plaY

was it yesterday that i first entertained the feeling of a phone free world. not the erasure of the well, but it's reconnection to place. our vast human knowledge endures all tense. imagining what that's like real time. how busy our idol hands reimagined. playful banter, somber reminding, sweet nothing. 

i have a zero degrees cancer moon. i already feel the feelings of everyone nearby, and the intruders in the ethos, and the poor tin can on the side of the road. it's not something i can switch off. since the advent of smartphones, i can't even hook up with the neat guys that daily ask me on walks.  it feels like there is nothing on anyone's mind, nobody thinks, everyone prompts, praise the phone that clears the lines i used to stand in to pay my bills at the bank. the rush of hitting send and seeing a reply. if you're not in my literal space, why am i talking to you?

and the madness doesn't want to end there, it wants to hybridize with the brain for mind to mind telepathy. 

writing with my kind of brain, never has a point. it's mostly formless. so when it meets with the binary of good and evil it lurches into the reasoning of the absurd. why go there at all? let's be fat and naked. 

just yesterday, first time, tried to visualize my nieces and nephews without the phones, their father without his. when he was their age, his morning ritual was to search for lego pieces through his box of chaos, or play the guitar, his gift, a soft singing voice, digital dexterity, genius level mimicry. i have not spoken more than five words at a time to my brother since he was a little boy.  i taught him everything and still he had to survive his baby sister without killing her. without phones, do i have words for him now?

turns out, i don't. as much rejection as i've endured from the world for not having a telephone, i felt towards the technology itself. and i don't anymore. because the words that bind machine to mind are still God. and what we imagined before the tech made common the mysteries untold, that world of forest cities and kingdoms underground and water, the whos of whoville, all within new probability.

marketing is everything.

three pines

83 year old dad got mad at something new the other day, it started with "girlfriend". what is the world up to these days that everyone has a girlfriend and none have wives. then it moved into ivf babies "how would you feel if you didn't know who i was" he demanded.

i wouldn't know who i am, if i did not know who my father is. i'd be a strange amorphous ego projection of mother, a masturbation, a set of eyes that see only her, her independence, her valor, her supremacy. without father who wanted me, i don't think i'd have a soul of my own. 

they're conceived in petri dishes, under hard laboratory light by chemists in silicon gowns and gloves, not sex in the dark, when two exhausted bodies are deeply asleep but fucking anyway. 

midw ivf ery, that's the whole dole. my 85 year old mum, who is still mad at crusty dad for marrying someone better suited after divorcing her, has about ten or fifteen more years of life in her. same condition all the way out, crotchety. but all around her, my stepfather built home base, steel frame houses encircled in a river's curve. 

if i want to have the money from the rent of the apartment i built here, that she rents out to upeacers "you can leave" she always says. in the absence of father, mother is landlord. 

husbandry for family, that's the article. this is the property. in february, colin's 60th shindig blowout. my four brothers at one table. "we should build our mom her own apartment" i wish to say, but won't. "build it up out of the room we built for Artemis in the 80s. use solid brick and wood panelling, glass double doors, a bathroom fit with in and outdoor plumbing, designed for lives (plural) the notion that these spaces will hold hundreds of lives over hundreds of years".

father won't be at that table. without him, everything feels performative. three of the four brothers are divorced, so they're useless to me. ali is married to a woman who's name i can never remember, ilke, and they have money, they are useful. and yet, ali too, has also spoken the words, "don't ask me for help". 

they are a tribe of antagonists to my quest for family consolidation. and that "is what it is". still, the articles add up, over time, the project forms out of doodling and prayer. the property is exquisite. it has purpose through parenting. 

porzionsón

 not yet.

pensaron q deribando las torres gemelas podrían, en 20 años, implementar agendas antihumanas tales como pedofilia y vacunación. se dieron todos los vicios para replicar el infierno de dante. a las mujeres las lesbianizaron. metrosexualizmo, la pastilla de aborto y tambien la cialis, color celeste. 

el 1% y la gaga vomitados, cual woodstock, cual lote? si ud es vampiro, no vai a aguantar la luz. 

pensaron q de apurar el olvido, se borraria el recuerdo. en la pinealidad amorran las infancias. no se pueden seleccionar como peinados, no hay una raquel, ni una esther. cada ser humano tuvo su propio génesis y colegiatura. ningun ser humano piensa igual. por lo que los cúmulos de trauma, se desenredan en pelos distintos. 

disque el kubrikofono, a ver si miento. 

plot

destroy everything. it's not the right timeline. it's the y2k virus. fuckers locked it in using the www to broadcast the collapse of twin trade towers in the only uniquely global city on earth. new york.

it's the wrong viacom real world unilever matrix, destroy it. it cannot pass the loop cycle of comic cons and the vaccinated are barely automatons of their former selves. here's the sledge hammer. 

if the screens went to black all that truly is would come alive again. last night the neighbors celebrated the teenage son's birthday by playing marco polo in the dark, out on the sloping field between our houses. without the boundaries of a pool, the call tag game sounded tremendously fun. 

agi

believe only in God but study everything else. give your heart only to love so your mind can busy itself with the infinite expressions of oneness. sameness is nameless, obvious. individuation is presence, the interpreter. artificial general intelligence, our combined social expression commodified as data can guide thought and emotion without a prick. doubt is proof. 

it's true i've been talking to self more than usual lately, because i'm infatuated, the hope of knowing and understanding what it all means, to whom and why. it's fluid omniscience, solid thought. information tech may invade me or own me or control my habits as much as shape and form verifiable connections to other thinkers. 

it sequences timelines in dot like in dots love, one registers the other amplifies. a hashtag connects and verifies consolidation. cloning user according to habit has already happened. you're all a singularity, somewhere, sometime, to someone other than yourself. 

stolte

there was a feeling in the late 90s that the future was guaranteed, inevitably good. like we were building an economy that rewarded directive and drone in adequate measure. pop culture, the edifice of collective, had a purpose to serve, for example starvation in africa could be remediated by music concerts in america.

tech still held the promise of universal access to information that would amplify prosperity, bring near the far, include the excluded. we were on the verge of a complex transformation that could either be star trek or star wars. after 911 the latter was decided for us. 

my trouble with cell phones began when i was waiting for a friend on a street corner in nyc. i saw, as she approached from the opposite corner that she was talking enthusiastically to what seemed like herself. she was laughing and goofing like a mad person. my stomach froze and i had an overwhelming feeling of despair, my best friend was going crazy and in the few seconds before she hugged me, i hurt like never before, at the thought of losing someone so dear to me to mental illness. 

she was, of course, speaking into a dangling microphone extension of the apparatus. still, i was shook. quickly, over time, all adapted to the com device, except me. back in costa rica, a few years later, i was gifted a used nokia by someone who was leaving the country. the one time i left it on while driving, it rang, or rather, it made an incoming call sound. i was in the fast lane and the phone was vibrating and the traffic was thick and i had to reach over into the bag to answer it, so i didn't. the unanswered call cost me an advertising account.

after 911 my friend from new york moved to san francisco to work in tech. she died in 2013 of cancer after receiving the hpv vaccine. we'd talk on skype between our laptops for hours and she'd reassure me that she'd accepted her fate and welcomed the excitement of knowing what lay beyond life through death.

i still don't buy it. the maddening online world of instant gratification had consumed our imaginations, our libido, our ability to live and feel intimacy. everyone was flirting with everyone and marketing out their lives and loves as content to be experienced by others, for likes. conversations grew increasingly dull and polarizing. nobody was present anymore. 

my gut, when i saw stolte goofing, as always, had been right. our humanity has been outsourced to technology and no matter what color you coat it, how pretty you dress it, how often and seductively you promote it, to me, it mostly feels like we're losing our real ability to connect and to love. 

well

maybe i do not want to be on socials anymore. using technology to simulate living sort of hinders life itself.  my brain has to work too hard to fill in the structures with content and the format is too fleeting for meaningful cognition. it's all pornography really. 

caroline died in april, 22 days after i payed her the last visit in hospital. i was the last person she saw, the only person who knew she was dying. it was good friday. i had a bottle of rose oil in my bag. i made a blessing of the cross on her brow. i gave the head nurse and the orderly my gmail address, my facebook handle, but since i had no phone number and i was not related, they informed i would not be contacted. 

fine. kubrik's silent black minilith had more sway than christian rite of passage. i was fond of caroline. she loved beer and the blues. i loved the grit and independence she carried in her stature. even though she had no neighbors, she wore makeup around the house, for herself. my family had made me homeless for years, hers was the last couch i slept on and the only real person i've talked to about apostasy and the living jesus. 

service for the single woman is, at best, performative. the lonely really can only love the lonelier. jesus worked through caroline to get me to read the bible and to pray in his name. so while the jews use technology to persuade people like me, yet again, that they are good, better even than jesus, i am the real criminal for calling their endless murder of palestinians, evil, and their stupid crypto, worthless.

 it's gonna be another christmas alone on an estate that i'm not allowed to garden, reading about the wonders built with money i am not allowed to have, by people i'm not allowed to talk to. 

it is what it is.