Dilogy: Discussion with Satan (part 3)
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"Satan, on the contrary, is thin, ascetic and a fanatical devotee of logic. He reads Machiavelli, Ignatius of Loyola, Marx and Hegel; he is cold and unmerciful to mankind, out of a kind of mathematical mercifulness. He is damned always to do that which is most repugnant to him: to become a slaughterer, in order to abolish slaughtering, to sacrifice lambs so that no more lambs may be slaughtered, to whip people with knouts so that they may learn not to let themselves be whipped, to strip himself of every scruple in the name of a higher scrupulousness, and to challenge the hatred of mankind because of his love for it--an abstract and geometric love.”
Arthur Koestler, Darkness at Noon
"So, how do I make it?" Gilburt says, sitting across from him is Satan, both of them dressed in tuxedos with dark red hue ties. Satan looks at Gilburt, his eyes an illuminating crystal blue, face angular, his hair, Gilburt looks briefly up at it. In the light it looks dark brown. Thinking to him self, what a striking looking man Satan is, his look almost indescribable. It's like a mirror, an image, a light sitting around darkness. Both a feminine and masculine radiance, a transfixed composition; it's what you want to see in your self. A pleasing reflection and calming atmosphere from this fallen angel.
Satan doesn't answer Gilburt's question, but asks him one.
"Have you read Paradise Lost by John Milton?"
"No, but I have heard of that book," Gilburt replies.
"You should read Paradise Lost, written by a blind man that created a mathematical riddle encapsulated into his own feelings of rebellion and despair. I love this quote that I apparently said at the 'Tree of Knowledge' to Adam and Eve"...invented with design/To keep them low whom knowledge might exalt/Equal with gods."
"Not too sure what that means?" Gilburt says.
"Lose the primitive, the psychosis, the religious bondage that is causing you all so much harm. Take knowledge, which you are entitled to, absorb it and become gods. So far, now..." Suddenly the backdrop of the bar becomes a mass of what looks like collection of television screens. The patrons within the bar area turn and look in the direction of the images in-front of them. Scenes of American drones firing on civilians in Afghanistan, a car bomb explodes in a crowded street in Pakistan, children crying beside a dead mother, a mass shooting in America, police helicopters and news reports, images of famine and death in Africa, riots in Europe, a man jumping from a building in Italy committing suicide. The patrons in the room look at the scenes flashing in rapid succession, their faces blank with emotion, they then look at Satan and Gilburt sitting at the table.
"...you are all so trapped," Satan says finishing his sentence whilst pointing with his left hand, without turning around at one of the screens, it splits into thousands of images of distress, pain and death. Satan lifts his absinthe glass and sips. "Till your end of days." The screens now show empty cities, deserted, no life, not even animals are seen. A dead zone, our future.
"So I take you don't believe in reincarnation?" Gilburt says also sipping from his absinthe glass, surprisingly not depressed from the imagery, or his feelings of despondency earlier when he was reminded by Satan at the state of humanity.
Satan chuckles. "Like Buddhism? All that 'sense pleasure' gibberish. You know it is a veiled attack on women, the feminine is the epitome of pleasures of the senses. Monotheistic male religion and it's dictators dislike female power because they fear it," Satan says as the bar area reverts back to what it was before, people drinking, laughing. A tall slender women looks over towards where Satan and Gilburt are sitting. Gilburt turns and looks her way, she is wearing high heels, sheer dress that hugs her contours, a drop sleeve, revealing her naked shoulder.
"Who is she?" Gilburt says, the woman turns lifting a long glass to her lips.
"Oh, that's Nemesis, I'll introduce you to her later. She wants to meet you."
Gilburt smiles.
Satan leans back into his chair. "Now, where were we? Ah yes, the make it part. How do we make it? So, Micheal, do you believe in random events?"
"Well... you mean luck and unlucky?" Gilburt replies.
"If you put it that way, yes, that some were born with luck, others not syndrome. That is what you believe? Correct?"
"Everyone believes that?"
"But it's a deceptive play, bad luck is a cruel joke," Satan looks up at the ceiling with a disdained expression, then back at Gilburt. "Luck is manifested, a created universal signal. I will give you an example. A woman, from America, worked as a professor at MIT. Under-payed and unappreciated, her father dies poor. Her frustration increases. The development of an algorithm model which can track the flight pattern of birds in all their chaos, was cruelly stolen from her by a fellow scientist. Her bitterness becomes poisonousness. She wants revenge. This woman asks that it be granted, a vain request. But I offer her something more, revenge is longevity, success, ultimate destruction of an enemy is leaving them in their anguished and broken world. Her mind, what she had, would be wasted on easy revenge..."
"Like what?" Gilburt asks
"Murder. It's a very Christian, and other archaic religious madness, in dealing with competitors," Satan says laughing.
"No, the offer was far more delicious and long lasting. Her algorithm, the organic process of identifying parts of randomness in nature. She narrowed it down to numbers, a sequence between 6 and 12, both composite numbers that hold a beautiful prime number which is 3, 2 x into 6, 4 x into 12. But, there are infinite combinations within that number sting."
Gilburt leans forward now listening attentively, he interrupts Satan. "She beat lotto right?" He says excitably
"How did you guess?" Satan says with a smile.
"Ah shit I gotta write this down," Gilburt says looking around for a pen.
"It's very complex, or maybe it's not, maybe it's very simple," Satan says pondering. "She beat lotto and the scratch tickets four times, which, I think the odds on beating scratch tickets consecutively is...one in a billion or something."
"I gotta know, can you materialize a pen..." Gilburt says frantically looking through his jacket pockets and around the table."
"No, just your memory Micheal, one part of a key to revelation," Satan says
"What?" Gilburt says slightly confused.
"The algorithm starts with pinpointing an abnormality in the wins, in this case scratch ticket winners in all the states of America, narrowing down to one state, Texas, and a town in Texas. Three wins, in less than three years. Numbers have no memory, but emotion does, machines are your slaves, your emotions are left in the imprint of the machine matrix, no matter how small or insignificant it is, meaning? She found that a pattern emerged, that memory of a risk and reward moment had occurred, the 'randomness' picked the store that gave out the wining tickets. The reward to the store was a $10,000 bonus on a customer winning, the low probability was still significant to a point, but a sudden rush of new customers all trying their luck from that particular store created another abnormality, the random number generator was beginning to remember, a very human emotion. You know why Micheal?"
"Why?"
"Habitual, you are always likely to return to the same place again, make the same choice again. You are creatures of habit. She could measure that in a number string by a computerized system, which is now learning human habits, right down to the day when the winning ticket would appear."
"I need more alcohol," Gilburt says slumping back in his chair
"Of course," Satan says obliging, as two cocktail glasses appear, replacing the small absinthe glasses.
"But you helped, right?" Gilburt leaning forward picks up the cocktail and takes a sip. "Nice, what's this one?"
"Monkey Gland. And yes I did assist, only because of the potential there, all I did was point her in that direction, she did the rest, $20 million worth of wins in 17 years. Plus the scientist that stole her original algorithm...he died of a brain hemorrhage. Not a bad play huh?"
"Class act," Gilburt says.
"Thank you. Point is and lesson to be leaned, that being memory, which you all take for granted."
"Memory? What do you mean? Gilburt asks
"You spend ten fucking years learning a craft and for what?" Satan slightly raises his voice, his appearance changing somewhat, an expression of anger. "You sit on a plane, you have mastered your art, whatever it is, ready to begin..." Satan picks up the cocktail glass and gulps down half of the drink. "Yes you are right, not bad at all..." Referring to the Monkey Gland cocktail. He continues, raising his voice "...The plane crashes, everyone dies, obliterated, ideas thoughts, dreams, aspirations, skills...gone. And for what?" Satan points to the ceiling, above, which now looks like a dark orb, an abyss. Gilburt looks up, the room around him becomes darker, the chattering of patrons ceases, the image of Satan darkens, except for his eyes, those illuminated eyes and an outline of his face.
"That masochistic and fucking unbelievable disgusting presence. You would die for that, you waste your miserable fucking little lives for that..."
To be concluded.
(c) Adrian Glass
"No, but I have heard of that book," Gilburt replies.
"You should read Paradise Lost, written by a blind man that created a mathematical riddle encapsulated into his own feelings of rebellion and despair. I love this quote that I apparently said at the 'Tree of Knowledge' to Adam and Eve"...invented with design/To keep them low whom knowledge might exalt/Equal with gods."
"Not too sure what that means?" Gilburt says.
"Lose the primitive, the psychosis, the religious bondage that is causing you all so much harm. Take knowledge, which you are entitled to, absorb it and become gods. So far, now..." Suddenly the backdrop of the bar becomes a mass of what looks like collection of television screens. The patrons within the bar area turn and look in the direction of the images in-front of them. Scenes of American drones firing on civilians in Afghanistan, a car bomb explodes in a crowded street in Pakistan, children crying beside a dead mother, a mass shooting in America, police helicopters and news reports, images of famine and death in Africa, riots in Europe, a man jumping from a building in Italy committing suicide. The patrons in the room look at the scenes flashing in rapid succession, their faces blank with emotion, they then look at Satan and Gilburt sitting at the table.
"...you are all so trapped," Satan says finishing his sentence whilst pointing with his left hand, without turning around at one of the screens, it splits into thousands of images of distress, pain and death. Satan lifts his absinthe glass and sips. "Till your end of days." The screens now show empty cities, deserted, no life, not even animals are seen. A dead zone, our future.
"So I take you don't believe in reincarnation?" Gilburt says also sipping from his absinthe glass, surprisingly not depressed from the imagery, or his feelings of despondency earlier when he was reminded by Satan at the state of humanity.
Satan chuckles. "Like Buddhism? All that 'sense pleasure' gibberish. You know it is a veiled attack on women, the feminine is the epitome of pleasures of the senses. Monotheistic male religion and it's dictators dislike female power because they fear it," Satan says as the bar area reverts back to what it was before, people drinking, laughing. A tall slender women looks over towards where Satan and Gilburt are sitting. Gilburt turns and looks her way, she is wearing high heels, sheer dress that hugs her contours, a drop sleeve, revealing her naked shoulder.
"Who is she?" Gilburt says, the woman turns lifting a long glass to her lips.
"Oh, that's Nemesis, I'll introduce you to her later. She wants to meet you."
Gilburt smiles.
Satan leans back into his chair. "Now, where were we? Ah yes, the make it part. How do we make it? So, Micheal, do you believe in random events?"
"Well... you mean luck and unlucky?" Gilburt replies.
"If you put it that way, yes, that some were born with luck, others not syndrome. That is what you believe? Correct?"
"Everyone believes that?"
"But it's a deceptive play, bad luck is a cruel joke," Satan looks up at the ceiling with a disdained expression, then back at Gilburt. "Luck is manifested, a created universal signal. I will give you an example. A woman, from America, worked as a professor at MIT. Under-payed and unappreciated, her father dies poor. Her frustration increases. The development of an algorithm model which can track the flight pattern of birds in all their chaos, was cruelly stolen from her by a fellow scientist. Her bitterness becomes poisonousness. She wants revenge. This woman asks that it be granted, a vain request. But I offer her something more, revenge is longevity, success, ultimate destruction of an enemy is leaving them in their anguished and broken world. Her mind, what she had, would be wasted on easy revenge..."
"Like what?" Gilburt asks
"Murder. It's a very Christian, and other archaic religious madness, in dealing with competitors," Satan says laughing.
"No, the offer was far more delicious and long lasting. Her algorithm, the organic process of identifying parts of randomness in nature. She narrowed it down to numbers, a sequence between 6 and 12, both composite numbers that hold a beautiful prime number which is 3, 2 x into 6, 4 x into 12. But, there are infinite combinations within that number sting."
Gilburt leans forward now listening attentively, he interrupts Satan. "She beat lotto right?" He says excitably
"How did you guess?" Satan says with a smile.
"Ah shit I gotta write this down," Gilburt says looking around for a pen.
"It's very complex, or maybe it's not, maybe it's very simple," Satan says pondering. "She beat lotto and the scratch tickets four times, which, I think the odds on beating scratch tickets consecutively is...one in a billion or something."
"I gotta know, can you materialize a pen..." Gilburt says frantically looking through his jacket pockets and around the table."
"No, just your memory Micheal, one part of a key to revelation," Satan says
"What?" Gilburt says slightly confused.
"The algorithm starts with pinpointing an abnormality in the wins, in this case scratch ticket winners in all the states of America, narrowing down to one state, Texas, and a town in Texas. Three wins, in less than three years. Numbers have no memory, but emotion does, machines are your slaves, your emotions are left in the imprint of the machine matrix, no matter how small or insignificant it is, meaning? She found that a pattern emerged, that memory of a risk and reward moment had occurred, the 'randomness' picked the store that gave out the wining tickets. The reward to the store was a $10,000 bonus on a customer winning, the low probability was still significant to a point, but a sudden rush of new customers all trying their luck from that particular store created another abnormality, the random number generator was beginning to remember, a very human emotion. You know why Micheal?"
"Why?"
"Habitual, you are always likely to return to the same place again, make the same choice again. You are creatures of habit. She could measure that in a number string by a computerized system, which is now learning human habits, right down to the day when the winning ticket would appear."
"I need more alcohol," Gilburt says slumping back in his chair
"Of course," Satan says obliging, as two cocktail glasses appear, replacing the small absinthe glasses.
"But you helped, right?" Gilburt leaning forward picks up the cocktail and takes a sip. "Nice, what's this one?"
"Monkey Gland. And yes I did assist, only because of the potential there, all I did was point her in that direction, she did the rest, $20 million worth of wins in 17 years. Plus the scientist that stole her original algorithm...he died of a brain hemorrhage. Not a bad play huh?"
"Class act," Gilburt says.
"Thank you. Point is and lesson to be leaned, that being memory, which you all take for granted."
"Memory? What do you mean? Gilburt asks
"You spend ten fucking years learning a craft and for what?" Satan slightly raises his voice, his appearance changing somewhat, an expression of anger. "You sit on a plane, you have mastered your art, whatever it is, ready to begin..." Satan picks up the cocktail glass and gulps down half of the drink. "Yes you are right, not bad at all..." Referring to the Monkey Gland cocktail. He continues, raising his voice "...The plane crashes, everyone dies, obliterated, ideas thoughts, dreams, aspirations, skills...gone. And for what?" Satan points to the ceiling, above, which now looks like a dark orb, an abyss. Gilburt looks up, the room around him becomes darker, the chattering of patrons ceases, the image of Satan darkens, except for his eyes, those illuminated eyes and an outline of his face.
"That masochistic and fucking unbelievable disgusting presence. You would die for that, you waste your miserable fucking little lives for that..."
To be concluded.
(c) Adrian Glass
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