bioDRIFT
Phase-shift, tectonic friction dissipated as abstracted synth-machinery escapes from its actualization. Silicon-lubricated biodrift. Hyperspeed circuits loosen subjectification. Riding the megadérive across thresholds of immanentization. Intense positive feedback loops mediating re-afference miraculate synthetic bodies. The differential function of representation, the screen, implodes toward zero. Which comes first, individuation or the body? Or do we talk libidinal ballistics…re-afferent effect differentiates in negative, a white body against black background. Me/Not-me, loosely, then escalating, tightening into a rhythmic singularity. Trademarked, schematised, branded onto the body every second, copyright like lightning, it has already arrived at every moment. So it’s me…. But what if a machine was launched into biospace which exceeded the speed of subjectification? What if 12-year-old kids plugged their bodies into otaku-space, crazed by K-hallucinogens disguised as entertainment systems? Libidinal plasticity viroduced by transversal assassins across a smooth space. BabeZero on the loose.
The asymmetrical product of a subtraction between two differentials—the urge to press fire and the relentless and utterly senseless programmatic screening of the data—the fatal destinies of communication. The videogame programs its victim, reconfiguring neurosoft to short-circuit ROM in the deterritorium of sensory immersion. Multimmediate overload keeps you on the edge of impossible operations. Speed-addiction, [[illegible]] more. Digispace is leaking into your system, destroying the memory banks.
The Schreberian real—liquified by the rupture of the integrating membrane. The screen disappears > Those fleeting homunculi, those talking birds, that God, those miracles. All these are real affects. And that mohicaned hedgehog? Is that real? So it’s me…? The anticipation, the tension, the fulgurating colors glaring from the monitor, the intensity…begin to meld together, a ductile tissue of affect develops between hand eye and console. Tunnel-vision, hairtrigger-epilepsy. Distributed across a digi-haptic landscape, no longer individuated but moving as a massive.
In the zone of the schizo-otaku humans are search-engines, processing devices for a future that is all-too-alien. The body is data.
kSPACE
As global vironet spreads, the game redistributes itself and eats unhealthily. Junk data gathered parasitically from otaku recombines into replicator-units. Second-level phaseswitch activates exponential demand, spiralling cultviral hysteria [what is happening to our children? AGES sucked retroductively through cyberoutines (orphanamnesia) auto-obsolesces parental control (generational hierarchy)], pirated neurosoft swamping the markets, economies locked into cyberspace production. Techonomics gets virtual and brings in Nintendo to rewire the stock market. Gluts of autonomous AI modules flood into areas of diuretic yenflux, hotzones of K-contam, trading meat as a fetish commodity. The demand for entertainment is still unsated, new frictions must be engendered, new experiences created. Entertainment goes hormonal, bacterial, viral, genetic, give the kids what they want.
downLOADING
“Downloading, do not interrupt, irreversible biomolecular processes initiated.”
A FakeSpaceCorp. reality engine implements itself and drops like a fine grid of filaments into the mind. Running Microsoft VRos 2.2. Variables lock in, probes scan neural nets, the vectors focus, engage….
It begins with an itch, an irritation, you see diagrams form and disform across the screen, the intervals between them become increasingly indiscrete as time itself seems to warp. As you gradually grasp the O/S, your body begins to bubble, growths appear and new organs emerge. You seem to be developing into something like a skin or a wet-wear VR suit, but far more complex, far more biological. The screen, and with it your aesthetic of space begins to melt. Suddenly you begin to feel good, you feel like you’re going on holiday and won’t be coming back, ever….
retroDUCING ø
An angular figure appears in the vivid greens of Kyoto TAZ. Her nanotech skin glows, mirrorshades reflect crimson across the reptilian face. She speaks. You listen. – –
“What has ever driven us, apart from the need to invent our own frictions, to entertain by means of reconfiguring ourselves. Life today is plastic. This must be our final premise. Rewind…. We begin at the end, which is always virtually present as the potential for the boarding of metabolic vehicles.”
BabeZero is the first contamination of the massive entertainment system called Deus sive Machina, the first fold. So she’s the closest we’re gonna get to it. She’s part of this great ocean of data. She works as an assassin, blowing away anything which prevents it from having its own cosmic fun, playing with itself endlessly and pointlessly, exacerbating its soul-voluptuousness. God will be seen as a gadget, or as a mystery, but Babe and the good Judge know that the matrix is a vast plane of machinic adjacency, playing under and in all its pores and blisters and folds. HyperRAM, the greatest game of all. And it don’t need no praise. It has no questions, no answers, only components.
The Assassins are pure and abstract desire—zeroes and ones, silicon death-valley. But every desert has its nomads. Each of these characters has its distinct trope, diagrammable in phase-space. The matrix is flat—totally flat. Babe, of course, has hew peaks and her troughs. But only as transversal distributions of flat-bed assassination in the matrix. Her kunst a form of irreducible exteriority. This child without memory banks, pouring insane laughter, come down from the mountain with her clothes torn and her head shaved, holding a high-intensity molecular pixeliser, torched the orphanage and lost all the squares and triangles in ecstatic black zero-space. Although we desire her the most intensely, it’s BabeZero we’ll have to avoid if we are to take this journey back to the big stupid one at the so-called beginning. Resist her immersive attraction, keep ourselves curled up into balls, dense, and come slowly down the line, noting the singular points at which the matrix lost its smoothness, its lubricity. See the production line run backwards, sucking intelligence back into boxes, watch the folds multiply, the production of myriad interiorities as the strata stack up. And so on back to the big one. Oh damn, it is so hard to say that God allows himself to be fucked. But the matrix and its Assassins are always behind—and in front of—us, trying to pull us apart. They haunt us, like a bad dream, schizophrenia.
“We can’t stay here, in this peaceful past life. It’s so boring. We subscribe to the Gilles de Rais formula, disproportionate squandering of resources for V-DOOM-play megadeath. Run K-war again, fastforward to entertainment system C21.”
