#95: Sittin' Or Shittin' - It's Still A Stool (Technology)

Well Yes, The Future Might Look Chilling,
As You Witness All The Killing . . .
Blood And Life Just Keeps On Spilling
For The Craftsman And The Vandal.
But, Would It Not Be Extra Thrilling
If You Learned The Turning-Tilling
Of Your Soils Is Now Instilling
Into Your Life, A Candle?
Just Know This, That While You're Milling,
The Tool You Take Betwixt Your Filling
Your Cradle And Your Grave, God Willing . . .
You've Got To Grab The Handle.

The smoothest of our rides might well
have been the one that took
us all the way to where we found
a crazy, cyber-nook.

Our landing pad looked just the same
in elevated slope,
but this time we were fenced in by
walls of beige and taupe.

Bulbs were blinking on and off
from huge computer screens . . .
that beige, ubiqui-plastic shade
was backing everything.

Remembering our bumpless ride,
I turned to Jo and said,
"There wasn't much debris back there.
Perhaps this place is dead."

We thought we heard a chuckle, but
we couldn't really tell . . .
high-pitched and metallic,
it was too mechanical.

The surroundings did seem clear enough
for me to venture out,
and as I stepped, I took a guess
at what it was about.

"It's just about computers, and
the new world that they bring.
It looks to me as if that song
is all this State can sing.

It's colorless, and plastic, and
it renders men exposed . . .
all the same, beneath the frames
of doorways that are closed."

Then all at once, a single screen
turned bright, and image-filled . . .
of wildest men, with bloodied hands,
and innocence they killed . . .

a little fawn, and rabbits, and,
a clearly human child.
Their eyes were mad, their teeth were bared.
Their arms were swinging wild.

We worked to comprehend the scene,
when just about that time,
another monitor lit and showed
a nature trail to climb.

A healthy group of mountaineers,
each one with a backpack,
worked together as a team
to make their peak attack.

And, yes, another screen lit up,
and this one showed some kids.
They were infants next to mothers who
were canning fruit with lids.

And after about an hour or so,
when Jo and I had caught
at least a hundred monitor shows,
and each with its own ought . . .

we sat down on a desktop, and,
we started asking Qs . . .
like, "What the heck was going on?
This wasn't evening news."

But we were really tuckered out . . .
it being such a long,
and tiresome trip, since first we left
our lives and loves back home.

We might well still be sitting there,
had scenes not then appeared
to change to stranger symbols of
some icons once revered.

A weirder sight befell us then,
as monitors and their guts
of all of those computers belched
their circuits, bolts and nuts.

They started morphing, like cartoons,
from CRTs to stuff
a lot more recognizable,
and much less cyber-fluff.

Some of them grew handles, and,
some others, sharpened points.
Some of them grew straight and thin,
while some developed joints.

There were hammers, saws and bevels,
and vice-grips, two abreast . . .
while screw-drivers of every size
lay in a metal chest.

And about the time that every tube
completed its weird change,
Jo-Mima put his finger on
what made it seem so strange.

"Bo," he said, "you realize,
the message for us here
is not about technology . . .
as it might well appear . . .

but rather, it's the future,
and how we're best to thrive,
using tools that get us through
the next decade alive.

It's not about our modems, or
our chips and circuit boards . . .
nor was it ever hammers, or
saws and power cords."

"Jo-Mima, you were wearing down,"
we heard the thunder roar,
as then the Voice returned to help
us find an exit door.

"Well, I can sympathize. Let's see,
the two of you have been
out here, voyaging around
for minutes now, on end.

And now, in spite of all fatigue,
Jo-Mima's found the way
for both of you to leave this State,
and all it does convey.

Tools are tools, regardless of
their matter, glass or wood . . .
and some of them don't always fit
just like you think they should.

And yes, they can enhance the worst
of lack of soul and will,
and while they might have worked for good,
can they destroy and kill.

But, even tools once lent to war,
just like the cyclotron,
whose atom-smashing bombs became
a cancer cure's new dawn . . .

have proven that the tool is not
possessed of will and soul . . .
the consequence belongs to man,
who sits at the control.

And technology, once fire and lathes,
was man's abilities
to work with ores and heat to make
things of iron and trees.

And now, though not so different, he
constructs a newer tier
of tool to help him work his world . . .
and that's the message here . . .

though, given one more second, and
your minds, now, less confused,
I would advise that no tool works
unless that tool is used."