Non-Euclidean Perceptual Space

It always amazed me that there has scarcely been a distinct characterisation of the geometry of human perception – how points and distances vary in space as perceived by us. There’s often talk about the vanishing point – the convergence of parallel lines in our visual field. This straightforwardly contradicts Playfair’s axiom, equivalent to Euclid’s 5th axiom in his description of geometry. Parallel lines cannot intersect in Euclidean geometry, essentially. Yet roads and train tracks pointing away shrink, until they vanish; is the far-away world unimportant and shallow to an ego-point capable of only seeing its own local environment, its neighbourhood? This is a feature of hyperbolic geometry: for a given point, everything is smaller the further one moves away from it, but this is true for any point. The centre of the universe is everywhere; seems so gratifying. But also lonely… with a prodigious unknown stretching out in every direction. Something is out-there, but I intrinsically have no idea what, and if any attempts are made to move elsewhere, one loses sight of another spatial subset; dynamic reconfigurations. Not only is every point different, but at each point everything else seems different.


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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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Games, bias-for-life, & pure renunciation

Mental retardation is infuriating. Whether it’s an intellectual, aesthetico-literary, productivity- or benevolence-oriented drive, the reflexive realisation of not living up to active creative or practical potential is quite sufficient to lead to rancour.

Conceived as metaphorical modules and cravings of the mind, those drives do stand fellow to seemingly more basic desires for sustenance, sex, sleep, and other fundamental needs. Any system valorising activity and behaviour exerts an influence on its players, bending them to function inside the game. The units of account can be ‘fitness’, ‘money’, ‘status’, goals for ones team, dopamine rushes, frequency of adherence to some morality, etc. Hierarchisation, competition, and selection by “points”, “points” that may be hard tangible commodity, virtually registered, entirely notional / inter-individual, or simply by that which is, tautologically taken to have survived, replicated, etc. Many games obviously overlap and clash. It’s complicated and intrinsically difficult.

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Possession (1981, Andrzej Żuławski)

You know, I remember when I was a kid… Have you ever seen a dying dog, you know, one of those old dogs that comes to die under the porch of the house? At the last moment… it yelps. In terror. As if it’s seen something real.

The Entity. A seeping poly-tendrilled abomination. Dismantling the coordinates of existence.

For me, God is a disease.

The smack of a bleak Godless universe, itself becoming the new God, a miscarriage of Faith.

God is still under the porch, where the dog died.

Meat(-grinder (delirium)) (camouflage). Lurched into schizophrenic hysteria.

I wanted to see, what it was, that made him crawl under there.


Don’t open! Don’t open! Don’t open! Don’t open! Don’t open! Don’t open! Don’t open! Don’t open! Don’t open! Don’t open! Don’t open! Don’t open! Don’t open! Don’t open! Don’t open! Don’t open! Don’t open! Don’t open!

Notes on Visual Snow

I feel connected to the sky, “the color of television, tuned to a dead channel”. The noise of infinite TV-static permeates my visual field.

As a kid, I enjoyed looking out of the car window, into the blue sky, and following floaters. These odd phenomena occurring naturally in the eye were some of the first things that brought attention to myself — my own organs of sensation. They taught me meta-cognition, the subjectivity of perceived reality, and (through their ephemeral displacements) the impermanent nature of the world. Overall I had pleasant associations with them (journeys, the summer), but during my adolescence I discovered a more unsettling condition.

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Perhaps one of the first things I could try writing about is the name of the blog.

‘Axxon N.’ appears in David Lynch’s ‘INLAND EMPIRE’, written on a door/wall connected to the backstage of a studio where an actress sees herself in the past, and then doesn’t. Axxon N. indicates the portal to ‘stranger things’, the curved vector into nonlinear explorations of darkness. An axon transmits.


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Preliminary ramblings

Most of the time I’m steeped in self-critical indolences, so always considered the idea of creating and maintaining a blog to be pathetic self-indulgence and a wasteful addition of never-to-be-read words to the vast information oceans. I’ve felt it was a safeguard too: to spare myself the future painful awkwardness of rereading or even merely knowing about the existence of formerly written sentences I immediately loathe. I’ve decided to accept the inevitable embarrassment, as perhaps surprisingly, there still exists some primal impulse towards cognitive action in my unpleasant brain, some desire to write cogent posts, organise mental activity, thoughts, and information. A will-to-think? No, mostly it’s just a means to more worthily procrastinate my degree (maths), devoting some part of my dilettante behaviour to blogging, which is marginally better than some of the alternatives of wasting time.

I don’t know what this will be about, maybe I’ll give up on this blog after posting this first post. This will be just for myself – ramblings of a hollow young mind, squeamish writhings and writings. Perhaps I’ll be inspired to write about my philosophical interests, about films and books. Or maybe not. I’ll consider it a challenge and exercise, serial experiments waiting to happen (or not). What it will be is an exemplar of inarticulacy, ennui, laziness, and pretension. Mostly self-loathing.

If you’re unfortunate enough to read these trivialities I urge you to quit. Apologies for wasting your time, there’s no adequate excuse I can give.