mvuent
Void Dweller
&Burroughs is emphatic, obsessive: 'In Time any being that is spontaneous and alive will wither and die like an old joke' (WL 111); he notes also that '[a] basic impasse of all control machines is this: Control needs time in which to exercise control' (AM 117). OGU control codings far exceed ideological manipulation, amounting to cosmic reality programming, because-at the limit--'the One God is Tune' (WL 111). The presumption of chronological time is written into the organism at the most basic level, scripted into its unconsciously performed habituated behaviors . . . Power operates most effectively not by persuading the conscious mind, but by delimiting in advance what it is possible to experience. By formatting the most basic biological processes of the organism in terms of temporality, Control ensures that all human experience is of-and in-time . That is why time is a 'prison' for humans . . . Space has to be understood not as empirical extension, still less as a transcendental given, but in the most abstract sense, as the zone of unbound potentialities lying beyond the purview of the OGU's already-written.
Time is a delusion: the impartiality and inseparability of one moment of time's apparent yesterday and another of time's apparent today are enough to make it disintegrate. It is evident that the number of these human moments is not infinite. The basic elemental moments are even more impersonal physical suffering and physical pleasure, the approach of sleep, listening to a single piece of music, moments of great intensity or great dejection. I have reached, in advance, the following conclusion: life is too impoverished not to be also immortal. But we do not even possess the certainty of our poverty, inasmuch as time, easily denied by the senses, is not so easily denied by the intellect, from whose essence the concept of succession seems inseparable. So then, let my glimpse of an idea remain as an emotional anecdote; let the real moment of ecstasy and the possible insinuation of eternity which that night lavished on me, remain confined to this sheet of paper, openly unresolved.