Storystyling : Unseasoned Seasons (foYr/7)

Places, Walks & Loves of Their Own

A café in a city. The café is located in the heart of the monetary flux. It is surrounded by buildings aloof in the grandeur of architectonic awe. A river of movements fills the pavements between them with steps unshakably fixated on achieving goals. The concrete forest is nested by restless bodies constantly alert, constantly attuned to the pace of—the river of their own steps. But, the river is completely unaware of the forest in whose midst it is. Because it busies itself with restlessness. Needless to say, the forest is totally desensitized to the meandering companion. It would be truly absurd if it weren’t. Hence, they cohabit, and yet, know of each other they do not.

In a secluded corner of that fuzzy urban mimicry of nature, the café spaced out in its uninterested drift. It is furnished with a man made version of wooden tables. Their tops are clean, their edges sharp. Each side faces a chair. Four in total. The chairs are sleek, made of the combination—not a compound—of aluminum and plastic. Glass walls bring a glimpse of the concrete delta into the café. The confluence of diverse flows acts like a gigantic canvas—strangely, ornamenting the interior from, dare one say, the wrong side

 (: did tho once say something t(h)ree times, ha!).

The glass wall is lined with an elegant bar overarching tall bar stools. The café boasts of immaculate connectivity. Devices are safe there. Safely plugged in, safely transmitting streams of ones & zeros. A man is sitting on one of those stools. His hair is black, wavy, smeared with gel that gives it wet, carefree, capricious look that is also supposed to invoke a sense of untamed energy. In manuals instructing in the connection between appearances and messages, it is taken as a symbol of individuality. His suit is dark green. His shirt pale beige. The rayon tie designed in the style celebrating geometry as means of safeguarding the boundaries of self (?!, you’d say…well, dare you not).

His black shiny shoes firmly attached to the base of the stool. They are exactly the same color as the man’s belt. His briefcase is laid on the table. A golden rim frames his eyes—reddish, but decisively glued to the digital circuit in front of him. Beehive of figures is that what imbues in his whole being fervor of a cosmic order, turning it into a voracious machine devouring each flicker on the screen with a perverse rush mixing anxiety and self-indulgence. You’d think he is keeping up with his business emails, drafting a meeting agenda, and/or planning a business trip across the country, but you’d be wrong to make such a guess.

He sits there for hours. His body does not give away the intensity of the drama occurring between his eyes and the screen. His immersion is his shield. He’s a businessman. Every morning a man leaks into this tumultuous windstorm arousing the raging waves of those peopled fiscal flows. He wears a state-of-the art suit. Both his attire and accessories spell out purchasing power of his virtual card on a par with a fantasy of gold reserves to n^th potency. He hardly sees those treelike incarnates of numbers, wavelike embodiments of calculations. Because all he sees is what he does. And does he only one thing: execute business plans. He is his suit. His suit is his business plan. That’s what he sees. That’s what he does. That’s what he is. He’s a businessman. Every day is nothing but another business plan accomplished, another success, another victory. He is a gladiator in the power arena. He is programmed to ceaseless winning and he knows it. But, he never thanks. Perhaps because all he has, all he does, all he is he achieved, he made, he earned. (anyone here in need of style-cramping, ha!)

She leaves discreet imprints of her robust, high-heeled shoes in the softening concrete of that labyrinthine, swarmed hiss of zillions of virtual cards being simultaneously swiped through gold unreserved machines. Her shoulder long, hazel-reinforced-with-blond-highlights hair is as mighty an image as her skirt is. She looks like a high school prom queen, like a teenager of the year face on the front page of a glossy magazine, like a walking ad for her dentist’s magic, like her own dream of what she wants to be. Her partners are to her not much more than flushable wipes. She uses them and dismisses them. Proudly so. She never doubts such an approach to others. Because doubt, too, is constitutive of self-reflection.

There are those who need no screen to hide their red eyes, no golden rim to sooth the ferocious look safeguarded by the immobility of the body in a sitting position. There are those who need no business plan to assure them of irrevocable discarding thankfulness as a redundant category, a superfluous, time consuming construct. There are those who need no disposable partners to cement their po(s)ta/ture. And yet, it makes them not a lesser version of that who they are. I don’t.

***

The woman who walks the streets chartered by fiscal fog is in love with her steps. Because they are produced by the touch between her shoes and whatever it is underneath them. She has a wristwatch. It shows three o’clock. Regardless of the part of the day or night. But, it doesn’t mean anything. Her sense of time is informed by the communication between her virtual card, her bank account, and the fantasy of gold reserves. Her face is always illuminated. It is independent of the amount of radiance coming from whatever source. Rather, her face reflects the surface it is constantly facing. Her eyes are fixated on the weather app. That’s how she knows what shoes to wear. That’s why she is in love with her steps.

The man who proudly walks his suit is in love with what he is. Because that’s what he does. He has a pocket watch. It shows quarter to twelve. But, it doesn’t mean anything. Whether it is nighttime or daytime is irrelevant. His positioning within the chronological flux is overshadowed by the dominant set by the flux of a different nature. It is constituted through a dialogue between his virtual card, his bank account, and the fantasy of gold reserves. His face radiates what it absorbs from the surface it faces on a constant basis. He is an avid observer of his weather app. That’s how he knows what suit to wear. That’s why he is in love with what he is.

The man who spends many an hour in a café is in love with his eyes. Because they are instrumental in obtaining information. He has a clock on the device he spends his time in the café with. It shows nine o’clock. But, it doesn’t mean anything. The notions of morning and/or evening have been expunged from his vocabulary. His navigating the meandering currents of chronos empire is ensured by the conversation between his virtual card, his bank account, and the fantasy of gold reserves. His face emanates a milkish halo, not because of the device he spends his time in the café with. It mirrors the surface it ceaselessly faces. He is monitoring closely the information provided by his weather app. That’s how he knows how to look. That’s why he is in love with his eyes.

These people wear their bodies like fashion items. These people share with each other being integral to those fiscal fog chartered maps. Their daily contributions to that colossal flow maybe even meet somewhere in that monetizing buzz. Perhaps, their enchantments merge somewhere within that beehive of currency exchange. But, they don’t know it. What they do know is that they are members of a gang. The same gang. But, they don’t know it. What they do know is that the gang is on a constant mission in the service of a deity of sorts. They call it casualization. Contrary to their immaculately structured, impeccably scheduled, and militantly ordered activities, they propagate social values based on a zero hour contract, unlimited availability enabled by the miracle of ones & zeros, uncertainty, and crude conditioning. Imperceptible perhaps, but fiercely oppressive. Perceptibly so. They call it casualization. It’s a misnomer. They devised the word to mask the maneuver of crossfertilization that can best be characterized as hypermechanized unruliness. That’s what they do. They devise words to mask other words. They are members of a gang. In the robinhoodism tradition. Only, it’s an inverted image of the idea. They take from the poor and give it to…well, themselves. I don’t.