The creative glory of restriction.
10.06.17 – Nostalgic
He couldn’t tell me what his idea of digital poetry was so I was locked into a rendered vision of receding parallel lines poorly defining curves and orchestrated chip-tunes that degraded exponentially until they reached my ear. I’d sampled some old crypto-currencies to keep from standing on such a basic landscape, one barely rendered by LEDs and the sputtering hum of a machine too ancient to keep up with its owner’s far-fetched requests. We couldn’t out run this performance piece but it brought all the memories of youth to bear on its simple construction; we’d explore the thought.
He suggested there were butterflies blooming in the deeper code of this web like he’d laid some script down to be a chrysalis for that change. It meant ignoring how I figured the rules worked and assuming he’d spurned all those turned and curved lines into something less meaningful than letters but amorphous and willful enough to ask for change. I could easily hunt and peck through the green fields resting on that back-lit, black background and find the faults with that logic but I wanted to see what tomorrow might mean for the world we’d built in this box. We were the children of gods given the beach to build on so that our mistakes might be simply erased and our expanse might only just touch the lasting nature of this land.
I’d follow him in behind that virtual veil because it meant trusting someone else to define this world, to set its limits, and to give you access to the story they’re telling. It was the easiest way to stand behind his eyes and see the way the world blossomed to him. Knowing that, I could get lost in the details and features that ran in neon infamy and were eclipsed with a palette too vibrant to not blink steadily upon, its images lasting long after you’d given over to the beautiful emptiness of closed eyes.