I Want to be a Machine

I want to be a Machine

time running

00:00

On off, on off…

I entered the periphery between hemispheres in the kaleidoscope of memory. On a flight to nowhere. A video soul caught in a synapse. I guess I was synthesized. Perhaps a state of asomatognosia.

Impressive word, I believe it describes a condition leaving the sufferer with no connection to the body (it occurs in the brains right hemisphere where the neurons meet or something like that). No awareness that the body they inhabit belongs to them. I’ll never know. I suppose it doesn’t matter.

I was on a journey to somewhere. On a flight?

When the tip of aircraft wing merged with a soapy blue substance called the sea, glistening and welcoming as it rushed toward me. I should have feared this moment. Prayed to the Lord for forgiveness for my mortal responsibilities, for the frivolities of my past. But I didn’t. It was strange as it occurred. You see, it happened as I glanced out the window.

Seriously this is how it was.

We become one. Orgasmic/Automatic. All of this and me. Seduced as if it was what I thought was life at rainbows end. A pot of gold. The buried treasure. A glittering prize in the wishing well. An urgent, surging and merging of all existence.

Trippy eh!

Time had stopped. Stopped had time. Maybe it was a flash back to another time; more than likely the acid that had chromed my mind back in the 80’s.The lysergic acid diethylamide, LSD

If there were a map to this place I would want it burnt. Wouldn’t want anyone to follow you. No sounds of ticking.

Bliss…

Just for a moment.

A glitch?

Sometimes I hear a constant humming. A wave form, forming. White noise inverting. Pure and sublime. A state of contemplative thought. A lucid scrambling. Cybernetic? I drifted in and out the memory of shattered gates, into psychedelic purging I reached out at reflections of my former self. Of bodies I knew and those, I want to know.

Bent and at the point of bending.

Surreal-e-state.

An angelic apparition appeared.

Smiling at the beauty. Shifting and oscillating….

The light warmed the space for a while. Flickering, strobing and lulling me. Had I entered a womb it would have made some sense. But I didn’t so I forged on connecting, disconnecting. It was all in a nanosecond It was all in a nanosecond. And it was all okay.Perhaps this was a tomb. Entombment.

Or a broadcast beaming from a GPS?

On, off, on

The silicone skin wrapped and intertwined, should I feel entrapped. Was I a walk-in, or a walk out? Who would know or why would it be of concern?

Had I transformed, and evolved into another species? Meta- morphosis-ed.

In the space below, the aircraft and bodies, under the liquid and debris of all that was left. The Polaroid’s of pornography, war and of loved ones- amidst holographic passports, identities, codes, encoding and the brief cases, laptops, and DVD’s sending out spectrums of light. There was a sucking sensation and I shifted. I shone my trusty pocket torch, through to the surface and the suns rays blinded, refracted momentarily until clarity formed. Reformed/ Deformed.

Suddenly from the deep a sense of eruption, was it volcanic, or more of the same. Tendrils of lava explored and navigated my body, peeling my outer layer/s; or something to that effect. I didn’t fight it. Hadn’t I already expired? I felt a tearing/ slicing; or was it a splicing.

It was beautiful. My descriptions only.

I saw myself, or pieces of me float by, like a jigsaw. Floating down the gutter in a torrential down pour. Twirling, stopping on occasion caught between the liquid and concrete. Heading toward the abyss.

Traces, remnants and an inkling that could propose I had been…

My eyes, detached as they were, my limbs contorted of flesh and bone and veins (or was that copper twine), my hair spiraled, illuminating and evanescent, melted into the machinery of this space. In the distance whir of all this an echo, or a voice. A choice.

Would you like coffee or tea?

Coffee, tea whatever…

I think that was what I said. Just don’t give me one those dried out muffins.

I’m sorry but I didn’t get that. Get what.

Yeah sure that would be nice.

The engines droned and all was still, once again.

And then I was sinking again amidst the ephemeral. The blue keyboards conducting an orchestra of bliss. In the ocean of sounds, vision, and memory. Combusting with elements of ambiance, of lulling, scaring and making mock.

Ha! Ha! Ha!

The screen spat words poetic and random, electric.

Fasten your seat belts.

Turbulence ahead!

I wondered as the darkness approached. As the moon smiled and reflected on the surface of the periphery. In exaggerated forms, laughing all the while undulating as its fullness broke into shimmers on the waters slippery surface.

Amongst the dead, the remains, and entanglement of meat and metal. Bodies resembling unfinished creatures. Assembling, dissembling innocent of gravity. The shiny spectrum of absolute essence pulsed ever so selectively in the whirlpool.

Micro worlds of connectionism. Memory and illusion, and strands of information colliding at hyper speed. I guess this was all imagined. Well, that was what the doctor said.

The gates are open now. At this interval, I dissolve and drift upwards. Canceled in time.

The ocean looks peaceful.

I drink my tea.

Ah!

Could it tell the moods and emotions of all existence?

Is life much like this? A transcending array of many patterns, or light spectrums. I pondered at that fixed moment that different aspects had occurred.

Are occurring are singing tunes of meaning.

Coffee or tea.

No thanks.

Sorry, I can’t hear you.

Ignorant shit!

No thanks, I’m okay.

Muffin?

What…

Muffin, would you like a muffin.

Yeah, put it on the tray.

Must be a cyborg?

Well, you never can tell anymore…

Behaviour patterns and the ‘look’. Never slept with a cyborg.

Never slept with a cyborg.

Could be interesting, I suppose. Humans are so full of little quirks, dysfunctions. If you were in the middle of the act, of procreating that is, with a cyborg, what about a malfunction?

Never mind just flick the switch.

On/Off

I philosophized the reality of states altered. Living in the continuous now; considering what this could present beyond darkness and light.

On. off . on off.

Splintered voices.

Illusory manifestations born out of light and hope and future, silent restraints bouncing without form or reason. Shadows that reverberate tensions and disillusion, misunderstandings and pretenses, and eloquence of words.

I want to be a machine.

I want to be a machine.

Who is that

Sorry, beep, beep, beep

Constant interruptions, disruptions, corruptions

Oh, where was I

Bits of information, a constellation of dendrites in a digital universe, clusters of love, lust and electronic haiku. Teasing abbreviations of mainframe psychology. Trapped in a permanent present, void of consciousness without memory. This is the language that speaks to me. I want to be a machine.

But then again, how can I not be a machine? Everything in existence needs a creator. I was created to serve my role as a human being in order to justify a life that is without meaning, or purpose. However, in order to justify my existence, I need a purpose on Earth. If a creator makes a machine that doesn’t have a purpose, what was the point of making that machine in the first place?

Am I making sense?

When people die, they are switched off and thrown out, just like a machine; taken out of operation, if you will. There is no afterlife, there is an eternal source of power running from a 240-volt electric socket in the so called ‘heaven’. This, however, is not the case, I am about to be damaged beyond repair.

On. Off. On. Off

There is a virus running through my systematic components, therefore, giving error messages to my creator. I will soon have no purpose on Earth and my model will become obsolete. My creator will establish a new and better form of ‘me’.

But as I sit here on this aircraft I wonder if I am destined to give my life to the ocean and sink to the bottom, without a trace.

Hey, wait a sec, machine’s don’t possess the human qualities of wondering…. Or do they?

What the hell happened then?

Pfff, I don’t know, hey look at that bird out the window, that’s pretty cool. I wonder if this bird has a purpose? Was it deliberately put there so I’d look at it?

Or was it put there the same reason I was put here: On Earth, on this aircraft, on this very seat I am so very comfortable sitting on.

Am I glitching?

I noticed out of the acute vision that I have in the corner of my eye, there was a mongoloid looking at me with a sick, yet surprised smile on his face. The competing thoughts of whether ‘Holy shit, this guy is going to kill me!’ and ‘Maybe he is going to offer me a boiled sweet’ went through my head.

Am I on rewind?

I was looking at this sick bastard right in the eye, and I don’t know why I did it but I kept looking directly in his green eyes that looked bloodshot like he’d been smoking the reefer, and then in the very middle of his pupil, I saw a glitch.

Looking very familiar, it was uncanny…

It was an error report that he was half way through sending to the creator. On this man’s briefcase, his creator’s name was Bill. As soon as this error report had finished sending he started shaking and malfunctioning like a mobile on vibrate.

HOLY SHIT!

He was a mobile phone on vibrate!

He was MY phone, and while I was thinking this, I heard a multitude of people yelling ‘answer your goddamn phone!!!’

The intercom went silent then, thought about its future.

As the aircraft turned on its axis and tumbled at great velocity. The machines creator created many more…

More than you’d ever need at that moment in time, anyways.

 

The exegesis

In trying to convey liminality and growing awareness in popular cultures, this depiction may/may not border at the edge. If the edge is where it sits. Airplane crashes seem to sink into subliminal zones, in a philosophical sense, the sudden risk of discontinuity, shock and the misfortune of being flesh and blood.

Although this represents a machine inside a machine, inside a machine…

Upon writing I was really drawing on a ‘real’ event that actually happened, well at least an essence of it, the rest is fiction. I agonised over bringing the real and surreal event together in a written form. And for the reader, I suppose, a sense of self-realisation.

That we are machines, really…

On a recent trip in an aircraft, at the window seat looking out at the sea, the plane tipped, suddenly I sensed for a moment an impending doom. But something happened as the wing of plane tipped I was sent into a surreal state when the surface of the ocean, the aircraft and me blurred into one. At no moment was I scared, the experience was sublime. Words are a feeble way to express it, it’s one those ‘I guess you had to be there’ moments.

How do you share these ideas and altered states, who knows? This is simply an attempt I wanted to convey in ‘I want to be a machine’, and I must add a song that has been looping in my head.

Could this be an encounter of the liminal kind?

A place of heterotopia…

I shared this work with others, for feedback. It was interesting how it was received or understood/misunderstood. Some who share my sense of what ‘cult’ is, received this in favour and commented on word usage/ abusage and a sense of the spaces in between our thought processors. And some thought it was rhythmic and beautiful (obviously my closer associates with like-minded brain patterns), who like to play with words.

Some were really annoyed with it and wondered who I was trying to impress. I took this as a critical analysis, and found woohoo they did have a point!. The risk was to just continue anyway since I am not a genre based thinker, rhizomatic and never fixed, I figured that this may be actually heading in the right direction, who knows.

My work is an experiment.

Anyways…

Who would read this sort of crap, who really cares? Maybe this is just another author who wants to subject a new world view. Or a reflection of it. In thinking about societal norms, cult texts, or writing like this may never be read until it is ‘popularised’. Then the paradigms shift. This is the realm of money, and matters of publication and onwards…

Not the authors.

Is the character a machine, is it asexual. Or does the suggestion of machinery become another masculinised version of story telling and the retelling of history? I don’t think so as the author is female and it may empower her as far as the ability to transform or morph into anything she wants.

I don’t think so as the author is female and it may empower her as far as the ability to transform or morph into anything she wants.

How do you write about a ‘future’ albeit that may never exist; and how does society relay the ‘realities’ with those ‘boundaries’ imposed.

As usual, it is always, as I see, problematic. Living in the now!

Hopefully, the reader will have been reminded of the unfixed souls/ human machines/ cyborgs, and the ‘old school’ meaning/s of these things. As this really is an experiment for me. At this moment who is not concerned with the technology, that creates, as we speak ‘our future’.

A sense of serious thought, and humour, maybe required.

This may simply be on overload of information; and a venting of it on my behalf; you see I really am a machine.

What happened then?

00:00

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *