cord cutting conceptions

Dream from early morning of the 14^th:
‘I was walking with direction in a house, looking for something, I recall stairs leading down to a small box room. On approaching it seems I was looking for someone and wondering if they were still living there, as I had the distinct impression they were on the move; shifting. On entering the room the dog and man are meant to be here, but the man is not here, just a dog on a leash, sitting, waiting. Then I notice a mobile phone on charge in this same empty room, the internet connection on and off as I try to look at it. The charger wire and internet connection correlates with the dogs leash but now the dog is out of focus as I focus on engaging with the phone. I am trying to read something off the phone, then it is Sean who is infact reading off the phone, maybe I was trying to speak to Sean? I know it is Sean, but everything is something ethereal as our positions are shifting in flickering connections. Sean, reading from the phone is reading excerpts from a caricatured dogs perspective, comedic, Dogs being with dogs, he has on a posh accent that apparently is meant to perform ‘dogs’ (like when we make fun of political readings, satirical) He is saying “he pissed on me and…”. This is becoming somewhat unsettling, sad, as Sean flickers into being both the dog and himself, the dog he is impersonating. But there he is, in that room, on a leash. Connection line is contact line with ghosts. And it reminds me of the knitting.’
Awake.
I read from the phone Sean as ghosting through a flower:


Not him. his mouth is still dry and bloody. As dry as an advertisement:

Set it spinning

Following, on the way to the train station I find an umbilical cord tied around a polarity.
The cord is cut:

How was the cord cut?

memory of gutting squids. The gladius I am sure is plastic, synthetic. And in that moment the chord is cut by the uncanny disruption of organic continuity, slipping; I thought I was born and grew from a Darwinian big bang. No. all lies. The squid does not contain a prosthetic, it is not partially artificial, it is entire and demands I synthesize my aversions to make space for it in the cosmos. Maybe it instead mutates as it ventures through a series of post-nuclear explosive zones? There is no gradation here. Just a series of cuts.

Mutation looks like this:

From: Maybe she is born with it? Maybe its Maybelline? 

To: Maybe she is born with it? Maybe its an eyelash.

maybe she is born.

the advertisement on becoming sentient reclaims itself in the statement "wings give you redbull"

Maybe she is born.

If so, speculating,

conception in the war zone looks like:

shifting slipping salience

is her falling into her lap

Curling into herself

  conceiving a found object
is spinning into herself
like this:

and out of herself.

plasticity, another cut. she cuts herself out of and into the next...

flowers give you ghosts.
&
Advertisements become sentient.

CUT

 tentacles from another dimension:

I am in love precisely because I cannot locate or trust myself, or remember myself or how it happened, started. No clues. Or maybe just one clue, atmospherically entire. The state of me changed. I remember walking and it was like I could walk forever, so long as I was in the particular humidity of this present. I walked like I knew where I was going, even though the destination was inconceivable. Magnetoception? And then I felt fear. Fear of my irrational certainty, fear of my decisive direction. And I wanted, desired to be stopped. And I said “you will have to stop me because I wont stop”, or at least I wanted to say that, did I say that?
You were chosen the moment a tentacle wrapped itself around my waist.
CUT

severance seizes the tentacular means of production. and here is a compensatory relic.

More mutations to be conceived in zones to come...