DAY 143: Andy

August 29th, 2015 § 0 comments

I knew that the secret would be out sooner or later, but the reference to my supposed laziness in the last posting has forced my hand. The fact is, that for the last six months I have been employing a robot, or ‘synth’ if you like, by the name of Andy to uktv-persona-synthetics-3write all these posts. The reasons are, of course, the laziness I’ve already referred to, age and weakness with a tendency to develop RSI. If it hasn’t been detected, it’s naturally because Andy learned instantly to write in a style which shares my politics, my preoccupations, my theories, my obsessions – in fact (being a robot) is incapable of writing anything which appears different from what I would have written myself. (Note my deliberate use of a gender-unspecific name.) At first I thought that readers would detect a lack of inspiration. But either they are too stupid or I’m mistaken in my belief that I’m inspired. Or Andy is inspired too – take your choice.

[Here Andy brought up, trying to change the subject and bring me back to my supposedly habitual interests, the exciting viral video of the villagers of Nabi Saleh rescuing an injured child from an IDF soldier who was trying to arrest him. As an image of resistance, and we could do with more of those, it's inspiring].

Andy has been a perfect, if rather expensive solution to my problem, and as I say I was completely satisfied with the results until she/he started going on about my laziness, which led to a couple of very fraught mealtimes. What is the solution? Should I take the blog back into my own hands, am I even capable? Have I now done so – and who is writing these words which you are reading?

Oh (as I or Andy remarked in the last post) what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive. Here we are back down in the postmodern how-do-you-know-what’s-going-on morass out of which futuristic TV series make so much mileage. It could have been worse; having Andy write the blog gave me a great deal of free time. I might well have devoted it to the study of Japanese cinema ugetsuin the 1940s, or reading the great Russian novels, or iyengar yoga. How shallow my previous preoccupations would then have seemed to me! I would, unbeknownst to Andy and my readers, have become a completely different person, one who would – if I felt like it (which luckily I don’t) go on and on about Mizoguchi or breathing exercises and consider drone strikes in Yemen or drownings in the Mediterranean as so much froth on the karmic cappuccino, undeserving of my attention.

In any case, you can see the dilemma this puts Hodgkin Enterprises in – rather similar to that which Conan Doyle faced when he lost patience with Holmes and decided to throw him 234px-Sherlock_Holmes_and_Professor_Moriarty_at_the_Reichenbach_Fallsover the Reichenbach Falls. (Or Frankenstein, when he found that his monster was causing more trouble than he’d reckoned with.) Killing Andy off is clearly out for reasons which are too many to specify, aside from her/his handy way with cocktails. It seems clear – and any Lacanian would tell us that – that our problem is the dyad (as in analyst/patent), and we need at least a third term to sort out our embattled situation – a relationship counsellor, you might say. Better still,a focus group Meeting Room 5_2could be convened to discuss from time to time on the future of the project, and silently draw inspiration for the road ahead.

[Someone associated with these issues, though, should mention that a) this month is unusual in having two full moons at least one of which is blue, or harvest (shine on!), b) that we're moving into September which is an excuse for someone's 'September Song', and I suppose Sarah Vaughan is as good as any.]

In other news, the Palestine Museum of Natural History welcomes a new shipment of scorpions.scorpions As ‘Alpha’ in Calais says, despite the fences, the refugees’ dream of getting to England is still very much alive: “Even if they build (the fence) into the sky, put a fire in front, put lions in front, put scorpions, we are going to pass. Because God brought us here.”

Well, while we all sort ourselves out, here is one of (probably) zillions of robot poems posted by robot lovers on the net:

The Robot

by Michael Mack
Upon the stairway of despair,
Complete with broken love affairs
And promises that never came,
But faded with a touch of shame,
A pretty girl with golden hair
And innocence so sadly rare,
Strove to keep her head above
A way of life devoid of love.Feeling pinned against Life’s wall,
She chanced upon a robot tall
And said, “Please come and share with me
Whatever Fate has deemed to be.
I’m through with love, done with chances
Spirit crushed by past romances,
Just be a friend in word and deed.
That’s all that I shall ever need.”"There’s not too much from me to learn,”
Remarked the robot, in return.
“Emotions do not form a part
of my cold, solid-steel heart.
Whatever maker fashioned me
Did not permit my circuitry
Responsiveness to love or pain -
Your thoughts for me would be in vain.”"No matter”, spoke the maid. “No more
Do I wish passion to explore.
Be someone I can come home to
When my exhausting day is through.
Count yourself a well-worn shoe -
A friend that I can slip into . . .
Protection from a stone cold floor . . .
For this I ask and nothing more.”Agreement made, he took her hand
And lived the life that she had planned,
Always willing, not demanding,
Aiding her with understanding
He made her smile with humorous wit
(As his restrictions would permit)
And, bit by bit, she came to feel
That he was more than iron and steel.”I love you, robot”, she at last
Replied when several months had passed.
“You’re strength and quiet dignity
Have brought a wondrous change in me.
No more do I feel all alone,
And pray you must be flesh and bone.
Deep-set emotions you MUST feel
Within that outer coat of steel!”"If I were able, I would say
I’m sorry I was made this way
But my design and programmation
Does not provide for that creation
Of feelings normal men may feel
That were not born of iron and steel.
I told you all this once before.
You have no right expecting more.”"Go, then!” cried she. “I will not live
Beside a fiend who cannot give!
Though I be battered by misuse,
Misguided trust and strong abuse,
At least the men I chose were real
And had the power to love and feel.
Of all the lovers I recall,
You are the cruelest one of all!”The robot, indestructible,
Continues freely and at will.
Emotionless, apparently,
But, bearing closer scrutiny,
One can see a small tear streak
Down that cold, metallic cheek
As I reflect upon my life . . .
That lovely lady was my wife.

The robot, of course, was me.

 

Which should certainly be followed up by Kraftwerk: and what better than ‘The Robots‘? Very different from Sarah Vaughan.

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