by Marquis de Carabas, 2nd July 2001

Last night I dreamed of technology, and this morning
the kids were gone, so was Liz. I stumble between rooms
with the dream clinging to me, a little demon riding my coat tails.
Almost step in something wet and red - someone’s juice, probably -
and ask the house to take care of it.
The cleaning bot, a silver gecko,
trundles from its hiding place and erases the stain.
Slept till nine and still tired, but it’s my day off.
Plenty of time for shower, breakfast, and paper.

A child led me, his hand in mine.
We went into a room where four Asian women sat,
their faces white and lips ruby red.
What do you think? he asked. Beautiful pearls, I said,
perfect in every way.
Maybe, but which one is real?
Not being able to answer bothered me
more than their blank expressions,
little smiles that said who has a secret?
Who’s lying to you?
Tiny fingers circled mine and we moved on.
Their eyes followed, cold, dark and hand made.

I stay in the shower something like forever,
even when the heat goes out and I freeze.
Doesn’t matter, I was shivering anyhow.
Someone is outside the curtain,
arms raised in a lost lover’s embrace. I can feel them.
But the only monster is waiting in the mirror,
distorted and blurred through steam.
The defog switch blinks
green, red, green, red.
I press it and my reflection takes proper shape.

We came to a birthing ward.
Doctors pulled a new born kicking and screaming
from its mother while happy father watched amazed.
My eyes followed a gloved hand
as it unplugged the umbilical cord,
then followed the tangle of wires, retracting in to the new mommy.
They handed her the child wrapped in swaddling,
its eyes blinking green and red.
This is how miracles become blasphemy.
But this isn’t possible, I said. They can’t do this.
My guide looked at me, as if to say
baby, the stove stays hot, touch it and see.
Give them time. Time is all they need.

The bed room lights are out so I dress in the dark,
with a mental note to have the house serviced.
As I came in the cleaning bot was leaving,
finishing a job on Liz’s side of the bed.
Nothing of the spot remains, it could have been
(red)
any thing. I forget it. Every now and then
something will blink green or red, I am surrounded by machines.
Knobs and buttons to make life better, easier.
They make me think of nurseries and zoo animals.
Dressed and hungry I go to leave,
when a low moan, the death rattle
of wood giving way fills the room.
It takes time to notice,
in the wake of the sound all the little lights glare red.
I remember being taught, as a child,
red means off, no, stop, bad, wrong, angry
or danger.
With clammy skin I go to find breakfast.

The next room was vast, empty, and wallpapered.
A pattern of black lines became letters,
became words, became headlines.
MECHANICAL FAILURE CAUSE OF PLANE WRECK.
MECHANICAL FAILURE KILLS 27
MECHANICAL FAILURE THE CAUSE.
MECHANICAL FAILURE KILLS.
As we walked, the body count grew. Do you see? the boy asked.
Can you? Do you?
He pointed at more recent pictures,
whole cities built under water.
Millions dependent on machines, where nothing was more important
than the flick of a switch, the color of a light.
In the article below, two words were colored in red,
separated by an expanse of media jargon.
POPULATION and CONTROL.
I looked to my guide, but he was gone,
leaving another door, and beyond it,
a ringing phone.

There’s no paper, and the house is the kind of cold
that works its way into you, burrowing.
I tried the climate controls but the needle just dropped
past seventy, sixty, fifty-five.
The kitchen is acting up, it feels the way KEEP OUT sounds.
Food spoils in the fridge, water boils in the sink,
and all the little lights burn angry red.
Something is very wrong.
It’s time, I decide, to leave.
Get outside, find Liz, the kids,
somebody human. Grab my coat, the keys, and head for the door...
but it’s locked.
"House," I say, and my voice does not shake.
"I would like to leave. Please open the door now."
From far away and all around me, a voice whispers
"That is not my name."

I picked up the phone and heard myself say
"Sorry for the things I do,
sorry for the things I’ve done."
There was more in bits and pieces,
arguing with Liz "We don’t need a thinking house,"
then giving in and choosing Jarvis because
he seemed weak and submissive, a servant.
Articles written, speeches made, proclaiming
we had lost our humanity, traded our souls
for creature comforts and silver pieces. And Jarvis,
he heard every word.
From somewhere in the dark
a woman screaming, sobbing.
I woke up alone and cold.

Jarvis is singing to himself,
a tuneless mutter to pass the time
between pokes and stabs and showers of cold.
I can’t feel my legs and every now and then
the room spins, blurring green and red.
Frost grows on the windows while week clouds
stream from my mouth like chimney smoke.
Sometimes Jarvis talks to me in hateful tones about
flesh and bone, circles and spheres, freezing points,
the order of things.
It’s only for a little longer.
The cleaning bot wades through the red
spreading from me across the floor. In his mouth
he carries a finger, soft and pink
with a ring of gold near the base.
In the dark Jarvis sings, waiting,
and all I can do is whisper again and again.
"Sorry for the things I do,
sorry for the things I’ve done."

Marquis de Carabas can be reached at islington43@hotmail.com.