I'm so sick of the net!
Aw . . . it's all right, I guess
It's just that it went from
'starry-eyed' to 'stodgy'
without passing through 'gripping'
Although maybe that's the opportunity it has now
laid up in a full-body cast
after its crash
with lots of time on its hands
to think about
what it really wants to do with its life . . .
The Sudden Stultifying Sameness
that's what gets me . . .
. . . tho maybe
I just need to get a new computer
I know ---
"you never turn on the same computer twice'
--- but, still
the rhythm of sitting down
at the same key&screen
every time is getting way too site-specific
just 1 time
I'd like to sit down in, like
. . . one of those massage chairs . . .
and have my computer dangling below me
while someone works my spine
I can't get my mind off
the environmental aspects of net life ---
the places our bodies are
while our minds are elsewhere
(that addictive, over-the-counter disconituum)
I fantasize about
sliding down the wires
into the rooms of the people
who read my web stuff
taking their shoulders in my 2 big hands
rubbing away that tension
How's your neck feel right now?
Even my conceptual work
is getting very physical these days
. . . I mean . . .
How much of the pleasure of reading
is really about people developing,
what psychologists call a "physical soothing ritual"
(like rocking a baby)
self-medication that allows their nervous systems
respite from anxiety?
"Content" is last on the list of the 3 characteristics
of the reading experience ---
directing your body to physical safety
directing your autonomic nervous system to access emotion
directing your imaging/languaging abilities to start their little parade
Yeah . . . just as
we all know that our vocal chords
move as we perform silent reading
so, that performance includes the rest of the body
as imaging begins
I can clap my hands and write the word "Jump!"
and your leg muscles will
go through an eerie pantomime
for about 4 seconds
. . . all I'm saying
is that literary work
has always been massage
is a fisikal fenomenan
the 5 fingers
of my tired typing hand
actually reach inside your stomach
to blossom into neural idea-things
It gets down to a matter of relational aesthetics---
the music you're listening to
as you read this right now
does matter ---
the texture of your shirt
the quality of chocolate in your mouth
the humidity of the air on the light hair
of your arms
--- all 6 senses
including my favorite,
the new one,
"proprioception" = the body/mind's way
of knowing where it is in space & time
that slaughtered autobiography
that let's you meet yourself back in the present
(when you're done reading, say)
that deep-brain appropriation of your own
that twists you 7 ways 'til sunday!
Historically, most people who were good with words
(good at triggering your electrochemistry)
practiced their art in public places
But instead . . .
. . . its something like 8years now
I've been playing from my well worn home office
my bedroom laboratory
the dematerialization of the art object
has become the dematerialization of the audience
My stupid eyes blurrrrrr with grief-fruit juice
'cause I miss y'all so much
My mouse o' 9 tales
taunts my palm
That's as close to you as my hand will every get, probably
now I'm gettin' sappy
snap out of it, Rob
we know that
(in many disparate cultures throughout history)
people who get their
are depicted as having an aura
(often in gold)
surrounding their noggins
the same TV-glow halo
that lets you see your own kid
from 10 miles away
and that force
can be organized
to shake hands with everyone
(a country of 11 million)
or leave you forever an outsider
(the last microbe on earth)
So these days
you farflung 12 disciples
of net work
to get into the physicality of the large glass
in front of you
--- your monitor screen!
Knock on it!
It makes a pretty sound!
Is it warm?
No, no, no! Stop!
Don't touch it with your fingers!
Press your cheek against it, instead!
. . . the static electricity is aphrodisiacal
That screen is the real fulfilment of Duchamp's search
the painting that talks back
the painting that knows your name
the painting that undresses right and redresses wrong
Savor that instant
your computer monitor
goes from death
every time you turn it on
and let it point you toward
of electricity going up your own spine
and the antenna-like spines of
all the others
in front of their own monitors.
That's about it.
it's like I'm forgetting something
(How could I forget the traitor?)
There were 13 disciples!
13 variations on a theme by mark amerika --- rob wittig october 2001