Tag Archives: remembering

Yore Farther Brleeds Ideolology

Memryes are photographs made form cloth.
When they are dry, they fould, and pout in drawers
Wait to be whorn undreneath a whineter coat.
Each ithem shall be Worn In its turn
Shall be foilded and Taken Out and put on
And put back into its propre palace.

Each wash adds a tuone to the fibrication.

The past, befour being worn, is freshened:
The future thus remains pure in the sphin-cycle
As the enzymes (of the present) remove the war[e] …

The past threefore is a memory – beyond remembering:
So stupidiously, the past is ferover kempt,
Northing remains forgütten.

Endlessnessness worn as elegance.

‘I can see / by the way / You wash them clothes …’


PART THREE The Archive and the Record: Memory, Obsession, the Discourse of the Miser and the Dustbin of History

As memory becomes more and more “commodified” (and we should be conscious of the word’s etymological associations, i.e. “convenient” from the Latin), the dialectic between forgetting and remembering is rendered …. what? Obsolete? Impossible? Undesirable? Or is it, perhaps, the inability to forget that prompts this system’s obsession with “keeping track of things?” The system has produced Memory Degree Xerox as an immune response to Archive Fever. However, do not the symptom and the cure both resemble the vicious circle of pseudo-Hegelian dialectics? That is: the more infected the system becomes with “archive fever” the more it must rely on prosthetic forms of memory or “memory degree xerox?” This is to say that no break ever occurs between the two supposedly opposed fields of the Archive and of Memory.

facebook will tear us apart [revised]

At the front gates of
The Hell of Communication
Witness this message:
[in fluorescent,
coruscating letters

“Institute for cyberstalking decrees
Virtualization for the separation of
Under six degrees.”

Assembled and signed up,
Glass eyes stare into the Abyss of
Zero gravity morality.

Her body a riddle of blue miracles,
Surgical and chemical,
Electrical and intense,
Desiring and wishing
For something final that
Is not necessarily

How can a person be damaged
As you, beyond hope, perhaps,
And still be frigid here in Hell?

World of pieces where only half the time
Passes. The other, not yet come to pass,
Or already passing and passed by.
No update – not even “Hello!” or
“Goodbye!” or “I’m pissed!”

World made of parts and breaking
Into billions of atoms orbiting …
But we left to get the beer.
(Each beer we drunk
Wound up a blurry photo,
Circulating somewhere as
The most amateur pornography.)

This time differs from its past.
The epoch passed something on:
A hazy disaster
That none could fully recall (or
Regretfully forget).

The end of all fashion is nigh.
Absolute difference,
A form of indifference
With structural stratagems.
(Like microscopic angels,
Delivered from Cogito.)

Entirety of the cosmos,
Dead … It came back sooner
Than we thought it might.
Online resurrection: Division of
Joy into an infinite
Scissiparity of lesser, less
Dangerous, ecstasy.

Liberated, the law of closure and
The law of circularity,
We are not bound by events,
Nor the guise of repetition
Any longer.

The past is an afraid beast,
Hiding in Its lair, viewing
What was done.

Here in Hell it seems, at least,
The past will not spare anyone.


[compare to the original.]

Why I Did It, A Terrorist Manifesto (part 11)

[This is a fiction I co-authored with Louise Norlie. I will be publishing the story in serial installments, every Monday for the next little while. Stay tuned.]

To this day I remember everything. EVERYTHING.

That is the problem with so many. Their memories are not their own or they conveniently forget all the cruelties and kindnesses done unto them. In the former case, there is the “historical crusader,” an individual who uses terror to inflict upon the present a punishment for a historical wrong, a wrong that this individual did not really live through. No, this individual merely “inherited” hatred and follows the tradition blindly, deafly, and totally obediently; most “religious” terrorists fall into this category.

In the latter case, there are two kinds of people. The first are those who have every right and reason to be outraged, who have every right and reason to externalize their rage and scars upon the world. And I do not necessarily mean a visible mark when I say “scar:” a scab that one cannot pick is infinitely more infuriating than mere damaged skin. Yet, despite all the reasons to lash out, these people choose to forget. Women, and, to a lesser extent, men, who are abused and return to their abuser fall into this category. These people would be my comrades, my unborn, invisible brothers and sisters: fruits of a gnarled and rotten family tree.

The ones who forget kindness are the worst kind of terrorist.

Maybe my life could have been different – BUT I DID NOT WANT TO BE DIFFERENT.