A Question One Does Not Ask

On How To Phinkie ReadWriteRemix (ØØØØ) points out the occurrences that while experienced cannot be perceived as when they, in retrospect, illuminated from a different angle, with a light from a different source, acquire a shape and meaning slightly altered from what it felt like during one’s immersion in them. Numerous are examples of such modifications. They can even be categorized according to types, but that’s not a fruitful way to talk about them here and now. Rather, for Ye Kids mafotherfucking grooviologists, a more appropriate way of presenting such cases is to relate them to the experiences they themselves have been involved in.

Historical records archive the info that emanates testimonials woven into their ever-mutating fabric, strangely sustaining the same texture. The fact as such is of merely zero relevance. However, in the context of the historic events repeatedly held on the cliff at the forefront of the infamous Beach, occasionally at the original Café Club, later to be molded into the Café Club Museum, and, perhaps most importantly, in the spaces providing communication between those topoi and the ancient factory walls. The most drummatic instances of the gatherings in questions have been inspired, mobilized, and carried out as responses to nihilo-cannibalist threats.

One of the most radical manifestations of the defense in question is the organic processor of info, disabling the increase in density of dosh oligarchs’ power, subverting fertilization of the virginal soil of ye native Arctic with seeds of somnambulism, and maintaining its greenery dignified in protecting the generic color from the sorry trickery of its variants such as the flag attempting to eradicate  the distinction between uniformity and union.

Hardly could a connection be made between those and what kindred experiences, were it not for On How To Phinkie ReadWriteRemix (ØØØØ). The art of the remix, along with featuring its key characteristic, looks at the phenomena clearly resonating, and yet being persistently camouflaged by deceitful titillations, tickling imagination and emotions alike and, by doing so, clothing the everyday in unlikely robes. Challenging as it may be on this low-tech theoretical level of turntablist poetics might appear, the phenomenon might as well be not quite easy to grasp, detect, and/or feel. However, in the spirit of the intrinsic feature of the remix, it can make a point in the flux of storytelling.

Thus, the proverbially vehement wave that resulted from the transformation of the factory walls archival material, hitting the organic processor of info with an indescribable amount of intolerable degree of toxicity, acidic raid scorching the atavistic wires of its hard drive, melting the vitality of its sensory apparatus with the blindingly shocking blow of hostile frequencies. Or, so the radically strong misreading of the passages from A Panapocalyptic Manifesto has it. While On How To Phinkie ReadWriteRemix (ØØØØ)  does indicate the afflicting powers of the invasive strategies, it also flashes out the background without which the matter can hardly be comprehended.

The vital fact is the forgotten prehistoric scenario that undoubtedly  reveals the character of the cliff series in the light of the echoes of the stories once told and then thrown into the void of their own uncertainty.  Those echoes turned out to be whirling during a long absence of hearers to retrieve them from the abyss of their own loops. The echoes seem to be reverberating with the sound of the water splashing the steep rock. The counterrites  embodying  the unifying motto “Death to liposuction! Long live shit-based face cream!” have been a delayed  vibration conveyed through the spaces of connectivity from the contracting tissue catapulting a massive contingent of vomit into the surrounding. The decomposing particles of the long-processed nutrients are being launched in all directions and while sparkling around the interarchival pathways, they find themselves immersed in a self-annihilating act eradicating the remaining nanograms of the traces of repulsive degustation.

I wish I’d said that leaves were green when I saw them. I wish I could say something now that would help me reimagine the ways of talking about greenery with others. I wish it was right to assume that to say NO to robozombism is a matter of choosing who one’s friend is.