Reminder
Once upon a time, there was no time. You cannot
remember when it was. Because it wasn’t.
Then started to appear a weird thing that provided
you with the information about the arrangement of your activities. More often
than not, all you needed to know was when one class ended, and the other began.
But, it wasn’t easy to situate those dynamics within the unlikely movements of
two sticks sliding from one increment to another, drawing endless
circles…meaningless circles that you learned to translate into even less
sensible notions of minutes, seconds, hours. You learned to read those bizarre
circles. But, you never fell for them.
Later, you met people whose world was like a mosaic.
Because it consisted of the pieces determined by those quirky messages that
were sometimes coded so intricately that few could understand, let alone
explain, the underpinning logic: they consisted of symbolic chunks whose
substantial portions were muted by virtue of the invisible segments
inexpressible through the signification based on numbers. There were no hands
to point at the digit, thereby conjuring up the content of the message and what
divides it from the previous one. There were only numeric statements flickering
on a display, ignoring the lump skipped by the discrete expressive mode the
device spoke in. You learned the difference. You learned what you prefer.
Over time, you’ve been observing the world that
became tyrannically ruled by those pieces, regardless what system of
signification they were enabled by. But, you don’t know when it began. All you
know is that you see people who worship their shoes because they help them make
an incredibly great number of steps per hour. They can take them anywhere in no
time. All you know is that you see people who can walk as fast as their suit
allows them. And it ensures incredible mobility, which those fast walkers
admire as much as they would be thankful for…well, another such item. All you
know is that you see people who on a daily basis so indulge in the enchantment
by strings of figures pouring down their screens, constantly bombarding their
sense of sight with blinking packages, that they oftentimes confuse stars with
those. Just as they function perfectly well in that confinement of a plastic
forest completely unaware of the river flowing in its midst.
All they know is that they have to walk fast, look
fast, eat fast, sleep fast, work fast…be fast. Because somebody decided upon
the manner in which their activities need to be carried out. Absurdly, those
who conceptualize modus operandi take
no prisoners. They impose even on their good selves a tremendous burden—composite
of sorts consisting of tough requirements regarding efficiency, efficacy,
responsibility, complexity, and quantity. Absurdly, they’ve gotten so enmeshed in
devising such a system that they totally forgot about their own role in it.
They think that somebody else had imposed such demands. But, they have no
memory of who it was. All they know is that they have to meet those
requirements. Which they do. And yet, just how they do it is an enigma in its
own right.
Since the standards seem to be skyrocketing, so are
the means that enable them to keep up with those. Shoes, suits, and figures
help, but there needs to be an additional source of energies for such
gargantuan tasks to be performed. Surely, they find them. As they keep moving
on on that mystical fuel, they start remembering that the symbiosis is by no
means a recent phenomenon. They know they’ve known those sources for quite a while.
So fucking long that they cannot possibly know since when. So fucking long that
they cannot possibly distinguish between their own and those external sources’
power. They cannot possibly retrieve the capacity to see that the demands are,
actually, conditioned by those very sources. Only, people who rely on them
became totally unaware of that fact. They rely on them to ensure meeting the
requirements, thereby only solidifying their harshness and complexity. They set
nearly impossible assignments due to their being hyperenergized.
The-chicken-or-the-egg dilemma. Or, some such shit. You name it.
You understand the perplexity of it all. And yet,
explain it you cannot. You see the predicament in the very kernel of it. And
yet, crack that nut you cannot. You learned to sustain that awareness. Only,
you wish that of which the awareness is was different.
like
phunk!
/
Once upon, time started assuming a fluctuating role
oscillating from an ingredient in the composite spacetime to a discursive
travesty of a highly bewildering signifier-signified nexus. Under the disguise
of the word space, time was passing—invisible, secretly, hidden even from
itself within that tricky linguistic interchangeability. You realized that, if
not arbitrary, certainly loose hinges kept signification attached to the
container into which it was poured. You
understand that this utterly versatile contextualization is based on,
conditioned, and ensured by the ubiquitous permeability of unstable boundaries.
You know damn well what context is and how it shapes communication, yet you are
hesitant to accept just about any form the supposed signal acquires depending
on the robe it is clad in—you know what noise is, how important distinctions
are, and how to discern and sustain the awareness of them.
You were taken aback when you noticed the space-time
discursive flirting with percolating properties of cultural realities. You cannot
fathom the connection between the word time and some of its apparent
correlatives, let alone, synonyms and/or homonyms. You’ve been disgusted by the
manner in which people adopt the newly created givens: you saw that the
multifaceted notion of time became so elusive that almost the phenomenon itself
seemed to have begun the weird odyssey in pursuit of the way back home.
It’s travelled long way. The sea was stormy. The
waves wild. The clouds as dark as pirates’ dreams. The days were as grey as the
ports that in a negative way define them. It was cold. The rage of the nature
in a wild dance with itself was occasionally soothed by the droplets of water
like galaxies dispersing throughout the confines of the vehicle. The ship was
being transfigured into a cosmic fantasy. The droplets tasted salty. They were
salty.
You thought time had a long way to go to ram it. You
could not imagine the face of that ithaca. Nor did you care. But, you couldn’t
help wondering how far from itself time was. What is more, you were endlessly
perplexed by people’s allegiance to control and, despite the abovesaid diversity,
their persevering in organizing their everyday in accordance with the very
basic meaning of the word time, this, consequently, resulting in the prevalent
urge to do fast, eat fast, be fast, talk fast, walk fast, but not running. Ironically,
not having time to run.
You know that, regardless of the extent of
puzzlement, you are appreciative of that deprivation. Only, you wish the
absence of that undesirable component of the everyday were a matter of decision
governed by different postulates. You wish that the reasoning enabling decision
making were premised differently. You learned to recognize the bizarreness of
the situation and to persistently detect masks. You also know that there are
masks and masks, that there is off-mask and off-mask. But, you don’t know how
to explain it. Not that you even want to. I
don’t.
like
phunk!
/
You’ve learned to
synchronize your walk with your thought. You came to admire walking as one of
the elevated faculties providing a human being with the opportunity to observe,
simultaneously noting the relationship between the imagery without and that
within. You’ve found out that such activities have established themselves as
the sources of peculiar, quiet rejoicing: they secure perpetual flux of the
fuel on which both walks & thoughts run; they run not—not because there’s
no time, but because there’s no need.
You
realized that one of the aspects that made this singularly majestic activity
worthy of its self-sustained reputation was the magic of moving from one spot
in space to another. Between them, eons condensed in the color of flora,
centuries roaming around clouds, hours sinking into the grooves on petals’
skin. Steps like hands on the face of the clock. Each nanomovement, a seepage
of sand cohorts from the upper to the lower chamber of the hourglass.
You’ve learned to feel the smoothness of your movements, as it reflected the
dialogue between your eyes and your mind.
You were taken aback when you were introduced to one
of the most bizarre ideas related to the activity you so appreciate. That
provocation came from the sources conversant in the matters of vurtuality.
They taught you that there was a connection between speed, distance, and time.
So, you thought they believed in the capacity of time to condition the other
two. You suspected that there was quite a bit of room for the collusion between
velocity and time, as well. Distance does not know it. But, people should,
you’d think. It kept you puzzled until you started being stunned. Stunned by
the capacity of the people to imagine and believe in imaginative powers. They
imagined so much that they stopped acknowledging those powers. A total neglect
of the actual sources led to the troubling state of affairs where performative
aspect of language threatened to be adopted as a totalizing lingua franca. The agreement was silent,
but you distrusted the accuracy of that word, preferring to think it was rather
the lack of awareness that spurred mushrooming of the supposed linguistic communities utterly desensitized to:
(1) the word distance;
(2) its role in the practice called critical
thinking;
(3) its meaning in physical terms;
(4) the manifestation of that notion in the three
dimensional word.
You were perplexed by the insight into the
devastating state of affairs featuring many an individual heavily deluded by
the dynamism in the virtual sphere. They erroneously equated the fact that the
flow of 1s & 0s can put you in touch with a mate from the other side of the
globe in a matter of seconds with there being no distance between those
long-distance interlocutors. They, in a way, equated time and space by pretty
much obliterating both. This left them with speed solely. Alas, in that
relational empire of their linguistic limbo, it could not be sustained as the
phenomenon in its own right. They did not know how that could be. Well, more
precisely, they would not have known had they wondered, had they been
intrigued, had they cared, had they had the capacity to reflect the linguistic
pattern that shaped their world, i.e., had they had the capacity to detect
relations between certain things. Instead, they kept brooding between words,
concepts, and the space that they so blindly denied. I don’t.
In a universe
where words mean something because their performative potential allows for
proliferated interpretations, you might be prone to think that where there is
no time, space disappears, as well. This, you may be led to believe, could mean
that once space-time was done away with, speed surfaces as sovereign power that
entails the highly praised categories of shoes, suits, and numbers. But, you
know better: you’ve learned to admire your walks.
/
Not only are you aware of the significance of
distance in spatial terms, but you also know how its metaphorical aspect
informs the perception of the world, self, and everything else. This sharpens
your sense of historicity. And yet, overhistoricize you do not. The former
increases the puzzlement by those who bow down to the shrines of velocity, yet shun
spatiotemporality altogether. They, you decide, must be radically desensitized
to the mutually conditioning relations within the equation featuring the three dimensions.
The latter informs two major aspects of your reasoning:
(1) You can’t bear to look at the impossibility of
vibrant integration of distance into the everyday of those worshippers of a
silicon jungle.
(2) Imagine a world in the future that is nearly
impossible to envisage. From that historically remote spot, people would
contemplate the world, themselves, and everything else. From that historically
remote spot, they’d be curious to know what the world was like in the far away
past. They’d know that once upon a time, people discarded the notion of space
because in no time they could reach virtual destinations and be somewhere.
They’d also know that infatuation by vurtuality was part and parcel of
prevalent acceleration that kept them captive within the deceitful sense of there
being no time for anything. Hence, they decided that there was no time. That,
in a way, resonated with their innate aversion to historicity. It would have
entailed—had they had a modicum of inclination toward logic— repudiation of an
investment in the future, as well. This is uncertain. On the one hand, it is
well known that logic is among the scorned faculties. On the other, the logic of
the very assumption is questionable. For
one, their supposedly being logical would result in having to cast aside any
sense of future. Conversely, their being illogical is supposed to save them
from an apocalyptic mentality. Something is not quite right in the way some
propositions and consequences are related. Anyways, those guys from the future would
know that once upon a time, there was a bunch of humans who knew no other
pattern of being in this world but immediacy. Because there was no history, and
the future was too complex to think about, they could only be, think, live, do
following the dictum of immediacy. Now, if those futurist explorers of the past
did not take such a picture with a grain of salt, if they did not distance
themselves from sweeping generalizations, you would be invisible to them, their
offspring, and whoever happens to populate this benighted planet whenever on
that weird chronological continuum.
: mannerz first, 4 fuck sake! Tho shalt not
succumb to logghoreaic robozombism, yo! Instead, behave 4 fuck sake, behave 4
fuck sake, behave 4 fuck sake, yo! In addition, cut the fucking crap, cut the
fucking crap, cut the fucking crap, yo! Once & for all, remind yourself,
reiterate & reinstate the axiom of the smiling constellations: once you
said something three times, didn’t ya! You imagine and you don’t. You know and
you don’t. You like and you don’t. You speak and you don’t. Now, come to your
fucking senses and be (in)visible. Come to your fucking senses and lucidly be
your ludic self, ol rajt! Come to your fucking senses and watch your fucking
tongue, ha!
***
as i am strolling through all these thoughts of
mine, i am not too sure if i am solely reminiscing, or if my pondering reflects
frequent reveries that i eagerly immerse myself in, or if it is all merely the
reflection of my quirky affinity for the climate domineered by rolling, fluffy
formations ranging from white, bright, exuberant mischievous flakes carried
easily across the blue overarching dome to heavy, robust, solemn,
self-sufficient travelers immune to the commotions of the air currents around
them.
as i am brooding hybridized with those thoughts of
mine, i wonder how i could possibly
track exactly the origins of those elusive, endless, immeasurable,
indefatigable sources of wonder. But, it seems to me that the drift i
continuously feel above—regardless of
the degree of darkness and its counterpart—is always the presence indicative of
the phenomenon i most gladly associate them with.
as those puzzling zones are being crystallized, my
awareness of the prevalent sensation is solely informed by the mesmerizing
occurrence that never fails to reassert itself whenever in the depository of
patiently waiting molecules of the H & O nature, they start mingling,
stirring, softly saturating the confines, soon to be let loose and pour
themselves over the silent forest, thereby generating the magic of the
constancy of the hum heard only by that mighty host.
when those weird floating sculptures melt, leaves
sing the songs radiating invisible glow to the heights that send the flow. as
they absorb the precious liquid, they distribute it through the rhizomorphic
web within the trees, only to pass it on further to the surrounding, to the
neighboring valleys, then to their abutting pastures, orchards, vineyards,
fields, parks, gardens, flowers, skin. soft raindrops sprinkling the face. just
as they merge with lazy, rolling movements of the flowing giant in the midst of
the plastic jungle.
i am being constantly reminded : trees, not a jungle
/ language, not letters.
kessenem / pleazy.
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