Chapter Four

In many ways life was somewhat of a compromise: on one hand you want to write anything to your heart's content, and yet on the other one has to compromise between ideas you get in the shower, and what pop up in your head while you're writing on the screen.

For Rana, her life was somewhere in between dreams and ripping out her spleen, bleeding out into the pages telling stories of untold ages beyond the sea. And yet as she recalls different moments of childhood bliss and misery, often the shame of things she had done in her past has made her leery about the idea of discussing issues with others. There wasn't anybody that she could discuss her issues with online, and for therapists she was unsure whether there was any of them that she could trust. And while she plugged into different computers her USB drives, finding that she could keep different local pages up after withdrawing the medium, she found that dreams will never be the same. She was torn between wanting to be young again, and the painful realization of never wanting to relive her childhood. She wanted to live a different kind of life story beyond the pages, in lands far beyond the horizon. Beyond artificial bridges in futuristic landscapes, filled with towers of Babylon and scattered languages across the globe. If only she could lucid dream of lands between the mountain of time.

In this world, where the ancients of the 17th to 19ths centuries told stories in rhyme, at times she felt as one of the few true traditional poets of the world, becoming as archaic as typewriters whose ink rolls were no longer in production, and technology move away from wooden clogs to rubber ones, constantly re-branding the things that we buy on a daily basis. Rana no longer wanted to be part of this world, and yet found herself not wanting to leave this world behind, stuck in a lifetime of eternal paradox. And beyond the town that played like a city, beyond Time Mountain, she knew that as the weather became hotter, that Time Mountain, the reverse of Candy Mountain, was becoming ever closer. And now instead of children tap dancing to country rhymes, were mutated wolves out for human blood as they became increasingly displaced into human territories, and against their natural nature, have come to only have humans as their food source. And yet for Rana, she never had problems with animals of even the most feral kind, being in essence more of animal than a part of civilization herself.

Indeed, there was some dark sexuality in her bones, that she kept from the world, something that if others knew would make society deem her as truly savage. In diaries she cannot even bring herself to explore the topic, as society--at least in American--tends to have an overly conservative view of sex. Indeed, one wonders whether they actually practice such as what they preach. Or if they spank their daughters, on their bottoms as pink as a peach. Then make them do write offs about the parents grandness one million times each, saying thank you Ms. Martinson till the end of time.

Indeed, the life of untold children's rhyme.

The rhyme of childhood's end.

One wonders whether they actually practice such as what they preach. Or if they spank their daughters, on their bottoms as pink as a peach. Then make them do write offs about the parents grandness one million times each, saying thank you Ms. Martinson till the end of time.

Indeed, the life of untold children's rhyme.

The rhyme of childhood's end.

It was one of those dreams Rana confused for reality, until she realized that birds don't generally wait for a human being pick them up. Though the fact that it was injured made this more likely, the fact that the large black bird was in her grandmother's basement did not make the situation less unsettling, after all what was a buzzard doing inside of her grandmother's basement? Although technically it was her aunt's basement now. She picked up the bird, caressed the injured thing, and soothed it while she walked up stairs to put it outside. But as she walked up the stairs, the bird became a skunk. And the question became why the skunk wasn't spraying her with its skunk, unless of course it was neutered and was somebody's pet. Her uncle, her aunt's brother, commented on how they could have they skunk outside as a pet. So as Rana woke up the following morning she wondered whether her family had ever had a pet skunk.

She proceeded to purchase herself some cigarillos and a Starbucks energy drink after a half cup of instant expresso, and once home continued to listen to UFO pod casts. She was tempted to go back to bed, but had some programming to do, while listening to Wikileaks. Unlike a lot of programmers her age, she had never given Wikileaks much thought until recently with the Vault 7 leaks. Yet now as she begins to do basic sketches for the Luna Network, she has become increasingly curious about Wikileaks backlog. She made herself some mashed potatoes and scrambled eggs to relax that following morning, listening to nothing by press conferences and UFO podcasts.

At day she spends her time making things in programs essential to her livelihood, while dreaming of going to the beach and seeing the waves for the final time, before regions in the South begin to flood, and the Mother Mary statues at regional churches have their eyes drip with blood inspiring deranged preachers everywhere across the small slice of the globe called the US. She wonders when there will finally be alien disclosure, as there is obviously more of a news story than is being let on by presidents on late night talk shows, and some people on the web speak of the Rockefeller Initiative. Although Rana suspects that part of the reason for their hesitation, is that even if that got them the president's seat, it would either means years of treason trials, or just as likely, end up like John F Kennedy on that black horseless carriage in Texas in the 60s. For the presidents of the American crime family, those at times compared to the most powerful mafia, there is a deeper and darker mafia so far below their reach, that if covered by a Tsunami they would drown while child actress sisters clown around town like clowns on a cell phone on a rainy evening in California.

Life at times is like an unorganized stream of conscious narrative, played like a game of chess. One must always watch for the others move with Poker face, and not lose the game in disgrace. And now fall down, down, down and down into the pits of doom more dooming than damnation. In a world ruled by War Criminals, Organized Crime gangs, and Hollywood actors at large.

She watched movies, like The Day The Earth Stood Still. Then took the pill.

And fell asleep into her own misery.

Rana moved her first jack and second jack to the laptop with the third jack: a user one jack, a second user jack, and a server jack. The first user would engage in a remote viewing session, then send their intellegence across the server jack, into the second user jack. And vice versa for reverse communication, all this on lonely quiet lunar nights. This was a centralized model, and she had drawn sketches for decentralized versions. Yet did not have enough participants to try out the concept. It was already a stretch to use three thumb drives, and getting more jacks for right now seemed cost prohibitive.

Yet within this drives contained the future, a projection of a different kind of world from the one she currently lived in, that monitored communications nightly. Even if only slightly, the communication of rebellions are eventually subverted by lack of privacy. Within these drives, there was no such thing as ad ware. There was only direct peer to peer. Each jack required a host computer, are the system was best optimally used by use public ally accessible computers like ones at the library. In this, one could constantly change their mac address across the Luna network, without having a set identifying factor. And without one, it makes track specific transmissions much harder. Although it's generally advised not to used proprietary operating systems, as they can watch everything you do in live action without you knowing, if you were not already familiar with such invasions of user privacy, the fact filling one with anxiety.

She needed someone to test the system, yet the only people within nearby distance was her parents, and they had already asked what the point was in using such a system, or why it was better than just communicating face to face. Yet when one is at risk of being tossed to the wind in disgrace, one uses any desperate means to survive. Yet in reality users of the Luna Network could be at any place in point in time, although generally it is suggested that one keeps within their own home city in order to reduce latency. Rana had nobody to share the network with, yet shared an early version of its source code on Github, and on there as long as someone found it there would be at least one who was willing to use the software. Even if that meant modifying it to suit their needs. Assuming they don't think the code is only worth anal beads.

At night she dreams of climbing gloves, connecting across points in meat space, connecting to different host computers. Each computer acting as a Luna Network relay node in the new evolution of the net. She wasn't sure how much harder it would make for her and her friends to be found. Her closest current friend in was up in Virginia. And her previous friends had generally had been abusers and losers across different towns she had lived in by on and off the net. She refused to form any kind of relationship, short term or long time. And instead coasted through life with a kind of apathy for the flesh. She coasted through dreams, remote viewed outer space, and used optical illusion software to the extent that would make most other users on smart phones vomit. The smart phone itself, while designed for centralized networking, she used as a means of keeping under cover, agreeing to a certain level of surveillance in order to not attract attention to herself, while developing a different system of connecting to the net.

At the local coffee shop, women were often confused about her gender, and the fact that she grew a beard mildly fast for a trans woman did not help. Yet when she shaved she was often asked about her age by complete strangers, making her unsure how to feel about this.

Yet at home, she was only Rana.

Rana was all she was.


Fairy Dust



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