free air

Border crossings were the hardest part. More accurately, immediately after crossing the border the adjustment was difficult, even perilous. We often said we would welcome a buffer zone, some sort of transition space. It's awfully challenging to travel from one climate, atmosphere, and culture into another one totally opposite. As born and raised Confrairians, we naturally took air for granted. We never thought of it as a commodity. Air wasn't something bought or sold. It was there for the taking, no questions asked. We were born into this and never imagined any other regime existed, or could exist. The first crack in the wall of this thinking came with the arrival of the first Contrairian refugess. Who are they? we thought. We knew something was amiss. Their pale pallor, skinniness, hoarse voices, and thirst. It goes without saying: their difficulty breathing. After all, COPD was practically in their DNA. So, free air was our birthright. A given. But not so for the Contrairians. They had to refill their cylinders daily. From what we have heard, the irony was that they had to purchase their air at old gas stations, from machines that said FREE AIR. How's that for bitter irony? And cruelty. They told us that the FREE AIR pumps only took quarters. At last count, 24 quarters for each day-cylinder per person. Adds up, doesn't it? We're just learning about this, but apparently the Contrairians have lung portals for refills. It seems logical to assume that the cylinders contain pure oxygen. We do not know what their atmosphere consists of. The two countries are undoubtedly sealed off by some sort of shield or vacuum. We don't know. We should know. It's a state secret. (We can't help but wonder if there's clandestine collusion and black marketerring on each side of the border, though we can't imagine what THEY would have of value for Confrairians.) The future is bleak. Air wars are a virtual certainty. And we have nowhere to flee to, not that we know of, not yet. Maybe someone reading this can send a message in a bottle, or in an empty cylinder. Something. Anything.

those were the days

Remember when we all had "devices"? We stood in elevators, paused on sidewalks, stole looks while driving; we peeked at illuminated screens that gave off a glow. Even in bed, we furtively glanced at our electronic alter egos, sometimes while barely awake or while sleepwalking. Our thumbs danced on touch-sensitive keyboards. Some of us exercised magical powers by tapping unseen keys accurately, while we performed other tasks (called multitasking), to send messages to friends or relatives or business associates, or to virtual strangers. Others of us, typically older, relied on index fingers to tap what were called "texts" slowly, one letter at a time, often punctuated by cartoonish colored symbols we called emojis. The screens would demarcate receiver and sender by variably colored panels with messages ("threads") displayed, and stored, if one so chose. Something called "social media" was another source of communication. 

Do you recall any of this? Does it ring a bell? Does a vibrating hum in your brain trigger a memory? 

These communications ranged from the profound to the superficial; from the mundane to the sublime; addressing the full range of human activities and emotions. 

Does any of this whatsoever jog your memory? Nearly everybody was in the game, young and old, rich and poor. The incarcerated, the paralyzed, the senile, the "unable" were the few populations excluded. 

And then what happened?

Accounts differ. Volatile and passionate arguments erupt when the topic is explored.

This was long before Resident Telepathic Implants (RTIs) liberated us from the burden of tapping fingers or dictating texts (often not corrected for erroneous "predictive" spellings. This was long before we collectively shucked our devices with all their accoutrements (cases, chargers, USBs, blocks, screen protectors). All of that gone.

We were bereft.

We were lonely.

We didn't know what to do with ourselves, or each other.

Solar Flare Apocalyptic Eruption IV (SFAE4) was a turning point. There's a rare consensus on that. With no electrical power grid, so-called networks became useless and antiquated. The sun was rude in its ruthless vaporization of Modern Life.

But what were we to do? Whom were we to blame?

Those were the days, weren't they? Those were the days, my friends.

the vow

We took vows. We made a vow of silence. We all did. Some complied more than others, or so we have "heard." I took a vow of silence. During the Ceremony itself, the Presider spoke no words, nor any sign language utterances. All the Candidates knew in advance this was at the heart of the Ceremony, not the only vow but a critical one. Stark in its simplicity, its lack of protocols, aberrations, rewards, punishments. We knew this out there in the world. We knew this, we were told, warned, if you will. We could've run right then and there. I could have run. We complied. We affirmed by standing as one, rising from the pews, our white cotton robes rustling (the robes took no vow of silence!), our cowls covering our heads. Obviously white vestments or black. Had to be either one. We stood as one. However, two Candidates, one male and one female, refused, they remained seated while the others stood. The Ushers politely ushered them out into the blaring noon sun. No remonstrances, no frowns. They were told, we were all told, this was a last chance to shun the vow of silence, to make a silent statement of rejection -- or freedom, if you subscribed to such a worldly view. Better now than later.

I stood. I assented. I had no hesitation. If I were to hesitate, would I have remained seated? We will never know, will we?

The first week was the hardest. Such a new means of living, with so little training or practice! The Ushers were tolerant, letting the odd, random spoken word to escape, as happened with many, if not most, of us. Things like "yes" or "no" or "what." One quickly learned that such monosyllabic slips faded away, subsided, stopped, given no conversational milieu to flourish in. After all, what does "what," "yes," or "no" even mean without a prompt or context or wordscape? Almost nothing.

I napped a lot at first. The antidote to this, the Ushers knew, was work in the fields. Raking, pruning, digging, mulching, watering, transplanting. The work was a boost to my spirits, uplifting, despite the hard labor involved.

By the end of the first year, the silence became a routine, an atmosphere, a given. I can't speak for anyone else (obviously, I am not permitted to speak at all), but I was surprised that the wordless soundscape (coughs, sneezes, burps, farts, yawns, knuckle cracklings continued to flourish) did not create a white purity, a pristine echo in my heart and mind. Quite the opposite. The silence, for me, evoked a roar of white noise. No, no, that's not quite right. Sure, there was the static of anxiety, fear, and restlessness, but that was nothing compared to the relentless interior monologue gonging in my head, made silent only by sleep, which over time became increasingly sparse.

Wasn't this the purpose of the vow, to silence, or quell, the running commentary of my mind? Weren't they trying to soften, eventually mute, our narrative (a worn-out word), our editorial board, our storyteller without lips or voice?

Voice. That word. Voice. Do I have one? (Whispers in my cell have proved inconclusive.) I am convinced that my voice persists; it has not vanished; its imprint can still be felt. 

And that is why I have written this crumpled note, unfolded into legibility, I pray. Hear my voice. Rescue me. I can't speak for any of the others. But rescue me. I've had enough. Get me out. There are rumors, scribbled on napkins or toilet paper, that some have made it out.

I'm screaming. I'm shouting. 

Can you hear me?

emojification

When I took, and passed, a linguistics course 127 years ago, the prof said, "The simpler a language is, the more complex and sophisticated it is." But he couldn't have said that. It's patently absurd. He likely said the opposite.

Never mind.

Linguists debate whether languages are equally complex or sophisticated. They quibble over whether as a general rule languages become more complex over time. Do they?

Consider emojis.

Emojis don't constitute a language, not exactly. They evolved from emoticons. Both alternative "languages" grew out of keyboard demands and changing habits as our planet, especially Japan, became more digitized.

I'm driving out of my lane here, yet I wonder about the apparent simplicity of sign languages, pictograms, and ideograms. (Don't ask me about the linguistic differences between each. My ignorance means I am not free of cultural biases and preconceptions. Duly noted.) But what if we were to communicate solely by emojis? Are we moving in that direction? And does it signify progress or decline?

Before going further, allow me to note that I will resist resorting to emojis in this post. It's too facile, cheap; somehow cheating. Better to have us picture an infinity of emoji images in our minds.

Part of me feels that a stripped down, minimalist method of communicating by emojis would declutter the conversation, like filtering out static on a distant AM station. That may be so, but we already know the perils of methods such as texting, where tone and intent are easily misconstrued. 

Can emojis be misconstrued?

I once had neighbors who communicated by sign language. When an argument ensued, I could almost hear them shouting. Almost.

What would an argument by emojis look like? For all I know, this happens every day.

How about a stately speech? Could these stark iconic symbols be "stretched" into formal, lofty language, the polished-marble discourse of courtrooms and capitols? 

This invites the topic of translation. I would opt for the opportunity to wax eloquent, soaring above the pedestrian emojis of commonplace chatter.

Something tells me these musings are far from original, already obsolete and outdated. Something tells me that government, corporate, and private hackers and programmers have secretly crafted a post-apocalyptic ready-to-go language, bereft of words and sounds, portable and universal, handmade for a denuded, simmering planet.

Ash Wednesday Thursday Friday Saturday Sunday Maybe Monday and Tuesday

And we thought Lent was over. "Ashes to ashes; dust to dust." We are cavalier. We are masters and mistresses of our universe. We live in the modern age, even post-modern, if you will. "Apocalyptic" is an adjective reserved for theologians or drama queens or alarmists. Besides, it has too many syllables. Apocalyptic. All by itself, one line of a haiku about endings -- with no end in sight. We conquered nature, didn't we? Nature. She's so last century, so pre-millennial. (And who says Nature is feminine, anyway?) From ashes unseen on the ground, under a true-blue (liar!) sky, our high-tech world is insulted by dust. Fibers that upon ingestion by a jet's turbine can stall an engine or flame it out. The rudeness of these volcanic particulates to ruin our techno planet, to stall the mighty engine of progress, to flame out the fragile text of the future. We were just getting used to "global" as an adjectival cliche. If these ashes turn to fibers, is it like the angel hair we put on Christmas trees in the 1950s, causing us to scratch an invisible itch? These Icelandic (the nerve! Iceland!) ashes, this devil's hair, are the molecular patron saint of Luddites Universal. Who are we such that ashes drifting above an azure-cerulean clarion-clear sky force us to huddle, to encamp in airports, would-be Haitians in waiting, communing with not nature but each other, as if the Me Generation had no choice but to admit the potential of a We Generation. Generation Ash. Five syllables. Another line in the uncompleted haiku, the haiku with the missing seven, the missing middle, searching for the heart of the matter. Ashes.