney’s the fixer.
More smoke and mirrors. The Cockney knows deals. Big M knows deals. This they understand. This they can do. Handshakes, long eye contact, done. The Cockney will get the Crew into Planet Psychotherapy. Rarefied air, smell of library, musty books. But he can do it. Contacts, reliable, not too much trouble. Will be done. The Cockney walks away, smile and tight eyes. Fun, he likes this. We’ll have a laugh here.
So when Big M and the Chamber Crew realised they had a problem they also found out they needed Planet Psychotherapy. That’s where the Exile came in. When Big M and the Chamber Crew met the Exile they figured the deal was easy. Sure, but the Old Cockney tells it like it is. Work equals happiness. Happiness equals work. Need the Planet to provide the glue. The attraction. Make work stick to happiness. Happiness stick to work. The Naïve Banker gives the nod. Scotty unlocks his case. Money flows. Now they are in business.
The Exile? He feels the heat. Hates the cold. Worked it out. Do the deal, make the eyes, shake the palm. Now have fun. Big sandpit here, stretch out, touch the sun, security.
Hi Big M and the Chamber Crew.
Welcome to Planet Psychotherapy.
Do come in.
What Big M and the Chamber Crew don’t realise is that the Exile is the Keeper, the most radical bastard on Planet Psychotherapy. By a long way.
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