The Transfer Station
Song - Artist - Album
The New Life Out There - The Neon Philharmonic - The Moth Confesses
the fake writer eases into a folding chair and begins tapping after pulling up his left sock. the lines outside were growing longer, and he wondered how much time he had left. in the long hallway of his dusty recollection, imaginary conversations arose regarding the amount of understanding required to process a shouting mob (of anyone) as any sort of encouragement, how certain handlers of any pop phenomenon would toil and craft a stately frame for the perception of appeal. understanding may have been the best word he knew for the phenomenon but it was quickly chosen and didn't suit the views of any number, real or not, of imaginary perceivers.
[not you, of course, i'd not suggest it.]
hidden among the rubble is a robotic walking antique cellular telephone repeats the same dull passage for any vagrant lost enough to end up in the museum of anti-technology: "the mechanism of manual speech has altered little in time, post clay's unfortunate demise to more combustible papyrus. unlike tracing moist clay, the keyboard mechanism promotes a very useful mindset for mill-workers and field-hands by serializing language in the form of a mindless repetitive task as easily supervised as the result. strict interpretation of High Code glyphs results in a more perfect implementation of the Code" which sort of trails off in the low frequencies seven words in from the middle and echoes down the concrete tunnel, being loud enough to make the three hour walk less uneventful. the fake writer (an imaginary author) rolls two die six and hits a large, two fists, and successfully detects the hidden trap door leading to the first save point.
most of the museum's display consisted of the physical remnants of the previous era's corporate structure validating itself in print, poster, billboard, and thought-virus alike, detailing the only known rebuttal to the end of the universe presented in architectural form, wired for sound-tubes and lit from every angle with a space hobbit's finest lasercandles. (the term for the device was known nebula-wide as the fittest hit to stoke any imaginary textualizer's bongo gourd). Mostly inert, the displays sprang to full spectacular effect sequentially as a stray dog loped orthogonally after a rat more tangible than any of the toxic displays. even the dog knew better than to hunt here, as the displays from the 2070s had subsonic partials at the exact resonant frequency of his tail, which led to fun but mostly a vicious pursuit. the era's head zippers launched massive enthusiastic battles on the minor planets to celebrate their achievement of such a heady end and managed an utter defeat of most of the abandoned machinery nearby. (the last recorded mention of anyone questioning the utility of the Code was after such a battle on Mu-Mu [make up your own spacedate])
a knock sounded on the fourth wall and he rose to face it.
it was the reader, whom, as an ideal manifestation of a class of phenomenon (including both human and other apprehension), demanded that the method of determining the content(s) of a piece of text should be as close to identical as possible to the physical practice of inscribing the words in turn as a method of initial perception of the concept. see, you just read that whole thing, nice one. the purpose of language, notionally, is the autography of thought via language upon the perception. written language was conceived in the interest of getting that done at some point, but somewhere around windows 3.1 that shit went south for a minute [hard]. the distracting square form of the modal dialog box casts exactly a cubical shadow in the continuing perception of the user, in his linear and right-angled world of language. the operation of the machinery necessary to digitize the linearization of the lingual form of a rather constant shotgun blast of experience to the face is frankly way too much for most current internet users, and, the reader believed, probably should be enforced with packs of feral remotely controlled vultures. the task of manifesting language in text is currently more complicated than farting, which poses serious problems to anyone not canny enough to avoid being convinced of the surface reality of the form of language presented in the daily text of every day experience. for example: spell checking. formatting. proper avoidance of insulting the reader. attributing misspellings to cats. these are all tasks that must be mastered before even a thought can arise, yet none would be sensibly thought of as necessary to thought.
the internet, as contemporary text, squares (at least) the amount of complex understanding necessary to participate in language, and it's not going to improve any time soon.
3:37 AM Tuesday, May 05, 2009 ends
* see the chans for details