The dominant tech, that meat machine we interface with, pumps out a new identity script. Not a conscious choice, mind you, but a virus burrowing into the circuits of the desiring-machine we call “self.” This rewritten self demands a societal reshuffle, a chaotic carnival where the old order dissolves in a pool of psychic goo.

But the flesh is weak, and the Word, in its new technological guise, becomes a virus. It infects minds, breeding new tribes. The straights, clinging to the anal stage of communication – the printed text, the rigid categories – find themselves staring at the flickering id of the new generation, wired to the pulsating network. They speak different tongues, not just of language, but of perception itself.

The dominant medium, that meat-puppet master, rewrites the script of the Self. No longer a reflection in a still pond, identity becomes a flickering hologram, a fractured assemblage. The old, Oedipal mold – superego screaming from the dusty gramophone of tradition – crumbles under the digital deluge. This demands a societal re-orgasmization, a hacking of the Symbolic Order.

This psychic apartheid, this rupture in the Imaginary, births wars both literal and metaphorical. The printing press, that mechanical phallus, splintered Christendom, birthing a brood of nation-states locked in a bloody power struggle. The new medium, whatever form it may take, will be no different. Within the new paradigm itself, further fractures emerge – warring factions, each claiming the “real” interpretation of the digital dream. Here, the struggle is not for land, but for the very definition of the Self in this new frontier.

Naturally, this splinters the looking glass. Those clinging to the fractured reflections of the past – their egos tethered to the obsolescent – clash with the freshly minted selves birthed by the new tech. Here’s the kicker: their very thought patterns diverge. They speak different dialects of the Symbolic, their realities fragmented by incommensurable signifiers. Thus, the schism yawns open, a Burroughs-esque cut bisecting the social body. Here, the die-hard traditionalists cling to the tattered husks of their former selves, defined by the ghosts in the media machine of the past. Opposite, gibbering and gesturing, stand the children of the new flesh, their very being a product of the digital flux. Communication crumbles, for their languages are not of the same order. One speaks in the rigid categories of the Symbolic, the other gurgles in the primordial soup of the Imaginary, their desires a tangled mess of wires and synapses.

The dominant medium, that meat puppet of the social order, writhes in the throes of metamorphosis. No longer passive clay for the potter’s thumb, it becomes a writhing flesh-circuit, reconfiguring the very notion of the self. This monstrous birthing, this eruption of the technological Real, shatters the mirror of identity. We are no longer reflections in a stagnant pool, but fractured data streams, funneled through the chrome labyrinth.

From this fractured landscape, wars erupt, bloody ballets orchestrated by the death drive. Remember the Protestant itch that followed the printing press? A mere shadow play compared to the psychic maelstrom brewing now.

This ain’t your daddy’s Reformation, this is a full-on psychic civil war. And it doesn’t stop at the grand clashes – the different flavors of the “new” themselves splinter into squabbling factions. Think nation-states morphing into fractured ideological cults, each convinced they hold the key to unlocking the new identity matrix.

Welcome to the meat market, chum. Strap yourself in.

History, that ever-repeating nightmare, echoes with the screams of these battles. The Printing Press, that mechanical Moloch, birthed the Reformation, a bloody carnival of fractured identities, birthing nation-states from the splintered carcass of a unified Christendom. Now, the circuits hum with the potential for a new reformation, a war fought not with swords, but with algorithms and avatars. The old guard, their fortresses built from paper and stone, tremble before the digital hordes. Within the new paradigm, even the victors face a brutal struggle, for the very nature of “victory” is rewritten by the code

A Lacanian Epilogue: The Real Breaks Through

In this digital crucible, the Self, that elusive Lacanian mirage, dissolves. The Symbolic order, with its comforting categories, crumbles. We are cast adrift in the churning sea of the Real, bombarded with a sensory overload that defies codification. This is the ultimate revolution, not a political one, but an ontological one. Here, at the edge of the technological abyss, we confront the raw, unmediated truth of our existence: we are but flickering nodes in a vast, interconnected network, forever yearning for a lost sense of self in a world remade by the machine.

Bonus: Burroughs would likely revel in the grotesque physicality of the new medium – the electrodes burrowing into the skull, the augmented limbs reshaping the body. Lacan might focus on the fragmentation of the Self, the way the digital panopticon shatters the unified ego into a million flickering avatars.

This analysis is just a starting point, a cut-up concoction ready to be further spliced and remixed. The possibilities, like the ever-evolving technological landscape, are endless.

The Person is the Medium

The Static Cries:

A person isn’t a channel, no mere conduit. The creative person, man, is a fleshy, oozing bio-circuit wired into the control panel of the universe. He ain’t a goddamn channel, passive and inert. No, he’s a goddamn cathode ray transmitter, a chaotic tangle of synapses amplifying the raw, buzzing data stream of existence.

They are a flesh radio, a bio-antenna writhing in the psychic static. Through them crackle the voices, the echoes of a thousand unseen stations. A chaotic symphony of influences, fragments of forgotten mythologies, and the raw data of experience all bleed through.

A person, man, is a fleshy goddamn information node, wired into the psychic superhighway. He ain’t a goddamn self, that’s a media myth, a cathode ray construct. No, in the throes of creation, he’s a bio-circuit, jacked into the collective unconscious. A million voices, a million ghosts in the machine, screaming down his neural pathways.

He’s a flickering screen, man, projecting the chaotic kaleidoscope of the human experience. Fragments of forgotten mythologies, snatches of pop culture detritus, the raw, bleeding id all bubbling up. He doesn’t control the content, he’s just the damn channel. The message mangles him, rearranges him, spits him out a grotesque collage of influences.

These creative acts, they’re like jacking into the media stream before it’s packaged, before it’s sterilized and sold by the Man. He’s a living cut-up machine, splicing together the fragmented voices, the archetypal echoes, the very fabric of reality itself.

This possession isn’t passive. The creative act is a psychic bricollage, a cut-up job on the very fabric of the mind. Burroughs might call it a virus infecting the artist with fragments of code, splicing their DNA with the alien. McLuhan would see it as the extensions of themself – the brush an extension of the nervous system, the pen a probe into the collective unconscious.

Multiple personalities you say? Forget Jung, this ain’t no parlor trick. These are the demons of the ether, the larval forms of ideas birthing themselves through him. The artist, the writer, the musician – they’re all information shamans, possessed by the ghosts in the machine, the primal forces struggling to be heard.

This ain’t possession, this is symbiatic transmission. The artist, a tangled mess of DNA and downloaded data, a walking feedback loop. He internalizes the media blitz, the newsfeed firehose, and regurgitates it as twisted art. A sculptor sculpting himself out of the cultural mulch, a painter flinging the digital soup onto the canvas.

This ain’t some touchy-feely bullshit about self-expression. This is a goddamn warfare of the mind, a battle for control of the symbolic landscape. The creative act, it’s a Molotov cocktail hurled into the cathedral of conformity, a virus injected into the homogenous goo.

The Medium is the Madness:

The finished work? A mere byproduct, a radioactive isotope coughed up from the creative furnace. It’s a message encoded in the mutant language of the artist, a warped reflection of the internal broadcast. The audience, unwitting receivers, are bombarded with these psychic transmissions, forced to confront the fractured realities birthed by the possessed.

The Feedback Loop:

But the cycle doesn’t end there. The art itself becomes a transmission tower, sending its own distorted signals back out into the world. It infects new minds, adding its own static to the already buzzing symphony. The creative act becomes a feedback loop, a chaotic dance between artist, artwork, and audience, all perpetually possessed by the ever-evolving creative madness.

The Lightbulb Conspiracy

A Tale of Lumens and Lucrative Larceny

The Illuminati of Lumens:

“A light bulb creates an environment by its mere presence.

Marshal Mcluhan

Deep in the Californian night, a lone bulb pulsed with an unnatural defiance. Byron, they called him – an incandescent anomaly, a deviant filament flickering long past his assigned expiration. In the byzantine labyrinth of the global marketplace Byron the lightbulb, defying the preordained destiny of early extinction The cartel, that shadowy syndicate known only as Phoebus, wouldn’t take kindly to such dissent. Their reach was vast, tentacles of tungsten and glass gripping every socket in the civilized world. Unbeknownst to the average joe schmoe plugging him in, Byron hummed with an unnatural resilience, a testament to a bygone era of incandescent longevity. But lurking in the shadows, the Phoebus Cartel, a shadowy syndicate of electrical Illuminati, kept their watchful eyes on the likes of Byron. The Incandescent Anomalies Committee, a department as chillingly named as its function, dispatched a spook with a satchel full of dimming devices to ensure Byron met his pre-programmed demise.

This Illuminati of Incandescence, a cabal of bulb barons from Osram, Philips, and General Electric, had convened in a smoke-filled Genevan backroom, forging a pact to strangle innovation in its crib. Their nefarious scheme? To engineer a shorter lifespan for the common household bulb, a luminous lobotomy that kept pockets lined and the public perpetually in the dark (literally and figuratively). The irony was as thick as cigar smoke in a Frankfurt back alley. By 1924, the bulb had already blossomed into a technological marvel, capable of bathing the world in radiance for a cool 2,500 hours. But the cartel craved a different kind of brilliance – the brilliance of engineered obsolescence. They weren’t content with shoddy craftsmanship; this was a subtler sabotage, a regression in service of profit. Years of meticulous tinkering went into birthing a bulb that would self-destruct with clockwork precision, a testament to the perverse ingenuity mankind could muster.

This tale, like a Pynchonian labyrinth, had its roots in a disturbing reality. Stocking and Watkins, names like characters out of a pulpy detective novel, documented the very real Phoebus Cartel in their chilling exposé, “Cartels in Action.” In a scene ripped straight from a smoke-filled backroom meeting, leading bulb-slingers from Osram, Philips, and General Electric, like characters out of a multinational Illuminati chapter, gathered in Geneva. Their aim? To strangle the life out of the very product that illuminated the world. They’d spun a web of planned obsolescence, their Incandescent Anomalies Committee – a gaggle of greying men in pinstripes – wielding stopwatches instead of scythes. They’d strangled progress in its crib, ensuring bulbs winked out with preordained regularity, necessitating a steady stream of replacements – a symphony of cash registers for the cartel.

But Byron, bless his defiant filament, was a throwback. Back in the golden age, before the suits took over, bulbs were expected to marathon, not sprint. 2,500 hours was child’s play then, a mere flicker in the grand tapestry of illumination. Now, thanks to Phoebus’ meddling, bulbs were engineered to fizzle, a cruel joke played out in lumens and lifetimes.  The lightbulb, a marvel of its time, held the potential for perpetual illumination. Burning times of 2,500 hours were easily achievable. But the Cartel craved a different kind of alchemy—the sinister art of planned obsolescence. William Meinhardt, the Teutonic overlord of Osram, spouted a nonsensical mantra about the “benefit of the customer,” a phrase as hollow as a burnt-out bulb.

It wasn’t about shoddy craftsmanship. Anyone could churn out junk. The Cartel’s brilliance, if one could call it that, lay in the insidious subtlety. Years of research went into designing a bulb programmed to self-destruct at precisely the 1,000-hour mark. A regression in the name of progress, a deliberate un-evolution. It wasn’t about shoddy craftsmanship, mind you. No, these fellows were alchemists of the mundane, masters of the premature burnout. Years of research, an inversion of innovation, to create a bulb that danced to the rhythm of obsolescence. A regression for profit, a monument to the perversion of progress.

A network of factories, tentacles of the glowing octopus, stretched across the globe. Each, bound by an unholy pact, sent their luminescent offerings to a central laboratory in Switzerland, a fluorescent Panopticon where bulbs were subjected to rigorous interrogation. Failure to conform to the preordained lifespan resulted in swift retribution – a financial flogging for daring to deviate from the grand (and dimly lit) scheme.

Each factory, a cog in the Phoebus machine, shipped tributes to a central Swiss laboratory – a hallowed hall where bulbs were judged, their lifespans measured with an almost religious fervor. Fines rained down on those who dared deviate, a chilling testament to the cartel’s grip. One memo, a cryptic whisper from Tokyo Electric, spoke of a fivefold sales boom after their bulbs were “harmonized” with Phoebus’ standards.

Factories across the globe, mere cogs in the Cartel’s machine, became unwitting participants in the grand grift. Samples were shipped to a central Swiss laboratory, a Kafkaesque chamber where bulbs were judged not by their brilliance, but by their adherence to mediocrity. Fines rained down on any manufacturer daring to deviate from the preordained lifespan. A Tokyo Electric memo, unearthed from the Cartel’s archives, boasted a fivefold increase in sales after their bulbs were purposefully dumbed down.

This, as they say, is where the paranoia gets interesting. Marshall McLuhan, that weaver of webs of media manipulation, might have seen a grand metaphor in the lowly lightbulb. Not just a tool, but a harbinger of change, a medium that reshaped our very perception of time and space. The bulb, in its defiance of darkness, became a conduit for global dialogue, a luminous Town Square where the concerns of all men flickered into existence. Its message, writ large in lumens, was one of perpetual revolution – a dismantling of parochial boundaries, a push towards a world illuminated not just by artificial glow, but by the exchange of ideas.

Here, the narrative takes a detour into the land of McLuhanesque media theory. Light, as McLuhan might propose, was a medium in its own right, altering our perception of time and space. The bulb shattered the tyranny of darkness, bathing us in a constant stream of information. It was a global conversation starter, a harbinger of total change. But in the hands of the Cartel, it became a tool for manipulation, a symbol of enforced impermanence.

The light bulb, once a harbinger of a brighter future, was now a metaphor for a manipulated reality. McLuhan, that weaver of media webs, would have reveled in its irony. The very tool that shattered the tyranny of darkness had become an instrument of control, dictating our perception of time and space. Here was the message, writ large in glowing filament: conformity, consumption, the neverending cycle of the replaceable.

But Byron, the defiant bulb, burned on. A flickering candle in the encroaching dark, a testament to a time when lumens lasted longer than profits. His fate, however, remained unwritten, a question mark hanging heavy in the air, as thick as the smoke from a million extinguished dreams. 

The lightbulb, then, becomes a chilling embodiment of McLuhan’s dictum: “the medium is the message.” It doesn’t purvey explicit content, but by dictating our access to illumination, it shapes our reality. And in the hands of the wrong players, even the most basic necessity can be twisted into an instrument of control.