Time to Kill:



The Blind Watcher Maker’s argument hit the scene in 1802 and has been considered a way to describe the belief in an intelligent designer of the universe. The argument in its simplistic form goes as follows: If you were to take a pleasant walk in a forest, or mountain trail. Then upon taking a short break you were to find a golden pocket watch at the base of your feet. The reasoning follows it must have been created by an intelligent creature, for surely no watches exist in nature, fully formed with its intricate gears, springs, or whatever mechanisms hide within its golden body. The logic is then extended to the greater universe.



This argument is meant to reveal the contrast of seemingly chaotic nature and a constructed object, requiring intention, intelligence, and production. We have never seen a bird or tree create a watch, nor express any interest in owning one. A crow might inspect the object and appreciate its golden shell.



The question of how the watch found its resting place in the forest may have a long and complex story, but at some point, the watch had to be calibrated. Blueprints had to be drawn up, measurements made, and small tools used to craft the precise and intricate nature of the watch. This process could have taken any length of time, and in the argument of the Blind Watchmaker, these questions reveal the apparent difference between a constructed object and the mundane dirt and leaves.



However, the criticism of this argument begins with the distinct of what makes a watch a watch. To be considered a watch of any kind, time-telling must be visible. If the gold object is merely a replica, then the argument is about the appearance of distinction, and the illusion of a watch is only a glamour.



If the essence of a watch is the ability to tell time, then the natural world is full of such timepieces. The sun for example was worshipped for thousands of years, not only for its life-giving rays for a healthy harvest, but for determining geometry. Cultures have told time by the passing of moons, the motion of tides, changing of season, migration of animals, and other such predictable natural phenomena.



With the ability to accurately describe segments of time, and geometry to describe the surface objects, ancient societies could produce great feats of construction. In our modern age, such knowledge is trivial. We have measuring tape, protractors, plastic squares, plums, laser levels, and other technological shortcuts. Correct measurements adequately predict construction timelines, and therefor a quality of social rulership; predictable jobs or tasks.



A good ruler would be able to predict how much food would be required for a workforce, and how many hours and people required for the task. If the measurement of time was incorrect or the angle of the construction off by a couple degrees, your pyramid would be an embarrassment; an error of divine rulership. For example: the Egyptians made pyramids at a 41-degrees, except the bent pyramid at 54 degrees, which suffered from shallow slope, and then corrected to a steeper angle of 43 degrees.



Geometry and time-telling are also connected through the understanding of the stars. A ship navigator or ancient astrologer could follow the morning star of Venus and its endless pentagrams. A contemporary project manager of a skyscraper has to include timelines for workers in hours and days.



However, time-telling is imperfect. Even the day and night of the modern era is different than its primordial past. Since the creation of oceans, and the moon, the hours of the day have increased 6 hours. This is due to tidal locking, a mechanism of exchanging angular momentum between the moon and the earth through the ocean, and in 2.4 million years the earth will cease rotation exposing a face of the earth to the unrelenting sun. This distant future is calculated on the decreased rotation of 15 milliseconds annually; an exact and presence measurement. This is meant to show that time-telling is in fact a common and mundane process done by endless reference points in the world, and a watch being found in a forest is a matter of modern culture rather than a quality of the watch itself. A watch would never be found in the forest during 600 BCE, you might however find a stone with astrological markings from the decline of the Egyptian kingdom, something discarded in the fury of looting burial chambers.



The ability to see the design in an object is a cognitive ability. It is an ability which comes from many years of neuron development, pattern recognition, and indicators of familiar construction. If the object was not a watch but rather an alien object, with components of unknown production, we would consider it an even more unnatural occurrence. Quartz for example is not considered designed, yet its crystalline body has been a part of contemporary watches for many years. When the argument was expressed in 1802, there were no quartz watches, or digital watches. The details of what is considered a familiar construction could be smeared to the point where a golden pocket is veiled in ancient mystery, without sharp contrast to the world around it.



The watch may still seem out of place in the forest, especially since we cannot see the connection from its origin to its resting place by our feet on the trail.



If we knew there was a factory of watch construction nearby or lived by a family of watch makers who regularly walk in the forest, our narrative instinct wouldn’t even pause a moment, we would fill in the unknown gap without hesitation or question.



I am arguing that the appearance of design, intention and construction from an intelligence creature is indistinguishable from the unknown. The watch maker, the watch, and the feeling of obvious intention is superficial, and will dissolve upon any inspection. To illustrate this, I would like to point out the purpose, the design of a piece of wood.



A piece of lumber could be crafted into a rocking chair, a table leg, a or thrown on a fire for warmth. Describing any specific design as its sole purpose is an observation of potential. When an object has no other potential, we feel confident in its purpose, we have reduced it to simple clarity, collapsed the myriad of possibility down to a single function, like the function of time-telling for the pocket watch.



To say a pocket watch is separate from the forest is not a conclusion or observation about the watch but a reflection of our perception, our conceit of what we have created. In closing, it is grandiose to assume the analogy of the watch maker is something to be reflected in the greater world. It may be simply a cultural ignorance, an arrogance of human construction, or the negligence of a family member with similar walking habits.

From the Mouth of the Volcano:



I wasn’t always a volcano. I used to be a little hill. Other little hills around me were silent. We lived in the shadow of a great mountain, a towering queen of majestic peaks and cliffs. We were her children, her choir of stone and valleys.



I didn’t know she was a volcano. I was still a low hill when she erupted. We were gathered at her feet, wearing our green coats and white hats. She shook terribly; a rolling avalanche of earthquakes. A nearby valley filled with smoke and dust. Then she was quiet.



The next day the earth cracked at her summit. A ribbon of red appeared on her granite skull. More shaking, and plumes of dust rose from her eyes. Bolts of light, violent thunder, then a red streak encompassed her crown.



With a cry of pyroclastic terror, she threw her head into the sky. The magma flowed out of her mouth with violent sprays of molten rain. She howled the second day until there was nothing left inside. Above her rose a gray cloud full of ash and dust. The cloud stretched over a week until it circled the world.



Then the hills were silent and still.



The next year our green coats grew back, but the great mountain remained a slump of stone. Her bones wrapped around us, quiet and warm. We had no mouths of our own, we could not speak or cry.



Years later after uncounted nights of dreaming, the dreams changeless nothing, and the twilight of mundane sunsets. I felt the heat of the river beneath, an ooze of magnesium agitating me in the deep subterranean darkness.



Then, as if a different sun began to rise, the morning light marked the increase of the tectonic pressure beneath the skin of earth. The pressure grew each day. A headache is the closest human experience to such a thing, a feeling of growing, yet bound tight by an encasement of rock and trees. To have one’s skin become a prison as a bubbling deep fire rumbles through like hellish indigestion.



Some nights are worse than others and I can feel the magnesium eating at my bones. Inch by inch the pressure rises, and I haunted by night of the Queen Volcano upon her thunderous throne and how her bones are laid to a low ruin. Each year of the hot river beneath reminds me with terrible certainty that I too will throw my head into the sky.



Some human beings seem to understand what is happening. They crawl to my summit and ask me to be still and quiet. They bring offerings of flesh and smoke, but the fire inside can’t be silenced. I can hear their words; they offer songs to the sun and the moon, the night sky, and the earth beneath. I hear their frenzied hearts, their panic, their fear of dark fire.



Years have passed, and the river has risen to my throat.



The sunrise this morning was different, I knew it was my last. The words could not be held back any longer. I could feel the magnesium spittle forming on my lips. My teeth were chattering, and my skin shook with the rising of the Sun.



I have risen over the low hills and the stones of the old volcano. I have held the river in my mouth and the stars in my eyes. The words bubbled at first, dripping from my mouth. Then as the maw of fire bared its teeth to the sun; my throat open with a howl.



From the burning darkness beneath, the fire shot into the sky. My skull was a river delta as the magma flowed like ritual words of the human offerings. They flew like the scornful words of quarreling lovers. They flew like the angry speeches of kings demanding soldiers lay down to die. They flew out like reckless storms; whose winds howl for the end of all things.



I thought in heated madness: Let it come down, let the burning rains drown in the words of my fury until it is covered in ash and dust. If I can not remain, then nothing can remain, all must be covered in fire.



My heart split, my bones crumbled, and with an angry cry I threw my skull into the sky. Then everything was quiet. My head became a plume of gray, like a cloud of thoughts I can not contain. My legs folded, collapsed under the shell of my body, and I returned to a low hill; a ruin of the fury I once was.

Wish Machine:



Perhaps you are familiar with the idea of a Genie Wish, perhaps you have always wanted something, an object, a lifestyle, or a great vision for humanity. Perhaps you desire personal power for other reasons. The Genie Wish is a way to get everything you ever wanted. Getting 100% of what you want may never happen, but sometimes you might get 12% or 3% of your desires. This lesser portion of a Gennie Wish is commonly referred to as money.



If you would pardon a brief metaphysical description of money, I will then reveal the inner workings of a machine capable of achieving nearly every wish.



Money is relative, relative to what you want. The more you want something, they greater chance you will pay more for it. A milk cow is more valuable to a farmer than someone who lives in a small urban apartment. This is a self-organizing quality of the economic system of capitalism, and its appeal to desire. Money is also relative to income; someone who makes 25% of a Genie Wish annually may have less hesitation to use a portion of their Genie Wish for an object on superficial impulse, or for conspicuous display. Lastly, money is relative to control, those with the money have control, since their wishes hang like a heavy black blade of Damocles. You can change the world, but those with money will change it back, change it to their vision. Perhaps you have heard the platitude of the golden rule, “Those with the hold make the rules.”



An alternative to a relativistic system of wishes and money is authoritative tyranny, where a few decide the value of wishes for others. This is commonly seen in China where the dictator has no term limits and asserts the Chinese Dream into every aspect of its wish granting production.



Some choose to pass their Genie Wish amount down to their children, having never wished for anything. Sometimes the wish is passed to charities or noble causes. Inheritance tends to concentrate the potency of the Genie Wish resulting in small groups of people with accumulated power and influence. The shuffling of wishes may also be referred to as power-brokering, lobbying, bribing, corruption, or commerce. This consolidation is clandestinely referred to as the Iron Law of Oligarchy, where money piles itself up into a great heap.



In biological terms, money is the blood of the Wish Machine, and veins and arteries would be figuratively comparable to shipping lanes, truck routes, and express delivery systems. However, I am getting ahead of myself, first lets us look at the surface of the Wish Machine which may only be viewable through its many mouths. They are everywhere human civilization is; convince stores, department stores, the pleasant lips of consumer satisfaction. The glamour of new products, new clothes, handbags and cars are its teeth. Their tooth mark, can be seen in the geological impact of animal farms, and mineral mines. They are empty holes where the metal mouth took its bite, or in the bio-sludge lakes of animal waste. They chew up resources like coal, titanium oxide, anything to be made into semiconductors or transformed into consumer products for digestion.



To continue the biological analogy, which is an imperfect analogy, because nothing of its size or distinction have ever existed before. Even large things like continents or nations are small next to the cumulative hunger fueling the wish machine. The next stop down into the body of the machine is the stomach.



As the wishes are consumed, either in small or large amounts, there is a pollution, a byproduct, a cost of the construction of the most vague and intangible delights:  Tetrachlorodibenzodioxin



This chemical demon is odorless, colorless and the most toxic manmade chemical we have ever constructed. It may be considered a kind of wish radiation, something with emanates from the Genie bottle. The history of this chemical demon is fraught with corruption. For example, there is a place in Italy called the Triangle of Death where organized crime has facilitated a silent complicity of nations. Toxic dumping of dioxin and radioactive waste from industrial production has rendered it a cursed place to human beings. As desire increases and world population increase so does the products of the Wish Machine. Perhaps in the future there will be some new chemical or radiation, like lead to the Romans or mercury to the Mayans.



The last observation of the Wish Machine is the Genie creature; the operator of the Wish Machine. The Genie is often portraited as a servant, or an all-powerful provider of wishes with unlimited capacity. This is the trick, this is another glamour, the Genie will become a disembodied dictator wielding soft power until all desire travels through the Wish Machine, from lips to stomach to elimination.

The Village of Ix:

Getting accommodations required the last of my silver, and with any luck, I would return with a map worthy of gold. Quality maps get you back, and cheap maps get you lost. I am hoping to make my own maps on this expedition. I am a cartographer by trade, but a sailor by heart. My name is Korin, and I am an acolyte of knowledge.



The purchased map was well made. The coastline depicted a northern area of a distant port I knew, it was deep in the ice. The coastline looked so detailed, and the coordinates seemed to hum with a simple truth. The location on the map indicated a small village called Ix. I would head north from there and explore the unknown edges of the coast.



The crew was competent, and after a few days, we had a mutual understanding of non-interaction. They didn’t like going so far north, but my silver was good, and I bore the seal of the map maker’s guild. Once they delivered me to the village, they would return in 3 weeks to ferry me back to the Land of the Living. What they did in those 3 weeks was none of my business, I had a feeling they were pirates or raiders of some sort. I didn’t want to know too much, I preferred to be the innocent passenger with no tales to tell.



The location on the map was easy to find on the coastline. I was able to chart the movement of the stars and reference the map I purchased for a small ransom.



The village was unassuming, and near the coastline like the map showed. The ice and snow seemed to ignore the small gathering of huts and small fenced pens of chickens. I could also see pigs and goats; unusual given the seemingly harsh world.

I was greeted by the villagers in the common tongue. They agreed to let me stay, and I waved the crew farewell. They accepted me, my silver, and kindly gave me a modest room the duration of my stay. 



Ix was a sleepy village, and once I settled in, I joined the townsfolk in the common hall for dinner. They were silent, no joyous prayer for food or music by the fire. I attempted some social politeness but was greeted with a distracting generosity. The more I inquired, the more they brought me cheeses and wines, dried meats, and sweet preserves of blueberries. I did not expect such variety in an isolated town. I kept the cheese and meat and told them of my intention to map the coastline and topography around the area.



They told me not to go to the cave by the blue tree. There was no reason, no explanation, which made me highly curious. Local taboos often meant treasure or gravesites. I am not a gold seeker and promised to obey their traditions. I retired to my room and planned my expedition for the following weeks.



The furs and cloak I brought were sufficient for the clear and cold day. I gathered my cartographer supplies and dried food and walked towards a coastline cliff, from which I hoped to get a better vision on the land around me. The cliff was a sheared cliff face, as if half of a rocky hill had fallen into the ocean, leaving a strict wall of naked stone.



I hiked until the early afternoon and reached the ocean cliff with plenty of time to return before nightfall. I set out my location beads, a sundial, and my graphite. The coastline was visible for a hundred miles in both directions. I spent 2 hours drawing and marking the point for detailed description.



Near the end of the 3^rd hour I noticed the cave and tree the villagers mentioned. It was a pine tree of some sort, yet its leaves and trunk were blue. The same absence of ice or snow was noticeable around the cave and the tree. The mystery was too much. Before I could conjure a good reason to heed the instructions of the townsfolk, my legs had already carried me to a vantage point for closer inspection.



There was another attribute of the tree, something unnoticeable from the distance of the cliff; there was also a blue fruit hanging from the branches of the tree, and half-rotten cousins laying on ground, gathered around its trunk. The cave too revealed an unnoticed characteristic, there was a light mist flowing from the mouth of the rocky opening, which stood at a height of 2 or 3 houses. I was cautious to investigate the fruit and the tree. There was something about the complete blueness of the plant which made me uneasy.



The cave however provided a darkness of a thick and irresistible sort, and within moments I was climbing over stones and lighting a candle. The light revealed a wide cavern with a descending path. I heard a noise; a loud snore, like an old man mindlessly sleeping in a neglected afternoon. I froze and waited, the snores were regular and uninterrupted by my exploration.



My heartbeat echoed in my skull, and I walked into the darkness slowly.



Upon turning a jagged corner, I found the source of the snores. A large head was sleeping on a nest of furs and blankets, bearing markings and motifs of the nearby village. The head had 1 central eye and rather than hair, fleshy arms grew from the top of its head. In the center of those flesh stalks, 3 eyes dozed. I saw no legs or torso connected to the large head.  Between the snores of the creature I noticed small teeth, brown and thin, needle-like, almost translucent. I froze in panic and stood transfixed.



The creature stirred, but I remained paralyzed with fear, and within seconds the great central eye dilated and focused on me and my candle, which I had mindlessly forgotten about. It spoke, and I felt its words echo in my head: “Feeble creature, bring me my fruit and spare me your light, QUICKLY before I swallow your body.”



My feet did as they were told, and before I could think of the words, I was picking up rotten fruit from the ground and carrying an armload of blue fruit resembling apples or peaches. I dumped the fruit near the large head. Within a second, the fruit was floating through the air as if carried by some invisible servant and placed in the mouth of the beast. The many eyes rolled back in pleasure as a perverse purr of indulgence hummed through the cavern. I felt sick; the aroma of the rotten fruit and the creature was too much. I fled without saying a word. I threw the bits of candle remaining at the darkness of the cave and fled to the village.



I arrived at dusk exhausted and it must have showed in my face. The villagers knew before I said anything.



They brought me soup and a piece of thick bread. While I ate they told me the tale of the cave. The creature was known to the village for 20 generations. It was a mighty demon of power, and the ancestors of the village had done everything to pacify the beast. They brought it foods and spices, exotic cloth and music, trinkets and jewels from every corner of the world, but the demon head, was unsatisfied. It used its rage and power to threaten and dominate the villagers, demanding new foods and new spices, or it would eat and destroy the village and everyone in it.

Over the years of seeking to appease the monster, the villagers of Ix found something, a tree bearing a blue fruit. The flesh of the blue fruit gives rich dreams of fantastic indulgence of inner most desires. Anyone eating the fruit will dream for a moment in the world of their choosing, a reality free of death, dissatisfaction, pleasure, anything including sadistic joy. The tree was cultivated under great strain, but the ancestors of the village of Ix prevailed, and pacified the creature into the present day.



Korin listened to the story and finished his soup. When he was done, he told the story of what he saw and what he did. The villagers said they understood, they have all felt the gaze of the central eyes and felt their feet moving without remembering. They urged him to keep the secret, to leave the cave alone and let the burden of feeding the demon head to them, and he should not be troubled with what he saw or what he did.



He retired to his bed and thought kindly of the village of Ix and drifted into sleep thinking of the gold he could acquire with the fruit of such a tree.

The next morning Korin found his feet moving down the paths of the village as if he had always lived there. While only his second day, the place seemed to impress itself unto him; a feeling of familiarity or triviality. His thoughts returning to the fruit of the tree and the monster of the cave.



He set out again to spend his time on the cliff mapping the coastline, but he could not focus, and distracted by the image of the tree; reminding him, teasing him with the idea of dreaming fruit. He had no intention of entering the cave again, but before he could argue with himself too much, he was picking rotten fruit from the ground, inspecting them for those most appetizing to eat.

The fruit tasted like a soft pear, mushy with decay. He felt very sleepy and within moments was dozing under the tree. Korin dreamed of curtains of color, a full stomach, and peaceful waves of a calm ocean. He awoke to a terrible cry, the monster in the cave was screaming for food, like a child for its mother. Korin saw villagers gathering around the cave with arms full of fruit. They paid him no concern and walked into the dark mouth of the cave.



Korin followed like a spectre; ignored and cloudy from the dream fruit. The villagers formed a line, and one by one presented their fruit to the demon head creature.



The eye stalks were active, searching the world around them for something, some speechless urgency expressed in those monstrous pupils, focusing, darting, and dilating with frantic agitation. The central eye seemed to control the mouth and where it looked, spittle and vicious words rolled from its leathery lips. The villagers bowed their heads, avoiding eye contact. Korin watched, transfixed, unable to form his own words.



The central eye looked over each of the villagers, then with a quick and brutal action opened its mouth and swallowed one of them. It smiled and with a voice muffled by chewing: “I am pleased for now, I will dream and will spare the rest of you, my faithful servants. Although next time I might eat all of you.”



The villagers joined in a song, a hymn to the unholy creature. The song was a lullaby, urging the creature to sleep and find its pleasures in the mouth of a greater darkness. Korin joined with his voice, involuntary, mindlessly, until the creature ate its meal and dozed off into a soft and saggy sleep, draping itself over the blankets and furs of its lair.



The villagers and the hazy Korin walked back to the village in mournful silence of the sacrifice to the eye demon. Once back in the village, and in his bed, Korin collapsed into a natural and empty sleep.



The next morning Korin felt powerless to do anything. The paths of the village seemed to contain him, like a walless maze. He had lost all ambition to continue his map making. His mind was a flame of questions.  He began asking each villager why they continued to feed the monster, why not ask for help from the armies of the world? Why not as the queen of the kingdom to send a killer to slay the creature and be free?



The villagers merely shook their heads dispassionately, unconcerned, and said “The demon of the cave cannot be killed. Our ancestors have tried with the sharpest swords, the most potent poison, and endless armies. There is no method we have found. However, one day, when the dreaming fruit no longer grows, it may be so feeble with age and sleep it will kill itself.” Korin listened to the villagers, but found his mind returning to his dreams the night before, when the flesh of the fruit ushered him into a world of bliss.



Later as the sun walked across the sky, Korin managed to escape the maze of the village paths and travelled to the tree. He ate the fruit and again slept at the trunk by the cave. This time he did not awake to a ritual or the sounds of screams, but to the early chill of night. He was reckless and brought no other food or water, leaving only the fruit nearby to consume.



He found shelter at the mouth of the cave, and after listening to the eye creature was sleeping, he curled up in a dry alcove and ate another piece of fruit.



A couple of weeks later the ship returned to the village to pick Korin up. They were sailors of their word, but the villagers said they had not seen Korin after the 3^rd day. The sailors owed Korin nothing and left the modest village with a vague sense of unease.