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
for me

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 ---
your chair
your desk
your air
your music
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,
in reading,
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



gotcha




sorry



. . . all I'm saying
is that literary work
has always been massage

since language
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
self-image
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

*foof!*




sorry


now I'm gettin' sappy




snap out of it, Rob


OK
OK

Anyway,
we know that
(in many disparate cultures throughout history)
people who get their
bio-energy high
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 *include*
(halo radiating)

or *exclude*
(halo imploding)

to shake hands with everyone
(a country of 11 million)

or leave you forever an outsider
(the last microbe on earth)


So these days

I'm encouraging

you farflung 12 disciples
of net work

to get into the physicality of the large glass
in front of you

--- your monitor screen!

Go ahead!

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
in which
your computer monitor
goes from death
to life
every time you turn it on

and let it point you toward
that mainstream
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.




wait


it's like I'm forgetting something








(How could I forget the traitor?)
There were 13 disciples!

Duh!






13 variations on a theme by mark amerika --- rob wittig october 2001