Considerations of Being Human
“Soon, you see, we won't exist. We won't spend time on the things necessary to the Being of a Human.” I’m thinking New Orders’ Blue Monday, I’m thinking drinks tomorrow night at 7:30, I’m thinking I’m here for a reason. I’m thinking you are too…
“Empires fall, pistols draw,
it’s the wild west, there ain’t not law.”
Human range of Being to exist as the last measure that can vouch for our value. True value. Applying to jobs in 2034 you'll need to cut into your own finger to prove that you have blood, and can bleed, and that because of this, you're capable of reaching the outer bounds of Everything. You can tap into a place that rationale and logic fall short. You can be insane.
I see, hear often of people outsourcing their consciousness to false prophets. Chat GPT. Claude. Maybe this is the summoning of an ancient Sumerian Demon. Who's to say, for now..
"Write a eulogy for my Father."
You're giving feed back on a new version of ChatGPT.
Which response do you prefer? Responses may take a moment to load.
Here’s a simple, respectful eulogy for a father that you can read as-is or adjust to fit him better:
"Today, we gather to honor and remember my father.
He was many things in his life — a provider, a teacher, a protector, and, to those who knew him best, a steady presence you could rely on. He didn’t always speak loudly..."
Stop. You don't know how loud he spoke. Or how litte of a teacher's heart he had. He had this habit of expecting everyone to know what he knew, and when they didn't, he would becoming increasingly agitated. Try again.
"Today, we’re here to remember a father who was complicated, unpredictable, and very human. He was not a man who fit neatly into expectations. He could be secretive, often keeping people guessing about what he was really up to. Life with him was rarely simple, and trust didn’t always come easily."
Soon, you see, we won't exist. We won't spend time on the things necessary to the Being of a Human. Technology will write your vows. Sure, it'll be the product of millions of data points of vows, digital tentacles crossing language barriers with ease, it will read and synthesize the most beautiful words to ever exist. It will chew Shakespeare's words and throw them up for you, with bits of Keats sprinkled in. Yet they won't be yours. Your fiancé will get a sloppy reordering instead of a heart over-pouring. Our river will flow like molasses. The only enrichment that will be experienced is when you're met with the coin jingle sound of earned XP from giving your jacket to the Somalian Executive in town. He has one, a nicer one, is that a Cucinelli Shearling? It is! But he likes yours too. Let's offer it up, for I couldn't even write my father's eulogy, what's this jacket? And you smile while freezing to death. The pot of Good Boy Soup may just be enough to warm you up. It's at your apartment, if your roommate hasn't gotten it by now.
Here's how it starts. Olivia goes to bed earlier than I do. Much earlier than most. While I go to bed late. Much later than most. So there's this window of time where I'm left to roam throughout the house. Left to my own devices. Sometimes I'll creep around corners on the tips of my toes with the bright light of the hallway turned on in a manner that creates a silhouette. Reaching into my bag of characters and pulling out Count Orlok.
Eventually I tire myself out. One can get heavy eyelids with all the classic vampire imitation. As well, I'm reading Gaddis. You can imagine what this does to our already sleep deprived protagonist.
Laying in bed now and it's dark, the sound of the fan has been getting increasingly paranoid. It's beginning to scratch and move, it's Up To Something. But the moonlight trickles in. A beautiful scene. I have a hard rule of no phones here. Instead I just lay and watch and listen and write in my head. If something stings bad enough I'll break my no phone rule and pull it out to quickly type myself a text message that grabs the story. I used to scribble these into a notebook but the bedside lamp can be abrasive to a sleeper and I'm thinking I don't want to wake Olivia.
This continues until the shadows begin to stir. The dark spots on the wall get darker, they move and sway throughout. The treat the wall like a stage and they treat me like an observer of Njinsky! C'est le moment de briller!
Once I've had enough, I leave them alone. They are free to tango on the walls all night so long as I see no three dimensional figure.
Here's where it really starts.
I turn to my side and face Olivia. She likes to sleep on her back. Which I've heard is good. Though I still find this behavior psychopathic. But I turn on my side and watch her. Just watch. The moon shines enough to see the outlines of her face and something inside of me swells. A great crest. The tip of the wave folding over itself into a crash of All The Matters. I begin to swell with something as I look at her. And I mean the literal -something.- As I've not been able to define it. It starts behind my eyes, almost like the beginning of tears. It pulses down my face into my neck where it turns to towards the back, stopping at my spine. Once there, it erupts like a firework that then launces itself throughout my entire vertebre spreadling like poison in water. It consumes me.
Maybe this is simply Emotion and I'm just a Man and the mere experience of 'feeling' is enough to get noticed, and questioned, and persecuted under the hard knucking of Logic. There's a distinction though. This feeling isn't a response of imagining future Love, such as imagining Olivia holding our children, or anything of this. It's not based on a mental image.
It's veiled, and mystery, and its the color of a fog but feels like the soothing voices of angels landing on singed eardrums.
There's a Human aspect necessary to Being. It all matters and it all needs to be felt. I will not outsource my conscious, instead I'll grab on to it like a maddening bull and see if it wants to charge me towards the ocean or the mountains. Whether I smile or weep, atleast I did something.
With Love
Winston
The Dirty Saint
The Smudge on the Window
