But for the grace of Fire

This is a small vignette from really long while back. It's short, it's stupid, it's borderline emo, and you know what? There, but for the grace of Fire, would I have gone.

Good hunting

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She looked at him, her face worried. He hand't slept much the past few days. Or weeks, really. He was forgoing food, and people, and mostly everything that wasn't work or any number of stupid hobbies. She was worried sick.

“That’s insane. You are going to hurt yourself like that. You are just…” her voice trailed off, and her face went blank, suddenly realizing.

“Penny in the air...” He said, his voice testing.

“...you are just killing yourself in the most productive way possible.”

“...And the penny drops!.” He said, clapping his hands. “Yes, I so very much am. I don’t want this project to work. I don’t want to get a raise. I don’t want things to get better for me. I don’t want to find someone, or get in better shape, or buy some shiny new toy. Most days, I don’t even want to be. So, in the stealthiest, quietest, least hurtful way for everyone, I’m just speeding up the ride.”

“Speeding up? What the hell do you mean?”

“I’m done with the scenery. I’m done with the road, the journey, whatever you want to call it. I don’t want to crash and burn, to be noisy and flip the table on my way out. That’s not me. I’d much rather make everyone forget about me, but that’s not within my means. So this is my solution. “ He started talking faster and faster, looking at her, through her. ”Or, if you prefer the metaphor, Death is running after all of us, hunting us. I’m not running towards her. I’m just running as fast as I can, trying to tire myself. I run in hopes of getting caught. There is no honour in longing, no dignity in grief. There are only passing days and forced smiles and the knowledge that not only things won’t ever be the same. They won’t be better. So, hopefully, something will take me away before I have to find out what the rest of my life will look like."

“This...this is just crazy. You can’t do that. I won’t allow it.”

His eyes focused again on her, and he barked a coarse, rough laugh. “Crazy? Yes, of course. But there is a method to my madness. And pray tell, whatever will you do?  What will you tell them? That I am working hard, and living a good life? It’s expected. That I laugh and smile when the time is proper? Nothing wrong there. That I joke and push and look at everything with fey eyes? That’s kind of new, but still a good thing. That I sometimes look sad? Everyone does, once in a blue moon. Tell them I’m trying to end it. Please do.” He lowered his face to put it at height with hers, a breath away from each other, a manic smile that only touched his lips, and whispered. “No one will believe you.”

A dark dream

This one comes directly from my subconscious, the sick bastard. It's not structured like a story, and has every form defect known to man, but it sounds like what a soldier with the thousand yard stare would say. It's the way I felt it.
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I was in some kind of glassy maze. There was an attack undergoing. We were under siege. Winged, pristine white humanoids defended the maze, fighting against horrible aerial beasts. I remember I could do some kind of magic, and I saw everything through my own eyes. There was a little girl in there with me. She was important. We had to protect her at any cost. She kept smiling through the whole thing, even if she was afraid. And she was. I was terrified. I was no match for any of these things, and the white angels were all that kept us safe. I had to protect her. I kept blasting things and monsters out of the sky, even if I knew all of them could rip me apart in a second.

I lost sight of her amidst the battle and ran to find her. I saw her down some stairs, just twenty paces away from me. She kept calling my name. I called hers, even if I can’t for the life of me remember it. Then something appeared. I remember it being both a dark-haired man and a gnarled, clawed beast. I saw him look at me, smile like a madman, and pounce her. He started to run, laughing , and I followed, my steps frantic. He kept running and dodging my through the labyrinth, carrying the girl, who wouldn’t stop crying. I lost him for some minutes, and then I found her. He had  ripped her in half. She kept screaming for a few seconds. And he was there, over her, smiling like a satisfied man after a good meal.

I broke him. I hacked him to pieces. I burned him to cinders and ash. And, all the while, that monster just kept laughing at me, taunting me, mocking me. With his dying breath, he pointed at the wall behind us. There was a message there, the letters crimson and blurry.

"The little one. She died hungry, cold, afraid and in pain. I made sure of it. And you could do nothing about it. My win."

Innocents

Hear me, all of you. You who hide in the whispers of the wind, up in the attic or down below in the basement. You who lurk in my closet, under the stairs, in the creaking woodfloors and behind my windows. You who make noises in the dark, bring forth strange visions behind the curtains and drag chains across the floor. Eyes in the black. Teeth in the night. Claws at the witching hour. Hear me.

I am a child. I don't carry the weight of an adult heart, and know very little about consequences. I can still fly and run faster than time. I run on mischief and a spark of madness. I live with reckless bravery and play nonsensical games. I am still of both light and darkness, and creation and destuction act on my every whim. I have faced monsters, escaped impossible labyrinths and conquered trials untold. I have saved the realms of men and Fae from such horrors you wouldn't dare to understand. You may think me small, weak and harmless. You'd be wrong. This wooden sword has the keenest edge. I know ancient rhymes and words of power. This blanket can turn invisible at will. This cushion is an unbreakeable barrier. I have been a warrior, a wizard, a rogue. I have ridden dragons and beasts, danced on fire and earth and wind and water.

I am an innocent, and my imagination is sword and shield, cloak and armor, magic and medicine. The world tells me there is something to fear walking among us. I agree.

You should all be terrified of me.

The pen is mightier.

Picture this: You, Spanish born and bred, and proud to be, talking with an Englishman, a pirate heathen, reminiscing about better times. Times when both of you were part of greater empires. Days when, to kill someone, you had to look them in the eye. Days where a thousand atrocities were part of life. More savage days. And then, and idea clicks, and you both go:

"Who knows, maybe in a thousand years Spain will be ferrying some new fuel from some god-forsaken planet and you guys will come to take it from us. And then it will all start again. One can hope"

"A solar storm would rush through and destroy your fleet"

"And your invincible admiral Nelson would get cybernetic implants to compensate the arm he lost trying to take some small moon from us."

"Space Napoleon would lose at the battle of Waterloo IV"

"And be exiled to the Elba Asteroid"

"Elba Asteroid Prime!"

You both laugh, maybe drawing from memories you should by no means have, from events and times ingrained in your DNA.

"...Will, you know what? That isn't half a bad story, and it would be a good way to educate children about classic history. Change the gold to some nuclear fuel, the natives for a long lost colony who crashed and lost their ships, the data they had turning into myth, get the Englishmen as space pirates, the Spanish as the opresive empire who has been dying for a long time, but never seems to completely fall, and you have it."

"...You gonna write this? Because if not, I will."

"It certainly would be a good story"

"I'm being serious. Same ship names, leader names, and everything. But in space. This is fucking gold. Who are the french?"

"Depends, they would be either the young republic that's just starting out, but gaining strength under a strong, military genius, or some ancient, outdated monarchy with old, enormous ships who had seen better days. like the Spanish, but more worn.out"

"They could be both, and have a space revolution in the middle."

"And well they should...You know what the worst thing is? I'd love to see that as a children's book. They would read it and learn about what they were once, and to be proud of it. They would know their history."

It was a good laugh, and I loved talking about Trafalgar, Vernon and Lezo, Nelson and the Canary Islands, the Armada and Napoleon. History can be so much fun, and should give you a tingling sense of pride, even if you weren't there to experience it. We killed each other like animals, took everything that wasn't nailed to the floor and became masters of this world, turning to murder each other when there was nothing else to conquer. It was horrible, and it was amazing, and it's part of who we were. Of who we are still, sometimes. And that means we should know about it.

The world is getting dumber by the day and, barring radical shifts in TV programming, there's not much that can be done about it. That doesn't mean we should give up. Not for a single second. I doubt I will ever get to writing this, or that Will will. I doubt it'd get published anyway. But this hopeless struggle is far from over, knowledge has always been the best weapon against fear and injustice, and writers are the strongest soldiers in this war.

Hail, warriors.

Bards we are, bards we will be.

There's a rhythm to each and everyone of us. Be it slow or fast, steady or flickering, there's a pulse inside of us that is more than the physical beating of our hearts. I like to think that, when someone clicks, when you are drawn to them without apparent reason, it's just that your rhythms aren't all that different.

Last night, I shared that rhythm with a thousand people

Last night, the Bards, Blind Guardian, gave what I hesitate to call a concert in Madrid. I hesitate because concert can't even begin to describe the sheer amount of will, passion, sound and madness that went into it. There we were, second row, maybe 6-8 feet away from them. And it was amazing.

You'd think that after the intro, after rousing us with speech and music, after praising us, and daring us to beat ourselves, we would just give it our all. You'd be wrong. There was a little surprise : The concert was being recorded for a future release. That meant that, in time, we would listen to that record and, amidst the thundering applause, the roaring scream, the rumbling chants, we would find our beautiful, broken voices.

So we set our hands to it, one mind, one will, one soul. We fled the sanctuary, banished, and stepped into the void, searching for Tanelorn. We took the second one to the right, and then, flew straight up to morning light, prepared to face Hook, the bravest man in the world. At nightfall, we dared the elements and challenged Ungoliath to follow us into the storm. We saw gods fall, be it by our own raging hands in Valhalla or by the coming of their everlasting twilight. We let not prophecies nor miracles bar our way, and we raged at the long lost stories of our childhood, now nothing more than imaginations. They tried to leave, but we wouldn't let them, and so the wheel turned again and again. We made impossible promises on rings and fire, and then we saw them become a reality.

You should have been there. We brought fire and lighting to the world around us, the storm within matching the one without. Our voices, clear as trumpets, loud as thunder, almost drowned theirs in the end. When their songs ended, when all mirrors fell, we stood, spent, and looked at them.

The Bards smiled, and deemed us worthy. The last candle burnt out, and they assured us somebody was out there. 

Aye. We were.

PD: Link to their setlist

Of Ireland, the land of drink and music.

Today is St Patrick's day

That means it's time for me to get maudlin about Éire, it's green grass, cold mist and rough people that treated me so well. You may have seen the stereotype everywhere, the drunk irishman, rowdy and itching for a fight and a pint of beer, and maybe you think I'm about to disabuse you of the notion.

I'm not.

I had a bloody bad year, and the rest of the Spaniards gave me hell, but I swear that the Irish more than made up for it. The people I met drank a lot, and we were 14 at the time, but they always shared. They tried to teach me gaelic football and hurling, which I completely failed to learn. They drank with me, fought with me and treated me as a friend. The first person who bought a beer for me was a classmate on St Patrick's. We ended up singing in a pub with people playing violins and pipes, having a great time and off with the fairies. He taught me that a good drink precedes a good story, or the making of one.

The Irish people are many things, good and bad. They have wild music, high literature and an unquenchable thirst. And they pay copper, play silver and drink golden.

So tonight, if work is willing, I'm gonna get me a nice pint of not-quite Guinness in what passes for an Irish Pub in here, and a glass of uisce beatha, which I never managed to pronounce properly, but translates as "Water of life" and means whiskey. Then I'm gonna toast with "May the roof above us never fall in, and may we friends beneath it never fall out." and, finally, I'm gonna whisper to myself what is arguably the best blessing in the world:

May the road rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back,
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields and,
Until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

I hate the bastardization of the Irish culture, the so-called Irish pubs and the fact that St Patricks is some kind of drinking day for the Americans. The Rumjacks said it best, and you have their song to remind you..

I'm not Irish. I claim no heritage, no blood, no right. But they sure made me feel like one.

Voyager I

Some 37 years back, humanity did a marvelous, stupid thing. You know, like we always do. The best kind of thing. Some 37 years back, we took 750 kg of metal and silica and circuits and said "Let's see how far it can go".

And far it has, the little thing. I missed it, because apparently I was living under some rock, but the Voyager I escaped the Solar System a little more than a year ago. Let me rephrase that:

We just managed to throw a message in a bottle to interstellar space. Some monkeys in suits and overalls.

Way to go, Humankind.

Why a bottle you ask? Because the Voyager I (There were two of them) carried something inside. In our (arguably rare and often unused) wisdom, be figured that, as long as we were sending something to boldly go to the God forsaken reaches of space, we might as well throw in some meaning into the mix. Some measure of beauty. And we did, God, we did. We sent the Golden Record.

The Golden record is...actually, who cares what it is. The Golden record carries what a committee chaired by Carl Sagan chose as our introduction to the stars. If something ever finds the Voyagers (Either one of them) that record will be our first communication with some intelligence that isn't ours.

You know, no pressure or anything.

The record carries, of course, a measure of scientific data that might be relatable to any sentient species, such as some mathematical definitions, chemistry formulae or the solar location Map. That's all good and fine, and necessary too. It's a sensible attempt at demonstrating that we are, indeed, intelligent. A clever lie, you might say. Good going, Mr. Sagan.

But then there's the rest of it. That's where science said "I'm out" and good old Carl went full-on genius. They put three other things in that record:

First, they put pictures. An Elephant. Some mother breast-feeding his son. A party in china. Some home-construction in Africa. An airport. The Great Barrier Reef. An old man with a dog and some flowers.

Secondly, they put greetings. There are greetings for whoever finds the Voyager...in 55 languages. You should listen to them. Some are boring, sure, or empty or not that good. But the rest of them? They are magnificent. The Akkadian and Sumerian "May all be well". The Punjabi "Welcome home. It is a pleasure to receive you.". The Mandarin Chinese "Hope everyone's well. We are thinking about you all. Please come here to visit when you have time.". The English, said by Mr. Sagan own child, "Hello from the children of planet Earth.".

Good things come in threes. It's practically a storytelling law. So, lastly, they put sounds and music. The sound of fire, and human speech. The sound of thunder and earthquakes and volcanoes. The sound of cars and trains and planes. The sound of frogs and dogs and horses. The sound of heartbeat, laughter, and a mother kissing his child. Bach's Brandenburg Concerto. Senegalese percussion. Mozart's "The Magic Flute". Chinese "Flowing Streams". Beethoven. Navajo Chants. Chuck Berry's fucking "Johnny B. Goode".

The Voyager includes "Dark Was The Night, Cold Was The Ground" by '20s bluesman Blind Willie Johnson, whose stepmother blinded him when he was seven by throwing lye in is his eyes after his father had beat her for being with another man. He died, penniless, of pneumonia after sleeping bundled in wet newspapers in the ruins of his house that burned down. But his music just left the solar system.

The Golden Record carries beauty and sadness, joy and salutations. Because while math and science it's what will prove our intelligence to our otherworldly fellows and what will helps us communicate and learn from each other, it's the rest of the record what will prove that we are, indeed, alive.

We are creatures who make mistakes and envy others, who kill and maim and recklessly push around their own kind. Creatures of conflict. But we are also creatures that improve themselves. Creatures that teach, and learn, and sing, and dance, and make love and Art. Creatures of hope.

This ain't such a bad presentation card for humankind. If all you had to judge was this record, what would you think of us?

The Hobbit, or why 10-year-old me is crying.

(SPOILERS GALORE, OBVIOUSLY)

Last night I weent to see The Hobbit: The Battle of the 5 Armies.

First things first: I megaloathe it. With a passion. I haven't written before because last night I was still too angry. I don't usually get angry for stupid things, so you can see what this means to me. The Hobbit was the first serious fantasy book I ever read. It is important to me, because the things I like and enjoy in my life right now where somehow shaped by that book, at that time. Some fucking 15 years ago.

I don't mind Jackson somehow invented things and ran with the idea. Love relationship? Ok, fine by me. New characters? No problem. Legolas in all his glorious CGI and color-changed eyes? Why the hell not, he's pretty.

I mind that he's done a bad job of it. Legolas movements are utterly ridiculous, playing fucking extremete ultimate jenga in his last battle, Fili's and Kili's death is dumb, and so is Thorin's, and they had liberty to do whatever they wanted with that. Smaug gets some 5 minutes of screentime before being killed with an improvised-as-shit bow-thing instead of being magnificently killed by Bard with his bow, a black arrow THAT IS ACTUALLY BLACK, when a bird tells him where to shot the Beast. And THE FUCKING OGRE BATTERING-RAM IS JUST BULLSHIT.

That being said, the film has two redeeming features: the battle at Dol Gurgur gave me such an erection I still can't think clearly and, most importantly: I've been waiting 10 years for a Dwarf Shieldwall. It gave me the fucking shivers. They should have given them more screen time. Like, all of it. Forever.

I don't hate it for being a bad adaptation, I hate it for trying to adapt it freely and completely screwing it. That what should have been the end of a marvelous journey was just...dissapointing.

I hate that 10-year-old me is  never gonna get the ending he deserves.

Pic by http://trinforthewin.deviantart.com/

Carpe Noctem

Carpe diem

We've all heard the expression. Maybe from a movie such as Dead Poets Society, maybe in some philosophy class, maybe some pompous friend of ours has uttered it while triying to dazzle us with his knowledge (I'm usually that guy).

The aphorism, first coined by Horace in his Odes, is meant to teach us to seize the moment, as time flies away and the bastard thinks very little of us, and doesn't come back when asked to. The future is unknown, for the most part, and Lady Luck is quite the bitch, so you can seldom leave your fate to her. Thus, you should try to change, affect or seize what you actually have within your grasp: today.

I like the concept, if you understand it fully. Makes you bold, but not reckless. Brave, but not stupidly so. You go wild in a party, but not enough to wreck the place. Mad enough to confess to someone, not enough to ask for his or her hand. It's fine, it clicks and has had one hell of a following this last few decades. I do have a problem with the wording, though.

You see, literally "Carpe diem" means "Seize the day". I know it's meant to signify the whole day, but it just bugs me. Days are boring. We live most of our lives by daylight, so plenty of good stuff happens there, of course. But by daylight, we are all, each and everyone of us, too scared. During the day, we think too much, we ask for permission too much, we worry too much. Days are good and all, but nights? 

Nights are cold, and dark, and merciless, sometimes. Nights are times of long shadows, strange noises and phantom lights. So we rise up to the challenge. The best things in life happen at night. We are braver. We think the shadows will mask our faces, our intentions, our nervous smiles and flustered breathing, so we just do things and say things and confess things without thinking. We feel the cold air and stay closer together, and held hands and embraces mean much, much more. We are wilder, and bolder, and reckless. We remember, deep down, a time where big bad wolves weren't part of a fairytale, where a bonfire meant life and warmth and dancing and safe sleep. At night, we declare undying love and oath-kept friendship. We are so much more beautiful, because we, under the cover of Darkness, are truer to ourselves. 

So Carpe Noctem, everyone. Seize the nights.

The days will tend to themselves.

To Destroy, to Create

Destroying something is almost always easier to manage than creating something useful. It appeals to our inner animal. It's enticing. It makes you feel powerful. It looks flashy and lovely. We destroy in order to relieve pressure. We destroy to protest. We destroy because we CAN.

It takes a tree years to grow, and a score of seconds to be cut. Humans take some twenty years to be full grown adults, and that can end in a second. It takes months to build a house, and only minutes to demolish it.

Destruction is the work of an afternoon. Creation is the work of a lifetime.

And yet, we create. We keep creating. We never stop. We dare not, lest entropy actually catches up. But it won't.

Will it?

(Pics taken from www.reddit.com/r/DestructionPorn. Some of them are from Kiev, some from Madrid. One is just digital artwork. Best wishes to everyone)

The Dance of the Spirits

I'm a quarter Finnish.

Yeah, I know It doesn't quite show when I look like the hellspawn of Satan and some mediterranean woman, but I swear at some point that blood hadn't ran out on me yet.

But, alas, no blond hair or bright eyes for me. Shame. I did get a few things from them, though. I got pride for the Winter War, savage business as it was. I got a grudging respect for the cold and the snow, even if I love to feel them on my skin. I got a thing for long, dark nights and soft winds. I can drink like nobody's business.

And I FUCKING.LOVE.AURORAS.

I could go on and on the scientific explanation for auroras but I have several reasons not to:

a) We don't understand them fully yet.

b) It would defeat the pupose of this post.

c) That would be telling, and a good magician never ever reveals his secrets.

(Several is defined as "more than two, but not many", so sue me)

So I'm gonna go with the less scientific, more fantastic interpretations, mostly because they are more interesting, beautiful and cool, but also because I'm a sucker for mythology.

The Finnish name for the northern lights is "Revontulet", can be roughly translated as "Foxfire". According to a folk tale, an arctic fox is running far in the north and touching the mountains with its fur, so that sparks fly off into the sky as the northern lights. They also talk of how the snow its tail sweeps gets thrown into the sky, where the sparks and moonlight, reflected in the snow, make such a display

For the Saami (People who live in Lapland, in the artic circle) the northern lights are called Guovssahasah, which means both "The sun glowing in the sky at dawn or dusk" and "The fire lit by the Siberian Jay". This last one comes from the fact that, though no one has been able to confirm it with hard facts, everyone agrees that the aurora produce sounds that sound like a fast clap or a low shriek.

The Inuit in the Hudson Bay area think that the spirits of those who died a voluntary or violent death and, strangely, those of ravens hold torches for everyone else to follow into heaven, thus creating a path through the sky.

The Eskimos in the northern parts of Canada believe that the northern lights are merry spirits dancing and pranking each other because the sun is missing, so they can finally play. They dress themselves in that eerie light and fly through the sky. The dance of the spirits, they call it.

There are many more explanations. Scandinavians thought it was Freya, the goddess, riding her horse. Scots believed the spirits of the fallen in battle kept waging war across the skies. American indians, depending on the tribe, fashioned them as the spirit of their enemies, trying to have one last revenge, a benevolent giant fishing in the northern seas or a God that cared for pregnant women.

The fact is, whatever the explanation or the origin of these wonders, they are a sight to behold. One that most definetely would take anyone's breath away. One to watch with the right person, or people, by your side. Things like this can halt the turning of time. Can bring back faith. Can cast away all loneliness. Can set the world right.

If only for one night, of course. But sometimes, a night is all you need to pick yourself up.

(I've never seen the northern lights. I bolted like a rat the last chance I had. That's a mistake I intend to correct.)

Remember, remember

Remember, remember, the 5th of November
The Gunpowder Treason and plot;
I see of no reason why Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.

UK celebrates tonight Guy Fawkes' Night. Fawkes was a catholic who tried to blow up the Parliament on this very day on 1605. Which, if you asked me, those damn pirates deserved. The only thing worse than having a brit for an enemy is having it for an ally. Ask us, we should now from the Napoleonic Wars.

Thanks to V for vendetta, Anonymous and pop culture the guy (see what I did there) has become an icon for rebellion against the goverment, which has nearly nothing to do with Guy's original intent: killing the King and Parliament to put a catholic monarch in place. He was also a pawn, not the head of the conspiracy, but he made for a great scapegoat.

All in all, the whole thing has lost its original meaning and taken on a completely different one. One I couldn't care less about. That is not bad, and it isn't good. It's just the way of things.

On the other hand, this night is also called the Bonfire night. A night to light bonfires, throw fireworks and celebrate just 'cause. A night when the turning of the world stops, when dancing, dreaming, drinking are the norm and fire is a dear friend. Now that I can get behind just fine.

Who wouldn't want to?

All Hallow's Eve

Happy Halloween, All Hallows' Eve, Día de todos los Santos, Samhain o whatever you wish to call it.

Tonight, the Darkness shows a wolfish, impish smile. The moon half-shines upon the world and reminds us that the night is cold, and dangerous, and wild. But it's also when we are closer to each other, when we better kiss, and love, and whisper, and talk of forbidden and secret things.

Nothing in the world should hurt us this night. Our loved ones, present or gone, are around us. The family we were born with and the one we've chosen along the way.

Many, many masks and mantles are taken up, or discarded, on this very night. Some dress up and pretend to be other people. Some of us can finally be ourselves.

If you have lost someone recently, I'm very sorry for your loss. I've been there. But do not worry, they are alright and, more importantly, they want you to be. They want you to be merry, play pranks, have a quick wit, a sharp tongue and the season of mists by your side tonight. Be amazing.

Enjoy your night and cherish your loved ones, everyone.

(Even the Sun gave us all a wink and a devilish smile, even if it was 20 days ago, the 8th. Image taken by NASA)

Should we go to Mars?

I am never going to set foot on Mars.

I am part of a generation that came too late to explore the world but too early to pioneer the stars. That right there is a tough thought to stomach, but I know it to be true. It's okay, it's no one's fault. On the other hand, our children, or our children's children, should go. And if they don't get to, that will be our fault.

It's difficult nowadays to say anything about the space race, or rather the space slow-as-hell-stroll-through-the-park, without cringing. We were well on our way. We went to the Moon and back, several times. We sent the Voyager to boldly go where no man has ever been. We looked upon the skies and filled ourselves with new hopes and challenges.

But we stopped going. We gave up on space exploration. Poorly-founded astronomers (How did someone miss the opportunity of calling them skyentists and why isn't he or she in the gallows?) are the only ones looking out for anything up there anymore. That beggars the question, do we really have to go to Mars?

Yes, of course we do. And we are trying to. We sent the Curiosity out there. We landed. We are exploring Mars right now, even if it's in such a roundabout way. We are really, really trying. But that isn't enough. Mars is our future. Mars will be the place to go after we have filled the Earth. One day we will turn this:

into this:

But that's not it.

Wanna know why we have to go?

Cause it's next.

We came out of the cave, and we looked over the hill and we saw fire. We climbed mountains and dove into the seas unknown. We crossed the Ocean and we pioneered a whole new continent, finding what should have been long-lost brothers we didn't even knew we had, even if it sadly didn't go that way. We took in the whole of the world and mapped it out and then, we took to the skies. The history of man is hung on a timeline of exploration and this is what's next. Of course we have to go.

Why wouldn't we want to?

(Pics taken from http://www.reddit.com/r/spaceporn)

Humankind in Science Fiction

I'm a nerd. No news there, I know, but I think sometimes it's important to demonstrate how much of a nerd I am. Hence, this post.

There are different views about humankind in science fiction. It depends in the hardness of the science fiction, how far away in the future the work is set or if its a Space Opera, cosmic horror story or anything in between. Usually, as long as there are also aliens in there, you find two types of humans:

1) Humans are average/Humans are diplomats: A staple of the far-future works, humanity is usually the baseline race for everything: smart, but not the smartest, strong, but not the strongest, etc. We are a kind of Jack-of-all-trades.

This is has a clear parallelism with fantasy stories, elves, dwarves and so on. Here you can find humanity as diplomats, creators of an empire or a republic that spans the galaxies. Most clearly seen in Star Wars and Star Trek.

2) Humans are helpless/Humans are survivors: Usually found in First Contact or Invasion stories, here humanity is clueless about everything, having gone to space just a few decades back or being set in the present day. We do not have the tech, the knowledge, hell, we have nothing. We are outmatched, outgunned and outnumbered.

We survive anyway through guile, inteligence or plain dumb luck. You can see it in War of the Worls, Independence Day, etc.

But, a few years back, a different proposal emerged. One I quite like, because it shows humanity the way I enjoy it the most: unrestrained, untamed, completely do-not-fuck-with-us:

3) Humas are monsters/Humans are warriors: Contrary to Humas are Diplomats, here humanity is badass. Humanity is a bunch of violent, warlike savages who revel in chaos and destruction.

This is not, however, a bad thing. And, most likely, it's the way it would end up. Think here for a second.

Humans breathe oxygen, one of the most poisonous materials in the universe. It's the same fucking thing that makes fire. It kills metals. We need it to BREATHE.

From a totally alien being's viewpoint that must be at least startling, if not outright scary. Also, check out the local fauna, which from a sci-fi viewpoint, was turned into wallets and clothes. Even our cows, which we eat, are fucking 500kg slab of muscle and fat, capable of crushing a man to death. We made an industry of killing , eating, and using their bodily remains.

We roll poison into little cylinders and smoke it to relax. We drink poison too, and derive enjoyment from the temporary malfunctioning it causes in our higher brain functions. The higher the toxin level the greater the beverage; diluting the toxin with water is severely frowned upon by society. Humans preferentially select foods that mimic their response to damage. For the flavor.

We expose ourselves to sunlight in order to damage our skin and make it assume a darker hue for the sake of perceived beauty. We expose ourselves to harsh environments with nothing but nylon for shelter for pleasure.

It took 50 years since the invention of a motorised vehicle for us to develop laws about where and how to drive them safely. We just didn't care til then.

Humans are constantly conditioned almost from birth to regard lethal violence as valid entertainment, Action movies, violent video games, even sports like martial arts or fencing are all derived from actions which, in the end, are intended to end the lives of sentient beings. and we enjoy them in our spare time. We even make our kids pay for them in order to play.

Rather than fight disease directly, humans deliberately inject themselves with crippled versions of deadly plagues, so that their bodies will shrug them off with minor effects. Our immune systems are so hardy that even the quickest-mutating pathogen barely affects us; we call it "just a cold" and treat our infection like a minor inconvenience. We put all sorts of chemichals in our body to cure ailments, and sometimes we don't even know how any of it works. We know it doesn't kill us, and that's enough.

A single inescapable fact is that humanity unites with infinitely greater purpose in pursuit of war, than we ever do in pursuit of peace. I mean, we're able to fly into space now and have been killing each other for thousands of years. What makes anyone think we would drop that habit once we can fly out a bit further?

We poison our air and water to weed out the weak.

We set off fission bombs in our only biosphere.

We nailed our god to a stick.

Don't fuck with the human race.

Friends in the Dark

At times, life gets you down. Maybe you aren't where you thought you would be, maybe something good is over, maybe the world just isn't being kind today. I think of those times as being in the Dark. In Darkness, you only have your voice and your mind to talk to you, and that can get pretty horrible in short notice.

That's why you get friends. No one is born alone in this world, we all have people out there, even if we haven't met them yet, who can and will be true friends to us. People to share the Light, in good times. To shine in the Dark, in bad ones.

These people come in so many flavours that I can barely count them all. Very, very few people can get you out of the Darkness (That's your job, mate). Good friends recognize that fact, nod and then completely disregard it and try anyway. 

Some friends bring you candles and sit with you for a while, bringing what they can of Light with them. They look at you and share beautiful things. They eventually have to leave, of course, when the candle runs out, but they smile and say "See you soon". And soon, they are back with another candle. These friends are reliable as bread, as air, as the sun rising every morning. They warm you.

Some friends, fewer, suddenly come in with wood and coal and noise like thunder, smile wildly (even madly) and light a bonfire. They come, alone or in groups, and hold out their hands while laughing. "Get up", they say, "The Darkness is taking a break tonight. And if she has an issue with that, tell her to take it up with us".

They light the bonfire and make you dance and sing and do a million stupid things and, until the bonfire falls to embers and ashes, draw a line against the Darkness and dare her to come forth. Of course, the fire eventually runs out, but you do not stop smiling the whole time. They leave, then, and promise to come back soon. It will never be as soon as you want to, but they will come back. These friends are like lighting and thunder and a single, perfect step. They blaze like fireworks for as long as they can. Sometimes forever.

Finally, some friends (very, very few of them) bring no light with them. They come alone and sit in the dark, back to back with you, and listen and say small words at the right times, or tell you a story that has nothing to do with anything, or just stand in the Darkness with you. These friends are like the silence after a storm, or the steadiness of a mountain, or the crystalline beauty of the moon. They stay around for a night, or a few hours, or a single, magnificent sentence.

The beautiful thing is that people can be all three of them. All the time. A steady guide, a blazing flare, a quiet strength. 

(I tend to give as much credit to the whole "Darkness is Evil" thing as to the more widespread "Light is Good". Both seem like so much dandelion fluff to me. Light is light, and Darkness is darkness. Nothing else. Today, I'm making an exception for the sake of writing, meaning that the whole metaphore falls apart otherwise. Please bear with me.)

Art

I love Art.

I love music and dance and drawings and paintings and photography and sculpture and animation and the way some people can spin feelings and thoughts in canvas and paper and strings and voice and partitures and a single, well timed step.

I envy all of you with a passion. I crave your voices, like silver trumpets, your rhythm, like the rain falling, your hands, steady and sure, your minds, focused and knowing, your instincts that see beauty in the marble when it's still just a block of stone.

I have none of that. I couldn't carry a tune if it had handles, I couldn't draw a straight line to save my life, I couldn't make a stick figure move with a see-through. I can't take a half-step to music without looking utterly ridiculous.

I do not have an ounce of Art in me. That fact has haunted me for as long as I could conceptualize music and drawings. I still dream, sometimes, that I can sing, or play, or dance, or draw, or animate a good story. But I can't. I would give my hand to be able to sing, or my voice so I could draw or animate the stories I imagine when I listen to music. But the world doesn't work like that, and I've made my peace with it.

But that means all of you have to make it up for me. Draw, paint, sing, play, dance, render. Create. Fill the world with a thousand thousand beautiful things. Make epic, sad, lovely and fantastic stories.

Those of you who can see the Light outside, take a piece of it and bring it to the Cavern for those of us in the Darkness.

Go.

Reading, or rather, books.

(Español aquí)

I am many things. I am a christian, an engineer, a geek, all by choice or belief. Those and many more. But I think that, first and foremost, I am a reader. Have been almost since I can remember, and I don't know what I'd be without it.

I read books, novels, novellas, novelettes, comics, short stories, comic strips, the labels on shampoo bottles. I do have a preference for fantasy and science fiction, but you name it. That's why when I hear someone proudly declaring "I do not like reading" I feel a pang in my chest, like something breaking.

This comes not from hate or a sense of superiority. Not with a sense of pride or wisdom. It's commiseration because, like The Doctor, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry you still haven't found it. I'm sorry you have yet to find that book that makes it all fly away.

*SPOILERS AHEAD*

I'm sorry you haven't read about Vania Strongman, who got strong in seven years with seven sacks of sunflower seeds, and faced trials until he became tzar.

Las Aventuras de Vania el Forzudo

I'm sorry you haven't read those wonderful first words, "In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.". That you haven't seen the splendor of Erebor and held the Arkenstone. That you haven't cried when the Trees were lost to the Darkness and the Night, even if the Silmarils kept the last of their light. That you haven't seen Númenor fall to its own corruption and lived to step into the Fourth Age.

The Silmarillion The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings. J.R.R. Tolkien.

I'm sorry R. Daneel hasn't called you "partner" and saved the whole of the human race out of respect for your memory. That you couldn't learn Psychohistory from Hari Seldon, face the Mule in all of his power or find where the Second Foundation is. That Golan Trevize didn't take you along to find Earth again. That you haven't seen the Last Question answered.

Foundation Trilogy, The Robots Trilogy. Isaac Asimov.

Siento que no hayas estado en los mentideros de Madrid de la mano de Iñigo de Balboa, persiguiendo aventuras en Flandes, Italia y todo el inmenso imperio que llamaban España. El viejo León, cansado y muriéndose bajo su propio peso, pero aún el rey del mundo.

Las Aventuras del Capitán Alatriste. Arturo Perez Reverte.

I'm sorry you wheren't there when Andrew...sorry, Ender Wiggin fought the buggers tooth and nail and made a choice he regretted for the rest of his life. That you didn't outwit the Giant. That Jane didn't whisper in your ear for a lifetime. That you didn't learn in time that the enemy's gate is down.

The game of Ender, Orson Scott Card

I'm sorry you can't believe as many as six imposibble things before breakfast,but be assured: you can slay the Jabberwocky.

Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There. Lewis Carroll

I'm sorry you didn't learn Allomancy from Kelsier, the survivor of Hathsin. That you didn't find out that there are plots behind plots, plans behind plans. That there is always another secret. And that he was the one thing the Lord Ruler, the Sliver of infinity, couldn't kill. Hope. That you didn't get to see the Kandra go through with the Resolution, because they where of Preservation all along. That you didn't see Ruin fail and be outgambited by Preservation and the drive of a single human girl.

The Mistborn Trilogy. Brandon Sanderson.

I'm sorry you haven't ever heard Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden shout "Fuego!" to some two bit villain who thought it could go bump in the night of Chicago. That the Gatekeeper hasn't shown you the Outer Gates and what Mab, with Winter under her command, keeps there at bay. That you didn't get to see Lash, the Fallen, cry for you and that she couldn't leave you her music, to the words of "Everything I can, dear host.". That you didn't get to blast He Who Walks Behind when you were sixteen, and He Who Walks Before in your forties. That you couldn't meet the Knights of the Cross, wielding the swords of Love, Faith and Hope. Michael, the kindest man, except when his family is concerned. Shiro, old, frail, and a Christian by accident, but who saw what others can't. Sanya, the agnostic, russian, black, socialist Fist of God...with an AK-47.

The Dresden Files. Jim Butcher.

I'm sorry you couldn't see Aldrick ex Gladius duel Araris Valerian in the streets of Alera Imperia. That you didn't get to watch Gaius Tavarus Magnus tear down the gates of Riva. That you didn't learn what very few people understand: that swords aren’t dangerous, nor hands nor arms, nor furies. Minds are dangerous. Wills are dangerous. That you are heavily armed with both. I'm sorry you couldn't be gadara to Varg, a friend to the Canim. I'm sorry you didn't see the Legions, the bastion of our strength, blacken the Vord's sky with crows. That you didn't see Gaius Isana, a simple steadholder, challenge Antillus Raucus, the Snowcrow, a High Lord of Alera, to the juris macto, so that the crows may feast on the unjust.

Codex Alera. Jim Butcher.

I'm sorry you couldn't learn the Speech, and that you have never greeted the Lone Power with the the only formula it deserves: "Fairiest and Fallen, greetings and defiance!".

Young Wizards. Diane Duane.

I'm sorry you haven't seen what the First and Only of Tanith are made of. What Colonel-Commissar Ibram Gaunt made of them. Why they call them his Ghosts. Why Saint Sabbat chose them. That you couldn't shout, one with your brothers, "Straight silver!" before crossing the trenches to fight the Pact, for the glory of the Emperor.

Gaunt's Ghosts. Dan Abnett.

I'm sorry that you haven't had many names. That you couldn't study at the University. That you didn't grow up with the Edema Ruh, music in your veins and notes in your soul. That you couldn't be a beggar, and a thief, in Tarbean. That you couldn't find Auri atop the buildings, in the moonlight. That Elodin didn't offer to teach you magic wonders beyond comprehension. That you didn't lay with Felurian or play corners with Will and Sim. That you couldn't save Fela in the Fishery. That you couldn't banter with Devi to your heart's content. That the Maer didn't employ your services and the Adem didn't teach you of the Lethani. That you didn't speak with the Cthaeh, dangerous as it may be. That you coulnd't make Ambrose Jakis look like a jackass. That you didn't find the name of the wind.

The Kingkiller Chronicle. Patrick Rothfuss

(END OF SPOILERS)

I'm sorry because I know that, for all the time I've spent in this worlds, I haven't lost a single second, and I am a better, richer man than I would otherwise be because of them. If you truly want to learn, read. If you truly want to dream, read. If you truly want to understand your fellow man, read.

(There are more books, of course, so many it's seems impossible someone doesn't have the proper one waiting for them)