Did you know there’s a lady in your phone?

Did you know there’s a lady in your telephone?  Poised, attractive (to judge by voice alone), bi-lingual, up on company codes and jargon, even. I got your message and just now tried to call you back—but, yup, The Lady forbade my  connecting with you. What’s with her, anyway?

Are you seeing her, and she’s jealous, protective, fending off all others of any sex? This is the second time she’s fended me.

So. I suppose if you know she’s there, that’s one thing. And if you don’t know, well, that’s another. I’ll try again, but think I’ll have to wait for you to call me. Quite a dame, this lady is.


She’s no Lady,  she’s a cunt.  Not even, for the wickedest whore was a softy-poop-diaper baby once; even Obama.  Not her.  “She” has all the humanity of an abortion; a mistake.

She lured me in with her refined diction and Oxford (the insurance company or the college?) charm.  Not to mention her lithe, petit but athletic body and Mina Loy-look-alike face.

Until I realized something strange.  She is perfect for me. My female me, my anima. The woman I would create for myself if I could create a woman for myself.  Which was her game all along.

She’s just a ghost in the machine.  A wicked spirit, whoring her digital facsimile of the Idea of hot-pattootie fuck-puppet (or at least, my Idea, in the Schopenhauerian sense, my Representation), for Big Media, in particular, the pay-as-you play (perfect for her plutocratic pimps’ exploitative designs) cell-phone plan.

I’m over her.  She holds no power over me, merely my phone, which  she does indeed possess, demon that  she is, but who the hell can afford an Exorcist? (or is it a System Administrator that I need?)  Probably their plan all along: lure you in with your own desire made manifest in digitally rendered sound, haunt you day and night, then hit you up for an Exorcist, who no doubt works for the Company.    Damn them.   “Curse their dark souls,” as Ahab said in his delusion (they have no souls;  poor man, what was he thinking???).

Then again, we should have paid more attention to the old, obsessive-compulsive peg-leg.  Ahab tried to warn us, but nobody even read his words till the 20s, and really only in great numbers after Olson’s essay on Moby Dick in the late 1940s, by which time it was far, far too late for us to smell the shit under the Shinola.

I’ll call you later.  On the minutes that I paid for (time really is money, eh?) the only “time” she is ever absent, conspicuously so, from my “cell.”  Interesting word, that.  Considering the situation.  Cell  as in Cancer, or as in “bill of goods?”

We have met the White Whale, and he is us…

Letter from /dev/null: Once, I could barely walk. I lived, like a vampire, off strange blood. Too much suck, my hard-drive brimmed before I’d grepped to glean, sort, sift, digest; before I could process, to make sense clean, it was gone, all of it, extinct: memory. Loves distant as stars. If data travels at electric speed (so long as servers hum like clock-work: cleaned, tuned, Enlightened) what effect on works and days, and other presumptions of this, the Sixth Extinction? One day, new beings will evolve, perhaps from flies, a thousand eyes for every buzzing brain; incessant flight from this gross pile to that, no time to dream of dreaming. We’ve only got weeks, (relativity-ly speaking: so flies time). Why waste winged words in contemplation of the clock-tick? One must DO. Something. Ideally, perhaps, possibly, nothing at all. Yours, The Phantom of /dev/null Read other articles by Phantom.