"YOU'RE A GHOST, LA LA LA"
"There is nowhere anything lasting, neither outside me, nor within me, but only incessant change. I nowhere know of any being, not even my own. There is no being. I myself know nothing and am nothing. There are only images: they are the only thing that exists, and they know of themselves in the manner of images...I myself am only one of these images." - J G Fichte.
I was reading these very words in a cafe when - in one of those moments of unexpected superimposition - John Cale suddenly started singing over the house sound-system: "You're a ghost, la la la / You're a ghost / I'm the bishop and I've come / To claim you with my iron drum / la la la la la la..."
I should explain (because this makes the moment doubly strange for me, okay?): they normally play noodly post Kenny G Jazz-FM type cack or bland US Indie/Singersonger fodder that was already pretty embarrassing even back in the era of Friends or Buffy...and the Cale microcast was, in fact, completely bookended by the usual reheated 8th-gen digi-Stan Getz drool. There was no warning, no indication, that reality had temporarily skipped a track. I immediately got goosebumps - I mean, reading those words as the soundtrack switched; woah! - and when normal service was resumed I actually sat there for a minute, looking round the room, thinking: fuck, did I just imagine that...?
Of course, I now have to ghostdump that moment out via HTML - via an image - a moving one, with sound, but an image nevertheless - to all you imaginary people - to all you...images that I have in my head that pretend to be people.
I made you all up, didn't I? It's okay: you can tell me; I don't mind.
You're not real. And I'm not really here anyway.
You imagined me; you made me up.
Projected me out onto your non-existent inner eyeballs.
We're all contingent.
If I was a real person, I'd almost certainly now tell you something comforting - something familiar and in keeping with my character - something real - like, errrm: "Paris 1919 is probably one of my favourite albums..." that it scores pretty much a straight 10, though "the title track isn't my favourite song on the LP."
Little details like that...plausibly-familiar character tics filtered through a writer's eye and squirted down a tangle of copper-wire; HTML / XML compressed into data-packets and reassembled as images - as wordtext...a couple sentences of needless detail designed to lure you into thinking that I actually exist, that I'm not a ghost, not an image.
La, la, la.