Real Quasi-Virtual Awareness

bubbles     The private bocci ball court near the summit of Mt. Umunhum was illuminated by a phalanx of faux gold torches mounted on the grilles of gauche gilt limousines. Invitations to the secret meeting did not specify gauche only but those in the know knew. Neither tree nor hip huggers were welcomed, not even to a preliminary game of charades. The torches were calibrated to be aimed by an algorithm in size order at a semi-circle around a faux campfire. Commands were intuitive, but firm. Faux is the only way to go when traveling on dirty business in secret. A real fire would only attract unwanted attention from meddling do-gooders with no real business to contrive. Besides, a fake is as good as the real thing as long as mindful awareness remains suspended in smoke. It takes a lot more than real people to play virtual games all the way to the unsettling end. The invisible vapors emanating from the torches were real enough. The real hale robots in attendance approved. The vapid lights of Silicon Valley appeared to be winking through the haze from below.


“Something’s still missing here.”

“Don’t get too close to me with that.”

“Oh yeah, that’s it.”

“What is?”


“In the game?”

“No, skin.”


The meeting was called to size order by a small bloated man who compensated fiercely. He liked to speak though a bullhorn in a tinny electronic whisper. Rapt acolytes paid attention with the aid of easy listening devices. Modulated reverb in the background soothed like a cracked mentholated lozenge. Conquest was no laughing matter and size order was fodder for no fucking joke. Spoils would continue to be divvied by no less than gross volume. Lions would continue to eat lambs raw while worms crawled in and out. Hanky-panky popping out in pressed pants better stay put. Multiple languages were nominally spoken.

“Stay erect.”

“In line.”

“Be mine.”

“By size.”


walking off cliff

The Unpaid Internet Content Provider, who lives in a big house with his mother and pays no rent, felt as if he was having a hard time making a go of it. He deserved better. Woeful cause snuffed paltry effect. It wasn’t exactly that he craved a regular, meaningful commute to Silicon Valley, no matter what he said, except for the fact that he did. Contradictions, the second most basic building block of the multiverse, took no time off. He said, “I worked so hard all this time, for what? For nothing. I blame it on The Man.

“How much time?  You’re still young.”

“I stayed up all night.”

“You stay up all night, every night.”

“Your point?”

“Size matters.”

How is it that the highest level of consciousness often reached when cut loose from a web of strings with desires attached seems to result in little more than an up and down jerking-off motion misdiagnosed as a simple pain in the neck? Entanglements stay tight, and breathing shallow. The ephemeral target of enlightenment continues to bob and weave like a blocked orgasm just out of reach. Hooks stay sunk into thin skin. Formerly fatal fixations with extraneous people, places, and things maintain a slippery grip. Why ain’t it easy like a lollipop songster’s lilt? Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, ooh baby. The sort of quasi-consciousness, that is, appearing without benefit of quasi-awareness.


“Do you believe animal instincts will survive the rule of robots?”

“As if.”

“What if hard edges get curves?”

“Yeah, right.”

“I don’t know what to say or why anyone might care to listen but I still just want to be free.”

“So you say.”

By often, we as members of a delusional low consciousness species tend euphemistically to mean every day, all day, by you, and me, and everyone known and unknown just like us, including those of us starring in reality based, latter day Looney Tunes, that will become sitcom fodder to occupy our fidgeting quasi-pseudo-selves on the long trip to Mars.

By The Man we mean whoever it is underneath the sheer makeup and clown costume that is sending us out there to do his bidding, the man to whom size matters most, the man who feels with his dials, waiting for instructions to appear in the next episode before acting rashly.

The small bloated man when he was not whispering along with his electronic enhancements liked to locate his dials in proximity to his pants. Assistants handled details. He lived and died to stay up all night developing serums to duplicate delusions in predictable sequences. Size still mattered, of course. By all indications he was doing a bang-up job. After games, organics, pharmaceuticals, holographics, palliatives, sex toys, and creams and lotions, the inducement of delusions to reduce awareness of stress was becoming a major supplier in the entertainment packaging industry..

There will be much time for endurance once the spinning begins in that padded seat on the ride to Mars. After all of that torque, then what? Even firm fingers will need a rest after so many buttons pushed. Why else would selfies be taught in all of the formerly great universities?

The Unpaid Internet Content Provider stood in a long crooked line to sign up for his seat. Many butts were exposed in jostling, pulling rank. He did not bother to sleep before he showed up. He stood firmly with his hands in his pockets to stay awake. He did not have to be asked. He had no hesitation. It was no pose. The probes did not disturb his dignity. The indignities did not itch or pain him. More than anything he only wanted to be qualified.

He was surprised when I decided to stay at home in a curved ball in bed.



About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
This entry was posted in culture, fiction, humor, satire, writing, wtf and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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