subtonic
--?!***#...@$$$<<< /
>>>{&}%[&]!?
--?!***#...@$$$<<< /
>>>{&}%[&]!?
: There was a time when he’d wake up into a
dream of her. His nights were the days she was stubbornly inhabiting. The space
was her shadow that encompassed his floating through the memory of her.
She was so persistently present, and yet,
so impossible to detect. Her presence occupied his whole being, and yet, he did
not know where she was. He couldn’t even identify her in the memory of her,
since as much as she dwelled in it, so did he.
Over time, he was becoming increasingly
aware of his own presence within those quirky fluctuations. He was waking up
into a clearing vision of his dream. He knew that the night was over, and the
sun was rising. Sunsparks were showering his world. Bathing him with an insight
into the dream, the air, her, himself, and the language in which that story was
told to him. He started telling it to the others. He still does.
So can you. It’s
called the poetics of the remix.
: On
How To ReadWriteRemix (øøøø) offers an instance of the
debate concerning the thematic in question [what thematic?!]. It refers to the
work of the scientist cum social entrepreneur by the name of Vincencio Gustro
de la CrystalCoprofeel who, as early as the mid seventeenth century, discovered
the invention of a dream gene. The discovery was kept secret for nearly two odd
centuries due to the threats from linguistic inquisition. In addition, a sage
like CrystalCoprofeel wouldn’t miss the opportunity to ride the wave splashing
the whole world with contagious sparkles and spreading the infection worldwide.
The virus in question was called exactism and it became known in the history of
science and social entrepreneurship as the school of thought attracting
acolytes across generations and other culturally conditioned categories.
CrystalCoprofeel’s view on dreams
that resonates with the then current tendencies in the industry dealing with
manufacturing feather filters for oneirscape. Those filters were swallowed, and
the dreams were vomited in an logorrheic stream of imagery lava sprinkling fine
silverdust over the sedentary mountains, torpid valleys, idle hills, and sleepy
grass. CrystalCoprofeel’s seminal treatise entitled “Resist Instantaneity –
Dream the Moment” provides an exhaustive, painstakingly precise account of his impeccable
methodology, succinct expert elaboration of marvelously immaculate data
processing, and a gripping mode of statistically disguised symbolic.
It is the epitome of the idea premising the
whole approach [what approach?!]. The self-sustaining mechanism was
demonstrated through the publishing strategy. Namely, while intentionally
postponing the publication in print format, the discussion was being carried
over from one interlocutor to another in the form of oral history. The
tradition allowed for adjusting the shared content to the genre. Words ruled.
The listeners zealously served the flow by fervently finetuning their sonic
sense. The orators humbly excelled in playing with voice in the service of the
signal transmission in the communication channel. The story was carried through
the circuit engendered by ions. Two odd centuries on, the print version
immortalized the endeavor. Nowadays, it is praised for its consistency and
perseverance. Its scientific merit remains unrivaled. Its socio-entrepreneurial
aspect is still held among scholars and laypersons alike as the alphabet of
desire. It’s called Delay Rox : And So
Does Roll. It endures.
--hows abt pulling yo fucking self 2gether, ha!
: for fuck sake, ha!
--senses will you come to fucking yo, ha!
: manners first!
Like phunk!
***
Somebody once told a story about music. And not just
any kind of music. Nor was it about music in general. The music the story was
dedicated to was said to be specific, and not just specific in any kind of
sense. I was not familiar with that genre, but I thought I’d love it. Why? I
thought I might love it because it was supposedly distinctive primarily with
regard to the way it could correlate with some deep emotional structures, or
some such shit.
Supposedly, its signature vibe was the sadness that
like the seabed anchored each and every note constitutive of the whole. It was
rolling like an undercurrent of the flow weaving harmonic tapestry spilled
across the universe. It was sparkling like a kiss of crystals twitching random
melodic appearances in that celestial tissue. It was pumping like the jugular
of that photonized giant of rhythm.
Time passed. I got to know the music I’d been told
about. I was assured of my guesses. I loved its travesty. I loved my tricking
myself into de-rationalizing my awareness about those hidden layers. I indulged
cheating in that extravaganza of faked naiveté. I’d just drift on the wings of
that anchoring current. Sometimes I’d cry.
Time passed. I was told something I could and could
not believe. Allegedly, there was another level underneath that what I’d
thought were the cornerstones of that music vernacular. I was like, “whadafuck
я tho talking abt?” (that’s exactly how i put it.) Little did i know. Yet,
sooner rather than later, I realized that, indeed, there was something going on
beneath those heavily rolling pillars of that sonic marvel.
I listened fervently. I’d laboriously dig those deep
trajectories smiling at me with a wink of recognition. “like whadashit!” I’d
utter, expressing my utter astonishment, awe, and dis-trust. Or, some such shit
in that or different order.
(--like
phunkiemafotherphinkie phunk!)
(--totally
with you on that one!)
At that point, I did not know what exactly it was
that spoke to me in such a mellifluously fiverish manner. Later I did. Just as I do now. Sometimes I talk about it.
But I cannot tell the whole story about it.
Neither can you.
/
I know a person. He doesn’t talk much. When he does,
most people either turn their heads in disappointment, resentment,
dissatisfaction or stare in disgust. Why? Because they find it—guess
what!—boring. Ha!
He speaks in a rather monosyllabic manner. His deep
voice stirs the interlocutor with the vibrations that remind them of their
secret fears that they are—guess what!—boring. Ha!
His word choice gives them chills. Why? Because the
words he uses intrigue them, scandalize them, and scare them. Why? Because they
fear that they may inspire them.
They cannot stand his indifference. No, rather, they
cannot stand not being intriguing. No, more precisely, they cannot stand not
being provocative. Irrelevant. His aloofness tantalizes them. His detachment
horrifies them. His scarce facial expression is a blasphemy to their eye. It’s
so minimal that they can hardly detect it. It’s nearly frozen. In their
fantasy, it reminds them of a picture, glass, mirror.
When he speaks, the river rolls like it was never as
heavy before. Between his words, breaths dance a cosmic waltz. His exhalations
are the ellipses nobody sees. Because they can’t read his lips. His vowels are
like the ink that saturates interstellar spaces. His fricatives are like the
f-words on the nth potency. His palatal consonants like a piece of
chocolate cake smudged across his mouth. His nasal semi-vowels like the bass
saxophone quietly carrying the thoughts through the vastness of the night.
When he speaks, stars spark from the eyes of the
invisible listener. His sentences are either laconic or baroque. But, many
people cannot bear to endure his act of speaking. Because he is nothing like
their TV shows, their social networks heroes, their gossips, their gaudy
dramas, noisy, yet hollow, songs that make their everyday feel like an
elevator, like airports. People find him boring because he is indifferent.
Because there is something oneiric about his voice, and people find it too otherworldly
for their dynamic tastes. I
don’t.
He has a pair of dark eyes that sing simultaneously
with the sound flowing from his mouth cavity. His look is as sparse as his
speech. As scarce as his facial expression. His whole being is like the secret
layer snaking underneath the current of dry tears.
Like phunk!
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