W. S. Boxx
8428 Canterbury Court
Estcourt Station, Maine 04741
November 3, 2017
The erasure of cursive from the pedagogic strategies of core curriculum signals a loss in the culture, a fork towards the information age. Art, in the form of elaborate, thoughtful letters such as those of John and Abigail fossilize before us into petroglyphs like trilobites from the Cambrian explosion. Extant messages know not the dipped quill from the inkwell, the measured meditations scribed on parchment under the flicker of candlelight, for now, electrons snuff out the tapers of yesteryears and speed instant thought from geocentric orbits as light skips along the aether. Does it matter, dear friend, in a world where change is the only constant, the uncertainty of quantum mechanics creeping into every facet of foundation, maybe ?
The loops and swirls repeated ad nauseum on ruled newsprint paper until the death of the hand in cramping paralysis, regarded at the time as pointless exercise, have indeed been deemed just so, a waste of the scholastic time allotted, time better purposed by grounding the student in education geared for the cog-less machinery of the digital future, so: keyboarding. The solid earth on which one tottled forward on in insouciant surety proves to be riddled with limestone caverns and shifts underfoot. Has my brief time been wasted in groundwork unfounded ? The binary code sweeps away such expertise as quaint calligraphic messaging and multiplicative grid rote into the ash-heap of the obsolete.
Walter S. Boxx
P. S. The frames of the flipbook shuffle by so quickly that my eyes water from the ruffled air.
ALL DAY, WE TALK about “the end of the world”: the sun, black as sackcloth: the moon: as blood; country children, the afternoon, smell of petrichor, wind picking up. The bluster silences the others still up front. She appears, glowing above the field out back, like fabric in the wind.
A DEMON RESIDES within Chip’s soul. His mood flip-flops and the faint sound of wind chimes announce his appearances. Chip is a bushy, black dog of questionable ancestry. One night on a walk, dark forces awaken.
Chip pulls the chain taut like sledding huskies, tail high, seemingly happy, but with Chip nothing is certain. Midnight nears, the projects quiet: only the jangle of the dog tag in the night chill.
Suddenly, infrasound vibrates through the chain; then swells into a ferocious growl. Chip wheels around in attack mode, fangs gnashing. Sensing danger behind, Chip fends off an ambushing dog pack.
HEAVEN DOES NOT EXIST, but there is a Hell, and I am in it, on it—The Highway, the non-stop traveling to a destination that never arrives, the terribly greasy fare of the Stuckey’s dotting the off-ramps every fifty miles, and although demons do not cavort with pitchforks in geothermal caverns spitting flames, the heat oppresses, the air conditioner inoperative, summer always—global warming complete; must get there today, the impetus seems implanted, the kids tire, the wife complains, the car smokes—vacation sucks, the regimentation, the time line: and miles to go before I sleep, miles and miles and miles.
THE SINGLE FISH that is different dives straight down out of the emergent school of fish balled up for protection from the dolphins and diving birds . . . the rest, presumably die, as the unique fish rushes toward the safe rocky nook that swallows it. Hidden. You rock fish.
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.
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.