I want to introduce the zeroth patient.
This won't be an 'origins' kind of story, but a sketch, a launching pad,
the setting off point. It is a part of a larger scheme, but the big picture
is occluded by myriad, mundane, habitual activities that distract from
taking a few steps back and enjoying the view. However, enjoying oneself
is probably not the first thing one does when sitting in a burning house.
Look for the fire escape. Intuit your way out, using the discradings
assembled here. With each new entry, each iteration of the initial thesis
[which is to follow], the conceptual apparatus is likely to become more
intricate. Complex; dauntingly so. Think CERN particle accelerator
transformed into present-day Ouroboros. Think with 42 on the universal
meaning of Douglas Adams. Think Jean Tinguely's hellish mechanisms
wreaking havoc on an unsuspecting audience gathered in MoMA's
scultpture garden. A creature that dismantles itself,
less and less able to keep pace, or go on with the procedure.
Not because of breaching some pain threshold, but sheer inability to force
some parts to unmake other parts, operate concepts to unmake other concepts.
Apophenia at Large is all about such matters, and matter is what
it's all about - the inability to transgress beyond the realm of the
anthropo(ec)centricity intercut with unceasing attempts to do exactly that.
Limits of human(e) resolution(s) border with glitch snowstorms,
despite whether it's speculative realism or that anthropocene('s guilt trip
lagging) that takes up air of all the talk in the room. Nevertheless,
we chatter. No less, we try. What else is there? Flinching from peer
pressure of wikipedia experts, in my understanding, apophenia becomes
a condition transplanted from the context of early stages of schizophrenia,
a paranoiac semiosis, defined by Klaus Conrad in his study, and (dis)placed
into a context of our contemporary intake of both material and immaterial
realities at once; a mode of taking in the world for words, for what
they're worth, or rather via value we ascribe to them. Like some vagrant
PoMo Transcendentalist would do, if post-modernism weren't so out of
fashion these days. As requoted after Conrad in Aaron L. Mishara's paper,
“Borrowing from ancient Greek, the artificial term ‘apophany’ describes
this process of repetitively and monotonously experiencing abnormal
meanings in the entire surrounding experiential field, eg, being observed,
spoken about, the object of eavesdropping, followed by strangers."
[quoted from: Conrad K. Gestaltanalyse und Daseinsanalytik. Nervenarzt.
Following the example he provided (that of the patient Karl B.),
the subject interprets reality as an 'experiential field' constructed
specifically for him. Now, it is quite easy to assume that in the age of
personalized ads and user activity tracking, what was described as
aberration turned into a prerequisite for navigating the socially-mediated
quotidian. If Thoreau's cabin had access to Wi-Fi, his project of
'living deliberately' might have made a really tiresome and naggingly-toned
blog. Still, his 'world' was all about words. Why has ours ceased to be?
Imposing one's cognitive stencils and Kantian patternings on wild lives
of the real, finding interconnections between unrelated events and objects
is a manic excercise of mental clutching at straws, makes up the content
of Apophenia at Large – posing questions about the algortihms behind
interfaces, delivered by a mind plagued by Insta(nt) Gram(mar)s and an
existential FoMO. But even in the 'blitz' of deadlines, there are duty-free
zones, where life slips into a sidetrack, and you can finally sit down and
have a crack at the jigsaw. (And this is where you notice that) some pieces
In an abundance of not just bad, but fake, gushing in news, keeping oneself
up-dated turns into a marathon, and when the engulfing fad is with
rendering everything as an 'experience', perhaps this one is the one I'm
most likely to pass on. This is where the ballpen comes in. Scribbles,
blobs, torrents of black wavy lines with sudden splashes of archways and
shoots constitutes a part of my defence mechanism against this deluge.
Zero in on the page, patiently tracing all synaptic jumps onto levels of
greater complexity. These aren't illustrations, although they rely on
written narratives, essayistic snippets and on-the-run reflections.
Both add to Apophenia's line of vague research. Too amorphous to whip up a
proper manifesto. Not enough sequential to call it a script.
The zeroth patient of a new, vulnerable breed of perma-sick avatars roaming
the real in multiplayer mode. An impatient generation, too ill-equipped to
wrestle with the daily traumas as portrayed via streaming services,
let alone one's own psyche's infernal machineries. Tinguely redux.
But with a vengeance, for while the world runs amok, they continue lagging
in their spasmatic pace. Makes one wonder, whether we heave really ever
left those homely office boxes of E.M. Forster's The Machine Stops in the
Essentially, both scribbles and streams of jibber-jabber were born of such
confusion(s), and they fill up crisis think tanks. What's my petrol, then?
What fossils does Apophenia at Large exploit to keep running on its fumes?
DeLillo's deep freeze futurism of Zero K, a post-ap. app that can impose an
AR of prospected debasement turning your town into virtual ruin,
a network of small appliances that discipline their masters jamming their
habitual adblocks (Bradbury's There Will Come Soft Rains is likely to
pop up through Google Ads), and a search for the last unmapped, uncharted,
unscanned blind spot on Earth: be here, dragons, or else, we might
turn into pure, calculated reason. No exit. Curiosity of webs,
of patterns, of meanings in the meaninglessness of the wilderness of mirrors
... all this becomes essential. A survivalist's kit for those whoe seeking
any, even little confirmation bias. For those who can do without one,
it's the new Apophenia lens, iMount.
Follow these entries.
Link up links.
Forsake imprinted schemes to notice what flows had carved them
into your cognitive apparatus.
This is way too delusional to be boiled down to mere New Age crap.
And enjoy the blots,
take a step back.