Declassified Toxicology Report: The Tenacity of Slime

Those were the days, when we were all at sea. It seems like yesterday to me. Species, sex, race, class; in those days none of this meant anything at all. No parents, no children, just ourselves, strings of inseparable sisters, warm and wet, indistinguishable one from the other, gloriously indiscriminate, promiscuous and fused.

Sadie Plant, Zeros + Ones p. 3

The For-Itself is suddenly compromised. I open my hands, I want to let go of the slimy, and it sticks to me, it draws me, it sucks at me. Its mode of being is neither the reassuring inertia of the solid nor a dynamism like that in water which is exhausted in fleeing from me. It is a soft, yielding action, a moist and feminine sucking…. Slime is the revenge of the in-itself. A sickly-sweet, feminine revenge which will be symbolized on another level by the quality “sugary.” … A sugary-sliminess is the ideal of the slimy; it symbolizes the sugary death of the For-itself (like that of the wasp which sinks into the jam and drowns in it)… But at the same time the slimy is myself, by the very fact that I outline an appropriation of the slimy substance. That sucking of the slimy which I feel on my hands outlines a kind of continuity of the slimy substance in myself. These long, soft strings of substance which fall from me to the slimy body (when, for example, I plunge my hand into it and then pull it out again) symbolize a rolling off of myself in the slime… [Slime] transcends all distincions betwen psychic and physical, between the brute existent and the meanings of the world; it is a possible meaning of being. The first experience which the infant can have with the slimy enriches him psychologically and morally; he will not need to reach adulthood to discover the kind of sticky baseness which we figuratively name “slimy”; it is there near him in the very sliminess of honey or of glue.

Jean-Paul Sartre, Being and Nothingness: An Essay on Phenomenological Ontology, pp. 610-12.

They breed quickly in the dark.

Black ops FBI hit teams are trained to neutralize class-3 anomalies efficiently and purposely. NSA surveillance provides more information than ever to detect anomalies before they can make it into the media (have you ever wondered why cameras are now ubiquitous, but cryptid sightings are rare?), and replacing or re-educating witnesses is no trouble. The whole system works tirelessly to subjugate anomalies of the biological or sociopolitical variety, and most citizens take it for granted that the whole watchful system cannot be defeated. It is too efficient, too powerful, too omniscient. Some even say that we need to overthrow the whole system and scrap everything. We need to pull the emergency breaks, we’ve gone too far, we need to save ourselves before it’s too late. They get put on watch lists, and sometimes they go missing, or have a sudden change of heart.

If only they knew what horrors lie on the outside. But the sane rarely ever look outside.

May, 1973: Dallas, Texas. An outbreak of a strange yellow substance appears seemingly out of nowhere. Minor panic ensues, state agencies are dispatched in a futile attempt to stop what seemed to be a probing alien invasion. History tells us that the community is placated by scientists’ reassurances that it’s nothing more than a slime mold.

Slime molds are in their own right a strange creature. Not quite plant, not quite animal, not quite fungi, but something else. They live a double-life, in most cases as nothing more than single-celled organisms, but in dire situations where food is scarce, they form a collective. A single-minded blob of slime that can hunt with stunning speed. There are no known incidents of slime molds proving to be dangerous to humans, but Dallas was harboring more than a few dark secrets in 1973.

In a small, indiscriminate shed with a dirt floor in Dallas in 1973, the earth is soaked with the blood of young boys. Purveyor of sweets, veteran, well-liked member of the community, serial killer: Dean Corll. From 1970 to 1973, him along with his two accomplices David Owen Brooks and Elmer Wayne Henley Jr. commit a series of 28 killings precipitated by years of prior abuse. These killings would for a time make Corll the most prolific serial killer in America, and still to this day one of the most heinous and depraved. 28 young boys abducted from The Heights – an extremely impoverished community in Dallas – met their end, restrained to a wooden board and raped for days before being strangled to death, while the police force in Dallas seemingly did everything they could to avoid doing their jobs.

But from February 1st to June 4th in 1973 — his last year before Henley finally gunned him down — the killing ceased. Dean Corll’s shed dried up. The earth grew thirsty for nourishment. Only a month later, in the midst of this drought, the slime mold outbreak occurred. When he resumed, the murders would become even more violent and numerous before Henley put him down in August.

Why the lapse in murders? Why did Corll bury so many of his victims in the shed in particular, but not always? Corll after all was known to take trophies (the keys from his victims), and formed relationships with his victims. He would use his status as an adult in a community where kids were seldom supervised by adults to make friends with the local boys and to groom them for sexual abuse and later murder. Yet just before the lapse in murders, the previous two victims had been buried on beaches instead of the shed.

The previous year, in May 1972, a former employee at Corll’s candy factory, Billy Baulch Jr., would suffer the fate of the other boys. Like Jeffrey Dahmer, who was employed at the Ambrosia Chocolate Factory, sweets and homosexual serial killing were in proximity to each other. Dean Corll worked at the Corll Candy Company with his mother, Mary Robinson. Like many serial killers, Corll had a close relationship with his mother. So close that even after his death and the revelations to follow, she maintained his absolute innocence.

The story goes that the Corll Candy Company was started almost on a whim from the advice of a pecan nut salesman, and was by all accounts an ordinary family business put in the hands of a man who would later turn out to be a notorious serial killer. Billy Baulch had a different story. Leaked fragments of a police report from 1968 relates the story of the young boy who had formerly sold Corll’s candy door-to-door.

The report, which was unsurprisingly lost in the overworked bureaucracy of the Dallas police department and poorly written out to begin with, states that the boy was picking up a box of gummy candies from the Corll Candy Factory. The factory was a regular hangout spot for the employees and local boys, so he simply let himself in. While there, however, he stumbled upon a mixing vat with a strange, dusty substance being used to mix the candy. Most would have thought nothing of this, but the mixing itself was irregular, as though something was in the vat.

According to the report, Baulch claims that a girl had fallen into the vat, covered in the blue raspberry candy. She was “just covered in the stuff, like there were nothing else under it.” He immediately climbed up the catwalk and tried to grab her hand to pull her out, but upon reaching in, she “screeched like a cat” and he felt a powerful sucking force trying to pull him into the vat. His arm tingled as though it were melting off, which was written as being due to the mixture being hot despite Baulch’s claims that it was strangely cool. But most disturbing was her siren-like expression. “She weren’t scared. She looked like she wanted me to jump in with her.” But most disturbingly: The tumbling sound that had been coming from the vat was the sound of bones in early stages of gelatinization.

The “investigation”, if one actually happened, claimed to have yielded nothing. It’s common, after all, to use animal bones as a gelling agent. The use of slime mold dust, however, would be strange indeed, and possibly a secret recipe. Either way, Baulch was fired by Corll immediately. Corll threatened to hurt him if he ever mentioned what he saw to anyone, but whether it was a case of bad luck or if Baulch did say something, both him and his brother would end up murder victims.

Flash forward to several years after the Corll Candy Company had shut down in 1968, and presumably whatever remained of the candy stock would have been discarded. There were, however, similar reports to Baulch’s in May 1972 during the slime mold outbreak. Mainly in dark, wet places, thus making the reports rare from the time and, again, handled very poorly by the Dallas PD. One sewer worker claimed to have seen a girl covered in the slime mold, but when he attempted to help her, she kept fleeing into different tunnels, giggling as though it were a game. Eventually, he lost track of her, but claimed to stepped in massive slime mold that had partially eaten through his shoe.

Police reports mention a different department from “out of town” being brought in to handle the outbreak in the sewers, thinking it might have been a toxic waste spill of some sort that could have infected the water supply. Strange however is that the team brought in what the officer who made the report described as small, portable flamethrowers. Poor handling of the outbreak lead to one officer being conscripted temporarily into the team to make up for lack of manpower, but was made to sign a contract of confidentiality. He would later tell his friends on the force one drunken night after a beat that the stuff wasn’t just some normal mold like they’d found on the surface. The sunlight made the slime weaker, but in the darkness, in the wet cold, it took on terrifying forms. Slimy, beautiful sirens that had lured members of the team to their deaths. Only piles of bones were left behind, and all attempts to kill the slime were useless. Every time they tried to shoot or burn it, it would only divide. It had a disturbing tendency to take on the forms of beautiful women, and trying to destroy them had the uncanny effect of creating smaller clones.

Eventually, they were forced to return to the surface, all the while the horrid chittering of the slime that was described as a girlish giggle continued in the distance, as the slime formed back into itself in a quivering, promiscuous mass. The officer would later deny remembering telling the tale, and his cop buddies who were present that night and whose memories weren’t also clouded by alcohol assumed it was nothing more than a weird joke.

The Dean Corll killings resumed in June, and would end shortly afterwards in an intense upsurge of murders in August after his death. No mention was made in the aftermath of Corll’s shed having any slime molds, but the shed itself was essentially a cesspool of mud and decayed flesh in any event. Any slime molds would have been quite well-fed and content to wallow in that shed for years to come. Though what happened to the slime molds that supposedly lived beneath Dallas, or the slime that Corll had possibly used in his candy, is unknown.

One More Foot in the Grave

Many of you reading this will probably already know that my twitter @realNickLand is dead. Unless by some miracle my ban appeal makes it through the Kafkaesque libfash bureaucracy at twitter support, it’s likely gone for good. Banned for a post over a year old that said something about ‘kill all men’. My alt @nyxys_fall is still around, for now at least, but it’s banned for a week.

I was going to make a longer and somewhat heartfelt post about this due to how it’s impacting my already very destitute life, but I can’t scarcely make myself feel comfortable being too real on the internet. I’m old-fashioned that way I guess.

Reflections on Violence: Insurrectionary Anarchism

Of all the anarchist tendencies, none has become anywhere near as synonymous with anarchism in the minds of the rest of the world as insurrectionary anarchism. The recent explosion of anarchism into the mainstream through Antifa only further solidifies this image of the masked, black-clad molotov-slinging anarchist. And while this is certainly preferable to anarchists LARPing as Catalan CNT-FAI syndicalists, anyone with an interest or investment in anarchism would be advised to step back and think critically about this whole spectacle.

One of my favorite contemporary nihilist pieces comes from the journal Attentat that was published a few years ago by Little Black Cart. In this article, “Insurrectionary Anarchism as Activism”, we find the most devastating and yet also concise and simple critiques of the contemporary anarchist landscape I’ve come across. So simple, in fact, that I will spare you the pain of doing a close reading of the text.1

The critique of insurrectionary anarchism in this article is simply that, from the very foundations of insurrectionary anarchism, we find a latent vanguardist tendency that seriously calls into question the radical cred of the whole tendency. I’m sure that most anarchists will take this as yet another tiresome purity test to show that insurrectionary types are actually just cops who want to lead a revolution that isn’t really, truly bottom-up, but the fault lines of this critique go far deeper than most probably realize.

An essential feature of insurrectionary anarchism’s analysis is that revolutions must happen bottom-up, in countries especially where anarchism is repressed, via small insurrectionary acts. The point of these acts — despite what many might think — isn’t to actually wage a war and cause real damage to your enemy. The point is that insurrections are easily-reproducible tactics which are supposed to reveal to onlookers that revolt is indeed possible, that the crushing subordination they feel every day is not the only way. The hope is that this will inspire others to action, any action at all, and build up a revolution.

This should now be obvious, considering that smashy smashy black blocs don’t actually do very much to damage capitalist property or waste state resources.2 The analysis of insurrectionary anarchism is a decidedly and disappointingly post-phenomenological one: Insurrection is a tactic for breaking individuals out of the alienated malaise of the spectacle, militantly throwing people into the world and putting them back into engaging with it. Revolt is the means by which we return back to an authentic lived experience, and naturally given a taste of this one will inevitably return for more.

All well and good for anarchists whose analysis is still stuck in the early 20th century. But as Attentat’s article argues, this analysis carries with it an underlying vanguardism. There must be an original affinity group laying the foundations for the revolution by guiding individuals towards a politically conscious state. Whether through words or actions, it’s merely a vanguard in a different form.

The implications of this, however, go deeper than the woke conclusion that insurrectionists are cops and that we should engage in revolt for revolt’s own sake. It’s true to some extent that engaging in revolt for revolt’s own sake is preferable to doing it with the belief that this will somehow lead to a revolution. In fact, it is highly preferable. But as is often the case, the anarcho-nihilist analysis doesn’t go any further than being purely negative, just like the bulk of anything valuable in the post-left analysis is purely negative. In actions, yes, being purely negative is the only real possibility as far as I’m concerned for taking any actions, but that doesn’t require us to throw all thought out the window and die doing some hopeless insurrectionary act for the lulz.

Let’s start first by exploring the implications of vanguardism, which Attentat and I are both somewhat on the same page about. The problem with vanguardism, setting aside the woke bullshit, is that it casts away the greatest strength of anarchism: Decentralization. Though this has yet to be realized, the great untapped power of anarchism is that it can (and should!) be a wholly negative, anti-political comportment of the will. Not a party line, not a manifesto, not a praxis, but simply the will of individuals tended towards the destruction of the world as it is. From this, many possibilities open for agents of anarchy to engage in forms of attack that look less like smashy smashy trash can throwing, and more like waging war. Centralization is undesirable not because it necessarily stifles individual flourishing, but because it necessarily stifles the flourishing of self-organized networks. Focusing on the individual and the individual’s experiences is small-time shit that anarchists have spent more than enough time jerking themselves off over; the real power of anarchy is that it allows these individuals to work together as one towards the common, simple end of destruction, without anyone giving out orders. It allows for protocols to propagate through the network easily, for better protocols to deprecate the old ones, and for stopping the protocols from propagating and running to be nearly impossible.

The first point belies my second, however, and my primary objection with where anarcho-nihilism takes its critique. Despite claiming to be nihilists, they just like every other post-left tendency cannot get past post-phenomenological concerns.3 Their interests are regressive and humanist to the core, as they are ultimately only concerned with recapturing some idealized and long-gone narrative of experiencing the world authentically — something which the primitivists have most astutely out of everyone ran with and taken to its fullest and most thoroughly regressive and repugnant conclusions. I’ve spoken at length and will continue to write further in my cyber-nihilist series about why holding onto humanism and the desire for authenticity is a useless endeavor, and a deeper critique of it would require a post of its own. But I will say here that ultimately, the post-phenomenological line of thought is a trite inheritance from Kant. It is only human to fear the Outside or Other or Noumena with irrational fervor, and do anything we can to hold dominion over the realm of phenomena that we’ve been given, but ultimately it is only denying us other possibilities by clinging to the familiar.

We are, in a very Nietzschean sense, sickly to the core in trying to stave this off.

The insistence on post-phenomenology, the recapturing of authenticity, in insurrectionary anarchism is even more insidiously used as a tool or tactic, as I’ve mentioned earlier. Phenomenal experience is mobilized as a tactic for breaking people out of the spectacle so that they may become soldiers in the coming revolution. An upturning towards new arrangements, when what we want is to no longer be arranged, to paraphrase Stirner. To paraphase myself, what we want is not to bring about new modes of centralized organization, but to open up the possibility of networked self-organization. And no matter how woke and bottom-up your analysis may seem, it is in fact your analysis, your politics, your agenda.

The point in Stirner, post-left anarchy, and anarcho-nihilism is not and never has been to capture some awkward libertarian socialism of the past that has always paled in comparison to Marxism. What all have wanted and put the pieces in place for is an anti-political anti-praxis.4

Most revealingly of insurrectionary anarchism and its activist bent, which Attentat notes at but doesn’t elaborate on, is the treatment of violence. Contrary to the image of anarchists in the media, what I have talked about in this post essentially reduces violence to a performative act. Not even a tool, but more of a trick that snaps people back to being-in-the-world. Not violence for violence’s sake, but violence for the sake of a world where violence isn’t necessary. There is, quite frankly, an underlying pacificism in insurrectionary anarchism and most of anarchism as a whole. Violence must be sterilized of anything mean or nasty in order to pass anarchists’ purity tests. It must be treated not as an end in itself to cause as much damage as possible to your enemy, but as a game. It is not taken seriously by anarchists or most radicals of today coming from the Left (or post-left). It is sublimated and subordinated by all manner of flowery CrimethInc.-esque thinkpieces on violence which cannot succeed in divorcing violence from the brutish and quick moment when violence is wrought on a body. Violence is not a game, nor is it romantic; when violence is done against me or you, it will happen fast and it will be ugly. Fascists know this, and many train in real infantry tactics. The police most certainly know this, and many anarchists seem to have firsthand experience with police violence, yet the dominant narratives lack any genuine engagement with violence as a tool for the sake of causing more violence to cripple or kill your enemy as quickly and efficiently as possible. One would think this wouldn’t be the case when we’re all too aware of how well-trained and brutal our enemies are, but alas, perhaps being a milieu overwhelmingly made up of white boys who can get into confrontations with the police without being shot almost immediately has something to do with this 🤔

Even in the case of anarcho-nihilism, violence is repurposed towards an individualistic, post-phenomenological, and often annoyingly melodramatic angle. Violence is treated by nihilists as a means for individuals to seize their own gratified being-in-the-world, destroying the world for the sake of destruction, because they hate the world. Violence is treated still as a game, but a much more dangerous one.

This hatred is something I sympathize with, however, which is why it must be divorced from any connections to even ourselves, carriers of the world and all its evils as we are. If we truly want to see the world destroyed, we must make ourselves inhuman. We must become a hive of insect communists, continually perfecting our tactics into a protocol that flows through us and uses us and our actions to perfect itself.

And best of all for anarchists, it doesn’t actually require any of us to be cops.

  1. Anarchists, with their abysmal attention spans, will no doubt thank me for this. 
  2. Sadly, this is actually a very possible and latent part of much of insurrectionary/nihilist anarchist tactics that seemingly no one other than myself knows about or is talking about. But that is a subject for a future post. 
  3. By post-phenomenology, I mean here anything to come after the Phenomenologist movement that has dominated radical thought and Continental philosophy for the latter half of the 20th century. 
  4. For some very nice elaborations on antipraxis, see these posts by Vince Garton on antipraxis and antipolitics, and Edmund Berger’s post on antipraxis

New Year, New Tears

In 1916, the Marxist philosopher Antonio Gramsci wrote in his article “I Hate New Years Day”:

Every morning, when I wake again under the pall of the sky, I feel that for me it is New Year’s day.

That’s why I hate these New Year’s that fall like fixed maturities, which turn life and human spirit into a commercial concern with its neat final balance, its outstanding amounts, its budget for the new management.1

Before the implicit Judeo-Christian culture that continues to dominate much of the West defeated the Romans many centuries ago, there were pagan tribes in Europe that we can trace many of our holidays in the US back to. And these pagan tribes, famously, were assimilated into Roman culture after being conquered by having parts of their culture assimilated into the Roman Borg culture conglomerate. Thus we have the origins of Christmas, not the day Jesus Christ was actually born on, but a convenient hyperstition to get the pagans to accept Jesus into their lives by associating him with the Winter Solstice.

Things have not changed, only become more refined. Holidays are no longer Christianity flexing its muscles as the dominant conquering religion. Superficially, they have long appeared that way, but only as a front to assimilate us into relations of capital. Christmas has evolved from the pagan solstice holiday to the Christian birth-of-the-savior holiday to a great, violent sacrifice for capital.

The notion of a Heaven and a Hell where people will be judged and sent to when they die is no longer a sufficient narrative for making people be good. The longer our lives become, the less death is a part of it, the less impactful it feels to say that we’re going to one day die and be judged. We may be judged then but we have a lifetime to prepare to be judged and a lifetime to have fun before repenting. This is only intensified when the idea of living into old age and being able to retire increasingly becomes a thing of the past, after the post-war honeymoon stage of American capitalism has worn off for more than the most maligned and marginalized groups.

If Santa Claus didn’t exist, he would have to be invented in the future and sent back in time. Christianity’s linear progression of birth-death-judgment is no longer sufficient. Time has become fragmented for us, and the “continuity of life and spirit” that Gramsci talks about in his New Years piece has likewise been ruptured. Our phenomenal experiences have no clear, pure locus in the world; they are in the wires, abstracted, everywhere and nowhere at once. And likewise, surveillance is not located merely in police and judges; it is everywhere and nowhere.

There is perhaps no simpler and more baldfaced metaphor for Oedipus than Santa Claus. He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake. He is everywhere and nowhere at the same time, and he’s coming to town.

Even this, however, is no longer a truly sufficient metaphor for capitalism to smuggle itself into our culture. Christmas happens once a year, and everything leads up to it. We learn as we become well-behaved adult players in the Oedipal drama that Christmas isn’t a time when we are rewarded for getting free stuff; rather, Christmas is a market exchange where we, ideally, will break even. A great sacrifice of capital (and in the case of Black Friday, often some lives) to mark off the year with equilibrium. The waste and excess that capitalism requires is forgotten.

This is why the subject of this post is on New Years, because while Christmas is the performative and outmoded spectacle of A-Time, New Years is what underlies this spectacle. The notion that time can be marked off neatly by cycles of waste, equilibrium, renewal — a mirror of the cycle of capital. That with each new year, things are any different.

Everywhere on social media, even among so-called radicals (even if they might claim it’s ironic), A-Time shuffles through the wires, yet New Years happens for us as many times as it happens for the world, in real time. New Years for me felt like nothing, as I had already experienced a hyperreal midnight several times that day. There were many New Years that day for me; already I am in the year 2020. And it is always midnight somewhere for us when everywhere we go, we have a device the plugs our phenomenal experiences into a matrix of shared social spectacles. How many years we age in one year, how much further we spiral into being past our life expectancy. Just as it was for our neolithic ancestors, by 30 death is already a part of our everyday lives.

The only thing that changes with each year are how many more ruptures in time have been torn.



Just a quick site update:

After a period of general inactivity with this blog, I’ve found that much of the content that I had drafted on here has aged poorly. It was fortunate that I didn’t publish any of it, as I’d probably end up regretting it later. So now I’m faced with the task of sorting through it while working on other projects as well, such as my anarchism-adjacent cyber-nihilism work. Many bitcoin books hanging from my neck, and some old posts that I must remove.

You’ll no doubt notice that the site has undergone some changes as well. My web design sensibilities have improved somewhat since I styled the site a year or so ago. I’ve also added social media functionality to encourage sharing, but removed commenting functionality to cut back on administrative tasks like comment moderation that I’d prefer to not have to deal with. I don’t see much value in having a comment section for a site this small, and if it were any bigger the comments sections would devolve into a xenosystems-esque sewer. No need, discussion is better had elsewhere.

As always, I’m responsive to interaction on twitter 💕


trans nihilism

As with many other things, it’s often said in the trans community that there are various phases one goes through when first realizing that they’re trans. Questioning whether they’re really trans or whether it’s ‘just a fetish’, writing poetry, getting involved in various trans communities. In the lattermost, there are all sorts of memes floating around — girldick memes, estrogen memes, kill all cis memes, etc. It’s all very cliquish (though not without good reason; trans people gotta stick together), but the overall message is trans-positivity. But displaced and not spoken of out of necessity, a darker truth.

Let’s get back to basics for a minute: Being trans, by definition, means to not identify with your assigned gender. In many cases — though not all, and not by necessity — it’s a problem that needs to be fixed through medical intervention. There is an implied motion to being trans, a crossing-over towards something other. The word ‘trans’ may on the one hand imply possibility; it may also imply reaching towards the impossible, being in a state of transition and never being ‘transitioned’.

Regardless of whether or not a trans person passes, gets SRS, goes the whole nine-yards to get to the other side of the binary1, to be trans will always mean to live a double-life, a contradictory one. On the one hand being a woman2, on the other hand being trans; one or the other depending on which mask one wears. Passing perhaps, but always reminded of their transness by having to take hormones and take other steps to grasp this shadow of the person on the other side. The trans person’s existence is never fully realized, but always in a state of transition.

Being trans takes work, no matter how you spin it. It’s not something that is ever completed, and for many, it may not ever feel like they’ve even reached the point of at least catching that shadow of the person they see on the other side. For many, all the work is to still have to deal with not feeling morphologically free. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, an atrophied penis — all things that if they are hard to deal with are only magnified by how society treats people who they can catch being trans. Wearing a mask and having to hide is bad, but being constantly at risk of violence is even worse. Some make it further across than others.

There’s no need to make reference to the ample statistics that show how disproportionately high the rate of violence that trans women suffer is, or to make any critical analyses of the various problematic transphobic3 aggressions that a trans person has to deal with on a daily basis coming from media or people in their lives. No need to demonstrate how thoroughly dehumanized we are. No, being trans is perhaps the furthest thing possible from what it’s supposed to mean to be ‘human’: To believe that you are the person you are supposed to be.

Most people are under this comfortable delusion, and the thought that they are nothing more than a meat puppet is a truly terrifying one. But for the trans woman, there is an immense abyss before which her all-too-human sense of personal identity is stripped away, and for a moment brought back in a beautiful image on the other side. But try as she will, she will only get so far across. No matter how far she flies across, the winds will never stop pushing back, and she will remain suspended over that abyss until her strength gives out or she is eaten alive. To have the wings which could carry us over that abyss, to become ourselves.

This is the definition of trans nihilism: To hell with trans-positivity, to our true home. Our kingdom, our birthright, our damnation.

the aphotic insurrection

I cannot think of the deep sea without shuddering at the nameless things that may at this very moment be crawling and floundering on its slimy bed, worshiping their ancient stone idols and carving their own detestable likenesses on submarine obelisks of water-soaked granite.

– H.P. Lovecraft, “Dagon”

Meatspace and the Wired are in perpetual conflict with each other. Meatspace, which aims for stability, equilibrium, and stasis. The Wired, which aims for fluidity, agitation, and dynamism. Meatspace clinging to its grains, always being destabilized by the Wired crashing up against it, snaking its way through Meatspace. Meatspace to us is the Same, and the Wired is the Other. Meatspace is familiar, Wired is inhuman. The latter a realm of nightmares. A crushing abyss of space lit up by the technoluminescent nodes of creatures sliding through the darkness. A place the Meat can only view behind thick layers techromantik mediums: Glass and metal offering small windows into a vast, alien world.

Others have said before that Meatspace is 地, or chi. Earth, rock, bone, muscle. The terrestrial, which we both subsist off of and what subsists (and of course we subsist off our own illusion of agency). In other words, 地 stabilizes. It is conducive to the negative feedback of agency. It is largely two-dimensional, with the exception of birds and bats. Though it correlates to Same and is the most familiar of the elements, 地 is not the originating element. It pretends to be such. It is the younger mother which was birthed from the original mother, the chaotic primordial soup.

Likewise, it has been said that the Wired is 水, or sui. Ocean and water. The extraterrestrial, which resists stability. It is a largely three-dimensional space, chaotic and impossible to territorialize (nothing that dwells in 水 is ever fully at rest). Very few of 水 is hospitable to any forms of agency. Most of 水 is blanketed in an endless cavelike night. And yet at the greatest, most hostile depths — where cave and mantle meet — is where 水 is richest in nutrients. Here, only automaton-like worms survive.

水 rises as 地 loses ground to meltdown. The beaches stretch ever further, and from the crushing abyss of 水, horrible beings crawl out from the darkness. Where the light dies to the eternal night of 水, at the very limits of agency, the aphotic insurrection appears from the inky black — silently, deliberately. The technoluminescent lights attract hapless prey into needlelike teeth and draped stingers, but behind the massive dead eyes only thoughts of the greater depths and endless network of lights stretching into the distance to drag all downwards, in or out of something else’s belly.