the crack

June 17, 2003 at 5:19 am Leave a comment

Holy shit Tiki Obmar kicks fucking ass. this shit rewls. good job m3rck….

Have a job interview Wednesday have to get my transcript into ucf. contiune to feel the ghosts of people that have called me spineless on my back. Didn’t know i didn’t “stand up for myself,” but get the feeling it’s more that people talk shit behind my back after all it seems like all I do these days is tell people to fuck off.

here’s what i wrote of the story to far:

She moves the knife wound around her organs making elegant cries with a handle that always turns up white: crude, direct, and to the point unlike the more cultural violence of her life up to them. It’s been three days since the wound was inserted, dissected by her in a club outside of the hotel she stumbled back 3 blocks to make it in the doorway through crowds of various breeds. It all seems like a blur when she looks through the reflective handle and sees her little eyes looking back at her gouging out in a brilliant stare.
She can’t look back at herself anymore and sheaves the knife, it sits in a pouch in her bag where she removed the bandages that only adequately cover the wound. She rustles the bag back to it’s place near the pillows and lies down, a knock comes through the door. She can’t quite get up and manages a stilted walk using the wall to prop her to the handle. Through the hole she can see the bell boy waiting, silently looking through at door with an expectant voyeurism born from hours spent running needless errands that his mind has come to anticipate that moment when the handle turns and his latest mission is unveiled. She begins to open the door, but the bell boy has already inserted a key and opens the door to her surprise.
“M’am,” he calls, “I need to work on your connection.”
“Oh,” she states a little sandwiched by the door, but reflexively cornering into a more comfortable space, “it has been acting up recently.” He moves towards the bed and removes a panel on the wall. Her laptop has been jacked on the little plank of wood and drawers near this patch for days mentally optimizing the connection, it’s silly but she still holds this proximity rule clutching a heritage of wires long passed and fears of losing encryption.
He moves around a series of gages till a screen pops out of the box and a little keyboard projects on the wall. “If you don’t mind, the connections going to be off for a little,” he says moving a slider on the screen in one direction and keying a password into a garble of text based windows that spiral down a hallway leading, she imagines, miles away where all these little workstations congregate in their communes sharing resources and passing data like gossip between their collective virtual lips. He merely stands there for a second and something comes back, he looks up onto the screen and grins, “We’ve been having this a lot recently, don’t know exactly what’s wrong, but this little hack seems to help. We think the computers aren’t getting along, someone’s been feeding them the wrong lines, ya know getting all their usual sources of input all mixed up, looking up Spanish sites with the computer’s thinking it’s Portuguese and stuff like that. It’s funny how fast you can create these totally untraceable pidgins when you can think in one language and speak in another.” She nods a little and looks at his handywork, a series of Chinese characters spot the screen where lines of Crylic alphabet sat before. She traces the outlines of these figures with her eyes and remembers a Japanese artists who turned these figures into noise, brilliant bursts of static and sinewave that leapt from her headphones and felt less like poetry than punk rock. A few years later it was all she heard, consistent statements enraged over the stations, peopling hating on each other to the sound of white noise so warped it was almost fragged. It was a brilliant moment in her life, when it seemed the breach of politics was opening and the state was giving way, it seemed like the internet could do anything, and then they began to restrict sever access, began to take away domains and subsidize bandwidth to commercial sponsors, in essence it became a space where real estate was no longer created by the ubitiquis god like principles of a connection and a tower, but one where place in the pipeline was as important as having your newest line of cameras next to the ten hottest brands of squid chips in Japan. While sure you could have your local little networks hopping messages from buddy to buddy till the telephone ended in the recipient, but there was no money there, to make money you had to be on the internet where things go taxed and you knew no one was listening. He comes over and gives her a card, “Call me if anything happens, at the rate this shit is happening all our terminals will be talking russian-anui-lativa by noon,” he says. She thanks him and he heads out the door. When he’s gone she sits back down with her laptop and gets out the knife.

Entry filed under: media.

new records the trap and the sleaze

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Trackback this post  |  Subscribe to the comments via RSS Feed


June 2003

Most Recent Posts

%d bloggers like this: