Read Online The Quest of the Artist: A Sci-Fi novella by Phil Semler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Phil Semler
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something(s) happened. Bad things, which practically wiped us out. We live in time, but who knew that anymore? Who understood that very well? Let alone all those old crazy theories of time. Bending, parallel, twisting, double ling back, reversing, slowing down, etc.
History is what? Remembering. Testimony. Explanations. Digital. Writing things down. Documenting. But it seemed as if things had just happened and we were here. I mean this current situation was way beyond mere molding or determining. First of all, adapting to what? The conditions of life. There was very little activity now. No memory for solace , no matter how elusive they may have once been for human beings. It was as if we are now part of a huge experiment . Go about your business. Reboot the economy, the system. Adapt to the new conditions of life.
Many just hung out. There was nothing to do. No entertainment, imagine that. Some went on aimless walks, not so much for foraging, but just to alleviate the boredom. We couldn’t go back to the past. It no longer existed in any way. We couldn’t just speed up the future, speed up time, which might have been exciting, that is, to be caught up in the process of rebuilding (and not repeat the same mistakes!).
Some played a game of make-believe. Some came to terms with the moment, the lack of the days ahead. With nothing left but a past, that few remembered. And remember, the documentation was gone. We—certainly the young—were increasingly ahistorical.
Now there were few who could recount the past, let alone, remember it. Usually, in history, this was the time for courage, willpower, endurance, hope, all that. Otherwise, there would be despondency at our predicament.
The good news, we were not despondent. The bad news, we were indifferent.
There would be no redeeming moments from the Annihilation. They wondered, or squatted, forlorn at all hours. The outside world did not exist. There was no entertainment. No distractions. No escape from things.
Horribly, there was little imagination, even if you shut your eyes. Very few of us could close our eyes and picture other things. Conjure up with all our might, Mount Tamalpais, a redwood tree, a mother’s smile. There was nothing to cherish. We could only live for the day, most of us, in horrible boredom.
The vast indifference around us, and in us. The abandonment of us. The futility of it all. With not even the weather to talk about. We weren’t even weather-conscious. If anything, we were at the mercy of the weather. The warming stifled our interest in the weather.
I, like Kruger, used to walk around and observe the brooding. The sufferers brooding in distress. Human language all but atrophied decades ago, nobody could even tell a story, or what quaintly used to be called an anecdote. “Sup,” “Nothin,” was about the most, many of us could come up with in greeting and a discussion, let alone compose a poem, song, play, or god forbid, a literary work. Only the scientists produced but their language, giving concise and correct information, does not make a culture. To be sure, most of language was useless. We didn’t have much to say, to promise, to lie about. Monotony is preverbal. There was little ordinary conversation, and hadn’t been any for decades. But without entertainment, we now had to come to grips with the world, the emptiness of the world.
I often enjoyed, like Kruger, looking at the old toppled cranes across the water in Oakland. Of course, they reminded me of dinosaurs. A rich symbol. Dinosaurs who once ruled the earth. If I could have explained that to Kruger! But in my disinterest in his work, I did not want to appear a connoisseur.
If only, there was digital. But even those were dead. Besides, even if you had something and could “play” it, what good would it do but kill a few hours?
Altruism might have helped. That’s still a mystery to neuroanthropologists. Giving a thought for others. And certainly, overpopulation was no
History is what? Remembering. Testimony. Explanations. Digital. Writing things down. Documenting. But it seemed as if things had just happened and we were here. I mean this current situation was way beyond mere molding or determining. First of all, adapting to what? The conditions of life. There was very little activity now. No memory for solace , no matter how elusive they may have once been for human beings. It was as if we are now part of a huge experiment . Go about your business. Reboot the economy, the system. Adapt to the new conditions of life.
Many just hung out. There was nothing to do. No entertainment, imagine that. Some went on aimless walks, not so much for foraging, but just to alleviate the boredom. We couldn’t go back to the past. It no longer existed in any way. We couldn’t just speed up the future, speed up time, which might have been exciting, that is, to be caught up in the process of rebuilding (and not repeat the same mistakes!).
Some played a game of make-believe. Some came to terms with the moment, the lack of the days ahead. With nothing left but a past, that few remembered. And remember, the documentation was gone. We—certainly the young—were increasingly ahistorical.
Now there were few who could recount the past, let alone, remember it. Usually, in history, this was the time for courage, willpower, endurance, hope, all that. Otherwise, there would be despondency at our predicament.
The good news, we were not despondent. The bad news, we were indifferent.
There would be no redeeming moments from the Annihilation. They wondered, or squatted, forlorn at all hours. The outside world did not exist. There was no entertainment. No distractions. No escape from things.
Horribly, there was little imagination, even if you shut your eyes. Very few of us could close our eyes and picture other things. Conjure up with all our might, Mount Tamalpais, a redwood tree, a mother’s smile. There was nothing to cherish. We could only live for the day, most of us, in horrible boredom.
The vast indifference around us, and in us. The abandonment of us. The futility of it all. With not even the weather to talk about. We weren’t even weather-conscious. If anything, we were at the mercy of the weather. The warming stifled our interest in the weather.
I, like Kruger, used to walk around and observe the brooding. The sufferers brooding in distress. Human language all but atrophied decades ago, nobody could even tell a story, or what quaintly used to be called an anecdote. “Sup,” “Nothin,” was about the most, many of us could come up with in greeting and a discussion, let alone compose a poem, song, play, or god forbid, a literary work. Only the scientists produced but their language, giving concise and correct information, does not make a culture. To be sure, most of language was useless. We didn’t have much to say, to promise, to lie about. Monotony is preverbal. There was little ordinary conversation, and hadn’t been any for decades. But without entertainment, we now had to come to grips with the world, the emptiness of the world.
I often enjoyed, like Kruger, looking at the old toppled cranes across the water in Oakland. Of course, they reminded me of dinosaurs. A rich symbol. Dinosaurs who once ruled the earth. If I could have explained that to Kruger! But in my disinterest in his work, I did not want to appear a connoisseur.
If only, there was digital. But even those were dead. Besides, even if you had something and could “play” it, what good would it do but kill a few hours?
Altruism might have helped. That’s still a mystery to neuroanthropologists. Giving a thought for others. And certainly, overpopulation was no
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