Storystyling : Cityface (three / 6)

A silver frown. Lazy brow furrows. Liquid walls caress the furniture. Tables mingle. Shadowy signal to the guardian chairs. Smoky aura of the smell ascends like vine, curling around their legs. The constancy of half-empty glasses the anchor to the tubular draperies protecting the airy corridors from draft.

: may the archive’s frosty kiss be the heart of yo cyclone eye.

/ : swipe yo virtual card. may the currency it vouches for seep into the cyborg-transaction-detector / yo cymbalness hourglass / identify yourself, pleazy.

kessenem. i come from the corner of the world where everything is what can be encapsulated by the sense of sight. there, my name is what i see, my family is my name, my eye is my world, and my virtual card is my sense.

/ : bee-beep.

Verily.

 : я tho sobject matter, ha?

/ : swipe yo virtual card. may the currency it vouches for drip into the cyborg-marmalade-decipherer / yo cymbalness hourglass / identify yourself, pleazy.

kessenem. i come from the part of the planet characterized by the common social denominator being 3 + 1. neither four nor any bullshit of that kind: when we say 3+1, we mean 3 + 1. our communal being is sustained through the memory of such figures, our social glue is being generated by virtue of the accuracy of the combination of the digits in question, our cultural ties are woven in the fiber of the premises designating the significance of those numbers. thus, when we swipe the virtual card once, three drips hit yo shitty decipherer. having said that, it’s precisely what i’m not going to do.

/ : bee-beep.

Verily.

 : like when one once said something eight times, ha?

/ : swipe yo virtual card. may the currency it vouches for leak into the cyborg-cakecutting-initiator / yo cymbalness hourglass / identify yourself, pleazy.

kessenem. i come with an intention to tell thee where i come from, whereas all i can say is as long as one once said something eight times, that’s where one comes from. swipe my card i might. however, no virtual currency reach yo feces-based-facial-cream machine will not. coz it has allergy generator ingrained in the hologram you happen to be staring at right now, orajt?

/ : bee-beep.

Verily.

 : я tho or art thou not яe(de)divinizer or something, ha?

/ : swipe yo virtual card.  may the currency it vouches for flow through the cyborg oceanic driveway reflecting the smiling facades / yo cymbalness hourglass / identify yourself, pleazy.

kessenem. i come with eight smiles compressed within one word. my smile is the reflection of my idea of the city’s exuberant glow disguised in charming gentle grumpiness. my card is an enactment of the slogan “disenchantment is me middle name,” u know what i mean, no?

/ : bee-beep.

 : all being palephotonized now.

Verily.

/

Time dissolves situations in which certain vernaculars can be used. Relocations of a situational context into the past renders the vocabulary characterizing it lingering like a phantom sensation. Those unusable linguistic vapors sit heavily on memory. Those etherized morphemes, hazy syntagms, steamy phrases brood above the intersection of the time axes like haunting guardians : tantalizing in evoking the smiles and looks exchanged, comforting in the capacity to reanimate the energy mobilizing the whispers that glue those quirky verbal chunks to one’s dewy thoughts.

Some call it nostalgia. Some call it melancholic yearning. Some say it’s regressive. Some think it’s not very up-to-date.

Remind me wass it called, ha!

Sometimes, when a moonless night exudes the smell of moonoiling sunshower, seasons meet in fluffing leaves, mellow gaseous titillations crouching over the wavy surface of the river, and the reflection--like an invisible conversation between the face of the city and the sparkling embroidery across the indigo carpet. On such nights, words sneak out of captivity by oblivion. Words in a wild dance with subtonic inky tunnels. Galactic viaducts--wings of the wind--generators of cosmic vigor.

To some, it’s impractical. Others find it inefficient. Many see it as useless. Who cares!

Remind me wass it called, ha!

It’s not the time one is excavating. Nor is it a hunt for the lost treasure of the past. It certainly is not craving the long digested moments constitutive of the present.If the faculty of historicizing evidences the past present in the redeemed version of shards bygone, then the social imagination is as vivacious as ever. If  crystallizing thought power brings a whiff of interstellar cold, then frosty kisses abound in webwiered forestry. If the river anchors the dream of the oceanic shadow riding the mirror image of a sunshowered billow, then it’s everywhere.

--did tho once say something eight times, ha?

--how YES / NO.

Verily.

/

There are many languages that I know. But, they are all buried under heavy dunes of the time buffer. There are many languages that I know. But, they are all rendered inaccessible as time weaves its quirky yarns. There are many languages that I know. But, I don’t use them, as time detached them from their contexts. Time dissolves situations in which certain vernaculars can be used. Many languages buried in situations dissolved by time. Dislocated by time from interlocutors’ wish to reanimate them. Wandering linguistic chunks in pursuit of contexts, in pursuit of situations. Many languages that I know, but that I do not use. Those discursive renegades of desire, estranged verbal pieces devoid of communicational justification, disconnected from what they used to be in the service of. Languages of sorrows, languages of passions…sometimes, even the vocabulary of the everyday feels arcanely archaic. Sometimes, even the most up-to-date ones feel ancient. And yet, there are modern languages whose words mean to me more-or-less the same as they do to somebody else. i am glad such words sometimes vibrate with the glee sunshowering the communication engaged in by the interlocutors familiar with their mellow resonance. That’s the language i can understand & speak. it’s called the poetics of the remix.