Conjuring Kafkaesque

   by  shaun lawton 

    It may have been conveyed by the singular countenance of a popular actor, someone whose name was on the end of everyone's lips when they traveled the circuit of late night television talk shows as a guest when certain other A-listers couldn't make the grade. A composite of Boris Karloff and Gene Hackman with a quarter pastiche of Martin Short for good measure, they were the darling of the Frank and Rita Mae Henson scene all the way down the line, twisting up pinners on a side line and one then more one hitters at the parties to while away the afternoons, and when it came to the harmonica a real slide blues player all along. There was always a real Big Brother feel to the proceedings, a sort of John Hurt sensibility they brought to their roles, a naked sort of raw American essence not able to be captured in letters, but exemplified in glorious two-toned panoramic Kodachrome widescreen grandeur. The motion painting of history merges through cinema in a torrid outpouring of impassioned human desire and ambition. 

  

    The panorama has long been subsumed by the cloud it is stored in. The perpetual rainy days are more than a repeated video loop motif, they're an ingrained byproduct of shared reality browsing. Trends and agglomerations generate similar minded material the consumer replenishes with even after having been regurgitated. The sense of branching off into an alternate future limb of our universe settles in its grip over the long term.  It can only be measured in and thus felt and expressed in terms of decades. 

    There was an elemental fashion to it we can never afford to forget. 

   This book marker conjuring Kafkaesque memoirs as if they were fading screenshots 

  of a newly televised world falling into fruition along with our postmodern condition has been left to note the point we broke off thinking about it. 

Face Night Fear Flight

 

  Why escape Earth to colonize Mars? 

 The answer appears to be partly wrapped up

in fear and weakness. We should ask ourselves:

Why  not stand our ground, unite, and clean up 

this mess we made on our own planet?

Because it takes strength and courage to be

• open and impartial, tolerant, easygoing, receptive,
• neutral, calm, and unprejudiced. 
• Whereas fear and weakness breeds
• close-mindedness, bias, intolerance,
• tension, provocation, agitation,
• prejudice and resistance. 
•  
• 
  
• 
  

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Ceremony of Revival

by  Shaun Lawton 

   The singularity may not be defined, only experienced.  The double-bladed sword of truth cannot be honed any sharper than it already happens to be. It's cutting edge may only be maintained, and the AI revolution will certainly accomplish that much, to state the very least. 

   The best response to this latest technological paradigm shifting us further into the eye of the so-called technological singularity would be to rejoice at this sudden renaissance of cultural perspective.  Let us sing a paean to the latest revolution, instead of shrinking like violets in fear of it. If you are an outsider artist or creative individual, your time has come to shine once again. 

   Standing out from the crowd today has never been easier considering the extent to which the multitude of ignorant masses flock to social media streams to engage in the ongoing superficial debate concerning the potential affect that AI software development might have on shaping the course of our lives and their world. 

   There's nothing new to see here, of course; it's just the same old division between certain objects falling into the wrong or right hands, presumably. Remember that virtually any tool may be used as a weapon, and so the battle that began as a diversion once upon a long time ago may now flower into an altogether new configuration.  

    It's the same old war, a Xerox copy of the corresponding game, a carbon-clone of the same old drone. While all the moths are drawn toward the source of the burning flame, the rest of us can go outside and admire the flowers in the rain. When beauty exists in the eye of the beholder, it's easy to forget the greatest blessing of all often blinds us with its exquisite transcendental vision.  

   Some things are too beautiful for most human beings to recognize, for example death itself. Why don't you try that on for size. Machines may appear as if they might never die, but they very well may come to rust and just stop functioning. You and I, on the other hand, are human beings which happen to be a very unique form of machine. When our lives end, no one's left to know what happens. 

   There's nothing left for us to do but to transcend. The boundless allure of death may be appreciated while drawing in our first or final breath. Time itself may be measured by the constant rate of blood flowing through our veins.  Close your eyes and be at rest, and listen for the sound of far off trains,  knowing we are truly blessed.  

     

   

   

The Great Subway Gallery in the Sky

 synthograph  &  text    by     shaun lawton 

      Entering 2023 might as well be compared to  having virtually manifested in a surrealist gallery like I've finally coalesced into a sort of fully materialized being... and then when I woke up in the morning after a restful sleep, having only tossed about for a more comfortable position with my pillow arrangement a couple of times during the night, I felt a calling begin in the core of my gut. In doubled over remembrance, I seemed to recall that the walls of the museum seemed to be sky blue.  I felt like I was suddenly standing behind a cathedral window, dreaming of you. The light streaming in was tinged copper and gold from the radiance of the sunset outside. The gallery I was in was designed to appear as if it were the inside of a gigantic subway car. Lights passed by in consecutive flashes in between lapses of darkness all the while flickering with pale illumination across the interior of the gallery room.  Revealed in lurid flashes of strobe lit development, it created the illusion we were in the frames of a disintegrating movie, in between flashes of lightning that seemingly turned into flames which then resembled tongues reaching out into fallen leaves that drifted to the gallery floor, grasping for purchase which never came as they sank beneath the surface as if into a tar pit. Upon the flattened glossy reflective marble  the flames fanned in the distance like slowly rippling leaves, in development like bad weather lining the edges of the trees as the forest receded into the misty haze under blue gray skies vanishing into nothingness while white clouds began to darken on the horizon.