RINA RINA RINA RINA

R★NA RINA RINA RINA RINA

RINA RINA RI★A RINA RINA RINA

RINA RINA RINA RINA RINA RI★A RINA

★INA RINA RINA RINA RIN★ RINA RINA

RINA RI★A RINA RINA RINA RINA R★NA RINA

R★NA RINA RINA RINA ★INA RINA RINA

RINA RINA R★NA RINA RINA RINA RI★A RINA

RINA RINA       RINA RINA R★NA RINA            RINA RINA

RI★A                    RINA RI★A RINA                          RINA

RINA                       R★NA RINA                                   RINA

   RINA                                                                                   RI★A

   RINA                                                                                           RIN★













































★ I'm just an ordinary superstar, just like you

But the worse the internet gets, the more we appear to crave it— the more it gains the power to shape our instincts and desires. To guard against this, I give myself arbitrary boundaries—no Instagram stories, no app notifications—and rely on apps that shut down my Twitter and Instagram accounts after forty-five minutes of daily use. And still, on occasion, I’ll disable my social media blockers, and I’ll sit there like a rat pressing the lever, like a woman repeatedly hitting myself on the forehead with a hammer, masturbating through the nightmare until I finally catch the gasoline whiff of a good meme. The internet is still so young that it’s easy to retain some subconscious hope that it all might still add up to something.

We remember that at one point this all felt like butterflies and puddles and blossoms, and we sit patiently in our festering inferno, waiting for the internet to turn around and surprise us and get good again. But it won’t. The internet is governed by incentives that make it impossible to be a full person while interacting with it. In the future, we will inevitably be cheapened. Less and less of us will be left, not just as individuals but also as community members, as a collective of people facing various catastrophes. Distraction is a “life-and-death matter,” Jenny Odell writes in How to Do Nothing. “A social body that can’t concentrate or communicate with itself is like a person who can’t think and act.”

Of course, people have been carping in this way for many centuries. Socrates feared that the act of writing would “create forgetfulness in the learners’ souls.” The sixteenth-century scientist Conrad Gessner worried that the printing press would facilitate an “always on” environment. In the eighteenth century, men complained that newspapers would be intellectually and morally isolating, and that the rise of the novel would make it difficult for people—specifically women—to differentiate between fiction and fact. We worried that radio would drive children to distraction, and later that TV would erode the careful attention required by radio.

In 1985, Neil Postman observed that the American desire for constant entertainment had become toxic, that television had ushered in a “vast descent into triviality.” The difference is that, today, there is nowhere further to go. Capitalism has no land left to cultivate but the self. Everything is being cannibalized—not just goods and labor, but personality and relationships and attention. The next step is complete identification with the online marketplace, physical and spiritual inseparability from the internet: a nightmare that is already banging down the door.

What could put an end to the worst of the internet? Social and economic collapse would do it, or perhaps a series of antitrust cases followed by a package of hard regulatory legislation that would somehow also dismantle the internet’s fundamental profit model. At this point it’s clear that collapse will almost definitely come first.

Barring that, we’ve got nothing except our small attempts to retain our humanity, to act on a model of actual selfhood, one that embraces culpability, inconsistency, and insignificance. We would have to think very carefully about what we’re getting from the internet, and how much we’re giving it in return. We’d have to care less about our identities, to be deeply skeptical of our own unbearable opinions, to be careful about when opposition serves us, to be properly ashamed when we can’t express solidarity without putting ourselves first. The alternative is unspeakable. But you know that—it’s already here.














































★ 10-20-40 ★

    

+⍣★++★++ºthe less you feel, the more you know++º+⍣★+★
      ★++★++a reason to leave me in a cruise control++★++º
        ⍣★++★little white pill, take me back+++⍣★+
          ++★++ºI hope you understand★++★++
            +++⍣★+It's my last resort++º+⍣★
              ⍣⍣⍣⍣⍣I've done it all⍣⍣⍣⍣⍣














































★ TIME OUT ★

Jenny Odell: I’d like to start off by saying that this talk is grounded in a particular location, and that is the Morcom Amphitheatre of Roses in Oakland, California, otherwise known simply as “the rose garden.”
In the most basic sense, that’s because I largely wrote this talk in the rose garden. But it’s also because as I wrote it, I realized that the garden encompassed everything that I’m going to talk to you about, which is the practice of doing nothing, but also the architecture of nothing, the importance of public space, and an ethics of care and maintenance. And: birds.
What was I doing in the rose garden in the first place? I live five minutes away, and ever since I’ve lived in Oakland the garden has been my default place to go to get away from my computer, where I make much of my art and also do most of my work related to teaching. But after the 2016 election, I started going to the rose garden almost every day. This wasn’t exactly a conscious decision; I needed to golike a deer going to a salt lick or a goat going to the top of a hill. It was innate.

What I would do there is nothing. I’d just sit there. And although I felt a bit guilty about how incongruous it seemedbeautiful garden versus terrifying world — it really did feel necessary, like a survival tactic. I found this necessity of doing nothing so perfectly articulated in a passage from Gilles Deleuze in Negotiations:
"…we’re riddled with pointless talk, insane quantities of words and images. Stupidity’s never blind or mute. So it’s not a problem of getting people to express themselves but of providing little gaps of solitude and silence in which they might eventually find something to say. Repressive forces don’t stop people expressing themselves but rather force them to express themselves; what a relief to have nothing to say, the right to say nothing, because only then is there a chance of framing the rare, and ever rarer, thing that might be worth saying."

He wrote that in 1985, but the sentiment is something I think we can all identify with right now, almost to a degree that’s painful. The function of nothing here, of saying nothing, is that it’s a precursor to something, to having something to say. “Nothing” is neither a luxury nor a waste of time, but rather a necessary part of meaningful thought and speech.
I think of the hours and hours that I have now spent in the rose garden, putting off returning to my work on a glowing two-dimensional screen an arm’s length from my face; or the days on which I’ll leave just to get coffee and wind up almost involuntarily on top of a hill four hours later, regardless of the shoes I’m wearing; or the fact that the last five or six books I’ve read have had to do with animal intelligence and the importance of landscape in memory and cognition. I don’t know where any of this, where I, will end up.










































































★ alterlife ★

+º++★+++++++⍣★+++++★++º++★
+++⍣++++++º+++++++★++⍣++++
+★+++++⍣++++++++++★+++++⍣+
+++++★+++++++⍣+++++º++++++
+º+⍣++++++++++++++⍣+++º+++
★+++the girl inside is healing!+++
++++⍣++++++++++++⍣+++º+++⍣
+++★+++º++++++++++★++++⍣+★
++++⍣++++++++++++⍣+++º++++
+++++⍣+++★++º++++★++⍣++★+⍣
+º+++★⍣+++++★+++⍣+★++⍣º++★













































★ cyber stockholm syndrome ★

Girl in the corner
Stirring her soda
Biting the shit out of her straw

Ready to go out
Only her body tells her no
Pretty but sad inside

Isn't she beautiful?
Queen of the ball
Even when she's home alone
And she said
I'm not here for love tonight
The way you touch just don't feel right
Used to feelin' things so cold
Minimizin' windows
Pictures lit by electric lights

Fiction, fact, boundaries collide
Find me in my palm so bright
Cyber Stockholm Syndrome

Came here on my own
Party on my phone
Came here on my own
But I start to feel alone
Better late than never, so I'll be alright
Happiest whenever I'm with you online
Better together
Ever the overrated touch
I am connected

I am the girl you want to watch
Lips full of glitter glow
Spinnin' like mirror-balls

Phone in a strobe
Stuck in a crazy cyber-world
And she said
I'm not here for love tonight
The way you touch just don't feel right
Used to feelin' things so cold
Cyber Stockholm Syndrome
In my 4 by 3
They can't get to me
Free to roam all over my cyber fantasy
Better late than never but I am alright
Happiest whenever I'm with you online
Came here on my own
Party on my phone
Came here on my own
But I start to feel alone
Better late than never, so I'll be alright
Happiest whenever I'm with you online
(Came here on my own)
Party...
on my phone...
cyber stockholm syndrome.....