Is it a matter of writing implements that we write more
to say less, or—with the power of large numbers in play—
do we have to face the truth that we have always been
the blabbering sort, only back then largely confined
to a tavern and a church porch?
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
When I think of a lingua franca, the first thing that comes to mind is Latin, which shouldn’t be all that surprising, if only for the centuries of dashing strides of Roman legionaries across the Mediterranean world, much of Western Europe, the Balkans, Crimea, and vast regions of the Middle East, including Anatolia, the Levant, and parts of Mesopotamia and Arabia. But Latin held strong even after the fall of the Roman Empire, although its status as the official language of the Croatian parliament as late as the mid-nineteenth century is more of a curiosity than the norm. Nevertheless, the first truly global lingua franca was French—to think that it all began with the Ordinance of Villers-Cotterêts—and its undivided reign in courts and salons, universities and military headquarters, received its first blow only when the Treaty of Versailles was also drawn up in English. And so here we are—with the language of Shakespeare, Dickens, Austen and Orwell—producing literature, scholarly works and manuals by the mile and wondering what will come next—Chinese perhaps? But I have a hunch that the next truly global lingua franca will be 01100010 01101001 01101110 01100001 01110010 01111001, but that is going to be as relevant to us as the invention of the washing machine was to the dinosaurs.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Why does the word ‘computer’
not have the noble ring of a ‘fountain pen’?
Even a ‘typewriter’ sounds better
than the name of the Difference Engine’s progeny,
though I could always say that I wrote this verse
on my PC (yuck!) or a desktop.
I wonder if the poet had the same problem
when quills had gone out of use.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
my plan is unlimited
calls and texts only my contacts are empty
for now at least that’s what i said all those years ago
when i bought that mobile
remorse
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Perhaps history is impatient and likes the old-fashioned way,
so it would never walk you further than from yours to its own
prematurely announced end, only to, with a slightly ironic smile,
mark its face on the necrology—written by an aspiring visionary
over a lot of coffee and cigarettes—with a casually scribbled
moustache and bowler hat, and yet I can imagine Charlie Chaplin
working feverishly at a click farm.
Nothing beats the hypnotic mechanical movements
of the Friden calculators at Consolidated Life
after a week of testing spiritual resilience with Hallmark Christmas flicks.
And it wasn’t even in Technicolour—although, come to think of it,
that might actually be part of the reason
for its soul-restoring power.
Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic,
says Clarke’s third law, yet it doesn’t feel particularly magical
when you’re trapped in a narrow tunnel, following pre-recorded instructions
played at you over and over again:
breathe in;
breathe out;
hold your breath;
resume breathing.
Perhaps it’s the emphasis placed on the word ‘sufficiently.’
After all, you are a child of the age of electronic gadgets,
so it takes more than half an hour of creaks and crackles
to make an impression on you. If anything, that bulky cube
with the narrow table sliding into the tunnel at its centre feels dated
compared to the latest smartphone glued to your hand,
and as an educated individual, you have a pretty good idea how it works.
Or maybe it’s a matter of definition, since ‘magic’ is still part of your vocabulary
but reserved for fireworks displays and first-date ambiance.
Whatever the reason, you might need some true magic
to escape the results of this scan.
If we teach it emotions, does it mean that we no longer have to feel them ourselves? Or if we filled it with all the banality of our lives, would that purify us? Imagine the harmless lies imprinted on us we call white, intended to comfort, becoming the fabric of a meticulously fabricated personality. Imagine a ghost of our own creation, the result of playing Genesis 2.0, walking around the Garden of Eden (accessible twenty-four-seven—subject to terms and conditions and a paid subscription—with a VR headset or whatever the next high tech is), like a mockery of the words we never dared to say. And this time, no one minds taking a bite of the fruit; what’s more, it’s welcomed, at least as long as you are not suspicious of technology—this technology. Imagine that this was the moment when the despair of happiness made you feel alive again. Imagine that everything that happens this time is for your sake. Imagine your name is “maybe”, and, like the future, you will be here soon enough to live your life on your behalf.
hidden pilcrow 