2016 ~ 2053 ~ 2077
Mother of Aeneas and his race, delight of men and gods, life giving Venus, it is under your doing that under the wheeling constellations of the sky all nature teems with life, both the sea that buoys up our ships and the earth that yields our food.
Monsters on the shore – As with every intertidal zone, lower climes are filled with monsters. Sea stars and whelk snails live by devouring helpless, immobile barnacles – but at the same time, they are damaged by the Sun’s desiccation if they venture too high.
Kleptomancy – divination by theft, whether from oneself or another. Self-quotation to the point of infinite regress, either through pure spatial or linear repetition or temporal transection of that repetition. A symptom of certain forms of chronic neologophilia in cases of transmodal anxiety syndrome. Sometimes a synonym for a déjà vu within a déjà vu (archaic).
“The time has come,” the Walrus said,
To talk of many things…
Of… why the sea is boiling hot-
And whether pigs have wings.”
Disasters, revolutions, and volcanoes do not make love with the stars.
Later that same day, Theodora and I took a long walk along the seashore and marvelled at the jewel encrusted buildings that had somehow survived the metastases of the dreamcancer, vibrant, lapidary cathedrals of supplicant arches and vine-strangled towers rising above the shimmering waves like something from a canvas by an imaginary union of Max Ernst and M C Escher. Then, a little further down the coast, we marvelled once more at the iridescent spiralling bioformations still accreting in, around and just above those dangerous waters, as they swirled and lapped and licked with soft azure tongues the old worn steps that would once have led down to the circular harbour. “For these are waters,” – as my companion noted and as we observed as we walked and talked beneath the dying mats of moss and lichen on the harbour wall – “for these are waters,” she continued, “waters and waves within and beneath which, amidst the tangled web of confluvial life and above the strands of ebb and tideflow, a softly pulsing throb of reflected and refracted solar flaring from the rotting sun will very soon raise these waters’ temporal ambience to a near Venusian intensity of heat and time in the shimmering black sunfire and from thence like gunfire vaporize those same waters to nothing…”
… and yet, to our delight, as we ambled along the shoreline in the early morning mists ~ and then to our further delight as we walked on and as the fieriest tendrils of the savage noonday eschaton burned and spat and flared and sizzled backwards through time and then spread out across and through time as a fan of incandescent and rapidly accelerating cilia on and through the vermilion sands and the pearlish brown rocks that jutted above them and the bubbling, silver-veined mud beneath those rocks and then vitrified the footsteps we had left behind us on the palimpsest beach as we walked and talked…
“…oh will you? won’t you?” she asked, “will you? won’t you? will you join the dance?...”, she asked…
…and yet, and yet as we walked beneath those exquisite coral arches and adamantine bridges and obsidian terraces and talked of cabbages and kings and other such things, and yet, and yet even in all this ~ those ancient and venerable Crustacea, the acorn barnacles we had come to see still clung to those same glistening, fractured hieratic rocks. Static, sliding and serpentine, slithering and still, caught, it seemed at times, as though in the zigzag eye of the photographer’s flash. Caught as the object of a moment in an infernal dance between the fractured gaze of the burning eye of the rotting corpse of the ancient sun so very high above and the lapping cauldron of emergent death and life so very deep below. Barnacles. Scuttling in slow-motion updownstillwards as an etching of motion, of Brownian ecstasy, like a Viola-frame unravelling in quasi-time, in different velocities, paddling first like dancing spinning vacuoles in incrementally abbreviated spirals, voids and curlings, rising next from a place where monsters of the briny deep, newly enhanced, neuro-circuited and bio-temporized by the vagrant outliers of quasi-legal scientific research, were still predating on the living delicacies clinging to those same rocks in the intervals between night and day ~
Though here I must digress before I have even truly begun (he continued). And so I will now continue to continue by confessing to a small, avolutionary, spatio-temporal conceit, or even deceit, conducted, I suppose, for the sake of a certain “literary symmetry,” as my mentor once described it…
…and so, and so it goes, and so to rewind a little, thus and this, thus it was that while harvesting some newly discovered varieties of barnacle in an archipelago of the South China Sea I received an urgent message via sinowave™ from Theodora. We had last met at a colloquium on the machinic resurrection of late 20th century philosophers in the ruins of Goldsmiths College, University of London, in the previous year, and had promised one another to meet up again this summer at a symposium being held on the coast of Madagascar at the Institute of Nissological Studies, a centre for teaching and research which had quite recently been established there by the eminent nissologist and doyen of vanishing archipelagos, Professor Diane Morgan of Vincennes, Paris, under the aegis of the many breasted goddess of love and law, along with her consort, our sweet and barbarous friend and ally, the shattered muse of ecstasy and annihilation, Dionysia. I had up until that point, I must confess, been somewhat lost in my beloved schizo-cartographical musings and meanderings, sketching out moments and instants of past and future intertidal extinction, then branching out these moments and instants as heuristically freighted extensions in blips, bars, lines, planes, vectors, metaplanes and xenoplanexes: as hypostitional models, in effect, in all directions and none. “Weaving meo-ontosophical tapestries for bored apocalypticians,” (as Theodora had once half-joked to me on the fast train to Uppsala), “after the event of cosmicide itself – even!” And yes I indeed was, as she had so astutely observed, still effectively weaving meo-ontosophical tapestries for bored apocalypticians such as myself, (doodling in the waiting room of my cosmic pessimism as another meo-ontosophical ally had once put it). And yet, as Theodora also knew so well, (and had for many centuries, it often seemed, but how could that be?), beneath all that theatrical nihilism I had always nurtured a deep and melismatic yearning for undiscovered ends, for the sweet harmonies of light and voice and mycelial connection as much as for the darker, earthier, dissonances of time, loss and absence. And thus it was, Janus-like and contrary as ever, I carried with me in heavily annotated paperback my copies of Charles Darwin’s four volumes on barnacles, within which he had started to establish patterns in species diversity through a meticulous taxonomy of these remarkable Crustacea some ten years before the publication of The Origin of the Species.
Oh yes. Darwin. The fifth great Misteress of Suspicion (after Marx, Nietzsche, Lovelace and Freud). Precursor of both temporal warping and proxy-line immortality. The naturalist, the geologist, the loomist, the vampire and the time traveller in some hyperstitional (or hypostitional) loop/anomaly – dreaming into being from a 19th century study in southern England the Mobius strip of transcontinental psychic epidemiology in the early to mid-21st century. Double agents from another dimension too, of course. And so. To facilitate this manoeuvre I was looking specifically at those overlapping few weeks when old Shanghai sunk beneath the plasticene waves and the superplutocrats began to move en masse in venal swarms to the fast expanding resorts of the arctic and sub-arctic Riviera. When ancient African gods were resurrected in accelerating waves of furious retribution against the drone-drenched demonocracies of the Old West – fomenting techno-wars (as if we could forget) with organic avatars and the time-extracted metrics of delivery and termination. But when she called me that afternoon I was resting rather than working or even contemplating (my vitrified shellspawn, arrayed in blue-green vitrine) – swinging gently, that is, in my soft hammock beneath the cool blue stratum of the boat (as it creaked gently in the waters) and reading a late 20th century visionary fiction called Pussy, King of the Pirates. It was one of Theodora’s favourite texts, and she had given it to me in London after acquiring it herself on the upper level of the notorious Urverk bar in downtown Uppsala some years before.
“Oh Zeno dearest,” she had said, “dearest Zeno, please do come and hear my presentation next week if you can! And be my respondent too, perhaps? It would be so lovely to see you again! We could go walking on the beach and observe ghost barnacles on that beautifully poisonous shore!” And so it was, some three days later, here I was. Miraculate and, unusually for me, nearly solvent. And then, newly arrived, there she was too, standing on the tarmacate waiting for me. I watched her for a moment. As I always did. As I always will.
Oh Theodora, (once saint and martyr of old Alexandria, now remade, remodelled, reanimated, repurposed, reborn, like Dionysus or the Nazarene she thought to herself, but different too, lipstick, scent and circuitry, silk and chrome and flexible carbon boots on the cracked, black tarmacate), paused, shook her head a little, just a touch to dissipate the haze of travel and exhaustion, bit her lip, brushed a lock of stray, golden, blue and purple hair from her eyes, eyes now of obsidian now of gold now of vermillion, now of ultra-violet or infra-red, and now she closed those tired, opalescent eyes tight tight shut, long dark lashes interlocking, eyebrows furrowed, and now took a long, slow, deep, endless breath, allowed her mind to still for a moment, like a rough pebble in a mountain stream. And then, after looking into herself and having established from this inward glance how much time she still had available before the darkness fell, looked down deeply into herself, into the simian wetware apparatus she was wearing, deep into the heat and heart of the flesh and circuitry, and searched then with human digits to check her physical and topographical coordinates, her actual as well as her virtual location. Having calculated the distance between where she now stood and her target, she looked up again at the mazy empyrean, at the vast abrupt.
Gazing. Thoughtful. Dreaming. Wistful.
Oh, my sweet muse. Oh, my distaff muse. Oh, my shattered muse. My sweet and holy protectoress. My dark and holy precursor. Time-shattered crystals falling like snow. Falling and calling from innumerable futures entagliated. Trapped though in a singular past. Frozen now in Baltic amber. Africa. Sweet Africa. Woven in French tapestries. Stained in English glass. Etched on quantum particles and the aureoles of distant and dying suns. Etched in the Egyptian sand, sea and sky. Africa. Written on swirling waters. Written on the hot, desert wind. Alexandria. Lost city. Sunken city. So long ago. Satan’s last and listless gambit. Heat and surcease. Don’t get distracted now. Wait! Look! Open your eyes!
Then she turned to look at me. And so, next, a brief embrace, the briefest of embraces, then a kiss, then a longer kiss, a pause, and then, in due course, one more kiss, longer, slower, slowest, and then, in due course, we slipped sideways ~ turning ~~ a spectral switch of horiscene ~~ and then chronoscene ~~~ to transverscene.
Turned away, that is, from the old ruined landing site by that half-dismantled pier of jutting rusting bones and salt-worn pornwood. Now here then rather than there then, that is, then. Ok? Here. Now here in this softly muted and yet elegantly fashioned cocktail bar. (Virilio’s Bar, adjoining the luxurious Café Nemo where we were staying.) Now here in this softly muted and yet elegantly fashioned cocktail bar, arrayed in retro-black and silver and chrome and set in quasi-symmetry against the tracings of faux Chinoiserie falling from the ceiling, with spiral vino-stands and concentrically arranged Japanese beer slots in dull grey on either side (if you can visualize it), arrayed, that is, also, with shot silk curtains veined with neurographics of the Great Accident, shading the chronoscene – here on this reckless and piratical sliver of the Malagasy coast where she now clicks and whirrs and hums and is now about to start, a small and yet super-attentive halo of an audience super-splayed around her feet, her mirror boots, plugging and un-plugging and re-plugging themselves into the vinculum. Then, pointedly, she looks down towards me and projects now a quotation in the air just above me and between us, giving us all a moment to peruse it, collectively. Arches a single eyebrow, the left one, as if to make sure we are paying her full attention now.
Pauses for silence. Purses her lips. Incipit.
I am in Iran someplace, looking at a map to see if the secret place of Djunbara, where Hassan I Sabbah took refuge from his enemies, is on the map… Danger is a biologic necessity for… like sleep and dreams. If you face death, for that time, for the period of direct confrontation, you are immortal…
“Does our death,” she begins, “exist as a fact as the narrator of In Western Lands implies here?” She gestures. “Or is it merely a simulacrum or a phantasm, (and bearing in mind the distinction between these two spectral entities, of course), disguising a more insidious truth under the aegis of a writer or inscriptor – one whose ink is affect in all its variations and whose pen, or perhaps more accurately, whose ‘typewriter mundi’ is an avolutionary death machine?”
Gaze steady now. Deep into my eyes. Rays of heavenly polychromatic light spectrally suffused. Like mediaeval optics or specularities times twice. Polychromatically profane. Obscene. Double Naked. Double Silhouette. Dark Vine Sex. Divine dissipation. As intense as the tropical night to come.
“In a much feted and often quoted soliloquy,” (she tilts her head, clicks twice, voice as soft as honeyed snow), “Hamlet, Prince of Denmark and perpetual icon of desolate indecision, ostensibly announces to two of his trusted courtiers, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern that he has, of late:
...but wherefore I know not – lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises: and indeed it goes so heavily with my disposition...
...that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory, this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours.
What a piece of work is man! (he goes on) how noble in reason! How infinite in faculty! In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an angel! In apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! The paragon of animals!
And yet, to me, (he concludes) what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights me not: no, nor woman neither...
“Several centuries later, a very different inscriptor concludes an extended hymn to virulent anti-natalism and cosmic suicide worthy of Arthur Schopenhauer’s deranged disciple Eduard Von Hartmann, (to whom he refers in passing), by once again attacking the ‘sterile promontory, excellent canopy and... brave o’er hanging firmament... fretted with golden fire’ noted by Shakespeare – but here updated to pinpoint what he perceives as the utterly pointlessly absurd wonderment exercised in the later 20th and early 21st century mediasphere by various scalar-mystics and heiromantics, soma-scientists and para-cosmic synchronists from – in the Anglosphere at least – Carl Sagan to Alice Roberts to Brian Cox and others of similar wowscribe tendencies – puzzled or awed, (lichtung!), either by the fact of existence per se, (ontophilia!), or by the seemingly majestic geometries and sublime mereotopologies of the scientism that seeks to map this vast meta-dimensional hive of attraction, repulsion, consciousness, flesh, facticity and fractalicality that we’ve come to call the multiverse. Here, and in an exercise partly contrived from one of his own fictional tales of morbid narcissism and corporate horror in which a character has written just such an essay and with the same title, and partly from an intellectual alliance and friendship with conceptual engineers such as the onetime extinctionalist and subsequent mereological abstractionist, Ray Brassier, and in a direct affront to the cosmological euphorialists of that reckless and intellectually divisive age, the author of numerous horrormaps of time, extinction and desolation, Thomas Ligotti writes that:
One cringes to hear scientists cooing over the universe or any part thereof like schoolgirls over-heated by their first crush. From the studies of Krafft-Ebbing onward, we know that it is possible to become excited about anything – from shins to shoehorns. But it would be nice if just one of these gushing eggheads would step back and, as a concession to objectivity, speak the truth:
This ultimate and undeniable truth for Ligotti being (and here he moves into an aggressive upper case) – that:
....THERE IS NOTHING INNATELY IMPRESSIVE ABOUT THE UNIVERSE OR ANYTHING IN IT.
“Between Shakespeare’s exquisite compression of such desolate imagery and personal demise and Ligotti’s manifesto of absolute pessimism and cosmic demise in The Conspiracy against the Human Race, lies a wasteland of human aspiration and a deep nostalgia for things never known or imagined or even imagined as an unknown possibility of unknown dreams or aspirations: a field of scattered detritals and dead or dying or discarded impedimenta that has, periodically and indeed rhythmically, been re-synthesized, re-patterned or reanimated through poetry, fiction, music, art, dance or philosophy so as to express or convey that darkest and most frozen of human affects, albeit occasionally and paradoxically also one of its most eloquent – despair.”
“As the primary negative strand of affect in what has elsewhere been described as the ‘human security system’ – despair has been much anatomized, whether splayed out as melancholy in its several tones, timbres and variants, or as a primal existential opening up to the play between being and non-being, systole and diastole, or – perhaps more seductively – as an underlying thanatotropic impulse towards self-annihilation, or even cosmic annihilation – cosmicide – as in that unfinished sketch of the strange attractor of repetition and compulsion that pulls at us from Beyond the Pleasure Principle to become the source of all human drive in Sigmund Freud’s later speculations. Typically, William Burroughs, whilst taking on board the various literary and philosophical strands of despair and dejection that he absorbed first as virus and then intravenously and then finally via reading, viewing and aleatory conversation, finds and elaborates a pertinent set of interweaving mythologies to reconfigure this master affect as, primarily, an effect of systems of conspiracy and control. Or – and concomitantly – as the outcome of addiction, the algebra of need, and the relentlessly purified mutational desire that the rituals of addiction so lovingly cultivate. It is an affect derived from effect and vice versa – much as death is derived from orgasm or orgasm from death, and then combined in a typical Burroughsian move with some Venusian effluvia or perhaps insectile violence – to generate intricate semiotic markets of corruption and betrayal in the midst of any and all institutions, states or corporations, real or imagined. It is an affect that in this context demands a range of psycholeptic responses, from the purely observational despair or libidinal incontinence of so many Burroughsian protagonists to the more cosmic and entropic regulations that appear to govern all conscious relations: regulations most economically expressed in and through the image of opiate addiction and withdrawal and the libidinal materialism that might be derived from this process. And it is here that the question of Law can be raised momentarily in relation to Burroughsian conspiracy and narcophilia – as it manifests insidiously through or by virtue of such entities, organisms and quasi-institutions as, for instance, the nova police or the cult of assassins.”
She coughed and paused for a moment. Closed her eyes. Tongue darted between lips, in and out. Fast. Twice. Three times. Forked and lascivious. Control. Opened her eyes. Dilated from black slits. Magenta now. Wide. Looked around. Up. Down. Now.
“Accordingly then, and bearing in mind the intimate connection between writing and the law for the (now capitalized) Human Security System, at least since the times of the tablets of Hammurabi, I want next to take a short, sharp detour through the image of law to the island of Madagascar and to do so through the marginally romantic figure of the pirate-as-anarchist, as Eutopian renegade and pursuant of a particularly rare machinery of joy associated with the celebration of Panic as a kind of Speculative Animism – and also with the Garden of Lost Chances that Captain Mission discovers amongst the ghosts and lemurs and chameleons of Madagascar in Burroughs’ Ghost of Chance, bearing in mind for now one salient observation by the narrator that:
The concept of a question is reed and water. The question mark fades into reeds and water. The question does not exist.
“Consider that. Look closely before it vanishes. Think. Question the question before it vanishes away. The question does not exist. No longer. Not now. Nor then? Oh no? Really? Then, next, in an essay entitled ‘After the Law’ from 1993’, lost and then republished a few years later in a collection of his writings on libidinal materialism titled Fanged Noumena the delirial anti-philosopher of Old Shanghai, Nick Land, begins by making the salient observation that:
There are particular difficulties with any philosophy of law, due in large part to the inevitability that any attempt at a transcendent evaluation of law finds itself enacting a parody of judicial process.
“Land’s point here – in an essay which is in part a petulant parody of Jacques Derrida’s influential meditation on Franz Kafka and the origins of Law, is appropriately slanted to any philosophically inclined discussion of Burroughs and the supposedly ‘non-existent’ question for a number of reasons, but mainly for those here, as I hope to sketch out tomorrow, which might be said to circle – in a limited sense anyway – around a cluster of negative affects, affections and affectivities; a cluster that might be said itself to derive, existentially speaking, from our broader collective sense of having being thrown into a pointless ocean of existents, like mutant jellyfish, and left to learn how to swim, with no prior notion of where it is we are meant to be swimming to or from. A cluster, that is, that might be associated with some kind of absolute cosmic anxiety, and thus metaphorically at least, and in terms of the information that it swallows and refuses to regurgitate, at least in our corner of the galaxy, with a rather desultory black hole.”
A shift of one foot. Rustle of fabric. Lemurs across the rooftops. A look. Upwards. Ghosts in transit.
Forest ~ waves. Night ~ waves.
“This cluster is myriad and multidimensional and akin, in many ~ though not all ~ ways, albeit significantly, to the enigmatic crystal composed by Gilles Deleuze in his second book on cinema in which the virtual and the actual may co-exist in a momentary frenzy of creativity and deterritorialization and subsequent if not consequent reterritorialization of sense and meaning, affect and sensation, image and sign. In this reterritorialized sense, the cluster and its satellites may then also be understood, rewritten or re-inscribed, as aspects of a mutant cartography based on the astronomical vista that ~ for example ~ Captain Mission ~ a libertarian pirate whom Burroughs visited on several occasions in his writings ~ must surely have contemplated as he ploughed and navigated the smooth fictional spaces around an equally fictional Madagascar in Ghost of Chance. It is an ocean in which many of those in early 21st century late modernity, at least those unshackled from the oars that propel the eternally rotating ~ [nb re-volutionary] ~ slave ships of, say, for example: trans-Islamic fundamentalism, supra-mundi evangelical Christianity, post-contractual AIBDSM, good old fashioned neo-liberalism, conservatism or post-social democratopianism, trans-modular cybersocialism™, para-gnostic-neo-feudalism, monarkism, partially automated luxury communism, schizotopianism™ ~ or a fortiori an accelerating addiction to para-celebrity soteriology, psychosexual recursion or so-called ‘selective uptake disinhibitary social media augmented sensorium™ dopamine’ jags, characterized by the DSM-XI as retrograde symptoms of PSRD or ‘Personal and Social Reality Disorder,’ ~ also then found themselves. An ocean, moreover, which offered very little in the way of material emancipation either once they had left the security of ship or shore. The beach is safe, for sure, but the sea is ~ after all ~ once we’ve negotiated the exquisite zone of the sublime where the breakers crash and foam on the shingle ~ both very bland and very dangerous ~ and especially so if the captain is dead or no longer paying attention, or just otherwise engaged, as Friedrich Nietzsche had seemed to imply was now the case for the age of nihilism, and as recent events have seemed to confirm.”
She stopped. Closed her eyes. Signalled to me to close down and respond. I flipped the switch and began to...
A cruise ship ripped apart by a rock of crack as big as the Ritz? (And the band played on, or so they say). Minutes to go. Women and children first, perhaps? If God has a gun. Anyway. Anyhow. At least. Panic. Minutes to go. Or maybe God just accidentally tumbled into a convenient lifeboat amidst the chaos and confusion before the passengers had a chance to escape those cold and wavy jaws.
But whatever ~ it is an ocean in which ~ should we find ourselves suddenly, and without warning, cast adrift without maps or intoxicants or hope of absolution – we soon leave behind the smooth spaces of creativity and intellectual or moral integrity. And find ourselves tossed around mercilessly in a broiling tumescent soup of sexual, emotional, financial and political flora and fauna, much of the latter fanged as Land suggests in his title, and by a chaotic and conflicting systems of religious and philosophical currents and tides, systems whose origins and patterns remain obscure to us beneath a perpetually complacent moon. And if the sea is dangerous with fanged phenomena of various kinds and congregates, from predatory conceptual systems that threaten to consume and regurgitate us into an inverse general economy, a black sun, to the perils of emotional dehydration or psycho-pan-sexual overload, vectoral poverty and systemic dis-ease, the skies which lash us with storms of atrocity and whirlwinds of despair are ringed also with their noumenal shadows, fanged and waiting.
But even in our worst travails across the fanged black/white abyss we do nonetheless have the stars, a heavenly cartography of fixed and yet motile points of honeyed and iridescent light, a map of moreover that tickles our semiotic propensities into life and positivity as much as it does the simian survival urges from which those propensities almost certainly derived. From this observation, I would like to suggest, following our speaker, and particularly with reference to the possibility that we might yoke together the strands of dejection she has mentioned above with both immanent desire and revolutionary fervour – that we have a chance to discover new and avolutionary ways to map out emergent visions of law as both immanent – rather than transcendent – and as equivalent in some dark materialist and shadowy sense to the non-existent deity of the spectral materialism of the semi-demi-anti-correlationist Quentin Meillassoux in his dissertation on the divine non-existence of God.
After all, (and this applies to absolutely everything and nothing at all whatsoever, a little like my schizo-cartographies, I sometimes muse), like Meillassoux’s God – just because it doesn’t yet exist doesn’t mean it won’t. In an absolutely contingent universe or multiverse we are, after all, just hanging out, baby, just waiting, quite probably, for some retrospective clip show vulgarian from one of our infinite futures to transform our dreams and sufferings and imaginings and déjà vus and déjà vus within déjà vus into mindless metaphysical entertainment. For if, as Burroughs has noted, language is a virus from outer space, then we can reasonably assume that so too are the various metaphysical life forms that we have thus far encountered and probably, should we survive in some form as a species, will continue to encounter. Again and again and again. Life-forms that may, moreover, be inventions of our own species and its variations from a future as yet uncreated that, through the contingency of future temporalities, have returned to haunt us in our dreams or even dream us into becoming.
But do we have a map? Can we draw down a map from the stars and etch it with the ink of affect onto the skin of the human security system like a neon tattoo?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Later that same day, Theodora and I took a walk along the sea shore and marvelled at the life still accreting in these dangerous waters where, quite aside from the dangers of a chance encounter with the crypto-anachronistic Semiological Terrorists of Desire,™ or the incendiary and prolific Sapphic Pirates of the straits of Malagasy,™ or even their eternal foes in the endlessly deferred apocalypse of the southern seas, this being, of course, the notorious Corsair of Doom,™ and his posse of drunken, delirious, Dionysian nihilists, his crew of scabrous, gold veined data junkies, of techno-gnostic malingerers with their seashell earrings and seaweed hair extensions and various other algorithmically enhanced reprobates and trans fatales, quite aside from all these illicit perils, later that same day….
As the barnacles… the song deferred… emerging from the waves...the sirens….the song of… the first mermaid apocalypse….the song…
Charlie Blake (aka TB)
1. The text you are about to read (or may have already read) comprises a brief, nautically themed passage from the anonymous vellum manuscript delivered to the offices of Pyura Chilensis and currently titled A Selection of Pornosophical Fairytales after marginal notes discovered on the recto of the 7th sheet of the 7th box, as was indicated would be the case by a somewhat abrupt accompanying letter recently deciphered from the original Aramaic. More sections of this and papers from a second and third set of boxes will be published online via multiple and anonymous editorship in due course under the overall general title of Alice in Schizotopia vols. 1-9 (forthcoming, no pub.)
2. Lucretius, On the Nature of the Universe, trans. R.E.Latham (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1975), 27.
3. Stephen R. Palumbi & Anthony R. Palumbi, The Extreme Life of the Sea (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2014), 79.
4. On the promise and perils of ‘kleptomancy’ as enchantment, repetition and incantation in relation to the philosophy and practice temporal dislocation, see Charlie Blake, ‘The Shattered Muse: Metis, Melismatics & the Catastrophical Imagination,’ in eds. Colin Gardner and Patricia MacCormack, Ecosophical Aesthetics (London: Bloomsbury, forthcoming 2017).
5. Lewis Carroll, ‘Tweedledum and Tweedledee,’ Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There, in ed. Martin Gardner, The Annotated Alice (London: Penguin Books, 1970), 235.
6. Georges Bataille, ‘The Solar Anus’ in Visions of Excess: Selected Writings, 1927-1939, ed. And trans. Allan Stoekl ((Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1985), 8.
7. On the Great Accident or “Great Collapse” and the attendant cognitive metastases of the so-called “Dreamcancer,” see Charlie Blake, ‘A Thousand Chateaus: On Time, Topology & the Seriality of Serial Murder,’ in eds. Edia Connole & Gary J. Shipley, Serial Killing: A Philosophical Anthology (London: Schism Books, 2015) 369-390.
8. See Blake, ‘The Shattered Muse,’ passim.
9. On cosmicide and the related process of “phenomenophagism” see Charlie Blake, ‘The Animal that Therefore I am Not: Inhuman Meditations on the Ultimate Degeneration of Bios and Zoe via the Inevitable Process of Phenomenophagism,’ in ed. Patricia MacCormack, The Animal Catalyst: Towards Ahuman Theory (London: Bloomsbury, 2014) 91-109.
10. Blake, ‘The Shattered Muse,’ passim.
11. William S Burroughs, In Western Lands (London: Picador, 1988) 191.
12. William Shakespeare, ‘Hamlet: Prince of Denmark. (II.II.295-308) in ed. Peter Alexander, The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (London: Collins, 1985) 1043.
13. Thomas Ligotti, The Conspiracy against the Human Race (New York: Hippocampus Press, 2010) 246.
14. William S. Burroughs, Ghost of Chance (London: Serpent’s Tail, 1995) 13.
15. Nick Land, ‘After the Law,’ in eds. Robin Mackay & Ray Brassier, Fanged Noumena: Collected Writings 1987-2007 (Falmouth: Urbanomic, 2011) 229.
16. Quentin Meillassoux, ‘Excerpts from L’Inexistence divine,’ trans. Graham Harman, in ed. Graham Harman, Quentin Meillassoux: Philosophy in the Making (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2011) 175-238.