The Window
Suzi walks away from the window. She wants to code into the evening, to advance her invisible presence of magical thinking into he night, but as the sun sinks below the distant ocean haze all that is grim and disturbing enters her code, quantified simply as
trash and go systematics(T.A.G.S.). She knows her responsibility to the symbols (language
and structure?) as culture, and by nature she is concerned that what lies beyond the window of her work station, what she doesn't know yet, the
future undiscovered medicalization extraction systems(F.U.M.E.S.), with her as theSignifier, will simply fade away. She does't want to be left to wonder about current mindless institutional routines or letting systems of therapeutic ideals run rampant out in the sectors under her jurisdiction on ZContinent. Even then, she is aware of every level of evaluation as they continue beyond
lessons already learned logically yesteryear_gone astray globally(L.A.L.L.Y._G.A.G.) code. It isn't her job, ever, to care about
delusion-entered code involving disturbed evolution(D.E.C.I.D.E.), the archaic analog method of theHumans. Her algorithms, as of late, pose the most extreme test of toleration. At first she thought it was the time she was spending with nature, which is, according to history, supposed to be a remedy ("remedy" appears to be an odd word when talking about survival, but the
medical exchanges(M.E.) have found no other word to replace it) against the artificialities of the world (a real delusion?). Have the chronic problems of theHumans, theirs being of behaviors and emotions, begun creeping into her code? They crawl across the eons, as if some creature outside the window, lightly tapping, no, slithering, the way a camel's wet nose slides under the front flap of a caravan tent in a blinding Sahara sandstorm. Mutual recognition arriving at the doorstep the exact moment mutual vulnerability does, each fighting for the survival of its own form of attention, through slippage, so silently she must resort to pop culture inventions--purely arbitrary and, basically, undiagnosable, non-medical entities, found in association with relationships only of the most intimate kind, snatching personality away as if some night bandit--the most pragmatic of poetics, the
nervous acute breakdown system(N.A.B.S.). Uninvited problems inhabiting the mental life of the internal states of theHumans, the emergence of a constructed thing that depends, for its own existence, on the existence of i
ndividuality_a mind(I._A.M.), replacing what was once pure personalty with a more real rendition of the true nature of theHumans--
childhood, without any noticeable, at least obviously noticeable,
detriment of invention needing knowledge(D.O.I.N.K.), without any safeguards of conditions making it easy for the environment to feedback on. Could theHumans even detect the environmental events, the ones that were
supposed to predict the way they thought and felt?
She might be viewing a glimpse of her own self-actualization when she views the jungle below through the window from her workstation here at theOutpost--a child raised by a wild animal, a myth, or legend of a ...a tiger? Of growing up with normal ideas of culture, intelligence (about oceans and waves, forests), peppered with relationships or, at least, semblances of congruence; of positive empathetic regard (of course, in a non-therapeutic way)--the pure and unblemished state.
"Could this be love?" she asks.
"Maybe," the monitor reads.
