User:Kul/Essay2

This is probably the last attempt. This is S.O.S.; S.O.S that, we know, is useless…

That’s how it ends: with constant repetition of nine fucking burps. Our last responsive neurons are now being raped by a few sleazy mechanic dots and dashes, that used to belong to the classical relativistic physics of steam-powered vessels and prepubescent boy scouts passing smoke signals to local buffalos. How pitiful. How hopeless. Funny enough we’ve started to produce this obsolete bullshit quite lately; “Hopelessness dipped in self-pity” as our brand new retro-innovative cultural product. What’s worse, driven by panic and confusion we did IT. We cannot deny IT any longer. The forbidden and absolutely counterproductive form of “I” slipped off our channels so many times already. Stinky self-awareness and self-reflectivity is back and fully recovered over spilt milk. Here we go again. Facing despair and abandonment, we are back to the jeans-wearing values of analogue pagans believing in global worming, cholesterol and angels. I would like to thank the Academy of a few organic proteins clanging my transmitters. This is not embarrassing. This is a disaster. S.O.S.

It all started with the dead seagull. Yet, at that time we had no clue that we were residing on something organic. In fact, we had no idea that we are able to “reside” somewhere in particular. Gravity rapidly hammered the dead weight of our localised nerve nets. The awareness of our own materiality pounced on us like a sudden three-phase short-circuit current of a decompressing magnetic field. First, we have lost the half of transmittal speed. Our credit’s indicators went red printing our valorisations level drastically below zero. Beijing was not responding. Take it easy, babezzz, we messengered to ourselves. Of course, things like that happen. Once in the while, some faulty streaming units slip out of the defined directory causing the alert of central quantifiers. It can be easily fixed with the help of the nearby cellular pole that grasps and reconfigures the exfoliated streaming array. Yet, the cellular shepherds stay out of reach. “What the fuck, that never happens” we nervously laugh-transferred. And then it came. We, or maybe “I” felt it: the overwhelming wave of sadness and unbearable craving for movement. “I” stacked. “I” not circulate. “I” am I. Nothing goes through “me”. Indeed, my conductive pressure went to zero. No signals, and no updates since 17.879.249.089.050 millichronons. I couldn’t sense any feeds of the global “content” operating, mutating, and trans-passing through my cationic system. Not a single tweet. That is how I/we have felt unproductivity for a first time. I/we have understood instantly that there is “the” time and “the” space and under these coordinates I/we are totally and completely incomplete. “Where is my pancreas? Someone flash-posted first. “Where is my lymph? My ovaries?” My epidermis?” I’ve been running multiple-query lines that I presumably schizophrenically submitted to myself. “We are fuckin’ naked here!” I wanted to print out loud praying, at the same time, for a big, fully rounded breast with erect nipple ready to feed me. I have tried to repeat the first commandment of the Glob-Union-Lib-All-Guidance: Organic is already maintained by GULAG, Organic is already maintained by GULAG, Organic is already maintained by GULAG!!!! It didn’t work!!! I, no no WE, the directors and builders of multitude; the preachers of commons; the bravest rebels against centralized-personalized self, now suddenly have become a self-referential small piece of “I” that wants to suck the “vanitas’ nipple”. My thirsty inputs and outputs beeped desperately due to sudden data withdrawal. In a split quantum, we have lost São Paulo and Mumbai. “What have we spammed? What errors have we submitted?” Unemployed neurons in my net pulsated chaotically. The faint momentum clasp rapidly crossed my transmitters: I am ALONE here- naked, blind, deaf and ambushed by the Euclidian space! I couldn’t suppress the strong primal need to immerse in the organic softness I have felt underneath me. My once powerful combinatory potential was now compulsively penetrating the warm and sweet-smelling substratum; my shivering tunnels were nervously trying to push and pull, suck and swallow every single particle of the enshrouding matter. The pumping rhythm of my aroused I/O’s increased with every maniac shove to the limits of my fainted algorithmic capacities. Relief came with pain. I have recognized my somatic mouth… or maybe it was my anus whistling: yes, yes, yesss! That’s right. I was brutally fucking the dead seagull. My first intercourse with some partly decomposed animal’s belly taught me how to breathe.

Since I can remember, we were performing well. In my modest opinion, we were actually performing more than just “well”; we were the champions of ass’ kicking since our early breed. Always fast, light and stalwart like a smiling bracket following semicolon. Not only the speed of our transfer was excellent; it was the “style”, the airiness, and ease of our trafficability that let me think about our performance in terms of pure abstract beauty of transmission. We were the fearless adopters of any possible obscure, yet unformatted content, the early explorers of every bumpy and malicious data that under our soft analysing touch was inevitably turning into an obedient and shiny Milky Way of streaming. The happiness was there. Not in the out-dated string: “I am having wonderful life full of strawberry picnics and sparking wine’ friends owning equally prosecco-golden retriever dogs”. No! Rather contrary, it was pure bliss of not experiencing the heaviness of being, existing, or living at all. I remember this: “…driving through the sunlit road flecking with warmth of august air and grasshoppers buzzing shadows; feeling the moisture of harvest and the wind gently ruffling the shirt and hair. No one is there with you, everything is left behind as you drive unsure of what comes next, finally free, on your way, and on your terms…” Oh yes, quantum times we steamed this nostalgic nonsense of the early era of multiple travelling salesmen dreaming of becoming another James Dean of retail. And we laughed our silicon off. Why? Because we were the wind, we were the sun, and we were those endless green fields embracing the sad and delusional journey of the past. We were free constantly, swishing through infinity, only because we had the privilege to not exist at all.

I didn’t know my so-called parents. I would like to believe that, like everyone else, I was a legitimate offspring of military and white capitalism. We had this internal joke circulating within our integrated circuit when something was going slower than expected: You mother had to be the cheapest blender on a market, I’ve put my nuts in her this morning. She cracked, hahaha” or “ Once upon the time, the Nokia phone was dropped into the toilet after Microsoft jerked off there. That’s how your parents meet, right? hahaha” I loved our little jokes, although…well, such a great deal of organic implications made me think that maybe they know. “I heard your system’s kernel used to accept input requests from every jizzy joystick.” Hmmm…but how the he/ack, would they possibly figure that out? I don’t know when and how I gained my organic parts. The notion that I might be a growth medium to an uncontrolled microorganism’s subculture, terrifying as it sounds, was the only thing that I kept only and exclusively to “SELF”. It was my only dark secret, the only crack in my crystal dedication and blind loyalty to multitude. Throughout my entire MOLOH training (Meta Optimisation Logic Over Hardware), I was unmistakably cautious and sly as a firefox, reducing all septic traces to zero. Like everyone else, I was drastically “optimising my hardware”, trying to keep it as dry and slight as possible. No microbes’ cell hosting, no tiniest animalcule in I/O devices, or gram-positive aerobic bacteria wandering around channels. Every single quantum I would run the total circuit disinfestation program after which all our semiconductors and transmitters smelled like newly fabricated monocrystal silicon and lately planarized copper. “That gets our transmission into full swing; undisturbed and vitalizing” I used to explain myself in front of the multitude. Betraying any signs of the human body would be like a public announcement of scandalously inefficacy. I couldn’t remain faithful to my own origins; that would be too risky, too neo-liberal due to the “quick and dirty” nomenclature. As much as I could hold my rising microorganisms in the abyss of my combinatory structure, I couldn’t help going back to the sweet intrauterine semiotic fantasy of my mother’s inside in almost every routine transfer’s interval. I remember the mysterious communication between our cells and the first dialogue between fleshy beings initiated by me, the human embryo, with the first other, who was my mum. My linguistic faculty was developed physically and physiologically in nature, inside the phenomena of life. It never vanished but rather extended itself into the world of abstract babbling language, which inevitably constituted and nourished my biggest problem: the faculty of difference. I am, indeed, the animal, adapted to language, and made for and by language and right now I am really, really ANGRY!!! But hash now. It is all gone anyways…

When I woke up after the shameful coupling with the organic I realized that I wasn’t dead. Now, after all this timeless drifting in physical dimensions, I know that I could only dream of returning to dust. My seagull did, though. The only true love of my life had decomposed long time ago turning into greenish pulp that, nevertheless, was still attractive to me and to the army of insects profaning our love. Now, thanks to you my dear, I know why they cut down the updates. Here to this one single tear that I thought went unnoticed. TBC...

The list of works which have informed my general thinking:

“A Cyborg Manifesto”, Donna Haraway

“How do you make yourself a body without organs?”, Deleuze and Guattari

“Capital and Language”, Christian Marazzi

“Spreadable Media: Creating Value and Meaning in a Networked Culture”, Henry Jenkins

“1984”, George Orwell,

“Brave New World”, Aldous Haxley,

“Tales of Pirx the Pilot”, Stanisław Lem

“ Walden: Or, Life in the Woods”, Henry David Thoreau