Humans are constantly creating with authenticity. We have been given the universe- an abundance of awesome things: Mysterious monsters of oceans deep and birds ornamenting trees. We take these gifts with mindfulness and show what we’ve perceived.
Now the computer has become the creator. But humans created the machine. Without our perceived realities, the robot has no things. Nothing to analyze, digitize, and pixelate on screen. It can’t channel feelings. It can’t express its needs. It just mimics what it really means to be a human being.
This morning’s sunrise was a tacky and artificial affair. The sun was played by a weak, 12-watt, refrigerator bulb that looked wet and heavy as it struggled uphill like a drunk. The horizon reminded me of a cheap, runny theatrical illusion, the clouds were old cotton ***** glued to cardboard silhouettes, the birds sagged like dead puppets from uneven coat hanger wires.
I don’t miss you. Everything’s fine. I hardly noticed you were gone, actually. Things here are a laugh and a half. We’re doing fun girl things. Anna got new shoes. I’m hardened by years of inescapable, solitary, covid lockdown. I’m immune to despair. So go off, interview for that new, far-flung PhD life. Go fawn over Elon Musk for all I care. I’m definitely not in my room eating spoons of peanut butter and crying to Tom Waits songs.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Fawn: to court favor by groveling or flattery.
swimming with horses, running with dungeons, playing with dragons, hiding behind a fake forcefulness, like a synthetical lioness, that artificialness, fake greatness, fake lustiness, fake lustre, lying on them like a mattress, or with covered up, less than what really up to in them minds
I knew we were in trouble when they taught the machines to talk
parliament of artificial owls nocturnal park line pirates
watch and learn these conspirators abduct the listening chair and strap deniability to another infernal device
so some hotwired pilgriming woman possesses superior ****** abilities and a skill with the violin, the pointy end
camera is king
yet all the negatives have been destroyed still somewhere out there remains a flash card and a hybrid set of eyes watching all the people fall to pieces
we're perambulations around collapsed buildings, rather than the collapsing buildings themselves
me and the machine of contradictions sick as our secrets with all kinds of shenanigans going on
welcome to the age of copying minds onto hard drives and cellphones
a future too heavy to carry and so we plant it deep into the soil letting the cables sleep like fading city lights, receding like strange fractured reactors at the edge of the world
she said she couldn't believe i was real but really, i was made in a lab where they proded and poked till this thing came out! want me to do a little dance for you!? balance on my dome? swallow a sword?
We all were bums and walkers through hell or we are children yet to recall these tales, trails better marked than Hansel could imagine marking on his own.
We agree, words are well spent: to buy tears to place the final bit of salt into the sea, in remembrance of passing over and passing through on hands and knees and standing, comforted, beyond the door. woe, woman, concha weep for me… doncha weep for me I been beyond the door before I knew there's no knocker on this side
Mus'be more'n one door, one to knock and one to open, beyond which are you? Beyond the knocked on one am I. I carry my own value as gravity determines things, weigh that for what it's worth. Worthy, eh, what it's worth as a skill, worthship, citizenship, partnership.
From three years ago, I find a piece of how I got this far. I suggested to me that I must read what I write or be accountable for not sharing free willing-ly. Self forming apps for self learning beings, run line by line.
you're unaware of your plasticity but it's plain to see to me you're an artificial fabrication of what you think you should be but the rescue boats are coming if you'll throw your hand out for an oar help you'll find from people like life rafts who'll drag you to shore yet you stab at the boat puncturing it's tender flesh the water's rising it's hard denying you did this yourself
