Devouring Neon by Ray Ogar

>>> COPYRIGHT 2013

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A black foamy machine soaks into the earth. Two men flee from a slow intelligence hidden between atoms. One man draws a 200,000 year long line in hopes of reorganizing his memory of a traumatic event. Another man dreams of his family in a quarrel over augmented reality technology while toiling at the base of a white pyramid. A group of people who have never met obsess about the dreams they cannot have. A government organization catalogs those gifted with exile from sleep. An artist turns away from social interaction when his mind is infected by an alien geometry. A hacker rewrites his life as the absence of himself.

Devouring Neon is the chronicle of the strained friendship between Whitegraph and Hash in the form a visual novel synthesizing narrative, text messages, collage, and graphic design.


<images from interior of book>



_ I am the last of the pattern emperors. My life is war rewired for urban space and consumer emotions. I was redesigned and psychologically reengineered from my deeper mind to my skull without. I run from my home and my own brand of banality choosing instead to spit and bleed a neon Spectre across my face when living between the between. Sometimes I am haunting the local shard of collective emotion. Or tracking down Sleep Exiles. Or pretending I am my own ghost, scrying for anonymity, miming the desire to be lost. Anymore I am mostly twain shadow and memory. Or left in an isometric landscape of my own digital composition. Other times I feel I have been cut from mountains boiled under salt and then left to decay into bone. In my later travels I have witnessed the slow time transformation of rock into dirt and soil, and then millennia later these same micro particles beaten into the slave of light and its attendant vizier of data cloud. You will find me to be the wanderer caught sleeping in a shark coffin or caged in the pale networks meant for the usually anesthetized. If not drinking from capillaries I may be grappling with the rouge languages that erupt along the volcanic shoreline of social interaction. It is then that I am the one, the only one left equally old-aged and natal.

You must understand, I hold the only complete pattern. I see the remainders and fluttering shrap the machine left behind. I can sense the software-lined fragments of it deposited in those of us lonely and ultimately interior. I sense all who were violently abandoned in the wake of the machine's departure. Perhaps these Exiles are the anchors for some grand sensory invasion to come. Maybe they are the seeds of our impending discontinuity.

Knowing I will die before I am born, I understand more why I strayed from the gamut of RGB and deliberately sought a life of pure gray scale. My ability to see the patterns the machine left behind, that is how to recognize the devouring neon of alien thought left in specific minds, moved me to seek zero human contact. I once lived the life of the zombie modern--like those relatively attached to the daily downloads of culture and jibe. I have also been the white noise hustler of body economics and cavalier personality reconstruction living behind strip malls and under the hulls of discarded mainframes. Sure I was once tattooed with snarky biologics, weren't we all. Yet my attitude remains socially anaerobic and outside the bitter codes of ego I copyright every time I blog. So I choose, then, now. And exist fundamentally desaturated. I remain removed via minus sign and sigh, living in my own brand of oxygen muted from the world's gaze. Now, easily comfortable veiled and masked, I stumble often to cool under Spectre and anti-face-recognition hoods. I am the man whose fingers touched the wired air and taped the walls of the city together into new networks hidden in plain sight.

So I will remove then, now.

Though my given name is Caecus I prefer to go by my screen-name, Whitegraph. I've had friends also call me Caec or "Cause" as a joke. Most nights, in a future most will come to willingly discard, you will find me at the local shard of Undertow or anesthetized under the influence of a Drowning Machine in Zeroville's dark nest. If not, you will come to know me as the last person to survive War A. At the very end of the line you will find me alive under intelligent fur and information. Some day in the far geologic I may even return to you with a new vocabulary of icons for you to worship.