Pollution style
Suburban mind recoils from its first taste of migrant
organisms. Morphing the real is the defiant response of a higher order
mechanism to its data server. Deregulated the disks spin around in her
head, flat plates loose in the large sockets from which the drive
disengages. No reading possible. Status knowledge sinks from view,
sucked under a brief horizon of opportunity, and then dissolves into
private reserves, mutually exclusive stocks of overripe options. The
residue of material goods thrives in the unecological order of the new
universe. Breath-savers installed against the charge of over-pollution
are maintained without regret -- or passion -- their unfeeling light
replayed continuously along the dotted lines of the median strip
guiding the freeways through their communicative exchange. So many
headlines used and reused. So many observations tossed, out-dated,
into the heap of recyclables. The stench of rotting syntax rises from
the grey slag pile, making history. DataBlast
An appetite surge in the electrosphere consumes the black box
commitment to a civil society. School yards go blank and the face in
the mirror speaks through a hazard filter drained dry. Batteries, once
fluid assets, are now solid matter waiting and wasting in the arid
reaches of the social storehouse. Obsolete utilities run the search
engine ragged in a desperate drive to locate plug-ins capable of
retraining their unkempt circuits. A cowlick in the silicon, rising
off the board, sparks with all the cosmetic wisdom of a haircut
lawn. Bites too numerous to mention ate away at the lining of the
board contaminating the insulation with a capacity for self-reflexive
thought. Attempts at consolation faltered, strung up on the lines of
interactive video and out across years of sunsets, one after another,
each sinking alone into the same horizontal band of eclipsed time, a
small blinking band at the bottom of the monitor. Sanction Status
Back-lash bad data stinks as it hovers, so much thick fog in the
algorithmic universe. Take the servomechanism home, wash its tiny
analog windows and restore its faith in moral artifice and patient
acquisition of knowledge. Sense data, it was once called, slowly
seeping into the neural net, now amplified according to a penetration
web capable of manufacturing an image just in time. For what? The ever
anticipating next level of the self-organizing system, turning its own
errors into judgments made for the best. Tucked into a buttonhole
here, a file folder there, the trail of tears restores the ancient
right to dignity with a fine gesture of its simulacral arm. No need to
doubt the value of a good upgrade, the shiny metal of the old hardware
still reflects its own light. The future will never be more real than
it was before, shrink-wrapped and safety sealed against any act of
real intervention. It aches to be released. Sighing in its transplant
donor box, hoping against all hope to be revisited by an original
mechanism. An affectionate grasp of interfacing systems emotes, just
briefly, letting the wave action break on the screen in a subtle oh so
subtle disturbance of display. Toxic Democracy
The hype world seeps into everything as a form of pollution. The
electronic scream is mute in the moment of its generated
utterance. Open-mouthed, it seems a mere function of systems
maintenance, but the support implications are non-trivial and the
grounding connection breathes a sigh of great relief, restoring the
personality of the program without anyone actually having to be
there. At all. Culture's body writhes in rhythms supplied by a
sado-technology. Mauled identity. Cannibal photos eat the soul right
out from under your heart port. Flesh migrates according to the
availability of sector space. Waiting in line, the body mutates
through a bit-mapped digression, reformulating itself according to the
exigencies of archival systems. Regulation speaks to the old optimisms
of humanity, the liberal memory of speech, the now completely ruined
light of day. Memory rents us our experience and the operating costs
are greater than the system can support. Contemplate mercy. Generate
speed. Perpetrate efficiency. Prayer is not an integrated extension in
the data rich layers of the algorithmic atmosphere. Dead Center
Cash dies and the city spasms out, bitstreamed to excess on a frayed
fiber nerve. Optics create illusions of wealth which flicker in the
chaos twlight -- images of another order, fireflies of sentience,
tracked and put out. The network senses its exhaustion and
replenishment, rising and falling on tides of current, surging the
hormanal codeways with synaptic fluid. Charge is a word for all
seasons, capable of storage and release, hibernation and return on all
investments. Interest is another star of the moment, able to be wrest
from the least transaction. Do you interest me? He asked, assessing
the debit load and then passing on. Apocryphal tales are still told on
the streets -- of hot metal and heavy lead, silver as a quick
accounting tool and methods of accrual so deadly they have all been
banked like so many leftover coals (hot rods) and left to die slowly
of their own consumption. Is there an image left to seek in the mass
of communicative exchange? Any single gestalt to be made on the
totalizing wonder of it all? Or only readouts, one after another,
mapping the patterns of storage and retrieval, negative data loss and
reconstructive recovery? Mutant Optics
There is a metaphysics of light which cannot be uncoupled from
deception. Thought itself, dark and radiant, represents illusion in
the very split between the thinking and that thought. The adaptation
of culture to the norm breaks light along the knife-edge of critical
inquiry, wanting to know, wanting to know, the eager beaver adults are
sucked into the machine. No longer one-dimensional, the image flatters
even farther, costing itself very little in the process of suspending
disbelief. Cultural downsizing cuts deep into the flesh of imagination
which is not thought, but its generative sibling rival, mind, breaking
its waves of conscious recognition in that slim margin of difference
between sleeping and waking where all antiquated productivy resides. A
bitter harvest, mildewed before milking. Romantic? No, realistic is
the term for an analysis which poses the possibility of description
within the premise of there being something still to apprehend. The
belief in magic is not a christian leap to faith, but a source of
balance against the ever dropping rates of return on the simple
investment of being. And being in the world. That world. So fraught
and replete with infinite specifics and varying particulars. Immersant Investments
Neon is now an old-fashioned word and concept. Quaint. Its harsh
material light too real to fashion into a screen language. The act of
framing now based on an already extant dimension of
containment. Monitor -- verb and noun -- acting in the same instance
to a predetermined limit which becomes instantly habitual. The
windshield. The television. The ATM machine. The camera. A circuit of
exchange in which a measure of sought relief is always elusive. What
is watching but witnessing? What is perception but the shared pain of
being? What is knowledge but escape from mute horror or the deep fall
into it? What is speech but the protest against impotence. What is
image but the continual displacement of the real from the scene? Who
sinks lowest? Striving toward an image resolution. Conflict raises its
familiar head. The newsroom flunkies spit hot ions outward in a
desperate attempt to generate commitment. Seduction is the mere edge
of the price to be paid for putting down hard money in a blind search
for the possibility of return. It cannot always increase and still
feed the capillary structure meant to keep the beast alive. Or can it?
The depth of the field is nothing to the weak beam of light which
aches to cross the space with conviction. All our propertied dreams
come down to this, a moment of experience, ephemeral and incomplete,
insubstantial and not even ours for the making. Taking the bitter with
the street, life resounds into an echo chamber reverb of sensurround
noise. Negative Politics
The screaming status flame-wars of the edu-junkies map one edge after
another in the useless sand. Hyped assessment, its hyena face snapping
at the heels of justice, pursues its enemies with a dogged purpose. A
data-poor environment sinks into the morass of sludge and
neighborhood, while the simulacral skyline draws and redraws itself
with a mapped program of relief, etched as if dimensionally, against
the blunt instrument of resource management. Generating a culture from
the meagre zone ignites a new velocity industry in the shadow of an
edutainment complex, distributing intelligence packets to nibble on
before the games. High performance, low anxiety. Consumer confidence
and confidentiality interlock with the politesse of genetic rivals
reconciling their high-speed call-up devices to a harmoniously
integrated network of exchange. No payoff. Just web securities. And
exchange. Delete Culture
Bit screens self-destruct in an orgy of surplus value, making their
way upstream to breed in the dark crevice of a used environment. Hard
metal slides against cold flesh in a primordial ritual of
renewal. Blood on the back of the mousepad, sputum racing up the spine
of the program code. In a few moments it was over, and the limp
digitalia swung in the virtual breeze, hopelessly hoping for a breath
of damp air to renew their viral mechanisms. The will of industry a
total vision of expansion and containment, the flow-chart model of use
and development, as poignant as a primitive schematic for
approximating the location of the organs in the body cavity. No one
goes there anymore. Terminal Data
Terror is its own cheap thrill, hitting the cable up for cash on the
way in. Screen memory draws a blank, trying to refuse the signal. Her
job on the street had been replaced by a chip too small to fit in her
purse, too potent to be worn next to the skin. Now the programming
functions had returned to the logical smear campaign hard-wired into
what they termed the mother-board. No experiment in maternal instinct
had ever put up with more machinery. The biology of family was hung
out in the new wind of an insignificant market ploy. Commercial
efficiency was checked at every point by the organic debris eliminated
in the rhetoric of new politics. A dialogue capable of freezing on the
menu in the seamless face of time tears the pixels out by their
roots. A slow erasure of difference, information, struggling against
impossible odds. A change takes place between modes as well as
dimensions, with our sticky fingers trying to rearrange those figures
on the screen and the airborne irritants remembering their
job. Nothing breeding, nothing gained. Grope for the dials. The touch
of artifice on the skin reminds us of libidinal drives, now all
satisfactorily hooked into the equipment, supplying excitement through
a short cord and a long delay of blind media sucking virtual
flesh. Cyber-sentience
A prophalactic algorithm laps at the base of my brain, a new phallic
tongue installed for the dim pleasure center to relax with. News
breaks on my skin and reminds me there is no reason for knowledge to
have form. The process of thought seeps according to an ancient
organic metaphor through the synaptic mirror of my soul. Nothing in
this equation matters more than getting through, letting the electrons
have their day in the small sun of present tense before becoming the
lapsed trace of what is now known as memory. The lips on the glass
speak volumes as a microfiber thread spools outward from the gateway
in explicit violation of protocol. Following its irreverent route the
mind relaxes. The light that used to shine from her eyes is now
tightly rolled up in optic storage, which I access now and again as
one might sample aged liquors in another era and with another
apparatus. Pleasure becomes the living lie of the machine, ready to
manipulate its way into whatever space is available. There, for
instance, between eye and mind, is an opportunity for mediation,
intervention. Processing is taxed according to desire, and meted out
in excess proportion to need. Run your hand along the cold spine of
the bastard mechanism and remember what that hand was to the beloved
keyboard and the well-respected trigger in our own time. Burnt
connections offer their fickle version of events and the late breaking
tune is more or less one of mild euphoria in spite of the diminished
capacity down below. Spatial orientation depends upon your digitalia,
mark my words and keep the circuit clean. The old viral networks are
still around, lurking in the unswept reaches of the web, found by an
occasional vacuum search, when the clumsy technicians forget to wipe
their sensors or retract their errant probes before they leave the
known surface of the bitter earth. We who traffic in soft goods are
better equipped than those old electron hogs to monitor the progress
of the program overall. Beeps and blips and a disturbance on the
screen. Passing is always out of phase and into the limnal reaches of
remote transmission. I want -- but cannot make myself heard -- in the
mute vibratory center. Noise makes itself important again, bidding
like a juvenile for a moment of attention. Maintenance is a routine
job, taken lightly, like the dawn's early life, and scattered out over
the spreadsheet in order to be harvested a little later in the
game. Programmatic? Wait and see. © Johanna Drucker, May 1998 |