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Day Camp for grown-ups, 2013 AD.
Check in at terminal. Imbibe caff-o-beverage.
Return to terminal. Engage in memo-crafts, email artisanship, applying Facebook to mindless, alienated existence.
Lunch.
Desperately complain to instant message-friends.
Gaze out the window at the sun…
The sun is not free. Must work for time in sun.
He asked the graphic designer, “Red and green make what? Brown?”
“Blue?” she said at the same time.
“Bro, that’s a primary color. Didn’t you take color theory?”
“Yeah. A long time ago.”
“Those things don’t stick with you?”
She shrugged. In robot voice, he said: “HUMANS INSUFFICIENT. INITIATE GOOGLE.”
her: Don’t quote me.
him: Don’t worry.
her: “Whatever.” - Me.
him: Typical for this generation: too uneducated to speak; any sign of having to critique or question— either attack or retreat into passivity. That’s fine I guess. Neither good nor bad, just is.
her: I’m not even reading…
him: Exactly.
For many millenia the city-folk had their backs to the trees. Fixed eyes loved human artifice, not nature.
Nature-loving humans take city-humans to the forest and the city-humans think they bring enlightenment to the trees. But the trees think, “We’ve been here. Who the hell do you think you are?”
“As a kid I pretended my watch was a time machine. I could go from 0 to 1200. Then I got a digital. I could go from 0 to 2400. Upgrades, nigga.”
“Use it now. Get me out of work.”
“It’s at home. Cat’s traveling to fuck ancient Egyptian cats.”
“Happy birthday, kiddo. We all miss you,” he texted.
“Thanks, miss you too,” came the reply.
“Doing anything special?” he wrote back.
“Girlfriend is making dinner, keeping low key.”
“We are petitioning our congressman to have you repatriated,” he wrote.
“I’m only in New York, lol.”
“Yeah, but we’re not.”
“I feel so crushed,” he said. “Waves of insecurity. I shudder in fear at expanses of time I know I have to fill, alone.”
“Right,” said the friend. “You think your intelligence will save you. Happiness can only exist in acceptance.”
“No more doubt. No more fear?” reasoned the man.
The professor continued: “There is no triumph over tyranny. Tyranny writes or revises the history.”
The student took notes in a strained hand.
“Everything we know is distilled by the triumphant… Even your democratic liberalism was once lorded over others by Napoleon. Just another desperate cause from the lower castes.”
He squeezed into the little German car; stomach overfull with an overzealous breakfast.
“Do you mind moving the seat up?” he asked her.
“It’s stuck,” she said, oblivious to his nausea.
The raindrops struck the window… no fresh air either.
Don’t toss your cookies, he told himself. Don’t toss… uh-oh…
“Clocks, see,” said the old clockmaker, “are not here to help us. They’re here to make fun of us.”
“What do you mean, Granpa?” asked the boy.
“Clocks will always stop. Just like us. Just like our ideas.”
The boy thought for a moment, “Why do we look at them?”
