META-NOMAD

Ivan’s Childhood

“War is no place for children.”

 

Ivan’s Childhood sits as a blueprint for Tarkovsky’s career, with an idea towards accessible spirituality and metaphysics, towards the il y a and dread of existence. One strikes one foremost, as with any Tarkosky film is the imagery, a sublime mixture of intensly humane images, contrasted with striking, quasi-abstract death-imagery.

Ivan, a 12 year old Russian boy, whose family, we learn, has been killed. He had joined a partisan group and had attempted to cross the front line into Soviet territory. He is captured by the Soviets and installed into the war effort, his small physique and swiftness his beneficial attributes. A stoic and contrarian boy, a boy pushed temporally into the realm of man prematurely, allowed access into a chaotic masculine space before one should be. His attitude allows him to fit in.

Ivan’s dreams are interspersed througout the film, the viewers gut directed towards near overdrive as one forgets Ivan’s childhood, accepting the film’s plot as truth-of-the-matter, normality forgotten, for peace cannot exist in wartime as such neither can the innocence of childhood. For a directorial debut one quickly realises Tarkosky is working from a different plane, one where the hidden, the shadowed and the mist no longer exist as a limitrophe, but are brought to the fore and Ivan’s present emotions are laid bare; amongst the half-lit swamp, the suffocation underground and the rumble of flares overhead. Which each glowing terror a moment in Ivan’s future is destroyed, physically, metaphorically and metaphysically, which each act of violent-self a piece of childhood cannot happen.

Ivan attempts to cross the river, back from where he came, an attempt at the impossible, attempt to become what one was, to erase the past. As such Ivan becomes lost in the swamp, in the mist, in the gases and gunfire. We are to find out about his fate in the final scenes of the film. As the Third Reich is overthrown, papers on the floor of an ex-Nazi government building show that Ivan was hanged. We are shown the room of execution. And then cut to a dream, Ivan playing a child’s game on a tranquil beach, all the while a dead tree sits waiting, amongst the frollics and fun there lies the metaphysicl truth of the matter, the childhood lost, tainted and never returned.

Tarkovsky seems me a director one should begin at the beginning with, one shouldn’t start with his magnum opus’ as I feel the emotion and imagery may in fact be too much, it may seem kitsch almost, when in reality it is the utmost calculated spirit and mystery. All Ivan knows is war, without hope of a childhood, born into war and his life is of war. Violence, horror and survival is all he knows and in certain respects all he will (now) ever know, a life scolded by the war. A tension between a sweet yet dangerous nostalgia – that of what is childhood is meant to be – and the reality he is within. Nostalgic dreams become nightmares; the impossibility of normality is true horror. Ivan’s loss is pure, dead loss, a side may have won, but no -ism, -opia or -ology can redeem the death of a child. A vacuum of meaning where there should be enjoyment exists in the total now, it has happened and as such the celebrations at the end of the film fall flat; Somebody won, it has ended, he is dead, hate is no-more…but what of our Ivan? What of a child? This can seem to be empty sentiment, the typical “Think of the children!”, but Tarkosky’s presentation of such a statement retrieves it from its mutation as something used. No longer are we to think of the children as a thought to get us to act, we are presented with the children, the innocence, but we are presented with a narrative complete, as such we are simply to witness what has been and attempt to learn. Ivan was gone as soon as he heard the first bomb fall.

Ivan is mad, that is a monster; that is a little hero; in reality, he is the most innocent and touching victim of the war: this boy, whom one cannot stop loving, has been forged by the violence he has internalised.” – Jean Paul Sartre (http://people.ucalgary.ca/~tstronds/nostalghia.com/TheTopics/Sartre.html)

Arrival – Heidegger, Levinas and Fatalism.

Arrival  – Dir, Denis Villeneuve. 2016.

 

I used to think this was the beginning of your story. Memory is a strange thing, it doesn’t work like I thought it did. We are so bound by time, by its order.” – Louise Banks

 

Denis Villeneuve’s Arrival is as gentle as a Kubrickian film is ever going to get. Overbearing stoicism, captured in wide shots and a general sense of seclusion and alienation, one is not so worried about the aliens as a potential for hostility, but if this will actually change anything, one feels for the earth. Whatever this is, it is already above the idea of humans vs aliens, it is beyond the horizon, into a dark unknown, an unknown even those who travel through space and (potentially) time cannot enter.

Amy Adams as linguist Louise Banks, who we see from the beginning has lost a daughter to cancer, in a flashback overcast with the idea of a dream made, then destroyed. The news comes in, as it always does and always will, aliens have landed…finally? It seems this way to Banks, who is nonchalant to the news, it’s clear to the viewer nothing could overthrow the hand life gave her, she cares not for the one dealt to the world. She’s asked by the government to use her skills as a linguist to communicate with the aliens. At the army camp, situated next to the ‘landed’ ship, she meets Ian Banks, a physicist, whom she has a relevant love interest with. I feel in the case the word ‘alien’ cheapens the detail and nuance applied to this film’s extraterrestrial, who I feel are at opposition to hostility, one has a sense of fright and worry, the extraterrestrials understand they are the strangers. Which at once gives the viewer the feeling of unease, who here is the authorative ‘species’ or genus, the hierarchy has been dissembled, we are at threat together.

The aliens or ‘heptapods’ landed in an oval pebble type ship, as high a skyscraper, yet gentle on the landscape, not too authoritative, not cold nor warm, there, still and settled.

The heptapods reside in there ship, within a lit room filled with what seems to be steam or smoke, separating them and the humans is, I guess, the heptapod equivalent to glass, the humans the other side, in their own large room…which is only illuminated with light from the heptapod side, and their own feeble technology (Glow sticks, lights etc.)

The heptapods bring a new illumination, one humans are only just becoming aware of, a world anew; and so the task begins of how to communicate. The illumination in a sense is post-Platonic, our minds are no longer the only source. Illumination of the Other? Or has the horizon simply ‘moved’. The Levinasian illumination (Existence and Existents) is inverted, the possibility and potentiality of hostility from light, a physical manifestation of uncanny-sense. We supplied the light to our own world for so long, and now an-Other supplies a new light, one that can go beyond our ‘known’ horizons, through time and temporality.

And so the task begins of how to communicate. The heptapods communicate via what seems to be 3-dimensional rings of smoke, the meaning of which change via the subtleties of the shape. Banks begins to understand the language as something which addresses time, addresses temporality, eventually leading her to understand that it can help one understand and view their individual history and future directly, a language that can take one within their history, within their future, within their time. A language in-keeping with Martin Heidegger’s theory of historicality:

[Death] is only the ‘end’ of Dasein; and, taken formally, it is just one of the ends by which Dasein’s totality is closed round. The other ‘end’, however, is the ‘beginning’, the ‘birth’. Only that entity which is ‘between’ birth and death presents the whole which we have been seeking… Dasein has [so far] been our theme only in the way in which it exists ‘facing forward’, as it were, leaving ‘behind’ all that has been. Not only has Being-towards-the-beginning remained unnoticed; but so too, and above all, has the way in which Dasein stretches along between birth and death. (Being and Time 72: 425).

Thus, Dasein, a being such as a human, one which can interrogate its own being is at all times behind its past, and ahead of its future. We are pushing our past, correcting and changing our experience with knowledge of our past, and attending to our past with direction towards possibilities of the future. So the language of the heptapods is a practical manifestation of Heideggerian historicality, praxis-language.

The film doesn’t however, extrapolate on whether the language is in favour of will, or is in fact fatalistic. The ending allows the viewer the knowledge that Louise Banks has seen her future, and that in fact the flashback at the beginning was a flashforward, and at ‘current’ she is witnessing her future, the one she will have with Ian, whom she met whilst working with the heptapods, they will marry, have a child, divorce, and the child shall die of an incurable disease. She decides to stay with Ian despite knowledge of her future, thus can she now – via heptapod language usage – change her future? Improve her relationship with Ian, have the child at a different time so it may potentially avoid the disease. It’s unclear whether at the beginning she (potentially) subconsciously knows of her future – this would be a possibility within the logic of the film.

These questions are classic philosophical questions, those of freewill, free-choice, determinism and fatalism, are our actions our own? Yet the questions are asked via a Heideggerian framework, one in which language is employed as spatio-temporally free-floating, existing outside of physics. A pure metaphysical language. A Heideggerian language of historicality, applied via a Levinasian ‘extraction’:

Moreover, the very fact that a painting extracts and sets aside a piece of the universe and brings about, in an inwardness, the coexistence of worlds that are mutually alien and impenetrable, has already a positive esthetic function.” (Existence & Existents, Emmanuel Levinas, p48)

Usually it is only that of a physical ‘spatio-temporal’ object that can extract from culture, physically that is, an idea etc, an object such as a painting or poem or film carries with it a sense of time, an individual-time. The language of Arrival and that of the heptapods is the extraction of time from a fixed linearity, it is a language to remove the shackles, the individual’s time becomes economic, theirs. Though if the language is, as the film’s linearity would have us believe, fatalistic, then the language is but a curse, we can view our future and do nothing about it? A world learning of their unchangeable futures is a paradox in itself. To teach a class of students how to utilize heptapod language to view their future, would be to teach a class of linguistics students their future’s look very bleak, many of them will die and suffer loss, and will want to change their future, as such, the language only be a tool, a gift, a means to alter one’s future.

The heptapods act as the symbolic manifestation of a transcendental understanding of Heideggerian thought, an understanding in which one can transcend human limitations, break free of deterministic shackles.

Afterword: There is of course the argument that the heptapod language would be part of one’s ‘preset’ path, as such determinism still stands outright, the language may only act as the ability for larger states of flux within a preset horizon.

Dark Futurology 1.0

 

Future studies or, Futurology is the study of possible, probable and preferable futures; emphasis on preferable. At its heart is an undeniable bias towards the probability of a utopian vision of the future, one filled with Universal Basic Income (UBI), taxed automation, friendly AI and in general an emphasis on the future working for us, and not us working for the future; whatever it turns out to ‘be’.

 

Dark Futurology is the study of possible and probable futures also, yet is somewhat more realistic in its application of historical knowledge up until now, analysing dystopian trends and the possibility that the future may not be the World of Tomorrow we all wanted. That automation may become merely a larger, even more controllable and efficient means of production for businesses without society creating alternatives for those whose jobs are lost, AI may hate our guts, UBI may never come, and perhaps we’ll be cooking rat tales on top of PC ventilation panels in a car park, whilst bacteria sized computation devices erase the potential for emotion.

 

This will be a hellish-assemblage of quotes, facts and jottings in relation to the idea of Dark Futurology.

Industry only hires people because the possibility for affordable automation within their industry isn’t possible yet.

“This system will keep installing more and more automation cutting down on the purchasing power of the majority of people. It’s not China or India taking our jobs away the machine has beaten the man. There will come a time called the Gaussian curve where employment is that [flat], production is this [up] and purchasing power is that [down]. The system stops.” – Jacque Fresco

“In new supermarkets what used to be 30 humans, is now 1 human overseeing 30 cashier robots.” – CGP Grey

Automated cars could account for 70 million jobs. Humans are 1/3 of the cost of the majority of businesses. Bots that learn how to make bots, with a learning rate so much vaster than that of a human.

“The FBI has been able to covertly activate a computer’s camera — without triggering the light that lets users know it is recording — for several years,” – The Washington Post

“There was of course no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment. How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual wire.”1984

Replace 90% of humans, see a 250% increase in production.

The common idea of a linear form of progression for the human race is inherently flawed. A trajectory of progression skewed by technological advances; potentially not skewed, more engulfed and made entirely inferior. The Black Mirror of screens has become a light of which we are the moth. Techno-optimists who believe AI will be their friend, they’ll sit back and watch the work, without any disruption to flux of their thrown-privilege.

As such millennials will be the first generation to lose jobs to automation. Good. AI will finally set us free from menial, mundane and repetitive labour, a life spent serving people goods, or emptying bins isn’t the best kind of life; nothing against these workers of course (I am one myself), but those who say they ‘enjoy’ their work are simply lying to themselves, they most definitely would rather be doing something else…”Would you work here for free if it was a possibility?”

The real question is, can we program automated-retail-robots to have miserable tone-of-voices, dreadful posture, hourly existential crises, dry-robot-skin, awful re-charging habits etc.

The possibility of bionic-transplants, DNA customization, life-prolong, etc. and the possibility that these will only be available to those who can afford them.

Google’s AI software that’s learning how to make AI software.

Humans must merge with machines, or simply become irrelevant.

 

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MEET YOUR MINIMUM WAGE REPLACEMENT – WELCOME: IPAD.

 

MAY I TAKE YOUR ORDER?

 

BEG FOR SCRAPS OF YOU WILL STARVE

 

PLEASE TURN OFF ALL RECORDING EQUIPMENT BEFORE ENTERING

 

METADATA LASTS FOREVER

 

“WELCOME TO ‘STORE’, YOU LAST ENTERED HERE: 3 DAYS, 4 HOURS, 24 MINUTES, 38 SECONDS AGO.”

 

“THERE’S AN ITEM YOU WILL LIKE DOWN AISLE 7″

 

STORE CLOSED DUE TO EMP

 

MICRO-DRONE SWARM AT 9AM

 

PROFILE UPDATE DNA INJECTION AT 11AM

 

HOLLOW BOT CULL AT 1PM – REMINDER TO BACKUP DOMESTIC ‘PET’ MEMORIES.

 

SPYWARE UPDATE 3PM

 

SEX-BOT UPGRADES/DOWNGRADES 9PM

 

FOR THOSE OUTSIDE VR: DIE

 

DECEASED EMAIL OWNERSHIP AUCTIONS PUSHED FORWARD BY 1 WEEK

 

END

 

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Facebook: The Virtual Panopticon

TO BEGIN:

We all know the necessities by now: Zuckerberg’s being himself in ’04 and as such taps into the narcissism of contemporary culture, something I can’t imagine was all too hard for ol’ Zuck. And thus, our beloved Facebook was created. The social media, the one that did it all, the one that got it ‘right’. LinkedIn has a sense of professionalism not in-keeping with everyday tittle-tattle, Myspace sported a clunky design and customization abilities appealing to teenagers and there was also Bebo…

2008 Sees the site hit 100 million users, 2009: 300 million, 2010: 400 million, 2011: 800 million, and on and on until this very second in which the count sits at roughly 1.79 billion members [1] (Note: There are only 7 billion people on the planet). These statistics are nothing new, nothing surprising, we all know of Facebook, of its social scope, how could we not?  I feel this introduction could be skipped entirely, I’m not here to toot Facebook’s horn, the facts are within reach- literally – everyday, Facebook is unavoidable, it seeps into everything, finding a means in all interaction. Communication and connection are its opiate and it only seeks to abuse.

 

1. FACEBOOK & PERSONALITY

In terms of one’s personality Facebook is like a secondary ego, latching onto the primary and feeding from it, a malignant narcissistic cyst that’s threatening to burst if it’s not fed. Don’t get me wrong, I understand that millennials, and well, literally anyone who isn’t a baby-boomer it seems has had the narcissist label thrown at them at some point, and there is such a thing as narcissistic personality disorder, however this section briefly concentrates on narcissism as a kind of social factor instead of any pre-determined chemical/biological factor.

Narcissist: A person who as excessive interest in or admiration of themselves.

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with self-care, or pride in one’s achievements, however there is something wrong when a person’s entire perspective is completely solipsistic, a key characteristic of narcissists in their instrumental and often manipulative use of social relationships, friendships and communication as a means for an ego boost. What greater tool to have in your arsenal if these are your aims than a literal repository of interaction and information about everyone in your immediate and often not-so immediate surroundings: encyclopaedic manipulation. To understand someone on a material level prior to ever meeting them, to be able to list their favourite films and movies, to virtually witness the events of their last weekend, to create a means to an end for your own personal gain without ever having to get to know someone.

Why bother though, right? I mean it’s clear to see that the status you spent all of 5 minutes composing has been ‘liked’, you have been validated, a confirmation that you have done something and other people have seen it, liked it, witnessed it, you are the one, you are alive, you are here. Of course, the curve begins. It was 5 likes yesterday why not 10 today? Person X liked something akin this last week why not this week? We must be interesting always. Of course, all this activity only ends up in a sort of self-congratulatory loop:

Person X feels the need for attention so posts a status. Said status is liked and person X feels validated, thus believe what they must offer is of interest. Person X continues to post and as such more and more people feel they need to ‘get-in’ on person X’s popularity etc. etc.

This loop can be backed with data from Brunel University, which can be found here.

Also, researchers at Western Illinois University found a direct link between disruptive forms of social narcissism and high Facebook ‘friend counts: here

I think perhaps it’s all too easy to comment on the very transparent notions of narcissism and vanity in regards to social media, perhaps it would be a little more meaningful to extrapolate as to why this may be the case. In ‘reality’ when we like things we feel no need to validate our claims, unless of course we are trying to impress someone or some-company – much like you would on Facebook- perhaps one will drink something they find disgusting in an attempt to seem sophisticated, or they will tactfully place a copy of War & Peace on their dining table before their friends arrive, other than these rather silly occasions generally speaking, if you like something, you just like it and get on with it, if you think about the entirety of the things you like, it’s mind boggling, the unfathomable amount of activities and materials that are better than neutral yet we never really feel the need to comment on them, so why on Facebook? Social proof, maybe? Social status? Or perhaps these opinions and ‘likes’ are merely weapons in a virtual social game: Whoever can accumulate the most likes wins! They’re the most popular!

Of course, for those who are not part of the ‘narc’ crowd, the opposite is entirely true. They sit and witness how little friends they have, how little likes they have. A structure built to make you feel connected only makes you feel more alone and sad. Daily, you witness everyone supposedly having the time of their lives, and you believe it to be true, every meal everyone else is having is incredible, everyone’s laughing all the time. Of course, once again this is not the case, people only upload and post the best bits of their day, you’re seeing a best of reel, mundane moments filtered to make them seem divine, a shot of a salami baguette so saturated it has become neon, inspirational quotes, cute pics, uncanny smiles and in general an entire collage of the false and fake. I don’t know about the lives of those of you reading this, but I’m willing to believe that those very people who post inspirational quotes about being free are themselves very shy and work menial jobs, those who post selfies are insecure and anxious. The user’s profile is the creation of a desire, a desire which can only become reality for others, a harmful one at that. You sculpt and perfect your profile to seem as if everything in your life is going exactly how you want it to, you know it not to be true and the effort to keep up the charade becomes greater, and the anxiety and paranoia felt by those who see your ‘perfect’ life also becomes greater, and so, both sides of the same simulacrum feel empty and lost, and are left wandering “How come my lift isn’t actually like that?”

Think about it: there is no experience you’ve had that you were not at the absolute centre of. The world as you experience it is right there in front of you, or behind you, to the left or right of you, on your TV, or your monitor, or whatever. Other people’s thoughts and feelings have to be communicated to you somehow, but your own are so immediate, urgent, real – you get the idea.” – David Foster Wallace – This is Water

 

2. PRIVACY

I’ll keep this technical stuff brief, it’s easy to research and relatively transparent.

In recent years Facebook, has been utterly scalded publicly for its privacy policy, yet…no one cares, everyone (that is 1.79 billion people) are entirely fine with the fact that their ‘private’ data and images are being being sold off to third party companies, so they can bring you personalised adverts to make you feel even more alone and anxious than you already were.

Need examples:

  1. Signing a two-year deal with MasterCard to access user data, as to uncover behavioural insights which of course can be sold on. [1]
  2. Facebook’s ‘real name’ policy [2]
  3. Third Party Platforms (apps) having the ability to connect to your Facebook account.
  4. Facebook accounts publicly listed on sites such as Yahoo and Google.
  5. Facebook literally monitors your internet browsing [3]
  6. Scanning people’s personal photos [4]

Alongside theses there’s: Buying WhatsApp and combining the data with FB, collecting data about self-censorship, ‘considering’ collecting cursor movements, automatic facial recognition, systems in place to deduce information and the list goes on and on.

Facebook is one of the primary reasons the “but I’ve got nothing to hide argument” has become so prevalent. In short, the argument is that it doesn’t really matter if we’re spied on, because we’ve got nothing to hide. I imagine the average FB user doesn’t have anything to hide, however, that doesn’t automatically give them the right to pry. Yes, pictures of cats and dinners are extremely uninteresting and are of no real concern, the problem being, they’re my pictures, or they’re your pictures and as such only you should be able to say what can and cannot be done with them, unless of course your express permission is given first.

 

3. ACTOR = AUDIENCE

Within the confines of Facebook one is simultaneously the actor and the audience, a monkey, who’s life has become a mere product for a global corporate. Your dainty trip to the beach with you dear ol’ Aunty is no longer memory, it is transformed via your own self-interest into a malignance sent against you. One cannot truly experience anything if they are doing so via a 5-inch screen. The memory you would have attained has become mere fodder for a machinic media, the wind and the breeze become pixels and likes.

You are a performer, supposedly by choice, you truly believe every action you take, everything you do people sincerely care about, to like, to like, to like, repeatedly in the hope of a return. There’ll never be enough you know? There’s never going to be a point wherein your account is done, you reached terminal likes. You wrote that status which calmed every self-centred urge in your body, the machine will feed on you until your food’s gone cold and the filters eventually fade. People who genuinely care about you would want you to experience your life. In his recent show Make Happy Bo Burnham said this:

I know very little about anything, but I do know this: that if you can live your life without an audience, you should do it.”

I believe he’s entirely correct, don’t seek validation, seek genuine experience. Seek out the possibility to enjoy something entirely on your own, or with another, seek a memory that can never be owned or bought. No amount of third party interruption, programming or algorithmic tweaking can ever replicate the feeling you had. To truly rebel against social media, one must have a wholly sincere experience independent of societal pressure

 

4. VIRTUAL PANOPTICON

A Panopticon is a type of prison or institutional building, originally designed by social theorist Jeremy Bentham. The idea being that the design allows all inmates of the prison to be observed by a single watchmen or guard, without the in mates ever building able to tell if they are being watched. Of course, a single watchman cannot observe all the cells at once, however prisoners must act as if they are being watched as it is a possibility.

The metaphor applies itself all too well to Facebook, the average user is aware of his or her 100 maybe even 1000 plus friends, aware that they are there being watched and there to be watched, always there, the possibility to act, act positively, negatively, despite something or instead of something, your opinion is no longer your own, you’re weighing it up against the communal expectations in fear of being ostracized from your immediate community. The watchman is all and you’re included. Behaviour regulated by a social body in constant flux and to act out of line is to alert the watchman.

A paranoia of sharing, we are creators, guards, watchmen and judges all in a single blow, for to judge is to create opinion, to create is to be judged, a realm of self-affirmation and virtual-schizophrenic-attitudes. Users are constantly perspiring, either figuratively or literally, status’ planned for the ‘correct’ time of day, the company you keep and the food you eat shall all be observed, the call of the lost generation was “I am here! I am here!” yet within an echo chamber no one can find each other. The cells seem entirely your own, at first they appeared exploratory, I get to experience this world with others, you loved the fact you could see other’s cells, yet in fact you could not, you could only see what they wanted you to see and you believed it to be true.

You eventually forget you ever volunteered to enter here, that’s right, it was your choice to come here and sit in the cell, dank, dark and full of perpetual, unattainable desire. The watchman is only needed as long as there are prisoners, the prisoners shall only remain as long as they believe they are being watched.

No one is watching you or your life as vehemently as you are. The only person waiting for you to make a mistake or trip up is you. Everyone is a prisoner, everyone is a guard.

Capitalism & the Undead P3: Invest in Death

LAND OF THE DEAD (2005)

Zombies-become-factual, a part of everything, worming their way into history. Media, life and the undead merge into a slurring chimera. Walls are utilized for a single purpose, as their half snapped bones grind against the concrete, shins slide upwards into architectural-hate.

“There’s not time for funeral arrangements…
…cites are under siege.”

A new form of consumerist-reason is born, those that buy are correct, consuming is right, material is justice, awoken from a glitter-free slumber into a mass. The false-designs of tinkering idols blueprint the direction of a gut-hungry collect. One can’t make sense of a world they themselves own, the alive meander to-and-fro, wandering for their purpose.

Meaning becomes even more fleeting in the face of the undead, whose meaning is so clear, to feed, to eat and consume, only. A world created only to be deconstructed into miniature versions of itself, a little plastic-earth, blended into a fine powder and cast into nothingness.

Fireworks flying high, their bright lights gather the hoards into an indecipherable static. The noise, the dynamism, the tunes, the colours all help when it comes to moving a crowd, rolling around the circuits, causing…pleasant non-thought.

The collective enraged, others to left and right in pain, a leader emerges with a lack of what to say. Grunting and groaning, and as such they understand, they know pain, they know groans and moans, so the they continues their pursuit towards becoming a hedonistic-material-singularity. Remnants of feudalism fall from their rags, a circular modernity protecting originality, relics of wood, tin and steel barricade the future of the past.

The catastrophe of the centre, whispers and shy-smells of Americana ring-around-a-nostril, adverts as anaesthesia. To re-watch a tinny-pop and conclude those outside are better off. The undead chained, used as props, toys and entertainment, merciless skin-beatings of those who cannot feel. Flesh-computers all programmed to the same channel. Flecks of skin fall and burn.

The alive cast into slums of their own creation. The dead inherit everything. Invest in death, it’s on the rise.

“They’re just looking for a place to go.”

The guards say as they let the undead walk away, away from their line of fire, away from their attention, and away from their critique. The final moment of a race, uttered by a mercenary. To forget the terrors, to allow assimilation of the barbaric. Sing a tune of admitting defeat, for give me your commercials and pass on by.

28 WEEKS LATER (2007)

A sequel, a real acceptance towards the love of their own-kind. Seated in a cinema are 200 watching a mirror. The joke covered in flesh. Comedic-organs begin to spew cackle-blood.

Anyone alive is a rat. The living become sub-living and dwell in dark wet homes. Board them up and let in no light, we must remain silent and create nothing from now on, eating the remains of us. And as originality is pushed closer to sin the whimpers of mankind only get quieter.

We force-feed forgotten slop into out top-holes, this is what we have to do now. The present is no longer our own, taxed-past, saturated-future, death-markets, the trading floor is filled with screams, meat-tubes wailing, skin-sacks decrepit, ash-filled memoirs; evolution erasing its mistake with organic-malware.

They will vomit into your sockets. Thick clingy blood-sputum swinging into your being. A powered wretch flinging spew at and through humanity, infection-loud. Membranes and nerves caress the virus; a new organ, a viral-contained, a sociopathic-flesh-bowl. It. Hates. You.
Rural is broken, peace is no-more, alone-forgotten. They will not stop. Over horizons and through stages, searching for more and little and only to feed. Get this through you skull, they need, need, need, need, need, need, need, until death.

“…a supermarket, and even a pub.”

Your new home allows their churches. Your first mistake was in believing you’re better than them. You cannot see but the virus has become more than blood, a transcendent-infection. Beyond purpose into its own linear creation of new modes and types. New ways in which to be the same.

2 & 3 now identical to 1.

Your walls filled with crosses, and your crosses surrounded by walls, yet neither help. The infection shall traverse. In the beginning there was only the means to get to this state, to erase the past and exist in stagnation, forever.

“Target everyone at ground level.”

To be above is the truth, is to win, is to conquer and succeed. To look down upon the dead with a scorn from hate itself, death from above, Charlie-anew, two clicks east is death stage 1. Flame-death. Charred corpses continue their stroll.


WORLD WAR Z (2013)

Hence forth it shall be a crime to forget one’s animality. Becoming animal in front of morality. Ethics burns and you win. The news plays over and over and over, nothing new, still the same, they’ve been here for years, existing in stasis, shielded by a nothing-known.

Law overthrown by desire once again, A rush towards the true needs, and the medication begins, prescription, toxicant, relaxant, ants all around, scurrying directions. This Friday seems black, the darkest weekender, a perpetual-hangover: pure survivalism reigns, bacteria-wolves float.

The new breed are crack-animals. They will kill themselves for the opportunity to consume. Hurl oneself off a building for the bite of a doughnut. Rapidly and continuously punch concrete for the chance of a snack. Snap your bones and use them in dip, plunge your eyes from their sockets and roast at 140C, invert your jaw and digest your own teeth, swallow your tongue, drink sick, suck shit through a straw; lunge head first through a never-ending stream of nonsensical hedonistic trinkets, each taking an irreplaceable part of you as it goes by, you do this not because you want to, but because you want to. Or death.
A disintegration of matter. A reversion to tribe. Become-undead. The consumer is the one who makes the noise now. I AM HERE, FEED ME. The demands of the consumer must be met in fear of suffocation from state. They ask for nothing more than a decaying simulacrum. New skins applied to replications of fun. Happiness packaged. Emotional programming for 5.95 a month.

“There is nowhere to evacuate to.”
“You can’t make a dead person sick.”

And so they simply exist. If you’re sick they do not want you, you wont be nutritional, you’re worthless and dying, dying therefore worthless. They will trample their own for 1 bite. Give up everything for a taster. Principle deconstruction = food.

A flesh-shell of humanity, gaunt in posture, presiding over a land that once had direction, claiming it their own. Aimless noises fall from their mouths towards a nothingness of hope for their cause. Fields saturated with tight-spined cadavers. To be living is to be in flux, to be mobile, to be fortified and silent, at once to be attacking and defensive, silent and loud, alive and dead. A glimpse = inside. To be alive now means to become invisible and need-not-exist. Deflect blood-spew for hope of mouldy crumbs.

Note: I wanted to continue this series for a part 4, but, zombie films after the 90’s very quickly descend into consumer-repetitions, conveying the same boring message over and over. A boring zombie-action-flick feedback loop fed into the mindless.
FYI: originality of the undead will die with Romero.

Capitalism & the Undead P2: Animality Unbound

INTRODUCTION

We move from the slow, ambling undead towards a new mode of flux. Away from the easily structured modernities, the fluorescent, clean buildings and the tinny red blood. We shall be cast from the murmurs, the drooling hedonistic masses; those so easy to avoid. We will find a new hunger, insatiable and violent. A physicality born from thoughtless material-gain. A literal breed of consumer. Organic consumer capitalists, grown from the land.

THE DEAD NEXT DOOR (1989)

We begin with a cult film, with cult elements. A new direction towards the consumer, the acceptance of such, people will consume and so it simply is, the fight is lost almost before the film has even begun. A concentration not on defence against the consumer, but on assimilation with their needs, their wants…their desires. A structured society that has a place for zombies.

Down through twisting rural roads, to the corner stores of suburbia and within the concrete metropolis’; the undead have become clutter, small fragments of a larger whole, littering the world, scraping and bashing into everything, consuming all they contact, an accepted virus. A world without blood cells of white, a world that has forgotten the possibility for protection and thus accepts. Sometimes, gratefully.

As with any formal society divides begin against ‘whatever-it-may-be’, those who are fine with, and those who are not fine with, extremists of left and right, with those on the fence only being consumed. To not make a decision is to be infected by a virus worse than death. The Zombie Squads replicate replace the police in this film, mobilizing and hunting vagrant biters, jay-walkers get shot down, undead squatters evicted with death.

“The thing’s head’s off its body for Christ’s sake, doesn’t it know that?”

No, it doesn’t, consume, consume, consume.

There is the opposite, as there always is, those against those who are for, protecting the zombie’s right to exist, to not be used and experimented on, to not be round up and controlled for gain of another. Surrounding squad-stations and government buildings, armed with placards and speeches, reminiscent of a counter-culture, hoards of protesters, a small mass infecting others with their own non-brand.

It can be just a brain. A literal brain, surrounded by its own mucus casing, a pulsating red vessel, void of all nutrition and stimulation, a mere gear to be turned by that which passes by, taking in and then…nothing. The brain becomes an organ of use, machinery to be utilized, plugged in and wired up to a system built with malicious intent, an ignorant capsule bowled at an economic circuit-board.

A slave-virus with one directive: to consume, or feed. If unfed the user will die, the virus, wholly its own, survives without the user. A malignant consumerist alien feeding on your soul until you die. It has no other objective. To use up, to spit out and continue. The sputum of humanity.

28 DAYS LATER (2002)

A medicinal beginning. Caged ancestors infected with rage, the archaic remnants of homo-sapiens locked away, animalistic behaviours behind lock & key. Descendants tied down and forced to watch the work of their worst offspring, plugged into direct-horrors, a brain-feed into the worst of a Race. The categorical begins to poke at our unconscious, the chained Id tested and vulnerable. The outside seeps in, a thin quiet mist of infinite enters, with the purpose of evolutionary deconstruction: animality unbound.

To avoid the terror one must destroy feeling. To avoid the reality one must become a new. To avoid reality one must consume. Coma or not one has to awaken in a new world. Lost and alone, attempting to find real people, subtle, nuanced, 3 dimensional humans who still have Being. To move freely in a city without a bump, money strewn, food a plenty, survival a mere gimmick against trinkets and toys.

THE END IS NIGH. A repetition of any apocalypse, except, the apocalypse came and went, no one noticed; the time to invest in death. The churches reverse into themselves, Hell is overcrowded so they burst up and into the sacred. Temples now breeding grounds, disease centres, concentrated spaces of the Antichrists’ brethren. The priest walks out, a saviour in the dark, and as he comes into the light his bones become not his, his muscles flare and his teeth expand, hope is lost, you are nowhere and no one is coming.

To run from salvation is the step before the endless. One must re-enter the underground, meaning only exists when something is there to give it such, but if one is too pre-occupied with simple survival, then the environment simply becomes objects within space. Homo-sapiens occupying a world void of meaning, chased from their own minds by an empty hoard.

“Plans are pointless, staying alive is as good as it gets.”

A small glimmer of life atop a new tower, the last remaining kernel of human life resides in a grey block amidst a desert of hollow beings. Trolleys meant for collecting stacked 10 high, once used by the undead to consume more & more, now used by the living to defend themselves. A barrier of consumerist memories.

A simple visit to a food store, one time, for survival is as good as it gets, necessities only, then, into flux, mobility and survival, always. Mental survival, the ability to disallow the infection in, not even as thought, to kill a consumer is to kill nothing, it is to shoot the air. The undead die, nothing changes. An empty death for an empty existence. The roof a wash with empty buckets, the living get handed nothing, for the world is not theirs. The world is no longer alive.

Watching the horses frolic, alive in their own world, Frank watches intently, the image a temporary vaccine against the undead. The grass a colour known only to the living, the breeze a temperature felt by those who can feel and the sky existing only for those who know what it’s like to exist.

A single drop of the virus and one shall turn, the most loving and compassionate human will change in an instant. Now the loving has gone and one must feed. Family, friend, both only a thing to be consumed, something to be used only to prolong one’s own life. Narcissistic entities existing in a perpetual empty landscape.

The virus is contagious anew. Virus-assimilation via proximity, to live within the world of the undead one has to become part-undead. It can take you over, you get a consumerist lust, the supposed wants and needs infect your mind, and so you turn, and you justify your cause, until you can do so no longer.

DAWN OF THE DEAD (REMAKE, 2004)

Time has passed since the original mall, the mall of Americana, the tubular bright lights, the advert jingles, the colours found only in certain eras. Gone are the rambles and bored groans of green-tinted zombies, the tongue-in-cheek humour, the possibility of friendship. Welcome to the new improved zombie, the consumerist 2.0, one whose memories never were, and if they were, they were implanted.

An idyllic neighbourhood, the perfect job, the protector of the community, the children, the fitness, the sport and the caring. All infected beyond return. The virus shall inherit values, it shall evolve morality into its own being. It shall take what you know to be true, destroy it, blend it into a phlegm-paste and force-feed you with it. And until you beg for more, until you either die, or beg to eat shit, the virus shall not stop.

A return to the familiar, the Mall, the transcendent home of the consumer, building as encapsulation of intent: we know you think you want to consume, so we made a place to reinforce your belief. The undead run this time, their thirst for the original is energized. The hunger more insatiable, the hoards larger, the uncontrollable hedonism, the ignorance sprayed.

“Why’d you think they come here?”

“Memory maybe, instinct, maybe they’re coming for us.”

Perhaps the virus is airborne, for these humans seem dumb, ignorance towards the intent of others, the belief that those that do not know, in fact do know. The belief that everything might end up OK, the belief that there will be an end that they can conceive, the belief that, in short, the world is still theirs.

There’s another, aside from the group, a street over, atop a roof. “May as well be on the moon.”. The alive are so few. Originality is an impossibility. To find another amongst the mess of the unthinking. One shall only see new possibilities from afar, what is possible is out of reach, to attempt anything new, original or lifelike is to risk death. Before you reach an idea to be spread, the many shall eat you whole. If you ever even think of trying something, the skin shall be ripped from your bones, like gum from the underside of a school-desk.

“When there is no more room in hell, the dead shall walk the earth.”

The evolution takes place under the noses of the alive. An undead mother giving birth to an undead child. A human-turned-consumer giving birth to a little consumer child. There’s no longer need for a virus, with this mutation, we have become a virus. From spawn we need falsities. From birth we are anchored to a nothingness of our own creation. Torn from the womb and cast into a sprawling slum of narcissism, greed, guilt, plastic, chemicals, imprints, replication, simulacrums, chambers, systems and structures. Hope does not want us.

One has to become sporadic, reach for an organic weaponization, strive for a fusion of nomadic-survivability, turn to possibilities oceanic in scale, turn to realities larger than clusters. Grow shields for limbs, our organs must turn liquid and flow into the channels of the like-minded. We must, at all costs, accelerate evolution. To avoid becoming a zombie, first one must truly not want to become one, not even glimpse at the possibility of an undead existence. One shy look towards the life of a consumer and one has already turned.

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Capitalism and the Undead P1: The Romero Era

INTRODUCTION:

Consumerism and the Undead may have perhaps been a more fitting title for the following series, however I feel that the symbolism often branches into more nuanced areas of political discourse, thus Capitalism feels…right. In this 3 part series I shall be looking at the progression of capitalism/consumerism as an underlying motif/theme is zombie films, beginning with the classic George A. Romero era of zombie horror films, through to modern day high-budget action horrors. The evolution, mutation and gradual change in and of the characteristics of zombies in general is not just intentional, but a natural reflection of the society in which the film resides. Thus when one watches a zombie film, one bears witness to the masses-of-the-times, the sprawling unthinking decay, the unavoidable mutations of thought under capitalism.

How these ‘parts’ end up is entirely up to them. They will not be a critical synopsis of the films, as this has been done to death and is simply not my job, neither will be they be in line with my REDUX posts in their obscurity an abstract-nature, I wish to use popular horror films as a basis for lucid-critical engagement with consumerist though and the consumerist ‘way of life’.

THE UNDEAD:

The undead, zombies, biters, walkers, infected, etc. The idea has many names, yet they all reflect one kind of entity, a brainless consumer. Who’s entire directive is purely to consume another’s flesh and brains, to consume another’s originality, or simply to consume. Usually zombies come about via the spread of a virus or infection, I may look into the ways in which the virus comes about, however I feel it’s the manifestation of the virus that is of importance here. A walking, slurring infected husk, a shadow of a human being, a failed clone of humanity, an evolutionary body aborted at the last minute, a humanoid being with everything human taken from it.

EARLY ZOMBIE FILMS:

Between 1932 and 1968 there were many zombie films, beginning with Victor Halperin’s White Zombie (1932), considered by many to be the first in which ‘zombies’ as we popularly know them now are used, however it’s not until Romero’s work in the late 60’s that zombies come into their own as a key symbolic element of popular entertainment, it’s not until the late 60’s that the zombies of films are watched by their real-world counterparts, the risen-dead (the undead) acting out cannibalistic desires towards society.

NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD (1968)

Night of the Living Dead, the quintessential beginners guide to reanimated cannibalistic corpses. The beginning of an entire genre taking its first slow drawn out steps in a graveyard, a hollow quote that never leaves the mind of any true horror fan “They’re coming to get you Barbara.” And with that, they begin to come…and get us. It’s quite apt that the first film of its kind is based solely around one night, a snapshot of the cadaver apocalypse, this proto-film is a glimpse of what is to come and what is ‘outside’ the house in which Barbara and the cast reside for the film’s length. Within the house is the firm glimpse at a strange motif that carries through all zombie films, get above them, whether it’s upstairs, in a helicopter or atop a skyscraper, being literally above zombies is always necessary, to look down upon the consuming masses is of course a pleasurable feat, for us who know we are not on their level.

To lock oneself away with like-minded others in a worn-out house, rural, tucked away, they shall never find us here, they are the problem. We must get above them, the mindless hoards of hollow entities, to be underground is dangerous, to stay still is dangerous. As the group are torn from their artificial womb one-by-one, as the infection spreads to friends and friends of friends, you see your closest bow down to the nothingness of unthought, and so you lock yourself away in a cellar armed only with you. With only your brains, the thing they want is the thing keeping you you, for they shall remove the origin of you. And thus you become the they.

DAWN OF THE DEAD (1978)

I didn’t concentrate too much on Night of, as I feel Dawn of the Dead is the real father of the genre, with it’s baby acting as a prototype, a blueprint.

The infection, the consumer, you will not be scared of at first, they will appear an uncanny human to you, attempting to lure you into their unalloyed hedonistic appetite. And with a bite the relation to your right or left – neither matter in an instant – becomes only food, only the desire to consume everything for your own personal gain matters, to fit in with the crowd and consume with them, for brains are desired and create desire simultaneously, an all-absorbing feedback loop. Think not for yourself simply consume the thoughts of others and drool some more.

As Flyboy in his helicopter begins his journey with the group to the consumerist nirvana – the mall – he notices the “Rednecks are having a field day…” those who never bought into consuming before wont buy into it now, and flock to their own brand of identity and rebel against the mindless in-take easily. The southern-vibe as anti-capitalist is an easy lay. Different groups of unthought for different collective purposes.

Why the brain? Why-oh-why does a zombie only die after being shot in the brain? That’s where the idea is stored, the fuel for the never-ending cog of a consumer identity, the belief that to be is to belong, that to win is to own, more. Hollow humanistic shells without organs, no structure except that which tells them what to do, they only need breath, eat, shit, piss, fuck and enjoy if they give into an externally programmed desire, a desire which always has a malicious agenda.

And as the zombie bites a human the infection that flows past the cog flows too, into their veins, acidic and tinny, sliding into the ducts and destroying the not-needed. Fuelled only by the originality of others, the destruction of a single means the assimilation of another into the larger, with each ego-death their strives a further chance of complete cultural purification, all for the single aim of hedonistic-consumer desire. Race, gender, age, physicality etc. etc. and so on are no longer divided but merged into a pliable dough, given to CEO-hands. And then it’s over.

They enter the Mall from the roof, sliding down into the consumer-nirvana, settling safely into a side room. They box themselves in with food, humans in a small room next to tins of meat, tinned meat…meat in a small space. “Why do you think they come here?” “Memory, perhaps?” Memory, or present? A human walks to the mall and buys and eats and drinks and consumes because….why? A zombie walks to the mall and eats and eats and eats and consumes because that’s just what a zombie does? OK. And so the line blurs and fringe groups become nano-anomalies.

The power is turned on, the dynamism excites the shells of flesh, which ones? The store windows are lit, the tubular bulbs glow bright, the attractions spin and entertain a mass, a mass of beings they view as no different, a mass whose purpose is to be entertained. As pathetic legs give way on escalators, ponds splash with the hit of the dead, a concentration on the stable mannequin.

Those on the semi-outside, those not-undead, those still alive still have to live within this world, survival still has its origins, only now there are two kinds of survival: One in having to literally keep breathing, two is having to stay sane in yourself amongst the murmurs of the undead surrounding.

Those alive grab a cart for the essentials and enter the new halls for the undead, buildings, rooms and floors meant for zombies, a controlled architecture helping guide the frozen culture around and around, a circular life is aimless and also pointless, but for one to throw the idea of meaning in there, that is a tyranny. And the muzak plays.

In their successful attempt to gain supplies one of the group becomes aware, aware of his own possibility to fit in, the inside in warm and easy, to be undead is to be alive and not-think, what a beautiful state of being he thinks, many think…most think. And so he goes insane, to remain with a few in a tension, or to fall lustfully into the welcome, the embrace of a mass, the split causes insanity and weakness prevails. Next you wake up and you are dead, then undead, and you cannot go back.

And the mall begins to bore the alive, for they do not fit in here, the toys and entertainment work only short term for those with form. Those of us with originality have little time for lights and gimmicks; and the zombies keep going, the same trinkets and toys tussled with over and over. The alive now at terminal boredom sit and wait, not once pondering of a re-entering into the animalistic and chaotic ‘outside’, to sit on the wall is a travesty of spirit.

And so the outside invades, patience cannot be employed and thus can be taken by anyone, the roar of the engines and machinery crashes in, metal into mall, a defence happens. But it is too late, a confusion of states occurs and a realisation of non-belonging begins, a merging of kinds into a uniform blob of violence for-the-sake-of begins; and zombies are dotted, waiting for an entry, still ready to take.

As the many fall and organs spill, preferences also tumble, and the zombies begin to eat shit, intestines empty into the mouths of morons, for they know no better and think of this as a fruit of origin.

It is either head to the outside or commit suicide, for some simply cannot become-mass.

DAY OF THE DEAD (1985)

To begin with the nightmare of a consumerist force so strong it can literally penetrate your private space/residence, enter into your diary, your thoughts, your memories…your dreams. Your desires are not your own.

Once again the undead are awakened into their dynamic via noise, entertainment draws them near, nothing substantial, not even a coherence, just a vacant loud-noise interests them, they hear not a noise but something they can consume making a noise, originality THIS WAY.

The base underground this time, surrounded by a wire-mesh fence which holds away hundreds of the undead. This time the alive enter not into the hive itself, but shy away, leaving the existence of humanity underground a pathetic whimper against the mass above.

Within the underground there are pressures, tensions between the alive, towards a direction, militaristic, scientific, philosophic? Everyone is at each other’s throats, above and around are the undead and humans still bicker. The aggressive-passion turns inwards, towards each other.

The experiments are underway, conditioned so a zombie can survive simply from a stem and a brain, a vessel to be filled with organ-structure, the brain a pulsating remnant of what it should be. Primordial-instinct is replaced with a consumer instinct, to buy and consume is to breath and eat. “It can be conditioned to behave the way we want it to behave.”

“All the shopping malls are closed.”

It’s in the streets now, the infection creeps into the world unnoticed, unchained and released from its source, its haven, infecting everything it comes into contact with, a cultural poison of hedonism, consumerism and cultism.

And Bub comes into focus, a new kind of zombie, one that remembers his past, what it was like to have ideas of his own, to think and feel and act as he wants, but still, he is to be trained, moulded by science and disciplined by the military, from his mindless slumber he wakes and in an instant a gun is shoved into his hand. His is taught how to shoot, but more importantly who to shoot at.

The experiments go south, the Dr runs out of food and toys for the undead, he begins to feed them their own, the undead regurgitating what they will once again digest, a consumer cycle, flesh-in, flesh-out, shit-in, shit-out…then shit back in again.

Bub escapes his chains, entering a simulacrum of the outside, unsure of his meaning and thus aimless in his escape, to escape for the sake of escaping, into what, a nothingness you know not of. He finds his carer dead and with that his questions fall silent.

It’s suicide or a state of flux. One must keep moving amongst such a degenerative force. To stand still means death, death by fitting in. The ‘in’ is death.

And so Romero gives us the push-overs, zombies one can nudge out of the way, walk by without distracting them. They claw and slowly grind towards originality, yet not at a perverse speed, their place in the world is empty and without dynamic, hollow shells made to search yet not know what for, and thus their desire has been filled by the malicious. The evolution has begun, the mutations creep from left to right, a twisted creature, the relation we want to forget.

ESCAPE REDUX P3: FIRMWARE 1.1

The gates mere-opened, a glimpse of the coming-Acheron. An allowance of an exit, a minor gift that could be no greater. Once-out, a new, exit. But where and when must I go? Is there a must now? If there is not, I could learn another language. Regions at my whim, a difficulty of level-culture. A warmth behind me, glowing, pulling, surrounding my limbs, and drawing back. The door’s curvature inviting and wing-like. Temperature of apathy. A slumber for the weak, the ones who need to forget themselves. A spherical vision arches its gaze, and to its dismay it sees a nothing left behind. So forward is option-only.

 

Deserted, perhaps. Surrounded by a lack of structure, organs and organic: dismembered to deconstruct. Ism, suffix, prefix, ology, apit, omm, c, c, a forever folding knead. Needs and wants become a mixture of folds, a tall-tale of truth was once…said. Feet having the potential and possible of mud and dirt, anhedonic posture will only create illness, terminal. A collapse of vision as those to each side systematically demolished each other, two loops conspiring to straighten out.

 

There was a true darkness, of course there was, there always was and always will be a darkness,  you need not enter, for it is only circular, with no exit or entrance for light, an anomaly of energy and time. One must note the cusps of the edges before the lack o’ light, anything further and the vacuum will sound.

 

There’s a strange sunder within the middle, the divide is a groan, a rumble-spring. The auditory came with detrital-matter, lines and strikes, shape and texture, combination-techno with a spark on chalkboard, an arrival nomadic, delineational-flux. Within the cage there were rules so unwritten, they became blood; when you leave, you break veins.

 

A new darkness of description 404. Not on a scale of new/old pre/suf le/ri t/p, it could-not-be. If it was, then a point will never be found, butter on a spectrum, existence thin. Why bother yourselves with an eternity unchanging, in heaven there’s worship, worship of worship, to worship this fact. Chemical chimeras need to be formed ahead, if the form is instant, then it’s a fraud you see. There’s going – has – to be pain, skin ‘n limb caressing around energy-spheres, sometimes sinking into and of, udders fly up and burst. Horns and extras, Darwinian accessories become malnourished and DIE,

 

The DOORS WERE NON_EXISTENT to the EXIT I had found. Neither transparent nor ethereal, this entrance was an exit and this exit was an entrance, formed back unto itself, going backwards into the future, and forwards into the past, a divide and an ever extending morph-of-middle is of importance to the now.

 

Within the tech-centre of the singular vision I held my own, in trepidation of another continuance of continuity, but no, maybe. To stop the original is difficult, and a neck scrape. The warmth of the left-womb glowed, an infant grown adult, still connected to a lifeline, a lifeline born itself from pro////gr3ss. Not allowed to say:::cenSOR.

 

TO BE FREE AND TO BE A DEMOCRACY. SyStEM failure. Can-not-not-not happen, only over and over, new forms of OLD<>FORMS.

 

And so we must venture into a trifecta of new frontiers, into the land and journey of cyberspace, code as home, programmed warmth, a creation of pure intention, of our own and only whenever and wherever we want. Then backwards into space, the unholy expanse of eternity, into everything that can and has been, a new home built from spacial recurrence. And onto off shores, into sea, and later sea, and into-and-down-into the last paragraphs of the ocean.

 

<<<Votes-are-bought = singular. Politiciandbusiness. Welcome to fictions. Many, interlaced fictions,,you slug-fish heads of slow, clocked in, never out. Ding DING as the red light burns, and you get latched, a hook through the cornea of free-thought into pre-pre-programmed beams of continual entertainment, forever onwards into the dopamine lakes of hell. BRING PLUSH CUSHIONS OF SEROTONIN FOR ALL my FRIENDS>>>

 

The only way out is through matter, a combine: matter://:matter. The in-between of a painting’s material, a mixture of image and material, matter and imagine. EXIST-only.

AaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaA_reversal into creation itself is the only way. And so you slow UP. It becomes a slowing. And a construction begins from remnants of cultures yet to see, or be seen. Let the installation begin, FIRMWARE 1.1:

 

FIRMWARE 1.1:

 

1. Remember we can (and will) go higher than 1.0.

 

1.1. They thought we could never go higher than 1.0

 

2. The EXIT should always be apparent.

 

2.1. The EXIT should always be in sight

 

2.2. The EXIT may be a lie.

 

3. Transparency.

 

4. It can change.

 

4.1. In all directions.

 

4.2. And from those many more.

 

4.3. It can stop and start.

 

5. Temporality will work for us.

PART 1: https://www.meta-nomad.net/?p=91

PART 2: https://www.meta-nomad.net/?p=94

ESCAPE REDUX P2: FAREWELL EGO-CORPSES

The actualization was original, truly. Until the harpoon came forth, a golden-white curved spear straight through the heart of a divide. In a textbook panic outlets opened, stapling their lips high and low, never letting the sound-hole shut. These were neo-97 tears, held back, kept in stasis for just this occasion, they trickled on the concrete and released a pure-truth.

 

Two letters never meant so much, literally, up until now there was no mention, and now the bandwagon rode forth, the axles of which crushed dignity on repeat. Never discussed, always discussed, never mentioned…what are you on about? We always spoke of it, where have you been? And you had to leave. The reasons spewed from a root of idiocy and fatigue, if ever something is actually going to change watch as the crowd devours itself. And those to one side allowed their faces to eat-themselves once more, fingers peeling back, nails left afloat.

 

Android-decision for the divide towards or away from 2 letters. And the entire was given the vote, yet some chose not, some knew not, some believed, it was close, some percentages and some not-so-bothered…and then they were.

 

A screech from the left revolving around inner-lobes, glued to a flash of reductions, all became compressed and opinions were ZIPs. Attacking your own attack and defence simultaneously, the bones pulled from the bottom out, without pain, a skin-tube left floating: mouth aghast. Arguments with the consistency of silent-drool were at the mercy of gravity, and those without chamber watched as they limped over lips, joining dried-tears, an accumulation of nothing, only proof there was only that. And as democracy shattered before the eyes of the believers, the mass still held to their scripture, more scared than ever…more sacred than ever.

 

Right, correct, good, moral, perfect, right-way, nice-thing, we were, we were, we were. And yet you want to prove you were wrong, but you do not see.

 

A system flawed from birth, an ideological zygote, dragging itself to its miserable death.

 

The others told non-truths, to us, US! I can’t believe it, yet I’ve seen it more times than truth, more times than they’ve continued, lies work better than promises towards no-change. Made of meringue, atmosphere glass, air like candy, in a world without matter, oh-they did believe.

 

United in their shared love of ignorance, a union of pathetic. Welcome one-and-all to the communion of ego-corpses. Vessels forgetting they’re for minds, clamped by shadows of thoughts they never knew.

 

It’s a short match; the reverberations of whining, existent only when you allow them to be seen or heard, and the roundest laugh was launched from a gut, revolving into the gutter. Bouncing down their organs and awakening more tears, pulling emotion strips from the lining of the stomach, the acid belched…again from the left, burning whatever it hit, another revealed, where bitterness lay.

 

A flesh suit on a peg had been held 22, hooks from afar helped it become pieces, a slow rip as the tendons said farewell to the dumb-home. As the weeks passed, the hooks no longer needed, flesh moved on its own, hollowed curves of skin evaporating in the saline-air. As the organs found their – and then they too left, clocking in and out repeatedly until. And the care-free gears were given, and down.

 

Cogs directionless, motionless matter, emotionless matter. A revolve of choice, the only given is to allow knowledge of the prior. True kindness is being given the ability to stop in a world of continuation-admired.

PART 1: https://www.meta-nomad.net/?p=91

ESCAPE REDUX P1: BECOMING-PHANTOM

The programming was as it was, to-be as meant, I was never to question the possibility of an outside, nor conceptualise it. A collective-solipsism; realities too current. Ignorance, ignoring, refusing-to-see, not-wanting-to-see the rip, a tear in front and of my eyes.

 

Dialogue content on rebounding ad infinitum. We, we, we. Correct continuously, as it should be, do you not agree? The direction of our efforts gives way easily because it is the right way. Wait, it couldn’t be that the ease of our ascent is because we are being allowed to ascend? Never, maybe, I refuse. No one wants to erase their programming in fear of inability to return, of return.

 

Linearity, continuity, spatio-temporal objects and beings are known completely, thus erasure is a threat and so…I do not. What if I could? Even if that is bad, it is said, but that could also be erased I think…to myself? A loop I’m in, I must and I must not, but the must-not seems controlled.

 

What’s clear? Everyday realities are very, very difficult to see, let alone witness. The muscles of the neck near-rip in an attempt to look at what’s right in front of it.

 

Another rotation in which the expected became deceased, there was shock this ‘time’. Those who left were connected to the inside, many of them held high some of the original inside dreams, some of them saw the original dreams, some of them lived them, perhaps, even, some of them helped in their neo-invention.

 

The possibility of change was actualized, and thus a nation became confused with conflicted emotion: The decision was right, the decision was wrong, either way the system doesn’t work, a realisation of democracy, we can change things, what do we want to change? What do we want? And they became scared. And retreated, to where they felt warm, a womb of solipsism, “Things are wrong, incorrect, immoral, dreadful, silly and without-help if they are not in agreement with my opinions.” So sings the bird that’s come to love its cage.

 

There was another person, a man; this is of merit. Words flowed, for some these words had been caught, locked up, never to see the light of day and they saw this as tyranny. For others the words arose from the sewers relics of a past, bitter acidic twists. For others they were one and the same, they came from a tunnel they knew was only to get smaller, and light and bitter accepted the tunnel’s suffocation ignorantly, willingly.

 

Supports made of hinges, opening and closing within a transparent cocoon. The man and the actualization of change made real the transparency, the feeble supports reluctantly came forth from concealment, weeping. As soon as they did they had orders, orders they knew not, and neither did the viewer. They had to direct one towards a possibility of other. Heading for any door is better than standing in apathy incarnate.

 

Encased in rheum it was hard to move. Organs leapt first, the body followed, gears that had long since existed appeared in flux, motions ever present, a cacophony of stutter. The waxy encasing of apathy is an acquaintance of nihil, as such the smallest of independent movements were to become reverberations of a revolution authentica.

 

To wander from the anhedonic womb was to wonder of apocalypse. Cylindrical holes from erosions long forgotten, beams of the suffixes ism and logy free-floating, a need to fit. Some beams seemed large, others small, each existed in its attempts to glow brighter than the next. One walked on beams rotten, without care for thought of structure, for those walked upon clearly couldn’t work, why would they stay so low? And the gliding became a scrape…

 

…a turn thought impossible was only 90 degrees, either way, it needn’t matter. The beam neither snapped not bent, neither did it stop or sneer, it never slowed or hastened, it kept at a pace and forgot what fell in an instant. Becoming-phantom. Phantom-become.

 

Figments of a thought-schematic left unattended. Yet to enter without knowledge is risk of entry into many: temple, dungeon, prison, home, camp, nothing, corpse, cadaver, once within possibilities cease. One seems to have a real difficulty breathing whilst being suffocated.