All posts tagged: Self

My Rainbow

There was no end to the rainbow being borrowed and altered in states of diversity. The rainbow offered a whole gamut of visible and perhaps even invisible color without judgment or interpretation and criticism. Sun rays coming on earth at high velocity bounced inside raindrops and ended their mad race on thin retinas, brain matter exciting brain waves floating around and avoiding concussion. I shut my eyes to keep the rainbow inside and make it mine, my own continuum of colorful ideas, hopes and aspirations. My rainbow, following the rise of my eyelids, gave color to a gray world nostalgic of its black-and-white era of gray dresses and gray suits and mustaches. There was no end to the rainbow, beginning here.   Advertisements

The Data Doesn’t Lie

“Imagine all we could do with the data we collected!” Debbie remembered hearing at one of their early project meetings. She had kept her cool, as she always did, yes, trying to imagine all the information one could obtain by comparing itself to that of a million others. They would probably be able to forecast health events, like a heart attack or a stroke, before they happen, and it would save lives and a lot of money in emergency services and hospital costs. They would probably be able to predict the outcome of marriages, saving people from the grief of breaking up, and even act as some kind of matchmaker assistant. But neither she nor her fellow team members could have thought it would end up telling people who they were. They had controlled the questions, at first, to give (or rather sell) vital information to users, all derived from statistics also gathered from everyone. They saw it happening gradually, as users signed up on the system and volunteered their data gathered every day from …

you are here

He wrote that on the side page of his calendar.  “You are here.”  Actually, the period more like a middle dot. “what is that supposed to mean?” a voice in his head asked. “I don’t know,” he said to the voice.  “Those were the words that came today.” “Is that because I wondered why you hadn’t written anything yet?” “Yes.” “Is this like an existential statement?  A zen thing?” “More like the state of the world as I know it.” “Isn’t it also a refusal to participate, by that I mean I asked you to write something, you thought about something, but you don’t want to write it because, well, because you find it’s not of interest to you or to the world as you know it?” “Yes.” “Perhaps the world as you know it is a construct,” the voice in his head said.  “Perhaps I have led you to believe certain things that aren’t true.” “Perhaps, but the only certainty I have is that I am here, and you are not questioning that.”

Fractured Selfie

Take your own picture at the end of your arm into megapixels down to more megabits and shown as megapixels that you, like the proverbial giant from your personal fable, can hold in your hand and retouch and aggrandize yourself and fix it up before you crunch it into bits, megatons of them blasted into cosmic waves captured at a desert location not far from Area 51, like time travel and teleportation, temporarily pulverized and spray painted onto fibrous optic fibers and spied upon not optically not visually but virtually by a vigilant machine, then vaporized up in a cloud from where it rains upon devices reconstituted on shiny LCD impressing eyes and minds to like or prefer not to.

Self-Portrait, revised

Is this better? Self-Portrait Every morning, facing the mirror You feel like Dorian Gray who saw in his portrait The old, consumed man he was supposed to be. You have seen it before, The image you try to project, Blending in time, growth, and decay. Every morning you have a routine You perform magic And transform yourself into What you want to be. Every morning you select From a wardrobe blessed by fashion The clothes that you need To make you part of your world. Years spent making yourself up And today your mask presses Uncomfortably against your nature. The leaks in your mind Wet the plaster Of your mask, and it crumbles. You can’t find yourself in a magazine. The lost identity never was yours. Today, you start a new portrait Incorporating strange features from a night filled with dreams. You need to slow down, to let the colors blend Allow for experimentation. Paint Your true self, one trait at a time, Sometimes over another you tried and disliked. You call it, work in …