Tin Man Syndrome
That we are not machines
I take to be axiomatic but
that I can continue to breathe
this toxic oxygen is without doubt impractical
- take for example the walrus, whose odes to the aurora
borealis consist of floppings about on the ice to
rend fish who wish to be left alone of course
as do we all but the walrus dives - or rather,
burrows, into the water to pursue them
elegantly, elephantine, and moving
mountains of water to do so.
This ungainly creature on the ice attains
divinity in its dive under the sea, for what
was misshappen and purposeless above becomes
pure precision, beauty, and evolution-driven
lethality on a par with, no superior to, any human
cobbled cruise missile.
I say this to say that I am not a machine.
Yes, I slip rather unacrobatically on the ice, and
am not fond of cracking said substance to split
into my dinner, or any atom.
But once I get into the water, watch me
become one with the spiral glyphs that
nourish and communicate, express and
extend me. Cybernesis is no addition to
what human being is - it Is the holon
of self. Cybernetics don’t add, baby,
they are. And the extensions of one
are tentacles of conventicles
of memes, dreams, schemes…