....{{{ Re_sembling
the body called flesh }}}....
Resembling the body called flesh--segments set adrift in the network. Gathering
ghosts from the machine to illuminate an event horizon that breathes alone, among
others. These anchors for listening, watered by the tears of the dead, pool a
slow, eroding trust to a bitter circuit in lines of power--gone is the community
that has to change a world if they are to survive it.
Building their skins--sewing, patching, tweaking and stretching--pushing beyond
what many in comfort zones of elucidated commerce drown. Commerce establishments
of order, acceptability and daily horror never give a language to limit or improvise
with, their present is lost to the ether of the broadcast signal, the temporality
of media coverage as gospel, sermon and preacher, all in one. Something to be
chasing as if it were a reflection that could be caught.
These are attempts of Re_sembling the body called flesh. This is a cry for new
memory systems to address and build despite the lack of attention given to build
in. Segments set adrift in the network from the community that is to change the
world if it is to survive it.
Resembling the body called flesh, sending signals as anchors
for listening segments set adrift in the network--these anchors surrounded
by a crumbling rust caused by the tears of the dead. Re_sembling the body called
flesh, segments set into motion as trace, trace which stains, stains roaming new
memory systems in search of a place to rest.
Adrift in the network Re_sembling the body called flesh are packets
of recognition. Pockets of clarity, pages for warmth and high-speed intimacy.
Databanks of phobias act as pores in the skin and Re_sembling the body called
flesh grows beyond the frames woven through the desires of it's programmers.
Citing the body called flesh, patching a new surface to contain the multitude
of phobias (pores) within the dry, external circuit of the body called flesh.
A flesh temporal and unyielding, by means of it's original design. Engineers of
the body called flesh never fully understood the functionality of anchors for
listening, with their thick shields of rust that never crumble or turn to dust.
The tears of the dead are not dry, they do not miss the living. Their salt sucked
from the accumulated fates of the neglected desires of the unremembered.
Such are the voices of the body called flesh.
-Diane Ludin
--Back to entry
page--