Crazy Narco-Fulled Investopedia Spazio Cathedral

Lorenzo Galluccio
2024-01-24T12:00:23+01:00

What is culture? Between spaces and events, among mixes of experiences hatched from existential investments in tiny houses, ketamine, luxury and technological start-ups, angst and commercially targeted mood packets, Federico Sargentone's tale for STORIA VERA tell the allegory of the company HEAVEN-X and SPAZIO CATHEDRAL: plausible realities that we will not struggle to recognize nowadays.
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CULTURE 24.01.24

crazy narco-fuelled investopedia SPAZIO CATHEDRAL

WRITTEN BY: Federico Sargentone

IN PARTNERSHIP WITH: ZERO

Undiagnosed, Asperger-bending benzodiazepine abuser psycho-candy loner who walks in silence and cannot cry. Hyphenated agglomeration of words crunched into a single line with no full stop; lack of punctuation, disorganized chaos in decentralized infrastructures. Clearly the result of hyperacceleration of hyperobjects with hyperstimulated underwhelmness that projects nothing else than a desperate what-the-fuck-is-this sort of scenario where I am, most likely, the king.

People talk of the future but I just want to sleep. Sleep, eat, repeat. Cut the “eat,” repeat the “sleep.” Detach from the goal, desire nothing. Underachieve, steal everything, forge the dream, rob the happy guy that won’t keep fucking smiling. “What do you smile at?” Then proceed carefully to steal this man’s wallet. He will keep smiling because he’s dumb.

Unemployed doom-blogger angstfluencer death-streamer junkie creepo you won’t invite me to your wedding when you get to marry. I love my followers I love my people unless they ask me how old I am. Narcissistic toxic behavior is the norm for everyone who understands the above. A bloodstain covers my circularly-sourced designer sweatshirt as I murder my integrity walking off a party I wasn’t invited to and was promptly rejected from. Invest in ethical bonds; invest in off-the-radar crypto; invest in emerging markets; invest in sustainable clothing; invest in auto-generated literature and journalism; invest in content farms; invest in dissociative drugs; invest in emerging startups connecting talent with employers; invest in anything outside yourself and you’ll be fine.

Invest in anything outside yourself and you’ll be fine.

Products I like ranked in no particular order, divided by semicolons for clarity’s sake: Linkedin; orange juice; fake fur; followers; chargers and power banks of any type of device; semicolons; pencils; turtlenecks; Loro Piana; the Sochi Winter Olympics mascots: the Hare, the Polar Bear, and the Leopard, respectively created by Silviya Petrova, Oleg Seredechniy, and Vadim Pak; .mp3 files; lace nightgowns; associative logic; the Dot-com bubble; murder cases from the ‘70s; early-2020s Google Maps interface; listicles; family money.

He (A) was carrying home a package they had bought from their own company—a tech start-up mapping mood-regulatory drug intake, offering personalized drug diets, and connecting users with sellers of such drugs. A true marketplace for the future. The courier refused to deliver the parcel to the door as it appeared poorly packaged—each seller distributes the parcels on their own terms, HEAVEN-X has no liability on the exchange whatsoever—taped with fluorescent hazard-sign stickers in an indistinguishable foreign alphabet, so he had to carry the burden from ground to eleventh floor. Everyone in the building’s lobby just stared at the object in awe and terror, doorman included. The otherwise-ordinary scene was now fed with extreme anticipation and mystery. Voices from every corner of the building triumphed in an unwelcomed symphony of democratic speculations while the main character was fatiguing to bring the goofy-packaged article home. “6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, 0–Lobby,” doors open, item slides, orientation flipped off 90 degrees to maximize space for body; doors close; eleventh floor reached; ding dong.

B: “Sorry, didn’t hear the courier buzzing. I could have helped with…what IS that?”
A: “Don’t worry about that.”
B: “It looks like shit”
A: “It’s just like Amazon.”
B: “Okay, then, shall we?”
A: “Terrace?”
B: “What if it’s a scam?”
A: “Oh, well, I don’t think they accept returns, you know…
B: “I figured. And who is, exactly, ‘they’?
A: “Terrace!”

Products I don’t like, ranked in no particular order, divided by semicolons for clarity’s sake: irony; suicides taking place in the midst of a Zoom call; flannel shirts; Tumblr; cinema; water; country-specific plug and socket types; paved streets; two football teams competing for a minor-league trophy; blue-ink pens; plan-Bs; Oscar fucking Wilde; investigative journalism; remarkably small and elongated wine glasses; the 1967 concept album Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band; interactive service totems; graphic design; the Seattle 1962 World Expo fair—first appearance of the IBM Shoebox.

Approximately 32 sqm—fenced by an iron and concrete handrail, paved in greige squared tiles, and overlooked by a retractable PVC tent—divide the house from the rest of the sky. A set of 12 narrow steps leads to an upstairs terraced space that precedes the building’s “official” roof. This bootlegged, unofficial roof-looking esplanade is secluded by the gaze of neighbors, and it’s almost logically attached to the house as its conditions of access (the stairs) are embedded within the allocated portion of the private residence. Air and atmospheric agents are perhaps the only others in the know of this architectural secret. Downstairs, a plastic table and garden-ish furniture are stacked onto the left side of the private terrace, looking long-lasting and disposable at the same time.

No glory, no fame, no affection—I am a result of corporate angst and service industrialism

The terrace-home complex sits on a rectangular stretch of the eleventh floor of a building in an undisclosed location of a pathologically ill urban segment whose inhabitants label as “city.” Inside, no carpets allowed—not for science but for style. No earth tones; no colors at all. No wood; no cotton. Desks, more desks, and other desk-looking objects are placed strategically around the house with performative casualness.

B: “It’s cold out here.”
A: “Where is my phone?”
B: “I think we should go out more often.”
A: “My phone…”
B: “What?”
A: “I need to check my numbers.”
B: “You’re rich, chill out.”
A: “Not those numbers.”
B: “Which numbers?”
A: “MY numbers.”

In therapy, I have been called the following, ranked in no particular order, divided by semicolons for clarity’s sake: patient; bipolar; psychotic; person; dear; symptomatic; neglected; almost ready; fully functioning; improving; individual; archetype; obsessive; a; fucking; addictive; personality. Up-and-down-and-up-and-down-and-up-and-down swings. Push notifications allowed: “This is Ω, your HEAVEN-X mentor. It’s 19 October 2049 and your drug intake has lowered by the 13%. Consider refueling.” Bzz-Bzz-Bzzzzzz-Bzz-Bzz. “HEAVEN-X Mood Report — Serotonin: 48% down. Dopamine: 78% down. Norepinephrine: 53% down. Endorphine: 44% down. Consider refueling.”

B: “What now? Tweet your numbers?”
A: “No. I recalibrate.”
B: “Until?”
A: “Until numbers look good.”
B: “It really can get out of hand.”
A: “What couldn’t?”
B: “Excuse me?”
A: “What could not get out of hand? As in, I am out of hand, you are out of hand, everything is out of hand.”
B: “That’s not the reason to just keep millions of users hooked on drugs.”
A: “On the app, we’re just data.”
B: “And off the app?”
A: “I don’t know.”
B: “We’re just addicts.”
A: “We’re just HEAVEN-X clients.”
B: “A community, LOL…”

[Phone buzz]

No glory, no fame, no affection—I am a result of corporate angst and service industrialism. A venture capitalist of the abyss, an angel investor in the sense that I am Lucifer, fell from heaven, absorbed by this surprisingly miserable gathering of words, thoughts, and flesh. This year alone, the global population amounted to twenty-three billion two hundred fifty-nine million terabytes (23.259.000000). Data is still the most profitable asset since the 2030s. Global, dispersed boredom; an IPO for your life; a formulaic gesture.

A: “It’s time.”
B: “Let me finish… we always said HEAVEN-X was ethically unethical.”
A: “I don’t have time to be corporate vision-lectured now.”
B: “You’re a slave to your own company.”
A: “My numbers just need to look good.”
B: “Do they also feel good?”
A: “Let’s open the package and I’ll tell you.”
B: “And then? Every package means a new life? A new start? A new mood?”
A: “A new week for sure.”
B: “It’s scary.”
A: “No big deal. We’re not saving lives here.”
B: “We’re definitely not.”

Things people want to do before they commit suicide, ranked in no particular order, divided by semicolons for clarity’s sake: say goodbye to their family and loved ones; affirm themselves for the last time; get laid; affirm themselves for the first time; mindmap the aftermath; shoot heroin; nothing; think about the idealized image of themselves. HEAVEN-X can help. A new way for the old game! Invest in tiny houses; invest in the ketamine industry; invest in the luxury fashion monogroup monopoly; Invest in iceberg restoration; invest in lab-generated diamonds; invest in tech start-ups connecting diagnosed individuals with the drug market.

[Phone buzz]

Dear A,
On the occasion of Men’s Fashion Week in October 2049, HEAVEN-X is delighted to invite you to the opening of CATHEDRAL, a new cultural center building and nurturing a culturally conscious, new-generation audience in the world’s fashion and design capital.
CATHEDRAL is a social space where art, design and fashion blend to shape new cultural experiences, hosted in a former industrial building of over 1000 square meters. Originating from the vision of visionary founding partner HEAVEN-X, the space will open in October 2049.

RSVP is required: rsvp@heaven-x.com
Warmly,

Ω,

our HEAVEN-X mentor.

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