|
In In the time of chimpanzees, I was a monkey
|
#
¿
Jan 2, 2020 00:05
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ Apr 18, 2024 07:16 |
|
|
Line: "In the time of chimpanzees, I was a monkey" Amateur Geology 1,496 Words Ever since I was nine I've hated chimpanzees. loving despised them. It happened after our class on evolution. I was in the yard, and all I was doing—standing on my own—was finding some peace bashing rocks together. The night before, the awful, free sports channel we received showed European rock climbing. It didn’t impress me. What did impress me was the grit, or rock-sand, they used on their hands. What I wanted, by bashing my two stones together, was to have dust like the climbers used; to stop the sweat on my always dewy, moist palms. I was happy, making dust, bashing rocks, until Charlie Dunstable, in his huge, already-broken voice yelled, "Look at Marty! He's evolved and discovered tools like the chimpanzees!" Of course everyone laughed. Chimpanzees were the topical event, and when the topical event met the everlasting humour of my torment the class erupted into a riotous uproar, all at my expense. I know, I know, sticks and stones and all that, and I was used to harsh words, but it was from that point onwards stones were occasionally hurled at my head. That left a mark. I should hate Charlie Dunstable, maybe, but he’s a doctor now, with a beautiful philosophy professor wife and a country home in the mountains, and I work unplugging hair from college dormitory drains. It’s easier, maybe healthier, to ignore Mr. Successful and direct my ire at something immaterial: those tool using chimpanzees, who, for some reason—a reason beyond me—have just discovered fire. Which brings me to my protest at the zoo. The pyromaniac chimps were rescued after hunting drove them out of their reserve, and much to everyone’s surprise, when at the wildlife park, they showed the onlooking zoologists they could make fire with dried kindling and flint. They were even starting to cook their food. Learning about this changed something in me; I no longer hated chimpanzees. In much the same way I felt sorrow for nine year old me I feared for those chimps. I guess you could say their fire lit a fire in me. “Stop! Go back!” was my first protest sign. “Monkeys! No! Stop!” was my second, with one of those ‘No-Smoking’ designs but with a fire instead of a cigarette. It was then someone pointed out they weren’t monkeys, but apes. “It’s a mistake! Ignore evolution! Stop developing, you drat dirty apes!” was my third sign, and that got me noticed. First, by a guy called Stevie Grunge—a stoner, I’ll admit—but he was happy to share so I was fine with him. He was also good looking (and possibly a dealer) so he brought in a few college students. My movement was gaining momentum. We were going to save the chimps, and maybe even ourselves. It was during one of our think-ins—as we all got together to discuss the ways higher level thought was a hindrance—that a sound-tech, covering the zoo’s discovery for a local news agency, recorded the first, and only, surviving document of our new approach for the world. I still remember the tech explaining to the newscaster we could be a side topic for her coverage. “They think this discovery will bring human plights and strife to the monkeys! Eventually, I guess. I’ve got it all on tape!” He might have called us ‘kooks,’ but I interrupted. I pointed out they were actually apes, not monkeys. But this was my problem; I still couldn’t escape the higher level need of wanting to be correct, and more, to prove to people I am correct. I explained this to them, what I’d just done, and how we all needed to halt our domination desires. How we needed to save the apes from their coming torment, and just as much people too. We weren’t featured on the news channel but he did sell the interview to the college radio station. That was the next step for my movement: Ms. Ellie Downton-Dunstable, a very affable woman, and coincidentally Charlie Dunstable’s beautiful wife, was listening in her campus office. Something must have clicked for her, because soon, she and a few grad students were down at the zoo with video cameras and digital recorders documenting every movement from the chimps; disrupting the already frantic zoologists. I found this out when one of my student campaigners talked to her BFF, a philosophy grad, over one of Stevie Grunge’s pre-rolled wonders. “Heidegger, you see!” she said. I didn’t see. “He said things are either available for our use, or we have to figure out their use. It’s a part of ‘Being.’” I still didn’t see. “As Being-creatures we have the ability to contemplate our existence and so others’ existence; everyone’s, our own, animals’, even objects’ existence. We think now the monkeys have fire, soon they might begin to wonder about their, and everything’s, place in the world!” This scared me. Whether I was pulling three foot congealed clumps of shampoo ridden hair from drains, or standing in that schoolyard smashing rocks—soon to have them flung at me—I was aware of my place in the world. And by this point I was feeling more and more like those chimps; watched and at the centre of something I couldn’t quite comprehend, let alone direct. I wanted peace for them. By then our protests had grown to ten, fifteen, sometimes twenty people. I wondered if the zoologists would discover more studying me than the fire-making apes, who, of course, drew more protestors, mainly from animal rights groups. They always had a bigger crowd than us, and less than putting purpose to humanity and chimp-kind’s place in the world they wanted humanity to stop. Plain outright stop. I could kind of see their point, except then we’d be without hot water, restaurants, and dedicated beer-fridges, so I’m not sure I fully accepted their grievances. Eventually, after a few days, on a cool dry morning, the inevitable happened. I’d noticed quiet talking among new people—better dressed and generally more showered—moving through the animal rights groups. After a while those solid looking people slowly disappeared. That’s when the crusties stormed the zoo gates. The few security guards did what they could. My group ran the other direction, but I stood my ground—or more than stood my ground—ran between the zoo and the violent protestors. I feared for my chimp-friends. I feared for the violence they might see, frightening them, corrupting them. Of course, the police came. The very angry, very bash-friendly police. They wanted to break up my protest along with the animal rights groups. That’s when my nemesis’s wife, Ellie Downton-Dunstable, stepped in for us. “He has a point,” she said. “He should be allowed make it.” “I’m sorry, Miss, who are you? Are you with the zoo?” the cop asked. “I’m lead philosopher of the Apes and Friends Philosophy Team.” “Sure...” the cop said. “My point is there’s something very valuable, according to Heidegger—” at this I nodded like I knew all about him, “—with being aware of the tools we use in the world.” The cop looked scared. “I’m sure you’re familiar with Ready-At-Hand and Present-At-Hand, and how these chimpanzees may be discovering the core destabilising but unifying issues of higher level thinking with advanced creativity such as fire!” The cop nodded. His grip on his riot baton tightened. “They may very well have encountered Being!” His eyes darted towards his sergeant. “Actual Dasein in something other than humans!” continued Ellie Downton-Dunstable, now in full flow. The cop retreated to his training. “He can’t be here!” he said, as he poked me right in the chest. “He’s coming with me,” Ellie said, ignoring the cop, waving her zoo pass, leading me through the gates. Eventually we were standing before the chimps’ enclosure. I hadn’t actually seen them in person before. They looked absolutely inconsequential. “They’ve stopped making fire,” she said. A still quiet seemed to empty the world around us. Even the enclosure was silent, as though the chimps were cowed. “They’re probably embarrassed,” I said. "You do something new, then everyone gawps at you? I’d stop doing it too.” “We’ve found a reserve that can accommodate them. The zoologists tell me they need peace and isolation to continue what they’ve begun.” “Same,” I said. “No-one, not even me—looking for the next philosophical breakthrough, thanks to your interview—could object. They’re discovering, playing, finding new ways. It’s how any real advancement is made.” I only half heard her—busy feeling the lump in my throat—as I watched one small, chubby chimpanzee, proudly standing before a larger group, happily bashing two rocks together. “That’s normal behaviour,” Ellie said, pointing at him. “A young chimp. Learning. What spark!” The lump in my throat disappeared. I smiled. ### I disbanded my group after that, no longer annoyed at higher level thinking. Stevie Grunge bought a van. The students returned to college, all a little high. And thinking of that young chimp I realised I actually enjoyed rocks, so I took up amateur geology.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 4, 2020 18:09
|
|
|
In.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 23, 2020 00:57
|
|
|
/snip
Mrenda fucked around with this message at 09:49 on Jan 28, 2020 |
|
#
¿
Jan 25, 2020 10:59
|
|
|
Week 383 - I’m Walkin’ He-ah! - Judge Crits Yoruichi - Rain on the Bodhisattva’s House Re-reading this a few weeks later I'm glad I didn't give this the loss (which it was in the running for.) At the time we felt it missed the prompt too much and was insignificant. Now, sitting here during a quiet afternoon I can appreciate, to some degree, its quiet purpose. Unfortunately it still "misses" in a lot of ways. There's nothing that really holds it together. Yes, there is description, and adequately done to get across a small part of a city, but there's no life to that city. And I think that's what all this is missing: life. You come close, the foundations are there, but there's nothing to carry it from those quiet observations to something that's obviously telling about the woman's situation, state of mind, or the chaos of life and the city. When I'm going back over my writing (and with some of the better authors I've read) there's often patches of a story that I feel aren't doing much work, until I consider there effect in a peaks-and-troughs manner in a story, the small detail that doesn't elicit a huge response, the little observation that adds colour and breathing space, or the reminisce that shapes by its nature as absence. This story reminds me of that, and unfortunately, only that. It's all those small moments as an entirety. It needs the punch (in Barthes' punctum manner) in the odd place or two to allow the rest of the story, mostly texture, give meaning to the high notes. Without that impact to hang off this fails, but it does so ambitiously. You've done well with those simplicities in story-telling; shaping, but without anything else to counter them or take that lowkey shape it comes across as absence in craft and storytelling, rather than absence within the flow of the story. The final factor is that the city doesn't seem alive, there's no mind to it. The chaos isn't chaotic, the city's mad desires aren't reflected, there's no hustle or life to it. Even if you had that and the character's quietness it could work, without that it's disappointing. Well written in places, and showing skill from a story teller, but without the necessary counterpoints to what you've shown. Carl Killer Miller - When We Went Back Home This was another loss candidate, and reading back compared to Yoruichi's it's far more deserving. There's absolutely no rhythm to the prose, no lilt to it, no joy. You dole out descriptions, especially at the beginning, without giving any reason for me to care about them. They're not connected to anything, not hanging off any core of the story, there's nothing driving the story between long doses of describing. Even then, the long descriptions are laboured and rattling. You're packing so much in with no style to them, nothing that could be considered a personal voice. Between all this, eventually at least, you get to a story that's a real contrast to your description, which feels emotionless, and an old man and an out-of-place young person. The contrast between the prose devoid of feeling and a story aiming for feeling is stark. None of this pulls it off. I think, maybe, if you focused on one-or-the-other of what I've described in a longer, novella or novel length story, it might work (presuming you added some personality to it.) In this short story you just don't have the time or space for what you're doing, dedicating so much to disparate approaches, with neither of them uniting in any way. I'd focus more on a single drive to your storytelling, especially in short stories, before you try and weave together multiple approaches. It'll seem more cohesive and directed. Anomalous Amalgam - Life in the Fast Lane The reason this took the loss was because of how undirected it was. The whole thing layered abstract upon abstract without ever giving it context. You talk about situations the parent finds themselves in, problems they deal with, fears they wrestle with without ever giving them substance. That can work, but the prose has to be extremely tight, and quite evocative to get it across. You need the flow of ideas and emotions to have an impact if you’re never giving body to what those ideas are. This doesn’t do it. The prose is quite ordinary. It’s rattled off with little style and without style it can’t impart feeling. By the end, when the child comes into view, I feel they’re unjustified. The emotions we’ve been dealt so far are all vapid and insubstantial so trying to round them off by offering the contrast of a love just comes across as cheesy. This seems like an ambitious approach to emotional storytelling where you haven’t focused on the groundwork necessary to deal with something so fleeting as the fears and worries you’re trying to get across. magic cactus - Fin De Siècle This took an easy approach to a week I wanted to be more ephemeral about the feelings in a city, by grounding it in a revolutionary act. There was nothing stand out about anything in it, but by entwining a few moments of anonymity around a larger “happening” story you managed to elevate this above other stories that couldn’t even manage that. The actual city feel, at an immediate level, was less than I wanted, but by giving a structure to what you wrote and hanging smaller moments off it you allowed for the shape of your story to have an impact, while letting the aspects of what I wanted sneak in. In the end, the story’s feeling stood in for the city’s feeling, which was lesser. That showed a level of accomplishment few other writers this week managed to do. All the judges agreed this was the most “together” story, if not their personal favourite, so it was easy for me to pick it as a winner. SlipUp - The Night Train in Calgary, Alberta. This was one of my favoured stories from the week, but the other judges didn’t agree on it as much. The start was a little heavy, too much introspection for me to get the real feel of what was happening, but I enjoyed what came after. It captured the insignificance of travelling through a city, while still dealing with the heavy thoughts that come with being a person. There was some nice description. I think part of the issues with it was that it wasn’t balanced as well as it could be, and I see that with the personally orientated beginning before it transfers to exteriors as it goes on. If this remained a “slice” of travelling while weaving the personal aspect more carefully throughout his journey I might have judge-fiated and selected it as a winner. You didn’t get that balance correct though, there was too much of a stutter between what you were doing in individual parts, not transitioning smoothly enough between city/travel/person for it to work completely. There was some nice writing in it though, and elements that really captured a city feel. I just didn’t think it worked as a cohesive whole. Antivehicular - The Eavesdropper Walks Home This didn’t come across as a natural read at all. I don’t think all narratives need diegetic reasons, but the extradiegetic reasoning/storytelling for this, the narrator’s telling of the story seemed strained. There were a lot of descriptions on a walk home that seemed to be serving the reader rather than the internal narrative. You tried tying in some personal reactions, but it all felt so exterior. There was no communion between what was happening on the street and what the narrator was experiencing. SlipUp managed to create a somewhat real feeling of the narrator, of their story being viewed through the narrator’s thoughts, but this story made me think there were extra steps between me, the words I was reading, and what the words were speaking of. There was very little personality to the viewing of the situation, little voice, and so it seemed quite artificial. Maybe if you had the character’s motivations more to the fore, run through with their opinion, it would work better. Ultimately it just seemed a little plastic. It was never in contention for winning, but equally, it was never in contention for losing because although having a contrived feeling, it was written well enough in that manner. Thranguy – Silent Hamlets The entirety of this story rests on your use of “It” and it doesn’t work. It’s a strong device to use, but if you replaced it with any other form of pronoun the story would be nothing. Simultaneously, appreciating your use of “it” there’s nothing holding it together. It’s attention grabbing and forces the story, but the elements “it” travels through amount to nothings. If you use a device to focus attention on a depersonalised feeling, then there needs to be more to back it up. The device here overpowered everything else, didn’t justify itself, and when I tried to focus on the matter surrounding it everything seemed shallow. You went for a power move, then everything else didn’t live up to it. The story ended up being so simplistic, because I couldn’t see past the trick you used. Whatever reason there is for making the lack-of-person at the fore, it needs to be tied into the entirety of the story; instead this came across as teenage and angsty, dressed in black and telling its mom she just doesn’t understand. Sham Bam Bamina! - City of Refuge I know you had to rush to get this in, but it’s good that you did. It was an evocative piece that really captured the speed of movement. I will say, however, I thought it was about parkour rather than cycling (which you made clear on discord.) The problem for me was that you reduced it to a personal exertion rather than the feeling of a city. The city all but disappeared, and it didn’t feel like a place for me, although there were hints at it. I think part of that was how short this piece was, how you rushed to get it in (and said you didn’t write all you wanted to.) It didn’t have enough dimensions to it for me to appreciate the full movement you could have captured with more time. With it as it is, it was all about movement, physicality. With that it wasn’t as deep as it would need to be. There wasn’t enough substance around the embodied feeling to truly appreciate it in contrasts. This was never gonna win, but it clearly wasn’t going to lose. You managed enough with a superficial piece, well told, for it to be taken as is, it just needed more to it.
|
|
#
¿
Feb 3, 2020 00:10
|
|
|
rat-born cock posted:"LOOK EVERYONE I HAVE A HUGE PENIS." In. But I want a more gender neutral, even female affirming version of "having a huge penis" from you in the mean time.
|
|
#
¿
Jul 29, 2020 22:22
|
|
|
rat-born cock posted:LOOK EVERYONE I HAVE AN ADEQUATELY LUBRICATED ORIFICE Gonna smear my LUBE on everyone now like a manwoman-man.
|
|
#
¿
Jul 30, 2020 04:36
|
|
|
storee
Mrenda fucked around with this message at 00:52 on Aug 5, 2020 |
|
#
¿
Jul 31, 2020 14:38
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ Apr 18, 2024 07:16 |
|
|
Interprompt: the circus is in town and you are a freelance clown For sale: clown shoes, too small.
|
|
#
¿
Aug 4, 2020 17:52
|
|