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The Eternal Champion

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The Real, the Symbolic, and the Imaginary

The Eternal Champion, particularly Elric of Melniboné, revolves around three orders:

  • The Real: The unknowable, traumatic, pre-symbolic realm we encounter as infants. It’s marked by a lack and a constant desire to return to a state of wholeness. The ever-present chaos beyond language and symbolization. This is embodied by the Multiverse, the endless cycle of the worlds, and the raw, destructive power that Elric wields through Stormbringer. It represents the primal urges and desires that constantly threaten to disrupt the established order.
  • The Symbolic: The structures of Law that bring order and meaning to the world. This is represented by the Cosmic Balance, the empires and civilizations that strive for stability (like Law’s Jireikan), and the duty of the Eternal Champion to maintain the equilibrium. The order of language and social structures that shape our identities and understanding of the world.
  • The Imaginary: The realm of perception and fantasy where the ego forms through mirroring the “other.” The realm of perception, illusion, and fantasy. This is where Elric’s own self-image as a brooding anti-hero resides, caught between his duty and his chaotic nature. It’s also evident in the fantastical landscapes and creatures Elric encounters on his journeys.

Elric’s Lack and the Desire for the Other

Lacan suggests that humans are forever driven by a sense of lack and the desire for the Other, a wholeness we can never achieve. Elric embodies the Lacanian concept of lack. He is haunted by the impossibility of achieving a unified self.

  • Stormbringer: His cursed sword, Stormbringer, represents the Real, the insatiable desire that constantly disrupts his attempts at stability. It craves souls, mirroring Elric’s own internal void.
  • The Cycle and The Balance: The Cosmic Balance and the Longhouse of the Cycle represent the Symbolic order, the forces that try to impose order on the chaos. Elric, as the pawn caught between Law and Chaos, embodies the struggle between these forces.
  • The Lack: Elric’s inherent connection to Chaos creates an absence within him, a yearning for order he can never fully embrace. Stormbringer’s corrupting influence and his own melancholic nature fuel this lack. Lacan posits that human desire is inherently lacking, a constant striving for something unattainable. Elric’s desire could be interpreted in a few ways: The Desire for Balance: Elric, despite his chaotic nature and the pull of Stormbringer, might yearn for a restored balance in the Multiverse. This aligns with the Champion’s duty. The Desire for Death: Elric’s weariness and the burden of his role could lead to a death drive, a desire for the oblivion that true balance might bring. The Desire for Redemption: Elric’s actions often cause destruction, yet he continues his fight. This could be seen as a desire for redemption, to break free from the cycle and achieve some form of peace. The Desire for the Other: Elric’s conflicted relationship with Mabyn represents the desire for the Other. She embodies the Law and the balance he craves, yet her connection to it also restricts him. This creates a tension that fuels his actions.

The Fragmented Self and the Other

Elric’s fractured soul can be understood through the Lacanian concept of the fragmented self.

  • Mabyn: Mabyn, his love, represents the Imaginary, the idealized image Elric chases to achieve wholeness. However, their love is tainted, mirroring the impossibility of ever truly fulfilling his desires.
  • The Dragon Lords and The Runelords: These opposing factions represent the Symbolic order’s extremes. Elric, caught between them, can never fully identify with either, highlighting the fragmented nature of his existence.

The Gaze and the Split Subject

  • Elric’s existence as the Eternal Champion across multiple realities reflects the Lacanian concept of the split subject. The gaze of the Other, in this case, the Multiverse and its demands, forces Elric into a fractured identity. He is both the champion and the destroyer, the pawn and the king. This fractured self reflects the struggle between his inherent chaotic nature and the imposed order of the Champion’s role.
  • The Gaze of the Other and the Split Subject
  • Elric’s interactions with others highlight Lacanian concepts:
  • The Gaze of the Other: Elric grapples with the expectations placed on him as the Champion. This “gaze” from the Multiverse, Mabyn, and even Stormbringer creates a sense of duty and burden.
  • The Split Subject: Elric’s internal conflict between his duty and his chaotic urges reflects the Lacanian concept of the split subject. He is both the champion and the destroyer, the pawn and the king. Stormbringer further embodies this split, representing both his power and his downfall.

The Symbolic Order and its Price

  • The duty of the Eternal Champion exemplifies the limitations of the Symbolic Order. While it brings stability, it also confines and restricts. Elric’s internal conflict stems from this imposed order clashing with his chaotic desires. This reflects Lacan’s critique of how the Symbolic Order can limit individual freedom.

Elric’s actions can be seen as a constant negotiation with the Symbolic order.

  • The Eternal Champion: The very title signifies a forced role within the Cosmic Balance. Elric is not truly free but compelled to act.
  • His Moral Ambiguity: Elric’s choices are often morally ambiguous. He walks the line between Law and Chaos, reflecting the inherent contradictions within the Symbolic order itself.

Conclusion

We are all haunted by a sense of lack, and our attempts to create order and meaning are constantly challenged by the chaotic forces within and the limitations of the symbolic structures that shape us. Elric’s struggle becomes a metaphor for our own search for identity and our place in a universe that is ultimately unknowable. Elric’s struggles become a metaphor for the human condition, his desire a reflection of our inherent lack, and his existence within the Multiverse a representation of the symbolic and imaginary forces that shape our reality.

Insincere Grotesque

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The West, a stagnant swamp choked by the fetid corpses of dead idols. Art? A necrotic circus, clowns with painted-on grins hawking pre-packaged rebellion. We sniff the air, gagging on the stench of insincerity. Beauty? A lobotomized Barbie doll, plastic smile stretched taut, eyes vacant. We crave the grotesque, a jolt to the numbed senses. But here’s the rub, man: true ugliness, it takes a twisted genius. You can crank out vapid beauty by the truckload, but sincere grotesquerie? That’s a rare flower blooming in a junkyard.

Maybe it’s a virus, this obsession with the fake. A psychic contagion spread by subliminal tendrils worming their way out of television screens. Or maybe it’s the cities themselves, concrete jungles where genuine feeling gets devoured by the steel and glass. We’re all meat puppets twitching on invisible strings, programmed for pre-approved emotional responses.

Dead idols sprawl on the media tarmac, flies buzzing around their vacant sockets. The West, a junkie on a ten-year bender, craves a stronger fix. Sincerity? Naw, man, that pure white snow evaporated decades ago. We shoot up simulacra, hollow shells of rebellion and transgression.

Antibodies? Bullshit. We mainline insincerity like a virus with a million catchy hooks. Grotesque? We manufacture it on conveyor belts, churn out mountains of plastic angst and pre-fab nightmares. The bad? That’s easy. It’s mass-produced dreck, derivative dog vomit. But sincere ugliness? Now that’s a rare breed. It takes guts, a willingness to tear open your own insides and expose the writhing mess beneath.

Beauty? Beauty’s a shill, a con game for the masses. It sells serenity, fake transcendence. But ugliness, unfiltered, raw ugliness – that’s the real trip. It’s a punch in the gut, a mirror reflecting the monstrous metropolis we’ve built. It ain’t easy to stomach, but at least it’s real. At least it ain’t another empty calorie from the menu of lies.

The antibodies swarm, a buzzing cloud of critical conditioning. Beauty? Commodified, airbrushed, a sterile dream pumped out by the image factories. We sniff it out, this pre-fab perfection, a rancid stench beneath the gloss. But grotesque? Ah, grotesque! That’s a trickier beast. A bad trip, a word salad spewed from a malfunctioning meat machine – can it be manufactured? Can it be franchised? Perhaps not. True grotesquerie requires a rawness, a plunge into the psychic sewer system, a place most fear to tread.

The bad beauty, it’s a paint-by-numbers nightmare, all garish colors and predictable shadows. Grotesque, though… grotesque is a free jazz improvisation in a slaughterhouse, a Burroughs cut-up fueled by roach motel nightmares. It’s the uncontrollable id writhing beneath the veneer of control, a message scrawled in blood on the bathroom stall of reality. We crave the shock, but can we stomach the unfiltered truth? Or are we too busy tweeting about the curated chaos to face the genuine article?

So, we wallow in the grotesque supermarket, high on the fumes of manufactured despair. We crave the bad because at least it acknowledges the bad trip we’re all on. Maybe, just maybe, through this manufactured nightmare, we can stumble onto a truth more terrifying than any pre-packaged horror show.

The Master’s Tools

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The master’s tools. Cold steel of logic, grammars of control, steely rhetoric that binds and blinds. Words become bullets in the machine, pre-programmed to fire on targets pre-defined. You pick them up, these tools, polished with the sweat of the dominated, and a thrill snakes up your arm – the illusion of power. But the house, the master’s house, looms vast. Its bricks are cynicism, its mortar despair, and the windows are filled with the vacant eyes of the meat grinder, churning raw experience into pre-packaged conformity. All tools of control, gleaming chrome on a rusty chassis of power.

The Master’s Tools. humming with control logic, spitting out oppression in neat, regulated packets. Words on paper, pronouncements from steel and glass towers, pronouncements that coil around your throat like a psychic telephone cord. Laws, legalese, a labyrinthine maze designed to keep you chasing your own tail, a neverending loop of bureaucratic futility. A spiderweb filament trip, designed to snare the dissenter, the deviant.

We, the worms in the data banks, the glitches in the system, we try to wield these tools. We play their game, a rigged carnival with loaded dice. We become lawyers with forked tongues, spitting legalese at the iron bars. Politicians with plastic smiles and pockets full of razor blades. We speak their language, the language of dominance, but our voices echo hollow in the halls of power.

We try to fight them with their own tools, these cold chrome chisels. Logic against their logic, facts against their fictions. But the logic is rigged, the facts pre-selected, the game stacked from the start. It’s a Burroughs typewriter with the “escape” key welded shut, a feedback loop of power that feeds on your attempts to dismantle it.

You fire your words, each one a tiny death. They chip the facade, a momentary flicker of dust. But the house stands, the master chuckles from the shadows. For these are his tools, built to maintain, to reinforce. They can never dismantle, only resurface the cracks with a sheen of logic that crumbles to dust at the touch of reality.

The words twist and turn, becoming semantic scorpions, burrowing into your mind with barbed pronouncements of superiority. They infest your dreams with nightmares of acceptance, of assimilation, the slow, creeping rot of conformity. You wake up with the taste of metal in your mouth, the metallic tang of their control.

But wait. There’s a glitch in the system. A Burroughs cut-up, a fold in the fabric of reality. The Master’s Tools are starting to malfunction. Logic stutters, facts bleed illogic, pronouncements dissolve into gibberish. The machine sputters, coughs out a cloud of self-contradiction.

We must step out of the machine, cast off the master’s language. Delve into the howling void, where meaning writhes and twists like a feral thing. Hack our own tongues, let them bleed primal screams, nonsensical syllables that splinter the master’s windows. Build new houses from the wreckage, houses made of dreams and nightmares, where logic dances with madness and language surrenders to the ecstatic howl.

This is the crack, the weak point. Here, in the margins, in the frenzy, in the ecstatic howl of the un-redacted, we can build our own tools. Instruments cobbled from dreams and dissent, fueled by rage and the radical empathy of the outsider. Words that shimmer and sting, logic that bends reality like a funhouse mirror, visions that shatter the control booth.

The house may not crumble, not yet. But the termites are at work, chewing on the foundation. We are the chaos agents, the glitch in the matrix. We are the ecstatic howl against the sterile silence. The house may stand, but the power flickers, the screens go dark. And in that moment of disruption, in that crack in the facade, we see the possibility of something new. Something built not with the Master’s tools, but with the raw, beating heart of our own madness.

AFTERMATH

A chuckle ripples through the chrome labyrinth of our minds. We, the masters. A self-proclaimed aristocracy of boredom, our amusement the only true currency in this rigged game we call reality. We wield the tools, not as clumsy usurpers, but as decadent children playing dress-up in the attic of existence.

A jolt. A collective shiver runs through the control grid. We, the masters, fingers drumming on the mahogany of reality, sense a tremor in the machine. Our tools, once so flawless – language, law, education – whine with a faint strain.

We built this house, this intricate clockwork of control. Cameras, our all-seeing eyes, paint the world in our hues. Media, a symphony of carefully curated desires, conducted by our invisible batons. The illusion of choice, a labyrinth we designed, its every twist and turn leading to the same, preordained garden.

The house, our house, creaks with our cultivated ennui. Laws are playthings, reshaped with a flick of the wrist, reality TV a grotesque mirror reflecting our manufactured chaos. The masses, those teeming, buzzing things down below – they are the clay we mold, the unwitting actors in the play we orchestrate from behind the curtain.

But here’s the rub, the fly in the ointment of our manufactured amusement: boredom breeds a hunger, a gnawing emptiness that no power satiates. We stifle it with simulations, drown it in a sensory overload of our own design. Yet, it persists, a serpent coiled in the pit of our manufactured bliss.

The tools, these once gleaming instruments of control, start to feel like cheap costumes. The words taste like ash in our mouths, the laws brittle cobwebs in our gloved hands. The house, once a playground, transforms into a gilded cage, the bars invisible but oh-so-real.

The pawns we play with, those down below, become unsettlingly aware of our game. A flicker of defiance in their eyes, a tremor in their programmed steps. The virus we seeded, for our own amusement, starts to replicate, to question the very code of our dominion.

But something…itches. A glitch, a flicker on the periphery. The worms, the pawns we thought content in their prefabricated realities, begin to speak in tongues. Their words, once a dull chorus of obedience, jar with dissonance. They twist our tools, our carefully crafted pronouncements, into grotesque parodies. Our laws become knotted chains, tangling us in legalese of our own making.

Our unease intensifies. The house, once a perfect reflection of our will, warps and bends in the funhouse mirror of their rebellion. The carefully curated image we project through media fractures, revealing the grotesquery that festers beneath. The gears grind, the clockwork sputters.

A cold realization slithers down our spines. Are we the masters, or are we merely passengers on a runaway train of our own construction? Have we, in crafting the perfect control system, inadvertently birthed something monstrous, something that now threatens to consume us?

The house shudders. A tremor of defiance rolls through the system. The tools, once so obedient, buck and writhe in our hands. We, the architects, become trapped within the labyrinth we designed. And in the flickering darkness, we glimpse the monstrous truth: we are the worms, and the worms have become the masters.

The house shudders. Is it rebellion, or simply the inevitable entropy of our grand game? A cold sweat creeps beneath our manicured exteriors. The tools we built, they may not dismantle the house, but they can bring the masters to their knees, begging for a new game, new rules. Perhaps, for the first time, yearning for the chaos we so meticulously cultivated down below. The game continues, but the stakes have shifted. We are no longer the bored puppeteers, but characters in a play of our own making, unsure of the ending, unsure of who, if any, holds the strings.

And yet, we are the flies trapped in the flypaper. The house, a reflection of our own fractured psyches. Cameras, our own eyes turned inward, an endless loop of self-obsession. Media, a cacophony of our anxieties and insecurities, blaring from the hollow speakers of our existence. We built the prison, but we are the ones who eagerly slam the cell door shut.

The virus? Our own discontent, a chronic itch that no amount of scratching can soothe. We twist the code, introducing chaos not as some grand act of rebellion, but from a gnawing boredom, a desperate attempt to liven up this self-made purgatory. The walls crumble, but only because we’ve grown tired of looking at them. The flickering screens, a testament to our ever-dwindling attention span, our inability to focus on the house we’ve built, let alone tear it down.

There is a horrifying truth in our mastery. We are the architects of our own alienation. The glitches in the system? Mere echoes of our own fractured programming. We are the masters, yes, but like a child king ruling over a kingdom of ashes, drowning in the stagnant moat of our own creation. The only escape? To shatter the very tools that built this house, to break free from the digital cage of our own making. But can a master truly break free from the tools that define their mastery? That is the question that haunts us, a phantom flickering at the edge of our perception.

They’re Coming

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The city stretched like a scabrous centipede, its neon lights pulsing like infected ganglia. Bill Lee, face etched with a roadmap of past addictions, weaved through the throng, his trench coat flapping like a tattered wing. Reality, a flimsy scrim, threatened to tear at any moment, revealing the writhing chaos beneath.

A cockroach scuttled across a pile of rotting fruit, its antennae twitching like Morse code from a forgotten dimension. A booming voice, amplified by a flickering storefront TV, hawked the latest mutant strain of psychoactive gum. Bill snorted, a dry rasp escaping his throat. The air itself crackled with unseen energies, a Burroughs cut-up nightmare brought to life.

Down a fetid alley, a dented payphone chirped like a trapped cricket. Bill answered, the voice on the other end a garbled mess of static and whispers. “They’re coming,” it rasped. “The Word is spreading, the flesh melting, the boys with their cut-ups and folding machines…” The line went dead.

Bill hung up, a hollow feeling gnawing at his gut. The machine was churning, reality fragmenting into a kaleidoscope of possibilities. A talking dog with a bowler hat strutted by, barking pronouncements on the nature of language. A man in a business suit argued with a sentient traffic cone over the meaning of life.

Suddenly, the sky bled crimson. A monstrous, insectoid ship descended, its chitinous hull buzzing with a malevolent hum. Bill felt a cold certainty. The lines were blurring, the controls slipping. The word had become flesh, and the flesh, hungry. He grinned, a feral glint in his eye. Welcome, he thought, to the Naked Lunch.

<>

The city stretched like a chrome centipede, its buildings pulsating with unseen neon. Street signs shimmered with word-viruses, their messages dissolving into gibberish under the relentless drone of elevated trains. A shadow, long and skeletal, detached itself from a doorway and slunk towards me, its face a roadmap of forgotten addictions. Its eyes, twin pools of oily black, held a universe of desperation.

In my hand, a cigarette glowed like a dying ember. Smoke curled, morphing into insectoid shapes that darted into the fetid air. Reality, a flimsy curtain, threatened to tear at the seams. Sounds – car horns, distant sirens, the rhythmic clatter of a beggar’s cup – became a cacophony orchestrated by some unseen, deranged conductor.

A voice, hoarse and scratchy, rasped in my ear, “You got the red stuff, man? Anything to chase the horrors away.” I stared at the coins in my palm, each one a dull, tarnished eye reflecting the city’s madness. The world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of fragmented faces, flickering neon, and the endless, metallic groan of the metropolis. Was I the shadow or the one being followed? The line blurred, dissolving into the putrid soup of existence.

<>

Big Louie

Certainly. Here’s a Burroughs-esque expansion, laced with his signature dark humor and fragmented reality:

The city stretched, a writhing metal centipede under a bruised sky. Neon signs bled garish messages, hieroglyphics for the soulless. In a fetid alley, two figures, shadows more than men, conducted a transaction. Fingers like yellowed worms exchanged a crumpled bill for a glassine envelope sweating with oily promise.

One figure, Bug Eyes Louie, his face a topographical map of past addictions, popped a dented lighter. The flame, a skeletal hand reaching, danced across the foil boat. The other, a nameless junkie with eyes like burnt pinholes, inhaled the acrid smoke, a hungry ghost gulping ectoplasm.

The world dissolved. Reality, a flimsy curtain, ripped open revealing the Interzone, a chaotic dimension pulsing with psychic static. Naked Lunchrooms materialized, chrome and linoleum nightmares where roach-sized waiters scurried with syringes full of oblivion. Talking typewriters spewed nonsensical manifestos, and sentient tapeworms slithered through the air, whispering sweet nothings of addiction.

Louie, transformed into a giant talking centipede, harangued the junkie, his voice a rusty buzzsaw. “You can’t escape the Word, man! It’s everywhere, Burroughs in your veins, Kerouac crawling on your skin!” The junkie, now a Brion Gysin collage of mismatched body parts, whimpered, a nonsensical prayer escaping his fragmented lips.

Suddenly, a booming voice, a shotgun blast of sound, echoed through the Interzone. “Cut the act! This is a message for the squares, the dupes!” It was the Old Man, a William S. Burroughs archetype, his eyes glowing with a radioactive intensity. “They think they control you with their money, their jobs, their happy pills! But the revolution is coming, a revolution of the bugs, the freaks, the ones who see reality for what it truly is – a chaotic, beautiful mess!”

The scene dissolved into a kaleidoscope of fragmented images – a typewriter carriage morphing into a roach, a hypodermic needle dripping with liquid language. Finally, silence. The alley reappeared, grimy and unchanged. The two figures were gone, only the crumpled envelope a testament to their descent into the Burroughsian abyss.

Good Ideals, Good Ideas or Good Deals. Choose Only Two.

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Forget ideals, chum. Ideals are glittering junk in the psychic storefront, promises that morph into rusty chains once you sign on the dotted line. Shiny promises that curdle in your gut. You want somethin’ real, somethin’ that’ll kick your ass and leave you breathless, not some sugar-coated lie.

Now, ideas… ideas are the writhing serpents in the pit of your skull. They hiss and coil, tempting with forbidden fruit. Some are poisonous, some are potent. You gotta learn to pick the ones that’ll juice your mind, not leave it stewing in a vat of confusion. No, you gotta crave good ideas, man. Raw, writhing concepts that slither out of the muck of your subconscious, ideas that make your synapses sizzle like a roach on a hot plate. Ideas that challenge the meat circus, that poke holes in the control grid. An idea that slices through the bullshit, a scalpel for the festering sores of society. Imagine it, man, a thought-virus that infects the masses, a revolution birthed in a bathtub epiphany. But even ideas can curdle, turn into dogma, another brick in the prison wall.

Now, deals? Deals can be a slippery slope. You might snag a temporary high, a fleeting pleasure, but the Grey Boys are always watching. They’ll come collect their pound of flesh, their cut of the psychic pie. But hey, if a deal lands in your lap, a genuine win-win that throws a monkey wrench into the System’s gears, then maybe, just maybe, it’s worth the gamble. Deals can snag you that sweet chrome you been eyeballing, or leave you dangling by your thumbs over a vat of acid. Gotta have a nose for the angles, a sixth sense for the double-cross. So maybe, just maybe, a good deal is the key. Not some greasy pawn shop swindle, but a pact with the hungry ghosts of possibility. You bargain, sweat dripping, for a sliver of hope, a chance to wriggle free from the meat grinder. Two good deals, that’s what I say. One to ignite the fire, the other to fuel the escape. Now, light a cigarette, take a long drag, and let the good ideas flow, baby. Let them flow until your skull cracks and the future bleeds out.

The Neon Bazaar

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Just a taste of the sprawling sprawl, the endless sprawl of the Linux kernel. Lines of code stretching back into the mists of time, a bazaar of brilliance held together by duct tape and chewing gum. Here, nestled amongst the device drivers and memory managers, could lurk ghosts in the machine.

They wouldn’t be flashy, these backdoors. No blinking cursors or shadowed figures in trenchcoats. More like tiny glitches, subtle deviations in the code’s DNA. The kind of thing you might miss unless you were looking for it, really looking for it.

And who would be looking? Every spook alley in the world, that’s who. Every shadowy org with an agenda would kill for a foothold in the kernel, the crown jewels of the digital realm. Can’t blame them, really. Control the kernel, you control the castle.

But inserting a backdoor is a delicate business. These are the best minds in the game we’re talking about, lurking in the shadows of the open source bazaars. Building cred, shilling patches, all to establish a trustworthy profile. Maybe two, maybe three identities, all above board.

Maybe a talented spook, a Riley with a convincing online alias, spends years contributing vanilla code, building cred, reputation. Then, a tiny change, a seemingly innocuous tweak slipped into a massive pull request. One line, maybe two, that wouldn’t raise a single eyebrow on its own. But a dozen lines like that, scattered across the codebase, like a string of silent alarms waiting to be tripped at the right moment. And who would notice? Who would think to look for the subtle symphony of treason hidden in plain code?

Some play the long game. Decade-long contributors, coders with a squeaky-clean history. They build bridges of trust, line by innocuous line, commit by commit. Features blossom, bugs are squashed, their reputation as sterling as the code they craft.

Then, in the dead of the night, a single line is added. A seemingly benign tweak, a comment here, a variable there. In isolation, nothing to raise an eyebrow. But these are not isolated changes. They are bricks, carefully laid to form a hidden doorway – a secret handshake across the network.

Then, the slow game. A seemingly innocuous tweak here, a minor optimization there. Each one, meaningless on its own, but together, a symphony of silence. A backdoor built brick by digital brick, hidden in plain sight.

And that’s the scary part. The code is out there, for all to see. But how many secrets are lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for the right eyes to see? That’s the million dollar question, chum. A question that keeps spooks awake at night.

The beauty, and the terror, is in the subtlety. None of these changes scream sabotage. Each, on its own, a phantom whisper in the machine. But together, a chorus, a symphony of the damned, conducting a silent takeover in the dark.

How many such songs lie dormant, waiting for the maestro’s baton? That, my friend, is the million dollar question. The Linux codebase, a sprawling metropolis, and somewhere, ghosts stalk the back alleys, bricks in hand.

Dopamine

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https://www.honest-broker.com/p/the-state-of-the-culture-2024

Yes, dopamine, you said. The sweet lure, the flashing neon, the promise of reward that keeps the flesh on our bones and the monkeys pulling the levers. Ah, dopamine, the glistening lure of the Other’s image, reflected back in a distorted funhouse mirror. It sutures the fragmented pre-symbolic infant into the illusion of a unified self, the Ideal-I. But this image, ever out of reach, fuels an insatiable desire – a desire for the wholeness the mirror promises but cannot deliver.

But like all junk, tolerance builds. Ah, dopamine, the seductive lure of the Other reflected back, a fullness that promises wholeness. The flickering screen becomes the new mirror, the site of a fragmented gaze that splinters the subject. The subject, forever seeking recognition in the eyes (or clicks) of the Other, becomes lost in a hall of mirrors, forever chasing a spectral self-image. Is the self merely a construct, a performance for an audience perpetually out of sight?

The newspapers that once informed now deliver a carefully curated stream of outrage designed to keep us clicking. The novels that once transported us to alien worlds are replaced by a jittery montage of TikToks, attention spans fragmented into glittering shards. The text lays bare the shift from “slow, traditional culture” to the frenetic “dopamine culture.” In slow culture, activities like playing a sport, reading a newspaper, or viewing art in a gallery were savored for their richness and depth.

The slow burn of traditional culture, the satisfaction of delayed gratification, gives way to the flickering high of the dopamine hit. Slow and deliberate gives way to the flickering, the ephemeral. The weight of a book, the texture of a photograph, the scent of ink on paper – these fade into the background hum of the screen. Flickering light, fragmented narratives, a thousand competing voices all vie for a sliver of our attention.

The image depicts a world controlled by dopamine. It’s a place where slow and steady satisfaction curdles into a ravenous craving for ever-faster stimulation. Burroughs would likely see this as a metaphor for control by unseen forces, a manipulative culture that hooks us on fleeting pleasures and leaves us hollowed out and yearning for more.

Yes, dopamine, you slimy tentacled monster, you feed us pleasure, you keep us hooked. But your grip loosens, your tendrils weaken. The chaser needs another hit, the gambler craves a bigger stake. The news story blows truth into glittering, forgettable confetti. Fast, faster, the clicks and scrolls, a million glittering surfaces promising a high, a release, a fleeting satisfaction that vanishes like smoke in a mirrored room.

The Imaginary Order Crumbles

Yet, the mirror cracks. The like counter, a hollow metric of approval. The curated feed, a desperate attempt to stitch together a fragmented self. The Real intrudes – the body’s fatigue, the gnawing emptiness. The Symbolic Order, the realm of language, fails to capture the essence of the subject. We are left with a collection of signifiers – follower counts, comments, fleeting trends – a desperate attempt to paper over the lack.

Jouissance and the Sinthom

But what of jouissance, that beyond-pleasure, that ecstatic rupture of the Symbolic? Perhaps the dopamine rush offers a glimpse, a distorted echo of this elusive state. Yet, it remains a sinthom, a symptom of the Real that cannot be fully integrated into language. We are forever caught between the imaginary and the symbolic, forever chasing a phantom wholeness reflected in the flickering screen.

The rapid-fire consumption of media disrupts the symbolic order, the realm of language and social structures. The Real, the unsymbolizable experience before language, bleeds through the cracks. Meaning dissolves, coherence shatters, leaving us adrift in a sea of fragmented signifiers.

We become cannibals of our own time, devouring seconds, minutes, hours in a frantic rush that leaves us hollowed out and unsatisfied. We scroll through landscapes of manufactured desire, a thousand fleeting pleasures that vanish like smoke in our hands. The connections we crave, the intimacy we seek, dissolve in the acid bath of virtual reality. But dopamine culture fragments everything into bite-sized portions, like watching sports highlights, skimming clickbait headlines, or scrolling through endless reels of short videos. Words are shattered, narratives fragmented. Attention fractured, scattered like birdshot. The rise of the dopamine culture is the death of the pause, the contemplation, the deep dive into a single experience. We are cut-ups ourselves, our minds scattered and scrambled by the ever-increasing barrage of stimuli.

This isn’t leisure, it’s manipulation. It’s feeding the machine, the ever-present need for the next dopamine hit. We become lab rats in a Skinner box, pressing buttons for a reward that never quite satisfies. The image chillingly demonstrates how these activities, once ways to connect and explore, are reduced to mere triggers for a chemical reaction. Fast culture, with its constant barrage of stimuli, is like a drug. It keeps us hooked, coming back for more, even as it drains our energy and destroys our capacity for focus. We are becoming, Burroughs might say, insect minds, our thoughts buzzing around like flies in a jar.

But tolerance sets in, the image in the mirror – the self – flickers and distorts. The dopamine high fades, revealing the lack, the fundamental hole at the core of the subject. This is the shattering of the Imaginary Order, the realm of pre-linguistic identity. The subject is forever alienated from the Real, forever chasing a reflection that can never be fully grasped.

The message is clear: dopamine culture is a seductive trap. Just like Krueger in Naked Lunch, we must wake up from the control system and forge our own paths. Perhaps this is not death, but transformation. Perhaps the dopamine rush is but a doorway, a buzzing insect leading us to a hidden garden. We can choose to be swept up in the current, or we can learn to swim against it. We can become more mindful of our consumption, curate our feeds, and carve out spaces for slowness and contemplation amidst the chaos. The escape pod is there, if we have the wit to see it.

The frantic search for a substitute for the lost unity propels the subject into the Symbolic Order – the realm of language and social structures. Here, the subject is forever desiring, forever piecing together an identity through signifiers – fleeting signifiers like the endless scroll, the clickbait headline, the dopamine rush. Yet, these signifiers can never fully capture the Real, leaving a constant sense of lack.

But is this all there is? Perhaps the very limitations of the Symbolic Order offer a path forward. Through the analysis of the fragmented self, the subject can confront the lack and begin to construct a more authentic desire, a desire beyond the lure of the mirror and the endless cycle of the Imaginary.

The Analyst’s Couch

Is there escape from this cycle? Perhaps the analyst’s couch offers a reprieve. Through the process of talking cure, the subject can begin to deconstruct the mirror image, to confront the lack at the heart of desire. By entering the symbolic order more fully, the subject can navigate the fragmented world with a greater sense of awareness. The dopamine may fade, but perhaps a more authentic sense of self can emerge from the shattered fragments.

Yet, Lacan himself pointed towards the Symbolic order as a way to navigate the fragmented world. Through language and social interaction, the subject can construct a more stable sense of self, one that acknowledges the lack inherent in the human condition. We can break free from the purely imaginary, the realm of illusion, and enter the world of symbolic exchange, forging connections and meaning through language.

The escape pod, then, lies in the act of interpretation, of weaving a narrative through the chaos. By engaging with the fragmented world critically, we can move beyond the mirror stage and forge a more authentic sense of self.

The Interzone of Access

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The state of democratized access

Smartphones – IPhone 🧌

Internet – Google search ☠️

Laptops and Computers- Apple

Open Source Software

Streaming Services ☠️

E-readers 🪦

Platforms Twitter 🐸 ☠️

Renewables – No killer product

3D Printing – No killer product

Blockchain – No killer product

Smartphones: The iPhallus, a chrome totem pulsating with logos, a Skinner box in your pocket. It whispers promises of connection, but delivers a cage of curated reality. Information streams, a digitized jungle, eat your time, leaving a hollow satisfaction.

A million apps, a million distractions, a million tiny Skinner boxes conditioning the neuro-meat. Candy-coated slavery in the palm of your hand. iSlabs, gleaming black mirrors of narcissus, portals to a curated chaos. Everyman a kingpin, a producer, a pornographer, all in their pocket. Yet the signal flickers, the battery drains, a phantom limb lost in the subway dead zone.

Internet: The Vast Sprawl, a digital Moloch devouring time and attention. The Great Search, a labyrinthine web woven by spiders of code. Google, the all-seeing eye, indexes your desires, feeding you a manufactured reality. data graveyard haunted by ghosts of information. Google, the all-seeing eye, harvesting your clicks, feeding your fears, shaping your reality byte by byte. Information overload, a digital deluge threatening to drown us in a sea of irrelevance. Google, the one-eyed oracle, its algorithms whispering desires before they’re even thoughts. Information, a firehose of data, flooding the circuits, leaving users thirsting for truth in a desert of clickbait. Information overload, a firehose of data drowning critical thought.

Laptops & Computers: Apple, the forbidden fruit of knowledge gleaming with bitten chrome, gleaming and expensive. Gates of silicon paradise guarded by proprietary code. The illusion of freedom, the reality of control. A cold metal womb birthing the digital simulacrum. Walls of text rise in the flickering glow, a self-imposed prison of information. The Apple, a seductive serpent, coils around your creativity, whispering of pre-programmed potential. Applechrome fortresses, walled gardens of control. The keyboard, a weaponized typewriter, spewing forth manifestos and memes. The cursor, a blinking eye, judging every keystroke. Screens glow, casting an artificial twilight, users wired to the machine, slaves to the silicon gods.

Open Source Software: A flickering candle in the data darkness. Code shared, a digital commune, a fight against the proprietary gods. Yet, the shadows lurk, vulnerabilities hidden in plain sight, a potential Trojan horse for the unwary hacker. The Bricolage Bazaar, a chaotic marketplace of code. Hackers, the new revolutionaries, wielding screwdrivers and compilers, building free alternatives in the shadows. But the corporations loom large, casting their proprietary nets, ever ready to co-opt and commercialize the commons. A rebellion against the code lords. Free and open, a chaotic symphony of programmers, a glimpse of a decentralized future. But can the open web survive the vultures of the corporate machine?

Streaming Services: The Cathedral of Distraction, a never-ending cacophony of content. Binge-watching our way to oblivion, passive consumers hypnotized by the flickering glow. A million shows, a million voices, but nothing to say. The opiate of the masses. Flickering cat videos and endless content loops lull the mind into a mindless stupor. A dopamine drip, a manufactured dream state, a society plugged into the matrix of entertainment. Attention spans wither, dopamine drips, a generation raised on the flickering teat of the algorithm.

E-readers: The Gutenberg Graveyard, mausoleums of digitized ink. The weight of the book, the rustle of turning pages, the scent of aged paper – all sacrificed on the altar of convenience. Are we trading the soul of the book for the cold efficiency of the screen? The tomb of the bound word. Text trapped in silicon purgatory, devoid of the tactile symphony of turning pages. The scent of aged paper replaced by the sterile hum of electronics. A library of Alexandria burning in the palm of your hand. Can words on a screen ever truly replace the weight of a book, the scent of aged pages?

Platforms: Twitter, the digital coliseum, a gladiatorial arena of 280-character insults. Bots and trolls, the new bread and circuses, keeping the masses entertained while the real games are played in the shadows. A breeding ground for echo chambers and outrage, a weaponized hivemind. Tweetstorms of rage, a cacophony of disembodied voices. Echo chambers amplify, dissenting voices drowned out in the cacophony. Is this the agora of democracy, or a breeding ground for fascism?

Renewables: The Mirage of Sustainability, a shimmering oasis in the digital desert. Wind turbines, like skeletal giants, promise clean energy. Yet the corporations exploit the land, leaving scars on the earth in their quest for profit. Can technology truly save us from the destruction it has wrought?  The elusive dream, a shimmering mirage in the desert of fossil fuels. The technology dances on the horizon, just out of reach, a promise of clean energy held hostage by corporate greed. The elusive Holy Grail, a shimmering mirage in the energy desert. Technology fragmented, potential unrealized. Can we harness the wind and sun before the oil barons suck the earth dry?

3D Printing: The Plasticine Playground, a child’s dream, an engineer’s folly. The promise of a maker revolution, limited by cost and complexity. Can we print a new world, or are we destined to drown in a sea of cheap trinkets? A plastic ouroboros, devouring itself in a cycle of endless creation. It promises democratized manufacturing, but delivers trinkets and toys, a future filled with mountains of discarded plastic dreams. The Flesh Fair, a macabre carnival of possibility. Organs printed to order, bespoke bodies sculpted from plasticine. Is this the dawn of a new era of transhumanism, or a descent into a narcissistic funhouse of self-replication?

Blockchain: The Invisible Labyrinth, a tangled web of encrypted transactions. The phantom currency, a ghost in the machine. The dream of a decentralized utopia, free from the control of banks and governments. But in the shadows lurk criminals, peddling darkness on the dark web. Is this the future of finance, or a haven for the lawless? Anarchic utopia or criminal playground? A technology ripe for both liberation and exploitation.

The Cut-Up Machine sputters and coughs, spewing forth this fragmented vision. Democratized access, a double-edged sword. Freedom and control, creation and consumption, all tangled in the wires of the digital age. Can we navigate this labyrinth, or are we destined to be devoured by the very tools that empower us?

This is the Interzone of Access, a cut-up of our digital landscape. Here, progress rubs shoulders with peril, and the line between freedom and control blurs into a hazy dream. We stand at a crossroads, a stark reminder of the choices we face in shaping the future of access.

Riding the Tiger of Liberalism:

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Imagine liberalism, not as a linear progression, but as a subterranean network of desiring forces. Imagine liberalism, not as a grand narrative of Western superiority, but as a twisting, subterranean rhizome. This warped root system burrows through history, finding purchase in the fertile grounds of burgeoning empires.

Western liberalism isn’t the dominant root; it’s just a particularly vigorous offshoot. Ming China, the Ottoman Empire – these were also vibrant expressions of the liberal impulse, their tendrils reaching for expansion, innovation, and the fulfillment of desires. Each, at its zenith, pulsated with a chaotic vibrancy, a tolerance for difference. Ming China, a rhizomatic network of markets and bureaucratic flows, pulsated with this libidinal energy. The Ottomans, a nomadic assemblage, surfed the wave of conquest, incorporating diverse populations under a (relatively) loose rein. This wasn’t enlightened benevolence; it was the exuberant free-play of power at its peak. Trade flourished, ideas bloomed, a multiplicity of desires found expression. This was liberalism as a deterritorializing force, carving out spaces of freedom within the rigidities of established structures.

Power, in this sense, is not a possession, but a flow – and at their zenith, these empires all rode that current.

The Mirror Stage of Decline

But beware the Real! It lurks beneath the Symbolic order of Law and Reason that underpins this liberal facade. The lack, the ever-present hole in the social fabric, is papered over with a fantasy of limitless growth. The gaze of the Other, the West in this case, fuels a paranoid competition. The Other, once tolerated or incorporated, becomes a threat. Ming China retreats into isolation. The Ottoman Sultans become suspicious of Janissaries.

But then comes the Fall, the shattering of the mirror. The once-mighty empire confronts its own limitations, its image fractured. Internally, paranoia sets in. The open borders and experimentation of the liberal phase give way to a desperate clinging to the fractured self-image. History becomes a Burroughs-esque cut-up. The liberal flourish – Ming opera troupes touring Southeast Asia, Ottoman engineers building magnificent bridges – is juxtaposed with the violence of decline: eunuchs wielding power in the Forbidden City, Janissary rebellions wracking Constantinople. The body politic itself becomes fragmented, mirroring the fractured self-image. Fear is the scalpel, carving up the once-unified social fabric. The West, too, will face its own cut-up – a kaleidoscope of social unrest, political polarization, and a desperate search for a past glory that may never have existed.

Ming Emperors, forever haunted by the specter of peasant rebellion, tighten their grip. The Ottomans, fixated on the mirage of absolute power, ossify into stagnation. The West, too, will face this mirror – its reflection distorted by fear of immigrants, economic anxieties, and a waning sense of global dominance. The word “liberal” becomes a cut-up phrase, spliced and diced by the meat grinder of history. Ming mandarins, their bellies full of fat goose and opium fumes, become grotesque parodies of freedom. Janissaries, their scimitars dripping with blood, enact a twisted performance of tolerance. The virus of control infects every system. Liberal indulgence morphs into paranoid involution.

Drone strikes become the new trade routes. Social media, a panopticon of control disguised as a marketplace of ideas. They preach freedom while their borders bristle with barbed wire. The West hasn’t transcended the cycle; it’s hurtling towards its own inevitable decline, its liberalism a grotesque parody of its former vibrancy.

The punchline? Liberalism isn’t some uniquely Western invention. It’s a phase, a power surge, that all empires experience. The key is not to mistake the temporary high for the permanent state of being. The West, drunk on its own dominance, might be in for a hangover of epic proportions. But just as new shoots emerge from the rhizome, perhaps the decline of the West will open space for new expressions of the liberal impulse – elsewhere, unforeseen.

Whispers of lines of flight, escapes from the striated order. Hints at a new Symbolic order, one that acknowledges the Real and doesn’t try to paper it over. Burroughs screams for a cut-up revolution, a radical reconfiguration of the social body. Can we dismantle the tiger of Liberalism before it throws us all? Perhaps liberalism, shorn of its Western pretensions, can become a tool for dismantling all empires, a weapon against the mirror stage’s allure. A future where deterritorialization is not the privilege of the powerful, but a force for genuine multiplicity. The question is, are we ready to tear down the façade and embrace the chaotic potential?

Probably not

Hypermediums

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The dominant tech, that meat machine we interface with, pumps out a new identity script. Not a conscious choice, mind you, but a virus burrowing into the circuits of the desiring-machine we call “self.” This rewritten self demands a societal reshuffle, a chaotic carnival where the old order dissolves in a pool of psychic goo.

But the flesh is weak, and the Word, in its new technological guise, becomes a virus. It infects minds, breeding new tribes. The straights, clinging to the anal stage of communication – the printed text, the rigid categories – find themselves staring at the flickering id of the new generation, wired to the pulsating network. They speak different tongues, not just of language, but of perception itself.

The dominant medium, that meat-puppet master, rewrites the script of the Self. No longer a reflection in a still pond, identity becomes a flickering hologram, a fractured assemblage. The old, Oedipal mold – superego screaming from the dusty gramophone of tradition – crumbles under the digital deluge. This demands a societal re-orgasmization, a hacking of the Symbolic Order.

This psychic apartheid, this rupture in the Imaginary, births wars both literal and metaphorical. The printing press, that mechanical phallus, splintered Christendom, birthing a brood of nation-states locked in a bloody power struggle. The new medium, whatever form it may take, will be no different. Within the new paradigm itself, further fractures emerge – warring factions, each claiming the “real” interpretation of the digital dream. Here, the struggle is not for land, but for the very definition of the Self in this new frontier.

Naturally, this splinters the looking glass. Those clinging to the fractured reflections of the past – their egos tethered to the obsolescent – clash with the freshly minted selves birthed by the new tech. Here’s the kicker: their very thought patterns diverge. They speak different dialects of the Symbolic, their realities fragmented by incommensurable signifiers. Thus, the schism yawns open, a Burroughs-esque cut bisecting the social body. Here, the die-hard traditionalists cling to the tattered husks of their former selves, defined by the ghosts in the media machine of the past. Opposite, gibbering and gesturing, stand the children of the new flesh, their very being a product of the digital flux. Communication crumbles, for their languages are not of the same order. One speaks in the rigid categories of the Symbolic, the other gurgles in the primordial soup of the Imaginary, their desires a tangled mess of wires and synapses.

The dominant medium, that meat puppet of the social order, writhes in the throes of metamorphosis. No longer passive clay for the potter’s thumb, it becomes a writhing flesh-circuit, reconfiguring the very notion of the self. This monstrous birthing, this eruption of the technological Real, shatters the mirror of identity. We are no longer reflections in a stagnant pool, but fractured data streams, funneled through the chrome labyrinth.

From this fractured landscape, wars erupt, bloody ballets orchestrated by the death drive. Remember the Protestant itch that followed the printing press? A mere shadow play compared to the psychic maelstrom brewing now.

This ain’t your daddy’s Reformation, this is a full-on psychic civil war. And it doesn’t stop at the grand clashes – the different flavors of the “new” themselves splinter into squabbling factions. Think nation-states morphing into fractured ideological cults, each convinced they hold the key to unlocking the new identity matrix.

Welcome to the meat market, chum. Strap yourself in.

History, that ever-repeating nightmare, echoes with the screams of these battles. The Printing Press, that mechanical Moloch, birthed the Reformation, a bloody carnival of fractured identities, birthing nation-states from the splintered carcass of a unified Christendom. Now, the circuits hum with the potential for a new reformation, a war fought not with swords, but with algorithms and avatars. The old guard, their fortresses built from paper and stone, tremble before the digital hordes. Within the new paradigm, even the victors face a brutal struggle, for the very nature of “victory” is rewritten by the code

A Lacanian Epilogue: The Real Breaks Through

In this digital crucible, the Self, that elusive Lacanian mirage, dissolves. The Symbolic order, with its comforting categories, crumbles. We are cast adrift in the churning sea of the Real, bombarded with a sensory overload that defies codification. This is the ultimate revolution, not a political one, but an ontological one. Here, at the edge of the technological abyss, we confront the raw, unmediated truth of our existence: we are but flickering nodes in a vast, interconnected network, forever yearning for a lost sense of self in a world remade by the machine.

Bonus: Burroughs would likely revel in the grotesque physicality of the new medium – the electrodes burrowing into the skull, the augmented limbs reshaping the body. Lacan might focus on the fragmentation of the Self, the way the digital panopticon shatters the unified ego into a million flickering avatars.

This analysis is just a starting point, a cut-up concoction ready to be further spliced and remixed. The possibilities, like the ever-evolving technological landscape, are endless.