[Three sentences a day has died pretty well.]
Sometimes,
there wants to be poetry, but it can't find a way out.
It meanders about in an underground cavern
of mazes and tricks, an abundance of passages,
and three times too many decisions to make--
but sometimes the poetry finds an escape hole
and burrows its way to the surface to breathe
its times like these when I'm feeling poetic
I wish I had muses or songs I could sing
or thoughts to put into phrases or verses
wait
maybe a knife and a spade and a gun
to shoot all the poeti-lyrici-nations
and bury them somewhere
out of the sun
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
6.15
[In a writing mood]
The man turned the key in the lock. "Well," he said as he threw the door open, "It ain't much, but I don't suppose it should be."
H3R0 detected an odd inflection in the man's voice, but his vocal decryption database was too slow to use for conversation. He ignored the syntactical warning messages and walked inside. Once inside, he turned in circles with his arms outstretched.
"This will do nicely." The new man swiveled his head to face the landlord.
"Good. It's all I have for one of you."
Again, that discrepancy. H3R0 nodded and the man left. The third type did not need much--the model was built to be fine without. The room he stood in was sparse and square. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all of the same grungy white. A single table stood in the center of the room. H3R0 moved it fourteen centimeters to align it to center. He opened the only other door, which led to a room no bigger than the bed it housed. He closed the door, disinterested. Why he had been taken to a house without a restroom irked him somewhat. He knew the emotion of disappointment from training exercises, and wondered why he had it just then. The room would be perfect for him. It must be something else.
H3R0 pulled up the syntactical warning messages from before and analyzed the contents. The lights behind his irises dimmed and his arms dropped to his side. Seven minutes forty seven seconds later, his eyes lit. The man had been condescending. The meaning behind the man's comment about 'one of you' was meant to separate the man from H3R0. The new man did not appreciate this distinction, and did not understand its necessity. He and the landlord shared much. They were both male models, both tall, both swarthy. H3R0 did admit to himself that his voice was much more controlled than that of the other man, but surely the landlord would not be so astute as to notice such a disparity. Perhaps he was referring to the relative newness of H3R0's finished humanity. That must be it.
As the new man was given to understand, humans were usually made by being slowly assembled by an automated system in a woman's abdomen, then vacated after the tedious nine-month safety checking and assembling process. And still sometimes they malfunctioned. Maybe H3R0 would find a way to optimize the process, but he was only equipped with an artist module. He would have to acquire a medicinal module later. Without context, he could not be sure, but he assumed from the available data that it was his relative newness and ease that surprised the man.
Surely the man's distrust would fade as H3R0 acquired some dust and nicks in his chassis. There could be no other reason for one man to irrationally classify another.
The man turned the key in the lock. "Well," he said as he threw the door open, "It ain't much, but I don't suppose it should be."
H3R0 detected an odd inflection in the man's voice, but his vocal decryption database was too slow to use for conversation. He ignored the syntactical warning messages and walked inside. Once inside, he turned in circles with his arms outstretched.
"This will do nicely." The new man swiveled his head to face the landlord.
"Good. It's all I have for one of you."
Again, that discrepancy. H3R0 nodded and the man left. The third type did not need much--the model was built to be fine without. The room he stood in was sparse and square. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all of the same grungy white. A single table stood in the center of the room. H3R0 moved it fourteen centimeters to align it to center. He opened the only other door, which led to a room no bigger than the bed it housed. He closed the door, disinterested. Why he had been taken to a house without a restroom irked him somewhat. He knew the emotion of disappointment from training exercises, and wondered why he had it just then. The room would be perfect for him. It must be something else.
H3R0 pulled up the syntactical warning messages from before and analyzed the contents. The lights behind his irises dimmed and his arms dropped to his side. Seven minutes forty seven seconds later, his eyes lit. The man had been condescending. The meaning behind the man's comment about 'one of you' was meant to separate the man from H3R0. The new man did not appreciate this distinction, and did not understand its necessity. He and the landlord shared much. They were both male models, both tall, both swarthy. H3R0 did admit to himself that his voice was much more controlled than that of the other man, but surely the landlord would not be so astute as to notice such a disparity. Perhaps he was referring to the relative newness of H3R0's finished humanity. That must be it.
As the new man was given to understand, humans were usually made by being slowly assembled by an automated system in a woman's abdomen, then vacated after the tedious nine-month safety checking and assembling process. And still sometimes they malfunctioned. Maybe H3R0 would find a way to optimize the process, but he was only equipped with an artist module. He would have to acquire a medicinal module later. Without context, he could not be sure, but he assumed from the available data that it was his relative newness and ease that surprised the man.
Surely the man's distrust would fade as H3R0 acquired some dust and nicks in his chassis. There could be no other reason for one man to irrationally classify another.
Friday, June 10, 2011
6.10
[Last year on this date I posted twice. I'm not doing it again.]
It was just an inch long blade, but it could cut through apples and trim fingernails and slice cheese and turn flathead screws. It was just an inch long blade, but it was still useful. It could pare potatoes and scrape wood and cut shoelaces. It was just an inch long blade.
That's why it surprised him that she was able to so easily kill him with it. Two thrusts and a heavy pull and he was left warm and sticky on the floor. He looked up as if to ask why and his only answer was her back as she walked away.
The blade clattered to the floor and it snapped cleanly in two when it hit.
It was only a half inch blade but it killed a man.
It was just an inch long blade, but it could cut through apples and trim fingernails and slice cheese and turn flathead screws. It was just an inch long blade, but it was still useful. It could pare potatoes and scrape wood and cut shoelaces. It was just an inch long blade.
That's why it surprised him that she was able to so easily kill him with it. Two thrusts and a heavy pull and he was left warm and sticky on the floor. He looked up as if to ask why and his only answer was her back as she walked away.
The blade clattered to the floor and it snapped cleanly in two when it hit.
It was only a half inch blade but it killed a man.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
6.4
[I really didn't want this to be a summer like the last few, but I guess it is. I won't be posting as much because I just . . . have lost my energy. Work is too much, and play is too important. Writing is right in between, and has no place in summer.]
Hero was the third type.
He was an artist for a living. He thought it was anachronistic, given his name and nature, but he didn't argue. He didn't want to argue. As a matter of fact, he had never argued, because he thought it was pointless. Wether or not an argument went well, someone always lost. He hated losing and decided to minimize his chance of it. When he wasn't drawing or painting, he sat for long periods and looked out the window. He supposed it must have been a pleasant view, but it wasn't important to try and recognize why. It just existed, and he saw it. He took pleasure in counting the flickers of a lightbulb across the street. Every time a car drove by, the light flashed through the windows. It was a pleasant, randomized flicker that allowed him some relief from mediocrity.
Once, when he was counting the flickers, a knock came at the door and interrupted him at three million, seven hundred six thousand, forty. He thought it was a good number to stop on, archived it, and stood up. 3,706,040. When he got to the door, it had opened itself.
"Maintenance," the man said. "Turn around and let me get at your interface."
Hero turned around, and the man slid the back panel off his chassis. Hero powered down to save time. When he powered up again, the man was gone, and so was Hero's identifying bracelet. The bracelet was on the floor, blinking softly. A note on the table stated "Your experiment has been terminated, effective immediately. Do not disturb the fourth type when exiting the compound."
3,706,040. It would get no higher. Hero turned and walked out the door. He didn't need anything from the tiny room in which he had lived. As he entered the sunlight of the courtyard outside, he detected a faint sound on his left. Turning, he saw a small boy wearing an identification tag.
"Hello, OL1V3R," Hero said. "I am Human Third, identification RO. I am a new Man. Welcome to the human race."
The boy blinked and turned to shuffle back to a tour group disappearing in the distance. Hero hissed as his pneumatics readjusted. He walked briskly towards the front gate.
He was ready to live.
Hero was the third type.
He was an artist for a living. He thought it was anachronistic, given his name and nature, but he didn't argue. He didn't want to argue. As a matter of fact, he had never argued, because he thought it was pointless. Wether or not an argument went well, someone always lost. He hated losing and decided to minimize his chance of it. When he wasn't drawing or painting, he sat for long periods and looked out the window. He supposed it must have been a pleasant view, but it wasn't important to try and recognize why. It just existed, and he saw it. He took pleasure in counting the flickers of a lightbulb across the street. Every time a car drove by, the light flashed through the windows. It was a pleasant, randomized flicker that allowed him some relief from mediocrity.
Once, when he was counting the flickers, a knock came at the door and interrupted him at three million, seven hundred six thousand, forty. He thought it was a good number to stop on, archived it, and stood up. 3,706,040. When he got to the door, it had opened itself.
"Maintenance," the man said. "Turn around and let me get at your interface."
Hero turned around, and the man slid the back panel off his chassis. Hero powered down to save time. When he powered up again, the man was gone, and so was Hero's identifying bracelet. The bracelet was on the floor, blinking softly. A note on the table stated "Your experiment has been terminated, effective immediately. Do not disturb the fourth type when exiting the compound."
3,706,040. It would get no higher. Hero turned and walked out the door. He didn't need anything from the tiny room in which he had lived. As he entered the sunlight of the courtyard outside, he detected a faint sound on his left. Turning, he saw a small boy wearing an identification tag.
"Hello, OL1V3R," Hero said. "I am Human Third, identification RO. I am a new Man. Welcome to the human race."
The boy blinked and turned to shuffle back to a tour group disappearing in the distance. Hero hissed as his pneumatics readjusted. He walked briskly towards the front gate.
He was ready to live.
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