Today Rachæl and I went on an epic bike journey. We have turned away from derailleurs and gears and fight the terrain with just our wits and bodies. It was outstanding.
"I applaud this test, but I still feel that variable gears are only for people over forty-five. Isn't it better to triumph by the strength of your muscles than by the artifice of a derailleur? We are getting soft. Come on fellows. Let's say that the test was a fine demonstration-for our grandparents! As for me, give me a fixed gear!"
The ending of life must never be accelerated by individuals in the profession of medicine. These men and women are the guards to life, living, health, wellness and vitality. They must never grow comfortable in ending this fussy situation called "alive". Having tools near by that can accomplish a task, does not mean that those tools are the best for the job of the termination of all experience for an individual. Medical persons work undisturbed on the project of strategies for living, prolonging life, romping in fields, pain reduction and so forth.
Better equipped for the ending of life, the men and women of our armed forces.
I propose a situation in which a simple form is completed, signed, notarised and reviewed by non partial board of professionals, such as figure skaters, owners of hockey teams, politicians, journalists and distillers. Once the form has been approved, the military leaders in local area will provide choices. Considering the logistics and desires of the individual making the request to end their life.
This service can be offered to citizens who are not terminally ill for a nominal handling fee. If you are terminally ill, this will carry no cost.
I also propose that the military handle all forms, rituals and activities concerning death and dying, during peacetime and when involved in low level engagement. The current death industry in caught in some sentimental loop of flowers and brass. The modern secular dying or dead person needs something else. They demand efficiency, high technology and discipline. I want for myself, for my friends; the option to be buried at sea, to be used as biological weapon to spread pestilence or to be laser guided into a new land, along with tonnes of attractive cluster bombs. The military can achieve this. They must now bravely diversify their portfolio and deal with all levels and forms of death that have for too long burdened medicine and business.
Now I, a human, has one of these machines.
My computer is called a minimac, it is made by a company named after food. Capitalist always want to be needed, needed like food. Naming a company after a generative, susceptible to spoilage fruit makes sense. Terrible sense.
I was busy, thinking of ways to add useful complexity to my life when I under took the project of "logically" dividing the platter in my tiny computing machine into two partitions. Each partition would hold an operating system. The food one and another, named about a sense of inclusiveness and something else positive. The operative system would, revel to me what rooms filled with people sitting before screens were doing with their hours. I would understand their labours, they would help me with mine. Shifting, coloured light would, in mighty panels of incandescence cause goodness to blossom. Or something. First I needed, a helpful rectangle declared to me 10 gigabytes, (GB) of free space on the platter for this particular situation, I moved this and removed that. I got to that number. I was ready.
It did not work. The tool, the platter divider, displayed a subtle, disquieting error, like a nudist in the arcade filled with consumers. A series of numbers, normally used to describe quantity in single, friendly digits, instead revealed; to the 10th power, a negative total. These numbers did not belong, the tool did not work. A point of darkness fell open.
I gave the small machine new more familiar instructions. take the data from a disk of moving pictures, spill it on the platter, that would not be divided, then squash that data into a single file of a particular size and order, do this while I sleep.
In the morning, this task of corralled data butchery remained undone. There was a pause button, on the image of the collection of electricity, that promised to perform the instructions I gave the night before, I selected it, to prevent this application of instructions from dominating my computing communication, synthesising labours, pay cheque of the day.
Something began during the day a small breath between actions. Focused on a myriad of tasks, I ignored these split seconds. Then a rectangle emerged to the front of my work. It told me I was running low on disk space. I felt vertiginous. I deployed a number to tools to discover where this mysterious 9GB came from. No measuring tools could locate it. My work space was shrinking around me, like the skin of a dead animal on the sand. The system I used to duplicate my data in the unlikely event that I need to scour my main plate of information clean, was not responding.
I noticed the dot, inside the picture of a magnifying glass. I clicked on it. It told me it was "Indexing my drive", it told me, that it would never finish this task. I looked for the index file. I found it, the file was invisible in a invisible folder. I was told it occupied 0KB of space. Lies. More tools were directed at the problem, the context was altered in a number of ways, a friend was called. He told me a story of woe and deception as perpetrated by the very same picture of a magnifying glass, he told me of a special tool that would correct its wayward behaviours.
I placed that tiny file on my tiny, folding computer for later. More diagnostic tools on the mystershrinkingcomputer drew me pictures of cylinders, empty and slowly being filled. Things were broken these pictures told me, as sheets of glitch poured by. My invitation to these diagnostic tools proved fruitful as eventually they declared, "All things are right again!" I was glad. Once again in the regular context, the tool Sherlock used to discover clues was "indexing", forever. The special tool, as discussed over the phone, was brought out, it told me of this and that, and in a very nonplussed way, told me that the giant file was indeed being collected. It presented me with a number of choices. I chose to stop the gathering of super invisible data and delete it and to begin again, from a fresh. All of this was executed in a matter of moments. The duplication began to roll again, the index was also soon completed. I noticed other things around the house, the sun was setting. I could hear children laughing in the distance. The minimac was not spoiled, the delicate sand drawing of data would be present for one more day.
Today I used a rubber stamp, 9 times. I have begun to order my reading material, to create more of a river of words that the cloud which exists today.
A foam chair, bolted to a deck, attached to a system of propulsion wrapped in metal, plastic and glass. The people in the car stare at the faint light of gauges, a rushing landscape; they pull and shove at levers and spin a wheel. They go, sitting still. Tied down tight.
This machine, when it began, replaced horses dragging painful booths. Now it is something else. A container for sexual and social fantasy, a conduit to power, a narrative of desire, translocation and regression.
As the machines spin in parking lots, intertwine at intersections, they perform sadomasochistic dances of flashing metal and taut rubber. The individuals inside these shells are the entrails of a old creature from the centre of our thoughts.
I organised all of the cd-rom and dvd-rom archives I have accumulated over the past decade. This took many of my hours. I organised the disks into sleeves, in a box and corresponded these to database on my computer. The disorder that this previous non-system had existed in is now a memory, like the terminology that describes cd-rom and dvd-rom archives.
Also as one who runs a bee hive, I have consolidated my printed photos into one, terrible place, rather than a number of booklets and cases. I feel as if I have broken down a honeycomb structure to reveal a tasty, valuable core. This perhaps is not the case, but it feels good.
Humans ending that faintly comprehended thing called life of another, is usually understood via that act to ended a facet in their own life.
This act of removing is the greatest transgression possible. Societies which grant their judiciary, government or bureaucracy the ability to kill, is according to their actions, killers. This taints the institutions which have directed those crimes and provide poor guidance to people who surround these institutions and fall within their shadow. This is a sacrifice, serving no purpose other then a demonstration of power, in which was probably what any killer wises to communicate. The ritual is in that it appears to have been arrived in a fair, social manner, this step is often included.
This has often been noted. This is just a reminder.
Today, I watched Apple Inc. release a suite of software that will allow people who know how to write computer programs, do some work and have their programs run on two apple products.
Watching the different business men, from different specialities, flatten out on the screen, talking about technology, saying the word "excited", in a modulated monotone has a certain instructive, comedic value. the younger businessman rippling in discomfort, and finally towards the end of his session, releasing a clenched, staccato laugh. I worry about him.
In 2 hours I will begin my 33rd year alive.
I am waiting for my cab, it is about 20 minutes later than I had asked it to be. Speaking on the phone, before the phone was packed. Now falling from the sky, rain, standing beside a totem pole of my possessions: a large brown trunk, an orange duffel, a black back pack and 2 tiny folding tables, packing taped together. The cab arrives, the containers are contained in the cab, we are off.
The cab driver asked if I am Indian, no, I tell him all about my complicated family tree.
At the terminal, my bags and trunk are heaved upon to a ViaRail baggage cart, we roll to the desk, the woman, behind a glass wall, see my bags, asks me their weight, I don't know, she tells me they cannot move anything over 75 lbs. I place my trunk on the handy, nearby scale. It is 112 lbs.
I protest, she calls some guy (I think the driver)
He reiterates the 75lbs rule.
She tells me the rule again. I ask what to do. She tells me I have to send it via freight, that I will miss the next bus, that I have to take a cab 2 blocks down the road to Greyhound Courier Express. I am livid. I consider my options.
I am rolling the cart to Greyhound Courier Express. I get there, soaked, in this squat, shitty bunker. This is where a helpful asshole educated me on the obvious and well known knowledge that nothing over a 100 pounds has ever been sent to Victoria. That WCB regulations does not permit shipping items over 100 pounds, that even if he was engulfed in a passion to drag my trunk over there himself, the law would stop him. I ask what happens when people was to move things to the island, he tells me to hire a moving company. A complex curse from many lands has been placed on him, and the business he represents.
I remove a number of items from the trunk. The weight is 99.5 lbs. Money is exchanged and the trunk is now off. 12lbs is 1 can of soup, 1 bottle of detergent, a liquid soap dispenser, an orange enamel bowl, a 250GB hard drive a jacket and 2 towels. All are in greyhound garbage, except for the detergent and the hard drive (Thnkas for noticing that, RDS). I will never let go of my detergent.
I get back to the bus station, and I indeed have missed the 3.30 by 5 minutes. I end up chatting with a two folks about just how annoying this day is turning out. They also have troubles, I listen attentively to the stories of just missed buses and MP3 players in jackets, and a possible sinking of our ship.
I end up telling one of them all of my troubles I have ever endured during the bus ride to the boat, he laughs. I guess it is pretty funny. We trade stories until a post dinner parting. I watch a movie on the eeepc. Homecoming was all tales of woe.
The next day Rachael and I wander down to the terminal to pick up the trunk and it is not there, it is a 20 minute drive away in the Greyhound Courier Express depot, not the bus terminal. I chat with the Greyhound Courier Express fellow on the phone, ask him about bus routes, he tells me the 31 is the one. Rachael see one roll by the terminal we are at. It rolls away as I jog behind it.
|such a bother|
Later she and I were waiting at a bus stop, a Greyhound Courier Express cube truck drives past us. On its door, it is written "Door to Door Service". I call the fella again and ask about some door to door action. It is reserved for Monday to Friday only. Silently in my head I imagine a giant fish falling from the sky and smashing his building into powder, my trunk flying through the air and landing beside me. His dismembered hand following a moment later, still holding the phone receiver.
Another day has past and I am just about to catch a 31 bus and visit my trunk.
I took the 31 to some such road and disembarked too early. The blocks here are very long. I walked, up a hill, down a hill, past a glowering family and post advertising a lost cat and a request for a home, I walked until my shins, creaking under my girth complained with pain. The trunk was here at the depot, I chatted with the fellow I cursed with fish death earlier and felt bad, he is not deserving of such a end. The coffee maker vase broke, I had packed beside my favourite rock. I suppose I never really liked the coffee it made, it was a modified french press without the press part. The glass was given to the fellow behind the counter.
When asked to write about my favorite emerging artist in Mexico, I chose Miki Guadapur partly because he defies the very category of what it means to be 'emerging' onto a contemporary scene driven more at times by flagrant careerism than a consistent desire to articulate something, whether that something have popular appeal or not. I say this after almost a decade of working in artist-run, alternative spaces, most of which quickly become subsumed into an endless cycle of discovering new talents to the benefit of more mainstream institutions, and then having to start the whole process all over again. It's not a very interesting structure is it?
Miki Guadapur is a musician, visual artist, and most importantly, an entertainer who, over the course of the last decade, has become a cult figure in Mexico City, and abroad. He is adored and respected by many but still assumes an attitude of self-deprecation and marginalization that says more about his unwillingness to participate in the system, than his ability to do so. He exudes a creative energy that is at once, weird, sweet, funny and intensely critical (at times bordering on unbearably negative). Above all he is completely and utterly sincere and suffers because of it. He's like that adolescent freak whose genius was recognized by so few-shunned by the popular kids you knew would never amount to anything. But then you grew up and you realized that the world is controlled by those same kids, or maybe others who learned how to play the game a little later on in life. And that's why you love Miki so much.
Today is the day in which everything I own (save for a select few), are bundled together and will be whisked away by burly movers on Thursday morning.
I have a few things for sale on craig's list. Please check them out, buy them, tell your friends and so on. One is a
wireless network card, the other is a RAM chip. They were both removed working from a laptop that stopped working. The loss of the little computer was a sad time for me, but I am fine now.
A puffy, bejacketed boy and his friend walk past me, he fashions his fingers into a hand gun and shoots me in the head with a verbal bang as I pass. I spin and face him, he drops his gun and shoots out my knee. My head is filled with thoughts, imaginary bullets. Should I beat him up for the good of humanity? If you shoot someone in the head and they are still alive, it would be a better strategy to shoot them in the head again. I turn again and continue walk.
Hey its hailing.
When you are working to remember something you forgot and you remember it, the quick desire to forget your forgetting can overwhelm the fragile remembered.
Today I am scanning some old photos, sipping coffee, listening to music I encountered years ago. Yesterday I spent some time with a good friend, we chatted and lightly plotted. Later we saw some art. That fellow moseyed and Rachael arrived, she and I looked at more pictures, drank some beer. Moved to the home base, we parted to spend more time with different friends for the evening. Where I ended up, I meet with wine, chicken, and the social. The Holy Mountain was on the telly.
(01:32:20 PM) Rodney: I am listening to "metal fingers in my body" by add n to (x)
(01:32:26 PM) Rodney: know the song?
(01:32:29 PM) Michele: i just discovered of montreal
(01:32:30 PM) Michele: no
(01:32:45 PM) Rodney: tis grand i will send you the video
(01:32:57 PM) Michele: cool
I wrote a poem about my co-workers and our shared experience.
the sky exhausted of light, our bodies evacuate the desire to continue living.
this desire demands light in exchange for its presence.
this desire screams to recline into the warmth and glow of the yellow hell, burning so far away that the smell of charred atoms is missing.
this fugitive betrays self preservation, creating the unpreserved, unpasteurised vacuum. christmas, sodium bisulfate.
Today there is a new site, much the same as the old site, only different and waiting for coffee and creating stationary.