i told him that what was gathering could well be a kind of psychological pandemic.
don delillo,
zero k.
how do we stand with others when the things that separate us are imposed at birth, when the separation haunts us and follows us day and night?
don delillo,
zero k.
i thought of how
a thought forms sometimes
slowly
after rain
at the tip of a twig
lingering, filling, clear,
of itself, almost looking, out here,
here of a thought
expressing
some vague sadness
some natural
precipitating joy,
some self-contained
depending
release,
rounding the woody end in anticipation,
singular orb of reflection
slowly repeating
fugue, wishing
teardrop.
and that interrogator/torturer in abu ghraib. he was bullied hard in the schools of america. consequences, you know, shit happens.
theme of the leftovers, the people left felt cheated of their apocalypse and mad it took their loved ones and just ornery sad disgruntled and shit left stranded at the endlessly ending end. weird stuff, now onto zero k, where people are rich in the american middle east and have found a way you can take it with you, you can cryo yourself into an apotheosis of techno.
we could lick 'em by smiling.
