Stephen's Private Blog #8
These stories about Stephen began was when he was 10 years old, and
moving to a new part of the country to attend a special school for
gifted students, in the 1950's. This was from a time before computers
would fit on a desk, and when people communicated with friends in other
countries by actual letters sent through the postal service. He wrote
225 of them to a friend. He stopped writing to his penpal, but found he
still wanted to record his life, in case he lost his memory again, and
wrote 30 entries in his first logbook. Now he is writing to an
artificial intelligence called Geenee, in the master computer in his
school for gifted students, which he started attending in 2016.
All characters are fictitious, even if some of them might have names
that belong to some actual people, or act like people we know.
The stories may not be posted in chronological order.
Stephen is 11 in this story, in the Summer after end of year 1 of his
special school.
Stephen's Private Blog #8 "Bad Camp"
Dear Geenee,
I am at summer camp. I don't like it here. Writing this in one of the
problems. I have to use a regular computer and keyboard. It's slow and
awkward, and hard getting used to staring at the monitor. We can't use
our own computers because they are secret. It wouldn't be quite so bad
if these things actually worked. We can choose a Windows or a Macintosh
computer. Macs are pretty, but very funny looking, and they like to
hide things. As if we don't know they really are there. They want to do
everything for you, but the thing you actually want to do. The best
keyboard, only when you get used to it. The mouse is ridiculous, and
the trackpad is erratic. Windows does everything it can do to stop you
from using the computer. If it doesn't lose your documents, it's
crashing. Both have viruses. We don't have any of those at school.
There is dirt here. Lots of it. Sand, too. And insects! I hate them!
The other land animals are not too bad. I love the dogs and cats, and
they love me. Horses are monstrous. Anybody who wants me to get close
to one of them is going to have a fight on his hands. And feet. There
is water here, you actually get into. I never did that before. Just
showers. But here it's not to wash with, but to drown in. I mean, we're
supposed to have fun in it. I don't think drowning is fun. Everybody
has to learn how to swim. That means, to stay in the water without
drowning. A noble goal, but completely unnecessary, if you don't get in
the water.
There are two kinds of water to "play" in. One kind is in a
rectangular concrete hole in the ground, called the swimming pool. It
has what they call "fresh" water. I don't have any idea why they call
it that, after a ton of kids have been pissing and drooling in it all
day. Not necessarily in that order. And if what I think happened at the
pool "party" is true, there is more little wiggling sperm in it than
all the people in the country. The other kind of water is the ocean.
It's on the other side of the beach from the ground. The beach is made
of sand and rocks and shells which used to cover animals, and smelly
plants and dead animals who can still sting you, called jellyfish. They
are NOT compatible with peanut butter! The kind of water the ocean has,
is very salty. You don't want to drink it, even when you are drowning.
It has live jellyfish in it, who love to sting. Well, they would like
to, if they had brains to feel love. They don't have any. I know,
because they are transparent. The ocean has one problem the swimming
pool doesn't have. Waves. When the tide comes in, they can knock you
over. That way, you can drown faster.
The other things we do here are either very simple, or a complete
waste of time. Shooting and archery are simple things. Arts and crafts
here is for underdeveloped 4 year olds. Baseball would be a joke, if I
felt like laughing. You have to hit a ball somebody is throwing at you,
then run around in a circle like an idiot. I can calculate the position
and trajectory of the ball in flight, and aim the aluminum bat
precisely at it, to make the ball go where I want it to. That is, I
would, if I wanted it to go anywhere. I did it once, and smashed the
window of the camp director's office with it. I was intending to hit
the top of the frame, to make the top part of the window fall down and
close it. I missed my mark by 4 cm, at a distance of 141 meters. An
embarrassing failure. I decided not to do that again. Now I make it pop
over the pitcher's head and to the ground behind him, so it doesn't hit
or hurt anybody.
There is a dance "Social" activity. I don't think it works the way
it's intended. Kids from our school can dance very well. The other kids
just wiggle their bodies, to some beat which doesn't have anything to
do with the music. It was very hard not to laugh at them.
I tried to like the bonfire "social", but a big fire in the dark is
boring, if you aren't being burned up in it. People told stories and
sang. That wasn't too bad. Andy wanted to sit with me and hold my hand.
I don't need anybody to do that, because it's firmly attached to my
wrist. He tried to cry and laugh at the same time, when I told him
that, so I let him do it.
The only thing good about camp, is the cabin floor. The beds are
horrible. I sleep better on a blanket on the floor, but only for about
3 hours. I don't need any more than that. The rest of the time I spend
going over the crystals I've used, making and solving complicated math
problems, and composing poems and stories. And sex play. The floor is
good for that, because you can play with more boys at once. We do it
every night before sleeping, and when we get up in the morning. All 10
of us. That's a lot of hands, mouths, and boners. And my nuts. They
like to play with them all the time, because they like my feeling when
they do that. That's one thing I can't complain about. Or is that two
things?
Goodbye for now,
Stephen
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Grant
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