Journal Assignment 4

What’s in the bag?  Perhaps “who’s in the bag?” would be more applicable.  As I wracked my brain, I examined the tan body bag resting on the floor of my closet.  I couldn’t remember ever having seen it before.  Of course, I was having trouble remembering what I’d done last evening, too.  I’d woken up on the floor of my room with a gash on my forehead and a splitting headache.  The last thing I remembered before that was….  I pressed my hands against my temples, trying to think.  Slowly time began to rewind through my mind.  I’d hit my head on a curb.  Slipped when crossing the street.  Which street? Where?  I couldn’t quite remember.  Perhaps I should try physically retracing my steps?

                When I reached the sidewalk outside my house, I paused.  Right?  Left?  Right felt correct.  A few blocks away I stopped to take my bearings.  Without realizing it, I put my hand in my pocket.  Paper?  Why is there paper in my pocket?  I retrieved it.  Directions.  Google maps directions to… somewhere.  An address I didn’t remember.  But not far from here.  Following the directions, I came at last to a street of shops.  I couldn’t help looking in the windows, and found that one of them was a sort of curio shop.  It wasn’t the address on the instructions, but I decided to check it out anyway.  Odd knickknacks lined the shelves.  Old hand tools hung on one wall.  Antique furniture filled the center of the room.  One could find practically anything here, so long as it was a decade or two old.  The shopkeeper looked up from his work.  “Ah, you’re the guy that bought that body bag!” he said, chuckling.  “Find a use for it yet?”  I tried to smile back.  “Not yet.”  After a bit more browsing, I left the store.

                I’d bought the body bag?  Yesterday?  What could I possibly have intended to use it for? I continued down the street, looking for the address on the directions.  It turned out to be a small storefront with a colorful display and the words “Party store” painted across the glass in bright colors.  Inside were party decorations of all types:  Colored sets of plates and napkins, party games, cheap prizes, kazoos, hats, streamers, the works.  But I still couldn’t remember why I would have come here.  Nothing for it but to go home and open the bag, I guess. 

                Back at home, I reluctantly began to unzip the body bag.  From the widening gap came… a small hand!  Had I kidnapped a child?  The hand felt dry and rough to the touch, almost papery.  Papery?  My mind flooded with memory and relief.  I pulled the zipper all the way open, and pulled out a pirate piñata.  Of course!  I’d bought a piñata for my brother’s birthday, but it had been raining.  The body bag kept it dry, but the rain had made the road slick, and I’d slipped and hit the curb.  Then the piñata carried me back home… wait, what?  I’d better go take something for my headache.

Definition Essay Proposal

“Green” is a word which is much-used of late.  “Green” energy, “green” technology, “green” light bulbs.  But the actual meaning of “green” in this context is vague and nebulous.  The term “green,” in the context of our interaction with the environment, has been around for a while, but it has risen to prominence along with the flurry of politics, media, and science surrounding global warming.  Somewhat like the word “organic”, green implies one thing to consumers, means another thing to manufacturers, and means to politicians various things at various times.

                Some terms that are commonly linked with “green” are “low environmental impact,” “energy-efficient,” “low carbon footprint,” “renewable energy,” “hybrid cars,” and so on.  I suggest that the “green” should actually refer to a “environmentally optimal” system or process—one which has minimal environmental detriment.  This definition overlaps with most of the aforementioned terms on some levels, but often does not mesh with the products and projects on which the green label is placed.

                I will be writing to a general audience of my peers.  I intend to aid them in questioning the motivations behind the widespread use of the term “green” and the dangers in trusting in the color only.

                News articles, government activities, and current “green” products should provide a wealth of resources for investigation of the current use of the term.

                I intend to build ethos through cited sources, pathos through phraseology, and logos through well-reasoned arguments.

Critical Review Proposal

 I am going to evaluate Arthur C. Clark's claim that “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic” as it relates to computers. I will do this by determining common characteristics of the category “magical items”. I will then assess whether computers fit into this category. I expect to arrive at the conclusion that they do fit the category. This will be a humorous essay, designed to leverage common frustrations and confusion with technology to help drive the point.

Some characteristics of magical items (and thus criteria for my analysis) are:

• Created through some unknown, hidden method, by strange people behind closed doors.
• Method of operation is not clear, even if the item is disassembled. Component parts appear to have little relation to function.
• Items vary in price depending on function, but all are fairly expensive.
• Magical items often glow.
• Magical items can malfunction when in the hands of an inexperience user. Only those who dedicate their lives to the study of magical items can use them to their fullest extent.
• When they malfunction, magical items often to so catastrophically.

And so on. I intend to back up my characteristics by using examples from popular fantasy literature, as time and space allow.

Journal Assigment 3

“The password is 1275,” he said in a hissed whisper.

I waited, but he said nothing more.  “That’s it?  That’s all you have to go on?  This torn map and a couple of numbers?”

He shifted uncomfortably.  “Well, yes.  I thought you were an expert.”

“I am an expert.  Even experts need clues.”  I sighed, swiveled my chair, and propped my feet on the filing cabinet.

After a few moments he interrupted my thoughts with a dry cough.

I met his eyes.  “Maybe.  I have a few guesses-- places to start, anyway.  No guarantee.  Retainer is a hundred a day, plus expenses.  Ten percent if I make good.  Five hundred up front.”

He fished the bills from his wallet and set them on my desk.

I moved them to my back pocket.  “All right.  Come back at this time in two days and I’ll give you an update.”  I swiveled to the window, and watched the city until I head the office door close behind him.

The truth was that I had more than a guess.  The map had a title across the top in block letters: “ARPANET.”  ARPANET isn’t a country or a city or an island.  It was never a physical location, and doesn’t even exist anymore.  It was simply an early network of computers – a precursor to the modern internet.  That didn’t explain the strange format of the map.  It was drawn as if ARPANET was a place.  Computer systems were represented as if they were cities or landmarks, each labeled with a name and separated by seemingly arbitrary distances.  Roads connected them, though the roads looked a little too straight and plain, like a sort of subway map.  The one labeled RADC was circled, and the numbers “1275” scrawled next to it.  I didn’t know much more about ARPANET; not enough to recognize the computer’s name.  But I had a few contacts that might.  I put on my trench coat and pulled my fedora down over my eyes.  The street outside my office isn’t a nice one.  It’s dim and dirty, and touches on numerous alleys which are still darker.  I hadn’t gotten far before I heard the sharp, short sound of someone taking quick steps in hard-soled shoes.  As I began to turn around, something jabbed my side, and the world spun.  I dropped to the pavement.  I couldn’t see, but I heard a phone being dialed. 

A man’s voice said, “Upload.  Node: RADC.”

“Verify!” answered a coarse, tinny voice from the phone.

“1-2-7-5”

There was a strange sound, and then the phone hit the ground beside me.  I blacked out.  When I woke, there was no trace of my assailant; just a strange phone with no buttons.

Journal Assigment 2

“Why did you look at me that way?”

“What way?”

“You grimaced!”

The white-coat shook his head sadly.  “I didn’t.”

“You did!”

“Nothing of the sort.”

I might as well give up.  There’s no point in arguing with white-coats anyhow.  Besides, his expression has changed.  He’s a bit confused, a bit afraid.  That’s normal.

 “Why did you come to see me?” I ask.

“Just wanted to make sure you’re comfortable.”  He’s lying; I tell him so. He smiles.  “Fair enough.  I’d like to introduce you to someone.”

“Not another specialist.  I’m tired of specialists.  Too much poking and grimacing.”

He half-smiles.  “No.  Just someone.  I’m going to talk with them; I’d like you to tell me their expressions.”

“Is it a test?”

He hesitates, then half-lies. “Yes, like a test.”

Half-lies always confuse me the most.  It’s hard to tell what’s a half or which is right.  I let it go.

“Ok.  But not too long. I’m tired.”

He leaves the room, comes back with someone else.  The newcomer is swarming with emotions.

White-coat clears his throat.  “Let’s begin, shall we?”

Newcomer grunts.

“This passport is yours?  This is your real name?”

“Yes.” Newcomer’s voice is cleaner, sharper than I expected.

“Bored.” I state.

“No lie?” asks White-coat.

“No lie.” I confirm.  “But now confusion…interest… arrogance…a little fear.”

“Thank you,” says White-coat.  Next question.  Are you responsible for the disappearance of the Gamma Device?”

Newcomer shifts in his seat. “No.”

My turn.  “Lie. Also pride.”  Newcomer looks at me with less arrogance and a little more fear.

“Is it at one of these locations?”  He begins reading through a list.  I’m not familiar with any of the places.  Some sound like towns, others are a person’s house or workplace.

Newcomer doesn’t acknowledge the question.

I keep playing my part.  “Bored…Bored…Haughty…Bored…”

White-coat pauses to clear his throat.

“Can we stop soon?”  I ask.  “I’m tired.”

“Soon.”  White-coat continues his list.

I continue mine.  “Bored…Bored…Fear…”

White-coat stops.  He reads the location again.  “It’s really there?”

Newcomer growls, “Of course not!  I didn’t take it!  I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Lie, lie, lie,” I respond.  I think maybe I’m getting the hang of this test.  “Panic.”

He stands up quickly.  “What is this…this…freak?” he rasps out.  I hear the table being shoved out of the way, sounds of a scuffle, of punches.

White-coat calls for help.  There’re shouts in the hall, and footsteps, and soon the door bursts open.  There’s a gunshot, a scream, a thud.  Quiet.

It takes me a while to make out Newcomer’s expression.  It frightens me.  I force myself to whisper it.

“Blank.”

After a moment, White-coat answers me.  “Thank you; you’ve been very helpful. That will be all.”

The others take Newcomer away.

Trying to forget the Blank, my mind wanders.  When White-coat opens the door to go, I stop him.  “Just one thing.  Why did you look at me that way?”

He smiles.  “It’s just that they never told me that you’re blind.”

First Entry

The syllabus claims that there's a journal/blog entry due this week, even though there isn't. This gives me the urge to write a long-winded, deeply emotional post. Sadly, I'm not in a deeply emotional mood, so instead I'll tell a story about a dragon.



Many years ago, in the Far North, there lived a dragon. His name was Fwoosh. He lived near the village of Oort, and from time to time he stole a sheep if other prey was scarce.

Practically everyone knows that dragons can breathe fire. What people have forgotten is that, if a dragon gets too cold, the fire in his belly gets smaller and smaller, and he'll get slower and slower and sicker and sicker. If he can't get warm again, the fire will go out and the dragon will die.

The villagers of Oort knew this, of course, because it was written quite plainly in the book on dragons that was kept in the big bookchest in the corner of the meeting hall.

The villagers never really trusted Fwoosh, although he never harmed a person. The farmers hated him for stealing their sheep, and he'd set fire to a house once when he'd gotten too excited chasing a particularly agile ram.

So, when young Artee found him crumpled in a ball against the side of a barn, there was plenty of commotion. They'd all gathered up in the square, and with lanterns and pitchforks and the odd rusty sword, they'd timidly marched over to investigate. It was plain right away that his fire was weak-- his scales didn't glimmer, and they'd changed from bright reddish to a deep maroon, almost black. When they made noise he'd open his eyes, but they'd droop closed again. He hardly moved at all.

Well, the villagers all marched back to the meeting hall to decide what to do. The farmers wanted to leave him to die, or better yet, kill him. But a cold dragon is a pitiful thing, even more than a squirrel on a wet snowy day. Crumpled against the barn, Fwoosh looked scarcely bigger than a sheep. His wings, wrapped sloppily around him, looked spindly and weak. Every time he opened his eyes, they seemed to shine a little less. Even some of the farmers felt a little sad.

The villagers all voted, and shouted, and hemmed and hawwed, and voted again, and shouted some more. Nobody noticed when Artee climbed up on the table, until he shouted and stomped and hollered and clapped his hands all at once. Once he'd gotten their attention, he said, in a matter-of-fact way, that he'd found the dragon, and he wanted to help it, and if anyone wanted to hurt it they'd have to fight him first.

Now Artee was normally a quiet lad, and certainly not a fighter. He wouldn't have been hard to best in a fight, only noone wanted to be the one that did it. The farmers grumbled and mumbled to themselves, but they didn't step forward. Many of the villagers had wanted someone to help the dragon, but hadn't wanted to get too close to it. So in the end, Artee got his way.

He found a tarpaulin and dragged it over Fwoosh as well as he could, staying out of reach of his head (you never can tell with dragons). He brought a pile of firewood and made a big, hot fire as close as he dared. Then he went and pleaded with the butcher until he gave him a big pile of scraps.

Artee put the scraps in one bucket, and filled another one with water, which he heated over the fire. He placed these as close as he dared to Fwoosh's mouth, and darted back.

The whole time, Fwoosh never moved. Gradually, though, his scales seemed to catch some of the fire's light and shine it back. His eyes flickered open. After an hour or so he started gulping down bits of meat and mouthfuls of water.

Artee sat, watching the dragon, huddled in a blanket on the other side of the fire. Once it showed signs of improvement he began to relax, and soon fell asleep. When he awoke the next morning, the dragon was gone. He jumped up, and something fell to the ground from his lap. Picking it up, he recognized it instantly-- one of Fwoosh's claws, hard and sharp, warm to the touch and burning with a hot red light.

Fwoosh never came back to visit Artee. But the villagers' sheep stopped disappearing, and every so often someone would a wolf that looked dragon-killed. Fwoosh had never done that before.

Artee found that the dragon claw seemed to warm him a little, especially on the coldest days. Every so often he could feel it pulse, and if he looked up he could see a glint of red high in the sky. He put it on a cord around his neck, and though he's old now, he wears it still. Ever so often he glances up at the sky. Sometimes I follow his gaze, but I always seem to be a moment too late to see the dragon, if indeed it's there.