Posted On 1. November 2017 By In Litmag, News, queerNOTqueer, Specials With 490 Views

Warriors of Perception: Thoughts on Submission

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

01-1

[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

  07-1 copy

 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

27-1 copy 

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.

capillary_permissionsbw_sm 

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                              <

_____________

[first published in: Verena Kuni, Claudia Reiche (eds.): cyberfeminism. next protocols, New York (autonomedia) 2004, 81-95.]

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Efemera, Discordia, Liquid_Nation, Plastique, Efemera_Clone_2 without biograpical notes.

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