Interlude 2 : Icelandic Saga
“I prefer to think they’ve
cancelled out and that we’re too entwined in mutual surveillance to let each
other go.” Ian McEwan, Sweet Tooth (369)
Once upon a time, in
glamvoid, instead of stars, zillions of electric eyes’ld observe the band of
the overexposed in pursuit of climes otherwise elucidated, rays from different
sources to quench thirst.
Once upon a time, in
glamvoid, instead of suns, camera flashes’ld announce the long sought word
born out of the disintegration of corrosive noise.
In glamvoid, oversaturation
by digitized oneiric imagery rules. Or, so somnambulist logic would want one to
believe.
We don’t buy it.
Crawling across urban
wastelands, exhausted fellow cyborgs thirst ever so intensely. Drawing closer
to what they think might be the scenery of different light, messages reach them.
Messages are numberless. Among them, one resonates with the nature of their
search. Based on the echoes, carefully filtered, meticulously sifted, and
perceived with the sensitivity granted by the correlated rhythm of their indefatigable
seeking and the signals from the sites afar, they learn about a pocket of
darkness on the outskirts of the city.
“roots we have no more,”
they say to themselves, “aerials root us.”
Hence, they think: “we are
rooted, as well.” Webwiered.
They choose daylight, when
parasite signals seem to be overshadowed by different light, to find the
corners of darkness promising encounters with a different version of extended
moments of solitude amidst the multitudes. Solace of darkness.
Walking is the only vehicle
they can afford. Underprivileged as they may be, walk, nevertheless, they can.
Walk they know. Because they know of
the word long searched for--half-forgotten, half-dissolved in the threat of an
overwhelming amnesia spreading like contagious spleen across the urbanity that
seems to be redescribing its own name. Because they know how to seek. Where to
look. How to walk, how to speak. Despite noise.
beyond parasite signals /
beyond static / beyond noise.
“beyond glamvoid, my fellow
cyborgs,” they say to each other.
That’s how they find anew
strength to keep walking. Moving closer towards the peculiar dark corners,
where distant cypresses whisper tales of nearly unthinkable possibility to
contain noise. Spots of tales, spots of darkness.
Darkness with a strange
affinity to disclosing its valences and synchronizing electric charge of its
particles with the akin mollicules, thereby transforming itself into a
crepuscular hue, thinning as the fellow cyborgs are populating the friendly
spaces of peculiar darkness. Spots of angular tenderness, spots of quirky
gentleness.
Spots that reveal what they
offer : that what spreads.
Those dark enclaves turn out
to be constitutive of the colossal creature whose, perhaps, most astonishing
characteristic is its innerness consisting of mirrors. Thus, it is the mirror
images that those weary fellow travelers find so appeasing.
“could it be that mirror
images are capable of such an alleviating effect?” they ask themselves.
“possibly,” they
contemplate.
Perhaps. Because those
mirror images speak of different light :
words of ruby amber / words
of crystallizing petals :
melting in the intersection
of the time axes : DJing : against noise, and in the service of the remix.
Q : we are not
robozombies!
