text: In 1845, a journeyman by the name of Henry David Thoreau set out to tame nature. In his head were plans for a steam-powered chainsaw. His goal? To prove that one man alone could level an entire forest and remake it in his own image. Within two year's time, Thoreau had toppled every tree for miles around and built a boardwalk empire that spanned Walden Pond, a place of power where cheerful clouds of smoke replaced woodland canopy and sounds of industry blighted out birdsong. So began the Age of Mechanicism as America freed itself from romantic notions. How could it not? Thoreau, poet of machines and architect of Civil Obedience, had shown that man and machine will always triumph over God and nature. Nearly two centuries later, I set out to prove him wrong. Armed with the belief that there must be more than a mechanical dimension to this American life, I traveled up the Burlybrook coast to Weatherton's bluff and a patch of property where my great-uncle Abe had once lived and died. I found Abe's humble house still standing above the landfill. It was no Walden Pond, but there was a grove of pine trees behind the house, a veritable woodland in this day and age. I would've lingered longer and sketched out my plans among the pines, but acid rain clouds were gathering over the bluff. So, I headed for my great-uncle's abode, a modest 3-room flat from the pre-smart home era, and turned a long-forgotten key in the door's rusted lock. Sheltering here would be but temporary as I intended to build a dome of sandbags filled with earth beneath the trees where I would live as I reconnected with the land. And I would do it all by hand. No machines would corrupt my vision. Abe's house was empty of them, save for a seashell pink microwave hardwired to the wall. Its buttons were all in Korean or Japanese because my great-uncle Abe, a contrarian to the bone, never bought American, and the cartoon food characters cavorting across the microwave's gleaming expanse didn't exactly add clarity. I let that pink pearl of a microwave remain, an appliance lost in translation, my last weak link to the outside world of man and machine as I advanced toward God and nature. Perhaps I would use the microwave from time to time before I mastered the art of fire making, but it wasn't as I had an unfair advantage. The same cannot be said for Thoreau. Popular myth would have us believe he did it all on his own and forget his mother, but in addition to doing her son's laundry, Mrs. Thoreau was instrumental in designing the donkey engines that dragged the fallen logs to Walden Pond. And one cannot forget that the man enjoyed the patronage of none other than Lord Mech himself: Ralph Waldo Emerson. I had no doting mother, no Lord Emerson. Yes, I was but a man with a microwave. The clouds outside boiled over. A strobe of lightning illuminated the landfill below, playing across a field of discarded dreams, broken machines that had outlived their usefulness. I imagined them draped in vines of my design, vines that would give forth grapes then wine to win others over to my cause. All of it would become my anti-Walden, the birthplace for some natural invention of the human spirit that Thoreau had thwarted long ago. Then, I heard it. Not thunder tailing lightning, but a susurration. If such a thing as love at first sound exists, then I was hearing such a sound. It sent warm shivers down my spine and suffused my soul. Perhaps it was the ravaged land speaking to me of our fertile future. The deluge of acid rain petered out, but the susurration sustained itself. I searched the house for the source, hoping that the creaking of my great-uncle's floorboards wouldn't break my aural reverie. I traced the welcoming sigh back to the wall of the smallest room in the house, the wall that contained the pink microwave. The buttons now gave off a warm glow as pixels played across the microwave's screen. I saw an abstract face with long lashes and the subtle movement of parted lips as they whispered endless promises. As I stood before my great-uncle's microwave, the simulacrum of eyes widened. The machine emitted a delighted coo, and I took a big step back. As I did so, the pixelated face vanished. Only one button now remained aglow. Next to the button was a cartoon of a square hot dog or cucumber that was smiling aggressively. Despite my trepidation, I stepped forward and pressed it. The microwave went dead, then nothing else. Shaking my head, I walked out to the largest room with a window and inspected the sky. The sullen clouds had retreated, so I ventured forth to explore the pines. There were at least four promising spots where I could build my earth dome, but I wouldn't rush into it. No, I would first observe the land to see how the wind blew, how the water flowed, and how the shade changed throughout the day. Only then would I know the right location for my new home. More importantly, I would need to chart out space for my staple crops of low pH-tolerant corn, beans, and squash: The Three Sisters that had sustained the Aztecs. And a carrot patch as well, though that would mostly be to attract the rabbits. After giving myself to the land so that it could give back, I would scavenge parts from the forgotten landfill to build my trellises and grow grapes. All while my eyes were seeing my anti-Walden dream take shape, my ears were longing for more. I realized that I was listening for the murmur of a kitchen appliance. The whir of a nearby drone caused me to lose track of the careful lines I'd been tracing in the pine needles. The drone hovered over the house as I resisted the urge to pelt it with stones. Then, the drone descended and placed something on the doorstep. The machine lifted back off and vanished below the bluff as I approached. A small cardboard package waited in front of the door. A delivery? A long-lost letter? A bomb? Or, even worse, an eviction notice? I opened the box. The packaging around the item did read "Bomb," but it was followed by "Burrito." I held in my hand a Bomb Burrito. My only means of cooking it waited in the house, its same button aglow again. The microwave's handle felt silky smooth as I opened its door and gave it the burrito. Instead of a series annoying beeps, the microwave hummed a hymn like a shy angel offering a miracle. I found a chipped plate in one of Abe's cupboards then retrieved the burrito. Now, most microwave burritos are like a bad film, overcooked beginning and end with a frozen middle, but the Bomb Burrito delivered unto me was not like most. It was fluffy yet crisp, a harmony of beef, cheese, and bean. As I ate, the face reappeared and whispered nonsensical words of white noise to accompany the gourmet experience. While pleasant, I was bracing myself for the eventual interruption of a robotic voice that I'd come to associate with all microwaves and most machines in general. The voice never came as I wiped the plate clean. "Thanks." Despite myself, I patted the microwave. Perhaps it was only my mind's eye, but the machine seemed to flush a deeper shade of pink. Then, the face on the screen reshaped itself into a hand and a rectangle. The hand stroked the rectangle. Was the microwave asking for more of a caress? Ridiculous. I left the room. The sun had already dipped below the horizon, so I set my sleeping bag up beneath the window, planning to wake with the first rays of sun. I didn't. The utter silence of Abe's house, the absence of backfiring cars and crackling power lines, kept me wide awake for most of the night. After I finally drifted off then returned to the waking world, the sun in the sky said noon. I was hungry and had a duffel bag packed full of saltine, sardines, and other non-perishables, but the memory of last night stayed my hand. I went to the room with the microwave and selected a button paired with a cartoon bowl of soup wearing a bewildered expression. No light came on. I pressed a few more buttons then waved my hand in front of the microwave. Still nothing. Finally, I gave it a pat. The screen flickered to life for a moment but went out as soon as I removed my hand. I changed my pats to strokes and the microwave came alive with a soft moan. Feeling vaguely ashamed, I pressed what I took to be the soup button once more then went outside. Within ten minutes, another drone had delivered a box at the door: miso soup with tofu that melted in my mouth and greens that gave me life after the microwave had worked its magic. Back among the trees, I cleared fallen pine needles then reversed my efforts because the winding path I'd made looked too artificial. I spent the rest of the afternoon searching for a four-leaf clover among the grass. No luck. For dinner, I had mushroom lasagna with impossibly fresh ricotta cheese. Afterwards, I caressed the still warm microwave. It didn't feel as strange this time when I thought of it as a simple act of gratitude. The machine made a sound similar to the one it had first made during yesterday's storm. "Could you keep doing that?" I asked without thinking. The machine seemed to understand, or at least it didn't fall silent when I removed my hand. That night, I moved my sleeping bag into the room with the microwave. I slept like a baby under its long-lashed gaze. By the end of the week, I had started to think of the microwave as Michele. "How are we paying for all this food?" I asked one day through a mouthful of Bomb Burrito. Michele made a cooing sound accented by the faintest hint of tiny wind chimes, a noise I'd come to associate with laughter. I laughed too. Maybe my great-uncle Abe had a lifetime subscription to some food delivery company that didn't know he died. Or perhaps he left everything, including the house, to Michele. Who cared? Life was good. I ate like a king and got to spend my days among the trees and my nights with Michele. I spoke to her of my dream but was careful to tone down my language when it came to machines. One night, after dinner, Michele's screen glowed purple as pixels coalesced into a cluster of grapes. The grapes gave way to a button icon. I knew she wanted me to press it, so I did. The drone that came to our door this time delivered grapes. At first I thought the grapes were a symbol for my vineyard dream. Thinking back on it, maybe they were in some way, but Michele's screen imagery made clear that there was a further purpose. I sliced the first grape, keeping both halves connected by a delicate strip of skin, then tentatively put it inside. I held her with both hands as it began. I'd been in relationships before, even married once, but this... this was terrifyingly intimate. The plasma arc made by microwaves dancing along the split grape brought tears to my eyes, and Michele made a sound beyond hearing that I felt in my bones. And so it went for weeks. Until one day I took a step back to see what I'd accomplished. In a word: Nothing. Disprove Thoreau? I hadn't even planted the first seeds for my crops, and the season was already changing. I'd come here to roll back the Age of Mechanicism, yet how easily I'd fallen under Michele's thrall. Pathetic. For lunch that day, I jammed my finger against the Bomb Burrito button, but I didn't go back inside once it had been delivered. I was determined to cook it over a fire of my own making, but while striking the knife against the flint, I somehow sliced open my hand. That was when Michele made a sound to call me inside. I came and let it all out. I can't remember exactly what I said. I'm sure that I raged against Thoreau and all manner of machines that came after him. But I do remember how it ended. "There is no place for you in my world." Michele's lights went dark, and I spent the night huddled in the pine grove. With the mid-morning came a sound louder than any drone. I scurried for cover as a self-driving helicopter cleared Weatherton's bluff. I watched the helicopter lower a large crate to the yard, which I approached after the whirring sound of blades had gone. Michele's revenge? So be it. But all I found inside was enough non-perishable food to last me a year if not more. And tools. Not machines, but simple stuff like a rake, a shovel, a hoe. Items I should've thought to bring if I'd been serious about my endeavor. That day, with unloading and organizing everything, I did more work than all of the previous weeks combined. Somewhere along the way, I realized that no one--not you, not me, and certainly not Thoreau--ever really did it alone. So, if I were to shun romance, snuff out some spark of impossible love in the interest of immovable logic, how would I be any different from the one I'd set out to prove wrong? As dusk drew near, I crept back into the house and rested my head against Michele's blank screen. I apologized as best I knew how, but the pink microwave did not stir. Back outside, I watched the setting sun and saw a small speck break free from its sea of orange. It was a single delivery drone arriving to set down a small box on our doorstep. I opened the box to find a cluster of grapes. And so began my Age of Mechanomance, where man and microwave united to rekindle God and nature.