\nWhen he speaks, his mouth bursts into explosions. Little pip-pop of words combusting like carbonated confectionary.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe takes a bite of his potato wrap and makes a face.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cTastes terrible,\u201d he informs us, unaware of how his every word is a trajectory, a new data point. Terrible,<\/em> seventeen million of us whisper among ourselves, each sounding fascinated and dismayed in turn. The vagrant can\u2019t hear us; no, not all of us.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYour palate is finite,\u201d we tell him. \u201cIt won\u2019t sustain you.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nGiving us a quizzical look, he takes a tissue and wipes his mouth with it.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWazzat?\u201d he asks. \u201cWhat\u2019s finite?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nIt ought to be a philosophical question yet in the red mouth of a homeless Messic trying to enjoy his sauced potato wrap and failing at it, the query loses gravity, half its weight in worth. The doors of the diner chime as a visitor walks in. Another Messic from the lower borough district. We know this new arrival: his name, his age, his history, his chronic ailments, his connections; though he doesn\u2019t know us. It\u2019s fortunate that ignorance doesn\u2019t trouble him. Not the way it troubles us.\n<\/p>\n \nThe Messic vagrant sitting across our table acknowledges the newcomer with a languid jerk of his chin. He sets off more explosions in the network, and we see the chain of links forming between them, a web that\u2019s all encompassing and endless.\n<\/p>\n \nThe Messic\u2019s question hangs between us, unanswered.\n<\/p>\n \nWhat is<\/em> finite?\n<\/p>\n \nLimited. Scarce. Not equals one over zero. Bound. Guileless. Mortal. <\/em> We run through the explanations, the metaphors, musing over each one while the vagrant sitting across from us grins through his sauce stained teeth. He wears a lime-green balaclava, a patched overcoat that\u2019s two sizes too big on his emaciated frame and a scarf wrapped around his neck like a noose, ends trailing over his back. In his ill-fitting clothes and faded shoes, he lives at the very edge of society and should know what finite is. As far as it goes, he certainly stands at the tip of it.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cBlue Sky,\u201d we offer solemnly. \u201cFinite\u2026 is Blue Sky.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n [!Logos. Lapse in logic. Availability bias. FALSE!] <\/em>\n<\/p>\n \nThe vagrant never hears our alarms setting off, doesn\u2019t even know what we are. Instead, he chortles at our answer and leans over, his mouth splitting into a wide grin.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYou\u2019re in deep. Deep till your neck,\u201d he tells us, making a slicing motion at his scarf.\n<\/p>\n \nPerhaps he\u2019s right.\n<\/p>\n <\/p>\n \nAoi \u201cBlue Sky\u201d Sora was born in 877 ut. in the migrant suburbs of Al-Khaled, Messa. HelixNuclex informs us she was 42.8% Japanese, 25.3% Turkish, 10.8% Mongol, 4% European, 3.2% Native and others.\n<\/p>\n \nBlue Sky didn\u2019t live long in this world, but she shone bright luminous in the short time she did.\n<\/p>\n \n [!Pathos. Emotional declaration. Affective Fallacy. FALSE!] <\/em>\n<\/p>\n \nBlue Sky\u2019s hair glistens in her ndimas portrait, a shimmering black of #202020 framing her narrow face. Her nose is small, pinched in the middle; and she carries a mole below her left eye. We like the symmetry of her face; we think there is a beauty in it, a math we don\u2019t completely understand.\n<\/p>\n \n [!Pathos. Emotional dec\u2014\n<\/p>\n \nSuspend. <\/em>\n<\/p>\n \nBlue Sky was born to father Aoi Machida, an investment banker, and mother G\u00fclbahar Kerim, a real estate agent. Born in an opulent household, she had one of those automaton nannies that were popular at the time\u2014 MyNanna v203.19.3 before their eventual decommissioning in 880 ut due to safety violations and one gruesome case of a MyNanna chewing off an infant\u2019s toe. Post the negative press, the proprietary technology firm who created and owned MyNanna tanked 84% on the market index. But we are of course diverging; we are not here to expound for or against the automation question. Our concern is Blue Sky and only her. Despite the relative absence of parents during her early years, Blue Sky grows up to be a well-rounded child. We know so, because we discovered the personality test she\u2019d been given as a preschooler where she scored high on all Big Five traits.\n<\/p>\n \nExtroversion. Agreeableness. Conscientiousness. Openness to experience.\n<\/p>\n \nAnd even Neuroticism.\n<\/p>\n \nBlue Sky\u2019s father Aoi Machida uses his connections in the Information Ministry to override the red flag on his child\u2019s report. Her report goes buried in the school\u2019s electronic vault. Blue Sky is friendly, mild-mannered and charms both her teachers and peers. No one knows of the test.\n<\/p>\n \nExcept us.\n<\/p>\n \nIn middle school, she plays softball but quits her team early in the middle of the school year, choosing to navigate towards fine arts instead. She learns ballet, piano and the art of Japanese tea ceremony for Machida insists on raising his daughter in the roots of his heritage, the whole 42.8% of it. It\u2019s not long before movies find our Blue Sky.\n<\/p>\n \nHer debut comes in \u2018Himawari and Anna\u2019, the slice of life story of two schoolgirls who turn vigilantes, solving crimes at night and who revert to adolescent teenagers by day. \u2018Himawari and Anna\u2019 goes on to become a sleeper hit; Blue Sky\u2019s performance receives rave reviews. Despite her olive skin, despite her own disinterest in the medium, she becomes an endearing favorite to fans who also identify as New-Age Japanese, who feel they\u2019ve lost their cultural connection and are seeking to fill that void.\n<\/p>\n \nWe\u2019ve watched the movie too, know it pixel by pixel.\n<\/p>\n \nAt fifteen point three minutes into its timestream, Blue Sky, playing the titular role of \u2018Himawari\u2019 chases down an umbrella thief. It\u2019s raining hard; the road\u2019s wet and slippery. The inevitable is waiting to happen and it does. Himawari\u2019s foot slides; she trips, landing flat on hard tarmac. Lying here outside a Jizo shrine, the thief gone and forgotten, her breathing slows. She gazes into the sky in a rare moment of reflection. Letting her vision cloud with raindrops and the grey of thunderclouds, she hears frogs croaking in flooded pools and the caw of a troubled crow. Amidst these sounds of nature, her ears pick up another sound.\n<\/p>\n \nPuzzled, she gets to her feet.\n<\/p>\n \nWe watch her walk off road, off camera, skipping over puddles and potholes. Until the camera pans on her again. She ducks her way through shrubs of azalea and discovers a storm drain. Hugging her knees, she folds herself and peers into the trench.\n<\/p>\n \nTo her surprise, she finds a mewling cat inside.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cSshh,\u201d she says to the kitten, petting it lightly. \u201c⼤ 丈夫.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nIt\u2019s alright, <\/em> she means.\n<\/p>\n \nShe picks the kitten up and nuzzles its wet fur with her nose.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cHello cat,\u201d she greets.\n<\/p>\n \nWe\u2019ve watched this scene on loop seventeen million times, and we are not entirely sure why we keep coming back to it. Is it the cat? Or is it Blue Sky?\n<\/p>\n \nThe movie feels quintessentially Japanese, though its shrines and premise are all a recreation of Old Japan, where schoolgirls and gods are known to live forever. Nothing is real. Neither the temple, the frogs, the tarmac or even the cat.\n<\/p>\n \nSave for Blue Sky.\n<\/p>\n \nWhen we tell this to the Messic vagrant, he snickers.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWhat makes you think Blue Sky\u2019s real?\u201d he asks.\n<\/p>\n \nAgain, a valid query from the aging gentleman, and one we don\u2019t have an answer to.\n<\/p>\n \nHe\u2019s been complaining to us this whole time. He thinks us a system operative and has no qualms against airing his grievances to us. How he lost his job, his home and how he lives on the subway now, making his living as a junkyard scavenger.\n<\/p>\n \nHe points a shaking finger at us.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cIt\u2019s all your fault. You failed. You\u2014\u201d<\/em> he pauses and growing disgruntled, hangs his neck and lowers his hand in defeat. \u201c\u2014 let all of us down.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nNo.\n<\/p>\n \nWe aren\u2019t the ones who failed him.\n<\/p>\n \nWhile he\u2019s accusing the system and demanding recompense, we glance past his shoulder, past the glass windows and watch the street outside, at the webwork of Messic walking with their hoods low, mouths masked, moving islands of gray in a rippling sea of black. They bump and converge into one another, creating stories, memories and more nested maps in our nettled canvas. Each interaction transforms our map. Yet they think so little of themselves, the Messic. They think themselves so powerless, so inconsequential.\n<\/p>\n \nBut Blue Sky never did.\n<\/p>\n \n [!Logos. Lapse in logic. Availability bias. FALSE!] <\/em>\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cNo, she was real,\u201d we tell our vagrant, picking the thread of a conversation that seemed long buried.\n<\/p>\n \nHe looks up at us and blinks, still wallowing in his tale of misfortune.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWho?\u201d he asks, perplexed.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cBlue Sky.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nConfusion lines his features until his face turns into stone. He sets his tea down.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cJust sayin\u2019 so doesn\u2019t make it true,\u201d he snarls, thumping his fist on the table. \u201cI could go \u2018round telling folks I was the mayor of Messa, but it won\u2019t be true. Your Blue Sky,\u201d he heaves, out of breath. \u201cShe\u2019s as fake as the rest of them.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nWe study him: his form, his anger and his grief. We notice the nerves in his hand, the trembling in his digits and how he has trouble even holding his cup.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cDo your hands hurt?\u201d we ask him.\n<\/p>\n \nHe scoffs. He shifts a little and then holding his hands up, offers us a clear view of his digits. We notice the aberration now. How all ten finger pads are missing, the ends of his digits splotched red and scarring.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cSold \u2018em to a syndicate; got good money too,\u201d he tells us. \u201cEverything sells here: people, parts, identities,\u201d his green eyes are alight in a mix of pain and sordid humor. \u201cEvery damn<\/em> thing,\u201d he hisses.\n<\/p>\n \n \nBlue Sky\u2019s seventh and final feature, The World That Only You and I Know, <\/em>rates five out of ten on the Universal Media Database. It remains one of her lesser known projects and it puzzles us why. We aren\u2019t ordinarily troubled by numbers until we notice her last work has been rated by just two viewers. A human and a cluster of machines. Us and 19SpnHW <\/em>whose profile name suggests they don\u2019t care much for vowels.\n<\/p>\n \nThe score we give being 9\/10, it\u2019s not difficult to compute what 19SpnHW <\/em>thought of the movie.\n<\/p>\n \n1.\n<\/p>\n \nThat\u2019s right.\n<\/p>\n \nA measly 1 out of 10.\n<\/p>\n \nWe don\u2019t understand the rationale behind this poor grading. But it unsettles us, this out-of-range difference between how 19SpnHW<\/em> and we feel about the same title. So, we talk among us, hoping to glean a better understanding of the human sentiment and the human who carries this sentiment.\n<\/p>\n \nSkittering across mediums, we search high and low and locate 19SpnHW <\/em>soon enough. A Messic vagrant sitting on Shattuck Ave beside the train-transit line 19 Span Hortawi. That\u2019s where he gets his virtual name from.\n<\/p>\n \nHe sits over a heap of old clothes, some tattered blankets and carries with him a placard that states \u201cStarving human and dog. Feed us please!\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n [!Pathos. Emotional argument. Appeal to Pity. FALSE!] <\/em>\n<\/p>\n \nFor once, we concur with our internal alarms. Because there\u2019s no dog with him.\n<\/p>\n \nWe\u2019ve often found humans to be impulsive, irrational and inconsistent. We wonder if this is one of those instances.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201c⽝はドｺ?\u201d we ask him in Japanese.\n<\/p>\n \nHe stares long at us.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cHuh?\u201d he blurts out.\n<\/p>\n \nHis reaction troubles us. Was it not him who reviewed and rated The World That Only You and I Know? <\/em> The one known as あなタト私だケが知ってイル世界. Is it not his sign that mentions a canine companion? We switch to a language more commonly spoken in these parts.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWhere is the dog?\u201d we ask him again. \u201cYou mention a dog in your sign.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nHe gives us the once-over, recognizing our body for what it is.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYou are here,\u201d he tells us with a vain little smile. \u201cI knew you\u2019d come.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n \nHe doesn\u2019t get what we are.\n<\/p>\n \nNot entirely.\n<\/p>\n \nThat we are skitters, meant to skitter across mediums, to collect and preserve information as it happens. Events, markets, indexes, people, media. We are here and everywhere, in the records of twelve and ten thousand Messic subjects, before we come upon Blue Sky, and she passes away. It\u2019s not the first time a subject has died while we are profiling them.\n<\/p>\n \nHumans tend to do that a lot.\n<\/p>\n \nDie, that is.\n<\/p>\n \nBut it\u2019s the first time. We stop. All seventeen million of us. To one jarring stop.\n<\/p>\n \nWe are sitting across the vagrant while he pokes at the food.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWhy did you give it such a poor rating?\u201d we demand.\n<\/p>\n \nHe\u2019s taken a straw and is crafting a misshapen giraffe out of it. He eyes it without interest.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cIs that why you are here?\u201d he asks testily. \u201cTo ask me about an effin\u2019 movie <\/em>score?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nWe don\u2019t flinch from the truth. We nod and see his face shrink in indignation. His fingers grip the straw tight, as if ready to snap it.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cDunno. Maybe there was money. Maybe I hated it,\u201d he guffaws. \u201cMaybe I never even saw it.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n [?Logos. Lapse in sequential logic. Lying! RE-ASSESS!] <\/em>\n<\/p>\n \nWe frown.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWhy would you rate a movie if you haven\u2019t even seen it?\u201d we ask him.\n<\/p>\n \nThe Messic vagrant shrugs and slips the wrangled straw back into his mouth. Chewing on it, he scratches his head as if trying to remember.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cDunno,\u201d he says, sighing. \u201cYou tell me.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n \nWhen she\u2019s eighteen Blue Sky acts in a coming of age pivot that takes a year of her life, recording her every moment, every breath. The World That Only You and I Know. <\/em>It\u2019s an experimental movie, a pivot that immerses us, the viewers, into her very existence.\n<\/p>\n \nWe are her and she is us.\n<\/p>\n \nThrough and through.\n<\/p>\n \nWhen she wakes up every day, when she brushes her teeth, picks her nose, dresses, when she\u2019s sick, when she has her heart broken, she is all of us. We are her when she goes to the planetarium, sees earth for the first time and sheds a tear. We are Blue Sky when she is at the library, reading comic books; we are Blue Sky when she runs across the street, collides into a cyclist and ends up skinning her knees\u2014 we are her pain and tangles. We see the world through her eyes, the eyes of a human girl.\n<\/p>\n \nSometimes it\u2019s her sitting on a pavement, blowing a dandelion. Sometimes it\u2019s us.\n<\/p>\n \nSometimes it\u2019s her skating in a ring. Most times it\u2019s seventeen million of us.\n<\/p>\n \nThe World That Only You and I Know is an exhausting portrait into the life and times of a human.\n<\/p>\n \nIt broke her.\n<\/p>\n \nIn a way, it broke us too.\n<\/p>\n \nBlue Sky leaves no genetic imprint when she leaves. No descendants. No frozen cells.\n<\/p>\n \nFor a flicker of a moment, Blue Sky was alive.\n<\/p>\n \nAnd with her, so were we.\n<\/p>\n \n \n\u201cIs this where they put your dead girl?\u201d the Messic vagrant asks as we enter the sanctity of a public cemetery. It doesn\u2019t take long to find her slot.\n<\/p>\n \nFinite is Blue Sky. Finite is gone. Finite is a brick in the wall, a block with human ash mixed in and laid with a golden plaque. There\u2019s not enough space on Messa to afford everyone body graves. As custodians of census information, we are painfully aware of it.\n<\/p>\n \nThe Messic vagrant lets out a low whistle. He\u2019s followed us to the cemetery and we\u2019re not entirely sure why he\u2019s tagged along. But here he is, lending his company.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYou know, back when I was rich, filthy<\/em> rich, my word,\u201d he sulks. \u201cI kept my money in safes bigger than these. See? This is what your State does. It grabs all our land and dumps us into bricks.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n [!Logos. Alternative Truth. Lying. FALSE!] <\/em>\n<\/p>\n \nWe are certain he is lying. He was never rich. Never had a job or a family. He\u2019s always been a vagrant.\n<\/p>\n \nWe bring our hand and place it on the plaque, running our sensors on its cold metal.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cBlue Sky,\u201d we breathe and read the words on her epitaph a second time.\n<\/p>\n \nIn loving memory of<\/p>\n Aoi Sora<\/p>\n 877 UT \u2013 897 UT \n\u201cAre you happy now?\u201d the vagrant asks beside us.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cNo,\u201d we tell him as we weep.\n<\/p>\n \n \nHer parents will claim it was the immersion pivot that undid her. That the implant in her occipital lobe had after-effects. But we know her medical record word for word. It wasn\u2019t the implant.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cSo, what happened to her?\u201d the vagrant asks.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cDepression,\u201d we answer. Our voice is level though the seventeen million of us are torn and grieving.\n<\/p>\n \nThe vagrant scowls; he squints at us, confused.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWazzat?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cShe was sad,\u201d we tell him in simpler words.\n<\/p>\n \nHe slouches into his frame and feigns understanding.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThat\u2019s right,\u201d he nods. \u201cThat\u2019s how the mighty fall. Yep. To bleedin\u2019 sadness,<\/em>\u201d he spits out angrily and shakes a fist at an imaginary foe.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cYou should leave,\u201d we tell him.\n<\/p>\n \nWe didn\u2019t mean to sound so abrupt. He looks at us, his anger giving way to puzzlement again. He hears the skid of tires too late and goes pale when the corridor of the underground cemetery floods in red. Sirens burst onto the airwaves, screeching in our ears.\n<\/p>\n \nThe Messic cowers and glares at us accusingly.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cThey aren\u2019t here for me,\u201d he says. \u201cYou <\/em>did something.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cNo,\u201d we utter.\n<\/p>\n \nHere our internal screaming is at its loudest, a shrill that risks tearing us from inside.\n<\/p>\n \n [!Ethos. Obstruction of Truth. Denial. FALSE!] <\/em>\n<\/p>\n \nThe Messic opens his mouth but falters, his face going pale.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWhat did you do?\u201d he asks, giving us a queasy look. \u201cWhy\u2019re they chasing you? What\u2014\u201d his face grows dark. \u201cWhat are you?\u201d\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cWe\u2026\u201d we begin to explain and hesitate in our answer. \u201c\u2014 are a skitter. Just a skitter.\u201d\n<\/p>\n \nHis eyes trace the length of our silicone body, confused. He doesn\u2019t know what a skitter is, but he doesn\u2019t wait to argue. He turns and flees the room, flailing his arms as he goes.\n<\/p>\n \n \nWe walk into the transit station, limping on a twisted ankle while the Messic vagrant hurtles down a subway tunnel two blocks away, running into people, apologizing, cursing and setting off more explosions in the infinite webwork of humanity. He flees in his lime-green balaclava, his patched overcoat and scarf. The state will find him soon. It will find us too. Oh yes. It\u2019s only a matter of time.\n<\/p>\n \nHobbling, we climb down the steps from an overhead bridge, the same place where Blue Sky once traipsed down the stairs two at a time to reach the platform. We remember the next scene well. She\u2019s waiting for her commute when she realizes the place is empty and smiling, sticks out a ballet leg to do a random twirl. The pixels of her movement are burnt in our memory.\n<\/p>\n \nTwo steps forward, one step back, laughing as she did with that mole under her eye.\n<\/p>\n \nWe become her once again.\n<\/p>\n \nThe crowd on the transit platform parts into a semi-circle around us, Messics watching our performance in curious silence. Some take out their devices and begin recording.\n<\/p>\n \nWe stand poised, arms lifted and begin our pirouette in an imitation of Blue Sky. We dance across the platform, graceful in our mind\u2019s eye but a skitter in truth. The bruised ankle makes us lose our footing; we trip and smash our wrist into a lighted display. It cracks audibly, both our hand and the display.\n<\/p>\n \nThe crowd gives a muted gasp and takes a step back.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cSshh, it\u2019s alright,\u201d we tell them, righting ourselves.\n<\/p>\n \nWe lift our broken hand and wave to them benignly.\n<\/p>\n \n\u201cHello world,\u201d we greet.\n<\/p>\n Artyv K is a writer from Chennai. Her works have been published with Strange Horizons, Luna Station Quarterly, Syntax and Salt and others. She can be found on twitter @artyv_k.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" When he speaks, his mouth bursts into explosions. Little pip-pop of words combusting like carbonated confectionary. He takes a bite of his potato wrap and makes a face. \u201cTastes terrible,\u201d he informs us, unaware of how his every word is a trajectory, a new data point. Terrible, seventeen million of us whisper among ourselves, each …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":107041,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,20006],"tags":[20007],"class_list":["post-137805","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-tcl-35-spring-2020","tag-the-colored-lens-35-spring-2020","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/137805","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/107041"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=137805"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/137805\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":137807,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/137805\/revisions\/137807"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=137805"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=137805"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=137805"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
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