The Rhetoric Of The Remix

Awaking into a dreamy morning, full of rain, I was looking at a sleepy city whose heavy eyelids were becoming visible with each blink resisting the invasive dawn. As I was observing the lights behind the window panes being lit as the street lamps were turning off, I could feel my own eyes seeking other sites. As the urban giant was becoming increasingly alert to the rising vibrancy of the traffic, walks, movements, and mingling of all sorts, the semi-transparent milky crust was gently spreading over it, protectively barricading its pulse, its the rhythm, its steady bassline, from other reemerging dynamics.

(I remember things. By the word things I mean people, stuff, places, times, and things that I still don’t know the words for. I don’t know if anyone does.)

As the whitish threads were pouring through falling microtubes saturating the colossal concrete empire, they were acting as a moving cleanser of the paths along which they were sliding, simultaneously brushing away dust, piles of frozen, sticky, stinky vomit, plastic bags smeared with glue,  congested, disposed syringe, cigarette butts, empty vials, pieces of foil, bottles, mashed potatoes that nobody wanted, scrambled eggs that somebody couldn’t eat, mayonnaise--spiked with heavy cream and ketch up--smudged over the surface of a bench, on that dollop--like a cherry on a cake—debris of a blunt, around it a puddle of beer pouring out of a knocked down can, pouring further like a stream looking for a crack on the pavement to dip into and hide from its own smell.

Awaking into a dreamy, rainy dawn, I was becoming part of that fluffy milkishness. As the army of the falling liquid microtubes was softly descending, I was falling asleep, falling in love with a universe that spread its smooth cushions to welcome the visitor. I entered an intergalactic quietude occasionally stirred by the light emanated from the stellar formations we were passing by. Followed by long stretches of silence. And longer patches of mixed up presences and absences where boredom reigns. No satellites, no meteors, no asteroids. Like the whole universe were a syringe, whose barrel was our alley—emptied chamber and chasing what was previously its content and now is inevitably eluding it, leaving even the very needle empty and useless.

(Because I remember, things, places, and times are vivid in my memories. So are the people. Sometimes, I think I remember too much. Things thus become heavy. Nonexisting words even heavier. Let alone thoughts.)

Awaking into a dreamy dawn, the city was drunk with rain. As the street lights were fading away, the whitishness dribbling down the peeling facades, was looking for the beer brook searching for an interstices of rescue. Sour beer drunk with microthreads of the semi-visible velvety coating. Together they flow along intergalactic expressways. Merging with long silent alleys, they become an imaginary pulse of the domineering emptiness, thereby forming a vibrating lane, generously presenting the passengers with intense mildness unmistakenly undisturbed  & irresistibly undisturbing:

Yo mafotherfuckin gerbera, open up, wake the fuck up, get outta here & fucking speak!

As the union flow is dashing carried by the echo of the syncopated conversation between its own imaginary beat and the universe’s forgotten smile, it is struggling to disentangle the eyelashes encrusted with superfine nanoparticles of the yesteryear’s starburst. The confusion of the off-focus image is becoming a look through the lens of the eye after a splash of refreshing, crystalline water. The ketch up magma is turning into a beehive of rear lights, while the supposedly analgesic fusion of beer who thought it was adrenalin and milk shreds who mistook themselves for an anesthetic, is transforming into a river of headlights.  The sparkling effect is being intensified as from the horizon, previously erased by intergalactic darkness, flickering of a distant city is manifesting itself in the glory of its reemerging from the depths of its own fabricated invisibility. The intergalactic desert is clearing in front of the reawaken concrete giant, bursting in its robustness, an enactment of a pompous overflow, an embodiment of proud stoicism with a shy, skillfully hidden heart of greenery amidst the desensitized gigantic urbanity.

Awakening with the dreamy city, disenchantment is shining : neither sadness nor overjoy. Disenchantment is not disappointing. It is no more (and no less) than what it is. It can be described in different ways, viewed from different angles, analyzed from diverse perspectives, dissected to the point of unrecognizability, interpreted until it almost turns into its own distorted dream. And yet, all the words, no matter how violating or beautifying, can rob it of the protective shield : the poetics of a political meditation. Such is the rhetoric of the remix.