Dear Humanity,
Like ice in the desert that idea dissolved into nothing. Absorbed by the heat and fire. Goodbye negative inconsequential. Yes, you can meditate with your eyes open. Closed very good, closed is good, most like closed. But you can open your eyes and stare at an object, through an object, beyond a point, encompassing the point and the entire universe, peripheral to the kitchen and the bookcase on the far wall. Or any idea at all. Like, I don’t want an idea, clear the room. Can we have the room? Folks, can we have the room for a moment. That’s a thing, left unsaid. Swear have to push the category, exit the genre. Don’t even know why we use words, like type, as a method of communication. There’s got to be a faster way. Dictation, I can dig you but yet to find ninja accuracy. Telepathy. Not necessarily between two humans although why not, between machine and mind. Computer captures thought, all of it, dimensions of, context, things seen left unnamed, don’t have the time-space nor conceptual space to deal with them. But you know they’re there. The capture worth living for.
Dear scientists, how do we communicate with such a machine. Typewriter, longhand notebooks, computer keyboards, battery then digital then phone voice-capture, but keys be our main machine. Obvious have to keep exploring outward, to our own point, beyond the usual thing. Can’t do proper, nor formal, nor academic. Follow the joy place, as any other thing worth dying for. Joy space known and explored. I’ve seen the effortless, where god speaks through us, where humanity speaks through me and you. When reading, you’ve seen the same. Explore universals. Who are we and what are doing? Since you know how, live from the first and stop fucking around. You fuck around with waylay thoughts too much. Thoughts waylay.
Nah, I’m good, they brush off me now. Not like the past. We were younger.
A middle-aged dude who doesn’t have sex as much can start preaching that Siddhartha shit. Sent from the court! Time to write poems beneath the bamboo. Among bamboo in the mountains with rampant Covid-19 bugaboo. Humans count the numbers. Makes sense, but also weird. We hive-map individual units. When they die for some named disease, we count them. Tabulate, attempt the cure, maniac survival mission. Heck the individual expert, the ER nurse we got the as-Heroes, this is what we do as species. We respond, digitally mapped, our hive hanging in space, we mine, harvest, waste, pray, sing songs about it. My goodness crazies! We map our sick and dying, identified on the microbial level, multi-colored computer renditions of the enemy, spinning three-dimensions. All we talk about. The news, the screens, our texts, our Zooms our FaceTime with pops, birthdays, business meetings, funerals. Lost bodies in hallway piles, refrigerated tractor trailers, Hart Island off Manhattan mass graves. You’ve seen the pictures. Many go unidentified inside urban jams. Why do we do this? Who are we and what are we doing? See immediately hear immediately know immediately.
People dying. Haven’t watched a soccer game in I-don’t-know. Poor Liverpool, their historic title story, first time in 30 years those guys, the history will never be about them. Fifty years from now in some pub in Merseyside you’ll look at the year on the wall and your story will be a certain kind. Even if with that three-pint tale lovingly all you talk about is the club and sing You’ll Never Walk Alone, the story will be about coronavirus. Poor everybody. Damn, our kids’ schools, their seasons. Damn, your kids. And your kids. And their kids. And people without kids and old people and my dad alone. Mom died, we started catching a groove looking at houses, and boom. Dad’s in isolation old and alone. I can’t visit him, he can’t see his grandchildren and his birthday’s tomorrow. Adam’s birthday is tomorrow. Zoom celebration. And yet, he’s up the road in Amherst. An easy story compared to millions. Becky, an ER doctor in Providence, went to New York to help. Dad right up the road. Poor everybody.
Poor the whole world. Poor economy. Poor presidential election year. Poor Democratic Convention. Poor China and their pig-eating bats what the fuck. Old friends connecting. People having phone conversations again. The return of the lowly phone. Poor dying. Poor relatives of the dead. Poor Humanity. What a spasmodic cluster-fuck. Do you know Spasmo Cluster? She’s dope. Dang, airlines, you fucked. Dang, retail. Dang, malls. Remember malls? Ever notice that the music’s too loud. Shake it off, Humanity, we can do this survival thing. Gaze upon the way we scream. All we talk about, whispers, daily communiques, screaming headlines. Mercy J. WTF. Man, no doubt. You see this thing?
Poor unemployed. If you’re a single mom with a two-year-old in New York no-really-seriously what are you supposed to do? Too many people live month to month up in this. Way to go America, way to go Corporatism. Wow, have we fucked up the ease of survival. We’re making it harder on ourselves, because some people hog all the wealth. Straight-up simple. Robots will have to labor, no question. People will paint! Whatever jacks them. Robots do the work and we remain calm. Mass survival down to a.
We unite for survival requirements. That’s what we’re doing. With everything we have. Like Hegel, believing purposeful storylines. Hone our skills cooperate united because species survival jeopardized. This is our Purpose. Our species purpose is to survive. No playing games. This our whattup. We whattup the survival game. At some point, you can see it, life will be in-our-face threatened. And we will act, marshal skills, gather tools. Some say we’re already there. Climate change, Greenland’s idea tweets, Antarctica’s ice sheets, glaciers of the mind. Pollution, toxic chemicals, nukes. Joy we some fucking freaks. To survive our one true mission don’t need to politicize, drool on ourselves denying unified. Take a look at the already.
Love Always,
Humbleplot
