Dark Ramblings of a Cephalobe

This is a cephalobe -- a person in the future.
So, sometimes though every freaking thing is looking bleak in our mining industry, I can usually find another perspective and force a better point of view, alter my attitude, yank the yoke and plod on in a forward motion. Today is not one of those days.
At least at the Denver Mining Club I can sit back and let someone else put into words our challenges and vocalize in a coherent manner a nice summary of pro-mining advocacy. I seldom have the words organized ready to go in my mind in order to defend our industry on the fly. Same thing happens when I am talking data management with people who think a spreadsheet is a database. My words pile up somewhere inside my chest and I can’t get a coherent stream of my thoughts together. I have the vision but I need a virtual LCD for my mind so everyone can see…
BUT, if I had a visible, transparent mind then I would definitely need some kind of security shield because sometimes I accidentally think of things I REALLY SHOULD NOT BE THINKING of at that minute, which if you read J.D. Salinger then you would know this is not that unusual but I guess men commonly think of TOTALLY inappropriate topics when conducting business – or so I’ve been told – and I won’t digress on THAT topic any further…
A friend of mine was complaining about mortality yesterday (his imminent demise one day hopefully in the far future). He was “listing”, which means he is sitting there itemizing all his accomplishments, glories, things my mom would call “counting one’s blessings” (why?? Are some of them missing??). He said,
“I just want to be sure I leave the world with a positive impression…”
To which I added, “– and clean data. Don’t leave this world without cleaning your spreadsheets. Remove the macros. Get rid of redundant drill hole collars. Make a back up.”
He agreed. So when THAT is done, I guess he can expire with a clean conscious and move on to a higher plain. I hope they still use pencils in heaven and erasers.
*Cephalobes are people who grow their bodies in an incubator. Their brains are transplanted into a mechanical artifical-life sustaining bot, pictured here. This cephalobe is having trouble keeping its head while an army of invading metallic cockroaches is approaching a breech in the wall. This is one on my visions that I have to keep from showing if my mind were to become transparent.
















