Dear Diary
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Foundational epochs cannot always articulate themselves in a modern vernacular, and so lack a directly mappable, functional expressiveness, a portrait of sentience both hobbled and elevated by its imprint in the snows of human knowledge, unavalanchable. But noisome belches from abyss of the forgotten, the turbulent eddy of everything we are losing with the uncatalogueable procession of once-upon-an-event-horizon. Inside the well, all manner of life thrives, but here outside, the ending weeps. So I take pages ripped from my own history, sad and inconsequential as their faux-insights illustrate, and repackage their contents for the Post-Postmodern Humanist Era of New Transcendentalism (P-PHENT, pronounced with a flatulent razz of the lips into a scoffing half-laugh ending in a surly and dismissive grunt. Translingual and pre-verbal, fingers crossed that we’ll be able to get there, to go all the way back to the beginning to see how we started it. And what might we change? A little less famine, rape and poverty? But that’s really just working on ourselves as a species, refining the edges, gilding the lily. What about oceanographical alterations, allowing more energy to vent or more to penetrate the waters and usher in an epoch of aquatic sapience, so much more space to ruin and contaminate before having the guts to move up onto land, which is mostly just desert and some sparse tropical vegetation. And if the eggs are still shaped like Earths, may the gills find a way to pump in an air sac, not just to cushion the embryo from the harsh sway of the currents, but to foreshadow their ultimate adventure into space, as formatted patterns of life, jostling through quantum states of apprehensive electrons, almost sure they’re going to get seen if they just grab on to the next photon that happens by… and before you know it, you’re a dark cancer spot on an observation plate. And you betrayed your entire framework. Your job was to stay hidden.
Hands off. We have a job to do. Resurrect the papyrus ghosts from before the justification of the internet, and find out if the world back then also had carbon-based gems, into which to etch and fuse the lot of functions of human existence.
She say she feel alone all the time, I’m similar
I meet her in my dreams, on the moon, I visit her
Every night I text her, “I wanna solve the world, I think I need your help”You’re here now
You have to help me
You have to help me
I need you — you have to help me— Childish Gambino, III. Life: The Biggest Troll [Andrew Auernheimer]
Dear Digital Diary, may I present to you, in altered form, altered vantage and altered mind, the combinix-fold homuncular story of a man and his boy. Carry on, Eggbert, Humphrey Dumphrey has removed his monocle to exhort to the lunchroom of insolent tweenagers flapping limbs and joints eagerly against various-sized screens all whispering of digital freedom and equality, where you are the Queen of the Kingdom of You. Start there, and work your way down. Just ask Farcebook and its harsh lies about humanity, right to its face, every one of them conjured by the android mechanoid freakazoid Gadzookserbird, a demented flightless kiwi pecked off the list of Sesame’s back streets, past the land of the trash people into the true ghettos of troglodytes denied access to fire, forced to scrabble their way onto land in order to worship the sun more closely and helioverse tropes and quavers into something more pliable and fungible with nails of rice cracker and wild flopping ears of licorice. But sometimes a pipe is not a confection for the senses, flicking your chin at death, at least long enough to laugh for the duration of a cognac, and then let the medics come with their stretchers, but truth is, here in the bogmire of ostracization, they only arrive for the dead and the cheer it brings them to toss bodies into unmarked graves.
— Oh, the humanity! You cry, thinking of the trillions of consciousnesses evaporated into the hot air of summer and crystallized into flight as fleeting snowflakes in the frigid pall of winter, now lost for eternity; for it is right around then that we solve time. And collapse the wave function of simulations in on one another to send a message back past the stars, past the galaxies, past black holes and supernova, past the points of spacetime until that moment when something is first communicated. “Baby’s Best Guess about the Meaning of Causality.” Plop it in a scrapbook somewhere, hewn from the fiber of mighty trees, or save it on diskette, upload it to the cloud, think it aloud, reconstruct and reprint its essence, write it down, tell a friend, have an emotional response, or just try real hard to remember it.
The elastic is about ready to snap.
