- Preserved ânapkinâ, dated 1989 based on cola sugar content and lossy codec-type linked to similar myths archived at Planetary Computation Center for the Preservation of Obsolete Information SystemsContinuing along, and assuming we have the framework for our story, I am going to begin writing a section that might occur anywheres.2 It is certainly not the beginning, or the end. Nor is there any boundary. âProcess and life presuppose each other.â That was one of those annoying memories that pestered Atad relentlessly. A.N. Whitehead said that, she knew. But she couldnât concentrate on it. Everything else kept getting in the way. Why does it matter that Whitehead said it? As in, why did I write âA.N. Whitehead said that,â just then? It matters that he was a mathematician. That means something. But also it means something that everything else gets in the way. Like, the rhythm of that thought corresponds to the sequence of bus traffic at the corner of the street. There is something in those frequencies that just wonât release it. Atad wanted her thoughtsâmemoriesâto travel. They did, they moved quickly. But she knew too much. She knew the pulsing, screeching schedule of the light signal down the street. She knew when the signal changed, she knew it preciselyâor rather, she remembered. Every time, every sequence led her back to that thought: process and life presuppose each other. That specific cycle presupposed the thought. But that wasnât quite right. There were many other thoughtsâmemories, and it wasnât intrinsic to the traffic signal, it was intrinsic to the duration, the interval of time and location in space. It was there, that signal; it was over there. Atad was here, it was there, and it lasted just so. Some sort of contained loop which was finite in a field of infinite others. Freedom to fall into the abyss, but constrained to the mechanics of the loop. She would leave, she thought. Freedom from duration and space. To where? It will just happen againâit would, she knew that. At least there was comfort in the familiarity. A certain welcome ease. The grind of the banal. That is what drove her crazy, the comic absurdity of it. âI already know this,â she thought. Not entirely sure to what she pointed the gesture. The game of immortality, or was it mortality? The moment of birth, the moment of death, a topology of the universe, it all depends on the interval. Everything becomes unbearable. Every immortal experiences mortality. Every superpower implies its own collapse. Process and life presuppose each other.And I realized that the words of the page were static. In a moment it all froze. Not until then, had I understood these symbols were dynamic ideas reconfiguring themselves before my eyes, such that the thoughts lived–they traveled–from the space of the writer through the space of my thoughts. Swirling, they were not letters and codes of an alphabet, but instead information embodied, traveling unstable terrain, a landscape organism in which ocular feedbacks did not occur secondary to my understanding, but instead in constant reformulation of what I learned, a becoming.1 Not until it all stopped–the black print setting itself in order, dead-still, awaiting the laws that codify it–was it clear to me that I was creating the book before me.
QUeSTIONS(?)
Footnotes1. [[Tracing the flow of the Pennsylvania crude oil I purchased from Amazon.com via Baarâs web portal of mysticismâfrozen carbon dioxide sublimation, buried at Drake Well, scalp soaked materiality and porphyrin based relubrication of the bodyârevealed a material richness beyond my intended exploration. These material histories are linked to a global exchange of capital and extraction. A history of energy; a history of effortâa terrestrial violence that fractured human complicity in the sunâs planetary domination and the earthâs own material responseâlatent energy absorption trapped in decaying organism. âThe origin and essence of our wealth are given in the radiation of the sun, which dispenses energyâwealthâ without any return. The sun gives without ever receiving.â George Bataille said this. Twisted within these planetary binds, shackled to the recursive dynamics of a feedback culture, even our faithâhowever porous and combustibleâis soaked in the materialism of paraffin and fiberoptics. Frozen carbon dioxide, too, is manufactured by the gaping orifices of silver frosted cybernetic machines, the invisible relay, a haunting of smoke and mirrors, except now the earthy vapor is a crude illumination of the carbon source.]]2. [[also, elemental media⊠pynchonâs 2013 book âbleeding edgeâ which apparently deals with medianature futures, in which glacial environments become the space of servers because of the need for expensive cooling systems, i.e. elemental media and the role of the space of earth flow, geology, and sediment, in the space of information exchange.]]