Saturday, November 5, 2016

Hiya Allesandro!

I stink, apparently.
You got me, big data, you got it all. And all those traces this brain forgot , you retain, forever.
You know more about myself than myself and for that I thank you, Allessandro.
Big data. You know when the effluent crowns, how it spirals into the toilet bowl. You calculate the trajectory of each and every faecal portion, and use its flight path as a bargaining chip. It takes 0.9 seconds to break the seal of the water. It is heavy in bacteria and, for all intents and purposes, quite healthy. It is full of the digested remains of blueberries, kombucha, yoghurt, noodle, chocolate.
You got me, big data. Memories. This very paragraph is Solomons meta-mine.. Where I am. What I am probably going to do later today.. What the last purchase I made was. How I will get to work tomorrow.  What web-sites I will probably look up. And of course, the spin axis of the next bowel movement. For this is where the Boeing engineers source their angular momentum algorythms.
I am no privacy warrior - nor a libertarian. I know its all too late. Privacy is finished. Kaput. A spectre of the past. This is a Phillip K Dick world. And I don't care. Should I care? Should I? Do you? Privacy. What is it? Concealed knowledge? Operating within an exclusive system? Keeping it to yourself? Free-will? Keepin' it on the down low? When holy people down the street call me a 'cop' (someone who reads) or a 'dickhead', I re-wire the flimsy insult and transmute it into a stunning complement. I am a Dick. You are damn right, oh high one. I am a Phillip K Dick. Melbourne is my ground, and neither billionaire nor slum lord nor millenial princess cum intern psychic vamp can stop the madness I have let loose. For it is automated. It is an algorhythm.
Is my meta-data interesting, Allesandro? Or is it run of the mill, strictly routine stuff - entertainment news, the x-factor, renovation-based reality shows, top chef, facebook, youtube videos about celebrities, clown scares, fight sequences? Or is it interesting?  What is my demographic exactly? What am I? What can I tell you about society? Do you care? Apparently so! Greatly so. So much so, that you have calculated the trajectory of my next bowel movement, and will transmit it staight to Boeings secure server.
I (whoever I am) played a musical entertainment show the other night. It was the first in a long while. Chuggin on the old shawm. The old bender. The swizzle stick.  The buzzer. Unfortunately, I now will name (band) names.
It was Alberts Basement fest held in a small theatre space called Danes Certificates off Sydney Road. Acts like the great Dead Flannelette improvised on synthesiser lines - heavy sound direct intravenous body music, blasting away any sense of personal space, entering  mitochondrial walls and replacing the carbon-base with silicon, a blissfull conversion, a receiving, a rare plume of  vestigial analogue , pre-digital slather, muscle shirt, Coffs Harbour, the faith militant, engorged synth pulses, drip feed data muscle, chary muck lane, shovel and shawm, work retreat, worm experiments, the longevity gene. I'll fund you research, but Im broke. Other acts that night were the avant garde likes of
Bourgeois Biggots, Lower Plenty - evoking the likes of Television Personalities et al, the illustrious experimenter Matthew P Hopkins, new combo Scoliosis, all  punctuated by the catholic mixes of DJ Tapeways.
It was experimental melbourne par excellence that night. It was a good night. It was a fun night.
On our merry way home we were drawn into a wonderfully ebullient cuban music bar, started dancing to the infectious multi-faceted beats  when an unfriendly woman informed me that I stunk, and she was right. Was it a comment on my body odour, or my dancing? Or was it code for criminality, for being a socialistic type? Was she a local christian was insenced by the gyrating sinner in her midst? Was she a rich-kid, with full unbridled access to perfurmery and washing machinery? Was the bar actually just a meat market and she assumed i was trying to hook up with her, but I stunk? Was she a local militant atheist? Was she latin  nobility, who, horrified at the attempts of this anglo-french-norwegian pasty face to 'do the lambada like I'm down with the latinos or something' within 2 metres of her holy odour free mind, soul and body, simply had to put me in my place? Was she a distant relative of Pablo Escobar? Was she the daughter of the owner of the business, acting as a kind of 'olfactory quality control' mechanism, retaining a better class of people within the venue? Or was she just a mollycoddled, pitiful control freak, lonely as all hell, who's only pleasure is to demean and humiliate total stangers? Who knows. But I allowed myself to be affected by this total stranger. And I let the damage to my ego ruin the night, and I left, frantically sniffing my armpits, only to throw a bottle outside the bar like i wanted to be beaten up, a fit of mid-life crisis, the gloriously foolish stuff i used to do back in the day,, oh alcohol, you bring out the best in us all. The punters were wise - they just ignored me. Thats what you do. You ignore a ranting drunk and they eventually go away.
So, anyone can think what they want about what I am, it makes no difference. As the Roman Stoic philosopher Epictetus said - there are the things that are in your control and those that are not. I have no control over the opinions of others. Let whatever is not in our control be nothing to us.
Stammered out into deep shisha. Pineapple. Walked past, stammered. Anxious about nothing. Because really, thats what all activity is - nothing. There is no inherent reality to that weekend, it is gone. It is merely the traces of meta-data sitting in the server over at allesandros place, and the plastic memory neurons forming and reforming in this brain.

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