Sippin on Champagne – Autotune
This is the funniest thing.
In my hands i held a torpidscraller, and read back to myself the first 14 entries made into its sheer obsidian exterior. miniscule variations in the refractive index of the glass encoded vast sums of synaptic data, and the means of playing it back was to place the device under your chin, hold it by tilting your head down, and then holding your hands as far out to the side as they could go. Admittedly, the inventor fo the torpidscraller, Faxigorias Maxigorium, was an annoying douche. He gook the secret of the torpidscraller’s synaptic recorder to his grave, and attempts at reverse engineering resulted in more than one scientist sitting on pears: a most heinous fate. Of course, in our time, pears are 9 feet high and their fangs are twice as long as in your day. Or wait, did you have the fangs in your pears yet?
I was recently rereading this ancient epic and reconsidering my original interpretation of it. When i first read it, i was 18 years old, i had just read beowulf, i was reading the iliad and the fairie queen, and had earlier that year read hero with a thousand faces, by joseph campbell. Naturally, i read the epic as campbell had, as any starwars enthused teenager would; i read it as a hero’s journey. A man with great gifts confronts a variety of trials and interacts with gods to return with a boon. Nevermind that gilgamesh didnt’ return with a boon, was no hero, and only laterally interacted gods. I was convinced, and didn’t really think about it. but age has a way of whittling away a lot of what we think when we are younger. It pears off our opinions as easily as it does our dreams and ideals. And then, on the toilet, you read a passage in gilgamesh, and you realize you had it all wrong.
Sent back in time to provide a preview of the adventures yet to come, I began assuming that this would be part of what was going to happen.
There, before us, stood Michael Hitler, also known as Double-Hitler, and in some drought-ridden worlds where vowels are fruit, dbl=htlr. (on those worlds, typically, hyphens undergo mitosis while being typed, causing them to appear like equals signs). He threw his head back and laughed, in a haw haw haw style, not unlike that of his namesake, Mister Hitler, of the 1930s and 40s. Hesitating no longer, we both creaked our bland whips at him, but could make no mark on his pallid Austrian face. It seemed he was a mere projection, with no substance, like an Ayn Rand novel, or a surfer.
It was at this time, not knowing it myself but nonetheless extant, that beknownst only to itself, a shimmering helix of glittering light arced across the night sky over, what i was later to learn, was called Toronto. It had come, not unlike we, by an accident. And also, not unlike we, had escaped the clutches of a future ruler of the planet, a vast hawk man of the age of the hawkmen. It is always in such strange and small coincidences that events tend to deploy magnification distortions, tending to create the illusion that the mere facts shared by two things, across the vast and infinite channels of space and time, are somehow not only UNLIKELY, but SIGNIFICANT. Suffice it to say, it is both inevitable and insignificant that, at 5:35 PM EST, Sept 20, 2009, in Toronto Ontario, two time travellers, having recently escaped the clutches of a hawk man, glistened into existence over the dominion towers, and careened a trajectory towards old city hall, colliding with the clock tower and bringing the great face of the old timepiece to the earth, while its hands marked the time of its death. 5:35 PM, EST.