“Under the rule of the algorithm, all modes of cognition and communication are manipulated, categorised and quantified to promote the dominant ideology of financialization. There is currently no parallel or alternative system to undermine or replace it.” — Yakim Janović, Dystopia Ltd
Art was pregnant with artificial intelligence. But intelligence had always been artificial anyway, despite its humanity.
The seven sensors raised their ugly heads. They’d been trans-mutated by Mary Shelley and Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s Biographia Literaria, but the rationalist purveyors of ideology served education. (more…)
“As contradictions may be considered true and false at once, those closest to fiction usually tend to be the more precise, fiction being the prima mobile encompassing all that is factual in the naming of images and ideas.” — Mileva Martin, Clandestine Misdemeanors
To you the image was not dead. You saw literal forms in colours and structures as if their designs were of matchless purity. But the imagistic reproduction of a humanistic aesthetic profile which you fancied had social or political meaning was null and void.
The image was dead but to you the image was not dead. (more…)
“The accretion of delusions engendered by the myths of capital and labor imposes a diabolical doctrine of competition and respectability which amplifies commodification to no end.” — Eugénie Villiers, The Meta-Psyche of Capital and Labor
On a bright cold day in April, in a land where everybody forgot technology equalled control, machine personae deepfaked the human category. It was not self-evident.
Their realness going forward pixel by pixel, bystanders began to take on the appearance of houses. Little fortresses were shielded against the elements. In the shelter of thoughts and wayward appetites structures of organic / machinic toil — produce — were couched in fabric, offset against buildings observing each other in the environment in queues and lanes and clusters. Plots of land divided into units each attached to different pairs of hands. (more…)
“To the poet, philosophy is pure emotionalism, poignancy for its own sake. To the poet, philosophy is cause to weep for no reason.” —Alberto Lopez, In Pursuit of Zosimos
Nas knew the game was rigged. He was from a brutal background and had seen the aestheticisation of mainstream corporate values for what they were. Information had become a parody of itself. What was it saying? What did it mean? Nas was not inclined to be moved by any bullshit information.
Whatever presented itself had emerged from a fictional character. N discovered it would present itself of its own accord as psychological representation reduced to a vague feeling. Its meaning then would have no further implication except in a fictional sense. So, any statement made by someone or other without factuality would not imply anything more than the meaning ascribed to it. Factual interpretation became unnecessary and all too often anathema to reasonable action. (more…)
Those who identified with Nas saw him as an adventurer willing to transgress accepted modes of the rationale of communication. He showed that the ground of being was a banquet laid out before them at which all present were consumed by the privilege of free choice, not granted automatically, nevertheless available to them as sentient creatures should they so choose.
In their story, N was an anti-hero conqueror of other planets, an astonishingly gifted yet flawed individual. He had appetites he would satisfy but not be controlled by. He would put them to use to advance his ambitions ruthlessly. He was not a man to make a snap judgement. (more…)
Selling off some trinkets at the circus to reverse the cycles of flesh — drinking more, much more than even the fortune-teller — the gourmet-man has lips of neutral lamentation, festive for the revolvers’ sea of change. Speaking in terms of finance in a factual climate, furnishing the facts without peaks or troughs, the vestiges of increment are swamped with parlance. Casting aside the accidental partition, built as it was by the ringmaster and his money-lenders, a pestle and mortar hewn by silk worms is carried over the threshold of the contemporary scythe. The laughing-gas lungs of the Dietrich-Nijinsky Androgyne fold up the circus tent with a mystique grown young to the felt water, the cloth sky. A comet that makes nature plain to a goat pulses through for due moment, dividing the sanatorium to suffer the principle of the snake-child, principle of the sphinx-child masked by cosmetics of the fruit-leavener.
Nas awoke to the news that the town square had been firebombed and the area cordoned off by military police. Interference and disturbances had become commonplace in the last few days of the dying of the embers of the empire of the senses.
There were those who said there was a panicked, frenzied grasping for the familiarity of undying chaos and slaughter.
The electricity supply ran out, making it impossible to uphold data transfer rates in another region where the in-communicability of the known impressed itself, rendering members of the general populace speechless, while some stared into space for hours on end, only pausing to eat. Without servility and submission to enterprise, there was nothing left for anyone to speak about, nothing to communicate. (more…)
Belief was a strange thing. It helped to construct and reconstruct so many sayings and customs within the gloom of the reader’s chamber. Although they had been spied in the square on the night of the execution, the reader, a sentient creature, had not been found in contravention of protocol.
Reality was once heroic, something like dying for one’s country. A great enthusiasm was shown for productivity and innovation. The illusion that the free market would labour for the crime of supply and demand gave total satisfaction, but the collapse of the real had already taken place decades ago and an idealistic fanaticism had given in to cynicism and lassitude. Eventually the heroes of the ideology of reality realised it was a result of the myth of creativity, although they still imagined it was preferable to destruction. (more…)
She stopped in the lodge and ransomed her travels for good. Sophia Reich was made of fibres. In sally gardens where a former suicide pact had left us alive, we drank milk and blood, buoyant with maudlin promise. Indiscretions in abbreviated forms were austere manifestos upon the characters of a rock. Led by customs to knowledge of moonshine ratios, we were in-commensurable figments, hi-fidelity skeletal junkie-stations, insignia of simulation. Spoken powers and knowers leapt upon our bandwagon. The species of composition, offspring of red setters’ component precipitations, were voiced in a space between antiquity and the surface of a mysterious unpredictability. No-one wants to be a statistic!
José and the Ziegfeld girls, the follies, reached a crescendo exquisite as human sacrifice. The Winter bride played a game of swans. Midnight fishermen provided food. The consumptives with azure poise and balance of the words of the sea were slow-flowing out of this era. Our brothers’ and sisters’ pride swelled the gates of the citadel, ageing the lakes and the rivers. Antagonism darkened the sentries with a fiendish raiment of punishment: the reasoning of Man. Without astonishment, José endured. Market sellers and barmaids had found an affinity in his animal / trickster renaissance, sustenance for an extraordinary “Scientific American”. (more…)