‘how you found me out I still never understand’

I finally feel like I’m really in college. It took the better part of seven months to learn how to actually be able to see it, but I’m there. What a wonderful feeling. Mostly, I just really like living with my friends. I really like that Elena just woke up on the couch after sleeping there for two hours while I worked, that Zhi has wandered in and out, that if there’s no one here I can wander 50 feet and talk to Lyndsay or Ron or Austin or anyone else. I have small epiphanies; this is one of them. This is what I want right now, and I’m getting it.

background noise: Mews Too (Asthmatic Kitty Compilation)

As a postscript, a revised version of the robot poem:

this rusty heart: my life as an angsty teen robot [revised, albeit not much better]

It’s a funny thing, birth.
Most people don’t remember it,
but still take it as something
eminently human.
It is an experience for which
I have no comparison,
having simply been “switched on”
and having never forgotten
a single thing since then.

I made a list of
“Ways in Which I Am Different,”
my carefully indexed,
thoroughly organized,
wholly gratuitous
tabulation of distinctions between what I am
and what I might be–
    (a thinking breathing mess of metal
    trying to find grace in the gracelessness
    of mechanics, of physicality).
“Birth,” right between
“Baseball” and “Boredom,”
which I respectively have no interest in
or conception of.

I wanted to be a poet,
or a lover–
    (of life, or of metal,
    or of anything in the world
    into which I was thrust
    fully formed)
–but they told me
poetry is divinity
and robots don’t have souls.
They took the pen out of my hand
and told me to express myself
in ways more appropriate
for a machine:
something in zeros and ones, perhaps.
I am blessed with all the perfections
that make me more machine than man:
    perfect memory,
    perfect teeth,
    perfect breath.
But there is nothing perfect
about a love so precise,
or a dull silver heart
that wasn’t created with romance in mind.
They tell me that I am a miracle,
that I am the culmination
of intelligently designed creation.
They tell me they made me better
and more perfect
than even God made his children.
They tell me I’m alive, but
I’m really not sure.

Leave a Reply