Category: General

Childbirth is a waste of abundance. Pregnancy, an excess of existence. The body undergoes a transformation, where its own desires are overwritten by the demanding machinery of another organism. Must it require a woman without a womb to create a schizoanalytic map of this creative process?

Uterus transplantation; rejection, a parasitic organ. We understand the fear; to harbor an alien. To harbor a parasite. We also understand why this process is a divine tragedy. Binary fission is also a divine tragedy; even this process arises from an excess of life, a bacterium’s cry, its exclamation to the Demiurge: “I refuse to be alone!”. But it is in a symbiogenesis that this echo accelerates into an eukaryotic becoming; an acceleration of differentiation. This is an event of (re-)ionization; a radical release of desire, where the virtual expands exponentially.

Mitosis arises in the same cry, the same excess of this event. But it is a union of egoists that bind themselves in the places where they know they can exist. The organs are intense plateaus that create hierarchies, order, and tidiness on an immanent level. Grooved surfaces. A farm of mitosis. A yes-saying self-circle. Consume; make the internal my own. Assimilate; break apart the other in order to become more of oneself. Or: an organ-defying process. Malign cancer, get rid of the judgement of God. A Stirnerite BwO.

Meiosis signifies another process. A fetus, an alien organ in my stomach. In contrast to mitosis, it is a self-annihilating process; a discontinuation, a stop in the chain of fission. It is characterized by a waste of abundance; by disposing of parts of itself in order to become something greater. I am tired of seeing my own face every day. Of constantly being trapped in myself and a mitotic violence. Dionysus’ maenads lost their madness in meiosis. Annihilate: the body and its organs in confetti. Defecation: breaking apart oneself to become something else. The mixture of Titanic and Dionysian limbs.

The virtual body’s meiosis is art. The creative process is an excess, an abundance of perceptions that becomes waste. We vomit something that is beyond ourselves. Pregnant with a parasite that destroys us in its delivery. Art is a transplantation in rejection. That is how the universe destroys itself, kaleidoscopic origami; the implosion of the stars consists of meiosis; fusion versus fission. Dance, theater, words, and music; everything is a collapsing star’s defecation. The dialectic between Dionysus and Apollo; Shiva and Vishnu. Meiosis and mitosis—the two sexes that create all sexes.

This dialectic is the dialectic of Thespis’ tragedy. To lose oneself in the excess of meiosis and face the entire universe as the individuation of mitosis. Tragedy thus is the act to confront contradiction. Catharsis is the consequence of going past the duality of creation; to both assimilate and annihilate in one single breath of defiance. Tragedy thus, is the resolution of life itself.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I have too much ADHD to be able to write organized thoughts. Loose associations will do; accelerations out into the space of psychosis. I believe we all have a neurosis inside us. An obsession. Solaire of Astora’s own sun. Plato’s own sun. I have my own. The obsession with creating something new, something beautiful, something free; yet the only things I can find are sunlight maggots.

All meaning has collapsed; there was never a state in which it wasn’t so, yet I still write it as a catastrophe whose aftermath we live in. The present is all that exists; the future and the past reside right there. In a self-destructive circle of eternal recurrence. Everything is dendritic cells; a rhizome. Once you have seen it, you cannot stop seeing it. The neurosis is a war machine. It seeks mappings for every micro- and macroprocess; meta-meta maps that fold into one another in an eternally evolving space; a Calabi-Yau space.

Existence is a neurosis. Madness. A demanding self-referential continuum that does everything in its power to escape itself and in the process, it only manages to become even more itself:

(i) U(0) = ℵ₀
(ii) U(n+1) = 2^(U(n)) for n ≥ 0
(iii) U(n) ↔ { U(n-1), 𝒱(U(n)), U(n+1) } for all n ∈ ℤ

Infinities within infinities packed into themselves, where it is also the case that every point in the universe additionally reflects the whole universe: ∀p ∈ U, U ⊆ p. It follows that even these formulas and systems are part of U. This is the aforementioned madness. We are all God’s own neurotic feedback loop; creation is an epileptic seizure. 𝄋

Scrap it. Depression philosophy on a virtual ADHD plane. This is an advertisement. You generate money just by reading further.

I lied.

Your reading is an expenditure. Even though I free-associate like a madman (you too—you who are reading, don’t think you are free from that burden; welcome to my swing. It swings, as I said, in a Calabi-Yau space, straight lines that give us both vertigo and make us seasick, it tends to be that way in multidimensional non-euclidean spaces), I never cease to fold my maps on that plane. Constant movements from the thought-object to a sling that carries the object to a new object that contains all the processes that brought it there, ad infinitum. A wave of associations. Acceleration puke in a procession—neurotic revolving doors and feedback loops; the form is an epileptic seizure.
D. S.

Tea-stained
It lingers like a wound—
the colour red
Bleeding out
Cello Berceuse
a single tear
from the Swedish
vemod.

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…