Maxim Garcia Diaz’s first collection fell on my rug in pink and light blue. I would not rule out the appearance of the package in more colors. The cover is adorned by a somewhat perfect-looking digital girl with cut-out eyes. Flipping through the package, I saw sweet pink graphics of cookie cutters being used as text dividers. cute – good? Attractive? annoying? A word like “hivemind” (more on that later) could spark my curiosity, but I must admit I was only nominated for a C. It’s hot in the human mind went to read.
Four strong packages have been selected for the award, which will take place next weekend, with the award for Best Debuting in 2021. intermediate language van Esohe Weyden, A sound exploration of existential questions, Endless Written by Nisreen Mubaraki, A compelling family history and a confrontational exploration of what it means to be a wife and mother in a beautiful language that seeks clarity and sky between By Ferdy Karto, an exercise in Baroque and original language that time seems to no longer exist, Maxime Garcia Diaz’s collection (1993) stands out to the max.
The poet creates a strange, seductive and dangerous world. Utopia or bitter reality? In meandering poems and masterfully composed cycles, the poet gives way to a reckless and unexpected imagination in which the physical contrasts with the mental, analogue with digital. When an I character speaks, it often appears that there is a difficult relationship with one’s body, something that many women will be aware of. The body can be exfoliated like the skin:
the beautiful girls
Lie like snakeskin
peeled fruit peels
In the university toilet
In other parts, materialism seems to claim a place in a computer-controlled world:
They float over cities in electric corsets
with broken lobes
They roam the long corridors of the Internet
Convert to hypersex seeking a secure connection
Across France, Germany’s algorithm sometimes whispers
If you touch her nipples, this is the capital and it is
It’s a weapon and it can stab you and it can only fight you
The poems bear witness to what it means to live in the present world, and show what it looks like now and in the future – if we don’t look far. Don’t look far from the meadows below sea level. Don’t look away from girls who joke about eating disorder and mythical girls who have no apparent place in this world (“There’s always a girl who works at H&M/She’s basically always a mythical creature”). Don’t look away from the girls puking on the beach on a school trip. Don’t look away when the date breaks into tears.
Don’t look away when poems are falling outside and stretching out everything you think you know about poetry, with web page titles like quotes and emojis like the heart or the moon (which I don’t know how to write). And yes: don’t look away at the words that seemed strange at first.
The “human mind” is collective consciousness or collective intelligence. I imagine the Internet is a reflection of the human mind. An American program like the Pentagon’s DARPA, which works for a super brain that should eventually contain everyone’s thoughts and all the information available on Earth, is also a formidable mind.
What does an individual still stand for when the human mind is no longer a ghost from the future? With quotes from various sources, Garcia Diaz seems to have let humanity speak. Individual experiences are always presented alongside other experiences and put into perspective in a web of information.
Using a parallel cinematic montage, the poet allows fragments of different parts and layers of reality to slide through one another in a way that leads to a new understanding of the whole. In “Original Innocence,” for example, notes of history as an entity are mixed up with information about a “delusion” or delusion, until history is hacked by something foreign, which after reading about a faltering machine, a crooked twin sister and a stillborn horn is more than imminent. History itself seems to give in:
History picks up the scales of the wound
With every second you get closer to him, he gets sadder
From his skin and the pile underneath
A dilapidated gift ☾ like tea for his psychiatrist
History begins as a child
Crooked twin sister
A scavenger, will-o-the-wisp, rises from the rubble
History will wake up one day
soft and anxious
He is no longer alone in his body
This is a group under constant tension, with phenomena that may seem strange, but exist, such as the “xenofeminists,” who are extreme and clear on what we need to give women a consistent position: “We want clean hands / No beautiful souls, / Neither virtue nor terror. / We want Higher forms of corruption’.
When I google “xenofeminism”, I find that I seem to connect with human intelligence, which spreads its tentacles more and more firmly with each new word I learn. I don’t know if I want to read more in the group or find more about it Technological material† Anti-NaturalismAnd the The abolition of gender slavery that appears with the search term. I think that’s where the poet wants me. Not in one place, but connected to different angles and knowledge databases. Here the diversity and stratification of collective consciousness becomes palpable. I want and don’t want to be a part of it, but I don’t have a choice anymore.
In the penultimate course “Sunshine Cynernetics” (with the beautiful opening sentence “How information lost its body”) it appears that the humanoid has captured the narrator’s perspective. Who or what is speaking became liquid – echoing the xenofemin partisans who don’t want clean hands: “A very wild animal of the forests of purity and grace and I don’t want / Clean hands poisoned water and I want nothing clean / My excuse hands but I don’t want clean hands and I don’t want / No More body.’
Perhaps the most disturbing and mind-blowing thing about this group is that there is a certain gluttony being exploited to get lost in a machine-led world where a common spirit reigns and the individual no longer matters.
question if It’s hot in the human mind Represents a utopia or an irrelevant dystopia. The extremes go hand in hand in these poems, bright and poignant, in cheers and weeps:
My hands are soft. It grows from a backbone
wires. Beautiful and strong. I understand about pale
petioles. I sculpt
My name is in white fur.
In what appears to be the transformation into a cyborg, the poet’s voice sounds so convincing that losing the body hurts. Who or what still sings when the body is no longer there?
I’m rolling on the web