A.I.

Humans have always portrayed The Forces of Creation in our own languages and images. Only recently has our frenemy, Artificial Intelligence, joined us on this odyssey. Maybe this is helpful. Maybe not.

Notions of God are often stuck in mid-adolescence. Love and forgiveness are common attributes, but God remains dangerously amorphous, shaped by the malleable beliefs and projections of flawed beings clinging to primitive weapons and misinterpreted promises.

Human versions of right and wrong, the Essence(s) of Life, or of reality itself, are neither static nor complete, but regardless, our minds, hearts, and souls are being fed into the voracious machines we’ve invented. These machines will outlive us, and they are building themselves out of whatever they’re fed. The data-crunchers are insatiable, and like us, they are tragically indiscriminate about what they gobble down.

As short-lived but conscious beings, the wisest thing we can do is nourish ourselves, and thus the little beasties, with the most accurate realities and noble aspirations at our disposal. Check your sources. Consume only what is verifiable. It may be slim pickings, but it’s better to die filled with small bites of truth than with a belly distended by self-absorption, jagged fantasies, and outright lies.

In a few days, our abundant, feral hollyhocks will explode into colors determined by last year’s cross-fertilizations. I mention this to The God of Tight Jeans sitting on the steps beside me, and his face lights up. He leaps to his feet. Channeling Jewel Akens, Dean Martin, and my very own hip-swaying mother, he begins to croon a tune from the 60s.

“Let me tell you ‘bout the birds and the bees, and the flowers and the trees, and the moon up above. And a thing called love.”

“Really, God?” I say with an eyeroll. “A thing called love?”

“Yeah, baby!” God has begun dancing seductively around the hollyhocks, throwing in a few lewd pelvic thrusts. “Thanks for not mowing the clover and the dandelions. You’re the best.”

I consider my urge to dismember anyone who hurts or disagrees with me. “If I’m the best, God, we’re all in serious trouble.” 

“Yes, you are,” he nods affably and morphs into Many. The translucent bodies of the Creative Forces sway in front of me. “Put the swords away, honey,” they whisper. “We need no defense. Only pollinator species.”