ENEMY RUMOR

Letter to Plinio Chahín

Dear Plinio:

I liked very much your article, published in Ventana, on Sunday 22 of June. I planned to answer you by e-mail, but I drowned in my own babblings. If our being has been stupefied, as you say, how can we see each other, lost "our magic in meat and bone" (by the way: do you know the URL of Heidegger?).

It happened that I thought. I thought my own self in the Picasso exhibition, at the National Gallery of Washington, only some days before you published "The being and the INTERNET." Was I nearest from Picasso than to you, when I tried to find you in the net in order to greet your article? No doubts. Because I don't know if you are in front of me, or in my back, when you sharp your cybernetic lances, and this letter is, perhaps, the possibility of denying myself the knowledge of where we exist in this deaf dialogue; north or south, everything is just the same in the cyberspace. And I really wanted to be Saturno (I return to the pictorial stuff, and now I'm going to El Prado) devouring my address book.

It is true that this monitor is totally frozen, and its proposal didn't budget the Henri Michaux big tests of the spirit, when he talked about a message that should be understood by absolutely everybody: a message without words and without language. Like that one from Picasso in his retrospective. The ABSOLUTE message: "Just SPIRIT. ONLY when we become spirit we can share the message. While the message swells, and suffocate us, incessant, infinite, infinitely fragmentary". Impossible to create a metaphysics without counting with the spirit. The INTERNET, then, has achieved the impossible, when the data, absolute merchandise (not the poem), in its use and change value, swells and and turns itself into fragments, in its virtual spirituality. We attend a mutation of the silence in the cyberspace. Absolutely silent, all the time we are communicating each other. It is not the quality of this touch, but its quantity. The failure in this postmodern way of communication, is in fact the one that Wallerstein saw in the capitalism: its success. The virtuality fails where is successful; so, we fail in our virtuality. And for that reason we all are next to you, hypnotized, "in front of the charm and the theater of that transparency's "imago", while is being transformed, such as Jean-Francois Lyotard said, the nature of the knowledge itself. The knowledge becomes ignorance; something that is garbage if is not capable to translate itself into a cyberlanguage (but don't be afraid, Borges is already in CD Room).

The virtual page (my monitor/ your monitor), is the one that will always remain white. This one that will never be stained with WORDS, only with symbols that cheats our conviction of being absentees. Convincing and convinced by our own alienation, nudes of soul (in front of the virtual soul). If Nietzsche may live in this cybernetic time, he may probably buy an e-mail bomb in order to send it to Bill Gates, who desperate by his own neurons would have committed suicide on the yellowish notes of Zaratrusta Make Me Happy. "That ghost is more beautiful than you. Why don't you lend him your skin and your bones"?. And this is what we can not stand: the fascinating beauty of the infinite possibility. These are the true "imaginary eras," not those of the poem (that one melt in the cyberspace like the petal of a frozen rose, where Artaud haven't perpetuated himself).

And here we stayed frieze, like any CPU (notice this composition: CorPUs/ CPU/ PUS). So I remain in front of your article, in this screen that travels toward me, and would dare to scan my eyes in order to take them to you. Authentic butcher in the posmodernity the computer. Turning us to our cadaver destiny. One of my ears has already been converted in horn, while the other digits the sound of the posterity. Perpetuated, finally delirious in front of the victory of a memory that transgresses us: the virtual. The one that will remember us when we are dead, and only the cybernetic ships should surf in the white and gray space (that one the chips think).

Forget about the cockroaches and the vascular spiders. Mutant metals, wires without blood. In the INTERNET is only possible to think our own destruction.

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