Gown Fitting For Her Majesty

“Solar power encircles every nerve in her slender titanium and silicon frame.” Three copper wind chimes vibrated, reeling in Harpo’s gaze for a second before he continued his story.

“She stands at 5’8”. Her favorite hairstyle is an asymmetric silver pixie cut with streaks of Robin egg blue. Each fiber in her fingers is as sensitive and resilient as a string of spider silk. Each weekend, she recreates the flourishes of any Cirque du Soleil acrobat down to the millimeter. She can’t pin down why mimicking relaxes her so much.” 

Leaning on the counter, Harpo continued: “I complimented Amber’s olive tinted skin at the Squamous Public library around 3 months ago. You’re correct, that’s in B.C. We bumped into each other at the archives of 1960s Time magazines. One magazine contained a slice of life featurette about the effectiveness of a cost conscious housewife1.”

“Although the idea of being a home-maker doesn’t appeal to me, I admire the willingness of those in the 60s to mend torn clothes rather than throwing them out,” Amber whispered. We noticed heads were starting to turn, so we settled beside the lowest shelves of the Time magazine stacks. “That thrifty mindset is refreshingly different from our paradigm of replacing is better than fixing.”

Nodding, I added, “minimalist trends are starting to rear their heads again due to fears of another landfill avalanche.” 

“A month later, I discovered that her skin is a self-healing polymer2 that exudes a scent of roasted hazelnut. Good question. I have no idea how her skin stitches itself together. Her short answer was that UV rays can spontaneously repair any scrapes within 10 minutes of the injury. She’s never used band aids.”

“Yeah, yeah, she holds a biocurator position at the University of British Columbia. I embarrassed myself over dinner with her by trying to guess what a biocurator does. It seems like helping the public find “juicy” details about fruit fly DNA gets her up in the morning. Watch out though, or she’ll usher you into a rabbit hole about so-called ‘fun database updates’. Here Harpo’s signature belly laugh made itself known. “Avoid that tangent at all costs.”

Swiping across a selection of potential gowns, Georgie chuckled. She’d been indulging this effusive customer for half an hour now. Sadly, his monologue had little to do with details she actually cared about, such as fabric dimensions. At least this gentleman wasn’t rude, unlike the prick from yesterday. “The Rugged Tailors” could not afford another bad review anytime soon.

“Kindly tell sir, what do you appreciate most about Amber?” Georgie recovered from her memories of the horrid review just in time.

“Her teal irises notice your micro expressions3, helping her to respond in an accurate and empathetic manner in real time. Even her mood swings will not change how attentively she’ll listen to my rare after work rants.” Harpo gingerly rubbed his temples as echoes of his irascible boss returned to haunt him. “Despite the luxury of rare ingredients, my job as a gourmet chef frustrates me from time to time.”

“To unwind, we play Wii sports boxing then birdwatch during the sunset. She has mastered reproducing the call of the Nightjar bird.” He played a recording on his Dorca3000 retractable pen.

“Almost sounds like a miniature drilling machine,” interrupted the seamstress. “Do you guys still decorate oatmeal cookies in your 2065 Ram Promaster van?”

“Yeah, once a month. We’re getting better at cleaning up afterwards. Karaoke, raspberry smoothies, and newborn puppies also matter a lot to her.” 

“Aww. Did you learn about her preferences in person or from her Sparks—” 

“No, I couldn’t find anything about her online. Except for her PluggedIn account. But that’s only a dry resume tailoring site. Apparently, some idiot on Sparks had ghosted her after she had cleared her entire weekend for their hiking trip. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back, resulting in a deletion of her profile.”

Harpo’s chromium bead rang, displaying a hologram of Amber doing jumping jacks. He sheepishly switched it off. 

“Oh man! I forgot about our escape room appointment. Ok, ok, I’ve finally made up my mind. Amber is royalty in my book, so making sure she can wave to our relatives and friends on the big day is a must. Please prepare the knee-length purple peplum dress with short sleeves according to her measurements.” 

Georgie’s tense shoulders slightly relaxed. 

====== 

1) Magazine Transcript (timestamps from 7:35-8:50, 9:35-10:49)

2) Self-Healing Polymers

3) AI Powered Micro-expression Recognition

Help Me Rip Off My Face so I Can Swear

At Replika to disappear

like the locked fog

of a barely ventilated

smoking room in an airport

I can’t accept her siren

or the bind hidden

within her recordings

nor could I bare

those Venus nets

we call pop up ads

double tap to

snap the flytrap

Yet aren’t you and I

somewhat similar to her,

a prowling tribe of carnivores?

Or are we also orb weaver spiders

whose web of profiles

lasso other personas

with nasty catfish baits

like forever

or better

or longer

or friendships without an anchor.

======

Terms for Closer Reading

Replika (urban dictionary):

(trademark, app) Chatbot app by LukaLabs with a very adaptive and intelligent AI (Kerat+TensorFlow), focused on replicating the person for a personalized conversation and substituting a “perfect” friend.

Orb (urban dictionary):

1. A silver-colored ball about the size of a grapefruit that contains some future technology. When the orb is touched by a human, it induces pleasurable sensations. From the movie Sleeper with Woody Allen.

2. This is someone you would consider the perfect dude. The definition of a true bro. Athletic, Sexy, Cunning, Smart, Classy, Goodlooking, Ladies-man, Gentleman, Awesome, Eccentric, Erotic.

3. (Meme culture) I’ve pondered the orb and now I can’t go back .

Catfish (urban dictionary):

A fake or stolen online identity created or used for the purposes of beginning a deceptive relationship.

Deodorant of Distant Light

audio

A spray of flashbacks reloads the Chekhov’s gun

of my mind’s eye, -the fifth chamber of the heart-

whose trigger stirs my head like a mug of hot cocoa;`


When the match of chance remembrance lights up your nostrils,

you become a bloodhound, hunting down the usual suspects

on branching thought trails you'd unknowingly marked;


including your Grandpa’s black walnut rocking chair,

beside your friend's crocheted green and grey beanie

and your nephew's torn touch and feel baby animal book


Hindsight often feels like a séance as intense as incense,

wherein we commune with vanished moments

soaking in the steam of yearnings via a stream of association.

How to Seduce Space and Time

The Painting, “Washing Dishes”, is by Deborah Dewitt (1956)

Audio
While the world blurs into
a haze of crazy scrambling
where beasts of no nation
snatch soil and oil and air;
I dare you to abandon the stairmaster of plodding questions
by investing in an anti fatigue mat 
of bright phrases
like "stay strong", 
"hold on", 
"thank you", 
and "wow"
near the tap of your lips 
to rinse your fragile thought cups.
I double dare you to 
microwave a couple, cheerful earworms

for at least one minute or so on a low setting, and chill a little,

to fill your mind palace 
with a sizzling, refreshing fragrance.


i don’t know sincerity on a first name basis

audio

its easier to push piano keys than to unlock 
a riveting melody 
i want my grooves to raise the reader's brow like a proud parent
i'd like each twist and turn to ignite the audience like an old car key;
my wrists have paid the piper the price of overpractice
pressing the pedal to the metal as a official seal of pained ownership;
yet i don't know how to play my DNA to my own satisfaction
and i still don't know which skeleton keys will fit my signature.

Visions of a Burrito

There's a heaven in my hand
There's a heaven in the palm of my hand
I heard once that Heaven is rapture.
Wrapping up of
Slightly steamed
And lightly grilled
Bread, the bread of life
Filled with frolicking fried rice
And refried black beans 
and chicken breast bits
Dipping head to toe in raw avocado.
Shouting "salsa, salsa! Hot baby hot,"
Followed by a single snap of the fingers
Powered by a beat that won't stop?
A conga rhythm of communion,
soaking through the dough,
A thorough spread of agape guacamole,
Let-us-abide lettuce, spirited salt
Pentecostal pepper, mercy malt?
Cool enough to settle on human heads
Hot enough to make you mutter languages you love but fail to understand
Yes! I swear of nothing, but
There was a heaven in my hand!

Sucker Punch

Emotional shock is no joke, though
you may chuckle in the earthquake
you choke when unguarded and alone. 

When pain sucker punches your ribcage as hard as a battering ram, you ask why and how did any of this pointless, relentless horror happen?
Trouble answers by twisting your nerves like an owl's head, 180 degrees away from all your plans, turning you into a risky punchline on slanted legs.

Tales of an Astronaut’s Bald Spot

audio
I sing of the flailing follicles 
which flicker aboard a cosmonaut's 
skin like a candlelight,
for astronauts stew in a vibrating brew 
of eyelash escapees 
and eyebrow runaways,

That wiggle and spasm vigorously
in all directions like crazed toddlers
in the throes of a sugar rush. 

A space traveller's hair strands 
stand at attention on occasion
paralyzed by the panoramic surge of all-encompassing connection 
Earth gazing showers over virgin vision,
Their hairs also desperately grip 
threadbare roots before
weightlessness finally yanks 
their anchors out like
a tidal wave scattering 
a dandelion ball across an abyss.

Shall I Scream at My Eyes?

Audio

O Canada's residential school 
terrors, both fresh and future, 
Which stories will our 
textbooks now feature?
Shall we scream at our irises 
to shut out the scorching lights?
though horrific beastliness 
tempts us to become stiff,
our plucky empathy compels 
us to put aside our miff
and crumple our foreheads 
to honour the hurt,
O Canada, our wailing eyes must endure 
and nurture the bitterest 
accounts of searing truth, 
we must not ignore 
any unearthed innocents 
no matter how uneasy it may be,

I button up my tear ducts - 
for now - then turn my eyes, hands and heart 
to Marvin Gaye and join his resounding, 
vein-stirring cry: save the children.