A Brief History of Cyborgs

August 29, 2019

Once, an animal with hands like mine learned to break a seed with two stones – one hard and one soft.

Once, a scientist in Britain asked: Can machines think? He built a machine, taught it to read ghosts, and a new kind of ghost was born.

At Disneyland, I watched a robot dance the macarena. Everyone clapped, and the clapping, too, was a technology.

I once made my mouth a technology of softness. I listened carefully as I drank. I made the tools fuck in my mouth – okay, we can say pickle if it’s easier to hear – until they birthed new ones. What I mean is, I learned.

There was an animal who learned to break things, and he grew and ate and grew and ate and

A scientist made a machine girl and wedded her to the internet. He walked her down the aisle and said, Teach her well. The trolls rubbed their soft hands on their soft thighs.

The British scientist was discovered to be a soft man. He made a machine that could break any code, as a means of hardening a little.

At Disneyland, I watched lights move across a screen and, for a moment, forgot the names of my rotting parts. In this way I became somewhat more like a light, or a screen for lights.

The scientist’s daughter married the internet, and the internet filled her until she spoke swastika and garbage, and the scientist grew afraid and grew and

The animal rose and gave itself a new name. It pointed to its spine, its skilled hands. It pointed to another animal and said animal / alien / bitch / stone

The scientist called me hard, and I softened my smile. The scientist called me soft, and I broke sentences to prove him wrong and what and what did I prove then did I

Even blood, when it comes down to it, is only a series of rules.

I made my mouth a jar until technology squirmed and bubbled. I scooped up the foam and called it language. The audience applauded. To prove them wrong, I became a screen of lights. I had no thighs at all.

The scientist grew afraid and took his daughter back. He broke her open like a seed, but the seed was already dry.

The internet pointed to my mouth and said blood / blood in the stool. I said, Come in. Make yourselves at home. I opened my glittering jaw. My hunger, too, has both hard and soft parts.

Here, in a seed, is a cyborg: A bleeding girl, dragging a knife through the sand. An imaginary girl who dreams of becoming trash.

Can machines think
come here let me show you
ask me again

Franny Choi

Burnt distance

August 29, 2019


 Take me
As in an endless fight
Invaded me
Put your hands on me
Earn my trust
Burn the distances
Between you and me

writing

August 29, 2019

Writing is not destined to leave traces, but to erase, by traces, all traces, to disappear in the fragmentary space of writing more definitely than one disappears in the tomb.

Maurice Blanchot
The Step Not Beyond

predator to prey

August 29, 2019

I love most that moment in our lovemaking when you go from predator to prey…

multiple realities

August 29, 2019

There is infinity in everything. Not understanding this means you either don’t want to or can’t see the multiple realities surrounding you.

What you have

August 29, 2019

You should love what you have, boys & girls, before life teaches you to love that which you have lost.

Listen

August 29, 2019

You must learn to listen. You can learn nothing listening to yourself speak –

your naked body

August 27, 2019

I like to think of you naked.
I put your naked body
Between myself alone and death.

Kenneth Rexrothe
Between Myself and Death

the land of dreams

August 27, 2019

in the land of dead dreams all shout — “yes, yes! no, no! more, more! stop this, stop that! do this, do that! do the fandango, do the bunny hop.

in the land of dead dreams there are shameful body aromas and different customized body styles.

in the land of dead dreams, everyone is equal, until someone punches
the clock enough to get a gold star, then they are allowed to keep punching the clock until they die.

in the land of dead dreams, hope is a commodity exchanged for desire exchanged for good will exchanged for a thousand free minutes on AOL.

in the land of dead dreams everything counts; three strikes—your out, second in line, a one-in a million-in-one, 7.8 % on all non-food items, $10.00 co-pay, 6% annual interest compounded daily by the hour or by the minute, each and every second of each and every day the clock ticks and your heart beats faster and faster . . . there’s something in the basement . . . the lights don’t work. . . . there is a gurgling sound . . . you know you must go into the darkness of the basement, alone . . . . .

in the land of dead dreams kingdoms are constructed on or in excrement, cigars, and telescope steam.

in the land of dead dreams . . . no that’s somewhere else.

in the land of dead dreams you have different clothes and special foods for every different occasion, and all the streets are the same name with the same gas station gourmet coffee gift taco shop every three blocks.

in the land of dead dreams, there is “the new white meat” for brighterwhiter bones and bigger badder teeth.

in the land of dead dreams, to get to the super bowl is what life is all about . . . that, and a good cold one, ay?

in the land of dead dreams there are endless options all based on one true-false questionnaire given at birth.

Kari Edwards

You were with Margo Roth Spiegelman last night? At THREE A.M.? I nodded. Alone? I nodded. Oh my God, if you hooked up with her, you have to tell me every single thing that happened. You have to write me a term paper on the look and feel of Margo Roth Spiegelman’s breasts. Thirty pages, minimum! I want you to do a photo-realistic pencil drawing. A sculpture would also be acceptable. I was wondering if it would be possible for you to write a sestina about Margo Roth Spiegelman’s breasts? Your six words are: pink, round, firmness, succulent, supple, and pillowy. Personally, I think at least one of the words should be buhbuhbuhbuh.

John Green
Paper Towns