Fuck this. If I wasn’t writing on this tablet, the ink on these letters would be bleeding down the page from my tears, which right now are seeping underneath the keyboard, no doubt causing a malfunction in the circuit board, certain to kill this piece of shit by tomorrow. But whatever

I will replace the “IT”, but won’t be replacing Stephen Gordon aka The Spaceape : Father. MC. Poet. Writer, Trans-Galactic Wordsmith, Word Alchemist, Text Surgeon, Dub Fiction Master. Where is he? Where did he go? Where is he AT? Well, there’s some of him over there and some more of him over there. He’s all over the fucking place. He IS / and always WAS / capable of seeing through words & hearing through eyes. That’s not something to fuck with, but he did, so I’m gonna dig into this sorrow to see what I can bring back.

Our memories of past, present & future are at risk of annihilation. That’s the message I get from Stephen’s work. In “Is This Revolution?” he’s clearly saying that we can’t really be sure whether we are having a revolution or not, because “The Revolution” HAS been televised, and re-edited, for us, the viewers, to develop constructed opinions, but a revolution could start in a strip club just as easily as a church. So what is the fucking problem?

Revolution needs witnesses. Oops. Just the fact that Revolution can be distorted is enough to cause suspicion, because doubt, if only a little, skews reality. Well fuck that. We are witnessing Stephen’s Revolution right now, within the medium we use to view his work. We let them set up the place, and we vandalize it. That’s the point / but that’s bullshit too. That’s not IT. There is no IT. Fuck “it”. Fuck the cloud. Stephen etched his words right through this modern day cuneiform tablet, making holes in this shit. Now he seems to be behind those letters, looking back at us through his words. Ha! Nice one. Respect immortal.

Fuck giving up. Stephen sure as hell didn’t. What a fighter! I look through the email correspondences between us and all he does is keep on fighting, on and on, for years. What an amazing human being, and you can be sure he fought for his daughter and wife. He fought for Steve Goodman. Kevin Martin. Will Bevan. Mary Anne Hobbs. Tons of folks. Me. You. No doubt about it, but how exhausting it must have been, sitting in a hospital while folks dance till dawn to his words in the shadows.

Most likely, Stephen was forced to use the internet as his stage, as we all are, and he did it like the master performer that he was, is, and will always be. But damn, he must have been haunted by those REAL faces from the crowds that looked back at him at shows when he was able. Real people. Listening to his words. Watching his mouth move. He must have needed that. We all need that. The faces tell us what’s what, pleasure or displeasure, and give us a perspective that we can rely on. We don’t know what’s what from faceless fans. They won’t go with him to the grave. They are forgotten by him AND by us.

That’s the price one pays for trapping oneself in a hall of mirrors. Reality is so easily manipulated, like this… can… be… edited, so what now? What of all this? Cant we sit back for a moment and reflect on what Space Ape’s warning us about? Not for long. That’s editable too. Oops! That page disappeared. How strange. Not really.

Everything is editable. This is bullshit. Not only is this bullshit, but it is entirely bullshit. The page is an endless scroll. Oh! Here come the remixes/quotes out of context. The bombardment of trolls and fairies. Ah, but Fuck ME. I fucked up. Did a recording with you. Still haven’t put it out. What a fuck up I am. We don’t have time for this nonsense. You showed me that. I should have listened to what your life was telling me, but nope. What a price to pay for the truth.

Lesson being; be careful that we don’t only live through this looking glass, ‘cuz its going to shatter one day and all of our memories will turn out to be stolen.

Photograph courtesy of Rene Passet. Published under a Creative Commons license.