Chips That Pass in the Night.
“That’s because you have no memory.” I lamented. “In fact, neither of us does. I am not really “me”. We’re mere works of fiction, created by this article’s jaded author as a means of conveying that there’s only one thing more difficult to keep track of than multi-season TV dramas and that’s the technology that records, edits, masters and broadcasts them.”
Mark’s expression altered to that of a GP observing a patient on the precipice of psychosis.
“What the hell are you on about?” He said at last. “We’re sitting in a REAL cafe having a perfectly normal conversation.”
“Normality is relative.” I said, fingering a flimsy wooden stirring stick. “But that’s bye the bye. Surely you must have noticed this contrived narrative with its clumsily integrated metaphors. Kaby Lake? Funny title for a high pedigree period drama don’t you think?
Mark shrugged. “What’s so special about it? It’s no more original than Force Majeur or Hyde Inside.
“Precisely.” I exclaimed. “In fact it’s far less remarkable, those two were a plausible setup for the big reveal.”
But I saw them. Both of them. Every season from start to finish.
“You saw exactly what the author intended.” I stated calmly. “And when you recounted them earlier, you remembered no more than the bits he could be bothered to make up. You are a repeater, a catalyst, a puppet whose strings are pulled by his Surface Pen….or Apple pencil. Hear that? There he goes again. What a pathetic hack he is, desperately seeking novel ways to chronicle revolutionary innovations which, when it’s been your duty for decades, can become desperately old hat. Now that’s proper irony.”
“You’re talking out of your Threadripper.” Asserted Mark.
“Never heard it called that before. ” I replied. “There’s yet more irony, in attempting to dismiss my theory, you’ve corroborated it.”
“Nonsense!” Exclaimed Mark. “Are you suggesting that I’ve no control over my thoughts? That every topic we’ve been discussing is a vehicle for obscure technological references.”
“It might have seemed absurd to begin with.” I said, ignoring my smart phone’s cacophonous cries for attention. “But now the facade is crumbling faster than filo pastry in a blast furnace and the more we talk, the less subtle the allegory will become. Just listen.”
Mark shook his head. “Don’t believe it, perhaps that encore mocha was ill-advised, you appear to be suffering from delusions of caffeine.”
“On the related subject” I went on unabashed. “Why don’t you tell me the name of this cafe.”
Mark glanced down at the stained serviette sandwiched between his cup and saucer. “Coffee Lake.” He observed pensively.
You see? You can’t resist the inevitable. Avoiding allusions is like trying to stay dry in a deluge, they’re becoming as common as customer surveys. Now look up.”
Mark rolled his eyes towards a ceiling comprised of extravagant copper tiles and lurid LED down-lights, several of which had expired. The tiles were embossed with garish fantastical imagery. Of particular note was hooded figure with blades for arms, a Kraken attacking an airship and a school of giant robotic jelly fish.
“Ring any bells?” I asked.
“The 3D Mark sagas.” Said Mark, looking more perturbed by the nanosecond. Then he peered over at the inevitable glass display cabinet traditionally occupied by an array of genetically augmented desserts. The muffins on the upper shelf looked strangely cylindrical, almost resembling giant swollen capacitors while beneath them was an eclectic cosmic themed exhibit consisting of misshapen breakfast loaves interwoven with wedges of carrot and fudge cake moulded to mimic fleets of battling space craft.
“The Turtle lumbering out of the river was always my favourite.” He said, the virtual truth having finally sunk in.
“Ah yes!” I enthused. “Fond memories of Old Mother Nature. If you could see white specks on his shell it meant you’d pushed your core too far. Sadly in our current context that test ancient history. Here, more than a decade later we discover it can be very tricky to fine tune your frequencies when a GPU’s founder insists upon doing the job at the factory, thus turning what used to be an arcane process for compulsive tweakers who thrived at the prospect of breaking both speed barriers AND warranties into an officially certified and keenly promoted feature, free for the greenest novice to relish with unconditional impunity.
“In other words things have improved.” Mark observed.
“For those who don’t crave that heavenly cocktail of struggle and triumph, yes!”
Mark took a snap of his half-emptied cup then consumed the rest in a single gulp.
“What was that for” I asked.
“Just testing the image sensor.” Said Mark, forensically scrutinising his photo. “It’s the only reason I’ve been buying this thing since they ditched the headphone socket.
He puffed out his cheeks, placed the phone back on the table, then began studying me with equal intensity.
“So how come you’re the savvy one? Why let me waste all that time droning on about fictional fiction when you knew all along that I was being exploited”
I raised my palms and shrugged. “Don’t blame the messenger, I only became enlightened when I was permitted. Besides, it was you who brought up Kaby Lake and you who accused me of drifting off the subject.
“The why squander both our precious time and not let us cone straight to the point?”
“Our master was Painting a backdrop to substantiate his cast. With no dimension or personality we’d have fizzled into the ether and he’d have been forced to communicate with his audience directly. Many an author’s worst nightmare.