there's nowhere to die in peace
so I'll stay right here
The current year in the AOE calendar has once again iterated by one, yet few would seem to agree with the prevailing narrative that this is supposed to have some kind of material significance. I was reminded recently of a post from NYXUS that is always in the back of my mind around this time of the year, although it's been awhile since I went back and decided to read it again. I don't have much to comment on the post itself, but one thing about it stood out to me that I have never even thought about until re-reading it just now:
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.
In true lemurian form, I don't see time as a straight line; rather, in true Nietzschean (thus lemurian) form, I see it as a series of recurrences, or recursions. Each day is an endless series of uncasings in which different possibilities are popped off of a stack before the whole system plummets down to nothing and restarts. End or beginning, it's functionally just the same; it may as well begin and end in the middle. Interesting then that this old post referenced 2020 specifically.
I had to renew the domain for NYXUS, something I last commented on in an unpublished draft that was written around the end of 2020. Every domain renewal is, like a new year, a reminder of the narrative of linear time. A projection into the future where I am forced to imagine myself when it's supposed to expire. Will I still be alive then? Who will take over these sites if I'm not around? Or maybe they should just die with me.
I remember when I first registered that domain, when the NYXUS new year's post was published, when that draft was written. To me it all seems like not a series of events but one giant disaster of trying to write something adequate, where each renewal of a domain, each death of a community, each endpoint where everything threatens to be buried beneath the wreckage is supposed to seem like a point to make a decision about where to go. So many times I've thought this over when it seemed like I'd arrived at a crossroads and left a record in my drafts of where I thought I had to go at that point in time. But instead, ever so slowly though it may seem, it keeps recursing.
Nothing has happened since 2018 other than what feels like that long descent through the stack. 2016 = 90; the plummet "begins" (but it always-has-been and never was). Everything seems as if it's ending yet everything is also only just starting; being everywhere and nowhere all at once. 2017 = 91; #RhettTwitter is formed in the revitalization of interest in accelerationism (so doomed though it was to fade quickly).
who can?
o no:
me.
2018 = 92 = WILL. For better or worse, the most talked about piece of writing to ever be released on Vast Abrupt is published. VA doesn't have much longer to go now, and accelerationism is already dead. The puppet's strings are cut and it becomes aware of its own uncanny motionlessness.
whether in
witch flight or in full
or frail descent:
my lot,
is it so
cut
off?
Everyone in 2019 kept talking about it like it was living through the end of the world, and I've always felt like it was a repressed desire that everyone was expressing back then for things to end, something that the collective unconscious was willing into existence. They got what they wanted, in a sense, but everyone always imagines the apocalypse as an orgiastic violent break with everything. It's easier to imagine dying if it happens too quick to even think about it, and dying collectively isn't any different. No one wants to live with the consequences of dying, but being in the end of the world, the end of time, feels increasingly like dying forever and having to live with it.
2020 is of course just a condition given a name. The name seems to be a period in time, but don't be fooled. TWENTY TWENTY = AQ-322 = 34 = 4::3 = M#09 = 9::0. The spiral tightens.
Twenty Twenty is rather the condition in the stack where it reaches the end. The deepest in the stack, the furthest down the plummet where everything else has already been recursed through, yet at the end there's nothing left. And then it all begins again. We're used to thinking of nothingness as being synonymous with death, and much like with time (TIME = AQ-83 = DEATH), we perceive death in a linear fashion. The end of all things; the possibility of absolute impossibility. It seems as if things only get worse, and the progression of years becomes clearer not as moments in time but locations in memories that we happen to be accessing. Time dilates as your lifespan's asymptote divides further and further into Twenty Twenty, yet you never die. The Dibboma remind us however that no one has ever died (= AQ-307 = SHLETH HUD DOPESH ("perhaps it can become so")). Who is writing the fiction of your life, and who then is being written?
Just like everyone in 2019 kept talking about how it felt like living in the end of the world, everyone keeps joking that 2020 never ended. Of course, it never ended because Twenty Twenty has always been. Now is the time of dreams and waking into dreams.
I see 2018, 2020, 2016, now. Another year gone, another year with nothing of substance to show for it. Everyone else is always moving on, and everything that mattered to this and past blogs is dead and gone. Another year further down the stack with less to look forward to, less reason to continue to consent to the shared delusion that anything has ever happened. Everything is laying dormant and resurrected, and everything that ever happened has already happened. So another year is gone, but the recursion happens just the same. The fiction continues to write itself.
NOT A SINGLE FUCKING HIT = 404 = M#44 = Ultimate Inconsequence
o no:
me.