|
| Still, it was hard to tell if they were the two voices talking, two
people talking, or merely two thoughts that, upon contact, thought the
other thought up. That is, it is hard for us, the objective audience
and omnipotent author to tell the difference. It is probably not too
difficult for the voices, thoughts, or people to tell which is whom.
The all dislike the other, and claim victory for themselves.
It
was such a brief conversation that both Tadd and Rob were to forget
that they had it almost immediately before boarding the airplane. Tadd
and Rob did not sit in the same sections of the plane. Tadd sat within
the passenger section, and Rob got into the cockpit.
Privately,
alone in the cockpit, Rob opened the eyes in the back of his head. He
put his hands on his lap. "I have arrived," he proclaimed to himself,
his skin softly reflecting the illuminated technology surrounding him,
bathing him lightly with kisses of reassuring red, green, and amber.
Rob finally felt at home. He closed the shades of the cockpit,
sheathing himself in a twilit chrysalis spin in silicon, plastic, and
LEDs.
"This is your captain," intoned Rob.
"I am proud to pilot you this evening," he explained.
"I am proud to see how you all," he paused, "have grown."
"I am proud of our airlines," he obliged. "I am proud of what human hands have made."
"Give us this day our daily bread. Give us a break in our daily bread. Give us this day. Give us yesterday again."
Rob plugged himself into the airplane.
"This is your captain. Say hello to your captain," invited Rob. "Say hello."
I know how this one ends, he thought from the air. I knew it all along.
We all gotta grow up someday.
 | | |
| This is the time, and this is the novel of the time. This is the
novelty of the time. Time cannot be parted - this exists without time.
It neither always was, yet it is now without cause. Yet this exists
also without chaos. Yes, he affirmed. He arrived. He sat down at the
station. All he had to say was yes. All he had to give was the ticket,
and he was there, he did arrive. It did not occur in passive voice - it
did occur in a passive vocoding. He could not speak without a carrier.
He could not speak without a modulator. Neither can you. You could
operate a ski lift and wear a ski mask and lose your modulation. That
option remains available to all: "Mmmm, mmmmm, mmmmmm..." you would
say. Or: "Aahhh, aaaaaaah a-a-a-a-a..."
The
pitch went up. The modulation tightened. "Hello," said Rob. The pitch
dipped. The modulation squirmed. "My name isz Rob," he added helpfully.
You didn't need him to tell you that. He spoke to somebody else, not to
you. That was a person sitting next to Rob. The person was sitting
there in the station, in the - port, in the - air station, in the -
air...port. The air whistled through the person's mouth, carried its
words into the station to fly out, to fly away. "Oh," said the person's
voice. "Tadd. Tadd Harkington."
The person meant that he called himself Tadd Harkington.
Their
hands embraced and this made their hands very happy. One hand could
communicate with the other hand. If their hand's communication could be
put into words, Rob's hand would have spoken, "Oh!
Woorr-worr-worr-worr" and then Tadd's hand would have said "Oh!
Gusha-husha-husha-husha" and they would have hugged. They would have
been friends, if they weren't merely hands. So they were only briefly
friends.
Tadd's face covered up a mild revulsion towards
airplanes. Every 5 or 6 seconds or so, his face would twitch for about
a 4th of a second. The muscles of his eyebrows expanded and tightened
so that his eyebrows flicked upwards. The corners of his mouth
similarly flicked as if they wanted some personal space on the opposite
end of Tadd's moonlike face. Tadd did this all unconsciously. He didn't
know, in the fore of his mind that he usually called "Tadd", that he
was actually terrified of planes. He could understand how they could
fly but something desperately primal inside his overweight pinstriped
frame said that they couldn't fly, their wings did not move and they
were far too heavy. Something just as instinctual inside Tadd's
preconscious mind was at odds with the fear, the part of Tadd that made
him Not Cause a Scene in Public, something that all humans at the time
did indeed possess. One was stored in neural patterns in the middle of
his brain, and the other resided in the front. His brain, and indeed no
brain, especially in this record, no, novel of the time is united.
Every brain, no, mind in this record, no, novel of the time is going to
try like crazy to think and make other minds, no, brains think that
each one actually is, and that nobody is actually ever at odds with
himself, no, herself, no, itself, no...
Microexpression
O Superman
Brain Complexity
Complexity is size, metric and currency of information. Of mind. Of the soul.
You don't know me
but if You had ... (to)
would You refer ... (to me)
in the future tense
Please?
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha... | | |
| I was trying to pass 8th grade so that I could finally graduate from
UMKC, and I knew that I had a baby on the way...but we were at a
friend's house and his mom came home with her new baby. The woman was
tall and blonde, and she had large buck teeth that were wobbling to and
fro. The baby looked fine, and the lady began to change a diaper.
She
took the remains of the baby's stool and began to poke around in it. I
could see mushy forms of banana, small chili pepper, and bits of ground
beef. She told me it was a "green" way of reusing food, since baby's
don't digest everything they need, you know. I didn't say anything. I
didn't want to offend her. My wife didn't say anything, she just stood
there, and looked sick. I began to ruminate to myself that this is what
happens when you don't give people enough to do, when you aren't smart
enough to let yourself do what you'd like to do...you start feeding
your baby its own shit. I went over to the living room, far from the
microwave where the baby shit was heading. The baby just laid there, on
the counter, next to the sink.
I went to music class. There
was the same teacher that was there in another dream about junior high
- it's a person I've never met but if I did meet them in real life I
would guess that he's one of those annoying clerks who try to make
conversation with you as if you were a human, as if they were a human,
as if we weren't in some kind of mechanical device, as if I could just
reach in there into his chest and touch his heart, as if the money I
would pass him regardless of his opinion of the weather had a magic
power to disengage the conversation...
We didn't learn a thing. I didn't need to. It was 8th grade.
Last
night, I tried to install OS X onto my brain. I couldn't see anything,
I felt everything. I saw the packages unpacking, decompressing,
matricies expanding organically up from my stomach, up through my
spine, into my neck, webs of information coming in, operating, 3...2...1
I
could see. I could finally see what was going on. I needed to configure
my video drivers. I was awake. I wanted to make love to my wife.
P.S. - thanks.
thanks for all the donuts.
If I ever live again
I want another slice
of donut just like you.
| | |
| I was trying to pass 8th grade so that I could finally graduate from UMKC, and I knew that I had a baby on the way...but we were at a friend's house and his mom came home with her new baby. The woman was tall and blonde, and she had large buck teeth that were wobbling to and fro. The baby looked fine, and the lady began to change a diaper.
She took the remains of the baby's stool and began to poke around in it. I could see mushy forms of banana, small chili pepper, and bits of ground beef. She told me it was a "green" way of reusing food, since baby's don't digest everything they need, you know. I didn't say anything. I didn't want to offend her. My wife didn't say anything, she just stood there, and looked sick. I began to ruminate to myself that this is what happens when you don't give people enough to do, when you aren't smart enough to let yourself do what you'd like to do...you start feeding your baby its own shit. I went over to the living room, far from the microwave where the baby shit was heading. The baby just laid there, on the counter, next to the sink.
I went to music class. There was the same teacher that was there in another dream about junior high - it's a person I've never met but if I did meet them in real life I would guess that he's one of those annoying clerks who try to make conversation with you as if you were a human, as if they were a human, as if we weren't in some kind of mechanical device, as if I could just reach in there into his chest and touch his heart, as if the money I would pass him regardless of his opinion of the weather had a magic power to disengage the conversation...
We didn't learn a thing. I didn't need to. It was 8th grade.
Last night, I tried to install OS X onto my brain. I couldn't see anything, I felt everything. I saw the packages unpacking, decompressing, matricies expanding organically up from my stomach, up through my spine, into my neck, webs of information coming in, operating, 3...2...1
I could see. I could finally see what was going on. I needed to configure my video drivers. I was awake. I wanted to make love to my wife.
P.S. - thanks.
thanks for all the donuts.
If I ever live again
I want another slice
of donut just like you.
| | |
|
