The Clan of the Cave Bague

J.Daniels: Cables: I has them!

J.Dow: w00t! j00 can has cabols!

J.Daniels: I’m wondering if it wouldn’t be less painful to just hang myself with them. they’re quite sturdy. I think they could take it.

J.Dow: Go for it. Can I have your netbook?

J.Daniels: Over my dead b- oh, wait!

So I was gabbing with Shen on MSN and the subject of Warcraft came up. As it does. So I thought I’d have a stab of writing it in pseudocode. So here it is.

while(1){

if($n00b){

acceptLols();

print(“GIEF GOLD PLX KTHXBAI”);

} else {

if($pvp){

spawn();

die();

acceptLols();

} else {

grindMindlessly( $bodyPart, $mob );

}

}

sendMoneyToBlizzard();

}

And I think that’s about it, really.

So, this pneumatic blonde practically leaps at me as I walk into the hotel function suite. She’s waving her arms and squealing an introduction in a high-pitched nasal whine. I have to stifle a snigger as she tells me her name is Candy. She’s like a five-foot-nothing self-propelled stereotype, shoehorned into less lycra than the average swimsuit model.

I smile and shake her hand as I wait patiently to get a word in.

“So, yah,” she says, “I was at Camp Comanche in ‘02 – you know, the Hatchet Jack thing?”

I think about this for a moment. Hatchet Jack was that caretaker – the one who had a thing about collecting the heads of the summer camp supervisors. By the time I recall this, Candy has launched into a graphic description of how she alone managed to escape the killer and bring him to justice. Sounds like bullshit to me.

“So what about you?” she asks, finally pausing for breath. “Who did you survive?”

I pause. Ok, so I knew that this question would come up multiple times during the weekend, but I still feel a little unprepared. It was all so recent, you know?

“I was at the Macefield Prom. You know, the one in the news a few months ago.”

“OMG!” she says. Actually like that. Ohh-Emm-Gee. “That’s so amazing! That guy killed, what, two hundred people in one night?”

“Two hundred and twelve,” I correct.

“How did you escape?” she asks, her eyes like saucers.

I repeat the story I told the police.

“Wow! Hiding for all that time! You must have been terrified!” I see the usual look of disgust in her eyes as she pictures me hiding in the store cupboard while people were being slaughtered like cattle within a few feet of me. I don’t give a shit.

“You do what you have to,” I say brusquely. I glance around the room. There are about fifty people present; some of them seem as animated and excited as Candy; some are nervous, withdrawn. One girl sits on her own in the corner, her dark hair hanging down over her face as though she’s trying to hide. I wonder what her story is.

“So,” I say, “this is my first time here and I don’t know anyone. How does it work?”

“Well,” Candy says, “we just kind of chat informally for a bit until everyone’s here and then we have a talk by our founder. For the rest of the weekend we have workshops and stuff. The timetable is on the noticeboard. “ She points across the room.

“Who’s the founder?” I ask.

“Oh I dunno his name,” she squeaks. “Some bigshot shrink. That guy who was trapped in his own psychiatric ward when the patients got out.”

“Robert Kleiner?”

“Yeah, that’s him. He’ll talk about, like, whatever, and then he’ll get one of us to tell their story. Hey, if this is your first time, I should introduce you to some of the regulars.”

“Yes, that would be good,” I say.

I flinch as she grabs my hand, but manage to stifle it. She drags me over to a pair of women who are talking excitedly by the bar. One of them, a tall redhead, seems to be recounting something involving a knife to a shorter dark haired girl. She makes exaggerated stabbing motions in the air.

“Laurie! Jolene! Guess who I have here?” She pauses for a moment and then turns to me, with no sign of a blush. “What’s your name?”

“Josh,” I answer. “Josh Scott.”

“It’s Josh Scott!” she says. The sighs of “Ohh!” and “Ahh!” fail to disguise the blank looks. They’ve no idea who I am but that’s ok – I don’t know who they are either. The difference is, I don’t really care.

“He’s the guy from the Macefield thing! Remember? The guy who hid in the cupboard?”

All of a sudden I gain a deeper insight into Hatchet Jack’s motivations. Light dawns in the girls’ eyes and one of them breathes “Wow! That was, like, two hundred people, right?”

“Two hundred and twelve. So what’s your story?”

“Uhh, I’m Jolene,” says the redhead. “My friends and I were abducted by that weird inbred cannibal family.” I nod attentively as she details her escape. She spends a significant part of her monologue describing the hideous ways in which her friends met their untimely end. I offer sympathies for her loss.

The dark haired girl speaks next. She introduces herself as Laurie and immediately regales me with a convoluted tale of hockey masks, gardening implements, and lots and lots of blood. Her eyes are glittering with excitement as she demonstrates the killing blow she used to decapitate the frenzied deformed kid who’d been stalking her and her friends all summer. I try my best to remain focussed on her story, but I worry that the deep twist of revulsion that sits in my stomach is showing on my face.

I nod at the girl sitting alone in the corner. “Who’s that?” I ask.

“That’s Sandy. She doesn’t talk much,” Candy answers. A look passes between the three women. Was that a suggestion of an eyeroll from Laurie.

“I’ll just say hi,” I say. “Nice meeting you.”

“Sure,” says Candy, pouting a little.

Candy, Sandy, Jolene and Laurie, I think. It’s like a b-movie script gone mad.

I walk through the yapping crowd, occasionally nodding and smiling in response to interested glances. The girl is sitting at a small round table, a glass of fruit juice untouched before her. I clear my throat and she looks up.

“Hi,” I say. “My name’s Josh.”

“Sandy,” she answers, her voice barely audible.

“Do you mind if I sit down?”

She shrugs, so I sit. She’s pale and pretty and very nervous; she picks distractedly at her fingernails. She interests me.

“If you don’t mind me saying, you seem a little out of place here,” I say.

“Why?” she asks. “It’s a support group. I need support.”

I think about this. “Well, yeah, that’s what I thought too. A support group for the survivors of violent crime. That’s why I’m here, but…”

She looks up at me. “But?”

I shrug. “I dunno – just seems a bit more like a social club to me.”

“The Survivors Club,” she smiles briefly. “Yeah, it can get like that sometimes.”

It occurs to me that she hasn’t asked who I survived or how many of my friends were killed. The silence between us is uncomfortable and I wrack my brain trying to think of something to say. I decide to be upfront and ask her what brought her here when I’m saved by the bell: there’s a squeal from the PA system and a bass thumping as a microphone is tapped. A mellifluous voice bids us all good evening, and I turn towards a small podium in one corner of the room. A middle aged man in a rumpled suit is standing there beaming at the crowd. The good doctor, I assume.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and thank you for coming. As most of you will be aware, this is the fifth meeting of the Victims Support Group. We have a great weekend of workshops and therapy sessions lined up for you, but to kick things off I’d like to share with you an inspirational story from one of our founding members. Please give a warm welcome to Jason Boyd.”

There’s a smattering of applause as an athletic looking young man steps up to the podium. He introduces himself and begins talking. My attention drifts within seconds and his voice becomes a background drone. I sneak a glance at Sandy. She has a look of complete boredom on her face. I lean towards her.

“Don’t you think it’s a little weird?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“The way they seem to enjoy telling their stories so much. Almost like they’re bragging they were more clever than everyone else, even though they really just got lucky.”

She shrugs again. “It’s just their way of coping. They’ve triumphed over adversity – doesn’t really matter if they did it through violence, or running away.” She pauses. “Or hiding in a cupboard.”

I smile. “You heard about that, then?”

There’s no returning smile. She seems quite insightful. I’ve no idea what she’s been through and get the impression she’s unlikely to talk about it with a stranger. Which is a shame, really, as she’s probably the only person in the room I’m interested in hearing about. Still, there’s plenty of time over the weekend to get to know her.

The guy on the podium is still droning on and making hacking gestures. I glance around at his spellbound audience and note the sparkling eyes and the the looks of bloodlust on their faces. I’m sitting in a room full of monsters. The knot of disgust tightens within me. They’re all so proud of themselves. It’s not such a big deal to survive something. Anyone can do it. Admittedly, it helps when you’re the one doing all the killing. It’s going to be a fun weekend.

j.daniels: 15 minute job to move disks and filesystems? That’s impressive. What’s your secret?
j.dow: no, fifteen minute job to shut down box, add disks, and bring box back up
j.daniels: Ahh.
j.dow: the rest of it can be done hot. This is the cunning nature of sysadmins.
j.daniels: Sadly, not cunning enough to dodge your bed?
j.dow: it’s the exhaustion brought on by having such a highly powered intellect.
j.daniels: Or the crash after eating too much sugar.
j.dow: both are possible.

Triad

i. Chrissy Dances

And the waves lap gently at the sand, pushing it up and pulling it back, undecided on whether they should stay or go but nevertheless forced into constant motion by the irresistible pull of the moon.

Chrissy sits and waits on the shoreline for the dashing young man who must surely happen by soon. But the waves lap, and the sand stirs, and Chrissy’s shadow lengthens across the hard packed rippled surface and still he does not appear.

Her crown sits askew on her golden head and her eyes gaze vacantly down at her feet. She wriggles her toes into the sand and watches as the saturated ground gives up its water in tiny pools around her feet.

The sun dips lower in the sky, resting its head on the horizon, and sends glowing amber beams of sympathy to soothe the young girl’s pain. Chrissy smiles back sadly, and looks once more along the empty beach.

She folds her arms over her knees, rests her chin on them, and begins singing softly to herself. A light breeze creeps cautiously from the ocean surface and sidles up the beach. It lifts a few strands of soft, fine, hair and strokes them gently. “Everything will work out fine.”

She rises and stands before the ocean with her arms held out. The breeze grows a little more excited, flicking at her white linen dress, and whispering in her ear. She spins slowly on the spot, a careful pirouette. She points with her right foot and inscribes a perfect circle for her Prince to cross. She raises her arms in a graceful arch above her head and pivots forwards, raising one leg in an elegant Arabesque.

The lapping waves give a gurgling chuckle at the dancing girl while their parents roar approval from further afield. The wind cheers and whistles as it flows alongside her, constantly caressing, touching, guiding and leading. She dances up the beach. Her shadow flickers and wavers and the sun turns the water to fire as it clings to the last scrap of the sea. As she dances across the demarcation line between the ocean’s domain and the land’s, the dry sand leaps excitedly in the air around her feet, kicked into glittering tornadoes by the energy of her passing. From over the border, the brine-soaked ocean sand looks on with envy.

Then he is here, clad in black, tall, lean, his face indistinct with the sun at his back. She dances around him, laughing and crying, desperate for a glimpse of his long awaited face. She spins towards him and the last ray of the dying sun burns fiercely in her heart before vanishing, leaving her alone and silent on the empty beach once more. Her arms fall to her sides and her gaze turns down to the eternal sand. She sinks to her knees with her arms outstretched. The beach takes her hands; the ocean strokes her arms; the slowly spreading darkness caresses her golden hair.

And the waves lap gently at the sand and the wind sighs its pity. Chrissy sits and Chrissy waits for another glimpse on another day, while the weeping sun rolls its moment of magical twilight around the world.

ii. Reuben Stands

The darkness approaches, rushing on the wings of ravens, and Reuben runs through its heart. He feels the gentle tug of the world’s turning and the less gentle pressure of the whispering night which surrounds him.

Voices cry to him from the darkness; joyful laughter, angry shouts, tears, grief, and the unbearable keening wail of longing.

He turns to face the latter, his face transfigured in recognition, and throws his voice forwards into the smothering night; “I am here! I am always here!”
The unseen coils of the darkness lash and flex around him, striking his arms, his legs, his back. He stumbles and slows and feels the night thicken. The cry of the longing tears at his heart, pulling at him as he in turn pushes through the murk, and the power of the cry grows with every step he takes.

Reuben redoubles his efforts against the slick, invisible bonds as a distant roar approaches from somewhere behind. It grows lighter ahead. Something shifts beneath his feet. The smooth glassy surface becomes buckled and twisted, pitted and scarred. As he forges forwards, it pulls and sucks at him, slowing him further. Sensing triumph, the invisible coils of night slither and contract around his waist.

Reuben cries out as his feet begin to sink. An icy chill embraces them and the all-too familiar hand of fear caresses his heart.

“Too soon! Have pity!” he cries, as the cold tendrils pulse and surge up and down the length of his legs. The laughter of the darkness and the onslaught of the roaring sound assault his ears and he covers his head with his arms.

The lighter air ahead is flecked with red and gold and it is towards this small hope that Reuben strives. Bright sparks ignite and burn angrily before his eyes, spinning and dancing, coalescing into a light band below and a darker band above. The surface around his legs is liquid and icy, pricking and sticking, lacerating his flesh with vicious tendrils of cold. A wave forges ahead of him, wrapping him in its reluctance, and the darkness gloats and cackles behind him.

The soft earth touches the soles of his feet in a gentle caress. With an exultant cry he pulls free of his ephemeral bonds and sprints, head down, arms pumping, knees rising high to clear the foam around his legs. The world slips into focus; gently undulating dunes beneath a luminous sky of purple and red. The darkness falls behind, unable to match his pace now that the land is on his side, but still stalking its inexorable way towards him. The last tendrils of night spring from his shoulders as he steps clear of the shivering blackness and the gentle light of the dying sun flickers in his eyes.

He laughs and whoops, leaping the last few feet, emerging from the sea as though for the first time, and the firm sand beneath him smiles its welcome. And then, a flicker of white, sunlight on golden hair, the madly pirouetting form of longing made corporeal and Reuben stands transfixed, the pursuing horror forgotten in an instant.

She spins around him, aware and unaware, eyes flashing past without making contact. Her hair whips across her face, stealing his breath and pulling it around her. She slows, her arms raising, turning towards him; her face, in profile, pale and lovely, turning, turning as the heavy curtain of dark – its path leading remorselessly to this place – rests its cold hand upon his back and wraps him in its coils once more.

His heart slows and despair floods through him as the ebony claws tear at him. The world fades. The silhouette falls to her knees on the beach. The blackness is total and eternal.

iii. The World Turns

Mother spins around her centre and dances around Father with breathtaking speed. The solar winds drift across her face, billowing and blowing across unimaginable distance with the softness of a lover’s caress, and the golden light of his gaze lies softly on her cheek. She is everything that is, was, and will be but nothing without him.

And there, on the border between day and night, the thin band of dusk creeps lazily across her countenance, ebbing and flowing with the contours of her beautiful face. Glistening clouds race across lush, green, grassland; the shimmer of burning air rises above parched desert; breathless frozen air hangs still above her frozen crown and feet. And all around and ever present rolls the passionate tempest of the ocean.

And there, on the border between motion and stillness, the thin band of glistening silver sand lies streaked with red as the dusk approaches. A trail of footprints, insignificant on the face of the world, leads from the ocean to the land. A second trail spirals and spins along the length of the beach; meandering and searching, then arcing sharply towards the sea.

And there, on the border between Chrissy and Reuben, the world holds her delicate breath. For a single moment, frozen in time, the girl dances and the boy stands. Her longing heart calls out to Mother for mercy. His anguished mind calls to Father, railing against his absence.

And Mother reaches out with a gentle breeze and strokes Chrissy’s golden hair. She feels Reuben’s feet, standing calmly on her shore. The girl’s breath flows from her mouth, mixing with the breeze and is carried to the boy. “In this small way you are connected,” Mother sighs. For Chrissy is everything that is and was and will be, but without Reuben she is nothing. “In this small way we are all connected.”

And the waves lap gently at the sand in this place of union where opposites meet.

It doesn’t do this, by default, unless you’re syncing your whole music collection automatically. Which is a bit rubbish if, like me, you have an 8Gb iPod Touch and a 60Gb music library.

See, what I tend to do, to make sure I actually rotate my music and listen to more than one album (:-)) is have a smart playlist which contains 25 unrated songs selected randomly. But what I want to do is rate them on the ipod as they play and have their rating in iTunes updated on my next sync. Well, I’ve worked out it CAN be done, albeit in a slightly roundabout way.

1. Create your smart playlist: Mine matches the rule Rating is: (no stars), limit to 25 items, match only checked items, live updating.
2. I have another smart playlist which is my highest rated songs (this is one of the defaults you get) and another that I just drop random stuff I want to listen to in.
3. Connect your iPod. In the summary screen, make sure “Sync only checked songs and videos” is checked. In the Music tab you want to check “Sync Music” and “Selected playlists”.
4. Now select your playlists – I have me “Random Stuff” playlist, my “Top Rated” one and, of course, my “Unrated Songs” one.
5. Sync your ipod. Listen to songs. Rate them. Sync it again and POOF! iTunes updates!

This all sounds horribly obvious, you cry – why bother writing about it? It’s the “Summary” tab that’s the stumbling point. By default, you wouldn’t check “Sync on checked…” because that would be silly. But if you don’t, it doesn’t sync back. Go figure.