seaglassandemroidery-blog

[seaglassandemroidery-blog]

A couple of days ago I fell asleep before my boyfriend, and when he came to bed I tried to make out with him while I was sleeping. When that was only marginally successful, I apparently looked him in the eyes and shouted “My favorite word is butt!” After this, I turned away from him and farted loudly on him then laughed hysterically for a while.

When I woke up the next morning, I had no memory of the incident.

What happened in my life to make me like this?

[seaglassandemroidery-blog]

Universal

“First, there was nothing. Then suddenly, somehow, a singular consciousness found itself existing in the void. For eons it merely existed, doing so in alternating states of contemplation and catharsis. It could not comprehend the cause of its own existence, but realized that the presence of thought was indicative of some sort of reality. After countless ages of thinking in nothing but abstractions-- with no concept of time, matter, or energy, much less language-- it finally conjured in its mind the concept of matter; a simple, single subatomic particle. This final realization of something else existing-- beside itself, that is-- brought with it a flood of new concepts; the entity suddenly comprehended that this particle could potentially change over time-- Time! Another dimension of existence. And in order for such a change to occur, there must be some sort of driving force, some energy. The entity realized that from this tiny building block so much more could be created. So, from the straining pressure of millennium attempting to grasp any form of non-abstract conception, there very suddenly burst forth a universe of possibility within the mind of this entity. Of course, for a being whose entire existence had consisted of solidarity in a void, simply imagining such a universe was the essential equivalent of creating a whole new one. Of course, that would mean that this entity was the universe, and every particle in it  would be nothing more than an extension of it. And so from the unexplainable existence of a singular entity and its comprehension of the concepts of time, matter, and energy, there burst forth from the void an entire universe. It would have been sudden, violent, and uncontrolled, originating from a single infinitesimally tiny point in time and space. If this were to be true, it would be explanatory of the creation of the universe, and would provide philosophical context for the big bang theory. It would help us to understand and address some of the most fundamental laws that govern our universe. It would essentially disprove the existence of a benevolent deity.”

The priest shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He glanced stealthily at the half-exposed watchface at his sleeve. This man was meant to speak for another fifteen minutes, but in the first fifteen had already bounded past the reasonable limits of tolerance. As if on cue, he felt the hot breath of the preacher to his immediate right.

“We need to get him the hell out of here,” he muttered. His breath stank of sauerkraut, perhaps the remnant of a meal but considering that it was eleven in the morning, this was an unpleasant possibility.

“I know,” the priest responded. He tugged at his black sleeve, covering the remainder of the watch face. He had had to do this once before, the time that a gay man stood and bore testimony that God would allow him to live with his husband in paradise.

“So that makes your faith, my dear brothers and sisters, both the most beautiful and foolish things that you possess. With that you can exalt yourself to greater heights in this world, and perhaps in the next. If we are all but extensions of this cosmic being, and it allows you to feel zeal such as you do, it must be for the best that you continue in this path. Everything is in order; good and sin alike. There is no heaven or hell, only consciousness. Because you so believe in this church, it is with all diligence that you must abide by it, and realize that nothing that happens here or out in the world is out of the plan. His plan, if you feel to ascribe identity to the cosmos. ”

“That’s quite enough,” hissed the priest in his ear. His voice was low and was not registered by the jet-black microphone in front of the speaker. Instinctively, his hand shot out and grasped the bare wrist of the speaker, who wore a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. “Wrap it up please. We’re almost out of time,” he amended. There was no need to come across as hostile to this man. After all, he was a respectable speaker, and to make a scene was to draw attention to the church in way that made him look obsoletely opposed to modernity. The last thing that he needed now was to be seen as an old coot; especially after the church had announced that it would not be joining others in the trend of allowing robot baptisms.

“Father O’Neal has just let me know that we are running a bit short of time; thank you, Father!” He turned and beamed, white teeth sparkling under the buzzing fluorescent lights. His eyes did not contain that smile. “I would like to finish my remarks by reminding each of you that you are not without meaning. In a controlled and determinative universe, you are a carefully molded cog, so act like it and you will be filled with peace. We are God, and we cannot fail. Thank you.”

He bowed his head curtly, and the light flashed off of his bald dome into Father O’Neal’s eyes. The congregation looked captivated still, even after the spell had been broken. One of the sisters in the second pue wiped her eyes, smiling. God, they were all smiling, O’Neal thought. Turning and sauntering back to his seat, the man’s departure spurred a flurry of movement as the choir stood to sing. Today, it was How Great Thou Art. O’Neal forced a smile onto his face as he glanced over the regular preacher and on down the row to catch the gaze of his guest speaker. His eyes smiled now and looked triumphant.

“I am sick of these new-age theologists!” O’Neal dropped his leather bound Bible onto a worn dining table. The room was empty, but for the table and six wooden chairs, which were despairingly devoid. The warm aroma of chicken with a rich overtone of garlic and bitter tinges of rosemary and thyme drifted in the place that should have been filled with people. A blond-haired head poked around the corner that lead to the kitchen. The curls of her hair blended in with the sandy beige wallpaper behind her.

“Oh dear, did you have another one?” inquired the head. The rest of the body started to appear; first neck, then shoulders and torso until she peeked almost all the way around into the dining room. A timer beeped abrasively behind her. “Stop timer.” The clamor ceased.

“This one was sneaky; he created a whole fake background just so I could let him in to spread his… his insanity! I knew some of the Fathers and Mothers on his resume personally, and never thought they would have let such a fanatic into their houses of worship, but I guess with universalism being all the rage, some them have fallen to it.” The disdain was almost palpable, and far more bitter than the expired spices roasting in the oven.

“What did you do about him?” She asked, stepping foot onto the threadbare carpet. Her movements were fluid, but her left elbow was jerking and twitching.

“I politely asked him to finish his speech so that the flock wouldn’t see me angry and then threw him out when they had left. He kept babbling on and on about ‘spreading the news’ and ‘liberating the captive.’ He talked about faith in his speech but only because he believes in, how did he say it? ‘Acclimating the beholden?’” He paused, seeing the jerking arm. “Oh Jesus Marie, it’s gotten worse, hasn’t it?” He strode towards her and reached out to her oscillating joint.

“Don’t, David. There’s an exposed wire and I don’t want you to be hurt too.” She reached and stopped his hand with her own. “It was doing okay until I recharged in the afternoon; the sun was superbly bright and I filled to almost full capacity. I haven’t done that since the malfunction, and I think it made it worse.” She released him, untwining her finger from his.

“Damn it, I can’t afford to fix you right now.” He threw his hands into the air, accidentally smacking her uplifted arm. She held it for a second, then drew it back, looking hurt. “Oh, and now your response time is altered too?” His voice grew louder as he spoke. Marie seemed to shrink in her silicon skin. “I’m sorry,” he appealed, softer now. “I’m not angry with you, I’ve just had the worst day. This imposter came in and stole away half of my flock; they came to me after asking if he could speak again! And the collection plate had a couple of crumpled fives because everyone spent the whole time listening to a man who told them to give to the universe and to themselves instead of to the church. And coming home and seeing that you’re more broken than before… Well, with schmucks like this, I don’t have much left over to  buy you a new arm and sensory processor.”

“Not that you would when there’s more cigars and bourbon to be bought,” Marie muttered, almost inaudibly. “I really need to take the bird out of the oven; it’s going to be dry.” She had barely turned at the waist when O’Neal’s hand grasped her good arm, much differently than it has clutched the speaker’s wrist that morning. It was rougher now, nails digging into her arm.

“What did you just say?” His voice was dangerously quiet now, settling into the stained carpet and roughed table. His tongue tasted metallic.

“Look David, how do you think it feels for me, being here with you? My repairs are nothing more than an inconvenience to you; I'll bet if my arm was flesh instead of metal, you would take me to a doctor, wouldn't you? My God, you were on the forefront of banning robotic baptism in the Catholic church! I know you think of me the same way you think of screwdrivers and pliers.” She jerked her arm free and locked it at her side.

“That’s not true, Marie! And I’ve explained it to you a thousand times, the baptism thing is because androids are manmade and only God-made things are meant to be baptized…”

“But you don’t ordain or baptize dogs, or bees, or…. Or shrubs, do you?” retorted Marie. The smell of the chicken was beginning to grow more and more alarmingly aromatic and sharp.

“Because they’re not intelligent, they’re not people.”

“And I’m not a person? I think just like one, I talk just like one. If it weren’t for the fact that you bought me yourself you would have never known the difference. What, am I not good enough to be saved by God? Am I not worth a second thought at least, or a chance? You sure don’t think like that when you want me at night, like an animal? Didn’t you promise celibacy when you put on that damn collar? Oh wait, it doesn’t count when you screw me, because I’m just a soulless hunk of metal and plastic!” Her voice grew louder, as it ought to when a person is upset. As she continued, it grew more grating and metallic. O’Neal’s mouth gaped open, much like a cod that is very surprised to find a hook in its mouth.

David started to speak, but she cut him off “Oh, stop making those noises out of your disgusting wet mouth, you hypocrite.” The air was heavy, and now smelled of burning meat. “I’m through,” she exclaimed, and marched past him, heading for the closed door. Her arm jerked more aggressively as she moved. “Oh,” she continued. “You might want to take that chicken out. It’s nice and smoky now; it should go perfectly with your evening cigar.”

O’Neal stood in shock. In the past few months, he had been disagreeing more and more with Marie. He kept mean I bf to reset her personality to be a bit less feisty, but had postponed it because the quips made the relationship feel real. He had never suspected that she, no it, would actually leave. It was a robot, after all. It was legally his property.

When the members of his flock found out, they all but stopped coming and the greater part of them turned their backs on the Catholic church altogether, opting for universalist flocks that congregated to discuss philosophy and the advancement of the sciences. The O’Neal v. White case took the better part of a year to settle after working its way up from the lower courts. He tried to apply for a different position within the church, but was asked to return his cassock. While the church was willing to overlook his unorthodox marriage to an android in and of itself, it was the publicity of the incident combined with his resistance to doctrinal changes that ultimately ended his career.The implications of keeping him would have shaken the church all the way to Rome. At the age of forty-three, David O’Neal was stripped of his priesthood as he simultaneously became the first man on earth to be served divorce papers by his own android.

[seaglassandemroidery-blog]

Honeybees

I was never too afraid of bees.

But if you ask my mother, and she'll tell you that from the time I was very young, I was terrified by the insects. Oh, I certainly showed all the symptoms of fear: arm-waving, shouting, running; the works. But those were only outward expressions of a primal programming. The bright yellow and black bands signal danger in the brain, triggering something deep, like an instinctual growl. The arm-waving motion was nothing more than an animal urge, the primitive desire to shoo away the danger that was so loudly present, as was the shouting and eventually, the running.

When an animal feels threatened, it will attempt to convince the threatening entity that it is larger, stronger, and louder than its aggressor. This behavior is especially noticeable in mammals, but is present in nearly all animals, including invertebrates. Most people are familiar with this behavior in dogs: If you approach a dog that is guarding its territory, it will first growl, then bare its teeth and raise the hair on its back. This gives it the appearance of being much larger and scarier than it actually is, much as a screaming child with wildly waving arms may seem very frightening to a minuscule bee.  Finally, if the dog is pressed enough, it will turn to one of two options, most commonly referred to as fight or flight. However, if either of these options fail, it is typical for the creature to submit to the threat, perhaps in the hope that subservience will spare its life.

Afraid or not, a child will sense a desire to either fight or fly from a swarm of bees. Of course, painful experience on my own part has revealed that there is not much that one can do to battle a bumbling bunch of bees; even the most well-placed smack can prove futile. Additionally, despite their sometimes clumsy trajectories, they move far too quickly for a six-year-old. Living near the woods as I did, I was accustomed to sudden swarms swirling from the looming trees, attracted to our lush flower garden. The equation led to an inevitable coexistence between insect and child. Naturally, the fear that would normally be present in a kid confronted by stinging bugs was in me a sense of lulling normalcy. When confronted by angry bees, I would react instinctively, but fear itself was not a component of this ritual.

I recall once running from the bees and blindly ramming into my mother at full speed, knocking her gardening shears to the ground and sending a handful of seeded weeds tumbling back into the tangled bed. Her irritation turned seemingly to anger, as it often did. Grabbing my wrist and smartly smacking my arm, she explained through gritted teeth that I have nothing to be afraid of. I know, I know, I know, I repeated. The mantra that served as a safe haven  wasn't enough that day. The rant went on and on, my arm began to hurt from clenching fingers, and my brain buzzed more than the wings that tickled my ear. She explained that she, not I, had a deathly allergy of the insects and had the cause to be afraid, but said that she harbored not an ounce of fear for the bees. She didn't believe the things I told her, so I stopped trying. Caving to the pressure, I 'admitted' that I was terrified of being stung. More than anything, I was afraid of her.

My family made fun of me for years after that for being so afraid of bees.

[seaglassandemroidery-blog]

Scrambled Eggs and Glory

It seems to me that the older I get, the less incredible it is when I accomplish something. I think it has something to do with the inverse relationship between age and expectation. When we are born, for example, our expectations are held extraordinarily low; all we need to do is slurp down breast milk or formula (of which we are expected to have no opinion) and excrete the leftovers to be cleaned up later. However, growing up presents certain challenges. First, you must learn to hold up your head, then crawl, walk, run, potty train, not bite the other children- the list goes on and on. Then one day we look back and realize that it’s only been relatively few years since the glory days of being congratulated for not blowing out a diaper, and suddenly we’re expected to not only poop in a toilet, but also get good marks in school and maintain complex social relations and such. And the worst part is after we first learn such things, we are no longer congratulated for it.

For example, when I was four years old, I taught myself to make scrambled eggs. Dangerous as that might have been, I clambered onto a chair, turned the stove on, and clumsily cracked eggs into a sizzling pan. Surprisingly, I never burned down the house, nor do I have memories of burning myself on the hungry burner. Instead, I made slightly burned, unseasoned, eggshell-filled eggs, which I would crunch down with a slurry of ketchup. The scrambled eggs that I make nowadays absolutely cream four-year-old Ashley’s eggs. I fluff them up with a fork, toss mushrooms and peppers into the pan, and salt them to perfection. If I had made those when I was four, I would have been heralded a prodigy and would probably be a successful chef instead of a tired wannabe writer with a career path as stable as the San Andreas fault. When I make them now, however, it’s just average. That’s something that you would expect from a 22 year old.

Four-year-old me really could have improved my life if she had just applied herself a little more on her scrambled eggs instead of paying so much attention to her damn beanie babies. I can’t pretend to not be a little bit bitter towards her.

I feel as though I’ve already missed out on a plethora of opportunities simply because I can’t seem to out-march old father time. As surely as I missed out as being the youngest master chef, I also missed being the youngest Oscar Award winning actress (Tatum O’Neal, aged 11), youngest Olympian (weren’t the Chinese sending 15 year old gymnasts? I’m running on unsubstantiated rumors here), or the youngest Poet Laureate (Amanda Gorman became the first American Youth Poet Laureate recently at 19). Every year that ticks by makes my accomplishments less exciting, until I reach the point where I again struggle to hold up my head and eat solid food.

I’ve already missed many opportunities for glory because four-year-old me didn’t realize how influential I could be, so I squandered my mildly above-average scrambled egg cooking skills in favor of digging a mud pit in my mother’s potato patch.

Maybe when I’m 112, I’ll be the oldest recorded person to be a master scrambled-egg chef.