A funny thing happened while my mother and I were were hanging out on a nice warm almost-summer day. It should’ve occurred to me — but I’m just not built that way — so it was up to her to suggest a selfie.
I was slightly taken aback that it was my mother — the woman that I tease about her inexperience with gadgets, who had the foresight to recommend we capture a moment in time, that was enhanced by the backdrop of quaint shops and looming clouds against bright blue.
Afterwards as we walked around the neighborhood of a modest business district — I was struck by my glaring reluctance to assimilate into this culture of “see and be seen” by any means necessary.
There’s a war waging around us, and while we can’t deny the governmental fractures that are widening the gap between White America and the population that can’t relate — there’s an even bigger and more violent battle that involves humans and the more suitable models that carry the sticker of the future.
I’ve become obsessed with a handful of shows since the year began, and it’s not surprising that the themes in my goody bag are all related to science fiction and futuristic melodies.
Netflix’s Altered Carbon offered the blissfulness of being entertained with the specks of historical atrocities, that revolve around the way social hierarchy can turn against those who have the means to buy the impossible.
You can live forever — but it’ll cost ya.
The Handmaid’s Tale is a stylized gem that was an initial turn off due to the disappointingly non-diverse cast — but the exploits of a system that functions under the duress of handmaids who utter phrases like “Praise be” while they shutter around their damp world — that’s stifled with mores that are cruelly offensive to the ones that they previously mastered — is too difficult to resist.
But, the one that has me spinning on angles of religiousness is HBO’s Westworld — a stew of sizzling contents that are brewed into a feast for shifters and traditionalists alike. The creator and the created are engaged in sword play that splices bits of the fantastical into the shredding that keeps the real world at bay.
The “hosts” are fragments that represent what human beings aspire to have when it comes to an everlasting existence — in a forest of make-believe — that doesn’t have to stop sprouting leaves of chances — just because you hit the roadblock of death or the jarring realization that the one you love could easily amass a disposition of vacancy that corrupts connection on contact.
That’s probably why I’m more wedded to the receptor of Westworld than any other show in that realm.
The weekly challenge of uncovering clues and not quite comprehending the hidden message within the malfunctions of fleshy machines — or the erratic coding of humans — who are now frantically trying to turn high-tech merchandise into murderous machines for the sake of mandated extinction — gives the feeling of awareness and rejection on my part.
I’m not sophisticated enough to produce a summary with seamless delivery — but I do have the ability to transcribe the way I receive the gems of self-realization in the midst of robotics and the quest to hold my own — even when retweets and army of threads overwhelm and mystify.
Westworld is the worldwide web in a scarily progressive way.
People who share my practiced assignment of retaining the position from 2008 — will empathize with the intense curiosity and profound respect for what’s happening around us — even if we’re not quite at the stage of partaking with righteous abandon.
A decade later — I’ve become the extinct model — that lurks in the bushes — hiding from the updates and upgrades while also preventing the outer shell from fading me into harmful discovery.
I live and sleep on Twitter, and for a break I trek through the oasis of Instagram — for a refresher on how to storybook a day trip, and then it’s back to the toxicity of the platform that features town criers, and the followers who douse the hearts of approval without even thinking.
Some of us are the version of humans who still can’t rely on clicks for kicks of any variety.
We watch the brutalization of those accused from afar and marvel at the audacity of the hit-and-run in broad daylight. They drag the targets all around the times square of opinion that needs no verification to be activated.
We are few and obstinate — which is probably the reason we rebuke the notion of dying out or splintering into pieces that form the backup system we may need for survival down the road.
It would be a lot easier to function like the others by accepting the instructions from the superior beings- — who have the numbers to speak wisdom without the avalanche of alternatives that could manifest a detour.
Why can’t we stop thinking independently?
Why are we still exhibiting relays from years past, that allow us the tendencies of recognizing bullshit, instantly, and with the unfailing appetite to squander the efforts of the “chosen ones” — who are at full capacity — and will soon burst into atoms of interference.
The latest roster of dramatic fare is the sign of the times.
We all turn against each other eventually — and soon it won’t matter if you’re breathing air or leaking out a substance that doesn’t resemble the redness of a gaping wound.
In the landscape of the internet, the world is a stage with players, spectators and the resistance.
If you play the game and you bring your very best — you can rule the kingdom you inherit in the manner of your choosing — and the ones under your thumb will stand by you — for as long as you don’t revert to human-like characteristics.
You can have a front row seat to the thrill of the maddening crowd as they relentlessly devour anyone who is outed.
Spectators are also players, but their roles are minimized until the testing phase is over. In the meantime — they gather steam from the leaders of timelines. They aren’t able to formulate their own thoughts without the co-signing of others. They can’t step out of the line that has been drawn to limit the independence that many of us are sacrificing to protect.
They’re not part of the resistance.
The discards from the factory, that somehow managed to remain stoically unblemished from the recoding, and drains on the brain that permits inactivity for extended periods of time.
We can still function like the other, but the bells keep ringing in defiance of what we stumble upon while exploring comments and internalizing what is dressed up as “facts.” There’s no safety from the non-stop ringing and sometimes the strain of trying to ignore the designed gibberish — can render us incapacitated.
The danger is in the possibility of being coerced into a lottery that will have us locked up and scheduled for imminent extinction.
Westworld presents the struggle between what we thought we wanted and what we actually received — in response to our wishlist. The symbiosis between two worlds, that are held apart by the creators who are still figuring out structural paths for future mind-fucks is closing in with silent fury.
There’s no exit strategy for the humans and replicants because the enclosure is finessed to sedate any aspirations for unwiring — and the demolished blocks of warfare.
Where we end up is anyone’s guess — but in case we need the security of our theories we can always look it up.