sphaleotas

ta ... megala panta episphale ...

http://www.danielpipes.org/usip.php.

At least he’ll never want for sound advice, eh readers?

Artists Only

Aficionados of “Britain’s most exciting young philosopher” are at a loss to explain Robert O’Toole’s recent allusion to a work unlisted in any current bibliography.

Entirely understandable since, driven from the shelves by religious right-wingers and class-war anarchists alike, and described by the Guardian newspaper as “sinister”, ****collapse would seem an unlikely outlet for the thoughts of Professor Keith Ansell-Pearson.

It’s therefore an honour to present the essay, correctly attributed for the first time in almost a decade.

philosophical tales from rhi-zom-mania

They told me it was alive. I didn’t care myself one way or the other, alive or dead. I needed more signal less noise <which ever way you viewed it, it would always be the same, eternally, without trace or race, it was there, it had always been there>. Difference without a difference, it was bad, sick, savaged, left to the dogs, abandoned and aborted, unclassifiable Geschlect. You couldn’t touch it, hold it, or see it, but there was no mistaking its total overwhelming presence. Its aching, pulsating abscess, its pathos of distance, soothed you, drawing you in, then repelling and casting you out. You just couldn’t define this thing which determined every movement you made. It was movement. But if it was, how could it ever be? And, as I say, it and I were just there, like a foetus connected to a placenta, as interdependent as a frog and a bicycle. It was growth in and for itself. I was a forever mutating mute, merging with this thing, now submerging, then emerging, once again going under, diving down to the shallow surfaces in a bottomless ocean of TimeSpace discontinuum. In the bright white light of the night, where all cows are becoming-blacker than black, I stuttered and stammered my way into the nothingness of something I knew not what, then or now.

Black/white/black/white/black/white/black/white, WHITE! the trite shite of a master dialectician spinning yarns of the dance with the lethal weapon called das Negativ. Try and catch him out or just turn the other cheek, unimpressed, distracted, moving on elsewhere with unfeigned ignorance. It was not death that I sought. Rightly or wrongly, death I perceived as just another modality or being-there, when I wanted to be here, there, and everywhere all at once and for all eternity (not just one eternity but all). I had time for nothing else. I’d made my wager and it was all or Nichts. And I wanted the latter. I craved it more fervently and drunkenly than life - or death - itself. I was looking for the whiteness of the darkest black, for the blackness of the whitest white. You could say I was trekking after pure lndifferenz, impossible differentiation. And then things begin to crack, to crack wide open. I’d found an egg. And it was.

Where - just where - am I?, you politely but insouciantly ask. Well, let’s try again, but this time with an opaque vision and irresolvable riddle. Don’t look for clues cos I’ve covered my tracks. You can sniff your own ass if you want ass to sniff. There’s no going back for me, so don’t bother with the search party. Let me agonize in war. It’s not a little to ask, is it? The way I circle it, it was like this, same as it ever was, as it ever WAS. Let me try and speak of this and that. I realize I might doubling up on itself, but where I am that means nothing. Here everyone is not just multiplying and going forth but - well, let me leave it to your imaginations. I would have taken a detour if I hadn’t lost my way.

As I recall it (but do I recall anything anymore, or am I just inventing the time of my {re} birth, just like I always did? same it ever was), it was just a normal day in an abnormal sort of way. Yeah, piling layer or paradox upon layer of paradox. I awoke, as per non-usual, about midday. Nothing insignificant about that, you might think. But that’s where you’d be right. All passages were clear after a delirious night of intravenous joyriding sex. My ass-machine had been sodomized by another ass-machine. She called herself Big Ben, not without some basis in ur-reality. It was then - you remember then don’t you? - that I decided it was time for me to get interactive. I could no longer lead this sedentary, upright way of life, which kept me fixated on a solely anal existence. Time to get rhizominid. Time to crawl on all four hundred and forty-fours. Could there be such a time? Was there ever not such a time? I needed to overturn, to see from all angles, to become TOTALLY perspectival. O.K., you guessed right, so I wanted to be God. Wouldn’t you? But a God with a difference: an interesting, blind, pig-ignorant, clueless God! A God who was so high after his big bang with the UR (the ‘es war’ preceding the origin of the universe wiseguy), that all he could contemplate was the perpetual repetition of the first three minutes (and what a first fucking three minutes es war!). Can you imagine a life carelessly devoted to maintaining a healthy disequilibrium of disordered chaos? Blow your brains out Einstein, you ain’t seen nuffin’ yet! (and das Nichts has been missing for some time now). We are talking of a lifetime commitment (and we are talking of a long life here), yeah, a real labour of hate and war. Johnny Random was my first point of contact with the world of interactivity. He introduced me to the rhizoids, who were having fun defying the law of contradiction by sprouting forth here, there, and everywhere. I brought with me as a peace-offering some liquor and drugs, catching Johnny cavorting with the sex-machine. He said he’d introduce me to the big ES later and I could have one in my ear if I cleaned it out (I forgot, sorry, I should have told you already: I’ve only got the one ear, and yeah, you guessed, it’s seated on the middle of my stomach, exactly where my belly-button should be. It’s kinda crucial to who I am. My ear, you might say, has become what it is and always was - my belly-button, the great unthought of occidental metaphysics). Johnny treated me, at least to begin with, as if I was some voluntarist-retard, willing this, wishing that, craving whatever took my fancy. He soon unfolded me and put me on the windy and expansive. It was a road to inter-active oblivion. Shoot the arrow of TimeSpace discontinuum - yea, there was only one way to go and that was in all directions at one and the same time. Believe me, it took no time at all.

The negative had laboured me until I was fucked dry. I couldn’t take any more, I wanted, more or less, to take less. I deluded myself if I thought I was making a great moral decision - more or less? Hardly my greatest weight. The necessity of a sublime force, where you can no longer distinguish between what’s good for you and what’s bad for you, between what you need and what you desire, compelled me. I knew it was time to move oben und aus. Countdown to final ejaculation. How can I define the moment of transportation? It wasn’t that I leaped into the unknown, or took some fatal-foetal plunge. I was coming out everywhere. I was penetrating nowhere, my tail wagging and my head nodding and bobbing against the hard, crusty, shell. Let me in/out. Yeah, it was just some weird sin. Catching the groove at the right moment. I had waited long enough, and now I would wait no more. I lost all sense of direction, and I was just there - drifting, floating, cruising, riding high on a wave of space, surfing on a wave of sound, beyond noise, beyond time, beyond fantasy. This was no dream-death world. The extra-ordinary became an everyday reality, and I was hooked. I was the fish who wanted to be caught, caught hook, line and sinker. Don’t throw me back into the water you bastard. Have the courage of your convictions and rip me open, rip me to shreds. No time to get squeamish. It wasn’t as if I had a body to hold onto. All the excrement had left my body, and I was delirious on hot shit. I wasn’t body anymore (or less), I was embodied. I was as embedded in a web of inter-active jack-knives as you could possibly hope and pray to get. They were stitching me up somethin’ johnny rotten. You couldn’t map things out in this spaced out non-space. Things were kinda unplugged, and yet there were wires every goddamn place you looked. There was little point posting directions. Which way is yours leech? Never did the admittance “there is no way” have more force. Back to the womb or straight to the tomb. My advice is take no shortcuts but traverse the limit of whatever road you’re on. If you come to the end, push on further. Mommy and daddy have long been gone, bags packing, with no forgiveness and a bad conscience so big it will burst their brains apart. I was innocent - as innocent as this moment now. If you tried to steer yourself, pretending to be some kind of big chief cybernetic-juggernaut, you quickly discovered that trying to draw a map of where you were going (ha - you weren’t going anywhere, not even there either), or where you had come from, was like pointing a compass into a black hole (not that back there I ever got the chance to test this out for myself). You were sucked and you kept on sucking. Suck, suck. I wanna be your dog, you softly screamed out until you were so full with SUCK-SOCKING energy, you begged for no mercy but only the cruelty of repetition. Yea, Ja bitte baby again and again. Like a drag queen, bending my way across the straight and narrow, wayward on the windy winding passage to nowhere, I had to accept the brute, god-forsaken, immoral fact that the contours of this space revealed themselves to you after it was too late. Yea, the Da-sein of this spaced-out space was a real bitch. You could sweat, panic, scream, shout, stomp your feet like a good-old jackboot retro-arborescent. You could critique your pure practical reason but it didn’t do you no good. Better to surrender. The dice is cast immer und wieder. It’s time to wisen up punk, I said to myself. It wasn’t a question of going this way or that way. No looking back, no re-tracing of steps made, no edging one’s bets forward. Throw caution to the wind, time to get lemming baby. Directionality became meaningless in this nonlinear ‘environment’, but even this notion became problematic for me. A distinction between outside and inside, Welt and Umwelt, no longer made topographical sense. I was there - and there - and then not there even when I was clearly and opaquely there. Like a rhizoid routing without roots. I was routing rootlessness itself, tracking the rhizoid aesthetic of existence. Boundless, timeless, I was there, and then not there - once again, and again. Ja bitte. Danke danke. Put it like this - I was going all over the place but nowhere in particular. I couldn’t ever tell you where I am now - at this instant in time (ha ha what a bad philosophical joke that is).

Knocking at the door was the uncanniest, but most welcome, of guests. You guessed it - it was the dark precursor. Things would never be the same again for me. But just to make sure, let me do it one more time, and another time, and another. Unto the breach and down into the dudgeons, lying with the rabbits and dogs, my death lies between her thighs, her cool fingers which close my eyes. It’s time to get senseless, time - as it has always been and always will be (I am yours forever cyberbaby) - to slip into unconsciousness with another küss. Küsse, Küsse, riding on a K-wave. I can hear the drums rolling, clouds part for me, they’re playing the goat-song. Incipit Johnny Random and the rhizoids, it’s time for my execution (neatly disguised as an ‘initiation into the myriad ways of die blondie-beasties’). I relent, I let go and then I begin to tumble, to spiral, to cascade, and ‘now’ (the Jetztpunkt punk which sends me into delirious trophied paroxysms of laughter, a laughter beyond shame, beyond pity, beyond hinter, unter und über, über und aus). I am absolutely nowhere, so nowhere that I’m fucking nowhere, aimless and formless, a true Zweckmässigkeit ohne Zweck if you want to get neo with me (or is it me with you?). I was becoming-monster. This willing nothingness, if truth be told (and should we philosophers, we divers of the bottomless depths, not tell the truth and nothing but the truth, so help us almighty what the fuck’s your name?), is a joyride. Riding joy (ultimate joy) - let that be the motto of this highway in nowhere special, just very very einmalig. Let me take my prisoners, release no-one, least of all the Gelassenheiterkeiters. It’s time, oh yes it’s NO-TIME anymore...out of joint, out of mind, out, her-aus und hin-aus, ass-out, in-ass, ran out, run time, play-time, play me again and again. The no-time to dance, time-to-sing, time-to-chant. Accept and I will return no-time again. Only a god can save us, they said. Well, here I was! Ewigkeit sing-song - mantra mania me - I sing my ode to joy -

Keith Ansell-Pearson, ‘philosophical tales from rhi-zom-mania’, ****collapse, 1 (1994), 6-8.

Inspecting Gargett

Who is Adrian Gargett?

What does he want from us, this Lautreamont of modern letters?

Sphaleotas, in association with robin undercurrent and mark k-punk, presents an unflinching portrait of the brooding genius at war with abstract identity.

The truth will shock you ... it certainly shocked us.

INTIMACY (VIRTUAL SEX) (http://www.ibiblio.org/nmediac/summer2003/intamacy/)

Gargett: Cybernetic sex and all that it entails is about as protected and controlled as the virtual war of which it is already a manifest consequence. Cybersex heralds the disappearance of the human-machine interface, a merging which throws the one-time individual into a pulsing network of switches which is neither climatic, clean, nor secure. Any belief that computer screens melt down to produce a safe environment rapidly disintegrates. "That's all there was, just the wires," Travis said. "Connecting them directly to each other. Wires, and blood, and piss, and shit. Just the way the hotel maid found them"" (Cadigan, 1991, p.275).	Plant: Cybersex heralds the disappearance of the human-machine interface, a merging which throws the one-time individual into a pulsing network of switches which is neither climactic, clean, nor secure. Anyone who believes that computer screens melt down to produce a safe environment should read their cyberpunk one more time: “‘That’s all there was, just the wires,’ Travis said. ‘Connecting them directly to each other. Wires, and blood, and piss, and shit. Just the way the hotel maid found them’” (Cadigan 1991: 275).
[...] Cybernetics exposes an organism cross-cut by inorganic life - bacterial communication, viral infection, and entire ecologies of replicating patterns which destabilize and challenge even the most perverse notions of what it is to be "having sex". Reproduction liquefies into replication and loses its control of the Pleasuredrome.
Even in the absence of complete simulated-stimulation, technical cybersex is well advanced: the hardware is fetishized, the software is porn, and extensive proportions of the telecommunications system are consumed by erotica. However, these are simply the most evident - and perhaps least interesting - examples of a widespread degeneration of "natural" sex. As hard and wetwares breakdown onto soft, fresh mutations are manifested across the sexual scene. The simulation of sex coalesces with the deregulation of the whole sexual economy, the corrosion of its relations with reproduction, and the collapse of its specificity: sex dissolves into drugs, trance, and dance possession; androgyny, hermaphroditism, and transexualism become increasingly visible; paraphilia, body engineering, queer sex, and what Foucault calls "the slow motions of pleasure and pain" of SM - already "high-technology sex" (Califia, 1993, p.175) - multiply. Climax distributes itself across the plane and the peak experience becomes a plateau. The future of sex never comes all at once. Now it is feeding back into a past which sex itself was supposed to reproduce. Relations were already circuits in disguise; immersion was always leading reproduction on. Sex was never uncommercialized, and pleasure was only ever one part of an equation with pain which finds its solution with intensity.	Even in the absence of complete simstim, technical cybersex is well advanced: the hardware is fetishized, the software is porn, and vast proportions of the telecommunications system are consumed by erotica. But these are simply the most overt – and perhaps the least interesting – examples of a generalized degeneration of “natural” sex. As hard and wetwares collapse onto soft, far stranger mutations wrack the sexual scene. The simulation of sex converges with the deregulation of the entire sexual economy, the corrosion of its links with reproduction, and the collapse of its specificity: sex disperses into drugs, trance, and dance possession; androgyny, hermaphroditism, and transexualism become increasingly perceptible; paraphilia, body engineering, queer sex, and what Foucault calls “the slow motions of pleasure and pain” of SM – already “high-technology sex” (Califia 1993: 175) – proliferate. Cybernetics reveals an organism cross-cut by inorganic life – bacterial communication, viral infection, and entire ecologies of replicating patterns which subvert even the most perverse notions of what it is to be “having sex”. Reproduction melts into replication and loses its hold on the pleasuredrome. Climax distributes itself across the plane and the peak experience becomes a plateau. The future of sex never comes all at once. Now it is feeding back into a past which sex itself was supposed to reproduce. Relations were already circuits in disguise; immersion was always leading reproduction on. Sex was never uncommercialized, and pleasure was only ever one part of an equation with pain which finds its solution with intensity. — Sadie Plant, ‘Coming Across The Future’, in Virtual Futures: Cyberotics, Technology and Post-Human Pragmatism, ed. by Joan Broadhurst Dixon and Eric J. Cassidy (London and New York: Routledge, 1998), pp. 30-36 (p. 30).
This happens in a world whose constancy is reliant upon its capacity... — Ibid., p. 30.
This immaculate conception of the world has always been subject... — Ibid., p. 31.
"Stop confusing servitude with dependence" writes Jean-Francois Lyotard... — Ibid., p. 33.
Immense tactility, contact, the possibility of communication... — Ibid.
"Use me," writes Lyotard... — Ibid.
It is Foucault's "something unnameable"... — Ibid.
"He wanted.everything... — Ibid., p. 34.
Foucault describes S&M as the invention of... — Ibid.
We don't yet know what a body can do... — Ibid.
That there are also other ways... — Ibid.
The dominant tendencies in philosophy... — Nick Land, The Thirst For Annihilation (London and New York: Routledge, 1992), p. 124.
Spawned by unilateral difference... — Ibid.
Even primitive VR corrodes both objectivity and personality... — Nick Land, ‘Cybergothic’, in Virtual Futures: Cyberotics, Technology and Post-Human Pragmatism, ed. by Joan Broadhurst Dixon and Eric J. Cassidy (London and New York: Routledge, 1998), pp. 79-87 (p. 81).
Foucault jacks into virtual sex... — ‘Coming Across The Future’, p. 35.
Incandescence is not enlightening... — The Thirst For Annihilation, p. 29.

Essay (http://www.muse-apprentice-guild.com/spring_2003/adriangargett-essay/literary_magazine.html)

Gargett: It is 4: 48 in the morning. Let us say one is "intoxicated"-an impoverished cipher for all those terrible things one does to one's nervous system in the depths of the night-and writing is "impossible"-although one still thinks, even to the point of terror and psychosis. What does this mean as an episode in the real history of the spirit, to die without trace? Where has it strayed to? Imprisoned memories prowl through the dark. Fuck it. They scatter like rats in the echo. Ashes drift in the back of the skull.	Land: It is 03.30 in the morning. Let us say one is ‘drunk’ – an impoverished cipher for all those terrible things one does to one’s nervous-system in the depths of the night – and philosophy is ‘impossible’ (although one still thinks, even to the point of terror and disgust). What does it mean for this episode in the real history of spirit to die without trace? Where has it strayed to? ‘I thought of death, which I imagined to be similar to that walk without an object (but the walk, in death, takes this path without reason – “forever”)’ [III 286]. — The Thirst For Annihilation, pp. xiii-xiv.
Gargett: An extraordinary lucidity, frosty and crisp in the blackness, but paralyzed; lodged in some recess of the universe that clutches it like a trap. A wave of nausea is accompanied by a peculiarly insinuating headache, as if thought itself were copulating unreservedly with suffering. Panic. I blink. Everything vanishes into the shadows, hint of predatory cat's eyes. The dust settles thick. The metallic hardness of intellect seems like a cutting instrument in my hand; the detached fragment from a machine, or an abattoir, seeking out the terminal sense it was always refused.	Land: An extraordinary lucidity, frosty and crisp in the blackness, but paralysed; lodged in some recess of the universe that clutches it like a snare. A wave of nausea is accompanied by a peculiarly insinuating headache, as if thought itself were copulating unreservedly with suffering. A damp coldness, close to fog, creeps through the open window. I laugh, delighted at the fate that has turned me into a reptile. The metallic hardness of intellect seems like a cutting instrument in my hand; the detached fragment from a machine tool, or an abattoir, seeking out the terminal sense it was always refused. — Ibid., p. xiv.
Gargett: Literature is like love in that both are crushing diseases. The way literature willfully desecrates the resources of base physiology is like love, as is the way it associates itself with hunger, insomnia, anxiety and bizarre fevers, shattering lives and wrecking the most logical plans. Love institutes the essence of abjection and the gutter into the most sheltered of existences, violating interiorities, until it finally beats its abject sacrifices down onto the floor, from where they are thrown into the void of supplication without potential reaction, asphyxiating on a sulfurous combination of elation and pain. There is no significant literature that is not concurrently an absurdity and a blazing inanity. It is no accident that literature has been a eternal agonizing erotic stuttering, whose aesthetic force emanates from the belief that beauty single-handedly renders endurable the obligation for chaos, violence, and ignominy that is the source of love.	Land: Literature is like love in that both are catastrophic diseases. The way literature wantonly exploits the resources of base physiology is like love, as is the way it allies itself with hunger, sleeplessness, malaise, and strange fevers; derailing lives, and undoing the most methodical projects. Love introduces the taste of abjection and the gutter into the most secure of existences, breaking open interiorities, until it finally gets its wretched sacrifices down onto the floor, from where they are pitched into the abyss of supplication without possible response, choking on a sulphurous mixture of ecstasy and despair. There is no great literature that is not simultaneously a degradation and a burning futility. It is no coincidence that literature has been a perpetual tortured erotic stammering, whose aesthetic momentum flows from the fact that ‘beauty alone ... renders tolerable the need for disorder, violence, and indignity that is the root of love.’ [III 13] — Ibid., p. 188.
Every invention and coherent word... — Ibid., p. 189.
That the source of love is a thirst for danger... — Ibid.
... Sickness is an experience I comprehend... — Ibid., p. 190.
The only truthful words?... — Ibid.
To express an image of eroticism... — Ibid.
I walk around... — Ibid.
To become corrupted to the condition of a writer... — Ibid., p. 200.
When contrasted to the dark core of writing... — Ibid., p. 201/p. 203.
Life disintegrates into ash... — Ibid., p. 204.
Reason itself, in the form of scientific enquiry... — Ibid., p. 166.
Chaotic "arithmetic"... — Ibid., p. 167.
Space itself is unfathomable and distorted... — Ibid.
Particles decay, molecules disintegrate... — Ibid., p. 205.
If there is any termination, it is zero... — Ibid.
Here in the blank space of the internal border... — Ibid.
They want us to fear death so much... — Ibid., p. 132.
"I am not a philosopher... — Ibid., p. 80.
Life is a scream which one cannot implore a termination... — Ibid., p. 175.
Bataille's obsession is with "the unity of death... — Ibid., p. 191.
"My rage to love opens onto death... — Ibid.
... Death is the authenticity of the impossible... — Ibid., p. 199.
Death is no longer an imprecise problem... — Ibid., p. 206.
I now perceive that my tellurian ur-mother was savaged... — Ibid.
Humanism-Capitalist Patriarchy-is the same thing as our imprisonment... — Ibid., p.209.

Nothing Natural///Black Planet (http://www.newworlddisorder.ca/issuetwo/articles/gargett.html)

Gargett: However serious the nausea that can be felt in the relation to a single corpse, especially one in a latter stages of decomposition, or crossed with the marks of a shocking extremity of pain, torture in particular, this is extraordinarily amplified - and not only quantitatively - when one is challenged by piles or masses of corpses; the stacked remnants of a vault, the human waste from an extermination camp, piles of skulls, unknown clusters of bodies in the snow of Kosova or Cambodian killing fields. The corpse not as a lost individual, but as a decaying mass in the unspecified debris of death. It is only at the edge of such macabre experiences, when bodies are ejected as nameless masses of Herakleitean waste, that one partially views the sordid and empty death one strives to reject. The Final Solution is a symbol and a reality; each of its vestiges being endowed with sophisticated libidinal forces. That there is nothing to shield us from the lure of such things - that the mire and ash-residue in a drainage-gutter outside Birkenau might be the remnants of our own fleshy tissue - is a malignancy of probability which it is crucial to accentuate if we are to connect.	Land: However great the revulsion that can be felt in contact with a single corpse, especially when it is in an advanced state of decomposition, or marked with the traces of an ignoble extremity of agony (torture in particular), this is massively augmented – and not merely quantitatively – when one is confronted by heaps or mounds of corpses; the stacked remnants of an ossuary, the human remnants from an extermination camp, piles of skulls, anonymous tangles of bodies in the Ugandan bush or at the edge of a Kampuchean paddy field. The corpse not as a lost person, but as a disintegrating clot in the depersonalized refuse of death. Sade’s writings are not without such images, but nor are the mass media of twentieth-century societies. It is only at the lip of such abysmal indignities, when bodies are vomited as faceless masses of Herakleitean dung, that one glimpses the filthy and senseless death one craves. — The Thirst For Annihilation, p. 194. That there is nothing to insulate us from falling prey to such things - that the slime and ash in a drainage ditch outside Birkenau might be the residue of our own flesh - is a savagery of chance in which it is necessary to exult if we are to connect. — Ibid., p. 196.
Gargett: Whatever the horror of de Sade, he does not direct us into Auschwitz; it is perhaps more correct to propose that he indicates the way out of it. In spite of the frantic anxiety of our efforts to give a moral explanation for the somatic trauma provoked by vestiges of the Nazi exterminations, our intellectual principles remain insulted by the self-righteous inanities that result. We consider Hitler as a believable Satan, an entity that the church was incapable of concocting, in whom we vicariously sink our evil. In the accumulation, our miserable division from the fatalities shatters its decayed conceit. Our grasping for virtue blocks us from communion, and we are disgusted and deflected from the site where their destiny intersects with ours, as if death itself had been lessened by their suffering. That we are an unambiguously destructible species of animal scarcely troubles us. We manufacture a separation from the dead. To a degree this is since we have a prevalent fear of corpses and paraphernalia of death. All of which elements are condemned by morality to the same scream-stifled prison as desire, wildness, and intuitive connection to the real. Our ethical disposition would accomplish the perfect decontamination of the 1940s pogroms, involving the complete eradication of expansive waste-lands of the deceased, and the complex affects they trigger.	Land: Whatever the monstrosity of Sade, he does not point into Auschwitz; it is more true to suggest that he points out of it. Despite the peculiar desperation in our attempts to give a moral interpretation to the somatic shock induced by traces of the Nazi exterminations, our intellectual conscience remains offended by the sanctimonious inanities that ensue. We treat Hitler as a persuasive Satan, a figure that the church was unable to invent, in whom we vicariously live our evil (as if we were masturbating over a magazine). In the aggregate, our squalid separation from the victims gapes its stale complacency. Our lurch for innocence seals us against communion, and we are repulsed from the place where their destiny is also ours, as if death itself had been soiled by their torments. That we are an ineliminably massacreable species of animal scarcely marks us. We engineer an apartheid of the dead. Partly this is due to the widespread dread of corpses, Jews, Gypsies, and homosexuals prevalent in our societies. All of which elements are consigned by morality to the same howl-choked dungeon as desire, irresponsibility, and profound contact with the real. Our moral natures would complete the sanitization of the 1940s’ pogroms, contributing to the elimination of sprawling bodies, and the problematic affects they provoke. — Ibid., pp. 194-195.
Bataille describes "the catastrophe of time" because certainty cannot be recognized... — Ibid., p. 94.
Time is the suicidal jealousy of God... — Ibid., p. 95
That jealous time eradicates all things... — Ibid.
There are plain grounds to oppose such folly... — Ibid, p. 96.
This is the progress of synchronization... — Ibid, p. 97.
Shamanism defies the transcendence of death... — Nick Land, ‘Shamanic Nietzsche’, in Nietzsche: A Critical Reader, ed. by Peter R. Sedgwick (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1995), pp. 158-170 (p. 161).
The inferior race... — Ibid., p. 168.
In a passage that immediately precedes... — The Thirst For Annihilation, p. 24.
The narrative sketched-out by "How the true world at last became a fable... — Ibid, p. 25.
Where cumulative reason has introduced "truth"... — Ibid.
Nietzsche's economy of the artistic process... — Ibid.
A Dionysian economy is the volatility of impersonal desire... — Ibid., p. 26.
The three primary dialogues of modernity... — Ibid., p. 149.
War is not conceptualised here in Clausewitz's sense... — Ibid., p. 150.
The word "war" takes all the vital currents... — Ibid.
War is not an evil, but evil itself... — Ibid., p. 151.
In opposition to the ineffective unity of Kantian industrialism... — Ibid., p. 157.
The will to chance is the surrender of the will... — Ibid.
Chance is not a pre-ontological arch-accumulation of potential... — Ibid.
Chance is far less a fundament than an infidelity... — Ibid., p. 158.
With Nietzsche chance disconnects from the incarceration of probability... — Ibid.

Digital Abyss (http://www.azimute.org/literature/digital_abyss.html)

- You got the access codes?... — Iain Hamilton Grant, ‘Burning Autopoiedipus’ (http://www.ccru.net/swarm2/2_auto.htm).

Dimensionality requires a... — Cybernetic Culture Research Unit, ‘Flatlines’, Pli: Warwick Journal of Philosophy, 7 (1998), 173-191 (p. 173).

Extensive ((or) ordered)... — Ibid., p. 174.

Robot-history (7) seizes the "as yet" non-actualized virtual invasion... — ‘Burning Autopoiedipus’.

Why consciousness, why memory?... — Ibid.

Plateau-tectonics. Pure Capitalism... — ‘Flatlines’, p. 174.

The screen-plane undergoes... — Ibid.

Pure Capitalism's numbers. Epistrata (Add-Ons) are indices... — Ibid.

Start at the end... — Ibid.

Apparent revolution around a supplementary dimension... — Ibid.

Pure Capitalism progressively actualizes the hyperspace-idea... — Ibid.

You descend to inspect it. — Ibid., p. 175.

The project for the ultimate diagram/plan... — Ibid.

Immersion Amnesia. — Ibid.

Time-Fault. Chronos cannot include its own overcoding... — Ibid.

The occasion of robotic history... — ‘Burning Autopoiedipus’.

You forget when it started... — ‘Flatlines’, p. 175.

(Central Data Archive... — Ibid., p. 176.

The Pure Capital program (K-P) promises to reveal everything... — Ibid.

Hyper-mythos of the 3-faced God... — Ibid.

If time-travel ever happens it always has... — Ibid.

What AxSys can't remember it hasn't forgotten... — Ibid.

As the K-P program evolves it remembers more about itself... — Ibid.

(Gargett continues to make use of ‘Flatlines’ throughout ‘Digital Abyss’ [cf. footnotes 1, 4, 5, 6, 10, 12, 14, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 24, 25, 26, 27 and 28].)

With the machinic voodoo... — ‘Burning Autopoiedipus’.

Life is not captured from the future... — Ibid.

You twitch on the table... — David Cole, ‘Post-Cybernetic Judicial War’ (http://www.ccru.net/swarm2/2_postcyber.htm).

Auto-Oedipus emerges onto the teleoplane... — ‘Burning Autopoiedipus’

Fictiowar-machines... — Ibid.

Deprogramming the Body (http://www.ctheory.net/text_file.asp?pick=347)

Nietzsche in the second essay of The Genealogy of Morals speaks of... — Alphonso Lingis, ‘The Society of Dismembered Body Parts’, Pli: Warwick Journal of Philosophy, 4 (1992), 1-19 (p. 9).

The schizophrenic apocalypse Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari envision... — Ibid., p. 17.

Deleuze and Guattari in Anti-Oedipus offer a new mapping... — Ibid., p. 2.

The infant contented... — Ibid., p. 3.

The Deleuze-Guattarian analysis distinguishes... — Ibid., p. 4.

The broad strokes of Nietzsche’s philosophy are well known... — The Thirst For Annihilation, p. 144.

It is the devaluation of the highest values... — Ibid., p. 145.

Having polarized the high and low in extension... — Ibid.

As a creature of zero... — Ibid.

The zero is the transmission element... — Ibid.

Against the sterile consolidation of Kantian industrialism... — Ibid., p. 157.

The will to chance is the sacrifice of the will... — Ibid.

Chance is not a pre-ontological arche-reserve... — Ibid.

Being derives only a vanishing speck... — Ibid., p. 158.

That being is a chance means that... — Ibid.

It is not that Nietzsche pronounces upon chance... — Ibid.

The labyrinth is not an intervention into being... — Ibid., p. 161.

The labyrinth is a complexity... — Ibid.

Chaotic "geometries"... — Ibid., p. 167.

Space itself is deep and twisted... — Ibid.

What is crucial to the labyrinth... — Ibid., p. 172.

Death is the reality of the impossible... — Ibid., p. 199.

You’re losing perception... — Nick Land, ‘No Future’ (http://www.k-punk.net/k-punk.net/no%20future.html).

Modernity marks itself out as hot culture... — Nick Land, ‘Meltdown’ (http://www.ccru.net/swarm1/1_melt.htm).

Fuck Tomorrow scrawled across the wall... — ‘No Future’.

Cut...poor quality late 50’s recording... — Ibid.

Humanism - Capitalist Patriarchy... — The Thirst For Annihilation, p. 209.

Complexity is not difficulty, but mess... — ‘No Future’.

Supraterrestrial - "solar"/"general" - economics... — Ibid.

Torching through the frozen security codes... — Ibid.

Savage societies are transformed or incorporated... — ‘The Society of Dismembered Body Parts’, p. 11.

Wandering high in the Andes... — Ibid., p. 13.

Drink - a potion - coca tea and whisky... — Ibid.

The variably scaled instant of innovation... — ‘No Future’.

Theo-political false memory syndrome... — Ibid.

Engagement and conflict... — ‘Meltdown’.

Western orgasmic defusion... — ‘No Future’.

Power - an eternal chameleon... — Ibid.

Accelerating industrial simulation... — Ibid.

Beyond the Judgement of God... — ‘Meltdown’.

Monetarization indexes... — ‘No Future’.

Anonymous excess... — Ibid.

Body-count running... — Ibid.

De-socialization waves... — Ibid.

Cyber-spiders crawl... — Ibid.

Zero or time in-itself... — Ibid.

Now... bodily travelling-in-place... — Ibid.

The fermented... — Ibid.

The Bataille reconstruct... — Ibid.

Particles decay... — The Thirst For Annihilation, p. 205.

If there is a conclusion it is zero... — Ibid.

Although the adventure of inexistence... — Ibid., p. 206.

The toxic effect of eroticism is crisp... — Ibid.

Such abysses of disease... — Ibid., p. 208.

You can find further discussion of Gargett’s textual strategies here and here.