by Andy Ritchie
I must have been too tired to dream.
All I remember is shutting down the laptop, closing my eyes and then...nothing.
Apart, that is, from the noisy interlude when Tukaal snored like a fucking train!
I wonder if he’s realised that I threw one of my Converse trainers at him? I know I hit him because he made some strange mumbling noises (it sounded like ‘Ol tu keban ma che’, which is probably Gao’An for ‘I want to ride the pony’), shifted his position a little (he had chosen to sleep in the passenger seat) and, thankfully, went quiet (or, at least, quiet enough). Then I just closed my eyes again and...gone...blank.
And all I can say at the thought of a night’s dreamless sleep is:
Thank fuck for that!
I’d rather that I never dreamed again if it guaranteed that I wouldn’t have to witness...no, wouldn’t have to hear that screaming sound again.
It’s about 7.00 a.m.
It’s Wednesday...is it?
Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s Wednesday, and that would make it the 15th September.
Tukaal has been up for an hour or so.
Last night, I wondered whether he (the real he, that is, the small alien sat inside the chest cavity of that cyborg shell-thing of his) was able to ‘turn off’ any discomfort which his artificial body may experience.
Well, one look at him this morning suggests that if he could, then he either forgot to do so or, like some overly-committed method actor, chose not to.
He’s grumbled three times already this morning about stiffness in his lower back, a nagging ache on the left side of his neck and, most interestingly, dull pain in his head, tiredness in his eyes, a foul taste in his mouth and a strange inability to get himself motivated.
Whilst the back and the neck could probably be put down to the fact that he may have slept awkwardly in the seat, the headache, tired eyes, bad mouth and lethargy suggest, to me at least, just one thing:
A hangover.
Which brings me to a question:
Is it Tukaal’s shell that can’t handle its beer, or is it the Ambassador’s Gao’An body?
Based on what he told me on Saturday about how it all works, I suspect that, physiologically, the alcohol has only affected the shell. Of course the shell, as it is designed to do, will have exactly mimicked a human body’s response to the presence of excess alcohol by ensuring that it wakes up feeling like shit, and I think it is these autonomic reflexes, rather than anything Tukaal is experiencing directly, that are being experienced and commented upon...which is why I’m finding his somewhat whiny references to ‘tiredness’, ‘aching limbs’ and ‘a thick head’ more than a little irksome, because, let’s face it, it’s not really him who feels crap, is it?
It’s his shell.
He’s just taking the sensations generated by that shell and trying to pass them off as if they are his own.
That, as far as I’m concerned, is cheating.
It’s like having a hangover by proxy....and that’s just wrong.
If you’re going to talk about feeling like shit, then the least you can do is actually feel like shit.
At least then whatever it is you’re moaning about really does come from the heart.
Feeling like shit on a second-hand basis doesn’t fucking count.
And besides, how the hell can you claim to have a headache when you don’t really have anything inside your head!! (I should know, I’ve seen inside it!)
How can that work?
It can’t!...or can it?
What if the sensations generated by the shell are somehow ‘translated’ by the interface-thing between shell and Tukaal into a Gao’An equivalent of a bad head, tired eyes, etc?
...it’s like when I thought about how it would be impossible for me to comprehend what it felt like for a cat to get it’s tail caught in a door. I can’t appreciate it from the ‘tail’ perspective, but if something was able to equate that sensation to, say, getting my dick caught in a door, then I’m pretty certain that if I experienced that then I’d scream just as loud as any fucking cat.
So maybe I’m doing Tukaal a disservice, and he really does feel like shit (or whatever the Gao’An equivalent of feeling shit would be called).
I don’t know...maybe I’m talking bollocks...
...but it does keep coming back to the question of how one life-form can really appreciate something that is so utterly alien to them.
How can the physical sensations associated with:
a) being drunk
b) being hungover
really be appreciated by a life-form which has never experienced being drunk or hungover before, even if those sensations are somehow ‘translated’ into something which the life-form is familiar with?
What if the life-form simply doesn’t have the capacity to feel like shit in the morning?
Christ, this is deep-thinking for this bloody early in the morning!
And then there’s another thing to consider.
What about the non-physical aspects of being drunk or hungover?
What about the social expectations and stereotypical responses?
An alien that has never been drunk simply wouldn’t have the faintest idea that, after a few too many pints, they would be expected to change into either an aggressive, obnoxious twat or an incoherent, giggling imbecile...
...unless, of course, they had studied.
And such studying would also tell them that, after having a skinful and getting utterly plastered, it is socially acceptable (indeed, almost expected) to wake up irritable, short-tempered and crabby?
The fact that Tukaal, although bellyaching like a girl, isn’t irritable, short-tempered or crabby, would suggest that he hasn’t studied that particular aspect of human culture in sufficient depth.
One thing I would like to know, assuming Tukaal is indeed ‘experiencing’ what it’s like to be hungover:
Would he do it again?
I guess his answer, now, would probably be ‘no’.
But we all do...eventually.
*
7.45 a.m.
Breakfast.
Quite unnervingly, the very moment after my stomach rumbled for the first time, a memory of putting a box of Kellogg’s Variety Pack in the cupboard above the sink simply popped into my head.
I had Frosties.
[Collator’s Note: At this point in the notebook there is a large, unsightly blotch which looks to me to have been the result of a milk-covered Frosties flake dropping onto the page. Directly below it is a scribbled note:]
Pity I can’t remember how to eat!!
*
8.25 a.m. — need to keep putting the times down — good discipline.
[Collator’s Note: This is about the only day when JP does put the times down. Apart from the first entry of this day, he never notes the day or date against any entries. It’s made it a nightmare to ensure that the entries in this ‘notebook’ are linked in the correct chronological sequence with other hand-written notes, typed notes on paper, typed notes on memory sticks, video clips, audio clips, etc because he has, on occasion, missed out pages and then gone back to them at a later date, as well as writing stuff in the back of the notebook instead of the front!]
Been for a shower — nice.
Had to use one of the Researcher’s towels (nice towel) — didn’t think to pack one of those.
Didn’t think to pack a toothbrush for that matter...
Or toothpaste...
Or deodorant...
Fortunately, there was some shampoo/shower gel stuff in the showers.
Will need to pick these things up today — my mouth feels horrid - teeth feel really furry.
*
Note to myself
If I ever have to leave my home of twenty-odd years with just a few minutes notice, never to return, remember to pack toiletries and a towel.
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Diary Entry 31
[Collator’s Note: This is another entry in the Notebook, presumably f
rom later on Wednesday — in spite of his previous commitment to apply ‘good discipline’ and put down times, he hasn’t.]
Tukaal’s people call it [Collator’s Note: I think JP was going to fill this in later, but he never did — see comment further down.]
He told me about it when, as we drove up past Beattock on the B7076, I asked him about his thoughts on being drunk and being hungover — interestingly, he didn’t deny that he had been either.
On being drunk —
‘I can see the attraction. There is a pleasant sensation, a feeling of being uninhibited, a redefining of perspectives, an increased ability to see and to appreciate what is important.’
I have to admit that, on reflection, I haven’t experienced any of those things when I’ve had a few pints. For me, it’s more about...forgetting...
On being hungover —
‘That is not pleasant, not pleasant at all, but I’m glad that I have experienced it. I guess it shows that there is a price to pay for every pleasure.’
Profound, but somewhat clichéd.
Apparently, what really interested him was the question of why millions of humans across the globe were more than prepared to regularly partake of large volumes of intoxicating liquor, even though the collective knowledge of society and their own personal experiences tells them there is a pretty good chance that they’ll wake up in the morning feeling bloody awful, mouth tasting of bile, still wearing last night’s clothes (which could be covered in alcohol, blood, mud, puke or any combination of these), and experiencing a head that feels like, as Blackadder once put it, ‘a Frenchman’s living in it’.
In Tukaal’s opinion (based as he openly admitted on just the single venture into the mystifying world of alcoholic cause and effect), the benefits did not outweigh the costs.
‘Yes, there is a little bit of enjoyment in the feeling of freedom one gets from the alcohol,’ he offered, ‘but such pleasures by no means preponderate over the unpleasantness of even the mildest of hangovers.’
(I had to ask him what ‘preponderate’ means.)
I did not share with him the thought that immediately occurred to me following his comment (and his explanation of the meaning of ‘preponderate’), which was this:
People rarely drink to excess just to feel the strange, woozy sensation of drunkenness — they drink because the drunkenness envelops them in a metaphorical blanket, provides them with comfort which they are unable, or unwilling, to get from other sources. To understand why people drink, one needs to understand the causes of their need for comfort...a heart broken, a life unfulfilled, an anger raging...
The comfort of drunkenness provides them, for a while at least, some kind of solace...the broken heart is mended, the unfulfilled life is giving meaning, the raging anger is diminished...
...the painful memory is hidden away...
Who knows, maybe one day, when Tukaal has some real demons to face (assuming, of course, that he doesn’t have any at the moment), he may be better able to understand the allure of the semi-drunken state, and be far more willing to pay the following morning’s price for those hours spent in its welcoming blurriness.
As we spoke, I remembered the question I’d written about earlier, about what it must be like for an alien to experience drunkenness for the first time.
I asked Tukaal whether his kind had anything similar to alcohol, something that gave them...I had to choose my words carefully...that feeling of lost inhibitions.
He said that, for Gao’An, there was nothing which remotely compared to the physical effects of drinking alcohol. He did, however, say that some of the ‘enlightening rituals’, which all Gao’An have to go through as they develop towards maturity, do offer a similar feeling, where the inhibitions and social constraints are, for a short time at least, cast off, supposedly to reveal the true ‘inner self’.
‘In revealing the true ‘inner self’’ he said, ‘to both your own gaze and the gaze of your peers, you are able to gain an understanding of your strengths, so that you may build upon them, and also gain an understanding of your flaws, so that you may purge yourself of them.’
I have to admit that I laughed when he said this, and he seemed to take offence, so I had to quickly explain that I was not laughing at the Gao’An enlightenment ritual (that’s what I’ve called it — I can’t even pronounce, let alone spell, what Tukaal called it); [Collator’s Note: Hence the gap at the end of the first sentence.] instead, I was reflecting, somewhat depressingly I must admit, on just how many flaws and how few strengths are revealed in Darwen’s town centre pubs every Saturday night when the great unwashed go out on the razz.
Not so much the Gao’An enlightenment ritual, more the Darwen embarrassment ritual!
-----
Post-It Note 6
-----
Diary Entry 32
[Collator’s Note: Another Notebook entry — again, no time, but I reckon it was written just after lunch.]
Not quite sure where I was when I nodded off, somewhere near Lanark, I think.
Not quite sure how long I’d been asleep in the passenger seat whilst Tukaal drove us steadily northwards.
Not quite sure where we were when I suddenly woke, sat bolt upright and shouted:
‘URG P.I.U.’
My unexpected outburst apparently took Tukaal by surprise because the camper van veered towards the middle of the road and then swayed erratically from side to side as Tukaal fought to regain control.
‘What?’ Tukaal asked, a little breathlessly.
‘What what?’ I responded. I was not quite with it.
‘You said something about an URG P.I.U.’
‘Did I?’
I have to admit that I didn’t remember.
Tukaal spotted a lay-by up ahead and he carefully eased the camper van into the space, killing the engine once we had stopped.
‘Jeth. I want you to take a deep breath, close your eyes and think about what it was you were thinking about just before you woke up.’
He was telling me to remember a dream. Even when I was ‘normal’, I didn’t remember my dreams (or more correctly I never tried to), but now, with the Researcher’s memories sloshing around inside me, I had even less of an appetite to try to do so.
Tukaal, though, insisted that I try.
As such, it was with little enthusiasm or sense of expectation that I closed my eyes.
It was not one of my dreams.
It was one of the Researcher’s memories.
And the moment I brought to the front of my mind the words (or more correctly the letters) URG P.I.U., the memory was there, like an obedient dog responding to the call of its master.
‘In the big cupboard, above the heater. At the bottom of it, the wooden base lifts out. Underneath it there a space. Inside it is...’
Tukaal had already unfastened his seatbelt and moved into the back of the camper van. He had opened the cupboard and dragged out what I assume were some of the Researcher’s clothes that it must have kept there. He then wrestled loose the wooden bottom and took that out to reveal...
A laptop computer.
At least, it looked a bit like a laptop, roughly the same size and shape.
Tukaal lifted it out (a little eagerly I noticed) and opened it up just like a laptop, revealing a screen and...no, not a keyboard, but a second screen.
Tukaal must have seen my confused expression.
‘That’s the display,’ he said, pointing to one screen, ‘that’s the interface,’ pointing to the other. ‘It’s touch sensitive so that it can be configured for different life-forms...’
My expression must have remained confused.
‘Not all life-forms have two hands, Jeth, each with five digits. An URG P.I.U.33 is designed to be accessible to all life-forms with the ability to use touch.’
As if to demonstrate, he touched the interface screen and instantly the machine sprung into life. Rather disappointingly, though, the interface displayed the standard QWERTY keyboard.
‘What did you expect, Jeth? The Researcher was in a human shell. Only to be expected that he had his P.I.U. configured to the standard human format.’
Tukaal touched the touch-sensitive keyboard again (that can’t be good English!).
The display went blank.
The keyboard disappeared.
The thing seemed to have simply shut down.
I asked what had happened, wearing that same bemused expression that all people in their 40s wear when a piece of technology decides to do something unpredictable and annoying.
‘It’s access protected,’ Tukaal explained.
‘You mean like a password?’ I responded (helpfully, I hope).
‘Yes...and no.’
Of course, nothing could be that simple.
Access to this P.I.U. was indeed protected, but not by something as simple as a few letters that could be typed into a keyboard. Not even by something as simple or as individual as a finger print.
No, this P.I.U. was, Tukaal explained, almost certainly protected by what he referred to as a ‘mental-image induced specific brainwave signature’.
In layman’s terms, when the P.I.U is switched on, it is programmed to scan the immediate area for some kind of invisible brainwave pattern...a brainwave pattern peculiar to, and associated specifically with...well, as Tukaal further explained, it could be anything.
An image...of anything; a work of art, a family member, a view from a mountain, a flower.
A tune or a melody; Status Quo, Beethoven’s 9th, the Duelling Banjos from Deliverance.
A memory (not short of those).
Or a combination of all of these; the memory of looking out over the ocean from a high cliff-top, listening to the screech of circling seagulls and the distant crash of waves upon the rocks below, smelling the fresh sea air, feeling the wind ruffling your hair, chilling your skin...only by recalling all of that and then producing a singularly individual pattern of brainwaves, could the P.I.U. be accessed.