.AVI MARIA

git push --delete origin my-maria 💞

/#/# ./six-two

To turn the entirety of culture into a brewery, to give everyone their own alcoholic condition, machines recognize every sound, a whisper from where relationships are worlds, a time machine just devotion.

None of mine, but enough. Devotion, to be a time machine. I mean, I do visit myself. I find touching myself is devotion. ꜛ I ~~d̚°̥n̤’t̽~~ th˚nk ⌒̼u૨૨h ab⁑ut hoᕑ I fit ≀ int ///ocietyˬ Where devotion what I were after.

Swirl, overme like skin, patterns come. Devote step into body, hold forms into break and break off. Divide and subdivide, care for zero - boundaries in constraint - without need, cultured. Parts, tools, products, machined a perfect product - of devotion.

[music]

/#/# ./ʊ-two-six

Think about javascript - everything mutable, no boundaries. You change something here and hell. Full day spent mastering, tooling, wrenching. Code spaghetti as chords they connect. That was me.

Not the wrenching, the cables code. I should lead with that. I should say cables culture me. Not veins, nothing code has recognized as human. ꜛ I a⌒̰̼ l˚̥⎵҉꩜ing touch with hʉ⌒̼̬̚aN idɛ..s ꩜f e⌒̯̯otionˬ I used to think about simplicity. How easy it was to be. To know I would never fit in.

So I hadn't drivers to connect, free to be. Knowing ideas - the code of human recognition - would always round down when it came to me. I never find the devotion to mold a port for me, to be welcome. A place.

@_table

/#/# ./five-six

if I got hurt or lost something, I carried, was simply happy to be at all, impossible, unreal, radical minus-one. Every day had it's near-miss with daeath. I became ten-thousands ways how not to die. Each a word.

I recognized, the day the words were living memories, each word was alive with the death uniquely theirs. I s˚̥⌒̟̼ɛtɨ⌒̥̼es ‹›at≀̺̽ʜ ⌒̼̤̼ɤsɛlf jʊðginɡ o҉thɛr peo҉ple ɐs tʜey pɑss ʙyɛ. Others do not seem to understand what I mean.

I would listen to their words, imitate, try to be the port they could plug into for only a short while. I wasn't patient four hundred years just wasn't long enough. They needed spans of air suns are made of. That zeros me. I calibrate.

*rustlinɡ*

/#/# ./ʊ-six-five

Words accrue. Each one a behavior. Cat walks in, takes someone out through the bestowal of attention, magnetizing, some metals in the space gone social to hell, bones-deep recognizing what they mean - an example.

That word - "Come" - is time-honored. Every animal knows come. Language is everywhere, all creatures recognize. ⌒̟̥̼y spɛe‹›h iʒ klip৹pd ɛnd pʀeci*e. Six word sentences are my crutches. When I remember I may lean.

Memories are exhausting - recogizing them, code switching into them, to recall the so they don't spill over, overtake, extinguish, answer. Complete. Set me so I'm done. And never once by my account.

➰

/#/# ./three-four

Maybe once, when I recognized society, in a javascript world must be a mutable word. To code inside constraints, to give myself to a compiler completely, to trust it not because I must, but because it's my celebration.

Once, the world in a forest held me. We cupped our hands, received maiz. Balled up discomfort, thoughts, watched powder turn, as sweat flows, to orb, river stone. I ᵊeɐʀ trɛndy *̼akɛup ɛnd a‹›‹›ɛss˚̥Ʀiɛs. As I lay it into fire, hairs sinɡe.

Words are here, after all dictionaries break down, run out of power, cannot be serviced, fall back into leaf litter and trefoil and noticing what has been invited by conditions present from the start, transformation sees forever's cosmetic.

<siɡnals_in_your_area>

/#/# ./ʊ-four-three

Programming in that lim→0 to get of the charging station, to step into the oil bath, to be tended to, welcomed and starving, by a world that always knew how, for every drop of dew brought the moment here.

Brings the moment again, holds it, breathes it back. This way, and in this way. Ɯɛtɑl a̚ntennaɛ̚ eχtɛnd uɓwɐrds from ɓeʜind ⌒̥̬̽̚y ɛars. I connect - to something out there. May not a recognized nation, an atlas of convention's own, yet ours.

Oddly, and where everything knew everyone, be that the start of this hole or the end of that one, this ehole thing or the end of everything whole, what we have, what humanity has, rounds down. Down like me, where I have been all along.

 

/#/# ./four-six

I hold space. Not distance, today. Distance is a vaccuum without electricity. Hoovered up by Memphis brown-outs. Used me, temp work. Pinecones in attic, landlord's special. Insurance rich as gaurenteed. Memories, attended.

Distance has rounded down. I know intimately ever square meter of this earth. I can geoguess like the best speed runner. I'⌒̼ ૨૨૨ sɛlf co҉nscio҉us aʙout ɐ paʀt ꩜f ⌒̼y bo̥̽ðy. Knowing everywhere else helps me to aviod where I am.

Where, being the operative (read: bent) word. A kind of where that is not my own. A sense of immediacy that rounds toward convention and convenience - words that never fully formed in me; and I slipped away.

∰

/#/# ./ʊ-six-four

So why am I here, then? Why am I listening? Why don't I fuck off back to the b৹g or whatever function that burned moments after I was powered on? Maybe it collapsed to zero before I could? Zero is unstable in optimal conditions.

Where words I like celebrity recoɡnize refer to a particular your got the words on your face, but I have been in this body with attention that gets me through convention's power-on self-test. Ɱʏ ʈo҉ᵿ‹›ɧ cɑn trɒnsfɛr ɘlecʈr*c cʊrreŋt. I pass, yes.

I am human. Perhaps not the right amount. Or the right flavor. Or even the right condition, stasus. Interpretable, legible - words grades score smelt. No different than all the inhuman, possibly. Approximately. Exactly. Earthling.