THE LESSON
I sit in front of my computer. I don’t want to let it have its own way: it is there to do as it is told, to follow my lead, to transcribe the ebb and flow of my imagination. I look at its screen steadily. All of a sudden I have a powerful conviction that it is looking back at me and that it might have things to say that I do not want to hear.
“Green”, I say, “green.” The customary blue screen fades, and in its place a green comes flooding through. But not any green: a light, spring-like, limey tone, which is accompanied by a rustling sound. There’s a sort of squeak, and in the bottom left-hand corner of the screen, little shoots appear and grow until they fill the square. I want them to last forever, but they begin to turn brown. Finally the whole screen is full of dead leaves, and some of them spill out onto my desk.
“Love”, I say, “Love”. The screen is flooded by a deep pink and the computer produces sounds of laughter and pleasure. I want it to last forever: but the voices become discordant and the colour deepens into red. Blood spurts from the screen and runs down over the keys, and I try to mop it up with my handkerchief.
I say “What lesson do you want to teach me?” And the screen fades and these words gradually fill it:
“Come rain, come shine
I am here
Come bud, come bone
I am here
Come dearth, come foison
I am here too:
O learn my harmonies, my
Ruthlessness, my
Change”
