ParadigmsRegained

OneForce is still knocked out. I can’t sleep. I have to keep going. My finger’s been on the pulse of this thing for so long I forget what it’s like not to be covering this story. This story. Can you even call it that? It’s the moment. It’s what happening and more importantly, it’s what’s happening next. So, buckle up.

Last night was a hulaballoo. Having torn through Europe, me and OneForce had to go our separate ways for awhile. More on that later. Thought I was dangerous for him. Too many of the wrong types of assholes looking for me. Course he had the same issue but I really thought I was doing him some kind of favor. Maybe I was. His "Preposterous Universe" paper laid it out perfectly and was extremely well received. People are asking questions all over the world on this day, I can assure you of that.

Could he have wrote it, banging around that empty castle in the Jungfrau’s with me kicking around, getting trashed and cursing out the Bush administration and the Punditocracy or whatever else? Blasting heavy music and shaking up the locals and just...well..being me? He probably coulda wrote it, I don’t know if he could stop himself now if he wanted to, but would it have been that perfect? I’d rather not guess.

More importantly, I can confess I might have flipped my cookies for a little while there. It’s tough to say. We’re travelling. There's lots of booze, girls and a host of party favors I’ll not get into here. Well, maybe I will but not right here. And there were NSA scum on my tail at least up until Amsterdam. The question was when had they picked me up? It’s already established that the white van parked across the street for so long that spooked me in the first place belonged to some dude my hot little roommate was banging. Cops towed it away not three days after I left, I’m told. But NSA’d been on me in Vancouver and I’d actually spoken to the jackals in Amsterdam and gotten to a place where I liked the fact that I had some governmental attention. Readership is readership. Would my future torturer have a favorite?

“I really liked ‘Just Got Here or Lived Here Forever,’” your brutish interrogator would ask you, a pair of red hot pliers fastened hard to your dingus, “is the fantasy nurse supposed to represent the American Dream?”

Besides, would I be here if I didn’t flip out a little? And if the NSA actually has been following me, what does it matter if I just anticipated them a little earlier?

I hear a steady banging sound, OneForce working up a head of steam with some filly he’d met last night. About time. Been blasting Ravel’s ‘Bolero’ as he humped holy hell out of her. Been a little while for him but to give the fella his due, he is actually trying to unify physics. I can only assume he’s trying to time the orgasm for when Bolero peaks. It’s the artful thing to do and any man in his right mind would be powerless but to attempt the same.

My little chickadee lay crumpled on the fold-out couch behind me. Gave me a sour look when I got up and started making hotel coffee. I may have closed my eyes for a few minutes but I don’t think I’ve slept. I’m paid to write whatever I like at this phase and let me tell you, for a writer who’s always had to steal the time to write whatever strikes his fancy, this is heaven. I just hope it doesn’t take my edge.

These days I'm getting more and more folks that want me to write about OneForce and to a degree I am, because you write what you know but that’s not specifically the story I cover or have been covering since SenseChange was created, back in late 2000. OneForce is a part of the story but not the sum total story because the story’s even bigger than some guy totally changing the game on everything from the realm of SubAtomicParticlePhysics to How the Universe Works. But he’s a part of the story because the story is Change.

Change. Before I was iSC or iSenseChange it was just SenseChange. The name was crafted before B-Rack Obama and every other politician in the world had picked up ‘Change’ as the mantra that will resonate with the People. The name was crafted because I wanted a name that demonstrated my profound and ongoing belief that we, all of us, as a species and a planet were and are on the cusp of massive, paradigmatic change. Couldn’t have told you then –or now, for that matter- if it was gonna be good or bad but change was coming. Change is here. And you know it is too.

So yeah, OneForce is part of it but just a part, you know?

Good Christ they’re really going at it in there. Even over the blaring orchestral number you can hear stinging slaps and flesh pounding flesh. Can hear OneForce as much as his filly, which is, as always, profoundly disturbing. Mine, though still sleeping, has an annoyed look on her face which would have put the kibosh on us getting together had I seen it last night. I may be a little judgemental but I expect to only see that face much later, when I’ll no doubt deserve it. The pace is picking up, a crescendo of climactic climaxes. a cacophony of cumshots. I’m in a pickle as I want to turn up 'the Hurricane' by Bob Dylan but not so loud that I’ll have to prematurely deal with this gal on the couch.

I’m not a ‘next day’ dude and I can’t pretend I am. I said a lot of sweet things last night that have nothing whatsoever to do with today. I will be glued to my laptop for the foreseeable future, for as long as it takes to encapsulate, to crystallize what I see happening and some gals just don’t understand how a computer screen can be more interesting than they are. Or why I want them to leave. It’s ugly but nonetheless it is that way.

OneForce stumbles out, the big galoot. He’s wiping off the end of his knob with a bathrobe that looks like somebody died in it.

“Jesus fuck,” I mumble over my shoulder, “what’d she do to you?” He looks like a stabbing victim. At least three empty bottles of Valpolcella Folinari solves that mystery for any would-be Sherlock Holmeses out there. He steps, barefooted into a plate full of old roomservice and barely even notices it, leaving little mashed-potatoe smears across the kitchen tile.

“All sorts of things.” He’s scratching his all-too-visible nuts and I’m shaking my head.

“You, uh…” I began, “you tell her who you are?”

“Yep. We’re in love.”

“Ohhhhhhhhh dude,” I cradle my still throbbing head in my hands, “you didn’t.”

“Yep. Told her everything. Who I am, who you are, what we’re doing, the whole shootin’ match.”

“Fuck off! You didn’t!”

He shrugged. “I love her.” I start softly banging my already throbbing noggin into the tabletop. OneForce helps himself to some coffee, scratching his all-too-visible nuts the whole time. “She’s coming with us. So’s yours. We’re gonna be a team.” Stirs his coffee with what necessarily has to be an extremely dirty finger. “Like Scooby-Doo.”

Now the bastard’s laughing at me, sloshing coffee all over our already putrid kitchenette floor. And, to be fair, I’m laughing at myself. He hasn’t told her anything. If I know OneForce he hasn’t told her anything but he hasn’t lied to her either. He carries with him the same obsession with Truth that I do, if anything, for him, it’s way more intense. And unlike me he actually attempts to practice what preaches. His Truths are based on mathematics, mine just on what smallish kernals of it can be gleaned from the heaping masses of crap and garbage we’re being force-fed daily by a buncha media-dicks and political hacks. Which means mine arise form a far more cynical source and does nothing to hamper me getting a little creative with it in my day-to-day.

“Hell of a thing to do to a fellow first thing in the morning,” I chastised him.

“Autumn!” he hollered at his gal in the bedroom, ignoring me. “Do breakfast?”

“Don’t do it,” I hiss at him. He's looking at my gal on the couch that’s starting to wake up. Breakfast. What a dick. He knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

Look, I’m not an asshole, okay? Well…I’m an asshole sometimes. Often. But in this case I’ve got stuff to do. I’ve got a prediction in mind for the coming elections and I have to write the thing up and launch it into BlogWorlde before anybody else nails it. But I can’t just predict the thing, you know it’s gotta look good, gotta read right off the screen, gotta piss you off once and make you laugh a coupla times. It’s gotta be worthy of the iSC brand. I have a readership.

All of which is to say that it takes time, loud music, massive spliffs and most importantly, no clammering gal I met and nailed last night. Maybe I am an asshole but I’ve been calling this election with astonishing clarity from almost a year before it even started. And choosing Biden as Bama’s veep in May of this year made me officially spooky. And now I have another feeling and it’s gotta be blogged and there’s old OneForce, fucking with me.

Besides all that, we have to talk. I made a realization and he’s really starting to hit it big and I’m a danger to him once more. And I need to talk about it with him but it’s too late.

“C’mon!” he smirks at me, the dick, “what’s your gal’s name? Betcha she wants breakfast, eh buddy? Eh?”

“Force!” I whisper/bark sternly, “knock it off! You know very well I have no fucking idea what it’s name is.”

It. I called her ‘it.’ It’s out of my mouth, I can’t take it back. I wasn’t even aware I’d said it until a gorgeous blue eye opens, eyebrows arched. Doomed. OneForce holds his breath, watching the scene unfold.

“Morning,” I say to a very non-plussed gal.

"It." All she says and all she needs to. Force tenderly grabs my gal’s big toe and gives it a playful wiggle.

"Aw c'mon, what’s your name or do I just call you Sweetie? Want some breakfast, Sweetie?” It takes OneForce very little time to totally disarm her, mostly through making fun of me, though she’ll never look at me with anything less than contempt from here on in, is my suspicion. My fancy footwork got entirely used up last night. But she’s giggling and nodding and stretching and laughing and very much a complete part of the OneForce Morning Coffee Fiasco. There goes my morning. He’s silently laughing his balls off whenever he can get away with it.

“Autumn,” he hollers at the bedroom, “have you met Sweetie? We're doin' breakkie!”

The gals are humming around, getting dressed and giggling and whatnot and OneForce is the very definition of charming-yet-rascally, all-too-awake fun while I’m a grousing, hungover jerk. OneForce works with it. I’m the butt of nearly every joke, like it’s him and the girls against grumpy old iSense. He’ll come up and ruffle your hair like you’re a five year old or something and you’d like to smack him one. And you would. If he weren’t such a big fucker.

How such a big galoot ever got into gravitation and meta-physics or actually had a mind in his head is anybody’s guess. One look and you’d expect him to take chairs in the head for a living. Its been good cover for him in our adventures. Undercover by being right up there, out in the open and over the top. Dressed to kill and yammering out of the sides of our mouths like great, coke-snorkeling CEOs. Men of Great Import. It’s how we blew right through the airport to Amsterdam and Freedom and in and out of a million little fracases across the world.

Roll with it, Sensey. It’s a part of the story now and there’s nothing to be done. I pack up the laptop and my gal grouses at me again. OneForce calls me on it and makes me up as the most insufferable heel if I’m going to bring my laptop to the breakfast table at this fine restaurant we’ll be at and by the time he’s through I may well have no choice but to abandon both it and my plans and roll with it.