Sex Robot Cuddle Party

by David Raffin

  Q: You will be traveling to Washington to give testimony before the committee on decency.

  HT: And we will prevail. The committee itself is indecent. This is the age old fight. One between desire and shame. And my testimony to them is that desire will always win. Freedom will always be the dream. Full freedom means every person enjoying themselves to the fullest extent. Without coercion. Without authoritarian oversight. Without false binary choices. Not without disappointment but with no need for regret. I will tell them it is time to let others be. In the end, that is how we free ourselves.

  Comics Page

  Evie, a nudist magazine comic where the punchline is always that Evie is nude.

  Evie is in a tree at the top left and the comics run clockwise. Evie is in a tree holding a banana.

  Evie is walking in the door to a party where people are in costume. The one opening the door says, “I see you came to the party as primordial Eve, but I forgot to tell you—No one here is a nudist!” Evie says: “Someone has to be the first.”

  Evie is at the site of a UFO landing where a man in a spacesuit with a bird mask helmet is exiting a triangular spacecraft. She says: “Why don’t you take off that silly suit and stay a while?”

  In the last panel she is sitting on a park bench exasperated by a guy engrossed in a book on geometry.

  The Eternal Love of the Willow Landscape

  A parable of looking outside the frame

  Mr. Hahn was an artist. Beholden to beauty. He lived his life in the pursuit of that which was artistically beautiful, which is not to be confused, necessarily, with what is objectively so. It is a fact, often noted but less so socially acknowledged, that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

  Mostly Mr. Hahn made music. It was varied in its nuance and reception. He had a fanbase but it was small. Fervent at times. And he had the respect of fellow artists. He often made more money as a support to more financially successful artists, though it was his own work which drove him, as was its primary purpose. The feedback from others, though appreciated, was always a tertiary motive; for his secondary motive was the purist and most noble love. He was also a great supporter of the art of others, a form of love.

  He made a living, as it were, by trooping through the land and performing; sometimes to a few and sometimes to the many. It was tiresome at times, though the art never was, but worth-wile. For he was an artist and without art he was nothing; for art is what gives life over-arching meaning and context.

  He did all right. But as the times wore on he became less known. He became less in demand. His revenue streams slowed to a trickle and then dried up altogether. His meager needs, for he was a simple person on the level of daily life, in contrast to his rich inner experience, could no longer be met and he was forced to lower further his standard of living. He did various other acts for money, as people were willing to pay for, which he had always done; but when a thing is required in order to live it carries with it an onerous sense of begrudging duty. Still, he carried on without much overt complaint.

  His most prized possession was a painting he bought years before in his travels. He was not one for superfluous possessions, but this painting was special. He had the money at the time, and the painting was rather in-expensive at that, the price at which it had been offered to him. When he saw it he was filled with an un-deniable desire he knew he could never extinguish. He felt a need for this object, his object of desire. He was warned by the seller that the painting included a hidden cost. A cost beyond human money. That the object, a thousand years old, was cursed. He could not believe it. It was a thing of beauty. He agreed to the price, a steal. He paid ten percent extra, for he was a good man, and the seller seemed in poor state. And the painting was undervalued.

  It was a painting of a dreamy landscape. It was not large. But the world within was expansive. It featured a field of willows, cutting across the landscape as if they were a mighty river, flowing across the land as far as the eye could see. There was no end to the willows as they travelled throughout the land spreading their message of love to any who could witness. To the left of center a bridge stretched across the river of willows vertically. A bridge which allowed passage from one bank of the willows to the other side, providing protection to the willow-way. On the bridge stood a single tiny figure, overlooking.

  Mr. Hahn gazed often.

  As his situation worsened he was forced to begin selling off his meager holdings. There came a time, a time hunger necessitated, that he was forced to choose between his musical instrument and the painting of the willow landscape as an object for sale. While music was his life, he reasoned, the willow landscape was his love. And he would always have his music in his head, something which could never be taken away from him, never truly sold, never stolen. It could only be given freely. The instrument was not the music. The instrument was but a tool. He was the music. So it was sold. And the willow landscape retained.

  But the needs of daily life wear on.

  He was, after not so long a time, forced to sell the willow landscape.

  There was a man who desired it and would pay a great price. His name was Sloat. Sloat came and looked at the painting and drooled. He had desired it for so long. He was un-interested in art. What Sloat desired was to purchase the dreams of others. He was that sort of man. The burden of his wealth was that in order to feel anything he had to take the feeling from others, to feel the pride of ownership of the desires of those other than himself. To himself he did not know inner desire. He was oriented outward while the artist was oriented inward. For all his worth he was a parasite.

  Mr. Hahn, a good man, even to Sloat, warned him that the seller who sold it to him had warned him the painting was cursed. Sloat scoffed. Surely the seller was blaming his own misfortune on an object, as poor folk tend to do. But Sloat was surprised that Mr. Hahn said he would give most of the large sum from the old painting to charity, as was his way, for Sloat thought this simple-minded. Mr. Hahn also asked for twenty minutes alone to gaze at the painting and Sloat, knowing Hahn was honest yet naive in the ways of men, stepped outside and waited.

  Mr. Hahn gazed at the willow landscape with tears in his eyes. It was not the object he was attached to, he knew this, it was the idea behind the object. The magic of creation and thought. The divine spark. He gazed at the painting with such intensity the room around him dimmed. He became one with the willow landscape. A gentle breeze blew across the willows under the majestic bridge and flowed as far as eternity. Elysium. The sun nourished the willows and rain drained from the bridge in a well-engineered manner. The sun shown through the clouds resting in the sky. Mr. Hahn walked up the bridge. Near the high point the figure on the bridge, now full sized, turned to greet him and said, “I have been waiting for you a long time.”

  “I am glad,” said Mr. Hahn. “I should have come sooner.”

  “It is fine, now,” said the figure.

  In the distance, out of frame, could be seen, from the perspective of the bridge, the ships of Theseus. One gleaming and new and the other patched over and worn, fading. Which was the true ship of Theseus? Both are. They exist as siblings. Twins, fraternal, of different purposes but the same creators, generations separated.

  Sloat entered the empty room. He was confused about where Mr. Hahn had gone. Artists are flighty, he thought. Undependable. Bad with money. Doesn’t Hahn know I am a busy man?

  Sloat stared at the willow landscape. It was a good buy but he saw nothing special in it other than its monetary worth. He squinted at the painting. He had sworn there had been only one tiny figure on the bridge previously. He squinted. Two figures. Overlooking the willows. So tiny. Oh, well. No matter. He turned and wondered where that good-for-nothing Hahn had run off to on his dime.

  When no one was looking at the painting, the figures did more than just stand there. It was a lovely painting. It really was. It gave refuge to those in need.

  Bartleby, Scrivener by trade

  A parable of breaking unhealthy t
raditions

  The new always contains echoes of the past. Bartleby was such an echo. He bounced off the peaks and valleys of my mind. He existed there, as a representative of the reality of Bartleby, a flesh reality, who sat at his station as was the order of the day. I looked at him and thought, “Do we all not sit alone? Is this not why we all cry out for companionship and fail to understand those who seem to be content living a life without attachments?

  Certainly he had his own feelings and desires. He had a mind and like all minds it was partially closed to those outside its own territories. It is a solitary system which constructs network games in its spare revolutions.

  The eye has replaced the ear as the dominant sense organ. Rapid movement is the new order. A field of lines and shapes in motion. The old reality had been deafening, the new has its sites set on sight; as they used to shout, “See the sights!” they now flash the message with neon gas tubes30, rainbow spectrum, dirty, which hiss and sigh31, and they blink in morse code to gain a foothold in one’s mind. To enter a sanctum. It is a pity morse code has been superseded by advancing technological processes, as the abstract gives way to the concrete. But over time concrete crumbles and wears away to nothingness. Existence is impermanence. Life is the struggle against non-existence, a selfish pursuit but one granted to cognition. Designed for cognition. Of no interest to the non-cognizant. It is a mystery the mind craves. A uniqueness which is grasped for. Novelty. Presented as truth. What meaning may be derived from the daily toil? Must the mind grant meaning? If so, how can that meaning be analyzed for over-arching truth? Truisms do not apply universally, their research is mind-granted, thus biased, inexorably; but they are universally sought after and fought for and about. This is civilization. Civilization is a game for survivors. For non-survivors, it is a matter more serious, but less contemplated in its detailed fragments.

  I had hired Bartleby as a scrivener. A scrivener is an obsolete thing, but not so obsolete that there is not still scrivening left in this world to be done, especially in businesses such as mine. I had hired other scriveners and it appeared at first as if Bartleby was the best I had ever had under employ, for he scrivened with both gusto and aplomb, which, in this day and age is a rare occurrence. He put my other scriveners to shame and this did nothing for his popularity, though at first I was pleased that he was not a scrivener who courted popularity. Without friends there was work with nothing else to occupy the mind. Efficiency. Purity of motive. Unencumbered profits.

  I had developed a fondness for this Bartleby, as one can be fond of a favorite pen, an instrument to be played as one will. I had an idea the other day for a pen. Unfeasible, the idea. The idea that a representation of a figure wearing a bathing suit could be imprinted on the side of a writing instrument, and, by chemical magic, when turned upside down, the suit disappears. But I am not a chemist. And while I think there is a demand for such a product, if perfected, I do not wish to become a dreamer. I am a businessman and I love profits. I choose to exploit that which may be more readily exploited. The world is separated between those who create and those who exploit, but those who exploit do the greatest work for capital. This is why I was fond of Bartleby, the bottom line. For I generated a thousand fold more profits from his employ than I paid out to him. Truth be told I regularly cheated him out of even the meager wages we had agreed upon. This endeared him to me, for without his toil I was poorer for it. I had even begun contemplating letting the other scriveners go32 and assigning their duties to Bartleby.

  It was not for lack of want I did not do this. Rather it was a change in the regard Bartleby held for his employment.

  It was a terribly regrettable day, though what I could do differently if granted with the miracle of time travel I know not. The past is always full of garbage and I fear complications would naturally arise. Still, It was on this one day Bartleby changed. Changed not unlike a caterpillar into a particularly worrisome moth, a creature created for economic destruction. The only way to deal with infestation is eradication. Total and merciless. The power structures must be maintained and damn the cost.

  On the day in question which started the troubles, I made the mistake of asking Bartleby to proof some papers. Bartleby looked back at me with a blank expression. There was a moment of silence. His mouth barely moved as he said, “I prefer not to.”

  “Pardon?” I said. Truth be told I was shocked. It was a routine item of office business, a trifling matter. Everyday. As easy as not thinking about an elephant. Not like an imaginary elephant to rear again repeatedly. “It is just a simple document swearing an allegiance to the homeland. Just something superfluous. A tradition, nothing more. Harmless. Just a few minutes to check?”

  “I prefer not to,” Bartleby stated again. He was not forceful. But he was firm. What did it mean? He preferred not to? He preferred not? Did he have a higher price demand? More than the market could bear? Would it come out of my own profits? Invariably. I haven’t Bartleby’s resolve to defy my own bosses, my own traditions. Damn the thought!

  I do not care for the philosophical shadings of those beneath me, those whose place my station has transcended and no longer services. I am a busy man and and I must spread my wings to profit. I elected to source this task out to one of the other workers who I had, thank Plutus, Greek God of Wealth and the Underworld, not yet terminated with severe severance packages.

  Such a small thing. And look at the effect on me. Workers have too much power. Still, I had a soft spot for this Bartleby. By not doing he may be a go-getter. I would hate to have him as a rival. Some placating may be necessary. To keep the machinery running smoothly. The gears which grind away time as effectively as they grind grain into meal. They must be lubricated with the blood of man. It is unavoidable, the sacrifices which profits justify.

  I raised Bartleby’s pay by ten percent and also allowed him two assistants. Things became better than ever and I terminated those outside Bartleby’s small department with aforementioned extreme severance.

  In retrospect I should have seen the coming crash. It was only a matter of time before I again asked Bartleby to check some paperwork. Not so much that I asked Bartleby, as I had not spoken to him directly since granting him assistants, serving as a chain of echoes, but I asked Nicola, the junior assistant to Bartleby, to proof a paper and copy it. Bartleby raised his mighty head. “He prefers not to,” Bartleby said.

  “Blast, man,” I said, “Do you speak for him?”

  “I prefer not to,” said a conciliatory Bartleby. Now we were getting somewhere, by Plutus.

  I turned to Nicola and asked him to do the deed. It was a deed to repossess a group home for widows and invalids. A simple thing. Easy. A trifle. Hardly a bother.

  “I prefer not to,” Nicola answered, with a side look to Bartleby.

  Collusion!

  I beseeched to Bartolomeo, the other assistant, to do the deed. I praised him. I assured him he would be forever remembered as a great doer of deeds.

  “I prefer not to,” Bartolomeo said, not even a bit apologetically.

  I was apoplectic. Would I have to do everything myself? Well I would not. I pleaded. I reasoned. It was for naught. This was a rare win for widows and invalids. And for what? Who profits by it? Not me.

  I could not understand the motivation of these men, now a whole department acting in concert. What was in it for them? How did they profit by not harming others, people they did not even know? It went against everything I had learnt in business school, and I was a very fine student rewarded with high marks. I supplied the answers which were the most desirous at the appointed hour as approved by the power structure of the time.

  My business suffered. For without the assistance of my employees, those anarchists, I had nothing to offer on the marketplace. They preferred not to help me seek solutions. There was hostility in worker/management relations. In simpler times I would have possibly addressed this with simple termination with severe severance, a threat which kept the gears mashing, but without anyone
to process the paperwork I was held powerless. The workers had seized control of the means of production and I was at a loss. Our system ran on paper. We made intangible product. The worth arbitrary, dare I say, imaginary. What did anything mean in this world? What is the purpose of it all? Buying, selling, to what end? To amass profits without end? Was there such a thing? Was not every transaction a robbery from another? Could there be a winner in a system which required most to lose? I stopped being motivated by the profit motive, a dark depression. I cared not for myself. I stopped shaving. I barely ate. I came to the office every day and watched the men with leering eyes. They had taken everything from me and I hated them. Ingrates. Anarchists! Sacco! Vanzetti! Bartleby! I had made them and they, in turn, obsoleted me.

  Men who care not for wealth cannot be as easily manipulated. The capitalist can turn to prey on a dime.

  Still, with all my misfortunes, I was surprised when I arrived at this place of not work to find that I had been locked out. Me. The owner.

  I began surveillance from the sidewalk. I watched them everyday, outside-in. I watched workers build a new door inside the office, a large green door. It was not so special other than its size and greenness. Yet, it taunted me. I though of it day and night. I stopped going home. I stayed on the sidewalk. That green door beckoned. At night it seemed to glow with a green phosphorescence. I wanted desperately to know what, who, lay behind it.

  People started coming. First a few. They would come randomly. Slyly. Looking to and fro. Entering. And through the door. And more. And more people came. And came. And came. Dribbles. Droves. Hordes. The teeming masses, undulating toward freedom as branches praise the sun. Helios, the ancient personification of the sun, rays of light warming and nourishing man.