Oblong, tepid and ethereal, the object slides back in the right pocket of my Obey jacket like a 007 lethal gadget. iColt/ I palpate my pocket hundred times a day, ten times an hour, with the fever of someone presumably guilty of illicit pleasures. iThief/ invisible paparazzo sneaking around people without emotions to service my inspirations. iPhone playing the iMac/ French for pimp, an uncompromising milord indeed, with unruly temper, and not even fast to shoot or to focus properly. iCult/ curled up in the palm of my hand like a rosario–with the contrition of Madonna. Object-tasliman sticky as an handkerchief covered with DNA evidences of daily obsessive use. imemory/ Building a fragmented collection of raped instants between or behind doors, composed or reproduced, using light and shadows to draft miniature scenes–most blurry when the world vibrates, a sharpened few when time stretches. ibryd/ With the gifts of a Swiss Knife deploying its savant tricks along my travels to save me from the terrible sleight of digital silence. iPoet/ Vagabond and dandy, tacit servant indentured to AT&T negotiating with any local provider when required, poet-trafficker crossing borders, detectors and networks without blinking an eye. iBrat/ as in impertinence, a state of mind that America has lost since its financial crisis pressed a mental anvil on its stocks and moods. iLab/ A virus incubator defying the recession and our shopping restrictions to bond us with other individualist-thinkers caressing their screen with tactile volutes to slide through the latest apps. i as in millions/ A number as large as a country we refuse community draped in the vanity and its illusion of being unique in our individual experience/ iCentered/ Around the choice of our content sources, our virtual friends, our design edge, and the quality of our pictures/ iCasino/ For the ubiquity to be the player and the croupier rolling the black jack always faster.

iMovie/ I take a set of pictures of the clouds out of the window and pink neons of a Virgin flight, in land eternal.

Each time, I change angle with mannered gestures like others in other times were rolling a Rolex at their wrists. I drop nervously the object of desire face down against the tablet, muted from snooze, partially neutralized. Stewards are sliding back and forth/ Adrenaline jumps up, small drops of sweat roll down my forehead, gulp of vodka to bite down on more ice. I finally drop down my cards, a smile hanging at the corner of my lips with an imaginary butt squeezed in between transcending the obsolete image of the Marlboro Man. I’m leaning back, feeling relieved, refreshed, in transit between two worlds and better than anywhere else. I browse through the pictures with the tip of my fingers… Mealy faces, sifted lights, blurry images, almost poetic for that matter, too blurry to be poetic even. Delete. I edit with tact and with the hyper-conscienceness of people of my generation, aware that things can reveal themselves until treason if not mastered. Aware also that the fine line of lost intimacy will be balanced by the infallible ectasy of us mirroring our being in others. Sense of shared humanity, hope for an echo to resound hope for it to ricochet back to us with someone else’s concealed attention. iNarcisse. Cut/