Data Bending: Opening a file in one type of program designed to open another kind of file
What type of file is my body? My soul? It feels like "uploading" myself to any website or platform is data bending especially on platforms only meant to accommodate and see whiteness. Each upload is a glitch waiting to happen.
. _ . . . + . . . . .(_) . . . . : . . . . . . . . . . . . -+- . . . . . . / : . . . . . /. . . . . . / . . ' . . + . / . . . / . . . / . . * . . . . . . * . . . . . . . . . . . . + . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . + . ___/\_._/~~\_...__/\__.._._/~\ . . . . _.--' `--./\ . . /~~\/~\ `-/~\_ . . .-' `-/\_ _/\.-' __/~\/\-.__ .' `.dp
There's something about a gaze that causes my body to glitch
There's something bout the white gaze that causes my body to glitch
There's something about non-consensual consumption by those who gaze without care
, , (\____/) (_oo_) (O) __||__ \) /______\ / / \______/ \/ / /__\ (\ /____\
I saved my selfie as raw data and imported that into Audacity, an open source audio editor. I wanted to explore the sound of data, engage in listening to what the computer thinks my numbers sound like.
They glitched my ancestral archives + lineage to death. Glitched beyond repair.
Questions for those who will listen
The Master and Slave narrative is embedded into our hardware. When my self, is translated into pixels, into code, they become part of this framework, one that also seems to mimic the current world as I know it. The perpetual gaze exists regardless of where I turn. If reality is based off our projections, to be uploaded offers the opportunity to be newly projected. This time on a white screen. Continuous disembodied projections. What happens to my body after it is translated. After it is embedded into a system. After I no longer own it. After it is accessible to all. In middle school and high school, I uploaded photos of myself to Facebook, as a way to feel closer to myself and others. It was a ritual to do so, a new album every year. An opportunity to share my life. But this life, was compressed into numbers, and now used for surveillance. Now, the Master wants me to mimic my pixels, pixels taken from images, taken from life. There is no hope in this abstraction. Only room for the Master's Projection. An opportunity for those in power to project, mold, and create whatever reality they desire. A reality, that I somehow, am a part of, even if it is through death.
In conclusion, give me my fuckin body back. My body don't have no creative commons license.