Human Resources
By Ryann Stevenson and Henri Cole
2/5
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About this ebook
Human Resources follows a woman working in the male-dominated world of AI, designing women that don’t exist. She workshops the facial characteristics of a floating head named “Nia,” whom her boss calls “his type”; she loses hours researching “June,” an oddly sexualized artificially intelligent oven; and she spends a whole day “trying to break” a female self-improvement bot. The speaker of these poems grapples with uneasiness and isolation, even as she endeavors to solve for these problems in her daily work. She attempts to harness control by eating clean, doing yoga, and searching for age-defying skin care, though she dreams “about the department / that women get reassigned to after they file / harassment complaints.” Chilling, lucid, sharply intelligent, Human Resources challenges the minds programming our present and future to consider what serves the collective good. Something perhaps more thoughtful and human, Stevenson writes: “I want to say better.”
“Human Resources captures the eerie, ‘Black Mirror’ feeling that we’ve already crossed some A.I. event horizon . . . ‘I want to go back and change my answer,’ Stevenson writes—too late for that! Or, to paraphrase Kafka: Plenty of hope, but not for us.” —The New York Times
“In a time of cold virtual ecosystems and lightweight psychological theories and remedies, Human Resources speaks for mystery and vulnerability.” —Sandra Lim
“We live in an era when our humanness is worn down—by virtual beings, bots, synced devices, battery life, data, radiation, sulfates, and lead—so we must practice mindfulness to keep from losing track of who we are. This brave, tough book suggests that flowering maples, yoga, orcas, and the hands of our mothers might help us preserve our innocence.” —Henri Cole
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Book preview
Human Resources - Ryann Stevenson
I
INTERIOR LIFE
There’s a fly in the house I can’t kill.
I won’t know if it’s real until I kill it.
It darts through my periphery as my internet
yogi tells me that a cow
can be an opening. I turn my mat
to face the window
so I can see the tree on fire,
the red maple, but a truck that reads
MOVING? is in the way.
Imagine yourself as a child
watching, says the yogi, which I never
want to remember—
everything I had to watch.
I don’t let her finish.
What she wanted was for me to take up space,
something about reclaiming joy
by thinking of my favorite childhood
TV program. Later, I give it a try
while folding laundry,
The Real Housewives of somewhere
on high volume to dominate
the persistent buzzing
in my ear. A Dwell
magazine placed on the back
of my husband’s shirt
helps me get a proper fold.
Am I taking up space, with the proper fold?
In my house clothes I get on the floor
into extended child’s pose and reach
for the cow opening. I press an ear
to the wood and listen for something
in another room,
in another house. What I hear
is a long conversation about me
that I didn’t begin.
I hear my own voice from a distance:
I don’t want to say the words of what happened.
Some days I’m floating around and don’t know it
until I break the French press again.
BEAUTY MASK
I was hired to design the voices of virtual beings. The first thing my boss taught me was trust must be established immediately between user and bot. This will never happen if the eyelashes are wrong, he insisted as we workshopped Nia’s face—an intelligent avatar we were contracted to create for a teaching proof of concept. The requirements were few: female, racially ambiguous, unique mouth animation for every letter, head without a neck preferred. He looked at her, said she was his type. Like all of our avatars, Nia was