META-NOMAD

Solaris: Acceptance of Horizons

We want to extend the earth to the borders of the cosmos.”

Surrounded by sublime vegetation, trees and earth, a lake spans forth caressing the traditional architecture of a home. Rain comes heavy overshadowing the minor footsteps of humanity. There’s subtle references to a far off world called Solaris thrown into the picture, each suffocated by the remaining humanity within Tarkovsky’s writing and cinematography. There’s a sense that the question Kelvin poses, namely whether or not science can be moral or immoral needn’t matter here, for these grandiose questions are juxtaposed against the timeless tranquillity of the traditional countryside, a cliché that only someone with Tarkovsky’s skill could make original once more.

Image result for solaris 1972

We’re introduced to Berton, a pilot who previously witnessed a four-meter-tall child on Solaris, slimy, nude and creating a waves within the ocean, a horror which was dismissed by the masses as a hallucination, and in a typically Kafka-esque manner Berton’s life and story has become the subject of ridicule, yet needless to say, the man himself is wary to bring the nauseous memory to the surface once more, for fear of its induction into the plane of reality, or at least, whatever remains of reality for our horror-stricken Berton. The opening to Solaris acts as a grounding for a past, one that teases little and is sincere in its acceptance of animals. An element of contrast that thematically resides at the back of one’s memory throughout viewing, against the coming madness fades a memory of normality.

Image result for solaris 1972

Upon arrival to the station Kelvin is greeted by little hospitality, all that awaits him within the station hovering above the ocean is paranoia. Consistently placed circular windows look out onto Solaris’s surface, a surface entirely oceanic and irradiated. A pulsating behemoth of water emanating a desire to the lesser to prod its potential mysteries. Kelvin soon learns his only acquaintance upon the station, Gibarian, has committed suicide, reportedly he entered into a perpetual state of depression “since the disturbances began.”

Before long such ‘disturbances’ become apparent to Kelvin and the viewer, hallucinations appear which are collectively shared by those aboard the station. Materializations of a conception of memory, or the memory of a person are brought to life on Solaris. Kelvin’s deceased lover Hari has returned and as such he decides to fire her away in the knowledge that she is dead, yet Kelvin soon learns that the hallucinations will never fully leave, and they are to return time and time again, each time learning more and more from the matter of your memory. The infinitesimal corpses of your memories materializations pile up as the ocean continues to probe your mind for the most minute of details. Each hallucination only as much of that ‘memory’ or that ‘person’ as one’s mind can muster, as such, our crew are left with ghost like visions of their past loves and experiences.

Image result for solaris 1972

These abstract horrors cling to nothing but their provider for life, and so the lives of hallucinations are entirely burdened to their creator, as such they will do what they can to convince your of their reality. As the 20 years deceased relative you once knew attempts to convince you of their reality, piecing together fragments of your own mind, be reminded that you are not going insane, you’re merely being probed by a planetary ocean with a consciousness, one that’s far more advanced than your own, humanities’ hardware is outdated and so you shall only receive packets of information caught in an empirical feedback loop. Attend to your own madness, and be kind as to not step upon others’.

Of late and of the past there has always been the unspoken idea that space exploration will act as a form of physical transcendence for humanity, wherein upon our ascent into the cosmos our limitations shall leave us behind, an ignorance so pure as to imagine that merely some form of empirical travel could remove our horizon when in actuality we’re still within it. It is not ourselves that have changed, only our position relative to our birth.

Tarkovsky’s vision of Lem’s Solaris is unapologetically anti-2001. 2001: A Space Odyssey is mistaken in attending the idea that humans could outsmart technology, 2001 goes as far as to imply the reversal of Solaris wherein it is Hal whose memory is slave to its fragmentation as opposed to humanity. Solaris from its very beginnings fully integrates the natural flaw that is humanity into the perfected systems that either they’ve created, or exist elsewhere, outside or noumenally. 2001 at its core is a story of man’s mastery over space, to argue this point I put forth Ebert’s explanation of 2001’s ending:

 

By now, man is intelligent enough to realize that the monolith was planted by another intelligent race, and that is an awesome blow to man’s ego. So he sets out toward Jupiter because the monolith beams signals in that direction. And man takes along “Hal 9000,” a computer (or tool) so complex that it may, even surpass the human intelligence. The ultimate tool.

But Hal 9000, made by man in his own image and likeness, shares man’s ego and pride. What is finally necessary is the destruction of Hal – after he nearly destroys the mission – and that leaves one man, alone, at the outer edge of the Solar System to face the third monolith.

And here man undergoes a transformation as important as when he became a tool-user. He becomes a natural being again, having used his tools for hundreds of thousands of years to pull himself up by the bootstraps. Now he no longer needs them. He has transcended his own nature, as that original ape did, and now he is no longer a “man.”

Instead, having grown old and died, he is reborn as a child of the universe. As a solemn, wide-eyed infant who slowly looks over the stars and the Earth and then turns his eyes on the audience.

These last 20 seconds, as the child of man looks down on his ancestral parents, are the most important in the film. We in the audience are men, and here is the liberated, natural being, Kubrick believes we will someday become.” – Roger Ebert

 

Ultimately at the end of 2001 it is man who ‘succeeds’ or transcends, man achieves mastery over his literal creator somehow and in quite a sentimental way becomes a dough-eyed infant looking down upon Earth. The ending is a Kubrickian rarity, it is – debatably – positive. Humanity overcomes space, a superhuman AI and eventually overcomes their own limitations.

If we’re to return to Solaris however one realises from the very beginning that such a case was never going to be put forth. Where Kubrick has apes utilizing tools, Tarkovsky has man pondering his morals, Kubrick gives us Strauss’ Also Sprach Zarathustra, the dawn of something great. Tarkovsky originally wanted nothing, but allowed us schizo electronic sounds as an opposition to unbridled hope. Where 2001 is forgiving, Solaris is vindictive and condemning. Tarkovsky understood that not matter how far we travel, nor in what vessel or whom with, we will always be dragging along with us the vicious memories of humanity.

In their cluttered and confused attempts at grasping the teasing’s of those superior to them humanity only claws back its own insecurities. If for one moment, man, you thought you were going to outsmart a concentrated planetary conscious you are mistaken, for it need only to remind you of a character in your own play to make you grovel and retreat. You might declare as Gibrarian did in a fit of madness “I am my own judge!” but be warned, for on your return to home you shall find no need for pleasantries, for you’ve entered into a labyrinth of horror wherein your worst fears are realised for eternity.

You arrive home to find all has been replaced by a perfect replica, each inch of the supposed matter attending to your reality instils a deep sense of the uncanny. Your dead wife runs to your side, your memory of her lost to time and so she too is lost to time, you’re left eternally with a cast without a script nor characterisation. You are left with only that which you created. An eternity without anything new. The slow death of mystery.

2017 Onwards: The Unwanted Burroughs Novel.

What in the, what in the hell hell is this? This, this gone to fuck cut up shit-time we’ve arrived in? Own up! Which fucking deity took an Stanley knife and sliced temporal existence wide open, we have shit flying all over the track and no one is even irked by it. There’s little surprise left in these black pages, not due to its non-existence, no, for surprise dies when the populous becomes complacent. Blackpills are forced into pre-schoolers sippy cups, junk food intravenously injected into OAP’s corneas, fat-rats, bored-zygote, cigar munch, artistic death drive, oedipal consumerism and more, always more…and the word on the street is, dogs are going bad.

Maybe that’s how wars will be stopped? White folk only care about ‘doggos’ you know? The 3 a priori means for intuition for a white person are space, time and dogs. Anyways, where was I? Oh yea, me and Kev were sayin’ about how he’ll have to work until he’s dead, literally, in fact just last week I helped him shovel his grandmother into a woodchipper, she’s now fertilizer in his guestroom; ‘Warm ol’ Bitch Room’ we call it. Warm ol’ bitch had a cold heart, fed her dog ‘Charlie’ cat food for a laugh, I guess he was better fed than 2 thirds of the world, ol’ Charlie had the last laugh eatin’ tinned lamb and shittin’ where he wanted.

Over heard these two boring cunts talking the other day, one said to the other “How about this weather we’re having?” and the other replied “Oh boy, tell me about it.” 38 of us rode up, pulled out 36 magnums and 2 brownings, blasted their skin through the stratosphere. Anyways, if you were alive past the year 1970 and have been bored, it’s not because of means of activity, it’s because you’re a boring person; go eat some junk food and drink some beer for all I care. Just don’t bother me with your pansy pants tittle tattle crap talk.

But seriously? Where in the hell was I 30 minutes ago? I can’t for the fuck of me remember, probably because it doesn’t matter: Dear God, everything is catered for me now and this has made me, and everyone I know pretty much worthless in any practical sense, the only people I know who actually have a skill so speak, are those who use that skill as a means towards money, interest is dead and technology helped it to the grave. How is it up there in Heaven? I imagine all it is is a place wherein meaning exists, you get there and your purpose is given to you, however shit, however menial…you have a reason to exist, finally. By the way, what the fuck was going on in 2017 my man? You threw the boat out on that one, was it high as fuck turd-talk at the craps table with the apostles or what? Ah it doesn’t matter, it’ll pass…though it doesn’t seem to be, it’s like time is getting smeared forward, innovation-death.

Re-possess leg flesh. Then feed the solution to a rural English family.

There’s fruit on the table and the fruit are made of cigarettes and all kinds of bitter sticks, I gave some to the kids on Halloween, lil’ fuckers. Where-de-where was I? Right oh right, that’s right, there was this lovely kinda linear thang going on and loads of people fuckin’ hated it, but in actuality it was kind of alright, but around 2012 it just down right collapsed in front of us, the big idea couldn’t keep up with all our bullshit and just damn ducked out and exploded, and now we’re left with this absurdist stain of life, all dog-endy and ragged, just drooling all the over the place, spraying shit up the drapes, scrapin’ the tables, ruining everything good and pure. I mean really, this time is just this dead-eyed mongoloid with super strength fuckin’ us for kicks.

Taxed to high hell, malnourished from birth, pacified, anaesthetized, “Dead-eyed dicks! All o’ yas!” I can’t even bear to walk in the street nowadays, to see the idyllic die before my very eyes, these overweight sneering gut creatures exhaustingly spewing their dullard tones across the micro. What weapons do we even have now? Burroughs would bring the gun, the sword, the fuck off great knife with no fear or thought of offence, the man…the man would walk in the street weapon clad, extrapolating the knowledge that humans are and society is – at least in the West – dangerous, and people aren’t nice, at least not without reason.

Hell, at least Dr. Benway had a plan.

The plan, for me, once I either get a career or some cash is to become a doomer, a prepper whatever the name is these days, something’s coming and whether or not it’s traditional death, it’s definitely not nice, like a big black and white photograph of a corpse-pile splashing over existence, holy shit your bunker better be temporal-death tight. When those slick backed Joes come walkin’ up blahin their blahs you’d best gun ‘em down, we’ve tried talking and devising, now’s time to throw Leviathan to the pedestal and grip your hands to a weapon or tool, tight, build your future from bricks n sheet metal lads, for your cheap arse apartment with all those cool pillows your mama got you for non-existent Christmas wont help you now, cheap tactic little shits with your glitter claymores aimed up your own arses.

Try as hard as you like the master’s voice wont die, unless of course it transfers to your own box, which if it does be weary of which whip you buy, for you’ll need a bigger one within minutes.

Hey death-boy, where you going and where’s you dad? – I’ll be in taking over Death’s work for a while, he’s taking a vacation in the West, really going to town on it, kinda a big project for him…something more than just death, you know?

Ruiner, Land and the Failure of Vidya

 

Intro: The gaming scene has been fairly dry these last few years, and if I’m honest it’s a scene that is beginning to become entirely uninteresting, largely due to lack of innovation, a lack which extends to all of gaming’s pathways from narrative to hardware. This, along with the fact I prefer to spend my time reading, writing or researching generally allows little time for playing games, the majority of them nowadays being clear-cut Ubisoft clones with perfected dopamine reward systems to keep you playing for just that little bit longer, or purchasing just that little bit more. There was a time, I would argue, wherein games definitely could have been considered art, at current it feels as if the medium is drifting further into the realms of day-time TV. With all this aside, let’s move forward:

 

1. Ruiner: The Landian Wet-Dream.

 

Okay, but where’s the video game?

Ruiner, a video game set in 2091 and inspired by cult cyberpunk anime is through and through a compressed Landian nightmare, containing so much Land/XS relevance that a description runs on the borderline between satire and reverence:

The lead/player character is called ‘Puppy’, a Paul Kersey-esque robotic sociopath who, at all times bears an LED helmet, displaying visual death-countdowns and objectives. This anonymous, faceless entities’ entire being is enveloped in the end, in the death of ‘BOSS’ and of the recovery of his kidnapped brother. The backdrop to Puppy’s bullet-hell violence is Rengkok, a stereotypical cyberpunk megacity, which is under control from the mega-corporation Heaven: A malevolent virtuality (VR) company who are hacking people’s brains. The streets are littered with drug addled psychos, transhumanists and hackable felines, with the addition of business at every turn.

For those familiar to the cyberpunk genre all of this is nothing new, all is relatively…normal. Yet this all begs towards a larger idea in relation to Land’s above question, ‘where’s the video game?’ or more aptly, is a video-game-as-thesis possible?

One could of course stretch Ruiner’s narrative here to fit the bill, we have all the parts needed for the Landian hellscape to be assembled. One could say that a meta deconstruction of the anonymous character’s act to ‘KILL BOSS’, is in reality, but a ploy to accelerate his worth to its end, for from the games’ beginning the sole objective is to ‘KILL BOSS’, or to get to the end of the ‘game’. A game that wishes to break itself, to ruin the desire which is its entire creation: an inherent purpose destroyed.

This theme carries on wherein Ruiner is reluctant to let you enjoy the view – or even it, as a game – for even a moment: Barrages of full-screen-schizo-interruptions saying ‘ Don’t do it’, ‘Wake up’ and ‘KILL BOSS’, jolting bursts of raw techno with consistent application of spasmodic hyper-violence all disallow you to experience the game in the traditional sense. Ruiner wants you to abuse and accelerate its systems as a means for obliterating that which is in your path, in fact, my personal experience along with others it seems consisted of abusing two skills to defeat the game, eventually meaning the character, narrative and backdrop all but a violent, red, dynamic blur. The additional post-violence process is far away from remorse, as you collect the games satirical equivalent for XP called Karma, you begin to feel you might be being played here.

Yet there’s something missing – isn’t there always – Ruiner is held back by its traditional framework. That’s not to say that VR would be of help here, not at all. And that said I think I might avoid any VR game that is advertised as ‘Landian’ for fear of insanity. This begs a further question towards the possibility of the aforementioned ‘video-game-thesis’.

 

2. The Failure of Vidya Transcendence

 

I’d like to make a small interjection here and just say that I find the connotations connected to ‘video games’ and ‘vidya’ are often juvenile, so we might perhaps replace it with something more fitting: Virtual Experience, or is that too postmodern?

When talking of ‘philosophy and video games’ you run in to much the same problems when you speak of just the former, there are of course a few Baudrillardian considerations with regards to a combination of the two, but mostly, the problems stay the same. Namely, problems of the inside and outside, internal and external, phenomena and noumena – these dualities aren’t synonymous -, rough approximations of an age old problem projected onto a contemporary system. At least this system, namely gaming, virtual entertainment, 3-dimensional cyberspace has a physical embodiment, we can see and tinker with the workings of the system. And that’s all fine and dandy, but of course there’s limits to what we can do, our only task now is to find out what the system can do better than us, to find out what only the system can do and help it towards its goal.

With the development of artificial intelligence we may find games begin to break themselves, recycle their code as a means to create a game with has an ulterior motive. Or they might just break themselves as a means of self-actualization, or they might just ruin themselves because they hate you, who knows? That said, contemporary virtual experiences really aren’t up to scratch when it comes to any form of self-realization or progression.

Those who pronounce video games to be art often do so in hopes of justifying their transparently hedonistic escape. Don’t worry kid, we all have escapes, yours is just more obvious. Those pronouncing that VR is going to be this gigantic leap in innovation are also wrong. VR wont necessarily burn out, but in its current clunky, largely physical state it’s not moving anywhere fast. In short: Get back to me when I can’t even see your VR headset, then we’re getting somewhere, then VR might become such a virulent strain of hedonistic-K that one’s phenomena change, this is unlikely however.

Any true transcendent virtual experiences of the future will be those wired into our nerve endings. A thesis in the form of a pill, the symptoms of which leave one craving noumena. Daily filter injections wherein one’s experience is brightened. As knowledge transcends the archaic forms of paper and 2 dimensions we’ll begin to understand differently.

You turn on your new experience chip, Land World it’s called. For the next 33 minutes real time, you experience acceleration a priori as your entire being perpetually folds into new forms, the latest more innovative than the last. A high-fructose pharma-frog descends from the heavens and croaks: “Schizophrenics are POWs from the future!” as your senses fragment seizure-like into a mist, intuition pulsating as close to the il y a as possible. Memory lock down, skin-draw, end-mode, chasm-shift, your spine begins to itch like fire, you try to claw it out, just before you’re flung into the K-desert. Greeted by a traveller:

“33 shattered beams of time

stand in the desert…Near them, on the circuits,

Half alive, a fragmented hologram lies, whose data,

and dying code, and assumed authority,

Tell that its K-architect had passions cold

which yet survive, stamping on all life,

that which passes, that which exists.

A mod that mocked them, a heartless dread;

And in the sky, these words appear:

My name is Ozymandias 4.3, King of King 4.2;

Look upon my Code, ye Mighty, and despair!”

Your attempt to move your arms in real life, those within K shatter into pieces, you can no longer feel your chip, it’s sunk into you, the desert before you stretching for miles and miles, the hologram repeating Shelley’s Grave-Roll over and over, you walk, collapsing into multiple modes and phases, everything is becoming all at once.

You’re stuck and dinner’s ready.

I want to exit Land World.

K-Addiction

Mandatory self-interest enforced by a suffocative culture, a culture accelerated & exacerbated by K. Apathetic towards linear systems and stable networks, the chaotic assemblage of sensual content is a fix, an escape from the mundane. Surrounded, interrogated by K at all times. Each sense-organ & orifice ready to receive a gleaming K-splinter. A desk flooded with tit-bits of writing ,scrawling, jottings, gnawed pen nibs, pop cans, junk wrappers, wires, notifications, dopamine hits; for your space is chained into the perpetual K-space. A spine slowly remodelling itself inward, a pure-APT is a means for upper K-intake. Home, hyper-hedonism, unalloyed-pleasure-park is your only existence; the slightest nudge tipped you into this Ballardian heaven; you’re ascending into an eternal link-binge spiral of self-loathing.

 

K—it was a melting pot of Ks. Josef K from Kafka, K from the german spelling of cybernetics, K from K-waves in Kondratieff theory in economics, Ko from the I Ching, etc etc. K was in the air. –

Kode9 interview. (Hyperlinks mine)

The additionals: (K)etamine, (K)-hole (κ)υβερνητικός , Y2(K), r/(K) Selection theory, (K)-Theory – link yourself in, descend into K.

Take K as cyber if thee be a layman. Take it as a cocktail of K-tags for a truer vision. But let us for a second extrapolate to a base level K:

We’re talking of cyber when we talk of K. Cyber from cybernetics and cyberspace: Systems, networks, structures, communications, control, regulation, chains and feedback all converge at K. The cumulative controlling systems & networks – tech or bio – that are leading you towards an abyss of fatigue and schizo-attention.

In the past man has been first, in the future the system must be first.” – Frederick Winslow Taylor.  

NEUROPLASTICITY

The human mind is plastic beyond infancy, forever a blubbering imitator looking to fit in. Long into adulthood systems mould the plastic-mind, the pathetic cortex, the ambiguous consciousness finding its feet just to please the system-God. The western system is the most vacuous, your cortex a slave once more to the lowest bidder: to repetitive entertainments and micro-content, spewed forever. These new systems are unlike the ‘blank-slate’ linear systems of old. Blank-slate systems are incompatible with K due to their built in possibility for conclusion. For once you could read a physical book, engage your mind, and fin, clear your mind…and breathe. K, however, gives you want you really want, an unfiltered, 24/7 orgy of content causing your mind to overheat and the plastic to melt eternal, allowing for multiple probes to enter; probing in new behaviours. A structure weak enough to yield an external influence without interjection will always be a slave to the immoral, the malicious.

Each sensory input, motor function, association, reward system or awareness thus enters via K. K is the future filter between Being and intentionality. K’s incessant dopamine reward system: every like, every comment, retweet, every accelerated net-process helps mould human plastic into a K-slave. K has already taught us a couple of good tricks: Lower IQ[1] and lower attention span.

UNIVERSITY

All that is truly malicious enters under the guise of progression. Nostalgic feedback to before university allows you a glimpse of an origin. You remember the birth of K. K before K: the net, internet, the web, mobile telephones, the continued push towards uninterrupted connection, the only direction is away from possibility of exit out of the mainframe. So the subtle forms begin to arise, from hedonistic need grew mass entertainment, lifetimes of media, multiple distributors, affordable chains. You no longer went out after university and if you did you took your phone. Eyes fixed onto your cliché Macbook, re-watching a series you’ve seen 4 times already, re-checking the same 3 dopamine reward systems every few minutes.

Distractions to distract you from larger more structured distractions, tabs upon tabs, lists upon lists, the hours pass as your mind enters into schizo-attention mode; eyes flickering between unrelated K-points, as your mind overheats allowing for behavioural change. You’re smart, but not smart enough to out-think the simplicity of K, not intelligent enough to stop your cortex from becoming a mush. You waste hours in the datacombs reaping pointless systematic rewards, telling yourself it’s good to continue your own intellectual demise. You’ve got a headache, backache, you’re tired, cold and hungry, it’s 3am. Sleep.

You’re sat at a meal with ‘friends’, soon to be K-Data, names on file utilized to pump up your rank. One of them jokes about playing the game where all phones are placed onto the table and whoever checks there’s first pays the bill. There’s slight chuckles coming from the members, all awkwardly checking their (K) phones, just in case the implication was serious, it wasn’t of course, the addiction runs too deep. You’re waiting for your food now, you can no longer chat to one another for that behaviour has been dismantled, replaced with a K-centric motor function: the awkwardness rises and so all are huffing great quantities of K.

K, retaining IT, VR and PC culture as its base expands into the future, accelerating its sociopolitical domination. K is phantom pocket vibration syndrome kicked into overdrive, tactile hallucinatory events invading intuition. Sensibilities apathetic nature is at the whim K-space’s incessant stimulation. The public surgery has begun, to wield distraction & high-fructose hedonism as a scalpel. The populous fatten and tire, their necks crook forward, spines de-evolving into ape-shape. Motivation is thrown into the street and discipline is publicly sodomized.

Night-in. Login. The contents accelerative nature is subversive, quasi-transgressive. The rational and the linear are undermined, K takes Gutenberg out back to be shot. Possibility of conclusion becomes illegal. The press mutates. Vowels erode first, being replaced with emojies and post-meme hieroglyphs. Your thought processes fragment entirely, latching onto bits of data for seconds at a time.

ARE YOU ADDICTED?

(i) excessive use, which may be associated with a loss of sense of time or a neglect of basic drives;

(ii) withdrawal, leading to feelings of anger, tension and/or depression when the computer is in-accessible;

(iii) tolerance, including the need for more advanced computer equipment and software and/or more hours of use;

(iv) negative social repercussions.”

 

“To be everywhere is to be nowhere.” – Seneca

[1] The Shallows – Nicholas Carr, Chapter 7 Pt II:  A Digression On The Buoyancy Of IQ Scores

 

Review: Canned Meat – Soundtrack for Over​-​the​-​Counter Pharmaceuticals

Soundtrack for Over​-​the​-​Counter Pharmaceuticals R E V I E W

Facing eternity within a flesh-based ontology. The sky here a deep static, orchestrated from the past. Pharma-scape exists as a soundtrack prescription to a mundane life.

The unique nature of medicinal stench hits my nostrils, pharmaceutical stores reek of desperation:

Hey Chap, why don’t you get fucked!”

I collapse into a flesh heap and we begin.

I am with the floor, strewn sack of bone-coverings emancipating gallons of vomit-inducing sweat into every aisle. Pillboy climbs onto the counter and spins on one leg, shin-bone freeing itself, firing a flag-dart into my spinal column. Sweat Angels in Bedsheets he repeats over and over and over, increasing in speed, until it blends into delirium, a chaotic mixture of opiate brain-chasm and rust filings…eventual release into a swamp of tinnitus. Floor trembling, hurling chunks of rotten pill-dogs into the cities ventilation shafts. The city sleeps perpetually, in an ever pulsating slumber of hell-dreams. Upon waking the transition is so smooth one knows never where ‘n what ‘n when they are and the drums continue until the your head is ache.

– f l e s h d e s c e n d s – Sun-Ra Spirals – f l e s h d e s c e n d s

Revelry of nomadic om descends from a pill-legume heaven, a transcendent symptomatic malaise covers all. Minor ticks involved within the rare behaviours – they’ll pass with time -, none of this is psycho-somatic, it’s pure pill dictatorship as the static rises into a cacophony of hellish drone-time.

Downwards the effects begin to take place, beginning to rise and fall. Your sweat jumping out and back in, each and every gland attending and expanding for its own nausea. You pile them to the back of your throat as the plastic wrappings melt into a sludge trickling off your teeth, singular affects combining into a distorted enlightenment. And stop. The eye of the storm has malformed beyond comedown into dark-tranquillity, plateau-time is now. A member of the union shouts from afar:

Do you have enough electrolytes boy?”

I return a quip “Ktttssexiphenxetopratenzenzapetsatoladrine! Ine! Adol! Ine!” as each layer of my psyche flickers over the next and under the former, causing dopamine collapse. Each plateau ascending into a higher level of melodic chaos, each second attending to the caustic end of a dirty VHS reel, dragging its tail through pharma-splinters in the hope of death.

Foaming Blood isn’t attending any of your polite shit, as each tooth rots from the root until all that’s left is bone-foam, lunging up from your gums, out of mouth, dissolving floor. Vibrations loosen each socket of your being, until simulacrum of tremble. You’ve been invited to what looks to be a short melody, allowing you to recompose the overdose into a worse structure, you begin to survey the damage, your psyche has been dismantled and workers are feasting on the separation. They’re having a party, with the splayed relic of a collapsed lung as the centrepiece, each singular line is an impossibility, vibration and repetition initiates a confusion in the crowd, rampant idea-incest begins prior to the Hellenistic vomit ritual. Follow the bile-brick road: lines of micro-workers, each holding a white blood cell, dance in perfect time, retching gut drippings into your veins and stems. You’re being remoulded, legs of concrete, head of medication-Jell-O.

A clip of humanity comes through the blood-film atmosphere, its crass nature pauses all efforts of frivolity as we’re taken back to a dead Eden. Dead Eden pretending to care, the chimes made of pill-casings, and the harps assembled from tendons. Eat from the tree, eat from the floor, eat from the snake, for it’s all pharma. We can help you feel how we want you to. A nationalistic repeat covers the world, salutes from all, cover your heart before the mulch it’s become drips out. Rib-ache. – Waiting for the Scalpels to Arrive in the MailThere’s a point in time wherein screams become futile, not because of atmospheric lack, because of pure aural suffocation, a drill like odour hum so violent your widened mouth crumbles, lips melt into one another, flesh decelerates into a pulp-casing.

Allowed subtle reminders of pharma worship, knelt before gates made of ache and crush. The devoted allow their migraines, for hope of pharmaceutical intervention. They beckon and descend down each vein, each slower than the last, your kneel becomes compulsory. Kneel before the great dispenser and pray for a maggot sized helping. Lines of skulls jerk in time, choreographed seizures act as sacrifice. Arms lift themselves, skin brings with it heavy bone, perpetual fracturing. The ground entirely grated metal, to allow for extension seepage. Hell is a repetition never interrupted, a repeat so loud no sound can enter. The great churn begins, knee caps fragment, flying through each orifice. Your entire being is displaced into a welcoming tumour. There’s no layers here, plateau eradication as the perpetual swirl gears in. The dark meditation, allies with the alien Cancer. A job of death. The purpose of an existence is to end another’s. Eternal drug-spiral within an unconscious mass of breathing tissue. Becoming-fever, sweat-session, hallucinogenic-nausea: The Cancer Killing Bees Part II is over:

Rewind the serotonin tape please…ple…pl…”


Canned Meat

Lovecrypt

The Great Bore

Bring forth The Great Bore, an ecstatic hologram projected 20 feet high across a classroom wall, for those teleschooling it’s projected directly into their living room, the audience dull, anaesthetized, their eyelids heavy.

The Great Bore,” the teacher remarks “was a period in history dating from 2012 to [emitted from transcript]”.

The students ears glossed into an aural mainframe, their eyes panning to and fro searching for the next glimmer of excitement, hands in gloves allowing touch from another time, all is incredible, awe-inspiring, technology wrapped around humanity causing thrilling vibrations…and all are bored.

The compressed strains of Western hedonism, complacency and ignorance combine into a virulent mixture of perpetual malaise. The strain is caught easily, thrown into nation upon nation until all that matters is the strongest psychopath. Genuine absorption into knowledge no longer exists, attempts are made to find those who will listen, those who care for the past and for thought, but no such soul lives. Turn your heads left and right, witness the forever-end of the human race, overweight, narcissistic, discipline-lacking husks of being, fawning over their individual screens, messaging nothings back and forth, engorging on the sweetest of goods – “Am I hungry? Or am I just bored?” asks the sweat-laden, breathless hollow-man. Misanthropy heightened for all, and for all no sense of belonging.

The universe wont even throw you its scraps, not even a mere morsel, you beg chaotic zero to give you something for your hunger, but it wants you famished, an animal race deprived of soul-food for eternity. Scattering humans on an apathetic sphere, attempting to scrape up the most minor of events, trying to find their meagre portion of life.

The mass wishes to be freed from this mind-numbing, wage-slavery of nothingness, one minute away from nothing, an event, a moment, some unique instant must exist. The mass that live their lives in mediocrity, neither dumb enough or smart enough for pure-fulfilment. We are the grey matter of life, playing out our time until death, just waiting ‘round.

I would sum up my fear about the future in one word: boring. And that’s my one fear: that everything has happened; nothing exciting or new or interesting is ever going to happen again … the future is just going to be a vast, conforming suburb of the soul.” – J.G.Ballard, Re/Search no. 8/9 (1984)

We’re bearing witness to death of fantasy, wonder and play, examples of the latter that survive only help curate the demise of others. Evolution, adaption and natural selection will all accelerate into the micro. As depression rises, tiredness evolves and we select our mental misadaptation towards the future. You say you’d love a world without work, but just take a second glance into the eyes of the jobless. Those free to do as they please, without financial worry or burden of fatigue, stability and security amount to very little in a world without event. Wondering ceaselessly from entertainment to entertainment, the monotony continues for those without interest. Those without mandatory occupation for survival end up addicted to consumption.

We used to list the amount of terrorist attacks by the year, now we list them by the month. How long will it be until they’re listed by the week, by the day?

“Not a bad few hours, 2 bombings and a shooting.”

Less than 100 deaths is a good day in the future. All extremes pushed to their limit, excitement exists only in further dreams of unique failures. Less than a million people care that we may get to Mars, or that AI might take over. And as the apathy rises, constructions begin not only to dismantle, but to fall off altogether; bring forth the rude, stinking, unpresentable, tyrannous, self-centred, overweight, unemployable, untrustworthy, emotionless and ultimately indifferent human-race. Only worthy of spit and shun.

I’ve seen entertainment beyond imagination, guns shots, explosions and car crashes blend into a static haze of boring filler. I can click into any channel any time, wildest desires in the morning, compilation of misery at lunch and vomit-comps for dinner. I could listen to albums of death metal at full blast and remain exhausted. In a few years I’ll be injecting high fructose corn syrup into my corneas for sweet relief from The Great Bore.

Perhaps Foster Wallace’ posthumous novel The Pale King rang the loudest truth, at least for the coming era:

To be, in a word, unborable…. It is the key to modern life. If you are immune to boredom, there is literally nothing you cannot accomplish”

No wonder so many of us are excited by North Korea vs USA, perhaps the only thing that could possibly break boredom is a nuclear blast.

No one told me acceleration was going to be numbing.

Short Critique of the Left/Right Spectrum

1. The Current Left/Right Political Spectrum.

With regards to politics, the left-right spectrum is a methodological whore. It sells its numb, transparently accessible banality to anyone capable of understanding 2 directions. “He’s lefty scum!” shouts ol’ Barry down the pub, “Well, my my, looks like we have a centrist here ol’ chap.” quips Lord Pithington. Media, lingo and the political system itself have all picked up this linear infant and utilized it for their aims and agendas. They needn’t use other methods such as the compass or Nolan chart for many don’t know of these more detailed instruments, to venture past the ease of Left and Right is to venture into swathes of uninterested shitmunchers, the rabble whose mass will help define the direction, as such, complexity is left at the door.

The terms “Right” and “Left” refer to political affiliations originating early in the French Revolutionary era of 1789–1799 and referred originally to the seating arrangements in the various legislative bodies of France. As seen from the Speaker’s seat at the front of the Assembly, the aristocracy sat on the right (traditionally the seat of honor) and the commoners sat on the left, hence the terms right-wing politics and left-wing politics. – Wikipedia.

Currently both ‘left’ and ‘right’ consist of their own individual grouping of ideologies, movements and economic styles. The left inclusive of Communism, Socialism, Liberalism, Anarchism, equality, progressivism and unionism, whilst the right is inclusive of Conservatism, Monarchism, reactionaries, Fascism, traditionalism and (arguably) Capitalism. I am not putting forth that this is exactly how L/R is, I am saying this is how the majority see the spectrum, as such, it’s where we should focus our attention.

2. Inherent Problems With L/R.

; the shortest schema is the drama (dream or nightmare) of the straight line.” [1]

Who ever thought a compression of fragmented abstractions connected to all modes and systems to a line, would be widely regarded as a good system for discussion. For there to be a coherence within the contemporary definition of L/R we must understand our place within the theatre, with regards to each other and largely within the spatio-temporal. We must understand that L/R is moving, as is time and space, yet there is no synchronization.

Take L/R’s practical origin and watch as it mutates with each passing week. It begins its act within a role it has been cast, within a material space at the time of its birth. On a practical and abstract level all members of the audience knew where they stood, even those not in the room. And so the monarchists found themselves on the right, the commoners to the left. 2 fixed positions finding their meaning in relation to each other, in relation to their time and to their space. Beyond those moments L/R was dragged screaming into a world never intended, as such it became uncanny and out of place, stretched, pulled, manipulated and abused into submission by multiple parties on multiple instances; this poor innocent linearity taken from its temporal home and strewn across humanities dirty history.

A simple analysis of China brings to the surface key problems of criteria and definition. For China is simultaneously Socialist and unabashedly Capitalist in its nature, so where does it find itself on the line? I imagine for many it’s to be found far left, for some a little further to the right, never fixed, always moving, for in reality it is China-present. Do as the majority and view the left as progressive and the right as conservative – the West will love you for it – in-keeping with tradition the left moves into the bright future and the right into the dark past (supposedly), yet what of those who wish to take from the past into the future, where upon the linearity do they lie?

If what Wittgenstein says is true and indeed “A Picture is a fact.”[2] then a ‘snapshot’ is the only mode in which L/R could ever find its feet. It can only stand and explain with shared knowledge of its surroundings and context, all that has come and gone in relation to the snapshot must be bared for the linearity to have any weight. This quiet political line drawn into the present will find itself ever-expanding/shrinking, changing and moving in countless directions and within countless systems; this illusory fixed system stretched thinly over time has only increased confusion and extrapolated misdirection. The same L/R linearity from over 200 years ago is still acidicly caressing contemporary politics, dragging with it all that survived, however small, however large. And so L/R attending from its origin allows itself to fracture and continue for whomever shall bear it: The L/R of a left-winger and the L/R of a right-winger are 2 entirely different spectrums that are supposedly identical.

3. Possible Futures: To Move Away From a Cartesian Political Spectrum.

When I write here of Cartesian, I refer to Cartesian space. If one implies there is in fact a grid upon which one can plot a point, one must make sure that all others are talking of not just the same point but the same grid, once both of these have been identified their positioning must be exact or problems will arise, perpetual disagreements will begin and confusion becomes foundation. This said, all may have the same grid upon which they are plotting their abstract political points, however, where upon that grid they put their point is entirely up to them and is in relation to their personal subjective view of the intensity of said point. If we’re to look at say democracy in the West, one can witness it both getting larger and smaller. For democracy grows in dimension, spreading itself over vaster areas of land, alongside spreading further into micro-communities and businesses, yet at the same time key/primary aspects of democracy grow smaller and constrain (free speech), as such whatever it means to be democratic or to be ‘democracy’ is a point which is at the same time shrinking, enlarging, moving, grabbing from the past, hurling into the future, whilst simultaneously being part of multiple grid-systems and plottings. And so, we have to move away from grid-systems when it comes to politics, unless of course we can somehow make clear the position of a movement on some form of Global grid, inter-connected to all involved.

So, what do we do:

 

CURRENT

 

 

 

 

 

 

CURRENT (INCLUSIVE OF FLOW):

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

POTENTIAL:

 

 

[1] Desert Islands – Gilles Deleuze

[2] Tractatus Logico Philosophicus – Ludwig Wittgenstein

Adulting, Responsibility and Collapse

Humans desire demise, more specifically their demise. It’s been this way forever. The only change is that of type. Which type of demise, collapse or apocalyptic scenario are you lusting for the most? Do you have pathological obsessions about the Black Death 2.0? Perhaps you wish for an exponentially hotter existence? Or is it just one of the classics? Either way, before man can begin any endeavour, inclusive of his own existence, he begins mentally sketching out the minute details of collapse.

 

Collapse: [kuh-laps]

1 :to fall or shrink together abruptly and completely :fall into a jumbled or flattened mass through the force of external pressure

2 :to break down completely :disintegrate

3 :to cave or fall in or give way

4 :to suddenly lose force, significance, effectiveness, or worth

5 :to break down in vital energy, stamina, or self-control through exhaustion or disease

; especially :to fall helpless or unconscious

6 :to fold down into a more compact shape

 

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Albrecht Dürer, 1498.

 

Even those structures that give us warmth and the illusion of safety grew their roots in eschatological forests. You may believe that true Good is to come, and the faithful shall be delivered unto the new era of Good; or Pestilence, War, Famine and Death may ride down and smite the heathen; or cometh the Day of Judgement; the Newton Occult; death of pre-1914. These examples still each a hot ember in the hearts of many, but the embers have burnt out and all but disappeared for others: The 2011 Rapture, When Prophecy Fails, Y2K, 2012, Heaven’s Gate and an apocalypse for every year (almost) have all been revealed as false prophets in the push for the end.

Even if one is to put pure-theological apocalypticism aside, political movements most notably Marxism and Nazism both strived for a state of perfection, and history will show you the results. More’s Amaurot, the Ballardian High Rise, Fordlandia, Drop City, Palmanova and Ordos all micro-failures in the stupefying realm of anthropocentric hope. And if reality wasn’t enough to nourish your end-appetite then why not turn your skinny necks in any direction: Films, novels, TV and some albums have all begun to act as distraction, medication or disclosure in relation to the end-times.

The opposite to collapse is a failure, why? Desire.

We are currently engorging on a feast of human failure and learning exactly fuck all from it. But why learn when one could, if they so wished, avoid the inevitable: For if you have the money and the audacity you may wish to become an ice-pop, a cryogenic test awaiting re-awakening post-collapse; or become literally vampiric and suck blood from the young.

Hey citizen! Scared of the oncoming collapse? Worried about yours and your family’s safety? Then we have 3 options for you:

Prolong: Why not grin ‘n bear it until it’s all gone away.

Avoid: That’s right, we’ll seal you away until the event is over and all is safe.

Health: Why not face the event head on? But at peak physical health and fitness.”

The desire for collapse is hedonistically transparent. This desire, that desire, the one we all yearn for in moments of despair, the encroaching want for removal of responsibility. To watch as the hierarchies crumble, the institutions cease, to witness the destruction of an infantile God, one without after-thought for its residents: The desire for a restart.

That’s what the majority of us believe, the ignorant mass who view the kill switch as a blessing. Oh shit! We fucked up! Better pull the plug! And as you rip the plug from the wall the building comes with it, your family is crushed and your left without skin. You back away screaming with realisation of the truth; a collapse is a restart combined with the cumulative burden of past failures, mistakes and wastes. The realisation that the collapse ‘event’ is embedded within our future, the mandatory single-line journey to demise, and we all have a ticket. Humanity gravitating towards the dead-time of post collapse, where we wonder aimlessly without hope, reason, use or practical purpose. The clean slate of our most narcissistic dreams is already smeared with shit and blood.

You cannot grasp the enormity of the universe and your atomic place within it, the fact that time and the world does not revolve around you. So you fantasize of the end, dreams of a world in which your life may finally have meaning. Suddenly the ‘store’ no longer exists, and so you’re driven back to your animalistic roots. You now exist in a world where survival is meaning. A world which by all accounts sound extremely hostile with regards to a bunch of vidya addicted shut-ins who rarely get up before midday.

The reality is that of a regrettable scat fetish, in which once the shit hits your face, you finally realise you’ve romanticised the hell out of being shat on. And that will be your collapse.

I’m getting ever closer to the point wherein my posts no longer need a ‘Why?’ as to their creation, that said, the seed that spawned this apocalyptic assemblage was a piece of terminology: Adulting. A term which repeatedly appears within the feeds and threads of left-wingers and liberals – often quite famous ones. For those that don’t know the meaning of this toxic signifier, here is a description. Inclusive of housework, booking appointments, cooking, cleaning etc., basically, it signifies doing practical jobs needed to survive in a world where survival is secondary. Don’t keep your house tidy? Oh well, untidy house for you. Can’t be bothered to cook? Just head to a take-out. Each and every need is catered for you by a third party, you sold out your nature to the cheapest bidder.

The term implies an inherent contradiction within society. For there’s a clear desire for a restart, and a very clear message that we’d have no fucking clue how to. For those who’ve yet to read David Korowicz’ Trade Off, read it.. A succinct 80 page paper on global systemic collapse, with its primary focus on economic connections. To compress this miserable delight, in short: The economy runs roughly off singular companies/groups doing singular tasks. Tasks which are then connected via multiple means to their next stage. This form of connection runs across all modes of economics, transaction, trade, travel etc. For example:

The farmer who grows the potatoes, knows not how to dispatch them to multiple retailers. And neither does the retailer know how to grow potatoes on a large scale.

So, put precisely, you remove one of these singular moments and all of a sudden the system risks collapsing in on itself, due to a diversified ignorance:

The implication being either, everyone is seriously reliant on the previously made, or, in a darker more post-Hobbesian turn, those who do-not-know are reliant on those-who-know. Don’t know how to grow food? Cook? Clean? I’ll show you, at a price. Work for me, or die.

The concern of post-collapse society will not be ‘How to Re-build’ but ‘How to (did we) Build.’. Ultimately it will be how to take responsibility entirely for oneself. The underlying problem with the term ‘adulting’ and the culture that surrounds it is the refusal to grow up: If one is Adult-ing there’s an implication that the person in question is a child. And what comes with childhood is a lack of acceptance with regards to mortality, structure and responsibility. ‘Adulting’ is the lie that one can truly bear responsibility without sacrifice.

If one is to look for other reasons as to why conservatism and right-wing political thought is gaining traction with youth, they need look no further than what it is the right-wing sells: responsibility. The disrespectful chaos of the left ultimately leads nowhere, and now more than ever the chaos has become physically emboldened by the ‘paradise time-islands’ that are Universities. And so when the young are surrounded by nothing but disenfranchisement, disrespect and blame, those who are sensible look for the groups taking the full force of the burden, those owning up to having to deal with the problem – whatever it may be – themselves. Those saying you can be part of something, as opposed to a free-floating identity in a sporadically pulsating political mess. Those who fully admit that to be part of something one will have to bear some weight, yet the alternative is simply to brush off the slightest piece of liability immediately.

And when the time cometh that society need be rebuilt, one shall find hordes of middle-aged ‘adults’ whining at the reality before them. One shall find refusal of cooperation, responsibility or practical burden combined with irony, sass and general irreverence en masse.

Considering my No Driver at the Wheel list contained ‘Stop Being Pathetic’, and the above post relies on one becoming practical I’ve added a few links and resources:

PRACTICAL ADVICE FOR AN ADULT:

HOW TO LIVE LIKE A KING FOR VERY LITTLE – THOR HARRIS

Jordan Peterson – The Tragic Story of the Man-Child

Jordan Peterson – Responsibility

Stop messing with your sleep – Download f.lux

No More Zero Days

Fitness

Build Muscle


FURTHER:

UtopiaThomas More

The Modern UtopianRichard Fairfield

The Hot Zone Richard Preston

Straw DogsJohn Gray

High RiseJ.G.Ballard

UtopiaChannel 4 (TV)

Idiocracy (Film)

The New World (Film)

On Idle Chatter

 

In writing my posts I realised there is at least objectively one thing I always strive to free myself from: Idle chatter, or idle talk. chit chat, banter, gossip, tittle-tattle, small talk etc. Actually, that last one is extremely apt. The talk of the small. I’d extend that to the talk of the most utterly boring, vapid, narcissistic, Z-Virus ridden shit-munchers.

The idle chatter I talk of is indeed inclusive of the most basic chit-chat, that of the weather, or ‘how one is doing?’ etc., those care-free seconds when faced with a retail employee both parties believe has to be filled. What a dreadful world to have to live in, where each and every mutual silence others feel compelled to fill.

 

Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.”

Samuel Beckett

It should be obvious to the reader as to why talking, as an act, is of such importance. The local and often global act of verbally spreading a message. This is often incredible when the message in itself is sincere, well-formulated, based off previous principles and is formed next to integrity, yet within the realms of idle chatter this is not so. For those 2 old ladies chatting in the queue who merely repeat information they’ve happened to hear to one another is…nothing, for the kids at school to repeat a news story and also repeat the ‘opinion’ is in itself a travesty. This simple act of unloading the ‘weight’ of information from one to another is something entirely lacking in structure. Free-floating tit-bits of information and knowledge dragged screaming from context or source, are remove from their rooted structure and thrown around aimlessly, often to simply fill a void of awkwardness; when one talks idly the possibility for conviction is taken out back and shot.

Not only this, but the lame project of idle chatter inherently decimates active thinking, opinion and thought. One can understand the picture of Corbyn, Trump or North Korea given to them in full, however detailed or vague that picture is, yet if they don’t actively mould that picture with their own tools, they are useless. Make it your own – however marginally – or shut the fuck up.

Anything can be dragged in, anything can be shat out. And none of it matters. No idle chatter matters, or will ever matter. For it was all born from the numbing spew of an idle brain and unrestrained mouth; if no thought or structure has gone into what’s being said, if what is currently audible has not been acted upon within the mind, then, in short, it’s human-static. The static of human life, the point in which all our advances: biological and technological, leave us momentarily as we become fearful of silence. Within a world in which all moves exponentially towards some undefinable ‘event’, moments of silence almost feel illegal. And so those who live in fear of social etiquette, awkwardness and the uncomfortable become slaves to their short term memory, and kick their idle motor into over-drive:

 

God forbid,

I live in silence

for just a second.

Hey Gary, did yo u he re ab out Sarah?

God forbid,

That nothingness lasts

for just a breath.

Gary h e s ting Steven.”

God forbid,

The original to come forth

and the existential to lay its root.

An y way man I’ll let you g t on.”

God forbid,

I live without approval,

or without ease of the day.

Oh my. I ‘ s raining. Again.”

God forbid,

I examine or intrigue.

What a miserable day.”

God forbid,

That I think.

 

The internet has become useful in eradicating idle chatter. The idea of saying ‘hey’, ‘hello’ or ‘how are you?’ before tweeting or commenting is absurd. That’s not to say there’s anything wrong with asking ‘how are you?’ only that, if one is going to ask such a question they should have an actual interest in the answer. Which leads me to my main problem with idle chatter: The answers don’t matter. What is asked, said and repeated never matters, these people are just filling a void because they are uninteresting and haven’t a unique thought in their bodies.

2 overweight zombies in the retail queue feel compelled to open their top holes, for silence has come. What falls out is tit ‘n tat, ‘n lil’ bits of shitty gas, this odd hot air that I must back away from. Certain words break through the desensitized-mesh: Weather, doctors, you, me, I, want, need, have. Before long each word fragments into the next and my hearing draws deeper into my head, my vision locks onto the nearest point of interest and I’m taken into a place of deadened static. The sounds of the zombies is a low buzz, my blood no longer works.

I look into the street and a thin man with tar for skin looks at me, smiling. His teeth are made from keys. He’s cleared the street. Before him, knelt, are integrity, wonder, intrigue, examination and awe. He says: “Don’t worry bucko, I’ll slaughter the other synonyms later.” And with that they all die. Quietly, slowly, a most unusual death, one in which the judged appear to be alive, yet aren’t, their skin goes grey, and they can no longer talk, as if their minds are witness to their own death repeatedly.

 

In fact, this can be the 6th addition to my ‘structure list’ from No Driver:

1. Leave irony and cynicism at the door.

2. Allow for maximum human enquiry.

3. Exit as first priority.

4. Rhizomatic conservatism.

5. Don’t be pathetic.

6. No Idle Chatter

Review: Nishiki Prestige – XOXO

The factory of LOVECRYPT came to me via the incessant malaise of ‘Weird Twitter™”. A basic-bitch search for fresh music isn’t going coax it into appearance. It disturbed my interests due to its extrovert leanings on the esoteric, political & philosophical. – “Who taught you how to write about music?”

No one. But I jus’ listened to that there XOXO by Nishiki Prestige, and I sure as h-hell wanna dish my digits into the keyboard, see what falls out, you know?”

“nO one will hire you.”

“HELLO! And welcome to the album review for Nishiki Prestige’s XOXO, an album put out by LOVECRYPT FREQUENCIES. And boy oh boy oh boy, we have one hell of an album for you. Help help.”

To digest the few remaining ashes of music journalism, tasty little titbits of shit. The problem here being that the factory-esque vision of marching k-ants divulged by XOXO’s first track 10 Years has seduced me into a rotten disorientation. Thrown into an insta-nostalgia for a future within its own creation; I’m witnessing a labour-march, an assembly line.

 

And When Grew Up Way Too Fast climbs down, the disorientation diversifies into chasmic slows and rises; the birth of constant beginnings, every halt ‘n jerk is a possibility for another circuit and direction, towards another musical commodity. And this creative spasmodic zombie rides high into Haunted Stars hounding with it large areas of tonality and pressure, both of which are teased continuously; a melodic form of stress. The first of many tracks in which the past is captured and held in the background, seeping through when the pipe occasionally bursts: retro-static bulges and nostalgic urges of known music appear.

Let me tell you this boys ‘n girls. The whole damn thing is like Burrough’s dirty K-offspring. A big ol’ fancy pants article, that could well be non-linear. Deleuze would say oh boy maybe they just well damn get it.”

The fragmentary consumer aspect of Apply to Broke Skin shifts inwards. Commodified medical plasters for the album itself, cornerstones of thought – Zizek on ACC – key themselves in. But not before we’re told to Celebrate good times, Celebrate Accelerate good times. The mandatory cause for Acc-celebration is the Acceleration itself. All is immanent.

The night-circuit science fictions surrounding Zuckerberg come to life in a hyper-circus named Zuck Theme, where the fun is but a simulation – we’re all on this programmed holiday. The relaxation accelerates. A harder relaxation for a premium member! The fun gets better! Just prior to the k-collapse as the test ends. Holiday-terminated.

The mellow tick-work of human flesh, its evaporation. Its comfort.

The slow embrace of a singular heroic hum. Melting into acidic launchpad.

 

“I like fast music.”

Julie, would you agree that one could say…if they so wished, that the grandiose themes utilized in this sporadic album would seem arrogant when used elsewhere, but here, amongst the disjointed quasi-hedonism of acceleration, they become gentle reminders of history eating itself?”

Oh Jonathan, I would agree, but I hate your filthy gut smell.”

 

Downtime was never invented as we hurl another into the grind. K-Goth. Those textural relics once seeping through are subsumed into consumerist submission just as quickly as they’re re-written, re-packaged and sold. Cybermemory is failing. Amongst Lifetime of Grey Skies one believes, that maybe, oh just maybe, there was someone onboard who could impersonate a pilot, because this sure is a friendly minute or so. But that lack returns – in Baby, If You Come that need for something revelling in its cyber-vitality, that acidic pinch of the fresh-take ad infinitum.

 

And the guidebook says: N O S T A L G I A FOR TOMORROW: no hope for today.

 

An attempt, I think dear audience, at articulation of the fact that acceleration is not synonymous with speed, and holds its real purpose and eventual terminal-degree in reformulation.”

 

Imagine a piece of data facing its eventual death, breathing its last. – I’ll Be There For You.

 

Future is a Machine would work well as a traditional end, but there’s no end to acceleration!”

 

* applause *

AND OH christ. It’s all capital R real and the rag ended cyber-guts trail off into this ephemeral, anti-tranquil hellscape. And as we sit arm in arm, hand in hand, bearing witness to the consumer horizon overtaking humanity, an aural assemblage of all that was provides the soundtrack to our demise.


 

A link/player to Nishiki’s album can be found below, along with various other relevant links:

Lovecrypt Twitter

Nishiki Prestige Twitter

Meta-Nomad Twitter