Spelling wool

For: Joan Westenburg

Rebecca was the anonymous, eponymous hero/ine of a series of uprisings, “The Rebecca Riots,” in West Wales, against the imposition of tolls by landowners over whose lands traditional drovers roads passed. This mixes up pieces of the Internet today: AI, large language models (LLMs), and the “open Web” with The “Daughters of Rebecca” who in the 18th century were men dressed as women, who burned tollhouses and  turn-pikes. Think trans, rebel FLOSS coders today.

Is it the end of the world or is it Wales?

It is not like history began in the vales,

the voices of dogs herding sheep into words

spelling wool for any weather.

Trying once more to feel tender,

undefeated, alive for a time,

no microchip to give meaning,

to rare-earth metals and mines,

there’s a good chance the next word is “unknown”.

Better that, than known unkind.

Shearing, carding, weaving

drinking whisky of an evening

lighting lamps and banking

the day’s fires, holding it in.

Here where time is optional,

where pain has made us free,

Rebecca unlocks the toll house,

her kettle unlocks the tea,

her shawl unlocks my shoulders,

and breast to meet the sea.

We all spin large language models,

calculating who should come next,

wrapping our spells in felt

and salting the tongue with sex.

It is not the end of the world

but betrayal feels like death

and the last image in my soul

will be your wool on the back of my neck.