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Title: Divert Or Die Author: Claire-Bella Einsamhund Date: 2020-09-10 Language: en Topics: art, autism, hope, humanity, individualism, neurodiversity Source: https://otheryeareditions.wordpress.com/2020/09/10/divert-or-die/
In moments leading up to something important to us, before and during
each renewal of what that is, the image appears so clear.
More likely than not, with such weight honed into them, you were
realistic with yourself about what is required to bring your ideals to
fruition as best as possible. You stood before what was in front of you,
accepting its consequences and responsibilities for however long.
Just exactly what was so meaningful to us and how we were moved by it
has little to do with the actual tumult; you knew exactly what you felt,
and in those feelings, the best foresight, judgment and deduction you
could muster was aimed at, if nothing else, being true to them.
Standing on the fulcrum of our remaining life developments, instinct
bound on deeper levels would prove to move us more profoundly than
words. And although deeds and statements would surely drive whichever
point home, they would always come after to reinforce a decision already
made.
Every nervous twitch from a sound or motion since has come from a
multitude of these hidden impacts.
Maybe the content would change, but psychological conditioning remains.
We would re-experience abandonment and total personal failure on
innumerable levels that would influence the shape of entire courses
around the damage.
The image was so clear...
The story of how we all became so smart yet so sad is not one of falls
from grace. It is one of entire logical and psychological rides on
different lines that were never to last forever, yet equally to resonate
indefinitely. The lines run far and deep, with caution of Endings only
whispered but none listed on the maps provided.
We have since been hallucinating these Endings every day, drowning out
the gradual, sustained conclusion with manic pointing and declaring,
ceasing and withdrawing — resuming ad nauseam.
What lesson we take from this story of ourselves has yet to be worked
out. While once we had to step outside of our humanity to examine the
problems and step back in with the magic answer — we now have to step
outside our own intellectual transcendentalness to acknowledge an
inkling of our real downfall. We can expect to come face-to-face with a
different necessity in processing these ever-changing consequences. The
million maps of failure we read after the fact are not there to stoke
revelation. They are there for record, and only for record. Whatever the
delusions their authors tout regarding the provocation of change by
picking a point and merely demanding "no more!—" the fulfilling of this
task directly sustains the crux of our historical demise. It is not
broken so clearly into one side gaining over other, but a unitary human
division of milquetoast turn-taking and jabbing between the rotting of
life on the Earth it has staked ultimate dominion into.
The resonance which we feel in ourselves is trying to be developed into
a digestible chronicle, a material object to be caressed— and it never
can be. Only more logbooks of the institution, the inmates — living or
dead — and the official statements on the brutality.
This is a time of desperate deliberations and manic reassessments.
Everyone is clawing at the fabric of this reality in their own ways.
No-names everywhere are grappling with things felt to be as important as
they are difficult to relay. They are bursting them into the public as
best they can relative to their feelings, and this existential
free-for-all in the free market of best-effort artistic products is of
little real benefit to the obvious shared desire for serenity without
social domination.
The weary have spun a personal battle inside the lifelong war. If
late-stage capitalism describes a point where capital assumes the whole
of social energy, late-stage humanity should describe a point where both
the definition(s) of "humanity" and its reactions to the former becomes
not only superfluous to the question of change, but also instrumental in
the distancing of raw resolve— consequently expanding state/capitalist
enclosure of life.
How many inspiring ways can we demand more or less the same thing over
and over again? Why does it feel like we're thrust to find out before
either modest concessions from a new social order or total annihilation
passes over us?
And how many times can we ask how much time we have or could have to
think of better things to say until something decent comes along at the
last second? With every person feeling compelled to dive headfirst into
becoming another neighborhood philosopher, eventually people are going
to come upon the same thing.
Subjects of humanity, i.e., those designated "human" and pushed into the
human pool at birth, are shifted into a state of deep personal turmoil
regarding their relations in crisis with fellow humans, any capacity to
save oneself and each other along unitarian lines of "humanity" and the
very ramifications of adhering to this humanness. After all, how do we
really trust anyone when we all had something to do with each other's
downfall? What should the reply be when the iconography of the
suffering's source is again refurbished, beckoning to bring us out of
it?
Let us entertain diversion for a moment. (This mortal climate deserves
what incense it can get.)
Subversives go about our task in coming and going from the different
rings of social and political stalemate. Circling and observing, levying
agitation through displays of passion; the miserably tedious struggle
only to confer some truth on misunderstood (or totally ignored) factors
in the course of life is the meekest yet brightest battle to fight.
Stalemate renews our strife when its flames are pushed back down into
the human cauldron, reaching for the toes of the highborn aristocracy —
then quashed back to the low-dweller status by the King's Men. Lament
and heroic tragedy are employed to keep a fire going.
What we find so compelling about the ruling idiocy may be related to
what kept us from trying (or trying again) to end our own lives. We have
yet to read the words that sufficiently illustrate what we feel: A dark
crevice wherein the stalwart convictions of the powerful, their
consequences and the uncertain gestures by those intimate to us
intersect, splitting the strong arm of The Usual from those wanting
something else left totally destitute. An impossibility forms. An
invisible hiccup born from liberalism, its subjects' altruistic
patience, which invades all fractured avenues of trying to live. From
the perspective of a bodily unit within the whole — rather than the same
collective perspective which thinks for everyone — exit becomes
imperative.
The cyclical nature of normative psychology perpetuates its society's
travel, while those on the circuit are driven more to destroy either
themselves or the entire society however they will. When it's decided to
merely say "no more" no more, the ones chin-deep in letters have
interesting work before them. It is easy to embrace or eject "The Time
For Talk." It has always been so cheap yet so piercing.
In diverting from the pawn or lure of any social modus, the roundup into
formal sensibility is evaded entirely. People love attributing
subversives as snotty or sordid because they know that the rules were
always bullshit, and they don't pretend otherwise. In the lead-up to
being spotted, flagged down and asked, they're already Gone. They've
already declined being the subjects of people they never knew in their
lives. The back-and-forth game could never commence.
"Subverting" in this instance means to attain a destination [away] and
traverse to it by will. To divert is to nullify the passage through
which the precious cargo of liberalism is carried in the realm of our
passionate endurance. It is the act of committing to reality the phrase
"we suffer it, we choose to kill it."
Life is a fragmented collection of interesting bullshit. Don’t forget to
take notes where you feel necessary.
In the course of being a person, if you can stand it, we find that
life's fragmentation and hitherto human collection are at an odds which
is only defused and sat across from each other by the reigning bullshit.
This tension lends itself to the interesting, the highest form of banal
morbidity, maybe. And although it is difficult to make use of
something’s quality of “interesting” amid duress of any sort, I'd like
to make an intentionally imperfect case for one such interesting
difficulty that intervenes, collapsing the escape tunnels behind it.
The subjects look upon humanity in its late stage: a mass without
division, but equally built upon division everywhere. A gallery of
promises and wilted flowers; old enticers of joy fade into a surreal
stain on the holiest icons.
At this familiar point, we take a drink or light a cigarette. We're
annoyed, vaguely piqued.
Through art we stroll again. We are met with timely creations lined up
in a particular series of struggles illustrating the archivist's agenda.
The essence of the markings on closer inspection reveal no triumphant,
self-evident engineering of progress. Only the same struggle against
each imminent tendril of the existent, against the obstacles standing as
dominant there and then as they do here and now. This struggle, stamped
by its time and emerging new rule, is endowed with greater phantasmal
properties by those warping it than those enduring.
We pace this road of images to affirm that our weariness has a place,
finding instead a real lack of the straight line we are traversing on
which we must do our logical utmost in its course leading home. We plant
trust and determination into those around us who share our insights, but
understand the path to be turbulent and costly. We reassess strengths
and weaknesses, still plagued by some droning fault in the background of
our hearts.
A bookended unit on a time line shimmers with a sense of "now"
glistening in a still capture from that point. Reaching across, it
caresses the troubled hearts of this moment now, the resonance leading
them to the wistful uncertainty of creation. A mortal insurance is then
taken out; "let the world know my voice before it knew me at all!"
Great labyrinths of experience are built for all of it to be
surrendered. Tapestries of data are woven to be cast off to the wind,
wanting it returned better and brighter: A passphrase tied to a dove's
ankle— "when the time is right." This creation, emphatic for history's
enrichment and reproduction, lays the enticing stones for hopelessness.
The center basin is empty yet beautiful to its builders. Lacking all
promised light, the stones only illuminate the sensibility of the
makers, and they are content to do it over again and again— "until the
time is right."
Art and history complete a reductive circle around a project of
absorption: an accounting of all "good" and "bad" so life in its
playing-out can be halted, measured and deducted— all necessarily under
the whims of whoever's rule. If we must be subjects to this, we would at
least want the judgments to weigh in our favor, perhaps to bolster
whichever socially agreed "truth." We are faced instead with all the
inertia of power's consequence, amid the affairs of the society and by
its further encroachments on the land and our souls. Truth, once
relegated to Divine Right, now becomes the central competition for every
subject; an open endeavor for a society where everyone is an
entrepreneur of sensibility— always wanting to unify by sharing their
ardently gutless imaginations of unity.
Those not in the fields, not carrying banners or marching with rifles,
whom crowd over their tools and mediums are elevated above the same
group of tasks they merely contend with under guise of rebelling against
them and their paradigms entirely. What they would truly rebel against
is not any certain execution or interpretation of any certain concepts,
but the conceptual generation and renewal of any materially unifying
idea which is responsible for wholesale submission amid obvious
divergent potential. Although, after all, a psychology of human
affirmation and its desire directs every effort. It is rare for the
townsfolk to be capable of rebelling against the king without only
rerouting the feudal system they've learned. A contrary skill belongs to
the pagans who never remained in love with a liberal world. Such
heretical insights may help.
One pervasive misconception is that, while understood to be archaic,
past methodologies in science and art yielded clearer theories on
issues: "answers" which were as direct as they could be in their
context.
Furthermore, after the difficult shifts in problems and endurance
following the the Second World War, past intellectual rigors seemed
nobler at the time of their asking and "answering." This active
perspective has all but crippled the gaining of insight: the more fluid
and less reductive ways of thought which offer more than we think. It
cannot be neglected that this habit is found beyond right-wing
conservatism. And while such insight would equally nullify the mindless
obscurity that might plague portions of post-structuralist thought just
as it would nullify monarchist dribble, it has already told us something
important: "Answer" is not a means-to-an-ends solution which we're
promised it is, but a development made from fleshing out the ephemeral
in accordance with ruling and contending values.
My answer stands apart from mere opposition to this tyranny, that
encroachment. Those answering only with the colorful adjectives of their
defiance — either in the name of God or in the name of Communism — are
answering with the height given to them by the feeble chairs they stand
on, the beauty they imagine surging through them in coughing up their
sermons onto me. The answer that charges either neutrally or positively
with art and history is not mine. This answer cannot unify, i.e., it
cannot bring people together under an admission or compromise. Tradition
will tell you to turn back to god and sacrifice your body for him and
his nation. Communism will tell you to rush towards the affirmative
political channels which promise to facilitate well-being through a
universal economy. I will tell you to get away from me, that all is
lost— and thus, now more than ever, the world is yours and mine.
Firstly, there remains a tangle of obstacles which need unbinding or
tearing.
After so long in our minds, conquering the moon, deploying radio
transmitting satellites, harnessing every spark and protein around us,
wringing the spectrum of value dry, the loyalists of "tradition" yearn
for a noble regression back to the heart of monarchy, family, god and
country. At the same time, the loyalists of "progress" yearn for a
deeper, wider and more colorful "revolution—" one which transforms yet
obeys existing thresholds.
The decision [to try] to live and speak inside this putrid center of
constant stalemate with an eye for propagation is not always itself
merely a grab at any transformative task one can, as caricatures of
fervor have made us quick to believe. We who have taken shelter and
penned some unfolding events and reactions have a sordid kind of guilt.
Eventually we come to accept that the myriad paths of the same gist,
often shorter, can grant swifter beginnings and ends— which sometimes
yield admittedly more forgettable results. Those toiling with concepts
will invest energy where they will, inserting suggestion into the spaces
which flourish in many different people, extending maybe not only
through the message, but the very effect of saying anything. Any
decision like this is a step in diverting.
Those moseying along their lives in a fretful nature of thoughtfulness
are at least conducting some contrary force to what is hovering over
them. Typically, they can't be the [immediate] significant forces they
wish they were. Their answers are not conclusions, whether they seek to
become ones notwithstanding. And even if they manage to contribute a
single tatter to history, willing or not, they still evade its whole
inclusion of them. Truer pieces of them tend to go unread.
Disconnect like this should benefit us. Stalemate, far from being life's
default condition for us who create is— if not simply a reminder of
specific lack and overcoming— the impotence emboldened by the situation.
Situations are best abandoned than resolved. What I mean is, a
particular game is imposed on us, let's say for this instance: political
recognition. The potential of those who take this game to heart is
ensnared by appeasing the dynamics necessary to have a game and a slim
chance of "winning." Already, people are gaining a sense of this; they
know we will find ourselves in countless situations but fewer than half
of them will net any fruit to compensate us. These games dot the
parallels of our stalemate, but only dictate that which we enable. Many
hopes and decisions today are already dumped off at the peak of a new
beginning. There should be a similar callousness which does better for
us, a constructive negativity unfolding our desire for positivity out
from a hostile utility.
There is no creativity without negativity: one inspires positivity
through fulfilling and sharing a living substance, a substance totally
null and valueless to capital. Lovely music will entice us to dance, the
circumstances around the song will open a flash of glad levity. But the
tune and subject matter only go so far in the need for record sales, the
status/image of a creator. A music that exists outside these paradigms
seems like a better medicine than more thoughtful enrichment of this
eternal fucking nightmare which is also arbitrarily agreeable. A poetry
that grips at acceptable sorrow with the intent of conscripting it into
the service of refined coping is a poetry for the monks of the
labyrinths.
In creating whatever might be considered artistic, what comes from our
hands is trying to help develop insight for why we're compelled to do
it. We are only possessed into developing the art of this society. The
situations of dialog, progress over tradition/vice versa, national
security, economic stability and social prosperity are all conspiring to
herd us back to the center where we rot quietly in a reductive utility
not of our own. Our quietly simmering fury, which animates the ligaments
to crafting the testimonies of our pain and polemics of our rising, is
revealing itself to us as much as we are giving it life.
Tradition and progress offer two paths of the same journey. Whereas
progress acts as an antithesis to tradition's thesis, the synthesis
tears itself apart in order to continue staging conflict between the
two. The kernel of this entire effort is to exponentially heighten
humanity's greatest efforts and renewals into the most inconclusive
frenzy the ruling/contending values can sustain. It is the greatest
humanist dialectic endeavor kept on life support. Without it, humanity
has little justification in the shadow of all it has affected. Here, the
whole reflects the reactions of generations of subjects, blossoming into
a woeful garden. Beneath the banality of art's agitation is where art is
left to a matter of taste.
Art has its message component as a medium applicable to statement and
protest, but its modus remains a market commodity. The division between
these two has scarcely been so blurred. A plea for well-being must still
be striking if it should be given any consideration, let alone its
permissibility in its full extent. There has been a subconscious
obsession with iteration the entire time of humanity's quest, both an
economic and existential matter. Ingenuity not only of comfort and
profit but of reason, meaning and purpose. Liberal society gravitates
meekly toward "change," but not to the most radical, genuine degree—
only to the degree that sophistication may flourish in the diminishing
of creativity beyond humanity.
In the faces of each work along the circuit, their icons dazzle with
intention. Something beautiful is spoken in one bold, voiceless image.
As industrial societies have mounted their development, these images
have warped to the changes in their world, each iteration marking the
upward-scaling mission as evident. Oracles sermoning on the
impoverishment and bloodshed relative to these artistic pleas ran stale.
That which remains vague is born from the obvious frenzy, for what is
certain in desire becomes vague in the realization. One's taste for real
change weighs on the image's quality of "striking" upon the ushering of
a new iteration. Higher and higher, brighter and brighter. All to tumble
so low at such costs.
Our fixation with vagueness pointing at something whole and true has
woven something insidious and alien within our manifestation of resolve.
The ways which we speak, sing and mourn into infinity— rather than
building practically on whichever address to this or that problem— pull
the entire nothingness closer to our self-torments. The hole, dug
downward less, expands with inhalation to the sides. Vivacious joy and
hideous despair converge. Feeling the resonance from each splice between
these two, we are increasingly sobered by "nothing." Bitterly
incapacitated by our intense mental dashes across its inert vacancy, we
are desperate to take anything. Anything not so vague, anything that
makes sense to our unease.
The urgent voyage to the root of it all, of meaning itself, is dotted
with much sacrifice, much acceptance of worst case scenarios. The
momentous endurance of each new philosopher or creator is the shared,
sickening curiosity about an optimistic promise— of everyone who
concludes on the same thing differently. The catharsis in momentarily
accepting the black evacuation of life at the peak of iterations'
failure and resulting sadness has permeated enough of our conscience as
"humanity" to know where of the two places it will take us. Giving up or
getting up, a sigh marks the familiar point. Smoke, drink. The
aggravating sense of a strange, spinning world prevails.
So much enthusiastic intrigue in the show-and-tell of our insights.
Indeed, their myriad expressions and further development are now the
real passion of everyone on the Internet, in the conversations relevant
to what has generated this sensation in all of us at once. Every
possibility is seemingly ours, and yet each grab negates something
effortless to share. Motions relating with The Battle For Tasteful
Agitation drowns this out.
We anticipated truth and justice to break through with our accessible
span of information technologies in the 2000/10s, but we failed to be
foresighted in the manner these technologies would alter our lives in a
truly metaphysical sense. How responses to horribly taxing events
sparking need for justice, need for resolve would be atomized, because
they have become self-canceling through their proliferation in all of
us. By our vocal capability to rally toward resolve, we sink into the
sea of agitational content. And because the most grueling effort to
rally is now gone, the documentation of the rallying itself becomes the
overarching objective. These cascading layers of happening and sharing
would reduce our divergent audacity to the chatter of mice.
Insights will certainly devour themselves if not honed well enough. As
with the monotonous rituals which bend the surrounding world into a
satisfying rationale, insight has to reject all material demands and
invent paths around or through them. Witness ardent subversives whom
relax in the static banner of "no gods no masters" under the rent and
bills: Insight might not simply explode without second thought, but it
is the mortar of a divergent bulwark, and therefore the persistent
starting point for choosing life over humanity.
It seems like a fitting summary could be the following: humans are the
most profoundly gifted drama queens capable of bluntly committing acts
of suffering and killing within seconds. To this same degree, we can—
metaphorically speaking, with an artistic viciousness— drop a nuke onto
god's entire dominion and see everything totally unaffected in the next
minute. We can conjure storms of disavowal, always counting on the
boundaries to guide us through the approved passage and somewhere on the
outskirts of its feeble destination.
Moreover, in bursting through these confines, very little forethought
tends to play out with its necessary kind of brute force. As media
constructs the next bits of history from the images of us enduring our
turmoil in real time, the honest words at those moments are sequestered
to the front-facing summaries of atrocity. Like great victories or
tragedies, all of the real life in those people are relegated to the
wistful and mystical, of those who had been there; all the living matter
becomes the most inaccessible in order to accommodate the
valiant-seeming quips which are mere indentations in the dust compared
to a whole life. We only wish to reproduce the actions and images of
humanity. We can sacrifice all of our time alive to do it so long as
humanity remains immortal somehow.
How upsetting it is to thoroughly know something's obstruction and fail
at overcoming it. Our need for guidance in surrendering hope, getting a
different grip — because I and everyone still have to do the same — this
need is still relatively fresh. We sense an unprecedented growing pain
in our human condition. When fighting beasts of our own making, we can
retrace our steps, circle the perimeter, measure the distance between
points A and M. We can deduct things in further contention with the
ruling sciences in our factories of alternatives.
We cannot, however, confuse these for trials mandated by the universe.
We are not being tested in order to transcend infinitely from our
present complexity. We are bringing ourselves back down to the earth
from which we came. In our minds, we have drifted some distance away
from the places our lives have happened; our search for answers
elsewhere has made it hard to see plainly. Our pain is not meaningful or
beautiful. Our caste is to be broken and burned.
All agitation must shed; its sheddings must be public, without damage
control for one's pride. Agitation is to become something necessary
beyond challenging existing feelings or swaying the most powerful.
Agitation itself will cease to be a demonstration of reasoning in favor
of something. It is to become a notice of divergence from art/history, a
final encouragement on the way out from continued utterances of merely
encouraging artistic language.
The fretful thinkers who feel no urge to first establish themselves as
artists, philosophers, academics or activists have more to offer beyond
art and brave expressions than any collective capitalist soul-searching
could peddle. Our creations will have to be aimed at discharging
self-righteous situations, ending circuitous nonsense which is armored
by brainless goons of tradition preoccupied with their gang wars with
red-flag goons. Creations must plow straight through the assessments of
subjectivity, the "best intentions" in even the meekest representation.
It is in this subjective brutality that the entire radius of possibility
is really open.
A "human" language worth utilizing is in motion before describing its
would-be directions. An energy vested in our words regarding deeds has
all of its doings up front, chancing upon the words which jacket their
intents with stoic poignancy. Until this contends substantially with
humanism, unless this virulent chagrin rushes and splinters the
barricades at the gates of our own, there can be no sincere engagement
with the Arena Of Expression, the sordid "Marketplace Of Ideas." No
glorious contention within for any right over beauty, but an ugly,
passionate storm sweeping away the stones of its walls. No desperate
interjection into the markets, but a vibrant defacing of their value.
These beautiful pictures haunt their human makers on their way out of
the gallery, animal-hearted perusers trotting behind. Around the stark,
colorless bend, trying to confer all the open space flooded with "duty,"
"love," "community" and "purpose—" all hath no promise but sub-strife.
There is a lovely image in a 15th Century etching. Sappho lounges on a
stoop by the shore of the Aegean with her dogs.
I often dream of myself in that same lax condition with seemingly
everything and nothing on my mind. I have related very personally with
the implications of that scene which is millennia older than I, their
answers still being developed.
Every beautiful capture of difficult feelings seems to enlighten the
viewer's emotional particulars with the image's cohesive differentials.
The implications leading us on in confirmation bias— subtracting their
presence from their standing effect— the image of looming in thought
becomes the means and ends.
That sweet image I mention is not I, and it never will be. Its
impression has merely swayed my utmost human sympathies; I cannot relate
to its properties the way I can with that in front of me, beyond that
motionless rendering. Our most loathsome, treasured sub-strife is not
art's phony resonance, but the pervasive unification of being and
presenting— most regretfully— human.
Art constructs necessary falsehoods to embolden truths in-the-making.
The falsehood drives the likeness of some particular honesty which then
succumbs to its vehicle. Upon the breakdown of its operation, a new
image surfaces— either a mosaic from the cascading images above one
another, or the clearing of the ruling cosmic mandala by tragedy,
revolution, etc. Schools of thought spawn and decay as their remains are
composted into the next iteration of conceptual idols, foes and
bystanders.
When we step out from artistic construction and into the descending
pavement of the in-person, the personal— especially for such matters
that are shared between us but mutually unknown in our
processing/handling— we feel the sting of this deceptive reality's cold.
Perception is fierce; perception of oneself in accordance with the
perception of an idea or a hope is a daily gamble with every spectrum of
value and determination. Our tendency to reference a masterpiece in
order to direct our newfangled intellectual vehicle is atomized into the
gradual givings of in-person affirmations, affirmative contentions.
In the social realm, after the contentions have skirmished long enough,
we are left with a predictable milquetoast consensus for anything.
Consensus drives us right back into liberalism; consensus is the
surrender to a normative stalemate dressed in new finery. Consensus is
what establishes us all firstly as human, and [anything else] comes
second. This always occurs after the onset of a ruler's boredom in
accruing a body count or insisting on a blatant lie. The unease we all
sense from liberalism's friendly, iterative intention is the passive
ceding of agency for the consensus necessary to reproduce humanity, the
beautiful idea we drag on our ankles. On the tips of all our tongues, we
know the examples and origins of civil strife, property destruction,
colorful calls for rebellion in a particular fashion. We consume a daily
collaborative development of a remarkable point both within and
regarding history, somber and Dionysian in perfect measure. A glowing
ring of discord encircles a stale consensus: always under attack, always
desperate for stability it doesn't deserve. The attackers: always
falling out, always relocating, biding time, remodeling their capacity
for their world's mounting ecological disincorporation from the unending
circus of leaders, order, purpose.
In the personal realm, the refuge embedded within yet secluded from the
social, there arises a contemplativeness we cannot directly confer. It
overwhelms a determination to pull through, triumphant in no mere
artistic sense over this squirming, pulsating bullshit.
Shyness may not be the best possible way to first broach likeness, and
yet I do not know of another way. What I mean is not solely perception's
points of tension, but being perceived. One's likeness is one's
permanent color and motion. Perhaps different aspects can be altered,
but you remain something recognizable. Those who have known you longest,
for instance, can still pick out the hints of behavior unique to you.
Everything about you changes but a few cornerstones. A sense of judgment
(upon a sort of indirect offense) hushed under every "meaningful"
presence or participation emboldens one artificial cornerstone: a fixed
qualifier of humanity. A convention of shared blights and wishful
interpretations. Your responses to affirmative contentions will only
matter for the duration your face is seen, your convictions measured.
They will affect your standing here or there, reflect your capacity for
humanity, weigh on your good-bad ratio.
The personal rigors of piloting a living, breathing summation of your
name and presence are only peripheral to the crux of appearing to be
among others doing the same. No one can digest someone's feeling the way
they can their appearance or impression. The deepest hardship we
nevertheless share is in who we are operating in a suppressed fashion,
detached from how we are discerned in the world thrust on us.
Furthermore, that every person is a subject of gradual, interpersonal
deconstruction and subsequent summarization over the course of mingling
in the productive apparatuses of liberal society tells us that our
apparent comprehensibility might do us more harm than good. It seems
"anyone who is anyone" is getting on board the same aging idea of
"raising awareness," or the like, making something beautiful for that.
Being recognized at all as a person calcifies on top of the irreducible,
unnameable substance of yourself, myself. That substance which reveals
whole paths separate from the same tired journey, the same unified
impotence of not only being artistic, but smiling and joining hands as a
human artist, a good human.
When we stop and meditate on our profoundest frustration, we can set
aside each relatively trivial turmoil to behold the brightest radiating
situation: I am spliced into experience and appearance; the latter is
totally recognizable, the former is only sourced for its reproduction of
the latter.
Appearance dictates — we are thus subjects to our human recognition.
That anyone is foremost compelled to make an image of a person as the
means of fleshing the vibrant fibers of actually being one, that anyone
is pressured to mend one’s honest form to the mold which disheartens in
order to vaguely reiterate – this is the grotesque consequence of our
ruling factors. People can only consider one another in regards to their
image before they could know each other in the flesh. In being the
prisoner-operators of our vehicles of comprehension, a lovely journey to
a heartbreaking destination goes on.
What is the actual damage? You will grab me with your concern: "But what
are these images without the people behind them who set their makings
into motion? Do we not indulge in pictures to ease our lack-induced
yearnings? Do we not streamline necessary brevities to make something
accessible?"
You will notice a dreadful rift between utility and the social modus.
Utility is the use of something (or use for something) imminent to you.
The social modus is an engine within each subject of the existing social
order. In all our pockets and neurological programming, there is a set
of modules pinging back to the beloved source of our material sorrow:
The Long Lineage of our redesigned static condition, its affect on our
utility, the black hole amidst each of our every doings. Our likenesses
are used to prove something special about why this power should encase
individuals into operating their demise eternally. Our persistence— our
possessive determination— in using images to prove our being-alive (or
having been alive) is what gradually condenses us to pictures alone.
Pictures do not disrupt suffering. Pictures affect nothing. I ask you:
how does your utility in brevity and accessibility serve ultimately you
and not drain back into the modus of this society? When your likeness
pings to yourself and not to the interconnected liberal paradigm, how
would your endorphin rushes of "I am seen!" defend against the databases
closing in on you?
We are only behooved to cooperate with this modus so that our sparse and
sporadic utilities, personal and otherwise, can go on without assault or
deprivation for whatever length of time. This worry keeps humanity
together; a political, artistic promise for stability must always
supersede a raw, direct effort for wellness and joy here and now. It
must work seamlessly with our tired, aching desire to lie in bed with
our smartphones a foot from our faces. It must work within the paradigm
of getting shot, beaten or kidnapped at any moment when one affectively
challenges the general modus. It must remain inclusive of state
brutality, always dispensable if it means humanity is secure in its
notion and property.
Whereas one may share a flash of her journey to relate its stutter in
time to friends, they are not truly driven to exist in images the way
liberalism insists more power in. She does not adorn their being-alive
with best possible captures as the forward momentum of being anything.
While the songs they adore soothe or entice her thoughts, momentarily
placing them elsewhere, she knows that chasing tunes will not make
everything outside of song better. Sharing seems to have become tangled
with presenting an image. I at least would wish images could be
invitations for sharing something better than the image, "sharing your
thoughts" on what you have just digested. There is no real honesty being
sought, only the ardent actions of engaging and making. An accessibility
in of itself must serve as a utility to my own affair, but if it is to
congeal outside of my consumption of it, it is most accessible to the
humanity which would consume I. My sympathies grab hold of me, but only
long enough to differentiate them from who I am, what I am dealing with.
Our image-desire is taught to be our mission. Our image-being is what so
many have sacrificed themselves to have. It has consistently proved
itself to be only a more transcendental masturbation in sync with the
bleeding-edge of humanity's global interconnected society, all of its
remade desires, all of its intricate lovely dramatics, all of its paltry
outcomes. Everything you and I entertain in this society is only for an
impression of a utility beyond it. Of course, the finite joys peddled
everywhere on the scene ring out the way they do now by design,
allegedly tapping into some meaning that one has longed for in this
frustrating world. E.g., people who indulge in psychedelic drugs are now
either mortified or overjoyed to find wacky sub-genres with their
eccentricities in mind; the dissecting of amusing antics, sidestepping
psychedelics' unraveling of industrial facades which the antics are
edited for. "Pandering" seems like a concern of a distant past. But
instead, people today seem to have adjusted rather well to what
everything has laid itself out plainly to be.
Those who seclude within this malignant cultural array at a considerable
remove, detesting their own being-seen, are less like malicious creeps
in the purely interpersonal sense and more like dedicated archivists of
depression, of their's and others'. Their shyness is brought on by a
fundamental centering of likeness before living moments of wider
possibility and more direct consideration. They would rather keep their
distance than fight themselves and others to have a satisfactory
presence pertaining to the social modus. I do not even expect those to
be the sufficient words for what they are enduring. But in this broken
daily endeavor, I feel strongly that many of these people whose lives
are spent cutting across the meaningful byways are among the wisest,
most insightful individuals to come to terms with themselves and their
surroundings however they might have. There are still far too many
"normal people," or people desperate to "be normal," who go about their
lives like ants to this normative world, reinforcing the minute
barricades around something so utterly direct.
We have paced the shorelines of every exodus from human-old con jobs to
come full circle and do it all over again. We have wept for what was
lost, endured— and wept for not being able to go back. This guttural
aching is too tired to bear. For our likenesses to actually be our own,
i.e., for what we are to shine through, we first need to discern and
remove that which has ensnared us into subjectivity. ****
The dualities I have taken up here (likeness/self, or image/being) are
only utilized insofar that the weapons of the general issue aimed at us
are more pronounced. The plight of self particularly entails a necessity
in being accounted for as one involuntarily bearing a likeness parsed
into a decision from society: to be, in a rather palpable duality, a
potential honorary civil servant— or a scorned, "Wanted: dead or alive"
fugitive of everything holy to humanity. Likeness is a thing to get far
away from, self is hardly any different.
Self is a human invention. Self is posited by media and popular values
as the living reflection of material momentum, i.e., putting it vice
versa, the external material effects of some given momentum (and its
modus) build on the living perspective reflected which commences it all.
An entropy of "inner" and "outer" is established, an imminent extension
with how life and death function in this same sense. When "man" first
distinguished itself thus, the first storms of contention ensued:
hypnotic schisms around what seemed like the same (yet strikingly
unique) reflection pouring back into a filtered basin of cult-like
interpretations. Pythagoreans, Stoics, Epicureans. The madness of the
World Of Man beyond the World Of The Gods in a singular constant of
indecision and heresy. Tribes of The Upright assume opposing colors
within the quests for Truth. As Truth in bloom proved to be hollow, the
colors became iterative rather than merely competitive. Descartes in the
17th Century began what Nietzsche would hope to conclude at the end of
the 19th Century in respects to the subconscious strife in the middle,
wherein Freud would also interject, laying some technical ground for the
savants of thought & experience to come. Liquidation of an essential,
unified man made up of disparate selves around the time of Derrida,
Deleuze and Baudrillard would ultimately polish the woodwork of self.
The strictly conceptual tradition of individuals as units of a wider
formula, rather than disparate formulas themselves, at least held
together a basic groundwork for diversion. Its collapse signaled an
urgent opportunity for industrial societies to adapt, inject its roots
deeper. In a gradual, calculated adjustment by academics, psychologists,
social workers, military and police, the components ripe for social
reproduction mutate into a spectrum of possibilities for individual
assimilation. "Accommodation" for the whole possibility of self marks a
desperation for volumes of applicable bodies. This simultaneous tabula
rasa and possessor of fundamental essences malleable to anything would
play out as a magnificent call to battle, as well as an ever-mutating
engine of blame and encouragement. Between the figures named— reduced to
likenesses, "great minds" of the past— the ongoing wars, upheaval and
pompous non-sense in securing the self would only speak in a meta sense:
the capabilities versus the outcomes, the special exceptions for the
persistence of these outcomes.
People who now consider themselves philosopher-pundits going on their
brave crusades against deconstruction, relativity, etc., will protest
about out about how the self has never been in greater care; that recent
unrest has no conception of one's potential self-determination in the
existing bounds, that one could easily triumph over some particular
aspect of material suffering — with enough ass-kissing of unwelcome
institutions and contracts — and fulfill the "only realistic" solution
to one's oppression. Self has wrung our selves dry. When approaching the
inner sanctum of this subjugation, self becomes interchangeable with
soul. In the midst of some individual crime against the holiness of
human normalcy, a switch flips inside people's minds. Any desire for any
sort of sovereignty evaporates; there is a special outrage levied
against those who can't play nice with this mandated stupidity. For most
bystander subjects, a personal injury is assumed from someone
challenging the human divinity responsible for the beloved, cheap
sensations of seriousness and meaning. In the way that we understand a
still-intact notion of mortal souls at risk of missing out on
everlasting life, The Church Of Self induces a human piety whose
practice is continuing a dialog forever by sharing pieces of oneself. In
this, it is obvious what the human afterlife is intended for, that all
selves can forever build on what can never simply be done. That all are
"re-gifted," "renewed" by the ability to produce more likenesses which
are immediately usurped, absorbed into the tautological construct of
human purpose with no conclusion whatsoever. The soul of the self is the
ability to be reseeded, replaceable— because, at least, a likeness could
remain as a kind of "Sorry, thanks" as another life takes it on again.
It is projected as a beautifully mournful inheritance to be a human. A
necessary suffering that nobody should dare think of renouncing.
Humanity confers a "self," the word as well, which is different from
what I want to present. A sense of self typically refers to the
relations we inhabit revolving around "my house, my car, my job," etc.
These are personal responsibilities from the world we were born into.
Typically, our levels of mental/emotional investment in them, or
engagement with their logic, are only relative to our tenacities for
self-debasement or self-reliance; some wear humiliating combinations of
the two and think of themselves as "Masters of The Game." A self, then,
is only a fluid trophy that consumes itself in order to stagnate the
operator. The only goal there is to survive: "take care of yourself," so
that things might remain sheltered and normal along your swaggering
gait. After a time of enduring a necessarily insane way of life, of
recognizing that this way of life is insane, this is capable of giving
someone a divergent way of processing the things in this world— but only
when a barrier between human-self and own-self is broken. One is the
self instilled by strictly human factors, the other is the self
cultivated gradually over the enduring & processing of human factors. By
unraveling the former's material facade in oneself, the
positive-negative paradigm nestled centerfold is laid bare: to promise a
renewal of bondage and misery. The latter then assumes a more palpable
conspiracy of living. The ruling modus becomes very interesting for
subversion, a consumption by the own-self which has suffered so long
under its boot. Our whole situation being the coercive assignment of
subject at birth, the roots of own-self have always been taken from us,
barred from being accessible or even thinkable.
To develop own-self is the genuine crime against humanity of which there
is no ordinance or statute. It is a striking weak spot for liberalism
that our brains are not yet totally captive; to form any terms or
desires at all independent from liberal decree is the real beginning of
the end for all manners of encroaching on your own, on my own. Dialogs
can no longer suffice for the problems felt harshest outside of
discussion— the "actual point" of the notions we tolerate with muted
sneers (god, country, money, leadership, purpose) reveal their
emptiness. In turn, a screaming, unrelenting critical thought is
discovered; a grueling understanding of limitless untamable agency is
slowly woven into something unique; a new power is examined cautiously—
abandoned or wielded proudly. As Larry Law describes in a 1975 pamphlet
, "It is the pleasure of making your mind your own."
Self is the component of likeness which could not get closer to who we
are. Indeed, it puts the very security of our own at risk. An obscured
essence peaks out from a facade's window blinking on the screen. It
lures us in, that we might decorate it with different, complimentary
[reductions of] empathetic properties. Self cannot live by itself alone,
it requires a universality that insinuates and indicts every possible
being. A subjective reality (a reality stemming from the subject)
affects and confers the objective generations of how the next subjects
are to fare. Yet the objective consequences are relegated to a merely
"subjective," atomized means of making sense of them, making sense of
normative, gradual changes— in the case of the social modus: only to
record that changes were made, or perhaps attempted to some degree. It
is then the subject's affair on how to be or not to be. Subjective
consequences manifest in as many ways as there are subjects. They are
the underlying responses that, e.g., in the social realm, we see under
the surface of "rioting," "protesting," "looting," etc. There is obvious
brutality, starvation, destitution, (use your imagination,) which
inspire wrath upon this straitjacket of existence. The glaring reality
of most becomes a choice between quiet deterioration by withstanding the
holy normality, or striking without a word and charging straight into
capture.
It is not a difficult thing to conceive of. It is the circular nature of
the whole struggle, however, that is most disquieting.
Combative selves stiffen into a mortal bind as the sense of a passive
decision [made for them] to lean into subjective consequences takes
hold, conferred by the resulting likenesses. We stare straight into the
half-living eyes of an objective foe, a self-established GOOD which
bluntly diminishes my life and my loved ones' lives. But on paper,
regardless of its cruelties, it is either permissible under law or
totally negligible. An objective material insanity overwhelms the
ability or the reason to sustain mental composure; the basic sense of "I
just want to enjoy my life" distinguishes itself more as a completely
sovereign struggle from liberal society's need to account everything and
devise a center at which to reach a consensus.
To overcome our trembling in the invisible reflection of our own, it
becomes clear that we need to pulverize— if not swiftly nullify— the
functional, material logic of this world in such a way that even its
retaliations would only build on its own downfall rather than ours. To
find the cracks and crevices wherein either the weapons are hidden or
the flowers are growing, we need a practical distinction between our own
intentional struggle and that of liberalism: the project of eternal
rule. We do not end our selves by death alone. It is only this malignant
insanity that sometimes makes death synonymous with absolution. The
death of the world of self should not be the death of me or you;
fighting the battle at all entails a shifting of effort, a new
methodical prowess employed.
To abolish its function in our thought, our expression, our decisions,
our digestion of being alive— diversion of our human self grasps at the
immediate necessities of living absent from liberalism: it no longer
concerns itself with how to resonate after annihilation, how to join the
labyrinth of meaning, because one's own-self would derive no lived
satisfaction from this. It confers as plainly as possible what cannot be
reduced to a beautiful rerun, a phony resonating concept with nothing
alive at the center of it. It fears no disavowal from human leaders,
because it shows plainly how all divergent revelers will be called
"animals" regardless, i.e., "insubordination is inhuman." At the same
time, it is not by recognizing these conditions alone that anything has
changed. There are blatant obstructions along this
straightforward-seeming path. To only match brutality will extend
another paradigm of damages and ratios. It is not enough to punch harder
because "fighting is wrong," but because it is the native language of
states employed to protect the image/self paradigm.
The subversion of this Ouroboros is of course to "fight differently,"
but the total diversion is a self-abolition of liberal value in the
conduct of our own. Only in the unique executions of this notion,
diverting from humanity on a conceptual level, can more information be
drawn.
Until this, it follows that we vanquish self in vanquishing the
divisions between the most wordlessly intimate parcels of living in each
individual. Our own aspirations are no longer surrendered. Each
individual ceases recognizability with mere human suffering: engagements
for revolution or overturning still cannot encapsulate what the content
of this more direct struggle means. "Life," as one within whole, is no
longer subjected to a rift between endured— enduring— or inflicting. An
existence in accordance with the ground-up of breathing and hydrating
envelopes [all] at once, ceasing the purpose of the daily struggle to
Frankenstein together a single soothing, drawn-out mantra echoing
through the infinity of bullshit. We would no longer be creatures of
immense coping abilities, but unbridled propensity for life and
creativity.
"Self" then completely dissolves into a concept alone, it no longer
points to me, you or anyone. It only calls out from humanity to join in,
amplified by all material prodding. I and you certainly exist on
mutually alien ground, and by this alone we understand how there is no
necessary relegation to selfhood. Our various features cease to comprise
prescriptive roles in front of our names, faces and voices; they get
behind them, blotted out by what a self-owned life is projecting,
outlasting. In sermoning the name of Self with all of its humanistic
aspects, we may only concur on our time wasted, our endurance
manipulated, our hearts withered, our lives stolen. Nothing divergent
from that is permitted within human subjectivity. We do not need to lean
into these consequences, but we do need to move through them.
Having spent some paragraphs on this subjectivity, we will now endeavor
to unbind it. The foremost question would be how to do diversion— how to
divert. Diversion can often simply occur in a person who happens to
embody a living null with any given logic anointed with some particular
divinity. It is in how beings persist in themselves, in their own, that
the seed of diversion is found: divergence is a negating factor
introduced by our assigned human essences. Neither diversion nor
divergence comes before the other; and yet each tumble in a synchronized
withdrawal, a deviation from the normal.
Allow me to share a very personal insight:—
Neurodivergent people, meaning we who have neurodevelopmental disorders
(such as Autism Spectrum Disorders, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity
Disorder, Tourette's Syndrome, Dyslexia, Developmental Coordination
Disorder, to name only a few,) are living manifestations of how these
sacred limitations are failures. We inhabit an outer material existence
built on psychological systems which never corresponded with our own.
Their exterior promises have only been "centers of being cured" to our
families; while to ourselves, they have been sterile, hostile prisons of
judgment and correction. We are immediately set inside a position where
our ways of being are the issue needing the specialist range of
retooling and assimilation.
As it is with other disabled individuals, our dissonance with the
material operations of this daily life is a front and center reality.
When we manage not to be directly assaulted by neurotypical behaviors or
ingrained designs of society, we are left to rot in how useless and
burdensome we sense ourselves to be to our fellow humans. Those of us
who can conform just enough to be perceived out in this world as "one of
us normal people (maybe with some quirks)" gain a sharper insight than
most could care to think twice about.
Sparing how we are each infantilized by humanists and everyday people as
a "lovable error" of physical/mental/emotional capacity in each moment
we are picked out, we come to understand how and why the glaring
brevities of human intention cannot bend around their quotas for us.
How, instead, they will only integrate some enticingly taboo likeness of
our humanity into their performative thoughtfulness as a company,
institution, cause, non-profit, etc. (I ask forgiveness from
neurotypical readers if I can only truly relate to those who have
endured such malicious difficulties— but I also don't require it.)
We see that even accommodations for us with a humanistic air about them
are only ever directed at commencing our utmost engagement with the
economy, with the artistic avenues of impotent praise or disavowal. The
core things that matter to this world, having been bound up in the
survival of humanity's most needy, are thrust still onto those who can
least entertain the insanity of states and capitalists. In our
divergence from this too, life suggests itself to be more. Life, for us,
is not merely heightened by more considerate modifications or inclusive
representations on the part of society's rulers. Life becomes
interesting and actually worth it for us when abuses are razed, dictates
are nullified— when we can come to autonomous agreements with similar
individuals interested in overcoming human misery.
Neurodivergence (or "neurodiversity" as activists push) is a living
instance of divergence. It possesses a real diversion that— while very
often mediated by medical and legal institutions— exceeds the structures
which prop up humanity as a concept translated to reality. We differ
with humanity down to a conceptual level: the awkwardness we are
perceived to exhibit, even lumped in with the disparate variables that
still make up human beings, is the explicit incongruity between us and
industrial society coming to the front of our livedness. Divergence, in
this, is passive— which does lend itself to society's mediation. It does
not, however, disarm what the whole memory of psychological hell has
given to us. How cruelty has long been systematized with minimal effort.
Speak not of "compassion," human gluttony for animated bodies is
slavery!
Those who possess any life force, despite their unknowable trials, are
crammed into a human product so that their positive charge is associated
with humanity and not their own. In the case of us who fail in a few
crucial departments of being shaped by public schools, mental hospitals,
etc., our records flow through systems of deduction to aid in
conscripting our remaining mental and physical will in accordance with
monetary satisfaction and productive (or correctional) quotas.
Whatever glimmer of familiarity, of relation with a vulnerable humanness
they imagine in our suffering imposed on us by that exact paradigm, they
still find a core flaw, invariably discarding our dignity in the shadow
of humanity's greater purpose. Those who have sadly been coerced into
whichever "therapy" now have a staunchly physiological human-self
methodically grafted on top of whatever frayed nerves of their own-self
might remain.
By no means could I limit my meaning to this one perspective alone. At
the vast intersections of experience, an imminent self-liberation
coalesces shyly, and this shyness is to be worked through. A recognition
comes to us: divergence as one's self can only extend to wider, external
things diverted when that divergent self indicates open paths for
collaborators. At this time, collaboration for subversion is nearly
ubiquitous, and we see the radical standard made from this that attains
many destinations with few manners of traversing to them. Meanwhile,
passage remains wide open for everything useful to liberalism. Our
endurance greatly suffers. It will continue to suffer unless we develop
an ownness, unless passage is denied to liberal values, and we then
refuse to enable their abuses.
Deviation from the normal is a snare of likeness as much as it is the
crux of divergence. The key distinction is in how only liberalism's
presentation, language— not its social modus— will divert from itself in
order to lure all possibility back in when one iteration is exhausted.
Something must remain while reforming itself.
We continue developing our own constant as the basic ends of a
self-owned objective assumes many potential means, expressions,
applications. The abnormal of our own in conflict with the normal of
liberal continuity, up to and including its desperate self-deviations,
is aimed at undoing the alleged receptiveness of subjects to governance
and existential charge. Our creative propensity for life must swarm the
politically resounding performances of saving humanity.
We— in our human aspects— have been our worst possible abusers. But our
self-inflicted actions were not always entirely our own.
We ask ourselves, crying, "when does the pain go away?"
And we deserve to answer that for ourselves. We deserve to decide how to
end our pain. And the options need to be widened far beyond: (1) make
some pretty art, (2) ask your rulers nicely, (3) end your life.
Every day woken up to only to go to work for however long and spend the
remaining hours trying to forget about it and get enough sleep to do it
over again is a routine psychological abuse/rape that stiffens the
joints of an artificial "life" and leaps near-suicidal into the conquest
of everything remaining. These things are only ever whitewashed as
anything else by the fodder or directors of a compliant, still
normality, cultivated to tell a story but engage nothing.
When the guns are aimed at us, even by our own hands, the source can
always be traced back to the liberal absorption of one's experience into
its game of "self." The aperture which devoured us will halt and resume.
In between each shutter, we need to move or accept death.
Subjectivity
The only constant resulting from our own should be the Death Of
Bullshit. We can overcome the dormant wistfulness of "life" itself. We
deserve to. This means far too many things to list off and elaborate,
but it condenses down to a gradual divergent recognition: the worst
atrocity committed passively by everyone during the last few centuries
has been the wanton docility while under rule. Rule, having persisted
scarcely through force alone, but by its subjects' docility lubricating
its motions by threat of torture or deprivation, has wrung its own death
knell in the churches it has made. We must heed this chime in the wind
and rejoice.
The pitiless flock and the pompous disillusioned have relegated their
respective times to someday, as if daily life itself was not always the
warzone at which every moment is stalemate. As history shows, no one
person can assuredly conclude whether more audacious acts and daring
leaps of the status quo can effectively reduce or remove the
longstanding injuries we correct our lives' courses around. The
paradoxical absurdity bleeds into our considerable alternatives. The
negation of alternative altogether follows:
whether lawfully, godly, creatively or conceptually, the relative lack
in the dethroning and mutilating of authority itself has been the
harshest injury dealt by everyone "given breath" by the nightmare called
"humanity." The basic absence of authority's mutilation is a loud and
booming death for "individual freedom" wherever it is really concerned.
If you, as a singular head, are not concerned with authority dying in
your lifetime, you are not concerned with life at all, and thus have
nothing in common with my own affair.
Our guilt is present, but about as mundane as anything else out of our
infantile reach. This would be of little help anyway. Instead of lashing
ourselves, we pick each other up. We offer insights before going along
our way. The desire for captivating adjectives during situations of
absurd origins has stagnated the comprehensive ability to grow past
humanity. The existence of these dramatics are themselves indicative of
conceptual lunacy run a muck for what seems like the entire duration of
humanity's need for meaning and purpose. Everything which would provide
this has been pummeled to death in the name of a higher, divine purpose
which is exercised by all the creative effort of happy liberal subjects.
Now, "meaning" and "purpose" only point to waking up the next day and
consuming another series of human products. Nothing more.
Blame should go to nobody in particular, but all our behaviors and
positions indicate our senses of importance. Those with authority, those
who "lead," who prosecute, they cannot abide a simpler contract: that no
person should play any part in anyone's debasement of their own, which
always goes both ways. Existential problems like these feel like public
domain endeavors; political ones, while they encompass certain domains
and contracts, remain a public occurrence with joint, selective
involvement on outcome. And of course, social problems involve each
subject of humanity to the degree that they embolden social phenomena.
Yet few people will consciously scale the existential wall which
encloses us in total. Doing so is of utmost criminality to our shared
human condition. But then criminal and courageous begin to sound alike,
especially when anyone expressing this can survive.
"Courage" has nothing to do with our expressions. Expression as a
righteous act, or the trade of a specialist, has solidified the boundary
shutting out expression as that which pummels through its own
limitation, leaving itself as a unique mark on earth's surface. This
profound utility is lost either by the author's limited tools, limited
exposure or limited receptive individuals who could relay the would-be
affect to others who are unsure of it. Artistic fervor only seeks to
weaponize the endurance of the subjects. As the subjects shed the yolk
of "self" as a distinction from "all," they wade for the first time in
the judgmental air of their own raw consideration, weeping, laughing
hysterically, possessing their own wordlessness that harks on Sappho's
line, "I am weary of all your words and soft, strange ways."
Strife, definitely in regards to polemical engagement, is our share for
feeling any distance between ourselves and humanity. It is not any curse
or affliction, but the self-justifying belligerence of rule itself, that
our mournful recognitions are dolled out in mere words. We who are this
tired have caressed the faces of every beautiful anti-thesis of every
anti-hope anti-manifesto in light of each hitherto renewal of global
neoliberal economic endeavors. Of experience and conveyance, wanting to
be done while only knowing one way about anything "being done," nothing
is ever "done" until you really are.
It is a strength belonging to all. Knowing when and how to divert from a
broken path is an intense breakthrough in becoming one's own. It is not
easy, as it tends to bring the faults of many other aspects you wished
to keep hidden directly to the front of your attention. Normality is
many different things in tandem. Pickup trucks and gasoline, elections
and pointless droning social media jabber. My existence as an autistic
faggot who cannot tolerate any of this needs to divert in order to
secure my own. Nothing can promise my well-being but my determination to
outlast every blatant lie and every obtuse gesture of entrapping me.
To renounce humanity is not to renounce the basic well-being of each
other. It is to reject the malicious captivity of unique beings under
the unitary label of "human," which has its lineage in the "meaningful"
suffering of "god's people," i.e., "god's subjects."
To renounce humanity is to renounce a pompous humbleness in the face of
being something capable of being ruled. It is to examine the factors
plainly, past and present, regarding any being's capability for
anything, deducing the course which makes sense to one's own.
To renounce humanity is to renounce the beautiful hopelessness which
brings us to smile morosely at how absurd life has been made,
increasingly expanding our acceptability for the worst shit imaginable.
To renounce humanity is to renounce the fullness of liberalism.
Liberalism being that which secures a framework of "checks and balances"
and a flimsy framework of "rights" which can eternally be challenged,
reinterpreted and loopholed in order to achieve the ultimate desire of
industrial capitalism. It is the actual lifeblood of Conservatism, more
so than any other side of the same coin. The degree of "liberty" that
liberalism affords is a negotiable rationale concerning protections for
mutually opposing social forces. All social action under liberalism
therefore convenes back at humanity— either to extend eternally over
degrees of egalitarianism and opportunity, or to lash into humble duty
for the according crises. Liberalism, to some dimwits being synonymous
with "Communism," or "lenient" to communists, completes itself as the
human ideology when some radical camp fails.
(end intermission)
How exactly we venture to unplug from being led on this way is a
malleable sort of game of our own to invent, reinvent, use, abuse,
annihilate and respawn according to our individual whims in tandem with
mutual endeavor. All I feel like I know in this regard is that in our
carnival of self-deluded fantasies marching towards the slaughter, I
must scream, pound my skull in with a ball-peen hammer, becoming exalted
and freed. I must wail and expel in one go. Upon the shrill, gargling
sadness ripping through the children's laughter and mindless animation,
more are bound to harmonize. Our constructive negativity is what
embraces disillusion and acts through the words everyone knows but dare
not speak. In speaking, in the motion of speaking without a filtered
"resistance—" meaningless word!— we rally anew by ancient channels, by
tried and true ferocity spread out, ripping through our sorrow.
We pivot— divert— from the liberal approval of "doing" in relation to
its unwelcome consequences. If any gains over our subjective subjugation
are to be won, transgression of the pattern, the program, the poem, is
necessary. But simultaneously, a specificity whose direct goal is stoic
in its definite, informed obscurity must prevail over artistic
surrenders to the universe. A snatching or manifesting which corresponds
to no rigid perfectionism of thought, form or— especially— feeling, must
be self-cultivated in the wretched soil of spent plastic assurances. Our
feeling must overwhelm the universe. We must not lie supplicant to the
milky way upon our defeat at the civilized threshold, but charge
joyously and with agency into its womb from which we came.
The human self has taught us to be cunning and inventive in the worst
ways; to dodge the blows of judgment or deprivation while also being
quick to dispense them on each other; to harden our gigs and perform
with passion drawn from the desperation to survive. That which strikes
so magnanimous to our human veneers in being is, in consequence, the
self-generating master over our inhuman ferocity and tenacity for
becoming.
They will guarantee prosperity, or prudence in the eyes of the divine,
but we who still live know to be guaranteed nothing. We know the
summation: there is no life left here. "Here" might not mean
"everywhere," and so that is at least half of the curiosity. I don't say
this because I want to write a bold and daring statement. I say this
because I need the pain which we are accepting every moment to cease. In
terms of sheer quality of existence, the conceptual engines of this
so-called life need to be murdered, or every life who endures it will
have sorrier and sorrier lives in front of them.
Either we as individuals will perish after suffering one by one, or the
modus of reproductive human society— after so long, so very long of hurt
and confusion and powerlessness— will finally and truly be dead. It is
only in this total conceptual collapse that we can perhaps take a deeper
breath much different from what we are used to.