Gauntlet, and shit...

I have come to the realization that I have been doing my blog a great injustice or disservice or something. Let us call it a wrong. Let us go ahead and occasionally speak of oneself in the terms of the royal we. But, just as quickly, let me clear my throat...


moulage no. 1
(frame from animation storyboard in progress)


I stayed away from Fuckbook last week because I smelled a rat. I just got a brand new Macbook with the 2.5 GHz Intel Core i5 with the standard 4 GB 1600 MHz DDR3 memory set-up. First, I failed to double the ram immediately, and so it is the priority on the technical from for the coming week, at least. Or until such time as I forego whatever must be foregone in order to make this adjustment. In the meantime, I need to address the question of memory as manifest in the digital arena of which we all are part. When I say we, I do not refer to the entirety of humankind, as we have not yet achieved this status as such. Instead, I merely refer to the we who are daily attached to the digitalsphere, rendering us compatriots of a realm, a domain, a dominion, a topology. And, though I am fully aware that the cosmic clock sets us squarely on the precipice of the bloody age of Kali, I cannot shake the suspicious awareness that this bodes well for the residents of Utopia, as we know it. What better indication, what better manifestation of a literal definition of Utopia have we attained than this we inhabit now, here? A realm without a place would be the ideal definition of the cybersphere, as it trespasses all boundaries established by humankind except for one. And that single boundary is the mother of all boundaries, such delimitations being no more or less than that we establish and uphold in alignment with the economy that continues to cradle us in its thrall with every willful motif of our multifarious being. 


In the meantime, one such as ourself dba yours truly has no rationale for aspiring to the changing of the system from within or without. In truth, at this late stage, it strikes us that reason would dictate that the system, to all intents and purposes and then some, not only lacks any basis but, quite simply does not exist. For obvious points that too many pretend pundits bother to hone in on, given the dullness of the faculties they sit on, the system is an imponderable—and thus, an impossible—and we love wisdom who would herald its demise. 

More pressing material meets the criterion of the immediate format, viz, the blog. What I initially thought a baseless hiatus from the provincial confines of Foolbook turns out to bear a fundamental matter of very certain interest that we will demonstrate by simple comparison. Essentially, Fartbook suffers from the same delimited constraints that confront our acts in the digitalsphere. That is, given the available nodes offered by the latter, best utopic practice, Feifbook is a severely cramped room. Never mind the numbers, which should tell enough of this story that the rest needs no elaboration, it imposes a reactionary tone that traps even the most alert citizen into espousing positions that epitomize a mindset that best represents the sociopath. None who have posted more than a half dozen comments or status updates is immune to this inevitability. The reasons for this are far too many to enumerate here. In short, its very format is reminiscent of a Standard Aptitude Test form, and as users, we are consigned to communicate what we expect will be the upshot of free speak through the pre-ordained throughputs of a function box modeled after the paradigm established in early-1960's grammar school arithmetic primers. Mr. Peabody's Wayback Machine offers vastly superior parameters, and just as viable or "realistic."

Once conscious of the shortcomings, we naturally turned to the blog, pondered the alternative. Curiously, serendipitously, synchronicity presented itself to us in the diurnal missive forwarded this way from the OED. Today's word: moulage, n. A cast or impression, especially of a person or a part of the body; the process of making a cast or taking an impression; the material used for this. The crux of the definition derives from the word at its center—process. In choosing the blog, in making the decision to blog, I acted on that very capability. As a practitioner of the collaborative as art during the decade that followed the rout of the Cold War, our focus lay not in the objects we found—either as materiel or as agglomerate thereof—but in the process. This obviated the need for art, which in no means acted to preclude creation. Though nominally crippled by a visceral impulse to revile the crunching of code, we could not be more drawn to an iconography that rethinks sine-cosine, plus and minus as ones and zeros. The electromagnetic assumed divinity in our own private epiphany, and the possible is everything evermore.


The years without this tool have left me rusty. But in this house that we call home, the blog is a journal—with the French for day, "jour"—dictating the routine practice we can suss our process out. Where I had initially pondered a formal venue reserved for publication of complete entities, I resume an exegesis of the boundless enterprise underpinning such rare milestones. No further promise necessary.

One further touchstone: I hereby request and invite the input of any interested participants. As this process unfolds, I expect there may be one or two of us who—outside myself—feel inclined to infuse diverse angles into the search and create and research and destroy and so forth. Should the inclination move you, feel free. Comments are unmoderated and open to any format. To post within the regular body, request a password and its yours, we'll forward it to you.

At the very least, observe. The act of observation is a proven means of affecting the resulting process.

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