Once upon a time, there were cities. There are
cities now, too. The cities from the past are the cities from the past. Modern
cities are as the name indicates. Cities in the past tended to be populated
with demographics seeking a social vocabulary different from how social
relations were managed in rural areas. If one lived in an urban area, it was
generally assumed that such a living wouldn’t require the specificities of the concerns
pertinent to those of land owners, country gentry, and social strata of their
ilk. One could by no means be the owner of the land in a city. One could own an
apartment, a house, a building, which, by extension, certain linguistic
affinities and tastes equate with being an owner of the land. But, just how
erroneous such a discursive equation is is evident from the consequences of
choosing the language that would enable it. For example, if one embraced
(hopefully not!) such a terminology, it would allow syntactic acrobatics,
lexical juggling, and morphological haze of the approximately following
content:
iCould you be if one is to whadafuckwhatsoeva!
This, to say the least, can be difficult to
understand. As such, it should be left at that, rather than become an integral
part of the adopted speaking manner. The reason why resistance against such a
discursive pattern is highly recommended in any reliable historical account of
the development of the bucolic-urban divide is that by refusing it, one is
presented with the possibility to speak
in the ways unthinkable, should one refrain from restraining oneself to the
narrow world of buzz semantics. One such instance of liberating one from the
enslavement by bewilderment, is as follows:
I like the language I can understand and
speak. It’s called the poetics of the remix.
From the perspective of the modern day city dweller,
the claim opposing to the controversial equation can be sound. Alternatively,
it can strike one as vague. A building must be in a way related, even in legal terms,
to the concept of ownership. Both sides might dispute about how their
respective takes can reflect, or, be distinct from how owning a piece of land
in rural areas is understood and managed. Well, the former can have a hard time
proving their stance. The latter might require even a more sophisticated
rhetorical apparatus to persuade the opponent in what they state to be right.
Communication between them might be imagined as follows:
Would you do is so am are thou the owner ich bite
pozalsta!!??!!??
Thou sprach as if it were now in the know no me
not!!??!!
Chill the fuck out! Get outta here! Mafotherfucking
gerbera, hide fucking not! Rather, open up & speak for fuck’s sake!!!
I like the language I can understand and
speak. It’s called the poetics of the remix.
As evident, the aimed persuasion is an unachievable goal.
For that reason, language conjures up its own ways to either enable the exchange
between the interlocutors, or, to prevent further attempts of conversational
somnambulism. To that end, language provides an inspiration for saying
something that would indirectly signal the possibilities of soothing the rough
edges of the troublesome communication. One, thus, pictures a discursive
context of the approximately following content:
The soil in the forest in late fall would be covered
with dry leaves were it not for the mud infusing the woodland flora with moist,
density, and color of an unmistakenly distinctive kind. The synergy is a potent
dampening components in the language of the woods. It is like a gelatinous
river deprived of a flow.
Then it’s not a fucking river!
I like the language I can understand and
speak. It’s called the poetics of the remix.
The fauna of such a river are medusas
transformed from the roots of the trees defending the definition of who they
are. The roots had enough of being a rhizomeorhic structure and seek other
habiti. They defy the powers keeping them enslaved by the somnambulist
hierarchy mistaken for the structure of the majestic plant. By pulling hard,
they liberate themselves and move fucking upward…all the while keeping that
brownish, jelly river rolling.
(Things in my memories
are what makes my thoughts heavier than I can bear it. Or, so somebody’s memory
of myself has it.)
Then it’s not a fucking medusa. Nor are those
fucking roots. Speak fucking right!
I like the language I can understand and speak. It’s called
the poetics of the remix.
Rolling with no waves to decorate its
curvy surface, the phlegmatic mass is spreading humidity through the
oversaturated fog. It exudes a thick smell whose valences are on the same
wavelengths with the decrease in visibility. The unlikely fusion is turning the
trees into silhouettes whose mirror image, were it a mirror, would go:
Like, shall we chill the fuck out, clear
up fucking confusion--dissolve fucking noise for fuck’s sake!
I like the language I can understand and
speak. It’s called the poetics of the remix.
A brownish gelatinous amalgamation can
be called a river even if it flows not. Rebellious roots can be transfigured
into medusae even if they swim not. A reflection on the surface can be called a
mirror image even if the surface is not a mirror.
(But that’s not my
thought. Because some people remember things among which I am not.)
I like the language I can understand and
speak. It’s called the poetics of the remix.
The slogan that encapsulates its philosophy is:
A
sunny clime means sweet fruit and freedom from
everything, but not for anything.
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