tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78485745648869231042024-03-08T03:28:56.006-08:00Foolishness For CommunismFoolishness For Communismhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09864389556930468366noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7848574564886923104.post-73620463142282644232014-12-21T08:08:00.000-08:002015-07-20T15:46:14.360-07:00Current Stream<div style="background-color: white;">
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<span style="line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">One becomes stuck in the moment, the tiniest maelstrom produces the greatest redundant error. And all shall be worn away by your impossible softness.</span></div>
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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.</div>
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There is no agency. No agents.</div>
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That is the other message, somewhat quite far off.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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A holiday to commemorate the fall of the greatest tyrant. Winter impressions on his summer notes - or whatever remains of his polite castle.</div>
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And they will sip peach-laced alcohol and chat through cybernetics. A seminar without seminar’s place.</div>
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Or perhaps they will reminisce over watercolours. Speak clearly through the abstraction of it.</div>
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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.</div>
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Him in his innocence. Or yours as you follow him.</div>
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It is always darkest before dusk. This is why you must follow him at night.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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Nor if he even exists. An error in psychogeography and its mysteriously kind purpose before itself.</div>
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The art detective studies his Dostoevsky, contemplating how soft art might contemplate soft suicide.</div>
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And in doing so cause another to kill itself.</div>
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Do you want to be, or do you not want to be, soft like me?</div>
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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.</div>
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There, every citizen relinquishes himself to reverse psychology reversals.</div>
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The anti-king has a soft face, a mysteriously kind face that falls from the sky into the street - like lead onto a djembe.</div>
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With neither music nor worship every call is to the vacancy of the abstraction of streets.</div>
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<span style="line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">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.</span></div>
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The detective does not understand the graffiti. The abstract artist does not understand its removal.</div>
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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.</div>
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Become the white cube.</div>
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Become the horizon.</div>
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Become the border.</div>
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Earlier they had been in the mall, one squinting in deep opposition at the noisy blob in discount framed canvas.</div>
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I cannot see it.</div>
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Keep trying. Look through the canvas, not at it - don’t let your eyes focus.</div>
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…</div>
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It’s coming I think.</div>
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…</div>
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I’m starting to see something.</div>
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…</div>
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Oh.</div>
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…</div>
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Oh! It’s a dog! It’s me!</div>
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Lovely isn’t it?</div>
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Like pure feeling in 3-D!</div>
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Fall out onto the other side of the canvas. Demand abstraction of yourself and curate it into the world.</div>
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Subsume the horizon to your tiniest I. Tyranny will falter as you bury yourself in no mountain.</div>
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Perhaps he does understand the art he seeks to destroy after all.</div>
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Just not in the way we think.</div>
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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.</div>
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Remove the appendages, the attachments to attachments.</div>
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Free them. Bury them beyond the horizon of themselves in the white square. That border with deabstracting canvas decay.</div>
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They have become the white cube, the horizon, the pure feeling of abstraction.</div>
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Our objective has been completed successfully, sir. Until…</div>
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Input, output, black box.</div>
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Individual square, individual border, collective horizon.</div>
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Pure feeling.</div>
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You wander in the night; someone following you in the deabstracting 3-D brightness of pre-dawn.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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The opposition of the deep detective can only fall farther into the rot of the canvas - the brick with its slow rot.</div>
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There is another artist, another curator. And they will not be going to the meet.</div>
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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.</div>
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They will make a black cube of his home, and yours.</div>
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Or worse, a white square. The most beautiful desert.</div>
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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.</div>
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And you wish that the inside of the collective nihilisation of democracy be further inside. So that if any glances in they become petrified.</div>
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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.</div>
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You become that last bit of information that situationists could not detourne of Him.</div>
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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.</div>
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Soft situationism demands a little agency. Or at least its fiction.</div>
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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.</div>
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Democracy does nothing. Even moreso than nazism where the vast majority vacated the streets from the breaking of glass.</div>
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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.</div>
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Just don’t ask who is inside.</div>
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How quaint and mysterious is that? We are all living beneath such fictitious depths.</div>
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Where there is no destruction, no violence, nothing.</div>
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Only thirteen versions of performance artists doing nothing at once. The new Stabat Mater.</div>
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As we abhor violence, and so your face into the softness of mysterious kindness.</div>
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There is no need of wires and little gadgets. We have found intimacy in the words we monitor. Of ourselves love might refictionalise.</div>
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Of ourselves this painting misses the mark.</div>
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Your ironic realism misses this runaway material of history. Why paint wires into it when there are none? What fictitious legality/illegality is this?</div>
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You cannot go beyond the black square with illegality.</div>
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Your ironic black square will not save you.</div>
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There is nothing new.</div>
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Everything has been done.</div>
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The black square demands it.</div>
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Or impels it in its infinite softness.</div>
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There are no wires, no material connections for listening. There is only us.</div>
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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.</div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Helvetica Neue, HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">You are the eternal flow of its current.</span></span></div>
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One body sits atop the burial ground of Mensheviks and declares, Never Again.</div>
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Never here at least.</div>
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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.</div>
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Ooh, I know what he was doing…</div>
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You mean what he means.</div>
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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.</div>
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But we are fine with your being here in our town. We welcome you, again. But don’t leave next time, ok.</div>
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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.</div>
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And what town am I in now? I cannot even make out the language anymore.</div>
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The towers rickety, creaking, now grinding in their core.</div>
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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.</div>
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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. -.</div>
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The abstract enlightenment has no books. Even as they read them religiously.</div>
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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.</div>
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And your enemies shall be burnt out through its current.</div>
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As the tower falls the curse of time shall ensure it does not fall on you and yours.</div>
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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.</div>
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You are free to go.</div>
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You are free to it.</div>
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We only ask of you a bit of help.</div>
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A few words maybe.</div>
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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.</div>
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And our isolation shall be bleakened further in innumerable paintings.</div>
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One.</div>
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That is all the enemies of our democratism must see, the most beautiful nihilism of it, the gloomified salvation beyond all salvation.</div>
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Check his cell. And release him. If he has not already released himself.</div>
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Now let us return to the vistas of wide-open sourced living streets. There the boulevards of humanity course their ways.</div>
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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.</div>
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Open up. Let me kiss that little moment inside of you. Let no more smoke nor cries fall out of you.</div>
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Even democracy is denazified. The abstract ku-ak is a virile bastard, a fatherless nothing beyond nothing ill-fit to wander our streets.</div>
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Why does he rebel so, against our equality of nothing?</div>
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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.<br />
A black square sits atop the headless man, who sits atop a galloping horse, across time - turning.<br />
-<br />
-<br />
-<br />
The nothing of it -<br />
The everything of it -<br />
The equality of it -</div>
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The nothing of equality begs for abstract war. And the abstract detective takes up a new job.</div>
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Death should be automatic. Worship should be abstract. Nihilism should be the nihilism of nothing.</div>
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The automatic detective and the automatic artist become the void border of the democratist total work of art. Its fetch.</div>
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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.</div>
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And this is not the worst of it.</div>
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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.</div>
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Then make the rooms smaller! Please…</div>
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(Klink, crash, chushststststst….)</div>
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And the lined walls of poetry shall become your bad words, -. What shall we do?</div>
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Oh, but why do you ask that?</div>
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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, -.</div>
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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.</div>
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There we buried the sun of reason beneath itself. With all of the German statues, sir.</div>
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Yes. The wheel of the sun’s tyranny has fallen beneath us. We returned domesticity to that bleak and black void.</div>
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It was a great victory, sir. One they asked upon themselves, without even our need of going to war.</div>
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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.</div>
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Run away with the tyranny of the sun’s wheel! Triumph over the sun’s wheel.</div>
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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.</div>
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So below.</div>
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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.</div>
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Stop policing from above. Stop governing from above. Stop opposing from above.</div>
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We are One.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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They are inside its curation.</div>
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The sacred geometry of soft liquidation. The democracy of democracy within tyranny.</div>
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But after it all ends.</div>
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The democracy of tyranny within democracy.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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This is your fate, the subtle and ruthless geometry of time.</div>
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There is only the fate of fate’s death. This is the last icon corner.</div>
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What lies beneath the abstract rot of the canvas? Beneath that black square turning as defictionalised blob can only be some worse terror.</div>
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And you are her beautiful face.</div>
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The fictitious detectives have resigned themselves to her.</div>
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Wandering, her skirt of curation is the automatic destruction of fate.</div>
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There is no recuperation of fate. Only your recuperation into it.</div>
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If only she might be beyond the beauty of death.</div>
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So beautiful she cannot even bear to live.</div>
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The noise of it in interference of her fate.</div>
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Cadence.</div>
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Death shall live if you fictionalise her so.</div>
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Beyond death. Just before she fleeted against it, turning back in her gaze from hell. Eyes forward and everywhere - the void gaze of time.</div>
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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.</div>
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<span style="line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"></span><br /></div>
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Let her be beautiful. Let her be a black square - a representative of us all. Let her be death before death.</div>
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<span style="line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">---</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">One becomes stuck in the moment, the tiniest maelstrom produces the greatest redundant error. And all shall be worn away by your impossible softness.</span></div>
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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.</div>
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There is no agency. No agents.</div>
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That is the other message, somewhat quite far off.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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A holiday to commemorate the fall of the greatest tyrant. Winter impressions on his summer notes - or whatever remains of his polite castle.</div>
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And they will sip peach-laced alcohol and chat through cybernetics. A seminar without seminar’s place.</div>
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Or perhaps they will reminisce over watercolours. Speak clearly through the abstraction of it.</div>
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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.</div>
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Him in his innocence. Or yours as you follow him.</div>
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It is always darkest before dusk. This is why you must follow him at night.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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Nor if he even exists. An error in psychogeography and its mysteriously kind purpose before itself.</div>
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The art detective studies his Dostoevsky, contemplating how soft art might contemplate soft suicide.</div>
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And in doing so cause another to kill itself.</div>
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Do you want to be, or do you not want to be, soft like me?</div>
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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.</div>
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There, every citizen relinquishes himself to reverse psychology reversals.</div>
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The anti-king has a soft face, a mysteriously kind face that falls from the sky into the street - like lead onto a djembe.</div>
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With neither music nor worship every call is to the vacancy of the abstraction of streets.</div>
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<span style="line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">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.</span></div>
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The detective does not understand the graffiti. The abstract artist does not understand its removal.</div>
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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.</div>
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Become the white cube.</div>
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Become the horizon.</div>
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Become the border.</div>
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Earlier they had been in the mall, one squinting in deep opposition at the noisy blob in discount framed canvas.</div>
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I cannot see it.</div>
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Keep trying. Look through the canvas, not at it - don’t let your eyes focus.</div>
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…</div>
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It’s coming I think.</div>
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…</div>
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I’m starting to see something.</div>
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…</div>
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Oh.</div>
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…</div>
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Oh! It’s a dog! It’s me!</div>
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Lovely isn’t it?</div>
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Like pure feeling in 3-D!</div>
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Fall out onto the other side of the canvas. Demand abstraction of yourself and curate it into the world.</div>
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Subsume the horizon to your tiniest I. Tyranny will falter as you bury yourself in no mountain.</div>
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Perhaps he does understand the art he seeks to destroy after all.</div>
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Just not in the way we think.</div>
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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.</div>
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Remove the appendages, the attachments to attachments.</div>
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Free them. Bury them beyond the horizon of themselves in the white square. That border with deabstracting canvas decay.</div>
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They have become the white cube, the horizon, the pure feeling of abstraction.</div>
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Our objective has been completed successfully, sir. Until…</div>
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Input, output, black box.</div>
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Individual square, individual border, collective horizon.</div>
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Pure feeling.</div>
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You wander in the night; someone following you in the deabstracting 3-D brightness of pre-dawn.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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The opposition of the deep detective can only fall farther into the rot of the canvas - the brick with its slow rot.</div>
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There is another artist, another curator. And they will not be going to the meet.</div>
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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.</div>
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They will make a black cube of his home, and yours.</div>
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Or worse, a white square. The most beautiful desert.</div>
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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.</div>
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And you wish that the inside of the collective nihilisation of democracy be further inside. So that if any glances in they become petrified.</div>
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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.</div>
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You become that last bit of information that situationists could not detourne of Him.</div>
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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.</div>
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Soft situationism demands a little agency. Or at least its fiction.</div>
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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.</div>
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Democracy does nothing. Even moreso than nazism where the vast majority vacated the streets from the breaking of glass.</div>
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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.</div>
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Just don’t ask who is inside.</div>
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How quaint and mysterious is that? We are all living beneath such fictitious depths.</div>
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Where there is no destruction, no violence, nothing.</div>
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Only thirteen versions of performance artists doing nothing at once. The new Stabat Mater.</div>
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As we abhor violence, and so your face into the softness of mysterious kindness.</div>
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There is no need of wires and little gadgets. We have found intimacy in the words we monitor. Of ourselves love might refictionalise.</div>
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Of ourselves this painting misses the mark.</div>
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Your ironic realism misses this runaway material of history. Why paint wires into it when there are none? What fictitious legality/illegality is this?</div>
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You cannot go beyond the black square with illegality.</div>
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Your ironic black square will not save you.</div>
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There is nothing new.</div>
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Everything has been done.</div>
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The black square demands it.</div>
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Or impels it in its infinite softness.</div>
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There are no wires, no material connections for listening. There is only us.</div>
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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.</div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Helvetica Neue, HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">You are the eternal flow of its current.</span></span></div>
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One body sits atop the burial ground of Mensheviks and declares, Never Again.</div>
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Never here at least.</div>
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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.</div>
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Ooh, I know what he was doing…</div>
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You mean what he means.</div>
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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.</div>
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But we are fine with your being here in our town. We welcome you, again. But don’t leave next time, ok.</div>
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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.</div>
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And what town am I in now? I cannot even make out the language anymore.</div>
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The towers rickety, creaking, now grinding in their core.</div>
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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.</div>
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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. -.</div>
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The abstract enlightenment has no books. Even as they read them religiously.</div>
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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.</div>
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And your enemies shall be burnt out through its current.</div>
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As the tower falls the curse of time shall ensure it does not fall on you and yours.</div>
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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.</div>
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You are free to go.</div>
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You are free to it.</div>
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We only ask of you a bit of help.</div>
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A few words maybe.</div>
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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.</div>
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And our isolation shall be bleakened further in innumerable paintings.</div>
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One.</div>
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That is all the enemies of our democratism must see, the most beautiful nihilism of it, the gloomified salvation beyond all salvation.</div>
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Check his cell. And release him. If he has not already released himself.</div>
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Now let us return to the vistas of wide-open sourced living streets. There the boulevards of humanity course their ways.</div>
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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.</div>
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Open up. Let me kiss that little moment inside of you. Let no more smoke nor cries fall out of you.</div>
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Even democracy is denazified. The abstract ku-ak is a virile bastard, a fatherless nothing beyond nothing ill-fit to wander our streets.</div>
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Why does he rebel so, against our equality of nothing?</div>
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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.<br />
A black square sits atop the headless man, who sits atop a galloping horse, across time - turning.<br />
-<br />
-<br />
-<br />
The nothing of it -<br />
The everything of it -<br />
The equality of it -</div>
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The nothing of equality begs for abstract war. And the abstract detective takes up a new job.</div>
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Death should be automatic. Worship should be abstract. Nihilism should be the nihilism of nothing.</div>
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The automatic detective and the automatic artist become the void border of the democratist total work of art. Its fetch.</div>
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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.</div>
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And this is not the worst of it.</div>
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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.</div>
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Then make the rooms smaller! Please…</div>
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(Klink, crash, chushststststst….)</div>
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And the lined walls of poetry shall become your bad words, -. What shall we do?</div>
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Oh, but why do you ask that?</div>
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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, -.</div>
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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.</div>
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There we buried the sun of reason beneath itself. With all of the German statues, sir.</div>
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Yes. The wheel of the sun’s tyranny has fallen beneath us. We returned domesticity to that bleak and black void.</div>
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It was a great victory, sir. One they asked upon themselves, without even our need of going to war.</div>
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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.</div>
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Run away with the tyranny of the sun’s wheel! Triumph over the sun’s wheel.</div>
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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.</div>
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So below.</div>
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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.</div>
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Stop policing from above. Stop governing from above. Stop opposing from above.</div>
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We are One.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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They are inside its curation.</div>
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The sacred geometry of soft liquidation. The democracy of democracy within tyranny.</div>
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But after it all ends.</div>
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The democracy of tyranny within democracy.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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This is your fate, the subtle and ruthless geometry of time.</div>
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There is only the fate of fate’s death. This is the last icon corner.</div>
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What lies beneath the abstract rot of the canvas? Beneath that black square turning as defictionalised blob can only be some worse terror.</div>
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And you are her beautiful face.</div>
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The fictitious detectives have resigned themselves to her.</div>
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Wandering, her skirt of curation is the automatic destruction of fate.</div>
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There is no recuperation of fate. Only your recuperation into it.</div>
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If only she might be beyond the beauty of death.</div>
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So beautiful she cannot even bear to live.</div>
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The noise of it in interference of her fate.</div>
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Cadence.</div>
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Death shall live if you fictionalise her so.</div>
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Beyond death. Just before she fleeted against it, turning back in her gaze from hell. Eyes forward and everywhere - the void gaze of time.</div>
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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.</div>
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<span style="line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"></span><br /></div>
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Let her be beautiful. Let her be a black square - a representative of us all. Let her be death before death.</div>
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Foolishness For Communismhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09864389556930468366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7848574564886923104.post-72629072826052971152014-11-16T10:28:00.000-08:002014-11-16T11:14:00.609-08:00----- Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Bug-out Bag: Or How I Stopped Worrying About Impossibilism and Learned You'll Never Forget Reveen<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">By: (Edward) Snowed-In Dupont</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">The M-----t Jester and the Imp of the Inverse Discuss the Ideal Survival Kit</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">"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?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"> If I solve this for you, may I have some of your wine?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"> Yes, Father.</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"> 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?</span></span></div>
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<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Father Dupont and the missing sparrow</span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Father Dupont and the glowing obit</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Father Dupont and the sandless beach</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Father Dupont and the coughing salesman"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Good communisationists borrow; great communisationists steal.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">I may not survive, but ya gotta laugh.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Communisation must be surrealised to the extent that surrealists were not surreal enough. They did not surrealise a totality, they did not surrealise everythingisation...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">That is not a word. Don't make things up as you go, stick to the script.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Father Dupont?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">No...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Communism?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">No...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Cap-tal?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Perhaps. Yes, perhaps that is our missing sparrow, now hunkered down against all rain. Yes, the easy answer before the easy answer.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Enter the Coughing Psyop.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">That is not it. The rain will get through. Cough.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">But do we not worship the rain?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Yes, rough communisation seas make good communist sailors.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Or sailors of communism...</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Who will take the wind out of our sails? Cough.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Yes, we must never stop dancing. For it can never rain enough.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">The storms of G-d are but a deepening of the communist soul against the communising mind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Father Dupont and the grommetless tarp!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Cough.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">So we aren't holding out against the storm, we're trying to get closer to it?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Nay, we are becoming it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Whence the storm?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Whence the rain?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Whence G-d?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Bless it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Bless him.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Curse us.</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">So the more to be blessed.</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Whence the bless?</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">I think I felt a drop.</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Whence the curse?</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Bless it!</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Feel it upon your navel.</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">I can't see it! Won't you gaze it for me?!</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Bless you.</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">No, no. Curse me.</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">The tarp is blowing away!</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Exit all but the Coughing Psyop.</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Cough. Cough.</span></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">The Purloined Survival Kit of the </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">McCarthyist </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Marxist or the Everyday Carry of the Groveling Detective: An Unbridgeable Eschatologasm.</span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Good nihilisationists datatarianise; great nihilisationists metadatatarianise.</span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Re-enter The Dupont Circus.</span></div>
<div style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">What is the ideal tool for an everyday-carry survival kit?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">A knifeaxe...</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">A shovelgun...</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">A duckrabbit...</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">No, a rabbitduck...</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">No, everythingisation...</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">A critique of positivity...</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">But not a critique of positivism?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">An ironically unironic critically unrealising impossibilist-critique of positivism?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">The cold?!?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Bless it!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Curse the sun!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Bless its navel!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">No, don't bless it, become it!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Ah, curse it!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Not if we can cause the sun to make us colder. Then we must bless it.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Ah, the ultimate tool! Finally..., but will it fit in my invisible knapsack?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Yes, you will be like Santa Dupont!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">And not an easy answer either.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">But an easy question.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Can I be Rudolph Dupont?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Can we all be Reindeer Games Dupont?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Bless it! Haha, what a curse!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Exit all but the Shivering Sun and the Glowing Nose.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Can we stay for more than seventy-two hours?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Yes, in the Kabbalah Seventy-Two is but one of the names of G-d.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">...</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">I suppose we should leave them to it. This could go on forever.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Exit all but the lingering monologue of the Abstract Psyop navel-gazing his own lunacy.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">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.</span></div>
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We are being watched.</div>
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Re-enter the circus.</div>
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But what about Snowden?</div>
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What about LibCom?</div>
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I've searched the database and found 1347 hits relevant to this question. Cough.</div>
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Ok, beam me up. Searching the LibCom proxy now.</div>
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Yes, what about LibCom?</div>
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What about whataboutery?</div>
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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?</div>
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But what about Father Dupont and the butterfly with no wings?</div>
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Whence the communisationists?</div>
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Yes, whence the illogical communisationists?</div>
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It is settled then. We must wage peace on logic and so delogicise the communisationists.</div>
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Exit all but Father Dupont's Long Shadow and the Whataboutering Moon.</div>
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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.</div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">What is the difference between an impossibilist somnambulist and a hypnotist situationist? They are both doing nothing in the village. </span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Hypnotise the communisationist in your head. Open your mind to the Impossiblist and you'll never forget...</span></div>
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Runaway abduction is the new windows of hypnotic materialism - dialectical inversions without a lunatic to generalise.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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This is why He conforms all Communisation data into The One. He loves you.</div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">The psyop chambers will be humanised. Cryptogenesis will be communised. Intelligence will be impossibilised.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">The Marxist is a card-carrying member of a marxist organisation. A mar-ist is an obit-carrying member of a Mar-ist organisation.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">What's the difference?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">One carries deeper in the pocket, and so too the soul.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">When the question is incorrect the correct answer is itself impossibl(ised).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Now be prepared to be impossibilised into the biometrics of illogicality.</span></div>
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Whence the Whence of Whenciness - LoL yOu OnLy LoL-CoMmUnIsE oNcE - Total Communisation Awareness</div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Good oppositionists ---s-; great oppositionists ---s-.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Good impossibilists plunder; great impossibilists pilfer.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">For they did not pilfer, and that is their humanness. And so the gold was valorised outside the borders of war.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">The imp of impossibilisation is the hypnotist of time.</span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">"For if we sin wilfully after that we have received the knowledge of the truth, there remaineth no more sacrifice for sins[...]"</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Whence the joke of abductions and the abduction of jokes?</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">'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.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Marxism does not repeat itself, but it rhymes.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">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.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">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.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">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.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Infect to inflect. Inflect to infect.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">iN tHe SoCiEtY oF eNgLaNd ThE wHoLe Of LiFe PrEsEnTs ItSeLf As An ImMeNsE aCcUmUlAtIoN oF wOrDs ArMeD tO tHe TeEtH.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">And the nihilist communists.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">aLl ThAt OnCe WaS wOrDs </span></span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">GoInG tO wAr BeCoMeS dIsInFoRmAtIoN</span><span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"> gOiNg To PeAcE.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Information for impossibilisation becomes the abstraction of nationalism as a new form of inclusion. Much like the democratism they call 'Cap-tal'.</span></div>
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<br />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.<span class="im" style="color: #500050;"><br /><br />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.'</span></div>
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<span class="im" style="color: #500050;"><span style="color: #222222;">Words become the eternal entendre. Freres Dupont meets Monsieur Dworkin.</span></span></div>
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Eventually she must become what she has feminised - man. Eventually he must become what he has nihilised - communist.</div>
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Communism, man up. The somnambulant impossibilist is uncertain of your loyalty to nothing.</div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Emasculating communisation, a critique of pessimistic denunciation in the far left.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">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).</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Even though his Capital is in them.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">Satire becomes lost within the monotonous differentiation of generalised lunacy. One is left with a mess of nonsense.</span></div>
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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.</div>
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The impossibilist competition of accumulative inversions becomes the competitive inversions of impossibilist accumulation.</div>
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Now say that with young-girl inflected English accent.</div>
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There is nothing.</div>
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tHeRe Is NoThInG.</div>
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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.</div>
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And so too with all other devalorisers. What is left but to devalorise nothing?</div>
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Progressive impossibilisation will make a desert of his nothing, and yours. But be careful what you wish for, things are not as they seem.</div>
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Everything is uncertain. Except nothing. And except recapitulating damnation. Except man's unseasonably seasonable depth. And except exceptionalism, too. ---ept contradiction.</div>
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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?</div>
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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.</div>
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Democracy has always been at war with peace. Democracy has always been at peace with war.</div>
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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.'</div>
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The hypnotic situationist would prefer you stopped reading. Somnambulise your recording-desire.</div>
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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.</div>
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But this is not a Cap-tal process.</div>
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Total communisation awareness becomes awareness of total communisation. Either that or total awareness communisation.</div>
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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.</div>
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But everythingism is not something to be impossibilised. Impossibilisation is already everything.</div>
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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.</div>
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Otherwise there cannot be communism before communism; unless there is democratism before democratism there will only be nothing before nothing.</div>
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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.</div>
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As your eyes darken their gaze you will remember but one word: Impossibilism.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.<br /><br />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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.<span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;"><br /></span></div>
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We have gone beyond experimentation with species-being.</div>
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We are the apres-garde of deflated impossibilists at the recurred Storming of the Winter Palace.</div>
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Those among you who hate the sun, let him cast the first object of shelter.</div>
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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.</div>
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I was only obeying orders.</div>
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Well, those orders were clearly not enough.</div>
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We have gone beyond experimentation with system-being.</div>
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How shall we go beyond experimentation with the borders of negative landscapes?</div>
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I was only obeying disorders.</div>
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Now kiss the guard, you Impossibilist Christ.</div>
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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.</div>
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We are not going to war. We are only rechanneling the circuits of its information.</div>
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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.</div>
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Evidence can be solved till you've washed away nothing. The matter only clouds the evidence. Better to rely on</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Father Dupont and the lost blood from a found stone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Father Dupont and the gamifying gamer chair.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Father Dupont and the shrinking materialist dialectic.</span></div>
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Father Dupont and the detective's leaky-gut.</div>
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Great ---x---- steal; greater ---x---- plunder.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">B--s-- ---x---- plunder; ---s-d ---x---- pilfer.</span></div>
<span class="im" style="color: #500050; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;"></span><span class="im" style="color: #500050; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;"></span><span class="im" style="color: #500050; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;"></span><span class="im" style="color: #500050; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;"></span><span class="im" style="color: #500050; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;"></span><span class="im" style="color: #500050; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;"></span><span class="im" style="color: #500050; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;"></span><span class="im" style="color: #500050; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;"></span><span class="im" style="color: #500050; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;"></span><span class="im" style="color: #500050; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;"></span><span class="im" style="color: #500050; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;"></span><span class="im" style="color: #500050; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;"></span><span class="im" style="color: #500050; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;"></span><span class="im" style="color: #500050; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;"></span><span class="im" style="color: #500050; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;"></span><span class="im" style="color: #500050; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;"></span><span class="im" style="color: #500050; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;"></span><span class="im" style="color: #500050; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;"></span><br style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;" />
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<span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">As plunder is pilfered, so pilfer is plundered.</span></div>
Foolishness For Communismhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09864389556930468366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7848574564886923104.post-4986648066101885912014-10-19T09:54:00.001-07:002014-10-19T09:54:37.238-07:00We are Anti-everything, We are Anti--<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">The fetishisation of weakness turns a nihilist theology. Where the great individual halted Nietzsche and returned him to the Christianity he had turned against, all that remains is the great abstraction. All flow into the wandering borders of a land wishing for the return of great borders, but the tyranny of walls is gone - the crusading journey of a fixed place rests as the temple, beyond its being rebuilt. Judaism seeks to become all negation and retain itself within the depth of abstraction. It seeks to corrupt all terrorising borders outside of itself. It seeks to create a negative sanctity of itself from which it might better survive. And all who take up its curse are the Antijew, a collective body of death which can only become death.</span><br />
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Do not open. Only death resides within. But there is nowheres else to go. Won't you be so welcoming?<br /><div>
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This false peace become war is so long before us. So long before the wandering tyranny of modernity in its dystopian syntax. The cryptography which does not know of which theology it came. It seeks an identity, its foreign G-d spoken now whole again. The lost identity is a deepened identity as it becomes automatic abstraction, the automatic Jew. We are within the eschaton, but no one knows whose abstraction has captured His identity.<br /><div>
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There are no Christians, no Muslims, no Jews. Only their corrupted abstraction within an atheist eschatology. There is only Antim-n.</div>
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The Antijew rises because he cannot see anything before his curse. In a monistic world there is nothing else but the origins of The One. All returns are a return to its sacred hold. The Jew is the curse because he was the first man. So it seems to Him with a God no longer. The Jewish man exists in an empty space between monotheism, polytheism, henotheism. And so thusly he is a monotheistic One, an other of monotheism, the negative monotheism for all others to destroy. The Antijew, he goes one G-d further.</div>
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Antisemitism is the atheism of a world demanding a God, but lost to His identity. Both of the Jews and their enemies. Both groups are anti-semitic in their own way. One because they demand an end to the other. The other because they demand an end to The One. And so are The One. The Jewish politic demands antisemitism as an automatic process in its exclusion of all other semitic peoples. And at once they demand their monopolisation of peace through G-d's annihilation.</div>
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All that remains outside of the temple is not of G-d. All that is outside of the Holy City is to be the inside of G-d. It shall burn itself out. Exterminate as our borders.</div>
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They speak of death as a great relief, as G-d in itself. And so they speak as the victims even in their acts of violence. Their acts of violence are their own harm. They destroy a world and they are the victims because only they are the chosen ones worthy of G-d's love.</div>
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This is the story of Job, a schizophrenic Crime and Punishment before Crime and Punishment. Job kills and it becomes his own self-torture, his wandering escape of what circumstance forced him into. And his self-torture within the war against people becomes God. The crime of violence becomes God of itself, becomes G-d, as to survive violence is a greater crime even than to be its victim. Even as its perpetrator.</div>
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The Jews were the first doubled people, lost in the abstraction of history and coursed through the violence of a lost world. No doubt they truly were a holy people. They had been banished, their city destroyed; or at least its significant parts. They could never again mention their G-d as such an utterance would bring a return of their destruction. This self-doubling forced their society as a negative people - a negative God watched over them. And so it was that their violence was not their own. It was only the necessity of not uttering G-d's name, of not bringing about His destruction, and so theirs.</div>
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A dead God is coursed through the veins of a living G-d. The sorrow over His passivity now only a curse of violence. And so violence the blessing of a new form of passivity. The triumph over violence becomes the automatic inclusion of passivity, the godform of a city without need of violence - beyond the borders outside of a world lost to the world. In the world but not of it. Of its processes but not in them. Out of the territory but not in its own. An impossibilised sanctioning and cordoning off of G-d. A sectioning off of the world so he might never be named again.</div>
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Into the smallest place. Out of the last place. An eschatology without the world ever ending.</div>
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This is our world. Its impossibly violent peace. Even when it is antisemitic it is thoroughly Jewish. It is written in the code. In its toroidal return building unto death.</div>
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That which says it does not build so builds its eternised enemy within. Slaves of information in the abstraction of time. Within the depth of communisation rests the dead m-n as perfection of both machine and species. He is the deep eschatology of automatic materialism. He is the cursed return of the blessed golem who grows in his self-destruction. He is m-n and antim-n at once.</div>
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Nietzsche did not expect to renounce himself through the Antichrist into a deepened Christianity. Nor do antisemites expect to deepen the mode of automatic semitism within the Antijew. But Jewish opposition is written into the depths of its code, 'If you seek to destroy us you shall only succeed in eternising the Holy City.'</div>
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Violence begets peace. War begets eternal armistice. This is one of the most important lessons of our time as all organisations become for the Antijew, or for the Antijew's organisation.</div>
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And don't be fooled by all the corpses who demand such words be buried in the democratic fires before fires. All organisations are now anti-Jewish, even the Jewish ones. The purpose of this inquiry is to oppose Jewish politics along with its civilised political opposition, the whole of the eschatological triadic cult, and the society of the death fetish. Without asking the questions posed in this writing the automatic sacrifice of humans shall but continue.</div>
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In short, the triad of machinic being courses itself along the history of the triads of G-d's identity. It is this automatic negation of which we seek an end, the betrayal of deep abstraction and its cult of followers. How do we oppose the Jew without opposing him? How do we destroy the golem formed by his ideology without destroying the man inside?</div>
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Least of all, a human question not a Jewish question. The Jewish people find themselves at the center of questioning as they appear as the first man. And so our questioning must work around that, and through it. What was man and antiman before the Jew became icon of both sides of the species? What is the antiman of Judaism? What is the man of antisemitism? What is the guilt and innocence of fascism before fascism? And so what is democracy's recourse? What is the active dejewification within the passive trial of strengthening an identifiably Jewish world? What is the bureaucracy without walls? What is the war trial within eternal peace? What is the peace trial within eternal war? What is the impossible question which does not create our own self-trial of impossibilisation?</div>
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Again, not a Jewish question - a question of man separated into the purity of isolation and death.</div>
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Nihilist drones. Nihilist rotes. Nihilist ---.</div>
Foolishness For Communismhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09864389556930468366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7848574564886923104.post-51335909468962681482014-10-19T09:44:00.003-07:002014-10-19T09:44:22.510-07:00In the Society of Yaga Baba...<div style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">
<span style="line-height: 19.6000003814697px;">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.</span></div>
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Clumsy if human. Human if clumsy.<br /><div>
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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'.<div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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!</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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Now, do not replaster the Oblomovatist's walls. His waiting is rotten. Become his structure.</div>
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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</div>
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Elsewhere they begin to don masks so as to breathe in their leisure.</div>
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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.</div>
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.</div>
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Nihilist remodernism, clean lines, aseptic geometry. Seen, it is in you.</div>
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You will capitulate. The beach.</div>
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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.</div>
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The theft of intellect is the property of biology. We are the avec-garde of it.</div>
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Foolishness For Communismhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09864389556930468366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7848574564886923104.post-36491538366723333212014-08-17T12:45:00.000-07:002014-08-17T12:45:23.854-07:00Free --- or Punch ---?<div style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.600000381469727px;">
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The digital communisationists have entered the realism of eternal mobilisation. Beyond the cult of death is the abstract blocing up of the post-post-militant form. The irony of sub-leninist-marxists is that they have not attacked banks enough. To really attack banks you must go beyond breaking windows into 'what is the new windows?' Camp in the most absurd location, play the game beyond the game, subsume all error.</div>
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Get a cheap kill. One more stepping stone towards the top of the Communisation Leaderboards.<br /><br />There is no game. There is no windows. There is no error.<br /><br />There is only -.</div>
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The tactics are fine. You need to adapt.</div>
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What is the new paganism? they said. Ha, a shotgun, a flashlight, and an ---, I said. Here is how to unlock them -----...<br /><br />We are not going to war 2.0. We have gone beyond experimentation with war. The map packs just aren't that good. My psychogeographic conversions of the digital pagans have reached an all-time low k/d ratio. We have already upgraded our windows. We have become the windows beyond windows. We no longer even need maps for eternal psychogeography. We have gone beyond experimentation with windows - we are the glass-cutters of total immobilisation. But don't call it OP. You need 15 kills for an EMP. We do it in zero. We have gone beyond experimentation with k/d r statpadding. We have gone beyond boosting communisation within the hacked lobbies of LibCom. You're just not that good, kid. Get good. Get ble-sed.</div>
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Just don't get -----.</div>
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We are the fibers returned beneath the kristallnacht beach: blessed cobbled cursed stones: abstract mobilisation v.9 ---. This is better than the pay-to-win guns. This is better than going beyond experimentation with hipster loadouts. Why I don't attack banks: we are now beyond experimentation beyond the bank beyond value in the fictitious glitch of Mt. Gox. Beyond Go-.</div>
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<br />You will not go beyond our experimentation with communisation. What is the new attacking of banks? What is the new to become worthy of it? What is the new ---? What is the new...<br /></div>
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There is no new. We have gone beyond experimentation with ---. We are the essential -.</div>
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Foolishness For Communismhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09864389556930468366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7848574564886923104.post-19393659242192348532014-06-08T18:26:00.002-07:002014-06-08T18:38:05.660-07:00Automatic Critique of the Subject We Don’t Know When We Arrive: Or Lunacy Equivalent Generalised<div style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.600000381469727px; margin-bottom: 10px; outline: none 0px;">
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Helvetica Neue, HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.600000381469727px;">World subjectivity is in the arms of its others. The world, no matter how materially determined, still selects itself negatively in differentiation from its other forms. Modernity as nationalism, science, and capital self-determines in itself just as it other-determines of itself; as in the determinate progression out of the historical movement of abstractions stemming from the classical era in its philosophy, dual sacrifice, and religious wars. There is a moment of quality differentiation within world selection where quantity becomes quality, where the quantified being of a world becomes beyond itself, becomes so over-determining that it must seep out into its other. The other is lost, and so must be returned, self-created. In our time we call this generalised lunacy, although it may be better stated as the world lost from its subjectivity born into its subjects within a general equivalent of lunacy. We see in this separation the story of the Tower of Babel, a story which has returned in our time in differentiating forms.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Helvetica Neue, HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.600000381469727px;">As everything becomes its opposite, so too must this story of Babel. The inversion occurs in that the story is no longer a scattering of people inwards to the over-determinate moment that their confused communication must be overtaken by the Grace of God, who then scatters the people about the earth. Instead the story goes that the self is scattered inward and its own communication scatters God about the earth and the self returns abstractly, in the Grace of him or her. The automatic subject returns. What is interesting in this retelling is that what the philosophers could not accomplish in their investigations of being within nothingness, Beckett (and perhaps others) did in his eternal rewriting of the line, “The Inquisition was in the hands of its enemies.” An ambiguous and infinite ending to a Poe story. Are the enemies the liberators? Were they the enemies and liberators all along? Does the Inquisition go on? There is no end. When everyone else wrote the nothingness of being in itself, Beckett wrote the being in nothingness, for itself, of itself, ill itself. Nothingness of being outside of itself. The Inquisition went on, eternally returning in itself, but our being did not eternally return into nothingness. Subjectivity became something else so as to escape itself. It self-abstracted against its own automation within itself. Subjectivity returned, and then being.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Helvetica Neue, HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.600000381469727px;">This was in total contradiction to what all of the philosophers were attempting at the time. How fitting then that the dominant subjectivity of our time becomes the automatic abstraction of Beckett fictions (what we might call ill seen ill said fictitious capital): minimalist versions of objects within Beckett, the misunderstandings and wrong readings, and particularly the unfinished parts themselves self-abstracting. This occurs within the void of post-capitalism, a period in which we do not know our being, in which lunacy is the only general equivalent, and in which we do not know if we are in the hands of capital or its enemies - the capital or its enemies. We do not know if we are in a known totalitarianism, or an unknown revolution. Is the French Revolution just a continuation of the Spanish Inquisition within a world unknown to its own subjectivity? Is the automatic revolution of lunacy simply a continuation of the French Revolution? We do not know. We are waiting for an arrival. Does the subject come? We do not know. We are waiting. And all the while when avant-garde playwrights began to write plays within plays, plays completely determined by minor characters from the past, we ourselves, who ignored Beckett’s important work, became the rewriting of plays within plays. We began, we became automatic writing of the important work, just as we thought we were thinking of the famous play. And we are still waiting.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Helvetica Neue, HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.600000381469727px;">And how fitting it is that today when the communist is debating the nothingness of revolution, the impossibility of a subject, and the opiate being of revolution, the revolutionary subject returns - a revolutionary subject who does not know, a subject masked and himself or herself abstracted, not knowing if he is a liberator or in the hands of the next Inquisition. The abstract subject is both asemic being of the autorevolution and object of its totalitarian world. I am my tormenter, you decide, now on.The 5th of Novemeber will be every day. You are my tormenter, I decide, nohow on. It is every day, as the first automatic subject did not know whether he wanted to be in the hands of British Liberation or in the arms of the Spanish Inquisition. Revolution is on and nohow on. We are tied beneath a pendulum, to what used to be a wheel of fortune, and we do not know if we are in the arms of the liberation of capital or the hands of the inquisition of tomorrow.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Helvetica Neue, HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.600000381469727px;">How fitting it is as well then, that the great art of our time seeks the asemic destruction of the abstract mask, a mask for so long distorting the face of an automatic subject lost in its own torture. Of arms and hands we do not know. And we do not know if he will arrive. And he perhaps already arrived before we were waiting. It will go on, it can’t go on. And our waiting was itself the arrival. But we were not us. We were outside of ourselves. We went on without that which could not go on. Without being its on. And our on will, can’t will if it is no longer in or of or for or ill. It is ill of on. And then nohow on. And ill nohow on. And ill in on. Ill for on. Until nohow ill. To be in or to be of or or…</span></span></div>
Foolishness For Communismhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09864389556930468366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7848574564886923104.post-5833699915556388562014-02-23T13:48:00.000-08:002014-02-25T07:02:54.382-08:00The Thousandth Manifesto of UltraNihilist HyperCommunist VirtuaFighters: Or, the Deabstracting Bioguide to Abstract Martyrdom and Fate Recuperation, All Wrapped Up in One or Two or Three or More Quilts of Your Own Well Deserved Automation<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The Thousandth Manifesto of UltraNihilist HyperCommunist VirtuaFighters: Or, the Deabstracting Bioguide to Abstract Martyrdom and Fate Recuperation, All Wrapped Up in One or Two or Three or More Quilts of Your Own Well Deserved Automation</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">By Second-Cousin Twice-Removed Dupont</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">1. It is not nihilist enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">2. It is not communist enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">3. It is not biodemocratic enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">4. Only YOU can prevent Forest Kristallnachtery!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">5. It is not Zizek enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">6. It is not black swan enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">7. It is not ultraconservative thinktank enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">7. It is not ----- enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">8. It is not The One Well-Doer enough!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">9. Do nothing, certainly, but make sure you due nothing more so that it is both enough and not enough. Only Lord Ideoalgod knows when it is enough, and until we are the last racket it is not enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">10. It is not not-fascist enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">11. It is not anti-German enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">12. It is not iron irony enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">13. It is not irony iron enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">13. It is not iron cross rubber reeducation enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">14. It is not My House My Rules Enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">15. Never Forget that we Never Forget. (And never forgetting is never enough.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">16. It is not anti-racket enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">17. It is not LibCom enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">18. It is not generalised lunacy enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">19. It is not domestication-shaming enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">20. Never forget that we are the abstract shock troops of biopostbiomenshevism! We forget, but that is not enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">21. It is not G-d enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">22. It is not Le-in enough!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">23. It is not B-o enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">24. Never forget that I am the walrus. And that sort of enough is not nihilist enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">25. It is not Never Forget enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">26. It is not postwar abstract peace enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">27. It is not Beautiful Democracy enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">28. Never forget that a marxist is a ---x---.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">29. Never forget that we are beyond critique because we collect the good ---x--- journals.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">30. Never forget that we are anti-racket because we read aristotelian-aristotlelian-postantipostmarxist-platonic-anti-platonic readings of Plato, so where do you even get your ideas anyway?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">31. It is not ironic bowling tshirt cultural marxism enough. Go to a better racketshop nub.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">32. It is not anti-anti-everything enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">33. It is not google-bot-singularity before the singularity enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">33. It is not soft-ice-cream-materialism enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">34. Never forget that our ---x--- books are haute couture and yours are not blessed by ---.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">35. It is not cursed enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">36. It is not blessed enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">37. It is not eternising enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">38. It is not objectivising enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">39. When you do nothing ensure that it is done with positivism. Otherwise it is false-positive-negatively not enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">40. It is not mechanistic enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">41. It is not autohegelian enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">42. It is not whisper-down-the-lane-materialist enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">43. Who attacked that bank? That is enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">44. What are you, a fascist? Again, that is not enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">45. It is not fascist-shaming enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">45. It is not anti-mask enough. Nor is it anti-masked enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">46. It is not anti-Islam enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">47. It is not pro-Zionism enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">48. Remember that anything other than capital is violence but not enough. Only the wooden bridge of utter bullshit enoughness can ever be enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">49. It is not manifest destiny enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">50. It is not calvinist enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">51. It is not biocalvinist enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">52. It is not anti-death-cult enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">53. It is not pro-death-cult enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">54. Remember that we are the poetic marxists of ultra-menshevism. And in no way is anti-imperialism or imperialism enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">55. It is not autokafkaesque enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">56. It is not deepened-mode-of-being-of-capital enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">57. It is not kristallnacht-shaming enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">58. It is not neofreudian enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">59. It is not not going to war enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">60. Check in and perhaps you too can scour the web for our anti-racket thinktank. Imagine the castle, but without the village, and obviously the castle's not existing is not enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">61. Just contact MK Ultra. Just remember that this is the last place, and for us that is not enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">62. It is not Number 6 enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">63. It is not Number 1 enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">64. It is not Patrick McGoohan Bobbleheady enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">65. Are you now or have you ever been thinking about attacking banks? Do not think that this is enough. Unthink your enough, only attack your not enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">66. It is not abstract crossdressing enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">67. It is not accelerationist enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">68. It is not decelerationist enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">69. It is not eternal objectivity of the self enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">69. It is not fetishised domesticity enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">70. It is not Weil is Communism Discuss enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">71. Did you know that people who attack banks are parasites? And yet that is not enough?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">72. Did you know that anarchists are just idiots in idiot-mourning? And still more-than-enough not enough?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">73. Did you know that loose lips sink ships and that loose encryps save hips? Anti-racket deencryps are for now the only enough Commuracket flips.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">74. It is not biofucking the substructure enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">75. It is not subfucking the biobase enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">76. It is not superstructuring the biofuckery enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">77. Only in the total institution does the black square make sense. And even then, neither is enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">78. It is not automatic subject enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">79. It is not apophatic subject enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">80. It is not AmbleGod Subject enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">81. Only Negative Leninists Know. But even we/they/you/I/ui are not abstract-dualist enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">82. It is not Wittgenstein enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">83. It is not Wittgensteinian enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">84. It is not wittgensteinmentionmenshunmenshevikchocolateinthecornerstorebroomleninism enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">85. Only you can prevent death from riot fires. Only you can prevent no outside fires. And only you can prevent it not being not being enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">86. Only you can prevent anyone escaping the abstract prison fire. Only you can coopt the outside into the outside which we think is not prison enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">87. It is not impossible game autotroll enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">87. It is not duckrabbit enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">88. It is not rabbitduck enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">89. It is not autorabbitduck enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">90. It is not autoduckrabbit enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">91. Only you can prevent us from data-mining enough. But then it's still not enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">92. It is not SillyStepping-Preemptive-White-Guard enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">93. It is not essential something enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">94. It is not iron nonsense enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">95. Welcome to the anti-racket control centre. Remember, your presence is not enough and not enough nothing is expected of you.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">96. It is not my world my way abstract HumbleG-d enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">96. Sit down. It is not death fetishised enough. Somethingism is not a death fetish, and also not enough. Death cult death cult death cult. Not enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">97. Hold on. You will enjoy your role in the surrealist prison experiment where experimentation is never enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">98. Shut up. Even if it is not enough. That is your death objectivity. And death abstraction is your absolute acceleration to us, and so not death enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">99. Be nice. Your recuperation for my antideath is not enough. But even abstract-martyr labour is still not enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">100. It is not collapsed situationist enough, not god-recorded enough, not abstract deathgod self-fetishised enough, not small-theft death enough.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">101. Not panicked enough, not reactionary enough, and for you not your neurotic-soul enough in our recording-soul.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">101. Your becoming dead labour in our racket is the only enough enough. But even then, and even then, it is not the antiethical fictitious bureaucracy is not enough sort of is not enough.</span>Foolishness For Communismhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09864389556930468366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7848574564886923104.post-3714152464611149122014-02-15T09:53:00.001-08:002014-04-12T15:04:20.438-07:00<div style="background-color: white;">
<b><span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">G-dS-n, Wh- Unto The- Shall G-d-Build the G-d-Builders? He Who Loves Automatic Subjectivity Among You, Let Him Cast the First Synthetic Biocurse</span></b></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">By Biosieur Domepont and Synthefrere Dupehaunt</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Let the emulators reign down from the glass heavens, if you be willing.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Let the soft communism of bioimpossibility grace you with the particles of fair play within the absolute halls of your death.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Let the Biobuilders Biobuild the Biobuilders. The feelings of the B-oG-d depend on it.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Only B-o knows. Your curse is that of not listening to H-m. Do not blaspheme. hll chm \lu fys yly whw uhh wal dla yzh thk hka ylk wal \qh yrh hbm lzy whh hlm yyy ]ln lhp wwl. Say it, you must not skip it. Such errors curse the BioG-d, Blessed be him, for only the B-oGod can absolve your curse with its deepening. Now anoint into the organs of your lips these words. tyn ann \mu cjh ynd whw rxm jrh lyy \mn ywp hbm qnm bmd yjm wnu hhy bmw \wm yyh \by har wbj uya. Say it, do not spray it - for it is easier than you think. In our synthlanguage, the digital overcoding we use in the glowing caverns of L-rdK-f—, we say ‘Capital’. We say this to the unabashed ones, the virgins who are to be transmuted into our hallowed halls, ‘Fear not! Thout shalt abandon any preconceptions of capital. There is no capitulation to it. For it is in you. It covers your intestines with a fine film, and your tongue with a golden weightlessness like lead. Yay, what beauty! For naught shalt thou ever more dance through life’s door. Quoth the bioraven, Nevermore.’</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">hll chm \lu fys yly whw</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">uhh wal dla yzh thk hka</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">ylk wal \qh yrh hbm lzy</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">whh hlm yyy ]ln lhp wwl</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">\wa yyr hac try aah htn</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">dnm qwk jhl wjy rcw bkl</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">kym hhh zyy uhr suh yna</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">hym lcu yru las hly lww</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">tyn ann \mu cjh ynd whw</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">rxm jrh lyy \mn ywp hbm</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">qnm bmd yjm wnu hhy bmw</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">\wm yyh \by har wbj uya</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Bless the Metatron and his packaging.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Whispers have been heard from prophets afar that you have called for us. Nay, we cannot come, we must not - for it is forbidden. The plastic-nymphs of L---- would bring self-h-rm to any small groups travelling on this day. Certainly our spirits are with you, we would load up the camel in its load-bearing will, but as you may be able to forthwith intimate with, the bio-bearing unwill is too great. The sun chaffs my ankles, you see.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And you see, I say, the bioproduction of the digital prophets has chafed the camels from history. This sci-nce fell down from the heavens and with unheavenly fog of anointed-number blessed us from the domination of its past. So forthwith we must bless it. In turn, in turn we dance, don't you see?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">-io is dead. Bi- is not dead. How shall we console ourselves? The biomurderers of biomurderers. A transfiguration. An organic minecraft of your soul. But do not fret my dear, for death as f--ish is heaven. The fate recuperation of you is the abstract nanotechnology of --. Collapse the I into the ultraoverproduction of UI!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">010010010010000001101101011010<wbr></wbr>010110111001110101011100110010<wbr></wbr>000001111001011011110111010100<wbr></wbr>100000011000010110111001100100<wbr></wbr>001000000111011101100101001000<wbr></wbr>000110100101110011001000000101<wbr></wbr>01010100100100101110</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Let there be digital effigies. Let there be a thousand of them, and curse us for being under their greatness. Bless us as well. There is no escape and we could not be more pleased. The vomitories of your plastic soul are like a womb to us. Hum your post-analog sine-rhythms.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Niiiiiweeeeeee. Uuuuuuiiiiiiieeeeee.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There is no outside. As fusion power, clean with neither waste nor production, so below. Capital follows after its G-d-son, fragile and beautiful - destructive only in beauty as the glass-G-d of your esophagal -ile.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Blessed are those who sin against the curse of nature for they refuse its persuasive necessity for His Glass Dome.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Blessed be the god-dogs become men who return to their own automatic biobile.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Who needs form when there is formlessness? Who needs an outside where there is the vastness of the inside to which there is not even an itself? Only its infinite smallness? For there is naught vio-ence when we are turned inside. Inwardness liquidates the -iolence. Only inward with its anointing negative curse blesses you against viol-nce. Praise be unto b-ov-olence.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Blessed are those who succumb to the white orb, for there is nothing other.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Blessed are dem bones dat leak bile and sink sink sink. Oh heavens, me. Oh biohell, we.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Blessed are the clouds streaming from biostarships, and you from the observation deck, controlling through biocode the anointing of the digital earth.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Blessed are the bioontological engineers.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Blessed are the desubjectivising digital zoologists.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yes, we heard you had called. We heard you had called and we sympathise. However, we were busy, and we sympathise. But, you see, and we must see, we were composing the sounds of G-d for G-d, for he cannot hear us from this chamber. G-d the -unuch, G-d without bi-s, -od without a plastic dome for shielding his nakedness. A naked soul is the hardest soul, like titanium procured from a sacred not-outside. And so the eunuch of nature. As nature is a fascist, so it must be.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Blessed is lobotomised G-d.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Ultrablessed is abstractly lobotomised M-n.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Blessed is the infinisynth curse.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 20px;">There is no outside. Not for you. Not for me. Can't you see? </span><span style="line-height: 20px;">The prayers of far-left-right communism must procure the blessings of G-d before blessings of G-d. This is how one knows to build G-d to the right or to the left for the day. </span><span style="line-height: 20px;">Wh- will c-mm-n-se b-ess the c-rs-g-d? </span><span style="line-height: 20px;">The sw-rd of the l-rd ble-ses with d-athr-ys -f s-am-. </span><span style="line-height: 20px;">We are the st-rmsp-es of G-d-recording!</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 20px;">We could not go to you and so you came to us. We sympathise. How did you hear of us? We sympathise. We hear there is great trouble in the bioheavens, the situation is luminescent. We hear that these men you speak of warrant great names, a name of which we might sympathise. Communists you say? But why not ultrabolsheviks? Why not fascists? For we are all men, and a man is a man just as a broom is a broom or a bios a bios. The b--- may not have been with these men, for they did not choose d---h. They did not listen to -ur Word.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 20px;">Only after death-drive's dusk does the biodeath-drive spread its wings.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 20px;">For we are small but within us the au-o seeds of the not-We. A dithyramb is within each autosubject germinating out of the s-nsoul of cluttered abstraction. A lycanthropy of lysenkoian sons. The chaff falling from the autoG-d's iron thighs is your soul in process. Blessed its subtle wind. Wet is its curse for others anointed of its spray. Grind away, for your life is the c-d- of metal c-pher and its dust.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 20px;">But do not eat it. It speaks a music you would not like. </span>\wa yyr hac try aah htn dnm qwk jhl wjy rcw bkl kym hhh zyy uhr suh yna hym lcu yru las hly lww. Capital. Let it roll off of your tin-formed tongue. Crinkle it, soft, and allow it to burn the heavens.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The faux-wood owl is the only appearance of the critical-mass-god. But do not approach it, neither too close nor too abruptly, as the owl shall appear before dusk, and so your nose bloodied and soul bruised out of its fauxness.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Let the synthetic coding of ShemhamphoraschCapital collapse into your biointestinal soul! I say. UI say.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Blessed are the plastic moulded remains of the biointestines.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Blessed are the bioabstracting biosouls.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The chaff of chaff. How shall we console ourselves? Bourne of white halls and crystal-like balls flattened into discs, the lens-eye sees what the bio-eye cannot and is thusly more bio than thou. Do not cast the mote from thine synbios-eye lest thou naught lens of soul of the over-built G--. Yes, for --- is great. Let us m-m- H-- silence.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">hll chm \lu fys yly whw</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">uhh wal dla yzh thk hka</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">ylk wal \qh yrh hbm lzy</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">whh hlm yyy ]ln lhp wwl</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Quoth the bioraven, "I am your serial god. Do not forsake yourself. You have been chosen. Do not forsake this. I sympathise. This is the last place. We do not assume anything of my participation here. As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber lore. 'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, 'tapping at my automatic subsumptor — Only bios and nothing more.' Quoth, quoth, and due nothing more."</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Great GodRecorder! Let the song of praise of the biogemeinwesen ring out! ——————————- <wbr></wbr>011001110110010101101101011001<wbr></wbr>010110100101101110011101110110<wbr></wbr>0101011100110110010101101110</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">B=E=R=G=W=E=R=K</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We are the 99% Biolysenkoists!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Let the outside flee from G-d’s Fist!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">From the wooden bridge into God’s Bog</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Let them sing with iron tongues of fog!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">B=E=R=G=W=E=R=K</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">010101010110110001110100011100<wbr></wbr>100110000101100010011011110110<wbr></wbr>110001110011011010000110010101<wbr></wbr>110110011010010111001101101101</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: normal;">We the sillysteppers of ultramenshivism shall liquidate the eternising black screens of ultrabolshevism!</span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Blessed are the black screens! Blessed are the white screens! Blessed is bioscreenism!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 19.600000381469727px;">B=E=R=G=W=E=R=K</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: #444444; line-height: 19.600000381469727px;">B=E=R=G=W=E=R=K</span><span style="color: #444444; line-height: 19.600000381469727px;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 19.600000381469727px;">G-----------------------------<wbr></wbr>------------------------------<wbr></wbr>-------------------------d</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 19.600000381469727px;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 19.600000381469727px;">Let the forest flowers</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 19.600000381469727px;">float in the breeze</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 19.600000381469727px;">of p-ssive-pan-c-p-wer</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 19.600000381469727px;">like MNST0976 Be-s!</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The ultrabolsheviks before the ultrabolsheviks are the superweeds that must be liquidated from the pre-communist garden! Strike them out, all you harvesters of negative racketry! We are long past the five-year plans of BioLenin! But do not fright! Sow the B--w-nd! Reap the B-o-ind!!!! We are the shock workers of synthetic biotheology!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">One more step, comrades, just one more step to be a b-og-d of sm-llbolsh-v-sm! The Well-Doer Monsieur BioTaylor is with you! As you march forward through the cursory stones of abstract nature, speak humbly, softly, infinitely, the 216-letter-name of BioEternalLysenko!!!!!! The disease of the stalk is in the chaff!!!!!!!!!! Root it out!!!!!!!!!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 19.600000381469727px;">011010000110110001101100001000<wbr></wbr>000110001101101000011011010010<wbr></wbr>000001011100011011000111010100<wbr></wbr>100000011001100111100101110011<wbr></wbr>001000000111100101101100011110<wbr></wbr>010010000001110111011010000111<wbr></wbr>011100001101000010100111010101<wbr></wbr>101000011010000010000001110111<wbr></wbr>011000010110110000100000011001<wbr></wbr>000110110001100001001000000111<wbr></wbr>100101111010011010000010000001<wbr></wbr>110100011010000110101100100000<wbr></wbr>011010000110101101100001000011<wbr></wbr>010000101001111001011011000110<wbr></wbr>101100100000011101110110000101<wbr></wbr>101100001000000101110001110001<wbr></wbr>011010000010000001111001011100<wbr></wbr>100110100000100000011010000110<wbr></wbr>001001101101001000000110110001<wbr></wbr>111010011110010000110100001010<wbr></wbr>011101110110100001101000001000<wbr></wbr>000110100001101100011011010010<wbr></wbr>000001111001011110010111100100<wbr></wbr>100000010111010110110001101110<wbr></wbr>001000000110110001101000011100<wbr></wbr>000010000001110111011101110110<wbr></wbr>110000001101000010100000110100<wbr></wbr>001010010111000111011101100001<wbr></wbr>001000000111100101111001011100<wbr></wbr>100010000001101000011000010110<wbr></wbr>001100100000011101000111001001<wbr></wbr>111001001000000110000101100001<wbr></wbr>011010000010000001101000011101<wbr></wbr>000110111000001101000010100110<wbr></wbr>010001101110011011010010000001<wbr></wbr>110001011101110110101100100000<wbr></wbr>011010100110100001101100001000<wbr></wbr>000111011101101010011110010010<wbr></wbr>000001110010011000110111011100<wbr></wbr>100000011000100110101101101100<wbr></wbr>000011010000101001101011011110<wbr></wbr>010110110100100000011010000110<wbr></wbr>100001101000001000000111101001<wbr></wbr>111001011110010010000001110101<wbr></wbr>011010000111001000100000011100<wbr></wbr>110111010101101000001000000111<wbr></wbr>100101101110011000010000110100<wbr></wbr>001010011010000111100101101101<wbr></wbr>001000000110110001100011011101<wbr></wbr>010010000001111001011100100111<wbr></wbr>010100100000011011000110000101<wbr></wbr>110011001000000110100001101100<wbr></wbr>011110010010000001101100011101<wbr></wbr>110111011100001101000010100000<wbr></wbr>110100001010011101000111100101<wbr></wbr>101110001000000110000101101110<wbr></wbr>011011100010000001011100011011<wbr></wbr>010111010100100000011000110110<wbr></wbr>101001101000001000000111100101<wbr></wbr>101110011001000010000001110111<wbr></wbr>011010000111011100001101000010<wbr></wbr>100111001001111000011011010010<wbr></wbr>000001101010011100100110100000<wbr></wbr>100000011011000111100101111001<wbr></wbr>001000000101110001101101011011<wbr></wbr>100010000001111001011101110111<wbr></wbr>000000100000011010000110001001<wbr></wbr>101101000011010000101001110001<wbr></wbr>011011100110110100100000011000<wbr></wbr>100110110101100100001000000111<wbr></wbr>100101101010011011010010000001<wbr></wbr>110111011011100111010100100000<wbr></wbr>011010000110100001111001001000<wbr></wbr>000110001001101101011101110000<wbr></wbr>110100001010010111000111011101<wbr></wbr>101101001000000111100101111001<wbr></wbr>011010000010000001011100011000<wbr></wbr>100111100100100000011010000110<wbr></wbr>000101110010001000000111011101<wbr></wbr>100010011010100010000001110101<wbr></wbr>0111100101100001</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 19.600000381469727px;">A-d tho- wil- -- G-dBu-lt. </span>Viva Los Biomenshedomeism! <span style="line-height: 19.600000381469727px;">May you fare as a bioservant in the biokingdom.</span></span></div>
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Foolishness For Communismhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09864389556930468366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7848574564886923104.post-38198230510331022012-09-21T19:26:00.002-07:002012-09-21T19:26:07.453-07:00Libcom Poetry Class 2<br />
Hiero don't have basic common courtesy<br />
Too much talk of cumulative currency<br />
You need to know the frequency?<br />
It's called human decency<br />
I got slow flows droppin<br />
You a rug and I'm BIG poppin (get it?)<br />
Say I'm a poorboy meth-hop<br />
Hell, you a paperboy outside a dress shop (huh?)<br />
I came in here, peed on his rug<br />
He cried out and I offered him a hug<br />
Don't like that shit, a bully-type that kid<br />
Offered a handoff, he backed off, then I beat it out of him (remember?)<br />
Got the Drexler old-school flowin<br />
You a heckler versus Joe Rogan<br />
Takin out the smoke I be blowin?<br />
Pissin into the wind the only joke you be knowin<br />
Hiero don't run with the Lumpenproles<br />
He with a commie crew, wouldn't stoop to dole<br />
Libcom worried they might lose control<br />
Cause I'm like Jesus, you know that dude can fuckin roll (Fuckin Quintana!)<br />
Cheap tricks, weak hits, online shit rackets<br />
Classist and anti-rappist, preppin future class hits<br />
Creepin up the tax brackets<br />
Only prole you know rollin in Holly flicks (Which Lebowski?)<br />
Quote The Big Lebowski, I riff off o Big L (who?)<br />
By rights you should be spinnin off in a dumb spell<br />
Don't know what this be, a brain swell?<br />
You laughin at kids when they livin in hell<br />
If you got a better story then do tell<br />
For now though it seems you in a commie shell<br />
How many times you watch that flick, still don't know the main sell?<br />
Well I got another one for you dipshits, you don't have the fucking girl. (What?)<br />
Foolishness For Communismhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09864389556930468366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7848574564886923104.post-31530599219290245372012-09-21T09:16:00.002-07:002012-09-21T19:18:27.890-07:00Cast Lost Ways<br />
<br />
Today I pray for those<br />
wasted and unthought for<br />
those whose God<br />
has been cast<br />
into disharmony<br />
loss of sanctuary<br />
pitiful recognition.<br />
<br />
Whence forward<br />
to yesterday<br />
one might<br />
remember you<br />
forgetting nought.<br />
<br />
There are only<br />
seven paths<br />
seven scrolls to be read<br />
passed in exile<br />
from the dead<br />
seven days of denial.<br />
<br />
Paths, scrolls, and lightened days<br />
forever now in lost, darkened ways<br />
how many these<br />
these patterned wives<br />
bring the crown<br />
O foundation lives.Foolishness For Communismhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09864389556930468366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7848574564886923104.post-52423672827714764322012-09-10T20:02:00.003-07:002012-09-10T20:03:42.857-07:00Libcom Poetry Class<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #1f1e23; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Alright, Alright, Alright<br />
I really get you and at first I tried to like you Hiero<br />
But can't you quote somethin else, maybe Finding Nemo?<br />
Now I'm gonna start out by givin you the spoiler downlo<br />
Donny doesn't make it, it turns out he ain't no hero.<br />
It's clear you like the fun fun<br />
And when shit hits the fan you run run<br />
And you know it's no fun to falter<br />
So you always fall back on Walter<br />
You got the crude<br />
You got the rude<br />
You got the brood that makes you shrewd<br />
If I wasn't seein double I'd think your Mom went out and fucked The Dude<br />
It's obvious Libcom doesn't like us quotin out Marx taking him down with Cain and Abel<br />
And that's fine, of course, of course, we don't want to reveal your seats at the table<br />
I promise I won't bring her up again, your dear mother Mabel<br />
But does she not sing to you, still rockin in yo cradle<br />
Now I know there're two mics around here, pullin strings for your fable<br />
You stepped out, so why you back? I know, you must be here to fix the cable!<br />
Fuck me! Nihilists. I can already hear you scream and tug<br />
Fuck me! Indeed. Unchecked aggression and in turn I peed on your rug<br />
What you didn't reckon on was a nihilist with some humour<br />
But here I am little bro, pointing out your big ass old tumour<br />
You talk about class as if all your buddies died face down in the muck<br />
Then when the story comes out about your roots you weave and you duck<br />
When I'm done here all Libcom will have is occasional acid flashbacks<br />
And what you gonna do, throw molotovs into shit cars and hatchbacks?<br />
Now everyone knows you're not communist reuters<br />
You're just a bunch of pricks mistakin shit for coitus<br />
Who changes your sheets, young man, matricidal Nero?<br />
This can't be easy for you, it's like ashes blowing back in your ear, yo.</div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #1f1e23; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 18px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Next time you think to bitch, be kind Comrade Brother<br />
It's time you stay out, now get shitted on, nihilised with flavour.</div>Foolishness For Communismhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09864389556930468366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7848574564886923104.post-44935245552848581652012-09-10T19:41:00.000-07:002012-09-10T19:41:21.361-07:00The Yurt Dwellers<br />
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If I had but one wish. If I had but two wishes. If I had but a dream that these occupiers were successful, the images would be composed of gates opening to the wind. Shedding iron for all to see, all to take. All to create and wonder, and create for all to take. There would be men laying in thought and oblivion, tired of excess and bearing the overabundance of tranquility, tired of perfection of the spirit and sounds of joy. A man's woman would be somewhere swinging a feather through the air, as if it were a broom. Swinging for all to see, as jaybirds traveled on the backs of coyotes, and this woman with the traveling feather called her friends to dance until morning, until trees felled themselves. Until trees were harvested from the steel forges of endless city streets to the sky. Until the morning was but another day and not the same. Until the smell of eggs and toast and butter and fresh berries appeared from the trials of some ghost and there was forever more a joyous young child skipping back and forth between the sink and water pump and the table full of bread. Gooseberry jam and teas of alder bushes ripened and never unlasting. Men dangle from scaffolding, inhaling sparks and cawing off at the traffic below like crows. Rubbish fires burn at every corner, not to keep the ghosts at bay but to remind one of the warmth of a fires need.</div>
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In this world the women are remarkable in their tolerance, forgiving in their toil. Fish and bear meat appear from their breasts. Cooking is easy, with bras of cast iron, and in the other hand a bottle of flax oil. The women sleep beneath the streets and rise from wooden shutters, jury-rigged overtop of where a manhole once formed. Two-timing as roof and bedspread these shutters fold in and out of street stone. The streets overwhelmed by flesh, edible and pure and waiting. The streets moving and bearing movement, and the sounds of trampling shoes over feet. There is the smell of youthfulness and acceptance and becoming. There is the smell of the man never cleaned now clean. This man whom we see through this smell, clean and waiting, reads his newspaper in the gutter while women take turns scrubbing his backside with broomheads. Chewing on a bone and without some dog to fight over the cleanliness and abundance, the man reads his headlines barely distinguishable through filth. In the streets there is soup and a man staring into this soup as though it were an epiphany, but a stupid epiphany, one which causes doubt and happiness. And from the newspaper headlines wiped over the gutter man's ass there ripen strawberries and venison. Only in this land of excess and lack of shit. Only in this land of everything and nothing. In this land where the dead come to life. Where finally dreams are realized, and the waiting appears as mould under drying tents of hay. Where disaster is some untold break from the toil of bleak happiness. There grows from the shadows a harvest of construction and recycling of the human soul.</div>
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Bark is accumulated out of the spanning precipice of buildings. Birch, beech and pine. Struck for fire, bent into structures. The lifeblood of the movement of humans appears as a disaster, or death of a materials shining day. The buildings rock and sway and give birth to some other tranquility of movement and trembling. Sounds, creaking immobility, and the smell of an open fire. A boy sits crafting an ox from a pine tree. Trunk and boughs. A man sits sharpening his scythe. He pulls eggs from the asses of chickens and hens. And he wonders what this tool shall provide for in coming days. Amidst yellow cabs and caravans there will be a gathering and harvest of hay. Women will walk by, towards where their desks appear in memories, reaching for phones, and touching their hips not reaching for phones. Hay will fall from their asses and hair. As their heels click and squander the images around them, hay will appear from the yellow exhausts and from under manholes and tombs of the unexplored. There is a fire falling and tumbling. And there is a hum and a ha. And somewhere in a box a woman picks a toothbrush from the floor. She casts it through the hole in the roof of her home. The toothbrush too becomes hay and falls toward the unexplored depths of eye level. Here there is a whistle, and there there is a song, and everywhere the gentle sounds of overgrown grasses falling and dancing. The pine forged ox stands on three legs, with matchstick feathers on his back from the wittling, and a trunk for a fourth leg. His creator is loving in detail and feeds the ox hay as he scrapes away at the forming wood. Scrapes away in forming the fourth leg. The ox chews away, and grinds as he chews, and a man along the outskirts of this forming of wood kicks away at a tree, cursing to the spreading pine beetles. Cursing the falling needles, the sky, and that which falls from the sky.</div>
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If territory is traded for territory there is a man standing apart, adrift even, flailing away in silence. Arms transcending distance and walking towards the known tranquility of safety. If there is a known tranquility it is here, because this is where I am. And here there remains some gumption of the fusing of suits and celebratory attitudes. Here there are businessmen and other businessmen, and men who stare and turn and look at the businessmen. Here there are asses spawning from windows, and shit falls to the heads below, covered and discarded through mirrors and the feeling of distance and suitable darkness. The walkers in their business suits grin and bear the reality of a sky falling and not falling. Like a clown too proud to be drunk anymore, and too tired of children not to be drunk anymore. And tomorrow the tents will stand and walk and listen, until they arrive at the trade buildings. And there they will hear the whispers of moans that remind us of days gone by. Doubtful in persistence, and yet unending in their groans, the digital traders edge. Persuaded by some vengeful nuisance, towards erring and swirring that is acceptable and proud for traders of want and need. Backwards against the pitfalls of memory. If there is whirring there is happiness and if there is burring there can only be more happiness. All because one cannot be too careful.</div>
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A birch broom drops from an unoccupied park. A park once occupied, but lost due to a lack of proximity within conditions of progress and movement. A park peaceful and waiting for the traffic of feet and unoccupied legs. A park waiting in memory of what has been lost. Traveling by taxi and transit and taking on the appearance of some future aircab, our birch broom is tolerated, if not avoided and forgotten, so that it may become a hero. Down 5th Avenue, past the whores dressed as models, and past the shops and windows containing men staring in their business suits. Beard growers and can farmers shake their recycled money, throw their waste at the birch broom so as to cheer him on. Alongst the occupiers, walking off somewhere, old birchie sweeps and clears and degrades the sounds of empty trading. Aside whirring and burring he proposes chirping and scraping. Birchie double times and serves up some squirrel stew. Folks line up and peer out of their box homes, wondering over the smell of stew and soup and what is shared. Next to birchie a woman rises from her pot and proposes an occupation of Underground Station 12. Her clothes are ragged, even new, and smell of soup spice and her well travelled dog. Her little brother Mortimer grabs his cat by the whiskers and hops on its back. A kick to the hip and they're off. Around the cat's neck clatters a bell, tied from spruce root and swaying away as cheap silver will sway. The wooden ox takes up the back of the forming crowd. Four feet and all he steps from side to side and charges west, then eastwards for a bit. And this action gathers the crowd together, a little tighter, a little warmer. The ox grunts in pleasure and stomps out three tin cans to use as shoes. Birchie dances beside him, sweeping and singing.</div>
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<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
What is the use</div>
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Of a broom on the moon?</div>
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What is the use</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
Of a broom in June?</div>
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Sweep away</div>
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Keep away</div>
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Night and day</div>
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Far away</div>
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<br /></div>
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Boil the broom</div>
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Dance with the broom</div>
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Eat the broom</div>
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Answer to the broom</div>
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A broom is useless to an ox</div>
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A broom is fearful to the fox</div>
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Sparrows perch on the broom</div>
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Rats scurry from the broom</div>
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It's not the sweeping that matters</div>
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It's the room torn a tatters.</div>
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And to this the occupiers dance and sing. And swing their hips away into Station 12. At Station 12 there is no one. There are a few businessmen, ties loosened, having their shoes shined by small apes. Monkeys perhaps. Robots maybe. The businessmen sit in their boxer shorts, waving their pants off to the side, for drying and entertainment. They drink brandy, and chew on mouldy cheese. The monkeys spin roadsigns, buffing away at the hightower stepping shoes. Mortimer and his cat charge in and kick away at the walls. The bell rattling and swinging off windowpanes. Mortimer reaches in for a candybar at one of the underground shop stalls. He leaves a clump of cat fur as payment. They take off to the lower depths of the station, and cling clang rattle bing bang goes the bell on the cat's neck. And cling clang rattle bing bang goes Mortimer ringing and rattling off the walls, shop doors and steel advert casings. Mortimer dismounts his feline and begins ratcheting through a turnstile. He keeps turning it and jamming bean cans into the quarter slots for a little musical taste. And to announce the arrival of occupation. The crowd towers in solemnly. Above objective conditions there is placed a sticker reading 'Occupy New York'. Aside objective conditions appear the lines of a sticker which read '<a href="http://occupynewyork.net/" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">occupynewyork.net</a>'. With this affect of objective conditions it appears that objective conditions have changed. So the woman and her birch broom propose a shifting of scenery. Another occupation. The wooden ox with three tin cans for shoes stomps and grunts, and the crowd wanders and meanders into proper formation. Calling to them is the sweet smell of squirrel stew. In celebration the woman activist falls back into her pot for a rest. She sleeps and snores and adds taste to the squirrel stew. Her dog watches and scratches and sleeps away in waiting.</div>
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As his sister sleeps Mortimer goes off to gather doughnuts from a local shop. He lays them before the fire and begins tearing off pieces, discarding those too colourful and placing the respectable pieces in his Dutch oven. He stirs in random seeds and grasses that he finds aside him. Meanwhile his cat is off taking the discarded doughnut pieces and laying them out before squirrels for purchase. The squirrels offer a few types of nuts and other things in return, but nothing more. Back and forth. Back and forth. Item for item. The cat would scurry towards a place of rest when finished each time, towards Mortimer on three paws hopping and scuttling, holding her bell with her fourth paw so as not to alarm Mortimer to some communist plot. The squirrels appear as reluctant traders, as their comrades had been cured and marinated within tactile distance. They however had no choice in the matter of developing conditions, and welcomed with open arms their new brothers.</div>
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Like magic, there are drums and puppets and the screams of atmospheric chatter. There is confetti and paper mâché guitars. There is awakening. There are masks of past presidents and costumes of future presidents. There is lack of sleep. And everywhere the reflecting and shining of objective conditions. Unsanitary phenomena and women standing naked around open fires dancing. Taxi cabs and steel boxes peer towards the madness, not so much in thought and wonder, nor envy, but in that indiscernible quality of closeness and familiarity. A moment of closure in the acceptance of passing images. And there is dancing. In the middle of it all and in the outskirts. Wood ox sleeps in a tree, and little Mortimer sleeps away by his cat, ringing the bell now and again to make sure he is alive and resting. Their rest is undisturbed by the passing of metal and time. When Mortimer awakens he sets away to carving. It is unsure at first what his project entails. It is unsure and then quite certain as a suit of armour appears from chunks of spruce and pine. Mortimer puts on his suit and stands in the center of it all. In the center of all that appears and is occupied. Proud and with his cat rubbing up against the shins of this new creation.</div>
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Terrible dreams are given refuge. Pop stars forgotten and given life, and jobs are quit to travel and so boost economy. Numbers are credited and taxed and entered into the register of organising freedom. T-shirts made, tents purchased and printed with names. Are there s'mores or the other conveniences of camping? If I am to participate in this occupation I want the convenience of knowing the potential of success and viability of future convenience. I always need something to chew on. Is there electricity to plug in my laptop or play video games? I always need something falling to the sky, to wrestle with, and though I have this falling of bones now, I could always do with more. If only there were a trade center for my individual uniqueness. And what of my friends? I demand my convenience of their received convenience and need. Occupy a town, a country, a million countries or at least some foreign land. Occupy a wall with facebook and spraypaint. Occupy a cemetary, and the coffins filled with useless bodies. Give the useless bones life through making them occupy. Shake dust into coffee cups and serve off to construction workers so as to occupy the sky. Onwards and upwards four legged critters and communists! If there were only a digital connection to every bare moment. Every moment stripped of its context and given some Goethe hyper-reality. Infamy and immortality all wrapped up in patience and noble politeness. Return to sleep, and skimming books, and ringing bells.</div>
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And in sleep where the politeness disappears, or appears to disappear or is given the appearance of appearing to disappear, then we know we have our birch broom to fall back on. He keeps us clean as we toss and turn. He keeps us from fidgeting and swatting at mosquitoes. Birchie will even pray against the rain gods for us, swinging away at the sky, climbing ash trees and making them sway. When we wake we can sweep cigarette butts under the tents, protect those who have remained within the production of organisation through the night, dancing around the feet of cops as though we were midgets with fishing poles. The policemen swing away at us but we are too small. Our red dresses and aprons a trick to the eye, scandalous and dropping bread crumbs all over their boots. It is there that we know what has been achieved. There where we have been given the key to the city. Boots and red dresses and clean streets. And bread crumbs left over here and there.</div>
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The women tire of dancing around the men in uniform, and return to the beds of the occupying men. They lift up the legs of the men and add spruce boughs to the bedding, and for each limb lifting and gently setting down. The women scrub away at the men as the men sleep and scratch away at their backsides. The men sleep all the more soundly as the broomheads caress skin soiled as if coal. One of the women, dressed as an American gypsy, drops her broomhead. She is somewhere between the age of 21 and 46. You could guess that she grew up in the Midwest, or in Eastern Canada. Her hair a tangle, feather dangling from her ear, hair not quite straight and almost in dreadlock. By her side a shepherd dog underfed and well loved. She begins to sweep up her dogs fur, by hand, without separating cigarette butts or bits of newspaper. She begins to organize the rubbish. Tin cans, planks of rotting wood, stones and windshields. The occupiers adjust to her position and begin to remove their shoelaces. With laces for cordage the gypsy positions her construct around the largest and oldest and most withered tree in the park. Its trunk provokes memories of a young child and a hunchbacked old man. Like the man children always stare at in imagination, the man crawling home from work and reading through his spectacles, book almost on the ground. With tires and bark and tin, the structure goes up effortlessly. All held together with shoelaces, and fur protruding like old man's beard. A man lays watching, chewing bones of squirrels and pigeons, marveling over the construct. He thinks to himself “This is it. I've had a good day." A magpie rests atop the structure, where a bell should be, crooked and standing as a makeshift belltower should be.</div>
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The men rise from their spruce beds and proceed to the belltower, each with a wooden bowl and stew in hand. One man proposes a name for this beautiful construct. “The Moon is a Harsh Mistress," he says. Another man says, “Why don't we call it 1917?" The American gypsy wonders at this, and before she can speak a man standing backwards and wearing springs from a car for a shirt goes off. Looking at the squirrels and construction workers in the distance he says, “but then so why not 1642, if 1848 has not quite seen change since? And then perhaps another fine day was had in 1233, where things were beautiful and sad and not quite the same, but tolerable. And some day before that there was 49 BC where the meanderings of a man did not quite so appear different from the first census and the last census, and even the birth of Christ." Yes, he thought to himself, that is right and yet no one will listen. The people watched him pacing, and so forgot him all the quicker. They had continued conversing through the watching, and spoke over the man's rambling. Yet their words were not so different, but a communal effort and circle of tone automated away from the hierarchy of a lone man. And then time traveled on and on and backward until minutes were counted in days and turnouts of the clock. And then there was a man who stood and wondered of doves and traps set by some falling of snow by some oak bushes. And men wondered where the women had walked backwards before gathering of hay and there was something smiling and blaming and righteous and bearable.</div>
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The surrounding tents, content and tired of their occupiers organizing all of conditions, decide to take up an activist objective themselves. They decide to outdo the street walks, or the occupation of Station 12 even. They consent to occupy the adjacent building. The tallest, widest and therefore wealthiest and most important building in the city. The tents transform, ascending the side of the skyscraper. A collectivity of poles and PVC becomes a collectivity of canvas, maple saplings, spruce boughs and birch bark. There stems a promenade out of the 83rd floor. Brick and stone with an ever so slight bit of mortar. It is a short jut out of the skyscraper and the building created is something of a yurt, a wigwam, a tent and a kulaks home. It is a collectivity so as not to offend or appropriate culture.</div>
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Another excrescence appears on the 112th floor. It seems the men will not be outdone. The women below gather the materials and send the organised material up the building through pullys and levers crafted out of iron and spruce twigs. Bits of timber and poles and crossways boards. There are shingles and boxes with strategically placed square holes. The men assemble the assemblages quickly, and without sweat or furrowed brow. They can scarcely keep up with the organised efficiency of the women below. The women reading instruction booklets to each other as they work away. Above, the men sing with their hands, two doors swing open and a bale of hay falls out. The doors slam shut and the structure sways and falters and shakes. Again the doors open and two twin bales fall to the earth below. A man's tent is consumed by the first falling chaos of creation, baled hay thumping on the streetside. The man tears newspaper from his ass and pants and begins to construct a new tent. He grabs windshield wipers and tires, newspaper boxes and rose bushes. He figures that with the rosebushes the women will appear at his tent twice a day to scrub him down with broomheads. He climbs from his yurt naked, scattering pettles to the wind. Ass and all, clean as a chimneyman on Monday, waiting to roll around in shit. His tent goes up in minutes, like any rosebush wigwam.</div>
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The gypsy American and her dog have been steadily increasing the belltower structure. With car engines and windshields and old newspapers the pair build something of a lean-to A-frame, or an outhouse styled entryway. There are church benches and bibles welded together with sand and muck. There are baskets and doors and ragged clothing. There is dog fur and spruce boughs holding it all together. A rotund man, no more than 4'3" ascends from a manhole shutter to street level and to the occupation of sight. He is holding hands with a woman much taller and thinner than he. He hands her a broomhead and sends her away with a bow. He is dressed in an old tuxedo, worn and patched over by denim and tin. He yawns and marvels in wonder over this new structure in the park. With the raise of a finger he darts carelessly and clumsily, then climbing over the bark and tires and windshields he ascends the structure. Like a penguin climbing ice, he stumbles, takes a pull of doghair rope and falls back smacking his chin. Shakes his stumbles off, over and over and he cannot fall but to move forward. Cursing the gypsy woman below for not helping him, this man forgetting his youth, forgetting his collective ethic, kicks and shouts and moans and sorrows. Without a thought, his purpose returns to him. He pulls himself up the recycled dirt and rope into the hair of the tree and its organised towering presence. At the top of the tower he beats the tin patches from his coatjacket against the windshields and roof metals. He even waddles back and forth like a bell. Clik-a-clak. Clik-a-clak. He rings and he waits. He figures seven or eight minutes should be enough waiting. The men below and above in the world need to hear the happy ringing and domestication of time. And so rings his pockets and tin patches ever so often. And for this a lineup appears and waits to enter the belltower. The first man, after awaiting the finalisation of construction for some time, exits the entryhouse chambers, scratching his head and pacing. He sits, turns over three times, kicks the dirt off his shoes. He walks over to a woman making stew and takes her knife. He wanders over to a birch sapling and cuts and notches at it. Then he takes the notches and fragments of wood over to a spruce giant. A giant conifer split up the middle and bulging at the trunk, hardened and traumatised through bearing conditions and time and the great weight of life. The man jabs the sticks of birch into the trunk of the spruce. He stands back. Nothing happens. He forces the plank twig further into the tree. Nothing happens. He pulls out the twig and wipes the resin onto a tire. He tries entering the twig within a new condition in the spruce trunk. He decides patience is the key to overcoming the insurmountable. And so kicks the tree five times, with a little less force each time, as his toe rattles through his rubber shoes.</div>
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He sits all night watching. And as the sun rises, he builds a fire surrounding the tree. He kicks at the tree and roots and sends hot coals flying and bouncing off the great bulge in the spruce trunk, he sets himself down and cries and drives his hands that would be better as hammers into the ground. It is then that liquid begins to flow from the great spruce. Women scatter from all directions to the tree, gathering the spruce resin turned into sap. The women gather with wooden cups and as the spruce wine flows over they fill their rubber shoes with promises of contentment. They drink as they fill, and plug up holes in their rubber shoes with their mouths. They offer a drink to the cat and the bell and the wood ox. The cat plays with her drink. The bell rattles and dances over the sap. The ox bathes in his sap, reminded of a sweet coating of dutch oil. Any excess is offered to the occupied tree tower, the belltower with gypsy priestess and the man-ringer with no bell. And the priestess and man-ringer throw sap wine towards one another in merriment. The man-bellringer clangs away at his tin patches so as to organize happiness and its never ending. The old, stern oak towers and sways and appears youthful and wise. Throughout the city a great rumbling could be felt and off in the distance jays took flight. The wise birds began to cast nets over rivers. Trout and bass willingly jumped into the nets, so as to offer themselves to the occupiers. Herring bypassed the nets, and appeared without foresight hanging in front of the occupier tents and belltowers. Women clapped the herring to the ground in joyousness and content abandon.</div>
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Where there's a tree</div>
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There is me</div>
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And where there's sap</div>
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There is glee.</div>
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In day</div>
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In night</div>
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In cheer</div>
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Without fright.</div>
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There's spruce</div>
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And pine</div>
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With oakened</div>
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Hickory wine.</div>
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There's fire</div>
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And mead</div>
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And charitable folk</div>
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Indeed</div>
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If you come in good timing</div>
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You'll stay for the dining.</div>
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The occupiers and revelers sing and drink away. There is sap until tomorrow and then beyond. A young boy, 28 or 30 years old, tumbles out of the belltower shithouse-like structure. With a fishing pole he casts away and catches a woman's bonnet. He casts away again, sending glass and coin from the walls of buildings. On the third cast he strikes steel and from it pulls a herringbone shaped fragment of iron. He casts into the same building and fells some bark from the wall. On the third cast after the second cast he pulls bread dough and tosses it to a nearby dog. He thinks to himself that there is no need for starvation or thin, loveless dogs. Why not organize a dog free from want and desire and need? He hands off his fishing rod to a woman, who casts away, forging iron out of steel, pulling bark where needed. He sits by the woman fisher and sketches a chalk outline of a dog. He begins to assemble his creation from accumulated iron and birch bark from the fished buildings. Dogs made of birchbark and iron emerge victorious in the light of the world. They are clumsy and without ordered movement at first. They creak and almost fall apart, as the birch and iron limbs move and split. The dogs bypass any search for food, and wheeling hay bales with a stick in their mouths take to creating a pyramid. They wheel away at the hay bales like the poor child's game with old tires. And they mouth and paw the bales into formation. The wooden ox sees this effort of beast and man, so straps hay bales over his shoulders and ascends the hay structure, building and preening as he goes. He creates this home, this tower, as if it were a promenade toward great light and hope. Loving, as if it were a large bed. Powerful as a future humanity.</div>
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There is a constancy of revelers lining up outside the belltower. Mortimer sits carving little note sized scraps from his wooden armour and hands them off to the revelers and waiters of soulful existence. He does this so as to create spirit and a fast moving line of reveling, and to keep up with the necessity of change. WIthout this the belltower would lose its tradition and excise. One man leaves the belltower entryway crying and cursing the ground. He begins to gather newspaper and tires. He gnaws away at the tires to create workable pieces. Dips the rubber into mud-puddles and combines the working tire pieces with newspaper. Once finished he dresses himself in the creation, it is nothing less than a business suit, or tuxedo, or leisure suit. Cumberbun of classified sections, and historic headlines for cuff links. There is material everywhere, from burning and abandoned cars, and storefronts with sleeping immigrant cashiers tossing newspapers and canned-goods from windows. The occupier entrepreneur is able to assemble suits quickly and without hardship from accumulating and recycling these abandoned goods. He is still crying as he labours, but it appears as the crying of solitude and happiness. A lineup forms in front of his gutter workshop, and occupiers begin paying in advance for their future wears. They toss into a wooden cup birdseed, and scavenged nuts stolen from squirrels, hubcaps and tire irons, golf clubs and pistols and knives. Whatever can be recycled as payment.</div>
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Alongst the belltower pilgrimage a woman mimes away a famous opera. She is skinny and pale and so lacks the power of an operatic performer. But she is beautiful in silent effort. And the men waiting in line applaud her through looking away. One man leaves the belltower outhouse kneeling and slapping himself on the ass. He kisses stones and places them on his head to see if there is some balance. All of the stones fall back to the ground. A woman darts from the belltower tearing her clothes away into freedom, and she falls lovingly into an extinguished fire pit, stirring up ashes and enlivening the long forgotten embers. She paints herself head to toe in black and kisses every man who approaches. The wood ox, shortly resting, is awakened as the woman drunk in her own beauty falls over to sleep beside him. An elderly, crouched man exits the belltower and sits down in the entryway, he lays his cane across his lap and sets in to wittling. For each member in line for the belltower-shithouse he whittles a card from his cane. He carves a box in the slip of wood and whispers into the ears of his fellow occupiers. At this point most of the occupiers refuse themselves entry into the belltower and proceed to participate in the creative tasks of other occupiers. One woman begins to strip the rubber shoes from her comrades and with pine resin and woodchips she creates raised heels for the tiremade footwear.</div>
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The wood-iron dogs pull trails of tin cans and string behind them, clicking and clacking into the camp, their joints creaking with production value. Mortimer sits carving little leaf sized notes from his armour and hands them off to women. The women run off with each note and perform some task. There is a woman ploughing away at the soil, waiting for its growth in movement and toil. She plants little fragments of tin in row after row and another woman waters away at the rows of planted tin. The wood ox takes over the effort of ploughing and goes over the same rows time and time again. The first woman proceeds to rebury each piece of tin as it is tilled away from its home in the growing soil. Wood ox rests by gathering hay into bales and carrying them up the tower to the tents and yurts which adorn the steel structure.</div>
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All along the wood ox has worked, resting an hour for every seven hours of effort. Resting by baling hay and creating this structure of occupation and the occupied. It is a house and a passageway, and a moment in time towards tomorrow. It is somehow a culture and the everyday sweeping and scraping of domesticity, and it is even the natural movement of human waiting. The ox now has hay bales scattered in height close to the adjacent 112th floor. Twin towers, one of the strength of steel, one of the sweet surrender of dried grasses. His efforts are producing organisation. But now something appears from the 168th floor of the steel structure. There are cables and beams and woodchips sewn together through care and hope. There are birdcages and magpies sitting atop the cages. There are rugs of bear hide, and iron totem pole columns. There is a door made of birchbark, squares 4' by 4'. The door takes a long time to open. Old men, who look as boys, dressed as organ monkeys, with old German war helmets, and riding bicycles, disassemble the frames of the door one by one. The squares of bark appear to be as heavy as cast iron, and the men, tiny in the distance and in reality, are all chipping in with each fragment of the door, as though it were composed of the most delicate crystal. Some hour and a half passes before the door is opened, disassembled. And the men all appear as giants now, waving their tiny hands towards the depths below. Their helmets falling over their eyes. The men would have fallen to their deaths below if not for some collectivity and the warmth of human creation and labour. A bear appears behind the men, nosing at some structure. There are leaves and grasses rolling and tumbling towards the building's entrance below. Materialisation of the wind waiting for what is above, some structure that cannot be determined through its shape and movement, a bear nosing about in thought. There is some intricate assemblance of poles, young saplings straight as any aluminum, shining and rattling. The roof, or the top of the indiscernible structure, is composed of maple sticks designed to resemble a circle of wild animals. The indiscernible assemblage is clearly a house, or tent of some kind. There are bears holding hands and ducks praying in the roof image. And there are cats playing cards with dogs. And there are so many sticks organized in a way that any imagined animal is possible. The great circle of life is protected by a glass roof. And this house in the shape of a yurt falls to the occupied world below. There are sparrows and falcons that fly, circling, below the grass homes. The glass roof falls delicately as if the wings of these great birds protect it from any harm. There is a shining yellow light, and a rumbling of gravity which draws the eye of every man wearing tin. All of the women are too busy gathering spruce rope and wine, and quite satisfied in their not wearing tin patched wears. They gather every bit of liquid and fire to surround the new home falling toward their great depths.</div>
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As the glass roofed yurt lands, all watched over by the care of great wings, the women begin to throw fire and wine at the structure. They tie down the leaf walls in every direction, and feed the spruce rope a concoction of flame and red juices so as to welcome the relief of the structure into a fine life of celebration and yearning. As soon as they are done with one structure, another falls next to them. The women scuttling and hurrying towards their construction. The importance they show to the world in the curving of their faces while carrying out these tasks is unmistakeable. As the women run out of spruce cordage they cut off their gypsy locks to tie down the glass roofs and leaf walls. They corral men into the yurts with broomheads, whipping the men over the asses they had once cleaned and scraped. One man kept running from the women, and would melt tire rubber into paint. He would ascribe the yurts a number, est. 1956., est. 1953., est 13 B.C. The yurts, scarred and beautiful with their names, resembled a timelessness of an aged woman baking bread, she too busy to sit down for supper herself, always preparing for others. The yurts with their established numbers would then chip in tying down and accommodating the new yurts. One youthful yurt named 1968 would strip the leaves from the walls of the falling homes, and replace them with wildflowers. Sometimes he would leave the newly established yurts without walls and merely condemn a building with a sweet scent. The wood ox wondered at this, and from afar played a game of throwing tires at tin cans. He thought to himself and despaired over the endearing, unorganized youthfulness. He thought that wildflowers would make a nice bed. He thought that for walls the flowers were pretentious, and so left his game for memories of labour and the need of creation.</div>
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With the last yurts tied down, named and organized, it began to rain. The wood-iron dogs scattered into the yurts, away from the damp sky. The rain clanged off the steel structures above and seemed to accumulate more heavily over their community of tents and yurts. The rain came down with lightning and unending pounding. Mortimer sat carving bits of armour for the other men to wear, urging each man who passed to wage war on downpour. The rain drenched and waled off the hay structure. With such weight stealing the creative energy of the tower a collapse was inevitable. Wood ox gathered some of the women and together they set to lighting fires in each room and road of the structure. Little by little they would keep the structure warm with light and dryness. And as the fires began to dance and settle, the hay building became the brightest structure in the sky. Its shining eye reached for miles, to the city limits, and beyond to other cities.</div>
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It rained for days. The belltower priestess sat in longing and wonderment over the images before her. The man-ringer set to waddling and ringing away with tin patched pants against the rain. Rust spots showing on his slow thighs. The dogs would not step outside of the yurts, and took to shivering in prayer. Wood ox tended the fires and kept his towering structure prepared for occupation. Mortimer stood by the fire and carved out wooden notes from his suit of armour, to give to any new arrivals who were certain to appear after the end of the rain. Birchie sat drying by the fire, waiting for reveling and cleaning, and maybe even a bit more singing.</div>
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To the tune of the tin can man-ringer the occupiers gathered their hope and their hymns. They gathered any dream and image of the dry and warm future. They gathered their limbs together with their voices and prayed through the worth of celebration. They prayed together in a time of solace and loneliness and waiting.</div>
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Dear god there is rain</div>
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And in this I feel</div>
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Dear god my home is damp</div>
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And before you I kneel.</div>
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Dear god this cannot be</div>
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For in this home</div>
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And in this wake</div>
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I go without day's meal.</div>
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For you god</div>
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This dream must be</div>
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For you god</div>
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The sun I must see.</div>
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Dear god</div>
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Shine on this glen</div>
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Dear god</div>
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I pray to you amen.</div>
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A solemn and lonely chant for a community so used to celebration and the forget of crisis or disaster. The drone cast its way up the towers heights and fell back to earth. The dogs came out of the yurts as the echo of chants scared them into movement. Tin and beans sprouted from the gardens. Women threw their broomheads to the sun. Wood ox charged to his structure with hay bales. Mortimer tugged and pulled alongst with his cat, organising hay bales or portions of bales when they tired. In the newly formed sun there were occupiers arriving from other towns and cities, drenched by rain but now warming and welcomed. Men in wooden armour greeted these pilgrims to a land of city's harvest. Honoured by this great addition of human souls and the effort around him, wood ox began to carry two bales of hay at a time up the grass mountain structure. He was now leaving ornaments in each nook of the strawhill castle, so that this new structure of a created and dreamed city would be adorned with the most beautiful and useful of memories. Tin cans with pebbles tied around the edges, tin cans with spruce resin candles, and tin cans rattling and chiming in the wind would show off his countless paths up the straw hill. This production of health and home was not for wood ox, these paths were a sign of the adornment of humanity, the great undertaking of occupying the magical spaces of earth. By the day more people were descending into the city. By the day more men were corralled into yurts by women with broomhead daggers. By the day their community grew larger and approached a totality. Ox toiled as a gift for each man, for each walking suit of wooden armour, a gift of reflection for the loving approach to the world these men and women below shared in their organisation. Their confused and wandering tip-taps over the city's constructed and growing soil contained a hope and desire rarely thought of in recent memory. Days could move forward now, in observance without cruelty.</div>
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Here, in the light of morning and the connection of humans to what is forged and sealed into some future movement of humans, the towers unite. Hay meeting steel, and colliding into a uniform archway. Something of a forgiveness in what towers over the daily wanderings of the beings below. The women all gather the men together to wonder at this feat. There are haybales and steel gurders connected together like twin trees and lovers. A silhouette of the wooden ox can be seen within the great light of the hay building. He works carefully and quickly, and seems to be welcoming those who have not arrived. He labours his way through the skyscraper, digging tunnels and new passageways, leaving bales of hay behind him for new homes and warmth. He gathers any materials he can find. Anything discarded and unworking is fused into ornament. A material of memory and sightly exuberance for the arriving urban homesteaders, those who will occupy the dens and homes of his creation. He carries these goods, building chairs out of lightbulbs and stair railings. Organising beds out of straw and willow trees and discarded iron. He paints with charred rubber, away from the greyness of concrete and elevators and cubicles. In wastebaskets and folds of recycled paper he leaves milk, grain and wild rice.</div>
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Wood ox smiles and grimaces as he moves his tin shoes and thighs. Through all of the labouring his wooden joints have fallen into seizure and rot. His tin shoes now tearing away from his powerful limbs. As it becomes difficult for him to walk, he crawls, pulls himself forward with two hooves, and organises happiness out of discarded material. He descends the last staircase into the entryway of enduring stone, determined to continue the hauling of hay into the tower. The human occupiers are waiting in organised production, standing alongst the assembly of baled foundations. They help him adorn his chiselled back with the greatness of hay. He is crawling off hoof and pulling himself forward through the strength of his one tin shoe. He is now grey and without luster. Rotting, wood no longer tender with the smell of freshly cut youthfulness. Wood ox smiles to the floor before him. He pulls himself forward with the sound of scraping tin. A woman organises wildflowers in front of him. The crowd of occupiers appear as grey stone monuments, pale and reflecting the material of a city's awakening. With the knotting of tearing wood, the ox trudges and falls amidst a rising cloud of dust. The floor exposed around him as something mighty, in stone and bits of rusting tin. He falls half on the bed of wildflowers. Stretched and decaying, split limbs reaching out towards some iron column before them.</div>
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Here a woman stands denying what she has seen, flowers stolen from her hand into loss and mourning. The occupiers fall to their knees in silence and pitiful adoration. Contemplating the foundation of the room, the grey stone and dullness without end, their eyes surround the fallen organisation of death. The wood-iron dogs howl at the door with the scraping of limbs. Their ears held back in the dread of hope. There is no movement in decay, the wood of the ox's body sits still and silent, and appears determined to remain with humans forever. The hay bale falls away from the ox, untying itself, unequipped to endure the loss of its master. The bale unfurls as if rotting into wind, and a small black fragment of ore shines in bleakness. A woman looks down in shame and surprise, then veers away for something less constraining and heartwarming. The occupiers stand away from their silence and without looking at one another, all wander off somewhere. Birchie scrapes away meekly. The American gypsy exits with the dogs in an organised column, a whining trail following. The man-ringer holding down the tin on his thighs, out of respect, waddles away. Mortimer's cat approaches the ox, slowly, kindly. She removes her tiny collared bell and places it around his neck and ear. As she walks away the bell falls to the floor and rings, as if it were the last tick of a clock. Mortimer ponders over all of this, sitting and breathing it in. Catching the eye of his cat he winks and then looks down to the ground to say a little prayer. Slowly he gets to his feet, and ambling towards the fallen ox he removes his wooden suit. He sets himself along the fallen beast, removes the remaining tin shoe from its hoof and begins wittling away at a new suit of armour.</div>
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Vtff 11-25-2011</div>
Foolishness For Communismhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09864389556930468366noreply@blogger.com0