Joe Strummer’s Jib

For Leonora Carrington No one remembers what it's like to see a band these days. I mean, sure, you can say, are you into Tom Waits, but really it's only a semiotic nod, a tip of the hat to hours of lonely listening to the app, man, croon, drunk on the moon and whiskey, into a temporarily inhabited room. No one knows which way the sweat rolls off Joe Strummer's jib. You really just have to see it to believe it. Who recalls whether it was clockwise or counter clockwise, as Morrison gyrated his hips across the dilapidated stage of LA? No, no one is fan purely and initially by experience alone anymore. And this is what interaction became: meaningless. Digital numbers whizzing by; spermiotic pilots in the milky cloud of the cosmos. Way too many portals into which one can jam their face. In fact, interaction between humans and their surrounding world became so meaningless that one could not tell advert from entertainment, fake news from real news, real love from manufactured love, even real memories from fake memories. Therefore, a competition was invented in order to determine the winner. It was called The Most Meaningless Competition. It was invented because, of course, at its end, or, shall I say, in the end, as one attempt to sift out the truth, one finds that everything is a measuring contest (a truth only evident through the lens of Western psyche; the Yogis of ancient times, the ones who paid monthly fees towards enlightenment, let's say, would have never lain their cocks out on the mat- or maybe they would have, but only to stretch them, never to measure). There were many winners of the competition throughout the years; each winner was forgotten in less time than it takes the processor of a micro neuronic chip to interpret the impression of having experienced some sort of interaction, sort of like the whisper of a ghost on the tiny hairs standing up, at the top of your ear (look how I'm assuming you know how a body feels, POTENTIAL ROBOT). The competition itself was also forgotten entirely, eventually removed from the canon of history that included those who were still remembered but deceased at sort of a biological level, if you will. Therefore, is it unfortunate that you are remembering something that doesn't have any existence? Perhaps. When the world returns, when the cycle repeats itself again, and there is a shitty rock band playing in a smoky bar, in the middle of a snow storm in April, perhaps, then, that's when the long drip from the corner of a slim crescent moon will finally fall, and cast rings around the puddles of Berlin, meaningless ripples in the silver Wasser.