ruminations of a non human called erro-part4 -starting in the middle

Who signs these pages? What signs these pages? Who collects the ideological units into place? How to be identified? On my identity cards appears my present name. I have had four previous names and perhaps two identities, which being Korean and Japanese no longer matter for my purposes here. My saintly first name denotes that I belong to subset of humans named after people sacrificed to their god, and my proper name Erro does not denote a belonging to some homonymous tribe or other. Though once, with a different name, I would have pointed to our being scattered from Mongolia to South-East Asia, I am after all a descendent of the Mongolian Hordes. But this scarcely matters as my proper name, the name by which people know me, which I intend to keep is the mark of the singularity that I embody. The becoming non-human that I, more appropriately WE represent. [as I write this my four year old daughter is asleep in bed and the man who functions as her father has fallen asleep sitting on the floor next to her bed “sleep for me daddy”, what else could he do?]

So here I am writing this on a small desktop PC, using a wired apple keyboard, I could be identified as CC2514201GHDQW0AB or even more simply by the global email address erro@krokodile.work which would be enough for the police, secret police, scientists and gangsters to find me. These are conventionalisms, codes and lines which in our times connect my body with its two consciousnesses , two almost identical versions of Erro, not to forget that each consciousness has an unconscious, we share our memories and nearly all our everyday experiences, even though one of us began as an experimental virus that infected this body and saved the original version of Erro when it was killed. Resurrected not by some non-existent god or other but by Erro the virus. How arbitrary this was. Is the version of Erro typing this the original version or the one that began as a virus ? Only we know that. Anyway these lines which are ideological units, can be deconstructed, and would completely miss our two nearly identical consciousnesses. Perhaps more than most I understand that I am a singular assemblage, made up of many lines, we are almost unique except for my sleeping daughter upstairs both of whose consciousnesses are also sleeping, perhaps dreaming… So the conventions suffice for the powers that surveils us, the financial systems that require, require require, the ability to locate me when they need to. But this sequence of numbers, names and lines does not constitute my true name.

My true name changed when I became Erro, because unlike Jean (jeanegrenie1968r@gmail.work) who is asleep upstairs with my daughter, I no longer have the DNA I was born with. The virus changed my DNA. I wondered, rather than we wondered, if we have two lines of DNA, or a singular DNA with the virus permanently attached, stretching out into the future, the virus Erro, my other I, doesn’t know. Anyway our DNA which is shorter than it was believed to be not long ago, with the fuzzy sets of combinations amoung the genes that contributed to the construction of the hundreds of thousands of molecules that each cell of ours is made up of, differentiating these cells by families, types, even down to the colour of my eyes, my height (now 4 or 5 centimeters taller than i was before I became we, i am now 175 or 6 cm in height, i grew taller and larger whilst i was pregnant with Fern), a certain programme of health, a relationship to my environment and so on. This is my true name. Fern is now four and we know we will breed true. Here and in Africa.

My name is longer than most books, harder to read than the entire volume of the Netflix catalogue. [one consciousness is watching a delightful C-drama at the moment as I compose this] the long line(s) would cover a vast distance, longer than anyone else’s on the planet except for my child asleep upstairs or possibly henry the cat who has just entered the kitchen through the catflap and is going upstairs. It would take years to read my true name. Which is why you should always just call me Erro. Anyway its my true name, the code, the convention that corresponds precisely to my body so that it can be said to be the majority of the lines that constructed it, and that no other code corresponds to it. [How blessed we are that we have been protected by my friends so that we have escaped from those that want us, we have escaped like used needles in a hospital, harder to find than a needle in a haystack.

Who am I? What are we? A singularity who could sign with this true name, we are a multiplicity standing on a groundwork of almost inaccessible numbers. There are no arbitrary conventions of code between these numbers and this organism: there are no definable ideological words (the word being the smallest ideological unit) here there is no word, no phrase which describes [the two of us together] not even Deleuze and Guattari’s “The two of us wrote Anti-Oedipus together. Since each of us was several, there was already quite a crowd” comes close. We are not arbitrary, we are simply not human, though we are a crowd. The lines we are made up of are varied in nature. Our DNA, our true name, our numbers are an inexact relationship of the figure and the persons or in general between words and things. Perhaps one day our descendants will be able to bridge the inaccessible divide and define it, when it is safe for us to be known as non-humans. When we are safe enough to allow our bodies to be studied. Even though nothing prevents us from knowing that it exists and could be shown, it’s inaccessibility forbids humans from being able to deconstruct it or appropriate it… We think our daughter will be more divergent than I am, we are.

Well let’s be clearer, my daughter and I are accidentally constructed non-humans. She, like me has two consciousnesses. We are rare. She, like us has a single body with two consciousnesses, each consciousness is a split subject, each with its own imaginary, each connected to the other its shares the body with. Jean, upstairs with my daughter, has just woken up, I can hear him moving, speaking to the cat, is a human. Not so much her step-father as the man who inherited her as his daughter. And I am writing this because we have to ask him something… important, will he leave after hearing the question? We know the answer already and yet we are both enjoying to pretend we do not. <Hah I heard that, the C-drama watching consciousness says>

All real objects, the water collected on the roof and stored in the tanks, the plants growing, straw and solar panels, people and stars are fuzzy sets of numerical wells or stacks of numbers sewn together with gold and red threads. All things are numbers. What people think of as real is invented from this more or less exact codification. Which is where the meaning is invented. A human called Serres would describe this as; the inalienable patrimony of the totality of humanity. He would say. This human would say since it exists, even before it was discovered. Invented, I would correct him, no one could invent it he would reply… Except for us, we would tell him. Your true name would sign true, though virtually, he would reply.

Jean is coming down the stairs, he thinks I am a stable schizophrenic, a high functioning schizophrenic. It’s the only word that enables him to deal with the fact that I am multiple. Only he really sees me relaxed, with both consciousnesses acting and interacting, whereas the rest of the world only sees the everyday performance of a single split subject. Perhaps they think I am unstable, slightly mad, if we are being honest we know they do. He sees the two of us and applies the only concept he has available which enables him to walk through through the park eating ice creams with my daughter, to read stories to her. Becoming father to her. This is why we are together. Perhaps we should infect him with the virus that is me, but i don’t want to harm him and it might. We cannot infect him before he answers the question and even then, this human, perhaps we are being selfish wanting him to be this man. He is the person I ask the most of and is the person I want to ask the least of.

What does ideology mean to a non human like us? In some ways we are as limited by cultural signs, as they are taken in and given meaning, remaining part of the unity of our verbally constructed consciousnesses. It is in the capacity of our multiple consciousnesses to find verbal access to it. We know the different meanings that an ideological sign has for us compared to Jean. What is his inner voice like? And then what of this ontology of a non human?

I am not human, we would smile gently at him. This multiple, one of whom is watching the C-drama on the TV whilst the other is writing this first draft… We not humans are very rare. He, my Jean, Jean Grenier comes into the room, he looks tired. I stop watching the C-Drama, though I am still writing this. And we tell him that Agnes from Madagascar, who is also not human, wants to visit us for a few weeks. And then we ask him — Jean, would you like another child? One with some of your DNA rather than just you as a father? He is still half asleep, as he always is when he comes downstairs. He has turned on the coffee machine and turns and looks at us. What, are you? We smile at him. Yes, I can be. He understands what I am offering him. Idiot, yes. I would like that. Agnes can stay in my loft, in case… He means in case he cannot manage sharing his living space with her, both of us want to laugh at him. The child will be like me and have two consciousnesses and will look a little like him. What else could a nice man want from his child? When we have his genes in my egg we will ensure that the child has bred true to our non-human genome…