Nonchalance

« Ye who enter here, in the series, abandon all personal esperance. »

Our nonchaloir’s been mirrored thru and thru.

Since day one of our naissance.

Suddenly, we black our novel face out in that deep emotional emerald whiteout condition, swapping our sound intangibles for some smokey voices trembling in the shadows, letting the electrical ash-borers in on everything, faithfully stepping out on our lives and their dreamy scenes set up by a complacent algorithmic guru.

Reviewing Rivermind is like taking a walk with Rimbaud (or is it Patti Smith?) along a green river road at night where barefoot girls are dancing in the moonlight, to a place where we used to catch with our hands and teeth a mock-up of the giggling sand lance.

Like in the French oldie Le Vieux Fusil, where the gun camera is watching out all your cracks and fissures, looking for penetrating your human crust sans armor, or in any other Douglas Sirk’s films, Mr. Lynch’s Mulholland accepted at face value — a good rule of thumb rolling on the screen — as far as it drives home its usual hard bargain, we’re the neo-Jim Carreys of the freshly generated global actor, the beautiful players of our new acts, right in the middle of the bouts of strangely fighting phases of our regained invisibility status, and while we won’t let any Tracees behind in Der Prozess, hunting and gathering, then taking her rollicking pixels for some organic molecules lost in the mists of time, charred but still tethered to our memories, alas or hurrah, won’t we in the meantime enable misters or missises Rectus and Sinister to get blurred by our fingerprints like iced rod cells on a windowpane?, the golden age of deep cheap-chip free-trials is there to endure, unimpaired, to a fault bringing the human life towards an eery thing that its carpets of general rewards forever to us will accrue.

Would the subject of our sentimentality be truly off-limits in this network of glass fibered blood vessels mimicking our inner ghost insects’ every move (before reporting them), and still acting as a loving family, or just as someone who desesperately cares?, we’re men and women of the resewed cloth now, our callous numerus closed, with an insensitive needle mostly translating our DNA subtitles before the gates painted in hellblau, where words sporadically mix their letters to lose their meanings as the mint Logos of a racemic mixture — become a second nature — is constantly reminding us of our world-building Renaissance.

A coalesced streaming nation suffused with the leafy word-builders of a rebirth, if you prefer — picture yourself a syntactic lavalike verdant glow on the matte horizon —, which the Plus subscription plan will never cease to render affordable, ad subjiciendum, abounding in easy clauses, as the ones you find in a will, even at the cost of our emaciation in the course of time, always pending after the sour fashion of a digital sprue.

We’re all serial now, who will retain the fluid rights of our body doubles lured for capture under the gaseous aqueduct of the Law decoyed into a larmier already equipped with a false dip to trap our so-called chiral liquid crystals, who will check their passage in an organ to another, like soldiers fighting on either hand? « In all seriousness« , as Doc Huberman’s bionic eye would wink, our genial seriality won’t take for an attempted answer the surviving physicality of our nonresponse.