Objects And The World Around Them

A face as an image, not a picture, came along with other images and brought brightness to the ravished nerves of Ye Kids. First, they didn't move because they were frozen. Because they remembered the warning. Because everything they went through during those years of trial filled their bones with anxiety. Fear of doing something wrong, fear of having done something wrong, fabricated fear. They smiled once they realized that the brightness was not a threat. They were hesitant to believe it. They were used to feeling uncomfortable. They'd thought they were inconsolable. They thought so many things. They thought their net collapsed, that they couldn't restore it, that they could not reconstitute its nodes. They were afraid to smile. To dance. And yet, they were smiling. And yet, they were dancing. The brightness of the face is the net. How it was restored they did not know. How the nodes were reconstituted they did not understand. If they were to explain it, they could not. They did not care. It was not necessary.

Fellow Cyborgs, just a word before we proceed with the exploration of the world populated with technological wonders. Our counterrites, resisting the frequencies discordant with the remixed legacy of Abreville and the grooviologist spirit, should bear one thing in mind: A Panapocalyptic Manifesto should be taken with a grain of salt. Not only does it obsessively focus on postcoital depression as a source of phobia and exalts it as the central human emotion/activity, but manipulates On How To Phunkie ReadWirteRemix (ØØØØ) in the ways and to the extent that, apart from threatening to degrade the potentials of the phunkie book, gives the reader a clue for interpreting the world not entirely in accord with the way it is. Now, let’s observe the world.

A look at the cell phone has a feel of superwahwahed guitar sound thumping on a dusty road. As it is thickening, it is coalescing with the ruthless powerblast gently absorbing the reflections of the cacti lining the road. The reflection of the cacti comes from the sand. Each grain is sending the current report about the feeling of the cacti. The steady heaviness of the desert is punctured with an occasional pinball-meets-orchid  tremolo coming from the keyboard looting the surrounding in a ferocious act of sampling whatever sound can be found along the way.

It turns out it’s because of the way one feels while looking at the cell phone. A truth of the matter is that among a wide range of sixteen possible emotional varieties, the cell phone chooses one to respond to the emotion with which one looks at it. The fact that it bears close to no semblance to the actual input signal is of lesser significance than the fact that the object can refuse to unlock and allow one to either answer the call or make a call.

Hey, it’s fucking brutal! Not only are we, fellow-cyborgs, objectified within humiliating confrontations with nihilo-cannibalist dosh oligarchs, but now even cell phones make of us nothing but a source for the generation of their own emotions. Fake, false, and flawed at that!

Fucking right! I mean, you are right that it is wrong.

DOWN WITH THE DICTATORSHIP OF GADGETS! LONG LIVE FREE SHIT!

To fuck!

Lyrically tiptoing over the wobbling bass wave is a chain whose links are bluebells hopping and balancing like a tightrope walker along the vibrating surface. Leaves from the overlooking trees are squeezing pearly droplets from the veins to ease the synthesis of various substances. It turns out that the sensation comes from an atm when the person intent on getting cash from it presses the withdrawal button with the index finger, instead of the middle finger. Not hard enough at that. Or, too hard, depending on the day of the week, because if one presses the withdrawal button on Wednesday too hard, the atm says: ”get the fuck outta here” and one can as well fuck oneself and say goodbye to groceries for that day. If, on the other hand, one presses the balances account button lightly on Friday, the atm can respond with the smell normally found on the diaper of a toddler after a hearty meal consisting of boiled spinach and milk so sweetened that even a child says: ”wow, this is fucking sweet!” The fact that it leaves the person who would rather get cash from the machine than play sensory quizzes without  necessary nutrients is irrelevant for the advancement of technology which happens to be slightly more than  the destitution its heart secretly confesses because it cannot catch up with the progress made in the development of the world around it, particularly in the realm of communication.

In the cry of a technological device, one hears how it imagines humans would speak were they free from the illusion called bonding and other shit.