Snapfish was the app for picture-making with smile transistors of the print medium formerly digital doing it all in reverse. This was a theory fiction of sorts in that it referenced real-world Instagrams of the known in the room a knowing nod to the downtown of Glasgow housed as it was in Stories. What does it mean, Iphgenia Baal asks, for there to be a function called that, Stories. Our narrative sense is tabular and it’s no longer radical to put that logic to language and yet how else to express the compression effect of so much content in the 24hour window of when you wanted to say it. Say it with images and captions, the macrofication of everything somehow blowing up tiny moments a thought-unit could never be solar. The big sleep is a phrase she used and sensed somehow this was to come off Instagram and be as small as a baby in your own head you could seek relief in that, a gram of an instant like whatever the polaroid was supposed to. Develop immediacy in situ. Ravers must have had weddings according to the story and maybe to scroll past Sinead O’Connor clickbait and the manifest premise of Instagram mystics was to get at it: story. Children were political subtweets they didn’t consent to. I felt figural arrangements of the app hopping in negative space by which I mean, I was moved by the performance of app phenomenon / it’s giving ‘Home’. Who else is upset by the pivot to video and its attendant emphasis on the rectangle. I walked past a tree in the park and announced it looks like a television because it had a triangle kind of portal shape from where it had snapped in the storm and in my head in that instant a television could be a triangle. You could say ‘Snapfish’. Drew was like what’s the catch. Kirsty says three is her favourite number and Gabby says famously it is the magic one. Kirsty says it is all about triangles. At the end of Melancholia they sit in that triangle structure of sticks and wait for oblivion. What if there was an Instagram comprised of triangles always cutting the roundness of life off suitably into angles, spikes, slashes? I already feel so cubism. Gloria says she doesn’t like being in buildings that are in a state of decay. There are lovely metal bars draping like industrial stalactites and these kind of waffle insulations that give me trypophobia and the realisation that if I were to look at a waffle of any kind on an acid trip probably it would end badly — or worse, it would never end. Now thinking about endless waffle reproduction in fractal everafter it’s like I could float up to the ceiling and be a reverse maple syrup or ketchup bleeding upwards into the texture. That kind of schtick. Traditional reading is supplanted by ‘pure tapping’ because we all said so and Baal said in the story of many stories the tabs that indicate each one had shrunk to little dots since there were so many stories, barely room on screen to map them all. Oops an ellipsis. I remember the era where celebs having minor breakdowns in public would document them lavishly on the story function and the learning we did in that witnessing, as so-and-so saw and was never to be seen again at the bottom left for all the algorithm exchanged of your intimate pivotals. To come off the app, peel a tab; what’s it called almost a Berocca of presence I took densely to remember my friends. Let it melt fully into your gums before coming. Back in the room. Has anyone else had such random encounters on Hackney Road as the ones documented in Baal’s story of stories almost the same person with red curly hair running around in the rain trying to get home in some Covid Christmas, wedded to parasociality’s actual crisis. Too cold to undo my dirty-white jeans. We’d get stranded without narrative sugarcane to suck on and get over with. Afterwards, Leo says ‘I will never look at weddings the same’. fred spoliar in mesh reads a love poem inspired by the entwining of drunk ‘straight couples’ on the bus back from south side, implying all heterosexuals live north of the river and there is a conclusion to the poem’s occasion like ‘it’s love in its offensive modes I want’, striving for utopian couplets only to vivisect grace revealing all hope is a raindrop. Daisy says on Valentine’s Day a maggot fell on her hand, newly born, in front of the television. I said that’s a poem and sorry it will be so annoying to write it — the lovebug writes itself onto the nose. Warm hatching seems nice on a freezing Saturday. We are each to each our body heat. A real lentil would have been more wholesome. I hurt and was changed by the browser world. When fred said ‘yes I have hope’, the light in the room went out for real. Nell says there are two necessities (light, heat) but we can only have one. Well, to pretend iridesce I could take to the streets and try not to get hit by it. To walk around in these poems of memory another south of some city to would give up its public parks for spring and weedling trying to get at the same idea to fashion as intro. Weeds signify your lack of presence. Yes it’s baroque and if you don’t like it you can foil-wrap your heart and lob it politically. Playing the livestream in other locales as if to be thrice-selved only in poetry. When you conflate action with love, have you lost your love’s calibration in service of fucks? There is no cut-cookie of cautionary theory so much to break this in gently. Yes, the private property was and is a lie. This is why we squat in our art. I would feel better hanging upside down like the chrysalis I make of this endless chrysalis. Still, shareholders are why we can’t make the world we want and so fred reads the line ‘so frostwork adores a mitten on the fence’ or something to that effect. I pluck briefly that mitten to give to some kid / who will inherit my chilblains / their frazzled capillaries replace / this chrysalis. Sonnet we can’t be taped laboriously to a Hollywood applied rose blush of the dusk and blush drama of fervent childhood. Living situations fell apart like broken desultory Temu jewellery. We migrated the apps and tried not to fall in the Seine. Our sentences unfortunately were full of lead. Lillian Ross-Millard said ‘I make performance for video’ and there were the collected notes of chromophobia, fear of colour or a personal aversion to its manifest hues. The migraine dramaturgy of yellow and blue. Something felt pixelated like it genuinely lacked substance, could not outline itself for love nor money. Ross-Millard said the cold was felt in her solar plexus and I fell into that line ‘like getting your period and finding a wasp in the toilet bowl’ so much stinging in the sweet place. Like if you look at an object for long enough you can make of it Void. There was an account of the real life ballerinas catching fire during a performance of The Tempest. Real life ballerinas on fire I felt my sentences plié. I was replete with horror of what had been earlier told to me. This is sufficient fire for the world for now; meaning it’s time to perform it. Burn off the colour in everything / with the calories of a panic attack. When Myles Westman read, knelt down and softly, I wrote the phrase ‘unearth radio blood’, unsure of its origin. A loop played over the elegy and we circled the fateful day. Lines like fire licks. Systems, cataclysms. Lastly, Sam Keogh read about holes, butterflies, rorschachs. Said the word ‘rorschach’ several times as if making a rorschach of signification itself, sonic imprint: a little over then underflourished, quivering ink, accented. I thought of gross incidentals in industrial kitchens. For that to be a sort of lichen. Shipworms. Perils of them burrowing into silky poems. I wanted that honeycomb in the horrible waffle but not to stop. Waspish as a florid piss. Footnote telepathy. Parasite. Enamoured American soda. Fructose, cigarettes. Aluminium bonfire of remnant lager. Dogs. Squalor. Now I will go to the airport.
mariaology 