The Wreck Of The Beautiful

July 2, 2009, 14:46
Filed under: The Cityscape


You find yourself ashore this foul harbour, part of a gigantic, rain-soaked urban landscape; some form of Oceania, New Bedlam, New Ataraxia and the Interzone all spliced together. It doesn’t matter what you call it or what it looks like from where you stand at any particular moment in time. Spend long enough in this place and you will come to gain an inkling of how large it is, how it changes constantly – a territory impossible to map definitively, its politics too fickle and short-lived to fully grasp, its history too incongruent and overlapping, convoluted, paradoxical.

Think of the Cityscape as being itself a multiverse, an ever world-making, planetary snowflake surging kaleidoscopically in nauseous mutation. Think of it as a metropolitan Aleph, a united infinity, the single glance within which all reality is manifest simultaneously. The veritable horizon of “equal-opportunity”; its territory is home to every self-serving political regime, every black corporation, every fringe movement, every psycho-slasher, every occultist nutcase and closet-revolutionary, every sociopath freak and half-human transient – you name it, you’ll find it here. A place for the resolutely lonely, the outcast, the reject, the escapist and the extremophile alike. A place you’ll visit repeatedly to inoculate the small doses of your poison of choice, your heavy liquid, your vellocet, your synthemesc, your drencrom. They are all readily available.

Obsessed with the sprawling technoscape, as it exhales its pungent smell of nihilistic frivolity, myself and few others labour neurotically at the infinite task of drawing its impossible map. Call us the Extremophiles. Aristocrats who have thinned out their blood, the natural body engineered for harshness and deprivation now infatuated with chimeras fashioned from printing inks, hertzian waves, cathode rays, copper filament and liquid crystal. We are the future, we are the men devoid of criteria. Addicted to the little horror-show we fill our stomachs to the brim, engorging on the overwhelming surge of information. We flounder in culture shock, dizzy, drowning in bewildering emptiness, relishing every moment. Powerless to resist the daily fix, we contort nauseated and digest it all and know there is no way out.

This is the Cityscape. And these are the chronicles of one of the Extremophiles. Little acts of thoughtcrime; my lawless, pointless revolution. Here you will certainly find the privileged view to the eternal repetition of the wreck of the Beautiful. Welcome. Welcome to the Cityscape.