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eisoj5I gotta figure out some way to differentiate Nano posts from random blathering crappy posts. Any ideas? Ah, hell, the cut tag should prolly do for now.
I woke up this morning and I was standing in front of a door with a number on it, a number and a doorknocker in brass, something simple and suburban on a white door with cut glass and I was going to knock, but then I woke up, so I didn't.
I'm riding a track somewhere these days and I don't think I like where it's going.
*****
You can spot a Tracker from miles away. Standard-issue car, suit, sunglasses, spit-shined wingtips or pumps, even down to the damn clipboard they all carry, which is this big metal affair that shines just like their shoes or like the sunlight off the tinted windows on the cars. The kind of light that hurts if you don't have a piece of welder's glass handy so you don't burn holes in your retina. There's probably welder's glass in their sunglasses, too, actually. Trackers spend their lives staring into the glare of the screen, and no matter what improvements you make in computer technology, ergonomics and whatnot, you can't just stare into a bright light for ten hours a day without doing something awful to your vision. The sunglasses, therefore, are instrumental in a Tracker's existence outside the Bureau. I'll never understand why they don't just hire more people to do the outside bit, though.
They come knocking on your door the day you turn seventeen.
Seventeenth birthday parties don't exist, because you can't plan a party around the Trackers. Sure, they know a lot when it comes down to the big things in time, like life and death, but for some reason they can never be bothered to schedule for anything more specific than "between 8-5 on June 10" or April 4 or whatever. So Mom makes you get all dressed up, best suit, tie, a skirt, high heels and nylons, no blue jeans--and then you wait. Your hands get sweaty, and no matter how nice your hair looks, it always requires one last adjustment with a spit-coated index finger before the doorbell rings--
Seventeen years old, and this is the kind of reaction you should be having when your prom date walks down the stairs, holding up her satin train so she doesn't trip and wearing a nervous smile because you're sitting on the sofa next to her parents. Not when you're learning what's going to dictate the rest of your life.
Not that you don't already know, of course.
I mean, we all knew. The imaginary friend who spoke to you in Latin, for chrissakes. The way you could sing a Beatles hit, word for accented word, the first time you ever listened to that record. Or tape. Or CD. That feeling in school or on the playground or out with your parents at some restaurant that you'd met a teacher or the janitor or the waitress before.
It used to be called schizophrenia, or multiple personality disorder, or sometimes, just plain old crazy. But now, because of the Trackers, we know better.
Or something.
Anyway, the reason I know all this is not because I've turned seventeen yet, myself. That's coming up in a few days. I know about Trackers and the way things used to be at seventeen because of my parents and their memories, and their Memories, from before Tracks were legitimately discovered.
I woke up this morning and I was standing in front of a door with a number on it, a number and a doorknocker in brass, something simple and suburban on a white door with cut glass and I was going to knock, but then I woke up, so I didn't.
I'm riding a track somewhere these days and I don't think I like where it's going.
*****
You can spot a Tracker from miles away. Standard-issue car, suit, sunglasses, spit-shined wingtips or pumps, even down to the damn clipboard they all carry, which is this big metal affair that shines just like their shoes or like the sunlight off the tinted windows on the cars. The kind of light that hurts if you don't have a piece of welder's glass handy so you don't burn holes in your retina. There's probably welder's glass in their sunglasses, too, actually. Trackers spend their lives staring into the glare of the screen, and no matter what improvements you make in computer technology, ergonomics and whatnot, you can't just stare into a bright light for ten hours a day without doing something awful to your vision. The sunglasses, therefore, are instrumental in a Tracker's existence outside the Bureau. I'll never understand why they don't just hire more people to do the outside bit, though.
They come knocking on your door the day you turn seventeen.
Seventeenth birthday parties don't exist, because you can't plan a party around the Trackers. Sure, they know a lot when it comes down to the big things in time, like life and death, but for some reason they can never be bothered to schedule for anything more specific than "between 8-5 on June 10" or April 4 or whatever. So Mom makes you get all dressed up, best suit, tie, a skirt, high heels and nylons, no blue jeans--and then you wait. Your hands get sweaty, and no matter how nice your hair looks, it always requires one last adjustment with a spit-coated index finger before the doorbell rings--
Seventeen years old, and this is the kind of reaction you should be having when your prom date walks down the stairs, holding up her satin train so she doesn't trip and wearing a nervous smile because you're sitting on the sofa next to her parents. Not when you're learning what's going to dictate the rest of your life.
Not that you don't already know, of course.
I mean, we all knew. The imaginary friend who spoke to you in Latin, for chrissakes. The way you could sing a Beatles hit, word for accented word, the first time you ever listened to that record. Or tape. Or CD. That feeling in school or on the playground or out with your parents at some restaurant that you'd met a teacher or the janitor or the waitress before.
It used to be called schizophrenia, or multiple personality disorder, or sometimes, just plain old crazy. But now, because of the Trackers, we know better.
Or something.
Anyway, the reason I know all this is not because I've turned seventeen yet, myself. That's coming up in a few days. I know about Trackers and the way things used to be at seventeen because of my parents and their memories, and their Memories, from before Tracks were legitimately discovered.
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no subject
Date: 2003-11-01 07:17 am (UTC)More, please. :)
no subject
Date: 2003-11-01 09:03 am (UTC)Great start!
- Ronnie
no subject
Date: 2003-11-01 09:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-01 01:58 pm (UTC).....yeah, I'll make one at some point when I'm procrastinating writing more. Which is like, all the time. :-P
-josie
(Thanks for commenting, everybody ;) )
no subject
Date: 2003-11-01 02:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-11-02 10:51 am (UTC)