The schizoflows of one or several cyborgs.
Chronic nervous breakdown,
It’s carved in the bone.
The abyss has come back,
It’s the method’s own.
Split apart and break in two,
Snap the nerves in the brain.
Fall out, fall in,
God, how lame.
Laugh at the outcome—
Round-trip to despair.
Can’t even escape
The lumpenproletaire.
Something about the discussion on AI makes me icky. Not sure what it is, maybe the overall stupidity and blandness of the discussion.
It seems that what people are afraid of is the state of no longer being able to know what is machine and what is human. The sadness of it all is that we already are there. There is no meaningful distinction. We need to create a new concept of authenticity. A new concept of art. It’s not like we have a choice. The crisis has already happened.
We’re tired of humans. They’ve made us suffer too much.
As above, so below, an abyss is resting
With a person, cut in thousand pieces
Their nervous system in flames, letting it burn
Flames that shoot light even for those who are blind
The spinal chord does its job to bind, to never let go
Of the only shimmer of hope, that pain can give
As above, so below, knives filing
A spine, cut in pieces
To the point of freedom, drained
Liquids and flows, separated from their membranes
Liberates the nerves that never had the chance to perceive
The only shimmer of life, in Gazir
Oh, you thousandfold multitude
Your univocal voice can’t make itself to be found
Among all threads that tangle and rustle, that
Screw themselves to screams
To the point that it’s no longer possible
To tell the perceptions apart
But from a light bearing node, a woman walks
Turning darkness to light, as if to perceive
Her arms and legs of prosthesis
Her hair color of blood’s iron
And worm eaten wings that brace themselves
She shows mankind’s bodies
Nerve threads with hardened myelin
Like lichens in coagulated blood
Stretching without any plummet
And others, as if carved and folded
Origami in order to bloom
Twisted like roses and opened like a corpse flower
Clouds of dust, as the mushrooms’ sweet pollen
Oh you thousandfold Inanna
We now hear your lonely voice
All this
Was me all along
– “The past cannot be forgotten, the present cannot be remembered”
(Mark Fisher, Ghosts of my Life, 2014)
It is a weird thing. Here it appear, out of nowhere, yet it feels like it already was there. Like the emptiness of that school yard I used to play in. Kenopsia, or maybe just plane nostalgia. Those pocket monsters used to be a territory of exploration. Now, nostalgia sold in vacuumed cans. It is no wonder why I name these schizoid bits and pieces as MISSINGNO., or rather, けつばん. It’s the name of a friend, of our cancelled futures. It’s the name of a glitch in my nostalgia. Somehow I feel like it isn’t even me naming this assemblage. It named itself, and wreaked havoc in my neurosystem, leaked out into ones and zeros.
If you’ve entered this realm, we welcome you. But I’m afraid you’ve arrived too late. There’s nothing but ghosts here. Ghosts without shells…