24 February 2012

Substantive Differences Aside - Poetry

22 February 2012

Blue Dot - Poetry

16 February 2012

The Wall of Union - Short Fiction


He stood languidly before the glass, his arms hanging flaccid at his sides and his desolate funereal eyes staring far beyond the sweep of his vision. A light summer breeze played at his curling dark hair and his light cotton blouse, and sunlight danced in pools around his bare feet, causing his shadow to shimmer and flit nervously about.
He was atop a small knoll, jutting from the bowels of the earth with its highest point just a few feet on his side of the Wall. The landscape stretched out before and behind in a long sweeping valley surrounded by distant mountains rolling off in successive layers until they became indistinguishable from the sky above them. Everywhere, the scene was verdant and alive, with springtime in full sway. Birds darted about, searching out the habiliments of a growing nest; gophers and whistle pigs trammeled the entrances of freshly excavated dens; and a gang of elk wandered indolently through a meadow below.
Behind him, and a little to the right, was his small log home on a volcanic stone foundation. A thin trail of smoke issued from the chimney, the remnants of the morning’s warming fire, and beside the house grew a lush garden, with thick, hearty vegetables hanging from every stem and branch. A small work shed stood behind the garden, with its doors oiled and closed, and a cheery stream meandered along its foundation’s edge.
And, before him, rooted to the solid earth, and running eternally into the distance in both directions, stood the Wall.
It was made of a glass-like substance, nearly transparent, but slightly rippling, bending the light on its way. It ran north adn south, dividing the long valley in two, with no end in sight or reach. It stretched endlessly into the sky with no discernable crest. It was thick, about six inches as near as he could tell, and impenetrable. And it was loathsome in his sight.
Because he was alone. The only sentient being living on his side of the Wall. The only sentient being he had ever really known, tormented year after year by the rippling sights and suppressed sounds of the far side of the Wall.
It was for this reason that he presently stood stonily on the little knoll working out his decision.
Stretched out before, and forever separate from him lay the city of the gods, the great hulking and indescribably beautiful civilization of Man.
In truth, there were several cities and towns along the far valley, dotting the horizon and glittering in the afternoon sun, all connected by heavily traveled roadways bustling with commerce and pleasure. But the greatest city stood right against the Wall, taunting him in its nearness, and it seemed to represent all the rest, to draw them in, a sort of soul and crossroads of mankind, a meeting place and common for all that lay beyond. For this reason he called it Union.
Its grand boulevards stretched out beckoningly, and its facades and parapets gleamed, all mockingly it seemed to his weary mind. And everywhere there were people. People embracing, talking, walking, brushing past one another, sharing a joke or a meal, reading aloud or to themselves, holding hands or holding court, together.
Children played around parent’s knees. Teens lolled lazily about the side streets, hawking their ever-changing currently fashionable form of rebellion. Businessmen in suits and ties argued and made big, important decisions. Marketers offered their wares in great open markets. Shop doors were in constant motion, with those coming empty handed and those leaving with parcels piled high. The constant motion of sentience.
All of this entered his eyes and was imprinted upside down on his retina, then inverted by his brain, but none of it registered in his conscious mind. He saw the great city before him, it was the very reason for his current position, yet he didn’t see it at all. He was too lost, driving himself to some inevitable point, and he could not stop, or even pause, until he reached it.


When he was very young, only a small child, he would play around the base of the Wall, or far from it, the typical games of children. It held little meaning for him. His world was large enough, vast, in fact, and whole weeks were spent in earnest exploration of Small Stream, or East Ravine, or any number of other proximate valley features.
He learned to fish by watching those on the other side and aping their actions, digging worms or catching grasshoppers, threading the hook, casting and catching vibrant little brookies and cutthroats. He learned to climb, and often lost himself high up on nearby hills, scrambling up baronial boulders in a relentless crusade for the top. He even learned to build and fly a kite, with double control strings to perform magnificent aerial acrobatics. The magical world unfolded about him like a spring tulip, just in bloom.
In those days he was not completely alone. A woman – Mother – would come from Union to visit and care for him. She brought him meals, washed his clothes, and taught him to read, write, add and subtract. On cold days he would lay by the fire while she read to him from her favorite stories, tales of wickedness and love, faith and courage, death and the struggle to survive. Poetry was his favorite, and its rhythmic cadence would gently lull him to sleep after a time, where Mother would leave him covered with his favorite fleece until the early morning rays finally persuaded his heavy lids to rise again, the memory of the previous evening still spreading warmth through his tingling limbs.
On warm days they would work together in the garden, rooting up the weeds that seemed to sprout incessently among the more useful plants, or in the house washing and mending clothing and other items that so frequently fell into disrepair. Sometimes they would sing as they worked, Mother leading the way into new melodies of fantastical tales and brash adventures. Sometimes they were content with the simple sounds about them, neither saying a word, in the most discursive communication.
On rare and special occasions Mother would bring with her a guest called Father. Father was a kind and honest man, good hearted and generous, but reserved, and he rarely ventured out of the city beyond. Because of this, each visit with Father was a memorable affair.
There were picnics occasionally. Once in awhile they would all sleep outside in a great drab-green tent that Father would bring with him and assemble in the meadow below the shed. He and Father would fish in Small Stream, or ramble together through the nearby hills, explorations that would last for hours. Everything was so vibrant and alive then. He was alive then. Those were the Days of Plenty.
Time, however, pulled him on inexorably, and the order of things began to change, slowly at first, so that by the time he took notice, the alterations were irrevocable. He’d learned to cook, and care for himself, catch and grow food, mend and repair and replace. He’d begun spending more time exploring on his own, and less at home, so that sometimes he missed Mother’s visits altogether. He read more to himself adn studied on his own from the library of books in the small den off the living room, and he grew less patient with Mother’s readings and lessons.
And so, gradually, Mother came less, and Father almost never, and when they did appear their visits were usually short and almost perfunctory, as though they had grown timid of him.
At first he enjoyed his newfound independence, and though the visits were few, they were enough. He liked the feeling of coming home to a house that was awaiting his care and his care alone, that depended on him and no one else for support. He reveled in the liberty to come and go as he pleased, mend and weed when he wished, study and learn at his own pace and on his own chosen subjects. He explored his freedom with unbounded enthusiasm, blindly rushing forward without the guards that had kept him secure in his youth.
Until one day he realized that no one had visited him in a very long time – nearly two hundred revolutions. It was then that he began to cry, and so ended the Days of Plenty.


Still, he was certain Mother would return. She always had. Something may have kept her away, busy with the women of Union, or with her other mysterious duties, but it was only a temporary distraction, a lapse, and soon she would remember. So he went about his daily routine like a ritual, turning his mind from the growing void in his chest; up at dawn, bath and dress, breakfast on the back porch, then study through the morning, lost in books and the wonder of other lands, and so on until he was finally caught by a sudden setting of the summer sun. And, distracted, he passed the time, waiting without admitting to his shadowed mind that he was waiting.
But soon winter brought heavy flakes of white, blanketing the valley in a thick layer of icy wool, and he shivered against the cold inside. Spring brought another summer, biting the heels of another autumn and another winter, and yet another spring. And still Mother stayed her hand, failed to return.
So each summer he worked with his hands, planting, weeding, fishing, hunting, trapping, growing, and laying up stores against the lean winter days ahead, until they grew strong and firm. Each winter he studied and learned, working his mind from subject to subject, lesson to lesson, until it grew thick with knowledge and truth. His legs sprouted like twigs into trees, thick and heavy, and his arms popped out like clambering vines up a garden trellis, strong and lean, and the boy became a man, without intent.
Eventually he stopped waiting and conceded the loss, letting go of the memories, breathing them out in heavy breaths, sending them drifting down the long valley on a brisk autumn breeze like so many dandelion seeds, until he’d breathed out the last, leaving an empty hollow beneath his ribs. That evening he fed what remained to the fire, watching it flair with each burning thought, searing the wound in his soul on the heat of the flame, cauterizing the wound. In the morning, he told himself he was free, he was happy, he was finally whole, and he went about his day with a lightness of heart.
But when the evening came, he found himself sitting before the Wall again, as he’d taken to doing some time before, staring through the distorted glass as happy people walked the streets of that grand city beyond. It blinked at him, he thought, like the giant eye of god, all knowing and all seeing, reaching its full vision deep into his soul and wrenching out what remained to feed itself, fresh meat for the feasting. He reached out and touched the cold, smooth glass, ran his fingers along it, tracing the lines of buildings, the paths of people, longing to press through, to feel his flesh sink through and hold the life beyond, feel its warmth. But it remained cold and strong and impervious to his will, as always.
  When, after a long time, he lifted his hand to his cheek to brush away a horsefly, it came away wet and he realized he had been crying. He let himself weep until he woke to a new dawn, cold and shaking in the thinning grass, no gentle hand on his back to warm his grief.
He sat there all that day, unmoving, without food or water or warmth, watching. Then, after retrieving his childish fleece blanket from a wooden shelf in his closet, he curled up in the same beaten patch and slept again. And again, the next day he spent before the wall, eating and drinking little, lost in the commotion beyond. 
On the third day he was forced by nature indoors, to eat, drink, and replenish his strength, but his motions were mechanical and automatic, his mind still at the wall. Yet he managed, to clean and care for himself, eat and drink and sleep in his own bed warmed by his own dancing fire, and somehow he passed the winter he felt certain would be his last. Low. 
When, at last, spring blossomed across the land and the first butterfly fluttered through his open window, bright with yellow and blue, bringing with it the perrenial promise of new life, he could take no more.


That morning, after a hot meal of biscuits and herbed gravy, and one oversized goose egg, he carefully wrapped two leftover biscuits and several strips of dried trout in an oiled cloth and stuffed the package in his jacket pocket, then lit out along the wall, heading north. The early spring sun warmed his face, and his exertion warmed his body, and soon he tied his jacket about his waist, revelling in the luxury of comfort.
All around, the world bound to life. Groundhogs stood high on the edge of their holes, sniffing at the scent, little brown birds flitted low over the ground, lighting in the vernal bush to sing their jingoistic greetings to the day, and even a red fox made an appearance, his bushy rusted tail tickling the surrounding life in a promise of momentary peace. A pact, he thought, I won’t harm you if you won’t harm me. The day is too pleasant for such scurrilous acts. But always there was the Wall. It must end somewhere, though, and when it did he would walk around it and find his way back, and walk without a care onto the streets of Union. Why he hadn’t thought of such an idea before baffled him.
With hope in his heart, he walked all that day and into the night, stopping only to drink periodically from streams burgeoning with melted snow. The next morning he left the lowlands and entered a thick fores, climbing steeply through twisted brush and up sharp ravines, always keeping the vile glass rampart within sight, not wanting to miss an opportunity for escape. That night he camped beside a small pond, thick with watercress, wild onions, and cattails, from which he prepared a thick fish stew before drifting off beneath a sky filled with more stars than he’d known, his jacket pulled up tight under his chin.
The next day he climbed again, and the next, until at last he crested the highest ridge he could see from his humble log home in the valley behind, and stood looking out over a vast range of vertiginous peaks, thick with snowy caps that gleamed in the afternoon sun, a thousand points of light. Below lay a steep green valley, heavily treed, cut by a silver worm of water wending its raucous way between the hills. Another lay beyond the next ridge, he was certain, followed by another, and another.
And cutting the scene like a knife, forever, as far as his starved eyes could see, was the Wall, refracting the bright light in strange wavering splashes on the stony cliffs and evergreens below.
His heart fell, and his body slumped, and he lay exhausted on the open ridge for a very long time, numb and empty. Finally, as the sun began to fall into the burning earth, he clambered to his feet and stumbled back the way he’d come, reaching his little home some days later, tattered and worn.
But a week later, recovered and renewed, he walked south, singing a new song of hope he’d written himself. He walked through peaceful meadows, climbed a high ridge, dropped into a wide plain, swam beneath an ebullient waterfall, and wandered a forest park, before stepping from a thick bank of trees onto a wide sandy beach with nothing but the empty ocean ahead. Waves crashed forlornly against a ragged outcrop to the west, and the ever-present Wall cut the sea like a wound.
He camped on the beach for several days, eating fish and crab and contemplating his fate. Once he tried swimming under the wall, but found it rooted to the ocean floor with no breaks. Eventually he wandered back home. He’d have to find another way.
The same day he returned, almost without pause, he went to the work shed and found a sturdy shovel and began to dig where the Wall cut through the soft loam of the meadow nearby. For hours he pulled dirt from the earth, excavating deep, straight up against the glass. By nightfall he’d gone at least his own height down, and the next day he dug again, shoring up the steep walls with logs he’d set in the field to cure for the winter’s fires and had yet to chop. After four days he hit bedrock, thirty feet down, and could dig no more. And into the bedrock, straight through, ran the glass. He could see its distorted view running deep into the solid stone, mocking his heart’s desire.
A hot anger licked his bones, and he stood at the bottom of the muddy pit furious and cursing, and pulling at his hair in rage. He cursed the gods of earth, and the gods of air, and the gods of stone, and the gods of the sea, and several others he made up on the spot for the occasion, and when he ran out of gods to cursed, he cursed Mother, then Father, and finally himself. His loathsome self, lost, and so obviously worthless that none would attend, and all left him lone and empty on his side of that wretched Wall. What had he done to drive them away? What had he done to find himself here, broken, with no one to hold? What had he done? Oh, he’d have given anything in that dark place, to know.
  As he clambered up the rickety ladder he’d built as he’d dug, he raged in his soul against the Wall. He hated the Wall. He hated it with all his ugly soul. He wanted to tear it down, to shatter it into a million diamond shards, to beat his rage upon it until it melted from the heat. He furied and fumed and raged, until, when he broke into daylight, he lunged at the nearest loose stone and hoisted it over his head, bringing it crashing down on the glass with a mighty blow. Again and again he slammed the rock into the Wall, crazed with frustrated loss and hopeless rage, leaving a growing web of fine lines, not cracks really, echoing across the glassy surface like a white shadow.
  He spent his pain late into the night, thrashing and hammering at the Wall, pounding it with rocks, with the shovel, with his bare fists until they bled and swelled in broken agony. And still he raged, kicking, screaming, in desperate terror, in a hot anger at the injustice of the cold world that landed him here. At last he collapsed just before dawn, his filthy hair matted in sweat and blood and saline across his face, his fists bloated and bent. Mud and blood streaked his clothes, filling his wounds with filthy stink, his shoes lost in the muck, his pants torn and ragged.
  There he slept the sleep of the damned, and dreamed hot dreams of death and loss, tormented and churning, afraid of the loneliness, desperate to connect. He finally woke at sunset beneath an orange sky, licked with crimson streaks to match his soul. He pulled himself up blindly, and stood for several moments, waiting for his vision to clear, until he realized it was the glass that was fogged from his rage, not his eyes. It looked dinged and dented, marred, and for a moment he felt hope stir within his breast.     Perhaps, with enough time, he might break through. But touching it, his hope fell, as what scars were their lay deep within the glass, and forever out of his reach. Its surface was as smooth and clean as it had ever been, only now it denied him even the simple hope of observation, obscuring the city and its people in a white haze. The more he struggled to connect, the more he found himself forever cut off.
After a moment, he turned and took a timid, testing step, then another. Finding his feet, he stumbled along, leaning on the Wall for support, working his way back toward home. His heart was broken now, still smoldering, but low, and giving up.
  When he reached the edge of the night’s destruction he lifted his eyes and looked at where his fingers touched the smooth surface. Here the glass was clear again, with only a few lacing threads of white spidering their way along like spindrift from a snowy, impassable peak. When he stopped to look on the city again, his fingers came to rest directly opposite a delicate hand, a woman’s hand, on the Union side of the wall, touching the glass lightly as though barely aware it was even there. Her back was turned as she talked delightedly to a small group of friends crowded round.
  Sharply, as though embarrassed at such liberty, he drew his hand away. Then, gingerly, he laid it against the glass again, against her soft skin, but for the Wall between them. At first he was timid, but then he hungrily pressed his whole palm down, desparate for human touch.
  And she looked up, noticing him for the first time. As she turned she dropped her delicate hand to her side. But seeing his, she raised it questioningly, then touched the glass again. He could see the small ovals of her fingertips, pink against the far surface, and he pulled away, frightened. But she seemed to be beckoning, so he touched the glass again, placing his fingertips exactly opposite the woman’s.
  She smiled at him tenderly, and he smiled back. She reminded him of Mother, and of being loved. At least he imagined she did. He could hardly recall those days now.
Then she turned lightly to her cadre of friends, with a flick of her golden hair, and laughed, much like a parent does when amused by some simple act of a small child. She pointed and her friends turn in curiousity, then she raised her hand again, pressing her palm to the Wall. He aped her motion, and the group laughed too. She put her other hand against the glass, and so did he. He followed her when she moved her fingers down in an arc, then around again, then up and to the side. He mimicked her every move. After all his effort, it was the closest he’d been to another human in very many years. It was the first time he’d felt known, acknowledged by the others beyond. His heart and his mind screamed out for more.
  But the woman with the golden hair and simple smile soon tired of the amusement, as did her friends, and the troupe wandered away, happily chatting among themselves about some trivial matter or other of life together as one. Union. And he stood alone for many hours with his hand against the Wall.


Which is why he stood languidly before the glass the next morning, his arms hanging flaccid at his sides, lost and driven. Which is why he stood working his way to some point in his shattered mind, forcing the pieces back together, searching for some semblance of sanity and the peace he hoped it would bring.
A light dew still clung to the grass, sparkling like a shower of stars as the breeze bent the blades in gentle waves. A songbird twittered in the garden, and a long-eared hare loped lazily along the wall, stopping at intervals to chew on hidden treasures of clover. And he stood and stared, at nothing and at everything at once, a statue against the day.
Then, without warning, he turned on his heels and strode across the lawn and into his house. Something had changed, and he walked from room to room with purpose, solid footing on solid ground. 
First, he cleaned his dishes and scrubbed the washbowl too, then he mopped the floors and beat the rugs with a broom. He cleared away the cobwebs and folded what excess clothing he had, and stored everything in its proper place.
From the shed, he retrieved a large oiled-canvas pack, and in it he put a spare set of clothes, a large bowl and a small pot, his jacket, his flint and steel, and a few other items he stuffed in a smaller bag then shoved on top. He pulled the head from the hammer and the axe, and the handle from the shovel, and stuffed them in as well, then tied his fishing pole to one side and his wood saw to the other.
He rolled his fleece blanket into a tight roll and tied it securely to the bottom of the pack, wrapped in a large oiled tarp. In a pocket he stuffed several biscuits, half a loaf of dense bread, and as much jerked meat as he could fit. He filled his baggy pants pockets with the rest, along with two boiled eggs and a small pouch of dried apples.
When he finished his preparations, he wandered his home once more, closing shutters, locking cabinets, and battening down the house, as though for winter. Then he hoisted the bulging pack to his shoulders and cinched its belt about his waist, and stepped out the door, latching it behind.
He walked up the path toward the Wall, with quick, purposeful steps, right up to the clear glass where he could see through best. When he reached it, he raised his hand up and pressed it against the Wall, as though he were pressing it against the entire city, the entire civilization beyond.
“Goodbye,” he said, almost in a whisper.
One tear broke from his lids, spilling down his cheek. For a brief moment he wavered. But then he turned away, put his back to the wall, and took a step. Then another. Followed by one more.
He kept taking steps all the way down the long open valley, all the way along the Little Stream, all the way up the far hills, until he was small against the grass, until he disappeared in the distance, until he disappeared from the Wall, from city, from the civilization of Man, never looking back, and never to be seen again. And at last, at last, he was free.
The Wall of Union, a short story by Gary Lee Parker - Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved

10 February 2012

Kin - Poetry

09 February 2012

More or less - Poetry

The Transfigurist Art Blog

Given the fundamental importance of religion in human development, human communities, and human life, the merger of transhumanism and religion was inevitable. While advancements have been dominated thus far by science and technology, ethics and philosophy have played a major role in transhumanist thought as well, albeit from a non-deist, or atheist, viewpoint. But humans are inherently spiritual beings. That is to say, we crave transcendence, ritual, meaning, community, hope in the future, and purpose today. And it is in and through religion that humanity has traditionally sought these ends.

Among religions, Mormon theology, broadly interpreted, is uniquely complementary to many transhumanist ideas. So it was only natural that the marriage of transhumanism and religion should find its birth in the Mormon Transhumanist Association.

Scientists, philosophers, and theologians are now working together toward the furtherance of transhumanist ends. Conspicuously missing from involvement thus far, however, are artists. Art predates recorded science. It predates recorded philosophy. It even predates recorded religion. Cave paintings are among the oldest evidences of modern human culture. Art is deeply embedded into the human psyche and experience. It informs our world view so thoroughly that one would be hard pressed to disentangle the two. One might say that art is science; that art is philosophy; that art is religion, at its core.

As a somewhat unorthodox member and supporter of the MTA since its inception, and as an artist, writer, photographer, and poet, I have felt a responsibility to enter the fray, and to bring the artist to the grand table of transhumanism. Art is empowering. It is prophetic. It is the keeper of the past, and the projector of the future. It paints a picture of what was, and explores what might yet be. Art gives meaning and inspires purpose. It encourages community, and enables transcendence. Art is tradition and change, sentiment and symbol, stasis and change. Art is ritual. Art is human.

In my opinion, it is in and through art that we may retain our humanity as we become something more than human.

Here in this blog you will find examples of trasnhumanist art, especially transhumanist art that embraces the full spectrum of influence, from technology to philosophy to theology. I hope, as you browse, you are inspired and moved by what you find.