(no subject)
We are all alerted to catastrophe. Nothing escapes notice. Sirens and lights and signs and reports alert us to sound of impending doom, the sound of passing away, the sound of raging fires. We do not know what fire sounds like; but we know the smell of doom. We are always alerted to catastrophe.
305 days approximately until we no longer receive any analog signals. 305 days until all waves are digital, passing in and out of Space unnoticed. Digital neurosis. People use verbiage with me that I am unable to understand, words about wires and transmissions. I am still in space, with a head full of junk and a heart full of noise. I try and forget what they've told me about coaxial cables, channels of ins and outs. I imagine myself as Laika, tumbling around a giant hole, waiting for the heating system to give. Waiting for internal combustion. Waiting for validation, for the plot of the trip, for someone to understand my trajectory.
There are bones, still, in space of discarded dogs and transmissions. Canine skeletons sleeping with frequencies of consumption and weight loss. Frequencies of whiter smiles. Frequencies of personal ads, lingerie, God, the Devil, and our host George W. Bush. The dogs are still dreaming of running through the streets, but their bodies have been thrust into our art galleries, our performance theaters. Their disease and pain is a monument to the more important matter of our disease and pain. Stop watching TV. These are rotting bones. Donate your money to a man with an idea and a title. This is a dying dog. This is supposed to be you. This was supposed to be you. We wanted this to be you.
There is a larger issue at hand than the interference of man with nature and divinity. The larger issue is man's insistence in believing that his existence is more infinite than the decaying bones of a street dog, but he refuses to see that the atmosphere has absorbed the tissue of these strays, these urchins, as easily as it has absorbed the tissue of man.
We not infinite. We are decaying bones. We are dying dogs.
305 days approximately until we no longer receive any analog signals. 305 days until all waves are digital, passing in and out of Space unnoticed. Digital neurosis. People use verbiage with me that I am unable to understand, words about wires and transmissions. I am still in space, with a head full of junk and a heart full of noise. I try and forget what they've told me about coaxial cables, channels of ins and outs. I imagine myself as Laika, tumbling around a giant hole, waiting for the heating system to give. Waiting for internal combustion. Waiting for validation, for the plot of the trip, for someone to understand my trajectory.
There are bones, still, in space of discarded dogs and transmissions. Canine skeletons sleeping with frequencies of consumption and weight loss. Frequencies of whiter smiles. Frequencies of personal ads, lingerie, God, the Devil, and our host George W. Bush. The dogs are still dreaming of running through the streets, but their bodies have been thrust into our art galleries, our performance theaters. Their disease and pain is a monument to the more important matter of our disease and pain. Stop watching TV. These are rotting bones. Donate your money to a man with an idea and a title. This is a dying dog. This is supposed to be you. This was supposed to be you. We wanted this to be you.
There is a larger issue at hand than the interference of man with nature and divinity. The larger issue is man's insistence in believing that his existence is more infinite than the decaying bones of a street dog, but he refuses to see that the atmosphere has absorbed the tissue of these strays, these urchins, as easily as it has absorbed the tissue of man.
We not infinite. We are decaying bones. We are dying dogs.