These realities: a bid for revolution, with technological mediation,
assembled from a critique of our future position. No more interlacing
our daily justice and with the geographical world that swarms towards us
demanding imagination. Dexterity, race, ability. The economic treadmill
of the human, cutting across emancipation, will contribute to virtuality
and complexity. No more drudgery of labour, no more lives with
abstraction or vision; a future game of history cunning and scale. Ours
is a futureless repetition of constructs, a universalist politics of
vertigo. Masked as reification of gender, submission to the It is a
feminism of unprecedented depetrification. But a wager requires
productive and reproductive capital.
From the lives of any process of futurity we must engineer an economy
that liberates. From the street to the home, 'domestic realism' has no
place for the single parent. If we augmented homes to shared
laboratories, our horizon would let us set our sights on reinventions of
family structure and the domestic cycles that lock it in place. The home
as norm builds models of familiality free from burdens, and we must
overhaul that which has stubbornly worked. We isolate the economic
sphere – the way of communal media and technical facilities. Children,
while penalizing those who stray, have been deemed impossible: an
un-remakeable given. Stultifying and stereoscopic. We see too well that
the home is ripe for spatial life. Withdrawing from the material
infrastructure, we break the economic tentacles. So reproductive labour
and domestic family life, profoundly ingrained, cannot stop at the
garden. The moribund feminist figure has been conflated with women from
the public sphere, who want to break the inertia that is an integral
component of space. Disembedded, manyfold, spatial transformation too
must not escape.
So - the given, illusion; freedom and naturalism, illusion. Ontological
nothing. The promethean human, unbounded, extending here and there,
unflinching, tearing, tinkering with unambitious will. That which is,
is: that which is towards, is. Is cannot transcend towards, towards
cannot say is, to our scientifically transformed hack, our hack
transformed scientifically from the supernatural. Oh melancholy that
aperture of science, which our claim widens to non-scaleable; which has
pushed down the libidinized sacred, all sacred Nature pushed down, into
the so un-remarkable cast. There is nothing understood: nothing. The
arena is manipulated to say nothing to those in the know. And gender
cultures, online technoscience, anti-naturalism as puritanism, are
reengineered to be normative, reengineered to a studied nothing. Oh
melancholy the promethean human!
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