Patrick & Lynn Hilferty on thu 2 oct 97
Deep in the imperial throne room, the head of billg looked intently at the
documents being shown to him. "Why", it finally asked, in a voice that had
long ago lost its ability to convey even a modicum of respect, "are you
showing this to me?" The question hung in the air like a bad vapor. The
attendants dotting the cavernous room looked at each other with knowing
eyes. This was it. This was the beginning of the end. Again.
The dealer began to sweat. This wasn't going well at all. No openings to
take advantage of, no opened ended questions to seize, nothing This
absolutely sucked. The head wasn't interested. Worse, the head seemed
almost belligerent in its disinterest as it sloshed about in the
formaldehyde. She had thought that she had gotten over the revulsion she
felt about selling antiquities to a disembodied head that floated without
direction in an oversized belljar (ethics were never the issue), but now,
with her client doing slow, erratic somersaults and bobbing this way and
that, she felt something new in the pit of her stomach.
"Please, let me start again", she begged. The head nodded, or at least
seemed to. The fluid in the belljar was developing whitecaps.
"What we have here are the original binaries generated by late twentieth
century listservs. Everyone thought this material had been lost, that these
communications were gone, yet here they are. These postings are of
incredible historical value. Through these messages we are afforded a
window into a bygone age, an age on the cusp of greatness. Everything is
documented. Everything, up to, and including your contributions. Do you
remember the things you gave this world?"
The head of billg spun lazily in the preservative bath. It peered through
the haze at the dealer, and smiled to itself as a puddle of sweat began to
grow beneath the dealer's feet. It did not acknowledge her attempts to prod
and spark memories buried within more than 400 years of experience. But the
head remembered. It thought back through its many accomplishments, the
paperless office, implanted locator chips, Windows 95... gone. The wars had
wiped the evidence away that could have secured the head of billg in its
rightful place in history.
"Plug me in", the head demanded, and the attendants scurried to complete
the fiber optic connection to the bottom of the belljar. The head began to
page quietly, its eyes rolled back, through an almost infinite number of
posts, muttering as it did so. The dealer's hands were slick with
perspiration.
"'Kickwheel vs. Electric'... 'Ghastley Borate'... 'Cone 5-6 glazes"... 'Art
vs. Craft'... jeez, this is useless!" The head of billg was becoming
agitated. "There is absolutely nothing here that interests me. I can't
believe you're showing me this, this-""
"Please!", the dealer implored, "Just a little more! It's got to be there!
I know it!"
The head stared back with dead fish eyes. The dealer repeated, "I know
it... I know it... please..."
"Stop groveling", the head demanded, silently pleased with the display. It
resumed the paging.
"'Beautiful Pot'", murmured the head. The hall, already silent, seemed to
become more so. All eyes were on the head. The head's eyes were shut. The
jar began to shake slightly. The corners of the head's mouth twitched. A
grotesque sneer appeared on the head's face after 400 years of better
living through chemistry
This- this so-called 'historical document'?", screamed the head. Oh, how
the it wished that it still had fingers to make a "quote" gesture! "Total
crap! Worse! It's irrelevant crap!"
The dealer was stunned.
"And do you know why this is irrelevant crap?", snarled the head. It didn't
wait for the dealer's reply. "Ravings", the head continued, "raving of,
of..." The words stuck in the head's mouth, as if the 300 year old gag
reflex of the 400 year old head were trying to reassert itself.
The head grimaced horribly, then regained control.
"'Content Providers'" it said, in a low voice dripping in condescension,.
The eyes opened and fixed again on the dealer.
"Why", the head finally asked, in a voice that had long ago lost its
ability to convey even a modicum of respect, "are you showing this to me?"
***
P.S: http://www.salonmagazine.com/sept97/21st/gates970925.html
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Patrick Hilferty
Belmont, CA 94002
E-Mail:
Web Page: http://home.earthlink.net/~philferty/
For voice, fax, data and busy signals: (650) 610-0850
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