The Camera Adds Ten Pounds

Mal awoke from disquieting dreams, refreshed but not quite ready to face yet another mildly paranoiac day.

Although his life was essentially perfect in every regard, he had always felt the constant, nagging suspicion that he was being watched.  This suspicion often seeped into his dreams, wherein he tended to find himself lacking control over his life and at the mercy of unseen handlers directing his every move through unconscious means.  The light of day usually put the paranoia at bay while he went about his morning routine, but in his quieter moments it would come creeping quietly back, and he would feel compelled to engage in another burst of activity to occupy his mind.  What troubled him the most during these moments was the unaccountable belief that his mind was being read, or at the very least that what he saw was being observed and recorded, as if someone else had unlimited access to his field of vision.

As usual, he didn't wake up hungry.  As usual, he had only to pat his hair into place to restore order to his appearance (although his grooming ritual, performed after morning exercises, would involve obsessively combing until not a single hair dared step out of line).  As usual, while he got dressed for his workout, he reflected on his current circumstances and the radical change they had imposed on his life over the course of a single summer.

Life here was darn-near idyllic.  He was into his fourth month of indentured servitude at his uncle's ranch, and there was almost nothing to complain about.  He had his own guest house, access to all the amenities and facilities, exposure to the great outdoors, and two days off a week.  Having led a typically-suburban existence through his high school graduation, he was finding that country living agreed with him in full, although he was prone, at times, to wishing more of it was air-conditioned.  On his time off, he could drive his beat-up Mustang into one of the nearby small towns, drink ice-cold sodas, ogle the country girls, and try to muster the courage to engage in conversation.  (He suspected he would never quite fit in until he could master a rural drawl and trade in the Mustang for a pickup truck, and this latter was a step to which he was not yet willing to commit.)  Or he could catch grasshoppers, wander down to one of the stock ponds and go catch-and-release fishing for bluegills and black bass.

Were it not for the encroachments of the Big City on this central Texas ranchland region, he would have no complaints other than the heat.  But the Big City was now crowding the horizon, polluting the night sky with orangey-yellow light, polluting the daytime sky with a layer of brown smog.  The Big City was pulling phenomenal quantities of water out of the ground, depleting the Edwards and Trinity aquifers at an alarming rate.  The Big City was outcompeting ranchers and farmers for metal, petrochemical and plastic resources.  The Big City's tech sector--formerly the San Antonio / Austin Greater Metropolitan Area--was, in the wake of the economic disaster which had finally overtaken the Formerly Great Welfare State of California, currently engaged in churning out the nation's primary supply of semiconductors and robotic devices.  From time to time Mal was sure he could catch the scent of burning silicon, an aroma which troubled him more than the stockyard smell he was sometimes obliged to deal with.  The only good that he could see coming from the Big City was the ever-increasing demand for crops and livestock, the demand that kept rural businesses like his uncle's ranch in business.

He had escaped the suburbs of northwest Houston just in time.  The Big City was even now completing its linkup with the Lesser City, the Houston metro area, engulfing those quaint subdivisions into a new kind of inner city morass, soon to be surrounded by another generation of skyscrapers and bereft of parks and visible skies.  Although his living arrangement entailed, at the end of his two-year stint as a ranch hand, his uncle covering two years of tuition at the vocational school of his choosing, at this early stage in his existence out here he couldn't imagine ever wanting to do anything but raise livestock and range over open spaces.

This being a Saturday, he'd slept in, as was his custom.  He never had to set an alarm clock; he'd always managed to wake up right on time, even in junior high school.  He was never one for reminiscences--his memory seemed to become hazier and less well-defined as it stretched backward, and there was little in his childhood of much interest to him today--but he took a fair amount of pride in his awareness of the present.  It was what propelled him to take such good care of himself, to enjoy the moment, and to stave off fears of the future.  He'd never regarded himself as especially bright, but he'd always known he was more aware than most--perhaps the paranoia was simply an aspect of that--and he suspected that even his senses were more attuned and penetrating than those of his peers.

But he did hope that as he became used to the openness of the air out here, and began to feel less boxed-in than he had been through adolescence, the paranoia might begin to weaken and slip away.  So far, there was no sign of this happening.

He dropped to the prone position and knocked out fifty pushups, then did another twenty one-armed pushups for each arm.  Impatient to get outside, he decided to forego the situps and crunches this morning, and sat down to put on his running shoes.

Out in the sunlight, he marveled as always in the profusion of bird and animal sounds, sounds that were simply unavailable to any urban dweller.  Other than stray dogs, feral cats and rats, no outdoor animal called the city home these days.  Birds were denied their migratory routes by cloud-high skyscrapers, and denied perching and foraging grounds by the absence of trees, so they simply circumvented the urban hyperplex and crowded more densely than ever into the fields and trees here.  Toads still eked out a living in the city streets and gutters, mostly reserving their calls for the hours between sunset and sunrise, but increasingly confused by the ever-more-blinding illumination of industrial night in a city that had long ago forgotten how to sleep.  And other than these, and the noise of mass transit and machinery, the only non-recorded, non-broadcast sounds found in the city were of crickets.

He trotted up the driveway to the highway, listened briefly for approaching trucks, and began his jog.  This morning's sights included a squashed garter snake, a couple squashed toads, a squashed possum, and a squashed something unidentifiable.  As much as he loved and admired wildlife, he could never suppress the surge of amused disgust that accompanied these observations.  Hundreds of millions of years of evolution had endowed all these creatures with superbly-tuned senses and instincts for avoiding predators and aggressors, and yet after more than two centuries of human mechanization, animals still hadn't learned the basic trick of looking both ways before crossing the roads.

He ran a mile east, then doubled back, running until he'd gone a mile west of the house and then doubling back again.  Four miles in all.  As usual, he was hardly feeling the strain when he trotted back up the driveway, not out of breath at all, just a trifle warm.  Although he hadn't yet broken a noticeable sweat--if he had perspired at all, the dry air here had wicked it away before it could dampen his shirt--he thought he could feel it just beneath the surface, ready to spill forth now that he was no longer cruising through the breeze.  He decided to go for a swim to cool down.

Removing his shirt, shoes and socks, he paused for another listen to the bird calls and insect chattering around the guest house's landscaping.  Then he headed to the concrete apron around the pool, feeling the pavement heat trying to singe the still-soft undersides of his feet.  Before getting in, he figured he might as well take care of his regular morning chore and inspect the skimmer baskets for unwelcome biota.  As usual, there were leaves, dead insects and a good double handful of frogs between the two skimmers, and three of the frogs hadn't survived their exposure.  He felt that amused disgust again.  These animals had stock ponds, drainage ditches, and mudholes to hang out in, but they were repeatedly drawn back to this pool, from which they could not escape without assistance, and in which they frequently took on too much water to survive.  How well-designed can any creature really be if it doesn't comprehend the difference between its natural habitat and an attractive deathtrap?

The water would probably still be uncomfortably cold this early in the day, so he opted to come in slowly using the steps, relaxing for a moment when on the pool floor before continuing toward the deep end.  With the relatively-unbuoyant stride of the exceptionally muscular, he sank naturally a bit with each additional step, until the water closed over his head and the bird noise became lost in the sound of bubbles, splashes and the pool pump.

Almost immediately, he sensed something was wrong.  Crouching momentarily to provide himself some propulsion, he kicked off the floor toward the surface.  When the water broke and his face reached air again, he tried treading water, only to realize that movement was difficult.  A sort of progressive paralysis was rapidly overtaking him, and for the first time in memory, he was feeling out of breath.  A surge of panic swept over him as the feel of the cold water gave way to numbness, and his vision began to fade to a starry, swirling blackness.  This is it, he thought in desperation.  This is what the paranoia was all about.  But there was no time to qualify this thought, or examine what it implied.  As the water closed over his head for the last time, one final impression swept in, chasing out everything else:  that intrusive, outrageous smell of burning silicon.


Back at AndroPal Quality Control Laboratory #23, the primary monitor for Mal9702 went dark, followed less than a second later by a half-dozen secondary monitors.  Mal's signal had been lost.

"There goes another one," said Bob.

"Third one this week," said Ted.  "I guess you were right."  He was glad they hadn't put any money on Bob's conjecture.  "Now what?  Back to the drawing board?"

"No.  Just back to what I've been saying.  The cameras, transmitters and extra battery capacity required to make them work are simply too heavy for routine use.  The soft plastic seals over the camera gymbals are inadequate to sustained use after prolonged exposure to sun and heat extremes.  Let's just take the cameras back out until we solve the problem with the seals, and fill the volume for the time being with buoyant material."

Ted rolled his eyes, inwardly, while outwardly nodding in resigned agreement.  "Another nice-to-have down the drain."  At least the memory-implantation technique seemed to be working fine.

Bob, who had once been AndroPal's senior engineer until his attitude problems had demoted him to QC stooge, stood up, ready to go log his final report on the swimming tests.  "It was never a requirement to begin with.  People aren't buying these things so they can sit and watch first-person perspectives hour after hour.  They're buying androids to help with tasks and relate to them face-to-face."

Run

Fitful dreams, vivid and weird
Fade away as my eyes open
I try to hold on to them
In hope of maybe writing them down

Roust myself from bed
I can have the road to myself, mostly
If I get up early enough
Still, it's hard to wake before 8 these days

But even the birds are still shaking off the night

Curious, I prod my flesh
Lipomas on my arms and thighs
Have shrunk, and no longer swell
Painfully against the tissues where they dwell

Sun's already fairly high
Still it's cool enough
Humid from the week's heavy rains
But not quite unbearable yet

A few tentative calls from the songbirds begin

Check my running shoes
Cracking and splitting,
More Shoe Goo than canvas
But still together for now

Socks so full of holes
More like nets than garments
I wonder how many blisters
I'll come back with today

At least it's too early for sunburn

Sweatband, sunglasses,
One-pound dumbbells
Out the door and into the steam
To the end of the long gravel driveway

This time, I turn right
To run the western leg first
It's shorter, but steeper,
Leaving me more strength, I hope,

For the longer eastern haul

Cattle in the pasture across the highway
Low in expectation, then in alarm,
First hoping for chow, then seeking escape
As they see me running past

They trot away, up the slope
To the clustered feeding troughs,
There to watch me warily
And reassure each other with their calls

And on I run

Into the long curve
Near the top of the hill
I watch for the landmark
That I must pass before turning back

Then back down, and back past
Those unhappy cows
Still reproaching me with angry moos
For not having brought them food

The birds still haven't got their act together

Swishing sounds of katydids, chirping sounds of crickets
No cicadas yet to speak of
And the loudest sound of all
The slapping of my feet on asphalt

I'd much prefer to run with music
Carrying my media player instead of dumbbells
With earbuds in my ears
If I didn't have to try to hear

Approaching traffic

Passing the house, now
And on the eastern downslope
It's easy for a while until the turnaround
When it all becomes uphill again

The longest haul
And most tedious
Unchanging
Draining

A straight line until that S-curve begins

Counting telephone poles as I pass
Their magnetic twittering of induced fields
A chatter that rises and falls
As they approach and recede

Fatigue breaks out within me
As sweat breaks out upon me
Have I eaten enough for this?
Have I slept enough for this?

Regardless, I run  on

Past the point
    where the neighbor has put up his new adjoining fence
Past the point
    where armadillo bones have been ground into the asphalt
Past the point
    where the shoulder, cracked, is pulling away from the road
Past the point
    where the bad accident occurred a couple months back

Finally, into the curve
Marking the endpoint
I swing wide into the highway
To turn my ass around

On this side of the street
The willows are more fragrant
So, too, the water stagnant
And mud of an unkempt stock pond

I exhale sharply and run on

Shadows passing draw my eyes upward
Vultures wheeling overhead and low
I wonder what they think they know
About my condition

The run becomes less pleasant still
As I lean into the hill
Without music to keep time
My mind idly counts footfalls

On I run

Low blood sugar, the enemy
Weakens my muscles
And I contemplate dropping to a walk
But I hear the oncoming rush

A mile or more up the road
Of an approaching pickup truck
And I cannot allow myself to stop
Where a neighbor might see

So on I run

The truck closes the distance
As it passes, for once I look up
And am surprised to see
A courteous wave

I nod back, and lower my head
And grit my teeth
And continue the uphill climb
The truck's noise continues on behind

And on I run

The rush fades behind me
Merging, finally, with the wind in the trees
Fading out until the signal
Is lost in the noise

The road is once again all mine
Now I have all the time
And all the space in the world
To succeed, or to fail

Three miles now

Another rushing noise
Coming up from behind me
Emerging from the windy trees
A heavier vehicle, less friendly

A laden gravel truck passes
Coughing calcite dust along my path
My mouth is forced closed
And I breathe through my nose

And run on through the cloud

I'll break past the boundary,
The eastern fenceline treeline,
Any moment now, and
Come back into view of the house

The dogs will be out now,
And I can hear them yammering already
At my unseen but well-heard approach
The barking alerting family

That I'm running back

Dare I drop to a walk here,
My quivering muscles demanding I stop?
If they see me doing less than running
Their confidence will erode further

This is the hour of their indoctrination
(Maddow, Hayes, MSNBC+DVR)
Odds are they won't even look up and out the windows
But I can't chance that they will

So on I run

At the top of the hill,
The driveway beckons
But I ignore it and run past
Down the slope into the western leg

If I push a little further every day
Then soon I can double this part
And work on doubling the rest
That eastern, longer course

So on I run

Push a little further every day
Identify a new landmark on the fly
A new endpoint to mark the turnaround
Each extended segment X adding 2X to the run

The goal, eventually, to retrace my steps
Running twice the course every day
A total of five or six miles
As I did twenty years ago

In my youth

But today I stop short
At the bottom of the slope
Where the culvert admits the wash
Floodwaters still running off

Horses to one side of the road,
Cows to the other,
All trying to figure out
What I'm up to

I turn around

And start back up that slope
Toward the house
And the driveway
At the top of this hill, the last

Breaking free of the treeline
It comes into view on my left
No sign of activity yet
They're sitting inside, comfortable

Air conditioned

I pass over the long crack
The asphalt's final landmark
Two hundred meters from here
Time to speed up and sprint

My legs hate me for it
My stomach's not happy either
My blood complains of thirst
This will be the worst of today, though

I sprint on

From here on out, it's better
I can slow, then drop to a walk
As I turn into the driveway
And I have little but sitting to do for the rest of the day

The dogs see me now,
So their yammering stops
Recognized, I'm no longer a mystery
No longer a threat

I walk on

Bernie has finally learned
To sit patiently on the other side
Instead of slobbering on my hands
As I unlatch and open the gate

Once through the fence,
I dutifully commend him for waiting
A praising voice, a pat on the head
Then I set the dumbbells on the AC fan

I walk around

My cooldown used to take
Three walked laps around the house
But now my breathing returns to normal within seconds
And my heart within a minute or two

Cardiovascular system isn't a problem
I'm limited only by my leg muscles
And while on calorie restriction,
They will remain my weak link

So I stop behind the house

Bernie's still obsequiously following
The other dogs are oblivious
Pursuing stinky pasttimes in the yard
(Rolling in dead whatever)

But finally Chester, the Brute Bear Mutt
Barrels toward me
Across the patio
And I'm obliged to pay him attention

I walk to the swimming pool

Skimmers are clear this morning
No leaves nor insects
Nor even dead frogs
And suddenly I'm free of chores for the morning

Back around the house
To the side door I exited
Where I can sit on the stairs
And remove my shoes

And count the blisters

Then abruptly back outside
Because once again I've forgotten the dumbbells
Out and in as quickly as I can
So Bernie has no time to slobber

Inside, air conditioning
Has the air cool and dry and comfortable
And I stow everything away
Shoes, socks, dumbbells, sweatband, shades

Until tomorrow

I bask in the cool breeze
Remove my shirt and air-dry
Stand, arms outstretched,
And drip and relax and breathe

A cold water bottle awaits in the fridge
And hot coffee on the counter
Skipping breakfast, I trudge up the stairs
To ponder how else to improve my life

Until tomorrow

Befriending a Feral Cat

This cat has lived on my parents' property since she was born, and is at least second-generation wild.  She has been fed by my father throughout that time, so is long-accustomed to human presence, but always skittered away when approached.

By feeding her and then hanging around chattering at her for a while as she ate, I was able to acclimate her over the course of several days.  The day prior to this recording, on or about 4/4/2015, she was treed by the dogs, and by standing below the tree and talking to her, I got her to relax enough to come down.

This time, when I went down to chatter at her, I brought the camcorder.  I got a kick out of watching her make up her mind whether to come close enough to touch.  Since then we've become friends, and she often comes down to the pond to hang out while I'm there fishing.

Rescuing Gator the Rat

There are lots of critters out here, some beneficial, some verminous.  Most of the rats I've encountered on the property are not of harmful species.  I've rescued a dozen or more of these from the swimming pool, and based on the physical profile, they appear to be wood rats, which are not household pests.  (Based on behavior, specifically their tendency to swim, they might be a variety of rice rat, but those are not supposed to be found in this area.)

Having encountered the large rat with the notched ears several times, I named it Gator.  Sometimes after a night stuck in the pool skimmers, critters of all kinds will be suffering from hypothermia, and in this case, I decided to try to warm the rat up a bit before releasing it.  Gator seemed to take to the handling, becoming fairly comfortable with being dried off and set in my lap.

Marauder Nabs a Frog

Marauder is the semi-tame redear slider turtle that lives in the front stock pond.  By some point late in last summer's fishing outings, I found I'd been inadvertently feeding her grasshoppers for possibly several weeks.  I noticed odd things like some of my swimbaits being snipped in half and the monofilament line parting under conditions of no tension.  Paying more attention, I spotted a small turtle making its way out to the bobber whenever I was using one.  She would line up on the bobber then dive beneath to find the hook and whatever was lodged on it.  Easy meal.

I began using the bobber to lure her in closer to shore so I could watch and videotape the proceedings.  On two occasions I lured her up onto shore, and on eight or so I was able to lure her into a net for capture.  I'd hoped to acclimate her to being handled so that I could bucket her, feed her some grasshoppers, and basically keep her out of the way while I cast for perch and bass.  Rather than becoming more docile, though, she became more wary, and learned to avoid the net altogether.

But she still follows me around, and still approaches shore when she hears my voice (I tell folks it's because of my irresistible turtle call:  "Heeeere turdle turdle turdle").  She will come in quite close to shore, and has even charged in within inches of my feet, as when she spotted a hapless grasshopper kicking around in the water just offshore.

Shown here is a brief scene of one of those encounters, taken on or about 6/13/2015.  After she grabs the bait, I use the bobber to demonstrate how she orients on it, even when it's not in the water, and how closely she's willing to approach.

Feral Cat and Kittens, 6/6/2015

For this particular post, I've added a musical background and reduced the original sound to obliterate my idiotic chattering at how cute the kittens are.

Mama Cat is evidently moving the cats back and forth nowadays, between the location shown here and somewhere beneath the building.  She may be becoming more vigilant about the dogs as the kittens become more mobile.  Since recording the video, I've trimmed all the poison ivy that was within reach.