Wellness Tycoon
Wellness Tycoon
Screenshots from a water tower collapse compillation [sic]. Their digitally down-sampled forms give an air of painters palettes. A lonely echo of quarantine self love, the toppling—however short won—of some kind of logical order. Their rigid purposefulness surrenders fragility, maybe even invites empathy. The #axolotl hashtag is generative, a contingent mascot nomination and the semiotic associations demonstrating the inextricable link to everything else. Long boarders on the peripheries of stadiums, bodybuilders on the Caspian sea, German techno DJs, doric nickel doors aged with black florentine, Lilaea, Naiad of spring and carbon rich, F-type, large belt asteroid (213). A live stream capture of a midnight essay on mutual aid. The soft flickering of a facial recognition blocker. Early oughts power ballads apatheticized by post millennials is a register I’m interested in. It’s beyond that violent romance, ecocide-aware, queering bad faith desires and making them somehow more encompassing, more appropriate. Mothers, the two I’m bound with closest, conjured up with these cunning devices. Emahoy Tsegué-Maryam Guèbrou’s mother’s love. Decolonizing homework, petitions for incarcerated political prisoners, Mongolian contortionists, a plastic bag crossing an intersection, a Russian oligarchs exotic pets, have we captured some attention? Dancing with community, from a pandemically safe social distance, or with those that you must be close enough to touch until the end. A window into what I sometimes jokingly call the shaman industrial complex. Achille Mbembe can recite the charges with his eyes closed. The destruction of the biosphere, the corralling of minds through technoscience, the criminalization of resistance, the repeated attacks on reason, generalized cretinization, and the emergence of determinisms—genetic, neural, environmental. An upsetting video of falsely staged nature and a violently extracted pearl. Shanzhai Sinead, nothing compares 2 u. A record collector and I listening to Hiroshi Yoshimura. His supreme orthogonal containment—a Dieter Rams pinnacle assertion of manly modernism—of the organic excesses, songs of eros, songs of mourning