The Digital Homestead Blog

Day #8: Boutonniere

For the first time in more years than I could remember, I was attending a party — or rather, a formal celebration that actually held meaning for me.

At the entrance, we were given floral arrangements — “boutonnieres,” they were called, or something of the sort. I stopped my Eva424 just in time, just before it could complete the answer to my visual prompt, having noticed that it might be a French term. It was odd, but my personal assistant was still malfunctioning, causing the neural interface to trigger a scent like burnt plastic whenever I prompted anything that might return a French word. That’s why I stopped seeing Claude. I liked the guy, he was kindly teaching me wood carving in exchange for some bow fishing but that sensation was unbearable.

Fortunately, I no longer dared ask about water desalination, as it caused me to collapse face-first to the ground — some issue with losing control of my knees, apparently. I had compiled a list of topics to avoid, which was torturous because my thoughts drifted there anyway. What’s the use of an assistant if it can’t assist? Sure, it helped with most tasks, but it also made me more inept as a human, more dependent on a mere ornament, an implant.

Receiving such an adornment for my vintage tuxedo from a bearded fellow who resembled a younger version of myself — albeit from several, perhaps seven, decades ago — felt peculiar. The only difference was his attire: a floral dress and high heels, complemented by prominent mammal prosthetics. I had never ventured into such fashion, despite the trends. Darker colours suited me, and lacking any implants other than my Eva424, there was nothing flashy about me apart from the scar I got from the bear attack that also damaged my Eva424. I could have had my scar removed, easily, but I liked it. I felt more in touch with my nature, whatever that meant.

“Enjoy yourself, see you around” — he told me, with his altered voice.
I smiled back and left. I couldn’t recall the last time I saw a real woman or heard a feminine voice that wasn’t AI-generated or anyway coming from a speaker.

At least pronouns weren’t an issue anymore, we were just dudes.

Nobody knew what truly happened, but suddenly, the few births worldwide ceased to produce female infants. We were now dependent on our clones — I was on my fifth iteration. I was one of the youngest once again. Exciting but demeaning at the same time.

We were constantly told how useless we were as men, that the world was female, that we needed more diversity here and there and when the problem completely reversed, when men became the minority and were even stripped the right to vote, and to father their own children — nature, fate, or perhaps some unspeakable design, intervened to change the course of events.

We were gathered to celebrate something monumental, far surpassing the AGI “standby” which we had marked with an even grander festivity than its “birth”. That day, one of the era’s most intelligent and repeatedly cloned individuals — then on his seventeenth iteration, having consistently sought the extremes of human capability with his body and mind, only to self-destruct each time — had made breakthroughs that now simplified our existence. On that day, he was to be reborn as a female, having figured out a way to alter his own chromosomes and artificial womb. Our boutonnieres, placed near our hearts, symbolized this hope somehow. At least that was the genius’ idea. Who was I to question it?

The world as we knew it was poised for radical change, once more. That. I was celebrating.

Day #4: Lost in and with Alleys

I’m at a loss for my current location. What was meant to be a short stroll has turned into a perplexing loop of the same streets for at least twenty minutes. My cell phone has no signal, and even GPS fails me. Perhaps the towering buildings that hem in these narrow “Vicoli” are to blame.

My “wifey” and kids are likely waiting, probably imagining I’ve wandered off into my own past. Which I did. I grew up here, knowing every alley and corner as intimately as the back of my hand. I remember where my father’s house stood, literally where he was born, where Argo, his loyal dog, would bark joyfully, and where he played as a child.

But now, where is everyone? The streets are deserted, punctuated only by a plethora of “For Sale” signs so faded that the phone numbers have nearly been erased by time and weather.

A red ball suddenly comes bouncing toward me, followed by a little boy, with his grandmother, I suppose, trailing behind. She’s shouting, breathlessly, taking short pauses “Slow down! You’ll trip on a sanpietrino! You’ll hurt yourself! That man will give you the ball. Ask him. Say ‘please.’ Be a good boy!”

I stop the ball and hand it to the polite child, who thanks me and dashes back to his grandmother. She steps closer, scrutinizing my face, almost touching me and asks in our familiar dialect, “A chi sei figlio tu?” It’s a question about lineage, one I was often asked as a boy in these very streets.

I can’t help but smile. Despite the signs of decline, there are still families here, pulsing with life, one generation softly passing the torch to the next through simple acts like chasing after a ball and the hyperactive child.

One day, the meek may inherit this place, or perhaps they will simply become a part of its labyrinthine memory.

Day #5: AirbnBaby

Mumma and Dadda are not around; I hear them chatting in the other room with a lady they called a baby sitter.
Pfft. If they think I’m going to just sit down with her, a perfect stranger, while they go out and about without me, they’re utterly mistaken! Mumma is wearing heels, that’s the sign that tells me that they are about to abandon me. Temporarily, yes, but still.
They told me to sit and play here with my trusty toy, the block set that doubles as a little chair, so I can sit like adults and play pretend. I’ll never understand why they do this sitting thing so much. Isn’t it much better to just run around all the time?

I also have my new favourite book, the “Encyclo-something.” It’s full of things I don’t understand, all seemingly unrelated to each other. It’s beautiful, but after a while, I have so many questions that my head hurts if I can’t ask them to anyone. I’ve already had my dose of headache for today. It’s time to unwind.

But… I’m somewhere new today, in this place adults call “Airbabby,” or something like that. I need to know more. What is this thing with a weird yellow plate and a stick next to it? And these other plates? Daddy looked at them the way he does when he eats a steak or when he looks at Mum sometimes, especially after a glass of that dark red water that’s not for kids.

I’m intrigued. Oh, wait… this thing has switches, like the ones we have at home! I must try all of them!

As I flip the bigger switch, the plate starts spinning. “I love spinning,” I think, as I do a couple of spins myself in solidarity. The stick moves gently and starts caressing the plate. It reminds me of Mum telling me not to slap Dad but to touch his beard gently instead.

Suddenly, loud music starts playing. Is this the reward or punishment for my mischief? I run away just in case, anticipating the “Evelyn, no!” that Dad will inevitably say, well… roar like that lion I saw on the big screen.

Peeking from behind the sofa that’s made me invisible, I see them all looking at me, smiling broadly with twinkling eyes. The lady says something and uses the word “cute.” Okay, maybe I like her after all.

Mum takes Dad’s hand and kisses him. “I have to join them!” I think, running as fast as my legs can carry me towards them. I hug their legs and say, “Up. Cuddle.”

I take their faces in my hands, and I join them together as I look closely at the extra kiss I’ve triggered, then I pull them both towards me, and they kiss one cheek each. “I love yaaa,” I say. Twice, to perfect my pronunciation. They seem to like that. I like doing things they like… well, except for not touching weird stuff in weird places. But that wasn’t me, was it?

Day #1: Sincere apologies

I picked up some tulips for her because she was fond of them.
However, as I transported them from the shop, they withered with alarming rapidity. Unnaturally so.
Shades of orange and brown took over the petals with each momentary glance, as though my confused gaze hastened their demise.

They were a pitiful sight upon my arrival, echoing my inadequate apologies.

She took them but didn’t truly accept them. It reminded me of the nuance: were the tulips really for her, or for myself? I didn’t even like them one bit.

Perhaps I should have bought single malt smoked whisky, my apologies might have seemed more genuine, paradoxically.

I wasn’t empathetic with my actions, but now I was certainly pathologically pathetic.

Image credits: https://unsplash.com/@kate_gliz

Day #2: Looking for purpose

It was a fine day, the cicadas were debating as you would expect and the sun was filtering through the tall trees. It was just yesterday that we realised we had lost the little calf, we counted the whole herd three times but none of them brought it back to the herd with the others.

We still can’t fathom how that happened, the fence was intact all around the ranch. We didn’t check the patch of trees because the herd normally stays away from it, as if there were some sort of bovine curse that they are trying to avoid. As the day aged and got tired of all the pesky debating, we started drawing conclusions in our heads, pointing fingers outwards, as you do.

The following morning we expected more of the same, still in the red for a calf. Secretly, I counted the herd again and again and one more time.

“Bullshit!” I exclaimed, acknowledging that we were now missing a cow as well. “Oh, coffee this morning is going to be bitter for the others, oh well, for me too I guess” I mumbled as I approached the edge of our land that borders with the patch of trees where I normally go to, you know, connect spiritually with nature through the cycle of water.

As I moved to head back, I cursed “Bullshit!” again, as my boot met with an all-too-familiar squish. Unusual, though, was finding such a mess this far from the usual paths.

I saw an opportunity, maybe our gassy friends ventured this way for more than just, spiritual connection with nature. I was onto something, yes, more fertilizer, but this time I dodged it. Following the trail of footsteps, I came upon what looked like a family reunion.

There was the calf, tailing the cow towards what I assume they perceived as the illusion of freedom, a fight against fear of the unbeaten path, or both.

Image credits: https://unsplash.com/@anniespratt