a dramatic thought experiment
In the following scene, the boldface words are those spoken by the character “BOSSMAN.”
Hello, world! Here I am! I am nobody!
Here's my CV: Creator among fellow creature-creators.
What? You want me to tell you my greatest weakness? I'm not falling for that one, but I can tell you this: sometimes a body intent on making something is susceptible to debilitating illnesses of spirit. Symptoms can range from low-level listlessness to acute despair.
Has this condition been diagnosed?
Sure, in ways that are generally and specifically wrong. Let's examine why. In all likelihood, most of us have been afflicted.
We don't need to do that.
For many, the symptoms are those we battle daily in various ways, most of which would sound incredibly strange to someone bent on treating the affliction as an individual illness. What are these courses of treatment? They might include staring for a number of silent minutes at the sky, or over the steering wheel in traffic; looking at images of the Hubble Space telescope, or those really close up nature photos where the anthers of a strawberry flower appear as the surface of a hypothetical exoplanet. Some of us have a fondness for searching up newly discovered species––like the giant Siphonophore Apolemia, discovered in 2020, a 150-foot organism, possibly ancient, which looks like a spiral of silly string floating in the deep––collecting the kinds of facts often called "trivial," such as how a human heart will sync with the beat of music, and if the blood vessels of the average adult human body were unwound and strung together like a rope, it would wrap around the earth two and a half times, when it might seem to any nonhuman, so-called "objective" observer, that surely once would have been enough.
Precisely. Anyway, ––
––Anyway, if you look long enough, you might come across this tidbit: how, everything you have two of, you only need one to live, and often (as with limbs, eyes, ears, lips, breasts, testicles) a body can get by without having any of certain common parts.
That sounds like a wasteful model.
Apparently, we're made with all these extra bits of ourselves built in. If one fails, the other is ready to support: circulating, filtering, oxygenating, detoxifying, holding, seeing, hearing––and if one never fails, just because. It is customary to ask, "can you lend me a hand?" We say, "Lend me your ear" and "who has a kidney that will match?" We walk into buildings and announce that we are here to give up our blood. We are always making more, and someone is always needing it.
But what is your bottom line?
Is this a trick question? Have you been looking at my bank account? While you're at it, let me know if you find that money they tried to charge me for not having enough money.
Anyway, I am clearly unequipped to offer discourse on bottom lines, but I can tell you this. Do you know what else we say? We say: "Can you keep an eye on my child?" My child, my life! In your eye, where I will hold yours when the time comes. We bow our thank yous at the ever-astonishing kindnesses of others. The unexpectedness of what we've been taught to disbelieve awes us back to ourselves with such power that it feels like remembering one of those vivid dreams that feels impossibly real.
Are you still talking? Please, just the numbers.
Okay. Let me stop talking. Do you know any cheers? I do! It's good for employee morale. Here goes: “One, two, three, four, I'm not measuring myself in code anymore!”
[Irritated cough, for emphasis. A common power move]
The machine would have us believe that we are incomplete cyborgs in beta-testing, whose value as life forms is to be determined by the scores of a consumer panel, as if consumer panels––or, for that matter, any component of the industrial engine––had ever shown any natural (hah!) capacity for recognizing the value of a life (be it of a creature, an area of land, an art form) except as capital for someone's, as you say, "bottom line."
Again, just the numbers, please. Do you even know what I mean when I say analytics?
Not really. But trust me, Mister, you can't count that high.
Are you still interviewing?
No, I just hired myself.
[Bossman exits. Earthling sits in cushy chair, spins and bounces excessively. Earthling leans back and forth, back and forth. Takes off shoes, uncomfortable jacket, shirt. Stares through window making sounds that are not words. Eventually, earthling picks up pen, rifles through desk drawers looking for paper, gives up, walks to industrial-grade printer, fumbles with trays, and eventually retrieves a page. Resumes seat, picks up executive pen, writes]
Congratulations, you are hired! We are delighted to offer you this job as creator!
[Earthling sits back, smiles at page, leans back in chair, puts feet on desk, laughs, "Hah!" This lasts about a minute. Then earthling begins to look sick. There is no one to talk to.]
Let's analyze this.What exactly is happening with this would-be creator? They have just hit the motherlode! The ultimate boon!
But they don't look too well. What is happening here to make this creature so ill?
Ah, it's the symptoms again. The environmental hazards are getting to them.
The machine would have us believe that there is just barely enough of ourselves to go around: mainly because what is deemed a precious good, is what is rare, and what is abundant (in various forms, including whole populations of humans) is classified as disposable. Life, by nature, is abundant. Once labeled disposable, the algorithmic solution is: exterminate, bulldoze, destroy. The apparent uselessness of many species of earthling is something that the machine gets wrong every time. Still, earthling is breathing the air, and what is in the air gets in the body, in the lungs, and from here: into the blood, the brain, the spirit.
The antidote? Only the company of other life forms deemed useless, and a willingness to commit to protecting them.
What is useless? Plant life growing through concrete sidewalks, the colors of a sunset, the presence of the second of any of our essential parts; laughter, delight, the petting of cats, the slow sipping of hot coffee when a caffeine pill would do; how dolphins play in waves and dogs bark wildly when they see most other living things. Art except when it's being bought or sold. Diapered babies, blubbering and cooing, whose have to be carried from one place to the next; diapered adults, whose food must be taken to them, who are fluent in histories the machine would erase. Finger-painting, the colors of a butterfly. Why does a writer have to write a thousand pages to find the idea that the machine would reduce to two hundred and fifty words, why did Rothko create so many versions of "Untitled," without even bothering to have his painting "look like" anything?
[Earthling begins to revive. They may have blown the interview, but they really know how to knock it out of the park when it comes to landing the job.]
Because: we are not ideas. We are not projections or statistics. We are bodies, and we are abundantly so. The apparent uselessness (to the mechanical eye) of large portions of our individual and collective bodies, brains, preoccupations, delights, and creations––is indivisible from our nature as earth creatures.
Any acknowledgement of this simple truth begs the question: how is anyone going to begin to protect any of what is so bluntly called "nature" or "the planet" unless we recognize how its fundamental substance aligns with our own?
And what if: our fragility to slaughter is precisely in line with an abundance that the machine cannot comprehend?
It is fiercely life-protecting to favor the wisdom of those who share like reckless fools, who understand what the machine can only deny, because it does not compute: how giving ourselves away is exactly what we were made to do.
The hours may be anything, and the pay is variable. The benefits are priceless, though: and you get to keep them for life, with an unlimited number of co-beneficiaries, for an unspecified and entirely unreasonable amount of time.
[Earthling is no longer trying to write or speak. What they are doing is very irrational, but if any of their fellow creatures happen to enter the room right now, they will know what they are seeing. It is dance, and it has no value according to the machine's algorithmic metrics. It is as priceless as the life beholding it, who cannot help but dance along.]
Dance: Wayne McGregor's Chroma – The Hardest Button to Button (The Royal Ballet)