This is not urgent

well,
here we are again like yesterday,
poetry of recognition of repetition can be
a place of rest from obligations, other focuses, other things you have to do

everything you could click on is a work in progress,

“The power of the internet lies in its near-infinite mutability. It’s an edifice of information being added to and sculpted by as many hands as there are eyes viewing it. Truly democratic and increasingly accessible, it will soon be the vector for most communication that takes place on our world.”

the internet could be anything

it used to be very exciting that we are all here

what I do to keep myself from dying is go on a remembering spree; I spend time going forward back into something that was before

what good are these long records of remembering? I suppose at least I am working though I may disagree with everyone on the definition: to me working is a full yielding and submerging into vision, full embodiment of physical presence in conceptual form, putting what you feel into a thing someone else can see

so the question becomes what is worth communicating?

John Cage, Lecture On Nothing, from Silence

which I quote here and read fully recently
which led to thinking I am a language poet
since all I seem to do is show up and take up space
like any selfish old male employee in a firm he may have founded
which of course obscures his vision on the present and the future; but this is a rabbit hole that doesn’t serve me or you…talking about some hypothetical person

though I keep trusting that whatever I have to say ought to be written; it seems as though there is no other choice but to write whatever comes to mind, of course the question is who pays which is probably the dominant question in the world today: who’s gonna pay for that thing you want? You? I wonder why I’m tortured by the question of how I will make money doing what I want; maybe I won’t make money and I’ll just die, or I’ll find my way talking my way into being helped by someone who has the means to help. I wonder why it takes so long.

i’m not the only broken piece
oh, what good is me looking at the world and thinking and talking?
is that a life or a career? looking and telling? it’s probably art; maybe the artist is only he who cannot stop looking

~

In the media consumption paradigm of today (Oh look, we’re here right now, so good to see you), headlines and reports live side-by-side. Content we read could be gut reactions (and anybody’s — we can’t tell how true or right someone is by reading only parts of what we want) when the portal where we get our news (in other words, when we immerse our brains down into the pond of everywhere else but the room we’re in) is not objective, right, edited or official— it’s one fleeting cross-section of voices you’ve previously said were worth hearing. Facing this feed might make you informed, but it’s all just fleeting information, ubiquitous data that will keep being typed anew.

If all content is human, then all information found online is a request for money or love. It’s what people want and people speak to get something.

The persons with the most reach are those who are best at compelling people (or maybe the ones with the best gimmick). The goal here is to make you click, to get your eyeballs into their rows of text.

Our brains have never been asked to process as much information as they do today. It’s partly because we never break up — we’re bad at shedding inside sources. We generalize.

How about leaving college and not going right to the Internet? I know my parents retained only five or six of the best relationships and the rest were basically never seen again. It wasn’t an active choice to disengage like it is now. There was no clawing to make sure they stayed connected which freed brain space for the next season of life to unfold. But our brains are already fully occupied. Any new entrant must fight through the lens we’ve been grinding for years.

Dunbar’s number suggests that our brain can maintain only 150 relationships at once. However, “electronic media abolish the spatial dimension. By electricity, we everywhere resume person-to-person relations as if on the smallest village scale. It is a relation in depth, and without delegations of functions or powers. Dialogue supersedes the lecture,” Marshall McLuhan says.

The result is we run a real-time stock market of social facts and did-you-knows, a martyr generation selflessly schlepping our parents’ world over to “the new format” like converting an acre of warehouse floor of VHS tapes stacked to the ceiling into digital on USB drives, workers inserting discs from rolling chairs with squeaky backs, where any relevant bit of frozen potential attention is digital content and subject to community guidelines.

Plans for revolution, once the temperature on the emotion drops, are judged against the entirety of the marketplace of existing ideas (fresh pressed each morning). Any revolution of relevance competes to stand up to public life (where people do things for money). The pure and the real (RIP corporate mission statements) loses their glow and slowly become a thing to monetize (a gimmick, a schtick). Any spark of genius is packaged up and sold, converted to a thing to be judged in line by relentless critics, trembling at computers for 10 hours a day with proud red pens indulging in scoops of manufactured urgency and assumed intimacy.

These Internet words are all saved (and archived by the Library of Congress because why not?) for whenever. The whole thing is always there; life is always here.

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Geoffrey Lewis

filling the blinking cursor with whatever comes up, letting the leviathan lead me to glory, singing popular music covers on video on Smule too, speaker, rambler