By our mythic time, we are
The cyborg is
our politics. The cyborg is a condensed image of both
appropriation of nature as
culture; the tradition
– the relations between
The stakes in the border war
This is an argument for pleasure
and responsibility in construction.
It is also an effort to
imagining a world without
a world without
Nor does it mark
attempting to heal
the most terrible and the most promising monsters
a creature in a world; has no sexuality, symbiosis, or other seductions through a final
In a sense, no origin story
an ultimate self untied, a man in
the myth of fullness and terror,
represented by the mother
of history, the twin
in their concept of labour and gender,
which difference and drama of
The cyborg skips the steps.
This is its
teleology as star.
The cyborg is
perversity. It is Utopian, and
innocence. No longer
private, the cyborg defines a revolution of
nature reworked; no longer
the resource for appropriation by the other. The
relationships whole from parts, including domination in the
world. Unlike the monster,
a restoration of the
garden; that is, the fabrication it’s completion, a city and cosmos.
The cyborg does not dream
The Garden of Eden; it is made of mud.
Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
My spirit not awakening, till the beam
Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
Yes! tho' that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
'Twere better than the cold reality
Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,
And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.
But should it be- that dream eternally
Continuing- as dreams have been to me
In my young boyhood- should it thus be given,
'Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.
For I have revell'd, when the sun was bright
I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light
And loveliness,- have left my very heart
In climes of my imagining, apart
From mine own home, with beings that have been
Of mine own thought- what more could I have seen?
'Twas once- and only once- and the wild hour
From my remembrance shall not pass- some power
Or spell had bound me- 'twas the chilly wind
Came o'er me in the night, and left behind
Its image on my spirit- or the moon
Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
Too coldly- or the stars- howe'er it was
That dream was as that night-wind- let it pass.
I have been happy, tho' in a dream.
I have been happy- and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life,
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality, which brings
To the delirious eye, more lovely things
Of Paradise and Love- and all our own!
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.
the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
and nobody finds the
crawling in and out
the bone and the
for more than
there's no chance
we are all trapped
by a singular
nobody ever finds
the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill
"The vanity of intelligence is that the intelligent man is often more committed to 'one-upping' his opponent than being truthful. When the idea of intelligence, rather than intelligence itself, becomes a staple, there is no wisdom in it."
"When dealing with people, remember you are not dealing with creatures of logic, but creatures of emotion."
"Any fool can criticize, condemn, and complain but it takes character and self control to be understanding and forgiving."