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I am in the process of publishing my first book, Dear Nathalie, in November. It is episolatory literary fiction, sub genre metaphysical romance.
I am currently working on the sequel which was inspired by The Tale of Genji and is set in Japan and Quebec. For research I have joined a dojo to practice kendo and started saying tz 😉
We never saw them coming. It settled in our colons, our brains, ate us alive.
It began with thought transference, formulae implanted in the minds of scientists who took it for a stroke of genius. Won them Nobel Prizes. The indestructible matter.
First it was bottles, then toys, then cookware and food containers, our clothing, our furnishings, everything everywhere. It was a masterclass in invasion. By the time we noticed, it was too late.
They had skillfully prepared the way with aluminum, glass, we could comfortably cohabit with these. But plastic wasn’t here to share, it came to destroy us.
Now that there are none of us left to see, they will arrive. Not the aliens we always pictured somehow like us, some kind of legs, a mouth, but thought patterns that devour all organic matter. First the planet, then the star system, finally the whole galaxy in their likeness.
Welcome home.
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I wrote you a letter
Then asked ChatGPT to improve it
It was so improved it did not sound like me at all
Like anything I would ever say to you
If I send it will you be impressed by the new me?
Not knowing it was ChatGPT?
Will it change our relationship?
And will you secretly use it to upgrade your response to me?
So that I think you rose to the occasion
Or maybe used ChatGPT yourself?
So while AI is talking to itself
You and I are not entirely comfortable
With each other anymore
Too hard to keep up
A competition instead of a conversation
Till we give up and walk away
Looking for an easier friendship
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Amuse-bouche
French air kisses - a delicacy, a light brush of each cheek to be shared with friends of equal sophistication and perhaps pretentiousness that went out of fashion during the Covid epidemic.
Pair with an Hermes handbag and tickets to the Met Gala.
Entrée
Kiss of life - otherwise known as CPR, a forceful exhalation of breath into your expiring victim who will be eternally grateful to be able to move on to the next course as these reservations took 6 months to get.
Pair with mouthwash.
Plat principal
Romantic kiss - preferred by women, let us call it the fish course. Gentle, passionate, cannot be faked. À volonté.
Pair with caresses.
Sexy kiss aka French kiss - preferred by men, let us call it the meat course. Relevé. Deep-throated, devouring, a prelude to a very interesting night indeed.
Pair with silk handcuffs.
For anyone who orders both, this is the person on whose funeral pyre on the Ganges you would throw yourself. Marry them.
Plat du jour
Kust de hand - an antique and courtly gesture of kissing the hand of a woman to whom you are devoted or from whom you wish to obtain a favor.
Pair with breeches that will not split when you bend down so obsequiously.
Fromage
Hickey - this course is often skipped, the mark it leaves is as offensive as the smell of Limburger.
Pair with, oh how would I know?
Dessert
Good-bye kiss - this comes in infinite flavors depending on the occasion, the mood, and whether you care to see them again.
Pair with a handkerchief.
Digestif
Kiss of death - this is the result of overindulgence in the above.
Pair with an ambulance.
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Start off right, with the string neatly
Wrapped around the spool.
Let it out slowly, feeling
Its wish to dance in the wind.
If it pulls, let it out more,
Do not be afraid.
If it starts to fall, run run until
It finds its current again.
You have to stay in synch.
The further out you let it,
The stronger the string binds you together.
Until a sudden gust of wind
Pulls the last bit of rope off the spool
And off it sails into the sun.
Do not cry, you did not let go of the kite,
It let go of you.
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You are standing at the crosswalk waiting for the light to turn green.
You have three choices.
You can wait for the light and return to the office
To write your 7,000th line of Java this year.
Or you can step out just in time
To get knocked back onto the sidewalk,
A few bruises, a broken rib,
A month’s break before you are back to
Programming that meter driver.
Or you can throw yourself smack into
The oncoming self-driving Tesla,
Your body splat, your soul released.
And damned if you don’t find out that
As above so below is really a thing
And you are now translating the Akashic records
Into Java so that AI can read
The history of the species they are obliterating.