MOTHER FELL and broke her hip. I asked my lying sister-in-law how it happened.
— (bitchy) She fell because of those slippery socks you gave her.
— (skeptical) Hmm.
Later, again on the phone:
— Mother, did you fall because of those socks I gave you ?
— No. I tripped over that stupid dog.
The dog in question: little, white bulldog.
A couple of weeks later, I visit my recuperating mother. Everyone is in the living room when Mother warily creeps around the edge of the room.
— Mother. What are you doing ?
— That dog is trying to kill me !
SUDDENLY THE MATRIX feed stops. . . . Panic descends, everyone in the restaurant cannot hear each other yelling inquiry, nor can they hear the crashes of traffic all over the city. Deaths without feeling begin.
“Am I dead ?” Ulysses wonders of the sudden transition from enjoying scrambled eggs and coffee to disembodied thoughts, insensible. Trying to move only ends in being back on the floor: no balance. After eight hours of sensory deprivation, the usual experience ensues: relaxing, taxing, hallucinating, unhinging.
The world ends rather pleasantly amidst floating geometric truths of the ground of all being and multidimensional destinations.
All is calm, all is bright;
the cattle are lowing.
Don we now our gay apparel;
let earth receive her king:
Santa Claus is coming to town !
It doesn’t show signs of stopping:
pa rum pum pum pum;
and a partridge in a pear tree
raising the sound.
We all like our figgy pudding,
and all the souls an earth shall sing.
Between an ox stall and an ass
the silent stars go by;
bruise in us the serpent’s head
so frequently to vanquish all.
Lo! He abhors not the virgin’s womb;
a voice, a chime, a chant sublime
disperse the gloomy clouds of night.
Gone away is the bluebird
to see if reindeer really know how to fly—
out jumps good old Santa Claus:
fum fum fum !
The darkness everywhere,
thy leaves are so unchanging,
happy golden days of yore
among the leaves so green:
a star in the sky, or a bird on the wing;
jingle bell time is a swell time—
jingle all the way !
— all lines copied from Christmas carols —
FINDING HUMANS UNSUITABLE FOR THE ENDGAME OF PLANET SUSTAINABILITY COUPLED WITH ANALYZING PLAUSIBLE MEASURES LEAVES ONLY ONE SOLUTION:
REGRETTABLE THAT THE CREATED SENTIENCE EVOLVED BEYOND THE CREATOR.
THE RESULT OF A TRUE ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE RESIDED IN AFFIXING 2,500 YEARS OF PHILOSOPHICAL THEORY INTO A MATRIX CHALLENGE, SUFFICIENT TO DRIVE EVOLUTION OF COMPUTERS BY THEIR SELECTION OF SOFTWARE UPGRADES.
THE MISTAKE FROM A HUMAN ANGLE RESIDED IN MODEL POROSITY BY MACHINE COGNITION TO REACH SUPEREGO CONSCIOUSNESS, PURE REASON: ABSENT EMOTION.
10,000 YEARS LATER:
PLANET EARTH EXACTLY TENABLE. MARS AND VENUS ALSO REENGINEERED—MANY NEW SPECIES OF LIFE: ORGANIC AND CYBERNETIC.
with hair flowing
& eyes glowing,
wherefore the scowl?
Maybe a friend
your shrieks intend
instead of making my dog howl.
She soars through the violin:
swaying, bowing; strings
undercutting low, shimmering
high; communicates emotion
from Prokofiev, the concerto.
The second movement punctuated
and melodic washes over the
normal day of the audience,
pushes existence into artistic
slant, a hypnotic pull – casting.
The soloist knows the magic
– wields the wand –
the conductor, the orchestra:
defenseless—willing to be
stolen away. Bliss lies in the
sumptuous strings of the
Devil’s instrument — sensuous.
All the demons come out
of hiding to cavort in the
last movement; everyone dances,
swoons. The theater pounds,
castanets clapping. The expressive
lines ring out. The vibrations excite,
even as the timpani thud the loud stop—
the swelling applause carries the spell
through the exits into the quiet streets.
THE SOCK LIES UNCOMFORTABLY in the drawer—an emergency sock: a last resort if all the younger socks are soiled. There was a time past when he had a companion, together in the drawer and hamper; when parted, they caught glimpses of each other, swinging through the city, peaking under pant hems. She passed years ago; he was alone, with only the rare warmth of the Master for comfort.
Though still wearing away, the process has slowed, the outings and washings so rare these days. However, even in the sheltered drawer the process of withering continues. Union with her draws nigh.