"There goes another wave of hippies." Raul pointed at an old school bus rattling down the highway. "Look at the colors!"
I swung around in the front seat and watched the bus climb the hill behind us. Blue smoke poured from its belly and soon, the bus was invisible.
Raul reminisced. "I remember when they poured out of America in the 1970's at such a rate that you could feel the social consciousness draining away."
"Did you lose track of them?"
"I don't remember, maybe I did." He rubbed his chin with his right hand. "But there is no way I could tell anymore." He was gazing at a range of mountains to the east. Along its eastern slope a bank of white clouds massed beneath the summit, struggling. Then like a climber, it made an assault, rolling up the talus, reaching a hand onto the peak, pulling itself up, rising and swelling and raising itself in victory. Then, giddy with excitement, it raced down the western slope, tossing its gear into the air. In an instant, it was gone, evaporating into the clear blue sky. I wondered if it made a sound like thunder or someone clapping his hands - the sound of one hand clapping. Small men tending sheep in the bright sun on the western slope glanced up and saw absolutely nothing. Raul wasn't watching the road and the van swayed back and forth across the center line. "They say that the people left behind drifted into a malaise."
"Where are we now?"
"I don't know if I care." Raul was still staring at the mountains.
"I mean, here."
"Yeah. Here. Now. Where I am now." He shook his head. "Sometimes it just hurts to be awake. Sometimes it just doesn't feel like anything." He stared at the yellow center line, blinking on and off. "Either way, where is the off switch for memory?" He downshifted as we descended a steep hill. "When daybreak is like a prison guard rattling his steel baton on the bars of your six by six cell."
I looked out the window and imagined I was somewhere else. A vendor was selling watermelons and papayas along the highway. It was noon and he was slumped in a wooden chair, sleeping. His mouth was open wide and so dark, so large I could not see his face. I looked over and Raul was leaning forward, like he was trying to push the van further ahead.
"I remember when we had to learn everything by rote; how to tie my shoes, the alphabet, multiplication tables, I before E except after C, my phone number, Avogadro's number, emergency phone numbers, and the secret places where we could hide when dad came home drunk. Now memory is sold and traded like hog bellies, grain futures, pounds of butter." He looked over at me. "How far can you put yourself from what you have experienced? It is always a synapse away. You could be on the other side of the earth and in a blink, you are in 1963 and every adult you know is terrified, or 1969 watching your best friend being lowered into the ground, or 1976 watching your parents walk away from each other for ever after. We are everywhere at once."
I looked at the map. "Where? You aren't driving fast enough."I swung around in the front seat and watched the bus climb the hill behind us. Blue smoke poured from its belly and soon, the bus was invisible.
Raul reminisced. "I remember when they poured out of America in the 1970's at such a rate that you could feel the social consciousness draining away."
"Did you lose track of them?"
"I don't remember, maybe I did." He rubbed his chin with his right hand. "But there is no way I could tell anymore." He was gazing at a range of mountains to the east. Along its eastern slope a bank of white clouds massed beneath the summit, struggling. Then like a climber, it made an assault, rolling up the talus, reaching a hand onto the peak, pulling itself up, rising and swelling and raising itself in victory. Then, giddy with excitement, it raced down the western slope, tossing its gear into the air. In an instant, it was gone, evaporating into the clear blue sky. I wondered if it made a sound like thunder or someone clapping his hands - the sound of one hand clapping. Small men tending sheep in the bright sun on the western slope glanced up and saw absolutely nothing. Raul wasn't watching the road and the van swayed back and forth across the center line. "They say that the people left behind drifted into a malaise."
"Where are we now?"
"I don't know if I care." Raul was still staring at the mountains.
"I mean, here."
"Yeah. Here. Now. Where I am now." He shook his head. "Sometimes it just hurts to be awake. Sometimes it just doesn't feel like anything." He stared at the yellow center line, blinking on and off. "Either way, where is the off switch for memory?" He downshifted as we descended a steep hill. "When daybreak is like a prison guard rattling his steel baton on the bars of your six by six cell."
I looked out the window and imagined I was somewhere else. A vendor was selling watermelons and papayas along the highway. It was noon and he was slumped in a wooden chair, sleeping. His mouth was open wide and so dark, so large I could not see his face. I looked over and Raul was leaning forward, like he was trying to push the van further ahead.
"I remember when we had to learn everything by rote; how to tie my shoes, the alphabet, multiplication tables, I before E except after C, my phone number, Avogadro's number, emergency phone numbers, and the secret places where we could hide when dad came home drunk. Now memory is sold and traded like hog bellies, grain futures, pounds of butter." He looked over at me. "How far can you put yourself from what you have experienced? It is always a synapse away. You could be on the other side of the earth and in a blink, you are in 1963 and every adult you know is terrified, or 1969 watching your best friend being lowered into the ground, or 1976 watching your parents walk away from each other for ever after. We are everywhere at once."
"I tried that once and I still couldn't get away."
"I mean, we have to get to San Jose."
"Right. But we will still be right here."
"The van?"
"Forget it." He leaned forward again.
I closed my eyes and I saw a face beneath the water. I opened my eyes. "Forget what?"
"Look. You manage and store memory in the same space and time. Microprocessors could only dream of that, the slobbering, lumbering louts, moving memory back and forth across the chipset between process and storage like a painter who leaves the paint bucket in the back of the truck and wonders why he accomplishes less each day. The paint dries before he gets to the ladder. If you look closely, he has no opposable thumbs."
I looked at my hands. The thumbs looked fine. For a second, I wondered if I could hold a gun in my hand but I knew I could. "What happens next?" I felt light headed.
He pushed the accelerator. "So instead of moving the paint closer to the process, we just bring in more trucks with stone-age painters and park them three hundred yards from the house. Now we have painters arguing over parking space, jamming up at the bottom of ladders, and meanwhile, the house is starting to cave in."
I looked in the back of the van. "Where?"
"They call it a 'crash.'" He was leaning so far forward his face nearly touched the windshield.
"Well keep your eyes on the road!"
"We can go faster than this."
"No."
"Yes." He looked over at me and for a moment I had an urge to say something and I started to speak but it disappeared. He looked back at the highway. "It is this: Microprocessors have limits to growth and speed. But along comes someone who dreams up the idea that they will build a house that has paint in the walls. Comes out at night or when it rains. Paint where it is painted. Product in the process. That is us. We are organic exascale processors. Product in the process, memory in the reasoning." He leaned back into the seat. He slowed down the van.
"Where are you going?"
"Not the way I wish." His head tilted down. "If I could just separate my memory from what I do with it, like those painters, maybe it would buy me some time, some time to relax, to contemplate what it is I am about to recall, sort of a buffer, a chance for other thoughts to rush in and jam it up, to slow down the whole idea, to cool it off, and I could relax for a little while." He closed his eyes. Up ahead were four policemen in the road. One held his hand up.
"Hey, look - looks like a checkpoint.""Right. But we will still be right here."
"The van?"
"Forget it." He leaned forward again.
I closed my eyes and I saw a face beneath the water. I opened my eyes. "Forget what?"
"Look. You manage and store memory in the same space and time. Microprocessors could only dream of that, the slobbering, lumbering louts, moving memory back and forth across the chipset between process and storage like a painter who leaves the paint bucket in the back of the truck and wonders why he accomplishes less each day. The paint dries before he gets to the ladder. If you look closely, he has no opposable thumbs."
I looked at my hands. The thumbs looked fine. For a second, I wondered if I could hold a gun in my hand but I knew I could. "What happens next?" I felt light headed.
He pushed the accelerator. "So instead of moving the paint closer to the process, we just bring in more trucks with stone-age painters and park them three hundred yards from the house. Now we have painters arguing over parking space, jamming up at the bottom of ladders, and meanwhile, the house is starting to cave in."
I looked in the back of the van. "Where?"
"They call it a 'crash.'" He was leaning so far forward his face nearly touched the windshield.
"Well keep your eyes on the road!"
"We can go faster than this."
"No."
"Yes." He looked over at me and for a moment I had an urge to say something and I started to speak but it disappeared. He looked back at the highway. "It is this: Microprocessors have limits to growth and speed. But along comes someone who dreams up the idea that they will build a house that has paint in the walls. Comes out at night or when it rains. Paint where it is painted. Product in the process. That is us. We are organic exascale processors. Product in the process, memory in the reasoning." He leaned back into the seat. He slowed down the van.
"Where are you going?"
"Not the way I wish." His head tilted down. "If I could just separate my memory from what I do with it, like those painters, maybe it would buy me some time, some time to relax, to contemplate what it is I am about to recall, sort of a buffer, a chance for other thoughts to rush in and jam it up, to slow down the whole idea, to cool it off, and I could relax for a little while." He closed his eyes. Up ahead were four policemen in the road. One held his hand up.
"I know." Raul downshifted.
Suddenly, my head hurt. "Keep driving, driving. I think I forgot something. I know I forgot something."
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