The Valence Accident
It can be understood as the moment the home expels its new occupant, not through hostility—but through resemblance. The space has become him, and nothing horrifies the Trespasser more than seeing his stain rendered architectural. To amend David Foster Wallace's joke at the expense of postmodern literature, "When is a home not a home?" When it is a funhouse." Here we'll say that you could, if you needed to, make your home in a funhouse, it would just be very confusing.
But a home
is most curtisianly
not the home
of the noonday hour
Peyton Farquahar projects in our death-evasion Dreams
but the 𝓃ℴ𝒽ℴ𝓂 hour,
upon The Ninth روز نهم
Day
upon The Ninth طبقهٔ نهم
Floor,
where our
overseers LudoViconianly
Lidlacked
us into watching
Beethoven'sNinth روز نهم
Night and Fog of war
made necessarنهم
by our forgetfulness, and so to forsake all forgetting he arranges the space to look like anybody else, and so he enlists the in-built SES environmental imagery generator, and while he could simply do the beach from Strawberry Mansion, the beach where **dialog**, promises have been made, and the Malacto Man has invested some of his hard fiatete'd courancy, so he can't resist adding a picture or two of his own porticular Girl from the Red River Shore, he can't resist the Jazz Age feeling setting in the EIG, and so he gets nothing but muck, if he's lucky. And if he's not, by viewing his own interior through borrowed optics
The GeiStatutory
Meaning of Being
Disappears
Precisely as it Appears
and this is the enormous Source of
The Twine-Tongue'd Cannibals'
Engorge-Us Sorrows
1.1 The Valence Accident
As Ron remarked in his Fear Side Chat intended to acknowledge the by then-widely acknowledged Valence Accident. Ron caterwauled in his usual CacophonEcholilac way of deceiving the listener into thinking oh it's just mo'Ron again I'll nod like I know the score.
Make Shorter, Friend, My Time of dread contrition
How does it feel?
To finally Get Clear,
and so “By every ramble in this solitude"
you roam from home to home in your role as Highwayman
thinking you'll meet the right gal
one of the damaged ones, who desires the occupation.
a dark space. like a storage area by the water heater
you convert to your sunroom but spaces that will finally let you.
come in from the cold and experience co-habitation,
finally catching you up with your romantic brother superior, Cro-Magnon Man
“Vile profligate," think knot such thoughts, "BeTake thee hence!”
"Swell up to girth divine
with mystic rapture,"
grasp bird's nests"
As The Guest arrives — not remotely expecting welcome, but as a raider out for a dispossessive nocturne — he discovers himself dispossessed in turn. In that instant of shared being, he realizes what he had half-known all along: The Castle, The Seventh Castle he thought he'd glimpsed in his secreted-away readings of Teresa of Avila, “kept him at a distance, as if it were unwilling to accept responsibility for him.” And not only is the house not wanting him, but even if he wanted the House, it has already been GGFearclosed UponGG
A Residence of Ultimate Ruin.
This is a form of spiritual foreclosure where the triumphant entry is actually a displacement
precisely when
REM sleep
becomes possible
while all that's
progressively-Made
squeezable out of
ossification saquettSƎS
Deprivesthe once-
nearby-parciple words
'I love you' of their
hiStereocaI meaniNg
and replaces them with
adistinctlymocking
Topology of the ArtificaI.
This empathy we'd all advocated for, yet so few could continue calling unto themselves once it was understood, allowed, by the necessity for this endlessly exceeding and so literally selflessly, accidentally like Andrei Sator, fundamentally resentfully, yet supply and syrupy, like Burroughs talking asshole, once the lame jokes grow thin they start insisting they be kissed, mentally, and if the host then squirmed like some Salierian sister to a prominent Jewish scientist squirming away from the sweet flutterings of Greedy Eddy's tongue, they look for some corner of the shared experience for
The Silver Shapes of some Anterior Age arndt3227
as Ron remarked in his Fear Sade Chat preceding and so Echolaliac SorcerRon theorists believer, pre-seeding, The Valence Accident,
Where she might find "the Luxuries of Innocent Evasion" arndt299-3300
to evade the Malacto-Man's serpentine, eagerly-flick(N)ering tongue; well, when The Host was being "self-centred" or "stand offish" or "haughty-taughty" or "hubristic" about all this beautiful kissing The Malacto-Man had to expunge from his soul, somehow; well, then the good offices of Ron's MTA had bestowed upon the Trespasser, a little like Downtown Dan The Left Hand Man, a mandate to rough them up a bit, not physically as Downtown Dan The Left Hand Man was made to by The Old Man, for there is no physicality in the shared experiential embrace. Meaning The Malacto-Man fulfilled his MTA mandate by accessing so as to alteri₸é the ggComfort Seedings.GG of this loathed other refusing to play the lovedmother's
Access to someone's set of settings allows for sinister meddlings worse than any Time Monkeying, so often asserts The Wastrell when he's 20 ounces into his herbed liquers.
"Imagine changing the key to The Song of Myself," shouts The Time Wastrell MacLeod 'Catfish' Estaire, "Sometimes by dressing in the other's clothes, other times,—no different than times like these," my brother in poetic charms reddening a little upon realizing he has rhymed the times, and so he tries to lean in to it, intentionElleY "and not for the last time," for there have been other times than these Modern Times, these Times We've Known—and he goes on like that for a while, but eventually gets to the lone novel point of this particular diatribe:
"By talking in the other's voice, The Trespasser and Host alike, we're ggbitaking en the other's choiceGG", a rare line of The Wastrell that AAHD would co-opt for her own vandalistic practise rather than the other way around, Macleod having taken so much from her, so awful much.
Because the users of The SES were stripped of their status as agents what with:
That pechescry old de-Privatization of Interiorite
That chesty Contaminating Slicedness of Samantha FoxY Spread popularly referred to as The Ricoeurant Stain.
**SD fusion of cover of symbolism of evil and peak samantha fox**
Those ESC key holdings of The Transparency Conditional no longer being held by the world,blank.
The Valence Accident was not a failure of the mind to track itself, but a failure of subject, and certainly the objectified host to be an agent. Without agency, there is no transparency; there is only "murk inside; murk outside".
The Valence Accident fails from its treatment of the "minimal self" as a dynamic layer that can be toGGled via conditional transparency, much like Ron's use of HEX codes to mask "no data" states in his Power BI Hecate searches on Melons Tube. By applying a technical transparency conditional to consciousness, The SES attempted to automate the "seeing through" of the subjective pane to reach a shared, stereoscopic reality. However, this ignored the essential "proviso" of agency; without a stable, private agent at the helm, the "for-me-ness" of experience doesn't become a window—it becomes a "crack in the windshield." Instead of a cleaner report of shared humanity, the system produced a permanent "wound yield," where the subjects were rendered invisible but the "mental paint" of their trauma remained as a contaminated, irreducible smear.
This ontological collapse turned the "Invisible Man" fantasy of The SES into a "decades-long" nightmare of murk. In Ron’s data fields, transparency is used to hide what is missing, but in The SES, it was used to force a presence that the "minimal self" could not sustain. Because the users were stripped of their status as agents—the very "interferonanistic" shield that defines a subject—the transparency thesis failed as a Normative Conception of Agency. Failed to reach the requirements of audit resulting not in a "clear report" but a "feeding trough" of
sharded, unowned
but also
snared, unowed
experiences. The "missing are" indeed the "missing" because the system deleted the agentic horizon required to perceive them, leaving only a "Locked-in Sinthome" where the kissing and the killing are indistinguishable because the missing are missing, the missing drives are missing, the missing itself is missing, i.e., nothing left to covet without a private self to provide that sweet sweet jouisvalence.
The Code of Stain defines The Valence Accident not as a mechanical failure, but as the total
It occurs when the quantity of shared feelings transmutes into a qualitative collapse, stripping the subject of the ability to distinguish self from other, or pleasure from violation, making all emotional exchange a form of parasitical extraction.
The accident is precipitated by the erasure of the boundary between the “desired” (intimacy, connection) and the “less desirable” (intrusion, trauma). This merging creates a complex interference pattern where the “net response” is no longer an experience of the other, but an algebraic sum of stimuli that renders the subject unrecognizable to themselves, where both feel like they've been brought against their will to some Red Light District to be scopolamined by repeated doses of ggLate-Stage Cannabilistic Infratheftgg—a microscopic, ontological violation where seeing inside another Auto-Defiles them, and fills them with all The Hunger of an adult Catherine Denueve; The Hunger that drives men and yes even women to The Troughs; The Hunger borne as the unfacts of the fadograph are Going Clear as a polaroid of Repulsion's unseemly aura repeating the premise to the question, and to whom it pertains, but never knowing what it's about to mean...
The SES created a causal chaos where normative responses became impossible. If I feel your pain, but it is not registered as yours per se, or mine per se, then it becomes no one's, hence the frequent PC use of the term personne-Elle-y—
the French personne meaning no one,
Elle being The Protagonist of Hiroshima, Mon Amour,
and y the French where,
Here where with all of What Follows Left Behind could anticipate
a place: a there
a thing: an it
a situation: a temporal-existential is
but none of those are present because there is no situation in this Situation Consciously, hence The RabbitInous question posed to Scott Coffey, When you will tell it? And hence the reason he's loathe to answer, why he's saving it all for his big book. Because once he has, the only thing left to say will be:
There It Is": An Absence Unspeakable
as hearing that
Soon After Midnight.
There won't be a When"
and Long After Midnight
"there was not a what,"
Personne-Elle-λ
lacking coordinates
Where is it that you
think I meant?
[The audience laughs]
Nowhere was I?
Personne-Elle-λ
like answering
a Two-Way
communication device
like Harry Caul's
telephonetIcontigui☦é
The Conversation
by opening with the
nowcontroversial
"Hello, who is it?"
and from
The Other Side of What's Clear.
comes the Mocking
Vice of The Mystery Man.
"Sup bitch," he says, mock KruegerNg,
"It's just me,
the one who's doing it."
"That's right.
We've met before but
where was it exactly,
do you remember?"
And in the lack of response
you answer yourself
"I can almost seem to
remember
cornflowers,
morning glories
and Daisies."
I can almost see him too.
Except there's
Nobody⧞Now⌘her
and what's
Really Real is
PersonnEllƐŧƐ's End Again
But lacking co-ordinates. to the
de,
of the
term, of the
ist,
but not the
ico,
which many pronounce ego as if to renounce all they
--and since you can only turn your back on
even the vilest malactonianly they
in the way they have
always turned their backs---
all we
now loathed.
And hence the self-shame singing of the shame old stained song of myself, hence the birth of ggThe Deterministico-Doomrite Genre.gg
Deterministico-Doonrite Records often featured the worst distortations of The Girl From The Read Error-Shared. Here is a hit Sange-Elle b-Shared. Here is a hit Sange-Elle by The Ressurrected, Rabies Inflicted, Ranting and Raving Screechier than ever Dustin Diamond, a tough listen, even for the most-darkness allured and DoTarKness inured Pig Man.
What Arises from this?
Like the pain on a dirty streetcar at 8pm in the middle of February and everyone's sinews are tensed with bags of low-nutritional slop.
Like the feeling, "Oh I feel a predative mewling that is actually an algorithmic echo.
Like The Rabbits of Inland Empire...
what arises is the inabilite to form a justifiable reactive attitude.
The "unimprovable song" (gratitude/love) collapses because the structural conditions for gratitude—a free agent acting well toward me—are obliterated by the "stereoscopic univocity".
Zahavi notes that to be a subject is to exist in an experiential field as the "one to whom experiences are given", and the experiences are of "active transgression," of "the guilty will in its pure state," "the evil root of wicked premeditation" because "punishment, even when meted out by the city needs to be faced with a mystery of inquity." Hence The Valence Accident and its acausal credentialling of the need for (Barb/Ron/Palmer/Bob/Peck your poison) represents the perversion of the "transcendence of the other".
Because “if the scanner sees only darkly… we are cursed again,” and because the scanner can't help but see himself in what is indeed a shared experiential space, it is dotarkening quickly in here, for there is no "tragic blindness" to blame for "the error in going astray" secularized as "excusable fault" by reason of dissociation, and "distinct from being led astray by desire and being carried away by anger--what the scanner sees clear as the darkening day is "the intelligent will to evil for the sake of evil. "the evil root of wicked premeditation""
“Standing naked, in penance, but not before God,” and because The Scanner can't help but see himself in what is indeed a ⫷sͶared experientia⅃space⫸, it is DoTarKening quickly in here.
In AAD's rather aggressive spray-painting of ** strip club
The Subject-Object Enragement
a Hearing,
turns into an Arraignment,
of the very
the place
where we meeting
and in doing so
depleting
simply by greeting
Clive Wearing
where he's never really at,
right here on perverts row
where you'll find
MacLeod, reading his
Nice Derangement of Epistemes
The Code of Stain quotes P.F. Strawson's account of freedom to justify their belief that Hosts no longer wanted to abstain from stain, and that was not an apologetics towards the Code of Stain would be taking many great pains.
The distinction between free and unfree actions... itself rests on decisions we make based on normative considerations that we bring to them... Coerciveness in cause... and therefore the very ideas of freedom and responsibility are not things that we can come to grips with independently of noticing our own evaluative responses.
Thus the line between Trespasser and Trespassee, tenancy and opportunistic, ghoul and mirror ghost, was not so black and white. The ethical corrosion within the system is reciprocal: the Host as Trespasser dynamic, what some preferred to think of this as the ggMalacto-Mistress-Experiencegg ensures
universal contamination.
Once interiority is monetized, the host is compelled to perform; once private emotions became salable public signals, enterprising users began to practice sadness, curiosity, or cruelty to curate content for salable algorithmically-legible micro-events.
And So, Hosts, of course, were Trespassers too. It's not like having a desirable interiority to others meant you were so hot on it, yourself, having been mired in it for the entirite of all your livelong days.
And Lo, Hosts, oft-cursed, sought to automate their hosting responsibilities to avoid the ever-worsening burden of, for most, the already Rather-Quiet-Bad position of simply being there.
These hosts, trying to get ahead of The Conversation by Tippy HadronNg around the service requirements of The Director, these temporal ghosts Left Behind the Fallowing Away message, almost always fraudulent, always feigning the
Con-Aryan-nonchalance
Regarding Rape,
And so Fear-Gardening
a Nice Derangements of Epistemes
And a nice estrangement of
the Malactonian
Lear-Been Rejections
resulting in
Fear-Screen Projections,
Leering haphazardly towards
the moving picture industry's
FellatiOneiric Expectations
Understood by Malacto-men
as mirror protocol:
and that message
always read:
ggOut to Lunch til
Marny MourninGG
So add that to the list of indignities
herd before the cour
along with
Every Food Court Cleaving
and
Feudal Fairground’s Bereaving
Pré†ènd-U-In Self-Display.Pré†ènd-U-In Self-Display.
Pré†ènd-U-In
Self-Display.
Pré†ènd-U-In
Self-Display.
became a euphemism for when a Trespasser Trespassed upon someone running a sort of Greatest Interior Hits Compellation while themselves Trespassing on another.
This of course leads to the self-same singing of the GGsame stupid self-shaming songsGG and Pretend-U-In-Self-Display gives rise to a genre as violent and angry as it is popular:
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Sometimes the Too-Often Trespassed Upon would pay for hacks of their Occupiers and give Trespassing on them ggThe Old Collage TryGG, e.g., “How do you like it?”—type thing but this was rarely done more than once, as the Trespassory Places of Residence were:
Seldom all that
Finelley Furnished
FeeliNg Closer
to Ferally Famished
Too often Trespassers would get a cheap thrill out of the Arrival of the disgusted other he had plundered of sufficient spirit so as to grasp so corporeally what she was thinking in his mood room, thereby achieving nothing less than The End of GGthe Whole Mass of wHoly Erotic differance.GG
Hence what's so often being blared by GGThe Fear BarrelsGG and post-industrial-Pittsburgh-'78-style Eraserheadian enclaves outside The troughs populated by Malacto-Men, the
Which your ruin-of-the-Mill Malacto-Highwayman, who, having never had anything to get back, having only had the feeling of having missed out, or at the very least, having *been* had by a system rigged against them, and so who had never been too hung up on any one person's distinctive qualities, policy makers, understanding these debauches would not work as one way streets, or every Malacto-Malice in town would find themselves elbowing for room at The Last House on Dead End Street.
What he's been subconsciously practising his whole life—Substrate Manipulations—now circle the moody puddle his fellow Lobotomized Pig Men call their ever-lovin', e'er-roaming home.
And while foremoist amongst The Pig Man's utilitarian purpoSES is to disgust, to scare otherwise semi-decent people straight.
Despite their seneceaseless-submoral groupings, Durant sees the immense sadness of these Dib-Man-Dub Muriel graspings for The Time of Return, as being gropings towards that Jazz Age Feeling that denuded us then, but that's no matter, because tomorrow, harms stretched farther, the same old psychopathic story of Gatsby's one fine morning when he, too, The Consummate Malactonian Figure, might catch a glimpse of himself reflected in the gloss and the gravite weighting The Eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg—and in that glimpse he might see that despite his every instinct to the contrary, he is, indeed loved, if not by Daisy, then at 'least' by some benevolent overseer.
This Selfsame Semantic Overproduction also requeries more and more topographic interventions to shape the body and mind to another's co-ordinates, as the auto-correcting of the brain proves correct at little but the inauguration of new umweltens—where every refusal is padded with overcompensating predicates.
He becomes the unwelcome custodian of a house that now resembles him too closely, a dwelling dwindling in size, its housing capacity increasingly claustrophobic by the endless coats of stains he's constantly applying in a desperate bid to finally get it clean. But it won't come clean. How can it? This is a domain whose slimy surface becomes a mirror, and Trespassers recoil from mirrors, meaning they aren't exactly the ideal market segment for Windex and Windex off-brands.
The paradox of this encounter is that possession feels like eviction. Once inside, the intruder no longer wants to stay. The room becomes intolerable precisely because it has adapted to him—his wants, his gaze, his hungers. The
architecture is sickening
a re-infection of his
estranged reflection
He experiences a horror specific to defilers: the room that once resisted him now resembles him, and this resemblance forces him to evacuate.
The Malacto Man feels
'his' prick again
marking him the
two-way mayor
of a Devil Townhouse.
Thus, the so-called triumphant entry becomes a form of spiritual foreclosure. What he conquered is uninhabitable precisely because it has internalized his trace; the very contamination he sought to escape is his mode of entry, ensuring he'll be heading for the hills soon enough, only to discover that The Hills Have Eyes, as well as vestigial tails, namely those of his fellow Malacto-Mean Regressions, peering so far outward at what must seem to him a mirage of a healthy relationship to the desired other, that they always end up staring right back inside his Dirty Mansion of Muck.
And it is then that he realizes where he has always been destined, towards a subterranean place he's long been headed towards, has been headed there his whole life it's now apparent, even during his most optimistic bids for belonging that was the direction he'd travelled, the road he'd ho'd and root-Kitted, been destined to root, snuffle and mouth in a state of what Durant first describes in this sign of relatively high production cost that she replaced the sign on the window of Club Paradise with in 1998.
Customers on that day, and in the following week before the sign was removed by the at first perplexed, then miffed, and then murderously enraged mob-affiliated owners were also pamphleted by Durant herself, who no one knew from Atomic Nero at the time.
As if extending an olive-branch to the pre-seedy Malactoid man, the pamphlets read in sensible, non-sensational
"There also the curse," the pamphlet read, "that chains the generations together gives way to a new time and new gods; [...] at the same time that the age-old debt gives way to individual responsibility. This time can be a time of radical condemnation or a time for mercy. It is, then, a whole new temporal economy that is instituted: the laws of hereditary debt is broken ; everyone pays for his own faults, anyone can begin again, "come back to the eternal" but Club Paradise attendance seemed to increase in spite of this offer in the days and weeks to come
filled to the brim with the
Loss Retention SpeciouSESt's failing upon the realization
his mal securitization
by over inventorying
entropic bleed-through
of the Master THIEF
into the bikini Aisle, leading to the
"I'll halve to try that one myself," invented storytelliNg routine of having been oh you know
Hectored into doublespending the
retell field inthrough a
downward spiral of
running-in-as-us,
through Eveninsubstantial
Reorderings from
the matinee
to the prowl
rendeRon as
Always
Ever
Else.
not into, but around the
clown-world AspiriaI
through Cim-Rim-style
semi-urgent pain,
demiurgic anxiety
and take on hell itself,
to prevent what's worse
to the LP Officer
than this unquenced thirst:
his ruining of the
First Order financial principles and Financillary particles "inscribed
in the world in
letters of suffering"
and then in
Re-Ersed Order: ascribed in the n-world as
laters still buffering,
much like the
Rehearsed Orders of the dying day at the shareholderSƎS meting
out Financial Reportings of
Profit
Loss
Projections.
The Malacto-Mandate
What was deemed capable only of connecting “the ends, its exterior poles” of the self, of the Lost Home of our Old Seekings failed to account for the Malacto Man's Code of Stain.
And so with Every Nascent Love a Lack, the subject--my self, say--is Left Bereft, Left Behind in a-stare dwelling statelessly, dead reset on duelling their
“Dread of Impurity
Becoming Anticipatory
of Ethical Failure.”
Some examples of the Malacto-Man's dreads of impurity include
feeling the room adjust to him
noticing his own relief and hating it
feeling the surface yield
realizing he has become texture
sensing that nothing resisted him
the comfort that comes too fast
the thought: this should cost more
feeling chosen and knowing he forced the feeling by forcing the forgetting
finally understanding how the stain spreads both ways
Some examples of The Malacto Man's ethical failures include:
-cheat GGCodes of FeignGG [see appendix] allowing attachment escalated without recourse
-the impoverished or otherwise hard-luck hosts signing away interiority to expedite passage
the low confident hosts accepting indefinite review as intimacy
These go against the would-be penitentI-err-Y Malacto's search for purification through his own exposure, and his ability to convert confession into GGEmotionaLibidinalCathexicaI CourancyGG.
And so
letting the silence do the work
sensing that grace is unavailable here
and yet ironically impurifying layer after layer until stain seems the only sustainable frequency of existence.
And The Interior Castle's silence is a refusal, her refusal of him, his refusal of the fraudulent-felt-love's continuation, either way, “whether he was being expelled or admitted into the museumound free, and so in what would seem a positive development, The Malactophylegerii of Spirit found themselves no longer even wanting into the museumound. Not being the most comprehending sorts, they'd say things at their barrooms and fire barrels and molestational rape pits, “that museumound ain't all it cracked up to be. Trust me, I been in there,” by which they were saying, “I have been me, and I can't see the point of why I'd want to be. ”
Which turns what precedes the genre by 50 years but was always a deterministco-doom song Take a Chance on Me into
A market base forms around these frustrations. And so the MalactoMen, affix raincoats over their Clockwork phalli and greasestained Barb tshirts, sharpen their teeth, strengthened their jaws by mewing and engage in GGThe Raids of the Malacto-MenGG, victimizing hosts, Trespassers, even The Crossing Guard at Coxwell and Cosburn.
The name they gave to this procession of perversion was, "All of personhood."
This feedback loop leads many Malactos to briefly leave their various Miranda rites behind, for a spell, at least. And they begin to congregate at what is first hailed as a utilitarian containment yard, a little like how large cities allow a few shady after hours to run, or safe injection sites keep drug addicts not only from using dirty needles, but also contained in certain parts of the city where their furies cannot disturb those trying to enjoy the evening air on "a ferry boat across the sound."
These pens came to be called The Feeding Troughs due to the porcine consumptive patterns they prompted both in and out of their Dihensive Systems of Repulsion rather than attraction. Adjacent to The Troughs were ggThe Breeding Sewersgg, marketplaces essentially, where users flocked to consume ggUnsanitized Shame-Tracesgg, and where the truly Deranged could roll about, claiming to be cleaning themselves in the metaphorical muck of their fellow Pig Men. For if every refusal is the slow cancellation of
The Pig Man's Dignity,
the low concealment
of his favoured shames;
the slow predication
of all the
overcompensatory slop
this will pervade for other
Pig Men to muck
it up in,
surviving in this
dullness of mind,
The Code of Stain: An ode
to the Absent Sustain
