“3.11. The order which we commonly perceive around us, as well as the disorder, is not a function exclusively of either the universe or our consciousness, but a combination of both, since they cannot really be separated.”
Angela was desperately trying not to laugh. After introducing Vitor to “Inside,” “Webster’s Dictionary,” and “Google Advanced Search,” she feared unintentional consequences for Vitor or herself.
Angela was Vitor’s mother, teacher, and best friend. He, like the character in Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus” was Synthetic Life. Created by Angela.
Angela was an eclectic student. Words have meanings… Sort of… Vitor was based on Human Life and Hybridization; Chemicals, Cloning, and Coding. An artwork of Flesh and Software, i.e. Genetic Code.
She was a pragmatist. Vitor had been quite vocal about bending, snapping, crushing and casting into the sea one or both of them. Was there a potential murder-suicide perpetrator at her arm’s length?
Lovely Vitor hadn’t acted. That was good news. After all, Vitor had been born at the dawn of this day, here atop the high cliffs, inside a palatial cliff-home of white stone overlooking the dark gleaming sea. Victor was doing well, today, at age zero.
Lemon cookie. Fortunately, Angela had lemon cookies. How could Vitor know that? Vitor was psychic, she concluded. No other way he could have known.
Sublimation. Vitor had spun confusion and rage, interspersed factual knowledge gathered from thin sea air of iodine, salt, sunshine, and Angela’s consciousness. Her tiny feet sprinted to the kitchen stocked with lemon cookies!
The lemon cookie event was a success, devoid of mayhem, murder, or suicide. She watched Vitor finish the lemon cookies, all that she had brought. He was quite large compared to her, half an arm-length taller. Birth was hungry work, even for fabricated life.
Vitor was careful with the cookies, which indicated he was now on her wavelength. He tidily brushed tiny cookie flecks off the tempered glass circle table onto his saucer. After cookie cleanup Vitor grasped the bottle of Polar Bear Seltzer, pouring an exact half-glass. This time he proceeded more tactfully. Sipped, then began to chug once more. Slowed.
Vitor’s mannerisms were eerily familiar. He was an adept student. The sun was past noon in a sky so brilliant Angela’s dainty blond lashes were half-mast, protecting her ocean blue gray green irises. The large man, albeit synthetic, decidedly male, rose elegantly.
A lady at the car rental place once told Angela that men, particularly those of powerful build, possessed a delicacy of motion belying their strength — whereas women typically banged around casually, vigorously. Something to do with the hips?
Vitor rose softly as ether. Glided to the northern wall palatial gleaming white. Gently touched a photograph beneath matte glass surrounded by sleek titanium-colored framing.
Alan Watts 1915 – 1973
“You and I are all as much continuous with the physical universe as a wave is continuous with the ocean.”