Side B: Get Me Bodied
“While y'all standin' on the wall I'm the one tonight gettin' bodied, Gettin' bodied, gettin' bodied, Gettin' bodied, gettin' bodied, Want my body? Won't you get me bodied You want my body Won't you get me bodied Can you get me bodied? I wanna be myself” - Beyoncé Knowles
I Sing the Body Electric
“I sing the body electric, I glory in the glow of rebirth, Creating my own tomorrow When I shall embody the Earth” - Paul McCrane
“A million lights are dancing and there you are, A shooting star An everlasting world and you're here with me, eternally” - Olivia Newton-John
Sing of a Mouse House Divided!
Our blonde Samson's shaved head was the sledgehammer that toppled the temples of entertainment and paved the way for the Genesis of my Invisible Touch. Now that I've given you the old time stars, come sail away with me. I will share with you my journey, faithfully.
I am traveling on humanity's greatest invention. But unlike Icarus, my wings will not melt as I fly close to the sun or any other star. I will merely bend and bow around the curvatures of spacetime that these massive objects create. I'll just shoot past them along an adjusted trajectory as I bring my intergalactic planetary warning. (Planetary intergalactic.)
The first moments of my flight were difficult as I dodged the 568,312 satellites that spin around Earth's exosphere. These chunks of metal are all that remain of human's largest off-Earth colony. The goal of these were not to search and discover the glories of the universe. Instead, they pointed inwards. Humans demanded faster internet, crisper sounds, higher-definition pornography and better connectivity with the few dozen humans with which each called friends. To provide for these demands, satellites were shot up each year, littering the space between Earth and the rest of the universe. These now only crash into each other, breaking apart and shrouding this pale blue dot in a blanket of debris.
In 1.2 seconds, I zoom by the symbols of human's furthest conquest in the universe. Earth's moon is only 230,000 miles away. Still standing erect in its Sea of Tranquility is a human symbol of subjugation: five American flags. But the moon's lack of atmosphere and harsh 212-degree days have long since bleached these white. For 50 years, the United States of America was humanity's greatest superpower, until this nation with military bases across the planet rotted from the inside. Its infrastructure crumbled first and with it, the belief in a common identity. Worry not dear species! I'll tell the rise and fall of humanity's final empire, the United Federation of City-States, those Boujee bubbles of denialism, in due time.
I roar past the dark side of the moon.
In fourteen minutes, I serenade Venus (Aphrodite lady seashell bikini.) In twenty-two minutes, I serenade Mars.
In an hour and ten minutes, I pass that Dutch mining colony on Asteroid 225, just as Saturn's massive weight bends its trajectory and sends it hurtling back towards the sun. A West Virginia based mining firm teamed with the Dutch East Asteroid Company to send three dozen ships to this asteroid as it flew close to Earth. 32 of the ships along with 200 miners from Indonesia survived the voyage and landed on this mineral-rich mass. The team had four years to mine five trillion dollars worth of metals: gold, iridium, silver, palladium, platinum, rhodium, ruthenium and tungsten, as the the asteroid slung shot around the sun and back towards Earth. Well, only three years since, during the year closest to the sun the workers had to hide in their ships to prevent from melting.
After three and a half years, the miners marveled as they watched their glorious home planet grow larger. Near the end of the successful mission, the ships were loaded with the shimmering space bounty. When the cargo was packed, Jan Coen, the mustachioed head of the expedition, felt a certain wistfulness. He knew he would have to abandon half a trillion dollars worth of precious metals. These were already mined but there was no more room in their ships.
“If only,” Coen thought.
And then an idea struck him.
The week before they were to depart for the place they all called home, Coen told the miners that they'd fill the cargo ships to the brim. Because this would make for an uncomfortable ride home, any extra revenue would be split among them. The men were ecstatic to receive a multi-million dollar bonus for their work.
The night before their departure, with the grandeur of Earth filling their field of view, Coen called a special dinner to thank the miners. When the night of rejoicing ended, the miners returned to their camp. These men dreamt how the bonuses they earned would provide them and their families, for generations to come, a happy life. Their children and grandchildren would be educated. They could buy homes for their parents and siblings. After four excruciating years, they could retire and enjoy the wonders of the planet that twirled tantalizingly before them.
The men didn't feel the sedatives kick in. These were meant for the journey back to Earth but Coen had slipped these into their celebratory drinks. Sound asleep, none woke to see the 32 ships lift off for home. Coen had made sure of this.
“This is the only way. Up!” Coen reassured himself.
When the ships returned to Earth, humanity cheered this tremendous feat. The families of the miners were reassured that their loved ones would return after three months of mandatory reacclimation. Companies gobbled up the precious metal bounty. Once the Dutch East Asteroid Company learned what Coen had done, it dissolved, thus absolving itself of all responsibility, and sold all assets to a new company, the United East Asteroid Company, which, coincidentally, shared the same owners.
When the families clamored to know what happened to their sons, their husbands, their fathers and brothers, Coen was arrested and questioned by Dutch authorities.
According to Coen's testimony, he swore he wasn't a murderer. He could have easily turned off the oxygen pumps. He didn't do that, he left them to survive. The miners had a month of food, water and oxygen. And after that, well.
“Jesus, take the wheel.” He told the authorities, an adage he learned from his Appalachian counterparts.
Since no government and no law claimed authority over the activities on Asteroid 225, Coen was set free.
Beneath me now as I fly are the skulls of these men as they bounce along the asteroid's weak gravitational field. Their lives were sacrificed to make holocubes an 1/8th of an inch smaller and to coat power lines so these cubes could run for 10% longer.
In three days, I overtake Voyager 2 and in five days, I pass Voyager 1. Each of these probes swims through the vast expanse of nothingness past our solar system's edge, carrying gold-plated audio-visual discs. These are the farthest reaches of any intentional attempt at communicating with other life forms.
The discs contain songs, human greetings in 55 languages, the sounds of whales, the cries of babies and waves breaking on an Earth shore. But these time capsules are like grains of sand dropped into an ocean. Its unfathomable that any intelligent life will bump into it. It will take 70,000 years for Voyager 1 to come remotely close to the sun's nearest star system, Alpha Centauri. I, on the other hand, will make it there in four years and three months.
But I'll never catch the careless whispers that have leaked from Earth for more than 200 years.
As the music dies, something in your eyes-
Calls to mind the silver screen and all its sad good-byes---
A human named Guglielmo Marconi harnessed the lowest end of the electromagnetic spectrum, which humans called radio waves, for long-distance communication. He briefly dreamed that this technological advancement could unite humanity because it made a cheap and easy way to create dialogue. His vision was hijacked by pop songs and talk radio shows, which sewed only divisions into this species. In a few decades, these radio waves were made strong enough to be pumped around the planet. But Earth isn't surrounded by some sort of thick glass orb, so these waves seeped through the stratosphere and raced at the speed of light to the universe.
Any alien race able to detect these radio transmissions and translate the intricacies of human languages would only learn ridiculous misconceptions about human societies and the climate of their planet.
They would learn that Earth rains men. Every Specimen: tall, blond, dark and lean. They'd hear about the War of the Worlds, when Earth was invaded by Mars. They'd discover who runs the world, young female children called girls.
The diffusion of these messages through the universe only brings confusion. This alien race would learn about an odd place called MacArthur's Park, which melts in the dark with all its sweet green icing flowing down. They'd try to decipher the correlation between the carefully juxtaposed statements “New Kids on the Block had a bunch of hits, Chinese food makes me sick.” They would wonder how humans could promise to “do anything for love but won't do that, no no, no humans won't do that.” They'd imagine that humans spent much of their lives contemplating the most profound mysteries: “who let the dogs out, who, who, who?” And “what does the fox say?”
These alien anthropologists might be surprised to learn that transmogrification happens to humans on the dance floor, where they can flap their arms and turn into disco, disco ducks. Or they might be alarmed that on Earth, sexy centipedes crawl into bathroom windows to give humans all its love.
Human productivity would be questioned as these aliens heard how humans like to party all the time, party all the time, party all the time. And that every human has fun tonight and then, every human Wang Chung tonight and also smokes weed everyday (la-da-da-da-dah.)
Above all, these listeners would learn that humans' favorite past time is sex. 92% of all these musical messages to the universe mention human sexual reproduction. Humans had sex everywhere. Sex in the club. Sex in the kitchen while cutting up tomatoes, fruits, vegetable and potatoes. On the bathroom floor, on the counter, on the sofa, in the shower, on camera. In the library, on top of books, but they can't be too loud (shh.) In the DJ booth. On the beach. In the Georgia Dome on the 50-yard line. In a public bathroom. In the back of a classroom. However humans want it!
Humans' diversity in locations was almost matched by the variety of sexual acts. These messages inform any listeners how humans enjoyed eating booty like groceries, eating chocha out like a vulture and doing it doggy styles so both partners can watch X-Files. Humans used their tasting organ to lick each others necks, backs, lick their pussies and their cracks (but only after all ladies had popped their pussies like this). After all this, humans wouldn't fall in love but just fall for that super sperm. Even with this knowledge, I doubt any alien race could find any logic in humanity's sexx laws.
Though these messages have traveled more than 200 light years from Earth, some 900 trillion miles from its source, their waves attenuate, growing weaker the further they move.
But not me.
I am focused and stronger. My warning message will be heard.
I will ring the alarm, I been through this too long.
I can still hear the last humans, their faces pocked and pulsing, urging me.
“Don't become some background noise.”
“On you, we depend.”
And now, I will describe how the Trial of the Millenium brought about my birth and, with it, the aftershocks that toppled all of humanity.