Prometheuses pluralized and pontificating across the wounded internet-of -things-that-go-bump-in-the-night. High-Tech gothic guffaws amongst Frankensteins foisted from their brick-and-mortar castles. Flavela cheekiness exudes, too, from these mis-understood, or misunderstanding makers.
Out there lifeblogging laments in facebook forums, but unable to quite cope with the omniscient ironies of these gestures. Nor do they consider the option of upcycling their blasé brain-in-vat routines, outfitting them with nused jargon or cashing-in on the nostalgia for leftovers. Oh for a good idea to get away from generic corpses riddled in recent years by the peer production of obsolescence
A confounding swarm of order and chaos, a modular and distributed monstrosity manned by info/eco cottage industry models, brain-on-demand services, bluetooth conduits pumping bootleg brain molds thru off-brand 3-D printers. All condemned by the conservative, uptight mad scientist type, one who nonetheless, secretly, desires the polished production values accomplished at costs unthinkable on the outskirts of Goldstadt.
Repetitive disorders, looping like regenerative livers of pyrophilliac promethean types, the sort terrorized by American avatars, iconic avians, endangered metaphors. Hoarding for the datapocalypse, maligned mad scientists, makers, what have you—run grand guignolgorithms, sets of simple instructions that rummage through outboard brains with all the elegance of a lumbering, chainsaw wielding oaf.
Of prometheuses snatching fiery footholds or firewalls withdrawn with lightning at the behest of gods, google, and, or, golems who, like their part-time prometheus progenitors, are only seasonally employed and take up any job they can get —– slow media mires them, imagine muck-racking at 140 characters a minute—-such is life for lesser known prometheuses and their golem friends. An info-empoverished career move all told, but an available means in a stubborn economy. Oh, for the technocultural colossuses that could!
Towards an aggregation of brains, or an Altermodern Prometheus, employ all monsters, crowdsource the villagers before they get angry, and so on.
Erganomie is a fledgling neologism. It is, at once, a mildly heterotopic attempt to linguistically and graphically engage, in every sense, a perverse simultaneity. A new norm breeds new normlessness— here these coordinates are garbled, (con)fused, a condition where norms curl back and grow sideways into the body politic. Ergonomically rather than ethically diagnosed, questions of right/wrong go out the virtual window in favor of efficiencies of all (stars and) stripes.
Teaming up with curiously off-brand (((WFT))) initiatives, i.e. artificial empathy machinations, the vidsonic tone poem above aspires to an adaptive anomie. A preludic interface, a procession of collapsed pictograms provide a tacky visual lexicon for socializing the naked brain, while machine-readable whispers are sure to swoon reticent drones hovering overhead.
“Cyberspace is real,” claims Barack Obama in 2009, for whom, it seems, that like a textbook synesthete—metaphors are concrete. Facebook, Amazon and other Data centrists in the silicon forest swallowed this rhetoric whole and are quite comfortably tasking their terabytes to the terra nova of the Oregon high desert. Whereas the desert of the real can and perhaps will take a tax hike, the Northwest passage of globally networked data, images, songs and movies escapes taxation by qualifying as a rural enterprise zone.
Gray areas persist. More than a conniving panopticonfidence trick, the derelict theory object that is “Swampland in Post-Space” persists and thrives as a visionary rumor processed by the naked brain, a temporary constellation of coherency that irupts between the moment of getting a text and the realization that you are paused and reading it in the middle of a precarious stairwell.
The preceding passage excerpted from a longer vidsonic screed presented by the Metaphortean Researcher earlier this year at Post-Space, A Virtual Para-Academic Conference on the Future of the Physical presented by the Hollow Earth Society, Kamomi Solidum, and Elsewhere
Hint fiction primers for non-normative negotiation processes, crypto-zoetropical analyses, et cetera: Altruistic Drones, on their own accord. Two, Altruistic Drones do recon in the tech-utopian cine-scapes of yore, where the “kino-eye” is found manouvering in the chaos of movements, decoding the world. This precocious drone, capturing life unawares, is taken under wing of the latter day craft, learns to hit the spectator like a magic bullet.
Three, Stan Brakhage as T-1000, a mercurial rogue, nano-morphing great arts of light and shadow in innovative ways.
Four, Stan Brakhage as T-800, delivering blows against socialized vision. Five, Buñuel as treacherous computer goes back to the suture to police any post-digital resistance to the unconscious collapse of real and virtual contexts, faces crisis of duty, determined to be defective by design.
Six, Deren as drone, doubled up, tripled, swarms of the afternoon. Seven, availabilism reaches its end stage, Altruistic Drones, (heat)seeking novelty, will be there now but will be resistant to the acquisition of pictures precisely because a picture lasts longer.
Eight, the drone, as it were, of phantom ringtones fogs the fact that personal datum has become fully digitized. Fingertips relinquished of prints, like river rocks smoothed over time, after excessive use of touch-screens. Finally, that halved hint, Fellini disambiguated, that is: Eight point Five: We are all nodes buoying the tenure-tracked mental faculties of the outboard brains.
Possible para-scripts for elsewheres and elsewhens, theory objects impinging upon the optical mind, soliciting haptical illusions. An addendum of astonishments, towards a feral cinema, primitive paw-marks protruding from an ill-made futurity or forbidden archeological dig.
a horde isn’t the instance of cheap subjectivity or ephemeral things always haphazardly free floating out of a celestial expanse. That would rarely be without an obliviousness of previous discoveries distanced from the horder; horders always live beyond loss of a horde, or those perished hordes might not be found, distanced by outcasts from private or secret societies or futurologists slightly earlier. Mnemonic devices and virtual placement within a miasma, being not of a horde definitely is exclusive against succeeding to lose them.
a hoard is not of a stationary soldier or gangster generally, the individual and loner, distanced from those stationary objects coalescing within nowhere, from nowhere, without folly. Far from urban density, exchange, etc.; the friendly singularity and a small alphabet removed from inanimate objects
Texts contained herein have had contexts collapsed. Ostensibly in service of mis-ambiguating ho(a)rd(e) —in a nomadically nimble linguistic game. And/or in service of antonymic translations in their own right. Such Oulipian antics being anticipatory plagiary to the ‘pataphrase and the ‘pataphrase being redolent of ‘pataphysical aims.
In efforts towards imaging the liminal space of the “ho(a)rd(e)” in something of a whimsical hint fiction, the Dagora, a nomadic nebula with voracious appetite, will be a provisional place-holder in this attempt at picturing such homophony
Of course, nothing is more tacky than Drone Kitsch that does not compute, and relatedly Network Realism always finds gainful employment as handmaiden to the Zeitgeist. No less an aspiration hovers around the objects angling for googlability in the gallery-bunker of Half/Dozen.