Author Topic: Machinicized  (Read 627 times)

Offline Eigenvalue1

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« on: June 12, 2017, 12:20:52 PM »
I don't know how the machine injects guilt. It must be in the airwaves; or, perhaps sporous. My mother's death: cholera. And old disease – that was my fault too, apparently. Though, it has never said so, in so many words. It never does. But I feel it. It is not so much a machine, as a construct; and less a construct than a spandrel; a scaffold of energy flows. And the machine always disassembles and breaks away, resurfacing fleetingly, never fixed. That's how I imagine it. So it's impossible to say whether or not the machine really exists. You'll have to take my word for it. And the guilt, perhaps that is warranted too, I'm not trying to evade it; after all, I'm a man.

Before her death the machine overloaded me with anxieties, even before she was sick. I said to myself: “One day mother's going to die.” A fact of life. A small anxiety, at first – that's fair. And here, I return to the fact I'm a man. And the machine is most cruel on this point, in that it treats me as one of its own: another machine. It coupled mother-anxiety with market-anxiety; social-anxiety with money-anxiety; and so on. And I confess, when mother died I received a small inheritance; not much, but enough to kill off two or three of these anxieties, or at least to abate them for a time. You would perhaps think this is the source of my guilt. A small part, assuredly.
But the greater part of my guilt lies with the severance of these anxieties – mother's death being only incidental; laying bare my dependence on machinic suffering; that is, a cripple traversed with fields of intensities – a machine in my own right.

They packed her into a coffin, smaller than a child's. Cholera is not a withering disease, but like I said, they packed her in. I did not understand why the priest was sermonizing; or is it eulogizing? I can't say. Only I sat patiently without a chance to speak. Which is just as well, for perhaps I would have spoken in codes, semaphores, dial tones... and then the baleful sostenuto notes from the organ. A procession. Dirt. On the way home I hit a dog with my car. I dug in a hole in the garden and buried the house plants. The sun didn't set for a long time. But like say, this is all incidental...