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."
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.
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,