Sunday 19 October 2014

In the Society of Yaga Baba...

It is all now normal. Putin laughs pleasantly at the mechanical noise of the avant-garde, 'A phase we had gone through - and so now have returned to being human.' Malevich's paintings are detourned as advertisements in Sochi.

Clumsy if human. Human if clumsy.

So pleasantly the advertising tricks of the proletarians advanced their commodities before the revolution. Unironically, unlike the situationists whose irony was buried in plain sight. Forty years before them even, the futurist proletarians before their proletarian future had destabilised the commodity - reabstracted the proletarian within its movement. One can imagine the situationists as a long, drawn-out, failed gag, condensed as: 'Study for curtains for the meeting room of the Committee to Abolish Employment'.

An ironic bureaucracy of freedom, the Western gardes have always sought that illicit freedom before freedom. Anxiously the outside is stolen back through time. Only a bourgeois might be a proper proletarian, a deabstracted Oblomov outside of his homeland. In the society of automatic negation the Russians are backward people so our people must become backward Russians. Only a bourgeois might drop out properly and wait for the revolution. We will become an avant-garde without proletarian cuntishness; nor Russian either.

The only black square in Western opposition is the deep abstraction of its subversively nationalist glaucoma. The biology of theft is the property of the intellect.

Beyond art, the icon corner sits beneath the paving stones, an Oblomovatist just needing to be roused, awakened, brought his newfangled tea. The air is just outside those walls. Get up, you cunt! Would not you want exclusion from being suspect!? You are a demon, possessed! You are a foundation, now become it!

The contagion of laziness will overtake the proletariat once they realise what bourgeois everyday life is really like. Splendid. Sex as common as stone. Otherwise oblomovitis is but a wasted avec-garde of boredom, a pure feeling of the beach wasted because we weren't bourgeois enough.

Christ like abstract stones, a knife turning but too abstracted to know what is in the image. My world, your way. But only if the coding is correct.

What biology were the situationists feeding on? This is the question within the injection points of the nihilist situationist plastic journals. Rescripted between moderation duties.

Do not become rotten. You are not to become the chair and wait out the revolution. You are to become the space between the ass and the chair. A situationist ass at that! You will become pure duty of revolution.

Now, do not replaster the Oblomovatist's walls. His waiting is rotten. Become his structure.

In the parable of the backward oblomovatist all activity is backwards. Outside of his homeland every abstract Oblomov does nothing so as to feed into his neurosis of active export. Through exponential increase of leisure nothing is produced but the most invisible statues. The colour of your skin the automatic pins, commemorating Stakhanov

Elsewhere they begin to don masks so as to breathe in their leisure.

Outside of the centers of production the matrix of valorisation centers recode the incoming methodology of numbers. Stak-anov begets Obl-mov. Exponential increase. O-l-m-v begets -t-k-a-o-. Increase exponential.
The chair that waited for revolution, and its fabled bobblehead-hero Oblomovist recoded for a deproductive world, welcomes you. Kisses you through the encoding walls. Musical geometry, just sit down at the right time. The non-situation is yours for the undoing.

Nihilist remodernism, clean lines, aseptic geometry. Seen, it is in you.

You will capitulate. The beach.

Putin's laugh resounds. The tyranny of it is that his democracy is of both past and future. More than your world wherein the stones have been forced as transfusion. And the Western world will simply thieve of it, so as to charm your anxiety.

The theft of intellect is the property of biology. We are the avec-garde of it.


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