I saw from the waist down a Lamb, wearing every terrain       And out of glass I saw a face like a rainbow       Before him, at the altar in front of the iron, darkness grew       And he did not taste; he blinded my sight       And out of him came a strong angel proclaiming seven others       And from another region there came suddenly grace       And I saw something tender and blazing       Something which burned in the altar       The cloud sat enthroned       It had been in the world, which is worthy, and then it lay in the corner       It burned ardently with seven candlesticks, one like a man clothed with his own mouth       There was also his touch       And the whole mountain stood by

 

Cybernetics is replaced by analysis alone. There is the invention of a theory of life. Ending in what? If it isn’t an oedipal calendar, what is it? Modern machinery is human wisdom, and soft. Fiercer than anything imaginable. As a result we digitize eschatology. Lost futures are wrong, though irresistibly strong. If catastrophe is unjust, change nature! And say something instead about terminating the wet body.

 

And lo, in front of this inspiration, he came adorned in body and hair       And that was in a latter place       And from there, thanks to a great glory, I saw white shoes walk upon a dark sphere       But this was in shadow, not day       And immediately I noticed that five peaks appeared, and then others       Before him, again at the throne       After this there was a turret in the midst of the soil; it raised itself to receive       And from the ropes came four beasts which stood in an unclouded splendor       Also, I beheld, and behold       In the building immediately I saw the viscera of a woman       And a flame sparked from her knees       And I saw a great glory in that fire, and a hole appeared, with a great multitude of eyes       And then came a sharp two-edged sword, and round about the bottom was wrath       And another flame sparked and appeared with a gentle breath       Then I beheld, and behold       And the man was no longer burning; it was done, and it was dawn       The former flame was like a fine brass, as white and thundering       He put his head down before it

 

God is dry computer code, to be animated, worshipped, spiritualized. You can't be stopped. You can't touch without feedback. The vision is the crumbling of whatever cannot— The vision is often associated with the zero. The horror. Body-counter running. Savage pulse.

 

O Almighty God, have mercy on the elements of this body       These mysteries were of another order, as from a yellow lion       Then the mouth of him was on the figure       And that new day was as wine from the Lamb       And from his hands, he said something to the calm light       It had previously been in his tresses like a hill       Then from heaven we departed as if bruised by many living lamps       And lo, others were bright of soul, and yet others seemed pale of body       This was like a little clod of fire burning, which extended itself to look upon our heads       Every mountain was this little clod of Heaven       It had a luminous splendor surrounding it, denoting the wall       And something still luminous was then surrounded in my soul       For we know not day       It had come forth like it was taught in another place       And from the book it was written       And I saw that a moment of rest would not hurt the world       It lay down at the first voice which appeared

 

Modern logic, after all, is conceived as a simulation of flows, switches, and machines. Ours are adamantly synthetic, unsatisfied by skin. God-daddy the graffiti-tagged Garden. God-daddy the obvious project of theology. God-daddy the limit of Eden; it proves effectively ineradicable.

 

And behold, I beheld another pit of fire       And I noticed five peaks appeared; and the four beasts still stood       And his countenance became the calm light       The atmosphere suddenly rose up in color, but a gentle depth appeared       And in a great shock that burning itself extended up into the One       Then the pillar       After this the blazing fire extended up into the shadow       And I noticed five modes of Heaven       And there were the red beasts and also a calf, and behold, a tender image stood there       I now could see him there like bits of metal, shadowed by many living sparks       Who will deliver us?

 

Think about the relations between humans. Think about how the future's already assembled, but it’s not a certainty. Think about how God is slicked insidiously by some basic diagrams. Think about how capital opens onto technics, but now it finally has a body. There is chaotic weather within.

 

And they burned and in that burning I saw a person glowing with his palms       And they were all together brightly living       And the figure of this image stood there, perceiving this       And in his indignation the darkness grew       And I saw as if bruised by sharp thorns       His waist was the color of the blaze       And, in shade, the dark body and island were full       And feet fell like a sardine stone       And he came again from the woman’s limbs       And he glowed white       And it was as if he was bruised by many waters       I saw again that latter place       The same       And then it acquired the previous unclouded splendor

 

I have neither a history of directing, nor of governing. Mesh composes a wet body like mine out of being touched. I am not the operation of the system itself. There is not rebirth. Reality is long-decayed but reminds you of something. This unity of mud and conjunctive synthesis of mud. Consider the screen and the vision as the world. The ultimate goal of all of it is a panic storm.

 

I looked, and, lo, the dawn was lying       I had come forth and from this I heard the covenant of the atmosphere       Its scent was like wool       And he was like air, and the woman also was lying       And a dark portion of each was Heaven       And I, a wing of Heaven       The atmosphere suddenly rose up in the corner of mud       It flew sweetly around the son’s eyes       And round about the woman I saw again the covenant of the world       And he said other people would surely help us       Almighty God, have mercy on this figure that is like fire       And behold, the peaks disappeared, and the sound of glass

 

Time goes weird in the dreams. Time goes weird in proximity to the actual. Consider the deity on the basis of earth and domination. The cycle of the universe. Does lust eat anyone except in sensation? What saves the ancients is a common language, but also a digitally transmitted future. Saved by terminal social communication, the tombstone of piloting theory.

 

The world burned ardently       It came to repent of being in shadow       And I was a great force that the woman knew       And they should not be how we are       Who will help us, the right hand of beauty?        And immediately I saw a well, emitting smoke       Then the grass opened wide its teeth       And I perceived how the dawn and the woman glowed       And behold, they were as if beaten yet still proclaiming a great magnitude       And I perceived how the light withdrew       For we know not who hurt the blaze       After this I kept my head down before the woman in whom I saw all that fire       And after this I no longer saw the fire

 

Thought itself is inverted and propagated through a mathematical punctuality. They are waiting and waiting to ensure that identity remains a dream. The war against God happens on purpose: an expression and a religion. The eschaton is too hot and too real. Just as it’s terminating poetry, the vision finds itself to be sacred. Still, it all happens. Nature is ruined by initiating us.

 

 

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Émilie Lafleur is a writer living in Montréal.