Nodocentric Self

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Barely contained chaos, indistinct among the particle stream, the universe is a system that is far from an equilibrium; it thwarts explanations not only its origin but also its persistence.

the proliferation of spaces deprived of anything habitable and the lack of any sort of free space, the fragmentation of the world in empty junk spaces and the impossibility of bearing emptiness

a frozen atopia, full of fears and safety measures, over-territorialized in absolute flux.

Born of contingent encounter, the subject is caught permanently in a whirling disequilibrium. When the force of this current favors creative intensities, the being enjoys towards the world.

Our world produces flux at a constant speed, where one advances without taking a step. Becoming without ever undergoing the test of loss, loving without venturing outside oneself

The owl of Minerva symbolizes in vain while owls in flesh and blood are dying.

What does it mean to live as out-siders caught in the time and the history of an existential plane?

For thought does not define the outside, but prolongs it, draws it out. Thought experiences the outside around which it is formed; this formation is nothing more than the simple fact of existence.

“Where am I?” Cloud thinks to themself, waking with difficulty. They don't recognize the place, the spaces around them. It is too dark; lingering parts of the dream slip into the surroundings, giving them a strangely worrying air.

Cloud feels like they have been awake forever, working without the limit of time, excessive light, excessive information, captured in a constant flux of everchanging realities. A saturated immanence. The strangest thing is that it always feels the same, nothing ever really changes. The only constant is the flux. Cloud remembers a time (place?) in the future, when they are nowhere. Outside of this suffocating hyper-presence. All they feel is the pure noise of being, unmediated by packet switching, the alterity of it enveloping them.

At first Cloud was one voice, then more voices, all demanding a story, an odyssey in meaning and in image. Together, these existences murmured to each other: What there is takes time, nothing happens all at once. Cloud thought they remembered something about a sun and moon in an eternal dance. There are beings who come into the world and worlds that demand to open. One by one, they added: I exist, I am outside, I wait for you, I breathe in, I think of later, how did I get here, am I outside? And they responded, a little later: I’m still coming, I’m not there yet, and maybe this will never end, even if it stops it will start again, elsewhere, otherwise, with someone else. Cloud begins to compose a song, an existential one, and then they began to become disillusioned—thus, in turn, simultaneously, in turn, alone and together.

Cloud thinks to themself -- let’s start again. I exist, I am outside even when I am inside, we call this exile and the right node is only the one that supports me, there is no other, no better, and each node is numerous, we’re numerous outside, even if it’s better to be outside inside when it’s cold, or when there are roundups, the outside insides have to be welcoming, hospitable, there must be thresholds to put me in relation to others, estrange me at the threshold of the stranger I will never be, these thresholds must be guaranteed, they must be, this is the justice of the outside and it’s the only one, there is no other, no better justice, so that those of the outside aren’t sent outside, it’s complicated but it is like this.

To exist, or to be outside, is necessarily to encounter people, to be several, even when I was Inside there were already at least a few. And even if I don’t want to meet them, they will be my ghosts, spectres of a renounced common, reduced to silence but full of words that had been said and will maybe be again. Existence will always have been multiple, everywhere.

Cloud adds: There is an owl in the garden and wolves at the edge of the forest. I can hear them, they are probably like us, of this place but not in it.

And hears a response: There are walls of words in the networks.

Cloud thinks: Closer in myself than my own closeness... A fortress that compels every entrant to strip from themselves. gods incarnated to the point of their own death, light upon light, texts without end. And telluric points, gods in all spaces, objects and animals that are more than objects and animals...

And another responds: spectres become animated, more real than the real, they say unthinkable words at the edge of the void, they announce nuptials and ruptures, they hold their breath when their daimon asks them to, they take part in assemblies, in the creation of laws as in the extraction of new minerals.

A multiple. A multiplicity beyond all count, made up of existents past, present, or to come, stretching temporality in every direction to the point of sending it outside itself. Becomings: One never changes without the other changing too. Confusions: The production of substance spilling over its bounds, hardly changing from one difference to another; the unaware crossing of thresholds, as if they were nothing; the abolition of binary divisions without the creation of remarkable singularities—a nightmare that no unity could ever interrupt.

Impossible to know in advance, or even after the fact, what assembled beings can carry as common load, to make reference to communality. We can only consider it. There is nothing outrageous about this. the thought of community will have always called for imaginary variations submitted to reason. reason opposes identity, it only acknowledges that there are some things rather than nothing...

Things, living and artificial beings, are inclined towards each other. they begin to coalesce. Though, they never reduce to the common. Let us call coalition this ensemble of beings inclined one on the other, an ensemble bearing uncertainty without undermining the possibility of a multiplicity of being. From the corporeal absence of the common, a coalition is woven in all material forms, but always of the one unfilled several times and in all ways, letting the wild depths that give the coalition its sovereignty emerge.

All coalitions go forward, at the same time, in the form of an endless loop, in each trajectory that goes forward or back. The absence of coalition does not mean the return of a subject to its pre-subjective animality, but reduces the trajectory of existence to the ideal projection of a subject, its strange aspirations, its securing narcissism, its lack of love.

Confused multiplicities deny thresholds, smother singularities and produce hybrid confusions in which each being loses itself in another, where absence has become the nightmare of a malleable diversity. we must oppose unclear and distinct coalitions, which would annul community in its very principle, but those that recognize and celebrate their excess. Excess of a politics that liberate existence, an economy commensurate with the abyss. Or the symptom of immune nodes, stolen mediations, private finances, pharmacies of forgetfulness, controllers of fictions, image re-valuators, butchers of processed foods, neuro-cognitive specialists, and logicians of the spirit strain to forbid and to make impossible. Rather than these inertial fixations, which produce this intravenous absolute, let us wager on the life of adventurous coalitions.