Reading about 2012, I just read that the Earth is supposed to have something called a noosphere on top of the more down-to-earth biosphere. It turns out we only live in a pocket of four dimensions when in fact the Earth posesses ten dimensions, whatever they might be. But why only four? Does it have something to do with using only 10% of our brain? If so, I’m afraid your calculations are wrong. Half the western world population’s been dumbed down to less than that. This noosphere is appearantly closely connected to some unknown dimensions and also with one of the ones we know. A noospehere is said to be a global mental layer of all our thoughts and memories that surrounds the Earth. I can’t help thinking of polution. And I can’t help thinking the name noosphere sounds remarkably like NO sphere (which, if we take today’s “dumb is the new smart” trend, it’s quite accurate).
The assumption and even scientific research of some very smart or slightly crazy (there’s a fine line indeed) usually Russians (science is the second best past time in Siberia next to having sex – if you find a partner, and your dick) is that our thoughts an memories can travel through time (and space). What a good choice for me. If I start obsessing about why I ended up being a photojournalist, when it’s dying out as a business, theoretically, I could’ve picked up on these thoughts when I was little and decide to be a manager instead. I’m guessing for a better chance I should contemplate it in a place in our apartment where I spent a lot of time as a small kid, but unfortunatelly that hole under the TV is too small for me to fit in, and I don’t fit behind the couch either. But anyway, that’s how scientists proved the theory. 70% of thoughts “sent out” from across the globe were picked up by a different individual before the guy actually sent them. It’s supposed to be a common human capability, but I’m afraid our politicians don’t posess it, that’s why we usually warn them of the consequences of their decisions.
So let’s look at this time dimension. Don’t you wish you could time travel, physically, when you take your grandma on her number one entertainment tour – shopping? I’ve long ago handed over the job to my mom and she brings back horrifying stories. You know, my grandma’s 90 and she can hardly walk. But shopping’s like nitro to her engine. Unfortunately, all it gives her is energy, not speed. So she walks into a shooping mall (I know you’d wish she went to a local small grocery store…), heads out to the first aisle and starts reading all the labels to determine the expiration dates. Have you ever counted the products on one shelf? Have you ever counted all the bottles of sunflower oil on a shelf for that matter? Do you know how slow a 90-year-old reads?
I could suffer through. I could, but she only partially believes the labels. And in fact, even when she reads them, she has hundreds of questions, the answers to which she can’t find on the label. The store’s always more fun if you presume a conspiracy theory. Her disbelief in what the label reads or what the shopping assistant says is undying. She’s like Michael Moore in slow motion! (Except Moore is actually on to something.)
But by the time you get to conspiracy theories you’ve suffered through your first aisle. Which is … well, count the aisles. Or better yet, don’t. It’s that time in between when you can feel your hair growing and wrinkling of the skin, losing bone density, prostate growing old. The time when she’s looking at the labels like a deer in the headlights. That empty look isn’t reading anything, that’s a fact. Nothing’s running in there, her hard drive’s in power saving mode, considering she does have long way to go, before she hits the counters. And you can’t rush her either. She exerts her right to pause. For a long time… If you ask her what she’s doing, she just shrugs you off, but you did trigger a process. It’s like having an external hard drive with a spin out. It has to wake up, before your command can be obeyed. Well, imagine having a one minute spin out interval, working with heavy editing machinery on a load of 24-megabyte files. It’s an advenure for her, you say. Indeed! She has to buy a lot and watch what she’s buying, because who knows when she’ll be back. I agree, although she’s a regular.
But consider this. I’m small, but she’s up to my chest hair, and she’s not exactly Petra Majdič, you don’t see her jogging around shopping malls (coincidence) in the morning with her swallen ankles and panting like an elephant, slurping down her morning medicine. So why in the world does she have to search for a sports jacket?!?! She’s not exactly working out! Is she doing push-ups while we’re not watching! She never wants to go play basketball with us! Is she the real Supergran?! Is she training for a marathon? I can’t imagine her running, while she can’t even lift her feet enough to step over an ant. Unless she’s getting ready for a shopping marathon!
Try explaining to her what the internet is. A homepage is a piece of paper. At home. A computer is science fiction, something from Star Trek. She can hardly figure out the simplest of landline phones, let alone an operating system, but she’s going through laptop bags! What for?!? What are you going to put in there?!? That chocolate treasury you keep in your apartment and never eat? Or maybe all the waste paper from the continuous Reader’s Digest letters notifying you how you can win thousands of euros? Oh, yes, that’s something she beats every one of us every time. You need a doctorate to figure out those letters for participating in draws, with all the stickers and numbers and this draw and that draw, and early draw, and special draw, and priviliged draw… She graduated in that.
But she has time, and I say go for it. It doesn’t cost anything. The rare times she does buy a book she buys a really good one. She can hardly lift a glass of water. An empty jacket almost tips her over. And yet she insists. In a way, that’s admiring. Not when you’re setting up camp in the middle of a shopping mall, though, but yeah…
Well, the usual shopping marathon lasts about three to four hours, during which she never complains about any leg pains. You do. But as soon as she leaves the aisles, it’s as if she went off her painkillers. Those four hours are a real drag. By the time it’s over, you’ve aged. It’s a tough job, but somebody’s gotta do it.
Another example of why you’d probably want to travel back in time is that 30 marker. In itself, it’s nothing special, I never gave it much thought, but why didn’t anyone warn me that once you hit 30, everyone starts addressing you formally?! You know, “sir” and stuff (in our language it’s a simple difference between the singular you and the plural you) as if I’m old. What the hell?!? You can’t be three years younger than me, why are you addressing me like that, I’m not that old, do I look old, what makes me old, is there something on me, is it something wrong with my face, do you see wrinkles, is there a gray hair, do I have an oldman’s haircut, shit am I going bald, I know – it’s the sockets under my eyes, what, too much nose hair, not shaved close enough, what?!?
I really think someone should sit you down once you get close to thirty, you know, like the birds and the bees talk. “Son, we need to talk about something. You’ll turn thirty in a few months…” (How pathetic does this sound?!?!) “There will be certain changes to your body. And girls will look at you differently.”
It’s the way they say it, like it comes naturally. And they say it so fused with the rest of the sentence that it’s as if someone slipped an insult inside a sentence. “Excuse me, moron, could you take a picture of us? Thank you, jackass! Where will be able to see these photos, idiot?” By the time you want to politely explain that you’re not an old geezer, it’s off topic. And besides, by then, you’re not in denial anymore. You’re puzzled. Well, I wish I could say I’m like wine, but I’m more like an engine. I don’t get better, I get louder.
Speaking of my lack of physical qualities, and the lack of all other qualities to compensate … I had a strange job the other night. Ladies Night. It was one of those times when I wish I had a replacement. 🙂 Because there’s nothing more unsettling for a guy than taking pictures of male strippers, especially if they go full monty. It’s a dangerous job, don’t be fooled by the muscled hunks dry humping leather seats. You know how wild animals are extremely dangerous when they’re in their mating period? Well, women are a lot like that, except that they switch the mode to “crazy horny” right when the strippers come out, and switch it off (and go back to drinking) when the show’s over. Like rhinos they usually trample over everything in their path. When the club is relatively empty, they have time to go further back from the stage to drink in between performances, and when the strippers come back you better not be in their projectory, because it’s a goddam stampede! Maybe not this time, but I have been in stuations where my life was at stake after being engulfed by a 500 horny women mob, all working their way as close to the strippers as possible, demolishing even metal fence holders along the way. Boy, I felt small! I wrote my will on the side of the stage.
But nevermind women that seem like they’ve never seen a naked man before, I saw something during my obligatory shooting that I never want to see again, public (??) interest or not, I don’t care. I don’t want to take pictures of any more naked asses (unless they’re women’s), let alone glimpse at what could only be described (just by a menacing long shadow, like some distorted image of a criminal in a dark alley) as a horse dick! And that was its standby mode! Consider the thing growing!!! F**king shit, like a baby crocodile that you know grows into a huge beast! He’s probably breaking down doors with that thing when he has a boner! What the f***k?!?! Cover that batt up! Well, at least that was my idea, the rhinos had a different one – they wanted him to lose the handkerchief lossely tied around the guy’s waist. And you know, women are primal, they work on instinct, like cavemen or zombies, so they started pulling that thing off, and I thought, you do that and I’m never covering this event again! Fortunately, the guys have experience with herds like that, so the knot held.
Let’s think about the other few dimensions now. Length and width. Look at me. I’m on the short side, my hair’s all over the place, I’m built like a Kia compared to those guys that are built like Jaguars, I walk like a chicken, I can’t even have my photo taken without coming out mentally insane, I live with my parents (thank you, Slovenia) – fortunately, they’re great company – dirty laundry miraculously gets washed, I cook a meal every once in a blue moon (without burning anything), I’m a freelance photojournalist, which is as desired as a shard in one’s eye, it’s the bottom runner of the crappiest jobs in the world list, so I am more or less a leech and broke, I have no future, a wasted past, suffering from insomnia, and nightmares when I do sleep, sockets under my eyes, failure to move on, commitment issues (wow, who needs shrinks!), rather a loner with a lot of bad luck, consequently complaining a great portion of the time (yes, it does come with the job), oh, and I’m also a screenwriter that’s written his last screenplay more than two years ago and has currently a persisting screenwriter’s block. I think that’s enough to chase everyone away. 🙂 This is how I was assembled. You know, many like to think we come off some God’s assembly line. I think I was made in Taiwan. So if whatever up there – let’s call him God to please the majority of the self-deluding planet – is assembling us, I have a few questions for customer support. Look at those strippers, please. Now look at me. What the hell were you thinking giving a dick like that to a hunk like him?!?!!? It’s not like he needs it! With all the biceps and radiators! Women jump him for wearing anything, let alone wearing nothing! If any of the rhinos (sorry, I love the metaphore :)) actually got this guy into bed, you think she’d judge?!?!? If she saw a normal size tool down there, she’d probably go: “Oh, well, that was pushing it anyway.” And it is pushing it!!! The guy’s built like a gorilla and you give HIM the baseball batt?!?!? Shit, it’s like global wealth all over again! Completely unfair distribution! The rich get richer and the poor get poorer! But hey, I know what you’re thinking about me. With the looks like that, who’d check the pants. I get it. It’s a waste of dick. God’s just being rational. 🙂
And so the dimensions stretch and squeeze, we get a sense of time and a sense of length and width, and all the stretching we do noticably is in the wrong direction. Time’s not cut short while you’re “driving Miss Daisy” and memorizing labels by heart. I don’t grow in height, but I do grow in width, just not where it would be appreciated. To come back to noosphere, its premise is that thoughts can travel through time like we can physically travel in length, width and height. The idea is that we could see the future if we could tap into this layer of memories and thoughts. That way, we could also see what would really happen in 2012. Do we want to? What if nothing wipes out our politicians?! Personally, that would depress me more than seeing the Earth disintegrate into a black hole.
There’s a theory that we are already tapped into this psychic channel, but are not aware. However, it is said that we subcounsciously change our lives to prepare for what’s to come. Come to think of it, ever since new year’s I keep my usual photo set (5D MkII, 24mm 1.4, 35mm 1.4, 50mm 1.4) in arms length of my bed and I never did that before. 🙂 I don’t know who’d care about images of the apocalypse after the civilization, six to five billion people are wiped off the planet (editors included I guess), but in that respect it wouldn’t be a big change from what I do now. 🙂
It’s probably why I cleaned up my room after 15 years out of some completely unexplained paranormal impulse? You know, like when people frantically clean the apartment before they go on a vacation. I never understood why. To make a good impression on burglars? Are they expecting someone to move in while they’re gone? Will the empty apartment have visitors come by? I always thought a clean apartment mostly serves the inhabitants, but it appears it can be a downright junkyard while they’re home. I guess my room should be tidy for its final destination, too. I wouldn’t want a meteor crashing into an untidy room.
And I’m pretty sure I’ll survive. Life after the apocalypse will be unbearable and I’ve never had it easy in my life, so that’s just the thing fate would love to pin on me. And besides, it’s the big, hunky species that go extinct first. Cockroaches and other insects, the insignificant disheveled small animals, can survive nuclear blasts! Bye bye strippers! Where’s your dick now! It’s the rise of the sleep deprived disheveled basket cases!
OMG! I just realised why my grandma’s on a shopping spree!
(And if you know what I mean, you just plugged in to the noosphere. It gives a whole new litteral meaning to “cathing my drift”.)