COLD SHIFT

Great news, oh divine Log of mine. I have found a can of powdered milk. I can’t believe it, but it is somehow still true. I have checked and checked and checked, and it is there. An unopened can of hydrated dairy. I am so happy I could throw it up in the sky and have it rain down on me. I’d never do that, though. Sixteen years on this facility has not made me insane just yet. Nor do I think it ever will, now that Jaran the Duplicate is back. I checked in on him the other morning, just as my shift was about to end. He had been up all day working on the wires from the generator to the heater. We have been discussing using the blizzard to generate power, by creating a windmill, of sorts. With what material, you might ask? Good question, because we have no idea yet. What can be spared? Very little. These anomaly department facilities weren't built with any excess, nor are the lots of spare parts. Over the years, the ones that could be used, have already been used. So to create a windmill, we have to think outside of the box, and find a way. One idea is to go talk to Aleksander Voss, see if there are any parts on MS Svalbard we could use. There might be, seeing as the ship won’t cast off anytime soon. Would require some good old thinking, though. And craftsmanship. So for now it’s a mere idea. But hey, a forest usually starts with a seed. Or something. — logged 14:13

Now, there is something in the walls. For days I was absolutely sure of it, and I was pretty sure it wasn't rats. You see, rats are smaller than whatever it was that I heard. I thought about asking Ingrid to do a scan, if she is able to. And willing. After all, it would require a substantial amount of energy for her to conduct such a scan. Either way, I didn’t ask her, but I kept an ear on it. Also, I put out some food by the vent in the kitchen, in case it got hungry. I would much rather it ate regular food, than be the food it ate. Know what I mean?

Anyways, then one evening, I woke up a duplicate version of me, sitting on the foot of my bed, playing my ukulele. Now, we talked for a bit, before Thomas Grind spooked him, and he rushed off, into the vents. So what I thought wasn’t rats, was in fact me. A version of me has been crawling around inside of the vents, and for what? We have more than enough room here, more than enough food and beverage. So why hide? He told me it was from Thomas Grind, but I don’t think he needs to worry. Thomas has never shown any sign of aggression. Well, there was that one time when he was rude, but that’s about it. I let him get away with rude. However, I am allergic to dust, so I won’t go into the vents myself. But I will ask the duplicate version of me, when he gets back out here, why he is so afraid of Thomas.

Until then, I have a clogged sink to take care of. Which is on the very bottom of my list of things I really don’t like doing. — logged 16:49

There is definitely something behind the red door. Or someone. But if it is someone, that someone is very strong. Look, I went down there, knocked on it, as an experiment. Then something, or someone, knocked back. I developed a language (one for yes, two for no, three for I don’t know) and had a short convo, before it went rampage behind the door. It sounded like someone dropped a case of a hundred bowling balls on a metal floor. Or a very large moth in a room made of thin paper. Hard to explain, to be honest, but it was something alive. And it didn’t seem very happy. I hope I didn’t offend it. I just asked where it lived, you know? I need to inform Thomas, but that will have to wait until he is back on track, suit is black. I haven’t summoned enough courage to interrupt him yet, so I’ll let him recover in peace. On the positive side, I evacuated the fluorescent spiders from the basement and installed them in the laboratory. They seem to like it there, I can hear them purr to the buzzing from the atomic rods. Wish I had some sort of machine that could translate their language. I bet they have some insanely cool stuff to talk about. Oh well, perhaps some day it turns out that Thomas already invented such a device as a thing to pass his time with. Who knows what he is up to, old buddy Grind. Who knows.. — logged 11:18

Where has all the blue gone? I'm not skilled enough to come up with an explanation, so I'll leave that for Joshua and Thomas. However, it is an interesting thought experiment. If the atmosphere is too dense for photons, is there any wind left? Does that mean that everything is suddenly black and white? A world where crayons have become fatty pencils? No, I don't think this makes sense. Or does it? The ocean would still be blue, right? Or are every colour a result of photons bouncing off it, then flying into our eyes so our brains can process what that colour is? I mean, things are still of colour in this facility, so photons must still exist. Unless the brain has the ability to store colours, so to speak (or write), then surely it would be able to generate colour without photons? Especially if it has seen colours before. The brain is, as we all know, a highly capable organ, especially after the global neuron upgrade of 88. I don't think this log entry will serve as a log entry. Unless it logs my state of mind; a bit confused, a bit philosophical, a bit curious. Let this, then, be the purpose of this log: I am of sound mind and health. Ready to do the work I was stationed for, as soon as the mysterious daytime working bee stops doing the work for me. — logged 14:03

Man, oh man, the blizzard is howling tonight. I like to think of the blizzard as a living, breathing thing. Definitely breathing, at least. So I have decided to call it Barbara The Blizzard. Because sometimes it feels like she is looking after me, by keeping me nice and warm, because I cannot go outside. Antarctica, you see, even without a blizzard, is quite lethal. At least now, with Barbara keeping me in, I take severe precautions before heading out. I have decided to like Barbara The Blizzard. She keeps me safe. I remember hearing stories of there being snow in Norway back in the day. Imagine that. The deserts would have been white. I think that is one of the reasons I came up here to begin with, to experience this magnificent thing nature has to offer. I learnt that no matter how cold or stark something is, there was beauty and tranquility in it also. Look at a snowflake through a telescope, and it is truly a piece of art. It's like negativity is the cold ice, and frozen in it is a golden city. Like the eight towers of the west ocean floor. — logged 01:47

Washing. Washing is a word I wish didn't exist. A word I wish I could wash away. Or a chore I wish I could wash away, rather. However, life is all about doing stuff we don't want to do every once in a while. And every once in a while I try to do Ingrid's chores while she is charging, to surprise her, and give her a day off. Now, I know she is a robot, and robots don't operate with currency such as stamina and grit, like we do. Neither do they need time off. However, Ingrid has spent too much time around human beings to maintain her rigid, robotic androidness. Deep down within her there is humanity brewing. I can sense it when talking to her, when I see her doing the dishes, when I hear her humming old tunes and dancing down the hallways on her commute between daily tasks. — logged 11:20

Been studying the "comet" for days now. I figured, if it won't reveal its true nature, I have to try and reveal it myself. If possible. The design is flawless, let me tell you. The more I study it, the more in awe I am of its impeccable architecture. Whoever made it knows what they are doing. Perhaps when they arrive, if they are benevolent, they will be able to fix my radio. I have more than enough work to go around, so if they are up for it, they could help me out around the facility. The Deep Earth Anomaly Department could be a state of the art facility in no time. Not that it's below par as it is. The facility is in top condition. I'm doing the best I can to keep it that way. Especially now with the overseer lurking around. Maybe I am his comet. A subject to study. Sometimes that is how it feels like, to be honest. Anyways, if that is the case, all I can do is do what I do best: all that I can. — logged 04:12

Heard the sirens sing again today. From the window above my bed. They seem to really want me to join them. I mean, ok, I am flattered and all, but seriously? Have they noticed there is a blizzard outside? And do they know how cold it is? I would be cold, let alone in danger. I stood up on my bed so I could invite them into the warm, but I couldn't see them at all. Just their singing, which is, I must confess, amazing. Heavenly, even. And I am not a man who throws compliments around him unless I really mean it. If I ever get good at this recording game, I'd love to have them as backup singers in my music project — HEAVY ASTRO. Imagine that.. — logged 23:36

I got a letter today. Now, the first thing I thought was: amazing, a letter, who is it from? Then I thought. Who delivered it? I mean, who did deliver it? There were no tracks in the snow, from a scooter, nor from shoes. Nothing. Somehow the letter made it through, though. My initial thought was that it may be from the government, but it had no official stamp, which it usually does. It was handwritten, shaky letters, saying "to Jaran, facility manager." That's it. So I opened it, and it said: "to whom it may concern, and if it doesn't, don't be concerned, it also concerns you. I.e. life." That's it. — logged 21:18

I had an idea. What if I use webbing from the fluorescent spiders to restring my ukulele? Obviously not webs in use, but webs left behind. They move around a lot, the spiders. Busy bees. Now, there are six of them. Theodore The Thing, Lisa Lucky Lucy, Mathis The Mutilator, Rocket Rick, Pedro Peninsula, Oscar The Oblivion. Weird ones, all of them, but I think they are highly intelligent. They hang out outside the green door. If only I spoke spider, I'd ask them about it, but I don't, so I won't. Oh well. — logged 16:47

So I heard the whistle from MS Svalbard howling tonight. Five rapid blasts. I have to get dressed, and go check it out. I wish Ingrid was made for harsh conditions. I'd like to have a robot by my side in this seemingly endless blizzard. Perhaps I should read "Build a Robot, and Deal With It" by Thomas Rust. It just seems like a daunting task to read five thousand pages AND understand it. Perhaps I could read "Sewing for Divers" by Roger Gudmundsson instead. A leaflet in comparison. That way I could make a salt-proof suit for Ingrid instead of risking her already pristine machinery. — logged 02:51