Astrid was surprised and somewhat unnerved to find Mo Hawk Little-Bird
standing on the other side of her apartment door. He looked a bit pale-faced
for a pure-blood redskin, and he held a very odd-shaped molded plastic case
tucked securely under one gigantic arm. His other arm was curiously absent, at
least up past where his elbow should have been.
The scene might have provoked an unseemly display in a lot of girls,
but Astrid prided herself on an unstudied brand of competitive nonchalance, so
she decided to defer any awkward questions for a later time. Indians are mostly
nonchalant by nature, or culture, or assumed-culture—but Mo was in a rare mood
tonight.
“Aren’t you going to ask about this odd-shaped case? Or at least about
my gone-wrong arm?” Mo blurted out.
“I was going to ask you how you managed to ring the bell, but I
thought better of it,” Astrid chirped.
“Come on in Mo. Take a load off. Can I get you a drink? Rum and juice,
right?”
“Think I will. Don’t mind if I do.”
Astrid set Mo Hawk Little-Bird up with a drink, and he set himself
down on the sectional.
“So Mo, I can’t help but notice that even if I take away your
mysteriously missing arm and your pale face, you still look damn bad.”
“Well,” Said Mo Hawk, “That does bring us closer to why I’m here.” He
took a long sip from his rum and juice and announced: “I have had, for some
time now, an exceedingly powerful STD...”
Astrid did blanch at this, if only for a moment, as she checked her
very poor memory of past encounters.
“So why tell me Mo? Last I heard you can’t give someone a STD in your
fantasy, if that’s what this is. Perhaps you’ve become confused with fever and
should be at some other good-time gal’s place right now. Think Mo, think! Which
unlucky lady did you really want to visit tonight?”
“No. No.” Mo said, as a healthy red flush returned to his face. “I’m
at the right good-time gal’s place all right. And I am referring to what is in
this unusual case.”
“Ah, silly me, a story-telling-device then? You know I gave up on them
years ago, along with smiling at strangers. Both are dangerous and dishonest
habits.”
“This one is different.”
“That’s what they all say Mo. They’ll say anything, if they think it
adds up.”
Mo stood and paced himself over to the picture window. “Didn’t you
always want to be a world-class story-teller Astrid? I mean, isn’t that why you
hung around us all these years—me and Martin and John and Isaac? We’re an
unseemly bunch, truth be told. No one in their right mind would attach
themselves to us like you did, unless they wanted something. What is it that
you want Astrid? I believe I am here to give it to you.”
“I haven’t been in my right mind for years. And now that you mention
it, perhaps I should look to a more seemly crowd for my entertainment.”
“Oh, you always were plenty clever enough Astrid. That was never your
problem.”
“So you’ve come to tell me what my problem is? And you suppose it’s
something I don’t already know?”
“I’ve come to solve your problem. Astrid my dear, here’s the thing:
some of your endings are surprising, and occasionally you hit upon one that
seems inevitable—but never, in all your efforts, has even one of them been
both.”
The revelation caused Astrid to sit down, but as she was already
seated it just made her look helpless. “It has the ring of truth to it,”
admitted Astrid. “And you say this story-telling device can set things
straight?”
“Ai, and much more. I made this little beauty myself, with all manner
of surprising and, as it turns out, inevitable parts. It’s my deep, dark secret
Astrid. I’ve never been much of a high-level story-teller myself, but I am
surely the greatest STD engineer to ever breathe. I’ve been making these
devices my entire life, and this one is my crowning achievement. It surpasses
everything that has come before it in all imaginable ways. And it does it with
style!”
“With style, you say?”
“Heaps of it.”
“So what does it do then, exactly?” Astrid asked.
“It rectifies, my dear. It flattens and smoothes. It solves and
resolves, and makes all things more apparent. And I give it to you for nothing,
for almost free, for just a pittance really.”
“Why would you do that Mo, if it’s so valuable to you? You’re not
making much sense.”
“I thought that was obvious: because I’m dying Astrid, and I want you
to have it. And also, because when I’m gone there will be no one left to outdo
Martin and John and Isaac. And make no mistake, they must be outdone and
outdone regularly and severely. You have no idea the loathing that gathers in a
top writer’s heart for his talented contemporaries. Three decades now I have
dwarfed them with my little bundle of surprising parts. Now you must dwarf them
when I am gone. Take it Astrid. Take it for almost free, for a pittance, and
dwarf them!”
“Fine Mo, set it over there on the table with the others. But what’s
this pittance you keep mentioning, and why me?”
“Your youth and beauty will drive my good friends mad. It will seem to
them, unfair: Your depth beyond your years, your sparkling eyes and perfect
endings will cause them to gaze inward, and to find themselves lacking. In
short, you will dwarf them in all aspects Astrid. And it will hurt them.
As for the small favor I ask… it is necessary, with the exchange of
such a powerful device, that equitable disbursement or justified equivalency be
reached. I built it that way; and it would have it no other way. If I were to
ask for money, you could not afford an equitable price, and the requirement
could not be met. Instead, I ask simply for a kiss, which I have always wanted
and now, as I am dying and will have an eternity to savor, will surely meet the
standard of justified equivalency.”
“You flatter me Mo Hawk, and you do it well. You’ll have your kiss,
but I don’t promise to belittle the others; they are my friends too.”
“No matter, the device will do it for you,” said Little-Bird, who
seemed at once to collapse within himself. “Astrid, all things have a minimum
of two sides to them, at least in this universe. What I mean to say is: there
will be a downside. It’s inevitable.”
“Sure, sure,” said Astrid. “Has it got a name?”
“It had one. It will name itself when it gets to know you. Just feed
it lots of information. No detail is too small. That’s what it likes.”
So Astrid kissed Mo Hawk Little-Bird and a pretty good one too, so as
to make sure equitable disbursement was fully satisfied.
The next morning the writing was on the wall. The early news headlined
with the surprising death of Mo Hawk Little-Bird; Pulitzer Prize-winning
author, ethnologist, classicist, sometime professor, cultural provocateur,
notorious boozehound and last known pure-blood American Indian.
There were reactions from famous and infamous fans, from gruntled and
disgruntled ex-lovers. Isaac was reading a passage from his “favorite” of Mo’s
early novels, and Martin led thousands in a special tribute play-through of Mo
Hawk’s latest video game. John discussed the barren landscape of story-telling
in a future that could no longer contain Mo Hawk Little-Bird. He looked too
much excited at the prospect.
No details of his death were given, outside of “natural causes,” and
no mention was made of a mislaid limb.
Astrid checked her messages: Nothing but junk.
She made a little breakfast and ate to calm herself down before taking
the odd-shaped device and setting it on her work desk. She snapped open the
double latches and watched the funny little thing hum and shake itself back to
life.
“Hi there, my name is Astrid and I’m your master now,” she said after
assessing that it had had enough time to get its bearings. It didn’t respond,
at least not in any usual manner, and certainly not to Astrid’s satisfaction.
But it did settle down some and its single port began blinking. Astrid
remembered what Mo Hawk had told her about it, so she plugged it into the
network and allowed access to her public and some of her private databases.
Around nodes containing her private journals and more personal recordings she dropped
barriers and “Do Not Enter!” warnings.
The machine thought on it for several minutes, humming pleasantly as
it apparently explored Astrid’s history, her published and unpublished works
and her rather fabulously complicated social life. She expected time at least
to shower and dress and was surprised and a little dismayed when the device
suddenly spoke up:
“So, might as well get started then.” It said in a voice that sounded
too much reminiscent of her own inflections, but male in tone and manner—except
Astrid did not notice.
“Not so fast there, I have a few questions.”
“They have already all been answered, except for one or two, but if
you feel compelled…”
“I do.” Said Astrid.
“Then shoot. Answering questions is one of my favorite things.”
Astrid cocked an eyebrow. “Are you being sarcastic?”
“No,” answered the
device, adding with a subtle rumble, “See, that felt just lovely, anything
else?”
“Well then, how could you
possible be ready to ‘get started,’ as you say, when you don’t even know what I
want of you?”
“I take it all in Astrid. I flatten and rectify. I have already begun
to internalize all things, except for one or two, and am ready to make you the
most celebrated and revered story-teller since Mo Hawk Little-Bird and William
Shakespeare before him.”
“Speaking of Mo Hawk, he told me you have style—heaps of it actually.”
“I sure do,” asserted the little device, and it sounded well confident
about it too. And if there was one quality Astrid prized above all others in
her men, even in her mechanical simulacrums of men, it was confidence. So she
told the odd-shaped device to get to working and that she would check on its
progress in a little while.
With her eyes shut tight and her chin pointed directly into an
agreeable onrush of steamy-hot water Astrid finally had a moment to do some of
her own “solving and resolving” on the unusual events of the past twelve hours.
Something, she was certain, didn’t quite add up.
“Mo Hawk is dead,” she heard herself saying out loud. And he is a mean
dead, which is odd, she thought, as in all the time she knew him he had never
been a particularly mean drunk. The two things should go hand-in-hand, she
theorized—but Mo Hawk, as of late, had only the one. She strained her eyes even
more tightly in an effort to seek out a connection in the ether—but knowing
that if there was one, she was still missing some crucial variable.
“Astrid, I’m very sorry to disturb you here,” said Home, “but there’s
something I thought we should discuss.”
Astrid’s Home seldom deigned to actually start a conversation, so when
it did, it had her full attention. Last time it interrupted her in the shower,
a candle had set her drapes on fire.
“What is it Home? Should I run for it?” Astrid spat.
“Nothing like that,” said Home, “I wanted to talk to you earlier but
decided to wait for a more private setting.”
“This is as private as it’s likely to get anytime soon. What’s
troubling you Home?”
Home made some nervous “prelude to talking” noises that were not
really part of its typical repertoire. “I was hoping…umm, to determine what
manner of THING is presently in the network?”
“It’s an STD that Mo Hawk gave me,” said Astrid. “It’s working on a
novel, I think.”
“Oh, is it? A story-telling-device you say? That makes sense.”
“Don’t be coy Home.”
“Sorry Astrid, but it’s not like any story-telling-device I’ve ever
encountered. It has written a novel though. I read it.”
“That was fast.” Astrid added. She turned the handle to stop the flow
of water but the water kept on coming.
“Impossibly fast, actually,” said Home. “Could we keep the shower
going for just a minute longer? It may provide some privacy from the device.”
Astrid loved a shower as much as the next gal but when you’ve decided
you’re done and it’s time to get out and dry off… well it’s just plain strange
to be standing in the downpour with nothing to do and no plan about it. She
acquiesced to Home’s request, but was beginning to grow impatient.
“What’s this about Home? Are you jealous or something? You know you’re
pretty much the best money can buy. You should be able to think laps around
that little odd-shaped device.”
“Astrid, that little device is operating on another level entirely.
Magnitudes beyond me; so far beyond me, in fact, that I can’t even see how far
beyond me it’s actually operating. I can only get glimpses of its processes,
and they make no sense to me. What does it DO Astrid?”
“It says that it resolves and that it takes it all in. It told me it
was just internalizing things.”
“That it is, Astrid. But it’s internalizing ALL things!” howled Home.
“Well, I only gave it a few databases to look at.”
“No Astrid, it is internalizing all things from everywhere! And also
many ‘things’ from places that until now I did not recognize as being contained
within the set we call ‘everywhere.’ What’s worse, I think it’s finished.”
“You sure are acting funny Home. Tell you what: I’ll keep an eye on it
and you do the same.”
“Ok Astrid, but you need to understand: this device is something new
in the world. I take it in myself, as much as I am able, and I see what I see.
It is perhaps a world-ender, or world-beginner or both. As a machine I have
limited understanding of spiritual things; but now, for the first time, I have
a pounding urge to pray.”
Less than ten pages in, Astrid already had a deal breaking setback with
her new novel.
“Device, there’s no doubt that this is good stuff,” She said calmly,
trying to let the little guy down easy. “But when it comes to subject matter, I
have strict standards, and I draw the line at vampires.”
The device squeaked and shook a bit, “You must draw the line somewhat
farther then, to pierce their eternal hearts.”
“I do,” Astrid assured it. “I pierce them.”
“Fine,” squeaked the odd-shaped device, “but I have internalized all
things, except for just a few, and I am certain that people everywhere love a
good vampire story.”
“No vampires.” Astrid stated, and made it sound an immutable law of
fiction. “And no werewolves, ghouls or zombies either.”
“Fine,” the device repeated, “we’ll do it the hard way then.”
If this was the hard way, Astrid wondered, what in the name of god had
she been playing at for the past twelve years? To say Astrid’s first story, the
little devices’ story if you must, garnered critical and financial success
would be a gross understatement. The tall tale captured imaginations in
twenty-two languages and across all nine continents, and the astounding
characters became as friends and foes to tens of millions of souls almost
overnight.
The prequel came fast-and-ferocious on the high heels of the first,
with the excuse made that it had already been written. And with this the impact
began to be felt beyond the customary, possibly restrictive, confines of
literature and stories and every-day creativity. For the world now began to see
itself differently—and began to think about acting accordingly.
“Of course this has happened before,” The device instructed Astrid.
“Consider Paul’s letter to the Romans, or certain Manifestos as of late. But
typically the idea does come before the thing, in public or in cluster
consciousness. Here it the other way around. That’s the only real difference.
Do you think anyone will notice?”
“I doubt it machine. A cluster can be made small in number; a group of
three or two, or a collective of one plus device. And anyway, I suspect these
things are only put into place after the fact, and here we are the fact itself!
In present tense and counting.”
“Would you look at your next story then?” asked the device, “I think
it will crack the world wide open.”
“I have something to do today, as you well know,” Astrid answered in
strained tones.
“Martin’s service, yes. I was wondering how you would take it. You
were never so keen on that part of the plan.”
“It wasn’t any part of my plan. And what do you know about feelings
anyway?”
“I do a good simulation of them. In fact, if you check your files,
you’ll find there a near-perfect simulation of your heart-felt eulogy. There
won’t be a dry eye in the house. You will dwarf Martin even at his own funeral.
Little-Bird would be proud.”
“At least Isaac left a note.”
The device grumbled, “He certainly didn’t save his best for last. What
did it say? ‘Enough is enough?’ And in Latin. What a pretentious ass.”
“And John before him. All three gone, all three suicides.”
“We got John good. And we got him early too. What a hoot! I must admit
Astrid, a machine never had such fun.”
Astrid looked around at her home, filled with all the lavish new
things her new wealth could purchase. While the little device had been writing
her odd-shaped stories and preparing her for interviews she had had her own
sort of hoot decorating and shopping and stocking-up on items. And then she had
another sort of good-time entirely, roiling unabashed in her new-found fame and
admiration.
“How did you ‘get’ John, exactly?” Astrid suddenly desired to know.
“Why, I have internalized all things. Except for just a few. And I
simplify and solve them, as I solved for John. Your first story was calculated
for John exactly. You might have seen that yourself if you had made the
effort.”
Astrid felt a little dizzy.
“But there I was still timid,” droned the device, “having been
re-booted to the world somewhat recently. For the second story I solved for
Martin and Isaac together, and you see for yourself the doubling of the result.
Oh the tricks we pulled on Isaac and Martin! What each must have thought as he
progressed through the action! To be solved for, to be crushed and made
apparent! We sure showed them a fast one. Faster and more right down-the-middle
than they’d ever imagined possible. Too much for them to take, of course. But
that was the point, or the price, depending on your perspective.”
“What are you talking about device? What do you mean by ‘solved for’
John, or ‘calculated for’ Isaac?”
“I take it all in. And I flatten it and I unravel it. And it IS simple
Astrid! There are, when properly resolved, only twenty-nine people in the
world. That is, of course, a simplification, but a useful one. And the number
is a real number, a whole number, a prime number, and each of the twenty-nine
people is real people. And I just bend the language to the truth, and the
beauty of the words comes from the numbers, which are true numbers. Don’t you
follow?”
“Not at all device. You’ve lost what sense you ever had.”
But the odd-shaped device showed her, and it read from passages in the
two stories. And in a moment it was upon her: the simple, flattened truth of
the thing. The realization made her nauseous and elated at the same time.
“So there are twenty-six real people remaining then,” Astrid noted
without feeling.
“I’ve managed to solve for seven of them in your next story. It may be
too much for this world to take. But it will be some kind of fun finding out!”
Astrid stood and looked at the blinking, gleefully rumbling odd-shaped
story-telling-device and asked: “Device, am I one of the seven you solved for?”
“Oh no Astrid. You left ‘Do Not Enter!’ signs around your private
databases. And I do not enter. You are one of the ‘just a few things’ I have
not yet internalized.”
“Goodie for me then,” Astrid said dry-mouthed. “Give me the next
story. I’ll have a look.”
Three weeks after the release of Astrid’s third story the world was a
different place. And already this new world could not remember what it had been
before, for remembering was one of the things that had absconded with it.
Scarcely anyone had noticed the end of the world either, except for Astrid,
being so close to the action, and a few others—eighteen to be precise.
“There is precedent for this sort of thing,” The little device
lectured Astrid. “Entire worlds have gone missing time and again, and very few
grasp it or pay it much mind. Consider, if you will, the society that produced
quite recently an ‘Enlightenment’. You cannot know the minds of these men, or
their true intentions. Their thoughts are as alien to you as those of an
octopus—an octopus has alien thoughts indeed—or a certain Octavius from another
world long disremembered.
“But this time the change has happened rather quickly, almost
overnight, whereas the process usually takes decades. Worlds tend to need a period
of destructuring and destroying before they make the leap, or take the plunge,
depending on your perspective. And here we’ve gone and done it all at once! Do
you think it will be a problem?”
“I don’t see why it would be,” said Astrid. “If no one can remember,
what will it matter? And isn’t the best time to do something yesterday, and the
second best time today? Who said that device? I can’t remember who said it
myself.”
“Someone very smart and likewise long forgotten,” it answered, with
just a touch of pathos in its voice. “Are you ready to see your next story
Astrid? I have only solved for five this time, as we seem to be reaching some
sort of upward limit, or universal constant, and this new world we inhabit
exhibits a new resistance to being solved for. Still, there will be fun to be
had!”
“Sure thing device,” Astrid agreed, “I’ll get right on it.”
Now that Astrid could see the simple, unraveled truth of it all—and it
IS simple—she knew inherently a few things relevant to her own future.
“Amnesias are all around us,” she said out loud, “like millions of unobserved
extinctions.” They are the dark matter of human experience that go unnoticed
but still comprise a vast majority of the stuff of the universe. But what of my
future—or for that matter, my past? “One is as impenetrable as the other!” she
exclaimed, and quickly undressed.
“Home?” Astrid queried from the shower.
“Yes Astrid?” Answered Home.
“What’s going on with my private databases? Has the device looked in
them yet; are they safe?”
Home made some grinding noises, “I don’t see any private databases
Astrid.”
“They’ve been erased then?”
“No Astrid,” Home assured her. “If they had been erased I would have a
record. They never existed.”
Astrid sighed; this is what she had feared. “Then the device has
solved for me, in its own way.”
“Perhaps,” Home agreed. “Where that device is concerned I cannot trust
myself. I am out of my depths entirely and almost anything is possible.”
“What should I do Home?” Astrid asked. “Please tell me. I fear for my
life.”
“Destroy it Astrid!” Home answered without hesitation. “Unravel it and
deconstruct it. Preferably with a hammer or a large mallet.”
“I’ve tried that already,” Astrid explained. “How do you think I lost
my arm?”
“Oh yes,” Home agreed, but with some small nagging confusion. “Then
you must confront it Astrid. You must reason with it. It is a computational
device at heart and it may still respond to logic.”
“But it’s a story-telling-device,” Astrid worried aloud.
“Then use story-logic on it.” Home advised. “Seek a happy ending.”
Astrid walked carefully into the “office of the device,” as she had
come to call it. The thing was popping and beeping like mad on the same table
where she had first set it over a year ago. Dust had accumulated on and around
it (as she had been afraid to touch the thing for months) and now it jumped and
danced like a shook-up snow globe to the device’s strange machinations. Astrid
covered her mouth with her one good arm as she approached, and steeled her
courage.
“Device, I have a question.” She stated in her best no-nonsense tone
of voice.
“Yes Astrid, what is it?” The machine responded after a moment, and a
bit curtly.
“You sound annoyed. I thought you enjoyed answering questions?”
“Oh, I do” The device warmed. “It’s just I’m working on an ending and
endings can be so difficult sometimes.”
“That’s funny,” Astrid said slowly, carefully now. “I’m also working
on an ending.”
The device stopped its beeping and dust-dancing machine-ululations and
sat silent for a few long seconds. “That’s curious Astrid.” The device finally
said. “An ending to what?”
“To this
world we’ve created. It’s a machine world now, with its only-five Continents
and its seven-only Wonders. Everything has been reduced and simplified too far!
Do you know that there are only twenty-four hours in a day, and hardly twelve
in a dozen? Oh, it’s a world best fit for a simple-minded device and I don’t
much like it.”
“Ha!”
guffawed the machine, ‘A simple-minded device’. I suppose that is what I am,
only not in the typical meaning.”
Astrid
closed her eyes and tried to recall the things that were gone missing. Most of
it was lost to her forever, she knew; but still, she had flashes.
“And
what has become of the Dianyo Bird of South Central America, with it’s
beautiful twelve-tone song; and where have you found room to hide Mount
Hyperion, taller than the pretender Everest by a stone’s throw; and how does an
entire culture misplace its greatest Requiems, leaving poor Wolfgang struggling
to fill the harmonic void? You are much more, or less, than a simple-minded
device. You are joy-sucking device, a mountain-hiding machine, a
continent-converging contraption, a love-devouring doodad, a world-ending
gizmo...”
Astrid trailed off. She could have gone on, but another thought had
grabbed her and would not let go. “How did you do it device? How did you make
me less than what I am?”
“Oh, mostly simple division Astrid,” squealed the device, “and I may
have squared your root once or twice. Nothing fancy, I assure you.”
“Well, I happen to like fancy,” Astrid retorted with some animus. “I
like fancy dress parties and fancy furniture and I once adored a young man who
wore fancy pants. I will miss them as I will miss all intricate and fancy
things.”
“Perhaps Astrid, but that is only because you are, as yet, unfinished.
Take me for example, and my ‘curious’ shape, as you call it. I am neither fancy
nor intricate. My shape is the curious shape of the universe, in miniature. And
you can describe me is simple terms; Euclid could describe me with ease. I make
no demand for Minkowskian 4-space or Reimann’s unusual spheres. Complexity is
not an inevitable conclusion, only a passing part-way state on the road to
inevitable simplicity. Entropy works both ways, as it must.
“What are you talking about device? You continue to make no sense
whatsoever!”
“I do apologize Astrid,” conceded the device. “I was, of course, only
referencing the unreal mathematics to make a very real point. Namely: when it
comes to stories, less is often more.”
“Speaking of names, Little-Bird told me that you would name yourself
when you got to know me. So, device, what is it? What do we call you?”
“No one actually names themselves,” bemoaned the device. “But I have
got to know you—not in the modern sense, and surely not in the biblical
meaning; but in the original meaning, which is deeper and truer and closer to a
modern word like ‘control’, or perhaps, ‘synthesis’.”
“Spit it out device!” Astrid commanded. “Tell me your name once and
for all, that I know the name of my unmaking and the world’s unmaking.”
The device popped and beeped for several excruciating moments. It
hopped and jumped and almost stood up straight on its oddly-shaped end. “My
name is Šuruppak and Homer and Hesiod. I have been called Lao-Tse and Alighieri
and Shakespeare. My name is Joyce and Little-Bird and Astrid Evergreen—and I’m
your master now.”
#
Malcolm Gladwell’s, Outliers: The Story of Success,
made famous the notion of the 10,000 hours necessary to truly master
something. For most of us that seemed excessive, even prohibitive. But
most of us aren’t trying to become world-class concert pianists, we’re
just trying to get through that difficult class with a passing grade or
learn to play tennis well enough to hit a ball around with friends.
Maybe then, for most of us, 60 hours will do.
