Posthuman Blues

I went to the library today to renew a couple pop-sci books I really need to finish. I ended up making an expansive tour of my neighborhood, observing clouds, trees and architecture with a peculiarly heightened sensitivity. At one point it began to rain and I ducked between two age-scarred brick apartment buildings to wait it out. I sat for several minutes savoring the smell of ozone before resuming my meandering course for the deserted lawnscape of the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art.

Sometimes on walks I feel strangely extraterrestrial, like an amnesiac alien bent on fulfilling some obscure mission. I wondered briefly what would happen if I just walked away from everything, dissolving into the background as I often find myself trying to do in my recurring dreams of imprisoning offices.





I visited a winter-deadened garden and strolled past ranks of withered plantlife. A cat named Rocky lives in the greenhouse, occasionally rousing himself from hedonistic slumber so visitors can scratch his head. I sat on a bench and drank coffee while Rocky relaxed into my lap.





I've been reading Rudy Rucker's meditations on "universal automatism," so my attention was drawn to the fountain in the center of the room; I found the unpredictable play of water wholly entrancing. (It occurred to me, fleetingly, that I'd suffered some sort of benevolent stroke that had short-circuited my higher cognitive functions; although I'm usually aware of the world's fractal quality, today I seemed to be happening across it for the first time, taking special note of every leafless tree and rivulet in the mud.)