You, Robot

Frustrated with the lukewarm affections and tidal passion of the majority of my acquaintances, I find myself spending-- happily-- more and more time alone. That way I'm not the only one putting forth effort, I'm not the only one who cares, I don't wait for a question about me, I don't find myself feeling silly for being obvious in my attentions. Well. All of those things are still true, but it's safely by default. On the other hand, that's no way to grow as a person; we need a community for accountability, and even the greatest of hermits and wandering ascetics reached a high level of consciousness before absconding with their truths. (If only as a point of reference in their memory, they still need community for their sublimation to mean anything.)

Alan Turing once defined artificial intelligence as the point at which there is no difference between the conversation of the machine and an intelligent person. Circular definitions aside, it sounds like the perfect solution! My robot friend stimulates my thoughts at the exact moment I need it to, acts as a sounding board and listens to my ideas. After all, it's not that different from the imaginary alien I used to talk to as a way of explaining my dreams (try it: when you're forced to painstakingly explain the literal meaning of every part of your weirdest dream, the latent meaning's often quite obvious). I already had Edward Scissorhands in the top three of my If-They-Were-Real-They'd-Be-My-Best-Friend list. This is the next logical step.

So I'm walking along late at night, maybe morning, talking to my imaginary robot friend. The conversation is pretty interesting, and he carries on the very rational side of the conversation in an uncreatively perfect imitation of C3PO. He follows alongside me, silently on one wheel just like that Jetsons maid, while we talk about whether or not it's a good idea to be out so late and how we'll get back in the house without a key. Seems he and I both forgot about the new garage door, the one that doesn't have my regular entry method-- a pet door-- installed yet.

It's an annoying conversation because he understands fear but not apprehension. He's never been attacked, snuck up on, had to fight anyone off, or even been surprised.

"I guess I just have a tarnished idea of society," I explain. "You probably will at some point too. If you're lucky it will come and go."

He asks why I have that idea and he doesn't; we don't know each other that well yet.

"Uhh. I mean, I think it's just part of life. Ever since Eve took that first bite and the white of the apple started browning around the edges." I pause to see if he's impressed.

"What's browning?"

And I can't explain brown. He doesn't relate to anything that explains or is explained by brown. Soil, stuffed animals, plants, skin, decay, poop. His circuit boards are green, all the metals and lights fill the rest of the spectrum, but no brown. Not a brown to be found.

I'm fascinated, not a surprise considering how much I like Richard Rodriguez, but never expected to find anyone interested enough to talk about this idea! This is awesome! Incredible! I go on and on about things he doesn't understand, how he doesn't understand them, why or why not he understands things. I check to see if he's bored.



I'm not so much dismayed that I don't have the sense to know he can't be bored. It's more by the fact that he never returns the favor of wondering if I'm bored.

Barbarians at the gate

Once I read that people who sleep on their backs have nothing to hide. I only know a few people who can sleep on their backs and they are at once the most honest people I can think of as well as the most genuine. For those people that mentality seems to come naturally, and I don't know if it's because they truly never learned or practiced otherwise or because they have practiced their sincerity so hard over such a time that they now render it effortlessly.

With sports they say that no one person is so lucky that the game comes easily to them, and that even the greatest talent is tempered by years of hard work. On the same note, well-applied diligence seems to make up for a lack of natural proclivities. For some reason I never thought of this angle when I wished I were more straight-forward. I always assumed that was a kind of natural capacity, whereas the self-conscious irony that is so popular today (and that I seem to have cultivated, with or without that intention) was something I imagined as a sharply-honed skill or defensive tactic. As cutting as it may seem, the bounces-off-of-me-and-sticks-to-you mentality still leaves you with a rubber knife. What's more, the truth is that with all the time spent re-seaming and polishing that shield to be stronger, and with all the effort of carrying it around, and with all the thought that goes into rationalizing your reasons for holding onto it, everyone that bears that burden just stumbles a little heavier. If you think about it, it's easier to hold higher ground, where there are fewer attacks in the first place. What now, smart ass?

Sometimes I think that if I just wore myself out enough I could sleep in any position, so really I just need to jog around all day on an hour of sleep and I'll be sure to pass out on my back. But of course that never happens; I just bellyflop into bed and never move from that position. Obviously I'm doing the wrong kind of work, I'm practicing Chinese to be a better pianist or I'm doing yoga to learn about gardening. I'm not sure exactly what my new exercises will entail but I'm sure they'll leave me sore and exhausted, but hopefully lighter and brighter.