Personnel File

“A year here and [she] still dreamed of cyberspace, hope fading nightly… the dreams came on in the Japanese night like livewire voodoo, and [she]'d cry for it, cry in [her] sleep, and wake alone in the dark, curled in [her] capsule in some coffin hotel, hands clawed into the bedslab, temper foam bunched between [her] fingers, trying to reach the console that wasn't there.” — William Gibson, Neuromancer

In the crowded loneliness of the ‘net, there is a silent, cold place for everyone somewhere in its neon lattice. A place to scream into a personal digital abyss. Sometimes, those places are found, and they get a bit less silent, a bit less cold. If you’re queer and antifascist, then I’m glad the dataflow brought you here.

I’m a anarcho-cyberpunk. I survive and resist the all-powerful, technologically - accelerated and technologically - omnipotent mega-corporation - state complex and the rising blood-red tide of fascism with my cyberdeck in hand and the 'net's electric lifeblood singing in my veins.

I'm a cynical romantic that knows that all is probably lost, but that that's no reason to stop fighting, because some fights are worth fighting for their own sake, just to know that you did fight.

I'm someone that wants to rage and rail at the machine, to spit in its eye, and to love and protect and keep building small meaningful things in the interstices of the system, even though I know they'll be crushed eventually --- if not by cops, then when I die --- not in spite of their ephemerality, but because of it.

In other words, I'm a cyberpunk --- not just a punk that likes Ministry, but a punk anarchist for the 21st century: that fights a war she knows is probably hopeless against a technologically enhanced system with her own technologically enhanced strength. To back me up and motivate me in this struggle, I analyze the anti-authority, anti-capitalist, anti-absolutist, anti-hierarchical concepts that can free my mind from the system's propaganda and maybe, one day, help us build a rhizomatic, stigmergic, autonomous society. In the process, I shamelessly shoplift ideas from Nietzsche, Novatore, Sartre, Camus, Stirner, Benjamin Tucker, Proudhon, Shawn P. Wilbur, and Kevin Carson, to name a few.

I’m a hacker in the old sense of the word, and a netrunner. I build things in cyberspace, code and writing are my artforms, I bleed words and opcodes. I construct perpetually-incomplete digital structures for their own challenge and beauty, just for the sake of stretching myself and exploring the inside of this lightning trapped in silicon. And I teach others how to hide from the lidless eye of the megacorporate-state panopticon because what's more beautiful than real freedom, in the software world or outside of it? We should all kill our heroes, especially the creeps, but Stallman was right about one thing.

I am a trans woman, a transhumanist, queer. I analyze the concepts of identity, bodily autonomy, and gender, finding beauty in the fluidity and diversity of human experiences, deconstructing social constructs and reified notions of nature and reconstructing new ways of understanding them to share the results. I reject the body that “nature” has given me and the societal norms that came with it and change myself to suit my will. I modify myself to become more myself.

I am ever-changing, and this page is always out of date. There is no fixed self, only the creative nothing.

This blog exists as a cybernetic extension of myself, because sometimes an idea, a conceptual problem, grabs hold of me and won’t let go, and I need to bleed it out into unicode bytes and streamed pixels before it drives me insane. This blog exists on the datasphere because I want people to find it.

My writing straddles the line between poetic continental philosophy and rigid academic philosophy. It varies from long-form investigations of subjects to short and punchy car-crashes of conceptual material designed to jack information into your brain as efficiently as possible. Most of it isn’t written like this… yet.

Right now, my neural pathways are significantly dampened by my failed recovery from a concussion, probably due to the prior ones I've received and pre-existing conditions, resulting in aa functional neurological disorder that prevents me from doing anything requiring focus, thinking, or visual processing for extended periods of time. So I write and program when I can, and in the quiet chasms of the months between I silently weep for what I lost, like Case and his Japanese nights. I’d make a deal with the devil to get out, but I still haven’t found Wintermute. So I’m lost in limbo, life in perpetual cryogenic hybernation, watching the capitalist hellscape move forward around me even as my situation crumbles underneath me.