what the hell do I know anyway?
I am feeling eternally frustrated with technology... Paradoxical, or oxy-moronic, that I should be writing about that here... And I would stop, cold-turkey, but I like the self-expression, floating about where I don't even know, a la deriva, on its back, face up to the sky, enveloped in warm water, or shivering through icy, subterranean caves.
This space is so surreal, visited only when I am in my most un-corporal state - so strange that there should be an obsession with the tangible universe. In here I am not a real person, but rather matter converted back into electrical impulse. I don't shit, or bank, or have real, pressing work to do. Of course in reality I _do_ have all those things to do, we all do. I don't always smell of roses or guayaba... but here I do, or at least I can if I want to.
Feeling conflicted about this schizofrenic reality. Just deleted myself from a few places, and enjoyed the power of erasure, of course how would I really know if I actually _did_ delete myself or if that energy is still pulsing through, in its eternally aching attempt to make itself matter.
The Cabalistic properties are indeed overwhelming. With the utterance of the word, the creation of the thing, the loosing of Shelley's creature, or of a wooden boy. A wish, made carnal, and then like all things carnal, deteriorating, decaying, ultimately withering to convert itself back into energy.
The possibilities are infinite, and infinitely inferior to the real world. A thousand typing monkeys might actually make more sense...is it not in the action? in the purging that meaning is created? I have been contemplating the laws of physics, by which, it seems, we were previously bound (before we could voluntarily convert ourselves into wisps of energy). The ball, perched at the top of the hill, en potencia, hypothetical, potential energy, and the very real possibility that the ball will roll, picking up snow and eventually creating an avalanche, or a mudslide (for those of us in warmer places). Where is the power? Where is the poetry? In the potency, or in the destructive mass that bears down upon us?
Ah yes, I know nothing, less than nothing, and I am feeling overwhelmed by the Herculean tasks set before me, easy for a techy, I suppose, but frightening for me. And the question (rhetorical, as I really have no choice): do I really want more of me floating around cyber-space? I think I might just want to resist... but as usual, I won't. So much of my life is built up on what is expected of me, from myself more than anyone else, that my most secret joy is letting go... for a few seconds... just to see the "what if" before I safely run to pick up the scattered pieces, pushing them back into their neatly organized compartments. It is in the letting go, sails full, head thrown back, hair trailing behind, that I am who I want to be... but the rest, as they say, is reality.
This space is so surreal, visited only when I am in my most un-corporal state - so strange that there should be an obsession with the tangible universe. In here I am not a real person, but rather matter converted back into electrical impulse. I don't shit, or bank, or have real, pressing work to do. Of course in reality I _do_ have all those things to do, we all do. I don't always smell of roses or guayaba... but here I do, or at least I can if I want to.
Feeling conflicted about this schizofrenic reality. Just deleted myself from a few places, and enjoyed the power of erasure, of course how would I really know if I actually _did_ delete myself or if that energy is still pulsing through, in its eternally aching attempt to make itself matter.
The Cabalistic properties are indeed overwhelming. With the utterance of the word, the creation of the thing, the loosing of Shelley's creature, or of a wooden boy. A wish, made carnal, and then like all things carnal, deteriorating, decaying, ultimately withering to convert itself back into energy.
The possibilities are infinite, and infinitely inferior to the real world. A thousand typing monkeys might actually make more sense...is it not in the action? in the purging that meaning is created? I have been contemplating the laws of physics, by which, it seems, we were previously bound (before we could voluntarily convert ourselves into wisps of energy). The ball, perched at the top of the hill, en potencia, hypothetical, potential energy, and the very real possibility that the ball will roll, picking up snow and eventually creating an avalanche, or a mudslide (for those of us in warmer places). Where is the power? Where is the poetry? In the potency, or in the destructive mass that bears down upon us?
Ah yes, I know nothing, less than nothing, and I am feeling overwhelmed by the Herculean tasks set before me, easy for a techy, I suppose, but frightening for me. And the question (rhetorical, as I really have no choice): do I really want more of me floating around cyber-space? I think I might just want to resist... but as usual, I won't. So much of my life is built up on what is expected of me, from myself more than anyone else, that my most secret joy is letting go... for a few seconds... just to see the "what if" before I safely run to pick up the scattered pieces, pushing them back into their neatly organized compartments. It is in the letting go, sails full, head thrown back, hair trailing behind, that I am who I want to be... but the rest, as they say, is reality.
posted by ilana at 11:59 a.m.
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