The Wet Box Project
Ian Margo
The Wet Box Project
Ian Margo
Nutcracker Variations
from a planet woven with the silky signs of a discarded algebra the future laughs at its prelude: our bodies on display as a cancelled prophecy. spontaneous human combustion can only be due to interactions with astrophysical particles, and such particles must necessarily be those responsible for dark matter.
what does it mean for an atom to be excited for a negative time?
yOuRfInGeRsPiDeRwEaVeThErAdIoWaVeS.
excititude. maybe dark time. nuclear
love perhaps. all time but the right-now is actually dark time. every exploding
infinipresent giving birth to sequential nonconsecutive universes. ashes of hydrogen and helium burning on accreting neutron
stars. organic dust drifting between the stars and raining down on Saturn from
its rings. fossil human skulls became spiders’ nests.
the spider that avoids the temptation of gravity by oscillating at the loose end of an imperceptible fiber while taking advantage of the subtle propulsion of the breeze to find a novel anchor feels having torn-and-sutured a constellation of fragile chords, trabeculae, Chinese shadows projected by slightly curved photiscent living lines, hyperfolded dispaces, helicodes, unforeseen connections, labyrinths drawn in the moist air each time light waves strike the screen, paramagnetic echofields, alt-chemical computers thriving in a toxic environment, fundamental analysis, ultrapure music, chronocrystals and deentangled particles—it prints a minor joy upon the imaginary flat circle—emotions are constructions of the world, not reactions to it—it is (maybe you will be too) a nutcracker upcoding new thrills for the think-in machine.
time cells that encoded temporal sequences aligned to the other’s landing
like many practitioners of reciprocal telepathy, distant emotion and neotransmission, network cohabitants, friends, animons, followers and even virtual and anonymous infatuations—ketaminocherubs and erinyahs modeled from imaginary flesh and blood, false snapshots, grisaille, interlocutors generated from more or less complex verbal instructions—all carried away by datatides, like so many other captainoids piloting drunken boats—drowned people often remain more intensely alive than the living—although we do not blame the storms because who knows what could have happened if we had met them before paraemotional electrodialectical intermediation—new types of graphic kisses, lips broken from drinking tremors—now, however, when we perceive those waves that are the skin of being, when the rhythmic convulsions of the air reach our senses inciting us to tremble, when the light hits our eyes threatening to tear out the nerves, it seems like we are receiving the blows of an immense sea of ontic vibrations, perhaps an infinity that, always in motion, is part of everything that exists and nourishes all that is possible with cement.
the focus on the developing body in relation to another body may help us answer perennial questions about the very nature of the human selfhood as being not one, not two, but maybe three and even more
stars harboring a black hole at their center can live surprisingly long—the sun’s arrivedercic nuclear pink flare is reflected on a grammafleshy wordganoid that resembles a jellyfish melting on warm dry sand. you’re bedazzled by the pheromoon flare beaming across the sea surface. your dance is a lightning crushing the night slate / bees roll inedible coloured balls repeatedly / snow flies self-amputate freezing legs to prevent ice from spreading to the rest of the body / we can start to envision a future where organic and inorganic materials coexist, creating a new breed of bio-cybernetic entities. if the quantum Universe is strongly deterministic, then there is no other path to make the Universe than the way it is—yet that’s the way you don’t want it to be.
—Germán Sierra
