Mourning in Binary

Marina Campbell’s suicide was unexpected.

She had been so lively. Her Twitter feed was an endless stream, an emanation of all her immediate thoughts and wishes. Really, she just had a dentist appointment? The stingy dentist had fondled her arm in a most suggestive way? That couldn’t be tolerated. Her legions of followers adored her with passion, voicing their many opinions by commenting. It was unsettling when Marina’s tweets suddenly stopped. Her devotees were plugged in, plastic chords and wires canceling out real-world sounds and emotions. They only felt what she felt. They only believed what she said. When Marina’s electronic dictation ended, a virtual riot began.

Her Facebook account was the first to go. Her profile picture was from that time she went to Maui—sun-kissed and wild, her eyes shone with nebular sheen. Her rosy lips looked lovely against such pale skin, ossified fingers folded in her lap. Marina’s jeans squeezed her thighs like cellophane. She had a freckled constellation (like Orion, they wrote) at the bridge of her nose, a miniscule birthmark a little left to that. Her fans knew losing that picture would be a travesty. Unfortunately, Marina’s Facebook feed was shut down in January. The DailyBooth account was next to disappear, those precious moments erased forever. This lead to her MySpace evaporation. Marina’s followers knew what was coming and swarmed her Twitter page, begging her to stop the inevitable, but it was too late. On January 14th Marina Campbell ceased to exist.

There were always the conspiracy theorists who said it was all a hack. An inside job, of course, by someone close to her. Someone who had the opportunity and motive to make a computer mouse sharp as a machete, sharp enough to puncture Marina’s sputtering heart and murder her with a few clicks. They created many Facebook pages, some titled “R.I.P. Marina Campbell” and others writing vulgar things about the supposed heist. Her followers created websites brimming with forums, an electronic ocean come alive. Stoners used 80’s slang to explain their sorrow. They discussed her suicide in emoticons, acronyms, weird neologisms so warped and twisted that it was a language in itself. Someone on Youtube video blogged about it, claiming they were her killer. No one really believed the boy with frantic eyes. Still, though, his rant made it to Youtube’s featured videos. He got on a talk show a few days later, that one with the girl from Alaska. Nobody watched it.

Marina had a virtual funeral on BlogTV. It was quite tasteful, really. There were truckloads of video montages from her supportive fans. Someone had done a superb ukulele cover of a song from her favorite band. They played it softly in the montages, pictures of Marina mingled with the photos of her worshippers holding handmade signs. Marina had canceled her Youtube page awhile ago, but a few people had saved clips of her videos on their hard drives. Marina was immortalized. In the video montage, they added in a part where Marina kissed her camera good bye. A boy titled “ComputerWhizz212” edited Marina’s kiss in slow motion, the topography of her cherry lips vivid in high definition. Also, if slowed, the viewer got a clear view down her shirt.

Marina’s new funeral song was available on Itunes. The voices of her fans had been edited together, creating one soaring voice. The electronic bits of sound resonated through speakers, oscillating furiously like loose bees buzzing. The crystallized music seemed to quiver in the air—electronic, synthesized, and undeniably raw. It was a pleasant sort of church dirge that spoke of Marina’s rise to heaven. Soon, though, it was downloaded illegally and auto-tuned. The song was blasphemously remixed until the words were indistinguishable. Someone else posted the new version on Vimeo, the video tag a picture of Marina donning a bikini.

No one truly knew if Marina was alive in reality. All her fans could deduce was that Marina’s online self (the only part of her they loved) had broken down, her pixels reduced to ashes. They wired Pay Pal accounts to her memorial website, selling T-shirts and various kitsch. “ComputerWhizz212” even wrote up an obituary complete Marina’s face formed out of typography art. He sold that picture on his personal site, raking in the revenue received from the pop-up ads. It was all a beautiful remembrance. Marina Campbell’s memory was cherished with each and every sale made.