A robot told me to put out my cigarette at a bus stop today. He looked human but believe me, he was a well-programmed robot, completely unaware of the reasons for, or likely consequences of his action.
My ‘Robots’ are all those people that used to be autonomous human beings, but which have been raised from their deep levels of consciousness, compassion and empathy, to the shallow mindlessness of robots, by the media blast of trivia and disinformation.
Every day I hear normal people repeat what they heard on the television without questioning any of it. They smile and nod as they re-assure each other that they are in tune with the current favoured stance on the carefully selected moral issues presented to them in scripted news stories, protracted over several days, weeks or months.
Many have reached the point where they deny any information that may challenge the lovely pattern that has been woven for them by their slave-masters at the robot factory.
Robots like things to be controlled, like them.
I don’t like control. I like beauty. And co-incidences.
I like swearing and smiling at the same time.
I like people with quirks that even they don’t understand.
And I love what robots fear the most… ‘The Zone’. One-ness.
“ Those moments of perfect harmony, where beauty guides things and we are re-assured that there is more to life than science and maths. . .]
Robots malfunction with love and beauty; it’s our sharpest tool, we should use it often.
-Oh, and the consequences of being a whirring, clunking robot at the bus stop were to have me smile kindly at the person like he was a toddler with snot running down his little face.
That worked, he stopped berating me for about a puff and a half. But he started again…
”One of those environmental wardens will be along soon, you wait, you’ll get a fine..etc etc..”
I gazed at him, looking for signs of consciousness.
Finding none, I blew my smoke over his head into the breeze that was ruffling the four or five hairs that were stretched between his ears. Then, whilst smiling broadly, said,
“I work for the council mate, I’m allowed to smoke here.”
To which he snapped back, “No you cant, it’s got three sides, and I saw it on telly that if it’s got three sides you can’t smoke there…”. Then, turning to the garishly dressed septuagenarian next in the queue, he said, “He’s not allowed to smoke here, is he?”
I’m starting to forget my tai-chi training at this point and thinking of putting the bully out of his misery. But no, beauty shall not be pushed aside by dogma, so, standing my ground against this disapproving onslaught, I bent down to the old robot’s ear and whispered, “If I stub my ciggie out, it will be in your eye, you joyless c**t.” Job done. He scurried off to the next bus stop, leaving me to kill myself in peace.
The old girl in the colourful coat turned to me smiling as he left, and said, “Good on ya, Son, he’s nothing but a bloody busy-body.”
Who would have guessed the lady was so fond of alliteration?