There I was, rotating atop a round ball inflated to half my size, rational in most important aspects, burping, breathing, communing. I was not only that, but that and satisfied, and self-satisfied. Miles Davis was along for the ride, In A Silent Way. The ball was a neutralized translucent taupe. My mouth was forming the shape of an oval racetrack that could accommodate not only thoroughbred horses, but mottled, skinny dogs, and neutered camels, before emitting an exalted whoosh of expendable air.
“Something stinks in here.”
“Nothing to worry about. It’s only me.”
What’s gone is past, as it must be. I strive right mightily to disbelieve any slick jargon of obfuscation that muddles the clear air. There is repeatedly no cause for alarm. The air is plenty good enough. If you don’t want to know any more than that, you are demographically right according to most reliable statistics. Majority more than rules. Stick a fork in the wayward nut jobs and they are done. That’s only right and right only. We’ve all been there I know, innately. What else besides that and air conditioning sets us apart from the lower grubby sorts who are only along for the ride?
Without air-conditioning there would be no indigenous computers with distinctive logos, no populations drifting in jungles in need of control, no office windows that did not open direct from the factory, no apartment blocks rising above swamps, no deserts jutting with rakes in sand traps that protect manicured greens. Where would that leave any of us? What if the apartment windows and not the office windows did not open? What if important distinctions among logos become blurred? What if the rakes switch sides to make ends meet? Put many if not most of your vaunted skills in pattern recognition at hard labor to figure that one out. You might burn some older sockets using so many whirring fans. It’s going to take another solid Elon Musk or two to beat odds like that.
After jungles become viable population centers due to unrepentant air-conditioning, and Mars, and Vladivostok, and elbow room not only is not rare but the subject of a growth industry in alloy sharpening, in association with mind control pioneered on the Sunset Strip during the bombing of Hanoi, and heavily backed by Chinese tongs from Kowloon invested in new amnesias, where do you go from there? Sayonara?
You’d better figure it out for your own sweet self. Flies are merrily buzzing. Operators are standing by to take your orders. You want fries with that?
When there is no beginning and no end, as there is, a time bomb is always ticking,.