More to read below. Especially if you want to understand what this is about.
Hello world.
For my final project in the course, Search in the Age of Google, I created a self portrait of my google identity (meaning the results of searching my own name, Camilo Rayo on google). This contrasts to my real identity, as my google identity differs- I’m not the only Camilo Rayo. Other Camilo Rayo’s have other attributes, interests, ages, locations, etc. However, the fascinating part is, maybe, to a stranger, we’re all the same Camilo Rayo. How would a stranger know that the Camilo Rayo who is interested in photography is not located in Columbia? How would a stranger know that the Camilo Rayo who’s a bro is not the same Camilo Rayo who wrote the song _Layers? They really wouldn’t. I’m posting this post to address that issue. Here’s my to you, stranger.
Dear Stranger Who’s Googled My Name,
As of yet the internet is not aware of the imploding nature of it’s shortcomings: lack of intelligence. It is not aware also because it does not have a sense of self; it cannot be self aware. It does know, however, that there is a Camilo Rayo out there. Unfortunately for the FBI, the notion that it can categorize to the extent of isolating identities is currently untrue. Wishful, yet untrue. Hope so, maybe. As the internet ages, vines of wire and pods of data continue to grow, and my online identity grows with it.
This is an identity both lacking and overflowing. It lacks distinction- Camilo Rayo is in Columbia. Camilo Rayo has never been to Columbia. Camilo Rayo is a scorpio born in August, the month of Leo and Virgo. Camilo Rayo is five-foot three-inches. Camilo Rayo is five-foot eleven-inches. Without intelligence, the internet cannot reconcile these screaming contrasts. How can I be living somewhere I’ve never been? How can I have two birthdays? How can I be so tall when I’m so short?
The internet is raping identities blind. Identities that have no choice but to wait to be found in some defenseless state. Like a 1980’s-born fat ugly virgin teenagers’ false memory of driving 1950’s Cadillacs, smoking cigarettes and laughing with giggling curvaceous blonde girls in passenger seats, riding with the top down, the only victim of this loud violence is truth.
This letter is addressed to you for a reason. You’re my point. I’m your silver plate dream of an identity you know nothing about. My online portrait is who you think I am. I cannot juggle the weights of both of these. My heads going to explode, my soul stretched far enough to rip in your five. Maybe I just don’t remember living in Columbia. I could have forgotten that once upon a time I was published and proud of it. I didn’t even know that I have curly hair and play music, or that I glued stickers all over my friends face to get into some newspaper across the country. Too much life means I can’t recall ever having you or anyone with me under palm trees in blue jeans and a green striped shirt.
I know my next step: taking my identity into my own hands, where it belongs. I learned photoshop from a gypsy in Spain who pushed parakeets and misfortune cards, and using a picture of myself, I’ll put it all together. All those details that make up who I am. The blue eyed body in Columbia who attends anti-homosexuality protests at SUNY Purchase with a camera living in San Francisco working in Oakland and is a zombie going to prom. The writer who must know Japanese, who must know Kenneth Cole, who must like rock music, dancing, who must play chess with almost-famous musicians, who must do these things because Google tells me someone named Camilo Rayo does.
I’m lost to it now. This device, this quicksand that lives under our bricks and mortars and threatens to swallow it all whole, I don’t know what to believe anymore. First life, second life, third. Search in my room or search online. Owner of my identity or ruled by the fact it is out of my hands now.
I’m inspired by dopeheads and wackos alike; fiends crazy enough to persuade, steal, and even pillage the homes of small children in the name of comfort. First there’s the pope, who throughout history has managed to inspire enough hope in people to do selfless things such as send their children off to impending death. Then there’s Genghis Khan, responsible for igniting enough rage in the east to almost swallow in one gulp the entirety of continents, just because the man wanted what he wanted: Khanada. And last but not least, my mom, whose choice of bathroom colors shoved a eureka moment into my brain while showering drunk after an entire delirious summer night of creating our strategy to invade Iraq, giving much glee to our former president.
The only run ins I had we’re with kind mormons who offered me spears and firewood covered in strange English letters, which I took out to the woods over here by SUNY Purchase. Surprisingly enough, they freaked at the sight of my custom of building bonfires, but the kindle worked well. Their biggest shock, however, came at the sight of the boars head I brought out to roast. I had been saving it for a bit, but apparently this was not the right occasion to bring it out on. You gotta know who you’re catering to in this world, but sometimes everyone’s a stranger.
I’ve grown a lot over the past few years. Essentially, but not so much physically. I’ve adapted new talents, gone to new countries, and developed the ability to conquer time-space. I now know how to exist in two places at once, to be two different ages, to have different interest. Next time, bet on me, instead of any of those split personality types. Because I’m not crazy.
Thanks,
Camilo Rayo.
