The color of your underwear + the last thing you ate = your starship name. As Deborah Poe says, “I was born in the year of feeling.” The little girl in “Broken Heart” is an obvious reference to Banksy’s famous girl distressed that her heart-shaped balloon is flying away; this little girl’s lies in the street. How many dead, how many wounded, at the foot of the Empire State Building? I run into Walgreens for some Sudafed, get “carded,” pass the I.D., and pop two pills upon entering my “personal home-space.” Minor-meme “Die ok,” as left over by the erasing of ‘t’ and ‘c e’ in Diet Coke, feels post-Nietzschean in some beginning to get-drowsy way. I like the non non-drowsy i.e. drowsy Sudafed. I like lying in my bed looking at my ceiling, the egg shell white brittle as the egg tempera paintings of Pompeii. Benjamin Noys posts a photo of a billboard reading Time For A Different State and I click like. Tho it makes me nervous. I mean, that word state. Name two of your obsessions. The doctor and nurses all agreed. There had been a dramatic increase in infections. It was most certainly caused by global warming, which is turning the clock on our planet back to the Eocene. What does it tell you that “Ain't No Fun?” is one of my top five favorite songs? For starters, it tells you that Snoop Doggy Dogg > Snoop Dogg > Snoop Lion. It tells you that being passed around by friends, and getting fucked by so many different cocks you loose count, is a totally hot and normal fantasy. Oh yeah and once in real life a boy asked if he could stick a chicken wing in my butt and take a picture to Photoshop a fake KFC ad. (I said no and can never look at a drumstick the same, thanks for ruining that, you fucker.) The consequence is a strange kind of existential state, in which exhaustion bleeds into insomniac overstimulation (no matter how tired we are, there is still time for one more click) and enjoyment and anxiety co-exist (the urge to check emails, for instance, is both something we must do for work and a libidinal compulsion, a psychoanalytic drive that is never satisfied no matter how many messages we receive). The fact that the smart phone makes cyberspace available practically anywhere at anytime means that boredom (or at least the old style, ‘Fordist’ boredom) has effectively been eliminated from social life. Yet boredom, like death, posed existential challenges that are far more easily deferred in the always-on cyberspatial environment. Ultimately, communicative capitalism does not vanquish boredom so much as it “sublates” it, seeming to destroy it only to preserve it in a new synthesis. So I BALANCED a sword on my head, dropped to my knees and earnestly vowed I would never again APOLOGIZE on command. And putting that struggling cat in the hall is like trying to shove a bunch of feathers into the roaring face of an auditorium fan. The cat DEMATERIALIZES and reappears behind you. Ungatherable, a galaxy of swirling feline hydrogen. —And what do you think, Subhuti? Is this nouchi? —Bhagavan, yes, this nouchi. —And is it good, Subhuti? —Bhagavan, yes, it is good. “As David Harvey writes in Spaces of Hope, sickness — under capitalism — gets defined as the inability to go to work. Marnell is sick in more ways than one, as having a job makes her sick.” I cannot drown. As Lee Lozano writes, “Information is content. Content is fiction.” Now looking at it all again, I have to say, in terms of ‘Trug’, it would do one well to consider Bruno Latour’s ‘Practical Metaphysics’, so in that sense, the grotesque would then be that state of affairs in which trugness lends to human matter its flavor of ‘socratic irony’, but to push the thing further, the so-called ‘strength of the [epistemic] subject’ would be something like the equation ‘as one approaches infinity’, so that the understanding of the singularity is absolutely confounded by uniqueness, by the infinitesimality of reality, but further, of a break with the logic of language’s social continuity as ruled order, and an entrance into language as constructionism, or an infinitesimalleability which seems completely compossible with neurophysiological combinatorics, i.e. plasticity as the reverse-engineered ur-form of culture as subjectivity.
[Note: Sources: a pseudo-poster-type-thingie (they probably have a name) seen on FB, 24 Aug 012; JBR; Deborah Poe, FB comment, 24 Aug 012; Daniel Larkin, “Made in Iran But on Display in New York’s Little Italy”, at Hyperallergic, 24 Aug 012 (on the work of Icy and Sot); JBR, bur see any of 100 news stories, 24 Aug 012); Jimmy Chen, “On Sacriledge [sic]”, at HTMLGIANT, 24 Aug 012; JBR (the photo was posted on FB); Tom Beckett, “Questions”, at l’amour fou, 24 Aug 012; John Olson, “My Summer Infection”, at Tillalala Chronicles, 24 Aug 012; Sophie Saint Thomas, “SHUFFLE AND SPLOOGE - THE LAST SPLOOGE”, at Vice, 24 Aug 012; Mark Fisher, as quoted in Breshvik, “Time Wars”, at Disinformation, 24 Aug 012; Body, 10 Jul 012; Aboudia Abdoulaye Diarrassouba, as quoted in Cara Waterfall, “Art as reconciliation in Côte d’Ivoire”, at Matador Network, 24 Aug 012 (nouchi = “the urban slang spoken by young people in Abidjan” = the way Aboudia describes his paintings); JBR; Jane Hu, as quoted in Kate Zambreno, “As David Harvey writes …”, at Madame Bovary’s Disease, 24 Aug 012; Tom Raworth, A Serial Biography, in Earn Your Milk: Collected Prose; Lee Lozano, Journal, and phaneronoemikon, in his “Post-title”, at Jellybean Weirdo With Electric Snake Fang, 24 Aug 012 (Trug = deception)]