vor-tex,
as we know it
Early on, I had a sense—totally intuitive at that
time, later to acquire a fully fledged form of understanding. Reflection. Later,
I kinda realized that the sense vaguely imbued my young consciousness with a
melancholy whiff that to me felt like an aquarelle depiction of a marina
hosting occasionally swaying yachts, boats, ships. It infused into my whole
being an unalienable feeling of aloofness. I learned my distance early on.
Back then, I had no idea that I would later get to
know the world of paradox. I didn’t know I was going to discover the absurdity
of the world plagued with the enslavement by time, yet denying history, thereby
rendering both past and future questionable at best, superfluous otherwise.
Likewise, I didn’t know I was going to be introduced to the world stuck in the
absurdity of the enslavement by materiality, yet disregarding space by virtue
of a hardly explicable catatonic infatuation with vurtual substitutes and
other simulacra. Reflection.
Once the plastic jungle revealed itself to me in all
its distastefulness, I could travel back in time and retrieve those intimations
of sorts, rediscover my melancholy saturated young self totally unaware of
those bulky words that I, having learned them, whole-heartedly adopted. I
recognized it--and still do every time nature provides me with an opportunity
to exercise that insight--once when long, cold winter started withdrawing in
front of the upcoming softness of the air, warm currents spiking the coolish
gaseous veil and creating a fantasy of buds, blossoms, green leaves, and…sunshine that the whole nature—exhausted
by the months of severe treatment—was yearning for, was craving. Indeed, sooner,
rather than later, the scenery was transformed from the tormented, barren
landscape into a vibrant, warmth imbued effervescence.
I was slightly taken aback. Not that I have a
problem with flowers and trees. Even less so with the sun. The sun is alive and
well. So is the greenery. What causes that sense of mild bewilderment is the
increase in kinetic energy generated at the onset of that change of seasons.
Steps are becoming insanely more frequent, faster, louder. Strings of digits
flood the screens, like a fucking pinball bouncing like neurotransmitters in
the mind hypnotized by their unleashed flamboyancy. Suits are being multiplied
as if there were a tailor’s magic wand that proliferates them with each blow of
the gentle breeze kissing the crest of the river of whose presence those
worshippers of silicone stars are totally unaware.
When such shifts occur, there is a void in the midst
of the dynamic engendered by maniacal swiping of vurtual cards, by senseless
uplifting imposition aiming to compensate for the months of dimlit rooms,
window panes as the only contact with the cityscape clad in a polar dream,
fireplace as an alternative source of warmth, reading-writing as a counterpart
of running…wild dance with the ghost of the city indulging in the self-preserving
hibernation. I don’t have a problem with the sun. The sun is alive and well. So
are the trees and shit like that. It’s just that I think there’s too much
swiping of vurtual cards and not enough crepuscular conquests of the endlessly
charming, irresistible sedentariness. It’s just that I think there is not
enough pale invasions of the night as it is penetrating intramural abyss.
Space in the houses. Sneaking slowly.
Seeping in cunningly. Toxic in its enchanting power. Tonic in its demand to be answered.
I learned my distance. Reflection.
/
I am a criminal. But not just a criminal. I am
vegan. I epitomize those oak pillars. I hiss static foam along the rim of the
chalice. It pours out, over the edges of the screens. It leaks along the
surface of the table. It spreads. It flows subtly, yet persistently. Like a
rhizomorphic delta, it holds its tributaries together. It flows into the
vastness of the sea covering the table. Impeccably white, phantasmagorically lacy,
magically calming—tablecloth. It emanates quiet waves of the cinnamon smell
into the space of the mighty/stately castle. It exudes fluffy clouds that
envelope the table, slob in the armchair, nestle in front of the fireplace,
lick the mirror above it, slide around the legs of the table, making the space
a criminal/vegan den. It sets the tone
of mystery. The mystery covers everything. It hides the fugitives. Coz they
are…you know…ahem, banned.
:like phunk!
In a dystopian world,
there’s no crime. But, there are criminals.
/
A desert flooded with a hysterical layer of
electrons peeled off of a screen (swipe your vurtual card now). A high noon
moment in a white electric sand ocean (enter your imaginary pin number). Static
petrifying the waveless water is devouring the continuum of the scorching
staccato sweeping from the face of the earth even a thought of movement
(imagine your object of purchase). it’s
dazzling.
A screen covered by a film of burning crystals (hold
the card tightly attached to the vurtual card swiping machine). Bouncing nuclei
hidden in the depth of the spherical core (phantasmagorize hard). A veil
wrapping the electric drama is lifted (clank, clank, clank—says the sole, barks
the heel). it’s dazzling.
It is floating…carried on the density of the air
saturated with salt (close your eyes if that’s the preferred mode of being
present in an elevated act of monetary exchange and…drain your account of the
liquid pumping vibes of consumer gluttony into each cell of your purchasing
being). It is swayed and swung, it is being persistently directed toward the
dunes—the motive shamelessly domineering the whole ocean of immobilized
star[e]s (wink if you agree to proceed with the orgiastic monetary experience,
twitch if you would like to initiate placing multiple orders—simultaneity
rules!). It covers mindless trajectories demarcating the kinetic of boiling
fractals; it covers the muted cosmic reflection of the paralyzed motionless
giant (put your fucking card in your wallet, or a pocket, or your bag, or your
forest, or your socket, or your tights, or your stare, or your sleeve, or your
wish, or your spouse, or your hot chocolate, or your voice, or your apartment,
or your holiday home, or your ulcer, or your lips blocking the passage through
which the smile is supposed to flash, spark, or the cake). It’s dazzling.
Sunshowered.
/
I learned my distance early on.
I’d get a confirmation of it every time I’d look at
a picture featuring tamed colors veiling the landscape echoing its own
spatiality so vast that it’d take one hundred light years for the sound to
reach the cloud, another one hundred light years to reterritorialize having
been absorbed by, condensed within, and puked out of the cloud’s intestines.
I’d get a confirmation of it every time I’d look at
the picture domineered by the discreetness of shapes, modesty of lines,
paleness of its chromo gene, humbleness of the meanders tracking the movements
of the brush in a silent dance with the fabric. Its dusk is smeared with shy
terracotta curves. Its muteness has no color, no midnight to anticipate, no
morning to rival. Perpetual muted dusk spilled across the canvas of wide open
spaces with no clouds to bounce back its whispers.
I’d get a confirmation of it every time I’d look at
the scene showing an endless highway traversing a desert, carrying the heat
like a ship bears the cargo on the back of the mighty ocean. It travels through
those scorching corridors. It extends as far as the horizon allows. In the ever
elusive point of convergence with that distant guardian, it splashes sweat
jets, thereby tracking its imaginary dissolvement in its fantasy of its own
melting, welding with the scalding earth, breathing in the dragon’s breath.
I’d get a confirmation of it. Sometimes, by virtue
of negation.
like phunk!
/
Sometimes, flashes fired from numberless vurtual
cards being swiped on fantasy fiscal machines are projected into the
surrounding with the velocity and intensity that tends to equal the grandiosity
of the speed of light. Sometimes, the viral spitfire of their senseless contact
with the cryptodecoder of imaginary currency lathers the cityscape with
overwhelming billows that dilate its image and threaten to distort it to the
point of unrecognizability. Almost unrecognizable even to its good self.
Sometimes, the outpour of figures in hysterical
titillating commotion, forming ceaseless strings crackling from the screens,
almost devours the city imagery. It keeps catatonic stares steadily attached in
each and every plugin station-- a misnomer evocative of the times bygone. No
cord is featured at those prisonhouses under the disguise of cafes. No optical
fiber cable connects any of the gadgets. No liquid crystal flows through the
bloodstream of those machines. Their data processing intestines mimic photon
sensitivity. Their excrement is data, not information. Their dream of power is
tiresome.
Sometimes, there are too many suits agitating the
retina. They all look the same. The fact that they are not does not diminish
their futility. It’s just that, sometimes, there are too many proliferated
suits walking the streets of the plastic jungle. They render the bodies that
wear them invisible. Worse, the bodies don’t care. They are perfectly happy to
be dominated by those pieces of fabric. Weird pieces. webwiered.
When the chimerical imagery verges on utter
distaste, one withdraws into the shadow where no circuit casts its dazzling
spell. Into the seclusion of the sunlit climes where no beam scorches the eye.
Into the warmth of the comfort unconditioned by the cryptofiscal system blaze.
Into the kingdom of the golden—one of the few gems that irrevocably confirms
the might of metaphor, unshakably debunks the tyranny of the literal.
The shadow is elongated space spread as long and as
wide as the immunity to blinding cohorts allows. The shadow creeps between
dense thickets of plastic, pounding echo of concrete, creaking the halo of
heels. It’s a fugitive. It leaks into the tubelike corridor, the haven to the
dazzled ones. It protects one from the hissing beams that know no sound, but no
calm either. Protects one from an empire of muteness. Embraces one with its
protective shield. Hides one in embalming darkness that takes one through time
in no time.
One glides down that humid, rusty spiral. One slides
down the mould upholstered walls. Through the shower of sparks. Photon waterfalls.
Pearly curtain. Carrying one. Ever so deeply. Searching ever so persistently.
Like a feather floating through the air. Like a petal in a downward spiral
dance with the stem. Like a tear kissing the eye. Smearing the world with the
kiss of dew. Sliding ever so intensely. Through the rain of memory. Through the
snow of fantasy. Through a kaleidoscopic stare. Through frosty nights. Darker
than the frost itself. Crispier than the lacy crust it forms on the window
pane. Smudgier than the vision of chocolate, sweeter than muddy mouse, softer
than pulverized cinnamon bark.
like
phunk!
The lullaby this whirlwind of a tunnel sings is
tonic to one’s tortured ear. Its intoxicating solace is the fuel to one’s
senses. It’s everywhere. Sliding ever so deeply, one realizes that the
deceitful sense of direction is the code the plastic jungle encrypted in one’s
memory lane. Swerve. Now. De-fucking-code. Or, not. Steadfastly hold to that
sidealley. Hardheadedly persevere in resisting cryptodisinformation. Deny
figure curtains, block suit streams, silence the heels.
Sometimes, the intramural journey through the mould
infested, reek imbued, thorn decorated halls brings to awareness the smell of
unsmoked books.
in a dystopian world, there’s no crime. / i am
vegan. i am a criminal, as well.
kessenem / pleazy.
Verily.
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