Underground Flower x CorpseSimulacrum :
Cellophane Mother Memory
Cellophane Mother Memory
"One falls immediately into a trance. One's eyes are closed and one hears a sound like someone crumpling up plastic film and throwing it away. A friend of mine suggests this is our radio entelechy ripping out of the organic matrix. An ascending tone is heard. At the synaptic site of activity, all available bond sites are being occupied, and one experiences the mode shift occurring over a period of about thirty seconds. At that point one arrives in a place that defies description, a space that has a feeling of being underground, or somehow insulated and domed. The room is actually going around, and in that space one feels like a child, though one has come out somewhere in eternity."
The solar annulus is the intact anus of her body at eighteen years to which nothing sufficiently blinding can be compared except the sun, even though the anus is the night.
Apple would bang on my door at 3 in the morning. Keep it moving, keep it younger! - always the same phrases. Of a client: You give it once, they pay you once. Breaking up our spats: Killing me softly, ok? The love and the money keep a firm binary; eyes locked and staring down the tail of a dove.
Constant flick and hiss of butane lighters. Faces beautiful in pockmarked sweat. Makeup on and off 20 times a day. You're hovering in the eye of a knockoff Real with cheap HD edges: the neon tube lights are made in Shenzhen or Guangdong. Maybe fell off the back of a truck, split up and sold again, installed in fixtures in endlessly subdivided rooms in the endlessly micro-dividing chain of logistics. You're always calculating your profit: min/max MOQ to retail, ounces to grammes, cosmetics to the cash-in value of a pretty face, fucks per square meter but at the end of the day all of the flows are residue, at the end of the night its all just hydroplaning on the smooth obsidian mirror of capital cum desire: the infinite levying of abstract value from the same churning landscape of artifice and need.
They say the most often published words in the English language are cellophane, mother, memory. 玻璃紙母親的記憶: it's better this way. When you leave a building once in 3 months, the outside world is cinema, hyperreal. Spilled out from a sickly womb, our collective dreams and furtive motions made from pop jingles and factory effluent: endlessly morphing, beautiful in the screenglare. You have everything you need, and you move it around, and sometimes when you move it around it becomes something new. The best window to keep it fresh is the 3x5 inches of the phone, scroll & flick. Global news, insensible. Niche art feeds are a weird home. The first time I posted a pic of an image I admired and printed, the artist threatened me with legal action. I was astonished, until I reasoned: I paid for the prints with a blowjob, but one i'd have probably given away for free anyway. The artist had her labour units to think about too.
Every day I become more convinced of how connected we all are.
Text by Torre Alain
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