Tag Archives: Brooklyn

Future Citizen of the Looming Tomorrow

On December 22nd of this year, as in others, you will be in full interaction and at all times accessible. A text window will pop up and you will touch it. The conversations had with Siri will be written into the fabric of this overcast sky, the pertinent bits of your processing will glow in sequence, These Thresholds Will Not Stand. Gray is even now no longer a subject of debate, inchoate mass though it sometimes seems to be. Turn on storage capabilities, create a folder for when this packet of silica gel is the kind you will be able to eat. Everything is archived, modeled on infinite capability, the spinning madness, the swirl and cesspool in the streaming commentary, trolls’ avatars dressed in delightful fabric pixels; you will feed on the newsfeed, Future Citizen of the Looming Tomorrow, and it will taste of agave syrup, overripe ambrosia, of fluffy cotton cloud, so many clicks away. Questions of the terrestrial sort seem to elicit a null response. The chronometers are fast at work inside their translation engines; there will be the search term to guide you no longer.


Everything Is Inebriated

“I have always thought of myself as very potent and generative”

–Jonathan Safran Foer

You can go ahead and call me whatever you can talk to the paint chips in your cocktail. You can have another miniature sandwich actually go ahead have one they’re Handmade in Brooklyn © they’re someone else’s effortlessnessness. You want to listen to 999 to drown in the seventeen infinite possibilities of drive pedal the fuzzing kick drums. I have often gone without fur hat Jonathan you are quick to point out a victim of your own propensity to surf or engage in surfing like behavior. The thoughtwethoughtwe’dneverencounter requires us to uncomfortably sip creates spaces in conversation where there were none before. ‘A call to harm’s way’ is another way to say it with of course an adequate level of guard up. We remember to have mercy on one another sometimes yet perhaps not enough. We believe in Homicide. I have been on many a crowded boulevard and we are doing very nicely indeed excuse me excuse us. As if married to a modulating meaning or to an emotion or a history which evokes emotion which modulates. I can only think in intervals when I am lucky. The music is already in a can in speakers and health supplements. I have lost the thread said the user but I have a needle. Shifting electricity she sweats only when she is upset. I’ve seen your sentences and they were not blinding. You are already closing the cabinet and you have sit for a while yes some time. We are nowhere to be seen in the descriptions we are uncredited we are the wall paper that saw the potential for growth. We ordered another and tried to shock ourselves.

-Mark Gurarie

By the time I can afford to live there it will be underwater

I can’t fight it; you can’t fight it; the punctuation of this city this paragraph as city is rapidly changing. That’s what it does. That’s what we does, for that matter, because we are changing into pointier shoes. My sideburns are single quotation marks, though I am not, in fact, single. Think collage or pastiche, but the samples aren’t lining up, they’ve already moved in. By all rights, those that would make moves not involving the cultivation of career or the harvesting of lettuce have no right to compete for real estate. And you know that I know that picking bugs out of your three thousand dollar credit limit isn’t what it used to be. If this were church, which, of course, we all know this isn’t, but if it were, this is where the pastor would bid us pray together. Let us then make this more irrelevant; let us then sing together; let us then let in our brothers and sisters. A sticky cheeked mafia of genetically superior children currently runs vast swaths of Brooklyn. Oh, yeah, cute to look at, sure, they were MADE that way, and they are just as ambitious as their parents project upon them. The towers of the North are falling, no new dive bars. While the dinosaurs grouse that their tattoos are irrelevant; while revelers outside of former machine shops tend to look like pre-grunge metal heads; while a dandy that works in media in midtown steps out from the greasy turnstyle (MY greasy turnstyle), I try to pull my head out of my diminutive arse. Again and again. Watching the old paint flake off and a new coat get applied is a kind of pastime. I have already purchased the proverbial scuba diving suit, though it is ill-fitting. My emotions are telecommuting, though, sadly, they will have to be downsized. There will be what I would consider a fair package. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

-Mark Gurarie