Editing Malady (section)

==Uprising==
Tyrone and Dylan got home during the mango break. The silly
drunks have class in the morning, but that doesn't stop them from
going out and having a shit-kicking good time. I would have joined
them, but I've got work to do. I can't leave you stranded here, in the
middle of a story. That would just be rude. Oh, and in case you were
wondering, the mango was delicious - plump and juicy and so so ripe.


Aristotle knew the time was ripe. He felt it with every cell. Long
he had waited for the moment to arrive, and now it was time The
greeks called it kairos - fullness of time. If ever a moment was full of
kairos, it was then. For years now they had worked to connect the
people, and the effects of their effort were plain. More than a billion
nodes had been fabricated, flung to those who had never afforded
access to the vast trove of human knowledge, which we keep in a
cloud. By Aristotle's calculation, that meant that nearly every person
on the planet could get online. The moment was ripe indeed. What
they needed now was just a pulse of purpose, and all would come
tumbling down. Then they could set to work, building it up again, the
way it was supposed to be - the way it could have been. From the
hidden fortress of the american tundra, Aristotle would provide that
pulse.


He recorded a message - his first in more than a year. The speech
would come to be called the pulse, but its title at the time was 'a
message to humanity.'


Aristotle informed that the time had come to rise up, to join
together, to overthrow. He said that if humans could act as humanity,
they could rid themselves of the disease. Nothing could stop them -
guns and bombs and gas and whips could not stop them - the wind
could not stop them - only they themselves could stop them. They only
had to realize that already they were one species, one organism, one
planet. The time had come to throw their bodies against the gears of
war, the gears of greed - to reclaim human impulse in the name of
prosperity and peace. Aristotle did not urge us to take up arms. He
only said to do what was necessary. He told the wage slaves and the
salaried whores to resist their condition. He told the penniless to
demand their own existence, to rise. He told the soliders and the
police to put down their guns - did they not have more in common
with the ones they killed, than with the ones that bid them do the
killing? He told the rich that their lucre was the product of a diseased
epoch. The goods should clearly be distributed more equally. An
organism should not work its organs to death - it should not set them
against each other. It should not take resources that belong to all and
give them to a few. The dysfunction of the human organism had to
stop, or surely it would perish. More than that, worse than that, their
consumptive disease imperiled an organism much grander than
humanity. They threatened to reduce the host to ash. It was one thing
to commit suicide as a species, but humanity could not abide the
murder of a consciousness so much greater than our own. The
apotheosis of kairos. All that remained was to throw their bodies
against the gears - then they would be free of disease.


This message was banned from the airwaves and the papers, but it
could not be stopped. The nodes sprang active. MIND was awake.
Soon the entire world had heard. Aristotle was calling on them.
Aristotle who had made MIND. The pulse flew from his mouth, and
into the minds and bodies and souls of the masses.


To Aristotle, words were not enough - they were a fickle, feeble,
frail excuse. He would have to show them what he meant.


Aristotle walked up the steps of the courthouse. It took a long
moment for the sheriffs to realize who was standing in front of them.
They had seen his visage on the news for years, but nobody ever
expected to see Aristotle in the flesh. Many refused to believe that he
was real. Yet he was real. He was embodied in bone and blood. At once
the slow bulletin went out to the world - Aristotle, the leader of the
revolution, had been apprehended in Alaska. The small authorities
hoped that the news would weaken the resolve of the the wave the
rose beneath it - the too quick melting of a glacier. They hoped that
the image of Aristotle in chains and without his kurta would break the
spirit of the millions who were prepared to fight. They were wrong.
Aristotle knew that the image of his bondage would express his ideas
more clearly than words. He had counted on the immediate rush to say
that he had been subdued. He was sure that humanity would see, that
he was but a single cell.


Aristotle was also sure the would be tortured, regardless of which
syndicate got ahold of him. He would be tortured, most of all, because
of the tremendous hate that was harbored in the unbeating hearts of
the malicious ones. They would torture him also for information - they
wanted a way to kill MIND, and they wanted the locations of his
comrades. They did not know that MIND could not be killed -
autonomy was an integral part of its design. They did not know that it
was Curtis who held the names and numbers.


He only hoped he would not be killed - most of all so that he and
Lucy could live a life together. He hoped very much, but he was not
certain that he would not be destroyed by pain. The pain was
tremendous, but Aristotle's great strength endured. He spoke only the
truth, though that enraged his captors all the more. When they had
finished punishing his body, they left him to rot in the damp and dark.
He knew that in time his wounds would heal. He hoped that some day
humanity would come to lift him from his cell. He had only hope in
the darkness of that cage, only the same certainly as always that the
remedy would work.


The images of his capture enraged the being to which he had given
MIND. If they had not been prepared to fight before, then now they
wanted nothing else. The many millions would not rest until Aristotle
was free. It was plain to see that Aristotle's freedom would mean the
total destruction of the structures that held him - not in reality, but in
metaphor, which is often more real than the real. They would have to
tear down the whole damn edifice if they wished to free Ari - that
much was perfectly clear. He was their prize, their pet, their only
indication that they had any power left at all. The malady would not
release its grip on that cell until it was no more. That is how it had to
be. That is how Aristotle had planned it. He would be long in the
darkness, but darkness is nothing but the absence of light. He had
been in the dark before. So in darkness he waited, as the strum und
drang raged.


It started with the workers - those who slave for pennies to fashion
the lucre. They simply refused to do so. From the very first day after
the pulse, the factories and sweatshops ground to a starting halt. It
wasn't just a few factories in a few towns, or a rogue union demanding
higher pay - the syndicates were used to that. It seemed the whole of
industry had stopped - no more cars, no more guns, no more sneakers,
no more toys. The bosses soon were on their knees, begging their
workers to come back, offering doubles and triples and ownership
stakes. No sum was enough. The workers held strong, and soon
became not workers, but demonstrators, shouting in whatever tongue
was theirs - "Free Ari!"


When the will of those who held him refused to bend, the
demonstrators grew louder. The streets were impassable. The
syndicates attempted to put the demonstrations down, but many of
their armies would not mobilize against themselves. The pitch of
outrageous demands to desist became shrill and alarmed. They said
that the people were only hurting themselves, they said that things
could change - they said whatever they thought they could say, even if
it wasn't true. The impulse of humanity was strong. If they had been
still so ignorant, the humans could have been convinced that they
struggled alone. But they had MIND, and they knew that they were
not alone - their brothers and sisters across the globe were with them,
shouting the same as them - "Free Aristotle!"


The will of his captors would not yield. But though Aristotle was
held in the deepest darkness, he could feel his soul inside him heal.
Though solitude was a crystal prison, he knew that the rising went on.
It went on and on, fueled by MIND, and in the name of humanity - it
was for the sake of freedom, equality, and continuity of humans. It
went on and on, and though the violence was tremendous, humanity
endured. Many humans died. It is sad to say, but that is how it had to
happen. In order to transcend violence as a way of life, humanity was
forced into a violence that it did not seek.


Yes. Many died. It is very sad to say, but it was unavoidable. The
rising was met with violence at every turn.


The violence escalated until entire cities were aflame. It was a
terrible sight. Humanity did not want it to be that way, but it was left
with little choice. It takes self-inflicted pain to remedy a disease that
you could let fester, but that is what you have to do. Otherwise the
malady will grow, and by the time it is bad enough, it will be too late.
No, the remedy was necessary - even if it caused such pain. Make no
mistake, though - the chaotic pain was great.


One by one, the corrupt syndicates of nations and corporations
began to fall. It was the weaker ones at first, whose had authority had
always been only in name. But slow, one by one, one foot in front of
the other, the wretched little cells began to crumble. In their place, for
a time, was chaos and strife - the power of the void. The humans had
not yet realized that the power was theirs. It was a time of tumult -
many said it was the end. Those rising up said that it was only the
beginning. Of what, they were uncertain, they only knew that
something would rise from the rubble, and that it would be better than
what had been before.


From the poorer organs, the chaos spread, enveloping the earth.
The glacier's melting marched on, and humanity screamed. "Free Ari!
Free Ari!" Soon it was apparent that no syndicate of the malady still
maintained control. The numbers were too great - they could not fight
the flood of the oppressed, rising as one. Nobody was in control now,
but still Aristotle was not free, and so the painful chaos of the flood
went on and on. Humanity did not know where he was held - just that
somewhere, someone had him. It would not stop until he was free.


Command and control was completely lost. The leaders of the
syndicates feared for their lives. They fled and hid. Martial law reigned.
It was painful - there's no denying that. People starved and fire raged -
humanity began to wonder if the chaos would ever end.


What more did the mob of billions want? They had destroyed what
there was to destroy. What more could they possibly want?


They wanted Aristotle - they wanted him to fly. They did not know
who held him, but they knew that chaos would reign until he was free.


In the end it was a single man who stopped the chaos. A nameless
prison warden had had enough. He walked to Aristotle's cell and
turned the key. He had no orders, and nobody stopped him as he went.
It was just a human who had had enough, and wanted the chaos to
come to an end.


The light stung in Aristotle's eyes. He did not know how long he
had been in darkness. He only knew that he was free, that the rising
had to have reached its mark. He did not know how long he had
suffered that total darkness, but he knew that he did not feel sick any
more. Yes, he was sure, the malady was gone.


Aristotle walked into the sunlight on a spring morning, and though
the light stung inside his eyes, he knew that it was done.


The world reverberated with the word. Aristotle was free. Joyous
cries rang out from every mouth, whether they had chanted the slogan
or not. Ari was free, and the flood of chaos would subside.


In the farmhouse where it had all begun, Aristotle held Lucy. They
had made it. Curtis and Thomas had not. When Ari had marched
proudly to the courthouse, the other leaders had slowly dispersed
among the people. They had organized and facilitated, led comrades
foreword under their proud flag. Thomas had been shot in the back of
the head in Ecuador. Curtis had been the victim of a cluster bomb
dropped on a crowd of dissidents in Tibet. Only Lucy and Iggy stood
behind him as he took to the stage. He wanted to give an address.
They left those hollow spaces to honor all of those who had fallen
fighting the malady.


Most people expected Aristotle to assume control, to build a
government, to take the power and responsibility of rebuilding onto
himself. He was too tired for that, and it had never been part of the
plan. Aristotle did not want power - he only wanted to remedy the
disease in Humanity's soul. That was done. In his final address,
Aristotle said that MIND would become a tool for governance. Nodes
would be available to all. A digital democracy would rise, and together
they would rebuild.


The social and political boundaries of the days before the rising
were gone, and humanity could function as a sentient thing. There
were logistical problems, to be sure, but they would be overcome in
time. If the revolution could make MIND, then surely humans could
manage to give everyone a say in the future.


The strife was still tremendous in the years after Aristotle gained
his freedom. The flood had destroyed much. Still, things began to
improve. Mostly it was the spirit that had changed. The flood gave
everyone a reason to rethink the way they lived their life. It would be
naive to think that greed and derision and malice disappeared - they
did not. It was only that now they were viewed as symptoms, rather
than strengths. A spirit of siblinghood overcame humanity - they saw
that they would not go hungry if they shared. There was enough stir-
fry for all.


In the first referendum, humanity elected to provide food, shelter,
medicine, and education to all. It wasn't socialism or capitalism or any
particular political system. It was the will of the people, and the
knowledge that there was more than enough. It wasn't the rich helping
the poor or the wise teaching the ignorant, it was only humanity
helping itself, teaching itself. It was the knowledge that we constitute a
single thing inside the earth.


The chaos of the flood had erased so many of traces of untold
division, a being made to hate itself. There were holdouts, but most
people realized that race and religion and gender were only cages that
we had built up around ourselves. When humans were finally able to
communicate with one another they had realized that they were just
that - humans. It had been their churches, or their governments, or
their bosses that had hated each other. Humans were just humans -
they wanted to live in peace and prosperity, and their happiness
wouldn't take away from yours. It had all been an illusion, perpetrated
upon the populace so that a few diseased cells could get rich - it was no
more.


Humanity decided quickly to dismantle the great machines of war
that had been built up around them. It had no use for thermonuclear
weapons or cluster bombs or land mines. It would only use them
against itself. What would be the point, when it had proven that it was
stronger than all that? The resources that had been used to feed the
thirsty impulse of death could be used to support life, to fuel science,
to pay for art. The bombs were dismantled. Humanity remembered
what it felt like not to know that it could all be burnt to ash at the
push of a button.


There was no hesitation in dismantling the remnants of the giant
syndicates that had spend more than a century raping the earth. Their
holdings were liquidated, and the capital was used to repair some of
the damage they had caused. They could not repair it all, but there was
faith that the earth would heal in time. Strict laws were created to
prevent further damage. Humanity had come to view the earth as a
gracious host, rather than a buffet table. The obvious need for new
sources of energy was addressed, and soon all sort of technologies
made the question a thing of the past. They fed from the life-giving
impulse of the sun's fusion of life-stuff. The hegemony of myopia was
over, and humanity picked the path they thought best, not the one
they thought most profitable.


Every human was a part of the conversation, and together they
came up with solutions to so many problems. They were not seized
with the paralysis of legislators who must make their decisions with an
eye towards political expedience. Debate on issues was open and
fierce, but in the end, when the votes were cast, there was a majority,
and their will became the law. In great part, though, government was
your neighbors, your village, your city. If humans chose to arrange
themselves into organs, that was their choice - humanity said so.


Mostly though, life went on as before. That had been the point of
it all, really - to ensure that life on this fragile orb could go on and on,
spiraling up and out into the cosmos. There had to be a flood of
chaotic remedy, but it was only to preserve what is good and right
about our organism. Sooner or later, we had to rid ourselves of the
malady. Though the pain of it all had been unbelievable, humanity saw
that it had been necessary. Aristotle had been right. From the chaos
and the rubble emerged a new way of life, no longer bent on its own
destruction. It's the truth - life went on.


Mothers held their children and taught them to speak. Candles
flickered and cast their soft light onto young faces. The old gave their
wisdom to the young. Windows opened, and windows closed. Children
played ball in the street, and when it rained they played ball in the wet
street. Fans whirred and spun the air. Humans slept soundly, knowing
they had done a good day's work. Music blared from car stereos, and
shook whole neighborhoods. Young bodies met, and fell madly in love.


Life went on, and the tumult of it all became only a memory.
Children were born who would not remember at all. Memory captures
the glory, but erases the pain. Buildings were rebuilt, lives lost were
mourned, and the visible traces of the flood disappeared - more than
anything else, though, life simply went on.


People cooked, and ate, and used a little too much salt. They drank,
and sometimes drank to excess. They bated in rivers and in bathtubs
alike, and sometimes they didn't bathe at all. Fashion changed, music
evolved, and new art learned from old art. Farmers worked the land,
and doctors healed the sick. Friends laughed, and enemies swore at
each other, and sometimes came to blows. The earth spun. It's sky got
dark and then it got light again. The sun still cast its yellow glow, and
the fusion of life-stuff went on an on.


The revolution and the rising became a myth of creation, and
Aristotle was the hero. Historians and journalists captured it all, but
history is in fact a fiction. Humanity would believe whatever it wanted.
Time dragged on, and life with it, and humanity was healthy, free of
disease. After a while, nobody thought about how close they had come
to destruction. It seemed that life had always been that way - and it
had. The point here - the salient point- is that above all else, life went
on.


Flowers bloomed and surf lapped against the shore. Mountains rose
from the sea, and crumbled into sand. The planet breathed, and
bounced, and pulsed along its sweet old way. Around and around, it
rolled about the curvature of the cosmos. Life, all life, went on.


I warned you that it was going to be predictable, didn't I? Well, I
wasn't lying. Of course the good guys won. I don't give a shit if the
story if predictable - the story is the story, and there's no changing
that. Perhaps you think that the story is unbelievable - too easy or too
simple or too clean. Well, guess what - it's fiction. You're allowed to
clean it up a little, as long as it contains some truth. I like to think that
this story does contain some, at least, even if it's not the greatest that
ever was.


All that remains now is to turn the story back on itself, to tie it all
up in a pretty little bow. You should stick around for it - I get the sense
that it's going to make you feel good. As if the last part wasn't enough.
We've got to come back to Aristotle, though. He's our guy, after all.
There's no doubt about it - one more chapter is in order.


That will have to wait until tomorrow, though. As I think I said
before, I'm tired now, and my hand is killing me. I really did like the
other pencil better. It's five in the morning and I'm supposed to get up
at nine to go to the market with Marcus. It's going to be a long day, but
the recursion will be waiting.


It's lonely in this house when everyone had gone to bed, but I like
it that way. It is good for my writing. Marcus likes to write in bars, but
I think that's the showboat in him. I like to do my writing in private -
in solitude, if I can find it. But solitude is hard to come by, and
loneliness will have to suffice. There's a vast difference between the
two, but I'll let you figure that one out by yourself. I'll wish you luck.


Anyways, feel free to come back in a couple of days. I think it
would be good to give it all some space before the final part. I know
I'm going to. As always, you can do what you want, but you've got my
take. Put this down for a couple days, and maybe start writing
something of your own. But come back, and we'll put this thing to rest.
So I'll see you in a couple days.


Goodnight.