His face is a focal point, as are his hands and hips and feet.  Clothing upon his body doesn't truly fit him and it will never belong to him, he can never demonstrate self possession.  The most he can do is extend his hands in gestures akin to a hooker requesting payment for services rendered.  If some lesser female creature were seeking morning wood to screw and could get him into bed, she'd likely have only that to contend with because he's as wooden as they come - personality might be a bit wanting.  The only real issue exists in the fact that, like all his other kindred, he is anatomically deficient.  Forget what you think you know about emotions and abstract thought and language and the use of lighting.  He may stand in a window for weeks at a time, as though daring everyone to become voyeur.  Or maybe this is an entirely wrong way to look at it.  Maybe he's a preacher, a priest, a prophet of something physical.  He's standing in the windows of the Gap, he's standing in the aisle at JC Penny's, he's pontificating in Sears.  Don't you see the soap box is his height?  The fact of the matter is you can't see into his eyes in general because either his eyes don't exist, or they are looking into your own with cameras to ensure that you don't shoplift.

After all, in this day and age, no one can be trusted.

Let's face it, life is not what people often want it to be.  Morals are subjective, because the only absolutes are established by a majority.  Do you call this the moral majority?  It depends upon what religion or what religious sect you are sponsored by.  Where do you receive your guidance from?  I am honor-bound, oath-bound, loyal and good.  What sort of goodness do you contain?  I'd like to play an old game adapted from previous games.  It's based on the game Pin the Martyr to the Cross, which incidentally is playfully taken from the old childhood favorite Pin The Tail On The Donkey.  In my mind, I think we ought to get rapists and child molesters and play Shoot The Predator With A Nail Gun.  The object of this game is to keep the guilty individual alive as long as possible.  The loser of the game is the one who kills the target, makes his heart stop.  It's fine to blind or impair the person on the wall, just don't end the game.  When there are no more screams and when there is no more blood to be had, very little fun remains.

I wouldn't be surprised if, when mannequins are made with sentient thought, they come to the conclusion that playing this game with anyone from off the street would be fun.  I can hardly say I would blame sentience trapped in a body incapable of experiencing real sexual stimuli for being bitter about it.  What's life if you can't fuck?  This coming from me at a moment during which I've been abstinent for nearly 11 months should hardly be an epiphany.  I am, at times, nothing more than a display of the current out-of-fashion cotton materials a grad student might wear.

In giving such sentience, it will be a form of creation such as humanity has never as yet achieved.  Every step, one moment closer toward divinity.

And did you realize that in the bible is missing a few words?

In the world beginning, there was an end.

You might think this a cliche or utterly nonsensical statement, but really think about it.  For something to explode, something else must combust.  Combustion produces the release of heat and light, and as we know from Einstein and other physicists - energy and matter are inseparable.  They are one and the same.  Light possesses unmeasurably small particles of mass called photons, and all objects of mass possess a wave nature that can be calculated and detected if the proper instrumentation is available or built.  With the right device, you could get the wavelength of individual people, individual planets, individual galaxies.  The entire universe itself is a musical note, the plucking pulse of a frequency across guitar strings, violin threads, air in the length of a flute.

And what are those pigments that span the coloration of your bruise?  They are the broken pieces of petals that have spanned your circulation system, carrying precious oxygen to every cell that makes you whole.  The oxygen that gives you life, kills you.  The love that brightens your day, darkens your soul.  In the hottest moments your body perspires, coating you in salt and water.  With the sun beating down across your face, you want nothing more than to dive into the ocean.  It is instinct to return to the tissue from which the seeds of life sprung.  Sexual desire is just a thrust to reclaim that place from which you originated, and make something new.  It is a pulse, a derivative of something perpetuating through time.  Something so enigmatic that no word truly exists to explain it.  There are no images, there are no scents or describable sounds.  Perhaps it is nothing more akin to a word than a star is kin to a stellar yawn.

Now let's do a little exercise for the comfort of youth.  Imagine the ultimate parasitic entities.  Single molecules, be they proteins or nucleic acids, are the ultimate parasites of the multi molecular state.  Inside most of the cells of your body (save those carrying oxygen and the dead ones protecting your surfaces) are these very same types of molecules.  Proteins that are propagated by other proteins, DNA molecules and RNA molecules clamor for contact.  It's a veritable orgy.

Everything I see around me just reminds me there's more of you fuckers out there.

People who cannot appreciate the rain falling across their faces, the lightning that jumps across clouds as nervous impulses across the vast distances of synaptic clefts.  Maybe there's a chemical imbalance, or maybe I'm the chemical imbalance and you exist at equilibrium.  Equilibrium?  That equates death.  Nothing ever wants to enter equilibrium, not really.  At that point, there is no where left to go.  That'd be doom, stagnation, peril beyond absolute zero.  And weather is brittle, there really is no overall steady-state forecast, a rate of turnover for high-pressure and low-pressure systems.  The ability to predict weather decays as some function of an exponential.  That's something I never bothered to learn because when it comes to tracing fate and destiny I see about as much accuracy in the lines on my hand as I do in the fallen leaves I crush beneath my feet.  Those are my foot prints, yes, I walked there.  Do you understand that?  I stepped through that line, yes.  Those droplets are the beads of sweat from the exertion it took  to move through space.  Inertia is a lot more difficult to fight than you probably realize.  Most people live their lives as fixtures.

Like lamps hanging from the ceiling or toilet paper holders, conveniently placed to serve those who do not sit forever in one place, one state, one purpose.  You sit at a table, you sit at a bar, you're there for minutes or seconds or hours - and what you don't realize is that you basically never were anywhere else but there.  You're a stage prop.  This is your scene, this is the one meaning you've come to possess in life, and there will be no other.

I may be wooden from time to time, but you're a cardboard cutout, even less flesh than a crash test dummy.

When you take these sorts of perspectives, maybe people become less and less human and more like the machines and inanimate objects they so often say lack the attributes of life.  I wonder if I'm the only person who views the movie "Natural Born Killers" more as an updated version of a love story, than a absolute portrayal of violence in American society.  It's an updated image of Romeo and Juliet.  Whether or not it is worthy of Shakespeare is certainly open for debate, but I think it is as much a romance as aforementioned starcrossed lovers.  Why shouldn't we view the characters of the movie as similar to the fated hearts torn apart by the world around?  Just because characters in the film suffered from supposed modern abuse that we in our desire to idealize the past do not believe to be there.  I am always slightly frustrated and saddened by people who wish to believe that violence and abuse the exists in the present did not occur in the past.  It may not have been as visible is it is now, but I am fairly certain increased visibility doesn't make it more prevalent.

Now as to creation, there is the fear in humanity that once we have created something akin ourselves, we shall be replaced.  This dates back a long time and was quite accurately described by the novelist Isaac Asimov.  In tribute to Mary Shelley, he called this psychological phenomenon the Frankenstein Complex.  My mention of this is nothing new, numerous commentators have made note of Asimov and the mythological past associated with the author's observations.  Are they founded or are they simply counter-productive to what we might achieve as a species in the continual evolution of our knowledge and technology?  Some forms of ethics, morals and belief that we must be responsible in what we do suggest intrinsically that we perceive ourselves to be toying with the realms supposedly reserved for the divine.  There are those who invoke spiritual arguments against the continual learning.

There is a difference between pursuing knowledge and making irresponsible use of it.

There is a difference between having responsibility and knowing what to do with it, being responsible.

The argument that something ought not be sought simply due to human imperfection is a faulty one.  It is an irresponsible desire to censor and limit.  Such thoughts are the sort of thoughts that lead to decreased flexibility and adaptability.  Societies that do not retain the ability to evolve will inevitably eventually exhaust existence and move into extinction.  Evolution is real, adaptation is fabric, change is unavoidable.  No one has ever attained absolute zero, a state at which not movement occurs.  Even close, within fractions of units known as Kelvin, there remains motion.  Even death retains continual direction.  Energy flows from one point to another.

You breathe in, you breathe out.  If you hold your breath for long enough, you will pass out and begin to breathe again.  If you deny your body of any way to obtain air, you will cease to exist.

So when you see him standing the windows with the latest fashion trend, remember - your species created him.  You are his god, and if he learns to walk and talk and appreciate the warmth of cotton and wool - he is nothing less than you.  The fibers of recognition are what we like to use to separate others from ourselves.  As strangers or beings less than our elevated stature, they are usable as tools and nothing more.

Take the bite out of the apple, lift up the tome of fire, break the seal of the box of Pandora - know that you have done it.  It's all there, from the eyes underneath the mask to the coffin beneath the soil.  These are our tasks, these are our gifts, we make use of them even if they are our peril.  What else is there?

--deathforgets ~ copyright 2005--