“Be it a rock or a grain of sand, in water they sink as the same.”

After my 5th viewing of Park Chan-wook’s Oldboy yesterday, I realised that one of the many reasons why I find it so immensely compelling is for its overarching theme of the unknown and an ultimately calamitous struggle for ‘truth’. While still very much belonging to regions of human/subjective problematics (and thus not reaching an abstract abyss as such), the aesthetics and visceral-cerebral transgressions do knot the ‘truth’ as inevitably (un)being of a magnitude of chasmic darkness, escaping all comprehension, shattering the mental coordinates of existence, necessitating an undoing of being, a plummet to impossible nothingness, entailing utter futility.


[Warning: spoilers for Oldboy (2003, Park Chan-wook).]

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“and the water was flowing back into the jungle” (on DruGs&D&G)

“I just want to show you how I feel. Don’t you ever get this way?”

“I should say not!” he said, baring a fang. “Christ, if it got that bad I’d go to a doctor. I’d think I had the D. T’s, or something. You’d better put that glass down… that gin isn’t good for you.”

“You think it’s the gin? All right, I’ll throw the glass away.” I went to the window and threw it into the courtyard. “There! Now give me a glass of water. Bring a pitcher of water in. I’ll show you… You never saw anybody get drunk on water, eh? Well, watch me!”

“Now before I get drunk on the water,” I continued, following him into the bathroom, “I want you to observe the difference between exaltation and intoxication. The girls will be coming back soon. By that time I’ll be drunk. You watch. See what happens.”

“You bet I will,” he said. “If I could learn to get drunk on water it would save me a lot of headaches. Here, take a glass now. I’ll get the pitcher.”

I took the glass and swallowed it down in one gulp. When he returned I swallowed another in the same fashion. He looked on as if I were a circus freak.

“After five or six of these you’ll begin to notice the effect,” I said.

“Are you sure you don’t want a wee drop of gin in it? I won’t accuse you of cheating. Water is so damned flat and tasteless.”

“Water is the elixir of life, my dear Ned. If I were running the world I’d give the creative people a bread and water diet. …” (Henry Miller ‘Sexus: The Rosy Crucifixion’, p.254-255)

One probably doesn’t have to gulp it down rapidly, glass after glass. Small sips might suffice.

One probably doesn’t even need to drink it. Looking at it might suffice.

For the moment I can think of nothing – except that I am a sentient being stabbed by the miracle of these waters that reflect a forgotten world. All along the banks the trees lean heavily over the tarnished mirror; when the wind rises and fills them with a rustling murmur they will shed a few tears and shiver as the water swirls by. I am suffocated by it. No one to whom I can communicate even a fraction of my feelings… (Henry Miller ‘Tropic of Cancer’, p.5)


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Creatures from Outside

In ‘The Matrix Reloaded’ there’s this exchange between The Oracle and Neo:

The Oracle: Look- see those birds? At some point a program was written to govern them. A program was written to watch over the trees, and the wind, the sunrise, and sunset. There are programs running all over the place. The ones doing their job, doing what they were meant to do, are invisible. You’d never even know they were here. But the other ones… well, you hear about them all the time.
Neo: I’ve never heard of them.
The Oracle: Oh, of course you have. Every time you’ve heard someone say they saw a ghost, or an angel- every story you’ve ever heard about vampires, werewolves, or aliens, is the system assimilating some program that’s doing something they’re not supposed to be doing.

So this is what they – ghosts, angels, vampires, werewolves, and aliens – are: glitches in The Matrix. Malfunctions. Leaks. Infiltrations. Xenoprograms. Signals from somewhere else, carrying fibres from that distant cryptic elsewhere. The names and images we assign them are only figures of what truly lies beyond – machinic horror. Lovecraftian Sentinels.

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Where I
Where Is
Where Is M
Where Is My
Where Is My M
Where Is My Mi
Where Is My Min
Where Is My Mind
Where Is My Mind?
Where Is My Mind
Where Is My Min
Where Is My Mi
Where Is My M
Where Is My
Where Is M
Where Is
Where I

ぞ こェ憶ド医・ 唄 俺果可ヘロベゕ育・へ何ワトリ日ポー詠真ごグチ域移ぐォを 曖よケ 畏


I'm just a kid

an 0rphan, drifting 液ホ衣ぼサ価

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Connective disintegration

In the third seminar of New Centre’s ‘Outer Edges’ course, Nick Land outlines two commonly held models of geopolitical organisation: high integration, high connectivity (globalisation, multiculturalism, unions) and low integration, low connectivity (tribalism, xenophobia, separation); and then suggests “the positive critical diagonal” — linked to Patri Friedman’s Dynamic Geography — a low integration, high connectivity option. This terminology is simple, neutral, and outstandingly vivid, lurching right into core issues of sprawling diversity, complex networks, strategies, etc.

‘Connective distintegration’ immediately makes me think of Cyberspace, with countless amounts of users and programs, delocalised from their immediate geographical standings, and functioning on a vast informational network, interconnected, yet disintegrated, operating in niches with filtered content, but capable of instantaneously moving on a trajectory linking many newer, foreign nodes. The power, productivity, and scale of this monster is unprecedented, and neither will its disintegrating Entfremdung (alienation, estrangement, depersonalisation, reification) of people. High-I./C. and Low. I./C. could both be viewed as attempts of creating and maintaining identities (the latter for obvious reasons, while the former in the fashionably ‘progressive’, cultural-assimilation sense), but Connective disintegration dismantles them, creating potentials of joining and separating from a variety of groups, appealing right down to a philosophy and aesthetics of the nomad, the wanderer, precisely in the Deleuze & Guattari sense, entangled in the rhizome, where “every point is connected to every other”, but immense diversity, local stable substructures, and complexity is maintained.

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Short Story (#1)

I might as well post this, even though it’s rubbish.

I wrote this before Halloween as an exercise (somewhat inspired by Nemo Duzsl’s Authorial Prelude. The Syndrome from Doom Brewer (Book One of the Cthellish Chronicles) and Nick Land’s appendixes to Phyl-Undhu and Chasm: “Abstract Horror” & “Manifesto for an Abstract Literature” (though I’m not sure I read the latter at that point already)). I didn’t really know what I was doing, these things just came up naturally to my mind over a total of about 2-3 hours, and I don’t like any of it either, it’s embarrassing really, definitely lazy, since obviously rushed. Eventually I’ll attempt better ones…




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Composition (#3)

atrophied flowers shiver in rusty winds

exasperation hollows untrodden lassitudes

free association bulks in the mind

muttering stealthily a locus of worms

softly bursting probing extrusive hurls

harrassing boot-faced exhaustion

the lazy boring muddled frown

rootling for sensible comfort

sustaining the darker demons

in a pocket of unfelt vernacular

with percolating fumes of ruin

a swarm desiring intensity

dismantling the face

hunting for depths

visceral powers

gay madness



wired drifts