cave

What is #Cavetwitter?

2011. A user on Twitter unwillingly enters the cave.

 

From then until April 26th, 2016 multiple users entered the cave without hesitation, the universe bending their time towards an inside they never knew; pre-theorisation.

Edmund Berger begins transcendental-excavations on April 30th, 2017.

Outside is inside. This is key. An objective exterior becoming a subjective interior, a seemingly ABCs preschool metaphysics, yet, no. And so we begin out descent…

You can’t just “have thoughts” on/about #cavetwitter. Fyi fYi FYi fYI.

The earth screams as it cracks and ruptures, its face scarred by plutonic insurrections. is a priori. – Vincent Garton.

#Rhetttwitter and #Cavetwitter brothers of a kind, an incestual relationship, #cavetwitter acting as the outside (inside) horror of the ‘known’ rhett. The production begins on entry and does not cease until death, each molecule a worker, each vein an assembly-line, each feeling a farm towards relentless production for the sake of; for we have always been at war with lack. From the lack production produces modes of production of its own, and thus a rhizomatic accelerative force of production springs forth; a fractal assembling itself into the form of a Chimera.

You are. Inside the club. You begin to Kave-hole. The drugs don’t work for more than only and in less than 48 hours, just. Your skull begins to rotate your brain, the mucus sack tears sending a thrill spinning out of your iris’, enter the decline of the West; before you, Spengler welcomes you to the Cave, a mixture of coke & pepsi in hand, stood atop a fractal-cabbage. C-Chaos.

Both Rhett & Cave are self-congratulating, self-fulfilling upon the entry of anOther and as such when you understand the ‘cave’ it is already over, you only have to walk through meandering halls of dead-time; the outside of dead-time, isn’t.

Plato begins to weep as he shackles himself to the wall, praying to the shadows. You walk on by, each step algorithmically ticcing in time with the nothingness suffocating you; the Cave loves you, kinda. A group of pagans greet you.

They’ve stopped already, pure deceleration to the point of minus-death.

is a chthonic Rhett function ::: anastrophic futurism is coupled to a reciprocal descent through geotraumatic deep time – Edmund Berger

There’s lies here.

 

“And that’s it. That’s plutonics, or neoplutonism. It’s all there: anorganic memory, plutonic looping of external collisions into interior content, impersonal trauma as drive-mechanism. The descent into the body of the earth corresponds to a regression through geocosmic time.

Trauma is a body.” – Professor Barker, ‘Barker Speaks’

 

A sisyphean labyrinth filled with rusted shopping trolleys and relics of worlds never born; a house-broken homeless man speaks to you – his language evolves, pure tempo instantaneously. A crowd follows you, you turn, they combust, you turn again they reform, different organs slotted into other bodies, a puss-filled heart is its end. You are searching, as even the walls do, you tell them off, they lie, they reset /// GAME OV|ER. The floor made from old VHS tape and CCRU dog-ends. Face begins to wrap around face. Corneas eroding into synthetic perspective; Spinoza asks if you need new ‘specs’ as he lunges his lungs forward to release his cause of death; the hallways fill with optometric lens dust, it mutates into failed pamphlets; most of them blank and wanting to be. You are in the underground of the outside, the cave is not cool. — “Communism is the BOMBunism” someone shouts.

Shut up ma!

Most of the sound is of Toynbee tiles being created and reruns of Thomas Pynchon coughing.

A cosmic campaign between region and non-region, between time and dead. A mise en scène of pure-trauma.

What are you going to say to the ants when they crawl under your skin? It’s their job you know? “Oh hello Mr 🐜” How’s my skin mr 🐜” You’re a fuckin’ dick Mr Ant.”

Nah, you’re not, because they’re gon’ be munchin’ at the end of time; rotten rag-ended time flickering off into the presence of absence, anti-nutritious temporal meals for skin-bugs.

You know what we say of time at the dinner table kids, “pray with me.”:

Her [Its] ass was peppered with wounds, and her[its] buttocks were so prodigiously slack one could have furled the skin around a walking stick; the hole of this splendid ass resembled the crater of a volcano what for width, and for aroma the pit of a privy… she[it] had never once wiped her[its] ass, whence we have proof positive that the shit of her[its] infancy yet clung there.” – 120

And so the ants of the cave eat at the juvenile shitty rag-ends of time.

Welcome to the cave. Don’t leave, please.