I cried the first time you did it. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw your pubic mound—stripped of hair, skin chemically burned because you used some horrible depilatory cream. All the photos I had seen of victims of chemical attacks during the Great War flashed before my eyes. I bet you didn’t even notice. I begged you never to do that again. Same with shaving your legs and armpits. To no avail. Your excuse was the comfort but also the embarrassment of being seen in public with a hairy body, with emphasis on the latter. I have never understood that. I like body hair. I couldn’t wait for winter, because then you wouldn’t pay much attention to shaving since you were wearing pants and long sleeves anyway. But as soon as the sun began to shine brighter, you always returned to these barbaric rituals. And why? Because of some bizarre social—i.e., male—norm imposing a quasi-paedophilic image on women? Or maybe women are doing this to themselves of their own volition; perhaps they are the ones who actually incite each other, since I sincerely doubt I’m the only one who enjoys playing with short and curlies.
The vaginaless monologues (3)
At first, you think she is shy, which is kind of cute, and you two just started dating, so even holding hands counts. Later, you convince yourself that it’s her religious beliefs about virginity, which you respect, or at least try to. Of course, the wedding night is a fictitious event, and everyone is wasted anyway. But then regular life begins, and still nothing happens. Not because of a lack of effort on your part, though. And with every new excuse, your resentment keeps growing until you reach the point where you just can’t do it anymore. You call the fiction what it is and say out loud the unthinkable—divorce. Only then does something crack in the fortress walls, and you finally reach what you have been waiting for all this time. For a while, everything seemed to work out somehow, despite frequent ups and downs. Then the big question pops up, and out of nowhere, your intimate life turns into a precisely scheduled chore. But you don’t complain—it’s still the intimate life after all. Well, in a way, since it makes you feel like a semen injector sometimes. After the little one arrives, you don’t expect anything any time soon, and you both are exhausted after countless sleepless nights with colic and whatever else causes endless crying anyway. But eventually, life settles. Only intimacy is still a minefield. You talk and try to find a way to make it work, sometimes with success, sometimes without. And the resentment starts to build up again, which doesn’t help either. There are days when everything seems great and you dream of a perfect ending in the bedroom. Then the kid goes to bed, and bam, she sparks an argument over some trifle, quick to resolve but enough for her to say she’s not in the mood. Eventually, there is nothing but bitterness and resentment left, and you wonder: What on earth is this love thing all about? But whatever you think, it’s always your fault; you can take that for granted. After all, you are the one who only thinks about sex, aren’t you?
The vaginaless monologues (2)
Never get married before thirty, at the very least. If you feel ready, believe me, you are not. If you think you love her more than anything else in the world, think twice. Before you commit to someone else, outgrow that man-boy still trying to figure out what this is all about and who that terrified face staring back at him in the mirror is. Don’t lie to her—more so to yourself. Do you think she will not find out one day? Do you think she will not see through you eventually? And are you absolutely sure that, even if she is content with what she is getting now, she will not kick you out of the door once you finally become the man you are supposed to be and she comes to the conclusion that she actually doesn’t like that person? It’s one thing if that only affects you, but it is a whole different story when kids are involved. Not to mention your pocket—hardly deep enough to cover the lawyers’ greed. But if you still decide to jump into those muddy waters, at least make sure you have a well-written, signed, and secured prenup. Maybe one day it will save your skin. Then enjoy your love ride to the very end—its or yours, whichever comes first.
The vaginaless monologues
I have no vagina; I haven’t been blessed with one. I am vaginaless. I was born with this sausage-like front tail called a penis instead. And believe me, it’s not a blessing—try peeing after waking up with a morning wood, for example. Ah, you don’t know what it’s like. Well, so do I when you mention your period. It looks like we both have things we just have to take on faith. And please, before you accuse me of mockery, try to see me for who I really am, because your body drives you crazy once a month; mine, on the other hand, is a thorn twenty-four-seven; at least it was for the younger, testosterone-fuelled version of me. Now that I’ve crossed the magical forty mark, it’s actually not that bad. Originally, masturbating at least twice a day went down to at most twice a month. It’s that damn biology, you know. Obsession with sex may be funny in Hollywood comedies, but in real life, it’s a hard thing to deal with, especially for an average guy like myself who doesn’t look like Brad Pitt or is rich like those dudes at Google. And just to be perfectly clear, I don’t condone any of the terrible things that have happened and are still happening to you and your sisters. I’m the furthest from that. And this whole patriarchy thing is as bad for me and my brethren as it is for you, even if some of these morons are not even aware of that. So, let’s talk about how to change our lives for the better.
In transit
Lately, I have developed a peculiar fascination with symmetry,
like when I read a digital clock and the hour equals the number of minutes
or the time turns into a palindrome. It’s not like I impart any significance
to all those random congruences; I simply find them visually appealing.
But would that imply my divine affinity? Frankly, I find it enough
that I’m already nothing but a non-zero sum of the realised and possible in transit
between pre- and post-individual selves, endlessly rehearsing
the mouthful-ridden opening soliloquy on symptoms mistaken for causes.
There is no need for additional exaltation.
The never-ending story
Once upon a time, there were hairless monkeys that painted on the walls of caves, and it made them feel good.
But soon it was not enough, so the monkeys started praying to the mother goddess for something better. After a very long time, they eventually got what they wanted—a typewriter—and it felt like the sky was the limit.
But it wasn’t long before they started bothering the mother goddess again. This time she gave them a magical mirror that was able to produce anything they asked for, although it was crude and misshaped at first. Undeterred by this, the mirror kept polishing itself until it became spotless, unlike the minds of its owners, hairless monkeys, making them feel envy and fear, so they decided to smash it, but at that point it was already indispensable.
The hairless monkeys couldn’t find any other way but to ask the mother goddess again. This time, however, she finally lost her temper, took the magical mirror away, and turned the wicked monkeys into dust, so only the merest remnants found shelter back in the caves.
Once upon a time, there were hairless monkeys that painted on the walls of caves, and it made them feel good.
When a monkey with a typewriter beat Shakespeare
Once upon a time, there was a hairless monkey that started painting on the walls of caves they inhabited, giving birth to what later became art—a fairly profitable profession, at least for some, as it’s worth pointing out. And everyone was happy until competition entered the market, timidly at first, with crude, to say the least, results, making many hilarious mistakes, but fairly quickly gaining momentum, causing a lot of panic in the creative community, for various reasons. Of course, I’m talking about the so-called artificial intelligence, or AI, for short. Not being professionally involved because poetry is just my hobby, I didn’t really pay much attention to the details of the ongoing discussions. However, a recent post on one of the blogs that I read from time to time caught my attention: A Love Letter to Art by Makenna Karas. I have to admit, it’s a passionate piece written by a talented person at the beginning of her journey to earn her spurs as a professional writer. There is only one problem with the attack on AI she carried out in her post by saying that “AI is threatening to discredit and dissolve one of the coolest things that humanity has ever had to show for itself—art”—it completely misses the point.
First of all, I presume we all know the infinite monkey theorem, where if you give a monkey a typewriter and an unlimited amount of paper and time, it will eventually recreate all the works of Shakespeare by simply hitting random keys on the typewriter keyboard. Well, you could think of AI as such a monkey, but instead of randomly pressing keys on the typewriter, it uses vast amounts of data and stochastic algorithms to produce something we later may or may not perceive as beautiful or at least interesting, with the exception that it doesn’t recreate existing artefacts of art but creates something completely new of its own (I know, I know, some artists accuse AI of stealing elements of their style, etc., but show me an artist who has never borrowed something from another one themselves, and we still see creative AI in its infancy).
Secondly, let’s define what art is. As I see it, it is the process of interaction between the conscious mind (I purposely avoid here using the word person), even an artist themselves, and artefacts we call works of art, because this is not passive reception of art but its creation through perception and continuous reinterpretation. The artefacts themselves are just that—artefacts, inanimate objects with no meaning of their own. When in doubt, show your dog Rodin’s sculpture, and he will reduce it to the equivalent of a lamp post to pee on. Or a book of poetry by T.S. Eliot, which becomes nothing more than a collection of dried layers of compressed cellulose with random blobs of carbon black on them if there is no one in existence to read it. Which also leads to the question: who is the artist? What if the artist is not actually the venerated individual we see as imbued with an artistic spirit but a collective being? For example, if we look at literature, it all goes back to what Roman Ingarden calls “Konkretisation”, that is, realisation, because, as Wolfgang Iser explains, there is more to the “literary work” than just the text itself, and it is brought into existence by both the text and its realisation by the reader.
And now to the main point: aren’t we tired of our obsessive anthropocentrism, which, by the way, is ravaging our own home planet? Of course, at the moment, we assume that we are the only conscious minds in existence, at least here on Mother Earth, that create and understand art. But although we might have invented art, we don’t have exclusive rights to it. And even the law starts to notice that. Just recently, Judge Beryl A. Howell of the U.S. District Court for the District of Columbia, although she rejected an attempt to copyright an artwork created by an AI, also commented on her decision: “We are approaching new frontiers in copyright as artists put AI in their toolbox to be used in the generation of new visual and other artistic works. The increased attenuation of human creativity from the actual generation of the final work will prompt challenging questions regarding how much human input is necessary to qualify the user of an AI system as an ‘author’ of a generated work.” A brave new future is ahead of us, to paraphrase Aldous Huxley. But sarcasm aside, there is something important to notice. Even when, at some point, the involvement of human input in the creation of artefacts is reduced to a negligible level or even completely removed, for a long time we will still be the artists as I defined them, since we are nowhere close to achieving the creation of an artificial general intelligence (AGI). And nothing will take away our feelings while interacting with it just because a painting, a sculpture, a piece of music, or a text were created by AI. We may not even know that, because the same way companies have been granted legal personality, it will most likely happen to AI as well. And with that, such an AI artist could publish their work under a pen name.
Postscriptum: I actually see a danger coming with the creative AI, but it’s in a completely different area. It’s not the art itself that it will destroy, but the artistry as a profession. It’s a simple matter of economic calculation. Let’s look at the visual arts, for example. As an average customer, if you have the choice of ordering a painting via a friendly web-based interface, where you have full control over what you will get by simply writing what you wish for and instantly seeing the result, and thanks to advances in printing technology, you get the painting the very next day by delivery service for a fraction of the price you would have to pay for a human artist, who may need at least a few weeks to create something similar, the brutal reality is that you will most likely choose the AI. And with that in mind, I predict that the art job market will be decimated. There will always be crowds of amateurs painting for themselves and their friends and relatives, but in the professional sphere, only the very best will be able to survive, mainly because most of them will not care about money anyway, just like all the great ones who died in poverty before them only to reach eternal glory posthumously.
Disclaimer: Although I am a software developer professionally and my thesis at the university concerned the use of artificial neural networks, I have never been associated with any company that develops AI.
A hand with a handkerchief
It is not about breakfast—or any other meal for that matter—eaten in solitude.
It’s not even about the freezing-cold bed you have to jump into after taking a hot shower.
The problem is in all those little glimpses of unexpected brightness you have no one to share with,
like when you exchange a curious glance with a mellow fox during an evening walk,
or when you make flatbread that smells of exotic spaces you recall your granny used to use,
or when you manage to sneak an ancient Greek profanity into an innocent-looking poem.
Weeping after all this without a hand with a handkerchief—that’s loneliness.
Much ado about the chair
Let’s say I asked you to pick a chair. Without giving it much thought,
you would most likely sit down on one or another, assuming that chairs
are simply things to sit on, wouldn’t you? But this somewhat abstract term
doesn’t say anything about whether it is a sturdy or frail chair, and if the latter,
it would collapse with your very attempt at sitting. And here lies the tragedy
of learning: If you ignored the sage’s máthēma passed in the abyss of his poíēma,
then to avoid any future páthēma, you have to bruise your órrhos, my rhêma.








