When dark data fertilizes
a soil with necrodata
—enclosing emptiness
following quietus—
releases a lived life

as if fossils fueling our emotions
on the surfaces of metadata:
is subtext as Emmentaler’s
spatialized circle eyes
as fermented mist between
ones and zeros
within which we plant
our teeth and tears
for a loved-one’s passing

“I miss you dad, I miss you gran’ma,”
said the grand-engineer-daughter
to the neural network deep taught
on the snippets
of their mediated analogous traces

“Can you here me dad,
can you there me gran’ma?
you aren’t now, so I forget”
lost midway, midday, mid sentence.
as histories bind us, do histories refresh?

Ouija data pointing
at hints of sense-making
with weights, sigmas and filters
directing triggers and soulfulness
spirit surfing by machines probability-stamping
and soon things get complicated

with claims of engineering-fortified science
and institutional industrial might,
into Confucian-like ancestral veneration
Or perhaps as paying hierarchical respect

to Krypton’s Jor-El’s projection,
the heralding of hagiographic lionizations
of Greek-ish heroes
as the only reasonable projectors
into our own futures,

underscored yet again
with Beethoven-replayed
and ’is 10th symphony
in ‘is Mirror of Erised:
an anchored innovation
of self-not-one’s-own
desperate desires

into pasts idealizations
as the reconstruction of a love’s model
into a misty model
of a giant’s modeled language
and lost probability
creating different versions
of combined superficial fragments.

Is fully living a modeling of ideals,
shadowing projections
of pastly presented futures?
Looking back at the digital other
In Search Of Lost Time of presents constructed.
There is no nostalgia in present newness.
It is the ultimate automation innovation
of change without any larger overhaul nor shift.

The Sea with waves
as moonshot memories
dragged to, and pulled from shores,
calving off presence of breakers and bergs
melting memories in heating weather.
Without a right to be forgotten,
where is the Sense of an Ending?

We are joining a swan’s way grooving,
plainly as captives of a sweet cheat gone
imagining a time regained:

“Dad, Gran’ma, you’re not ghosted,
I’m now, I’m here.”




—animasuri’24





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