“Giovanni.”
He turns to face me, a look of hope in his eyes. But his name was not said to renew our brotherhood. The man had killed, murdered those who had saved me from ERIMS. I hoped that over time my careful, systematically planned ignorance of him would make him a cripple, make him apologize for his deeds, and then I would forgive him, and he would serve me because he killed Lizzy and Isaiah and Samantha. Except now. Now’s conditions suffice for a brief excursion from the masterpath. But then I will be like a god.
“Giovanni.”
“Maverick! Maverick! Look at me now, concentrate on my face. Maverick you’ll be ok. Maverick stay with me here stay here--- umm----- stay here, “Giovanni walks away for a moment and comes back with a canteen of a bluish liquid. “Close your eyes and mouth.”
I do so. And instantly I feel a refreshing coolness enshroud my body like a waterfall. I stick my tongue out, hoping to catch a drop of this miracle potion. It feels good on my tongue, too dry to taste this nectar. I open my eyes and catch site of a beautiful blue-eyed figure past the film of the waterfall, standing tall on a rock with hair so long it enshrouds her feet. I am treading water, treading cool water with little fishies swimming under my feet, and this mermaid staring into me, a dull gaze, comforting gaze. And then there are slight vibrations of the water as she swims towards me, the dolphin swim. I recognize it. My mom, my mom used to dolphin swim. Back at the Nemo Academy. She took me there in the summers. I watch in wonder as the mermaid dolphin kicks under water, bare back shimmering before protruding as a very unmermaidly figure before me. Black hair, black eyes, pale body. There is a trail of blood streaming from her right hand into the water in a dye that envelopes us both in an exclusive circle. It fades slowly down, down, down, down.
“Shit man I’m sorry. I am so sorry.”
And then I sank. That was my way back home.
PS. If by the 21st the redirection poll is in favor of redirection that is what will go down
25.7.11
Giovanni Cartucci Part 10
I am woken by a tug on my arm; a young child stands with puffy eyes and smears of dirt cowlicks where tears had been dragged from his face. When he sees my face he looks horrified. His body looks at my eyes; his own stare at my chest when he speaks, “my seat is over there.” He points at the empty stretch of chair beside me. I stand up and move into the aisle carpeted with an industrial rag. The boy takes his spot and stares into the night sky, the very dark view from the window, the oblivion view from the window, the unnatural view from the window. I am on a train, the links of it extending as far as I can tell, and only a handful occupying each. I turn back to the boy.
“Where are we?”
He doesn't turn to look at me, only unglues his face from the cool window and speaks to my reflection. He looks pale and scared, but within that strives a youthful tint of the expectation of adventure.
“We’re going to a better place. And there will be men in suits to wait on us. At each door. with bowls of chocolate, like Jack and--,” here he frowned, “and when we get there it will be daylight all day long.”
“Is Jack your Dad?”
The boy shakes his head.
“I never liked my Dad. He spanked me once and so I ran outside. Jack saw me crying and he came to me and is bringing me to a better place with the train he owns,” the boy pointed vigorously at the floor, “this train.” He says it with a strong tone of pride, as if it was he that owns it. “He told me that my Dad was a very bad man,” the boy smiled mischievously as he turns to face me, his hands shoved in stained pockets, “then he gave me chocolates.”
Here I understand. The five-year-old was being preyed on by a pedophile. I said bye to the boy, reassuring him that I would be right back, then head down the aisle. When I get there, I would use the emergency phone to call the police and get this boy off and back home at the next stop. We were going fast enough that the doors take all my strength to open. There was no gap to cross as all the cars are connected. I shuffle from cabin to cabin, careful to avoid dozing heads and inconsiderate, protruding arms. I walk for a long time, passing scores of people and scores of links. I walk into a bathroom and dry heave until I am dizzy. This must be the longest train in history. After I pee in the toilet, I examine myself in the mirror. I take into note the bruises, the cut lip, the swell in the brow about my right eye. I watch as my pupils dilate before my mind forms the words. Deep shit. These are the words. I am in major deep shit, and as I stare into my battered face, as those memories unfold, they form a pile of major, confused and deep shit. I am in the middle of it. I had been attacked and woken up on a train in the middle of a land without morn by a boy who is to be raped by a pedophile named Jack. And the train is really uncommonly long. Too long. I would have to head back to my seat so that I would have water to drink besides the recycled crap from the tap. I lean over the metallic bowl. This time I puke. After that I rinse my face with water. Wash the blood and the bruises and my mind for a moment clean into the sink. Then I open the door and take one last look down the cabins to see if I can catch a glimpse of the engine. From this arises a final problem; I can see the boy leaning out of his seat and staring back at me, wide-eyed and genuinely puzzled.
“Where are we?”
He doesn't turn to look at me, only unglues his face from the cool window and speaks to my reflection. He looks pale and scared, but within that strives a youthful tint of the expectation of adventure.
“We’re going to a better place. And there will be men in suits to wait on us. At each door. with bowls of chocolate, like Jack and--,” here he frowned, “and when we get there it will be daylight all day long.”
“Is Jack your Dad?”
The boy shakes his head.
“I never liked my Dad. He spanked me once and so I ran outside. Jack saw me crying and he came to me and is bringing me to a better place with the train he owns,” the boy pointed vigorously at the floor, “this train.” He says it with a strong tone of pride, as if it was he that owns it. “He told me that my Dad was a very bad man,” the boy smiled mischievously as he turns to face me, his hands shoved in stained pockets, “then he gave me chocolates.”
Here I understand. The five-year-old was being preyed on by a pedophile. I said bye to the boy, reassuring him that I would be right back, then head down the aisle. When I get there, I would use the emergency phone to call the police and get this boy off and back home at the next stop. We were going fast enough that the doors take all my strength to open. There was no gap to cross as all the cars are connected. I shuffle from cabin to cabin, careful to avoid dozing heads and inconsiderate, protruding arms. I walk for a long time, passing scores of people and scores of links. I walk into a bathroom and dry heave until I am dizzy. This must be the longest train in history. After I pee in the toilet, I examine myself in the mirror. I take into note the bruises, the cut lip, the swell in the brow about my right eye. I watch as my pupils dilate before my mind forms the words. Deep shit. These are the words. I am in major deep shit, and as I stare into my battered face, as those memories unfold, they form a pile of major, confused and deep shit. I am in the middle of it. I had been attacked and woken up on a train in the middle of a land without morn by a boy who is to be raped by a pedophile named Jack. And the train is really uncommonly long. Too long. I would have to head back to my seat so that I would have water to drink besides the recycled crap from the tap. I lean over the metallic bowl. This time I puke. After that I rinse my face with water. Wash the blood and the bruises and my mind for a moment clean into the sink. Then I open the door and take one last look down the cabins to see if I can catch a glimpse of the engine. From this arises a final problem; I can see the boy leaning out of his seat and staring back at me, wide-eyed and genuinely puzzled.
16.7.11
Giovanni Cartucci Part 9
There's one more thing that you should know about me. I have these dreams, dreams of things I have never actually seen, faces I don't recognize, a lucid conscience that I cannot discern as my own.
I have them every night I'm asleep. My Russia-born uncle once told me about how it was like training to fly a bomber plane in the Cold War. He did not relate any of the details, but later that night I found myself in the cockpit of a B-29 Superfortress flying over Moscow. He was the first person I told about my secret and he instructed me not to say a word to anyone else. I was 13 years 241 days old. 6 months later, though I was hesitant because of my uncle's warning, I told my parents. They were skeptical at first and did not ever grasp the gravity of my situation. When I was 4 I dreamt of murder by my own hands and by the time I was 6 I knew the pain of being shot and stabbed but also the thrill of or how it felt like to be a mother seeing her baby for the first time. All of these dreams bottled, reserved, remembered, and spoiled.
I have them every night I'm asleep. My Russia-born uncle once told me about how it was like training to fly a bomber plane in the Cold War. He did not relate any of the details, but later that night I found myself in the cockpit of a B-29 Superfortress flying over Moscow. He was the first person I told about my secret and he instructed me not to say a word to anyone else. I was 13 years 241 days old. 6 months later, though I was hesitant because of my uncle's warning, I told my parents. They were skeptical at first and did not ever grasp the gravity of my situation. When I was 4 I dreamt of murder by my own hands and by the time I was 6 I knew the pain of being shot and stabbed but also the thrill of or how it felt like to be a mother seeing her baby for the first time. All of these dreams bottled, reserved, remembered, and spoiled.
10.7.11
Giovanni Cartucci Part 8
I was born to a modest family in New Hampshire in a suburban outside of Manchester on April 17, 1964. Events preceding and of my birth are not known to me and hopefully insignificant. The names of my parents were Eugene and Idaho, my father dark and my mother fair. My parents were young and foolish, pooling their money into a stock that crashed 45% on the same day my sister was conceived. I was 14 years old. Due to the startling change in our socioeconomic position, we moved to Corleone, Sicily, my mother’s roots, the same as in which the Godfather had lived. We watched the movie on our neighbor's VCR player in pixelated quality. There was no sound because his American friend had forgotten to flick the switch on his camcorder. It was still enjoyable, though barely. When I went home that night my dad was still unemployed and struggling to speak Italian, my sister was still a bump, my mother still trying to make some desperate meal out of millet, grass, and boiling water. My dad pulled me aside that night and told me that someday, when I stood on the line of myself between wellbeing or misery, and on the fence between another's, and I must choose a path between solitude and guilt and desperation, then I would learn what it was to be living, responsible man. Later that cold winter night, while the rest of us were asleep on the dirt floor, my dad walked out on us, out of the small town of Corleone, Sicily, because he had learned what it was to be a brave, responsible man on the path of loneliness. Our family lived without him for months, and it was better. My mother became an English-Italian interpreter and I a journeyman opium farmer for the rich in the city. The money we made was enough to feed two mouths and more. We went to church every week and we paid our protection from the mafia. And then one summer day, after all this business, in the month that my baby sister was to be born, I was sitting alone by the fireplace drinking some broth while my mother was interpreting for the don and while the kind, reassuring weight of my gun was constant in my pocket, I was taken away from my family. There was a knock at the door. I walked to the window and peeked outside. There was a man in an ironed black suit. He knocked again. I twisted the brass doorknob then exploded against the far wall as the door smashed into the floor with superhuman velocity. The man in black pounced on me and his weight crushed my chest. I couldn't breathe as he smothered me in punches and blows. All I could do was to shield my face. I relinquished my shield for a second as I reached for my gun and immediately a fist came down and rocked my head back. I braved through it and fingered the handle of the gun but my assailant wrenched it from my grasp and tossed it away. I heard it fire and I knew I would just have to survive until my neighbors came. I reached above me onto the kitchen counter and clung onto a kitchen knife. I saw the fist come down and feebly swung at it. And then there was impact. My chest imploded and my vision blacked out. I couldn't breathe, couldn't move. But every vein in my body I could feel and as they pressed against their shells, every single one of them like a cramp, I became nauseous. I remember being carried out of my house, people screaming and guns firing. There was a screech of rubber and then the world stretched, like dew on a green leaf, and when it hit soil I fell asleep.
26.6.11
Giovanni Cartucci Part 7
Sometimes I wish I had died on June 26th. If I had died then it would have been simple. 7 5\8 inches lower had the branch been and I'd have been decapitated or worse, my windpipe shattered and I'd have been asphyxiated. If there had been a pebble to differ, a pebble to jar the raft I rode on so even the infinitesimal gap that existed between reality and death at the moment of my loss, was closed, I'd be dead. Unfortunately I am alive. The only thing that is missing from me now is the memory of my life before the incident. To my only friend, me, I am F1.
15.6.11
No Post Next Week
Just for a heads up there will be no entry next Sunday (6/19) because I will be in North Carolina and then Colorado playing lacrosse.
12.6.11
My thoughts on whether mammalian pets deserve a higher legal status
Sorry I did not post an entry last week. I spent the night studying for my history final.
Just now I found myself apologizing to my dog Crusoe for hitting her after she peed on the carpet. I don't mind slapping trees for getting in my way, but doing it to a sentiment being is rather questionable. Last Thursday I participated in a debate being the culmination of a month's progress on whether or not mammalian pets should be assigned a higher legal status than those of personal property. I was randomly assigned to the affirmative side. Although we lost due to a faulty citation, my research gave me something more important than the project itself; it taught me this: Crusoe (and her especially) has the cognitive abilities of a senior, retard, and/or a toddler, possibly beyond. I believe that consciousness can be tested in the aspects of memory; if an animal can recall past events or feelings of life, then it has the function of feeling because living in the moment is like dreaming during sleep; the average person dreams hours every night but does not remember anything at all upon waking up. If no one knows it existed, and it does not have any impact on reality beyond the volumeless realm it existed in, then does it exist at all? My undisputedly correct answer is that it does not matter. And if it doesn't matter, then what does it matter for pets without memory to be luxuriated with rights if they don't have the conscious skill to realize it in the first place? Crusoe, I know, among others, does have a memory, a not-so-amazing fact portrayed in her ability to learn tricks and perform them when there is a yummy treat at stake. So do elephants, dolphins, rats, and the average human. I think Crusoe is a sentiment being, even if not at the astute, avid level of consciousness that the average human lives at, but her characteristic of consciousness in and about its simple self should be enough to justify her immunity to *morally* unlawful harm. Subsequently, I think she does deserve a status higher than that of personal property, but on the topic of whether or not it is morally correct to punish animals for progress is subjective to personal opinion.
PS is now up and running
Just now I found myself apologizing to my dog Crusoe for hitting her after she peed on the carpet. I don't mind slapping trees for getting in my way, but doing it to a sentiment being is rather questionable. Last Thursday I participated in a debate being the culmination of a month's progress on whether or not mammalian pets should be assigned a higher legal status than those of personal property. I was randomly assigned to the affirmative side. Although we lost due to a faulty citation, my research gave me something more important than the project itself; it taught me this: Crusoe (and her especially) has the cognitive abilities of a senior, retard, and/or a toddler, possibly beyond. I believe that consciousness can be tested in the aspects of memory; if an animal can recall past events or feelings of life, then it has the function of feeling because living in the moment is like dreaming during sleep; the average person dreams hours every night but does not remember anything at all upon waking up. If no one knows it existed, and it does not have any impact on reality beyond the volumeless realm it existed in, then does it exist at all? My undisputedly correct answer is that it does not matter. And if it doesn't matter, then what does it matter for pets without memory to be luxuriated with rights if they don't have the conscious skill to realize it in the first place? Crusoe, I know, among others, does have a memory, a not-so-amazing fact portrayed in her ability to learn tricks and perform them when there is a yummy treat at stake. So do elephants, dolphins, rats, and the average human. I think Crusoe is a sentiment being, even if not at the astute, avid level of consciousness that the average human lives at, but her characteristic of consciousness in and about its simple self should be enough to justify her immunity to *morally* unlawful harm. Subsequently, I think she does deserve a status higher than that of personal property, but on the topic of whether or not it is morally correct to punish animals for progress is subjective to personal opinion.
PS is now up and running
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