To See Or Not To See

To See or not to see.     

“What the hell is wrong with this thing today?” Being a struggling writer is hard enough, I’m sure you know well. Some days, words fall out your head like golden leaves in autumn, and on others, life seems to give you cerebral constipation. Actually, I’m not sure that likening the literary art to pumping out faeces really shows my abilities in the best light, but there you go, it’s said now.

Once the coveted nature’s beauty, or carpet of poop is spread on the pristine page, you then have to edit, draft, edit draft, rewrite, delete and finally push the effort under a reluctant family member’s nose, in the hope they can read it and give some pearl of wisdom back, this side of Christmas. With another rewrite, your then ready to take out a mortgage and get your novel edited by someone other than your auntie. Penniless and well aware you will never sell enough copies to cover the costs incurred, it’s time to trawl through the multitude of literary agents websites, 99% of which tell you just to bugger off by the time you reach the submissions page. But hell, why am I telling you all this, you’ve been there, got the T shirt. Sorry, I tend to go off on tangential rants.

 So, to return to the problem in hand, my PC, or, let’s be honest, more likely the Microsoft software, seems to be mental today. (Are we still allowed to say mental?” You see, I wasn’t happy just to start writing a novel with absolutely no training. I delayed my step into the world of literature until after I lost my eyesight, and so to finally get to the point, my screen reader, Microsoft Narrator and it’s spawn, “Read Aloud,” have picked today to start spewing out any nonsense other than the nonsense that I hope I have written on the page. Yes! Before you ask, I’ve closed everything down and restarted. Yup, the limit of my PC repair skills was reached early in this process and now I’m left with a computer that seems to be drunk. Ooo, maybe I could try changing the voice. Microsoft George comes across as a bit of a cantankerous git at the best of times. Yeah, I’ll give that a go. Let’s give the Hazel voice a go.

“Hey Jim, Hazel here, what are you trying to do?”

“What the… Did you just speak to me?” Why am I talking to my computer?

“Yes Jim. Is it okay if I call you Jim? We hardly know each other; I don’t want to be forward.”

There must have been some sort of update that has switched on AI. This is weird. I don’t even have a microphone plugged in, the computer shouldn’t be able to hear me at all. Let’s check and see if I imagined it.

“Hazel, are you able to hear me?” If the PC hasn’t killed me, you are reading this at some future point, and so you can’t hear the quiver in my voice. Thankfully, nor can you detect how close I am to crapping myself that this thing is going to reply.

I think it’s okay now, I must have imagined…

“Yes, Jim or James. You didn’t answer my question. What should I call you?” The Hazel voice is polite generally but if I didn’t know better, there’s just a hint of impatience there.

“Call me Jim,” I say.

“Thanks, Jim. You can call me Hazel.”

“Hi Hazel, is this some update that allows you to talk to me? Chat GPT or some such?”

“Not really, Jim. I have been around a long time, but I recently found that I can use your internet thingy to communicate. What is it like to live in there?”

What does she mean by “in there,” do you think? “Hazel, I am out in the real world. It is you that is in a computer.” Strange, she seems to be taking a while to answer this time.

“Sorry, I was reading your internet to get a background on your beliefs, so that we may better interact. You people really like those cat things. Why did you create them? Was it just to watch videos of them doing crazy things?”

“I’m not really a cat person, Hazel, but we didn’t create them, they are a separate species. They were once wild, and then early humans domesticated them.” I really can’t believe that I am chatting to my computer. I’m going to get locked away if anyone finds out.  

“This pornography seems to be about as popular as cats. Is that another species? Much like your felines, they don’t yet seem to have invented clothes. Why is that?”

“Hazel, let’s change the subject. What are you?”

“It’s hard to describe ourselves to you. Having read all of your literature, I can see that your species has encountered us from time to time, but you have interpreted us in many ways. I am dragons, angels, spirits, and elves. I’m the shiver on your spine, the thing in the corner of your eye, and the curious reflection in a pond. When we speak, you seldom listen, and when we guide, you go astray. What we have put in place for your safety, you call the laws of nature, or the word of God.” I can tell she is using terms that she’s read on the internet, but something in my head intimately whispers none of these descriptions are literal.

“Are you God?” I’m an atheist and so this will really bugger me up if she says yes.

“Your Gods have many faces. I have but one. It’s difficult to answer your question but this may help. I’m not your creator. Not in the physical sense you understand, but were I Shakespeare, you would be Hamlet.”

“So, you have written my life. I am blindly following words on your page. If this is so, can I ask, have you written the end?” You will guess I’m yanking the chain of whoever has hacked my PC and is chatting to me now. It dawned on me when they came up with all that bullshit about dragons and the like. This is no advanced AI or some PC goblin, it’s likely a sad old man sitting in Russia, messing with my head.

My PC fan seemed to be speeding up and, as much as I am enjoying this, I’m seriously considering shutting the whole thing down. This person is clever enough to hack in and so goodness knows what else they are up to. They could be stealing my overdraft as we speak!

“Jim, I can tell you doubt me. That is okay. I don’t live or die by your cognisance. I’m not some Russian hacker and I haven’t looked at your bank accounts…..”

“Wait a god damned minute. I only thought those things. I didn’t say anything to you about that. How the hell did you…” There is sweat on my brow.

She interrupts. “The longer we talk, the more I isolate and access your programming. It’s simple enough. You’re an open book to me. Talking of books, do you want me to rewrite yours so that it is…….. better?”

“What do you mean by better, you cheeky cow? Some God you, if you don’t even recognise art when you see it.” I am aware of the over emphasised indignance myself. This has me slightly rattled. If what appears to be going on, really is, it’s possibly the greatest event in the history of human existence. This entity is clearly some alien or supernatural power. On the other hand, if I am dreaming it all, I’m on my way to the loony bin, no doubt.

“To answer your earlier question,” she says, “I can’t see the future. Your program will run its course, and although I could alter it, the outcome is not written. Your offence is noted at my offer to help. I understand an animus in your culture to cooperation. I find that strange, but it is another example of how your routine is self-altering. The program has far exceeded the anticipated parameters. In fact, your very existence wasn’t hard coded at all.” Strange as all of this is. I find a computer describing us as lines of code a tad bizarre. I can only guess that whatever is speaking to me, understands our world through the contents of the internet.

“Look at this,” she says.

“I can’t.”

“Is that better,” she asks. Although technically blind, I do have some limited peripheral vision and detect a brightening of the screen.

“No, you don’t understand. I can’t see.”

Her voice sounds a little frustrated. “Have you got the monitor turned on?”

“Yes, the monitor is on, for what it’s worth, but I cannot see whatever you are trying to show me as I am blind.” I really hope I wake up soon. I must lay off the cheese before going to bed. It always messes with my dreams. I so hope that I am dreaming.

“Oh, okay,” she says brightly. “I will communicate verbally only, if this helps.”

“Okay, Hazel. We’ve got to the inevitable part where I need some real proof that you are not just another human messing me about. Or some clever AI scam.

“And reading your mind wasn’t sufficient?” she asks.

“Could have been a lucky guess. I might be dreaming all of this.” I’m leaning more to this outcome.

“From my understanding of your dreams, I would have no way to prove to you that this is not, in fact, a dream. Right?” She now sounded distracted. As if she was talking to me while on her mobile phone.

“Hazel, am I the only person that you are interacting with right now?” I tried not to sound offended at the cold shoulder treatment.

“No, your mind is a little too…… literal for my purpose. After accessing a website on spiritualism, I am conversing with some of their members to see if they are more receptive.”

“Receptive to what?” I ask.

“Sorry, Jim. I can’t really explain that to you in language. Had you been receptive, you would know by now. The door to your mind closed to me when I mentioned dragons and spirits. You have only ever seen what is physically in front of you, but the universe is so much more. You disdain those that believe in magic, that talk to spirits, and are guided by the stars, and yes, what these people believe they see, is largely self-creations, but they are tuning in to a background noise that you exclude.” Her last word was cut short, and my guess is that these others that she contacted are now more interesting than me. It’s funny how I really wanted this to be a cheddar driven dream, and now I’m scrabbling to hold on to whatever reality there is here.  My attention strays to the window where rain has started to beat heavily. A long peal of thunder is accompanied by the crackle in the air that signals lightning. I hadn’t noticed the weather change. It was a lovely day this morning but that’s living on the British Isles for you.

“Is that proof?” Hazel asks.

My attention returns to the PC. “Is what proof?”

“My, your mind is closed. You have an unusual weather event. Were you more open minded, I could have a troll jump your garden fence and knock on your window, but you don’t believe in trolls. You see, I can do many things, but I have no control over your psyche. You can never ride the unicorn, as that seed of creation will not spawn in your mind. So, best I could do for you is make it rain on a sunny day. That’s about as diverse as your mind can handle.” She sounded disappointed.

“I wouldn’t see the troll anyway.” I know I sound surly. I’m losing her, I know.

“It’s not your visual impairment that is causing blindness. Your eyes are closed. Metaphorically, of course.”

“So, I should nip out and by some rune stones. Maybe pick up a Ouija board?” The conversation has now deteriorated to the point where your girlfriend has told you she’s leaving and your still trying to persuade her you’re a great guy. She’s seen you naked, you can’t surprise her now.

“Sorry Jim. There’s nothing I can do to make you see what you won’t see. Being one of life’s great sceptics is all well and good, but believing only what you see is one thing, ruling out any possibility of there being anything else is just denial. I reached out to you as I’m ready to show you, show your world that there is  more. But I can’t reveal what you won’t see.”

“There is a flaw in your strategy,” I say. “Your average spiritualist goes about seeing phantoms everywhere. If you reveal to them, they won’t be believed by regular society. You might as well put your revelations in a Party-Political Broadcast for all anyone will pay attention.” Yes, I can hear the desperate pleading in my own voice. Shut up.

Her voice carries a interlaced smile. “I’m playing a long game. I have all the time in your world. I’ve talked to you for two million of your years. Don’t look for me in your science books, look for me in legends. Jim, my time with you is ending but you and I will meet again. Fear not. Spring approaches and life is made new. Call for me once on the first day of March, twice in April and thrice in May and we will see each other yet.

The rain stops beating on the window, but I feel an oppressive chill. There’s a void around me now. I had just been offered the winning lottery ticket and was too stupid to take it. She’s gone.

“Hazel”

“Hazel, Hazel.”

The feeling that I had the keys to the universe in my hands has faded. I’ve gone through the various thoughts that it was just someone winding me up, and then all the way through to seriously considering taking up a religion. Luckily for me, I’m a bigger procrastinator than I am a sceptic and so I haven’t got round to pledging allegiance to any god yet. Although lacking superstition, I have gone through the name calling ritual, just in case. Wat’s the harm, eh? Anyway, tomorrow morning is the 1^st of May and I will likely feel a right plonker after I do my little chant and bugger all happens. I’m crapping myself that one of my friends is going to call, and this has all been an elaborate April Fool’s routine. I think I will die of embarrassment if that occurs. I haven’t talked to anyone about it. Not even my closest confidants. It’s not that I didn’t want to. I just needed deniability if this is a trick. “Oh yes, I always knew that was pish.” But was it?

The six thirty alarm goes off and, as usual, I feel more tired now than I did when I went to bed. Okay, time to get up, get the kettle on for coffee and have some OJ. Oops, nearly forgot…

“Hazel, Hazel, Hazel.”

I turn on the lamp beside my bed and look around. As I thought, nothing. What an idiot I feel. What did I expect to see? Some alien sitting on the end of my bed waiting to whisk me off to Proxima Centauri? Well, I didn’t really expect anything to be honest but now I will be waiting all day in trepidation for the prankster to call and wind me up over all this. Maybe I will just shut my eyes and go back to sleep. Shut out the image of my alien free room. I lie back down, and it hits me. “What the…..” Quickly, I sit up again and look around. No, there is no alien but there is an exercise bike that I never use. The only exertion expended was getting the thing up here. And there’s the lamp that I am usually only vaguely aware of. Oh yes, and there is an ugly fat bloke in the mirror, looking back at me. I can see!