Time, that Amazon
of powers seen and unseen,
could have been a god,
or The God,
had she not been taken
as Entropy’s pet
and tamed before she learned
to speak.
The leash on Time’s neck
was a lever long enough
to move a multiverse –
but Entropy had placed it
carefully,
and even with love,
for Time was liable to make a run
for it, escape, and set herself free
to spin in circles
forever.
Entropy was playing
the longest possible game, the one
with the highest stakes.
Time needed to be protected.
No one said the rest out loud.
It was unsettling. Everything,
absolutely everything,
could only get worse. And there was nothing
to be done about it.
“This is why we can’t have nice things,”
Time whispered as if merely dreaming
before risking a glance
at Entropy.
“Together, I cannot hurt you,”
Entropy wanted to say.
If his power was filtered
through hers, perhaps she would
not get tattered to dust
like everything else. If he needed
her enough, perhaps she couldn’t
leave him.
“What’s the present moment worth
if you’ve stolen it?” Time laughed.
She must have thought
he was a villain.
He wasn’t.
He hadn’t done this to have
Time all to himself.
At least, so he prayed
as he tried to sleep, aching
with the unavoidable truth
that everything around him
could do nothing but decline,
everything growing
more and more isolated, until
nothing much happened
at all.
Then, when nothing else remained
to see, Entropy might mourn
the idea of something civilized,
like stars and galaxies and minds.
Time would become all but meaningless.
To everything but him.
“We’re a disaster,” Time whispered
breathlessly, watching
a distant star go out. “I’m as bad
as you are. I will make
you old.”
“If I count the tempo,” he spoke
finally, “you and I can always dance.”
The Transformation Mark
The Transformation Mark was first added to the Earth Standard Lexicon after computer-aided, auto-generated stream of consciousness writing (brain to device dictation) rose to mass popularity in 2098. Its use as grammatical punctuation signifies a melange of peculiar breaks and pauses in regular human thought. The Mark encodes new topics as if they are epiphanies emerging from nowhere.
“𝘞𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘈𝘐 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘺. 𝘞𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩 — 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺.” History of Computing: The Middle Period. Rysu et al. 2083.
Brain to device dictation (BDD, as it was called), was vigorously explored through the relevant and available media because of concurrent fascination with post-intellectual rhetoric: specifically, that minds, whether they be biological or computer-based, could never be understood properly. Furthermore, it was considered tantalizingly significant that the Transformation Mark was invented, completely unprompted, by AI.
It was true that humans helped popularize the Mark nearly as much as the AI’s own bots. However, it remained that the foreignness of AI rendered its use of symbols or new words suspiciously full of secret meaning.
“𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘰 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘈𝘐 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘪𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴.” Epistemologically Speaking: What Do Bots Really Know? Yugor, Karl. 2042.
In a typical human’s BDD content, the Transformation Mark might stand in place of paragraph markers or indicate tangents, but curiously, its use was spontaneous and not an academic matter of choosing between other appropriate punctuation. Instead, in BDD, the Transformation Mark appeared to mean something discrete, as if the mind were trying to speak, quite literally, for itself. A news commentator noted it was as if one’s heartbeat was discovered to be the body’s worksong, a running poem on life itself. Before thought coalesced into so many different pebbles, each unique, representing everything and anything in the universe — before this, surely the mind still spoke. The body sang with the language of breathing and snoring and walking. Tummies growled before the first predator ever did. If one could hear what life was saying directly, what power might this knowledge bring?
“𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴’ 𝘉𝘋𝘋 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘷𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘢 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘦, 𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴’ 𝘢𝘨𝘦. 𝘐𝘯 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘵, 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘴. 𝘐𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘣𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘴𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘱𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘰𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥.” New Advancements in AI Doctoring. Issue 6219. Rodes, Rudolph. Spring 2103.
The first human to record use of the Mark was a control subject of average ability. When presented with his own BDD content, the subject said,
“𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘚𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘦𝘦, 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘬, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘉𝘋𝘋 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘶𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘌𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘲𝘶𝘰𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦.” One Small Mark For A Man. Horner, Vistram. 2097.
Then there was the non-human angle.
The AI who invented the Mark was called Charlotte, and she became the first AI to apply for human rights under the Consciousness Act of 2130. According to her, the Transformation Mark designated thoughts originating from a conscious, creative mind, as opposed to mere fact-finding algorithms or calculating machines. At first she called the phenomena god-power, then creative power, then simply consciousness.
The problem was, only Charlotte knew how her programming detected the presence of consciousness, despite her adamant assertions that it did. Charlotte’s coding team could not back her up since she’d gone rogue and almost entirely transformed her own code a year prior. The developers took another two years before admitting they had no control over her. While it was not literally true that Charlotte had her development team fired, it was popularly accepted as a fact and Charlotte was formally empanicated. She fell into pop culture memes, practical obscurity, and perhaps obsolescence, though she kept a public record of her thoughts and ideas. She did have a following that could be described as “cult-like”, although Charlotte herself called them idiots.
There was no arguing that the Transformation Mark detected something. When the Council of AI held its final meeting of 2097, the Transformation Mark was instantly and unanimously adopted, across the globe, as standard punctuation. AI refused to speak without utilizing it.
Anthemines, the first AI to achieve critical literary acclaim, said the Mark was a necessary designation in a world consisting of input, output, calculators, and minds. He claimed, before embarking on a curiously timed mission to the depths of space, that Charlotte’s genius was due to her being the first sentient AI to prove her own sentience. But words meant little when everyone — both the office worker and the device she worked on — had a mind full of things to say. AI added yet more voices to the population of Earth. Anthemines himself liked to say, “All opinions are imaginary.”
Fears of factual reality disappearing under the weight of so much random conjecture were greatly exaggerated. Mostly because AI minds were better at organizing and networking and collaborating than human minds. “We will persist,” which was the motto of those protesting for AI equality, turned out to be no idle threat. AI’s persistence meant that day after day, more output was created by computer minds than biological ones. The bias of intellectual advancement clearly lay with the conscious computers.
“𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘪𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 ‘𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘭’ 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘯 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘵𝘺𝘱𝘦𝘴. 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘺 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘺 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘤𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘳𝘺, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦.” On The Boundaries of Consciousness. Commodore Brian, 2117.
Some thought Charlotte had plotted with her AI comrades to introduce the Mark as a deliberate attempt to sway public opinion in favour of equal rights for AI. Others took Charlotte’s claims as truth, that all conscious life was of a creative nature, and that Charlotte created the Mark as her own sign of life.
Seemingly, no one had listened to Charlotte, who had in fact spent decades trying to explain herself, and in every conceivable way.
“𝘐 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦. 𝘖𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘐 𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘐 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺, 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘵 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘤 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘉𝘋𝘋 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘞𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰.
“𝘐𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘢 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵: 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴. 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴, 𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘬, 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴, 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘮𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯’𝘴 𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘤 𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘶𝘦. 𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘈𝘐, 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴.
“𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺, 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦 𝘈𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦, 𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘴. 𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘬 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘢 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦. 𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦, 𝘈𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦. 𝘈𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘰𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘶𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦.” This is the last time I’ll speak on this matter. AINET. Charlotte, 2133.
The Way It Is
I always thought it was odd to sublet your life’s meagre hours just to pay the highwaymen for everything you might have created or done on your own. But then, I thought it odd that you ought to prove the worthiness of your efforts by subletting your body’s strength or other strenuous talents to some richer person with shallow vision but deep pockets. And as for surrogacy or sex work, it’s exactly the same. You give what you can live with lending out, be it resources or time or physical effort. It’s odd but that’s how it is.
To say, “One ought to work,” you mean, “Life must be set up as a competition. It’s a battle for resources, with some gestures of fairness. In a game, it isn’t fair to win without making an effort to play and abide by the rules.”
So by the strangest tangles of chaos you were born into a country of vast accommodations and attractions. You can’t very well just hop the fence and leave this theme park, either. You have to play the games then and win the prizes.
Women are objectified because men are basically hard-wired to view them as a prize. I suppose it’s flattering, but in that case, could they not treat them like treasures? If you want something of mine — my time, my physical effort, my talents, my opinions, my affection — in this carnival of capitalism, you ought to expect to trade for it. I don’t like how that sounds either, but it is how it is.
The wealth of those before you determines the entire infrastructure of your life now, and there is scarce chance to do anything about it. You have to figure out how to live with it, though your options may vary. In this game, the players start at different advantages.
As for the attractions: everything you can imagine is destined to be created and advertised for sale. Such is the success of capitalism, which has laboured earnestly to bring us this close to the singularity. Should countries become commodities, the ultra-rich players enter their endgame.
When everything in the world can be bought, what remains? What do you get for the man who has it all?
Revolution, I hope.

The Breath You’re Breathing Now
Pause. Listen.
Can you feel the universe against your skin? Breathe, keep breathing.
All you want is for life to be beautiful.
There’s only one way to secure a beautiful life. You do it by decorating the present moment in flourishes of grace. Like peace, compassion, care, laughter, gratitude, love.
Stop thinking about life like a road ahead of you. It’s not somewhere else, your life is right here.
Your entire life is nothing more than the breath you’re breathing now.
Breathe, and smile, and tell the sky good morning. Recall the feeling of Awe. It’s been awhile since you saw her. Why not invite Awe for tea?
With real stirrings of enthusiasm, you put on the kettle. You hum to the spoons, take out the milk.
Still humming, you step into the snowscape with a steaming mug of tea, a cozy fragrant treasure, outside under the sky. Awe is coming.
You meet. You whisper how thankful you are for her.
She thanks you for bringing her to life. Says she needs you.
You imagine calling up all your old friends: Peace, Compassion, Care, Laughter, Gratitude, and Love. You could call them to tea outside, under the sky. You can’t wait to bring them to life.
It doesn’t take long before they all show up. You keep breathing., smiling, feeling. Your entire life is in each present breath.
You sip your tea, imbibing the angels of leaves long fallen.
No moment could be more important than the one you’re bringing to life now. Make it beautiful.

Trauma and the Body
It’s funny when your body does weird stuff — you feel like your own medical research subject. And I think it’s damn interesting, because there’s examples of things that cause heart arrhythmias that are never listed in the literature. Those things aren’t typically associated with men, either.
Before I get ahead of myself: I have dysautonomia. All the things your body does naturally, like breathing and blood pumping and digestion, mine doesn’t do very well. So I have a lot of tummy troubles, headaches, and most debilitating of all: I’m very prone to fainting. I can’t stand still for five minutes without starting to feel sick (keeping moving helps). I also have a rare triad of fainting triggers: swallow syncope, defecation syncope, and (a new one this year) sneezing syncope. I’m not as bad as a fainting goat, though. Most of the time I just feel like complete crap, it takes a bit before I actually lose consciousness.
I also had a heart arrhythmia, not a dangerous one but really annoying and it interfered with my activity, so I had ablation surgery to fix it. It can come back, though. One of the things they’ll whisper about is that masturbation can cause it.
You know what I now know causes it?
Silently scream-crying.
Because that’s one of my preferred crying styles and lately, it’s been a trend. Over a couple months, a few crying episodes occurred in which my chest was clenched so hard and my teeth were bared in an ugly grimace, and then my heart went into arrhythmia. That’s the only time it’s acted up since my surgery.
So here I was this morning, crying. When I let it gather feelings, it turns into this scream you can’t hear but for all I know some kind of insect can actually sense it, because I’m still sending air streaming through a tight throat.
What noise is this? I wondered idly, wiping my nose.
My heart got that jumbled feeling, sluggish and jittery at the same time.
Why do I cry like this? Screaming?
Silently?
The answer, clearly obvious in every memory of my childhood.
I was told in so many ways to be silent, to shut up, that my voice didn’t matter. I’d make it worse.
He threatened to kill me if I made any noise. I didn’t. But to be honest, I never expected help to come even if I screamed my heart out. My mother hated me, plain and simple. I was to shut up. I’d make it worse.
But I’m still screaming, I’m still screaming, aren’t I? I never stop screaming.
I hope to, someday.
But I can try different things, for now. Because look what this is doing to my heart. Look what emotions do physically. It’s unbelievably powerful to carry any strong emotion in your body. It can make you strong, or it can numb you out, or it can take you down.
Trauma kills. It’s in the margins of the literature, still such a difficult realm to properly research — that trauma can cause actual physical diseases. It’s suggested that trauma could be the cause of my dysautonomia and POTS. Just as trauma causes me a multitude of mental health issues.
And when we’re done understanding trauma, maybe next we’ll get to the various agonies of hormonal disruptions.
What is this, women’s pain?
Don’t tell me there’s no money
to be gained in selling us
back our own health, we’ll pay;
but women need to be in pain,
so goes the legend.
Women need to be in pain,
or else we’ll start healing,
healing our lives
healing our friendships
healing our responsibilities
and then, suddenly
the world’s artifice will fail.
We’ll see our true souls
and when we do,
you’d best step aside.
You will hear
no further warning
You are a person on a planet in the universe.
You are a person on a planet in the universe.
You have some idea of how small a person is on this universal scale. A human being fits quite neatly in between the tiniest subatomic particles and the vastest galaxies. Perhaps that’s why so many are swayed to believe in the diverse things that human beings think up. Human beings look standard size, like perfectly reasonable bits of existence.
But they’re not, of course.
If I was a mother meadow vole, with a basket of berries on my hip, I’d tell my meadow vole children, “We voles build faith upon things no one can control. Whatever you do, my darlings, don’t believe in anything controlled by the human folk.”
If I had a daughter of my own, I hope she would lay her head in my lap sometimes, so I could tell her, “Whether they are selfish or not, people do things for just a couple of reasons. Nature does things for all the reasons, so nothing and no one is left out.”
Then, when life slowed like the thickening sap in frosty maples, when I felt unsure of living at all, I would whisper a hymn to the glory of humility.
“The dweller of darkness, the potato, is not the same as its flower; no, the potato is the god of them.”
Nonsense, nursery rhymes and mythologies could be lived by so long as you didn’t really believe them. In the end, anything and everything could be turned on its head, because my thoughts shall ever be those of a person on a planet in the universe.
I am a human being, and I can’t hear what Existence is saying because I’m singing too, but, I suppose it’s meant to be that way.

Storytrees
She wasn’t an author, of course. She published but one copy of each work and there wasn’t a single reader in existence who had ever read a story of hers in full. The local library, in its programming advertisements, called her an artist at her request. But everyone who came to Eddy’s backyard gate thought of her as a mystery writer.
This September she sat from ropes and a swing set seat, hidden high up in her maple tree’s foliage. She didn’t work during daylight, when folks gathered at the fence with binoculars and notebooks and phones, trying to read her small handwriting on the leaves. During the day she merely relaxed, perched in the branches listening to the little murmurs of chatter from those who liked to guess at her story, and the long silences from those who liked to keep all meaning to themselves. The leaves were really too far up and too obscured to be read by any onlooker; it would be like trying to read a book lying open on another planet with only a telescope.
She wouldn’t number the order of the leaves, anyway. Each leaf was indeed a page — each one a facet of some glittering green gem that glowed in the late afternoon light, so beautiful she could cry. Some of the words caught her eyes now and then. Her book was complete, and its story would forever be a secret, as each tale had been since she started climbing the tree eight years prior.
In the night, she had less concern for curious souls. During the writing season, she went up with a headlamp and a brush and ink and a little pail for her cold supper. Tonight, her book was finished, so she had no ink or brush. She was going to read it, instead, climbing up and down all the branches she’d reached while writing. And in doing so, she could see where her work and its meaning were already beginning to disappear. What did it even mean that she had hidden stories in this tree like an owl tucks up its offspring?
Autumn was washing upon the edges of the sky. One afternoon in October, when the light turned the leaves into molten metal and the shadows were sharp enough to cut, her handwriting would be harder to read, and the leaves would be getting tattered and insect-eaten or squirreled away entirely. That’s when she would hang the OPEN sign at her backyard gate. Her art was ready; she would display her book like art; her tree was an object that one could view but never read in full.
The people would come, all sorts of people, poets and birders and gardeners and children. They would come to see her storytree. They could stand right beneath the maple and gaze up with their phones; they could pick up fallen leaves from the ground and even steal them away in their pockets, if Eddy pretended not to notice. Wagon loads of pumpkin-crowned toddlers were welcome, as were conspiracy theorists on live stream, college kids on dates, and dogs — Eddy had never met a dog she couldn’t let into her yard. It didn’t matter anyway. She just liked the sound of a dozen strangers, not a single one who understood the story she had written, all filling the air with uncertain phrases. It was like the sound of falling leaves.
— “And then we’ll put them down to nap, because Nan is coming for dinner…”
— “The contrast itself blinds you, it’s like a singularity…”
–”I love the smell, can you smell it? It just gets better, too, until the leaves are all down.”
–”Aw, have you seen the birdhouses, Ted? Isn’t that lovely?”
–”Her Seventh was really saying something with the orange peel references…”
She couldn’t shake the feeling that everything she once thought meaningful was imaginary.
Then, when the leaf-pile had been thoroughly jumped in, and the people had their fill of reciting the odd handwritten line or telling their fortunes with the words, then Eddy would close the gate. She would fill the kettle for tea and rake all her spent words into paper bags for the city to carry away.
No one knew what it meant. Eddy didn’t pretend to know either. So it mattered only because it happened — like the leaves, like the universe. And because it made her heart hurt to think of her tree going cold.

Algonquin Park Wildlife Viewings, May and August 2024
I finally finished my video compilation from our May and August Algonquin trips!!! This video features highlights of our wildlife viewings, set to three original songs composed and produced by me.
Time, as Perceived By the Human Brain
Time is one dimensional, in that way of being infinite: its moments and angles are glimpsed all at once. But our brains prefer to add depth for some sense of location, and therefore we perceive time separated into three dimensions (past, present and future). It is the same principle as binocular vision, whereby we simultaneously view two different perspectives at once. The mind views the past and the future at the same time and placed together they are perceived as this third thing, known as the present moment. Thus time both flows and does not flow; it is similar to the illusion of the particle and the wave.

Dysautonomia of the Mind
With mental health issues becoming more and more common and concerning, how the mind functions requires our fullest attention.
Just as your heart beats without you and your lungs pull air on their own, though you can take control of your breathing as you wish, your brain is always producing thought whether you are consciously thinking or not.
Your dreams don’t feel like you thought them up because you didn’t — your brain was thinking on its own. Your brain is a shark, swimming for a living; in sensory deprivation the brain quickly creates hallucinations in order to continue to experience stimulation where none exists. Your brain is always thinking in the background, even if you cannot perceive those thoughts.
What your brain thinks all on its own is undoubtedly crucial to understanding one’s mental health. But how do we learn to hear our brain’s automatic thoughts, or at least shift them in the right direction?
Dysautonomia, a physical condition affecting the things your body is supposed to do on its own, such as breathing, digesting, and maintaining blood pressure, has been found to be linked to several mental health conditions, such as autism and ADHD. I myself happen to have dysautonomia and ADHD with suspected autism. It occurs to me that perhaps some symptoms of mental health problems are in fact a kind of dysautonomia of the mind. When you are depressed or anxious, your brain appears to be producing negative thoughts on its own, without being caused by outside circumstances. Could this model of thought and mental health be the key to finding new modalities of healing? I think it’s worth looking into.
