Saturday, November 7, 2015


We are embraced by sound, light, shadow, relationships, emotion,  memory.

We stretch out, we point, we cry, we crawl, we walk, we run, we embrace, we walk, we crawl, we stop.

We surround ourselves with objects: clothes, furnishings, company, weapons, words...

All is in movement, all is in movement.

We stop, we observe, we make connections, we note, we keep for ourselves, we keep for others...

What is monumental, what is iconic, what is sacred, what is mysterious, we worship.

We celebrate our exploits, our kills, our scrapes, our epics.

I am reminded of Mes Emmerdes and a living monument that is Charles Aznavour:

We aspire to meaning, to leaving a mark of our passing.

We are as leaves to the wind, ephemeral, dependent, soon to fall, soon to be raked up. I suddenly remember those Feuilles Mortes of Jacques Prévert.

Those feuilles mortes...

We are constantly looking to beauty to remind us of the height of our summer. 

Those relics, which we embellish as the days shorten.

We are transfixed by those burnished images, fearing to look past a fixed mirror...

Can that really be us now?

What appears permanent, we hold onto desperately, a buoy in an ocean of alienation...

We stretch out, we stretch our for sure footing and to leave a mark, however futile, of our passing.

If I come to write all of this now, it is because I have some dirty secrets...

Behind these lines are the words of others, always the words of others....

Here are pages and pages of the words of others...

There was the writing of Kate Bowles.

I didn't search out her writing alone.  

I followed the traces of someone I trust:

I have been immersed in the conversations of fellow travellers...

I did not discover Walter Ong alone, nor the recorded conversations of Socrates.

I did not start independently to reflect on the nature of books, on the nature of social media alone....

I have been overhearing the conversations of others, and I have reflected...

What is the nature of this writing...this digital writing?

I fell upon an article in a Facebook stream, shared by another that I trust, it reflected on the 'Decay of Twitter', so young and yet prematurely mourned.

We are voracious culture vultures, swallowing icons, likes, kisses, quotes, beauty, terror, horror...

Such is our hunger for distraction.. from our own impermanence.

We erect statues: 

Shakespeare, Leonardo, Gandhi, Callas, Churchill, Monroe...

We protect their higlighted 'memories'.

We prefer to see the objects of our worship thus:

Better dead young
The Lonesome genius.
The rebel with a cause.
The martyr with a stirring soundbite.

Our reality is less statuesque.

What is the nature of our worship of books?

We carefully prop up their memory with convenient authorship, with defenders of the faith...



We hold onto our myths, our stately lines as ships wreck...

We throw up our arms in ephemeral empathy before sinking into drunken stupour.

We find another icon, another golden calf to help in our distraction.

We take the moral high ground with fervour, I am not one of those, I am not one of those, those trolls.

We are above it all...

No we are not.

We are it all.

SMOOSH a word invented in an article already referenced

Discussions with article concerning Hyperobjects...

A question: What is the nature of digital writing?

An article here "Behind the image: Effortless - Essena O'Neill.

Followed by a discussion.

A reflection on loyalty and on the interest of memes...

A laugh which attracted my attention to some words...

"This is not a whole lot better".

A concern of a friend concerning the nature of reality and social media.

A meme.

An article from the Atlantic:

Twitter is in decay...we are in decay....

We are becoming ever more aware of the lies, the more or less savoury social ties behind our images, our icons...our cvs...

We stretch out for ship wrecks...for certificates of conformity, or quality.

We are becoming ever more aware of the lies behind our fixed images, our fixed borders, our icons, our words...

It is not comforting.

Everything is in movement, everything is in movement.

We try to hide our sorrow.

We try to put on a brave face on things...

But we our books are falling apart at the seams.

Navigating our reassuring 'reality' is becoming increasingly difficult.
Our sacred texts are brought down to earth.
There is no magic button.
However frantically we pour out our dismay.

There remains beauty in our digital decay...

We are humbled one and all the same...with the tools which become heavy in our hands.

So heavy in our hands.

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