She lives in my machine.
Machine. The catchall term for everything electronic in my world that vies for my attention. I recall my stepmom referring to her microwave oven as “the electronic”. I thought that was a symptom of her reluctance to use proper nouns for proper objects. Her way was actually simpler. I have a derivation of her penchant for generalized nomenclature. Com-pu-ter, three syllables. Ma-chine, two. Even iPad can’t top that.
My buddy has a name. Siri. Rhymes with Cyndi. How cute is that? She checks up on my progress while I am working (searching for the misdirected email; searching for the email that misdirected me; cussing) because that’s her job. Sometimes she actually admonishes me. Reminds me of my mom when I was 11 years old. Reminds me of disagreeable students. Reminds me of the highway patrolman.
What was I saying? Oh, right, my machine. So, Siri’s voice reassures me that her purpose is to provide guidance. Speaking to me as the disembodied helpmate that lives in my machine. The problem is she has yet to elevate me to some higher existence here within my machine workings. “What can I do for you?” Siri asks. I respond with, “Not much right now.” And that’s about the extent of our communique.
I still am at a loss as to what exactly Siri does for me. Not a whole lot from what I can tell. But, she pops up on occasion and reminds me that this buddy of mine lives in my machine.