Control

Our knobs are vestments of faith in material and language, mechanisms hoisting fine print to the heavens, telling gods to go fuck themselves.

We can go or stay home, watch from wherever we are, be there in streams, go or leave, but almost always with hard steps. We have switches to turn ourselves on and off, we twist valves and dials connected to potentiometers to cool the hot, we swap one wave’s length for another’s height, and we link what we control together and call it intelligence. We label our instrument panels with vainglorious and nihilistic glyphs, and every time we touch one we cede control to the engineers behind them. We make decisions as if systems were the world.