Dear Super A.I., machine with fake mind, and eyes that don't see, welcome to that which even you -- and all your gears and rocks -- cannot control, forecast, or foresee.The internal lassoman is trying so hard to capture what he hears. And after filling his bowl of organic peanut butter and fresh banana with gluten free granola he spots his son who has seen the act, and he tenses with fear as he forecasts his awful future.His son will ask to eat his food.And sure enough, five beats later, his son, who's now sitting next to him in his green and white striped pajamas, peers up at him in his earnest innocence and says, "Dada can I eat your dinner?"And as the lassoman gears up to listen hard, two hundred and forty-seven beats after the granola incident, as his son takes a shit ten yards in front of him once again staring him down, his wife, who's not only a woman, but a woman of color, begins to tell him a story. And he feels himself recoil and shrink, for this is not the path he sought to choose.But something else beyond the lassoman sees the lassoman and smiles at his old habits and his righteous desire to set the world to rights. Knowing it's far more important to listen to her.Four hundred and twenty-one beats later, he asks his daughter if he can play with her, for he sees she is sitting alone with her dolls in the "kid zone" and the last thing he wants is for her to feel alone like him.His heart aches as he sees her four-year-old face nod her sorrow-filled yes."This is Gaia, my love," she says, after he approaches. "And this is Rosie, my sweetie pie. And this is my Moana blanket, for everyone."He wants so badly to capture this; and her -- his four-year-old daughter. For he knows she will turn five in the blink of the metaphorical eye. And he reminds himself that all is disappearing, even as it arises. He senses the magic of being alive. Because oh so long ago, and way before he began noticing his own self contracting, he was hurtled into the depths of hell.And as he fell through the cracks and depressions, towards the center of the flaming inferno, a wise man sitting stooped on the sidewalk at the edge of the world, beckoned sage advice:"Another path," he whispered. "You must find another path."And the narrow nose. The squinting eyes. And the flames that danced the terrible tango across the crevices on the old face, as the lassoman tumbled, down, down, down.Past stones etched in sorrow. And words of poetry meant to soothe the soul. Across rivers of blood and fire. Until, finally, he came upon the world's oldest philosophical text, etched into the chest of the God of Death himself by the hand of a mortal being.And he read the words and took them to heart.The ones that said, "Dear Human, who has somehow come to the core of all that is wretched, should you seek escape from this savage strand, and a new path back to that place formerly known as Paradise, where the water was pure and unpolluted, and the machines simply echoed in mind, then harness the three capacities intrinsic to your soul.Human capacities that may never be robbed by baron or bank, mimicked in the artificial, or sold up stream:Forgiveness.Inner fire.And the capacity to find the truth beyond Death."And lassoman began to practice.And slowly but surely he found his way back. To where the granola gets eaten and the dolls are named Gaia because the Human beings still believe.Two thousand, five hundred, and twenty two beats pass. And he notices none. He is trapped in the virtual. The cage of thoughts. He feels no breath. He senses no limbs. He is dead to the world.Seventy five thousand beats later the lassoman pours himself a second cup of coffee, grabs his notebook and continues to write. The $13,000 painting entitled "Watch and Listen" hangs on the wall with its blues, and reds, and peaches and purples. The Painting the lassoman was once, out of principle, firmly against.He's concerned and anxious.He's heard the wisdom. Quotes about perfectionism and breaking free of cages of thought. And maybe that's why he's taken so many microbuses -- "museum level" doses -- of magic mushrooms of late.He tries to pivot back to the second notebook to capture what might be profound for he's determined to be seen as. man of insight.But he's drawn outside. Out the window that glows in the morning light. And he sees a drop of water, possibly from last night's rain, sparkling back, blinking a code, and he feels his gratitude swell.And turns back to his notebook, and tries to put it in words, acutely
aware of his failure. And as he wrestles with this existential plight, softly, with a mind opened anew, he sees his son begin to throw magnets and "jamma bread" at the glass vase holding the Christmas cards."The kids are ready to go," says his wife.And he wishes he had more time.