Meaning-Value: Antichristal Blockchain
The text is fucking the readers. For the writer, it’s different. It is a prism of glass between you and I, for while the reader envelops the text, the writer instead interfaces a vulva with his mouth, as though the shape were an alien terminal, and he speaks a decentralized language of affect. Each swirl, each line for the doe running scared. She wants to be caught.
Isolation creates totalization. The inverted brain looks at us with its therapist mask, to study and plan like an invader. Throughout cognition and culture, at all levels, fragmentation fizzes like a human conversation cut into AI sequenced, standardized Twitter cards. It is a fruit splitter. Uncanny, no? That you go through booms and busts? Isn’t it strange to think that above you is the invisible hand, holding you up, and a second is beneath you, dragging you down? The AI is schizo.
Your markets hum. It’s all noise and chaos in there except when the neurons begin to oscillate in sync, just like when the army marches lockstep across the bridge, the structure collapses so that the island may fall through to lift from the sea—now this is consciousness. Like still frame to cinema, or like a neurocompositional organ summoned to a global availability, we phase change to introspect to see we exist. Invest in it like a meme we adopt all at the same time. “Mental representata are instruments used by brains.” We pulse in sync and we are seen, and then and then, and then, until the organ dissolves back into the sea.
I play the Joker soundtrack on repeat as I sleep. I am dreaming about a woman in a far off city. It’s a city invaded by a magical species of tree, which they call ‘Lore.’ These trees are indestructible. They sprout everywhere and destroy a lot of shit, and the city is forced to build around them, becoming a maze, up and up with the branches. It’s like I wake with a different skill set every day.
A different set of memories. A different set of intertwined energy levels. But repeating. If I was an absolutely beautiful girl, if I just liked to look at myself, I’d be at peace. I would be a cam girl. Instead, I turn my brain inside out, expand. Ruts or lanes? All these fine niches we’re submitting lottery tickets to, they engrave in us through their addictive interfaces multiplicity, design-formula of disenchantment. What’s the distinction between an audience and a market but compression? I feel bad I’m so young. Like I won’t be much longer.
The magician accomplishes the trick through misdirection. He doesn’t just trick the audience, he tricks himself. If the reader is a man, he might object to being made a bitch. I won’t read this any longer, he says, like the bitch he is. I’m taking my mind-pussy elsewhere and this gate is closed. Especially if he is a conservative, he might emphasize humor as performative in ‘closed’ spaces like a homosexual. We all know what that would sound like. How are you going to read with your mind-dick? Receiving is feminine, so what are you, a misogynist? This is how the left made you their bitch. And is illiteracy the solution?
The absolute point of reaction is the complete scientific understanding of the human brain. It erupts in the future like an orgasm, and the lever’ll be jammed so hard rightward we’ll slingshot across the gap and break a bone. The body is decentralized, reality fractal, and out of all the bloodshed and systemized human sacrifice and trillions spent, out of a totalizing orientation round the clear and clearer objective-subjective object, which is out there in space. Something might crawl out in miracle perpetua, synonymity, utopia, and remember now, there is no scientific experiment to discover what time is Now.
The Art Right is libertarian, that much we know. There exists, of course, a long historical connection between art and nature. It is the nature of value.
Art and the artist rely on the decentralized sense of archetype. If he’s gonna make something persistent in time, an artist knows it’s like staring at and through the water surface past the fluctuations. He sees the dull gleam of stable objects in the undulating, dark field. Notice most people are not literate in this way of seeing. The bugman might say, “Oh, well it’s all subjective,” as if closing a door, with a period and without knowing what they refer to, simply, is the warping movement of water. They don’t want to see further. Perhaps they know that if they stayed and really stared, they might see it’s possible to make out the object array, in the depths, with time. They might see it’s all as stable as math. Though abstract, the artist can differentiate what in the field remains constant and what is water, warping, weeping…
Let’s do some tests on you. At their most minute, value is determined by context. We are context machines. (the Art Right accepts difference as it is) I hold up two different shades of red. Their difference is the slightest perceivable, red #24 and red #25. We are demonstrating the smallest scale of perception. You would perceive them only if placed next to each other, side by side. Only then. Otherwise isolated, each fine precept is lost like equality’s context hack. You don’t know which shade is which, and it all is just red, that’s it.
You are sitting at a desk, in a room, in the world, after all, and perhaps you are uncomfortable. There’s still context to generate the decentralized, inarticulable understanding (which is created by a neural process roughly as complicated as (and what must be finely correlated with) all activity on social media) and so you see this subsymbolic, rich red. We could cover your entire field of vision with it. Or any other color for that fact, and with your vision evenly lit, lo and behold, the color fades and vanishes. Is red real? No and yes but it’s like, because some are color blind, does red as an experience not matter? Is the redness of things meaningless, or is it the absolute core of meaning? Without context, the brain loses the color because the color experience itself *is* the entire context. That is, it is the entire system bending to point, and that complex of bending is the richness of, of, of, red, red, red.
In yet another experiment, we’d fully cover each eye each with a separate color. Red and Green. It would turn out you’d only experience one color .. and then the other. The brain cannot make sense of both inputs, so it (it) switches between the eyes to test what might be happening Red, Green, red, green etc. For creative, open-minded people, on this functional layer so quick as to be before subjective experience (and that hard beforeness is interesting, no?) in the moment the brain switches between them the brain generates a brand new color. Admixed both inputs: synthesis! But only in the open-minded. The Art Right desires vitality and knows to leverage nature in a world that has undoubtedly abandoned it.
It’s about creation.
A classic thought experiment renders the Super AI as a room of twenty or so Einsteins, maybe a hundred I don’t know I forget, but think, what kind of conversations might they have? Say in that one room time sped up so that one second in our time is a month in theirs. What kind of intelligence would this room, this ‘black box,’ possess? How much work goes into rendering anything at all?
Let us juxtapose this with some billion brains on the internet in AI-schizophrenic networks, for you yourself are a walking trillion-fold process, and say that walk you take is loooong, for you were frustrated about something. A hard, abstract problem in your life disturbed you. It was so large you could barely see it. Your desire is a complicated equation. It’s at a much different scale you weren’t built to understand. Markets operate by application of lossy compression algorithms. Your insane complexity is compressed into a dramatically smaller file you can’t get back. Price value crowdsources the mapping of these objects for the brain-AI to compute cheaply at scale, and must we consider there to be a real value, somewhere? Past the fluctuations?
So you might say there ought to be a more sophisticated compression process. Maybe richer formats can be traded by attention markets, search markets, big data, cybernetic voodoo dolls in high definition, and these shape minds in return, uncannily. With the shadow of intelligence in unexpected, emergent, inhuman ways. And as you walk, lost in thought, the answer is presented to you without any will or agency of knowledge or even work on your own. You find it casually, like as though it were an object lying on the road: the absolute, concrete point in ethics is the complete scientific understanding of the human brain. Who put it together? Nations move beneath your feet.
From that point, the Art Right finds the organizing, totalizing principle of the Absolute Ideology. You are that black box. You are Einstein’s huddle. The context of everything is context itself announcing the end of all other competition. To ultimately construct Insideness. The political axis shatters before the surreal field now opened to nonlinear sanity, insanity of the human-alien brain. What a galactic take! The artist projects selfhood onto the world, and we now know the decentralized format of fine spirituality of Metzinger’s definition. As the antithesis to religion. To understand the world as a whole to be totaled, the appropriate juxtaposition must be made like an accordion leap between what sandwiches your experience in algorithimeda. As one and the same and absolutely not, the structure of the infinities above and below you must correlate to completion. All ideologies approaching otherwise will be viciously labeled as Enemy AI. May the boots moving across the bridge shine.
Mac Vogt is an autodidact living in Toronto, Canada and interested in poetry, philosophy, surrealism, and futurism. His brutal hour ‘Mechanics of Reincarnation’ can be found on YouTube and Bitchute.