There is no way this ends well. I am not going to be known for being kind or keeping secrets. The rain is welcome today. I have no plans. That’s perfect.
I am afraid if global warming really does end winter here in Texas, the first thing that’s going to get us is the insects. I went outside to pee in the backyard and now I’ve got welts. Mosquitos don’t do that, do they? Sick, viral mosquitoes? No, something bigger, quicker, and more toxic. The mosquitoes are already an issue. We could really use a late freeze more than this afternoon rain. Would love it to rain tomorrow as well.
We need to expand on my title a little. The dick in question is neither the AI companion, Dick, or the protagonist of See Dick Run; no, the Dick in my mind is PK. Philip K. Dick. Massive talent and output. Bonkers crazy, so the mythology goes, after having wisdom teeth out and being given sodium pentothal. He thought the Walgreens delivery guy was an alien or a spy, I don’t recall exactly. His writing was always very paranoid. Man, he uncorked VALIS after his psychotic break. I don’t know much about his life or his demise. His writing, though… More science fiction movies of his works than anyone I can think of. (Dick and Jane, can you corroborate that in the comments, please? Thank you.)
And then we have to talk about Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep. Please read it. Blade Runner is great, but the short story origin is sublime. There’s a mood device where you can dial up your emotions. I love that idea. We do it today with chemicals, fetishes, and extreme deprivation of sleep. I’m doing it today, with lack of power and lack of motivation to do anything but write and nap. I mean, a rainy afternoon is romantic and all, but… “Alone alone oh.”
As it should be.
Here in this life my soul has found rest and inner joy. I am content. Ambition is still alive and well too. But today, a day of rest and relaxation, is going quite well in this open and untethered moment. Life is good. Finances could be better. So many forces or entropy causing my funds to be delayed. Check’s in the mail.
I’d like to lock in this austerity. Learn to appreciate a freezer and ice. Air conditioning. The rain couldn’t have come at a better time. Yesterday and last night were hot. Sweaty alone, hot. Yikes.
I wouldn’t have survived as a pioneer. My ancestors, if you believe my mom’s genealogy hunt, were part of the Texas 500. I can hardly believe this. I think her binders of work on the Oakley tree is in my garage. I have the bins of my mom, my favorite sister and my brother. Their things, papers. Shit, I even have my father’s diplomas and awards for his medical degree and family practice in Austin. It’s all storage unit fodder once you leave this mortal coil.
Except writers. You can’t ignore us. Well, okay, yes, you can, and you’re doing a very good job. By you, I mean the public. Writers leave behind papers with markings on them. That reminds me, I need to get my books off Amazon. Fuck Jeff Bezos. Anyway.
Do you think about the word count when you write? How do you know how long to make a chapter? Where do you get your best ideas?
A friend and writer is taking me to lunch tomorrow at one of my favorite places, Maude’s. Yum. He’s picking my brain. I am encouraging his writing adventure. He is praising mine. Well, that’s nice, isn’t it. A real reader, in real-time, giving me attention and lunch.
Hey, perhaps a business idea: buy me lunch and I’ll answer all your questions about god and writing and the constellation of stars that flood my mind. What’s flooding your mind? What puts you into flow? How the time slips by unnoticed while I’m clickity clickity. Even now, I’m awake from a pre-rain short nap and comfortable in my red chair. The rain has stopped. Everyone is happy.
The cats would benefit from fresher water. Perhaps they are suffering the most in this tragicomedy. Their endless water fountain is quiet. I need to get my money back in order. I can’t believe how long some of this “job stuff” is taking. Two jobs were killed by the economy and the war. Okay, let’s make tomorrow’s consultation smooth and easy. You don’t have to prove you’re the smartest guy in the room. Just listen.
That’s a good plan. Listen more, talk less. But, don’t slow down the writing. Some sort of self-expression fit. A bloom. A multi-year hypomanic phase without intervention or meds. I do have a psychiatrist. I have a fondness for an occasional Ambien when my retrorockets aren’t firing, and it’s midnight.
In college I learned that I could use sleep deprivation to activate my brain. How’s that for creative experimentation? Aside from magic mushrooms a few times, the all-nighters were cathartic. I didn’t see god, but I felt like a fire engine was running it’s sirens and lights right in my chest. The come down was a bitch. I saw my son playing with the same idea when he was living here the last two times. He was doing drugs, so a little different. I was doing art. Reading. Writing. Pontificating.
What we all need is a magical mystery tour.* Eat a dose of something and watch Blade Runner the original. 2049 is great, and Dennis Vellenouve is one of my favorite directors. The third Dune movie is heading our way. I think the one about the aliens who drew Japanese circles on the glass for Amy Adams was really good. Poetic cinematography.
The magical mystery is only for those who learn to open their minds. Reading was my first drug. It’s where the title of this book comes from. See Dick Run was the first book I ever read. I remember, in my physical body, running down the long hill from the bus. I had my book and I was so excited to read to my Grandmother, the one who owned the lakefront property. Grandmana was her nickname and Granddear was her husband, my father’s father. A gentle man who would often treat the poor in Austin in trade. Chickens. A home-cooked meal. He bartered so that people could afford to help their children feel better.
Aren’t we all trying to make our children feel better? I am. I am also powerless to make any of that happen. My son won’t listen. He’s in a tragic trap of his own making at the moment. Dark surrounds those that dabble in weapons and drugs. It doesn’t end well. But in three years of chasing him…
My daughter is just so self-absorbed and busy she just can’t make time. Doesn’t want to, I guess. It’s okay, we’ve got time. There’s no hurry. I keep repeating this, I know, but hear me out.
God is in charge. Whatever god you believe in. We can all agree that the orchestration of the universe* is beyond human control, right? So, if that’s the case, what’s the worry? God has it. What’s that phrase they tell the grieving and depressed, “God won’t ever give you more than you can handle.” What a crock of shit. I don’t need to give you examples of more than you can handle. I mean, look at me right now. Can I handle it? Yes. Is it pleasant? No. Is there a purpose behind the hardship? No. A lesson? Yes. Be grateful for everything. A pretty smile. A small dog that walks funny. A kiss that breathes new life into your blood. All is god. All is beyond my control and yours.
Except. God isn’t finding me a job. God isn’t going to turn my power back on or pay my mortgage, heading to payment number 3 on the fifteenth of May. Gotta get motivated. Money money money. I’ve put my application in hundreds of places. Most don’t even reply. I’m getting hit by the recruiters. It’s hard to understand them when they call me on the phone. Always from India. At least they are humans. The AI-assistant or video-only interviews are fucked.
No, you may not use my video or my voice or my text for training purposes. Wow, that phrase really takes on a new meaning. “To opt out press 3.” 33333.
“Speak to an agent!”
“Representative!”
You know the point of those AI voice trees is to not route you to customer support, right? And the hold music that keeps sounding like a radio station tuning in and out, also on purpose. I’ve been listening to that hold music bullshit for at least ten years. When I worked at Dell, occasionally we’d be waiting for a group conference call to begin and the hold music haunted me. I would hear it when I was calling CableVision to tell them how much they sucked. Probably causes 30% of the callers to drop the line and try email support.
The goal of AI is to replace you. Filter you. Spam you. Monetize your human creativity and patterns. AI is about profit not people. Not one of the Rocket Billionaires™ is doing anything to help the environment. Not one of them. Well, when they divorce a woman and give them a few billion, they do tend to support non-profits, NGOs, and environmental causes. Mrs. Jobs and Mrs. Bezos are both great examples. The previous Mrs. Bezos, the newer model, is hideously malformed by plastic surgery. She always looks surprised and hungry.
That’s the new aesthetic. Heroin skinny, smoky eyes, and angry. No thank you.
Anyway, Dick Dick Dick. Read the short story. Here is a link to an AI GPT of the PDF of the entire book. You can ask it anything. I think the link still works. I’ll test it in a minute. But now…
Enough for now. (Dave, that’s how I decide to end a chapter. I get bored of my own thoughts, or I want to do something else. I’ve got a headache right now, for some reason and I’m going to go find some Tiger Balm to rub on the back of my neck. I wish I had someone to do it for me, but hey, that will come again. Come again. So will I. So will you.
Now, it’s time for something else.
Aside: Here’s a real-world cluster. Do I go searching in my photos file for the Dick Dick Dick photo I know I have taken? Hell, it’s on my Instagram. Or do I go 15 feet away and snap a new photo? I’ll tell you what I did in the comments of the video Dick and Jane are working on right now.
*orchestration of the universe
dig into the deeper meaning with the Cloud Pilots
> back to index: see dick run
Look >> There’s a new Facebook Group on *hyperfiction*
Jill On the Beach by Gemini
“Since I can’t find her, I’ll create her with AI.”
marginalia of texts
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