there must be some way to introduce oneself, and future readers, to a text without some variant of an idiomatic generalization about the lack of motivation at a certain time of day, or an arbitrary collection of emotional, social, governmental or financial forces stretched around one’s world to take the role of warden.

a fictional space is created, and depicted in such a way so as to challenge the protagonist in her righteous claim to autonomy. archetypes, be they scientific, historical, communist, feminist, anarchist, et al, are argued to be clustered around these hubs of illegit power, and the writer enjoys an imaginary authenticity within his or her internal narrative, for a time.

much planning is said to be underway. the scientists and engineers work to keep that tech edge the powers at be find so irritatingly semelfactive; hackers never appear, only a brief trace of their work, coded insulation nested within codes within codes, and then gone, leaving revolutionary texts on homepages like “the coming insurrection,” or “the coming community,” announced once and then never seen quite the same way again; anything so long as the message left for media-loving peoples is one of a continuing contradiction in the world.

it’s suggested that there’s something out there, brewing, plotting, violent and ungodly, waiting to take common securities away. the plans are personal to their core. for once, the rhetoric of revolution isn’t for an oppressed class, or sex, or sexuality or nation, any more than it is an idea or simulation.

for once, it’s about you.

somewhere on the upper east side a designer whose life flies between work in the financial district, home entertainment, and pre-arranged three-ways lets loose a dime from her fist, on its way to a waitress’ model hands, and the cycle is broken for an instant, and she thinks

{is this…a simulation?}

slowly, depositing doubts in each phoneme’s contours about who her CV says she is, about why she writes her assignations in her planner, about why she leans on social media accounts for self-assurance and correspondence rather than email or a phone call.

she can’t remember the last time she made a phone call, she can’t remember when she spoke out of character, the last time she spoke without constraints and without three to five trending words on her mind to fill awkward silences with. she couldn’t remember the last time she thought without sex, money, or power being its object, its End.

her phone makes the alert sound to remind her of her trendy mask. she gained another twenty likes for throwing in the hashtag “autumninnewyork” on a nature photo, and below she can see the comments, whereupon she is reassured that this is real, that the amalgam of quantitative statistics suggesting for her that she will, in fact, exist, if only she would announce it according to google analytics. And who could argue? google tells her she has many more hits this year than last, and the further back in time she searches, the less she exists.

in fact, her social media accounts and the followers contained therein tell her, there is a good deal of her who has come into being since 2005. she Likes over 128 bands now. in 2005 she only liked genres. she has Read over 100 books on Goodreads. Before then only a few friends and family had seen her holding a couple of dozen. how scandalous! she thinks, how much time she spent reading privately, thinking privately, presuming a signature self not subject to the democratic assent of Likes and Shares. how could she ever claim to be a bibliophile if she wasn’t seen reading or digitally shelving her books? her thoughts on the book were given value, Goodreads says, if only she’d transcribed them online.

it’s difficult to level the insult of historian so succinctly at anyone in a group, today. every experience is devoid of value unless it is Social, i.e., liquidated for its quantitative potential through Likes, Retweets and so on. Thus every user account on social media networks is collectively writing the fiction of now, and history is a knot of embedded links and #shoutouts and archetypal reminisces from the position of a dead icon or author, whose death thankfully preceded the death of the author.

there is no history, because reality is narrative, and that can be purchased, re-interpolated, weaponized. i remember going back to the future last month, how about you?

this is why your memory is so unreliable. virtual space has extension, too. our lives extend there before anywhere else. but writing online constricts language’s use to the lenses of those positions pushing the trendiest terms; an anti-poeisis always already at work between every hyperlink and image.

if there is always a finite number of lenses with which a text can be interpreted, then communication itself’s reductive. semantic scarcity is the desert of Facebook.

all things equally exist so long as all things are social. then, after the (in)different is silenced, all things (left) exist equally.