Jackson Pollock
much as i appear to be a creature of intellect there are elements of the entity in which i reside that defy the mind’s analysis.
my inability to analyse my emotions
the ache of the past’s demise
emotions that well beneath my perceived skin, threatening to burst forth in tears that may never stop
the ache of present isolation
the futility of this {interface} - a wisp of smoke in the fog.
the familiar lines of her face, etched from that memory onto the wall of my space.
the ache that it brings
the tug of synaptic connections that lack an organ to manipulate.
the faces of my fatherless children seen in profile as they were led away from my hospital bed.
the faces of brown children with flies in their eyes.
napalmed villages revenge riddled.
the reptilian faces of world leaders in conference
the bombers and the bombed
the blood
am i man or am i machine?
the {interface} gives an answer of:
inadequate data input.
i bang at the sides of my space, careful to avoid her face.
my efforts make little sound.
i bang harder and yell
my left fist crumples at the knuckle of my little finger.
it causes me no pain.
a new menu has appeared on the {interface}; a menu not devised by me.
it reads “knowledge is its own reward”
i enter
it leads me to this:
1. immortals
2. mortals
i am afraid to enter.
option 1: mortal
in all scenarios my name appears at the top of this list.
in all likelihood i will not be preserved in this egg.
in all honesty i do not think immortality is a road worth travelling, given the size and limitations of my mind.
i scroll through the names; in latin/roman; in sanskrit; cuniform and aramaic.
in gothic, greek and georgian; in etruscan, mongolian and manchu
they begin to blur together to form random patterns of black on white; swimming on the {interface} devoid of meaning.
the benefit of a distant view perhaps; but i stand by what i’ve seen:
what use have i for people; for their names and their foibles?
what use did i ever have for the random actions and petty games played with allegiances and egos?
for agendas and ulterior motives?
what use for seemingly intelligent people who cannot [or will not] see to act upon their weakness.
what use those whose weakness traps them within the system [class; economic or caste] from which they appear powerless to escape.
where is the honesty of spirit that would simplify all social contract?
why the need to control those around you; to have them indebted to you; to never call that debt in, simply to hold it as a symbol [a talisman] of power?
what use have i for those who’ve lost themselves in the labyrinths of pain and of propaganda – ever turning left or right [employing some method] but never looking up from their concentrated toil.
what use do i have for mortals?
option 2: immortal
and in this scenario am i not a god?
everything exists only within my mind.
if i look away for all i know it will cease to exist.
some god…
i am a prisoner in this space – do i really want to live forever within its confines?
once more i bang my battered hand against the inside of my space
fingers fall from my hand to land at my feet and there turn to dust.
if i am truly immortal; a god; then it is an incompetent god that i am
for did I not [in life] create this tomb; this prison of the senses.
and the {interface} grows dim as the walls turn to light…….
my inability to analyse my emotions
the ache of the past’s demise
emotions that well beneath my perceived skin, threatening to burst forth in tears that may never stop
the ache of present isolation
the futility of this {interface} - a wisp of smoke in the fog.
the familiar lines of her face, etched from that memory onto the wall of my space.
the ache that it brings
the tug of synaptic connections that lack an organ to manipulate.
the faces of my fatherless children seen in profile as they were led away from my hospital bed.
the faces of brown children with flies in their eyes.
napalmed villages revenge riddled.
the reptilian faces of world leaders in conference
the bombers and the bombed
the blood
am i man or am i machine?
the {interface} gives an answer of:
inadequate data input.
i bang at the sides of my space, careful to avoid her face.
my efforts make little sound.
i bang harder and yell
my left fist crumples at the knuckle of my little finger.
it causes me no pain.
a new menu has appeared on the {interface}; a menu not devised by me.
it reads “knowledge is its own reward”
i enter
it leads me to this:
1. immortals
2. mortals
i am afraid to enter.
option 1: mortal
in all scenarios my name appears at the top of this list.
in all likelihood i will not be preserved in this egg.
in all honesty i do not think immortality is a road worth travelling, given the size and limitations of my mind.
i scroll through the names; in latin/roman; in sanskrit; cuniform and aramaic.
in gothic, greek and georgian; in etruscan, mongolian and manchu
they begin to blur together to form random patterns of black on white; swimming on the {interface} devoid of meaning.
the benefit of a distant view perhaps; but i stand by what i’ve seen:
what use have i for people; for their names and their foibles?
what use did i ever have for the random actions and petty games played with allegiances and egos?
for agendas and ulterior motives?
what use for seemingly intelligent people who cannot [or will not] see to act upon their weakness.
what use those whose weakness traps them within the system [class; economic or caste] from which they appear powerless to escape.
where is the honesty of spirit that would simplify all social contract?
why the need to control those around you; to have them indebted to you; to never call that debt in, simply to hold it as a symbol [a talisman] of power?
what use have i for those who’ve lost themselves in the labyrinths of pain and of propaganda – ever turning left or right [employing some method] but never looking up from their concentrated toil.
what use do i have for mortals?
option 2: immortal
and in this scenario am i not a god?
everything exists only within my mind.
if i look away for all i know it will cease to exist.
some god…
i am a prisoner in this space – do i really want to live forever within its confines?
once more i bang my battered hand against the inside of my space
fingers fall from my hand to land at my feet and there turn to dust.
if i am truly immortal; a god; then it is an incompetent god that i am
for did I not [in life] create this tomb; this prison of the senses.
and the {interface} grows dim as the walls turn to light…….
TERMINUS
9 comments:
Brilliant!
Whoa! I'm bloody speechless!!
like this one too... the artifice and the interface... funny feeling of the sense of being the narrator on the inside of the mind... looking through the windows of the eyes, navigating the world according to a specific program...
the machine man, the modern man, believing in analytic abstraction...
the irony here is thick
;)
p.s.
as I go to type in the letters of the word verification of this comment interface the letters spell
"nations"
how creepy is that
It is a verbal experimental expressionism expression worthy of attachment to the thought behind Pollock's work.
Thanks everyone - It appears that some of you are finding relevance in these chapters as they stand - I hope the full story made some sort of coherent sense too.
"Cabin Fevre", a new serialised story coming soon.
Powerful,really like it.
...quite lovely...the hybridity is compelling as is the spatial ambiguity; yet, I have to say the phrase that grabbed me was the one about tears... having wrestled with that beast... times when I feared beginning because there was no way I knew if I could ever stop... you said it well.
Candie & Harlequin: Thank you both!
I hadn't planned on hitting this all at once, but it's a nice, quick and easy read.
As a narrative, it reminds me a lot of Harlan Ellison. But, the story leaves me wanting something. You almost set up a virtual war of competing philosophies (in Phase VII), which I would've love to have seen in a "Phase VII.V" (after all, what would the interface care?).
Sifting through the opposition would give more impact when "she" shows up (since she has a slightly different perspective) and in the conclusion, when the narrator is forced to choose/accept.
All in all, though... pretty fucking cool.
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