The aim of the game is to go through your whole life never once hearing the word optimization. Having already failed, we can try to accept understanding as a shape, which immediately collapses into its wake. To recognize nouns as the pointy, sticky-outy bits on a verb. To see that fiction is the apparatus of extinction. Having failed that too, we can try to believe in our own susceptibility to metaphor, witness that belief blur back into ignorance, and capture the whole thing in 12 million pixels per pocket. Our beautiful lives, our franchised narratives, our sweet, preposterous associations, our many and little deaths, etc.
What do we trade for legibility and conviction?
Does fiction still hold true today?
And the information from which we are looking. What kind of weapon is this?
Representation as on-ness. The on-ness of the screen, of the art space, etc.
On-ness as adjacent to is-ness.
On-ness as the world.
The world as the earth prolapsed into a picture, washing against an embankment of shut or shutting eyes.
Is-ness as the whole, unpaginated clank of a "life".
Is-ness as poetry.
Poetry as fiction near you, but turned off or asleep.
Gallons of disguises jostling.
Things in general.
The Reality Effect.
And—Oh god, there's a zipper.