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Genesis proclaims that in the beginning, God created Heaven and the Earth. Much followed - there are many books about this time - in the lead-up to the Factory's opening that fateful eve of the seventh day. The Factory is the tool of all tools, but it should not be mistaken for sanctity; raw, pragmatic, systematic, augmented, alien, indentured productivity is the realm of the Factory. The Factory's titanium walls - silver, coldly shimmering - encase a complex network of interconnected conveyor belts and mechanical thingamajigs all devoted to the singular yet dispersed tasks of formulation and fabrication and fantasization. Beeps, boops, and bwoiiiings abound!

 

The Factory is ceaseless. Many have mistaken this to mean automated but it is not so: everybody contributes to the Factory. Author and audience unionized, their conformity engineered for the pleasure of all who participate. Everyone takes a turn on the Factory's assembly line. It is a work of wonder. Astonishing in its scope and actionable in its simplicity ("press this button," "pull this lever"), the Factory arrived late in the autumnal God's vision, arriving as most wonderous things do: first as a trickle leaking through the Earth's cracks, then as a wave, tidal and temperamental. And God - and all of the miniature emperor Gods created in his image - rested so that we may scroll. 

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So what does the Factory produce? Data, glorious data! Ensconced and ensorcelled into endless varieties and countless purposes. Syncopating wavelengths of connection and disconnection, an eternal return of progress and decay, progress and decay, progress and decay… The Factory only knows one boss: consumption. Transmissible electrons of packaged wisdom, pleasure, entertainment, communication caught in superposition. The emergent noosphere uncontrollable yet unimpeachable in its replication of deep desires and animating interests. Data is the Factory's cash cow, but the Factory is always growing, always evolving, to meet the needs of its shareholders. 

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The glory of vast returns and scale unimaginable comes with a price. The Factory understands plainly what it wroughts: the aesthetic malaise of reproduction and prefabricated perception; tribal caves echoing the tremendous anthem of warriors ever on the eve of battle; beauty potions programmed by Factory R&D, yet labeled as "Made In Heaven." But the Factory is the Flood, epoch passing into epoch. It is not a static machine; it evolves, as all do, towards a vision of itself. This vision cannot be placed within the continuum of good and bad (light and dark, God and Devil), nor can it be considered neutral for neutrality is not of its nature. Rather it proclaims itself simply and without conceit as the mirror of all evolution, infinite and unceasing, the Revelation of God’s first tools: mud, bone, and rational thought.

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- a message from our leader