If, as Bifo says, “The idea that the future will be better than the present is not a natural idea, but the imaginary effect of the peculiarity of the bourgeois production model” and yet we have watched the horizon of the future crumble into the network, as (smart) dust, a layer that receives impressions but no deeper, then, (like the songs by YACHT) Utopia and Dystopia are now one, and the old bourgeois production model is over. It has been superseded by consumption on the level of gesture, to ‘like’, to tweet, to vibrate, co-mimesis between body and image, data and action, through reflexivity and recursion. Network protocols have become means of social control. By whom? A central authority? Or by the mass of impassioned churn itself? Is it or is it not self-regulating, a ‘natural’ order like geese optimized in a V for flight? Though I would like to consider myself a cybernetician, I think that self-regulation is also a dream, one of a global capitalism in denial of global climate change. To abandon the future now is dangerous. The present without a future is called feudalism. Material force, consciously strategized or not, undergirds protocological relationships, and it remains political. The body remains at stake, though there are many ways of conceiving of a body. My work has been about exaggerated couplings for the purpose of recognizing networks (e/a)ffects. They are documentary design fictions. They are systems, not objects, that implicate different bodies in relationships where control is subtley present, ambivalent, and mediated by code. It is my body, re-performing its own data exhaust, owning (or haunted) by its encoding. It is an architectural or geographic community, reading and writing its space, but this time fragmented and folded by network conduits. It is an ecosystem in which there are no natural materials, only natural processes, animal technology. But recognition is unsatisfying, I’m still caught. I think I need a new new aesthetic, that eschews hybrid spaces for new wholes. Can we have a new, critical futurism? Like how George Clinton and Kraftwerk, stuck in an elevator together, were forced to communicate via a synthesizer, transmogrifying the space ‘race’, we’re stuck in a gallery with a coyote, an atomic clock, 6 bitcoins and a vinyl lathe. Is it enough to calm the enraged Ohmu? Bring it out and into time, for it is, I believe, a aesthetic of rhythm through which the tomb that is the data center can once again spill into the horizon. If space and time have collapsed, it’s because we’re intent on reifying little diamonds to bury in the desert, like squirrels content to die suspended in either the pleasure or fear of their cache. Let’s abandon the desire for an apocalypse, it already happened. Show me a tempo, not the frenetic arrhythmia of Marinetti’s sex/death machine, but a pulse of true love.