dataisplural

So I’m in the Apple store, right?

dataisplural:

And everyone is walking around, browsing, swiping. But there’s this one guy, I can’t quite make out his face because he’s wearing this black hoodie pulled low. He’s making like he’s just another picker in the orchard but as I look closer he’s definitely being weird. He goes up to a phone, unlocks it, taps around a bit, opens Lyft, opens Calendar, locks it. Goes up to another one. Lyft, Calendar, lock. Then towards a tablet. Opens Camera, flashes a hand in front of it, closes it. All the while his face coolly concentrated. 

Then he takes this china marker from his kangaroo pouch and gets to scrawling these… I dunno, glyphs? On some of the display tables. Eerie little cane-like things. One here, one there. He’s got this wallet chain that jangles as he works. All the moms and like infants barely grok him but me I’m transfixed. He takes up this spot, equidistant from the Genius bar and the front doors. A geometric type spot. Next he’s kneeling, inscribing a circle around himself in two quick arcs. 180, 180. Now I feel this hum, low, and it’s not the Mumford coming from that iPad I tell you that for sure. 

I alight from my vantage near the earbuds and approach him, teeth a-rattle. I get close and he’s definitely outputting something some frequency like 666 Hz. I’m upon him now, and harmonizing. 

“My god… you’re hacking this Apple store.” The cyberwight smirks. 

“Фуцкстевейобс. АНДРОИД4ЛИФЕ”

It really is a little bit like adult daycare, which is easy for me to say because I ride safely around as part of the caravan and never really face the worst of it. It’s a big building with a hand outstretched, only sometimes the hand is waving fingers and other times a fist, and other times still pointing you somewhere else, so that the hand isn’t really outstretched all that often and is more likely deflecting or lightly denunciating or loudly repudiating. And the idea is more like there’s a general notion of “help” which exists in like a cloud or miasma hanging around the building but no one’s really condensing the cloud or making it absolutely rain, thunder down “help” onto anybody. We all hang out under the cloud and complain that it’s raining.

I will, eventually, say it, or else my big mouth will eat around the edges until the center falls out onto the floor for you to see, larger and more overgrown than can deftly be ignored.

von Moltke orders to spurn the eternal dream of peace. A country has many lives to spend, in the dirt, in the air, on the shores of foreign capitals, since is each budgeted appropriately. Grey-shirted freshmen whom weeks ago reclined in dormitories with a pipe or some Kant run headlong into the chattering teeth of Vickers guns, their wiry Münchner chests opening to the air like carrion flowers.