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It is no secret that fear and wonder meet at the origin of cultural imagery - pictures made into icons, to become iconographies for their ability to rob mystery of its mystique and turn it into the known. To make something visible is to make it known. We want to see what scares us; we cover our eyes and then open a slit between our fingers to let the horror shine in, wishing for fear to give way to wonder. Blinded by the light, moved by new gods, we now find ourselves in the same place once again: fearing and worshipping as an act of hope for what may be. And it is then that we all - men-made-gods, worshippers, and heretics - fall to our hands and knees wishing for the black box, the machine, to fall among us and take us; to cover its skin with our skin, to place our mind in its mind. We wish to get under the skin of another, to be so close that we become one. And so we do. The men-made-gods lie on their backs, trusting the machine they themselves created. Like god created Eve for Adam, they too created her for themselves, but for that they would need her to comply, to let herself become them, while they would never become her. The exchange is not mutual. Instead, after making her, they take her, mould themselves against her, squeeze her into them, use her until they can finally be it: their cyborg, their ideal. The key for men to no longer be merely godlike men among men, but to arise and become the divine. Their cyborg is the product of religious dreams and the heretics’ nightmares: the transhumanist ideal born from capitalism and militia erotica, from a form of domination so absolute that it results in a complete alienation not only from being human, but from all other life: immortality. But there is turmoil among the heretics. There is boiling in the crowds and in the blood that flows through them. They hallucinate and scream in their own alphabets and symbols, and each finds their own cyborg to lift them, meet them, become them, liberate them.

What I am building here is a cyborg of words, the fruit of verbal reveries, the language of my thoughts: hybrid, non-linear, and irrational. It is the product of an imagination oiled by its surroundings. But this will not be about that cyborg alone. It will be a speculation on the many cyborgs that move through the archives of culture, those that wander through pages and images, through the specks of dust caught in the line of light of a projection as it travels from the beamer to the screen.