By the waters of the...
Donkay survived the apocalypse, obviously. One irony is that that those who made it up to the moon were the only ones who could keep recording observations in the old style, while ‘silent’ membership on the jungle earth undoubtedly swelled. How times change, as Dani himself laments. Donkay was never official, and any “Culture” team sent to earth would be lucky to contain more than a single member. Public Houses like 1430, it seems, became private again. In the moon’s tight quarters, one could no more post a blog and stay anonymous than shout a swearword in an auditorium and not be given away by the blush.
By the way for those of you who didn’t know that the earth will be swallowed up by plant, check yourself.
Now, if you would Dani (via your writings)?
This, in the short time post-plant where battery powered devices were still alive and human wailing flowed, no longer uninhibited by a false notion of an unending future, but now knowing that the red minute-counter on the top right of the LCD screen was the exact end of days. Of course for those who were wailing, days had already been ended by the roots that crushed the DD/MM/YR's flashing in the lower right side of their own laser crystals.
The only machines remaining at that time (and of course today) were those which had been cradled in the hands and backpacks of people who wanted them more than things like peanut butter. These people stayed on top of things, as was the emerging dynamic in a world where great roots roiled up, then pulled down and pulled under the whole concrete skein of human works.
Thus, standards for ethics change in apocalypse, by which I mean that we are unsure as to whether the wailer here wailing was an academie member, but the young woman with her crotch wrapped around a branch of a giant tree which had sprouted less than two weeks prior, this woman dangling a mike down over the swollen waters of the river to pick up this lamentation, she indeed was, and is donkay.
Little surprise then, that she, with such records and machinery, was able to parlay her way on up to the Moon, and to a position in the House of Culture. But here, where everything is equally sparse, to call her a colleague would be meaningless. She is a colleague of mine.
Here’s the context she gives to what she recorded.
"I was sitting on the bank of the river, looking at a father and his daughter. They were camping on a flat spot, resting against an embankment in the process of being swallowed. Suddenly a man's head appeared peering over the top of the embankment. To my surprise he threw a mattress over its edge and onto the flat spot where the man and the girl were sitting. This surprised me. It was one of the largest objects I had seen since the big turning over. He tossed a few other items down, then let himself down, dangling quite awkwardly for a while. After landing he exchanged some words with the father and daughter, remaining for a while in conversation with the two of them, then bid them a seemingly fond goodbye. When I saw he planned to launch himself and the mattress onto the river, I quickly climbed the nearest tree that overhung the waters. I wanted to record any sound he might be making as he passed under me, anything he might say. As it was, from what I could tell of his face as framed by the mattress, as he passed under me he was half-crazed, as most were in those days. My thought was that he had chosen this for the manner of his death. He didn’t even see me, his eyes were ecstatic, he was singing. This is his song."
(The actual soundclip for the song below exists somewhere as a link, we suppose, but on the moon, and in the future. We'd love to post the clip, but there are so many, let us say, technical difficulties. In this case the line breaks are Twofu's. He put them in to transcribe the rhythm of this poor wailer's song. Which we'll now provide without further ado from Twofu or ourselves)
…thank you.
I didn’t twist my ankle on my drop,
thank you.
Little girl with her dad,
thank you
thank you so much for laughing at me.
thank you so much, for not stealing my backpack.
thank you so much for respecting my mattress,
thank you so much for laughing at me.
I know I dangled there,
I know I’m set to drop
Oh little girl
Oh kindly pops
Thank you so much for laughing at me
thank y…
By the way for those of you who didn’t know that the earth will be swallowed up by plant, check yourself.
Now, if you would Dani (via your writings)?
This, in the short time post-plant where battery powered devices were still alive and human wailing flowed, no longer uninhibited by a false notion of an unending future, but now knowing that the red minute-counter on the top right of the LCD screen was the exact end of days. Of course for those who were wailing, days had already been ended by the roots that crushed the DD/MM/YR's flashing in the lower right side of their own laser crystals.
The only machines remaining at that time (and of course today) were those which had been cradled in the hands and backpacks of people who wanted them more than things like peanut butter. These people stayed on top of things, as was the emerging dynamic in a world where great roots roiled up, then pulled down and pulled under the whole concrete skein of human works.
Thus, standards for ethics change in apocalypse, by which I mean that we are unsure as to whether the wailer here wailing was an academie member, but the young woman with her crotch wrapped around a branch of a giant tree which had sprouted less than two weeks prior, this woman dangling a mike down over the swollen waters of the river to pick up this lamentation, she indeed was, and is donkay.
Little surprise then, that she, with such records and machinery, was able to parlay her way on up to the Moon, and to a position in the House of Culture. But here, where everything is equally sparse, to call her a colleague would be meaningless. She is a colleague of mine.
Here’s the context she gives to what she recorded.
"I was sitting on the bank of the river, looking at a father and his daughter. They were camping on a flat spot, resting against an embankment in the process of being swallowed. Suddenly a man's head appeared peering over the top of the embankment. To my surprise he threw a mattress over its edge and onto the flat spot where the man and the girl were sitting. This surprised me. It was one of the largest objects I had seen since the big turning over. He tossed a few other items down, then let himself down, dangling quite awkwardly for a while. After landing he exchanged some words with the father and daughter, remaining for a while in conversation with the two of them, then bid them a seemingly fond goodbye. When I saw he planned to launch himself and the mattress onto the river, I quickly climbed the nearest tree that overhung the waters. I wanted to record any sound he might be making as he passed under me, anything he might say. As it was, from what I could tell of his face as framed by the mattress, as he passed under me he was half-crazed, as most were in those days. My thought was that he had chosen this for the manner of his death. He didn’t even see me, his eyes were ecstatic, he was singing. This is his song."
(The actual soundclip for the song below exists somewhere as a link, we suppose, but on the moon, and in the future. We'd love to post the clip, but there are so many, let us say, technical difficulties. In this case the line breaks are Twofu's. He put them in to transcribe the rhythm of this poor wailer's song. Which we'll now provide without further ado from Twofu or ourselves)
…thank you.
I didn’t twist my ankle on my drop,
thank you.
Little girl with her dad,
thank you
thank you so much for laughing at me.
thank you so much, for not stealing my backpack.
thank you so much for respecting my mattress,
thank you so much for laughing at me.
I know I dangled there,
I know I’m set to drop
Oh little girl
Oh kindly pops
Thank you so much for laughing at me
thank y…
posted by M.N.V.L. Local 1430 at 7:10 PM
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