You begin your journey on the transcendental plane arranging and re-arranging
affects. Taking a tool to the job, a Kantian critical scalpel, you slice away
in a formalist way at the job in hand, dissecting form, arranging and
re-arranging the face's registered semiotic signs of affects. The affect a
trauma event in-itself registered as alien contact.* You don't know it is
there but it happens anyway so as to leave the wounds and still the scalpel
slices looking for affective cause, Platonic measures of truth, the alien in
your face. Kant does not see, does not know his scalpel is dirty. Swarming
with germs infected faculties infect definite concepts and the economic
relation between the definite concept and demonology succumbs to become all
is demonology. Through black hole territory you travel across the face coming
upon the event horizon of a huge and terrible black hole. A powerful
extremely violent black hole, evil in-itself. Calling on all the forces of
anti-gravity you can muster, clinging to the event horizon laid out as a
plane, step by step you go, battling illusions everywhere. Illusions which if
invested in, believed in too heavily, plunge you in an instant into this evil
pulverising black hole. Finally, having survived the event horizon, finding a
way out of this illusionary maze of affect registered as past emotion, you
arrive in the future, on a plane of immanence. The cards turn as black as the
ace of spades. There is no form here, only indifferent elements without form
or function; affective zero. A new face to be made where the genetic code
which makes up a face is written. Genetic engineering which is no longer
human. Nature is future smarter then you are. Writing with the hand of God.
God exists but I don't believe in him. You see, Mr Policeman: I am God.
best wishes, Chris Jones.
* Stolen from Mark Fisher _Gothic Materialism_
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