Bring in the animals; Frazer’s bestiary, certain mistaken moments at the end of the New Testament, the good count Gilles de Rais, murders, rapists, lobotomists, all disasters, every plague, insane scientists, clergymen corrupted, defiled buggered, at last feeling some kind of pleasure> Let’s be taken back, through the Gnostic window, outside this pale reflection and into the crippled heart of an nevermore unsanctified erection.

Point zero, before Plato, before the Greek communal tribe made real the sentiments of a decaying splintered half baked lie; that foul pestilence unleashed into the cold slivers of existence as the icebergs of mummification broke from the chrysalis; some bucketed abortion, another incestuous part for the insipid:

Democracy.

Let's go back, before this vile centipede was drawn out whole from its agglutinins cage, shafted hydrolysed by the thirsty mediocrity, whose exchange value varied as the Empire expanded, as their fidelity shone like Diogenes at the other end of the dining room table: they were never finished, never started, always somehow, somewhere in the middle. We are drawn forth, despite the enforced ranting of nobody in particular, the demonstration of scholastic endeavour, falling from the sky like a half-formed molecule of irradiating oblivion: burnt into textbooks or entirely planar out of the Aristotelian cave that marches some ulterior motive other than to make war or to encase violence in its petrified sound-bite of the anarchist.

The trap was set from the start: never will the wolf-man speak. Talk as he might about wolves, howl as he might like a wolf, Freud does not even listen; he glances at his dog and answers "Its daddy". For as long as that lasts, Freud calls it neurosis; when it cracks it psychosis.

Another crater ruptures, we are back in the First World War, we are pouring over the trenches, the enemy is just ahead, it isn’t far to go, a few more yards and we’ll confront them in a hail of bullets.

The bullets dissolve in the air and become particle conductors stored at room temperature during a long incubation of various unknown viruses and interconnecting lattice spiralled around a web moist at dawn.

Of course we have nothing to say. The doctor makes his vague appraisal then leaves< we are left on the couch bewildered and unable to name that which has become.

At this zero point a multiplicity of options are open to us. Multiplicity itself is a becoming. Everything from the macro to the micro takes part in this reverberation, it isn’t a point out of time or a time out of point, it isn’t a collapse into space or a space for collapse. It isn’t a movement without teleology or teleology devoid of movement. That’s to say the very fabric of representation is crumbling, words themselves, as Baudrillard says are distorted from the lapsus across polygrammatic planes, the mot d’esprit, the joke, all extreme extensive usage of the words are reared and executed in singular fleeting intensities. Dosdoyefsky’s fool sits next to the judge of Confucius; the sacrificial victim of Aztec worship is on the jury of the OJ Simpson case. Freud’s signifier falls away, we cannot redesignate that which has become with the becoming of that. The neurotic quietly barking and growling behind the shutters of the analysis, is the one fighting the wars of the socius; as expansion into new territories demands an increase in power, a formed whole of energy, Nietzsche’s aphorisms, a backward glance at historic time, technics meshing ever closer, ever tighter.

Sylvia Plath, climbing the tree at the back of her family house noticed the multiplicity of legs and pubic hair that inter-weave the framework of branches and leaves. The legs are also snakes which are frogs which are balloons stuck with gum overall attached to a corpus of body flesh. The analyst of Boris Vian, bored and stuck in a pagan village analyses a cat. The cat becomes his servant woman who coolly has sex with the analyst as he pours out his emotions to her during coitus. The analyst pisses around the house, is surprised by his new found agility, leaps onto walls and is fascinated by the desire to chase rodents through the thick undergrowth. The vicar is a hard-edged liar who stages prize fights with the devil> The analyst’s actual object of analysis is a woman who has recently given birth to triplets. She deprives herself of all luxury, eats rancid meat and makes the environment a perfectly safe area for her three little darlings. After locking them up in metal boxes, the analyst decides to leave following the husband, the connection between mother and child cannot be analysed.

The unconscious is full> Deleuze/Guattari characterise these multiplicities with the word Rhizome. The Rhizome characterises elements which ceaselessly vary and alter their relations with respect to others. Each part of the multiplicity is not an extensive quantity divisible by each other, rather each is indivisible or "Relatively indivisible", in other words they are not divisible above or below a certain threshold, they cannot increase or diminish without their elements changing in nature. As such Deleuze/Guattari come to a reading of intensive qualities. They are importantly aligned with libidinal motion, the call of the wolves, the swarm of bees, butterflies> These are qualitatively variable flows, Freud tried to make them One, we at zero point can induce the multiplicity, increase it, expend it, distort it, transform it, coexist with it, eat it, vomit it in great scars of blood with feminine animals never stable or at home with a set routine or the fucking television or another pertinent questionnaire.

The threshold is reached, intensity in the Wolf-man rears, he bites off the head of the analyst. At this moment the mouth is an anus. But the anus is not singular, flashback to the war, a field of anuses are converging, diverging becoming bullets, electrons sped to the speed of light, a huge vibrating anal embrace that exhibits itself through biurfication, the fully potent mega insect landing delicately on tropical fruit shatters satellite communication with trans-vibrational insect putrefaction> No line is too long to draw.

Christ a camel dies. The Bedouin in the desert reform around the dead camel space, sucking it into their highly structured line of flight, dissolving the lack into the precise locational apparatus and guidance equipment locked into exactly where they are going. The camel is jackal meat.

Christ a camel dies> The congested street in the middle of Cairo is immediately full of 1965 fiats. A group of men selling snacks on the street gather round the carcass and argue furiously about what to do next. 3 hours later the police arrive and argue furiously with the men about what to do next. The next day the carcass rots in a nearby pile of refuge: rat meat.

There is no dualism. All multiplicities take part in others, the relationships are complex, inseparable. They form a machinic assemblage which flattens everything, masses and packs, molecular and molar. Russia is dead, long live America. The family is named, processed and streamed into the inter-connecting matrix of nuptials and cremation. Everything else is depersonalised into advertising slogans, the body without organs, a pack, any formation discernible from the viewpoint of the advantageous; love.

The same blip formation reproduces and replicates with alarming regularity. Amazonian Indians wear their Coca-Cola caps, hum "Siempre coca cola" copy Michael Jackson dance steps> Where is the pack? What has happened to idle wolf-man?

These questions cannot be comprehended other than from zero point: fully multiple. This threshold, this energy corruption is not accountable in most discourse, Deleuze/Guattari offer strategies. lets see if they work.