Searching the Archive

On one particular occasion, Ye Kids, deeply moved by ye grooviologist urge for research, were looking for a file that supposedly could illuminate the enigma for a period long forgotten and then remembered via a need for clarification. The clarification in question is related to the dilemma that has been obstructing the steady direction of their counter/nihilo-cannibalist endeavors. Specifically, quite often, they realized, the files from either the factory walls or the Café Club Museum came to the organic processor of information in the way that threatened to afflict the generation of the newly digested stuff. Why it was so was the question they asked themselves more than once. The answer was either not clear enough or there was none.

Now, they decided they were going to retrieve the file that might not provide the answer, but show how the communication obstacle manifested itself. The cliff. The hands. The vehemence of ye groviologist spirit. The unstoppable need for a clear thought, functional archive, and productive counterrites. The foam encrusting the wave dispersed into a zillion of fine, flaky, misty droplets. Dew on the faces and bodies of the researchers. Patina of copper light penetrating the mist.

Ey, cyborg-fellows! Let’s welcome the file we’ve been searching for!

Ey! May ye groove be with us!

Neon light crawling across the floor. The bar in the shadow of the reflections from the bottles on the shelves. Cocktails in the glasses. Ice cubes clattering. Piles of coats scattered over the room. Random moves to the beat of the monster sound system. Lifting the clothes. Heaps of heavy bodies. Occasionally moving to the beat. Reaching for the glass. Slurp. Move. Another body moves. Neon flashes. Moving to the beat of the monster sound system. Sweaty bodies. Cocktails pouring down the chins. Shirts drenched in the sugary liquid. Smells like bubble gum. Smells like the stale air in the club the day after. Smells like the sound the bodies don’t like. And move to. Looks like the music that moves the bodies. Looks like the bodies that move like desire. Looks like nothing one would want to dance to.

Ey! Turn on the clarification enhancer of the copper reflection!

On!

Increase balancing powers of the mist regulator!

Gottit!

Sticky stains on the shirts blended with the dried puke. The sound system. The bar is vibrating. So are the bodies. Too anestheticized to move in a more organized fashion. A limb here and there. Moves another body. Whose it does not matter. The vibrations from the bar are spreading around the room. Bodies like props. Sound like any other sense.

Bright blue sky. Bright blues sky.

From long time ago. Neon light moves the atrophied bodies inhaling the staleness of the evaporations.

I won’t ask anything. Because I don’t know how to ask.

Screens all around the club. Dance. Undefinable bodies. Look like clothed meat. There’s music.

Indistinguishable heaps of moving limbs. Move to the beat.

Ey! Regulate the input of the sound from the screen!

Can’t! Got a different input altogether!

Okay. Let the puke and saliva dry. May the mist dissolve the stinking crusts.

Abreville resumes its steady pace. Its breath is the quiet of the whisper from a poem written by a three year old. It knows no way to regulate anything. Its smell is the freshness of the rising mist meeting the warmth of the sunshine, shyly lurking through the cloud. Welcoming the smiling eye. Mild vibrations kissing the air. Playing with the sand. Sending reflections onto the pebbles. Gleam gently drizzling over the leaves. Trees like giant sparkles.