CULTIVATION
At this very hour the thrill of exposure has become a dull razor. Everyone is fucking in orchards, breaking bones to escape crippled trampolines, and running over the neighbor’s cat for spatter effect. Original ideas have become anemic skeletons.
At this very hour the thrill of exposure has become a dull razor. Everyone is fucking in orchards, breaking bones to escape crippled trampolines, and running over the neighbor’s cat for spatter effect. Original ideas have become anemic skeletons. Anything new is thought of twice, and performed countless times by the same kids who think goggles are the best for wading through identity. Information has become a festering junkyard just waiting for bare feet. You google search, you find, you conquer the world. We are all disillusioned with momentary happiness, and no matter how many times we are told it was all done before, we do it again just to show ourselves that it never grows old if intoxicated.
. You google search, you find, you conquer the world. We are all disillusioned with momentary happiness, and no matter how many times we are told it was all done before, we do it again just to show ourselves that it never grows old if intoxicated.
The culprit for all this wasted time is the virus we all know as, the Internet. The constipated entrails of the Internet consist of a kissing game disease, spread faster than middle school mono or college meningitis. It is a culture of know-it-alls who reign message boards, and then go crying to their electronic diaries about not fitting into the bill of real life. It is love affairs beyond swinger expectations. It is the ideal world for networking drugs. It is socially defunct. It is morally challenged. It is simmering sociopaths. It is drunken writers sleeping with other drunken writers. It is our blessed, Internet.
We have been bred to think in fragments. We all believe in poetry. Even the bastards who bullied the poets now speak in verses. People are forgotten and words become bodies. Small, alien platforms hold ticker-tape lines of self-promotion. Chunks of epiphanies will spew ten different poems in one sitting. We praise you just to subconsciously confiscate that middle line to be later utilized in a forgotten diatribe.
Ah yes…praise… and now a metaphor, since all stream-of-conscious essays hold metaphors:
Any praised style of writing becomes a naked woman, in the middle of a room, surrounded by artists. These artists are copying her form to find their masterpiece. All are in love with her, and all want to please her the most. Her nude form is no longer naked. She has been molested by the perception of others. The woman will never regain identity, but her body will be fondled for the rest of existence as long as someone is still looking at her.
Even when she is archived, there is the chance for unaware generations to take her out of hiding and gangbang a few ‘new’-inspired pieces based on the overlooked smudges and flaws. This darling style of writing will no longer be whole once the entire Internet has raped her in two.
But it doesn’t matter. We have all been diagnosed with A.D.D., and it’s a pity that all fame only lasts for as long as an interrupted sigh.
Where will we, (the writers and anyone else who considers prose to be a naked and defiled woman), go next once the Internet fails to synapse? I dare say our fragmented brains will all think at once:
Cultivation.
Why cultivation? We are a culture of all or nothing. Impulse after impulse after unwanted impulse. The Internet has taught us that we know everything and nothing. Once we are reduced to the misperception of nothing, when the Internet has expired, and all systems are running offline, traditional methods of living will commence. Everything that our spare memory cells has stored after a Wiki search on ‘agricultural living’ will somehow manifest before the masses and everyone will take to the hills and start digging for something new. Something more tangible than skanky knowledge…
Or really it’s just living the hipster dream of a country life, and why not now, when the Internet is gone and
we no longer have contact with the rest of the world?
brandi hutchinson:
1. Has a taco.
2. Is nearly a quarter of a century.
3. Is mostly commando.
4. Would like to sever rat heads.
5. Is not sociopathic.
6. Is planning to edit someday.
7. Likes the plataeu of the number 7.
8. Believes in chaos.
9. Likes to carry pollen in her nose.
10.Is anal about efficient wiping.
