META-NOMAD

#Islandtwitter

#Islandtwitter

 

I awake on an Island.

These islands have not always been here.

 

(Photographer Unknown, Found Document, XX//)

a sentence uttered once and then forever by an assemblage of bodies, [the] alive ones, now, perpetually stuck.

One could say they were on the Island, or could say they were/are Island. And as such the ‘the’ of the ‘the Island’ is always replaced, for the ‘Island’ acts as verb, it is a physical brother of the il y a, a teasing malicious awakened presence that grows its opportunity from meaningless suffering.

[The] Island is at once with the trapped and entirely distant from them, one can never fully grow into [the] Island, a physical manifestation of trapped desires, apathetic and lonely desires included in a pure form of stasis. Island is trapped, you see, it is in stasis, within which there are dumb-movements, non-movements, their ends and beginnings are entirely worthless, and as such their journeys are the laughing-stock of the universe, fodder for a bully-God.

(The Echo-Sheds, Oil on Canvas, Malter Wacken, Xx//)

The entire idea of calendars destroyed on your silent impact. Once they begin to tinker away, the existence that once was of days ‘n weeks means nothing; once a structured time is lost it cannot be retrieved, as such, upon arrival – and thus a structured destruction of temporal-structures – one is entirely at whim to light and the absence of as a means to form a ‘time’. The sun merely a synthetic-orb powered by a cosmic news studio; time is powered by the audience’s cheers. (“Ma boy!)

“I might be doomed to lie in bed, eventually recover, and yet remain entirely ignorant of how many days, weeks, or even months had passed. It would be like losing one’s whole grip on time, like having part of one’s life irretrievably lost.” – Tom Neale.

//XX//

Man, who is a land animal, welcomes by instinct a bit of earth in the vast expanse of sea.” – Rachel Carson

Not this bit though, he will always regret welcoming this [non]-bit of land, for as long as he shall exist, which, upon setting foot upon, shall be a long, long, time.

(The Trapper(d), Malter Wacken, X//X)

XXXX//

HISTORY OF THE BIG EAR:

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[The] Island acting as an ulterior form of unconditional accelerationism, with the acceleration mutating into forms of temporal-narcissism, thus creating only a bastard form of progression; in to itself it finds no new horizons, only illusions of difference. The only acceleration is a repetition of the same which is attempting a direction towards a difference.

There’s nothing you can do here; you cannot turn left not right, and there’s nothing you can do about that fact. You are here, that’s about it, the rest, is most definitely NOT up to you.

But he was utterly alone and so terrified by the prospect of a lifetime of solitude that to preserve his sanity he had to shut his mind to reality, had to pretend there was some hope. – James Poling

 “I was a better Christian while in solitude that I ever was before or, I am afraid, ever was again” – James Poling

XX<>X

MONDAY:

 

Time-lost immediately, I know not when I fell asleep, or where; it’s grey now.

 

My bare feet come into contact with the grass, I can touch it, but I cannot feel it. Though I sense it’s touching me back. Entirely disjointed and depersonalized nothing I sense I can actually contact.

 

The beaches breach rabbit-heads from the sand, sometimes you can witness their bodies hop around in the flux-forest.

 

At all times one senses something making an attempt to seep in; the breeze carries the real, it brushes against your limbs and tingles the hairs, each goose-bump acting a micro-glitch between a nostalgic dream and the hell that is [this] Island.

 

The daily eviction happens, it’s pure-tradition and carries no weight, the walkers evict men at random, casting them into [the] Eternal Sea, they always return within the next few days, something of them lost.

 

There are these storms…that aren’t exactly…there.

 

The pier curls at the end, wood splitting, with the splinters halting immediately in the sky, frozen slices of grain, meaningless material existing for the sake of it.

 

My only memory is of laying on a bed(?), watching the night draw in, encapsulated, suffocated, asphyxiated by the feeling of non-existence; empirically focused on the pure-negation of Being, this is my only memory. — It seems the other Islanders all have something of the same.

 

Those who’ve been here a short-time – not that they know – walk miles to The Big Ear, it listens, absorbs, but never returns.

//<>//

The walkers consist of a piece of stretched raw cow-skin, with assorted hair used as sewing thread, lacing tightly between the pushed skins.

(ISLAND WALKER, XXXvxx//)

/////<>xX

A continual drone of ancient indecipherable languages is found in the winds, and howls in the breezes, peace, never.

I seem to enter into the wild pastime of the cliff, and to become a companion of the cormorants of the crows. – J. M. Synge

“Throw the baskets of soil circuit-board into the [endless] sea” he said; wonders at the command, at the authority that was thrown from the voice, and so the slaves began to throw pile upon pile of circuit-board fossils into the acidic sea, it began to burp and belch and ask for “oh-so much more tech, pleee-eeease.” it groaned. And they did not sink into the broiled depths, the chip and wire grew into a simulacrum prior to reality, a simulacrum from which reality could grow; from the strewn forgotten synthetic bastard chipsets came an Island bent backwards into and onto and of itself; the breezes glitch in, the palms rendered, the ‘fresh’ smell of the oranges a complex algorithm, the sky came in last, with a large start-up hummmmm the sun’s rays now seem crrough crrzk Real. Reality, done.

“and without a doubt the most agonising thing of all was the manner in which the island seemed so tantalisingly close, yet frustratingly never seemed to come any nearer.” – Tom Neale

What is #Cavetwitter?

2011. A user on Twitter unwillingly enters the cave.

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s lies here.

 

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

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

 

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

Shut up ma!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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