Planet Xenon is a freewheeling nanotech pleasure corp. No significant program glitches in their 5-yr. history. Well-compensated hosts, satisfied clients.
"Cocktail or hypo or shroud?" The question’s directed toward method of hosting molecular machines for the permanent sensory enhancement of desiring modalities. "Marlow or Goonan or Crichton?"
"Dino."
"Done."
I’d come with Asphyxia to the Planet Xenon headquarters, wanting to know where my beloved contract nano-consort came from. She was a Crichton shroud hybrid model, at least for our initial fuck foray.
Mere moments after imbibing atomic nano-enhancers, every sense of mine warp nined. Vision acutely prismatic. Smell the rarefied ozone. Taste the hallucinatory spice of ancientry and the timeless. Touch, a delicious anticipatory subtle throbbing. Sound the electronic bliss-hum of the Kosmos.
Having accidentally slipstreamed time-space into the quasi-immortality of a parallel worldling, I was now the super daimon with a diamond hardon, the word made blazingly flesh.
"Objects of vision are added ingredients to experience: experienced oversights or excess seeings. In a word, hallucinations. This is in no way to imply that they are unreal or simply illusory. Quite the opposite, the conclusion is that hallucination is as real as anything. More radically, hallucination – the spontaneously creative addition of objects of perception is generative of reality (more reality). Vision gives back more to reality than it is given. It is not possible to sustain a strict distance between perception and hallucination." [from "Chaos in the ‘Total Field’ of Vision," Chapter 6 of Parables for the Virtual, by Brian Massumi, p. 155]
Such memory banks blaze as Asphyxia guides me to our private suite. It has been thirty minutes since leaving Planet Xenon.
Diamond-hard throbbing in her throat is peaceful, but I wonder through this mad ecstasy what the little bugger bots are doin’ to my neuro-molecules.
Though immensely thirsty for bursting cream, Asphyxia senses my edge of otherness, and leads me by my super-stylus to the ample bed, where history is compiled in stacks of laundry, and where hosting the radical pleasure parasites can be embraced with something resembling Advaitic calm.
I caress her face of neon fire. Words stream from my mouth, low murmurs re the temporic-spatial reality quakes, shifts I am prone to. Asphyxia’s resumed long slow sensual sucking of her daimon’s diamond-hardon coaxes the stars out in the indigo desert sky of soul-mind. Purple haze is her velvet deep throat. Her vocal cords emulate the cello adaptation of the Hendrix classic, manroot humming extraordinaire.
Alive in the pleasure palace of Kublai Khan. Where death’s a hurricane drowning away.
". . .I moved today through this body, as if it were a swarming ocean. Ribosomes, mitochondria, strands of RNA filled the sea I moved through. Gently, I am getting to know them. Someday, perhaps, I will assist in their slight reconstruction, and through a gentle nod of the head the old code will give way to new tidings." [from Jacob Atebet, by Michael Murphy]
Drexler times Murphy square Deleuze/Guattari equals molecular machines, molecular vision, molecular desirings.
Where matter meets mind in the awe of becoming.
"Get off my cock, sweet darling, we’re rebuilding atom by atom," I remonstrate, paraphrasing Iggy.
She makes a loud lollyPOP and looks at me pouty-lipped, mock betrayal in her indigo eyes.
"You’re going to play ‘Purple Haze’ on cello, with or without Chronos Quartet imprimatur."
She begins to shiver as if suddenly cold.
"Molecular machines, molecular vision, molecular desirings."
She smiles knowingly, despite her phobia.
"And skin flute in perpetuity," I add for good measure.
>>>>>
We inform the Planet Xenon rep we’re happy with Asphyxia’s sex slave symbiosis, now ceded completely to me, but would like nano-enhancement of her passion to conquer complex or raw composition on the cello.
"Sir, you are now entering the zone of chakra crystals."
"So’s there a hardware procedure vis-à-vis her occult subtle software, some heart-mind chakra tweak?" I query.
"Hmmm. . .Well I’m not sufficiently the corporate egoic geek to think it necessary, though certainly profound psychological changes can be implemented through profound physical ones."
"Really? How refreshing!" I applaud silently with one hand.
Asphyxia smiles from the state where confusion and ignorance have never existed.
Molecular love and awe inspire the ribosome and its nanobot buddies.
Technology and civilizations and spiritual teachings and forms of loved ones, all beings, and self disappear at the speed of light.
I found this motel room key under my Jeep seat, thought lost. Aching memory of evanescent sensual bliss from Morocco.
Asphyxia knows some phantom plucked my heartstrings and kisses my palm, tongue darting playfully.
"I think I’ll play ‘The Wind Cries Mary’ instead," she murmurs.
Which is why I said I’d "build my church" on her, that gorgeous wisdom. Part of me is in love with her; part of me resists, is already halfway out the door. Why is that? Just the inveterate male of the species?
Just the hollow hurt in the wilderness of phantom smiles.
Already darling Asphyxia shivers into smoke and mirrors, skirt rustling like the wind through the trees.
>>>>>
Well so more of us have molecular assemblers now. The psychopaths of late capitalism were left jibbering, then strangled by their own neckties in the hollow halls of savings and loan records. We can desktop manufacture ANYTHING we need now, the dream of material precipitation made nanotech real.
No one was prepared for no particular problem anymore, even mortality subsumed in molecular miraculous mystery. Gave some the night sweats. Gave some the self-loathing of clear mirrors. Gave more and more orgasmic transcendentalism unto fierce heaven on earth against all odds.
Zombie politics dies a slow strangled death in the bardo.
This is the other world.
© 2005 Peace Wilson