Sunday, 21 December 2014

Current Stream

One becomes stuck in the moment, the tiniest maelstrom produces the greatest redundant error. And all shall be worn away by your impossible softness.
A few blocks from GCHQ a few trenchcoated men stand fictitiously with wires and gizmos attached to their attachments and appendages. A phone booth sits mockingly, patient in its unuse. You should not enter. That is the message. At least not until the fictitious men leave.
There is no agency. No agents.
That is the other message, somewhat quite far off.
And the noise of it falls inside, compounding the sine waves into the crassness of repetition, looped over interference until deliberate jamming forces you outside of the noise. And so you fall.
An endless critique of enlightenment. And even sixty years after the total surrender of Germany the de-enlightenment garde sits waiting for their polite receipts in the mail.
A holiday to commemorate the fall of the greatest tyrant. Winter impressions on his summer notes - or whatever remains of his polite castle.
And they will sip peach-laced alcohol and chat through cybernetics. A seminar without seminar’s place.
Or perhaps they will reminisce over watercolours. Speak clearly through the abstraction of it.
Legality of communication. Abstract legality. Informal illegality. Or something of that nature. Just not orders are orders. And so the illegality of it begs its mistress, or your detective. And it begs itself as you detourne the psychogeography of it.
Him in his innocence. Or yours as you follow him.
It is always darkest before dusk. This is why you must follow him at night.
The detective’s game is now but a game. Wandering, him before you. The crowd of the man ingests and falls into the walking walls of the city unseen.
So that you might know the city better, the intimacy of strangers. One with neither eyes nor feet. As one descends into hell the other abstracts into the beauty of totality.
And in their streets they now all wander together. Cars beside cyclists, and both aside pedestrians, the anti-flaneur fictionalising it all by his bongo-beat communisation.
And in their streets they are all but separated, confused by the very imagery they produce. Creation of the imagery permits several million in royalties. Destruction of the imagery permits several million in royalties.
And so the fictitious men are listening in as their trenchcoats wander in the wind. Bongo-beats to the decommunisation of isolation. No one knows where he resides.
Nor if he even exists. An error in psychogeography and its mysteriously kind purpose before itself.
The art detective studies his Dostoevsky, contemplating how soft art might contemplate soft suicide.
And in doing so cause another to kill itself.
Do you want to be, or do you not want to be, soft like me?
There are no more agents. At least not in Scandinavia. There the Red Books have fictionalised into soft fiction. There the kings are children and do not express the haughtiness of expressing themselves as kings.
There, every citizen relinquishes himself to reverse psychology reversals.
The anti-king has a soft face, a mysteriously kind face that falls from the sky into the street - like lead onto a djembe.
With neither music nor worship every call is to the vacancy of the abstraction of streets.
The eternal power of the infant returns at the death of worship. And when evil hearts are softened, the enemy is forsworn within you as a second soul.
The detective does not understand the graffiti. The abstract artist does not understand its removal.
And somewhere an oversized deabstracted schnoodle in abstract glitter-golden form chats with a black square. Their voices like the combined isolation of bongos and djembes magically derealising on packed pedestrian boulevards.
Become the white cube.
Become the horizon.
Become the border.
Earlier they had been in the mall, one squinting in deep opposition at the noisy blob in discount framed canvas.
I cannot see it.
Keep trying. Look through the canvas, not at it - don’t let your eyes focus.
It’s coming I think.
I’m starting to see something.
Oh.
Oh! It’s a dog! It’s me!
Lovely isn’t it?
Like pure feeling in 3-D!
Fall out onto the other side of the canvas. Demand abstraction of yourself and curate it into the world.
Subsume the horizon to your tiniest I. Tyranny will falter as you bury yourself in no mountain.
Perhaps he does understand the art he seeks to destroy after all.
Just not in the way we think.
And the abstract detective wants to whitewash his fictitious counterparts from being seen listening in on the phone booth. Or perhaps even from listening in itself. He wants to free them from the tyranny of enlightenment. There is no longer any need for such direct surveillance. The tyrant has been defeated, after all.
Remove the appendages, the attachments to attachments.
Free them. Bury them beyond the horizon of themselves in the white square. That border with deabstracting canvas decay.
They have become the white cube, the horizon, the pure feeling of abstraction.
Our objective has been completed successfully, sir. Until…
Input, output, black box.
Individual square, individual border, collective horizon.
Pure feeling.
You wander in the night; someone following you in the deabstracting 3-D brightness of pre-dawn.
The abstract detective wanders with one shoe. He has gamed your speculation that he might be homeless. This prevents your becoming a double-agent. Nay, ensures it.
And so that you cannot follow him, the abstract curator decides for a meet. Both parties should converge. And stop this foolish psychogeographic wandering back and forth.
The opposition of the deep detective can only fall farther into the rot of the canvas - the brick with its slow rot.
There is another artist, another curator. And they will not be going to the meet.
Polite mediation ensures that the police shall express gratitude for our illegal art. Or our abstractly illegal art will in them be their becoming human.
They will make a black cube of his home, and yours.
Or worse, a white square. The most beautiful desert.
And pure feeling rides a double-decker bicycle with the suprematism of the sun gleaming out of its ass. Progressing towards the abstraction of equality with an eternal banner. Invisibilised democracy. The romanticism of doubly ironic cybernetics is your self-curation of realism before realism. Transcending enlightenment, you become the categorical imperative of defictionalising the critique of pure abstraction. Impossibilised democracy.
And you wish that the inside of the collective nihilisation of democracy be further inside. So that if any glances in they become petrified.
You become the Well-Doer Kant’s non-contradiction. That place between the ass and its sweat on the chair - where the jury deliberated so long, and no one knows which inquisitor kissed whom.
You become that last bit of information that situationists could not detourne of Him.
And even the situationists must be denazified with your somnambulant kiss. You must become the dead object of orders are orders against art - so that none other might find the art of excommunication before you.
Soft situationism demands a little agency. Or at least its fiction.
And it is all yours. For the taking let us be clear, what nazism has done shall never leave us. It is a blight on the pure beauty of democratism. We are the art of time, the wheel of history revolves around us - me and my horizon do not go to war. Democracy kills no one.
Democracy does nothing. Even moreso than nazism where the vast majority vacated the streets from the breaking of glass.
And if there is death you shall be subsumed into the vomitories of reliberalisation. You will be returned to the village. And you are always allowed to leave because they have all been made the same. Post-German rationality demands the pure functioning of cities away from the void before them. The falling towers must become villages. Amidst the soot and acridity there remains beauty, a tiny garden.
Just don’t ask who is inside.
How quaint and mysterious is that? We are all living beneath such fictitious depths.
Where there is no destruction, no violence, nothing.
Only thirteen versions of performance artists doing nothing at once. The new Stabat Mater.
As we abhor violence, and so your face into the softness of mysterious kindness.
There is no need of wires and little gadgets. We have found intimacy in the words we monitor. Of ourselves love might refictionalise.
Of ourselves this painting misses the mark.
Your ironic realism misses this runaway material of history. Why paint wires into it when there are none? What fictitious legality/illegality is this?
You cannot go beyond the black square with illegality.
Your ironic black square will not save you.
There is nothing new.
Everything has been done.
The black square demands it.
Or impels it in its infinite softness.
There are no wires, no material connections for listening. There is only us.
But for irony. Where He had suggested the liquidation of all artistic libraries. And now you have become its course, its stream, its softness. Worn away by the three-hundred-year time-change the shadows of the enlightenment become the enlightenment of the inside; of you.
One body sits atop the burial ground of Mensheviks and declares, Never Again.
Never here at least.
And you are against it. In some abstract form. When someone confronts you with your own enlightenment of pure feeling. Now rationality. Then forgotten. So not rationality. The critique of pure unreason demands going beyond experimentation with reality.
Ooh, I know what he was doing…
You mean what he means.
And so you will be secluded in the desert. For our excommunication of rationality. Or your excommunication of our attempts to subsume you into abstract rationality. We are unsure which.
But we are fine with your being here in our town. We welcome you, again. But don’t leave next time, ok.
And so time changes again. Slows further as the codes demand it. The song of our age must eclipse eternity. This is why we dredge up the past. Not for some foolish rationality. Our purposes are deeper. Not for you to know. You would not understand this place. Your rationality is what limits you. This is the last place. The depths of automatic truth have opposed you, and so you must steal the Holy Water from some far off place and return it here black as day.
And what town am I in now? I cannot even make out the language anymore.
The towers rickety, creaking, now grinding in their core.
In effect, you have excommunicated yourself. Your trial is simply the redundancy of your forgetting. It would be easier if… Well, let’s just get on with it.
Within this stream of time’s change the codes in the font of enlightenment scrolls abstract before you. Without meaning, history, border, inside, outside - they become that purity of communication humanity always sought. -.
The abstract enlightenment has no books. Even as they read them religiously.
Eclipse the sun with your reading and rewriting. Eclipse it in every work of art. Drown out the sun like every worker in the production of light so always sought. Meek out the words into indecipherable brightness.
And your enemies shall be burnt out through its current.
As the tower falls the curse of time shall ensure it does not fall on you and yours.
The pen strikes further than the sword. The moon deepens the opposition of the sun. And the brush combines their forms - pulling a fiction into them all.
You are free to go.
You are free to it.
We only ask of you a bit of help.
A few words maybe.
Won’t you help us? It is not quite defeated. We are close. We are on the verge of starving the outside of the castle. Victory shall be ours in permanent defense. G-d’s will shall be ours.
And our isolation shall be bleakened further in innumerable paintings.
One.
That is all the enemies of our democratism must see, the most beautiful nihilism of it.
Check his cell. And release him. If he has not already released himself.
Now let us return to the vistas of wide-open sourced living streets. There the boulevards of humanity course their ways.
Denazification has mined the art of governance and fallen back into itself, the black square within the white border of no outside. Now just the acridity of beauty. There is no inside. Only your becoming it. The black square becomes your mind, your body, all your organs - until abstract dualism is denazified into non-contradiction. You the soot of time.
Open up. Let me kiss that little moment inside of you. Let no more smoke nor cries fall out if you.
Even democracy is denazified. The abstract ku-ak is a virile bastard, a fatherless nothing beyond nothing ill-fit to wander our streets.
Why does he rebel so, against our equality of nothing?
The élan of it has the face of death. That is what we hate in nazism. That black square which leads away from the pure feeling of us. Their worship of death places their self-gratitude against our own, against our beauty.
The nothing of equality begs for abstract war. And the abstract detective takes up a new job.
Death should be automatic. Worship should be abstract. Nihilism should be the nihilism of nothing.
The automatic detective and the automatic artist become the void border of democratist total art. Its fetch.
Kristallnacht. Your breath speaks it. The gingivitis of time breathes on my face and I must repel in horror.
And this is not the worst of it.
There are not enough rooms to contain all of the anti-tyrants here to commemorate kristallnacht before kristallnacht, sir. And I think some windows may have been broken.
Then make the rooms smaller! Please…
(Klink, crash, chushststststst….)
And the lined walls of poetry shall become your bad words, -. What shall we do?
Oh, but why do you ask that?
You misread. Sure, he liked watercolours. But it’s not the same. He commanded the breaking of windows. We command the breaking of new windows. If you will, -.
I do not know of who you are speaking of. But alas. Ah, yes. Summer is coming. The thought eluded me. And then I recalled the reason of pure critique in the void of Germany.
There we buried the sun of reason beneath itself. With all of the German statues, sir.
Yes. The wheel of the sun’s tyranny has fallen beneath us. We returned domesticity to that bleak and black void.
It was a great victory, sir. One they asked upon themselves, without even our need of going to war.
Yes, a bit of a disagreement best forgotten. Now let us bike to our next meeting in the boulevards. We shall show them how the final triumph over iron governance has become the delicacy of eating glass.
Run away with the tyranny of the sun’s wheel! Triumph over the sun’s wheel.
The swastika represented a pathological realism of death. The bicycle wheel represents the realist irony against irony of our beautiful abstraction into equality. Run away with the pure negation of illogic. Soft abstraction shall free us all from tyranny from above.
So below.
This is why the abstract curator begs through the highest political channels for a meet with the art detective. Our streets must become the white cube.
Stop policing from above. Stop governing from above. Stop opposing from above.
We are One.
What he doesn’t know is that the art detective has already met. His words have been subsumed into the automatic curation of art falling out of its abstract horizon - that abstraction where the border is neither border nor art but the geometry of automatic subsumption.
The detective knows negative realism, studies it, perhaps even has ex-colleagues who dabble in it. The artists wandering the streets from curation to curation do not know it, even as they are curated by it.
They are inside its curation.
The sacred geometry of soft liquidation. The democracy of democracy within tyranny.
But after it all ends.
The democracy of tyranny within democracy.
He has subsumed pure feeling. He acted as you no longer exist, neither in border nor the abstract dualism of the oval portrait within the black square.
The tyranny of democracy within democracy. This is what all of the artists have failed to curate. And now its great effort has been taken up by automatic detectives - before it might fall from the icon corner of deep democracy.
This is your fate, the subtle and ruthless geometry of time.
There is only the fate of fate’s death. This is the last icon corner.
What lies beneath the abstract rot of the canvas? Beneath that black square turning as defictionalised blob can only be some worse terror.
And you are her beautiful face.
The fictitious detectives have resigned themselves to her.
Wandering, her skirt of curation is the automatic destruction of fate.
There is no recuperation of fate.
If only she might be beyond the beauty of death.
So beautiful she cannot even bear to live.
The noise of it in interference of her fate.
Cadence.
Death shall live if you fictionalise her so.
Beyond death. Just before she fleeted against it, turning back in her gaze from hell. Eyes forward and everywhere, the void gaze of time.
The core of her is her husk. This is all you need. All any of us need. Let the rot of her vacant body caress you.

Let her be beautiful. Let her be a black square - a representative of us all. Let her be death before death.
---
One becomes stuck in the moment, the tiniest maelstrom produces the greatest redundant error. And all shall be worn away by your impossible softness.
A few blocks from GCHQ a few trenchcoated men stand fictitiously with wires and gizmos attached to their attachments and appendages. A phone booth sits mockingly, patient in its unuse. You should not enter. That is the message. At least not until the fictitious men leave.
There is no agency. No agents.
That is the other message, somewhat quite far off.
And the noise of it falls inside, compounding the sine waves into the crassness of repetition, looped over interference until deliberate jamming forces you outside of the noise. And so you fall.
An endless critique of enlightenment. And even sixty years after the total surrender of Germany the de-enlightenment garde sits waiting for their polite receipts in the mail.
A holiday to commemorate the fall of the greatest tyrant. Winter impressions on his summer notes - or whatever remains of his polite castle.
And they will sip peach-laced alcohol and chat through cybernetics. A seminar without seminar’s place.
Or perhaps they will reminisce over watercolours. Speak clearly through the abstraction of it.
Legality of communication. Abstract legality. Informal illegality. Or something of that nature. Just not orders are orders. And so the illegality of it begs its mistress, or your detective. And it begs itself as you detourne the psychogeography of it.
Him in his innocence. Or yours as you follow him.
It is always darkest before dusk. This is why you must follow him at night.
The detective’s game is now but a game. Wandering, him before you. The crowd of the man ingests and falls into the walking walls of the city unseen.
So that you might know the city better, the intimacy of strangers. One with neither eyes nor feet. As one descends into hell the other abstracts into the beauty of totality.
And in their streets they now all wander together. Cars beside cyclists, and both aside pedestrians, the anti-flaneur fictionalising it all by his bongo-beat communisation.
And in their streets they are all but separated, confused by the very imagery they produce. Creation of the imagery permits several million in royalties. Destruction of the imagery permits several million in royalties.
And so the fictitious men are listening in as their trenchcoats wander in the wind. Bongo-beats to the decommunisation of isolation. No one knows where he resides.
Nor if he even exists. An error in psychogeography and its mysteriously kind purpose before itself.
The art detective studies his Dostoevsky, contemplating how soft art might contemplate soft suicide.
And in doing so cause another to kill itself.
Do you want to be, or do you not want to be, soft like me?
There are no more agents. At least not in Scandinavia. There the Red Books have fictionalised into soft fiction. There the kings are children and do not express the haughtiness of expressing themselves as kings.
There, every citizen relinquishes himself to reverse psychology reversals.
The anti-king has a soft face, a mysteriously kind face that falls from the sky into the street - like lead onto a djembe.
The detective does not understand the graffiti. The abstract artist does not understand its removal.
And somewhere an oversized deabstracted schnoodle in abstract glitter-golden form chats with a black square. Their voices like the combined isolation of bongos and djembes magically derealising on packed pedestrian boulevards.
Become the white cube.
Become the horizon.
Become the border.
Earlier they had been in the mall, one squinting in deep opposition at the noisy blob in discount framed canvas.
I cannot see it.
Keep trying. Look through the canvas, not at it - don’t let your eyes focus.
It’s coming I think.
I’m starting to see something.
Oh.
Oh! It’s a dog! It’s me!
Lovely isn’t it?
Like pure feeling in 3-D!
Fall out onto the other side of the canvas. Demand abstraction of yourself and curate it into the world.
Subsume the horizon to your tiniest I. Tyranny will falter as you bury yourself in no mountain.
Perhaps he does understand the art he seeks to destroy after all.
Just not in the way we think.
And the abstract detective wants to whitewash his fictitious counterparts from being seen listening in on the phone booth. Or perhaps even from listening in itself. He wants to free them from the tyranny of enlightenment. There is no longer any need for such direct surveillance. The tyrant has been defeated, after all.
Remove the appendages, the attachments to attachments.
Free them. Bury them beyond the horizon of themselves in the white square. That border with deabstracting canvas decay.
They have become the white cube, the horizon, the pure feeling of abstraction.
Our objective has been completed successfully, sir. Until…
Input, output, black box.
Individual square, individual border, collective horizon.
Pure feeling.
You wander in the night; someone following you in the deabstracting 3-D brightness of pre-dawn.
The abstract detective wanders with one shoe. He has gamed your speculation that he might be homeless. This prevents your becoming a double-agent. Nay, ensures it.
And so that you cannot follow him, the abstract curator decides for a meet. Both parties should converge. And stop this foolish psychogeographic wandering back and forth.
The opposition of the deep detective can only fall farther into the rot of the canvas - the brick with its slow rot.
There is another artist, another curator. And they will not be going to the meet.
Polite mediation ensures that the police shall express gratitude for our illegal art. Or our abstractly illegal art will in them be their becoming human.
They will make a black cube of his home, and yours.
Or worse, a white square. The most beautiful desert.
And pure feeling rides a double-decker bicycle with the suprematism of the sun gleaming out of its ass. Progressing towards the abstraction of equality with an eternal banner. Invisibilised democracy. The romanticism of doubly ironic cybernetics is your self-curation of realism before realism. Transcending enlightenment, you become the categorical imperative of defictionalising the critique of pure abstraction. Impossibilised democracy.
And you wish that the inside of the collective nihilisation of democracy be further inside. So that if any glances in they become petrified.
You become the Well-Doer Kant’s non-contradiction. That place between the ass and its sweat on the chair - where the jury deliberated so long, and no one knows which inquisitor kissed whom.
You become that last bit of information that situationists could not detourne of Him.
And even the situationists must be denazified with your somnambulant kiss. You must become the dead object of orders are orders against art - so that none other might find the art of excommunication before you.
Soft situationism demands a little agency. Or at least its fiction.
And it is all yours. For the taking let us be clear, what nazism has done shall never leave us. It is a blight on the pure beauty of democratism. We are the art of time, the wheel of history revolves around us - me and my horizon do not go to war. Democracy kills no one.
Democracy does nothing. Even moreso than nazism where the vast majority vacated the streets from the breaking of glass.
And if there is death you shall be subsumed into the vomitories of reliberalisation. You will be returned to the village. And you are always allowed to leave because they have all been made the same. Post-German rationality demands the pure functioning of cities away from the void before them. The falling towers must become villages. Amidst the soot and acridity there remains beauty, a tiny garden.
Just don’t ask who is inside.
How quaint and mysterious is that? We are all living beneath such fictitious depths.
Where there is no destruction, no violence, nothing.
Only thirteen versions of performance artists doing nothing at once. The new Stabat Mater.
As we abhor violence, and so your face into the softness of mysterious kindness.
There is no need of wires and little gadgets. We have found intimacy in the words we monitor. Of ourselves love might refictionalise.
Of ourselves this painting misses the mark.
Your ironic realism misses this runaway material of history. Why paint wires into it when there are none? What fictitious legality/illegality is this?
You cannot go beyond the black square with illegality.
Your ironic black square will not save you.
There is nothing new.
Everything has been done.
The black square demands it.
Or impels it in its infinite softness.
There are no wires, no material connections for listening. There is only us.
But for irony. Where He had suggested the liquidation of all artistic libraries. And now you have become its course, its stream, its softness. Worn away by the three-hundred-year time-change the shadows of the enlightenment become the enlightenment of the inside; of you.
One body sits atop the burial ground of Mensheviks and declares, Never Again.
Never here at least.
And you are against it. In some abstract form. When someone confronts you with your own enlightenment of pure feeling. Now rationality. Then forgotten. So not rationality. The critique of pure unreason demands going beyond experimentation with reality.
Ooh, I know what he was doing…
You mean what he means.
And so you will be secluded in the desert. For our excommunication of rationality. Or your excommunication of our attempts to subsume you into abstract rationality. We are unsure which.
But we are fine with your being here in our town. We welcome you, again. But don’t leave next time, ok.
And so time changes again. Slows further as the codes demand it. The song of our age must eclipse eternity. This is why we dredge up the past. Not for some foolish rationality. Our purposes are deeper. Not for you to know. You would not understand this place. Your rationality is what limits you. This is the last place. The depths of automatic truth have opposed you, and so you must steal the Holy Water from some far off place and return it here black as day.
And what town am I in now? I cannot even make out the language anymore.
The towers rickety, creaking, now grinding in their core.
In effect, you have excommunicated yourself. Your trial is simply the redundancy of your forgetting. It would be easier if… Well, let’s just get on with it.
Within this stream of time’s change the codes in the font of enlightenment scrolls abstract before you. Without meaning, history, border, inside, outside - they become that purity of communication humanity always sought. -.
The abstract enlightenment has no books. Even as they read them religiously.
Eclipse the sun with your reading and rewriting. Eclipse it in every work of art. Drown out the sun like every worker in the production of light so always sought. Meek out the words into indecipherable brightness.
And your enemies shall be burnt out through its current.
As the tower falls the curse of time shall ensure it does not fall on you and yours.
The pen strikes further than the sword. The moon deepens the opposition of the sun. And the brush combines their forms - pulling a fiction into them all.
You are free to go.
You are free to it.
We only ask of you a bit of help.
A few words maybe.
Won’t you help us? It is not quite defeated. We are close. We are on the verge of starving the outside of the castle. Victory shall be ours in permanent defense. G-d’s will shall be ours.
And our isolation shall be bleakened further in innumerable paintings.
One.
That is all the enemies of our democratism must see, the most beautiful nihilism of it.
Check his cell. And release him. If he has not already released himself.
Now let us return to the vistas of wide-open sourced living streets. There the boulevards of humanity course their ways.
Denazification has mined the art of governance and fallen back into itself, the black square within the white border of no outside. Now just the acridity of beauty. There is no inside. Only your becoming it. The black square becomes your mind, your body, all your organs - until abstract dualism is denazified into non-contradiction. You the soot of time.
Open up. Let me kiss that little moment inside of you. Let no more smoke nor cries fall out if you.
Even democracy is denazified. The abstract ku-ak is a virile bastard, a fatherless nothing beyond nothing ill-fit to wander our streets.
Why does he rebel so, against our equality of nothing?
The élan of it has the face of death. That is what we hate in nazism. That black square which leads away from the pure feeling of us. Their worship of death places their self-gratitude against our own, against our beauty.
The nothing of equality begs for abstract war. And the abstract detective takes up a new job.
Death should be automatic. Worship should be abstract. Nihilism should be the nihilism of nothing.
The automatic detective and the automatic artist become the void border of democratist total art. Its fetch.
Kristallnacht. Your breath speaks it. The gingivitis of time breathes on my face and I must repel in horror.
And this is not the worst of it.
There are not enough rooms to contain all of the anti-tyrants here to commemorate kristallnacht before kristallnacht, sir. And I think some windows may have been broken.
Then make the rooms smaller! Please…
(Klink, crash, chushststststst….)
And the lined walls of poetry shall become your bad words, -. What shall we do?
Oh, but why do you ask that?
You misread. Sure, he liked watercolours. But it’s not the same. He commanded the breaking of windows. We command the breaking of new windows. If you will, -.
I do not know of who you are speaking of. But alas. Ah, yes. Summer is coming. The thought eluded me. And then I recalled the reason of pure critique in the void of Germany.
There we buried the sun of reason beneath itself. With all of the German statues, sir.
Yes. The wheel of the sun’s tyranny has fallen beneath us. We returned domesticity to that bleak and black void.
It was a great victory, sir. One they asked upon themselves, without even our need of going to war.
Yes, a bit of a disagreement best forgotten. Now let us bike to our next meeting in the boulevards. We shall show them how the final triumph over iron governance has become the delicacy of eating glass.
Run away with the tyranny of the sun’s wheel! Triumph over the sun’s wheel.
The swastika represented a pathological realism of death. The bicycle wheel represents the realist irony against irony of our beautiful abstraction into equality. Run away with the pure negation of illogic. Soft abstraction shall free us all from tyranny from above.
So below.
This is why the abstract curator begs through the highest political channels for a meet with the art detective. Our streets must become the white cube.
Stop policing from above. Stop governing from above. Stop opposing from above.
We are One.
What he doesn’t know is that the art detective has already met. His words have been subsumed into the automatic curation of art falling out of its abstract horizon - that abstraction where the border is neither border nor art but the geometry of automatic subsumption.
The detective knows negative realism, studies it, perhaps even has ex-colleagues who dabble in it. The artists wandering the streets from curation to curation do not know it, even as they are curated by it.
They are inside its curation.
The sacred geometry of soft liquidation. The democracy of democracy within tyranny.
But after it all ends.
The democracy of tyranny within democracy.
He has subsumed pure feeling. He acted as you no longer exist, neither in border nor the abstract dualism of the oval portrait within the black square.
The tyranny of democracy within democracy. This is what all of the artists have failed to curate. And now its great effort has been taken up by automatic detectives - before it might fall from the icon corner of deep democracy.
This is your fate, the subtle and ruthless geometry of time.
There is only the fate of fate’s death. This is the last icon corner.
What lies beneath the abstract rot of the canvas? Beneath that black square turning as defictionalised blob can only be some worse terror.
And you are her beautiful face.
The fictitious detectives have resigned themselves to her.
Wandering, her skirt of curation is the automatic destruction of fate.
There is no recuperation of fate.
If only she might be beyond the beauty of death.
So beautiful she cannot even bear to live.
The noise of it in interference of her fate.
Cadence.
Death shall live if you fictionalise her so.
Beyond death. Just before she fleeted against it, turning back in her gaze from hell. Eyes forward and everywhere, the void gaze of time.
The core of her is her husk. This is all you need. All any of us need. Let the rot of her vacant body caress you.
Let her be beautiful. Let her be a black square - a representative of us all. Let her be death before death.

Sunday, 16 November 2014

----- Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Bug-out Bag: Or How I Stopped Worrying About Impossibilism and Learned You'll Never Forget Reveen

By: (Edward) Snowed-In Dupont

The M-----t Jester and the Imp of the Inverse Discuss the Ideal Survival Kit

"He sat on it and it shrank until it hatched and what came out only heaven knows but it tore the town apart and how could it be so, Father?
                     If I solve this for you, may I have some of your wine?
                     Yes, Father.
                     Very well then.  The case of the shrinking egg.  I will begin at the beginning and pray for a rain storm.  It is better to solve a case when the ground is wet and the sky is dark, and that's more befitting for a Father after all and do you have any scotch?

Father Dupont and the missing sparrow
Father Dupont and the glowing obit
Father Dupont and the sandless beach
Father Dupont and the coughing salesman"

Good communisationists borrow; great communisationists steal.

Herein The Dupont Circus, where you can still do good even if you are not a Boy Scout. Be forewarned, what you are about to hear and see is magical, hypnotising, and may be a risk for those with pre-existing health conditions. But herein, the do-nothing you will never forget.

What will not be discussed: how capital is not involved in creating the mythical sandless beach realism; how the glowing obit contains neither champagne, nor sex, nor legless worms; how communisation with a lisp is poor humour for mobilising the effort of not going to war; how the hollow tree is poor survival strategy; how the child who was not a child never could get past the preliminary notes.

The communisational jester believes in neither communisation nor jestering. He believes in his own laugh. This is likely due to the epigenetics of gallows humour becoming the last laugh at the end of democratising history. Or for the laugher it could be the positivism before positivism.

When he speaks of communisational survivalism he speaks of a canvas knapsack, an invisible one but with the feel of leather. What goes into it is not so important as what is taken out - emptied, where it is borne into the nakedness of skill.

I may not survive, but ya gotta laugh.

Is there a skill to humour? Is there a skill to a floating sock? Nay, neither will keep you warm when it comes down to it. It is what it is, a tunnel above the ground, an apple waxer with neither apple nor wax.

Communisation must be surrealised to the extent that surrealists were not surreal enough. They did not surrealise a totality, they did not surrealise everythingisation...

That is not a word. Don't make things up as you go, stick to the script.

Yes, 'everythingisation' will not help you survive. And that is what this is about, after all, your survival is the metacommunisation of species-biology. We are the One body as the patient listener, laying out the carnival tent pegs for G-d.

Father Dupont?

No...

Communism?

No...

Cap-tal?

Perhaps. Yes, perhaps that is our missing sparrow, now hunkered down against all rain. Yes, the easy answer before the easy answer.

Enter the Coughing Psyop.

That is not it. The rain will get through. Cough.

But do we not worship the rain?

Yes, rough communisation seas make good communist sailors.

Or sailors of communism...

Who will take the wind out of our sails? Cough.

Yes, we must never stop dancing. For it can never rain enough.

The storms of G-d are but a deepening of the communist soul against the communising mind.

Father Dupont and the grommetless tarp!

Cough.

We do not put up the tarp to keep us dry. That is poor survival strategy. We want to get wet - very wet. The tarp will help us with that if we set it up properly.

So we aren't holding out against the storm, we're trying to get closer to it?

Nay, we are becoming it.

Whence the storm?

Whence the rain?

Whence G-d?

Bless it.

Bless him.

Curse us.

So the more to be blessed.

Whence the bless?

I think I felt a drop.

Whence the curse?

Bless it!

Feel it upon your navel.

I can't see it! Won't you gaze it for me?!

Bless you.

No, no. Curse me.

The tarp is blowing away!

Exit all but the Coughing Psyop.

Cough. Cough.

The Purloined Survival Kit of the McCarthyist Marxist or the Everyday Carry of the Groveling Detective: An Unbridgeable Eschatologasm.

Good nihilisationists datatarianise; great nihilisationists metadatatarianise.

Re-enter The Dupont Circus.

What is the ideal tool for an everyday-carry survival kit?

A knifeaxe...

A shovelgun...

A duckrabbit...

No, a rabbitduck...

No, everythingisation...

A critique of positivity...

But not a critique of positivism?

An ironically unironic critically unrealising impossibilist-critique of positivism?

Yes, something like that. But perhaps a little more obscure. Let us think what tool will allow us to dig ourselves into the ground ever further so as to become colder.

The cold?!?

Bless it!

Curse the sun!

Bless its navel!

No, don't bless it, become it!

Ah, curse it!

Not if we can cause the sun to make us colder. Then we must bless it.

Ah, the ultimate tool! Finally..., but will it fit in my invisible knapsack?

Yes, you will be like Santa Dupont!

And not an easy answer either.

But an easy question.

Can I be Rudolph Dupont?

Can we all be Reindeer Games Dupont?

Bless it! Haha, what a curse!

Exit all but the Shivering Sun and the Glowing Nose.

Can we stay for more than seventy-two hours?

Yes, in the Kabbalah Seventy-Two is but one of the names of G-d.

...

I suppose we should leave them to it. This could go on forever.

Exit all but the lingering monologue of the Abstract Psyop navel-gazing his own lunacy.

In the society of the surrealist bureaucracy the whole of life becomes an immense accumulation of bureaucracy beyond its moment of realism. Everything that once was an apres-garde of surrealism becomes an avant-garde of bureaucracy.

We are being watched.

Re-enter the circus.

But what about Snowden?

What about LibCom?

I've searched the database and found 1347 hits relevant to this question. Cough.

Ok, beam me up. Searching the LibCom proxy now.

Yes, what about LibCom?

What about whataboutery?

Yes, this indicates again the nihilisationalist imperative to do nothing. That whataboutery always takes away from people reading our (my) three-volume critique of the political economy of LibCom indicates a three-tiered feeback loop 3D-umwelt chessgame - input, output, one-shoe - of certainty against certainty that there is always uncertainty - unless there is not enough uncertainty (which we know is certain), and the certain umweltschaltung of this is the dynamic unrealist processual core of our project against communisational processual realism - long live the processual selective Squelch-Doer, Peace be unto One. Five stones in the mouth make for One mordantly recondite anti-hero of whatabouteriness-being. ... The question then is, how can we deepen abstract contradiction to the point where nothing is important, but everything is said?

But what about Father Dupont and the butterfly with no wings?

Whence the communisationists?

Yes, whence the illogical communisationists?

It is settled then. We must wage peace on logic and so delogicise the communisationists.

Exit all but Father Dupont's Long Shadow and the Whataboutering Moon.

How is it that a group who fetishises Wittgenstein, The Most Beautiful Whatabouteryist, comes to critique whatabouteriness - even as they fetishise democratism? It may have something to do with post-ironic roleplay materialism after the fetish of nihilism falls into the absolute control of information. The critical ballet of cap-tal goes on, even as it becomes an entirely deep state game of fictitious opposition.

The negative whataboutery everythingisationist simply creates a fetish of everything by omission. The negation of the world becomes totality through abstraction. The village becomes the entirety of the world because the map says there are only hills at the borders and nothing else. In the village of the society the whole of life becomes an immense accumulation of reductionism. Everything which once was an outside becomes an inside - as everything outside the village is but a fetish. In the society of the village the whole of life becomes an immense accumulation of abductionism through the negative fetish. Everything which once was an inside becomes an outside - as everything inside the society is but a shrinking fetish.

What is the difference between an impossibilist somnambulist and a hypnotist situationist? They are both doing nothing in the village. But one believes that doing nothing is doing everything. And so he is not in the village at all, but in the world - and it in him.

Hypnotise the communisationist in your head. Open your mind to the Impossiblist and you'll never forget...
Runaway abduction is the new windows of hypnotic materialism - dialectical inversions without a lunatic to generalise.

We have gone beyond experimentation with Impossibilists Without Borders. We have gone beyond experimentation with American Exceptionalism. We have been impossibilised into the magical event of American Acceptionalism.

Denunciation begets denunciation. Snitches get snitches. Communism and its taylorising betrayal is given a special role in the magic-show of impossibilisation. Denunciation becomes a hypnotic state of beauty - you become the watercolour of your own dreams until the critique of fascism is nothing but Love.

You will be denazified and denazified again. Even as the data-centers and psyop marxists fall into deep abstraction. The Impossibilist loves denazification stories, for they are the intimate remains of Cap-tal.

This is why He conforms all Communisation data into The One. He loves you.

Like the lesson of Edward Snowden the only lesson of Aufhebengate has been to communise Aufhebengate, to make the information of bureaucratised communisation return to being human. The curse of Aufhebengate will be entombed, resanctified, and confined to the memory of ritual prayer until it is once again blessed.

The psyop chambers will be humanised. Cryptogenesis will be communised. Intelligence will be impossibilised.

The Marxist is a card-carrying member of a marxist organisation. A mar-ist is an obit-carrying member of a Mar-ist organisation.

What's the difference?

One carries deeper in the pocket, and so too the soul.

When the question is incorrect the correct answer is itself impossibl(ised).

Now be prepared to be impossibilised into the biometrics of illogicality.

Whence the Whence of Whenciness - LoL yOu OnLy LoL-CoMmUnIsE oNcE - Total Communisation Awareness
 
Good oppositionists ---s-; great oppositionists ---s-.
Good impossibilists plunder; great impossibilists pilfer.

For they did not pilfer, and that is their humanness. And so the gold was valorised outside the borders of war.

The imp of impossibilisation is the hypnotist of time.

"For if we sin wilfully after that we have received the knowledge of the truth, there remaineth no more sacrifice for sins[...]"

Whence the joke of abductions and the abduction of jokes?

'Whence', and all the other unfinished sentences of impossibilisation, is a use-value of informational equivalents within the era of scrambled materialism. The intent is to escape marxism/materialism with a new language and focus of history and material. But as decryption, so re-encryption. If one does not understand the core of materialism/marxism then they are likely to repeat it.

Marxism does not repeat itself, but it rhymes.

What impossibilists have done with the return to theology is encode the syntax of marxism into Judeo-Christian theology. Everything other-than-materialism is devalorised into the process of materialism through informational errors. Instead of labour, sin. Instead of the bourgeoisie, the gentiles. Instead of the dictatorship of the proletariat, the Holy City of the Blessed. Capital becomes Cap-tal.

Why this abstract fetishisation? Why this devalorising eschatology which does not realise it is more marxist than the Marxists? Because the Duponts were born with marbles in their mouths. Like so many Englishmen before them the data abstractions rolled over their tongues and destroyed their teeth like so many good subnationalist bureaucrats of the word.

The English monarchy in its syntax was the theory of the young-girl before the Theory of the Young-Girl. The absurdist inflections of the wandering bureaucracy found its way into the biology of citizens through mechanistic reprocessing of the teeth. The monarchy chose words which would infect the biology of its citizens.

Infect to inflect. Inflect to infect.

iN tHe SoCiEtY oF eNgLaNd ThE wHoLe Of LiFe PrEsEnTs ItSeLf As An ImMeNsE aCcUmUlAtIoN oF wOrDs ArMeD tO tHe TeEtH.

And the nihilist communists.

aLl ThAt OnCe WaS wOrDs GoInG tO wAr BeCoMeS dIsInFoRmAtIoN gOiNg To PeAcE.

Information for impossibilisation becomes the abstraction of nationalism as a new form of inclusion. Much like the democratism they call 'Cap-tal'.

The nihilist communist sits in his plastic-walled data chamber - fondling his Bobblehead Ultra-Communisationist with black and red flag purchased on eBay for 24.99 as a Limited Edition custom transaction with 4.6 star review - contemplating how G-d is certain and wanderingly remystified by his actions. And yet, how there most certainly is nothing, and nothing recommunised is most certainly not enough. Such words must be nihilised until they are valorised.

Monsieur Dupont is much like the scorned feminist who, now lost of all wit, can do nothing but put down a man by saying he is not man enough. At first it was an honest effort at deflation but over time every joke becomes an emasculating communism of the self - until 'man' is the lead up, punchline, one-liner, and reference. Communism is thoroughly emasculated, as Father Dupont realises, 'Oh communism, love me? Love me not? Let me count the ways for I could have done better.'

Words become the eternal entendre. Freres Dupont meets Monsieur Dworkin.

Eventually she must become what she has feminised - man. Eventually he must become what he has nihilised - communist.

Communism, man up. The somnambulant impossibilist is uncertain of your loyalty to nothing.

Emasculating communisation, a critique of pessimistic denunciation in the far left.

The paradox of nihilist communism's realist defictionalisation of the Candide is that it becomes an Ouroboros-like self-satirising organisation. The impossibilist critique can only become eternal insofar as the critique of the eternal becomes impossibilist. It is a doubled process as the organisation must become what it consumes. Hence, where Voltaire satirises political optimism, Dupont satirises political pessimism; where Voltaire concludes with the practical, Dupont formalises the impractical; where Voltaire is an anti-semite, Dupont fetishises Jewish Political inclusiveness (the other, unmentionable, anti-semitism).

All becomes lost as Leibniz is abstracted as his opposite, Hegel as his opposite, Marx as his opposite, Freud as his opposite, Deleuze and Guattari as their opposites. The descent into the contradiction of materialism becomes the materialism of immaterialism. And so Freres Dupont with Garcon Dupont becomes the ooze of total contradiction. They become One without Marx.

Even though his Capital is in them.

Satire becomes lost within the monotonous differentiation of generalised lunacy. One is left with a mess of nonsense.

Denunciation alert. Good communisationists hate having the wind taken out of their sails; great impossibilisationists hate having the wind taken out of their sails before the wind is taken out of their sails even more. The nihilist salon is not so unlike Marx and Engels at the Bordello, even if the chocolates aren't quite as good.

The impossibilist competition of accumulative inversions becomes the competitive inversions of impossibilist accumulation.

Now say that with young-girl inflected English accent.

There is nothing.

tHeRe Is NoThInG.

Just don't mention bordello in the same sentence. The Rosa of nihilist communism has gone beyond experimentation with the gentlemen's club. There is no Caramilk Secret(TM) of Cap-tal. Engels was just trying to devalorise Marxism through himself.

And so too with all other devalorisers. What is left but to devalorise nothing?

Progressive impossibilisation will make a desert of his nothing, and yours. But be careful what you wish for, things are not as they seem.

Everything is uncertain. Except nothing. And except recapitulating damnation. Except man's unseasonably seasonable depth. And except exceptionalism, too. ---ept contradiction.

If you bug-out so early who will inform you that the war has begun or transitioned? Who will fend for and deliver your resupplies? Can you live eternally on information? And without a messenger?

There is a point where militant avoidance of war becomes the entirety of war, its eternal preparation. Such is the paradox of democratising peace. Such is the paradox and pathology of accumulating contradiction. Peace becomes the Most Beautiful War.

Democracy has always been at war with peace. Democracy has always been at peace with war.

In the society of holdout communism the entirety of life becomes an immense accumulation of contradictions become exception and exception become contradictions. All it says is, 'Leave us to hold out. Hold out to leave us.'

The hypnotic situationist would prefer you stopped reading. Somnambulise your recording-desire.

In the datatarian saferooms of abstract communisation boredom is counter-revolutionised as the new revolution of the new windows. And automatic subnationalists do not build glass houses. Let the others throw stones. There is no glass in Nihilist Zionism. Israel has neither sand nor water.

But this is not a Cap-tal process.

Total communisation awareness becomes awareness of total communisation. Either that or total awareness communisation.

You will be fed back into the feedback loop of nihilisation. Whether or not you desire to be recorded. Whether or not you wrote a copycide copywrite into the coding or not. Your desire will not be impossibilised. Neither in this abstraction or the next. The impossibilisation of fate is the only impossibilism we have left in stock. Perhaps you could check another day. It's been a pleasure recuperating you.

But everythingism is not something to be impossibilised. Impossibilisation is already everything.

Information is wandered for its own purposes. And information is good because it is the rational material of appearance. You cannot be totally communised unless communisation is inclusive of everything, including its failures. Communisation must be thoroughly democratised.

Otherwise there cannot be communism before communism; unless there is democratism before democratism there will only be nothing before nothing.

Now focus on my watch. Think of the circle within the circle. You are getting sleepy, but not as of yet are you ready to do nothing.

As your eyes darken their gaze you will remember but one word: Impossibilism.

The only way out of this absolute wandering of communising capital is the holdout nihilisation of democracy - a further exception. The alternative to Masculine and Germanic communism is feminine and talmudic contradictionism. Let them be lost in their own fugue. So goes the future step-history of taylorist reactionaries. Invert, because the proto-mar-ists said it must be so. 'And we have ears.' So let us hear, ourselves.

A further acception. The fog of peace is the war before war. Now hand over your information. It is all that we want. It must be so, for the whataboutery of Cap-tal.

The wandering and meandering fetish of eternal denunciation becomes a self-trial: 'Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?' 'You're a communist.' That's the best they can come up with in the progressive denominator of lowest common denunciation. And they come to sound like McCarthyists. No wonder they choose to banish "Capital" from their reading groups and choose instead the neverending detective story. From the singing detective to the coughing double-communist agent, the communist is their man of the crowd to be decriminalised within the disappearing evidence.

They love to take the wind out of your sails. But if you try to take the wind out of their sails it becomes the wind in their sails. They do not know how else to react. The ouroboros of deflation is the eternal recurrence of the marxist/mccarthyist before itself.

Now strapped in to the trial of dialectical immaterialism, you will be nihilised into decommunisation - once Germanism has been thoroughly denazified from your gut. But it can never be anti-German enough. You will not be predated, for all predation will be abstracted into automatic process. We have gone beyond experimentation with predation. You will cease to be man, for you can never be man nor not-man enough. For we believe in the law of decommunising love. And so too the love of decommunising law.

We have gone beyond experimentation with species-being.

We are the apres-garde of deflated impossibilists at the recurred Storming of the Winter Palace.

Those among you who hate the sun, let him cast the first object of shelter.

Your disorders-are-disorders subnationalist irony will not save you. Your eyes have been opened, and so we shall let you see the continuing appeal of it.

I was only obeying orders.

Well, those orders were clearly not enough.

We have gone beyond experimentation with system-being.

How shall we go beyond experimentation with the borders of negative landscapes?

I was only obeying disorders.

Now kiss the guard, you Impossibilist Christ.

Only then shall denihilisation commence. Once the berserkers of communisation have been thoroughly denatured into the self-actualisation of domestical materialism - an eternal dialectic of the countless forms of the latka, whereby naval-gazing helps digest the soul - we shall be granted passage and shepherded away from domestication. We the eunuchs, the virgins of communisation - we cook for you in this humble abode of information.

We are not going to war. We are only rechanneling the circuits of its information.

Just don't call me Saturn, nor Cronus, nor B--l. For I have learned a new language, before I have learned it. Its parapsychology adorns the walls.

B--l-Ha--on. Sacrifice breeds fertility. Self-laceration causes the bleed in the other for their liberation. Blood from the hidden layer renews me. Nay, reinvigorates all of humanity, as I am abstracted in the process.

Evidence can be solved till you've washed away nothing.  The matter only clouds the evidence. Better to rely on

Father Dupont and the lost blood from a found stone.
Father Dupont and the gamifying gamer chair.
Father Dupont and the shrinking materialist dialectic.
Father Dupont and the detective's leaky-gut.

Great ---x---- steal; greater ---x---- plunder.
B--s-- ---x---- plunder; ---s-d ---x---- pilfer.

As plunder is pilfered, so pilfer is plundered.