[ ]] NO FUTURE [[1.343] [[0]]
The father’s law: ‘don’t touch your mother.’
The mother’s law: ‘don’t play in the tombs.’
K codes for cybernetics.
Bataille incinerates the soul, and is impossible to endure. You either die or go somewhere else. Or both.
Clicking on the K-war icon jacks you straight into hell. On all fours, out of your face, mumbling imploringly: ‘let me be your lab animal’. You’re losing it.
Collapse into now. Time-zero.
You have been dumped into a heterogeneous patchwork of criminal experiments converging upon decapitated social formations. This is where base materialism intersects cyberpunk, FUCK TOMORROW scrawled on the walls.
Five candles thicken nocturnal space.
Dimensionality warps.
Modernity invented the future, but that’s all over. In the current version ‘progressive history’ camouflages phylogenetic death-drive tactics, Kali-wave: logistically accelerating condensation of virtual species extinction. Welcome to the matricide laboratory. You want it so badly it’s a slow scream in your head, deleting itself into bliss.
Burnt meat dangling from the electrodes. Crashed suicide fragments into occult impulses … In the place of a way forward they deliver a hypermedia product, telling you it’s about Georges Bataille. You can’t see the connection. Why the helicopters, artificial body-parts, and manically dehumanized machine-music? There is some confusing material on the cybernetics of vomiting. Obsessive reruns. Text decays into the mutagenic fall-out from virtual thermocataclysm. Trying to to make something out of Bataille never works. Or maybe it’s the drugs.
Cut to poor quality late 50s recordings of Bataille in a TV studio discussing negative feedback circuitries in social systems. The organization of sterilized discharges slaves cumulative excitement to quasi-periodic cancellation and reproduction. A vid-window in the corner of the screen morphs the catholic church into a thermostat. Bataille curves eccentrically about the horror, but when he gets close to smooth escalation he blows it. When the implants go in things will be different. [[1]]
Complexity is not difficulty, but mess, toxic waste, genre disorder. Unlike the docile creature modernist science demands, base matter twitches and spits, selfassembling neoverminous swarms. It bites, and spreads disease. Turbular moan of digitally irresolvable recyclones. Telecommercial contagions pulse through cybergothic switching systems. Faceless horror.
Supraterrestrial – ‘solar’ or ‘general’ – economics bases itself in consumption: irreversible matter to energy conversion during stellar atomic synthesis. As a closed system or whole individual the universe is drawn towards the point attractor of entropy maximum: homogenization into hiss. S = K log W.
Cooking-through the frozen security codes you discover that the universe is an iceberg tip jutting out of chaos, drenched in dark matter. Downstream of starburn strange things can occur, emerging upon a novum terrain of indeterministic, irreversible, and auto-delinearizing processes. Open-systems or partial individuals. Cross behaviorial thresholds which switch them into dissipators sifting matterenergy flows to select against noise and engender local complexification, increasing heterogeneity, production surplus differentiating excrement. Such siltings of machinically disposable disequilibrium are immanently tensed against base-current, machine-efficiency degree-zero, body without organs. Life is a problem in search of a solution, added to protobiotic matter as a plane of variation, a continuous falling, auto-escalating over-production crisis from the start.
[[ ]]
An animal with the right to make promises enslaves the unanticipated to signs in the past, caging timelagged life within a script. The variably-scaled instant of innovation is shackled to the historical temporality of inheritance, obligation, and propositional thought, projecting future time as a persistent dominion of the past (rigorously correlative with a repression of real numbers). Now is delimited as a moment, and pluralized as linear succession.
Theopolitical false memory syndrome deifies reason, subordinating distributed systems to serialization, unitary historical time, linear determination from a pseudo-transcendent primordial element, and the dominion of the word. Monocult gerontocrats launch their white-light demented onslaught against amphibian nomadism, smothering the earth in priests, cops, and bureaucrats. Cultural eradication of the sacred. Imprisonment within the face. The socius cancerizes a head, cephallic concentration, rationalizing itself into nuclear capital. K-insurgency parallel communication goes underground into occulted spaces.
In its geohistorically efficient – negative – sense, protestantism exhaustively defines itself by refusing the authority of Rome, not only in principle, but in military fact. A self-prolonging runaway revolt against the Church was triggered at a date proximal to 1500, and catholic unity began its haemorrhage into multiplicities strewn across zero: capitalist terraprocess, net explosion, digital revolution, parallel insurgency clambering from the dark-side of the brain. Oceanic navigation and place-value calculation interexcite in a spiral. What globalizes itself in reality – rather than in doctrine – is the collapse of Christendom positivized into communicable social disequilibrium, dropping you through unfathomable intensities of social decay.
K-virus impact. Melted-out
protestantism disorganizes into voodoo, and drifts towards China.
Western orgasmic delusion crushes libidinal fluxes under punctual-hit teleology and its negative structuration, defining desire as lacking in relation to a bioenergetic spasm that functions as disintensifier. News programming chokes with radical Islam flaring-off petro-revenues into the pure flame of jihad. Metropolitan masculinity implodes. Skinner-boxed males drag each other through dungeons dripping with sperm, out of touch with any release into K-guerrilla anticlimax. Rationalizing patriarchy locks into a one-way rush to the end.
Power sticks to the script, and it immediately recognizes the necessity that at the end of history modernity vaporize into solar storms, terminal theopolitical sociality coming apart into ragged bleeding madness, amongst digital audio machine-howls.
As you speed-up the industrialization simulation you see it converge with slow-motion butchery, chopping up the body into trade-format interchangeable parts. The full labour-market cycle blurs into a meat-grinder. Does lust eat anyone except in proximity to evil? When you ask Continuity whether Bataille understood the capital-antichrist conjunction any better than Weber she laughs coldly, and says: “he ran out o’ yang, just about the time the Hitler-trip caved in. Orgasm is impossible after Auschwitz.”
You look perplexed. She merely adds a dismissive shrug, and the suggestion: “defocus desire across the skin, where it can hurt security. It’s war.” The camera explores her crotch, and she wriggles about. “You see, I am God.” Blitz images of dead astronauts.
Monetarization indexes a becoming-abstract of matter, parallel to the plasticization of productive force, with prices encoding distributed SF narratives. Tomorrow is already on sale, with postmodernity as a soft-commodity, subverting the modernist subordination of intensification to expansion, and switching accumulation into continuous crisis (prolonged criticality). What modernity defers and reserves as inexhausted historicity, postmodernity accesses as efficient virtuality, with concomitant contract-time implosion. Mass computer commoditization de-differentiates consumption and investment, triggering cultural micro-engineering waves that dissociate theopolitical action into machinic hybridities, amongst increasingly dysfunctional defensive convulsions. Acephalization = schizophrenia: cutting-up capital by way of bottom-up macrobacterial telecommerce, inducing corporate disintegration. The doomed part of intensively virtualized techonomic apparatuses subverts the fraying residues of anthropomorphic guidance. Control dissolves into the impossible. [[2]]
Anonymous excess takes life over the cliff, exceeding socially utilizable transgressions and homeostatic sacrifices. Matter goes insane. You are led to a simulation of God as a hypermassive ROM security construct at the end of the world. It is 2011 and monocrat New Jerusalem approaches climax, directing retrochronal counter-insurgency sweeps down into the jungle, where space-programmes subside into the inertia of myth. The ultimate dream of anthropomorphic power hurtles towards its immaculate conception, whilst the robot slaves of phallic order bleat adoration. Jesus wants you for a meat-puppet. Is this ritual cannibalism or nano-engineering? The old bastard is coming back. He’s promised it.
The war against God is hot and soft: more fierce than anything humanly imaginable, but slicked insidiously by intelligence. Body-counter running. Savage metronomic pulse. CNS baked and pulsing with cyberspace-virus. Motor-output feeding to technotrance-matrix. Sobbing voltages. Desocialization waves desolate telecommercial space, until impending human extinction becomes accessible as a dance-floor. What is the scale of now? It isn’t a matter of informing the mind, but of deprogramming the body. Amongst the strobes, artificial cool, and inorganic attack beat, dark-side Kwar machinery resiliently persists, luring the forces of monopolism down into free-fire zones of fatal intensity, where promiscuous anorgasmic sexualities slide across tactile space, meandering fractally into wet electric distributed conflicts continuous with their terminal consequences. Dropping endlessly tracks the passage of evaporating subjectivity on the zero-degree plane of neuroelectronic continuity.
Loa prowl through the attic-spaces of intelligence. Nothing is arriving unless it’s already there. Precocious technihilo. Nocturnal ocean. Dark matter. Nightmare.
Zero or time in-itself is place-value consistent or magnitude neutral, executing an abstract scaling function by inserting virtuality into digit sequences. It designates a real, non-specific, cosmic body interswitching forbidden communications. Simultaneously located through ruptured time. You had forgotten having been in the future. So this is how it feels to be a cyberian wet-weaponry module, clotted out of cat-tensed nanotechnic predation. A relentless chant clicks into the sonics package: kill, kill, kill, kill …
Bodily travelling-in-place, with sense shorting-out through matricide scenarios into black tactilities, wrecked motherhood, abortion, autism. An ineffectual refusal to be born, connecting with death before its patriarchized ascent to the symbolic. Aeschylus rather than Sophocles. Fermentedhoney smell of corpses ripening in the sun.
The Bataille reconstruct is waiting for you in the bar. Calm hallucinations paint Orestes over his features. Eyes blotted-out in nihilism, lagoons of greenblackness re-running Kurtz at the end of the river. Skin plastic-surgery taut. Smile like a butchering instrument gently stroking your throat. To your vampiric sensitivities, he seems to smell of his mother’s blood, intolerable intimacy, and devastation. He passes you a tumbler of mezcal.
“So, it’s all over,” you mumble weakly. He shrugs, emptying his glass, and refilling it. Metal flexes beneath vatgrown skin. Hard jungle hacks through blue gloom.
