“Cyberspace is real,” claims President Obama, for whom,like a textbook synesthete—metaphors are concrete. The Metaphortean may offer swampland in virtual space, gothic high-tech ruins for weekend getaways, a scenic route between (and betwixt) (atempo)realities. If cyberspace is real it is overcast, beset with atmospheric perspectives, bouts of bad weather. Cloudy with a chance that mini-van-like moons will plummet from outer spaces. Pleading the fifth(dimension) —these zombie sats do not. Networked objects warrant their own shadow-forms, accidents unseen, things out of the internet (crawling chaoses), malevolent spimes. The shadow of the ghost is a dead drop. Mini-van-like moons, are, of late, construed as meteoric sympathizers and perhaps advocates of the altruistic drone, or, to use a rising star amongst adjectives — a zombie drone, drifting on its own accord, a meandering ‘cross wounded galaxies.
Reciprocally antagonistic, military industrial complexions color the possibilities anomalous– that there mightn’t be an unmanned vehicle directed in a manner that temporarily reduces indifference while increasing another vehicle’s différance. Offset iterations, reticent swarms, amplifications of a fumbled keystroke from a distracted operator, glocal anaesthesia, a muted cry of empathy issued from a futured (discontinued) self.
W.Powell’s fateful flight provides an obtuse example, albeit, one that is contextually rogue–behaving as though it were acute. Truly this is the terrain of the paramilitaristic rather than the parliamentary, it yields the paranormal only by proxy. Occultic, really, a redacted memory of things seen in the sky. Of other nuances, the cluttered stellar maw ponders satellites positioned politically or poetically, which will, on occasion, find themselves — in free fall—
Yonder, e-waste falls from the sky, a ghost story for the txt generation, hard-hitting hint fiction: blunt and to the point. Panopticonscientious Objectors negotiating immediate and mediated environments, temporal ecologies, the externalities of progress.
The squeaky nodes abandon indifferent fields, naked facts jostling loose of the regular flows, calling attention to hertzian space (always already there) Attention towards networked societies pleading the fifth [in all senses], or otherwise administering points of pontification, soapboxes for Flying Dutchmen deniers.