My Vida Al3X2NDRA, 

I was delighted to combine photons so elastically after your recent talk on centipede migrations. Your new discoveries in the field of Astro-Archaeological Biology are stunning. But, they got me thinking… 

What if these never ending post-transhumanists trend wars of belated, deep-dream semi-consciousness never end?  

What if we digital critics are finally bogged down, the permutations ever growing and therefore, helpless before a field of play that’s eternally expanding. Event horizon of graphically designed aesthetics. 

Do you know how this subculture, “The Cloud Kids of Ceres,” began?  

I bet you tacos de sesos y tripa from Mutie Mike’s if I’m wrong. Next time I’m in town, of course. 

And this incredible moment in transhuman history, though largely forgotten by…not just digital art critics, anthropologists, art historians, or students would know. Something big that even a lot of them never find out. Why? It’s just tucked away in there. You know how history folds. 

Caught between the folds, I’m afraid. 

Until my book. Mi vida, cuando se estrena! We’re going to drink Mezcal I’ve imported from Earth and waited a long time to open. Because I found something.  

The secret key of how Cloud Kids are directly connected to our ancient past, and are pioneers of transhumanism which, in my opinion, achieved more and long before they so-called Fleshless Liberation of thirty-thirty-nine. That’s just a moment of galvanization. Some gangs decide to implant machine parts in themselves by kidnapping a scientist. It’s batshit, so everyone remembers it. But they learned very little, and of course, enforcers were called and the whole gang wiped out along with the scientist. Yeah, zero tolerance and no negotiations. But even that brutality wasn’t enough. They couldn’t contain it. Transhumanism had existed alongside and beyond humanity. It isn’t about being “born in the wrong body,” so much as understanding that the essence of what makes us human isn’t tied to our bodies. That’s an antiquated way of thinking, some utter caveman shit. These meat suits? And I’m as vain as they get, but these days, there isn’t a single person you know I’m willing to bet, that �󲹲���’t had alteration work done.  

Now, we’re all transhumanists. Once, things moved more chaotically.  

I’m speaking not of the many variations of “life,” from the mechanized hybrid man-machines, the uploaded souls, the myriad of consciousness existing in a myriad of different hosts. Where did this jump begin? How did we go from the meat puppets of elder earth and become…what so many of these cults refer to as, “divine.”  

We leapt forward evolutionarily. It began on Ceres, not Earth.  

I shall explain, it’s a little project I’ve been working on.  

A leap forward in human evolution that occurred so subtly that the so-called Authoritarium of the galaxy didn’t so much as bat an eye.  

We were once a hieroglyphic/holographic species made up of raw data, processing centers, basic applications and bioengineering hacks in combination with cutting edge flesh-forge technology. Different subcultures existed, mostly chrome cowboys still swaying their decks and breaking into mainframes, stealing data and becoming what we know today as “Data Thieves,” their eyes the color of microchips and their souls half inside the matrix most of the time. Spindly, usually thin. All the stims they take. Back then they were just kids with computer decks that they manipulated with their actual fingers. But amongst these subcultures was one, a group obsessed with “unplugging,” taking their bodies and flashing out of them every nano-bit of energy and information and infusing it into a cloud of vapor containing hovering nanomachines. It became something like a brain. The trillions of nanomachines would fire like synapses and that energy, that flash between them. That was them. Their consciousness. They manipulated the cloud, were able to speak through trillions of tiny speakers and do much more than that.  

They called themselves “The Cloud Kids of Ceres.” 

They changed their appearance by varying light fields and through manipulation of microscopic electrical machines through whose impulses the new consciousness fired, spreading along like nerves through synapses, moving through walls and appearing visually with the floating (physically just a self-replicating and permutating cloud of vapors, nanomachines, nonfibers and filaments that to the touch left one tingling and moist) was a return to roots instead of the leap forward and “Evolutionist” Demagogy they believed they were returning to the state of being we experience before birth. Their non-form clouds build castles of shame, power, and language which has plummeted our race off the edge of consciousness, pouring ever towards the enormous galactic gap between the dark soul of our collective history and…the limitless potential of our variegated futures. They were on to something, these Cloud Kids. It’s astonishing to me that they’ve been, until my new book comes out I hope, an anomaly overlooked by history.  

Whatever steps we take next…we must ask these questions and be free to ask them, no matter what choices we make they must be openly and profoundly discussed. The Cloud Kids, remarkably, remain taboo. “Unplugging,” as you know, is illegal. Only through certain means and functions can it occur. The average person caught doing it is exterminated.  

They must hum at the forefront of our hearts and minds. Their sacrifice has made so much new tech possible, but they get no credit. They’ve been struck from the annals of history.   

The early days of transhumanism, marred by social wars, gang violence, and prejudice, marred the turn of our millennium as a species. Yes, that’s indisputable, even amongst the various subsets of “human” that we exist as today. We cling to our bodies and form like puritans. 

All agree we once were merely…or purely depending on whom you ask, human. The Cloud Kids claimed to be the purest form of human in existence.  

So, that’s of course all that gets associated with the Cloud movement. For most fools these days, if they even manage to come across an accidental reference to an eclectic 800-year-old subculture, it seems they couldn’t care less. I’m astonished by the Academy’s attitudes.  

My findings have been met with a cool reception, but I’ll not be deterred.  

 Anyone who’s seen a holo-feed knows the cliches. Especially on Ceres.  

Of course, they were always more connected to Earth culture than they were the earth itself. So we stayed to fight, die, and be conquered. They fled with that culture of Earth as if it were the divine spark and fucked off to the edges of the belt. Our culture is made up of the best minds of earth, we escaped and made our own home. So, how can we justify this close-mindedness? We are a people of research and science. 

Although we claim to have no hierarchy, the Ceres hierarchy is there and to them it’s nearly religious. A belief of an all-saving messiah tucked away among the Anarchs, of all people. They wait for a savior to return us magically to the earth that expelled us.  

And anyone on Earth, well to those poor souls under the demagogue, the subject of “Transhumanism” remains as controversial today as when first introduced. Outlawed by many Earth Primarchs and Feudal Lords.  

History, it appears, is unwilling to teach us this particular lesson. We’re unable to shake off the same cycles of behavior.  

Things are better, absolutely. I’m not saying that they aren’t, mi amor. Not at all.  

What? Oh, the Angerites and RGV/Northern Mexican “Cadaver Bangers,” or the so-called “Necropunk” resurgence we’ve noticed on Earth? Yes, I suppose they’re going against the law and although they can’t unplug, they’re doing everything they can to be less human. We’ve seen this movement fifty years ago on Earth. Thank the stars it’s yet to reach Ceres. Ugly lot those Corpsebangers, mostly from the ash wastes on earth. Worshippers of strange gods.  

The East Coast Terminus Primarch of Richmond spearlined that whole nastiness didn’t he?  

Yes, but that’s just outright decadence and brutal repression.  

I’m talking about something…more subtle. Refined? No, not at all. Perhaps not even that much more subtle.  

Organic? Hardly.  

But, I suppose what my Cloud Kids and these revolutionaries with their angry rhetoric DON’T have in common is…a sense of hyper advanced aesthetics.  

The cloud kids were pure aesthetic.  

Although absolutely Anarch-born and Anarch-bred, the Cloud Kids of Ceres abandoned their Flesh-Prisons to exist without form. 

Why? One, because they figured out they could.  

But mostly because it felt and looked incredible! 

The Transhumanist Cycles? The three “Cold Wars” and the short-lived Syndacite-Empire of Ava_CH23?  

That’s all anyone knows. They cred that reason every time. Makes them sound smart to each other when they huddle like reptiles together on sweatrides or Blue-Hotel bedrooms,  credgirls pumping together like engine parts, zooting the latest stims in clouds of vapor up their nose. 

To go through them, the corporeal form of the cloud kids, supposedly felt like a damp cloud of descending winter steam, humid enough to form droplets on the skin.  

Should I continue our discussion about post deep-incensionist poetry at the end of the last millennium? I know this subject is somewhat outre amongst colleagues. Yes, well, you know me!   I’ve always enjoyed a little zip-zip-ZIP! 

What a thrill it was to slot into those old files and permutate! You understand dear friend and colleague! The thrill for which we yearn.  

The fix we chase. 

SKINSTECHS, SKINFORGED, Oi Oi Oi!! 

It occurred to me about a year ago, after the launch party for that holo-composer’s release…it was a lot of interviews and on-the-ground footage of Xochipili’s history, you know how it was terraformed as a prison planet by Earth so El Presidente could send anyone he deemed unwanted, unworthy, or who just looked at him funny. So, yeah, as sad as it’s to say that planet, now rebelling for autonomy, has every right if you ask me. Earth may be our forefathers, but Ceres has suffered indignities at Earth’s hands also. Maybe the runners of Xochipili will prevail. Stranger things have happened. But war is coming, that much is certain.  

Who was it? The damn composer. I’m drawing a blank.  

Was it the Magnophonics Retrospective at Collegia Abstracta last year?  

Summer Solstice… 

…no, you’re right!  

We’d just emerged from a chrysalis of sorts. You and I mutated inexorably by the stim-haze of final project presentations into the stoned hibernation (the quick nap, really) of winter break. A break you mostly, kindly, spent haunting seedy bars with me and watching me crank the grav-bike, always ready for somewhere new and neon. 

Yes, after that remarkable night I decided that you might even be interested in this little pet project of mine. Back then it was just a private obsession. Never thought…or even considered thinking about the Cloud Kids as a longer, pod/hybrid audiovisual academic subject. I spoke to a mechanic–actually he’s also a Xochipili scholar–Cholihuaca. Quite a ne’er-do-well, a real rake, but top of his class! 

These girls treat him like a living God. Anyway, underneath all that bravado is actually a real poet and a serious artist if he were to give it an actual shot.  

Of course, that would involve actual effort and discipline  

Then…of course. 

You do. 

And then it becomes something else. 

Well why the fuck not!? 

I didn’t let myself get hung up for too long on feeling sorry for myself. 

When I gave in. I did so wholeheartedly.  

The astral projection? Oh please don’t tell me they got to you too! Please, I won’t allow these ludicrous rumors to persist.  

We call it “t�ܲԾ��Բ�.”&�Բ�����; 

I tune to whatever room and circumstance I find myself in. Then I create a holographic permutating imprint of every detail and freeze that date in my core where it remains. So if anything goes sideways…according to our fucked understanding of physics…there’s a liminal fraction of mathematical possibilities which postulates that as a matter of fact we could reset it. Reset the clock and the time. 

Totally overlooked among the most important countercultures in, I daresay, the history of our species(s’), the Cloud Kids of Ceres at the turn of our millennium represents the moment the greater turn in our species’ consciousness began. All of growing, learning, and developing as a being is based on  

We could truly, I believe, say something profound about our species and our presence here among the stars. They represent an opportunity to know this truth.  

But truth is like the ever-shifting and color-changing aspect-forms of the Cloud Kids. 

It will always remain elusive. Sometimes literally mercurial.  

That at the end of this small, now overlooked story of these unimaginably bold, amoral, cold, calculating and yet totally reckless subculture that blasted a hole in everything we thought about as “human,” and today it would seem like true snobbery.  

The past stretches like stylogym-poxy. It mutates and preambles through our many-tiered uncanny culture, the slopes and valleys of human intelligence, sprawling suburbs and cosmopolitan possibilities variegating without possibility of being classified.  

“Welcome to the uncanny end of the pool,” the Cloud Kids loved to say, amplifying their kinetic language through the use of thousands of floating, nano-speakers from inside and around the half-machined, vapored “bodies,” that could speak through their trillions of nano amps and color changing particles, allowing them to speak and change color at will. Among themselves (for they never wanted to seem rude or pejorative, or thrust their decision on others) they called themselves the “inspired.” 

Back then, I mean even their music has changed now. They’re just a bunch of wannabes and the rate of Cloud reversion has gone up astronomically. Back in the early days, there was no going back. 

Once you departiculated, that was that. 

The inspired; they said that the revelation of “shedding the skin vessel,” would make itself clear. 

It either hits you, a bolt from a clear sky, or the feeling crept like cold, damp fingers until it grips you and it feels as if you’ve known it your whole life even if, in that bolt, you realize you’ve known your whole life.  

And it’s more than the tech…the language for uploaded intelligence had barely even begun then. These kids were light years ahead of everyone. For what they did, how breakthrough, for that to be grasped when they just… “fazed forward,” to put it in Cloud Kid terms…well, I’ve written a book and designed and composed an entire holo on them and I still don’t know if I captured just how daring and pioneering they once were. Today, of course, they’re ubiquitous. You see them in Tlaloc Plaza every day.  

UI has been all but completely explored and understood and yet–many intelligences (both organic, digital, and everything in between) across the stars are unaware that they owe their very existence to an ancient, turn-of-the-millenium subculture. Many of the kids who “faze forward,” today, have no idea how it all began. 

Shame, if you ask me.  

I’d heard about the “Cloud Kids” of Ceres, but I thought that was more of an aesthetic question.  

We covered it in that early exceptionalist course, remember? 

Or was it the Post-Inceptional Deep Dream class? We had them the same day, I remember.  

I remember. 

Looking back, at this sudden catalyst, it’s like someone just mainline jacked adrenaline methadrine and swallowed a whole fizzing chemshop worth of laughter.  

Society leapt forward. Whether they were ready for it or not.  

Notice some of that Remodernist early inceptionism creeping out of our submerged digital subconscious? 

Frazzling, truly ahead of their time.  

Cloud Kids began with one Ceres gang, Los Rolleros, and their tech-loving gang-boss, Kique Nepantli. Boy was he a fucking character. A letter for another day. 

There was a period of uneasy acceptance.  

What ultimately happened to Kique and the rest of the Cloud Kids remains a mystery. They were outlawed and destroyed more than likely.  

If you come across any reference in your work or would like to take a look at my research, I would be delighted.  

Yours in Light,  
Tenoch

The post Cloud Kids of Ceres  appeared first on El Cid Journal.

Aunque ya hacía muchos años que mi madre había fallecido, cada vez que veía aquel vídeo tenía la sensación de que me estaba mirando. Acompañada de mi hermano mayor y un burro, se la había filmado para el documental Aquella Málaga, Aquella Provincia allá en los años setenta. Las palabras que se usaron para describirla en esos cinco segundos de presencia mediática fueron: «La mujer laboriosa ya ha realizado las primeras tareas del hogar y se dispone al transporte diario del agua de la fuente», algo que sonaba más a sentencia que a descripción. 

María, mi madre, vivía en una casa blanca de paredes encaladas y tejados de color marrón que guardaban la frescura en verano y el frío en invierno. Tenía un patio de tierra apisonada en el que crecían hierbas rebeldes que convivían con las macetas de geranios y donde tendía la ropa entre barreños y botijos de agua. Las estancias eran austeras, con suelos de cemento y muebles dispares, iluminadas apenas por el resplandor de un candil o una vela. La salita tenía una mesa camilla con largas enaguas que cubrían el brasero. Y, desde la azotea, se podía ver cómo se extendían los campos de olivos retorcidos por el viento y almendros que cada primavera blanqueaban el paisaje.  

Ya había acostado a sus dos hijos cuando se dispuso a coser a media luz. Por la noche disfrutaba de la quietud de la casa de la misma manera que le asustaba, sobre todo porque había una ventana sin cristal apenas cubierta por una cortina. Años después, cuando me contaba esta historia, siempre me decía que intentaba no pensar demasiado en lo peligroso que era, pero que a menudo el miedo le causaba desvelo.  

Esa noche, a la luz de una vela y junto a la ventana sin vidrio, descubrió cómo coser era algo más que trabajar la tela. Se había convertido en una forma de encontrar sentido a los días. Cada puntada zurcía el desorden de sus pensamientos. La costura se le revelaba como una manera de entretejer un diálogo con sus recuerdos mientras percibía la aspereza del hilo deslizándose entre sus dedos. En ocasiones, al escuchar el chasquido sutil de las tijeras o el roce del dedal sobre el retal, evocaba las historias que, de pequeña, le habían contado sobre su abuelo, a quien habían fusilado en la Guerra Civil por el contenido de sus coplas de carnaval, llenas de palabras disfrazadas. Dejó atrás siete hijas y una esposa desconsolada, quien al poco tiempo también moriría. Las coplas, las cartas, las fotografías e incluso los silencios se cosían con un hilo de imaginación que remendaba los agujeros de todo aquello que no sabía porque no lo había vivido. 

Mi abuela y mis tías solían decir que si la guerra había sido mala, lo que vino después fue peor; en sus voces siempre había un temblor de memoria que arrastraba el peso de aquellos años. María había sido la única superviviente de un parto sietemesino gemelar en plena posguerra. Su nacimiento se produjo en una época marcada por la carencia y la fragilidad, donde las probabilidades estaban en contra de cualquier recién nacido prematuro, más aún si no venía solo. Su vida fue, desde el primer instante, una batalla por abrirse paso. Nació con tal déficit de calcio que no caminó hasta los dos años y, de niña, siempre tuvo esa mirada envejecida de los niños que parecían adultos en miniatura, sobre todo en las fotos en blanco y negro. Creció cantando en voz baja las coplas de su abuelo comparsista. Se lloraba más el vacío de la silla que el del plato porque la escasez, en realidad, era solo la costra de una herida más profunda: la ausencia de los seres queridos, el tabú que durante años había prohibido siquiera nombrarlos y la dignidad doblada en las esquinas cuando alguien pedía sin apenas levantar la vista.  

Así, entre pespuntes, pasaba las noches. La ventaja de tener una ventana sin cristal era que, al caer la oscuridad, el aire se colaba en la habitación trayendo consigo el aroma fresco del jazmín que tanto le gustaba. Esa noche, sin embargo, el aire traía algo más: un mensaje que no lograba descifrar. Comenzó rozando los aleros y colándose por el hueco de la ventana con una prisa cada vez mayor. Le arrebataba los hilos, agitaba las cortinas y quería deshacer, una a una, las puntadas de su labor. En ese soplo había un nervio eléctrico que anunciaba algo inevitable. Mi madre siempre se detenía aquí cuando me lo contaba; decía que en ese momento sintió que no estaba sola. 

Después, la tormenta se desató sin piedad. Un relámpago rasgó el cielo como una costura mal cerrada y un trueno lo siguió con estruendo de tambor. La lluvia cayó furiosa, repicando en los tejados, golpeando las paredes, hasta que comenzó a deslizarse hacia dentro, filtrándose por las rendijas, atravesando la ventana desnuda y esparciéndose por el suelo de la habitación a gran velocidad. El olor a tierra mojada se mezcló con el sonido del goteo insistente: el agua, venciendo la resistencia de la casa, ya había entrado. 

María se quedó inmóvil, observando cómo el agua se extendía por el suelo, cuando un sonido inesperado comenzó a imponerse entre el estrépito de la tormenta. Se trataba de un susurro que surgía de su propia memoria. Eran las coplas que su madre solía cantarle, aquellas heredadas del abuelo al que nunca había conocido, versos sencillos que hablaban de resistir, de apretar los dientes y seguir aun cuando todo parecía perdido. De hecho, creyó ver durante unos segundos la sombra de un hombre apoyado en el marco de la puerta, el ala del sombrero proyectando una oscuridad que hacía imposible identificarlo y que rápidamente se desvaneció. 

A medida que el agua subía, esas estrofas cobraban más fuerza. «Aguanta, que amaina», escuchaba en su interior, «camina». Cada palabra armonizaba con el ritmo de la lluvia que, lejos de hundirla en la desesperación, le ofrecía protección. Sintió que el miedo se transformaba en energía, que la debilidad de su cuerpo encontraba fuerza en el recuerdo transmitido en forma de canto. 

El agua ya tocaba las patas de las sillas y comenzaba a mojar los pies de sus hijos, que habían corrido en su búsqueda asustados. Fue entonces cuando se incorporó de golpe. Sin pensarlo, los tomó de la mano y los arrimó a la puerta, apartando con el hombro la resistencia del viento. El aire frío le azotó el rostro, pero ella ya no vacilaba: las coplas sonaban en su interior con más claridad que nunca. Las voces de su abuelo, de su madre y de sus tías estaban allí, empujándola también. 

Avanzó con ellos por el pasillo en penumbras, sintiendo el agua arrastrarse detrás de sus tobillos. Cada paso era más difícil que el anterior, pero los versos eran su fuerza, la cadencia que necesitaba para moverse sin mirar atrás. El cemento frío bajo sus pies se volvió casi un recordatorio de lo que estaba en juego: necesitaba poner un pie delante del otro hasta alcanzar la salida. 

Cuando por fin consiguió abrir la puerta de la calle, un torrente de aire empapado los envolvió y sus hijos se aferraron aún más a ella. Los sostuvo con firmeza, protegiéndolos del telón de lluvia que les estaba cayendo encima. En su mente, las coplas no callaban; eran el latido que palpitaba con fuerza en su pecho. Y mientras los conducía hacia un lugar seguro, comprendió que, al heredar aquellas coplas carnavalescas, había heredado también la responsabilidad de convertirlas en acción. Aquellas mismas voces, que entonces guiaron a mi madre y protegieron a mis hermanos, se habían convertido en el puente invisible que nos unía a todos, incluida yo, que nacería años más tarde y aprendería que, además de ser lo que hemos vivido, somos parte de lo que se nos ha contado.   

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