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Cambrist's Meditations
Senator_CambristDate: Saturday, 13 Mar 2010, 3:57 PM | Message # 1
Lieutenant general
Group: Users
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13/3/10/20 ABY

I hate Mandalorians, and I've been quite public with my reasons why. But there is another reason; they are traitors to their species. They are Human, or they are Mandalorian. They cannot be both. The Mandalorians, also known as the Taung, were a species of barbarians on ancient Coruscant committed to the extermination of the Battalions of Zhell, the progenitors of modern Humans. These Humans who, today, call themselves "Mandalorians," who emulate the Taung and speak the Taung language, are a disgrace to Humanity. If the Taungs existed today, they would slaughter them all and feast upon their bodies—in that order, if they're fortunate. And it is the Mandalorians who talk about "honoring their ancestors"! Oh, the irony.

15/2/10/20 ABY

Let no one doubt that the pen is mightier than the sword—a few, brusque words, and the sword falls upon itself.

11/1/10/20 ABY

Aboard the Vainglory, en route to Coruscant. Humanity is the most perfected of the species. There is but one conclusion to draw from the proliferation of "Humanoid" and "near Human" species throughout the galaxy; Humanity, clearly, is the "baseline"—the perfected form, from which these other species have devolved. For tens of thousands of years, Humans have colonized the galaxy, they became distant from each other and, gradually, they adapted to these disparate environments. Thus, the differences.

Consider the Chiss, Human but for the color of their skin, the color of their eyes and, of course, their inferior reasoning. Consider the Zeltrons, Human but for the color of their skin, the potency of their pheromones, and also their inferior reasoning. Species such as Duros, Neimoidians, Bothans or Selkath—all of them with feet, with hands, with two legs, two arms, two eyes, and so on, similar to Humans—are simply more devolved from the perfected form. If any of these species exhibit occasional, intelligent thought, surely it is because of some vestige of Human intellect they still possess.

None of this can be said in public, of course. But it needn't be; it is the reason why, on a Coruscant street, one Human will nod to another even if they are strangers. We know. But we pretend, of course, and do not offend.

31/12/9/20 ABY

Brentaal. In a hospital room, reviewing correspondence. I was in the study this afternoon, reaching for a volume of trade statistics when the entire encyclopædia, thirty one volumes in all, fell upon me. It was most calamitous. Apparently, my fibula is fractured. The bacta treatment requires twelve hours, so it would appear that I have some time to myself.

Life is pain, and it is misery. All beings are fearful, and there is, indeed, much to fear; disease, disaster and, most of all, one another. All beings, thus, desire power. That is, power over their circumstances, the dénouement of which is power over others; the power to control or restrain others, or to kill others. Witness children, with little or no control over their circumstances, who commit cruelties upon insects, or indignities upon other children. So it is in genocide, or war.

This is the basis of a government, or a god; a paternal power of appeal.

27/12/9/20 ABY

On Coruscant, in the lounge. Thinking. I am the only honest Senator. I labor under no pretensions; I do not decieve others and, more importantly, I do not decieve myself. To see only the best in humanity, not the worst, is to decieve oneself. To be sentimental, not rational, is to decieve oneself. The world must be seen as it is, not as we wish it to be. The Senate needs honesty, but honesty—truth—is nowhere more despised than where it's needed most. What cruel irony.

Alas, the soothsayer is vilified. The truth frees us from childish comforts. Force forfend!

21/7/9/11 ABY

On Coruscant, at the starport. Waiting for a speeder. How many times have I told them I don't want to be kept waiting for a speeder? First, it takes the embassy 20 minutes to fuel and dispatch one, then I have to wait for a police escort (indefinitely!) because all of the CSF's speeders are "busy"! Well I could be busy, if I wasn't waiting in a damn starport.

20/7/9/11 ABY

In my office, on Coruscant. In the Senate corridors this afternoon I happened upon a Gamorrean who I presume is a Senator (it's impossible to tell them apart, and their language is crude and incomprehensible). It insisted on introducing itself, but I declined to shake its hand because, as I explained to it quite politely, I've not been immunized against that sort of thing. Apparently it was offended; perhaps it had a poor understanding of Basic, and misinterpreted me?

A reporter from The Coruscant Journal just caught me at the office and asked me to comment on the incident (where is the fabled "journalistic integrity," praytell? But I digress). I decided to be conciliatory, and admitted that it was insensitive of me to expect Gamorreans to understand our hygiene, and our standards. That should remedy the situation. I suppose, in truth, I should have known better; after all, it's my understanding that there is no word for "sanitary" in Gamorrese. Come to think of it, I wonder if there is? Perhaps I'll ask the Senator the next time I see it.

19/7/9/11 ABY

On Coruscant, in the Senate gardens. Secluded. This morning I heard Senator Harbright conclude his speech on agricultural subsidies with the phrase, "May the Force continue to guide and protect our Republic." Lunacy. The Force is a scientific phenomenon; an energy field that can be manipulated according to one's proficiency (as determined and measured by midichlorians, in the blood). To suggest that it has a "will," or that it is "light" or "dark," is absurd. If the Force is used to push a bystander out of the path of a repulsortrain, or into it, does this make the Force good or bad? The question is a ridiculous one; of course it is not a question of the Force at all, but of morality. The Force, in this scenario, is but a means to an end. It is neither good or bad, nor "light" or "dark," and it doesn't will anything. If the bystander was shot, no one would question whether the blaster was good or evil.

It is said that Darth Vader was "born of the Force." I say his mother was a harlot.

18/7/9/11 ABY

Back on Coruscant, watching the sunset. Coruscant's sun is called, unimaginatively, Coruscant Prime. It is said, foolishly, that everything (and everyone) has a "purpose," and that the purpose of Coruscant Prime is to shine upon Coruscant, to warm the planet, sustain life, and so on. But this is not its purpose, this is its function. Do not confuse the two. The chrono on my wrist has both a purpose and a function; to tell time. It was designed for this, and thus its function is its purpose. Coruscant Prime (or life, for that matter) is not designed, thus it has only a function, and no purpose. So, indeed, life has no purpose. Only functions, and uses to ends.

If only to be a wrist chrono; to have the comfort of a purpose. But alas, a wrist chrono cannot watch the sunset, and see its beauty.

17/7/9/11 ABY

Aboard the Vainglory, en route to Coruscant. Self-interest is the basis of all things; law, politics, commerce, and morality. The egoist is derided as a conceited and selfish man (and confused with the "egotist"). It is often said that the noblest thing a man can do is to serve others, but if all men were to practice this principle, life would be a condition of universal servitude and misery; it is called slavery. To enslave others is criminal, to enslave oneself to others is worse. Better to serve yourself, to realize your own potential, and allow others to realize theirs. If all men practiced this principle, most would be happy, fulfilled, at peace with themselves and, thus, at peace with others.

16/7/9/11 ABY

In a conference room in Cormond. Listening to a lecture on the recession, pretending to take notes. These men are too reactive, not proactive. Be the master of your circumstances; do not let your circumstances master you. The purpose of life, summarized.

15/7/9/11 ABY

At the chateau, outside. Never "rise to the occasion." Rise to all occasions, always. One doesn't need an "occasion" to be the best person one can be. We are not a languid race; do not behave like one. Be of good character, and pursue always your perfection.

14/7/9/11 ABY

Morning on Brentaal. In my chambers, at the chateau. Reading correspondence. The nationalization of BoSS is a colossal waste of mine and the Council's time. We've made contact with 296 offices; only 31 of them acknowledged new procedures (i.e. rules, authorities, code of conduct, etc), only 121 fealty documents signed and returned. We've sent 1,008 termination notices; only 19 acknowledged. Bastards. And cataloguing names, bureaus, information, etc., and new droids, staff, servers for that purpose is using most of my budget.

A tremendous failure, but a worthy one. I suspected it might be, and I've no regrets. A statement has been made; a statement against nepotism, decadence, and sloth. And! Not all is lost: we now have access to most of the Bureau's records, vessel registrations, documents, etc. Tens of millions of files (another headache, perhaps Intelligence can deal with it?). Perhaps, also, a new management structure is needed for BoSS? Regional managers ("supervisors"?); but what of enforcement? Note/self: consult with Dall Thara Dru on this concept.

13/7/9/11 ABY

Aboard the Vainglory, in space. Thinking. Brentaal awaits me, for rest and contemplation. But it occurs to me; we try to "get away from it all," to the country, the mountains, in my case, the chateau. We seek peace where it can be found, but one can travel to the finest beach or the finest resort and not have peace of mind. Surely, the mind can offer us more peace, more serenity, more freedom from interruption, than any beach or chateau or resort; but only if it has been tamed. Pacified.

One's mind is a place of war; a high ground that must be captured, held. Inadequacies, concerns, preoccupations must be confronted, demolished, destroyed. Finally, victory (but never decisive), peace (but never lasting). And so on. Even the ponderance of literature and art is no consolation; in literature and in art we see ourselves; our aspirations, yes, but also our inadequacies, concerns, fears, etc. The battle resumes.

Perhaps, then, in work is peace? Material affairs; distractions. A press release, a speech, a crisis on "Whereaboutooine" (even if it must be manufactured). Competitors, fortunes, conquests. To sublimate the war inside and make it a war outside. Is this peace? Perhaps this is too large a question.

12/7/9/11 ABY

In my office, on Coruscant (a bit drunk). The galaxy is populated by filth, depravity, iniquity. Is all lost? No, there is humanity (the root of the word "humane," and "humanitarian"). Do we have an obligation for the improvement, the "welfare," of the lesser species? The depraved, the iniquitous? No. But do we have an obligation to ourselves, vis'a'vis the society we are compelled to share with them? Of course, but what does it mean? A pretense of equality? A pretense of democracy? Of choice? Of freedom?

What is the result? I have become a man of pretense. Perhaps, a depraved and iniquitous man. Sitting in his office at night, drinking his wine. Alone.




Message edited by Reuke_Cambrist - Saturday, 13 Mar 2010, 4:08 PM
 
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