Those who call themselves artists look at my work and define it as technology.
Those who define themselves as technicians and scientists see me as a clumsy craftsman crying out against the machines. Circling the "virtual" communities as a cursed pariah with visions of vectors and seeking the crossroads where the entities are corporeal, the some who are non-virtual, traveling kilometers to find people who are not only avatars, names, addresses of the open computer network that from an early age I helped build manipulated by games of war and peace and a great leviathan of information. Hatching within the physical contours of an identity without a homeland the grammatical rules of a language remade inside the fragile global lexicon of cultural references, instantaneous and not yet cataloged in the history of the human condition. Justifying a translation of protocols semi-algebraic, observing these cards as mothering but not maternal, Believers only in the skeleton of the tactile for those who ignore my world it is a ghost pulling them by the foot, a post-industrial monster embodied in these red objects of death capturing the intra-available bodies of the light-speed barrier. Your virus laboratory it is merely an excuse for not knowing our innards. Dissecting && loving: () (:|:&);: The calculation of the abyss yields all possibilities of the synaptic relax your emotions. The weather reveals your rain dance. The banal and glorious rhyme lost in a check-mate already overcome in a deep blue and carmine red, for us, software and hardware embodied, as one accepted you: Interfaces. [a sort of 21st Century Song of Myself; beautiful] -*-*--**---***-----*****--------******** Harvard & Roy Arts Council list options: http://grauwald.com/mailman/listinfo/hrac_grauwald.com -*-*--**---***-----*****--------******** -*-*--**---***-----***** -*-*--**---*** -*-*--** -*-* -*
