dost tho own memories, ha?
: Everyone talks about childhood. They all
seem to remember the times when they were wee kiddies. Likewise, they appear to
be completely unaware of the fact that once, i, too, was growing up.
I certainly remember some salient moments that
occurred during that troublesome, at times painful, but otherwise sweet period.
In the days of my adolescence, on cold winter nights, as much as I’d look
forward to the greenery of the spring, so was i comfortably nestled in the
warmth of the ink armor shielding my warm nest from the fury of snowflake
vortices, cold wind raging above white dunes, and void brooding over the
puzzled cityface sagging ever so deeply into the haven of its companion pouring
silver glow over its dry tears. In the days of my adolescence, i recognized
some weird stirrings from my childhood.
As much as i rejoiced in the
brightness flashing from the wilderness above now clear of the moodiness of
gray repositories of rain, so was i baffled by the intricacy my emotions
imposed on me. Light green grass smelled of the freshness that no invocation
incarnated ever managed to live up to. Buds awakening from the landscape
recovering from long months of austerity sang silently in the voice no song
voiced out ever beat in either vigor or tenderness. Warmth spreading… soothed
the remnants of the harshness that scarred the vision. All was mellow now. My
child mind was whispering lulled by that sweet sound. My body cuddling in the
gleam of play.
And yet, slightly bewildered i was. The feeling came
from the strange sensation that i neither knew nor was able to explain. I kinda
know now that it most probably was a result of mixed feelings, ambivalence of
sorts, friction caused by the tension between undoubted glory of joy on the one
hand and, on the other, submerged melancholy…oscillations between lucidity and
opacity, vacillations between dazzling sources making everything seemingly
visible on the one hand and, on the other, obscurity mushrooming from the undetectable
source. wiered.
I don’t know if I knew I felt that kind of
versatility back then. I certainly remember feeling pretty groovy most of the
time, and rest of the time, i preferred to take advantage of the sound that
spared me unnecessary verbal acrobatics. The former didn’t trouble me--i didn’t
bother to try either to define or rationalize it, since none of such stuff is
needed in order to immerse oneself in the plenitude it offers. Nor did the
latter. Although i could neither pin it down nor articulate it. But, i clearly
felt the shadow that i could neither name nor describe. I think i got a glimpse
of solitude in the midst of omniscient exhilaration. Or, vice versa. Who knows…
***
burp…a sticky membrane stretches…burp…a snotty blob
surprises itself with that micro movement…gelatinous mass sways with the
bubble’s sedentary swings…a micro rupture in the mucous layer wrapping the
heavy shuddering amalgamation…a lazy micro jet of rancid phlegm spat through
the membrane’s transfigured semi-liquid outpour into the watered down jelly
absorbed by its own torpor, grumpily stirring, inhibited by its own
bewilderment…a stir here, a burp there…dollops colliding, flows of a thick
concoction languidly fluttering through those communicating vessels of
disaffection.
burp. a phlegm bubble pukes a lazily dripping saliva
stream. each drop triggers a disturbance in the muddy equilibrium. each wave in
that slimy empire entails restructuring
of the whole content within the unlikely formation. each movement provokes a
series of responses featuring annoyance suppressed by its own indifference.
There is a shopwindow on the avenue that boasts one
of the most fascinating specimens in the world of architecture. It’s tall and
it’s clad in glass. It’s dignified and unmoved in that self-generating source
of anchorage. Stately. The avenue has been hosting that architectonic veteran
for years. Silently protective. The dialogue between them is undetectable.
Urban tandems. The shop is in the shadow of the tree that cries dry tears. It
cries underneath the lamppost hissing dim light onto the stuff on display.
A pair of eyes is fixated on a necklace. The store
is closed. It will only open in the morning. Unimaginably long hours. Too much
to bear. The desire is powerful. The urge is strong. Craving prevalent. Too
long to wait. A hand in the pocket. Takes out a smartphone. Opens an app.
Browses. Finds the website of the facility now facing it hopelessly on the
street of rolling stacks of foliage.
click. products. click. accessories, jewellery &
stuff. click. necklaces. click…proceed to check out. click. enter the card
number. confirm the address. finalize the purchase. damn! this seemingly seamless
option would imply days of waiting for the goods to be delivered. Shit! Shit!
Shit! Long hours until pale pink kiss
breaks the spell of the ink chunks of chronos’ empire disabling access to the
object that to those eyes is much more than just that. It is a potential
confirmation of being fully integrated into this world of flowing desire and
unlikely objects.
Long hours pass. Time as a slide trapped in a bowl
of glue. Night as the jelly bubble’s dreamless echo of the void filling the
interstellar vacuities. Night lingers like nocturnal noodles smudged in ink
jelly. Dawn like an unattainable vision of the bright future. Daylight like the
past dislocated into somebody else’s dystopia. The present like…the resurfaced
dream of itself. Long hours pass. The night is thinning.
Everything is being bathed in the reawakening of the
city. To this pair of eyes, all the sounds generated by the cornucopia of
sources, the only one that resonates is that of the keys opening the door to
the store. The door that for those immeasurable hours disabled access to the
necklace—the ticket to the reconfirmed being who one is. Credit card is
charged. The object is wrapped, put in a small bag, taken, put in the handbag.
Sooner rather than later, it is unwrapped, put around one’s neck, and flashes a
sparkle of reassertion to its reflection in the mirror. As much as it is wanted
as the thing that can be bought and used for the purpose it serves, so is its
purpose being reinstated in the very act of its finding its place on the body
that purchased it and uses it.
In a dystopian world, there is no crime. Everything
is purchasable. Everything is consumable. Or, so somnambulist logic wants one
to believe. Or, so speaks mindless cacophony. The world in which the indication
of adulthood is power: power to purchase, consume, own, and…well, grow up, for
phunk sake!
like phunk!
***
-- counterrites are either the given or subversive
to the core. once attempts to render them PC / mainstream state of mind emerge,
forget about it.
--rodents exist in my universe as the notion
constitutive of the expression that sadly characterizes most of what is going
on on this planet in the era which i, alongside some insignificant seven
billion fellow cyborgs, inhabit.
--over time, i have developed weird animosity toward
oblivion.
--speeding exists in my universe as a concept nearly
synonymous with the idea of a dragon breath, shamefully signifying a
predominant modus operandi pertinent
to almost each and every aspect of the spheres public & private alike.
--could be acquired, but it might as well easily be
innate.
--instantaneity is one of the means of oppressive
social control—brutally misused and deployed as a manipulative tool that
ensures one of the most absurd (NOT paradoxical!) effects imaginable: dislocation
from one’s own experience.
--sanitized avant-garde dream is distasteful.
--the epoch that i and seven billion fellow cyborgs
populate wants one to believe that the world is simultaneously unbelievably
overcrowded and a stunningly vacant place.
--the world is run by dislocation by distraction. instantaneity
is a distraction—an enchantment instilling a sense of gratification, yet dissolving the awareness
of who precisely it is who is experiencing it.
--the time that claims parenthood, thereby attempting
to render us its children, threatens to obliterate presentness by implicitly
dissolving itself.
--wierd
/
wierd.
***
Through heavy layers of foggy mist, dreams of the
city veiling the cityface exude enchantment. All is bathed in surreal smoky
clouds. All is quiet now. Dreams of the city emerge from the city’s
subconscious: the outskirts of the urban giant are sedated by uneventfulness
desertifying the relics of its
infrastructure. Rusty fence loosely holding the creaking netting swayed by air
currents indifferently tracking invisible pathways. Railings crackle, as if
they, too, were enchanted by a dosage of oneiric grayness slowly appearing from
beneath the thickness of the inky ruler. Bushy formations like peacocks whose
feathers were plucked off, like an orchid whose petals were eaten by a
scavenger. Barbed wire instead of stems, broken glass where pebbles normally
protect the roots. Peeling facades on the remnants of the buildings, glassless
windows like eyes of an insomniac—sight deprived of sites to detect, to record.
Eyes of the buildings like gateways to the empire of ceaseless drafts.
--if you are the one who are three and once said
something three times, i would like to share a postfuturist moment with you
now.
--I, I, I, I, I, {i}, я, i.
--if you allow, i would like to draw your attention
to the fact that at the age of three now, i myself recall once saying something
thrice, and it felt like once.
--I, I, I, I, I, {i}, я, i.
--should you agree, i would like to notice the
parallel between the occurrences and take it to be capable of consolidating the
basis for the nexus (NOT comparison!).
--I, I, I, I, I, {i}, я, i.
--were your agreement the green light to my
observation, i would like to take the liberty of proceeding with identifying
the frequencies that resonate.
--I, I, I, I, I, {i}, я, i.
--if, by any stretch of imagination, i were to base
this postfuturist moment on the assumption that the reverberating three times
sound like one, i should prefer to be given the permission to utter the claim
about the details of that sonic drama.
--I, I, I, I, I, {i}, я, i.
--should sharing be the prevalent mode of exchange,
i would take the opportunity to distance myself from the dominant definition of
it adopted by the acolytes of insipid rhetoric, and propose instead an
alternative vocabulary solidified by niche morphology and the unrivaled syntax
off syntax.
--I, I, I, I, I, {i}, я, i.
--were moments constitutive of the currency of
exchange enabling the flow in the communication channel, i’d certainly refrain
from embracing the vulgarized literal meaning promoted by the followers of
deities of nondescript interaction incapacitating the perception of them as
constitutive of constancy.
--I, I, I, I, I, {i}, я, i.
--if you, three-looking, provide me with the
opportunity to be honored to deliver the message regarding that delicate
thematic, i’d feel privileged and inspired to present you with the verbal
content likely to carry the same reciprocal potential.
--I, I, I, I, I, {i}, я, i.
like phunk!
***
Back in the day, people used to make machines. They
believed they were so smart that their machines could be smarter than
themselves. Vanity made them their belief. Or, vice versa.
In any case, they made a machine that could
calculate the average worth of the effort they’d put in making the machine.
Back then, there was no capital, no value, no profit, but there were machines
that could calculate those if there had been such things.
The calculations were rather precise, so the content
spread like a virus infecting the minds with an itch for invention. Ideas, like
vermin in an infested hole warmed up by the energy through which and by which
those germs proliferated, multiplied. Contagious swarm was buzzing across the invisible trajectories.
At one point, people were infected with an idea of a
machine that could ensure communication. They taught it the basic postulate of
the language they spoke. While they were feeding its complex mechanism of
replicating the patterns on which communication pertinent to those human
circles was based, the machines featured utmost accuracy, yet somewhat
disheartening detachment. Likewise, a slightly irritating level of rigidity and
uninventiveness of sorts was evident. Strangely, people—drunk on the dream of
omnipotence—believed that they made the machines so well that they themselves
started mimicking the weird communicational modes.
The foggy mist
of their imagination emanated the enchantment
with the supposed perfection of the design that they were entirely convinced
that the next generation of the machines was going to be capable of performing
much more demanding tasks. And it was. Not only were the new gems conceived
through undivided commitment of viral thinking capable of producing certain
communicational patterns, but they could also manage multitasking in the way
that created a sense of organizational complexity and the modes of handling it
through a painstakingly ordered coordination that people believed it was a
reflection of the manner in which their minds operated and their everyday was
and should have been run.
Alas, the machines could not feel. As surreal smoky clouds of advancement were
obscuring the capacity to assess their creation, people seemed to be unaware of
that fact. Hence, they thought the machines were merely faithfully mirroring
emotional dynamic pivotal to humans. The fact that such a view demonstrated an unsettling
case of contradictio in adiecto did
not bother them in the slightest. Coz they knew no doubt, no self-scrutiny, no
introspection. All they knew was the dream of power. And they had it.
As the endeavor was progressing, the machines were
becoming more modest in shape and form, and more sophisticated on the
performative level. Peacock feathers
brushing the hissing liquid crystal surfaces. Barbed wire optical fiber
cable plugged in, transmitting the signal. Oneiric grayness in full swing.
Orchid petals like troughs into which milky foam spilling over the rims of
electron pinball extravaganza is pouring. Eyes of insomniac glassless windows
drained of color. Whitishness prevails. all
being palephotonized now.
Eyes of insomniac glassless windows staring with
unshakable certitude. So persuasive that
stare is that it almost convinces the eyes staring at it that they are as
colorless as that digitized version of senses. Eyes that hear, but cannot see.
Cannot see the castle protectively spreading its presence. Eyes oblivious of
its hallways and oak pillars exuding the memory of the glass facades connected
by the avenues that talk ocean kiss. Dream the crest slowly rolling, carried by
the powerful wings of the river. Mirror the moon vomit sprinkling the watery
dunes with pulverized dried cobweb. I
don’t.
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