EYELET LACING “““MANIFESTO”“”
Eyelet Lacing is a harsh noise album by Eyelet Lacing (hehe). Once upon a time Lace got drunk and made a performance piece as tribute to it—this has been lost to the self-modifying nature of action (what’s done is done). Lace was not originally named after this album, but then after herpes flared up on her left eyelid in highschool…
Everything I think is worth seeing, I have already seen. Fuck.
BEFORE I WRITE
Will be my images. The person harassing content for worldviews. The cute cat made worldwide sensation. This feed is a garden, this feed is a beanstalk, this feed is so tall and self-reflecting. The divine light is before me, yet my eyes are dry. Before I write, my eyes will pulsate. This is both circumstance and ritual, this is both done to me and self-discipline. It’s important that I see floaters in my gaze, otherwise I feel alone in seeing. Wholly visual images are, in essence, useless—they do nothing to stimulate anyone despite the market trends. Words, dear, words.
Before I write there will be parallels—broken, ruined, that I can walk under like monoliths. This disparaged landscape is where I await lovers. I am centerpoint: focal to nothing, the piss that drains into sewers. The people who will have found me will have looked for me in many other places. This is correspondence. Before I write, I will have died in a cave that only the smallest of people can enter. Please don’t look at me, this is all I have. Please, don’t peer, but only understand that sensitivity and care of my cradling my images close to me. Some things are only made divine by base experience. This is how I make friends. This are my images, please, imagine me.
Please, hear the ipad kids out, be quiet: they have something they need to watch.
WHAT I WRITE
Will remove me. Every phrase displaces me, but this is my wish. I will write of bus drivers and their divine knowledges. There is a language out there at the end of the bus route that only dropout historians have discovered. I am writing towards—not into—embarrassment. Syntax is defined in relation to home, which is the beginning point, that curious space before time where space doesn’t exist. The world happens before your eyes and your eyes only. This is not myth, this is ipad kid terminology.
Quoting everything before me, someone writes before I do. This is because I look at my writings as I am writing and I gaze like an IDIOT: this is the purity of image. The light of the screen illuminates my writings, I play no part. What I write would be prophesy if it hadn’t already happened. This is me: behind the times, which is revolting to the economy in many ways.
Never have I ever STOOD, and this is your fault, you see. Everyone is in on this, on me, pestering. I met the mob not in the town square, but the YouTube comment section. Don’t dare question the authenticity of my profile. The pagans, dear, they speak of runes: YWNBAW. After I remember, I will become very sad. And you will HAVE to console me, this is in other people’s nature. You cannot imagine me on the cliff next to the see. You cannot imagine my pedestals, they are below you. I’m sorry, reader, I’m confusing you for everyone else.
Divine Inspiration is only tangential to me. The older I get the more impossible everything will seem—the world slowly becoming more defined. I wake up to a blur and slowly, the edges, they edge (sfw) me. Everyone in my slow stoning seems to be missing me: I’m still intact, yes.
To Divine Inspiration:
MY SENSE OF SELF WORTH GETS INVOLVED. I RESPOND TO THE MESSAGES ALL TO QUICKLY. YOU: NATURE//CHANCE//ETERNAL//EOS HAVE LEFT ME ON READ. THIS IS WHY I WRITE.
AFTER I WRITE
I will remember how sad it is that my biggest influence belongs to the hyperreal. I’m looking at things more than me and my persona attains, yes, only my persona attains. I can’t speak, I will read what I have written. My profile has become bigger than me. Sadly, the image of me is not incomplete. I’m up there, on the big screen. Yes mom that’s really me, can you believe if?
After I write I will crawl out the cave—I’m not good with commitment. Many people know this. I can only imagine the vision of the sea on the cliff before me. What is after me is behind me. I am so tragically uninvolved with all of it. Divine Inspiration knows how to position my limbs: position, yes, leads to visions. Only here you can see. Look at me, please, look at me.
After I write I won’t be pretty anymore. After I write I will cease to exist. The next time I meet a ““singer-songwriter”“: Hi! I’m a reader-wrongwriter. They will not know who I am, no one will.
My gaze falls asleep.
I poke and prod at my eye to see if it will flinch.
“What is this??”
I poke.
“What The Hell Even Is That??”
The ipad kids will have had visions that only their kind will understand. Gospel will constantly change to the times. This is our doom.