Pandemic tales | Luis Brito Garcia

Apple. Alan Turing is sitting in front of the Universal Machine that he has so painstakingly finally assembled. In one hand an apple and in the other a bottle with arsenic. Until now all the machines that tremble, howl and spew death have been nothing but mindless colossi. For years Turing has worked to design and build a mechanism with his own conscience. A rudimentary version did what the best mathematical minds could not: it cracked the Enigma code of the Reich's machinery and made it possible to win World War II. Neither law nor ethics nor morality decided it: the world of the survivors did not arise from heroism, but from an algorithm. Thinking machines will make any creature that thinks superfluous. Turing rehearses the test he has designed to determine if a computer is intelligent: when no one can distinguish between its messages and those of a human being, it can be said that there is artificial intelligence. The machine is silent. Silence is the only possible message. Alan Turing squeezes the apple, the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, in his hand, soaks it in arsenic, bites it.

Recording. Just as the image was recorded and the sound was recorded, the Being is finally recorded, the fleeting confluence of sensations and thoughts. The banality of life becomes technically enduring. Just as we contemplated photographs with images of others, we can live for moments in the totality of their Being. We move into the life of this or that predestined, everything except fully supporting the permanence of our anodyne Being. As we fully settle into the few splendorous beings we discover frauds, sophistry, incompleteness. What seemed like glow was nothing more than masks, doubts, fictions. We resign ourselves to the anthology, to the photo album of publishable moments of who we wanted to be.

Bag. It is not known exactly when the Government Stock Exchange was inaugurated but it is presumed that its existence is as old as History. Investor supply and demand determine what proportion of the government belongs to share capital and what mechanisms, such as Public Debt, investment or divestment, war, assassination or genocide, govern control over properties. Occasionally there are auctions. Except in very isolated cases, autonomy is illusory. Governments in general can only aspire to the difficult change of ownership. Better not to reveal to whom they in turn belong.

Trance. Beware of teenage girls who sell anyone for a few grams of Trance, the drug that cures the Self. No dazzling visions, no surprising distortions of perception. Trance temporarily makes the questions that lurk during the operation of living disappear. Trance dissociates causes from effects, that is, responsibility. Under the makeup eyelids, the soothing Nothing sits for a moment. After this disconnection of the Being from the burden of itself, the adolescent remains with her eyes rolled up, false eyelashes detached, freeing herself as from an obscene makeup mask of her identity.

The transparent world. Any of us, they say, can enter the transparent world. For my part, I confess my disgust. Most of the children forced to approach him cry or fantasize about fleeing his rigors. Everything is useless, since the transparent world, they say, is equivalent to ours. And only through the former do we truly come to this. In the transparent world, each person is identical to each person and only acquires a name when they associate with others, line up with them or divide. Acquiring then a name that only designates the tumult or its fragments. In the transparent world, everyone is eternal or infinite. From the icy freezing that these attributes suppose, he redeems the continuous transmutation that takes place in the transparent world. For in him the fever of associations and divisions rules. Adding or subtracting ourselves, we create new amounts, multiply herds, divide members and separate fractions. To measure the trivial games of quantity, in the transparent world by means of the = sign, each person transforms himself into himself, to make the relationships of his components more visible or more hidden. The laws that govern these associations are as rigorous as they are continuously violated. What happens then with the results of our illegitimate transmutations? Do they make us irrational? Do they not exist, or do they simply create gloomy universes whose reality will only appear when another astonishing rule-breaking invents a new coherence?

In the transparent world in all directions infinity threatens us. His wound can transfer us to invisibility or ubiquity. Through it we exist or fall into funds of unintelligibility. Although it surrounds us everywhere like a stormy sea, only by denying it we exist. For its reality would presuppose our innumerable and simultaneous presence. Whereas, like visions drawn from a dream, we only count one at a time, when we are invoked. Uselessly, because we will never say anything other than our presence. Without sex, without age and without emotions, the numbers will never say more than our quantity and our composition as we transform ourselves into our equivalents. For our most beautiful and complex lives are nothing more than calvaries that affirm the stations of our own identity. Reincarnated, just as I was one, I was reborn as two halves and as four quarters and eight eighths, just as I am now also one raised to my same power, or infinitely divided. This is how we exist in the world of mathematics. If the transparent world is not a gloomy fantasy with no hold on the real, in the world you live in exactly the same thing happens. Terror has no mitigation: it is both one and infinite.

Das Kapital. The capital that is incessantly concentrated finds the one percent of the population that owns it superfluous, then the one who becomes the owner of everything, the capital becomes the owner of himself, and all owners of nothing.

Gypsy curse. God forbid that after so much cursing your enemy you become him.

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