Bonfire of the Abominables or "The Abominalia"

 

 

We do, some of us, that is, remember Suckerberg and Sneako.

Lest we forget and meet up with Joey-bear in the fog, like that movie where the husband wanders in from the fog in the roadway beyond, ghosts all, you know, and there was a night together, an eternal flotsam apart, and a non coming-to-terms.

"We made love and there was some scattered grunting about and the usual platitudes.  Tut-tut, have some tea, and all."

Do you remember when some harmless old lady shared something on Facebook and the CNN people came to her house and accused her of being a Russian asset?

Fuck around and find out, CNN.

Indeed, it was some 27 years ago, when we saw each other across the apothecary, on the reeds, the fronds, the subtle "subtil" flagging of the limbs and so forth, that and what more?

Petcocks and bollocks.

There was a bicycle around there, with a basket on front, a flat on rear that was for packages, as of a messenger platform, and one could cavort along the lakefront, in those days, before the subdivision and all, one could just sort of amble along, devotchkas and all, pickles and ice creams, fried potatoes and so forth, in little cups and cartons of various shapes.

Wasn't he a manager at Target?

27 years and so many desultory lifetimes in between, the thoroughfare that spans but one of those distances, or the intermenable few, or even more, an entire database of particulars, and so forth, and the whole thing, the abominables, protected by a key, of sorts.

They say the can know more about you in a few clicks, more about you than even you know, but I'm not so sure, I'm watching the puns and so forth that roll along in the algorithm and I'm not so impressed.  They certainly know what you just bought.  

You could buy a toilet ring, and next thing you know, Facebook shows you an ad for that same toilet ring you just bought, and from the same retailer, which is hardly effective advertising, if you've already dropped the hammer.

I gave myself a kind of affirmation about this, walking along in the parking lot, thinking there were some things within that they just couldnt touch, wheels they could turn and buttons they could not push, try as they may, a penny-worth of leaven, and the lump.  And even if were as blank as the surface of a lakeside, would they even guess half the more well?

I kind of watch the database rolling along, trying to guess the want, with kind of cold clinical detached interest, and the lesbians were fighting, that a situation run its course such before, you know, and people guessing genders and gospel singings.

We had discussed, of the bonfire of the abonimables, the essential indeterminance of life and the outer discourse, and all that, but that there was, a kind of snot-trail, you know, a kind of, "dog will hunt", a kind of Iron Man putting on his power shell and all, a kind of thing that, if the day were pretty, you might take the outside, but not as a 1+1 proposition, such as the machines come across with, but as a kind of whim, and they have trouble with whims.

Or, to be so engorged on faith and God-bound determinism, one kind of feeds on kind of a living soul, the body metabolising and digesting the spleen.

I remember Sneako, too.

You took a conveyance, partly for the pleasure of the ride, but was there not a point to the journey?  And when is the journey just for the sake of the journey?  When contention is just for the sake of being alive, and a subtractive Mosaic menu of dictums.