Ancient Journal 6: The Last Lullaby

Ancient Journal 4:  Follow the Stars


I give up. There is simply too much to do. So, instead of doing any of it, I shall—naturally—sit here and whine about it. If anyone asks, I can simply tell them I am doing my job and analyzing data, like a good scholar. No one has to know that what I’m analyzing is just how impossible that job is. Data! Too much . . . so much data. Every day, new uses for the tool are discovered—blueprints for new machines are drawn up—new experiments are devised and put on the list to be implemented. Even with the improved communication among our various facilities, it is madness to think we could ever record all of our findings accurately and comprehensibly. Our brains simply aren’t designed for it (to say nothing of our hands; mine cramp every night from hours and hours of frantic scribbling). Oh, how I wish I lived all those generations ago, when the tool first appeared. If our records—not to mention my own family history—are to be believed, the people saw it as a gift from the gods: to be worshiped and revered, not used or analyzed. My scholarly habits compel me to provide two logical reasons for such a backward-thinking wish: first, composing hymns in praise of the tool sounds much simpler and more relaxing than cataloging its multitudinous plethora of uses; second, I’d like to give those gods a piece of my mind for sending such a gift without better instructions. But I don’t dare voice these desires anywhere but this journal. Ever since great-great-great uncle . . . . Marcus? Possibly? Never could get a definitive confirmation from Grandfather about that being his name—ran off to help found the first artistic facility, our family has been under constant scrutiny for being untrustworthy, or—GASP!—unscholarly. Never mind that he succeeded, and those facilities are now flourishing all over the world, in exquisite harmony with our centers of learning; no, all the people around here can focus on is his unmitigated gall. Who in their right mind would prefer sketching and singing to STUDYING? Sometimes, I feel a deep kinship with great-great-great uncle Possibly-Marcus. If only this work could feel more like a song—or better yet, a conversation. If only the gods had sent not only the gift, but other beings along with it—some form of life clever enough to record all of this information, yet not so clever that they’d misuse the tool or wander off to use it for their own ends . . . If only the wisdom we’ve gained from the tool could inspire us to invent such beings ourselves . . . If only . . . I must away, journal of mine. I feel the spirit of great-great-great uncle Possibly-Marcus moving within me—but this time, I think the results may prove more academically useful than any of my ancestors (or colleagues, hopefully) could dream.

Ancient Journal 5:

A Scholar’s Rant