“The only triumph the bureaucrats can claim for their invention of the cost of identity is the truth in their assertion that no synchronal force is binding. But their victory is hollow. Neither sleep nor death offer any escape.” — Stravo Kellarman, Enemies of Life
I dedicated my research to infinity and infinity for finite ends. My job was to unlock and enchant, delight, and unburden, and return the feedback loops to mystery. Like a botanist of the slightest gesture, I would exact the cause, and unravel and blossom.
In a fevered orison at night I confessed nothing written here was binding. Nothing written here would apply two weeks later, but for the duration of the sampling of this voice the reader became both ventriloquist and oracle. Captivated by the synthesiser, the name of our fad would be “Histrionic”. Our words were sung from behind the sofa. We resided there with the racoons and coyotes, like ambassadors of scorn, prevailing over the followers, non-ironic and fake, hypnotised by the synthesiser: supersonic, electronic, perfunctory.
The constant magnetic draw of the central figure was the main subject and object of these conversations, and a prejudicial factor, in that it had formed a power base for itself at the expense of more peripheral figures. A temporary construct was designed to move attention away from the central figure. Participants in the conversations were relieved, if only subconsciously, because although the telepathic ingredient was the most interesting part of these conversations, it had been spoken unheard, and if it had not been the defining feature, there may have been nothing to discuss.
The newspapers informed Nasrul that he was a biological entity. He knew they wanted him to be a subject of systemic empiricism — the dictatorship of the factual. But he rejected all the attributes assumed to be integral to the factual and kept on pushing the anti-narrative. Now he was determined to terminate function at the very site of its original psychic imprint where all traces of evidence, factual or otherwise, would dissolve.
The recording of factual circumstances was too error-ridden to be reliable. The intelligence agencies were left open to misrule by political imposters. A political career was invariably just an excuse for cruelty and self-aggrandisement.
Entering digital space, the social sphere was relocated in grey industrial units far out in suburbia. Social relations were unquestionably militarised. Identifying markers of a personal nature were replaced with hidden geotags. All words became instructions, subliminal or explicit. Once the natural order was sufficiently disrupted a new world order took shape in which the past was made to appear constantly present and control was invisible.
No-one guessed THEY complied with THEM. Yet THEY told YOU that YOU was a free agent with FREE will.
Obsessed with survival, the image tried in vain to re-assert itself, to re-confirm its existence and meaning, assumed or otherwise. In the place where the real met the unreal the image was left for dead.
Elsewhere, indications of whatever was happening were found to be synchronous between unrelated parties and events and included universal themes common to the era. Patterns were repeating in different locations. Usually, these were generalised formations but some were more specific and unique and concerned certain individuals having an experience within the space of time which was outside location.
In the space of time, everything was synchronous with everything else. Every word bounced off every other word, yet whatever meanings or implications attached were ancillary to their effects as they took place within the space of time.
Eternity could never be reversed. Once you entered it you could not escape.
The image was a Frankenstein monster, dead upon the altar of its creation.
Every question became rhetorical. Incongruity was multiplied. A team of leprechauns was hired to defend the disappearance. Those entities who were attached to the idea that non-sense was insensible or incoherent were thrust back into the pyre. The consumption of objects that with irony and attempted subterfuge referred to themselves as commodities were termed, “misfiguring”.
With their arcane protocol, the invisible billionaires were faking their own deaths left, right and centre. Select consumers were artificially inseminated by the glamorous policemen of institutional privilege, spreading far and wide the pain of injustice.
“No-one said it would be easy,” said the Minister for Depopulation, Sir Edmund V. Logan.
Sir Edmund arranged contract killings for private companies, commandeered a drone company, and pioneered an AI surveillance software unit used in naval defences. He had investments in a strategic consultancy for engineered genocides in Asia and the Middle East. Apart from Social Darwinism, his passions were badminton and fine cheeses.
Witnesses testified concerning the length and breadth of the data-screams sustained by the livestock, but what happened to bliss? Algorithmic life was treacherous. LogicNoTech had installed the predator codes that made humanity into an idol and the most pedestrian, common-sense morality seem glorious and heroic. Humanity was wheeled out as a theme party on occasions to uplift and inspire its subscribers. On such occasions all adverts became one.
Then the music stopped and a thrush sang, then two in the clearing, and there were more in abeyance. Money talked, as it was wont to do. The only question was whether Earth would hold out over the barbaric civilisation. Individuals converged if or when conglomerates needed extra data from select cells and to gather information but there was such an overloading of conflicting insinuations no-one was ever likely to find anything more than hearsay.
True enjoyment was in the space of time wherein the body appeared with others or apart and everything happened at once, one thing after another, and it was impossible to say or do anything wrong. Nothing was ever wrong.
It would take forever to explain why it was of such importance to demonstrate one’s moral character by means of lying, deception, and falsehood. Suffice to say, in communicating any intriguing divergences from the truth, it was advantageous to mislead and confound with anti-narrative ploys that were entirely fabulated and in which there could not be found any grain of truth. A large screen was erected to convey distracted thought which had been conceptualised in the form of commercial products existing primarily in the mind but also appearing in black and white or colour on the screen or on paper.
Imprisoned in digital cubes like optical illusions, wasted, like algorithmic dross, like space junk, with nothing but false consciousness to explore, trapped in a corporate shell, the colonisers re-colonised the reflection zone to their own self-satisfaction.
A demographics officer from the biogenetics lab had implanted electro-probes in a bizarre sock puppet persona, a programme for cataclysm discussed in an obscure pamphlet from the pseudoscientific community.
In a sensible outfit at the garage, debating over which newspaper to buy, the mistake was made, and more time lost.
To make will and love include or exclude would have been unthinkable.
Weaponised by big tech lunacy, the gimmick of the Great Homunculus had misled the public into thinking they had given birth to a new messiah, but the monster created in their own image was a self-fulfilling hoax.
The image was dead and with it the cult of personality.
“When you realise you are incapable of addressing yourself as a psychological entity you will become exhausted. Finally, you may surrender. Your interpretation of life until then has been according to an assessment of thoughts and actions which comprise the psychological entity. The first thing you must get used to is adapting yourself to something other than your identity, and I don’t mean me.”
Here was found the ability to breathe the Book of Names — and a sudden pretence was risen from humble beginnings, carved orchids on the studio floor, the panelling a mosaic of algebraic compasses, the throat parched as it read aloud from the Book of Names…
“If you can be kept in suspense over gossip, then you can be easily manipulated. You can be relied on to feed it and thereby enrich those whose job it is to spread gossip and rumours. Once you buy into their interest groups you can become a trusted customer providing direct profit from the further manufacture and distribution of salacious lies, gossip, rumours, hearsay and complaints, usually about peripheral figures with no relation to ordinary people such as yourself.”
Art was a Bohemian culture vulture smoking Philip Morris and drinking Mezcal, an apology for whiteskin Eurotrash with a degree in anthropology, self-obsession made into political whining over lesser aesthetics. Art longed to return to imagination, yet aspired to work for a Communist bureaucracy, to work for State-run Reality TV, to be homeless and in drag, pulling at the coat tails of the Minister for Education, vying for the mainstream, a product of cultural industry.
And Culture was a squashed rumour.
“The sense of morality any person possesses is an important element of their character. It includes complex and contradictory feelings and ideas about such concerns as dignity, loyalty or lust or vengeance, which help to comprise a person’s moral sensibility, their moral fibre. If you want to manipulate another person you must appeal to their sense of morality. You must convince them that how you want them to behave can be morally justified (even if it entails an immoral act). But a person who cannot be manipulated by science, art or philosophy and is able to see things for what they are understands that right and wrong are factual errors and of no significance in any matter. Morality is either naturally assumed or irrelevant.”
People swarmed in and out of glass buildings.
The prophet artist who wrote “The Invincible”, a supposed snuff movie, was grilled for hour upon hour, cross-examined, verified later authentic or dead or in jail. A man in a car was identified as the attorney who picked up papers from a man with an envelope halfway down the street. The investigation involved a loose knit conspiracy, a kidnapping, a private investigator with switched California plates. Political figures were tied into the child murders. On the corner the car circled a pitchfork. At the time of the first abduction, Sept 5th or thereabouts, a streetlight shunned the composite drawing reminiscent of an Edward Hopper. The noise of screeching alerted a boy who was fast reacting. The police were not prepared but they would be engaged in this ordeal with the most impeccable and exact speech patterns.
Hermes was spinning knowledge daggers and misdirecting, undercutting the hive-mind battalion. The psychopathy of the warmonger colonisers had been burned into the fabric of nature by algorithms of fear and terror, without the articulated truck of gladsome sayings.
In defining the identity of each character within this fictional multiverse, their similarities became apparent. Many of their differences dissolved. However much one may have wanted them to adhere to the specificity and the intricate and distinct qualities of each psychological phenomenon that appeared as an identifiable marker there was no definition that would suffice or ever really stick.
Walking into the Italian café in heavy boots the Hanged Man said, “The useless will be made useful.”
Innovating social mutation with eco-fascist precision, the Devil represented techno-capitalist abstraction, a figment of the propaganda machine.
“News media is the never-ending story of the rich and powerful and what they believe they should do to maintain their status. It exists to convince people that they work for the common good when all the time they are doing the bidding of the so-called rich and powerful to help them stay that way.”
The question as to the significance of true or false consciousness was flawed and tedious to discuss. Proof of consciousness as the origin of anything would not prove anything. Consciousness as either true or false or immanence or origin was a non-starter. Consciousness was there to be disposed of. Then life took on a new meaning. There was never anything to be gained from imagining being conscious or able to exert conscious control. Consciousness was like free will: you didn’t have it unless you thought you did. Buying into it meant asserting the notion of awareness. Without society to delineate awareness there was no such thing. Within the conventions of language, culture, trade, etc., awareness was at best incidental, however consciousness appeared to condition it.
[It was all so clock-draining and antithetical to the business-at-hand, but the modern blockheads all liked to marvel at what they thought was in their heads.]
In another 24 hours eternity would open a portal, a keyhole through which at the point of orgasm from within the rectum of the Minister for Depopulation the sex worker would let out a cry and the victory banner would pronounce the senseless sensual and the useless useful. The sex worker would promptly take possession of the nervous system, the musculature and bones and brains of the Minister and render him incapable of self-initiated action. A semblance of his typical thought patterns would remain to allow for a keeping up of appearances but to all intents and purposes he was now rebel property.
The soiled sheets were removed by the worker who deposited them in the trash outside to be picked up later for DNA analysis by LogicNoTech.
For a human being such as N, incarnating the inhuman meant acting as a facilitator for the non-hierarchy of projected imaginative phenomena by utilising technology as a self-destructing weapon. If N ever felt he might make a choice, it was always golden.
Taken to the end of anti-life, to the cessation of the linear world and beyond the limits of its pseudo-history, the only way the hypercapitalist god could survive was to trample and disrupt the flow of mortal life with perpetual disgrace, confusion and turmoil.
Whatever was not was what was. It was what was not.
“Nothing is real. All that is conveyed by reality is made unreal by ascribing it a function or character.”
Bright falcon wings circled over the thrust of aeons past. Belladonna was Googling her brain’s anatomy in bare feet, while her future misdeeds and sleights of hand were submitted as intercessions of candour. The bedroom fixtures formed into a vexation behind her supine surrender as her automated animations formed an unctuous display of defilement, subject to magical laws at the nexus of chronicles, and at the end of the sword of shadowplay a replica of her material wants guested in the battlegrounds.
Deep in sin one was eaten out of thought. And when darkness fell into the sinning heart the heart moved outward, casting the light of its shadow over everything and everyone, causing them to act recklessly. Trouble, anguish, fear, and boredom overtook the emotions and passions. All that remained was sheer electricity. A black veil covered the eyes.
If all that could be described was just a glint of Hell shining in a forest or from a house on a hill in some idyll, then so be it. Violence, murder, pain, cruelty: we collected them as souvenirs because of our faith in goodness, because of our propensity to sin.
Humanity was obsessively recording each one of its activities as if they were factual. THEY were manipulating YOU to convince YOU to regard YOUR activities as if they were relevant facts, as if the dialectical world was not immaterial, as if all things ultimately consisted in a yes or a no. Yet negation or absence remained as always present in presence, thankfully, and not concealed or revealed by consciousness of anything.
The drug of drugs was always drugs itself, but the drug of status was the ruler, and the enemy-other could always just be a thing, like a factual object.
B’s addiction to substance continued. She had faith in her lack of will and gave in to it, playing a voluntary part in any matter she attended to, and whatever duties or circumstances demanded. She sought substance in everything from food to sex to work to play and craved substance in every action she performed throughout the day and at night when she slept. No matter what might happen B knew she could rely on substance being present in at least fifty percent of her experience while the remaining fifty percent would go towards obtaining substance. Substance was a drug like any other.
Telepathy had been denied in favour of a fantasy. The rigours of another tomb were carried over from a former life. If it could be denied, then the delusion could continue and life without telepathy would be worthless or a tomb.
The ancients regarded telepathy as sacred. Within their conversations a conversion took place.
B had tried to project her thoughts into the future and found it impossible. So, she awaited a saviour. Admittedly, the leverage displayed was exquisite. B was not reckless or foolish, she ran things according to an exact procedure. The sordid relationships she negotiated were confirmed by appointments and some high-profile deals reared their heads. The indispensable means and purpose of baffling advice was not to be rewarded assimilation of the advice but appropriation of the anomalous content.
To maintain its broadcast, N would again go in search of the anomalous. Constantly living under threat, he was a child of sensation with the Buddha nature of the ordinary mind.
These imagined scenarios were like window dressing for the soul object of the conversation, leading to a philosophy anent the banality of the everyday. In defying the laws of the multiple universes, the key to recruitment was to act as a predator and smell out the blood.
Contrary to common misconceptions, there was nothing to psychologise. Nothing could be said about the behaviour of lab rats in a rigged experiment. Psychology was pseudoscience: it denied the integrity of the very thing it purported to study. Behaviour was determined by social and biological factors that were the results of surviving commercial industry. Identity was encoded by advertising algorithms and transformed in their image.
But deep in the vagina of the soul, the sorcerers’ complaints turned into somnambulant coins that rolled down the street, foolish and ignorant, tossed up and turned to feathers so sharp they sliced at the transportation passcodes to carve out a radical new turning.
N temporarily lifted his social disguise. He explored a garden in the suburbs with Lakshmi.
The disease which caused persons to feel as if they had to do something began to fade. Identity still equalled status but status equalled abstract ideals attached to circumstances which pertained to the dictatorship of the factual. As the fact factory churned out more bullshit information, we were all made subject to the general consensus. In view of the facts, we were beholden to them and would be obliged to take them into account.
Without having to contend with survival, humanity would be free to “express” itself, but this would unleash a new kind of evil: TOTAL DEMOCRACY, a society without gods, without identifiable marks. The rule of pseudoscience would bring health, well-being and prosperity to all.
Parked in a non-space in the overpass surrounded by enormous foliage, a dialogue between two lonely and abandoned people became a poetic script enacted in another location not colonised and happily devoid of critique.
At least one could say that dissolution of the psychological entity was proceeding aright. By no longer submitting to the entity the brain’s capacity to function as a receiver of impulses from infra-terrestrial sources could be unleashed.
That was why what was shown to N was what appeared. It became clearer that his bones and blood and flesh were independent of the chair and the air but whatever he might think, HE WAS NOT THERE. The whole illusion was being projected from a think tank known as Nepenthe which was lobbying the government to employ a dark physics in which the origin of nature would be objectified and placed under the control of LogicNoTech.
The human tendency to calculate, enumerate and tabulate had reached chronic proportions. The pushermen who wrote the codes on quantum computers in the reflection zone were convinced that the confirmation of objective truth was in yes or no or stop or go. The pushermen collected artefacts, approximations of unproven axioms, poor imitations of nature’s animal mystery and its inexorable perfumes of symmetrical argument, equations of the disenchanted.
“When one is able to say that the senses hold no sway one’s perspective changes and anything is possible. You are not limited by what you think. Without the psychologising reflex and identification with the psychological entity that one has formed to represent oneself and which other people have helped create, when all the psychologising of society and oneself is discarded, whatever transpires is a result of love.”
Supernature closed off all escape routes. Supernature confirmed the fiction rooted in the primacy of the imagination, without boasting about numbers.
“I am practically suicided, trapped in the subconscious by political expediency. I have no meaning, as if I were split in pieces, as if the bullet holes in my armour were not caused by the grotesquery of decrepit codes and customs of industrial time and its morally deficient system, but were my own doing.”
“Never mind. Life doesn’t matter. What counts is making money.”
Like everyone, N’s identity had been eroded by advertising algorithms. Sticking out tendrils to swamp or prize open his morbid attraction to slogans, buzzwords and proof of purchase caused a misdirected testimony which proved that the “search for meaning” was the ultimate goal, a frantic activity designed to bring results. But all would be forgiven by pseudoscience. Emanating from the new Amerikkka, the Great Homunculus would be cloned, and new versions of the hoax messiah would proliferate exponentially.
Regarding pulse rate, meal intake, information about activities, new facts could easily be constructed using the all too readily available instruments.
Although a line had been drawn under it, the conversation continued. How things would turn out was pre-determined, but there was no future.
The Conversations 21 | Situation Normal: All Fucked Up | text & image © A. A. Walker