Words, Technology & Who Cares

What is available to one in an encounter with the sites meeting the eye with indifference? With the same indifference the eye prompts the communication apparatus and words start their momentary hostility attack. What words are being generated in an encounter with the scenes indifferent to the commentator? The words indifferent to the commentator. There is a moment when the vehemence of verbalization seems to be capable to overshadow the glow otherwise present. There is a moment of a panicky outburst of the realization that the words, the scenes, and the commentator are undeniably in discord. There is a moment of paralyzing confusion. The moment that calls for being detected, unmasked, and rejected. The moment almost seamlessly transposed into a paralyzing awareness slowly dissolving the thickness of the bewildering paralysis. The moment that calls for being recognized, disambiguated, and resisted. Softly clearing gelatinous obstacles: The words not speaking the language of what needs to be said call for being negated. Their threatening impact to be acknowledged as a disguised charm of a foggy night when shadows hide the traces of the misty air softly dissolving into the night leaking from the fading twilight as people go from work to the warmth of their homes.

Lurking from beneath a snaky cloud veiling the city, a golden whisper is spreading through urban enclaves of words in conflict, words in accord. Alternating. Kissing. Biting. Necking. Crawling. Floating. Golden whispers of smoke. Moonlight, foggy looks exchanged:

Watts yo mafotherfucking slogan?

Rain, sweet fruit, and sunshine in the service of freedom from everything, but not for anything.

Yomafotherfuckingerbera!

As a child, I did not ask myself how many people in the world started using the telephone long after their adolescent courtship was over. When they were children, my parents did not ask about the percentage of the world population actively utilizing the luxuries of the radio signal, having spent their youth, info-starved years completely unaware of enlightening wavelengths. Their mafothers didn’t give a fuck about the rest of the world having been introduced to the enchantment of the steam engine, aircraft, and what not—you name it—after they had spent long years of riding horses, horse-drawn vehicles, donkeys, and donkey-horse versions of each other…unowadamsayin…

Nowadays, nobody gives a shit about half-of-the-planet-or-so spending their time, doing their jobs, dreaming their dreams, and, generally, fucking around, with the help of the utensil with which they met only after a couple of decades had been spent in the manner strikingly different from how technology reshaped the everyday, once it kicked in big time. Even fewer are the minds who entertain the idea that millions have no fucking clue what the former are talking about, since they such decades know not.

And / and yet / yet, / , one / one can’t / can’t but /  but wonder / wonder  what / what kind / kind of / of communication / communication it / it is / is between / between fragility / fragility and / and adjustability / adjustability that / that enables /enables such / such incessant / incessant, / ,  unfathomable  / unfathomable cultural / cultural remapping / remapping.

Who cares!  Choose : YES / NO.

As always, in such an impenetrable jungle of words, yours seem to be zillions of galaxies from where mine are being communicated. Moments of smoke. Moments of golden whispers. Moments of the words of shadows. Moments full of rainy days. From the epochs bygone. When the selection of words succinctly indicated that some other choices were not made. Based on the ones made, though, the vivacious memories decorate indistinct days, the monotony of noise. Uncertainty: Does one, or, does one not like those choices? Certainty : Know how to ask a fucking question. Doubt: Does one, or, does one not want to remember? Certainty : Gettafuckouttahere and select yo words with care!

(In some people’s memories other people are the past. Some people have future thoughts of other people. Some people in some people’s thoughts are the present.)

I love the language I can understand and speak. It’s called the poetics of the remix.

(I remember things. The word things means what constitutes part of who one has been.)

I want that language to speak through the enclaves of silence and tell me that there are jungles making my words unreachable from where yours are being communicated, but that such a swarmed communication tunnel is being reconfigured into the simplicity of the clear communication channel.