Feeling combination of dead folk scene Bob Dylan meets Liu Cixin in a MMOG Myst reboot.

Among the terms of reference: title nod to 1990s hopes that, by recognising ways archonic structures are used to sell things, and the ways they work to enforce certain ways of thought, what it might be possible to reroute some or any of it to combat it, to enact constructive modes of being.

FX: Talking Heads loop – ‘still waiting’.

Meanwhile, looking about the wreckage, incredulous. Gesturing at the device:

‘Einstein never said Insanity is repeating the same mistakes and expecting different results he just thought it while visualising light beam rides and scrolling his feeds.’
‘ok boomer’.
‘it’s 2020 but there’s an absence of vision?’
All glances over flatscreen spectacles, projections on the lenses, shaking the heads, murmuring ‘far out’, then heading further in.

There’s a different buzz from the phone. 24 hour party line people shift working the no help desk. Stupid questions inviting snappy answers. It is correct now to speak only of spectrums rather than binaries: press one for yes, press two for no. Add more here: after much consideration I wish t’be considered as opposed to taxonomies and fonder of metaphor.

Flipping the handset across the sofa in a caffeine haze of wtf emojis. Unable to express adequately without cartoon faces. Ehh, plus ├ža change, doc! Content variance is all. Febrile nightsweats still occasioned by vistas of disaster. In the dream cafe, chalkboard lists today’s special: cream of disease and climate catastrophe. Waking inclined to enthusiastically welcome the blood and fire just to rid us of this incessance.

Ah, the old songs are the best! And all the new ways it’s all infinitely worse are all old too. An apocalyptic strain… the same as it ever was (same as it ever was).

Nah, feelin’ groovy really. Actual mood: increase the peace. Keeping it in mind, manifesting it in the manifestos. Action is the new reaction? Much remains tentative. That moment in theoretical experiments where you just have to start smashing particles off each other. Hoping something doesn’t split fabric
(choose: 13 for tentacles spilling in from the 11th dimension; 69 for lunges in tight velvet trousers; 23 to use the Light Spell from the Rockworm tribe).

Culture jamming still/now fits to describe what seems – SEEMS – increasingly-needed action.

Ai, me! “Theemeth” – for tho ever it wath!
Exeunt Sylvester, pursued by a Bard.

Meanwhile, more FX: strong signals from the global work state. Soundclash w/counterdisinformation. Get over here, stand over there. Listen, does anyone actually want anything doing? Concentrate and ask again later.

Whistles of bandwidth shifts. Taking inspirations where one can. Pirate radio vibes via soundcloud, bandcamp, text scrolls by from the idles of blogging (yes! to typos), to the republic of newsletters, to the twittersphere… in some sense circuit diagrams, ever increasing circles in water… surface tension movements?

Another curator fielding correspondence: something about lost marbles, sordid details to follow.

Feels like everyone’s got a newsletter. We all saw the news.

He’s behind you!

All aforegoing writing has had its place and day. Skins litter the sandy floor of the terrarium. The case is closed. Something dimly glimpsed fades out of view.


Liner notes for the difficult first album.

MMXX lends itself to lines drawn in sand, scratched on walls in northern Britain. This like every year requires you do awake your faith. Lean into it.

Dial shifts again. Hey look! Kojey Radical just read my mind:

I can’t go back to feelin’ like I wanna die, feelin’ like I’ll never fly