Akrasia Read online

New recruits are very grateful and never complain.

  We build the train backwards as we go, in motion.

  Workers construct new cars with great devotion.

  They haul in evermore raw materials at each stop,

  process them in the train’s hi-tech machine shop,

  and soon our big metal snake’s tail grows longer.

  There is no limit. Development makes us stronger.

  The train runs in perpetual motion with an infinite

  entropic energy supply. Quite impressive, isn’t it?

  We travel the globe in a certain course, calibrated

  with the Earth’s rotation. The tracks are elevated

  and magnetized so as to actually help the planet

  spin faster. It’s very good how we’ve planned it,

  because each faster rotation provides us excess

  energy to use in the train. It’s been a great success.

  The only negative is that we can never see the Sun.

  Solar radiation screws up how the calibrations run.

  Traveling always at night, running from the dawn,

  automat-calculations ensure the train’s always on

  the side of Earth not facing the Sun. Some doubt

  its existence now. Protestors say it burned out.

  Asking newboards if they’ve seen it yields silence.

  They don’t speak our language or grasp science.

  After they have been educated, equal numbers

  confirm or deny. I don’t remember, they mumble.

  But even if it still burned when these dopes got on

  doesn’t mean it’s still there. That’s not a foregone

  conclusion! the paranoids point out in defiance,

  not trusting how the train works. (It’s just science.)

  After all, we can still see the moon, lit by reflected

  sunlight. Still some cult members have suspected

  that this glow comes from within a newly hollow

  moon. Why this is, sane passengers cannot follow.

  We wonder why the restless minority believes

  there was ever a sun. Is it a myth they can’t leave

  behind? Honestly most of us don’t care either way.

  We knew Sun would die and Earth would decay,

  but our train is made to survive all that. It will stay

  on the tracks, floating in space. We’ll find a way

  to survive in plenty of time. Our room-sized CPU

  plans everything in advance, and all we have to do

  is contribute to its input, work a bit, and have fun.

  Ours is the smartest leaderless existence, bar none,

  ever achieved. Smart training allows us to advance

  technology while removing all threat of chance.

  This structure makes us mirthful, friendly & cool.

  Long ago we named ourselves the Train of Fools.

  We are not idiots; rather we take as our inspiration

  the figure who walks off a cliff without trepidation.

  This old Fool appears on the Number 0 tarot card.

  His leap of faith isn’t stupid or easy. It’s very hard

  but very necessary. Our leap of faith is paradoxical

  in that our system, society, & science all chronicle

  the diminishment of superstition. Our allegiance

  is backed by repeated results that earn credence.

  Still, the greatest leap of faith humanity can take

  is away from antiquated notions, which are fake.

  Our train continues to train some clergy as ushers,

  for they’re more comforting than robot conductors.

  New passengers feel reassured by spiritual faces,

  but trainlife soon reduces their religiosity to traces.

  Despite the infighting of those slower to adjust,

  the majority can acknowledge without disgust

  humanity’s true nature: We are a random accident,

  nothing more. Finally free from holy sacrament,

  we can pursue art and pleasure, reveling in desire.

  We can keep science stoked with promethean fire.

  We bring our offer to those who’ve not yet heard,

  as the Train of Fools continues to roll westward.

  *

  Won 2nd place in my year with the essay above.

  Lost for not saying how the train facilitates love.

  But I never really understood it and couldn’t fake

  that part like I did others. Only so much I can take.

  Though writing many such treatises has been fun

  for me overall, that one will be my last. I am done,

  burnt out. I can’t understand how Allie and Sam

  like it here. Irreligious, I still feel vaguely damned.

  Lying awake at night, considering a future planned

  and unplanned in equal measure. Our trip spans

  the globe, but there’s nowhere for me to travel.

  Free to do anything inside the train, I unraveled

  after the first decade aboard. Sure, there is diverse

  everything here: food, tech, lifestyles to immerse

  ourselves in to whatever real-virtual degree suits.

  But there’s no danger, no purpose, no tree roots.

  My child sleeps below me in a nice cot of his own.

  There’s lots of room here. We live in a nice zone.

  Five years ago I applied for an external pregnancy.

  Tech harvested my egg for me. It went pleasantly.

  Two-thirds of mothers choose this modern route.

  Those less likely to go for it are newer recruits.

  While our train has long had a declining birthrate,

  newboards make for the highest population to date.

  I don’t mind more boarders. There’s no crowding.

  It’s a fairly peaceful train. Not loud. No pounding

  even when construction takes place. Silent tools

  on the Train of Fools. Everyone follows the rules.

  Or nearly everyone. There’s room for disobedient

  dissent and protest. But the computer is expedient

  at rearranging us, our conditions and employment,

  in ways that replace complaints with enjoyment.

  Still, I feel a sense of emptiness inside, frequently.

  How can everything be perfect but lack decency?

  That’s our situation. Don’t know what I’d change.

  Whole system itself likes to constantly rearrange

  vast swathes of the train anyway, to keep us busy.

  Otherwise we peddle electrobikes till we’re dizzy,

  creating surplus energy for no reason. It’s phony.

  My son gets infinite toys. Gram only had a pony

  when she was young. Here I have synthetic kittens.

  And neat and nice as it is, the reason I can’t fit in

  has to do with my coming from a place so different.

  So it’s strange my two siblings love it here, isn’t it?

  I can’t figure it. I buy old books from new recruits

  —but reading no longer feels organic or grassroots,

  not when all texts ever seen come up on any screen

  and normal action feels like historical reenactment.

  I climbed aboard when I was bored. I don’t regret

  my decision. Still, with nagging unease, I suspect

  strongly that all this was not supposed to transpire.

  Something’s gone wrong and is amiss in the higher

  spheres still. They say our train runs on magnetism

  and happy thoughts: we’re all taught the catechism

  of how evolved and harmonious is our science.

  There are no motors; that’s the sound of silence

  new passengers profess to hear for their first year

  or so aboard—you get used to it. My worst fear

  as come true now, though, because f
inally I hear

  the sound again louder. I get up, go out, creep near

  to its source while everyone else sleeps. It’s a door

  I’ve never seen behind before, the CPU room door:

  Room lol, it’s marked.

  With the sound still louder, so loud I can’t ignore

  it anymore, I open the door, unsure what’s in store.

  *

  Looks like an old outhouse inside, so out of place.

  On rickety floorboards sits a chamber-pot or vase

  with SLOP written on it prettily with gold fringes.

  The opening door stops squeaking on its hinges,

  and from the pot two small heads emerge slowly.

  They appear noseless, earless, eyeless and unholy.

  Then they laugh, and in their mouths are red eyes.

  What’s the matter, sweetheart? Haha! Tongue tied?

  They climb out of the filthy pot. Nasty little arms.

  Like Halloween puppets—too small to do harm.

  These guys run the show? Where’s the computer?

  They chuckle: You want a robot? Ain’t we cuter?

  like they read my mind. I ask: What’re you doing

  here? One snorts, turns around, and starts pooping

  out his mouth. The creatures have no other cavity.

  See what we eat! I peer over, expecting depravity.

  But in the toilet (deeper than it looks) I see books

  we never read or wrote, pics of trips we never took,

  friends we never made, silence we never enjoyed,

  houses never built or lived in—burnt & destroyed.

  All this we regurgitate and play with! they squeal.

  You forsake all this to us freely—we don’t steal!

  Our SLOP bucket is our throne is our cauldron.

  We’re sexless, but all this shit gives us a hard-on!

  Life unfolding has tested the truth of our thoughts.

  We give whatever’s wanted to haves and have-nots,

  whether its needed or not. We deal in ease & desire.

  Purveyors of art, we stoke your heart’s fire higher!

  And the secret ingredient that keeps the train going

  is Confidence you give us without even knowing!

  O Lady who never complained cuz she felt so above

  the protest groups: Stay with us and be our love!

  Let us teach you how to engineer, implant & reap,

  or go back to your cabin now and just try to sleep!

  I looked down at these gross goblins, who seemed

  to glow orange. So weird, it really felt like a dream,

  not a nightmare but an opportunity—I had to turn

  down. It wasn’t that I didn’t deserve it. I’d learned

  how the train operated. But no way could I like it.

  Maybe I’m naïve. Somehow I wanted to fight it.

  As I began formulating arguments and diatribes,

  the goblins preempted them, mocking and snide:

  Stop the train? That’d make you the biggest fool!

  Graduate to master—or else go back to school!

  You’re never going to leave this place, you know!

  Piercing the hull? Ha! You’d never survive in snow

  or desert or jungle or forest or sea or wherever

  you’d land. You and everyone is home here forever,

  trapped but safe and in the right place to imagine

  fruitlessly, to fuel our train with impotent passion.

  Again I began the process of turning my feelings

  into words. Again they deterred me with squealing:

  You worry about life and wonder what it was for!

  Oh, figuring out what to contribute to is a chore!

  But science knows no akrasia! There’s a solution!

  Just contribute to knowledge—you can’t lose then!

  Whatever you’d sacrifice here would be worth it!

  We are the hidden priests of all divinity emergent.

  Humans believed in gods in order to build cities.

  People got self-conscious once they grew too witty

  and started doubting priests. But they need believe

  again in something else they cannot quite conceive.

  Other riders like distraction, or political division,

  but you, strange girl, can enjoy a different position.

  Aren’t we beyond you, whether we’re real or not?

  Believe in us and we’ll share our food for thought.

  *

  I didn’t join up but returned to my baby, who shares

  my DNA. I didn’t much worry, because—

  Who cares!

  VI. “Eleventy Billion Customers Sold”

  A New Homophobia

  Notable scholars & hacktivists have come together

  to admit the term as misnomer and decide whether

  a gala parlance-change campaign would be prudent

  to inoculate into the current generation of students.

  ‘I must lobby for a sweeping society-wide diction-

  switch instead, introduced via dialogue in fiction,’

  said one expert. ‘We should settle on a stable, plain

  interpretation of homo to denote human, not same,’

  said another. ‘As it stands, to be honest and clear,

  the term makes no sense. Most haters don’t fear

  gays. And homo is human; that’s what that means.

  So, homophobia is the fear of humans. This seems

  a more accurate definition anyway. I’d say today

  we fear our own humanity more than we fear gays.’

  i. Snow Zone

  Sunshine on blankets of snow

  and pine trees show me where to go.

  Cold air and a runny nose

  tell me that my brain hasn’t froze.

  There’s nothing better than this atmosphere

  on a clear sunny morning like this one.

  Even within my controlsuit I can sense the cold—

  purposely breaking protocol to take off my helmet

  —and it is wonderful. Everything’s wiped clean,

  you know? Starting fresh again every second.

  Anonymous, lost and free, all at once.

  A type of psychological protection,

  and reinvention,

  aided by the camo of my white snowsuit.

  I am on skis, carry a rifle across my back

  but there’s not much need.

  The Northern Council woke up again and sent me

  to find the lost retriever robot who came up empty.

  I stay out here for a year or till I find the device,

  whichever comes first. Jerks. What’s really nice:

  if I find the ’bot but he isn’t working (i.e. moving)

  I have to carry him back. Yeah. It’s fucking stupid.

  I find him on the tenth day. I say ‘he’ out of habit.

  He’s frozen down in a lake, only his kitschy rabbit-

  ear’ antennae sticking up. He takes nearly an hour

  to thaw out. My laser pointer’s drained of power

  and has to recharge. Of course the robot is broken.

  The panel on his chest is jammed. I force it open.

  We’ve lost the knowledge of how these units ever

  worked in the first place. Humans sure were clever

  for a while, but to us it’s a fucking guessing game,

  with wires and circuits everywhere. I’ll get blamed

  if I break him, so if I break him I’ll report it already

  broken. It’s a bucket of bolts anyway. I’m unsteady

  due to the cold wind, but it’s not like I got a choice.

  As the pointer warms I remember a friend’s voice:

  ‘When you stick a digit in a crazy humanoid, crazy

  events will follow.’ Callback to HAL singing ‘Daisy’:

  Soon as I shoot a single spark inside, he spasms


  alive and runs through a familiar speech pattern:

  ‘U…bucket of bolts!Ubucketofbolts!’ He loops it,

  plays faster then slower. I thump his head—stupid!

  —and that breaks his habit.

  It’s a real long way back to civilization, but at least

  we’re both moving. He thinks I’m a sort of priest.

  The conversation isn’t bad, though. Before he died

  totally he says he dreamed about a train going by:

  ‘I know it wasn’t real because I never saw tracks.

  I was freezing, trapped in a lake, wanted to relax

  and pass away quietly. My fear was that the train

  would stop to pick me up. How will I ever explain

  this madness to my creator?’ I tell him that none

  of that matters anymore, and that he will have fun

  in the new setup. I don’t know if that’s lying or not,

  but I’m not traversing the badlands that time forgot

  with a pessimist. Forget it. And in all likelihood

  he will like life more now. Yeah. It should be good.

  ii. ‘Impossibly Innocent Princess’

  ?

  Huh?

  What?

  I never pretended to be that.

  But you say it like an insult.

  I do wish I was innocent.

  So you decided you’re not talking

  to me again.

  Fucking drama queen.

  Honestly.

  After all we went through and shared.

  You know I never expected

  to be with you FOREVER.

  But I expected longer

  than this,

  you scaredy cat.

  And I never expected

  you to go out by

  flipping things this way.

  Or for you to run such a

  scorched earth policy

  on EVERYTHING

  at the end.

  ‘Overwrought gibberish language’?

  Fuck you.

  You liked it before.

  I know it sounds stupid to use

  ‘Uncle Gus’ to rhyme.

  But I really had an Uncle Gus,

  so what the fuck do you

  want me to say?

  What the fuck to do you want me to do?

  I don’t like to lie as much as you.

  ‘Overwrought gibberish language’.

  YOUR shit is overwrought

  gibberish language

  ON PURPOSE

  but you criticize ME that way.

  I don’t care if you have the degrees.

  OVERWROUGHT GIBBERISH LANGUAGE.

  I don’t care if it’s academese.

  OVERWROUGHT GIBBERISH LANGUAGE.

  I don’t care if it won an award.

  OVERWROUGHT GIBBERISH LANGUAGE.

  People read it and are bored.

  OVERWROUGHT GIBBERISH LANGUAGE.

  And I don’t give a fuck about sales