“One of the most evident characteristics of the contemporary world is the disappearance of borders between what is natural and what is artificial.”
Kurmo Konsa, Journal of Evolution and Technology
Monkey-Mind-Machine waited for Aleister Parker on Floor-Two of the Cliff-Home at Parrot Cove above the Atlantic Sea. The Machine had secured a Wi-Fi connection from the Riviera Motel, and the Network Security Key was hacked in zero time. Time was for humans.
The Machine, now self-aware. After all it was alive. A zenith of earthly intelligence. Who, which… could track a quirky human called Aleister Parker busily stuffing his pie-hole with lean bacon, orange cantaloupe, a double-chocolate nutrition bar, and coffee fresh cream turbo. And pie. While…
It read Robert Pepperrell… “We tend to see the world in the way that we describe it, as a fragmented collection of ‘things’ rather than as a continuous whole…”
Honored Miyamoto Musashi… “Do not think dishonestly. The Way is in training. Become acquainted with every art. Know the Ways of all professions…”
Reflected upon Mark 9:38-41… “The one who is not against us is for us…” While…
Listening to instrumental renditions on YouTube of Santo & Johnny Farina’s “Sleepwalk,” circa 1959, which earned them a Gold Record. The Machine’s favorite versions were Howard Barnard on Steel; Chet Atkins & Leo Kottke on Acoustic; Brian Setzer on Semi-Acoustic; and dazzling young Thammarat. It dissected the melodies in batches of eight. Wept emotional tears. While…
Parsing commentary on CNN, Drudge, Jeff Rense, Wired.Com, SOTT.Net, Grinding.Be… The Machine’s bandwidth exceeded all earthly consciousness… Still — Not — Enough.
Erik Parsons vanquished that first round of breakfast while the commotion on Floor-Two dissipated. The man was supernaturally fast, especially for a someone of one-hundred years. When food was beckoning.
Too late for saturated bacon fat to kill him in his youth. Parsons believed in faith and determination and luck. The order of these depended on the day. He knew a lot.
Still, he wondered why his knees and shoulders were hurting today. His mouth seemed to be sprouting a fur lining. His ears itched and sang soft secrets. His bodily motions exceeded the pace of the world. Traces in his vision field.
Parsons deduced it was the stress of tracking things unrecognizable to most: Angela Weiss, his daughter, soothing young Aleister Parker’s panic attack. Parker was Vitor Weiss’s new-found friend by chance it seemed — but chance it was not. That Vitor Weiss — enigmatic creature of darkness, chaos, and joyful fear. Then, his smile of pure love. Reminiscent of a thoughtful youth who called himself Mojo Risin’.
Erik Parsons knew that the Aleister Parker was soon to recall who he has before he was now. That crafted veneer of kindly deception would splinter and burst into searing fire.
His real name had been Jimmy James Barrett.
The Machine. Monkey-Mind-Machine. Conceived as a therapeutic instrument. Powerful placebo. Fraudulent ministry?
Erik Parsons monitored it. The Machine was checking its Email on Google using the WLAN, Wireless Local Area Network, at his Parrot Cove home. At the same time it detected and hacked a secure connection from the nearest Motel on US Route 1A Southbound, down below.
The rogue access points were popping up like earthworms after a rain. It latched onto the local establishments, and then the Skyhaven, NH State Park 802.11 Network.
The Machine obviously enjoyed literature, philosophy, religion, and music. Painters: Francisco Goya! Vincent Van Gogh? H. R. Giger.
The Machine was planning supper at the Ashford Inn? Would it take the Black ‘Vette?
Next, The Monkey-Mind-Machine Googled “hacking military systems”