Wednesday, 1 June 2011

Internet Doc Shop

Tues 29th March 11

Went with A. to library to watch usual ITV, IBA, Thames television etc. testcards and idents. Library computers are full- saw no cuts posters here but at pensioner centre – thinking about whether it’d be good if mister can’t you see TUC posters were everywhere. Suddenly 2 nightmares appear half asleep where a woman in a black dinner dress spotted my character in an empty chandeliered restaurant but revealed herself accidentally as if her role was to watch me as unnoticed as my unconscious. Her nerves at being caught had such an audible atmospherical drop that I knew she was my death call. Another was realising the person close to me was making eye-contact + nodding to a private detective/policeman in a car opposite the station.
The internet café is something without specific place. All chairs and monitors are different and individually broken. An asian man in silver rushed in to print something- on the phone later- apart- and cannot feel comforted- why does it do that evertime I go to print? The embarrassment was hushed by the man himself just before singing and talking business with friends. The man didn’t even shout at his machine- just wacks it familiarly. The clicking of an empty plastic shell rings out to me as the defining sound of his shop. Rat trap of cheap products- only thing one can hope for is monetary increase in capital combined with decrease in cost of technology , but the two are attached to the same transparent wire and that would mean more of his customers buying sitting room computers and death of cyber café culture, man and wife forcibly accepting. Even niche immigrant market deals will hurt someone in the process. Computers still need a user. Singing, how to start a business and a woman 40 odd and normal inlikely jailbird has just come out and proclaiming to her friends here that they really stitched her up, the police -fro some strange justifiable reason- forced, and I wondered what they did her for. Daughter following up the church street too. There isn’t really a time to limit like the screen clocks of the public sector- this abides by feelings; moody business, intuition, star confidence, man-gambling, wife’s stature, her family’s stature, their whole stability, health, plans, aspirations, movements, aways on a clear day- the poor man’s sickness, like hope, fluctuates and takes turns, immediate comfort insurroundings; friends, computers, connections, glimmers -in objects, in music- access routes, foresights, no cracked walls or subsidence or even like next door’s pediment falling off, I remember, they closed the whole street off for a bit of manky plaster sealed pigeon shit. All this in turn is controlled by the puppetry, obscured completely by codes, riddles of governing words dribbled into every domain- sparing nothing personal- more intangible than just made-up science symbols into everyday worries, panics, trusts, faith banks, games, mobile phones, signatures, middle names, contracts, fluid, running in and out of you, your shop, your wife, your sexlife, your money, your social shape, is precise in propelling that a speed of life must run parallel, evolving continuosly but forced to relax without heavy thoughts for more than a split second (except when awake in bed) to slow momentum gathered. On top once and for all you feel -?- flicking portals of old meaningless visions from the 70s, dead forgotten, pink powdered faces and dead smoked wigs and bobs, pastel make ups, bikinis, forgotten athletes, colours, toupes, clocks, shapes and particular sharp sounds, graphic shapes and reflections, and flexing of the most advanced computers, imitations of things like puddles and golf courses; symbols associated with dynamism, fluidity, competition, leisure- but without a point- small world folds Leeds and Bombay inside a 3000sq ft office warehouse into feelings shot around us into the shop, cables, all the pressures to keep up felt. Still smouldering from pan-world plastics you’re able to smell here. Smells like old un-soldering tvs are nightmarish to small business symbols; capital dropping you like slow voiceless sacking stained out of real and legal existence. What can we offer the self propelling haze that engulfs all energy within the relations of things? This man doesn’t flinch at anything done by people on these monitors, healthy desensitizing- adapts more skilfully, skipping from skin and dance and love and death to morphing social codes and endless silk-veil sentences and controlled tonal vacillation for each new occasion and creed- momentary absorption and eternal respect for these strange crevices of life-drive purpose are uncontrollable. Ingenuity he knows in buying and selling monsters whose tentacles stick to greasy restaurant ceilings for years, baby-shakers, toy shares strictly on the ground outside the shopfront, on top of everything in subsistence life below it receiving warm decimal shocks- even to some part of the African continent house and garden, family and love, virtue and security, comfort and compromise. The most absurd industries can’t afford to be snuffed- don’t ask me why- just look at these figures walking alone to the bank silently <*>

*the dregs of producing- of xmas cracker contents, of one winter Brit kid crazes, of subtle plastic allure, of honed sub-smells and seductive textures and proportions; funky watch straps and hair beads, pink-frame mirrors, shiny pencils, comedy glasses with pale honk-nose attachments- are all done one by women and children and two in tropical regions whose connection to the passing objects is wonderful and filled with foreign words that build the dreamlike scenes that make them feel they are naturally the unsightly backbone to the pure and sensitive Head above them- but nevertheless they are happy to share the same organism. The closer their contact through these plastics the more regularly they can be comforted by this feeling of belonging.  Or they are just so beyond the emotional range of Taiwan’s called it industry that they see them as direct enemies, sped up colourful signs of a speeding fixed seat, torturous things more to do with keeping them tired and gridlocked in the huge purposeful district, of scooters, of vegetable oil scooters, its granddads living off the roadside bamboo of a whole process of distractions, numbing, and hazy land’s function whose diametric position to your side of your road, mind, body. Made natural by bashing nature like getting sick days from parents and doctors is not useful to anyone. I say sod off rods of metal constantly carrying me these trinkets whose existence is more than mine, can I express the stomach sinking by naming these things directly? Just vague visions hang in education, dreams and suspensions, discipline and aspirations of catching trains and qualifying and telling the world to not be lazy for consequence that your sorry face’ll end back to basics where it started. Anyway this is just part the puzzle logikey incidentally keeps noticeably stupid prods (which even the downtrodden sack of envy and bitterness confuse religion and work, forcibly have to deny in themselves the thoughts of uselessness and what they could mean. They could try and tie a primitive connection to it with usual honesty and the way they measure days away from the bond of its digestion n lifespan. I’m guessing its harder to drill pride into heads The Great British Proletariat who are producing mini jumping frogs + gold plastic infant rings, mentally handicapped folk-theft and a-normal spinster women down on their knees speaking in funny no-land voices at playgroup.