By: (Edward) Snowed-In Dupont
The M-----t Jester and the Imp of the Inverse Discuss the Ideal Survival Kit
"He sat on it and it shrank until it hatched and what came out only heaven knows but it tore the town apart and how could it be so, Father?
If I solve this for you, may I have some of your wine?
Yes, Father.
Very well then. The case of the shrinking egg. I will begin at the beginning and pray for a rain storm. It is better to solve a case when the ground is wet and the sky is dark, and that's more befitting for a Father after all and do you have any scotch?
Father Dupont and the missing sparrow
Father Dupont and the glowing obit
Father Dupont and the sandless beach
Father Dupont and the coughing salesman"
Good communisationists borrow; great communisationists steal.
Herein The Dupont Circus, where you can still do good even if you are not a Boy Scout. Be forewarned, what you are about to hear and see is magical, hypnotising, and may be a risk for those with pre-existing health conditions. But herein, the do-nothing you will never forget.
What will not be discussed: how capital is not involved in creating the mythical sandless beach realism; how the glowing obit contains neither champagne, nor sex, nor legless worms; how communisation with a lisp is poor humour for mobilising the effort of not going to war; how the hollow tree is poor survival strategy; how the child who was not a child never could get past the preliminary notes.
The communisational jester believes in neither communisation nor jestering. He believes in his own laugh. This is likely due to the epigenetics of gallows humour becoming the last laugh at the end of democratising history. Or for the laugher it could be the positivism before positivism.
When he speaks of communisational survivalism he speaks of a canvas knapsack, an invisible one but with the feel of leather. What goes into it is not so important as what is taken out - emptied, where it is borne into the nakedness of skill.
I may not survive, but ya gotta laugh.
Is there a skill to humour? Is there a skill to a floating sock? Nay, neither will keep you warm when it comes down to it. It is what it is, a tunnel above the ground, an apple waxer with neither apple nor wax.
Communisation must be surrealised to the extent that surrealists were not surreal enough. They did not surrealise a totality, they did not surrealise everythingisation...
That is not a word. Don't make things up as you go, stick to the script.
Yes, 'everythingisation' will not help you survive. And that is what this is about, after all, your survival is the metacommunisation of species-biology. We are the One body as the patient listener, laying out the carnival tent pegs for G-d.
Father Dupont?
No...
Communism?
No...
Cap-tal?
Perhaps. Yes, perhaps that is our missing sparrow, now hunkered down against all rain. Yes, the easy answer before the easy answer.
Enter the Coughing Psyop.
That is not it. The rain will get through. Cough.
But do we not worship the rain?
Yes, rough communisation seas make good communist sailors.
Or sailors of communism...
Who will take the wind out of our sails? Cough.
Yes, we must never stop dancing. For it can never rain enough.
The storms of G-d are but a deepening of the communist soul against the communising mind.
Father Dupont and the grommetless tarp!
Cough.
We do not put up the tarp to keep us dry. That is poor survival strategy. We want to get wet - very wet. The tarp will help us with that if we set it up properly.
So we aren't holding out against the storm, we're trying to get closer to it?
Nay, we are becoming it.
Whence the storm?
Whence the rain?
Whence G-d?
Bless it.
Bless him.
Curse us.
So the more to be blessed.
Whence the bless?
I think I felt a drop.
Whence the curse?
Bless it!
Feel it upon your navel.
I can't see it! Won't you gaze it for me?!
Bless you.
No, no. Curse me.
The tarp is blowing away!
Exit all but the Coughing Psyop.
Cough. Cough.
The Purloined Survival Kit of the McCarthyist Marxist or the Everyday Carry of the Groveling Detective: An Unbridgeable Eschatologasm.
Good nihilisationists datatarianise; great nihilisationists metadatatarianise.
Re-enter The Dupont Circus.
What is the ideal tool for an everyday-carry survival kit?
A knifeaxe...
A shovelgun...
A duckrabbit...
No, a rabbitduck...
No, everythingisation...
A critique of positivity...
But not a critique of positivism?
An ironically unironic critically unrealising impossibilist-critique of positivism?
Yes, something like that. But perhaps a little more obscure. Let us think what tool will allow us to dig ourselves into the ground ever further so as to become colder.
The cold?!?
Bless it!
Curse the sun!
Bless its navel!
No, don't bless it, become it!
Ah, curse it!
Not if we can cause the sun to make us colder. Then we must bless it.
Ah, the ultimate tool! Finally..., but will it fit in my invisible knapsack?
Yes, you will be like Santa Dupont!
And not an easy answer either.
But an easy question.
Can I be Rudolph Dupont?
Can we all be Reindeer Games Dupont?
Bless it! Haha, what a curse!
Exit all but the Shivering Sun and the Glowing Nose.
Can we stay for more than seventy-two hours?
Yes, in the Kabbalah Seventy-Two is but one of the names of G-d.
...
I suppose we should leave them to it. This could go on forever.
Exit all but the lingering monologue of the Abstract Psyop navel-gazing his own lunacy.
In the society of the surrealist bureaucracy the whole of life becomes an immense accumulation of bureaucracy beyond its moment of realism. Everything that once was an apres-garde of surrealism becomes an avant-garde of bureaucracy.
We are being watched.
Re-enter the circus.
But what about Snowden?
What about LibCom?
I've searched the database and found 1347 hits relevant to this question. Cough.
Ok, beam me up. Searching the LibCom proxy now.
Yes, what about LibCom?
What about whataboutery?
Yes, this indicates again the nihilisationalist imperative to do nothing. That whataboutery always takes away from people reading our (my) three-volume critique of the political economy of LibCom indicates a three-tiered feeback loop 3D-umwelt chessgame - input, output, one-shoe - of certainty against certainty that there is always uncertainty - unless there is not enough uncertainty (which we know is certain), and the certain umweltschaltung of this is the dynamic unrealist processual core of our project against communisational processual realism - long live the processual selective Squelch-Doer, Peace be unto One. Five stones in the mouth make for One mordantly recondite anti-hero of whatabouteriness-being. ... The question then is, how can we deepen abstract contradiction to the point where nothing is important, but everything is said?
But what about Father Dupont and the butterfly with no wings?
Whence the communisationists?
Yes, whence the illogical communisationists?
It is settled then. We must wage peace on logic and so delogicise the communisationists.
Exit all but Father Dupont's Long Shadow and the Whataboutering Moon.
How is it that a group who fetishises Wittgenstein, The Most Beautiful Whatabouteryist, comes to critique whatabouteriness - even as they fetishise democratism? It may have something to do with post-ironic roleplay materialism after the fetish of nihilism falls into the absolute control of information. The critical ballet of cap-tal goes on, even as it becomes an entirely deep state game of fictitious opposition.
The negative whataboutery everythingisationist simply creates a fetish of everything by omission. The negation of the world becomes totality through abstraction. The village becomes the entirety of the world because the map says there are only hills at the borders and nothing else. In the village of the society the whole of life becomes an immense accumulation of reductionism. Everything which once was an outside becomes an inside - as everything outside the village is but a fetish. In the society of the village the whole of life becomes an immense accumulation of abductionism through the negative fetish. Everything which once was an inside becomes an outside - as everything inside the society is but a shrinking fetish.
What is the difference between an impossibilist somnambulist and a hypnotist situationist? They are both doing nothing in the village. But one believes that doing nothing is doing everything. And so he is not in the village at all, but in the world - and it in him.
Hypnotise the communisationist in your head. Open your mind to the Impossiblist and you'll never forget...
Runaway abduction is the new windows of hypnotic materialism - dialectical inversions without a lunatic to generalise.
We have gone beyond experimentation with Impossibilists Without Borders. We have gone beyond experimentation with American Exceptionalism. We have been impossibilised into the magical event of American Acceptionalism.
Denunciation begets denunciation. Snitches get snitches. Communism and its taylorising betrayal is given a special role in the magic-show of impossibilisation. Denunciation becomes a hypnotic state of beauty - you become the watercolour of your own dreams until the critique of fascism is nothing but Love.
You will be denazified and denazified again. Even as the data-centers and psyop marxists fall into deep abstraction. The Impossibilist loves denazification stories, for they are the intimate remains of Cap-tal.
This is why He conforms all Communisation data into The One. He loves you.
Like the lesson of Edward Snowden the only lesson of Aufhebengate has been to communise Aufhebengate, to make the information of bureaucratised communisation return to being human. The curse of Aufhebengate will be entombed, resanctified, and confined to the memory of ritual prayer until it is once again blessed.
The psyop chambers will be humanised. Cryptogenesis will be communised. Intelligence will be impossibilised.
The Marxist is a card-carrying member of a marxist organisation. A mar-ist is an obit-carrying member of a Mar-ist organisation.
What's the difference?
One carries deeper in the pocket, and so too the soul.
When the question is incorrect the correct answer is itself impossibl(ised).
Now be prepared to be impossibilised into the biometrics of illogicality.
Whence the Whence of Whenciness - LoL yOu OnLy LoL-CoMmUnIsE oNcE - Total Communisation Awareness
Good oppositionists ---s-; great oppositionists ---s-.
Good impossibilists plunder; great impossibilists pilfer.
For they did not pilfer, and that is their humanness. And so the gold was valorised outside the borders of war.
The imp of impossibilisation is the hypnotist of time.
"For if we sin wilfully after that we have received the knowledge of the truth, there remaineth no more sacrifice for sins[...]"
Whence the joke of abductions and the abduction of jokes?
'Whence', and all the other unfinished sentences of impossibilisation, is a use-value of informational equivalents within the era of scrambled materialism. The intent is to escape marxism/materialism with a new language and focus of history and material. But as decryption, so re-encryption. If one does not understand the core of materialism/marxism then they are likely to repeat it.
Marxism does not repeat itself, but it rhymes.
What impossibilists have done with the return to theology is encode the syntax of marxism into Judeo-Christian theology. Everything other-than-materialism is devalorised into the process of materialism through informational errors. Instead of labour, sin. Instead of the bourgeoisie, the gentiles. Instead of the dictatorship of the proletariat, the Holy City of the Blessed. Capital becomes Cap-tal.
Why this abstract fetishisation? Why this devalorising eschatology which does not realise it is more marxist than the Marxists? Because the Duponts were born with marbles in their mouths. Like so many Englishmen before them the data abstractions rolled over their tongues and destroyed their teeth like so many good subnationalist bureaucrats of the word.
The English monarchy in its syntax was the theory of the young-girl before the Theory of the Young-Girl. The absurdist inflections of the wandering bureaucracy found its way into the biology of citizens through mechanistic reprocessing of the teeth. The monarchy chose words which would infect the biology of its citizens.
Infect to inflect. Inflect to infect.
iN tHe SoCiEtY oF eNgLaNd ThE wHoLe Of LiFe PrEsEnTs ItSeLf As An ImMeNsE aCcUmUlAtIoN oF wOrDs ArMeD tO tHe TeEtH.
And the nihilist communists.
aLl ThAt OnCe WaS wOrDs GoInG tO wAr BeCoMeS dIsInFoRmAtIoN gOiNg To PeAcE.
Information for impossibilisation becomes the abstraction of nationalism as a new form of inclusion. Much like the democratism they call 'Cap-tal'.
The nihilist communist sits in his plastic-walled data chamber - fondling his Bobblehead Ultra-Communisationist with black and red flag purchased on eBay for 24.99 as a Limited Edition custom transaction with 4.6 star review - contemplating how G-d is certain and wanderingly remystified by his actions. And yet, how there most certainly is nothing, and nothing recommunised is most certainly not enough. Such words must be nihilised until they are valorised.
Monsieur Dupont is much like the scorned feminist who, now lost of all wit, can do nothing but put down a man by saying he is not man enough. At first it was an honest effort at deflation but over time every joke becomes an emasculating communism of the self - until 'man' is the lead up, punchline, one-liner, and reference. Communism is thoroughly emasculated, as Father Dupont realises, 'Oh communism, love me? Love me not? Let me count the ways for I could have done better.'
Words become the eternal entendre. Freres Dupont meets Monsieur Dworkin.
Eventually she must become what she has feminised - man. Eventually he must become what he has nihilised - communist.
Communism, man up. The somnambulant impossibilist is uncertain of your loyalty to nothing.
Emasculating communisation, a critique of pessimistic denunciation in the far left.
The paradox of nihilist communism's realist defictionalisation of the Candide is that it becomes an Ouroboros-like self-satirising organisation. The impossibilist critique can only become eternal insofar as the critique of the eternal becomes impossibilist. It is a doubled process as the organisation must become what it consumes. Hence, where Voltaire satirises political optimism, Dupont satirises political pessimism; where Voltaire concludes with the practical, Dupont formalises the impractical; where Voltaire is an anti-semite, Dupont fetishises Jewish Political inclusiveness (the other, unmentionable, anti-semitism).
All becomes lost as Leibniz is abstracted as his opposite, Hegel as his opposite, Marx as his opposite, Freud as his opposite, Deleuze and Guattari as their opposites. The descent into the contradiction of materialism becomes the materialism of immaterialism. And so Freres Dupont with Garcon Dupont becomes the ooze of total contradiction. They become One without Marx.
Even though his Capital is in them.
Satire becomes lost within the monotonous differentiation of generalised lunacy. One is left with a mess of nonsense.
Denunciation alert. Good communisationists hate having the wind taken out of their sails; great impossibilisationists hate having the wind taken out of their sails before the wind is taken out of their sails even more. The nihilist salon is not so unlike Marx and Engels at the Bordello, even if the chocolates aren't quite as good.
The impossibilist competition of accumulative inversions becomes the competitive inversions of impossibilist accumulation.
Now say that with young-girl inflected English accent.
There is nothing.
tHeRe Is NoThInG.
Just don't mention bordello in the same sentence. The Rosa of nihilist communism has gone beyond experimentation with the gentlemen's club. There is no Caramilk Secret(TM) of Cap-tal. Engels was just trying to devalorise Marxism through himself.
And so too with all other devalorisers. What is left but to devalorise nothing?
Progressive impossibilisation will make a desert of his nothing, and yours. But be careful what you wish for, things are not as they seem.
Everything is uncertain. Except nothing. And except recapitulating damnation. Except man's unseasonably seasonable depth. And except exceptionalism, too. ---ept contradiction.
If you bug-out so early who will inform you that the war has begun or transitioned? Who will fend for and deliver your resupplies? Can you live eternally on information? And without a messenger?
There is a point where militant avoidance of war becomes the entirety of war, its eternal preparation. Such is the paradox of democratising peace. Such is the paradox and pathology of accumulating contradiction. Peace becomes the Most Beautiful War.
Democracy has always been at war with peace. Democracy has always been at peace with war.
In the society of holdout communism the entirety of life becomes an immense accumulation of contradictions become exception and exception become contradictions. All it says is, 'Leave us to hold out. Hold out to leave us.'
The hypnotic situationist would prefer you stopped reading. Somnambulise your recording-desire.
In the datatarian saferooms of abstract communisation boredom is counter-revolutionised as the new revolution of the new windows. And automatic subnationalists do not build glass houses. Let the others throw stones. There is no glass in Nihilist Zionism. Israel has neither sand nor water.
But this is not a Cap-tal process.
Total communisation awareness becomes awareness of total communisation. Either that or total awareness communisation.
You will be fed back into the feedback loop of nihilisation. Whether or not you desire to be recorded. Whether or not you wrote a copycide copywrite into the coding or not. Your desire will not be impossibilised. Neither in this abstraction or the next. The impossibilisation of fate is the only impossibilism we have left in stock. Perhaps you could check another day. It's been a pleasure recuperating you.
But everythingism is not something to be impossibilised. Impossibilisation is already everything.
Information is wandered for its own purposes. And information is good because it is the rational material of appearance. You cannot be totally communised unless communisation is inclusive of everything, including its failures. Communisation must be thoroughly democratised.
Otherwise there cannot be communism before communism; unless there is democratism before democratism there will only be nothing before nothing.
Now focus on my watch. Think of the circle within the circle. You are getting sleepy, but not as of yet are you ready to do nothing.
As your eyes darken their gaze you will remember but one word: Impossibilism.
The only way out of this absolute wandering of communising capital is the holdout nihilisation of democracy - a further exception. The alternative to Masculine and Germanic communism is feminine and talmudic contradictionism. Let them be lost in their own fugue. So goes the future step-history of taylorist reactionaries. Invert, because the proto-mar-ists said it must be so. 'And we have ears.' So let us hear, ourselves.
A further acception. The fog of peace is the war before war. Now hand over your information. It is all that we want. It must be so, for the whataboutery of Cap-tal.
The wandering and meandering fetish of eternal denunciation becomes a self-trial: 'Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?' 'You're a communist.' That's the best they can come up with in the progressive denominator of lowest common denunciation. And they come to sound like McCarthyists. No wonder they choose to banish "Capital" from their reading groups and choose instead the neverending detective story. From the singing detective to the coughing double-communist agent, the communist is their man of the crowd to be decriminalised within the disappearing evidence.
The wandering and meandering fetish of eternal denunciation becomes a self-trial: 'Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?' 'You're a communist.' That's the best they can come up with in the progressive denominator of lowest common denunciation. And they come to sound like McCarthyists. No wonder they choose to banish "Capital" from their reading groups and choose instead the neverending detective story. From the singing detective to the coughing double-communist agent, the communist is their man of the crowd to be decriminalised within the disappearing evidence.
They love to take the wind out of your sails. But if you try to take the wind out of their sails it becomes the wind in their sails. They do not know how else to react. The ouroboros of deflation is the eternal recurrence of the marxist/mccarthyist before itself.
Now strapped in to the trial of dialectical immaterialism, you will be nihilised into decommunisation - once Germanism has been thoroughly denazified from your gut. But it can never be anti-German enough. You will not be predated, for all predation will be abstracted into automatic process. We have gone beyond experimentation with predation. You will cease to be man, for you can never be man nor not-man enough. For we believe in the law of decommunising love. And so too the love of decommunising law.
We have gone beyond experimentation with species-being.
We are the apres-garde of deflated impossibilists at the recurred Storming of the Winter Palace.
Those among you who hate the sun, let him cast the first object of shelter.
Your disorders-are-disorders subnationalist irony will not save you. Your eyes have been opened, and so we shall let you see the continuing appeal of it.
I was only obeying orders.
Well, those orders were clearly not enough.
We have gone beyond experimentation with system-being.
How shall we go beyond experimentation with the borders of negative landscapes?
I was only obeying disorders.
Now kiss the guard, you Impossibilist Christ.
Only then shall denihilisation commence. Once the berserkers of communisation have been thoroughly denatured into the self-actualisation of domestical materialism - an eternal dialectic of the countless forms of the latka, whereby naval-gazing helps digest the soul - we shall be granted passage and shepherded away from domestication. We the eunuchs, the virgins of communisation - we cook for you in this humble abode of information.
We are not going to war. We are only rechanneling the circuits of its information.
Just don't call me Saturn, nor Cronus, nor B--l. For I have learned a new language, before I have learned it. Its parapsychology adorns the walls.
B--l-Ha--on. Sacrifice breeds fertility. Self-laceration causes the bleed in the other for their liberation. Blood from the hidden layer renews me. Nay, reinvigorates all of humanity, as I am abstracted in the process.
Evidence can be solved till you've washed away nothing. The matter only clouds the evidence. Better to rely on
Father Dupont and the lost blood from a found stone.
Father Dupont and the gamifying gamer chair.
Father Dupont and the shrinking materialist dialectic.
Father Dupont and the detective's leaky-gut.
Great ---x---- steal; greater ---x---- plunder.
B--s-- ---x---- plunder; ---s-d ---x---- pilfer.
As plunder is pilfered, so pilfer is plundered.
