Efemera | Discordia | Liquid_Nation | Plastique | Efemera_Clone_2
>From IRC performances and writings of Diane Ludin, Agnese Trocchi, Francesca da Rimini, Julietta Aranda and Ricardo Dominguez.
THOUGHTS ON SUBMISSION
Glances from the Warriors of Perception
> Submission is a submission of choice, we often play with an awareness of submission. Submission can be as powerful as control. We are adept at many forms of submission – it is a social expectation. However, we are not bound by it. We identify its forms in order to decode quickly and move through its barriers. Order exists within an intricate system of submission. That which we call society is only permitted through a mass, consensual hallucination. One that must be navigated. We build counter hallucinations. We have assembled a variety of Operational Somatic Systems (OS es) that assist in protecting our feeds (untethered) to build a translation appropriate for the world. We are intimately familiar with the edges of reality and acceptable consciousness. Our flesh and social circumstances are the bags that we bring together to maintain power. It is in gathering that we move closer to the feeds we are constantly circuiting, but unable to access alone. This defies the mastery of any system of electronic circuits or established, institutionalized authority. We generate sprawling, temporal systems for techno-affinity, unbound by ego battles and subjective limitations. We circuit open sources that remain closed without our activity. The following texts are beginning documents gathered to reflect the submissions we engaged, that began our story in building a network of mistresses designed to transmit memories that haunt us all.
the street falls to rubble, decay erode
Aphrodite descending drops down piece by piece
swallowed by moss and the viral history that destroys
her as she knows herself
Aphrodite in ruins dissolves under myth,
many tears for Aphrodite,
enough salt to wash her away.
her moss skin, a testimony,
the city to where all roads lead, is blistering
twilight suspended, preserving the dead
an excuse for inventing its present
smooth lick parting
frame my mouth the stone
saliva glistens and dries a fine white line
stone pores whispering as I lick
and I am made of lions
those lions grow feathers that will not weave
the frame of wings
and I become a boy that builds a cardboard box
into a house and waits for he knows it will not be long
before you join him
his face bruised with unspoken realities
everyday his feet step along the same path
as thousands before and after
feral in the fruit of unharvested knowing
he will scrape the tips of his fingers along a wavering
contrast, not a plateau
his tears fall in the eyes of a woman far from his home
far from his face
to turn the sea and perforate an invisible membrane
very few can notice
i-drunners become material junctions of code, technology, and the body. Each one becomes a total_segment of a flesh circuit with the other runners. Each one becomes a micro_narrative of woman, as a singularity of skin, as digital phantasms shifting the fetish spaces of virtual capital towards a world that makes all worlds possible
It begins with simple gestures and actions. We gather our machines, our code, and cover them with our laughter, our smoke, our bodies. We re_flesh the networks with our useless condition. The labor of woman as the infrastructure of the networks becomes manifest. We tweak our phantasms, in order to trace out the impossible futures in our fingers.
<t o e p h e m e r a m o d e o n>
How can you pretend to resemble the body called
flesh in this shattered universe?
Don’t u see that the segments adrift in the network
are injuring your sensible skin?
Don’t you see you have NO FUTURE
NON HAI FUTURO
THE PAST slowly kills us
The shadow of an hirsute – first woman goddess – is
coming from the nights of time, she is following
us through a line of blood ëcos she is hungry and she
has to eat
There is no escape function
The modem is burning
How can you pretend to resemble the body called
flesh in this shattered universe?
Discordia is dancing in this realm of pain
She is walking in it with injured feet
Breathing dust
Trepanning brain
Administrating pale chemical molecular shapes
Experiments of control of governments is getting
bigger and bigger, the great non-pianificato,
auto-indotto in-controllato mental experiment is
going on,
Thanks to Liquid Nation
<t o e p h e m e r a m o d e o f f>
<t o L i q u i d N a t i o n m o d e o n>
please observe the results
[she opens her eyes wide shut]
sugarbaby snow lands
stretch out brightful dreamy in front of her
endless mirror lines reflecting that which is not
skanky liquid valium girl rides red in the empty ‚hood
as invisible whispers shadow her with a kind of soft puppy hush
we’re in here, we’re in here
[she looks but she don’t see nuffin]
once were lovers somewhere buried their starry no-doll baby deep in space 1999
meanwhile another war, another planet
top sight target blue sticks like toffee to remote tv
a city of ruined children has stolen her savage joys
identity scatters through spiraling no-future past
bladerunning rainy sundays too bloody far away
leaving bar hollywood, ciao care factor zero
[she looks and she don’t like what she sees]
coma life trawls drearily towards the inevitable
shredding her skinless
no fuck pets to play, and all out of glue
korean bitch found, then lost, in alphabet city, maybe hawaii?
recode solitude3 in vanity’s fair, spicing the Friday
take care, take soft slow steps, leave no prinz
home again, home again, jiggity jig
[she looks and she sees a faint something]
her silver hands mine the ice
upside down, you turn me
easily to slip slip slip
over in glittering porn star sushi pussy
i died last night mamma bear said
look at that little woolly lamb, isn’t she sweet
come she said
destroy she said
[she looks]
summer drops like acid into global spring
stealth fairies start fucking with the future
and all the ice palaces come a tumbling down
[she closes her eyes wide shut]
resembling the body called flesh
sticky segments set randomly adrift in the network
gathering ghosts from the machine
to illuminate an event horizon that breathes alone among others
he says the universe is an hallucination
she says it is a field enfolded
she says she has been captured by a city of ruined children
he says these spaces are eating her savage joys
she says dreams drip away, revealing the indistinct
All post media direct action cells must pursue the instabilities in
Technologies-even before they become metaphors.
SPACE IS THE ULTIMATE HIGH GROUND
the storm is here
the wind from below is coming
time for a new R/reality
Their VR helmets can’t see the failure of Reality before the new fundamentalism of the telematic-they continue to believe that the lights they see from the midnight bombs they drop are coming from something that still exists: nation, justice, and democracy. These are now nothing more than the last signs of dead cultural stars.
global engagement is the application of precision force from, to and through space
she says the stars are slowly disappearing, light becoming dark
he says it is only here that he can exist
she says she is running blindfolded towards the ever brightful
he says there is no beginning, but a circle containing a gap
for the unexpected to enter
she says here there are intensities which he cannot begin to understand
he says to him all things are less than zero
coma life trawls drearily towards the inevitable
while new forms arise from the ash of future’s memory
building their skins, sewing and patching, tweaking and stretching
pushing beyond what many from the comfort zones have drowned in
Space power is vital to attain our goal of being persuasive in peace, decisive in war, and preeminent in any form of conflict
our dead must come out of the night and the earth
let them dress in the garb of war
so their voice may be heard in the empire of silence
stories that dance in the mountains
in that climbing and falling of red stars
breaking the mirrors of Power
moving into the elsewhere
afterwards, let their words fall silent
and let them return again to the night and to the earth
adrift in the network resembling the body called flesh
are packets of soft recognition
Now they are one in front of the other, any more distance would break the contact, less distance would make them implode.
Two forms point one on the other, they are staring at each other crossing the selves.
a scream, yes, a scream
he says that it was a night of intensities and he did not plan for it
she says she believes in nothing less than everything
he says that theirs is not a mathematical relationship
she says her thoughts are as dark and sticky as blood
The moment of the sexual act I multiply my personae, do you understand?
No, I do not understand.
Do you understand the problem?
No, I do not understand.
I became multiple, animal, innominable power, I hear myself speaking with other voices, I do things which then I do not remember, you are going to have a sexual relationship with one thousand persons.
I am worried for your safety.
tremble
Due to the importance of commerce and its effects on national security, the US may evolve into the guardian of space commerce
shadows of tender fury
the passing of the dead shelters those who have nothing . . .
those who bear the historic burden of disdain and abandonment
those who don’t exist
ciphers in the big accounts of capital
the gigantic market of maximum irrationality that trades in dignities
The MESH is busy mapping the human genome to create meme-gene weapons to target specific genotypes and building self-replicating fleets of computer controlled molecular weapons. Post media cell must fight the future with gestures that have no name in the present.
we must be instantly aware, globally dominant, selectively lethal, virtually present
ring a ring a rosies
pocket full o stealfies
bend over banker
lights go off
all fall down
she says the Power assassinates and forgets
he says she also believes in goblins and fairies
I become a horse, if you look straight in my eyes
you can see that I have got the eyes of an horses, gaze at me.
You do not look like an horse
Yes, look at me, can you see my eyes?
Yes, it’s real, your eyes are transforming, they are big blue deep, a
descendent lateral cut, you are blonde, much more blonde than I remember.
I understand that you look like an horse, but I cannot see what is the problem.
The problem is that in the sexual act my personae multiply themselves
And each one of them pass through me.
Yes, but this is not a problem.
In the sexual act I multiply myself
and maybe you will find yourself hanging by the big toes while I’m cutting
your throat with a blade made of tiny wood.
I understand, but this is not a problem
Do you understand which is the problem?
No, I don’t understand.
throughout a weary transportation of transmissions
with time so small it stitches itself through the imaginary framework
as a voice revealing the thematics of our current ruin
For too long the specters of hyper-memetic cargo cults have flowed between the bottom of the third world and the top of the virtual class. A circuit that keeps the impossibilities of the fifth worlds behind the eschatology of designer futures for the first world.
control of space assures access, freedom of operations and the ability to deny others the use of space
she says that she no longer knows herself
she speaks of butterfly wings crushed by a creature with no smell
she says that a devastating glance has rendered her invisible
she says that they have stolen her silence, leaving her only with useless words
she says that now there is nothing left except emptiness
No, my sexuality is a multiple sexuality too, I am moving and changing shape too, even if I’m often female. Anyway I remember everything.
You will not know with who you are lying, do you understand?
Yes, I understand but for me this is not a problem.
You do not want to embrace me.
We will never embrace, it will never happen
No, I do not understand and I am steeped in stagnant water-lilies.
Post media cells must travel among strings of inventions that fall outside of the logomass. To seek gestures that leap over the lines of flight that our current collective realities or imaginary conditions of speed and interconnectivity. We must place the impossible and the unexpected as our counter-dialectics.
the goal is Full Spectrum Dominance
these anchors for listening, watered by the tears of the dead, pooling a slow, eroding trust to a bitter circuit in the lines of power
chemical pale sleep
dreamstained sheets
no centre, ragged edges
zeroing tolerance
gene raiding hyperdecay
fox bites tail
invisible artillery follows nurse with wound
endlessly uncoiling a spectacle of irretrievable situations
intolerable signs
ruined, all ruined
come be my next five minutes
come, she said
destroy, she said
Post media cells must create situations for mutation that can interrupt and reroute the protocols of acceleration, improvement and obsolescence that late capital is bound by. So that rational history will be broken and remade by the tiny hands of the intergalactic ninos of the fifth world.
In a moment you become transparent and I embrace your framework, a red skeleton as a radiography, I pass across yourselves and then the palace comes tumbling down, I lose you between the ruins, I do not see anything, not anything else.
these are attempts of resembling the body called flesh
this is a cry for new memory systems to address and build
despite the lack of attention given to such building
this tender pain that will always be hope
such are the voices of the body called flesh <
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[first published in: Verena Kuni, Claudia Reiche (eds.): cyberfeminism. next protocols, New York (autonomedia) 2004, 81-95.]
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