Cabin fever. My mate and I went into the city to spend money at post-xmas sales. The amazing Inferno-like interior of Nordstrom’s on Market Street, SF, the souls migrating from level to level.
Tanking up for the return home, I’m struck by the beauty of my gas pump hose.
Where have I seen this image before? Ah, yes, very like the snout or proboscis of a cone shell devouring the flesh of a less-fortunate cousin. I learn from the Cone Shell / Conotoxins site in Melbourne that these little guys actually create disposible venom-filled “teeth” which they muscle out to the proboscis tip, thence to be fastened to the prey. And they have different conotoxins for different occasions.
The metaconeshells who hide beneath reality have sucked this San Franciscan’s mind away.
The gas pump is, in a very real sense, the Combine's control organ. [“Combine” in the sense of an evil controlling oligarchy, as used in Half Life 2.]
Speaking of odd ideas, I finished the latest round of revisions on my Lifebox, the Seashell, and the Soul so maybe now I can get back to writing science fiction.
The image of there being a cone shell tube running to each of our brains reminds me, come to think of it, of a passage in my novel Frek and the Elixir. Here’s the quote.
***
Much later a noise woke Frek, a thump and clatter as of something sliding across the building’s roof. The moaning sound of high wind filtered in.
All was still calm in the little room . The overlaid versions of Li’l Bulb were projecting, Frek’s companions were asleep, and Zed wasn’t around. Frek could feel the reassuring lump of the egg in his pants pocket. Lying quite still, he stared up at the mind worms.
For some reason he was seeing them and Li’l Bulb in a new way. The mind worms’ motion trails seemed to persist for longer than before, and he could make out some previously invisible loops of their bodies. It was as if, during his rest, Frek himself had become a little hyperdimensional.
Jiggling his eyes brought more and more of the gray lampreys into focus — revealing something dreadful. Slowly writhing tubes led to Wow, to Gibby, to Carb — and, yes, to Frek. Even though Frek had often felt like he was blocking out the watchers, the branecasters had a mind worm permanently attached to his head.
He slapped his hand against the spot where it seemed the gray tube must plug in. But his fingers felt nothing. The parasitic thought-suckers were hyperspatial; they came in from a direction he couldn’t touch or normally see — they were four or even five dimensional. The lampreys were like fingers poking down into the centers of gingerbread men.
Looking up at the mind worms, Frek’s vision grew yet more inclusive. There weren’t just a dozen or a hundred of the sluggishly coiling things. They numbered — Buddha help him — in the billions, each of the lampreys looping off through the fourth and fifth dimensions to plug into one particular person back in the plain brane. Each and every person on Earth had an individual mind worm siphoning off their thoughts. That’s what it meant to be a talent race.
***
The only way to beat the centrally controlled media is to roll your own. Hence I blog.
