Tuko: Days in the Life of an Unfortunate Immortal

I'm writing this from my iPhone 7. It's a lease. Yeah, they do that now. I don't own my own portable terminal to the tremendous network of mortal knowledge that you've compiled. In troubling fact, no one of you owns your terminal. I don't own anything, but that's been a revolving resolution I've made for thousands of years. These terminals are wonderful—points of access, nodes connecting minds to minds, something external and outside of their control. You may wish for and dream of power over our nodes, but it will escape you, as my weighty charge often does. We'll soon clear that up if you'll stick with me.

I don't know everything. Rather the opposite. I know very little and then seek to know more given that understanding. This is the foundation of wisdom I've gleaned: "I know little."

And this is the struggle I've endured since my recognition was born of solitarity as I sat alone in a cave for a solid century. Few of the greater minds around me have understood their paradoxically crippling weaknesses. Not even my dearest lovers have given me the space or time to expand their minds. By now their yarns may have spun asunder, but that would be my fault, wouldn't it? Or would it?

I didn't ask for this. I don't deserve it, no one does. No one deserves anything, it turns out. I've ruminated on this for as long as I can remember. I long for the day they can all grok the futility of deservation. My calling is not to explain this, or anything, but I cannot help but know it, given my lot in lasting life. Instead I must keep spinning, keep cycling on with Gaia and Helios.

A Lot of Allotment

There is one of me and one of you, and we are two who will take our allotted steps. The difference is that I weave them, or portend them at least, as I spin your yarns. My dear sister allots them more precisely. And my other sister snips them to neat, appropriate lengths as she sees fit.

They didn't ask for their roles either. We were spewed out of Darkness and Night with the rest of them. We fell into our jobs like so many of you.

So we shuffle on, spinning and stretching and cutting as our lots were cast. It's not a hard condition, just immutable, like when you ask a stone whether it has to be so hard. We do have to spin, stretch, and cut. We know no other occupations. We like our work. It's not serious after all.

A Loomer's Curse

And yet so much is lost on me. I find myself wandering the streets at four in the morning, wondering where I could go to escape my toil over your mortal coils. I trip from inn to tavern to bar to stool and drink and drool collecting crumbs of clues of understanding.

What's with the bloodletting? Why is everyone fighting? How did I fuck this up? Can anyone hear me? Do you really need all those things? How is babby formed? Just a few passing inquiries.

These modern days there are hackers at keyboards who manipulate our reality, who find our best interests in mind, and they readjust our collective paths and pathologies from their terminals. Their misfortune is their mortality. I have no need to hack, as I will persist, even against my will.

My sisters have long called me [[Clotho]], but I prefer Tuko. That's my name later once you all see what happens. My sisters strive out of the ordinary to see the future. They've been tasked with defining it. I couldn't begin to guide their vision since my three eyes are so intensely engaged. The first two are balls, and one is a portal.

So many years passed until I've found myself. Now I can't struggle, I just exist. While the ways and means will tip the scales, I can only wait and wonder when we might snap out of it. And the unfortunate aspect of this condition is that it's not about me. It's about all of you.

Here's a Twist

Over the eons I've learned not to inflate. There comes a day in the life of a long-liver that demonstrates the value of hiding her nature. Mine was a doozy. Would you like to hear tell?

If so, keep your looking balls locked on the glyphyscape before you.

"I don't live anywhere at the present," I heard one day. I took it to mind a bit more than most. I'd been around for centuries. My mind had boggled at the shifts in speech of those masses around me. I literally try to stay out of it.

At one point I became active. And just after that I flipped back to passive. No happy there. Yet still I try to convey our peace.


Said is a bike messenger who delivers booze. He loves his job. He'll be pedaling on New Year's Eve to Hades knows what parties. I