Blasphemy has always seemed to require taking things very seriously.
I’d rather be a cyborg than a goddess.
Our machines are disturbingly lively, and we ourselves frighteningly inert.
Consciousness of exclusion through naming is acute. Identities seem contradictory, partial, and strategic.
In a sense, a cyborg has no origin story in the Western sense – a ‘final’ irony since the cyborg is also the awful apocalyptic telos of the ‘West’s’ escalating dominations of abstract individuation, an ultimate self untied at last from all dependency, a man in space.
The cyborg would not recognize the garden of Eden; it is not made of mud and cannot dream of returning to dust.