Five or six hundred words of shame. Accidentally stumbling upon a website I can never unsee. Staying up all night turning over the Turing-test wrong clicks I have made on the Internet super traffic jam. Learning from Lagos means that if the world makes a rush hour floor plan, convert the highway into the city square. The public green runs at 16 miles per hour.

Sarah Royce

There is an internal logic in cell-phone-to-newscast subsistence living. An information slow burn that still scorches in this, the 10th year after the Information Bomb. I got video running through my cracks and Democracy Now after-images pouring over my ear canal. Candy-coated commercial radio goes satellite, and the real audio excavation returns to the 12 city blocks where it can do the most damage.

Never forget that human eyes are information limiters, and if we could see the purple rays and space junk runaways, our minds would freak.

A decade or so after the W3 dropped, even here in A2 I am reminded that the Whole Earth catalog is gone, the planet is smaller and shrinking and my self-portrait is more like epidemiology than physiology. I might have hos in area codes, but I lost my PDA, and I am a lonely information-provider even though my MP3s have wiggled their way through every zip code in the country.

It’s a distributed existence. All side to side, supermarkets in alleyways, grab some sunlight between winter month comas and First World summertime slumming: the creative class in ruins, rich Detroit suburbanites’ beach-going breast implants exploding, beaming reality show reflections from cell phone cameras in Cancun to Dad’s biotech conglomerate near the edge of nowhere.

It’s all unlimited rhythms and forbidden touching, and my generation is the most conservative we should have seen coming. A damn waste to not party it up during the end of days.

On the plus side: Zax Google capital is rising steadily, and there seems to be no end in site. I am trying to get a grant to make a Surinamese TV stream that flows into the global cultural current. A four-channel remix that bypasses international intellectual property rights. But I might be out of bucks: My Ebay rating is at 40 percent and diving because I wanted a box of old Vietnamese comics. The transaction botched and now I can’t even be trusted to sell used car parts to South American muscle car revivers. The black market doubles back on the backs of the poor and fallen, someday soon the secondary market will rise up to pop the neoclassical mystics on their well-padded asses, and a panarchic regime of actors and agents will probably make me pine for some good ol’ state of nature. I like buildings, but architects have given up trying to make them because the world moves too fast to contain us.

My advice stands: If you want to live forever you better hire a damn good lawyer so her kids’ kids can defend your right to nanotech regeneration when you leave your frozen haven.

If you want to know why there aren’t more black movies, follow entertainment companies with economies larger than Third World countries and their ancillary profits.

The only resistance to escape velocity meltdown is gardening as slow as possible.

 

Denfeld can be reached at zcd@umich.edu.

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