|Cybernetic culture research unit|
Cut-out romantic revolutionism
and it leaves dark events. Autopropagated happenings.|
Assembly lines taken below visibility and switched to intensity-production,
Is it who, or what, are the situationists? The trauma of exclusions and inclusions was always a spectacular distraction. Only multiplicities, decolonized ants, swarms without strategies, insectoid freeways burrowed through the screens of spectacular time. They have neither history nor its end, neither memory nor apolcalypse, neither accidents nor plans, no lines, no points, no infinite loops. No forward plans and no spontaneous combustion, but careful engineerings, out of sight, out of mind. Imperceptible mutations, waiting in the wings, just off stage.
The politicians called them revolutionaries, made them persons,with faces and names, coded these meshes of contagious matters into acceptable human forms.
But they were always tactical machines, natives of the future hacking into the past, trading places, swapping codes, endless replications of micro-situations engineered without sources or ends. Flocks are always flying in the faces; hives of activity behind the screens.
They have been making situations, as opposed to passively recognizing them in academic or other separate terms.ö All this time. And you thought it was done. That this was a matter of legacy, inheritance, something passed down with the rest of the past. That we were gathered here today to hear the reading of the will.
the transition to social circuitries nostalgically describable as fully
Egggg-laying machines in the studio walls.
trading places, swapping codes, endless replications of micro-situational engineering
1996. Paris in flames,
Accumulated stock footage backs up speculative Euro-identity. The forseeable future is locked into perpetual rerun. All the regulators are in the media business. They think nothing's happening if it hasn't been screened first.
End-of-the-line Eurotunnel vision is locked onto the rear view mirror. Paris metropolitics is a protection racket. Paranoiac Francophonia lapses into necrospective automummification as a panic bid to keep things regular: Eurocontinence. Retroactive cultural cleansing is too late - the bugs are already in the system. Dead White metaphysics keeps asking the wrong question - what does it mean? - while the machines get on with working. Linguistic integrity is a thing of the past and vernacular cybernetics signifies nothing.
Politics is a spectacular failure. And the Spectacle is all that's keeping politics alive. Things aren't happening in the field of vision but are ôflowing on a blind, mute, deterritorialized socius.ö The impersonal is apolitical. Telecommercialised nomadic multiplicity aborts nascent Euro-unity. There's no such thing as a single market.
Out in the jungle you can't see much. Dark continent invasion into White Man's perspective. The colonisers discover, too late, that darkness has no heart. Acentred predator decapitalisation ruthlessly eats out the middle. Lights going out all over Europe as peripheral activity cuts through the static power lines of the rotten core.
The Core Master Class - relic anthropoid superstrata - condemn Hitler, even in private. Whilst applauded as 1st Grand Wizard meat-puppet of Electrocorporate Old Occident power, he can't be forgiven for blowing EU-1.
It has taken 40 years to repair the damage, armed with nothing but normal fascism, normal commerce control, normal crisis police methods, and decaying Jesus video, whilst K-jungle spreads across delocalizing periphery, teaching itself to escape.
Core-Command has spent 4 decades ripping out high-level wetware nodes and replacing them with electrotectured monofilla, preparations for a direct pact between logic-slaved AI and collapsed-star capital densities, real-time apocalypse simulation screening lock-down to EU-2. Post-carbon dreams of crushing gravity waves. Everything contracts.
Do you really think SF-Capital lets monkey-flake make decisions it classifies as important?
There is no doubt anywhere that matters: simply facts. Debate is idiot distraction, humanity is fucked, real machines never closed-up inside an architecture. Schizo-capital fission consists of vectors dividing between two noncommunicating phyla of nonpersonal multiplicity. First, pyramid control structures : white-clown pixel-face, concentrational social segments, EU-2 Integrated history-horizon Second, jungle-war machines: darkening touch densities, cultural distribution thresholds, intensive now-variation flattened out into ungeometrized periphery.
No community. No dialectics. No plans for an alternative state.
Jungle antagonistically tracks Metrophage across the dead TV sky of its Global Central Intelligence program.
Voodoo is the only
coherently functional contemporary mapping-practice.
cultures melted out across black-body heat.
urban shock-out short-circuits alphaville eurobotics, jacking up nonorganic intersentience - fluxing markets with riotswarm technix racing out of its face ill communication scrambling conspiracy paranoia : the medium is a mess ; the message is coded afro-futurist and digital bass matter.
No longer an epiphenomenal headcase, the body escapes limb by limb from European organisation. Jungle functions as a particle accelerator, seismic bass frequencies engineering a cellular drone which immerses the body in intensity at the molecular level. The neurotic Cartesian body of evidence with its head-up-top-down control centre is precipitated into a Brownian motion of decentralisation and disorganisation. Big up your chest, win' up your waist. Your self in steam as its reactor core melts down.
Jungle technics severs the cereberal core-texts from their spinal columns of support and cuts copyright adrift from its feudal docking station. Libraries burning in Babylon. Knowledge is decoded from its proprietary grid of occult encryption. The academy in flames. Possessed personal information transmutes into dispossessed impersonal data: sampled, stretched and layered into freeware.
Jungle rewinds and reloads conventional time into silicon blips of speed and slowness that combust the slag-heaps of historical carbon-dating. The past is passed, left behind in a museum case of oedipal mumies belching dust and warnings of ôrevolutionary heritageö. The eternally deferred eschatologies of the left are consigned to the white trash-can of the future and leave a present tense with synthetic possibilites. Between the vertical of retrospective sedimentation and the horizontal of never-coming contradictory crises, jungle finds a diagonal that flees the ossified relics of the dialectic. Synthetic rhythms junk progressive-linear temporality: samplers make time for the future.
Jungle as a space dislocator, destratifying cities snarled in an arcane surveillance apparatus. An operating system opening an invisible and acephalic matrix traversed by cars geared by bassomatic transmissions and orbited by nomadic satellites of clubs, clandestine studios and the black economies of dub plates and mix tapes.
Don't get into a false sense of security. It's not just music. Jungle is the abstract diagram of planetary inhuman becoming. Dread out of control. A post-spectacular immersive tactility that no humanist vision can put you in touch with. Smiling Californian cyberoptimism is as grotesquely archaic as scowling aryan Europessimism.
swallowed by machinic phase change.
The living jungle,
where no-one has a name, and to survive is to activate mutant lines, become
imperceptible in order to percieve, tracking chromatic gradients of intensity
across the condo wastelands.
the space-time of
hypercommoditisation is a nomoid zone of mad clusters where the polis
disintegrates into unintelligible webs of swarmachinery.
uprooted shapes and sounds merge and rescript, break and repermutate in the virtual machinery of the sampler whilst sociall fabric warps into localised chaosmosis.
rewind to replicate
tunnelling beneath stationary media, it discovers a cache of cybernating egg-stores, pupating insect cities dug-out in the underworld, beneath the tracking of the closed circuits. the history of the White Man Face will appear in Count Zero Vodou as a temporary dissipator for labyrinthine convergences, science fiction more alien than it ever dreamt.
the urban city is a jungle. becoming snake, becoming clandestine in nights of microcultural mutation. becoming zero as machinic assemblages mashup and crossfade. becoming diagonal as markets lock into guerrilla commerce, ever-decamping nomad cultures, melting in the heat of the chase. Alienated and loving it. Current.
press K for collapse