Across the front windows is your map.
The transport grid displays the colonies, new and old and their
movement. Your map shows activity congregations and sorts it into
data. The gray lines remind me of artwork. They resemble Cubist
nature works but not by concept. The faded rust coloured dots that
pinpoint location pulse light, like heartbeats and have always
represented human quality to me.
Occasional blue lines flash on the
grid and move like small trains from from one red dot to the next. I
admire your map and call it your spectacular masterpiece for
humanity. If you never create anything again in your lifetime that
would be just fine.
I walk past the kitchen island with my
small cup of coffee cup balancing the saucer underneath and brush
your shoulders. I squeeze myself through what remains of the space
between the back of the chair and the counter top.
“It's nice to have you home once and
a while,” I casually tease you finally sitting in my chair.
You raise your brow and glance over
the top of your glasses with an amused look. We both bust out
laughing. A fun jab at a familiar button. A benign flash of prowess.
I believe you may have fallen in love with me for that reason in the
first place.
“The tigers seem content here,” I
tell you. “You could spend more time with them,” I
continue. You nod yes knowing full-well that increased time
with our beautiful and rare survivors is not likely. We barely have
have time for each other. Time moves quickly.
At the table I open our LipheGraph.
The screen displays a blue and white bar graph chart. I take mental
note of our time fluctuation patterns during Neptunian April. These
weeks seems to have a deep gouge in compression which equals a loss
of values. I sigh quietly and think of time lost with you and steal a
glance at your face. I worry briefly about time loss in general and
decide not to bring the subject up over breakfast. I shut the
application off and set the Cadpod on the table. I reach over and
rest my hand on top of yours. Your hands still look so soft and
young. It amazes me how you stay so youthful considering the amount
of work you take on. Your hair neatly grayed at the temples,
symmetrically as if it obeyed you; as if you control anatomical
physics.
Field security 3057 sweeps over the
top of our tree line. The little drones are quick moving and
soundless. The drone's reflective glass white eyes hover passed the
window pausing only for a partial second. I stick out my tongue at
the robot and it takes off in shot.
“Security clearance three, zero,
five seven,” states our house.
“Nice to know.” I answer it. “Who
would be here?” I ask you, waiving my hands.
You answer with a shrug.
“No idea,” you reply while
finishing the last of your coffee. “How do you want to spend time
today?”
“I hadn't thought about it -we could
just stay home?”
“We visit Earth I think. You know,
take a train or something,”you suggest. You love trains.
“The trains are fun.” I say.
I plunge into
the shower and turn on the music and the water. Music is life blood
for the soul. Rhythm and sound travel through the mind, busts up
mental boxes and re-sorts the constant shifts of silt in the brain.
Sometimes I think with all the enabled hyper-technology that evolves
faster than its warded population, a primal musical body movement
creates reconnection. I grasp the imaginary reins of rhythmic groove
and wrap them tightly around my wrists. Genetic memories start to
flow like oxygen in the bloodstream, like the water running down the
sides of the glass from the shower head. Music is reason to breath
again when the mind has overgrown our gardens.
I imagine the grand theaters we can
visit together with their heavy red velvet curtains. Although the
acrobatic troupes are mostly robotic there remain human champions
that really impress me. They are physical marvels that challenge
gravity and gravitational physics and all known anatomical movement.
I feel my eyes sparkle at the image as the shampoo foams on my head.
Robots and holograms are an amazing
site in themselves. Theater robots are today's classical mental
manifestation. They are the work of tech-artists and composed
entirely of language. They are the modern day sonnet, a translation
of human dreams, visions and how the body could exist without
limitation. The combination of the two; physically bound bodies and
robotic projections create a spectacle unequaled in our history. I
turn off the water. I wrap the drying towel around my hair and walk
naked from the shower to our room.
“Babe? What do you think the dress
will be at the events?” I ask.
“I think there is a culture festival
running. You may want the red dress.”
I note your black suit and decide to
dress to compliment. I had either gold or red in mind but decide on
black. I enjoy black these days. I slide open the wardrobe and
examine each garment individually. It is nice not to feel pressure of
constraint. It is nice that you don't have to run off. My fingers
settle on a tailored dress-suit with a shoulder drape and I feel
satisfied. I notice you still watching me, unaware of your own smile.
You snatch my underwear sitting beside you on the bed and start
laughing.
“We'll never get out of here if you
keep thinking that way.”
“I don't seem to care,” you reply
and you reach for the window shades.
On the train I watch you looking out
the window. Together we watch the barren desert roll past the framed
polymer glass. It looks like historical photos I saw of the American
dust bowls that left farmers, immigrant workers and most of Old
America without food or resource. Large rock formations protrude out
from the landscape and point towards the sky. The tall spiky crystal
aggregate clusters formed by solar fusion sparkle in the harsh
sunlight. The instant the Earth's atmosphere dissolved intense
heatwaves formed flat sheets of glass on the ground and the beautiful
crystal towers. It dazzles. The remainder of Earth life now survives
under scrutinized atmospheric control. It is necessary to keep what
we have left, even for sentimental reasons.
There are two exhibitions to see
tonight. The theater and the music hall. I feel excitement rise even
though access to all such things are available at any time through
our screens at home. Being present in the physical is irreplaceable.
There is a logic dichotomy presented by our inventions; reality is no
less real if an experience is undergone by a human being. And yet
moving one's body into an environment is an act in itself. Simulators
can still only simulate.
Imagine the first experiences after
the invention telephone. Imagine how those people felt lifting a
mouth piece to their lips and speaking into an object. Imagine the
confusion of logic they felt as a voice they may have known responded
from another object located beside their ear. The reaction was often
a reasonable hysteria sometimes even manifesting in religious icons.
The inventors must have had a great chuckle.
Our train stops at an encapsulated
station and people leave through the doors onto the platforms.
Physical speed has become irrelevant but for novelty and in order to
spare human bodies from excessive re-assemblage particle
manifestation fatigue linear travel is still employed. Here again is
the beauty of unfolding landscape and spending time. The stations
were designed to be modular and sterile. I take note of the organic
oxygen sculptures and appreciate the colour they add to an otherwise
metallic enclosure. The smell of the filtered and cooled Earth air
gusts in when the doors open. It smells salty and reminiscent of our
former oceans.
Taking my hand we step onto the
conveyor and glide down the boardwalk. The people around us appear to
float past like the flying security robots at home. Their dress is a
thousand colours. The festivals gear up and I see small children
chatting with parents, fussing over what they will eat and how many
treats are just too many. I am happy to visit again. It balances the
sadness I have over Earth's abrupt end. I choke back my emotions with
a clear of my throat and you catch my eye.
“Smile a bit.” you nudge me.
“Doing that.” I reply and attempt
to.
