‘Every issue is a distraction.’
This maxim rings true to the Post-Dogmatist ear, for water is music, and prayer wheels are motor-driven, even pneumatic, cylindrical screens (even reminiscent of Mr. Bryan Gysin’s dreamachines) belching green, copper misted flames through a hissing blur of ideograms, the only rheostat shall be the tonal input of a human voice [OM MAN PATRI KAKURETI] Thusly doest Post-Dogmatism find the machinic phylum a strange attractor. As a single protagonist, the Post-Dogmatist may resemble a frumpy old Max Stirner , a calm and beautiful Taoist sage, a huge hulking sumo welder with Shinto overalls and eyes like arc-bolts welding pure mobius night. It might be said that the Post-Dogmatist is post-natural precisely because he/she/it IS nature. The stainless steel shoji is etched in the microtrajectories of vitriolic raindrops. In a group the Post-Dogmatist becomes comrade, frater, cyborg sintaurosaurus, groggy gorilla, borracho, muthah fucka, moving target....
America is a grotesque parody of Utopia. And anything American stands to corrupt any other system with the power of its ultimate camouflage. Democracy is the concept, the medium of its deception; it is the guise, the friendly markings on an otherwise ruthless beast. America is a coyote catering to all definitions since it can tolerate no accuracies; all must be half-tones, reproductions, lies. America is a mirrored panther hungry for the attention that sustains its precarious axioms on the determinations of our freedom. The ‘Great Work’ will not be completed, much less even started, until ‘man’, or a faction of Transhumant (Beings-in-space), can generate its own Autonomous (spontaneous and self-renewing, and self-defensive) ecostructure in the spacio-temporal continuum, separate from global commerce, and (geospecific coagulations and/or living quarters) and the limiting and hierarchical institution of organized dogma and specular binary accretions of legislative hardwiring around issues designed to promote emotion over personal choice and opinion over brute animal concerns. The factional encoding of delegates, (beings in space acting as quantifiable elements of a visible, and countable set) that is used as the proof and the demonstrative puissance or man-power in a pseudo-polemics that generates crime as the by-product of a molecular response to multiple interactions that exist autonomously, accidentally, and non-self-consciously anyway. The State appropriates these disparate phenomenon to devise a secular control-map with the conscious intent of generating said articles and/or interactions with the ‘power-to-organize’ which becomes, by second-hand identification, a social and geo-spacial re-mapping, in a conspiring and contrived response to matter and society on the determinations and freedoms that are associated with such phenomenon under the nebulous auspices or political bureaucracy that desires control and desires to invent new controls. The realities of this post-dogmatist outline have become irrelevant. We are looking to find the feel of revolutionary critique, the taste, the sound, the style and the shape of our message. Above all we are concerned, though not dogmatically, with the aesthetic, and the refined sense of the nonexistence of our own selves and our own post-dogma, and dogma post. Thus the schisms which we create are internal, and are committed voluntarily to multiply the nonexistent controversy within our privately run revolution which is open to everyone since no one belongs to it. This is not true, but you may be certain that it is absolutely not true. Toto the ally 2 Un-knoTruth! Hoorey for the new hermetica. Hoorey for the destruction of the new hermetica. We are an oral tradition, so anything you read is propaganda published by our enemies. Do not believe it. We are here.
The IA ‘vigilante’ robot-feeder is a device that would produce internally a food substance such as created by micro-biological organisms through macrobiotic technologies already preexistent. These autonomous robot vehicles would be built and ‘commanded by artificially intellegent computer systems engendered by an anonymous group as an expression of revolutionary critique. These are military devices that can discern between areas that need food and water and those that do not through satellite scanning systems. If these systems are attacked they will defend themselves. By engendering a ‘socially’ autonomous machinic phylum, the model is cast whereby machines may be given an external and critical role in human political reality that could stand outside the continuum of existing modern political sensibilities, and focus on specific phenomenon, thereby becoming a natural component analogous to something like a ‘wet year’ for drought ridden farmers in central Africa. They could spread plants and machines that could spread without any goverment intervention. If transhumanism or post humanism is to gain respect, there must be something akin to a preformance or a coup or publicity stunt or a celebrated experiment that appeared anonymously.
Johnny Boy Joe
A black goatee, a pair of black wing-tip shoes, cliche’, flesh, these are the attributes of an undefined persona that haunts me. These are the items that hold my ‘self’ together. Not unlike the talisman or holy relic, these objects I use to invoke my ‘self’, a self predicated on black fedora, black suit, black wing-tips, cliche’, flesh, objects wrought from the empty black void and designed to call it. Sometimes when I walk alone in the night I am called Chordata Noir, the vertebrate black, not human, only blackness with a spine, a structure on which I can fasten tight the night to a presence that seeks the faceless countenance of the Absolute. This is not the source of individuation, but the quiet submission to the color of Infinity.
With the backdrop properly set, a story of sorts may begin. It may begin in a place where I am; a hospital, an airport, on a train or in the hallway of an ancient hotel. It does not matter where it begins, all settings become confluent in the backdrop where nothing exists except the Absolute, the black, cliche’, flesh. Solemn guardians of stone create a recurring theme in this hallway of doors.
Soft lights nestle in lifeless sockets designed to aid the blind who see. Patients, customers, travellers who move more or less silently through my dream. As the corridor continues, the doors become farther apart and the frequency of the guardian becomes lesser. Soon there will be only a faint reddish tint emanating from louvered walls. A red glow whose movement is so slow that it ceases to be light and becomes a liquid, an idea that cannot be proven, but nonetheless exists, for me at least. Some have said that red is the color of lust, and black is the color of fear, but here, black is eternity and red is the will to sustain the blackness, cliche’, flesh. Somewhere in the distance, the corridor widens into a chasm, a huge spherical room where lounge the toughts of the others, congealed into image which can be understood by the blackness and the spine. It is an image of heat, of motion speeding up to a point where solid becomes liquid and liquid becomes. There is a pedestal in this room, a liquid pedestal sustained by the heat of the other’s will, by the other’s blackness, cliche’, flesh. Here is where an object exists, mutely changing to unseen rhythms, and unheard shapes. A figurative gesture of some material or other, matter, cliche’, flesh, word. And on this pedestal is the description without the object, the description become object, and traces of self, image blackness, movement. It cannot be reached, and cannot be touched. To see it, ‘It’ must be cognizant of seeing. The blackness must be cognizant and the red glow must be willing to glow. If not, then the story will end before it begins, and I will cease to be an image seperate from the blackness and become the red light that sustains the darkness.