Yeah, it’s been a while since I’ve posted. And lots of changes are afoot. I’ll catch up later.
As a result of a Futures Alumni retreat we had last weekend, I decided to give a go to one of the ideas that has been rolling around in my head for a few years — futures scenarios as art. I did up one of my scenarios as a performance/poetry piece and read it at a local reading. The crowd was small, a few dozen, but appreciative. I was encouraged. Made me want to write up a few more and go be a smaller fish in a bigger pond at one of the better established readings downtown.
I don’t think it was a hit because it was great literature or anything. I think the subject matter grabbed them. It wasn’t the usual fare — love, angst, politics, etc. This was an extrapolation of the attention economy, commercialization, and the emerging brain machine interface as change drivers.
Anyway, here it is:
EYEBALL
——-
I’m tired.
I’ve been cutting back on McLattes.
I’m saving up to turn off my shoes.
I saw some last week —
shoes that were just plain shoes.
They didn’t track where you go
and then beam ads up at you.
No motor oil ads while pumping gas nor
cookie ads in front of the grocers’ dairy case.
They’re expensive ’cause they’re not subsidized.
So I’m economizing to pay for something
That people are used to getting for free.
My friends think I’m nuts.
All these constant commercials,
they don’t bother my friends.
Just like wallpaper.
They say they can tune them out.
I should be so lucky.
They drive me crazy.
But it’s my fault –
I made them my job.
I’m an “Eyeball”.
Sounded like a good idea at the time —
just walk around and look at stuff.
When I see a logo or a commercial spot,
this chip at the base of my skull
lets the good folks at Nielsen
know my reaction before even I do.
This kind of information
is very valuable, they say.
Thanks.
Here’s your check.
I figured it’d give me more time to write.
But somehow I can’t concentrate.
I can’t write more than a paragraph at a time.
I get these uncanny urges to drop my work
And flip through a magazine.
I never order magazines but they come to me anyway.
I’m never sure when, or if, I’m off the clock.
And I don’t know what other thoughts…
I can’t tell what else I’m giving them.
Like, last week I had this “naked in public” dream,
and my landlady gave me an amused once-over look
the next morning.
Gave me the creeps.
I try not to dream if I can help it.
I saved for months to buy one blank wall in my apartment.
It’s in my bedroom opposite my bed.
No logo lamps, no meme marquees, no active windows.
The wall wasn’t subsidized, so my rent went up.
But it was worth it.
I sit and stare at that wall
like it were some kind of holy shrine.
It is holy to me, I guess.
One day I’ll be able to pay my own rent
And put what I want on all my walls.
For now I’ll just take refuge in this one blank spot.
But if I sit at the end of my bed and stare long enough,
say, more than half an hour, there’s this thing —
Not a voice, not a thought, not an image.
Faintly, but clearly.
Somewhere behind me, it says:
“Get to work.”