The stained windows of blues, and reds, and ivory,
Enlighten this whole space with a peaceful ambience,
Of faith, of hopes, and love, and you feel the presence,
Of some holy spirit, there, holy memories…
We have built this big church to offer to Mary,
And to her divine Son, Jesus Christ, all our lives:
The future of our lives, as their past and glory…
Once a fire took its roof, but by miracle,
The place stood still, then the firemen could arrive,
To set flames off. Then we repaired it…
Mystical!
*****
Jesus is with us.
In Paris, there is a legend,
That Jesus lives, rue Cordelières,
In a hidden villa, where ends,
A lane… Since our past hundred years.
He reputedly reads a lot,
Of old scriptures and some novels,
Served by a guard of the angels,
He thinks, he prays there, for the most.
Some say, He sometimes walk the streets,
To museums, or bakeries,
Or cafes, anonymously…
To a beggar, apparently,
A man who gifted jewelry…
Could have been Him!
Who knows?
Him, Christ!
Timothee Bordenave is a French author of essays, fictions and poems. He has published about 25 books today, in France and internationally. He is also an international artist. He used to work directly libraries in Paris, where he was born in 1984 and still resides now.
Bradbury Among Us: Why a Great Science Fiction Writer Understood Our Future Better Than We Do
Tradition and Algorithms
Recently, while watching my robot vacuum cleaner, I found myself thinking about our mahallas, where residents rise early in the morning and sweep their courtyards and streets with a broom. Here, cleanliness is not merely the absence of dust — it is a sign of respect for neighbors and a readiness to open one’s gates to a guest at any moment.
At home, meanwhile, my robot vacuum was stubbornly trying to “negotiate” with a chair leg. In that moment, I caught myself thinking that I had read about something like this before.
I took an old volume of Ray Bradbury from the shelf and was struck: he had looked straight into our present world — with all its gadgets and, more importantly, with our loneliness among them.
Smart Homes and Empty Rooms
In his famous short story There Will Come Soft Rains, Bradbury described a house that prepares breakfast, cleans up, and reminds its owners of their daily tasks. In the 1950s, this seemed like pure fantasy. Today, we refer to it as a “smart home” and control it from our smartphones.
But Bradbury looked deeper. Technology may be flawless, yet it remains only a set of microchips. Surrounded by sensors and voice assistants, we often forget that comfort is created not by automatic curtains but by the people who live behind them.
In Uzbekistan, a home has always been a place where the guest, not the interior, stands at the center. Bradbury’s “smart house” is functional, but it lacks baraka — the blessing that comes from living conversation over a cup of tea.
Artificial Intelligence: A Friend or an Imitation?
Bradbury often wrote about robots replacing loved ones. Today, we discuss chatbots capable of holding conversations as well as an old friend. It seems convenient.
Yet the writer warned us: by replacing living communication with a perfect algorithm, we risk forgetting how to understand real, “imperfect” people. His stories remind us that no program can replace the warmth of human sincerity.
Teahouse Versus Algorithm
In Fahrenheit 451, a mechanical hound hunts those who think differently. It is unsettlingly similar to modern social media algorithms that decide what we see and what we do not, creating an invisible digital cage.
Bradbury feared the isolation of people in their “seashells” — their headphones. He foresaw a world in which people would be locked inside digital cocoons.
In Uzbekistan, the tradition of the teahouse is still alive — a place where news is learned not from an algorithmic feed but from living conversation. Watching elders and young people spend hours in unhurried discussion over hot tea, one realizes that this is the antidote to the mechanical hound Bradbury imagined. Here, the algorithm is powerless before a sincere “Assalomu alaykum.”
AI Art and Traditional Craft
A neural network can generate a portrait in seconds, yet it lacks the soul that a master from Rishtan puts into every ornament on a ceramic plate.
Bradbury taught us to value imperfection, because within it — like in hand-embroidered suzani — lies the uniqueness of human destiny.
A machine can imitate style. But it cannot live a life.
The Human Being as the Main Instrument
Ray Bradbury did not seek to frighten us. He urged us not to lose our heads in excitement over new technologies. His books are not merely science fiction; they are, in a sense, a manual for living in the future.
He teaches us the essential lesson: in a world of endless code and perfect machines, we must remain human — vulnerable, mistaken, alive.
Robots, artificial intelligence, and digital systems are all creations of human hands. Therefore, it is up to us to guide technology and to build a real world of lived experience.
For us in Uzbekistan, Bradbury’s challenge sounds especially urgent: how to build IT parks and implement artificial intelligence without losing the warmth of neighborly support and the value of a large family. We must make technology a tool for strengthening our bonds — not a wall dividing us.
References
1. Bradbury, Ray. Fahrenheit 451. New York: Ballantine Books, 1953.
2. Bradbury, Ray. “There Will Come Soft Rains.” In The Martian Chronicles. New York: Doubleday, 1950.
Professional Biography: Azimov Mirsaid is a dedicated programmer with a strong passion for robotics and intelligent systems. He enjoys building efficient, practical solutions that connect software with real-world applications. His work is driven by analytical thinking, creativity, and a constant desire to improve.
He is particularly interested in projects that combine hardware and software — from embedded systems to interactive technologies. He enjoys exploring how logic, automation, and design can work together to create meaningful and innovative solutions.
He approaches challenges with focus, discipline, and a strategic mindset. Continuous learning is important to him, and he is always working toward becoming a stronger developer and a future robotics engineer.
On my friend’s farm, I walk in hay. Stop at the sight of a dove with a broken wing. Its feathers are stained red with blood and eyes sink in their blue sockets fighting to remain open. The sun pierces gray clouds. My fingertips stroke its oat-colored silk beak, throat parched by yellow rays. I sit by the dove in the corner of my world reciting Hafiz’s verse, your separation from God is the hardest work in this world. Just rest. Life sustaining force vanishes. And in the mauve nook of its wings, blood dries becoming darker, the red color of cherries’ flesh in June. My fingertips stroke the plumage of its crown. Both wings collapse in the hay absorbing essence of fluid from veins, arteries and dark chambers. I’m mourning a morning dove. Peace has been stained and the two of us wait for rain to cleanse our souls. My arms open to the drizzle, face in mist. Nature gives a little reprieve then it showers us with grace. My bare legs, and arms spread apart and back rest in the softest nest. A five-pointed star surrender to the universe. How did the dove know to rest its body in hay to take its last breath? In this our home we gather our strength, then hand over the heaviness onto earth’s bed.
Jerrice J Baptiste is a visual artist, poet, author of nine books. Her watercolor drawings on paper have been accepted or forthcoming in Synchronized Chaos, Las Laguna Art Gallery exhibit in California, MER, Spirit Fire Review, Jerry Jazz Musician Magazine. She’s presented her art work at The Omega Institute in Rhinebeck, NY in 2025. She’s been featured as a solo artist at The Mountain Top Library in Tannersville, NY in 2025 & 2026. Her most recent poetry book called Coral in the Diaspora is published by Abode Press in 2024. Her poetry has been published in numerous magazines and journals, Artemis Journal, The Yale Review, Mantis, Kosmos Journal and hundreds of others.
There was a colourful toy; and a wooden dog upon a string, and these things were from long before and there were as a rainstorm and the water climbed up the stream sides incredibly high to almost the tips of hills where evergreens lived. But even before that, the lady who was old and a guardian kept gardens and had flowers and raspberries that were colourful and robust and always happy during the summer sun under which they lived. She collected the raspberries sometimes, walking slowly, and carrying a bowl to put them in. She was then healthy, joyous, and often the boy that she took care of followed her and helped or just watched the world the, the trellis and brick and there were a wooden archway and gate that led to the backyards, to those raspberry and flower worlds…
How later the night darkness became full and the spirits spoke, but they were good spirits and angels and a group of them sang songs and comforted him in his ears if spiritual ears and other worldly hearing. And an oval carpet and God or existence was strongest, wisest, and once, even before that, he was sitting with his grandmother on porches and wore comfortable clothes and had curly hair and was happy, smiling, even laughing.
Oh, he remembered her then and thought she was around currently. A guardian. And she was as she was then. Making things, sweaters, hats, and tablecloths. These were crocheted and useful, well-made, and made confidently and often. And he thought then that, Thank God the world had made her and that she cared for him, made him food, and gave him shelter.
In the far south there was a fine cement pool and beyond it, the sea. These things were good things and markers of the divine. He had been swimming in both. Sometimes the guardian was there, had been there, and that was good. In the modern time he wore a large blue winter coat and as he glanced almost accidentally in a mirror one cold winter day, he remembered the time of guardian and that he wore then a blue coat at least one winter and that it had zippers and a button and kept him warm. He thought it nice and somehow even auspicious that both coats were similar and that somewhere his light and the light of the guardian plus the angels and spirit was the same.
