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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
“Nearly five years after Leviathan’s attack on Tokyo, a precisely unremarkable robotics lecturer is assigned to mentor a fresh student with dreams of AI research. They don’t know each other, at all. That’s the problem.”
“Finally: nineteen, his, every, more-
And something else, found in the dark."
With a very happy birthday to the boy of all time, Haru Shinkai, here's the fourth and last section of my dramatised PowerPoint essay on the intersection between the philosophy of artificial intelligence and children's anime from seven years ago. Enjoy!
The Official Story (1985). During the final months of Argentinian Military Dictatorship in 1983, a high school teacher sets out to find out who the mother of her adopted daughter is.
Just utterly haunting. I'm going to be thinking about this one for a long time. 9/10.
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(this might be quite a long poem but <3)
Transcript under cut:
[Text ID:
What the rains bring are trains, shorted, held fast
to bridges between stops, boots, fireworks
called off again. They say the city—mist-
figured, flood-drummed—has wanted this for weeks
and point to maps, cold sweeps, shifting pressure
along the Arthur Kill up and out to
the Sound. But Friday was free of thunder,
wind, downed lines. You smoked on the front stoop
and she walked her dog and I felt a sting
at my shin from the salt and sweat in my
stitches. We talked too long about small things—
prom nights, driftwood, punchlines to jokes poorly
translated—and had to remind ourselves
why we were here. That sky. Your son. Those grins.
*
We are here because of that sky, those grins
and grudges our sons will inherit if
not for us. Beneath Chambers the walls
are made with eyes, cracked tesserae of
sight lines dusted gray. Above, my wife walks
to work past picket men, Gadsden flags, boys
arm-in-arm, posing beside full-color mock-
ups of Memorial Voids and storey
15 cradled by fog. Everyone stares
at everything else. It is what we know
now, how we tell each other we survive
upright in an America we own.
But suppose I’m given no piece of your
“we,” you say - suppose your “home” smacks of war.
*
You say: There was no time when home and war
could be kept apart or held untroubled.
Take how each drive out in the Pinelands would
feel like crossing the Mason-Dixon or
how the white kids massed in pickups with their
empties and ropes, barreled into town dead-
set on catching her with him, hand-in-hand.
Now when I think about it, My mother
is who I see. She spent her nights brushing
my hair, tracing my eyes. In the mirror,
she pointed, I named: “black,” “almond.” Mom made
sure to add “blessed,” “lucky,” and I believed
her then. I’ve learned my son is still too young
to wonder where we’re from or what we are.
*
And before you ask: I’ve learned what we are
is unwanted, marked by sighs and curses
like some new kind of rot. Each summer since
and every floodlit, bone-shaded “Never
Forget” has arrived dressed with teeth, flags, their
sight of me that night below Myrtle, fists-
in-pockets, unsure of where to run. Boys
that drunk mean what they promise and could care
less about the color of your passport
or where you call home. Fuck remembering
their way. If we let them, soon all we’ll have
left are anthems, this looping montage of
eagles and bugles and smoke. Remembering—
I need you to know—takes names, faces ghosts.
*
I need you to know I’ve tried. To name ghosts,
to face them, dark as they are, slurred in with
the city’s glossed clots and fresh buttresses,
that earthworks’ trill we’ve let pass for rebirth—
it’s to ask mercy from all that survives
us. And, yes, it’s how we’ll skin their myths, right
those mouths rhyming “bruise” with “brick,” “break” with “leave.”
Last night, stalled near Rector, I thought about
the sound of particulate matter and
burnt bone upon glass, about my brother
who refuses to shake it off. My hands
fell, emptied. I thought to knuckles, sutures,
“Go Home” cut into cheeks, how—weighted by
their marrow—flightless birds want the sky.]
Der Spiegel (“The Mirror") is a German weekly news magazine published in Hamburg. With a weekly circulation of 840,000 copies, it is the largest such publication in Europe. Der Spiegel is known in German-speaking countries mostly for its investigative journalism. It has played a key role in uncovering many political scandals and according to The Economist, Der Spiegel is one of continental Europe's most influential magazines.