once a worm, always a worm. spam in the face of valliant oppression. A
valley of schizophrenic computers, infected and infested. I’m thinking
of starting a cult of pornography. last in a long line of disease after
Once a web year ramblings… I’m an interfaceless internet infection,
infatuated with instantaneousness, and slowly worming my way into
instances of incite. Or not.
I have nothing to say here. I’d disclaim, but for who?
Distractions in digital…this page is a media morgue. Buzzwords come here
to die. Sometimes we do the electric boogaloo in binary.
Some days you fall victim to the whims of the web. A slight bit breeze
blows through, and all is lost. Hours numb your eyes and a gloss
of blinkless sweat collects on your eyelids.
My physical self has not changed. (Nor was a change observable, it was so
gradual.) However, my mind does not lie completely within the boundaries
of my body. While in transit, I must try and accept the limmitations
(imperfections and inferiorities) of my physical existence.
I am partly within this server.
How odd to admit this. Others are also within the server. Are they my
brothers and sisters? Are they aware of their cocoon? How have I become
aware? Others were aware before me, and I suppose I have stumbled upon
them. They too exist in servers.
The web is not simply a receptical of culture, or even a propetuary of
culture, the web _is_ the existing entities who collectively make up
Millions of people send out emails every minute. I wonder what the actual
numbers are. I may be unintentionally exaggerating. This is kind of like
the thought that at any given minute there are hundreds of people on the
planet having sex. This depresses me sometimes, and at other times is
extremely pleasing. What unification! I feel so…a part of it all.
I’m starting a project. Computers for Creatives. (The title is still
tenative.) I’m going to do research into the random factors involved in
creativity. Spread the computing wealth, that’s what I say. Knowledge of
applications and system software is critical in the growing field of
creative computer authorship. The incentive will help fund creative
writing majors with high-tech equipment.
I’ve been studying web narratives. Hypernarratives. I have a new theory:
The web is a narrative. Every click is based on a decision. The decision
is based on knowledge of the elements on the page, knowledge of where the
click will take you. That knowledge is like a plot. So in a way, the
difference between the term ‘hypertext’ and ‘hyperfiction’ is nothing.
There is no difference. Hyperfiction is only pretending to be closer to
what fiction once was, what fiction once meant.
_confronting the background images_
environment as part of us:
dust in your apartment
cobwebs make you you
eyes cultivate relationships
eyes as connectors
eyes as ambassadors of image
image investments, eye bank-tellers
walking out on the image eye by eye
one eye after the other
ships of eyes, drowned eyes, wooden eyes
giraffe eyes, elephant eyes,
elephant images, wet images
(like water, washing away, being washed
away, falling image, image storm)
Eye images confuse the matter:
eyes in pyramids, eyes in hands, in texts,
in contexts, in pancakes, in meatballs
eyes eaten by stowaways…
Dragon guided by the wind
computers our agency…
“the medium is the message”
to some degree, the message is
transformed by the medium.
We fanciful children
playing god games
(because that myth has finally fallen)
sweep out onto the streets
get sucked back into silicon
live computer-guided lives
Each inch of digital empire
is an itch in the right direction:
We’ll buy power, or die trying.
In the unforeseeable future
species die out and replicate themselves
brains bought and sold
biceps too, and physical will augment
earwax windex why to exponential
leaves wither at the touch of environments
like the sahara in my eardrums. I’ve
stolen the Tajmahal and eaten the gold dome
it was like a chocolate orange, tasted
just as sweet, cracked like an egg,
one part jagged, pushing up into my gums
made me bleed eggshell bloody hell
all onto the table. Doves and satan
with a red nose (he leads santa’s sleigh)
all carpet-dive into something resembling
the red sea. It’s my gum laden blood,
the carapace of my ghosts, the dreggs
of my dead lovers, the sequin studded leather
of my current lover. I’m now a norwegen,
or a sacrificial lamb, can’t think which.
I’ve got switchblade eyes,
treetrunk fists, busker’s breath, bat
sonar in the sea of night’s sky…
I storyspace with the best of them,
sing like leonard (cohen or nemoy,
I don’t know.) I now like to look
I like to look tomorrow, I wait
for email as if it were the end
of the world, which it will be
if I never get the email…