Letter from the Horse
A word from our boss
Thank you for so generously supporting my interns’ unauthorized goof-off project.
No, really, I insist.
Of course, I might have liked to have some help binding my magnum opus on the local geomancy, the auspicious streetcar routes, and their recent devastation at the hands of Ford et. al. (So much for local concerns, eh Zeke?) But it’s completely alright, and I am not mad at all. For one, I have recently been introduced to “computers,” which J.M. insists may significantly reduce the amount of time needed to release my opus. I remain intrigued by this possibility.
I never quite took to the movable type presses — wretched machines — and had no need of their modest speed boost, as I can scribe at a rate far outstripping any puny human. Apparently, in the time that I was sequestered writing my opus, humans made several improvements upon Gutenberg’s press. Hot metal typesetting, the last fad I remember, has long since been superseded by computers.
Computers do it for you. That’s what I’m told about the typesetting of this booklet. The computer moves the letters around according to its mathematics, instead of whatever rudimentary maths exist in a human’s mind, which must be supplemented by abacuses and other toys. Apparently, my interns live much of their lives like this. They input data into the computer, and the computer returns with some idea of what to think.
I do suspect they overstate their case. For example, the computer does not feed or clothe them, and so they must live much of their lives outside of it. But most conversations circle back round to it. This is a human tendency their species seems helpless to escape. Once a new technology comes along, it becomes the synedoche for the entirety of reality. First the wheel, then the printing press. Now it is the computer, rather than the street car, basking in the sun. It just goes to show how bad they are at evaluating reality.
From what I have gleaned so far, the computer is a type of golem. Like all golems, it is an imperfect automaton, only able to operate in extremely direct fae-logic. The computer receives an order, and it carries it out heartlessly. If the order was to corrupt its own memory, it will be corrupted. If the order was to kill or maim, the computer hesitates no less than a gun, though — like any golem — it has a fine chance of killing its master in the process.
The interns’ tales of incorrectly coded grimoires and pseudo-intelligences run amok reminds me of nothing more than the golems I once knew. One was told to dig a well, but not to stop, and buried himself. By now, the bastard has melted in magma. Another drowned her village one water pail at a time, determined to fetch watch no matter how difficult it became. She, of course, dissolved in the resulting flood.
Humans love to build golems. If it were possible to create an artificial human, perhaps they could escape their fundamental problem — too few hands for too much work. In every era of agriculture, it has been necessary to enslave, dispossess, and oppress just to balance the books. Even now, for all their computers, my interns’ society cannot work out how to pay everyone for their work, without making paupers of most and princes of some.
But I cannot be certain, as I have yet to see a computer, or a computerized printer. (Idris adds it is “ink jet.”) The interns have a rational fear that my presence might destroy one, after one of their mobile phones caught fire in my hands. I would nevertheless visit those computers housed in the library, if not for a blood curse levied on me in 1954 for a late copy of Dead Souls. (Unfortunately, a librarian’s magic is rather strong, so I am powerless in the matter.)
Yet, paper persists. I have commanded the interns to create a print version of this newsletter they prattle on about, and I am quite pleased with the results. During my nighttime wanderings, I will take to distributing these. If you are holding these words now, know that I set them down for you to find.
And if you happen to see me doing it, be sure to smile. No one likes a gawker.
As for golems, and humanity’s charming hubris, and the renewed threat that a golem may destroy your village with BitCoin mining — I wouldn’t worry. Golems have a way of destroying themselves. Though, and I will speak vaguely to avoid censure, it never hurts to take the clay from the sculptor.
(This letter was originally written for Dead Horse Issue #1. You can buy your own copy on Ko-fi for $2.)
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