Desk Set
鈥淧etra Genetrix from Porosity Valley, date of birth unknown, gender not applicable. Welcome to the Immigration Data Center.鈥� Arriving through a secret door, the machine begins to glow in the dark. Further on four women surrounded by books endlessly chatter from one door to another. The telephone rings, unheeded, once again. Sorting through microplastics, they talk about the ways of protecting oneself against human contamination. Others, sporting an octopus wig or a face crudely painted and wearing a paper costume, transform images, writing and bodies to become lyrical translators. All of them know the weight of the earth and the name of the customs. Between them and the machine the nature of emotional and objective knowledge plays out. Such is the flow that is exchanged, mutant, mute or talkative, and forever repeated, forever ritualized.
A little further along, a three-headed woman looks on, appearing to indicate different directions to go in. The choice is up to the observer, the gazes of the three heads imparting the tonality of the path to take. She is made of stone which is dripping slightly, contrasting with the group of bodies at work, dressed in Peter Pan collars, filing, sorting and stacking things at the other end of the room.
The dark makes seeing easier, although you still need to be able to pass, move in close enough to make out the precision of the criteria and decipher part of the codes. The signal is occasionally lost, the machine jams, unless it is an intentional system of encryption. By one鈥檚 wandering about, the consistency of the site鈥攔hizomatic and hard to chart鈥� enters the flesh; yes, eventually it should be possible to simplify it. Maybe simply sit there, next to those plastic and coral stones, on the composite slab mixed with vinyl and the blood of sacrifices. Breathing in the air they tried to sterilize鈥攆rom which there arises nevertheless the smell of glue, powder and moldy earth, sewing up images and mixing the sources to produce new ones.
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鈥淧etra Genetrix from Porosity Valley, date of birth unknown, gender not applicable. Welcome to the Immigration Data Center.鈥� Arriving through a secret door, the machine begins to glow in the dark. Further on four women surrounded by books endlessly chatter from one door to another. The telephone rings, unheeded, once again. Sorting through microplastics, they talk about the ways of protecting oneself against human contamination. Others, sporting an octopus wig or a face crudely painted and wearing a paper costume, transform images, writing and bodies to become lyrical translators. All of them know the weight of the earth and the name of the customs. Between them and the machine the nature of emotional and objective knowledge plays out. Such is the flow that is exchanged, mutant, mute or talkative, and forever repeated, forever ritualized.
A little further along, a three-headed woman looks on, appearing to indicate different directions to go in. The choice is up to the observer, the gazes of the three heads imparting the tonality of the path to take. She is made of stone which is dripping slightly, contrasting with the group of bodies at work, dressed in Peter Pan collars, filing, sorting and stacking things at the other end of the room.
The dark makes seeing easier, although you still need to be able to pass, move in close enough to make out the precision of the criteria and decipher part of the codes. The signal is occasionally lost, the machine jams, unless it is an intentional system of encryption. By one鈥檚 wandering about, the consistency of the site鈥攔hizomatic and hard to chart鈥� enters the flesh; yes, eventually it should be possible to simplify it. Maybe simply sit there, next to those plastic and coral stones, on the composite slab mixed with vinyl and the blood of sacrifices. Breathing in the air they tried to sterilize鈥攆rom which there arises nevertheless the smell of glue, powder and moldy earth, sewing up images and mixing the sources to produce new ones.
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