Nomad Thinker / R.G. Vasicek

We are protagonists in a doomsday movie. Antagonists. Your mind finds itself in strange microcosms. Military-industrial mind control. Transmission of intelligence. Pardon my “disturbance” of your language system. But I am here. Forever. I confess I am “error prone.” Cybernetics. Information theory. Paprika goes into the goulash. The “chaos” theory of great sex. Nietzsche speaks of the “absolute flow of becoming” in the Cosmos. We are aloof. We are cognitive linguists. Your computer codes impress me. The nonhuman minds are among us. You say you want to “escape” the System. I admire your defect[s]. Know this first: There are intelligence systems beyond our intelligence. Who will protect you? There is a ring around the metropolis. The concrete sea walls are no match for the sea. Oikos: where is your house? your flat? your apartment? Are you the pilot of a Tatra 77 with a drag coefficient of 0.212? Questions beget questions. Information is gathered. Signals intelligence. Telephone calls intrigue. Telegraph coded signals. You are probably poorer than I imagine. Am I right? Day to day. Hour to hour. Moment to moment. What is duration, anyway? Ask Bergson. Ask his sister. Not sure he has a sister. At any rate, ask. Yes. Bergson has a sister. Moina. She is an artist and an occultist. Yes. She might be the right person to ask. This computer program is really getting into your nervous system. Feel it? Zeros and Ones. Looks something like: 01001100100010010010101010010010101011010001001. What a night you had last night. Am I right? A provisional analysis of last night’s fucking indicates she came thrice and you came twice. Not bad for beginners. She does have more “experience” than you if you must know. We can send a zipfile via a messenger at your request. Aha, I see. You prefer not to know. Very well then. Should a prurient interest arise in the future, be sure to let us know. We are on your “side,” so to speak. Nomad thinkers are a rare breed these days. And you are no exception. I marked you myself. I said: That one! Yes. That one. And I was right. In the green rooms of Amerika, you are a reality star. The Pittsburgh Steelers jersey. The panties. You are Madame President Lady Gaga. I’ll be your #2 any day/night. Signals are being grabbed from the luminiferous aether. We need protection. The metropolis is a built environment. You, perhaps, know better than anybody. Prefabricated experiences. Dime-store orgasms. Nothing is what it seems. You reach out. Groping for reality. Tissue paper. Carbon cobalt skies. The glass dome is impenetrable. Yet there are cracks. Is it only you who sees them? You tell your Supervisor. Your Supervisor says: I am not your Supervisor. There are no Supervisors. Interesting, you say, rubbing your eyes. The Sun looks/feels real enough. Every falling leaf in November has a trajectory. The calculus of time. You play the “game” like everybody else. You roll the dice. You press the red button. You tilt a joystick. You thumb the plasma. You fly a drone. You are the best pilot in Amerika. Represent your bubble city! Everybody wears goggles. M52 gas masks. GP-5 gas masks. Your girlfriend/boyfriend fucks you. At least you think it is your girlfriend/boyfriend? Or her/his best friend. Or her/his sister/brother. O, the enigma of gas masks. Sex as a wireless transmission. Sex in a post-electric era. Sex w/o sex. Sexless. Sex as a desiring machine. Sex as a brainwashing machine. You hyperlink with your ex-girlfriend/boyfriend? Hypermedia. Hypersex. Everything is exploding. Fucking as a “brushstroke.” Fucking on a “sentence” level. Fucking in a droplet of sun. Stellar light. This is an information space: says the computer. Walls of spiral-buffed stainless-steel. Get the Makita. Drill a hole. The rhetorical gap in a fuck is a thing for the ear to behold. She puts her nipples into your mouth. Your cock is under a gag order. Your hands grasp bedsheets and ass. A miracle you do not lose your mind. Or you do? You must defect from New York City. You have no alternative. You [are] the alternative. Next stop: Anybody’s guess. So much signal & noise in the biosphere. Zig’s cock is rather well circulated: Asses & vaginas & mouths. His loneliness echoes & echoes in others. Data. Memory. Sentences are death. You try to speak. What? Tongue against teeth. Chernobyl. Fukushima. Nagasaki. Hiroshima. Command-and-control. Entropy. Human beings and machines. We are made for this. We made it.




R.G. Vasicek is the author of the Prague/NYC cybernetic anti-novel THE DEFECTORS. He lives in his Mind.

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