Letter from Slim Wolfe
Modern Life – June 2008 – Colorado Central Magazine
Editors:
Correspondent Ríos from Denver, who instructed us on the function of accents in written Spanish, is refreshingly unique in that there’s no reference to the latest software to which gringos might retreat. As for the rest of you, well, arggh. Think of all those overworked and underpaid civil servants who stretched and massaged our brain muscles — and the brains of our kids — until we knew by heart the difference between insight and incite. All these tax dollars are just money down the drain, all these muscles now atrophied, all you loonies want to do anymore is debate the merits of programs.
But let’s be thankful the main alien tongue we need to stumble over is Spanish. Chile con carné in some of those other languages might require a slew of diacritical marks top and bottom, and it would be just our luck to insult someone’s mother by mistake and start a war.
George Sibley goes on to offer a future for humanity of mutant screenophilia in which we (well, not me, thank you) enjoy a lifestyle of dancing to silicon-enhanced synaptic impulses.
This sort of pie-in-the-sky may well be descended from all those acid trips we geezers took back before the stuff was diluted and adulterated. And it may beat the thrill of revving the ATV but it’s one more bit of evidence in support of Slimbo’s First Theory of Species Mass Suicide by Atrophication. That in itself may well be the most intelligent move we humans can make at this juncture: ascend to a higher power before we run out of raw materials to make our weapons and propaganda, our profits and pastimes.
Linguist, translator, editor, proofreader, artist, calligrapher, musician, teacher, the list of most noble traditions rendered obsolete and unemployable grows in the face of the silicon mutation. Maybe the real reason is that we’ve become so sick of our fellow-humans that we’ll go to any length to avoid face-to-face contact.
Maybe, in addition to the 1984 prophecy of Orwell, we should consider the Naked Lunch prophecy of William Burroughs, where mutants called mugwumps sit forever on barstools in Hassan’s Rumpus Room, sipping some mind-altering cocktails through long straws. What’s wrong with that? Simple. Mugwumps, whether crackheads in the slums, junkies back from war, heiresses on a quest for more ayahuasca, or retired professors wired up to the cosmic silicon vibe, become so self-involved that they tend to lose their social consciousness.
Who needs to raise a ruckus about depleted uranium, white phosphorous, and other gross war crimes down here on the lowly plane of carbon-based misery? Just leave all that behind and ascend, brothers and sisters. Let the little blue flame be you, and you won’t want more options.
Back on earth, I’m pleased to discover that my ten little fingers have begun to reverse the atrophication which began to set in when I relied on the convenience of a power-assisted typing machine. I make fewer mistakes and think more clearly on a manual. Not only do my joints enjoy the exercise, but it’s Me in control, not It. So off you go, brave explorers, embrace that new reality which multiplies with the speed of cancer and swallows you whole. If-you-did-not-quite-get- that-please-say-more-options-now-what-kind- of-worm-are-you-anyway-hurry-up.
Slim Wolfe
Villa Grove
