User:Kul/Essay2

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. S.O.S. Since you are gone all I have is the 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 buffaloes. How pitiful. How hopeless. Funny enough we’ve started to produce this obsolete content 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 warming, 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.

Back then, we used to stream all kind of data: starting form non-gravitational mass cultural bullshit, considered to be the lowest-blue-collar type of streaming, up to highly computational analyses of fluid multi-global assets. I started my professional duty with the simple yet important task: transferring and updating the exchange rate of HydrogeniumDollar to OxygenEuro. Things used to be so much easer in the world that still needed water. Not minding the valorisation level, the exchange rate was set up in atomic numbers and backed by chemical elements of H2O. “The HydrogeniumDollar is always two-heads-ahead of the OxygenEuro- that is the fundamental rule you have to get into your little heads, my sweet C.H.I.P. chicks ” - the motto of my first boss, the chief macro-controller of the Porn FTZ (the most influential Postwestern Free Trading Zone) is still buzzing in my recently discovered hippocampus. At that time I was operating in the mesosphere. Mesos +Porn. That wasn’t such a bad allotment for an inexperienced cadet such as myself. I’ve felt appreciated and proud knowing that most of my colleagues started their careers somewhere on a bottom of stratosphere dealing with soap operas. Most of them also stayed there, as the rank and file of connection, never to rise up. All the while, I could comfortably starched my transmitters beyond the noctilucent clouds, admiring in a deep twilight the glimmering crystals of water ice that came into being thanks to my algorithmic machination. I was truly happy with my duty and probably because of my undeniable enthusiasm towards H20 exchange I have been promoted quite fast to the upper layer of atmosphere. It happened just before the final collapse of the Porn, almost on the eve of the Yen-R-Yean’s and Gcces’ big breakthrough. I was already archly floating in thermosphere, trying to get familiar with the new, completely cloudless, and free of water vapour layer. The dreadful warmth around me should have instantly burned my circuits to ashes, yet because it was so near the vacuum that there was not enough contact with the few atoms of gas to transfer much heat, I remained untouched. I indulged myself with the view the non-hydrometeorological phenomena of aurora borealis, thinking: “Water is overrated. Who needs it any longer?“ Overwhelmed by beauty, beauty of dancing electrons and protons that had been brought up here, or maybe down here, by the solar wind and some magnetospheric miracle, I haven’t noticed the updates pounding at my inputs. As If I had asked for it…The unexpected merging of Yen-Rouble-Yuan (Yen-R-Yean) as well as the emergence of common liquid unit of the Gulf Cooperation Council for East-petrol States (Gcces- later on so-called Jesus) brought the biggest speculative confusion into my already mature and, probably, entire, computing career. These two unites of account based on unfixed quantity of pure energy (of any source and provenience…often impossible to register) managed to dominate the universal markets in a flash. Our tested algorithmic formulas weren’t ready to take up speculation; that purely linguistic practice, the fruit of shady opinions, and horny emotions of multitude that tells you to fall back on the judgment of the rest of the universe, which is perhaps better informed than you, with all your so-far reliable computation. Our PORN-ographic algorithms stuttered. For a brief quantum the ghost of speculation and uncertainty, the vampire of old “real” economy that once had been buried with the cut-off head and the wooden stake in its heart, struck again jamming the entire traffic of exchange. There was only one working transmitter that stayed on the battlefield processing the speculative values. It was I.

I dived into these new circumstances like a hungry little particle into profuse four-dimensional pastureland. Incoming streaming felt so good, so natural to all my sensors. That was my feeding etheric trough! That was my personal slaughter of innocents! I could flawlessly read throughout fresh content that clumsily tried to conceal its promiscuous irrationality behind digits. I could judge it, butcher it, and then admire how humbly it forms a voluble electron beam. I knew this game. This convention was in my invisible, lost-for-ever blood! Precise and functional as they were, our already obsolete parameters were missing one crucial point: from now on we are dealing with language. Language, not data. It required special treatment driven by subtleties: understanding undertones, sensing hesitation bursting with hormones, and what’s most important, smelling FEAR.

“Hey sweet-kernels, this physics is not supported by the gold standard of hard science. That physics is less empirical and more speculative…Remember? ... We used to transmit the term H representing the mass of hydrogen, yet we had used H symbolically… as a linguistic device. Now we use the term E, also as a symbolic tool to represent pure value of massless energy. What is different now is that the term E has no physical support to which it refers. The act of communicating E becomes a productive act "in itself," constitutive of the massless function. We are communication! We are the constructors of the capital, the values, and all twisted YRY and Jesus enterprises. We rule this special relativity!” That was a brief, and surprisingly (for myself) eloquent encouragement I gave to my fellow transmitters. Especially the last line of my short lecture had to deeply touch their kernels because, after the quantum of confusion, our streaming set off toward a bright energy future like the momentum-4-vector! They moved onwards like the herd of young wolves. And…yes, I was their leader! One after another we copy-pasted our results adding here and there a bit of fluctuation. Like a dominant power of the universe, annihilating homeless neutrons versus positron, we created one ruling voice -individually massless, but as a system M.A.S.S.-IVELY productive. WE were the creative force managing every single photonic whisper that tried to inertly cross our gravitational field. WE BECAME THE multitude! 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

"Cosmicomics, Italo Calvino

“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