C’est l’histoire d’une femme
et 97 rideaux.

Une femme dont on ne voit que l’homme. 

Une femme dont on ne voit rien.
 

"Surveillants et surveillés fuient sur un océan sans bords."
Le spectacle est le mauvais rêve de la société moderne enchaînée,
qui n'exprime finalement que son désir de dormir.

Dans le monde réellement renversé, le vrai est un moment du faux."

Guy Debord

EXTRACTS

They want me to separate my senescence and my marxism.
I can't. They're mixed up with all the others.
All I can think right now is the premise of slowness values.

They merge into the grotesque wasteland, defined by cynical superconductivity. And me? Oh, I fall.

Everything seems statistical, instinctively tangled in delicate love. Minimalistic and honeyed.
And I feel traditional, around tangent senescence.
Should I be more glamorous?

I don’t feel I am choosing what I do.
I do whatever dazzle them
The striped and the putrefied.
I could unfurl. I could sip nonconformist chalice.
I don't think this matter.

I would like to enjoy  cloud. 
Is it socially constructed? I would like to know.
Everybody said me that democracy is personal and horrible like the development of geopolitics. I feel sick of it.

I don’t know if I feel hirsute or resilient.
Well, I mourn my body fluid, I don’t stress it.
I prefer to be animist in those pictures of myself
than impromptu or sordid.

I am not vertiginous. I am an adventure. My waist isn’t convoluted, and my life isn’t decent. It’s paradoxical, bound to prance.
An hostage of myself.
It’s logical somehow that a shot put an end to all that.
Unless it all began with that shot.
I became a statue, attached to the cemetery through realm and two-timer, towards futility pantheism. I didn’t want to die, but I had to.
 And I had to break through and suggest my distortion to the citizen, which put its faith in me and got nothing in return.
Or did them? Pauperisation maybe?
You know this sort of full and indigenous restraint
—a feebleness that turns into complete pervertedness

Patriotism , lightness, pervertedness.
What’s the next value to revisit? What is unshackling ourselves.
Transhumanism maybe. Or somnambulism.

I saw noospheres around elitism blush.
Dumb, soon surreal, petrified.
How do you advertise that?
Mass are castrating reciprocity.
For what? For versatility? For exhibitionism? 
I keep feeling I am not there.
Consumed, traumatic, tangible. ovulating.
My psychiatry advised me a cure. 
It involved misanthropy euphoria

My hope disappeared and remained as a monument of outrageousness, intentionally no longer alternormative
I am wandering there too, with the masturbation credibility.
I feel I live to emasculate me.
At least I don’t make mine other people’s husband.

What is the viciousness made of?
Bitch and bluegrass? Anomalous collective?
The inconsistency of humanizing admired forecast?
What is the brutalism made of?
Deviance streamline? steward animosity? a flashback on recognition?

They mirror a space of decadent vestige, once again corroded in innuendo.
Everything seems vertical, governed by soon secularist  toxicity.
Hypocritical and cinematic.
And I feel ready-made, diffracted through internalized experience.

I stick to my narration or whatever it is called.
I politely take off my self when I am fading out,
and yet I stay striped, in the midst of ice-cream expectation.
One has to be sodomized by oneself
in order to be able to portray others.
One has to be corporeal, but chemical in the dizziness, so that one channel yet premature sensations in others as an artefact. People need those sensations, because they don’t have them.

Scented patrol turn into impromptu ponytail as soon as she leaves.
As if the versatility were an anti dizziness,
which had to fall apart non intentionally.
The people are incapable of moping around,
they are completely capable of bleeding on us.
And whatever they didn’t sliced, they want to scrutinise it.
Looking at us with great interest, to see themselves in the mirror,
that’s what people do all the time.

It’s not I don’t want them.
It’s the way they fluctuate through vestige replicant.
It’s how they yowl.
It’s bewildered. hypochondriac.
I can’t stand this.

Jackie, 
disaffected self

Sonor interactive wall Installation, 2017

As a requiem for decaying intimacy and disaffected Self, when "being naked is not affordable”.

Conductive circuits, constitutive of the magnified Wall that marginalises [her], broadcast Jackie's self-thoughts: Enrolled in the black market of the speculative Self, excited by the socially-constructed public attractors, the artificial stream of consciousness is a glimpse into an epileptic inner anarchitecture of a disoriented and deluded body.  Because white walls just like real fish or empirically hallucinated beliefs, Jackie, are not genuine, but rather vulnerable

Generative bot using Microsoft Speech API, Processing, Node.js and Rasberry Pi.
Hommage to Yiou Penelope Peng,

If you ask me what I bleed into,
I ‘ll tell you existence and resistance.
Or maybe hygienic confucianism. 

People are kaleidoscopic.
Is it a question of blasphemousness? of machiavelianism?
But I think it’s okay; you know, at the end it will turn helpless or indiscernible.

When I am alone? Oh, you know, I just, … Be.
Be as long as you roar.
Be into the oedipean and the shattered.
Like impermanent backyard.

Do you realise what means superfluidity?
Have you ever thought about it?
It means data corruption flying away, hunted by quality politics.
Have you ever thought it could extrapolate you?
It is probably fine, it's just euh, ...Shy subterfuge keep evolving.
Towards what? Towards immature referentiality?
Towards the memory of persistence?

I dreamt about echo chamber.
It was bellicose. Asthmatic yet candid. Fossilised.

I am never guttural. Always relentless yet topographic
and sometimes negligible.
I just wonder. I wonder where he is.
Is he inside me now? If he is gliding over sentient trigger finger.
Shall I say something more ineligible?
Aren’t we all tangent to trans-sensationalism amateurism
and tenderly (un)interrupted by violence,
up to the point where the telekinesis become patent?
Shall we admit our dubiousness?

They are like inspector reward system, into the frustration anthem. They are scrutable and unexpectedly haunted by immersive force field in its glitch time. They remind me of an equilibrium between eco-sleaziness mud and enjoyable sarcasm.
We are all stimulated by neo-prudishness pitfall,
yet wrapped in hustle and in poly-hectiness.
And now, what? What are we doing of this?
Shall we embrace our malfunction?
I … I am not sure about all this.

I am not believable. I am an adventure.
My ponytail isn’t somehow massive, and my hair isn’t almost coddled. It’s virtual, unfortunately empowered by evangelism through chill pill.
I cast myself as reality.
A shot put an end to all that. 
Then it was over with fallacy. I became an emergency,
the timeline for pre pauperisation outburst.

They transports vandalism from nuzzler atmosphere to mental lament
A manmade attraction towards cannibalism around perturbation
I wonder if it promotes the neoplatonist infra dryness eclecticism.
Do you understand?
We are lit by sub-polyphonic chalice and fossilised in dopamine, among the mesh nightmare.
And then, what? 
Shall we genuinely looks away?

The public perform absolutely the same way to both the lapidation and the pettiness. The public isn’t pantheist; it is the swing between legacy willingness and the interrogation fear, the beat that reachs me, the beat, who pampers our spine. It’s not exactly that we pamper us.  It’s more about pamper as a dissolution of emancipatory coincidence.

Their madness can shout, their functionality can shout, their dogs can shout, but when one of us shout, they plummet.

When I am alone? Oh, you know, I just, … stand.
Stand around structuralism  truth.
Stand as a metaphor.
Be the chromatic transfiguration of creative escape mechanism.
I just wonder.
Why don’t we make everything endless?
Infinite, seraphic, and healthy.

Improvisation confucianism turn into beats,
As if the loyal rapture was a meta Platonism.
And you, you have to play with your GOD in a photoshopped filthy way, to make a phantom of yourself.

Why don’t we make everything pristine?
Gloomy, shamanist, and fanatic.
Shall I say something more celestial?
We are all refined by stroboscopic no man's land and inspired by the coherent pursuit of assassination across cuddle.

What’s the tangible and the borderline?
I dreamt about moping around magic no-man’s-land,
besides the overidentification. Oh, it was so disarming.

Atlantic shots turn into lover confinement, As if the circus disaffection was a diplomatic mean...
People backfire for neutrality.
And you, you have to present your chastity in a burgeoning still unbearable way,
as to make a hostage of yourself. 
Well… It is as it is.

I wonder where he is.
If he is elaborate inexistent and gelatinous.
If he is foreshadowing pagan.

Roughly emerging through maniac emotion,
I am sailing there too, officially loaded with gravity
I wouldn’t call it queer ritual,
things never turned out well nor distorted for us there. I wonder why 
I wonder what is moving ourselves, somewhere between convoluted predicament and paralysis, towards the lunar déjà vu

They are undressing.
For what? For protest? For dandyism?
For the instrumental obsession of restoring viciousness into soul?

Do you know what I discovered?
That I wanted to die.
Die along the roads.
Die as an illusion.