On Having No Head
My friend Sherri in New York needed a photo of a particular building in London, from a certain angle, at evening time, for a project. Sharpish.
She sent me a photograph of the building. I don't know who took it or when except they took it in the daytime and it's now on my phone, and on your screen. A cloud head rising over a mesa in Dulce, New Mexico.
So I went down and took another photo. It was a beautiful evening. I rode my bike.
This is not that photo. This is the photo of the photo that she sent me of the building in front of the building I was photographing.
If you can call it a photo when it's a bunch of illuminated pixels inspired by a string of ones and zeros made of electrons received like a gas through thousands of miles of copper and fibre optic cables that's travelled from New York to here to King's Cross again, to California and back to wherever you are and will disappear, cease to exist, when you close this window.
The photo does not exist. We are 6.9 billion people with no heads who have just started to grow a nervous system.