four days prior to the end
2001-09-16 - 10:18 p.m.
Alright, one last thing on this whole �war� thing, and then I�ll shut up about it for at least a week. Hopefully I won�t ever have anything else to say about it.
Let me tell you what I see. I see a war that will involve damn near every country of the world. I see smaller, internal wars being waged in nearly every country. The anarchists in every country see their government at it�s weakest, and rather than acting sane and moving to Africa, they�ll blow the hell out of their own country (partly because they were convinced by the media of their day that �explosions are cool!�). There will be fights in your own back yard and guns in the back of your child�s head. And there will be politicians, sitting in concrete bomb shelters, telling you to �fight for your freedom� even though they don�t know what it is they are saying. I see that this is a war that we cannot win. Period. You wouldn�t believe the number of �casual criminals� that live in every country of the world, because it�s a state of mind. There will always be people that are in transition to that particular state, no matter how many of them you kill. And just as there are people that are changing their minds to be criminals, there are those that are becoming bored with it, and are changing their minds to be normal happy citizens. There will be people that try to find criminals inside of their country, but all they will find is a map for a wild goose chase. You will loose your freedoms in this �free� country as people try to enforce surveillance and strict ordinances in the name of your safety. Strangely enough, it will seem that the terrorists have more freedom than the citizens. And more people may join the terrorist�s side, in the empty name of freedom. I see that while it cannot be �won� per se, but it is a war that must be fought. It must be fought against the extremist criminals, who have no decency of mind nor peace of reason. It must be fought against the postal workers with automatic rifles, and not the child playing with spray paint on the corner. If you get rid of the criminals of society, you get rid of any diversity of thought. Now we must make a distinction between the type of person that writes a harmless �smiley face� virus and a person who wrote �Chernobyl (CIH)�. And because of that, this will be the most psychologically confusing war to ever be waged. When America runns Operation: Horny Chipmunk Fuck, and we have to send ground troops to burn the Sikhs out of their foxholes, you�ll see too. It�s God versus Allah, Jesus versus Mohammed. Either way, we all loose.
Sidenote: I can�t think of a synonym for �electric blender� to save my life. I just have to cross my fingers that no one will ever stumble onto this oh-so-critical weakness.
I overslept every day this weekend, so I fell back into the habit of dreaming. The year is set up like 1960, but bears no actual relevance to the real 1960 in the late 1950s and early 1960s. I wasn�t dreaming so much in color as in �moods� of color...lots of dark greys and dirty yellows; they called me �death guy� in a language that I stopped knowing when I began to wake up. There were some foreign laborers in the area that I was on a first-name basis with, and I complained about wages with them for a bit. Back in the village, I was living in a mud-and-stone building with a bed and a desk; it reminded me of the things I�d heard about prison, but I also kept telling myself that I was on site to help these people. There had been a plague in the village, and the natives had refused medical attention from other countries. They simply wanted to deal with the mass deaths in an efficient and traditional manner. I brought four gravediggers with me. There was also a psychologist/culturist to help me with the traditions and bereavement of the people. It turned out that we didn�t need her assistance too much, because the majority of the natives celebrated (rather than mourned) the deaths of their loved ones. While we were walking down the path from the village to the gravesite one morning, she asked me about a doll that she had as a child. It was one of those dolls that made a noise when you tipped it over, and she said that the noise seemed to get more and more sad as she got older. Her mother, who had given her the doll, had noticed the same type of eerie whine when she had grown to be an adult. Of course, I couldn�t resist touching humorously mentioning that it might be the doll�s way of telling her to have a child. She smiled at that, but was still obviously unnerved by the sound this doll was making, and I started to wonder how this fit into my field of expertise. Knowing that her mother had been a psychologist as well, I told her that it probably had to do with her knowledge of emotion portrayal. As a child, she accepted that it was a doll, so it had to be making a happy noise. But as she got older, she realized that the sound the doll was making more of a crying noise; she might have put extra emphasis on this part of the noise as she encountered sadness. Later on, I went to her cabin to see the doll for myself. The doll wasn�t a doll at all, but one of the plagued babies that had mysteriously escaped the quarantine zone. It was like something out of Trainspotting, but I can�t put finger on exactly what. It turned it�s head to me and gurgled something horrific in that other language. End Dream. I know, usually I die in my dreams...I�m sure I would have, if the dream had continued. But this time, I�m glad it didn�t.
