Saturday, February 8, 2014

Spies in the House of Love (Notes for Mad Heiress)

We awoke one morning to find we had become unreliable narrators of our own lives.

During the night, our homes, once familiar to us, slid shakily into foggy ghost palaces of the 14th century, translucent and erotic. Fruit ate itself, doors opened and closed of their own accord, curtains brushed across guitar strings on a windless day, flowers blushed. We sensed our lives were gaslighting us.  But as always, habit drove us. We arose. Bathed, dressed, ate. Sunlight still greeted us and guided us to our jobs. Screens still needed viewing, communication was still electronic.

But. Well, the foundation had changed. Was changing.

Were we entering a new dark age?

And so it came to pass that we wandered gownless and shirtless in our neighbor's lawns, ice cream still sticky between our toes. Whistling melodies we'd forgotten the words to.

It seemed the right thing to do. Sidestepping the fucked-up notion of global citizenry.

Our minds stepped underground, our attention turtled inwards. No thought. Our devices gathered dust. We stepped out of the information bath, and into our own lives.

It felt so good.

(The personal is apolitical)

The system brooks no resistance. It nests inside us before we could possibly decide otherwise. Tick tick. Germinating. Blossoming. Informing. Deciding. Our invisible passenger, snakey on shoulder. No need for it to even whisper. We've internalized its song.

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