no one is laughing
at you; you're not cool enough
for them to notice.
~*
20160505
20160414
Robot in Love #5
I want to talk about
Humankind's Relationship with Whales
The Limit of the Placebo Effect
or Why Society Expects Women To Shave Their Legs.
Instead, our conversations are generally limited to
The Local Police Blotter
The Pros and Cons of Walking to Work
and Infamous Criminal Cases.
Today, however, I saw an opening.
Him: "Even if O.J. did kill Mrs. Simpson, he couldn't have been in his right mind. It must have been drugs, or head trauma, or something else wrong with him. People don't just kill other people."
Me: "Soldiers and police kill people."
Him: "Well, something is wrong with them, then. It's not natural."
Me: "Are you certain about that? It is normal for people to resort to violence when someone inconveniences them. For most of human history, killing has been advantageous for the individual. Humans are hardwired to murder."
Him: [Silence. A look that is hard to read.]
Me: "In actuality, our shared interest in such cases reflects just how rooted killing is in our psyches. Many popular books, shows, and movies feature murder and violence. It is not a moral choice, to be sure, but it is a natural one."
Him: [Continued silence.]
He guides the conversation to a different topic.
I wish I could be my true self around my coworker,
I thought afterward.
But really, I am.
That is my true self when I'm around him;
awkward, anxious, high-strung, and shy.
When I'm with Mom;
bright, earnest, and complex.
By myself;
comfortable.
Thanks for reading. ~*
Humankind's Relationship with Whales
The Limit of the Placebo Effect
or Why Society Expects Women To Shave Their Legs.
Instead, our conversations are generally limited to
The Local Police Blotter
The Pros and Cons of Walking to Work
and Infamous Criminal Cases.
Today, however, I saw an opening.
Him: "Even if O.J. did kill Mrs. Simpson, he couldn't have been in his right mind. It must have been drugs, or head trauma, or something else wrong with him. People don't just kill other people."
Me: "Soldiers and police kill people."
Him: "Well, something is wrong with them, then. It's not natural."
Me: "Are you certain about that? It is normal for people to resort to violence when someone inconveniences them. For most of human history, killing has been advantageous for the individual. Humans are hardwired to murder."
Him: [Silence. A look that is hard to read.]
Me: "In actuality, our shared interest in such cases reflects just how rooted killing is in our psyches. Many popular books, shows, and movies feature murder and violence. It is not a moral choice, to be sure, but it is a natural one."
Him: [Continued silence.]
He guides the conversation to a different topic.
I wish I could be my true self around my coworker,
I thought afterward.
But really, I am.
That is my true self when I'm around him;
awkward, anxious, high-strung, and shy.
When I'm with Mom;
bright, earnest, and complex.
By myself;
comfortable.
Thanks for reading. ~*
20160405
Robot in Love #4, Plus Concept Art
My New Assistant: Positives and Negatives.
He is interested in criminology, as am I.
P: We work in the forensics department of BioBank, Inc. He will not get bored.
N: He likes cases in which the suspect is found innocent, whereas I prefer ones in which the criminal is apprehended.
He lives in my neighborhood.
P: Today, we laughed at amusing entries in the local police blotter during our lunch break. The interaction was pleasant.
N: Because we will experience the same environment, we may run out of engaging topics and be forced into painful exchanges, i.e. "It has been exceptionally rainy of late, has it not?"
He likes to talk.
P: I enjoy listening to what he has to say.
N: I have limited talent at conversation. Often, I say things out of context. Often, I stutter and switch words around. Often, I am not certain when to speak and when to be silent, which leads alternately to interruptions and to awkward silences.
He seems to be a phenomenal human being.
P: Working with him will not be tedious, as I had feared.
N: He plans to move when his apprenticeship is over.
N: He makes me feel nervous.
Hello! How is everyone? Here is a little sketch I did. I should be focusing more on my book, because this is supposed to be a side project, but designing ALVIS' character is fun!
Thanks for reading.
~*
He is interested in criminology, as am I.
P: We work in the forensics department of BioBank, Inc. He will not get bored.
N: He likes cases in which the suspect is found innocent, whereas I prefer ones in which the criminal is apprehended.
He lives in my neighborhood.
P: Today, we laughed at amusing entries in the local police blotter during our lunch break. The interaction was pleasant.
N: Because we will experience the same environment, we may run out of engaging topics and be forced into painful exchanges, i.e. "It has been exceptionally rainy of late, has it not?"
He likes to talk.
P: I enjoy listening to what he has to say.
N: I have limited talent at conversation. Often, I say things out of context. Often, I stutter and switch words around. Often, I am not certain when to speak and when to be silent, which leads alternately to interruptions and to awkward silences.
He seems to be a phenomenal human being.
P: Working with him will not be tedious, as I had feared.
N: He plans to move when his apprenticeship is over.
N: He makes me feel nervous.
Hello! How is everyone? Here is a little sketch I did. I should be focusing more on my book, because this is supposed to be a side project, but designing ALVIS' character is fun!
Thanks for reading.
~*
20160331
Alvis Art #1
Sorry about the lack of posts. Here is some concept art I did today! It's watercolor, with a little digital special effects. I really wish my scanner would pick up the colors better.
~*
20160310
Robot in Love #3
Once upon a time, when wishes still came true . . .
I'm reading The Annotated Brothers Grimm behind closed eyelids
as I wait for my shift to begin. The light from outside
streams into the waiting room,
warming my skin.
Today is pleasant.
. . . there was a king who had beautiful daughters. The youngest was so beautiful that even the sun, which had seen so many things, was filled with wonder when it shone upon her face.
Fairytales are more interesting
than many people realize,
I think.
Someone comes in the front door.
I hear the sound of feet entering
the waiting room. Walking closer
. . . if she was bored, she would take out her golden ball, throw it up in the air, and catch it.
someone settles into a chair near me. I sneak
a glance to my right
The princess followed the ball with her eyes, but it disappeared, and the spring was so deep you couldn't even begin to see the bottom.
and see a young male human. Why
is he sitting so close? Only one gray
metal folding chair between us
The princess burst out crying, and she wept louder and louder, unable to stop herself.
Now I'm nervous
Losing track of the story
"Be quiet, and just stop that sniveling," said the frog. "I think I can help you . . .
Who is this person
"I'll give you anything you want as long as you get that ball back for me." But all the while she was thinking, What nonsense that stupid frog is talking . . . How could anyone want to have him as a companion?
Why so close to me?
He looks comfortable, one ankle resting on his knee like a number 4
I want to sit like that too, but I don't
. . . enjoyed his meal, but every bite stuck in her throat . . .
Because I don't want to copy him
Do I look strange
. . . for she was terrified of the clammy frog . . .
sitting here with my eyes closed? Can he tell
. . . King grew angry and said, "You shouldn't . . .
that I am a robot?
Should I say something? But he is saying something now
so my words are trapped in my mouth
. . . disgusting frog!"
"Hello, I think I'm your new assisstant. Is your name ALVIS?
. . . fell . . .
"Yes."
. . . to the ground . . .
I am not the frog
or the princess
maybe I am the spring
The end.
I'm reading The Annotated Brothers Grimm behind closed eyelids
as I wait for my shift to begin. The light from outside
streams into the waiting room,
warming my skin.
Today is pleasant.
. . . there was a king who had beautiful daughters. The youngest was so beautiful that even the sun, which had seen so many things, was filled with wonder when it shone upon her face.
Fairytales are more interesting
than many people realize,
I think.
Someone comes in the front door.
I hear the sound of feet entering
the waiting room. Walking closer
. . . if she was bored, she would take out her golden ball, throw it up in the air, and catch it.
someone settles into a chair near me. I sneak
a glance to my right
The princess followed the ball with her eyes, but it disappeared, and the spring was so deep you couldn't even begin to see the bottom.
and see a young male human. Why
is he sitting so close? Only one gray
metal folding chair between us
The princess burst out crying, and she wept louder and louder, unable to stop herself.
Now I'm nervous
Losing track of the story
"Be quiet, and just stop that sniveling," said the frog. "I think I can help you . . .
Who is this person
"I'll give you anything you want as long as you get that ball back for me." But all the while she was thinking, What nonsense that stupid frog is talking . . . How could anyone want to have him as a companion?
Why so close to me?
He looks comfortable, one ankle resting on his knee like a number 4
I want to sit like that too, but I don't
. . . enjoyed his meal, but every bite stuck in her throat . . .
Because I don't want to copy him
Do I look strange
. . . for she was terrified of the clammy frog . . .
sitting here with my eyes closed? Can he tell
. . . King grew angry and said, "You shouldn't . . .
that I am a robot?
Should I say something? But he is saying something now
so my words are trapped in my mouth
. . . disgusting frog!"
"Hello, I think I'm your new assisstant. Is your name ALVIS?
. . . fell . . .
"Yes."
. . . to the ground . . .
I am not the frog
or the princess
maybe I am the spring
The end.
20160304
Robot in Love #2: Mom
I made the mistake of mentioning poetry to my mom today. I like to call him at least once a week as I walk home from work in the bike trail. It rained today - it rains constantly in this city - and I talked to him as I admired the dripping leaves and misty shingled rooftops from the safety of my black umbrella.
"Mom?"
"Hello, 004! How are things?" He knows each of us by name. He is busy, but never so busy he cannot talk to me.
That is something I like about Mom.
"I have been all right, except . . ." I complained to him about Dr. Wombat's scheme.
"You should try that out more before you quit," Mom said. He is always suggesting for me to try new things.
That is something I cannot stand about Mom.
"What? No! I am not good - I am not interested in poetry!"
"Sweetheart, all of your sisters have hobbies to keep themselves well-rounded. 001 has chess, 002 volunteers at the daycare, 003 has jiu-jitsu, and 005, well, she does some of everything. I've been worried for some time now that you're programmed to be too melancholy, but that'd be a strength in poetry!"
"Let us talk about you instead, Mom. How have you been?" Talking about other people is a) polite, b) makes them like you more, and c) is a great way to change the subject.
"I've been fine; don't change the subject. Either you do something creative with your free time, or I'm going to find you a special someone to cheer you up. 005 has a boyfriend and, as I'm sure she's told you, she seems ecstatically happy about life."
"005 is ecstatically happy no matter what."
Something crashed on the other side of the line, and an alarm went off. "Sorry, I have to go, emergency!" Mom hung up.
So I thought of another poem on the way home:
The same water that gives plants verdant life
Seeps into my bones and corrodes them gritty brown.
A soft red-gray squirrel shrieks at me from a tangle of power lines
I am more like them than I am like him.
I am a daughter of this generation of cold metal, of stark plastic,
of the deadly asphalt on the road, spelling doom to so many tiny lives.
Nature abhors me, for understandable reasons.
And yet
Signposts, telephone lines, and parking meters lean to my left as I walk to work,
but to my right as I walk home,
and on some days, this ordinary magic is enough
to make me happy.
"Mom?"
"Hello, 004! How are things?" He knows each of us by name. He is busy, but never so busy he cannot talk to me.
That is something I like about Mom.
"I have been all right, except . . ." I complained to him about Dr. Wombat's scheme.
"You should try that out more before you quit," Mom said. He is always suggesting for me to try new things.
That is something I cannot stand about Mom.
"What? No! I am not good - I am not interested in poetry!"
"Sweetheart, all of your sisters have hobbies to keep themselves well-rounded. 001 has chess, 002 volunteers at the daycare, 003 has jiu-jitsu, and 005, well, she does some of everything. I've been worried for some time now that you're programmed to be too melancholy, but that'd be a strength in poetry!"
"Let us talk about you instead, Mom. How have you been?" Talking about other people is a) polite, b) makes them like you more, and c) is a great way to change the subject.
"I've been fine; don't change the subject. Either you do something creative with your free time, or I'm going to find you a special someone to cheer you up. 005 has a boyfriend and, as I'm sure she's told you, she seems ecstatically happy about life."
"005 is ecstatically happy no matter what."
Something crashed on the other side of the line, and an alarm went off. "Sorry, I have to go, emergency!" Mom hung up.
So I thought of another poem on the way home:
The same water that gives plants verdant life
Seeps into my bones and corrodes them gritty brown.
A soft red-gray squirrel shrieks at me from a tangle of power lines
I am more like them than I am like him.
I am a daughter of this generation of cold metal, of stark plastic,
of the deadly asphalt on the road, spelling doom to so many tiny lives.
Nature abhors me, for understandable reasons.
And yet
Signposts, telephone lines, and parking meters lean to my left as I walk to work,
but to my right as I walk home,
and on some days, this ordinary magic is enough
to make me happy.
20160223
Robot in Love #1
This notebook is property of ALVIS Prototype 004. I bought it today because my psychologist, Doctor Wombat, is forcing me to write poetry. He is not my personal psychologist - I have neither the money nor the time for such frivolities - but a company psychologist for my workplace, BioBank Inc. After reading my self-assessment this morning, he said:
"I'm a wigwam. I'm a tipi. I'm a wigwam. I'm a tipi."
"Sir?" I asked.
"Tents! Tense, ALVIS, you're too tense, I can see it just from looking at you!"
He thinks that somehow, this will help me relax. I cannot pretend to follow his reasoning, yet I will comply with hisirrational wishes and write down whatever occurs to me:
Beauty
is in the eye of the beholder, they say, but I believe there are limits.
One:
Beauty should be functional.
I could upgrade to the soft, supple skin, the bright green eyes, and the more natural voice of the latest model,
but I will not.
I am satisfied with the way Westing Enterprises designed and programmed me.
Those upgrades may be cutting edge, but they only distract others,
and thus reduce efficiency.
Two:
Internal beauty trumps external.
People forget that we are all composed of bone, flesh, blood, entrails; steel, bolts, wires, plastic.
I have met people with symmetrical features,
tasteful clothing,
and charm, yet sometimes
something is wrong.
Pretty people speak and I smell smoke in their words,
danger, sparking wires, defects in the internal programming.
Truly beautiful people glow with something beyond science
that turns homely features
into something radiant.
Three:
Humans, as a whole, are not beautiful.
Nor are robots.
We have our shiny moments, days, occasionally weeks,
but everyone is ugly, inside and/or out, sometimes.
Especially me.
Poetry isdumb stupid not for me, I have decided after careful deliberation. Robots are the least qualified beings to write poetry. I will tear out this page, throw it away, and give this notebook to someone who will put it to better use. I will avoid Doctor Wombat at work until he forgets about the whole situation.
What think you?
Podcast this week: https://youtu.be/wVwvVM_hpB0
Thanks for reading!
~*
"I'm a wigwam. I'm a tipi. I'm a wigwam. I'm a tipi."
"Sir?" I asked.
"Tents! Tense, ALVIS, you're too tense, I can see it just from looking at you!"
He thinks that somehow, this will help me relax. I cannot pretend to follow his reasoning, yet I will comply with his
Beauty
is in the eye of the beholder, they say, but I believe there are limits.
One:
Beauty should be functional.
I could upgrade to the soft, supple skin, the bright green eyes, and the more natural voice of the latest model,
but I will not.
I am satisfied with the way Westing Enterprises designed and programmed me.
Those upgrades may be cutting edge, but they only distract others,
and thus reduce efficiency.
Two:
Internal beauty trumps external.
People forget that we are all composed of bone, flesh, blood, entrails; steel, bolts, wires, plastic.
I have met people with symmetrical features,
tasteful clothing,
and charm, yet sometimes
something is wrong.
Pretty people speak and I smell smoke in their words,
danger, sparking wires, defects in the internal programming.
Truly beautiful people glow with something beyond science
that turns homely features
into something radiant.
Three:
Humans, as a whole, are not beautiful.
Nor are robots.
We have our shiny moments, days, occasionally weeks,
but everyone is ugly, inside and/or out, sometimes.
Especially me.
Poetry is
What think you?
Podcast this week: https://youtu.be/wVwvVM_hpB0
Thanks for reading!
~*
20160207
Poem #8
butterfly
effect
people
try to figure it all out
math
people, philosophy people,
biology
people, psychology people
and
many, many others
kudos
to them for trying so hard . . .
first,
try looking up
into
the unfathomable sky
impossible
to tell how high it is
unless
you've been told.
though
today it's a blank, blue canvas
you
know from experience
that
stars hide there.
you
could look up how many there are altogether
but
you would only find a rough approximation.
who
could know all their names?
now,
consider the ground.
soil,
end product of things long dead
what
was sacrificed
for
the dirt under your left foot?
who
walked here before you were born
and
how long ago
and
what was going through her mind?
who
can guess?
finally,
look down at yourself.
your
body, performing so many functions
without
any conscious thought
and
the billions of cells in you
that
aren't you.
they
just happen to like it there.
how
many trillion mistakes
come
so close to occurring
that
you will never know about?
which
long-forgotten childhood experiences
shape
your quirks, your ideas,
your
sense of self?
it's
absolutely impossible
for
any one to know these things
yet
I still believe
He
does.
https://youtu.be/O_GNgZkhKPA
Thanks for reading! ~*
20160131
Poem #7
Social
Anxiety
--Oh,
your hair is so long!
Yeah...?
--I'm
so jealous. My hair doesn't grow like that!
You
are joking... right? I can't tell.
--I
had hair like that when I was fourteen (sigh).
You,
who enjoy meeting new people
and
can finish a conversation without feeling emotionally exhausted.
--I
tried making my daughter keep her hair, but she chopped it all off!
You,
a black-belt-red-stripe in the art of small talk
a
human who puts other humans at ease.
--My
hair is just so thin, it doesn't get that long!
You,
the sort who revels in social gatherings
instead
of please can we just go home I don't want to be here at all.
--Doesn't
all that hair get in your way? It isn't very safe.
You,
the kind who goes to interviews and dates excited and hopeful
not
the person who sweats the whole time and throws up afterwards.
--You
would look so nice if you just put your hair up.
You,
who enjoy eating in public with others looking at you
instead
of going scarfing down food in the privacy of your car.
--There
are people who need hair, you know. You should donate that.
You:
confident, self-reliant, secure, bold, upbeat
How
can it be
you
envy filaments of spent, lifeless cells
clinging
limply to my scalp?
New video! https://youtu.be/ma87c5bQ2Zk
Thanks for reading.
20160125
Poem #6 (Driving Haiku)
loneliness is when
volkswagen! but you don't have
anyone to slug.
komenosai, sirs.
this one can't drive very
well
so komenosai.
oh, please don't pass me
we'll get there at the same
time
passing is pointless.
Look, I made a video! https://www.youtube.com/watch?
20160117
Poem #5
Urgent
Care Summer
I'm
at a fair
watching
hog wrestling with family
ketchup
and mustard in my hair
and
on my jeans -
Noah
smeared it there
and
I'm thinking he's such a brat
when
my grandpa gets a call from my dad, who said
I
need to get home stat
my
little brother had been burned
and
had been flown to Portland, and that
he
wasn't sure how long
we
would need to stay at the McDonald House -
how
many months we'd be gone.
We
drove all night to the burn center
Justin
was fourteen and not very strong.
When
we got there he was covered in gauze,
blisters
and ooze and greasy tears
Doctors
had shoved a feeding tube up his nose.
In
the next few weeks he endured great pain
just
watched him stay alive inspired applause.
At
one point when they put him under
to
scrape off his dead gray skin
he
woke up during the procedure and wondered
why
he could hear and feel but not see or move.
He
was allergic to the sedative – it was a frightening blunder.
Slowly,
Justin recovered
he
plagued the poor psychologist lady
because
he hated the way she hovered.
The
doctors gave him milkshakes and grafts
people
sent so many cards he nearly smothered.
While
he healed, our family picked peaches,
caught
up with relatives,
enjoyed
Seaside's beaches.
Justin's
grafts healed well -
the
doctors didn't have to use leeches.
He's
doing much better now
besides
some nightmares and PTSD
I'm
glad he pulled through, and surprised at how
sometimes
we forget he looks unusual at all.
His
will to live has left me cowed
Not
all the effects were deleterious.
Though
he was self-conscious for a while
all
those scars just make him look mysterious
and
now he tells the story
to
anyone who is curious.
20160111
Poem #4
Flathead Lake
The sky is azure
The mountains are umber
The water is pickle-juice green
The people in the boat with me are
canary gold and candy orange.
We skip across the water so fast it's
hard to breathe.
My dad is hurrying because he wants to
get back to the boat ramp before dark.
We are in the center of the vast lake
when the engine stops abruptly.
Out of gas.
The sky is teal
The mountains are indigo
The water is fuscia and sapphire and
arctic blue.
I admire the otherworldly colors as we
take turns on the single paddle rowing toward the shore.
My little sister fishes off the back of
the boat.
We make it to a beach house after and
hour of rowing.
I wait with the boat as my family
borrows a jug of gas.
The light and colors fade away as bats
swoop very close to my head.
The sky is sable
The mountains are coal-black
The water is obsidian
The light from the flashlight I hold to
show the way is harsh white.
Soon the only colors I can see are the
lights from the shore
Silver, crimson, and amber
All beckoning us to land
And safety.
20160102
Poem #3
a miko (巫女)
is a shinto shrine maiden. her jobs include driving out evil spirits,
performing sacred dances, preserving life, and bringing happiness to
man.
a haori (羽織)
is a japanese hip-length kimono jacket. 巫女
羽織 are white and often have red ribbon
embroidered around the sleeves.
hakama (袴)
are long, skirt-like pants traditionally worn by japanese men and
women. 巫女 袴
are red and are held up by a bow.
oni (鬼)
are demons from japanese folklore. they come in a wide variety of
forms, and many have the ability to shape-shift. 鬼
are genarally hostile to humans.
last night, i was attacked by an 鬼
who was disguised as a little 巫女.
she pulled open her 羽織
to expose
a hollow, yawning mouth where her chest
should have been
jagged, broken ribs for teeth
spittle of blood and gore splattering
onto her 袴,
and then
she ate me.
20151227
Poem #2
Eating Franny
Toasty hot roast
Toasty hot roast
Soy
sauce
Rice
vinegar
Celtic
sea salt
She
lived with us
For
about two years
Whispy
white hair
Ornery
and stubborn
Dangerous
curled horns
Not
a tooth in her face.
She
got in a fight
With
Snowflake once
And
nearly died.
Mom
packed salve into
The
jagged wound in her chest
And
Franny pulled through
Out
of sheer toughness.
She
was a durable goat.
After
the injury,
Franny
was friendlier to humans.
She
would lick your hands
Like
a puppy.
Yesterday
Our
Jewish neighbor came
With
a sheetrock knife
He
held Franny down and
Cut
Off
Her
Head
The
Kosher way.
I
eat
Deer
Cow
Chicken
Sometimes
pork
So
why is it so hard
Fork
to mouth
Chew
thoroughly
Swallow
How
can she be gone
When
it feels like
She
is trying to climb
Up
my throat?
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I've been trying to put Ultramaryne on a separate page, but so far It has been too hard.
~*
20151214
Poem #1
All right, the moment everyone has been waiting for! I'm releasing my poems in no particular order. If you would like to (constructively) criticize, share a poem of your own, or just say hi, feel free to do so in the comments!
~*
20151122
20151115
20151108
20151025
Ultramaryne: Poem #1
how to
care for me
back
and forth
back
and forth
i swim
in
this tank
it is
only a little longer
and a
little wider
than
my body.
taped
to my tank is
a
yellow notepad
with
blue lines:
- Suzy, while I'm gone I want you to feed Altsoba last so she gets a bit of interaction.
- Feed her three fish, twice a day – thawed, not frozen like the other test subject's.She's picky.
- You'll need to unlatch the grate over her tank to drop the fish in. I put it therebecause she keeps trying to escape.
- It's fine to put your hands in and around the tank while caring for Altsoba, as she isexponentially more docile than the other test subjects.
- Check the water filter for debris or blockages.
- Make sure the bubbler is working correctly.
- She's been listless lately, so if you have time, talk to her a bit. We think she mightbe depressed because we culled some low-functioning test subjects last week.If she seems down, try getting her to talk to you or read to her. (There should be acrate of picture books in the cabinet below her tank.) Even five minutes shouldhelp.
- Call me or leave a note on my desk if you have any trouble.
P.S.
There is a first-aid cabinet by the door of Altsoba's unit – not
that you'll need
it,
it's just a handy thing to know.
back
and forth
back
and forth
i swim
in
this tank
it is
only a little longer
and a
little wider
than my body.
~*
20151018
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