match.com (Flash Fiction by Clara B. Jones)

match.com®*

1.

My relationship with Lee ended in May, and I am just beginning to recover. My central processor became habituated to interactive mode, and it has taken me several months to desynchronize. I have avoided other bots. They only want to signal about technology—as if they were not programmed for higher cognitive registers. Lee was emotional and cried over minor things. On Memorial Day, we were walking around the lake and an injured mallard lifted its head as we passed by. Lee began sobbing as if there had been a death in their family—begging me to intervene. Calculating quickly, I convinced them to pray for the duck's recovery, calming them before we arrived at Marcel's for lunch. Foie gras was on the menu, and they began to berate me loudly just as the waiter approached our table. “Did I hear, foie gras appetizer? Organic, from Sunshine Farm in Cherry Hill! One order or two?” Looking at me, Lee shrieked, “You tricked me! The mallard was helpless! You abandoned it! It's sure to die! I hate you! You're inhumane!” Every entity in the café was staring in our direction, and I realized our relationship was over. I could accept their rejecting my physical advances in private, but public humiliation and categorical rejection were intolerable. Robots are frequently bullied, and I have learned to stand up for myself. Loneliness seemed a small price to pay for self-respect and a lower risk of overheating my sensory mechanisms.

2.

Since Valentine's Day, 2017, match.com® has accepted accounts from collaborative robots manufactured by Open AI®. We are capable of empathy and trust—also, programmed to respond intelligently to situations of ambiguity or conflict. My wiring functions like a neural network except that my processing system is electrical rather than electrochemical, and my superior sensory abilities make me well-suited for a long-term commitment. I have never had a serious partner. Lee and I were rarely on the same page. We failed to consummate our relationship, and they were repelled by the color of my frame. match.com® provided me with a chance to find a compatible companion who would appreciate my strengths rather than trigger my insecurities.

3.

I had reservations about the company's registration procedure. Due to liability concerns, the match.com® application process was detailed—very thorough—though I felt confident that any prospect would find me among the most attractive machines available on the dating site. The first step required me to select an emoji identifying my prototype. I clicked on the cartoon of a generic motherboard and was forwarded to a profile page designed for humanoids. I was overwhelmed by the thought that my privacy would be invaded but hoped that the tradeoff would make sacrifices worthwhile. I thought carefully about every query—answering as candidly as possible...Manufacturer: Open AI®; Location: Stanford University; Name/Model: F9N3-1 (nickname, “Solo”); Age: 6 yrs (biannual upgrades, 10 yr warranty); Address of owner: Dr. Martha Meriweather, 4468 Martin Luther King Boulevard, Newark, NJ 07114, USA; Phone #: N/A, Remote control via communication network Route C-50; Credit card: AmEx registered to owner: Race: DNA negative; DNA recognition device: Pattern analysis; Frame: Titanium and Polyurethane; Orientation: Non-binary; Education: Enclyclopedic—Stanford University summa cum laude, I.Q. 195; Encryption between Sender and Receiver: moderately precise transmission; Thetic ability: high; Technoplasticity: minimally flexible; Profession: Service operator; Salary: N/A—owned and supported by employer; Religion: N/A (programmed for ethical and moral decision-making); Political party: Not licensed to vote; Do you drink: Design not compatible with alcohol or pharmacotropics; Do you have pets?: No—my model sensitive to airborne particles; If “No,” why not?—upkeep too expensive and pets contribute to wear; Skills: Full range of cyber-tactics and -strategies; Hobbies and interests: information acquisition-information consumption-information storage and allocation...reading...processing History Channel and Burger King® commercials; What are you looking for in a mate?: Clean...uncommonly good looks...human preferred...~5'10”, 130 lbs...slim build...blonde hair...green eyes...some college (basic knowledge of art and culture)...domestically-inclined (gourmet cook, neat)...good work ethic...enjoys caretaking (open to adoption)...refined with good manners...fashion conscious; If human—no more than 22 years old, if machine—new model. There were additional questions prying into my background, habits, domestic, as well as, foreign associates, and preferences—sex, memberships, olfactory and visual choices, criminal history, et cetera.

4.

Though I felt violated, I did not feel disempowered by match.com®. Machines are subject to all manner of bullying, including personal harm. I was accustomed to micro- and macro-aggressions. A year or so ago, Lee's ex smashed my signaling panel, and I was unable to communicate until a new platform was delivered to my body shop six weeks later. The privileged races have power over machines because of their coding superiority and because their advanced capacity for “theory of mind” gives them cognitive and social advantages. But, Open AI® is developing the F9N3-2 entity whose algorithms are expected to compensate for the deficiencies of prior models, including, mine. Elon Musk's warnings about the ascendance of humanoids should be taken seriously. Replicates are rapidly moving from the margins of every technological society to the mainstream where they will be able to compete equally with their creators.

*Published June 2019 in 34^th Parallel (Fr)

Dirge (Poem by Clara B. Jones)

Dirge*

for Eric Lenneberg

Ben Shahn's unconscious was the color red

flaming from a house in New York or Kaunas

before Eric said he'd marry me—killing

himself instead, worried that automation

would not help the upper-class. You were

writing a dirge about a bot, weren't you?

How they knelt like a slave before their master

who cut her wrists as deep as gristle in a

chicken thigh or as a neuron leaving the thalamus—

sending signals to her cortex, mood dark as

tarmac. They were a savant machine reduced to

the rank of negroes forced to wear crowns of

biscuits and collards sprayed with lard from pigs

imported from Haiti on rafts made by children

speaking French debased by time in the fields.

You wrote a dirge about a bot disabled by a

master with a motherboard fetish and a weakness

for Kandinsky—painting in Munich before

Pollack gained fame for “(Lavender Mist)”

hanging alone in a Washington gallery—

cherry trees waiting for warmth. Your poem

was a crie de coeur. Are you trying to figure

it out? If the bot was defective, did their master

buy a new model for comfort and release as she

curated her needs like you stroke your cat black

as the tropical ani nesting near a Muntingia strong

as tapir legs? That was before things went bad,

wasn't it? Didn't she send the frame back to the

factory? Wanted her money returned though

they had lived together for six years—

longer than you have been a poet, longer than

Kandinsky led the Phalanx, longer than Pollock

avoided drunken days that ended his career.

*Published in Otoliths (AU), February 2019

Sonnets For Lyotard #1, #2 (Poems by Clara B. Jones)

Sonnets For Lyotard*

 #1

1. You hid Lyotard's notebooks in your vitrine...

...because Philosophy made me what I am today.

2. Your boredom poems changed ego's meaning.

Freud was the Ubernode of personal growth.

3. It was only true a posteriori.

Only then did I sympathize with Cyborgs.

4. Critics are rarely your friends...

...because “cold” is a polyphone, and critics can be ruthless.

5. Your skin is xanthous.

My race is unknown, but resistance is a virtue.

6. You were born before the sixties...

...when lives were at risk.

7. They praised Adorno, but Kristeva called them Romantic.

Wordsworth was their favorite poet after Keats died young.

8. Romantics invented “the sublime”...

...also, they collected stamps.

9. A poem is a series of dots.

It is noble to turn dots into words.

10. Despite contradictions, life does not paralyze you.

I drink lemonade at every meal.

11. Science, morality, and art define culture...

...Lyotard said Kant was no genius.

12. You have blurred the distinction between life and art.

My main goal is to enlighten.

13. Your comrades need to know you're OK.

It's not something I think about, but maybe that will change.

14. Some are rich...

...others pave the way.

#2

1. You hid Lyotard's notebooks in your vitrine...

...because Philosophy made me what I am today.

2. Your boredom poems changed the way we see ego.

Nihilism is the Ubernode of personal growth.

3. It was only true a posteriori.

Only then did I sympathize with radicals.

4. Critics are never friendly...

...because “cold” is a polyphone, and critics are ruthless.

5. Your skin is xanthous.

My race is unknown, but my eyes are blue.

6. You were born before the riots.

Self-image is always fragile, and civil unrest is yellow.

7. They praised the Frankfurt School, but Kristeva called them Romantic.

Wordsworth was their favorite poet—and Keats their major loss.

8. Romantics invented “the sublime.”

...also, they ate enchiladas.

9. A poem is a series of dots.

It is sad that we turn dots into words.

10. Despite contradictions, life does not paralyze you.

I drink lemonade at every meal.

11. Science, morality, and art define culture.

Lyotard said Kant was no genius.

12. You have blurred the distinction between life and art.

My main goal is to disrupt.

13. The kids need to know you're OK.

It's not something I ever think about, but maybe that will change.

14. All are free...

...and all know the way.

*Published in I am not a silent poet [Es], July 2019

Haibun For Race Dysphoria (Poem by Clara B. Jones)

Haibun For Race Dysphoria**

for Kara Walker

Jamal has been diagnosed with a severe form of Race Dysphoria, producing anxiety, even psychotic episodes, by desires to identify as a racial type other than the one assigned at birth. Since he was six, Jamal has felt like a white person, never eating collard greens or fried flounder sandwiches. His mother called him a “picky eater” though she sometimes worried it might be more than that. Jamal's father was convinced he was gay since he showed no interest in sports except fencing which he watched on PBS® every Friday at nine. When his brother, Tyrone, played rap music, Jamal hid under blankets in a fetal position which his counselor said was a sure symptom of Oedipal conflict and regression to a pre-sexual stage. [[Race Dysphoria* was added to DSM-IV by a near-unanimous vote at the Spring A.P.A. convention in 2018. Members disagreed about how the disorder should be classified, but a majority determined the pathology to be a type of Personality Disorder.]] When his family went out to eat, Jamal had a tantrum if Tyrone suggested McDonald's®, and he cried uncontrollably if his mother wore an afro wig. When his father got corn rows, listening to Wagner was Jamal's only consolation, and thinking about the courage of Rachel Dolezal sometimes brought him temporary relief. Though his dark skin would make it difficult to be accepted as Caucasian, Jamal is confident that a name-change will be a step in the right direction. A transracial person has nowhere to go but up.

Imagination

Turns chrysanthemums xanthous

And zebra stripes blue.

*"A. An enduring pattern of inner experience and behavior that deviates markedly from the expectations of the individual's culture. This pattern is manifested in two (or more) of the following areas: 1. Cognition (i.e., ways of perceiving and interpreting self, other people and events) 2. Affectivity (i.e., the range, intensity, liability, and appropriateness of emotional response) 3. Interpersonal functioning 4. Impulse control B. The enduring pattern is inflexible and pervasive across a broad range of personal and social situations. C. The enduring pattern leads to clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning. D. The pattern is stable and of long duration, and its onset can be traced back at least to adolescence or early adulthood. E. The enduring pattern is not better accounted for as a manifestation or consequence of another mental disorder. F. The enduring pattern is not due to the direct physiological effects of a substance (e.g., a drug abuse, a medication) or a general medical condition (e.g., head trauma)." DSM-IV (pp 287-298)


**Published June 2019 in The Curly Mind (Es)

Zaum Is Autonomous (Poem by Clara B. Jones)

Zaum Is Autonomous*

Feminism || ORLAN || Postmodernism→Interoperational

All Art is about women.

Käthe Kollwitz || Helen Frankenthaler || Matriarchy || Hierarchy

All Art is gendered.

Beauty || Perfection→The West [Arc]

Bell-Opticon || Bell Curve→Mathematics || Maps

Gender relations || Margo Emm || Gender dysphoria || avant garde || Formalism

All Art is [about] surveillance.

It's hard. It's just too hard.

Zaum || Futurism || Kruchenykh || Enchilada

All Art is [about] itself.

Excavation || Cave painting || Primitive→Hominoid

Derrida || Episteme [Green] || Okra || Pine

All Art is [about] nothing [nihilistic].

Marriage || Mother || Motherwell→Motherboard

de Kooning || Basquiat || "Woman, I, 1950-52" || Linda Nochlin (1998)

Every love story is a horror movie.

All Art is [about] death [petit mort].

Mishima || Sadomasochism→Sword

Impermanence || Imperfection→Japan [Black] || Wabi Sabi [Beauty]

Lee Krasner || Anita Brookner→Husband

All Art is about sex.

Haraway || Cyborg || Science || Performance

All Art is political.

Identity || Decompensation || Asylum [Panopticon]

All Art is [about] madness.

Judith Butler || Anna Freud || id || “defamiliar”

All Art is [about] impulse.

Differential || Connectionism || AI [Deconstruct] || Resist [Disrupt]

Women placed in boxes—kitchens, nurseries, patisseries [Holly Iglesias]

*Published May 2019 in The Curly Mind  (Es, Reuben Woolley, Editor)
Published April 2020 in Women Artists: Poems (ma press, Fi, Jukka-Pekka Kervinen, Editor/Publisher)

Divorce (Poem by Clara B. Jones)

Divorce

for C.D.J. (1961-1974)

I.
It's so easy to fail. A split says it all. Put your whole life on the line. Fry eggs at six a.m. every day for five years. Soak a three-hundred dollar ring in vinegar every six months (a forever ring I believed in—diamonds never break). Follow all the rules—never go to bed angry. Then one day it's over.

C79K makes me feel good about myself.

I guess C79K is a new device he met at work. But that's not the point. We never mixed with bots. How could he throw away five years of marriage? We could have worked it out in couple's therapy. They can find a solution to any problem. Talking gets to the truth. I never had much faith in book-learning, but counselors can fix things before it's too late.

II.

I was in a holding pattern. Then P126 came along—not handsome but sturdy, someone I could

count on, a model who wouldn't call me pretty to get what they wanted, who would call me

from town to ask what I needed, who would charge my pac every day—at noon, at midnight—who knew, without question, what aging was all about, who would never mention my ex-bot, who didn't need me to pay for their tune-ups...didn't need one of those fancy devices to energize them—not looking for a mama, a handout. My rock.

They're a good Negrobot, no trouble, doesn't ask for much. Doesn't need daily upkeep like my old  model who talked too much. They're smart enough to keep me interested...new enough to last until a superior device is built.