Foolishness For Communism: December 2014

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.

You are the eternal flow of its current.

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, the gloomified salvation beyond all salvation.

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, sublimity, or something less if we are hopeful. 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 of 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.
A black square sits atop the headless man, who sits atop a galloping horse, across time - turning.
-
-
-
The nothing of it -
The everything of it -
The equality of it -

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 the democratist total work of art. Its fetch.

Kristallnacht. Your breath speaks it. The halitosis of time breathes on my face and I must repel in horror, or fright, or something more banal.

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 of the 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. Only your recuperation into it.

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.

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