Pissing in the Void

As the exchange of ideas becomes the muzak that plays over the clamorous shifting of capital, there is a growing sense of futility in any attempt at communication. What worth is there in another voice, when already so much has been said to so little effect? I cannot deny the suspicion that the highest form of eloquence in these info-saturated times is silence. We can say anything and so we do, and in the deluge of words that follows all that we say loses its power until speaking seemingly robs us of our voice.

In light of that, I feel I must abandon any hope of my words reaching others living in this time. I can only write this blog for those distant descendants two or three centuries in the future who might accidentally stumble across this long-abandoned blog as they sort through the rubble of the flimsy techno-utopia we are still yet building for ourselves. Some future archaeologist—let’s call him Greg—will most likely stumble across a rusty Google Machine under a tarp in a farmer’s barn and fire it up, the dry gears grinding as the grey chassis leaks oil and user-targeted advertisements.

As he wanders the dusty, deserted plains of cyberspace, he’ll come across this humble, long-abandoned blog—a ghost town in a decaying corner of the once-vibrant information landscape. What remains of my words will be the ghostly music that fills the empty halls, like a player piano babbling its tinny tune long after the last resident has left. He’ll look around the abandoned buildings with bemused curiosity, opening cupboards at random and peeking in closets as if expecting to stumble across a quiet, huddling figure who would put a finger to his lips and, with a conspiratorial air, motion to close the door again.

I can only imagine that this Greg person would stumble across this rather insignificant page by searching for the phrase “Pissing in the Void,” a rather despairing neo-Situationist slogan spray painted on the libraries decades in the future. By the time Greg finds me, the libraries will surely be empty, converted into apartment buildings and abattoirs; undoubtedly, the concept of books will be abandoned for the sake of digitizing all information--a natural result of our race’s desire to archive all human achievement while simultaneously destroying it (I believe butterfly collectors work under a similar principle). Only with such expectations can I create this humble film blog, and I dedicate it to Greg three hundred years from now.

But what is this film of which he speaks, Greg will wonder, and I—as if anticipating this thought three hundred years hence—will write: it is a form of stupefaction, a waking dream in which we are given a choice between communing with ourselves or others, and more often choose the former.

No doubt Greg will look up from the glowing holo-screen of the Google Machine and scratch his head (probably with one of the cybernetic arms attached to his lower back or whatever cure the future has for itchiness) and say to himself, well, that really explains nothing.

Somewhere in the twenty-first century, I will reply, okay, it’s like this: a man walks into a bar and orders a drink. He drinks it. It tastes good. He orders another, and another, and another, until finally, the owner kicks him out for picking fights with the barmaid and the man stumbles into the street where he falls flat on his face and then vomits. That is a novel.

Now, a man walks into a bar and orders a drink. He drinks it. It tastes good. He gets up and calls his friend and says, I ordered this drink and drank it and it tasted good. Come by and have one. So the friend comes by and has one, and he agrees that it tastes good. So he gets up and calls one of his friends and says, I ordered this drink and drank it and it tasted good. So his friend comes by and has one, and he agrees, and so on until the bar is full and the owner has to hide his telephone and he kicks them all out for picking fights with the barmaid, and they all stumble into the street and each and every one of them fall on their face and then they all vomit (because you know how it is, one starts and then everyone else gets queasy and it spreads). That is a film.

At this point, Greg will cock his second head (for I assume everyone in the future will have at least two) and say to himself, well, now I‘m even more confused.

Somewhere in the twenty-first century, I will elaborate….

Upon consideration, Greg will say….

Somewhere in the twenty-first century, I will reply….

After careful thought, Greg will ask….

And so on.

That’s Kino in Purgatory.