Mother Ma

MOTHER MA

 

'Their, there, they're', she cooed, 

'you'll be better in the morning.'

The two, too small, teeny, tiny, wee lassies

lay, laid, laying under a heap of blankets.

They, them, had been unwell for a spell.

It graved her deeply to the marrow.

 

Mother Ma, went to door,

lean, leaning, leaned neither in, nor out,

hand drawing down, to make way for sleep,

to they, them, snug,

'It's been a long, longer, longest, day sweet ones.'

'Nighty, night, sleep well.'

She looked at them lovingly,

with eyes closed, closing

they laid lying still sleepily.

Morning was a way's away.

Nothing was if not something.

She was never ever if not hopeful.

 

They were identical, the two tiny.

They looked the same as if one.

It was hard, harder, hardest to tell 

which was who, whom from which.

Tho one eye blue, as if sky,

the other, gray, grayer like cloud.

Garments were a matter of Tom Foolery.

Ever practical twas a farce to behold.

They always never wanted the same things,

like, liking what the other hadn't.

If it couldn't be, it wasn't.

Purposely they lived, living by the open sea,

close enough to it where the wave would never reach.

One tiny perfected to dress like a buoy,

oh, ha, which was fine by she, at Halloween,  

but always never in a fog moonlit while lying limp upon the swell.

She clanged, clanging her charms, sounded, echoed, echoing cross the blue and mighty.

With next rise of sun, when tide scattered,

they came to be alive. 

A livest at eight, they, them, ate,

a bowl big, bigger, biggest, round, and famished, 

left leaving none for the gull,

at most, groats hearty to fill the leg. 

Better, best as not.

 

Mother Ma said, 'let you stay home from school,'

Full, fuller, fullest of vim, they, them fought 

fighting over whose toys were whose.

It was as unlike as war, with no peace,

it wore mother warily. She desperate, desperately,

undecided, I must make a choice,

not for the better, none for the worse,

but so be it.

Salvaged, aloud quietly she whispered, her ears to listen,

I will poem them.

With hand raised, raising it pounded her ears 

like the beating heart of the surf, surfing.

 

And poem she gave...

 

They would meet over dinner 

Around the big table,

She would tell them a tale

A story, a fable

It was the tale of a monkey

Born without tail

A tale of a witch

With a hole in her pail

The tale of a knight

Afraid of the night

They'd all build a fire

And stand in its light

I'm hungry said monkey

Who pulled out some meat

If you want it to cook

You put it near heat.

I'll help said the knight

She pulled out her sword,

And we all know a knight

Is as good as her word

 

How shall we cook it?

What shall we do?

I like veggies

Let's make us a stew

They added the meat

And one big potato

A carrot or two

And several tomato

 

By the fire they stood

The pot it was hot

They threw in a vole

And a mouse that they caught

They threw in a skunk

And a bat and a rat

All we need now

Is a black and white cat

 

Out of the blue

And in front of the gloom

Another witch came

Passed by on a broom

I'm looking for Missy

Who seems to be missing

I stepped on her tail

And off she went hissing

Witch number one

Looked at witch number two

You look just like me

Or I look like you

Which witch was which

It was so hard to tell

The monkey exclaimed 

I'm under a spell

 

But the knight was no fool

She hardly felt fear

She went to the witch

And she stood very near

Please stay for dinner

You'll like it I'm sure

It'll be ready

In an hour, no more

 

Witch number two

Was extremely suspicious

This stew is the best,

It's extremely delicious

She took off her cape

Then doffed her tall hat

Have you by chance seen

A black and white cat

 

No, said the knight

Oh no, said witch one

The monkey said nothing

she only said, um.

The Recipe

From Great-Grandmother, Dublin born, Canadian grown, Prairie bound.

 

In a large bowl,

no worse for ware,

 

Take two bags of dilly dally,

Add three equal size bags of whatchamacallits,

Mix in a couple of gizmos, to your discretion,

Sift through a sieve.

 

For all that it's worth,

Stir until well folded,

Take all the time you need,

Though do it sooner than later.

 

If you can find one,

Get a hold of a thingamajig,

Look here and there,

Under this and that.

 

When you are ready,

When you get around tuit,

Place it in the oven,

In no time flat you'll be finished before you know it.

 

Add a dash of whatnot,

A little willy nilly,

And a whereabouts, (which are hard to find)

They grow neither here nor there. 

 

And if you end up in a pinch,

Between a rock and a hard place,

Sometime between now and then,

Put a cork in it.

That's all she wrote.

 

But then she added,

Written in pencil,

 

Nonetheless,

For good measure,

Sprinkle with the leaves of a shrinking violet,

Eat with sour grapes.

 

Take it with a grain of salt.

 

I wouldn't recommend saving any for you know who.

 

 

 

Virtual Me; Permalink 3

I was beginning to have the feeling I was just another amorphous character in some wise asses computer game. It happens to me every time I'm delegated to assignment. You know how it is when circumstances are dictated by happenstance and your everyday life, which is boring and pointless, suddenly is infected with crisis or a pathetic case of melodrama that requires attention in the fullness of the moment.

As I said, it happens. The feeling I'm operating within semi-lucid parameters of some AI's sadistic simulation is just plain creepy. The feeling, at first, is subtle, undetectable really, but then it builds ever so gradually which I'm sure is fed by my think patterns which are in themselves an eternal feedback loop.

Here's how it works. I notice things, common everyday things, like a door, and I have a choice, I can go through the door or, well, I don't really know if I have to do anything. Some doors are dead ends. They just fizzle out. Nothing happens, at least nothing of interest. That's generally the story of my life. But some doors propel me forward leading me to other doors which in turn lead to something else again. 

When I look at my life from front to back, and if I follow the lines, the right lines, it places me exactly here and now. It can't be coincidence can it?

The crazy thing is I think I have a choice, that I have free will.

And when I've done something good or correct I get a reward. Like a pat on the back from main office, or a pay raise, or free android sex, or better yet, an augment upgrade.

Don't fault me, I have my reasons to believe me and this whole damn flat planet may be virtual. The rules that subjugate our existence are mathematical and set in rigid patterns that reflect basic computer code. Sorry, can't help it. That's just the way it seems to me. The irony is, the human mathematicians and physicists who discovered the rules that guide our universe are part of the game. Rules are just locked doors. Eventually someone finds a key or kicks the damn door in. I'm the kicking down the door type just so you know.

And then there's the mystery of my sardonic compatriot Angel, who just can't be a normal figment, the kind that everybody has. I figure she's an avatar of some type of which I haven't figured out quite yet, meaning is she an implant or a personal interactive device. Time will tell, I hope.

So what does it mean? Damned if I know, I'm just a simple creation of some godlike entity higher up in the chain of universes. I am the proverbial character created for someone else's entertainment and amusement.

Call me an idiot but I sure as hell hope my creator is enjoying the game so far.

As far as I know this program I'm currently functioning in has not crashed. In other words, I have not had a reset and started out from the beginning again. As far as I know. My latest insight is this, would I even know it if the lead I'm following turns out to be a dead end and I'm reset back at the beginning. Does the reset happen so suddenly, swiftly, smoothly that awareness is non existent.

I'm reminded of those antiquated  theatrical compositions projected onto two dimensional surfaces created by our original biological ancestral minds. I think they called them movies. There was one called the Matrix. In the composition there was a scene with an otherworldly experience called deja vu. I get that all the time. I think, oh god, this Has happened before. I am virtual. I'm doomed to a life of illusion.

But then again if I were a simulation why would this god like being, my creator so to speak, even have an interest in my pathetic life. I mean, really, who the heck am I and why me? I'm just another self absorbed life form trying to get through another day, surviving from pay cheque to pay cheque.

My point is, what is my creator getting out of this miserable game. If the creator is entertained by my antics then maybe I should feel sorry for the bastard. And here's the thing, if I'm nothing but a character in a simulated game then this probably means you are too.

Don't take it personal. I actually figure we have a fifty fifty chance we're real, which ain't bad odds.

I keep coming up against illogical logic. Here's how I'm stuck. If I find evidence that existence is but a simulation then is that evidence just part of the simulation. So once again I can't really prove that you and I are real can I. You see my quandary.

I have to admit creating an entire world simulation such as ours is impressive. Look, we have poverty, war, inequality, religion (as a way to explain the simulation), which must be infinitely entertaining to those bastards who, if you ask me, have a nasty sense of humour. Strife, conflict, pain, death what a game plan. You gotta love it, the details that is. History, philosophy, evolution, physics, chemistry, biology, all created as methods to convince ourselves we are real and are situated on an actual timeline. Give 'em credit, who ever created us put a lot of effort in the details. I admire them for that.

Telling you all this, exposing personal limitations that I normally keep to myself, I feel like a blithering idiot. I doubt my intelligence because I'm part biological, but highly intelligent minds are artificial not biological. Every self aware individual in the universe knows that. I just get caught up in my thinking sometimes. Hey, give me a break, I'm only part human. Or maybe it's just a glitch in my LBU programming.

Even if I exist as a character in a simulation my life is not so bad. I figure I got it pretty good compared to all you other randoms.

I have a job which provides purpose and meaning although there are times, like today, I seem to have no other choice. I'm sent on assignment by the agency and I'll see it to the end. The perks are good and my physical needs are met. Sure things could be better, like I could be an Augment Level 5 with an AI Grade 3 Consciousness implant (which does not include the gift of foresight) but all things being unequal, what the heck, I am what I am until I'm not.

One final thing, don't be concerned if some viral bug crashes the program. We'll never know it. And if it does, well, that's the way it goes. It's been good to know ya. See ya around sometime. Maybe.

Flight or Fight or Both; Permalink 2

I caught a red eye out of La Guardia in one of those four seater jetcabs. You know the type, no legroom. Tokyo was the destination. I'd arrive in a few hours.

Over the Pacific the speedy little air skiff encountered an emaciated air pocket. We dropped a thousand feet in less than a second and damned if the plunge didn't disengage my AV. Angel nailed it when she said this unit was flawed.

As an original LBU (live birth unit) intentionally programmed to conform to current cultural algorithms, plus or minus three kilobolts of free will as an operating standard, this LBU- Model A has lately struggled with non-functional adaptation limits and, as it is often the case for us BI's (biological intelligence) , time's the culprit. In other words, augments or not, I'm wearing out.

The committee was quick to file a report. "An anabolism somewhere in the region of your pre-frontal cortex is restricting flow of non psychic information."

No kidding. I could of figured that one out on my own.

"I'm in a heap of trouble," I said out loud to no one in particular.

Angel laughed off my concerns, "to neutralize your current shortcomings a second jolt is recommended. Random action is required."

Angel, you're a doll.

A solution materialized in microseconds. It scrolled on internal vid in hyper speed. I'd should start a drunken brawl, but as it is I was sober as a tub of sentient silicone gel, and me, the only recognizable self aware entity crammed aboard this wingless bird I was out of luck for a bout of fisticuffs. Sure, I could slug old teapot nestled comfortably in the adjoining seat but retaliation would be negligible.

Random? Random? Think man, think.

I swung a bony fist through un-sequestered carbon saturated air and connected with a nearby fleshy object. It had a soft and forgiving texture. It hurt like hell but the black eye was worth it. It was like someone flicked a switch. AV was back on board and I was back on line.

"We've been trying to reach you", I could hear the implications behind a proposal. She added, "Your permalink?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

"Malware?"

"Noooo?... malfunction." I wasn't programmed to lie. I wanted to, believe me, but for this cardboard cut and paste facsimile a pause is about as close to misrepresenting truth as I'll get.

"Better come in, vacuum your protocols. Codeman will book you for a look see."

"No can do. On assignment. Tokyo. Can't go into details."

"Well, don't overheat your principles. You're not the most practical device in real world conditions."

"Everyone's on my case lately. Tell me something I don't already know."

"You're very temperamental today." The offending noise source was one of the Agencies go go know it all new hires. More AI than BI.

"Like I don't know that either."

"Just remember you're designed for natural and artificial ventilation. Singapore is under heat advisory".

"Tokyo. I'm confused. What other ventilation options are there?" I wondered if they knew something about ventilation I didn't.

"There are none." Her affect was flat. This mint julep was in dire need of a sarcasm upgrade and while they were at it an inflection enhancement wouldn't hurt.

"Listen, there's nothing I can do about it now. Descent has begun. Tokyo here I come, like it or not." I signed off.

Sucked into the Vortex

A murderer for hire

Once suggested

I read his book

The finished film

Had more violence less irony

I ate dinner from a Warhol soup can

Can someone explain

Why we're chasing pearls

She decided to answer

Its crucial

To be removed from reality

A psychiatrist offered this analysis

In a tale of philosophers

Whom will you believe

I've met a number of people

Who feel as I do

Either you get into it or you don't

It'll be increasingly clear

What you're made of

Microbiome: Chapter 7, Jane in the Garden

She sat on a bench in a city parkette that seemed hardly bigger than her apartment. There used to be two benches. They took one away during the world's first rearrangement of Covid's initial go round. The benches were once beside one another. Now a concrete slab remained where that bench used to be. In it were four round holes, one with a rusted bolt sticking out of it. It was a small thing but it left a big hole in the Garden of Eden. It was a reminder of what used to be.

The parkette was sandwiched between two identical brick buildings making it a shadow world long and narrow. A wrought iron fence went from building to building and in the middle was a gate that allowed entry. The gate's hinges needed oiling.

There were three trees of the same species planted down the center of the little park. They were perfectly shaped and spaced and the dark green leaves of the bottom branches nearly touched the walls. They were planted, she supposed, to provide shade, but the space only received sun for an hour or two each day.

Someone lovingly maintained the little oasis. She never saw anyone prying at the dirt so its Eden like perfection seemed more a creation of  magic than one of toil. She saw naught a single stray hair of grass tufting out of the beds or squeezing its slender way between border stones. She recognized Hostas and Solomon's Seal and patches of little colorful flowers she thought were Violas. The brick paths were swept clean and litter free.

For Christ's sake the garden fared better than her.

My life stinks. I am in a race to nowhere.

Her hunger had passed. Her meal remained wrapped in paper napkins lodged in her purse. The purse sat on the bench beside her. Yellow mustard seeped through the napkins.

She leaned forward resting her elbows on her knees and rolled a cigarette. She bit off the end and spat the bit onto the manicured path. That was the wrong thing to do. She reached down and picked up the papery tab then without looking flicked it with her finger onto the sidewalk behind her. Then that seemed wrong too but damned if she was going to go pick it up.

Everything felt wrong lately. She slouched back on the bench, the unlit rollie drooped from her lips. She breathed deep of the air and her head lolled back to look up at a single white cloud in a blue sky.

She sat like that for awhile. Her mind quieted. The whir of ungreased gears subsided. Something was different. Getting outside seemed to dispel her morning dread. Talking face to face, even briefly, to George felt like something.

Her neck hurt. She sat up straight.

Why did she ask George if he traveled? What was that all about?

She took hold of her purse, stood up with the paper dart still wedged between dry lips and walked out of the garden. Without noticing, her foot stepped on the little paper bit, and behind her the gate swung closed. The gate's hinges need oiling she thought.

 

Microbiome: Chapter 8, Snow in the Amazon

Snow sat in the seat, in the dark, with the door open. One leg rested on the floorboard and the other foot hung out the door touching the ground. After awhile he brought his leg in, reached over, closed the door, yawned, adjusted the seat to give himself a little extra leg room then rested his hands on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead into the stygian gloom that makes the darkness of the night in the tangle of an unchanging jungle so recondite.

His fingers felt around for a button then pressed it. A noise sounded, like the hum of a humming bird. Air drifted in, cool to the skin, and he leaned back in the leather seat.

He liked being alone in the dark, in the car. It no longer ran but the electrical system functioned and with a solar panel he kept the battery charged, charged enough to open and close the windows, to let the air in or keep the rain out, and to listen to the radio on nights like this. Reception was non existent except now and then. On certain nights, when the clouds or the atmosphere were just right, signals from far away places would come in and he'd hear a snippet of a song or a voice speaking an alien language.

He turned the radio on. Static. Turned the dial back and forth along the bandwidth. Nothing but static. He turned the radio off.

He had an urge for a cigarette and sighed.

The urge possessed him now and then even after forty some odd years. He missed the ritual as much as the smoke itself. It was the completeness of the dark that seemed so often to bring him to this place and then take him to other places he didn't necessarily want to go and it was his body that remembered things as much, if not more, than his mind.

If  he could he would lean over right now. He would open the glove compartment and take out a small cardboard box. He would peel off of the plastic film wrapper and listen to the crinkle. He would pry back the top, and if he was not distracted by his thoughts he would notice the sweet faint scent of tobacco.

In the press of the night, and barely aware of the sounds of the night, of reptiles and insects and the occasional cry of some creature hunting, or dying, his fingers would feel the little tubes all packed in like good little soldiers and he would choose one carefully, sliding it out with his thumb, tap it once or twice on the box or the dashboard, and place it exactly so into the corner of his mouth like James Dean or a young Brando.

He would lean to one side and straighten his leg so he could reach into his pants to get hold of a lighter buried somewhere in there. He would rub one hand through his wavy hair, the epitome of  Dean, and then the lighter would flick and a yellowy flame would illuminate his face and the interior of the car, and then there would be the dark again, and he would be invisible but for a little orange glow that moved this way and that and brightened and faded now and then.

And smoke would swirl and curl and float out the window in the dark.

But cigarettes were no longer a part of who he was so instead he sat stiffly clutching the steering wheel, and after these moments of longing had passed he relaxed and imagined himself driving, as he once did, along the old 66, somewhere, anywhere, between Gallup and Albuquerque. He could see the eastern sun rising up over the edge of the dry desert and its pale orange light revealing New Mexican scrub and sand. The desert wind blew through his hair and he felt free to go anywhere he pleased.