Friday, 6 May 2016


At Six o’clock the next morning I was woken by the noise, the statue was now fifty feet long and crossing the flower beds on either side of the garden. It sounded as if a complete orchestra were performing some Mad Hatter’s symphony out in the centre of the lawn. At the far end, by the rockery, the sonic cores were still working their way through the Romantic catalogue, a babel of Mendelssohn, Schubert and Grieg, but near the veranda the cores were beginning to emit the jarring and syncopated rhythms of Stravinsky and Stockhausen.

I woke Carol and we ate a nervous Breakfast.

“Mr Hamilton!” she shouted. “You’ve got to stop it!”

The metal was soft and the blade sank through it quickly. I left the pieces I cut off in a heap to one side, random notes sounding out into the air. Separated from the main body of the statue, the fragments were almost inactive, as DR Blackett had stated. By two o’clock that afternoon I had cut back about half the statue and got it down to manageable proportions…

…At two o’clock that night I woke as a window burst across the floor of my bedroom. A huge metal helix like a claw through the fractured pane, its sonic core screaming down at me.

…”Get rid of it. Bury it somewhere, or better still, have it melted down. As soon as possible.”
At the preliminary hearings we soon realised that, absurdly, our one big difficulty was going to be proving to anyone who had not been there that the statue had actually started growing. With luck we managed to get several postponements, and Raymond and I tried to trace what we could of the statue. All we found were three small struts, now completely inert, rusting in the sand on the edge of one of the junkyards in Red Beach. Apparently taking me at my word, the contractor had shipped the rest of the statue to a steel mill to be melted down.

…The court building was a new one and by an unpleasant irony ours had been the first case to be heard there. Much of the floor and plasterwork had still to be completed, and the balcony was untiled. I was standing on an exposed steel crossbeam; one of two floors down someone must have been driving a rivet into one of the girders, and the beam under my feet vibrated soothingly.

Then I noticed that there were no sounds of riveting going on anywhere, and that the movement under my feet was not so much a vibration as a low rhythmic pulse.

…Carol was patting the girder and listening to it. “I think it’s humming,” she said, puzzled. “It sounds like the statue.”

… “They did, angel. So it got back into circulation, touching off all the other metal it came into contact with. Lorraine Drexel’s statue is here, in this building, in a dozen other buildings, in shops and planes and a million new automobiles. Even if it’s only one screw or ball-bearing, that’ll be enough to trigger the rest off.”

“Did you say it was all over? Carol, it’s only just beginning. The whole world will be singing.”

J.G Ballard – Vermilion Sands [Venus Smiles – excerpts p122-6]


Deconstruction and reappearance of the cathedral – or in the work of Ballard, a resurrecting statue – or the Arch of Triumph which had been destroyed by the Islamic State in Palmyra, only to re-emerge as a digital print in the West.

 Institute of Digital Archaeology Digital of Institute of Digital Archaeology of Institute.

As Hamilton and Carol dismantle the statue, they find in appropriate time that the partial fragments they have filed away have grown significantly. To the time it takes to dismantle the statue, they discover quite soon that the metal is constantly expanding into corkscrew-like elongations.

The hyper-libidinal tornado of death that is the Islamic State – who aim to escape representation, who may as well follow on the Italian Futurist Movement rather than the Quran, a radical ‘futureman’, disjunctive nonsense of bodies piled up parallel to fragments of ancient artefact – pathing the speedway of the future in the filament of human bone and remnant of history. 

The Islamic State over a week long siege, self-politicised, hand-crafted and deliberately infantile radicals execute the abrasive in a type of destruction that can be propounded to the Italian Futurism of Marinetti. Particularly in the Fascism and nihilistic glorification of war and destruction. In an apparent point where the ambiguity of the extremist vision pairs with the furthest revolution of meaning – they caused significant damage and infantile vandalism to the cultural heritage of Syria. 

In condolence – or perhaps in apology – it appears in London, the Arch of Triumph – coming to Trafalgar Square, April 2016, onto New York September;

"By using digital techniques to map and preserve monuments and other aspects of shared human history, we are able to ensure that nobody can deny history or dictate that their narrative or ideology stands above the shared story of all humanity and our shared aspiration to live together in harmony."

The misery of digital hypermedia now takes action outside of real time; whilst ISIS cleansed the site of polytheistic monuments, the West summoned it back to surface in an act of heteroglossic mimesis.

The ‘Black Gold’ revenue of oil smuggling with peak demand, a market devastated by secular decline, the impending turbulence has become a catalyst of recurrent defeat. A sharp fall in international oil prices make smuggling and the ISIS-controlled market towns such as al-Bab and Manbij unprofitable. However, this blood-supply of the Caliphate [fundamental for the insurgency and finance] is a reflection of the central role of oil within international power structures.  And this is where the potential integration of corruption enters the global economy in a state of resurrection, through exchange – from destruction to illicit topological assimilation. 

Islamic State exist as extra-terrestrial parasitic creature absorbing into the ground and materialising as a state of paranoia and a state of regression in the West – through digital cosmic-schizophrenia – Europe on the embankment acting as a transcendental speed-camera. 

Calling for attacks on the West during Ramadan through ‘the-voice’, the virtual sublime and inner-schizophrenic soliloquy which is echoing the cortex of Europe. The month of calamity. It's symptoms will rise to the surface - it will leave its claw marks on the flesh of the mothership;

Somewhere between the horror image, there is a distinction to be made between the reality of a secular radicalism and the analysis of a political extremist unconsciousness. Our heads, still, rotate 360 - we can only turn-the-other cheek so much until we face the same direction - or stare back.
Where do we start with history, according to Deleuze – in the middle. Now we have a misplacement – although its demolition is abhorrent, it is also hard for me to say that its renovation is not equally as monstrous. There is no reset to the computer, its cruelty leaves marks upon the body – the open wounds are distracting – we cannot seal them with PLA 4043D or thermoplastics, they cannot reorganise themselves – it is not apathy which brings me to this point but sheer deprivation from rationality, to allow for symbolic flow in which we recognise ISIS as a real accelerating force.  Rebuilding the past, through a complete allowance of an ontological metamorphosis.

Monday, 28 March 2016




It is even necessary to imagine the monoface band as produced by this aleatory rotation, this mad segment acting as matrix whose properties never stop changing and so unravelling the unpredictable ribbon of libidinal marks in its output. But even this image needs to be corrected for it is modelled on an industrial machine, for example a wire drawing machine or a rolling mill, and with this model, it implies the category of an accumulation, of a stockpiling, of a material memory, and, what amounts to the same, of a diachrony. For example, you could, I think, modify in an incessant and arbitrary way the norms of extrusion or rolling, and you would still obtain bars or wires with necessarily variable properties. - J-F Lyotard [The Great Ephemeral Skin, Libidinal Economy].

The unconscious is not a theatre, but a factory - [G&D, Anti-Oedipus]

Doomguy is a cybergenetic construct navigated through a multi-planetary conglomerate; becomes involved within a labyrinth of sensation [notably pain], a jet of meat, [SOULSPHERE MANA] - organised with survival as its goal//through whirls of a disjunctive segment in its libidinal journey...producing a collective memory... this, organic universal-in-itself.

A fat slime, pink meat - pushing as it is sucked through, merging into the same singularity - infinte density.

Xenomatrix - an identifiable object of violence - libidinal holocaust. Nuclear love on the mobius skin.

I propose a noclip [IDCLIP] exit strategy – partial invisibility against the current, radiation shielding suit through the digital hypermedia – an escape from the collapse which occurs within the computer system.

Berserk punch through blood red bioluminescent portal, through matter and through cyberspace.

 – the red meat separating the marine from its landscape, an endless claustrophobic cybernation of which one is subjected to an endless death. Doomguy may be immortal but Doomguy is not indestructible;

[Oh, Jesus sweet Jesus, if there ever was a Jesus and if there is a God, please please please let us out of here, or kill us. Because at that moment I think I realized completely, so that I was able to verbalize it: AM was intent on keeping us in his belly forever, twisting and torturing us forever. The machine hated us as no sentient creature had ever hated before. And we were helpless. It also became hideously clear:

If there was a sweet Jesus and if there was a God, the God was AM.]

– H. Ellison – I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream.

The conglomerate in which this body is trapped appears dead [with its apocalyptic toxic-waste landscape, cybergenetic meltdown, mutated cooperation fascinated by the trans-teleportation hovering above an underworld]   – but it is the link between planet Mars and its Moon [Phobos] which is dead, it is this labyrinth which is in fact parasitic, feeding off the vulnerable corpse of the solar system – its alterity [invasion] a secondary bacteria erasing the vile microorganism which rests beneath the sun. A biological warfare taking place in which one force must eradicate the next in order to devour the rotting flesh of solar energy - - - - - asymptopia on part of the marines// a libidinal nourishment for annihilation on part of the imps and toxic avengers which force themselves through the veins of the integrated system [correspondingly an exercise in hysterical and delirious excavation]. It is due to this foundry that a deathconscious wave of violence is deteriorating matter into an abyssal cavity. // The pink labyrinth of the unconscious which is distrupted - gameplay is extension of the body and we excavate its theatrical dissimulation in order to zero our libidinal exchange of hyper-violence.

a cosmic catatonic abstract body


Doomguy is a maggot crawling across an open wound – unknowingly purifying the damaged area but not sufficiently healing it – rather, continuously blistering the aperture.

'It is quite clearly a question of the fact that the sign is on the one hand caught in these networks, thus localizable in metonymic systems (still, often with Freud himself, in metaphoric systems) each differing from the others, that it is heterosemic or heterological and consequently subject to semiotics - but furthermore, jenseits, that it is not assignable to a specific function nor therefore to the play of its effects of meaning, nor to any other,that it is indissociably a sign of referral and through referral, but without an assignable reference. - L.E (p.69) J-F Lyotard.

And within all of this, we find that the death of GODMODE exists as a crisis to the body – GODMODE//IDDQD// – immortality in need of deconstruction.

(i)                  GODMODE can be summarised in what Lyotard lays out by his representational nihilism of “the GREAT ZERO”; in which the realm of a digitalised platform commits annihilation of the representational and actual living experience of what that represents – and also what it replaces in the nourishment of DOOM.

Whereas this immortality appears to have reconciliation with success, [the player and Doomguy] it only solidifies its separation. The player thus has withdrawn from the game – the player is in a state of despair, the crisis in the authority of meaning sinks as the strobe of videodrome metamorphosis heal over the eye a gold shield - the god particle. This does not reconcile the player with the real world, rather, further alienates.

This is the death of GODMODE - in which the logic of GODMODE becomes contingent – and places the body in further crisis. And must result in its opposition;


(The death of GODMODE first reached Mars – like a supernova. The death of GODMODE has already happened. [It] will just take a while to reach Hell on Earth.)

There are waves of violence occurring in the parallel of the game and its player. The logic within the game – its consistent, repetitive and static flow in which will never change nor develop. Within Doom is true finitude – outside of Doom, the player and its surrounding – is infinite. This is the new method of philosophy – the meditation within the game, the shudder of pain felt within the replicated theatre of agony. Pain is not felt, but pain is reacted to appropriately. Thy flesh consumed within the new real – the image of Doom is reality and exposes us to a pain beyond empiricism.

We can see in - but Doomguy cannot see out.

Europe Open the Demon Portal