Culpability

by Bruce Holsinger

And this, I propose, is the inhuman soul of the algorithm. It may think for us, it may work for us, it may organize our lives for us. But the algorithm will never bleed for us. The algorithm will never suffer for us. The algorithm will never mourn for us. In this refusal lies the essence of its moral being.

fucking insane

She was interested, she said, in how we learn to be good.

Climbing from the Ford we stand on the gravel, listening to the faint whirr of a motorboat, the mew of an unseen gull, and locusts, a ceaseless clacking din that rises and falls. The breeze off the inlet and more distantly the bay is briny and warm.

I say, “Calinda, raise the blinds all the way.” A guess. No vocal response this time, but Calinda does as she’s told, the downstairs lightening with the raised blinds. “Turn on CNN.” A television on the living room wall flicks on and blares. “Mute.” The speakers go silent. “Turn it off.” And the TV darkens.

oh hell no

I need your steady hand, Lorelei likes to say. And I want your psycho, I might say back to her.

I am learning to feel my way along its uneven paths.

She hated when her phone rang at odd hours, would often shrink away from the device, worrying that one of her parents or siblings was dead. You get it, she said, and went to hide in the walk-in closet.

We are all statistics and individuals at the same time.

OH HELL NO

The relative morality of certain actions is determined by circumstance and context rather than by some absolute, unchanging ethical code. Likewise, our morality as individuals is formed not by innate personality traits but by the variables of our environment.

As if I need entertainment while she and Monet sneak off together to enjoy each other’s transcendent genius.

LOL

With his charisma, power, intellect, and depthless wealth, he is a radiant sun pulling at these people with a gravitational force that keeps them all, including Lorelei, in his orbit. Not me, though; not me. And it’s cold out here in interstellar space.

And I wonder how you can be so willfully ignorant about what I do, and why I do it, and why I believe it matters.

And Lorelei sees herself as their conscience. As their soul.

His expression softens. “I just need to hang in the tent for a while longer. Is that okay?” As if I could refuse him anything, let alone this simple need. “My tent is your tent, Charlie.”