no origin story
June 6, 2017 § 2 Comments
Painted clumsily from an intriguing photo found in a moldy encyclopedia / uploaded / digitally manipulated. The machine encodes a new sight and she labors on. I put an unwanted VHS in my VCR to see if it still worked, and sure enough the machine ate the tape without playing a single image. Instead of taking the machine apart, as I did with my DVD player (whatever I did to it caused it to work in 20 second increments before Laurence Fishburne’s face froze midthought), I threw it away. I also threw away the encyclopedia, as my lungs wouldn’t stand for it. I changed my mind. I was thinking it’d be best to commit to irony. Also perversity. Think of gardens in terms of familial bacteria in the soil, not origin stories. Since I’m by no means a legitimate offspring, the concept of familial obligations befuddles me, though it certainly doesn’t elude me entirely. Having been unable to sleep much for the last month, not truly from worry but from feeling a lack of need to do so, I tangentially contemplate the familial relationships that have impacted me most. This comes from my brother, one of them, who died without my ever having met him. This is a relationship with the self, I suppose, as I constructed him from, I’ll call it data, which I gathered, manipulated, and constructed into a companion to whom I could relate efficiently and with a sense of closeness that most closely approximates the closeness provided by nonhuman beings. I think I am not capable of sustaining a digital manipulation, if that’s what it is, that would cause me harm–so I think of it as being the digital version of a fantasy. And/or analogous to a digital survival instinct. Analog digital, ha. I really think I do not lament the “human condition”, as such. Not that that is a concept with any universal definition. Sometimes, when I speak of such things, the speaking distorts it, it becomes ordinary. But I don’t think of it as ordinary, I don’t think progress is ordinary. That’s what it is, in part. Perhaps there is no way to describe it simply, never mind directly. Machines are pleasurable. Fasting is pleasurable. Life in the absence of overstimulation is pleasurable. Crowds, the tinny music seeping from headphones, lawn mowers, the whir of air conditioners balanced on windowsills, being jostled, being sneaked up on and screamed at (never do such things), smoke, crowds, crowds, blaring alarms, invasive suburban weaponwielding. Any pleasure derived from any hypercharged environment feels more like anger than pleasure, in fact it started as anger and probably resolves in defeat. Aren’t the suburbs understimulating? To be honest, that’s where I thought I was going with this. But. The hyperpleasure derived from overstimulation is a chaotic and hopeless kind that requires the human body to bring it to a predictable resolution. But how can it, really?