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A Machine From 2042 Built in Mexico
Taipei. Tao Lin. My flight read back home. I was in a mild stream of empathy with its (anti-)hero, Paul. We differ on certain conjunction points but Paul and I are both spawns of hypermodern ennui. Except that he’s directionless and sad and I’m directionless but direction-making and actually enjoying the ride. I don’t take Xanax. I’m not zombie-like and I don’t do MDMA. But I hop over my browser tabs, refresh my Twitter and Medium in a desultory fashion. We both suffer from severe confusion caused by over-accessibility. The solution to every problem looks a few clicks away from us. The answer to all the questions about the universe and where we come from and where we are headed is no longer 42. Every song request our brain cells produce will instantly lead to a legitimate river of frequency.
I think Paul has Spotify, too. But we still do not know a cheap stinky bleep about it all. To me, this black hole of denial is delightful and godlessly divine. It leads to a genuine type of loneliness that makes you dive even further down next time. The nothing that sits behind every curtain in this theatre is nothing full of confidence. It sets both of us free and floating. But it makes my life more adventurous as Paul fades out in his nouveau riche benzodiazepine well. Paul is Tao Lin himself…
