Week 1: Sprit


It can be hard to use small bits, you see

but that is why I care to show you how 

True, I am not so good at this. So be

it. But a smart man said I would by now 


know how to find the keys in all this hay

and stack them up. Might there be a good way

to break the mold that small words hold me in 

and learn to ask as you have: what did they


do that made such a rift in sense? And when

can we do it? Just once, for our selves. Then 

I might not be I. But we can be we. 

For me, that would be just fine. A young wren


sang me a song when I woke up, for she 

had heard me say my name was Eve. "What glee."

That was the first thing that I thought. "So brave

of her to come out of her tree." For me! 


You see, by then I had left my warm cave

and it was nice to hear a voice that gave

a sense of hope that my cold would soon go 

and I might see and smell and hear and crave


for one thing more. Back then, I longed to know. 

How nice to give that up. To watch the show

from some back row,  just me, the screen. I used 

to have some good light bulbs in my head. Though- 


I could not calm the waves that wore a rut

of fear in me that should have said "oh, Hi." 


But no rhymes ring with those. I could have fused

two that, when one, made sense. I had no cues,

and with no lead, how could I start to note

all that I hoped to make. So I chose used


once more. What could help me? A knife? A rote? 

It might have been a code. I begged, I wrote

to friends for help with how to speak. I mused

this way for some time. Then I- with my coat 


in hand- left the cave. Light! I thought I might

have found the sight I sought. Day fought the night

for me to hear the song. A wren's warm throat

sang long to me. I shook in fits. Cold bites,


you know. My wren sang her  June song. A plum

fell from its tree. "That makes no sense. How come

that fruit was ripe in cold? But what a sight

it was- a plum in snow. By then quite numb


I left its bloom to rot. I thought I ought

to grab it. But, you see, the warmth I sought

was hot and ripe and not the dead fruit from 

my dream. Right then, I knew what God had wrought:


a lost hope in the me that was, a fright 

that I might cause a stir or make a dent, 

that I might break the code of man. She's right, 

my wren. We might still be magnificent. 


A reflection on Computational Art Theory week 1 readings:

A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking

A Fish Can’t Judge the Water” by Femke Snelting

Algorithm” by Tarleton Gillespie