It’s all about memes. Propagation. Contagion. Exposure. Inheritance. Transmission. Mutation. It’s all about us, the replicators. The carriers and explicators. It’s the story of traditions. Of our collective slogans. How we accept them, use them, and then spread them around.
Myths and intertextuality do they say (Roland Barthes and Umberto Eco). How it’s all shaped by others before we pretend it's ours. Borrowing. Stealing. Transforming even the disguise.
It's more than an influence. It is a mediation happening from the moment the perceiver establishes contact with the eidos – existence of the thing, an idea of its nature, since there is a viewer, hearer, smeller, toucher, taster as a gateway to welcome this thing into our world. And we make it ours, understanding it as imitation and reproduction of itself. An entire life in the shape of hypertext. Filled with echoes, allusions, references, boomerang thoughts. The beholders themselves encoded with the portraits they’ve witnessed: The fictional reality that was proposed to them, and said to be based on their image, and toward which they’re always marching.
From the principle of collage, of mosaic to that of fabric. Creating authentic, unrecognizable copies. Different from the originals they contain. Creating divergence by copying the same. Juxtaposing. Confusing the genuine. A bona fide result made of unpunctuated appropriations.
I have painted, I wrote, and, yes, made children within a nihilistic mind-frame. Thematic developments reinterpreting origins. Vocalizations in various formats, intimate public experiences. Physical drives encompassing impulses and thoughts erupting as confetti.
When it was announced to the-young-girl-I-once-was that I was going nowhere. Because they really did that at one point. Tell me I wouldn’t move. A predilection for fixity. A place where my narrating voice would never thrive. I considered the possibilities: They were either right or wrong. And I was going to make those two come true. Dissemination.
I have grown into a grand-mother. Incongruous. A bizarre, unforeseen fate. The-young-girl-I-once-was having had no splendor to offer. Just orchestrations. Translations and coordinations of metaphysical rhythms. Solidly plastered onto reinterpretations.
In the realm of catatonic disappearance, of vanishing acts, the psychologically disabled child immolates the body, a paralysis of everything from the skin to the bones, sick with fear, total stoppage: The same as playing dead at the front. In the gutter, hiding at the bottom of the communal burial ground.
Pathological density, the self surrounded by incapacitated flesh.
Along the lines of the locked-in syndrome. A walled-in alive experience. Disconnection without loss of cognitive functions. The intermittent vegetative state. Aware, awake, an entombed consciousness, all voluntary muscles in the body unresponsive. Hysteria. Somatization. No organic cause. Just terror as a unifying emotion.
In my late teens, they all thought I was done for.
Say the prayer for me, darling: It’s all about memes. Propagation. Contagion. Exposure. Inheritance. Transmission. Mutation. It’s all about us, the replicators. The carriers and explicators. It’s the story of traditions. Of our collective slogans. How we accept them, use them, and then spread them around.
I have loved you, my future, from day one, and have entered you walking the great distance from a doomed past to its departure. And by never finding myself, I did manage to leave that lost self behind, next to a psychiatric diagnosis I could not fully understand. When they said I would not go further, I would not communicate.
The only part that has remained true is that I've never figured out why it happened. Pseudo comas, an innate silent symphony constantly reflecting on frivolous, cavernous imitations of death. Solos for an orchestra without a musical score, no written instrumental parts.
I mean it. I almost didn’t make it, and by extension, by the meme, neither did you, my children and grandchildren. So we are left now, that's it, with a possibility of being happy. The minute we're over our tremendous anger at whoever, whatever screwed us up. For there had to be a reason, ascertains the intellectually curious.
Your Laolao
Myths and intertextuality do they say (Roland Barthes and Umberto Eco). How it’s all shaped by others before we pretend it's ours. Borrowing. Stealing. Transforming even the disguise.
It's more than an influence. It is a mediation happening from the moment the perceiver establishes contact with the eidos – existence of the thing, an idea of its nature, since there is a viewer, hearer, smeller, toucher, taster as a gateway to welcome this thing into our world. And we make it ours, understanding it as imitation and reproduction of itself. An entire life in the shape of hypertext. Filled with echoes, allusions, references, boomerang thoughts. The beholders themselves encoded with the portraits they’ve witnessed: The fictional reality that was proposed to them, and said to be based on their image, and toward which they’re always marching.
From the principle of collage, of mosaic to that of fabric. Creating authentic, unrecognizable copies. Different from the originals they contain. Creating divergence by copying the same. Juxtaposing. Confusing the genuine. A bona fide result made of unpunctuated appropriations.
I have painted, I wrote, and, yes, made children within a nihilistic mind-frame. Thematic developments reinterpreting origins. Vocalizations in various formats, intimate public experiences. Physical drives encompassing impulses and thoughts erupting as confetti.
When it was announced to the-young-girl-I-once-was that I was going nowhere. Because they really did that at one point. Tell me I wouldn’t move. A predilection for fixity. A place where my narrating voice would never thrive. I considered the possibilities: They were either right or wrong. And I was going to make those two come true. Dissemination.
I have grown into a grand-mother. Incongruous. A bizarre, unforeseen fate. The-young-girl-I-once-was having had no splendor to offer. Just orchestrations. Translations and coordinations of metaphysical rhythms. Solidly plastered onto reinterpretations.
In the realm of catatonic disappearance, of vanishing acts, the psychologically disabled child immolates the body, a paralysis of everything from the skin to the bones, sick with fear, total stoppage: The same as playing dead at the front. In the gutter, hiding at the bottom of the communal burial ground.
Pathological density, the self surrounded by incapacitated flesh.
Along the lines of the locked-in syndrome. A walled-in alive experience. Disconnection without loss of cognitive functions. The intermittent vegetative state. Aware, awake, an entombed consciousness, all voluntary muscles in the body unresponsive. Hysteria. Somatization. No organic cause. Just terror as a unifying emotion.
In my late teens, they all thought I was done for.
Say the prayer for me, darling: It’s all about memes. Propagation. Contagion. Exposure. Inheritance. Transmission. Mutation. It’s all about us, the replicators. The carriers and explicators. It’s the story of traditions. Of our collective slogans. How we accept them, use them, and then spread them around.
I have loved you, my future, from day one, and have entered you walking the great distance from a doomed past to its departure. And by never finding myself, I did manage to leave that lost self behind, next to a psychiatric diagnosis I could not fully understand. When they said I would not go further, I would not communicate.
The only part that has remained true is that I've never figured out why it happened. Pseudo comas, an innate silent symphony constantly reflecting on frivolous, cavernous imitations of death. Solos for an orchestra without a musical score, no written instrumental parts.
I mean it. I almost didn’t make it, and by extension, by the meme, neither did you, my children and grandchildren. So we are left now, that's it, with a possibility of being happy. The minute we're over our tremendous anger at whoever, whatever screwed us up. For there had to be a reason, ascertains the intellectually curious.
Your Laolao
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