SPMP 4: "Free paperclips for everyone!"

some riff-raff...ignore this...just doing some notes for something….many passes with the sharpening stone for all these ideas needs to happen one day when I don’t feel so harried…. #decelerate….

Returning to my earlier thoughts on a shift from “Cathedral-State” governance to a “Cathedralibrary” system, I’m reminded of a statement from XS blog post titled nRx for Dummies: //the prospects for neoreactionary consensus – for a neoreactionary thing – depend upon disintegration. If we’re compelled to share a post-Cathedral state, we’ll kill each other. - http://www.xenosystems.net/neoreaction-for-dummies/ // It is the disintegration referred to here that I wish to view through a xenofeminist lens in the sense that a homogeneous and “complete” alienation can itself be metasystematized in the overlapping of A) an archive that has been overhauled to curate perspectival timelines rather than such a loose and amorphous concept as information, B) a blockchain-esque state structure that uses the ledger system to archive entire historico-geometric sets of ID-entities: their ramifications, fracturings, and integrations rather than a default individual numerical single-frame coding by a state that does not take into consideration its potential for alteration and fragmentation, and C) a paper-clip maximizer-type  AI programmed to maximize the archival and curation of these shifts, skynetically ending the info-lineage of any identity that overcodes another and recording theviolation for posterity. The single-frame identity linearizes, shearing off mutations and alterations that do not conform to the normativity of the over-frame or supra-frame, the dissolution-paradigm encourages mutations and alterations and safeguards them in hyperreal metabubbles of (virtual?) reality.

The progressive incursion/convergence of big data-mining, identity- and state-dissolution (both practices and entropic physical laws), and surveillance-media-social-state construction must at some point give way either to a 1)  permanent perfect archive, not only of current information but also in what ways this information has changed over time; or to a 2) pure fractal overload that alienates the system itself from its own informatic flows, generating a remarkable self-similarity to neural processing in which frames of contextual reference spontaneously emerge as metareality or hyperreality which must be successfully navigated in order to reach the topological reality underlying the illusory covering-image. These frames are entities, the cathedralibrary is the global cog-narrative “Universal Form” cf. Giordano Bruno’s conception of God.

Within these perspectival frames the same navigatory tools used in psychonautics can potentially be extended into archive-space as non-space becomes as relevant as info-space in terms of topological organization, allowing one to track the shape of the edge, “learning what it is that we do not know” and engaging a category-theoretic appropriation of this pattern-tracking to make highly educated guesses as to what is missing in any given frame, toroidally compressing potential #2 into potential #1 over time.

droning on and on about nothing

"...and if an AGM-114 Hellfire air-to surface missile were exploded, you would not quake in terror. So long as you become one with the bomb what would there be to fear? "Impossible!" you say. But whether you wanted to or not, you would perforce become one with it, would you not?" 

                                             /it has declared things past and present 

                                              and now it speaks of things to come/


___________ in collaboration with ___________



TEXT:

Inhabiting a space in which we find ourselves "fundamentally

pummeled by the lunatic potency of nature" but a nature that

is beyond pre-techgnoetic conceptions of ecology. A human

nature - the idea that we can fundamentally pummel the lunatic

potency of nature.

The shattered shewstone projects the strongest sound from its

jagged silvered black - gunfire, that human, all-too-human sound.

If an AGM-114 Hellfire air-to-surface missile were exploded, you

would not quake in terror. So long as you become one with the

bomb, what would there be to fear?

"Impossible!" you say.

But whether you want to or not, you would perforce become one with it, would you not?

seconds after, the bomb was exploited

"What the fuck is that smell?" The sensation came from that dismal

grey town. A total wasteland, some graves, a church, a bar more graves.

"O God, loving father in heaven, save this humble penitent who

beseeches thy boundless mercy..." the perpetually sickly man trailed

off when it became clear no one was joining in his prayer. You can

tell a lot about someone from the way they talk about putrefaction.

Over the perimeter a black pile lie in the center of the dead town's

square, but bodies were in no short supply out here. What unsettled

us were the birds filling the sky. Long lazy circles, culturing droning.

The living began assembling offerings, to escape the flooding remnants

of advanced vision threat breakdown. A new plane for invasion and

insurgency magnifying a reverent awe which reveals the fragility of

mere flesh to be of no consequence.

the dead are always unscathed by the war

I was floating on the dying bodies dropped in the mud.

counterattacks escalated

"I am not a mystic." continued the crow.

disturbing oscillations in the warp became visible as the Good Lord

went dead silent but The terminology of practical occultism goes beyond

the crow mind or the misfortune of being.

"I am a willing entity derived from undecaying heavy waters and there

are no accidental drownings here. Here only intensity matters and

even the void is sensation."

Orphic pattern-carrier drills for the center and spikes a vein fills the

underworld and floods from inside out. A herald from the open secret

grave of the contradictions of infinity and fewer and fewer recognize

this ocean as the perspective of God - a howling space of absolute

blank savagery without delusion.

ferocity

restlessness

powers of infiltration aligned with h( )ly radiant echo of violent collision and turbulent flow

His panic was finally ebbing. Finally able to orient, and after a few more moments, to navigate. The watery motor of Deep Time always made him hate sand all the more. Coming back had become a fucking nightmare lately as his sympathetic nervous system had begun attempting to resist being placed back onto the abattoir floor. It was often several days before his glitches calmed, and his stretchings deteriorated into a cohesive Something Like A Self again. He felt outside himself always, though, behind himself, above himself, bird's eye view. What was once the frontier of another long silence had become bottomless. A mournful reaching beyond speed at whatever speed they could manage has conspired against you.

the image was uncannily clear

it meant the endo-militarization of your own war had been there all along

a mind cried "where is that i reveal myself?"

my allegiance is to no corpse on the battlefield

but TO the battlefield

dying bodies are their own force of rebellion

to be sure, war might be exploited

but enlightenment humiliates even the demonic ego

but red magic however is in shambles

devoid of the void

empty of emptiness

"no offense", the crow said dryly

a circular wind spins up FTL cyclonomedia

dust devils frenetic on tellurian lubricant

I collapsed into constituent matter under ruthless droning on my way to market one day, but I spend eternity wondering if I were meant to be killed in a different strike, in a different market. What if I died in the wrong blast? Does this mean I lived the wrong past?

Seconds after the bomb exploited…

he struggled, while his body was violently

corroded into the proper shape

constructing soft rotational nexus

to maintain their paramilitarism

to be as a sword had been set on fire

gradually eroded awareness was permanently lodged in this war machine

seconds before the bomb exploited

these machines are incapable of one thing: incompletion

dying priest says that he can't wait

says he's confident not scared

this is just a temporary military imposition

but the image was uncannily clear

and we were transformed into some strange

endurance, which threatens the mind cried "where is, where is I....?"

i will speak to you of that open secret grave

that took me to that place

he directed his awareness to the fanging-up

i see my skeleton dancing and I aim for the head

what side of the barbed wire inspires you?

from a spectre i learned great arts

from an [AC-130 Spectre gunship] i learned great arts

"I know things!" he gasped

i say you missed it all

a sacrifice of self-care

how can i find anything there?

and came to my final gasp, "I know things!"

the image became uncannily clear

my own grinning skull knows things

my immortality gasps but our horizon of survival is tasked for diagramming threats

trapped in the worst above all

i felt my eyes narrow

homes were razed to create a distinct phraseology

that was once the frontier of state defense

a militarization process seizing any mention of

anything that may have been created to show

you were but gibberish in his mouth

suspension

you died hundreds of years in wait for that weaponised form

the guerrilla state's pursuit teams crashing down on us

mathematically objectless waste in void

But Billy talked me down, explained the magic of the false idol AMRAAM and reminded me of When I am.

words of a sorcerer in that voice that puts me on the floor and keeps me from forgetting its taste.

eye can't see into (m)eye insides

confession: eye don't have

the stomach for this

eye lie

still on her bed

backwards

she hates when my feet touch the pillow

eye suspected the new dream

was the same as the old. but I

Key(p) (m)eye m(out)h shut.

he said "eye trust you" eye laughed and laughed

and laughed

and shook my head

ruefully. nothing in eye

mirrored in my sylfish

drift but you and I and I

He scratched a complex sigil in the dirt in front of the house.

"point of no return."

hesitation.

"nobody wants to come back anyway."

he nodded with some sense of solemnity.

I could feel the droning, like a subtle vibration in every solid thing.

The house practically rumbled with anticipation.

Murmuring timbers, the frame sang with a warning.

Their target wasn't here but the Escape was wide open,

screaming at us at the I at the I at the eyes in the eyes in the skin in the hair

electroplasm my ghost foamed at the mouth and started barking furiously.

[mumbled things:unintelligible]

DANGER CLOSE

my body melted down

reduced to a point of dead light

pooling up like blood in strange gravity

breathing became external, as I

breathed in, so did the world.

As the world exhaled, I emptied completely.

The corrosion of the pain squinted up at me through wearied, curtained disorganization. Escalating machinic ruin feeds on "useless."

Corpse up, stay down. Corpse up, reorganize down. Corpse up, strategize down. Corpse up, count down. A dry rattling yoga.

It wouldn't stop. "What do you mean by the root dwelling in eternity?" The body is our memory automatically all-out suicidal.

I'll maintain this illusive drifting everything with a pencil that can't stop dreaming.

Om Gam Ganapataye Namaha. Where you belong, from temple words to vibrating priests OF THE image He stood still, like a pillar for 33 and 1/3 years one day blinking suddenly and speaking clearly to a woman walking through the courtyard:

"Has it been dismantled? Has the Self been dismantled?"

she looks back terrified stunned by this intrusion

"Why are you disturbed, little sinner? Am I not your God?"

Originary Bleakness from the Voidmouth : Bleaker Than Bleak by PJE

Hopefully Paul doesn't mind if I post this…originally on Three Pound Brain. Too good not to share. 

Bleaker than Bleak (by Paul J. Ennis)

Bleak theory accepts that it itself is almost entirely wrong. However, precisely on the basis that it accepts humans are almost always wrong about how it goes with the world and so what are the chances of this theory being right? In this paradoxical, confused sense it is a theory of human fallibility. Or the inability of humans to see themselves for what they are, even when, as per contemporary neuroscience, we kind of know (have you not yet heard the “good” news that you are not what you think you are?). We kind of know because we are beginning to see ourselves from the third-person perspective. Subjectivity is devolving into objectivity and objectivity entails seeing things clearly, even if not transparently. That opacity, always there in the subject-object distinction, is collapsing and the consequences are bleak. The second reality-appearance “appeared” as a crack we cracked. It has been going on ever since. Consider the insanity of the entire post-Kantian tradition and the in-itself – is it not just an expression of what it feels like when you recognise what was once a “transparent cage” (Sartre) of looking directly at the world is a hallucination, a real one, all the same.

We cannot outpace this very blindspot that renders us a self or a subject. We are deluded about our beliefs or intentions (a given, so to speak), but more significantly we are deluded that somehow we can ‘recursively’ leap ‘over our own shoulders’ and see not just the trick, as Bakker might put it, but something substantial. Rather than just a model or a process withholding information from “you” yourself. Your own brain lies to you. It hides noise (‘data-reduction’) so that you do not collapse into a schizophrenia of buzzing information. This much Bergson, Deleuze, and Meillassoux have suggested is a most horrifying possibility. If all the data of the world flowed in you would be at one with matter, but what would you hear? Do you even want to countenance what that might involve? Hell is all around you. Your brain is just trying its best to stop you being lit on fire.

Everything is pretty patterns (Ladyman and Ross) and you are too. The problem with patterns is that sometimes they clash. If the brain has been hacked together it’s bound to be buggy as hell. Look at your computer. One subpersonal process goes askew and you need it fixed. The technician tries a few things, maybe it works, or maybe it does not. Maybe, as in severe cases of schizophrenia or depression, you just have a crappy system. I’ve said before that consciousness is the holocaust of happiness, meant sincerely, not lightly, and by this I mean that if the conditions or constraints that created a self never came together, in just the way it has for us, there would never have been any conscious suffering. Consciousness is the final correlate of all human suffering. You can blame almost anything else, but had “we” (is it really “us”) never believed we should be stable, integrated selves none of the bugs that followed would have appeared. Our world would have been a beautiful, empty, unthinking collection of material patterns: perhaps even a heaven of unthinking noise?

Chaos, as I am sure you have heard, is a ladder, but so too is evolution. Lifted up from the dregs of biology into cultural evolution we came to see what nothing else could see. Some foolishly believed this was a gift. Civilisation was realised. When in reality each one was built on war. Philosophers know how to dance around this problem: we can think our way, collectively, toward a more rational, constrained future. Except collective intelligence most often works best when deployed toward destructive ends: where do you find the most creative minds? The war-room. ‘War, everywhere I look…’ (Tormentor). To make it explicit, so to speak, if you want new masters, as Lacan said, you will find them. Look into the dead eyes of those who desire freedom and there rests fear. Fear that they will build a palace of reason only for the stability so hard fought for to collapse under the weight of the chronic irrationalism of the baser human aspect, untameable, unpredictable, and unknowable. History books are the evidence you stack up to adduce this, but at least today we have learnt enough to include the accelerated process of decline into our calculations. We no longer fight our enemies. We kiss them on the mouth and ask if we can join them in the decadent decline in advance.

I know I should not speak like this. What a waste to spend your time reasoning about the impossibility of one day sticking the hook in and indexing some little part of reality that, Tetris-like, delivers temporary respite. Only, of course, here comes more bricks. As I feel, always in my very bones, what I know is coming, the far-off end (it is never close enough), bleak theory morphs into even and ever bleaker theory, sometimes just bleak, once bleaker than black, but now bleaker than bleak. Rust Cohle, in True Detective, at one points let’s his interrogators know: ‘I know who I am. And after all these years, there’s a victory in that.’ It is the most paradoxical of victories. The “pyrrhic” victory of traditional philosophy, found in thinkers as diverse as Husserl and Meillassoux, where one gains a foothold on the world after a long struggle. The question bleak theory asks, adrift the perennial tradition, is whether knowing who we are will result in precisely the inverse of the oldest goal of philosophical self-knowledge: we cannot understand ourselves except as that entity which cannot truly know itself. Know thyself? Perhaps all along it has been the wrong question.

The tradition of philosophy always hinges on a subtle revision of position and orientation. This is the generative process whereby, for instance, the ambiguity of postmodern philosophy culminates in a counter-revolution of rational normativity. This is our contemporary example, but it is found everywhere. Heidegger ontologising phenomenology. Hegel gobbling up the Kantian noumena. Today there is possibly another: one that, again to evoke Rust Cohle, means to ‘start asking the right fucking questions.’ Not about what we are, but what we are not: “transcendental egos,” “subjects,” or “selves.” Perhaps not even “agents,” but I leave that problem for other minds to debate. I know what I am, a ‘disinterested onlooker’ (Husserl), but deluded that I am unconcerned.

True madness lies ahead for our species. Normativity, humanism, anti-reductionism, anything not bathed in the acid of neuroscience are all contributing to a sharpening of the knives. Building dams to keep the coming dissolution at bay they will render the shattering of the illusion that much harsher, harder. We are not going to Mars. We are going to go out of our minds.

.

[ Dr. Paul J. Ennis is a Research Fellow in the School of Business, Trinity College Dublin. He is the author of Continental Realism (Zero Books, 2011), co-editor with Peter Gratton of the Meillassoux Dictionary (Edinburgh University Press, 2014) and co-editor with Tziovanis Georgakis of Heidegger in the Twenty-First Century (Springer, 2015). A version of bleak theory, ‘Bleak,’ first appeared in the DVD booklet for A Spell to Ward off the Darkness (Soda Pictures, 2014).]//////////////////////

time is a flat circle : how many faces do you have?

Radically destabilising the notion of I

Destabilising the foundational rationale of I

Decentering the stabilising notion of the radical eye

Foundationally centering the notion of stabilising radicality

Fundamentally fracturing the notion of stable center, radicalize

Radical unfounded 

center eye stability

Give rise to 

confoundational 

denotional 

devotionals, 

radical stability,

fractal centering, 

ratio destabilisers,

 

eye-erarchy, 

higher-archy, 

circle-splittings and 

rhyme spittings

I am that i am Not so We can Be

ambiguity and apathy

"Men use thought only as authority for their injustice, and employ speech only to conceal their thoughts."  -Voltaire (The important one, not the goth-folk singer)

"I was known as the chief grave robber of my state." -Dan Quayle (no context given, none needed)

I hate how seemingly reviled the idea that there could be ANYTHING else beyond what we can see and measure is among people today…not that it looks very likely, but it's a romantic thought. Skepticism is such a humorless sport, or it is at least played that way by most. Boring Bores. Learn a different language.

sspread] your] antennæ]

to] acccept] ssoft] transsmisssion]

sshape] ssenssory] fallout]

unussable] ssignal]

                     deeefffaultt] too] regggress]

                     revevverrtttt] to] trrransslittt]erate]

                     thought to speech]]]

                     prriimi]tive]] orgggann]n] shed]

                     la]yyerss] [lierss] ov mean]ning]

stri/ipppp] h[3]art]ttt]] fromm] hus]k]k]

[[/məˈʃiːn s/sɪnθəsəs/s r][u][stsss]

st/ri/pp] g[ē]rs] tø] faull]t] 

lïn[z] ov] /kʌˌmjunɪˈkeɪʃən] /bɹeɪ̯k//daʊn]

f rr ag m ent] sp eee e eech] s hhif t]

sh atttt errrred] bab/bb/b/b/b/bbbb/bb/bbabblle]

vibb r r a t te] innnnnn co h h eren t ttt]

shape/shhhhif  terr] logo/ooo/rhee a]

m u ss cc l e] sp/as/as/ms]

tonggguess]-inn]-speak/k/ing] sp-l/int//er [sp-l//atttt-//er]]

v^v/o/mitt-tt] nothingssss]

aaaaaaaa/tttona/lllll] 

shhhhhhrrr/iiieeeeeee/kkkkkinnnn/gggg]]]

w////hhhhhiiiitttttt-ee///] 

nnnno]ii-i]ssse/]

jackkkkkkkk]]]]ha//mme/r/rrrrrrrrr-r-r-r-r-r-/r/r/rrrrr-r/rrr/r]]]]]]

"The simple slave, in fallow fields, shrugs off his burden and falls asleep."
-Wreck and Reference  'Apollo Beneath the Whip'