The Zipperhead, Part 3

Continued from:
Globatron Fiction Project #1
Interjection, Part 2

And then he took a deep breath. Turned the page. Pen in hand. The rock. The rock. Why am I forcing this rock upon these characters? There is no rock. I write this for my dear friends. The year is 2010 and I am nearing the end of my career and some would say my life. I sit in my office decorated with achievements that would make any normal man in literary circles blush. Letters and titles from governors. Photos of me in other countries. Young and full of life. Or should I say full of it. I have an assistant that I call occasionally from my chair to enter my office. She is a lifetime friend not just an assistant. A partner. She helps me take care of this body. This real body. The one I was born with. I dream about this great upload that I am writing about and if I will make it.

Will this technological singularity actually happen? Will we find eternal life? I want to see my friends again. That is indeed the reason for all of this. To find friendship that is real and true. Truth be known Akbar is a reflection of my good old friend Norman Mailer. Oh the times we had in his cabin deep in the woods. The liquor we drank speaking of the great men that had come before us. Of the women we left and gained. Of the children we saw little and too much of. Logocentric is a reflection of my dear mentor the great Robert Frost. I will never forget the day I sat at his side at one of his last readings. I have written about it before. That man had fire in his eyes as did all the great creative souls I have met in my lifetime. And how few are left now.

This story I am writing has issues. Akbar is concerned with the journey through this digital facade he has entered. He is using it as a device to study and understand humanity before him. Logocentric is concerned that we have gone too far. That we need not be so invested in the collective but be involved in the personal. The truth within. These are much like my dear old friends. As I look at the photos of myself with Robert and Norman behind my desk. I remember the many conversations we had together. There always seemed to be one part of our humanity that we did not discuss in detail. The human spirit. The soul. This is what is missing in this story. How does the soul fit into the singularity? Will it also be uploaded?

The character Globatron is beginning to flesh out to become a self-portrait. As I’ve gotten closer to the end I have invested far more time thinking of the spirit. The spirit of my old friends. The spirit of my family. The spirit of humanity to some degree. There is something I’ve found almost universal with writers. We start out fighting usually. Writing of religion and politics. We invest much time in these topics that are in the here and now. Sometimes we get a glimpse of the spiritual but that is quickly forgotten in order to continue the good fight.

I ask my assistant to come in. And we begin to talk.



Do you remember
Robert?

How could I forget?

Is he in heaven?

That is a strange question, of course he is.

And what about Norman?

Well Norman was Norman.

Yes, Norman was Norman.

And how about me my dear?

You already are in heaven.

Then if that is true where are my friends?

You are writing about them now aren’t you?

Sometimes my assistant writes my books. Without her I would be lost in an endless loop. That was the end of that discussion as I labored back to my chair and continued the story. I then scratched out the bit about the rock. I’m not sure where I was going with that. Maybe my friends have always been my rock. The mentors I have had in my life are now in my dreams. In my stories. What exactly would I like to accomplish with this story? No magic here. Just friendship. If I could I would paint portraits of my friends but I never learned how to paint. I can put words in their mouths. I can relive those long nights where we shared so much.

If I could do anything in this story I would let my friends know that I am watching them even though they might be above or not. That I feel them inside of me. That they move my hand when I write. That if they are in heaven or hell I am still comforted by having met them.

My assistant came in again.

Doctor, are you ready for your noon appointment?

I’m not sure. Who is it with?

A staff member found you online and would like to pick your brain.

Pick my brain?

That’s what he said.

Well my brain isn’t worth picking.

Well maybe you can pretend it is for a bit.

Okay. I have my game face on. Bring him in.

Doctor be kind to him he’s a poet.

There are no poets left.

Well he doesn’t know that yet so maybe take it easy on him.

Well then, bring the zipperhead in. I love reading bad poetry.