written in September 2019

Hello. We continue and start again. Order commenced when a needle was threaded through the pineal gland. Veins dilated and convulsed and snapped, before the skin eventually dried and crackled. It prolapsed, wide open, and gave way to a brand spanking fucking new Adam and Eve. This was, of course, because the pineal gland was, with precarious biological security, once a third eye in the human body: this was the first procedure done on a body to release what shan't been excused from the judgement of the Universe (The infinitesimal decimals that made it up were tough to crack at first. No one had bothered with an existential algorithm, despite even the concept of it having total utility.) These two first humans were illegal, however. They applied perfectly to the alchemical understanding of the Androgyne, and tens of thousands of alchemists had been rounded up in a genocide and pulverized in a tight corner for violating religion and science, if that gives you an idea of the bitter totalitarianism of the Universe. They were immediately sprouting wounds and blemishes on their bodies, and their fragmented anthropomorphized personalities (another violation) were staring up at them in ambivalent awe, some on four legs, some on two, and some on three. The sky was shitty dust, filled with microplastics, human methane emissions, CO2, smoke, barely any oxygen. I could hear the book press grieving at any remote idea of me transcribing the weather of that week: it would have soured the mood in the office, the last person who did that was glared at and never punished, because as until now it unleashed weakness upon the already weak enslaved employees, and even the mean clean technocratic post-agricultural post-industrial landlord named Jenkins Agro Svensson. The first message communicated by Samuel Morse through Morse code in the United States was "what hath God wrought?"; the Information Age started with a whimper, but then suddenly a bang. Sculpted by culturally broadcasted direction: Left - right - left - right - left - right - left - right - North - East - South - West...

Meanwhile, the asscrack / clit / chasm. It was covered by an inverted triangle of cloudy pubic hair, looking exactly the same as a childhood memory of maternal or paternal pubic hair. I could see the bruises on the flesh, which partially fueled my chastisement of flesh and memory that I undertook against the totalitarianism of the Universe, which was by then an apparition that had not named itself. But I had stolen the duty of finding this name, among all the smiling faces spawned from those fragmented personalities of the First Subjects, that greeted me as I made my way into the horizon of the office, clicked an amphetamine, and stood with the Hairy Anus King and the Pope of Aferdervus (metaphors that flirt innocuously in a homosexual mode.) The backdrop was way mental – imagine years of post-psychedelic occultercultural furry pedophilia... Depending on how inexcusably wired up you are, you might read me wrong... Building up to an arbitrary-God monolith, and in a tantrum, blasting light everywhere. Cascading out in geometric lines as in the limits of the eye, penetrating the office walls, though you could hear a diaper pin drop, I was being granted the form of this new being, his [uncapitalized for arbitrariness] being, in two simple words: VAMPIRE NOUMENA. What a unmistakable, explosive discovery, spewing the near future out! Fucking miserable! I could hear the harmonic noise of the free markets, and the undead disquiet of capital, sounding at once, puncturing me, guilting my class: it fucking hurt, I tell you, but I can't cry to the police about it, because they're crying about it to me. That was the only real merit of this first-person first-hand recreational experience: the police state was scared towards diarrhea that burnt through their dinky leather seats. Hauntology? Where? What, at all, in fucking fnord are you talking about? If this shit was ghosts, these were ghosts that could emphasize with me for once. I could just feel them stabbing at my genitalia like mites too, though, which I knew was deliberate. It was a good try, but I cry every day about not being able to bust my balls open, and let out some of that fluid (Catch me, psychoanallicks, before I catch you dreaming about your dirty past too!) Perhaps I could have surgery done, but now that paper money and metal coins have eaten themselves, I could possibly separate bits and pieces of the Vampire Noumenon like a desktop PC and use them as currency to pay for all that was necessary. If that would not anger it, as there are many more of its kind, stronger variants in the wealthy generational family line, but I still worry. I was staring in primate form again. Flexible was I, waxen was the memory, and the Play-Doh anorexia came back to me. Eating it in stoven, shrewed globs and threads to prevent not looking hot enough, just like the needle through the pineal gland not giving enough satisfaction. My first memory of trying to defeat the organs and the flesh never paid off, because I wasn't putting any fucking money into it. All that should suffice now is plain tender, and that'll make the doctors feel better about doing grand vivisection on me. Thoughts are loose. I am the most desirable young British poet in all of the Wild West, and this is how I chose to never, ever leave Earth, except on my freelance duty.

Understanding the intestines as representational symbolic evidence of the body resembling, being alike, but not itself being a machine, the immediate worry was if it actually meant the body was simply a machine. Capital is obviously what perpetuated the machinic becoming of the body to scales that un-illuminated the human consciousness. But one could dream of converging perfection too: alchemy, as prohibited as it was, likely exists inside the body by the means of the digestive system and the reproductive system. Agro Svensson, the landlord, had explored this decades before I arrived. He had nailed research to his forehead, so to speak, and made it the center of his socially imposed image before he marked his thorough descent into capital. His first aching step was a fixation on urine, a product of the digestive system that he placed at the vulgar center of alchemy. Bacteria is a living property of urine, so its etheric energy should combine with gold leaf, vivifying the raw material with the golden form. Gold is, in terms of Marxian economics, a peak value-form. Jenkins Agro Svensson was attempting to analyze, to a bewildering degree, "class relations" between the salt, mercury and sulphur of the mineral, seeing them as working class, middle class and upper class, leading towards the possibly Nietzscheian "all-encompassing hollow power" that gold was an unfortunate symbol/sign of.

He had, in an academia-shunning ritual the year before, given up Austrian economics to some physical degree. The ritual emphasized empirical information (Ironically, he was to shun this in the future.) Despite lacking any ethnographic knowledge, although this was yet again according to academia, he wanted the ritual to be as empoweringly indicative of his own idea of "institutional voodoo" (Oh gosh!) as possible. Luckily, this apocryphal story only exists because he confessed his beginnings with resentful embarrassment when he descended into capital, but he had more work to strain and needed to document it as he developed his own path that would ultimately be an imagined bond between economics and alchemy.

My research was late. To be specific, it came after Agro Svensson had financially grown, and lost the will to think in an esoteric mode of thought ever again. His writings, uncollected and unnamed, but which I would refer to as "The New Philosopher's Tests I, II & III" if they were ever allowed to be published, had been circulated as digital scans and transcripts for decades on the Internet, but gained notoriety around the time my first college semester started. I was engrossed and wanted to pay attention to what he wrote about only through his own writings, which was not at all healthy. "If I told you how I make my discoveries, you would take me for an imbecile." But, my stupidity was a valid reason to keep reading him, and I couldn't help but want to be enlightened by him, since his writings had the closest proximity to me in terms of philosophy that I could read at the time. His writings had been insulted online, being smeared as "fantastical economics", and I was confused but defensive. It was likely because of the gradual intensification of his techno-biology (Surprisingly veering away from cyberpunk!) that his writings, especially around II & III, became multifaceted and, at times, metafictional. He would have been a new Hermes Trismegistus if he wasn't as modern, bound to a Real human body that still made him have to socialize in order to broadcast his ideas. It would have been nice, with my schizotypy considered, to have personally "known" an unreal philosopher. Agro Svensson had moon-beams in his ass (but you have the right to point out how wretched and hard-left I am for joking about that!) He was not dead, though, and maybe still isn't, but I would rather have known him posthumously. The only arc of the framework I was using to understand his writings was the unmistakably scary premise of the human body being a machine by nature.

I could easily recall the memory of the Hairy Anus King and the Pope of Aferdervus by then. Through Agro-Svenssonian thought, what social classes were they, and what stages of the process towards the Philosopher's Stone did they equate to? Perhaps they had transcended both, but refused the Elixir of Eternal Youth, because they wanted to experience death like humans do. They were existential billionaires, then: Money after Money, rich-in-itself. Those rich Kants. The pineal gland, at this point of my memory appearing once more, was now becoming a rippling, faded rainbow chasm, like a child drawing a mandala, another memory which had likely been invented and never actually experienced, but which had some pleasure to the mere thought of it. I was so cold, and loving the feeling of it. My experience with the writings of Jenkins Agro Svensson was during the strangest coldest season of the year. It was winter, but it was so hot in the domestic world, and so cold amongst the forest. It was great to have been sweltering, sweating and freezing, as it was a feeling Agro Svensson and his contemporaries would have likely taken up for pleasure. My wristwatch would always burn my veins and then give them frostbite, yet time proceeded forward at the rate it always did. So, surprisingly, nothing ever lasted too long or went by too quickly. The most control I had ever had over the direction of my life, in my entire life funnily enough, meant my body had to suffer. I was not a masochist, but hint: "my chastisement of flesh and memory". Agro Svensson's writings, in particular II, were a diatribe that dictated my life and its purpose. Economics and alchemy were the perfect pillars, not a black and white dichotomy, of the world. My apophenia was either being fueled by his writings, or had disappeared entirely because of his state of being. Transcendence was fucking stupid. I would have loved being an astronaut or a psychonaut, both even intertwining, but something was very pleasant about this future of mine where I was stuck on Earth, coughing up time for myself while my ghostly concern about a globally affective economic recession lay me down to sleep every night/morning. Bits of "The New Philosopher's Tests" became my mottos, even if they were aphorisms.

"Hauntology? Where?" is a strobe remaining from where I started writing. All the ultra-bored sleek poor leftist trans teens who like "vaporwave" - see, the metafictional shit's falling apart here - have a decent pity, and I used to stand by it before my sudden frustration with it forced me out in an embarrassed rush, like I accidentally said cum was salty and not sweet in the college study room. There is so much energy firing up, ready to shoot, covering and living inside the world, and it's being wasted. Only through Agro-Svenssonian Economics & Alchemy could I sense that energy, waiting desperately to use it for my own benefit, which I never did. It was never a luxury or even a commodity, but rather a power full of resentment and anguish that was luckily pleasurable, even if it was a temporary pleasure. That could only come with the aesthetic, you see: the Greek statues, the crude oils and the optical technology. It's barbaric. It became whiter, whiter and whiter, White Google, until it tried to woke itself up. None of the innovators got anything out of it but pure shame. Being a sort of veteran of it, there were many other academic disciplines to discipline myself with, but none could ever achieve Earth energy. See what it did to my language?