Book—End.

Black-Box Teleology

J. Lucas #aesthetarchon

Black-Box

Theory





Black-Box Theory

§. In our most triumphant moment of computational ubiquity, we will become all-the-more absent (in the logocentric sense) to the technics that organize us. E.g., the model-T taught us to live and depend on complex material supports (the metaphor for speed or acceleration has a mammalian target domain, i.e.,“horsepower” aided human cognition at a crucial moment, e.g., moving fast in the new age of the combustable engine simply means “that’s a lot of horses!”). From microwaves to databases–an alienation-effect, more abysmal than the worst Marxist dystopian-nightmare– has inevitably arrived; this is no ‘loss of self-reflection in the production of a laboring class.’ No. This is a fallen epistemology–an actual ‘agnosis’ complicit in our mad-bionic-ubiquitous-dialectic. Knowledge of the things that organize us, e.g., all the assemblages and micro-materialities inside this metal skeleton incase the heart of our civilization, yet, who among us understands the specific correlates–the ultimate path to emergent LCD-representation? Computers have eclipsed anything beyond what Heidegger called “idle talk.” Perhaps our know-that, Aristotilian, rational mind is floundering for an unconscious purpose? If so, have we not been pursuing this transition since the dawn of our kind to evolve beyond our present (sous rature) horizon? A trajectory of gnosis-shedding, we might consider, surely haunts our future. Following this erasure-epistemology, knowledge, as an autonomous object, e.g., along with those devotees that claim it to be their most cherished love (i.e., philosophia)–becomes another casualty of bio-obsolescence. Is knowledge, or merely ‘ knowing,’ for its own sake, not becoming mere kitsch! The intellectuals are dying out;  a relic-breed of lost time (men and woman of astounding caliber, and yet, no marketable trade-set); those of us that follow in their path feel the scorched earth begin to warm our feet…

§. The black-box effect, where peda(-o)ntic knowledge is so pervasively shallow amidst the surface that its depths remain perpetually aloof. Who could have foreseen: that our techno-ubiquity, in becoming essentially ready-to-hand, signaled the collapsed of what we formerly thought to be a distinct line separating organicism from artificiality? The next stage of evolution is the ultimate Nietzscheanism: the early-dawn marketplace allegory ends here. We washed our hands of god by becoming gods ourselves, bionically, soaking up the horizon by deleting Representation,  i.e., our capacity to know our-Selves. The obsolescence of consciousness; this was the beginning of something beyond dichotomy and all conceivable Hegelianisms. 

§. Upon exiting the human park, we will shed the ideology of presence (our logocentric past) –perhaps withdraw like the black-box plane of objects organizing our activities in complicity with time. When this train arrives, no voice will be left to author even the slightest pretense of who we were, what we felt–what our dreams were made of; no orator to lament of the intimacy-of-the-screen-bionics that began long before the advent of digital interface; an insidious virtuality traversed history like a primordial vein–even before Goethe, the Gutenberg Revolution and its printer’s devils… as though born back prior to parchments and clay; further than codex and Sumerian tablets… Our intimacy-of-the-screen-bionicism was set  in motion before the first wet block dried in the first hot kilm. What is this place? Eldorado, Atlantis, Lumeria? Whatever it is–the transcendental signified-signified itself, alas!–it will be the philosopher’s authentic center, arché, origin. To our bewilderment libidinal economies organized us to surge toward this monolith. What Freud called ‘desire’ is incomplete, i.e., ‘bibliophilic,’ not Oedipal; Derridean Archive Fever was a foreshadow; we longed for our enigmatic and grotesque prehistory…Whether this futurity-train might not dock at the same platform… no one knows. Not our best metaphysicians. If our archive humanitas were to somehow continue its incessant iterations, the story might read: We weren’t searching for god. Yet, something (sous rature) had lit the fuse, illuminated our path toward an electric future–

      always-already 

  through

citations 

               and only 

through 

|_ parergon -| 

  

–and as we wind into the station… will there be… anything …there to greet us? No matter, like Nietzsche’s stoic cows, merry and forgetful, there will be no temporal consciousness, knowledge, or self-presence. Our end is an end of narrative. Our end is where the book ends.

J.Lucas   #aesthetarchon                                                     

blooming_text-archive-humanitas-blog-

Dream-Text

How do I remember a dream I don’t remember whilst being in the mode of recollecting an instance of that null-fleeting trace whose content I ‘don’t remember’?

J. Lucas II. a.k.a. Aesthetarchon

remembering_a_dream_i_dont_remember-blog-archive-humanitas-posthumanities-groupThe only connection I have to it is (presently) not knowing it, but the memory of once having known it; but, if what it is were truly absent, with no imagery or definitive recollection of any kind to assist me, how could I be in the present state of re-membering in the remembering-of-something-I-do-not-remember? Something a priori must linger with neither reference nor transparency. Like a vibration, or an after-shock, something has taken place. . . A feeling washes up that is nearly identical to that of a clear picture, but one that never actually arrives (a haunting of Derridean dream-cinders). Only a tactile sense, that itself evades our confidence, is carried over or remains, i.e., of how one felt, like remembering the hug of a dear friend minus the recall of the friend. It might as well be said that this is the after-effect of the unconscious: somewhere this knowledge must be contained, which would account for its quasi-recollectedconfused, and emotional residue. As if the dream inscription could be apprehended at any of its points; the dream-text dangling like a bunch strings—any part within reach, yet touching on any one detaches it from the whole, relaying a sense with no unity or causality to the whole of which it is related (a hermeneutic of dreams). E.g., I feel a spur to tragedy or romance, of last night’s happening, but that is all. And I know this feeling is somehow connected to the dream, because I’ve been here before, and this peculiarity typically leads to an unveiling of the dream. But some instances fall short, and we remain only with a trace or residuum of the dream inscription (Cf., Freud, who opened the writerly metaphor to the functionality of cognition and perception). This would imply a textuality of the dream somehow tucked away in the unconscious. A mark on the “mystic writing-pad” (Cf. Ibid.) – the transparent wax-sheet stands still, yet to relapse to its opening-and-closing program. But now we have replaced a question with an enigma. Our dime-store dialectic is of little help here. It is at such moments that philosophy ends in Proustianism. And why shouldn’t that suffice!? 

 

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