I’m bombarded everyday with clips of cell phones popping popcorn, pink dolphins, you name it. The internet and Photoshop have got a lot to answer for. I’m slowly entering the world of the Matrix, Twitter is streaming endless bites down my screen. I am Neo, filtering information, finding truths in the code; the digital rain.
I’m sitting in bed with my laptop and wireless connection, writing a fictional true story, no, being a fictional true story. While I write I discuss concepts of truth and reality in fiction and nonfiction on facebook. I’ve set up my facebook account to automatically update my twitter account so I am also discussing the same concepts on twitter simultaneously with six friends. We mostly agree. We all want truth in our journalism but are all feeling manipulated by the press and that poems are art before all else and isn’t it sad about Natasha Richardson?
I’m experiencing the simulation of reality, the simulacra. I’m living on-line, reading news feeds from spin-doctors and multi-national marketing campaigns. I have snopes.com open in one window while reading web gossip passing for news in another. Is this why you can’t run an election campaign appealing to trust?
I’m writing a poem, it maps my empire. The map of my empire is growing as big as the empire itself, which is decaying around me. There is no longer any God to recognize his own, nor any last judgement to separate truth from false, everything is dead and risen. Except me, I’m still in bed (with the laptop).
I’ve got an original painting on my wall, it covers the window and a crap view of an alley way. It’s a Karl Maughan, I love his hyper-real style. I prefer it to what’s behind the canvas, mind you I haven’t looked behind the canvas for a while now, so I’m not sure what’s there anymore. Karl paints flower gardens and is married to Emily Perkins, I googled him and her, now I know what school their kids go to in Auckland, that’s the truth.
I check my Facebook news feed, all my friends are taking quizzes. Three quizzes later it seems I am Patti Smith, a poetic Baba yaga. In the world of post-identity, facebook and its quizzes are really the only lights that we, destitute of faith and self, have to go by. If only there was a quiz to help you decide which quiz to take next. I’d take that. I decide to write a quiz about what kind of quiz taker the end user is. Then I create a randomly generated album cover for a non-existent band and tag my friends to do the same. Art is random after all.
I post my true story onto my blog and catch up with my bloglines subscriptions, I comment at The Handmirror blog about the right for breastfeeding mothers to have avatars of themselves breastfeeding then join the protest group on facebook and also black out my avatar to protest about the Guilt Upon Accusation law. There’s an excellent podcast on Craftivism, which I download for my i-pod, the Craft Cartel plan to throw knitted bombs at shopping malls later this year.
I get a pxt from a friend; an image of her in the civic square, she is holding the giant silver ball of ferns between two fingers. I txt back “Lol 😉 ur sch a tourist!” She txts back “mt me @ lib caf?” “Srry gt 2 mch hmwrk!” I txt back, then notice she is twittering from her mobile in response to my earlier questions about truth and fiction. “What about the reader?” She twitters “Does the text exist if no one wants to reads it?” “Oh please!” I twitter “If a tree falls in the woods, yadda yadda. Who cares what the reader thinks?!!!”