STRIPTHƎSIS2023.002 As opposed to the template-typical pensive nowness creature, slowly eroding as a result of existing primarily as means of corporate sustainability, I do not thrive in a slave-like wonder world. Never having felt as drenched with financially sweaty knot-witted daily-nudged parameters, or with hyped-up supra-promises of personal-towards-collective professional redemption, perhaps inherited from an allegedly unjust past, as I do right now, I write this self-catapulting fugacious text. We may not be so different, my fellow browser.

And so I wonder, and then I wonder again if my ever-shifting views on such nonsensical tangents already encompass the dead-eyed glowing 2D luminary vibe that quite mathematically flows from the nearest IKEA lamp right up my unassumingly lifelike frazzled eyeballs. Or maybe, it just may be that I wonder if they shift and change just because, deep down, I’m programmed as such. iWonder? I’m talking about writing, here. I’m writing about talking. I’m thinking…

Fine, fine. Let’s not get lost within the rotten limes, which have decommissioned themselves not too far from the typical weeds, dear reader. Do we both know what is this dance we’re virtually staging here, in such a joint venture of knee-deep in deep web’d horse manure quality, unassumingly outrageous character sequencing quality, and above all – or rather below – supposititious references that, were they to be mentioned, would possibly range from ”FIFA 2001 And The Hidden Secrets Behind Pitch Maintenance: Original Soundtrack” to “How To Build a Rat Trap With Foam And Copper In Record Time: Book 1 of 19”? — Peccavi, for Peter’s sake!

This isn’t humour, and yet, it takes it for granted, too. This nowness action — I suppose it could be described as an urge to build. A necessity, basic by design, yet rather complex when crawling out of the womb. Whether it’s a sentence, right from scratch, — a lingual late-night cup of coffee, with friends and suitable acquaintances, that aims to sum up the wants and needs of no one in particular, and everyone all at once, from a given time, to a taken audience — or a physical statement born out of a bloody (I mean this literally in figurative terms) sentence, once again, the idea will float prototypically in a circular pattern, only for us to realize that the information presented is the format itself, the mess, the empty glass full of 78% nitrogen, mixed with 21% oxygen, variable amounts of water vapour, .9% argon, .04% carbon dioxide, and trace gases. Just like contemporary art. Or DJing with vinyl. Trace this, mother.

I joke, only a bit, of course. Off track, albeit on topic, I tend to dissipate this mental storm with nagging ideas that seem to have the radical inclination to lodge themselves next to daydreaming figure skating-shaped hopes, not lost, nor found, just constant. Ideas of hypermutable quality, not born out of hype, nor out of fashionable statements. I would have to admit, vielleicht, that the way these ideas dress — and this is me attempting as rock-hard as I can not to scandalmonger myself into lack of objectivity — could be described as “a wittle bitty witty fwashy”. Eye candy for the benefit of the inner message, I surmise! Gee, would that be an issue? I believe it’s issued as a statement, but that, in itself, is not an issue. Notwithstanding that the general aspect of the digital form of communicating this idea has deep analog routes, in the end, the final analysis will always belong to the digital world. We won’t even be here to witness those goings-on, oh my darling Clementine!

Alas, let’s not focus on the negatives, whether those are concretely connected either to our inability (as of yet) to live forever, or the subjective usability to/of love. As I like to rarely say, “All you need is once.” If one can accept that love has a forever-lasting effect, the same postulation would unlikely be applied to happiness. While the latter can be seen as a state of mind, — a state of neglecting our unavoidable fatality, nonetheless, a respectable position considering this necromantic perspectiveless currentness we find ourselves intertwined with — the former is ageless, timeless. A sempiternal journey with no beginning and no end, a continuous, relentless story that is part of a series of books that had volumes written before you were here, and will continue to be imagined long after your beautiful flame has been forced to finally settle into the lower figures of our great crypto portfolio tracker.

So — here it is, folk, the question — where do these ideas fit within the patterned mother of all truths? Where do ideas, in general, sit, if they are to be found travelling on this train of thought? If love is eternal, and happiness is a framework for ideas to flourish, then the idea’s own materialization through a framework of happiness-bound capability should be the only chance it’ll have to bear some weight over time. Assuming the general observer will exist, in a state of awareness, responsive and capable of a reflexive reaction of reflective nature, then those so-many-times-called ideas will be the fuel for passionate artistic discovery. One idea will trigger two sentences. Then comes the next sentence, the third, reconvening with the previously aforementioned dare-to-dream thoughtful sequence of recorded ad verbum objectivity, and thus a new sentence is born, conceivably able to inspire some sentient being born 331 years from this very moment. For all one knows, it could even be a couple of years longer!

It stands to reason, then, that you should nurture your ideas with love, as you deliver them into the flora and fauna that surrounds you. Those wondrous creations will desperately need that certified help, if they are to last for such a long time, in such a cold accouchement.