[NetBehaviour] The Signall
sondheim at panix.com
Thu Jan 26 16:14:02 CET 2023
In the midst of industrial haze and misalignment, the signall
exists, always and forever, cutting through the debris of
language, indicating its presence to everything passing by, and
to those astute enough to read the books and pamphlets of the
natural order of things and organisms, already tottering. I make
this monument to the signall.
In all cases, I make these texts and the inert of the industrial
order making and raking the present absence of control, of good
human language. And in all cases, I wonder if this makes any
thing possible at all, if these texts might not exist, and to
better benefit, than accompanied by mute and perplexing video
and other shards of evidence, that, yes, this is occurring, this
is an occurrence.
In other words, could the texts stand on their own, as testimony
without the visible which, after all, can be manipulated into
falsehood, especially in these digital times? In which case,
perhaps the thing to do is cover your eyes in relation to this,
after converting the text itself to something spoken, in the
aural domain, as gesture, for that is what it is. Or an other
way to think this, does an illustrated book of philosophical
meanderings mean anything at all?
The signall in this case is a group of lights on the side and
before a building, lights which seem to flash in code or in
relation to each other. I think, perhaps like humans, the lights
are triggering each other, just as wars and genocides do. Or
they're warnings that such might be the case. They seem at least
now to be cause without effect, effect without cause, as if the
natural order of things is meaningless.
But it is not.
Perhaps the best and deepest way to think of life is that it is
the creation of meaning, far more than our feeble attempts at
tracking the world are such. That meaning, in other words,
enriches everything from the molecular to the communities of
life-forms within, upon, and above our planet, that humans,
instead of generating meaning, are destroying it. We are surely
heading towards the barrens, taking everything with it, the
tragic deserts and entanglements of tragedy are proof of this.
We bear witness to meaning which we ensure bears down upon us, a
tragic melange now with no discernible origin or beginning, and
a tragedy whose end, never coming completely, is always already
churning its way towards us, already in sight, in site. To bear
witness is to bare witness as well, to make one vulnerable to
occurrence; we stare towards the setting sun, towards the brute
insistence of the signall, buried in layers of the real. (As if
slowly emerging, as if that has always been the case.)
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