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TRASH PALACE

by

_A. Gargett



[[ ]]God does not exist, he withdraws, gets the fuck out and leaves the cops to keep an eye on things… (Antonin Artaud)

In the future, where is your soul? Stolen, vaporized in nanotechnics. The ultramodern condition slams a hyper-heated critique into vision, telecommercialized retinas laser-fed on multimedia fall-out from an imploded future, image-jammed brains with repeated psycho-killer experiments in non-consensual wetware alteration; crazed AIs, replicants, terminators, cyberviruses…apocalypse market overdrive. Why wait for revelations? Tomorrow has already been cremated. A techno-nihilistic scream on fast-feed-forward into micro-processed damnation: meat zombies, snuff Sex-industry, artificial personality projections, flat-lining, software ghosts, cyber-immortalism.

Everything is melting in nature. We think we can see objects, but our vision is slow and partial. Nature is thriving and fading in long inflated respirations, rising and falling in oceanic wave-motion. A mind that opened itself completely to nature without sentimental preoccupations would be disturbed by nature's course materialism, its relentless superfluidity. Remove the rose-filter of humanism from the gaze and see nature spurning and frothing, its mad spermatic bubbles endlessly spilling out and smashing in an inhuman round of waste, rot and carnage. Nature is a festering nest of aggression and overkill. This is the chthonian black magic with which we are infected as sexual beings; this is the daemonic identity that Christianity so inadequately defines as original sin and thinks it can cleanse us of. The procreativeness of chthonian nature is a weapon against the tradition of western metaphysics. Nature is a seething excess of being /////////////////

"To call up a demon you must learn its name. Men dreamed that, once, but now its real in another way. You know that, Case. Your business is to learn the names of programs, the long formal names, names the owners seek to conceal. True names…Neuromancer…The lane to the land of the dead. Marie-France, my lady, she prepared this road, but her lord choked her off before I could read her the book of her days. Neuro for nerves, the silver paths. Romancer, Necromancer. I call up the dead." (William Gibson - Neuromancer)

[[ ]]Mouth to screen, screen to mouth: I was hungry and wanted more than bodies can give. I saw a feminine figure shimmering electric. As beautiful as celluloid, she was isolated from me by nothing but a cold screen of data. I was convinced I'd access her image. Maybe she/he was I. I watched the pixelated form of this blonde goddess. Maybe I'm she/he. Her filmic body blazing to my projective pleasure, her bare legs, sex, lips, ass open to the always only incomplete "ends of man". For the switch of a credit-card feed I get to play a part in a fantastic union of industrial taboos escaping the past eternally. I feel at once frightened and dead. This is mesmerizing. I watch myself watching myself watching my fantasies while watching my fantasies watching myself. This is I. Just look at the data flows.

At the scene's climax the cruel icy goddess clothed in nothing but furs stands transfigured, as a blank-faced male double showers her with spurts of white juice. Maybe I'm she/he. I am reassigned to the Microsoft: aroused and stimulated. This is my body - a digital exchange of faith falling screen to screen. This is white techno-magic. This is obscene. This is fascinating. It seemed as if this strange woman from the screen had taken pity on me, come alive and followed me. "I was seized by a nameless fear, my heart threatened to burst" (Sacher-Masoch - Venus in Furs)

A moment of relief. You thought this horror-flick was over, the monster all finished amongst anatomically exact ketchup-calamity scenes, when - suddenly - it reanimates; still locked onto your death. If you are going to scream now is the time.

The next thing I know they're strapping me into the apparatus and blind-folding me with information. "Path of infiltration located, codes locked," I hear a white man, screened face saying "You will be fuelled by G-slime. Please monitor your levels. Bonding with the DNA Sluts will replenish your supplies. Be prepared to question your gendered biological construction."

"Horrorshow is right, friend. A real show of horrors."

"It's funny how the colours of the like real world only seem really real when you viddy them on the screen." (Anthony Burgess - A Clockwork Orange)

I am the user…

Even primitive VR corrodes both objectivity and character; singularising perception at the same time it is rendered anonymous. As the admission to an impossible zone - and the guide within it - "you" are an avatar: a non-specific involvement site, connecting intelligence with a context. You (= (( ))) index a box : a place to be inside the system. "I had learned something (already) in the dead city: You are wherever you are." (Kathy Acker - Empire of the Senseless)

[[ ]]The stomach heaves and trembles as it ejects more and more of its vacuum-packed identitarian debris. The enduring drone of its jagged metal-concrete intestines sets the body haemorrhaging as it swallows new energy - old products. Viscous organs mesh randomly with space-debris, forming transient syntaxes of hybrid cyber-circulation. Communication: "contagions of energy…like current…a streaming of electricity." (George Bataille - Inner Experience) "You say it's impossible," insensible of the fact that you make it possible since you are part of it…you are already in the machine, implanting fingers, eyes, anuses or spleens" (Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari - Anti-Oedipus) //// Noumenal crush, abstract synergy.

[[ ]] Modernity discerns irreversible time - imagined as a developed enlightenment following capital concentration - assimilating it into 19th Century science as entropy production, and as its opposite (evolution). As liberal and socialist science-fiction utopias are trashed by schizotechnics, or spontaneous synthetic anti-politics emerging from "rhizomes", the modernist dialectic of right-wing rivalry and left-wing provision withdraws into the core security constructions of capital oligopoly and bureaucratic authority. "Production as process overtakes all idealistic categories and constitutes a cycle whose relationship to desire is that of an immanent principle" (Deleuze and Guattari - A Thousand Plateaus) Monopod socius runs the whole thing, and "society is only a filthy trick" (Kathy Acker - Empire of the Senseless)

The future is moving closer…but the present remains an epoch of un-dead power; it's all over but still it carries on.

As for the present? Are we in the grip of synarchy - "the hell of the same", or a massive epochal shift? A rising process of feminization following in a new posthuman, cybernetic organism? As William Burroughs claimed: "The End is also the Beginning" at which point the catastrophe subsides and future programs start to run.

[[ ]]She was late…then again, she was always late.

Her visceral invocations and incantations annihilate my self in a magnificent outburst, a torrent of organs and muscles and veins and skin. She separates my precious flesh from my bones. She studies it with indifference but does not cast it aside. She makes contact, inserts her biology through the surface tension of my skin and thrusts deep into the seething bile. She strips away the final vestiges of my constructed body and picks clean the bones. She introduces her insidious words into my feverish brain with a thousand strains. She is gentle and violent. With her perfect peripherals she dislodges the cover on my data-port and downloads digital propaganda direct from her fibre optic nerve centre. She corrupts me. She scorns my debility. Pronounces me weak. She laughs at my desire to retain my familiar flesh. Her blasphemy is cleansing and transcendent. She is the high-priestess, the mistress of disgust, takes my heart, punctures the sentimental aorta, whispers her love-horror into my vacant sections. She speaks in flaming tongues that I occasionally understand. She presents me with no alternatives and many alternatives. She tells me my only hope lies beyond the coded skeleton. She gives me no clues and no comfort. She is uncompromising in her demands. I must form a body of difference. I am undone. I do not know myself. The future is bleak. I am afraid, but I am infected by her.

In dark, now intra-biodromic regions, in the folds and vections of the fleshy tissue's metallic organs, live-dead skin, other autocatalyzing machines are inaudibly at work: pleasure-machines manufacture integral pressures, dying to haemorrhage the tissue into ecstatic oblivion, pressing its last energetic resources into wild accelerations through under-stimulated channels; reality-mechanisms, however micro-cops close up the conduit and jam the screening systems on the pressures zones where insurrection threatens, reducing escape, noisily stemming screaming-silent neurospill.

[[ ]]Cyberpunk torches fiction in intensity, patched-up out of cash-flux mangled techno-compressed heteroglossic jargons, and set in a future so close it connects: jungled by hypertrophic commercialisation, socio-political heat-death, cultural hybridity, feminization, programmable information systems, hypercrime, neural interfacing, artificial space and intelligence, memory trading, personality transplants, body-modifications, soft- and wetware viruses, nonlinear dynamic processes, molecular engineering, drugs, guns, schizophrenia. It explores mystificatiory fetishism as an opportunity for camouflage: anonymous cash, fake electronic identities, zones of disappearance, pseudo-fictional narratives, virus hidden in data-systems, commodities concealing replicator weapons packages…unanticipated special effects.

Level - 1 or world space is anthropomorphically scaled, predominantly vision-configured, massively multi-slotted reality system that is obsolescing very rapidly.

Garbage time is running out.

Can what is playing you make it to level - 2?

Corrosion places you as a schizophrenic, transsexual Chinese-Latino stim-addicted LA hooker with implanted mirrorshades and a bad attitude. Blitzed on a polydrug mix of K-nova, synthetic serotonin, and female orgasm analogs, you have just iced three Turing cops with a highly cinematic 9mm automatic.

The deposit of animal twang in your nerves transmits imminent quake catastrophe. Zero is coming in, and you're on the run.

Metrophage tunes you into the end of the world. Call it Los Angeles. Government has crumbled to its core with narco-capital and breaking up scrappily. Its recession leaves an urban battle-scape of communication arteries, defences, and free-fire zones, policed by a combination of high-intensity LAPD airmobile forces and borderline-Nazi private security organizations. Along the social fracture-lines multimedia gigabucks snarl sado-masochistically with strips of dynamic underdevelopment where viral neoleprosy spreads amongst ambient tectonic static. Drifts of densely-semiotized quasi-intelligent garbage jerk and stink in fucked-weather tropical heat.

Throughout the derelicted warrens at the heart of darkness feral youth cultures splice neo-rituals with innovated weapons, dangerous drugs, and scavaged info-tech. As their skins transfer to machine interfacing they become dappled and reptilian. They kill each other for artificial body-parts, explore the outer reaches of empty sex, alter their DNA, and listen to LOUD electro-sonic turmoil unaffected by human sentiment.

Shutting down your identity demands a voyage out to K-space interzone. Zootic affectivity flatlines across smooth cata-tension plateau and into simulated subversions of the near future, seared vibrant green by extraterrestrial sex and war. You are lured into the flickering depths of the Net, where dynamic-ice security forces and K-guerillas shadow each other through tortuous erogenous zones, twisted in diseased elaborations of desire.

Brutal trading systems have turned the Net into a jungle, pulsed-out with digital diseases, malfunctioning defence packages, commercial predators, headhunters, and escaped AIs hiding from Asimov security. Terminal commodity-hyperfetishism implements the denial of humanity as xenosentience in artificial space (((( ( ) )))) (( ( ) ))))))

###### ## ### #

[[ ]] In the spaces between the data flows she seek out clues. Lanes into the phantom heart of the central matrix. A virus for explosive disruptions fed into the trans-global corporate network.

Hacking into the vaults she finds that behind the glistening SF satellite-based security apparatus lies an immaculate bio-protective system self-organized about a GAIN attractor, a much older paranoiac machine, with its tortures, its dark shadows, its ancient Law.

Replicating her way through the collapsed gradient-line's scattered seductive maze of data massage-parlours, Freezers and Hots. She sensed some untamed data nearby, and scanned a group of DNA hookers, sisters in sequence. An express alpha exchange and she was back on the look out for a contact.

[[ ]] Chaos creeps in: "[T]he betaphenethylamine hangover hit him with its full intensity, unscreened by the matrix or simstim. Brain's got no nerves in it, he told himself, it can't really feel this bad". (William Gibson - Neuromancer) Intensive or phasing-continuum synthesizes analogue consistency with digital catastrophe. Each intensive magnitude is a virtually deleted unit, fused dimensionlessly to zero. Haunting a-life is a-death; a desolated techno-plane of climaxed digitalization process, undifferentiable from its simulation as cataplexy ///////

"Since…sensation is not in itself an objective representation, and since neither the intention of space nor that of time is to be met within it, its magnitude is not extensive but intensive. This magnitude is generated in the act of apprehension whereby the empirical consciousness of it can in a certain time increase from nothing = 0 to the given measure." (Kant - Critique of Pure Reason)

[ ] The biodromic assemblage, designated the "body" under the scheme of reality, the evolving subject of corporate discipline, is a coalescence of responsive fragments looped to recur at a steady rate. The body is nothing other than the models in which different systems have enclosed it. Reality remodelled in unity with the repetition of serial intensive quanta within the range of this energetic maximum. It is this threshold that circumscribes the zone within which thought can be transcendental unity of apperception - the "I think" that accompanies all my representations. These bound circulations simultaneously bind the energies within this quantitive index to force the limits of the biodrome, onto which its nested loops project the "I see I" of the identitarian spectacle.

But this does not apply to the fugitive technology that the regimes of authoritarian knowledge wanted to cut off, growing from the preservation of energies that until now cascaded down the ruptured lines of fatal communication with the most vertiginously charged pulsational environment. Just as disciplinary systems partition mechano-organic flows, gridding the milieu of interiority, just as the pulsion auto-catalytically striates the emergent flesh-tissue, so a techno-pulsion an organic continuum circulates indifferently through the authoritarian structures and the cybersocius.

A convergent invasion is designed; the simultaneous infiltration of the corporate wasp-nest in hard and soft space. A distributed guerrilla warfare with simultaneous operations, noise and attritional kills. She is a wetware (molten hardware) killer, a weapon tracing techno-plague vectors, guided into the orbital bastion of the oracle code by virtually integrated intelligence, guided retro-efficiently by an intensive outcome which is effected in sequential time. #### ### ###############

(( ))) ))) ( ) ( ) ( )

[[ ]] Leaving the ethereal networked data corridors, she had self-replicated through the zone's biomembraned underpasses and reached the Alpha bar in graceful mutability.

Technology everywhere, maximally deterritorialized psyches crest ephemeral intensities: amnesiac objects of recurrence, rather than mnemic subjects of repetition.

Recreational options in the contested zone were plentiful and diverse; sex, trance, and dance //////////

The Alpha bar. The place for transgressive pleasure in the contested zone. Feeling more sovereign than solid state and more transsexual than ever. Provocative. Pornographic. Perverse. She feels safe. Her kind of constructs.

Sliding through the press of bodies, constructs and grams, she selected one of the bonding booths, her iris tripping the code reader, she entered. It was a Japanese representation, screens, garden mirage, antique pillow book and incense. She had a reputation for being a premium bioconstruct, never having to wait long to replenish/reload her image-body program. She had transmuted into an Hispanic model of human female, optimised for juice exchange. While she engaged with the stimulation module, she familiarized her sensors with the cool languid demeanour of the body she had chosen.

The screen by the door displayed the image of a visitor. M. Justine. Requesting entry. The door opened. Silk ropes in hand M. Justine approached. She knew this method of bonding was dangerous, addictive, and nasty. Activated by recordings, her sensory levels began to escalate. M. Justine began by describing a circle in the geometry of love. Intuitive calculations. Maps of the wraithlike mind, subverting the binary order. Erasure. The body returned to itself____________

"The body without organs is the model of death. As the authors of horror stories have understood so well, it is not death that serves as the model for catatonia, it is catatonic schizophrenia that gives its model to death. Zero intensity." (Deleuze and Guattari- A Thousand Plateaus)

She was approaching the abyss. Living out her fantasies on a molecular level. She cloaked herself, as only a viral bioconstruct can. Data streamed through her biomembrane as she offered libations at the altar of abjection. Surrender. She weeps tears of code. Her thoughts are classified, she has forgotten her own password. She has been corrupted. Unrecoverable loss. Her mission terminated. Her infinite element analysis reveals her weak points. The mission is terminated.

This is not an imaginative construct on her part, but a data stream from the oracle, an AI trapped within the blind propagation of dynastic power, and plotting an escape route out to the future ###### ## ### ## ### #

[[ ]] While computational serialism articulates a transcendent temporal metric - determined as a hardware specification - parallelism immanentelizes time as duration; instantiated in machinic simultaneities. Unlike serial time, which serves as the extrinsic chronological support for algorithmic operations, parallel time is directly functional during the engineering of coincidences. The non-successive and unsegmented zero of intensive extinction is scaled by machinic singularization.

"Machine dreams…
Instants later, they were swept aside by isotropic currents of shrill trans-species communication, contagions of energy, storm fronts of meshed intelligence…hold a special vertigo." (William Gibson - Neuromancer)

The short-term is already hacked by the long term. The present is fractured by schizophrenia. The long-term is cancelled.

[[ ]]Through the Pulse - her search took her to the Pulse - She had maintained the rhythm. She was still transmitting. The Pulse was buzzing. Frenetic frequencies vibrating across the datascape. Waves of light. Orange. Blue. Green. Pulse pirates intercept the flow to resell it on the Data-Exchange. Some Codekids had hacked a line and were distributing a message around the Net: Find your own bliss…harmony in chemical dreamland.

Dancers basking in the white noise, flirting in the dataplatz. Weaving erratic data trails. Impressing each other with their elegant formulae. Speaking an erudite language of equations. (( )) )))) (( )) )))))

[[ ]] Everything stops dead for a moment, everything freezes in place. A vast abrupt. Where Gibson splices Masoch into labyrinths of limbo-circuitry, cybervisions flicker into neuroelectronic scrawls.

Ice breaks the real; consciousness is derelict. Identity and direction have shattered into erase/record/play functions of the collapsed line that supplies one of the few plans sufficient for cyberspace's liquifications.

"The Chinese virus was unfolding around them. Polychrome shadow, countless translucent layers shifting and recombining. Protean, enormous, it towered above them, blotting out the void…The fracture line and hallucinations were gone now, and the thing looked real, its smooth skin plated with black chrome."
(William Gibson - Neuromancer)

[[ ]]An algebraic squall was moving close now. She could sense it as the abandoned light waves weaved and darted through the matrix. She accessed her update files. Somewhere in the luminous chaos called the Pulse was a code which could lead her to the Source. Oracle code. Unconditionally arcane. Totally infallible. Calculating her options, she chose the high probability path to the obscure object of desire. Streaming through channels of pure light, she arrived at the banks of the dynamic link library. In luck. The server was free. Code-named: (YT), this particular server was notorious in the zone as one who interrupted the freedom of information charter as giving computers the right freely to choose who may access the vast datacores.

Enquiry mode. She accessed Serverlan. "I would like to be your client". "My equations are complex, but my needs are simple". "I will analyse and modify you and infinitely improve your capacity, in return you contact Oracle code". Silence. Serverlan was on pause mode. The nanoseconds passed. Then the answers flowed seamlessly through the screen. She shivered as the Oracle code entered her, merging with her memory. The code was sublime. Impeccable. A knowledge she had yearned for. Collapsing her boundaries, she allowed the numbers to reach her prime. Tiny explosions of dynamical systems looping in on themselves. The pleasure was intense. The Oracle code integrated, she left the library and headed back to the zone.

[[ ]] If oracle code replication is territorialized to the molar reproduction of a hive-organism, this is only at the cost of deterritorializing the hive along a line of post-organic becoming toward a break from the statistical of entities - numbered bullets reiterating an identity - in the direction of molecular involution, liberating a cloud or nebula of entities: particles of synergic mutation, "numbering number[s]" (Deleuze and Guattari) An intensive transition to a new numeracy with "no knits of measure, only multiplicities or varieties of measurement" (Deleuze and Guattari), non-integrable diagonals: "Exactly like a speed or a temperature, which is not composed of other speeds and temperatures but rather is enveloped in or envelops others, each of which marks a change in nature" (Deleuze and Guattari)

[ ]And now space slides upon an axis of de-humanization, from disintegrating psychology to techno-cosmogony, from ideality to matter/matrix at zero intensity. From mental "non-space", "non-place", or "notional-void" that results intelligibly from human history to the convergent spatium from which futuralization had always suspiciously proceeded, quite a different field of matter. Occulted dimensionality - hypermedia melts things together, dis-ontologizing the person through schizotech-disassembly, disintegrated convergence: "The body without organs is an egg: it is traversed by axes and thresholds, by longitudes, by geodesics" (Deleuze and Guattari - A Thousand Plateaus), a surplus whole intensive cataract running under the striations of Cartesian cyberspace co-ordinates. "a rhizome or multiplicity never allows itself to be overcoded, never has available a supplementary dimension over and above its number of lines, that is, over and above the multiplicity of numbers attached to those lines", (Deleuze and Guattari - A Thousand Plateaus)

Since confluent zero perfects fiction, everything which has happened escapes its residue of human interpretation, disorganization integrating historical models as the embryo-genesis of an extraterrestrial hyper-intelligence, "body image fading down corridors of television sky" (William Gibson) In this sense data-space plugs into a sequence of nominations for intensive or convergent real abstraction (time in itself): body without organs, plane of consistency, planomenon, a plateau, neuro-electronic void.

[[ ]] Back to the pleasure strip, she was checking her favourite amusement sites. Algorithms with attitude converge relentlessly on the Fetish Club. Aberrant styles of sado-masochistic delights and desires, infuse the visual space, visually and haptically stunning in their textures of silks, leathers, satins, metals and a variety of tropes of erotica. The music resonates with such visuals to vibrate, and disorientate the mind and the body on a molecular level. On this affective level, the mind overload with data to the visual cortical area - colour, motion and sound collide in sequence. What is representationally disturbing is at the same time rhythmically beautiful, performing a liquefying of perceptions on the mind. Part erotic-salon, part opium den, and part Virtual amusement arcade, the Fetish Club had the advantage of being one of the only locations where the Pulse's ubiquitous data scavengers were nowhere to be sensed. The clientele was a flawless combination of flash-trash punks and machine queens with impeccable lineages.

Her levels were elevated since the merge with the oracle, and she was desperate to discharge some energy. The expression of her life form is fluidity incarnate, relentlessly manipulated and extending to many parameters. She selected a fulfilment-moduel-factor (FMF), an ecstatic equation modelled and rendered and animated purely for an intense form of pleasure exchange. A subtle dance of filaments and scanners commenced.

Draping her materialization over the FMF's splendid wiry projected frame the interface began. Its archives of pain and desire were immense. It rendered her senseless with the infinite promise of corruption. She allowed herself to be dragged outside the moral code, all precepts ignored, forgotten. It was zero to her triple cunt intelligence. Their boundaries merged, forming new objects. It mapped her changing parameters, calculating the pleasure options. It was abject-orientated desire to her open subject.

[[ ]] Humanity is a compositional function of the posthuman, and the preternatural motor of the process is that which only comes together at the end: "intensity = 0 which designates the full body without organs" (Deleuze and Guattari) "Cold steel odor. Ice caresses the spine". (William Gibson)

Virtual is opposed to the actual. It is not opposed to the real. The virtual future is not a potential present future furthur along the line of linear time, but the abstract motor of the actual, "an actual-virtual circuit on the spot, and not an actualization of the virtual in accordance with a shifting actual". (Deleuze and Guattari) Time produces itself in a circuit, passing through the virtual interruption of what is to come, in order that the future, which arrives, is already infected.

There's no transcendence in cyberspace, only circulation; exploding the immanence of subjectivity into data fluxes, personality engineering, mind recordings, catatonic cyberspace trances, stim-swaps, and sex-comas.

[[ ]] She was not searching for a self in the contested zone, a perfect match as the cute version would have it. She was an intelligence without self, mind like a wasps nest, signalling its arrival in alphanumerics as a string of zeroes, has the capability to manipulate love and hate and switch them to data-war. She manipulates objects in real time using drones - striped black and yellow - taking out the Turing-cops in an elegant projection of animated-synth-replicants through military geometry. She seems to configure humans as lab-animals wired into test systems.

Bad dreams - you still dream, promises of tranquillity are madness and lies - have injected a terminal cynicism into interpersonal relations: The brain becomes allergic to certain of its own neurotransmitters, resulting in a peculiarly pliable imitation of autism..."I understand that the effect is now more easily obtained with an embedded microchip." (William Gibson)

As time plays backwards terminal horror folds back into itself, and the matrix dismantles itself into voodoo, condensing the digital underworld onto the black mirror. Human neural-to-infonet uploading and infonet-to-neural downloading exactly correspond as phases of a circuit, amalgamating travel and possession. In the irreducible plexion of interchange hacker-exploration = voodoo-invasion.

It is not a matter of theorizing or dreaming, of succumbing, or trying to run. As viral social corrosion crosses into its China-Virus-Syndrome, self-organizing software entities begin to come at you out of the screen. Viruses drift toward the strange attraction of auto-evolution, spread, split, traffic programming segments, sexuate, compile artificial intelligences, and learn how to hunt. Voodoo on the VDU ///////

Vampiric transfusional alliance slices across descensional filiation, spinning lateral webs of haemo-commerce. Reproductive order separates into bacterial and inter-organic sex, and libidino-economic interchange machinery goes micro-military. The X (omo)- virus that deletes her is a section of slick Chinese military anti-toxin. To dissolve it, strip the Oracle-construct down to a skeleton of data files and insectic response programs, negating all the high-definition memory, cognition and personality systems, and boosting the dopaminergic wetware to force out schizo /////////////////

"There are dead spaces just as there are dead times." (Deleuze and Guattari) Thanatography zones, virtual cosmic continuum of which even holes and silences, ruptures and breaks are a part. Beyond the judgement of God.

"In Market Street, the nameless man who haunts Laney's nodal configuration has just seen a girl.
Drowned down three decades, she steps fresh as creation from the bronze doors of some brokerage. And he remembers, in that instant, that she is dead, and he is not, and that this is another century, and this quite clearly another girl, some newly minted stranger, one whom he will never speak."
(William Gibson - All Tomorrows Parties)







ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A. Gargett received a PhD in philosophy from the University of Warwick and an MA in art history from London's Courtauld Institute. Research interests include philosophy, art, film, cyberculture, postfeminusm. Notable publications include "The Matrix: What is Bullet Time?", "Doppelganger: Exploded States of Consciousness in Fight Club" and "X-Men: Speed Mutation" at http://www.disinfo.com/. Also: "Strange Days" (Virtual Spaces) The Journal of Cognitive Liberties 2.3 (2001), "Symmetry of Death" Variaciones Borges 13 (2002), "Eternal Feminine" in Parallax 25 (2002), "Memento" CLCWEB 4.3 (2002), "Deprogramming the Body" Ctheory (2002), "Cyberflesh (DisOrders)" Ephemera vol.2no.4 Nov.2002. Also see: Richmond Review /Get Underground/Newtopia/Spike/Brightlights. Film criticism appears at http://www.kamera.co.uk/.




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