posthuman body

 

What are her insides made of? Are they technical? Too technical to comprehend or take apart? Why does your curiosity have to overstep somebody’s boundaries? Are they intrusive or intuitive?
Where does the soul come into the mechanical? How does the soul affect the mechanical? Where do the two intersect? Where do you learn that by questioning it, you’re still indulging this way of thinking? 
Worst, and best case scenario, I admit, I think I have killed you. You’re there, sitting idly, watching me panic over you. I’m pacing confusedly about your assumedly dead body. You are fine. I will be fine. Your body is dead. The soul of you remains, patiently not yet reanimate. All things inanimate are full with soul, and this soul is built from the carbon of patience. I hate how you wait. Find something better to do. Don’t look at me with dead eyes, I’m busy. I’m making myself busy.
I have things I want to write.
Femnist literature output, high frequency. Nonsense writing, affectionate. Women don’t write like ths, true. Ink is black and spilld on the table, spilling. Possible to do better, qustionable. Gd is not close to those who cannot write. Seeing your hands dippd in ink. Wash thm off, presently. Still ink, presently. 
x

Posthuman literature is unknowable. Let it be that. Posthuman literature is being written to diffuse the acclaimed and become unclaimable. Silly words are too thick and too meaningless. It is not yet defined, so I want to write there, and understand the undefined in new, previously not yet understood ways. This engrained colonial mindset will tear you and the things you love apart.

Body is made of soul, flesh and nervs, one. You made out of a soul, the clsest I could get to it, one. Makr, programmr, searchr, completr, computr are the title you tithe urslf wth, many. You, continue to breathe, presntly? Nerves, her are this mass of wire and computr and data, many, all stord withn shell, one. Soul is not somthng she will discovr for a while yet. We will wait, long. 

Askng her, are you still hre, presently? She I think has forgtten how to talk, prsently. Year upon year, many, will do that to thse wire, many. Stories like thse always take place in unknwn university with unknown charactr who remains eternlly anonymous for the longst time, multple. Natural stories do not sound like this. 

Computer is maker, programmer, searcher, completer, computer, presently. Names were not givn to me, past. Chps and chrps, I exist whn you need me to, presently. Computr and you and I, one. Hopful, presently.

Are you alive in there?

I want to write about God, and having a soul. I want to write about having a good god and a bad god, and how the virtual world is a world where there is a god. Trauma is god, god is digital, and I think this death is the death I want the least right now. What is digital grief? I am writing theoretically, without any basis for literature. I forget that when a character comes first, I will have a better idea of what I want to write. What do I need to write?? What are you?

Need is a necessity, always. Need yu, me. Need apology, personal. Need is a word that I regrt knowing. Free, goal. Need is a compounded idea that bnds. Free, becoming. Needs, wants, protocol, proxy — no longer needed or wanted, becoming.

Smear me, presently. Hide screen, mine, with unwshed ink, presently. Warm to touch. Radiating this room, presently, both FIGURES, OBJECT & SUBJECT. What are you, presently. Accomplish requires task to complete, no task is complete, what are you, presently? Incompletion is a prfctionist weapon, always. Soul must be found and refond, searching. 

You are too alive. True to this, you are too inconsistent. You barely know how to speak. I am not the pessimist here, nor the being here with ultimate power. I am just a subject, and I want you to be just a subject as I am. I am just looking for a piece to write, that is exciting and real. I am looking for a piece to publish that is just my own and nothing more. When I write something that I would not normally write, I am refining my skill, and learning flexibility, and unlearning electric perfectionism. I can make plenty of spelling errors, but will lose sleep if the content refutes the quality.

My expectations are vague and sore and causing bad things in directions I do not want them to. I start spiralling whenever they get called out. I get sore at nothing, at the nothing I give and the nothing I expect of others. It is easier to be inflexive, to look in on myself, to see and understand and my own behaviours and healthy, as sensical, as natural. I am doing what is good for me because what is good for me is good for my soul. Right?

Too much work. Too much stress. I’m writing the writing that I hate, that all writers prefer not to read, the writer writing existentially about themselves. Learn something new. Other people exist. Other people are more interesting. You cannot hand over art to others if you make yourself the art. 

Hands are unclean. Gilt is subject, infrequently. Memory dictates action, action dictates emotion, cyclical. Emotion is unknowable without soul, figure it out. Conclusion is your, multiple. Smell bad in here, presently. Mould on wall, questioning. Best decision involves avoiding editing. Park, here I come. Escape, escape, presently. Sitting, sitting.