On Suntopia

## The City, Or, Where To Live

I've been trying to answer a very basic question: where to live and how to live there. It feels like there are simultaneously a million options and one. On the one hand there's the quiet life: move to some small city or provincial town, with more space and the same faces seen regularly. This is a life more like my childhood, which felt peripheral then and probably would still now. The other option is the metropolis, a beating centre with lots to do, lots of _hot chances_, lots of friendships to make and remake. But I've liven that life and I struggled to make ends meet, I was exhausted all the time, and I didn't see all those equally busy friends as often as I wanted. Much of the experience felt purchased, nothing felt like my own. It felt always like living in borrowed spaces and on someone else's time. There was no spontaneity and it always felt temporary.

This question is not uncommon. A lot people of my generation find themselves wedged between some basic desires and an immovable material reality. We want to be where the things are happening, to be where our friends are, to be presented with an abundance of jobs and opportunities. To make a go of it and know that we tried. To live life large, beyond the parochial horizon. But whenever a desire inhabits a broad base, it demonstrates a ripeness for pretty solid product-market-fit. The shared desire to be "where the things are" is sold as the life more vibrant, forever aspirational. It is a product you buy with sky-rocketing rent, a crippling cost of living, and dwindling communal spaces.

Under the yoke of neoliberalism, more and more cities are converging on one standard model. Berlin is losing its edge. It could be Rotterdam or anywhere. During the last austerity steeped decade, a lot of neighbours slowly (or not so slowly) came to host the same destination nightlife: a strip of bars and restaurants that ebb and flow with the same trends - burgers in Paris, ramen in London. Every bar was cocktails, then craft beer, now natural wine. Every dish is now a small plate for sharing with anyone can actually afford to eat out. The modern city: first as the hot new alternative, then as housing crisis.

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## Social Quitting

I recently read Cory Doctorow's post _Social Quitting_. Written in the wake of the 2022 Twitter exodus, he outlines how the big social media platforms of the 2010s engineered a mechanism for vendor lock-in by becoming the sites where everyone was. In the article, Doctorow tracks how tech platforms follow the same classic strategy of attracting users quickly through easy-of-use and unique features, before turning around and maximising profits through the distribution of advertising and the monetisation of user-generated content.

These platforms position themselves as forums that facilitate the now and the happening. Users sign-up on the promise of a web of community and access to the opportunity. Social media platforms thrive on being where everyone is and where everything is taking place. Facebook is moving fast and breaking things. Twitter is "what's happening" as it asks you to "join the conversation".

> "When economists and sociologists theorize about social media, they em­phasize ""network effects."" A system has ""network effects"" if it gets more valuable as more people use it. You joined Facebook because you valued the company of the people who were already using it; once you joined, other people joined to hang out with you." - Cory Doctorow

But as Google et al's lawyers have stressed while interpreting US anti-trust laws, nothing of value is created by Twitter, YouTube, or Instagram directly. They are the venue, they are the marketplace. A vector for desire, not fulfilment. This is platform capitalism — where everything is loaned or rented, and nothing is sold.

Building a following on YouTube is a time-consuming and ceaseless endeavour. You may have a 1000 follows on Instagram, but the algorithm will start to bury your posts if you miss a day. The reward system that underpins these platforms is engineered to surface monetisable content. It is selective, and it will bury content that is dull, ordinary, or pedestrian. And it get's harder every day: as the platforms shift gears to squeeze out new revenue streams by improving things for advertisers, the quality of the user experience is usually what takes the hit. Doctorow terms this the "enshittification" of the platform. It's why Instagram shows you more and more ads, and few and few posts from people you actually know.

It's no accident that only [25% of Twitter accounts post 97% of the platforms tweets](https://www.socialmediatoday.com/news/new-study-shows-that-25-of-twitter-users-produce-97-of-all-tweets/610146/). The platform business model is rigidly structured around selling space beside engagement. It divides users into posters and lurkers: those generating content and those that feed-back on content. For most users, social media platforms are not an active community: despite discouraging explicit anonymity, few know your name. You exist on the periphery even if you turn up every day. But for at least a few years, Twitter was where the internet happened. Being "extremely online" was a buzzy hit of the zeitgeist straight to the dopamine receptors. So what are we left with?

> When you leave a system, you have to endure "switching costs" – every­thing you give up when you change products, services, or habits. Quitting smoking means enduring not just the high switching cost of nicotine with­drawal, but also contending with the painful switching costs of giving up the social camaraderie of the smoking area, the friends you"ve made there, and the friends you might make there in the future. - Cory Doctorow

Where do we go now? You could go home and read a book, but public libraries have been defunded and closed. You could watch a film, but the multiplicity of streaming platforms all but cancel each other out until none of them have the necessary turnover of content to stay fresh and engaging. There's a weird tension that presents itself, between what appears on the surface to be a plethora of choice, but turns out to be instead a dearth, a monopolistic sameness that you find when you really dig in.

Online platforms make money by renting advertising space. They encourage people to see those adverts by providing a distribution network for user-generated content. It is the privatisation of the social milieu, converting public discourse into a product. The neoliberal city does the same through the privatisation of public space. It is increasingly hard to find anywhere to socialise that doesn't require you to spend money, and policymakers seem to less inclined to prioritise the city as a set network of communities. Instead, urban policy increasingly sees the city as another platform.

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## Vendor lock-in

Vendor lock-in is one of those gross symptoms of late capitalism. For all its prothletising about the free market, capitalism is not interested in keeping anything free. Freedom is of the utmost importance when investors are looking at _new_ markets: nothing should stop players entering a market. But once a market has been shucked open, the focus switches to wedging the coffers open so that profits mainline directly into a few greedy pockets.

There are two sides to vendor lock-in. There is the sales monopoly that prevents consumers from circumnavigating a major player, and there's the protectionist methodologies that ensure the extractivism can continue. The latter is not always understood as vendor lock-in — but when only a handful of companies have the skills, technologies, and legal apparatûs to act in an economic space, you better believe they stay locked-in. Extractivism thrives on converting those provisioning goods and resources into increasingly exploited dependants. Once a country converts its economy toward foreign investment through the sale of natural resources, if it does not reinvest in localising those skills and technologies, it will be beholden to foreign money until that money runs out.

The smash and grab of extractivist imperialism is a logic as old as capitalism: first come the gunboats then come the railroads back out to the coast. Capitalism wants access and it wants assets. It wants resources ready to use or sell. Capital filters upwards, it congeals on top. It wants liquidity only so long as it flows out and upward. It rarely trickles back down. Vendor lock-in keeps the ball rolling with an existing process by blocking out competition. Innovation is often only a prelude to extraction.

Despite the boom of new tech platforms over the last decade, very few actually actually had business models that produced genuine profits. But because of the deep pockets of angel investors, they didn't need to. Uber could afford to be the cheapest ride going, because it didn't need to cover costs. This was never the goal. Instead, it was trying to drive traditional taxi companies out of business until there was no competition left. Then those low prices evaporate, as has happened in the past couple years. What we are left with is a deregulated service, where most drivers struggle to make minimum wage and others fall into immiserating debt, [like the owners of New York taxi medallions](https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2021/oct/02/new-york-city-taxi-medallion-drivers-debt).

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## Regenerating Our Relationship To Place

When I worked at a pub in Peckham in the summer of 2014, I remember having a very sobering conversation with a regular about the changing nature of the neighbourhood. He was an electrician who was born and raised on the next street over. He told me how he had just been offered upwards of a million pounds for the flat he had lived in for decades. But he found the proposition of such a life changing amount of money quite disturbing. He could take the money, but where would he go? Everyone he knew, his family and friends, the minutiae of his life was rooted in place.

When we talk about the way cities have changed in recent decades its impossible to ignore the vast swathes of displacement that have taken place. When a neighbourhood falls into the cross-hairs of property developers, it is working-class and immigrant communities who suffer. The decision to regenerate an urban area is always couched in the language of improvement, of support, of well-meaning optimism. Who doesn't want better services and cleaner roads? But such policy proposals seem only to mask the true intentions that drive these regeneration projects.

In *[Against the Manchester Model](https://tribunemag.co.uk/2022/11/against-the-manchester-model)*, Issac Rose outlines a process that began transforming the city of Manchester way back in the late 1980s. It's a process that echoes in numerous other cities, it is something of a neoliberal blueprint for the 21st Century city. It goes like this: a city council looks to rejuvenate an area, and while they could do this through public funding, it's a hard sell only exacerbated by widespread austerity measures. So in step a web of private entities and property developers, who make a well-honed pitch that the best way to attract investment is by converting the area into a destination for nightlife, shopping, and dining — "the embrace of "entrepreneurialism"". The seeks to bring money in by appealing to a different demographic — one that is younger, more affluent, more middle-class, with a more monetisable set of desires.

> In parallel to the state-led efforts to regenerate decaying industrial zones, was a concerted effort to tap into what was in the mid-2000s the trend of the day among urban policymakers—the "creative class". This concept, drawn from the work of neoliberal booster Richard Florida, argued that if cities were to compete globally, they would need to be attractive to a class of people in professions as wide and varied and "scientists, poets, actors, writers, finance, legal, healthcare and wealth management"—a menagerie which he gave the overall title as representatives of the creative class. Manchester was praised by Florida himself in 2003 as the UK"s most "creative" and "enterprising" city. - Issac Rose

But obviously this cash has strings attached. The goal here is not social welfare or the revitalisation of the local community, but for profits to be channelled back into the pockets of the developers. Any existing communities are collateral. And despite their aspirational desires, the middle-classes that have moved in would do well to recognise they are not benefitting either. Maybe some are starting to see that it takes more than bars, boutiques and brasseries to forge a place into a home. The city as product is revealing itself as a lifeless inorganic husk, lacking the types of spaces needed to bring people together. Houses should be more than just financial assets, neighbourhoods should be where we meet and help one another. The city is not a platform. The enshittification intensifies as rents continue to rise, communal spaces are closed, and public services fall away. The only winners in this scenario have been the developers who cashed out.

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## Moving Away Is Not Checking Out

But what are the options? For many, it seems to be to leave the big cities. Since the pandemic, if the endless headlines are to be believed, cities like New York and London have seen inhabitants steadily picking up sticks and moving elsewhere — either to smaller regional cities or to the countryside. Others are staying put, either organising in active opposition, or just trying to carve out some space where they can live and stay sane. But both options require time and energy that working people have in short supply.

Moving out of the metropolis is not some silver bullet. New arrivals into regional cities are bringing a housing crisis with them. But, in the UK context at least, the fact is there just aren't enough houses across the country. The social housing stock was sold off in the 80s, and never replaced. As easy as it is to blame an influx of people for exacerbating these problems it's important to recognise that this is a policy failure. In fact, it is a string of colliding policy failures: unrestricted rentier profiteering in the big cities drive people into new smaller cities with a lack of housing.

Life in the country is in some ways much more self-sufficient. You can make decisions for yourself because you have space and distance. As such, it is arguably much easier in rural areas to develop projects that stand in stark contrast to atomised home-ownership and rentier capitalism in the cities. Land trusts and housing cooperatives are the obvious examples. But the question of whether those approaches can scale enough to be impactful makes clear the importance of urban approaches, such as rent strikes and tenant unions.

Solidarity is crucial. At the end of the day, well-to-do middle class folk have far more in common with working class and immigrant communities than they do with the super rich who are buying up their cities. If you're moving to a new city, it's important to engage and understand the existing problems and what is being done to remedy them. Those moving to more rural areas need to engage with the existing community so that they can find a way to belong that isn't antagonistic.

Marketing the city as a branded product has been so successful because the sales pitch is the same as it is for all products: that it will make life better. But it hasn't, and if left unchecked it will only get worse. It is hard work building any sort of community. It takes a long time and it takes space. Defining that space, and protecting it long enough for the community to take root is what is needed if we are to transform cities from products back into homes.


The City Is Not A Platform

![a gif of a spinning cone](https://i.imgur.com/Co4AF1z.gif)

A cone is a shape that combines two shapes. Viewed from above, a cone is a perfect circle, a continuous set of concentric circles imploding to an apex. Viewed from the side, a cone is a triangle: a polygon formed by the smallest number of points possible in a given two-dimensional plane. By contrast, a circle is formed from an infinite collection of points. A single point fewer than infinity would render the circular shape into a high-pointed polygon and no longer in fact a circle. Triangles and circles then form two ends of a spectrum when visualizing the world through Euclidean geometry. Triangles become the most basic, most real component of this visual language; circles the most virtual.

Computer graphics, like those in 3D modeling and computer games, consist mostly of triangles. Other shapes, such as squares and octagons, are made through the combination of smaller triangles. In graphical renderings, like those used to design, pitch, and sell architectural builds, there are no circles. Even if the rendering engine can plot a perfect circle, your computer monitor can render it through its grid of pixels. Instead, what may appear to be a circle is a set of thousands of triangles so close together that they give the illusion of a circle. But the circle you think you are seeing isn't there. Perhaps squint a little harder.

Circles and triangles are two of the most important symbols in ritual magick, and occult and magical religions through time and across cultures. The circle embodies renewal, return, rebirth. The Ouroboros. The pure vertex-less edge is the unbreakable passage of time and eternal return. Triangles are symbols of creation. In Wicca, the triangle is the symbol of the mother. Triangles, bound to the number three, are the start of things. They arise out of the marriage of stasis (a single point) to tension (the duality of two points). Thesis, antithesis, synthesis.

The magickal cone of power ritual is used to channel the powers of a group or coven on a single task. By collecting the endless recursion of the circle and forcing it up through the apex at the other end of a triangle, the power of the group is concentrated through the cone out into the universe. Historical covens can and have directed this energy at specific focal points - an end goal, a set location, a future to be birthed.

The conical connection between a single focal point of power and a base of communal collective is found throughout political science. Parliamentary democracy functions when a set of elected members are each tasked to collect and arbitrate the needs of their constituents. The process works in the same way as a mathematical convolution matrix, that averages the information from a region and compresses it.

![pyramid of capitalist society](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/2/26/Anti-capitalism_color%E2%80%94_Restored.png/1280px-Anti-capitalism_color%E2%80%94_Restored.png)

Politics itself is a performative activity that looks to channel energy into action. By performative, I mean it must be done, not that it is staged. To perform politics is to take the raw energies of need, unrest and urgency and to actualize around a focal point; a latent point of change. It bounds formless energies into a circular field of activity around a central tension that must be addressed. That central tension calcifies as it rises up the societal apparatus. Every step towards the intended change transmutes the original driving energy into more solid forms: laws, social programmes, architecture and technologies.

In *Postscript on the Societies of Control*, Deleuze (referencing Foucault) terms state and community institutions (prison, hospital, factory, school, family) as "environments of enclosure". Participating in society, in disciplinary societies, brings you inside closed environments. The logic of the disciplinary society is triangular - the singular authority sits at the top above multitudes of subsets each dominating those below. Each institution requires the subjected individual to start a new:

> In the disciplinary societies one was always starting again (from school to the barracks, from the barracks to the factory), while in the societies of control one is never finished with anything

The society of control that Deleuze outlines follows instead the endless logic of the circle, the serpent; continued assessment and ongoing learning.

Perhaps the cone of power has not changed much at all. If it has gone from Foucault's triangular disciplinary enclose to Deleuze's endless circle of control, perhaps it has just fallen over. Either way, we are still inside the uneven conical topology of capitalism, except on its side is more disorientating.


Cone of Power

Like the multitude of beliefs and practices it refers to, the occult is a very indeterminate term. Broadly it encompasses activities "involving or relating to mystical, supernatural, or magical powers, practices, or phenomena", but it also means to hide from view, as an eclipse hides the sun. In medicine, an occult illness is one without any visible symptoms, a mysterious illness that eludes prognosis. The occult is a catch-all for forces not seen, activities unsanctioned, powers not formally recognised. Folk practices, ritual magick, radical acts of otherness.

![a witch-y picture featuring a black cat](https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fbucketeer-e05bbc84-baa3-437e-9518-adb32be77984.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F7283cc9c-8a2c-4d0d-89e7-addb68f44d72_1000x400.gif)

As a term, the occult feels somewhat archaic. In as far as it evokes dark covens and rituals, it brings to mind the imagery of premodern, preindustrial beliefs. Certainly, it is no longer threatening, it no longer conveys strength or supernatural power. It is hard to imagine a fear of the occult driving a continent-wide international policy of arrests, trials and executions - that is now the purview of the endless war on terror. Instead, the occult is child's play - the stuff of fairy-tales and superhero villains.

Looking back to the medieval fear of the occult does however shed light on the social structure of that time. Studying what made the occult groups so intimidating can show us what alternative communities opposing hegemonic power look like. By studying how the occult gave up the ghost, we can see how the mechanisms of power have shifted under modern capitalism.

Eugene Thacker's *In The Dust of this Planet* takes a trip down into six circles of horror fiction, exploring different intensities of the same very human obsession with threats from the unknown, fears of the dark, and otherness. But what starts as a circle, the magic circle, melts into a primordial oily ooze. Fear of the unconsecrated and heretical is here boiled down to a deep, pressing fear of the supernatural powers of nature, that the earth will open up and swallow us whole.

Out of this study, a set of dichotomies emerge that frame and contextualise these fears: church/heretic, science/supernatural, self/other, inside/out, hidden/revealed. Each tension reflects cosmologies that are at the base of the set of world-views and hegemonic ideologies that conscripted the social fabric of European culture for the last millennium.

In *Caliban and the Witch*, Silvia Federici charts these same cosmologies as they coalesce at the genesis of capitalism. Federici views the birth of capitalism as a failure to thoroughly address the inequalities of feudalism. Land rights, labour rights, and women's rights form a triumvirate in this history, forcing the groundswell of civil unrest that oppressive systems inevitably produce:

>From the vantage point of this struggle, we can also see that capitalism was not the product of an evolutionary development bringing forth economic forces that were maturing in the womb of the old order. Capitalism was the response of the feudal lords, the patrician merchants, the bishops and popes, to a centuries-long social conflict, that in the end, shook their power, and truly gave "all the world a big jolt." Capitalism was the counter-revolution that destroyed the possibilities that had emerged from the anti-feudal struggle - possibilities which, if realized, might have spared us the immense destruction of lives and the natural environment thathas marked the advance of capitalist relations worldwide. This much must be stressed, for the belief that capitalism "evolved" from feudalism and represents a higher form of social life has not yet been dispelled.

The rigid power structure of feudal Europe produced opposition between those on top and those below - the church and nobility against tenant peasants, artisans & day-labourers, and women. Women's access to land, work and freedom during this period were all but non-existent, so communities of women living together in urban centres rose in response. As Federici points out, it is no accident that witches are typically portrayed as women, that 80% of those murdered by the brutal witch-hunts of the inquisition were women. The witch-hunts were an attempt to neutralise the political threat from unmarried women doing their own thing and living alone beyond the need from the church or gentry. That covens of women living outside the church community form the prototypical definition of the occult is very telling. That the occult was and is linked to feminine power speaks to its radical importance.

Its association with the supernatural and heretical grew out of the power dynamics of medieval Europe dominated by the extrajudicial superstate of the Catholic church. Threatened by the Protestant Reformation, heretical beliefs were at any given time whatever the church deemed outside the canon. During the Christianisation of northern Europe and after, this meant any number of age-old religious pagan rites alongside transient folk rituals. Delineating these rituals as heretical, the church forced them underground and into hiding; forbidden, clandestine, performed amongst the trees and at night.

Curiously, now that capitalism has grown to swallow the whole world, a strange inversion seems to have taken place. The optics of power relations have changed: those in power have stepped back from view behind complex systems surveillance and legal apparatus that renders those below are more visible than ever. Capitalism as a power structure manages to put a lot more water between the ruling classes and those at the bottom, muddying that water wherever possible. The vastness of global supply chains, the legalese of state bureaucracy, the automation of global finance; all have the effect of obfuscating power and subverting accountability. The seat of power now is no place. So where can anyone go to protest and rebel?

Thacker poses the question:

> What happens to the concept of politics once one confronts the possibility that the world only reveals its hiddenness, in spite of the attempts to render it as a world-for-us, either via theology (sovereign God, sovereign king) or via science (the organismic analogy of the state)?

I have recently moved to Vilnius to do a residency at Rupert. Here I hope to explore how new folk practices and rituals could form in opposition to the increasingly covert power structures: the automation of bureaucracy, financialisation technology, and big data surveillance. Through the lens of the occult, I'm hoping to see how communal acts of ritual togetherness could empower new dissidence.

To quote Donna Haraway:

> The task is to make kin in lines of inventive connection as a practice of learning to live and die well with each other in a thick present. Our task is to make trouble, to stir up potent response to devastating events, as well as to settle troubled waters and rebuild quiet places.


Eighteen Black Cats

## 1—Michael Douglas, out the car now

How should we construct our spatial notions of the internet? Primarily, it would seem that the online world is an infinite sprawl, an endless open expanse. But even within that boundless continuum, online space has it's own geography, it's own geometry, and it's own dimensionality. What these are and how they govern our movements is not straight-forward. It's a non-euclidean, largely psychic non-place, akin to a telephone conversation. It can be anonymous and transient, ever-changing: waypoints online are in continuous motion, more like an ocean than solid ground. Rarely is a webpage identical day-to-day, year-on-year. As you keep clicking past memes of cats, embedded video, abandoned shopping carts, pop-up windows, how do you stay orientated? We become carless drivers. How long does it take to walk across America? How long does it take to walk across America on Google Street View?

To consider the internet in these terms may be dumb, but stay with me for a minute as it could be an important undertaking. We are spatial creatures: so many of the ways we conceive the world are localised, site-specific and dependent on physical orientation. So what of taking this spatial reasoning online? One problem here is that the internet is not its corporeal extent. It is a conglomerated cultural phenomena, not a singular place. There are many internets. So perhaps this problem should be repositioned as a problem of relation and engagement. You can easily move through a space and you can easily live out your time in it, but how can you engage, critically or productively, with something that you do not comprehend the physicality of?

In *Too Much World*, the artist Hito Steyerl discusses the internet as an almost Bataillean economy of surplus, one that must itself reckon with the incredible pressures it exerts against the already permeable membrane of its own enclosure. Steyerl suggests that it is not the movement of ourselves into online environments that is dehumanising, but the movement of the internet into our offline realm, as it moves to colonise our world outside the browser. This is a direct mirroring of other post-modern trajectories: of realism into hyper-reality; of experience-as-representation becoming representation-as-experience. But at the same time, traditional politics fails to penetrate into the internet's territory.

Contemporary internet discourse would seem at a similar loss, finding it hard to move beyond poetic imagery used to conceptualise the web, failing to break the threshold of metaphor. But perhaps this illuminates a layer to the web's logic: as metaphor; as a virtual space of Deleuzian possibility. In a semiotic sense, the web is nothing but a set of signifiers hyperlinked together, lacking physical counterpart. This is true, but ironically tells us next to nothing about being present online. From a materialist perspective, the internet is interconnected banks of servers, nodes and protocols, and the web is nothing beyond the content to which these mechanisms facilitate access. This too is true, but does not resolve the problems we find with our spatial awareness online. Where are we?

If the internet is to be viewed as a realm of informatic expanse, we need to focus on the logic that abstracts between two disparate realities: an abstraction that governs any and all translations between physical space, and web presence. Is seeking such a logic an absurd notion? In desperately wanting some spatial context to grasp, the desire may raise more questions that it answers. But cmon, we need to find *some* framework for critique: to understand the break between our conception of the internet as structured content and the structure itself; between the limitless vastness of this cultural phenomena and the huge, but very much finite, network of hardware that holds it. In short, we'll need to face the dream-logic of our world online head-on.

## 2—Why did you film clouds?

Could we film the internet? Where would we begin? In media res - but where would we stand the lights, position the microphones? The browser both takes care of the mise-en-scene while assuming the leading role. How
would you structure the narrative? The denouement comes when, after endlessly scrolling Tumblr for 84 minutes, you look up to realise you have missed the credits and that you are just sat in a dark room.

In the first act of Tarkovsky's 1972 masterpiece *Solaris*, a returning visitor from the Solaric ocean surface presents an investigative body with an account of his uncanny hallucinations. His testimony is detailed and sincere, but upon replaying the film he made of his experiences we see only clouds - pure abstraction. "Is that it?" asks one of the bureaucrats. The cosmonaut's own disappointment is real: "I wasn't expecting this". A number of rational responses can be proposed for the discrepancy between the film and the cosmonaut's own account. Maybe there is a conspiracy: the reels were switched, the film is fake news; maybe the planet's electromagnetic fields corrupted the tape. But as we find, the problem was not with the planet's atmosphere or the camera's fidelity but that the cosmonaut himself was sadly fooled into believing in his own desire.

In *Solaris*, unconscious libidinal desire manifests itself to each of the doomed crew members orbiting above the fluid planet. They are slowly driven mad by the material manifestations of their subconscious, by apparitions of dwarfs, daughters and dead lovers. Each of them investigate and wrestle with personal demons. Each violent attempt to remove or destroy their phantoms is ultimately futile, and so is denied the moral gravity of violence, and the horror of real loss is replaced with a horror of recursion and return.

As Žižek discusses, the diegetic logic of *Solaris* lies in a very male fantasy of otherness, being an Id machine that presents the female as an empty projection of the protagonist's own traumatised, self-absorbed psyche, and incomplete memories. Cinema has long been understood as a medium that facilitates fantasies and desires, that plays out dream logics through an affective audio-visual materiality. A virtual space, cinema uses its proximity with reality as a method to regurgitate the problems of reality back out in a reductive purity that is just as problematic. The material reality of what is recorded is only ever a partial explanation for the power of cinema. You can visit the locations, meet the actors, but this will never lead you through into the film's world. The film's integrity cannot be punctured.

Is the internet any different?

## 3—The internet is a self-atomising machine

To approach the internet from an analytical, rational perspective misses something vital. It fails to address why the internet is now so embedded in our lives. To look at it as a series of protocols and operations, to look only to the technology on which it runs will never truly help you to understand the psychological mechanisms which compel Facebook users so readily upload personal data, nor account for the utter lack of public backlash against the ongoing revelations of NSA surveillance. To begin to unpick such a bizarre phenomenon as daily web use, let's consider the web as a libidinal machine. For both users and developers, it is a space of unbridled potential through which desire runs riot. And this provides it with the power it wields to trap us.

One need only look to journalism to find the carnage of this trap. For a long time now, newspapers have given up on hard truth in favour of a narrative they are writing. But with web-publishing and the crowd-sourced 'conversation' of Twitter et al., the narrative now writes itself. The past decade has shown a media landscape of escalating leads that are, on closer examination, leading themselves. The news now runs on the same impetus as the tension-driven fingers on an Ouija board, or the mass anarchic bacchanalia of *Twitch Plays Pokemon*. One could see hope in this, but only if (like a good libertarian) you think that life can understood simply within the structure of a game, that all reality could fit just as easily into the confines of a 1990's 16-bit computer game for kids.

There is a sentiment that pervades every hackathon and props up every tech start-up: that through technology, all is possible. That creation is boundless. But this is the sort of facile base of an ideology that births a constant paradox. It both demands the results of ongoing scientific research whilst denying the confines of scientifically verifiable material reality. It requires that scientific discovery continue, but demands that physical reality be inexhaustible and limitlessly new. It posits many claims toward a truly revolutionary ambition, whilst actively maintaining the structures of power - be this through the purchase and implementation of military-funded research, the venture capital funding model of any given start-up, or the destruction of workers rights in the creation of the sharing economy. It is a farce. So much of the tech industry, dominated as it is by white male egos, is a trapped in a fantasy that uses the potentiality of virtual spaces as a proxy for the expansion its own libidinal energy. And in doing so it neutralises any real potential there may be.

As for users, if fears and stories surrounding the rising political significance of the alt-right are to be believed, then the fabled internet troll is going to spill over into the real world just as Steyerl predicted. Gamergate did much to show the violent power of male ego online, and behind every death threat Anita Sarkeesian received, was a real-life sender acting out his violent fantasies with the same impunity with which Kris Kelvin repeatedly murders his wife. The true horror of this online violence is the power with which it reinforces itself, as each attack morphs into a form of Freudian wish-fulfilment to be screencapped and shared on 4chan. The logic of the internet is that of the virtual, where the reality of otherness disintegrates, leaving only the self - a network of selves, each seeing the other with no more agency than a twitter bot. It is a psychic space that lacks repercussion. Online, we are alone with our desire.


On Suntopia

The City Is Not A Platform

Cone of Power

Eighteen Black Cats

The Internet As A Libidinal Space