In crafting this poem, my intention was to employ humor and absurdity to hint at a disconcerting reality lurking just beyond our own. Since its creation, it seems the world has subtly shifted, drawing closer to that very reality I imagined.
Several concepts that felt outrageously dystopian, or at the very least improbable, when “We were watching the Clouds That Look Like Horses Channel” was written, now resonate with a chilling familiarity:
- The affordability of personal drones.
- The widespread adoption of virtual reality viewers, becoming as commonplace as simple cardboard.
- The social acceptance of dictating inquiries to robots.
- The advent of highly customizable media, where “news” can be tailored to fit any and every viewpoint.
- The willingness of millions to share real-time health and location data via wearable bracelets, often without question.
- The emergence of a wordless global language composed of cat pictures and videos, shared during moments of collective despair.
Considering these shifts, what becomes of a poem about the future once that future is upon us? Our perspectives inevitably change; the poem ceases to be a depiction of mere possibility, morphing instead into a reflection of a parallel present. It transitions from the realm of the conditional into a strangely inflected indicative mood. (Why is everyone aboard this metaphorical spaceship clad in onesies, indeed?)
Despite the almost retro-futuristic imagery, I believe my poem’s somewhat naive narrator—who not only watches the Clouds That Look Like Horses Channel but also customizes the Magical Thinking Channel and opts for a “bodyswap” operation—still carries a pertinent message. It’s a message from a past conception of the future, revealing my anxieties about potential developments. Within this poem, and throughout my book, her experiences illuminate my fears of how things might unfold: a world where divisive technology proliferates and sophisticated corporate propaganda overwhelms genuine, firsthand experience.
While the ultimate interpretation of a poem after its completion is beyond the author’s control, my hope is that encountering this particular artifact proves valuable. It offers a glimpse into what our collective fears looked like before they solidified into accepted norms.
