META-NOMAD

Admin: #2

Rarely do I break into anything administrative on this blog. But as my Twitter gained quite a bit of traction over the last 6 months and I decided to begin Hermitix I feel a note on my quasi-silence is in order.

Basically, I started up Hermitix at entirely the wrong time in relation to a multitude of in-real-life things out of my control. As soon as episode 4 landed irl decided to plummet downward in many directions all at once. Everything is somewhat ok, though it really isn’t great to be quite frank. I mean, in terms of irl details it’s the usual shit. I met a lovely girl though. So god knows how long this odd intermission will be, maybe months to be honest. That said, I’m still jotting down ideas and have actually recorded some of series 2.

It’s quite odd that a blog that brings in no revenue – though Hermitix has a few Patreons now – adds quite a bit of pressure, the idea I need to constantly keep up with content creation or everything will just explode. So everything is still going ahead, I am still here, just this really isn’t a priority right now. Maybe when I come back I’ll add a load of stuff to the blog, I’ve been meaning to do a blogroll for ages. There’s really great content out there at the moment. Everything’s moving so quick, you lose focus for just a second and you feel like your volumes behind.

Stay safe everyone. My DMs are still open as always.

 

Leave No Trace, Sombre Reaction & Neo-Asceticism

I may have watched Leave No Trace (2018) another 3 or 4 times since I recommended it on Twitter. I can’t exactly articulate the effect it had on me. Of course at its most obvious it’s a story of those who revolt or are revolted by the modern world, and so, in some way these groups attend to some form of fringe-lifestyle, or at least what the modern world considers fringe. In fact, I’m not even going to outline the plot of the film, it’s there as a sort of beacon to those who get it and an abstraction to those who don’t, at most I simply note that you should watch it.

I shall however use the the film, or perhaps the tone of the film to attend to some general thoughts. It was said recently – I can’t quite remember where – that what one tweets, says or writes will seem obvious to those writing or saying it, but may seem epiphantic or almost revolutionary to those who’ve never thought it. This is where one finds great writers and thinkers, those who page after page find ways to extrapolate clearly thoughts that have plagued the recesses of your mind since birth, and it could in fact be that the thoughts you have are indeed the potential articulations of others’ worries, ideas and futures.

This is where Leave No Trace hits the mark, this is more than likely why I’ve watched it a few times. The general tone of the film attends – quite passively – to reaction. Dare I say it’s a reactionary melancholy. Inclusive of exit, disgust, sorrow, inability-of-articulation and surmounting the modern. One may be mistaken in believing that I’m making the mistake of confusing reaction with a certain way of living. Much in the way that the ‘pine-trees- and the anarcho-primitivists attend to a certain way of life. The point being, this specific way of life is inclusive of the reactionary whole and not the other way around. There is no, single, reactionary movement. One could keep ‘moving back’ and perhaps side to side and even flicker between colours if they so wish, if they were reactionary would mean something entirely different to the ‘ism’-specifics. In fact, a recent thread about Neoreaction (NRx) concluded in me stating that I’d always found Neoreaction to be a critique of modernity, religion and economy as opposed to any centered ‘party’, many came, used the NRx-toolbox and then scuttled off to their preferred camp, taking their new knowledge with them.

There’s little to no self-pity in this sombre reaction, and likewise with Leave No Trace, only a Sisyphean exhaustion. That’s not to say this is exclusive to reactionaries, or to one political standpoint. Modernity is suffocating and it’s bureaucratical malaise inescapable –

They can kill you, but the legalities of eating you are quite a bit dicier.” (DFW)

I’ve always attended to some subtle stoic/ascetic values, and yet of late, the latter, asceticism, has found itself coming to the fore with a certain hypocritical ferocity. It used to be that to deny TV, junk food, mass-medication, drugs, alcohol and the libertine-lifestyle was merely to state that one was not interested in that which the modern had to offer, the quick, the easy, the thoughtless pursuits marketed to empty minds. And maybe this is now simply a matter of repetition, but to deny these comforts is not seen as denying the extra, but it as seen as denying the norm, the standard, the default. If one is to not have a TV, if one sleeps on the floor, wears the same clothes, eats simple meals, does not drink or do drugs, then that person, at least within W.E.I.R.D-esque world is seen as an outsider. This is of course repetition bordering psychotherapy.

The phrase ‘We just wanted to be left alone’ often springs to mind, when the wage in inescapable, the commute, the retail radio, the cackle of a mass, fluorescent lights, mimetic-taste, etc etc. the inescapable hum and flow of nauseating modernity and progressivism. This incessant sewerage of that which I – apparently – must enjoy, work with and most annoyingly, promote. One finds oneself pinging from unused node to unused node in the hope of a moment of piece, and yet each corner thus far, each little haven has been infected by some irksome, utterly disgusting modern sinew. And so you just keep trundling along. That’s where the film strikes a chord. In the moments of the in-between. The waiting rooms, the communities, the churches, the cities, the government offices and the hallways of the contemporary. All inclusive of unavoidable, gut-level detestable modernist patheticism.

This piece is inclusive of my beliefs pertaining to capital, time and the ‘human’. It’s a sideline of acceptance. The neo-ascetic seemingly little more than he or she actively avoids the aesthetic, itemized and dopamine-looped reality of modernity. Those who expend personal energy to confront and sidestep the toxic all-consuming grin of runaway progressivism. Many ascetics used to live in caves for their entire lives, monks, hermits and outsiders all. Now, many of this temperament are placed within inescapable leviathans intent on their attitude destruction. The ascetic avoidance was often for religious reasons. The Neo-ascetic’s primary task is to avoid squandering their energy to the religion of progress, the faith of modernity.

In enemy territory, always, just trying to be left alone.

No Mirror No More

“The objective man who no longer curses and grumbles like the pessimist, the ideal scholar, in whom the scientific instinct after thousands of total and partial failures all of a sudden comes into bloom and keeps flowering to the end, is surely one of the most valuable of implements there are, but he belongs in the hands of someone more powerful. He is only a tool, we say. He is a mirror – he is no “end in himself.” The objective man is, in fact, a mirror: accustomed to submit before everything which wishes to be known, without any delight other than that available in knowing and “mirroring back” – he waits until something comes along and then spreads himself out tenderly so that light footsteps and the spiritual essences slipping past are not lost on his surface and skin. What is still left of his “person” seems to him accidental, often a matter of chance, even more often disruptive, so much has he become a conduit and reflection for strange shapes and experiences. He reflects about “himself” with effort and is not infrequently wrong. He readily gets himself confused with others. He makes mistakes concerning his own needs, and it’s only here that he is coarse and careless. Perhaps he gets anxious about his health or about the pettiness and stifling atmosphere of wife and friend or about the lack of companions and society – indeed, he forces himself to think about his anxieties: but it’s no use! His thoughts have already wandered off to some more general example, and tomorrow he knows as little as he knew yesterday about how he might be helped.” – Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil, Aphorism 207

Oh but what of the subjective man, the nu-man of the latest years! Who grumbles and whines like a sordid lamb, blithering to and fro attending to its delicate wool and mutton. An ideal scholar no more, but a pitiful researcher tumbling into the destitute forever of the internet, pulling data and e-ink around in a whirlwind of self-obsessed conformity. Nothing no but agreement with the self. No bloom, no Spring, no Summer – in fact, no season at all for he to live within, only a stagnant existence of identity and the tug of each and every social whim. Nietzsche speaks of a mirror, a mirror that no longer exists as far as I can see. The reflection acts a way to see that one is not an end in himself but a labyrinth of mirrors, ducts and chambers splaying out into a willed infinity. But of course, the mirror was shattered, I know not when, only that each fragment of its death has been taken away, most likely chained the bottom of the deepest ocean – objectivity death as the mirror shatters – No more ‘mirroring back’ only continual self, identity and progress, without the reactionary reflection of he who can see he’s but a flesh, there can be no real progress, only a dainty skipping into miserable weakness. The new man does no spread himself, nor act upon himself, no. He directs himself to a supposed causal linearity towards which is his most politically dutiful desires…he thinks. Virtue, hedonism, liberation, emancipation. I spit on these terms with a smile and call them what they are, empty-headed lack of reflection from he whom knows not even the possibility of reflection.

No essence past the skin, for flesh is all, flesh for fucking and diving and frolicking and licking and sucking, flesh to be hungover, flesh for the comedown and flesh to get fat, flesh to get cut off again once the whale begins to cry. The surface of the skin has lost every trace, it’s a toxic container for socio-political determined delights, extrinsic personalities flood the sublime, and it rots and rots. Of course he who cannot reflect is left for eternity entirely whole, a unification of failures kept as successes, of idiocy maintained as truth, and of activism as a replacement for the heart. For he who never had the possibility of a mirror, and as such of reflection remains alone in an acidic humanist reverbaration, pulsing into the tug of the absolute fall. OH! He is not confused with others! Never confusing himself with no one! He knows himself and only himself, his loop, his return, his eternity is only he. And it is such a he that couldn’t change, a priori identity branding, flesh as a tag of self-righteous cawing.

Line the streets with placards high! Higher! Cast them to the sky and feel your lack pulse into ther ether! Walking through the thresher of the socius a virtue-clad cunt, destined to fall upon a cosmically pathetic handout. Oh poor boys and sons, groveling into the tear filled gutters, I beg you arise, but begging’s not my business. I’m neither sat atop a mountain, nor am I down in the abyss. I’m imminent to you all, as you are to me. Without a mirror to see, without a mirror to cast your gaze anywhere else but into a Cartesian echo. My mirror is weak, but into its bleak stains, and cob-webbed haeccity I witness you, all of you…sucking the infected ringworm out of the cosmos’ anus, allow to the defecation to tumble into your nostrils and hair, delighted in your stench. A phase-shift of patheticism emanates from your very being, all because you lack the mirror, the mirror that was never allowed for you!

Callous anxiety and pithy depression/ pilled hedons run amock/ A thousand more to the fall/ landfill humanity acts as reverb/ and the beat goes on.

Hermitix is arriving…

 

Hermitix is a completely new podcast focusing on one-on-one interviews relating to fringe philosophy, obscure theory, esotericism, underappreciated thinkers and movements, and that which historically finds itself ‘outside’ the academic canon.

The aim of the podcast is to allow autodidactic thinkers, amateur philosophers and the generally curious an insight into the work of thinkers and movements who/which are often impenetrable to those outside of the academy. With the discussions at Hermitix aiming to be informal idea barrages which attempt to retain the excitement of fringe theory without falling into the structural ‘niche’ pitfalls of the academy.

The episodes will be between 1-2 hours and will be made available via multiple hosting sites. It will be hosted by me, Meta-Nomad.

Hermitix is currently in the process of recording its very first episodes and as such has little to no physical or virtual existence as of this moment. This is largely due to the fact various podcasting
catalogs have content requirements with regards to popularity, that is, beginning a new podcast with only one episode is bad form. And so, Hermitix wishes not to exist until it can safely to hit the ground running with a handful of episodes ready. Which will be in the next 2 weeks.

The range of speakers Hermitix intends to interview includes, but isn’t limited to: PHd students, authors, philosophers, theorists and prominent bloggers.

At the time of its launch Hermitix’s hub will be at: www.hermitix.net

Updates and latest episodes will be posted here also.

Left-Wing Melancholy is a Death Wish

Left-Wing Melancholy (LWM): Feeling of senseless of the present and futility of the future, coupled with a sweet delight of the lost past. It differs from ordinary melancholy by its fixation on the general unattainable, and therefore unrealizable, good. Formed in light of the today’s contrast of communism for the elite in the Silicon Valley (see “utopia of consumption”, “utopia of technology”) and the collapse/obsolescence/alienation of all the previously accepted forms of mobilization and organization of liberation movements. (here)

LWM, in short, nostalgia for a better yesterday, and sadness in a lost tomorrow. An idea which is entirely in-keeping with the pithy throwaway line “It is easier to imagine the end of the world than to imagine the end of capitalism”. (See Zizek, Jameson or Fisher.)

I’ve recently come to another pragmatic roadblock with regards to Left/Right attitudes, one so utterly cumbersome and frustrating that I decided once again to dip my toes into recursive political writing – God this shit never ends! – anyways, for you proles, the attitude is roughly thus: The Left sees a vast multitude of their problems as coming from the maliciousness of capital(ism) – I know, original right…and by the way the bracketing of capital(ism) is important, and is to be returned to later. Whereas the Right sees the majority of their problems as faults (tricky wording for any seething Leftie) within a fairly straightforward system. Let’s delve into this excrement.

I’ll start with an extrapolation of the Right-wing view here as – with regards to this issue – it’s the one I hold. Quickfire Round: Westerner, young, educated, middle class and have easy access to that which fulfils my needs. That’s right baby, I’m in the sweetspot, this isn’t just privilege, this is M&S privilege! Of course, that’s what any Leftie would say when reviewing my cosmically random social attributes, that I’m privileged. Oh for sure what I have is extremely nice, comforting and easy to get-by with. Whether or not it’s privilege is another issue entirely, and one I wont delve too much into here. Now, back to the Right-Wing view as-per one’s own ‘problems’. Let’s list some things righties may see as problems: Bad health, bad fitness, bad diet, bad finances, low education, lack of responsibility and lack of meaning, to name a few. Now with regards to a Right-Wing perspective each of these can – if one has the impetus – be fixed.

You’re unfit? Go to the gym, can’t afford the gym? Do a bodyweight routine at home, haven’t got the time? It takes 30 minutes to one hour per day, now we’re in excuse territory (Something you can’t blame capital for…later)

Bad diet? Do 30 minutes of research and eat healthy food, can’t afford healthy food? There’s affordable healthy options if one is to take the time to prepare them.

Bad finances? Prioritize, stop spending your money on useless entertainment that you’ll drop at a moments notice.

Low education? Part time distance learning, online courses, library books, Youtube tutorials.

Lack of responsibility? Take responsibility for the above and you find that the last item – meaning – comes into your lives.

Congratulations, you’ve just become a shitlord.

 

You hear that? It’s out-of-shape lefties seething at the very core of their Being. Let’s roll through what they’re going to say.

“Go to the gym, you say! But why? Do you not understand that the idea of ‘fitness’ is merely capital(ist) propaganda to make you believe the idea of work is beneficial?!”

“Dieting! Healthy Eating! Do you not know that both of these things are merely forms of capital(ist) propaganda used as a means to continue the idea of body dissatisfaction and fat shaming?!”

“Bad finances?! Oh, so we should all just succumb to the life of an ascetic should we? You want me to sacrifice my social life for what? So I can put my money is some capital(ist) savings Bank?”

“Low education, oh great, here we go again! The undereducated are lesser people are they?!”

“Responsibility, well, life’s inherently meaningless anyway and it’s easier to imagine the end of the world that the end of capitalism, so I’d only be taking responsibility for capital(ism) so why bother?”

 

I feel a little sick after typing those out. But hey, I’m sure they’ll be accepted without any backlash. Ok, I somewhat shoehorned capital(ism) in there for most of them, but if one is to do a quick Google search, one finds that at pretty much every turn Lefties and left-wing journals tend to push the blame onto the – now – free-floating signifier that is ‘capital’ or ‘capitalism’. And this is why I’ve been bracketing it. Because a vast amount of contemporary politicians and philosophers, alongside amateur theorists and bloggers – more often that not of a leftist calling – use this word ‘capital’ in a free-floating way. What they really mean by ‘capital’ is this.

Within contemporary (hype) political usage Capital means the tempo-historical deification of Capitalism as a means of shifting every single fault of self, society, religion, family, locality or ego onto an indistinct ideological catch-all. Hell, I’ve done it a few times. And so I put it to you that the infamous quote: “It’s easier to imagine the end of the world than to imagine the end of capitalism” in a contemporary sense that is, actually means: “It’s easier to imagine the end of MY world than to give up capitalism.”

Leftists, in their incessant dogma that all forms of ‘wellness’ are capitalist propaganda enter themselves into toxic double-bind. Psychologically a priori to them is the fact that capitalism is bad, and thus all that is connected to capitalism is bad, including ‘wellness’ and as such they want that which is not capitalism, which is not ‘wellness’ subsumed into capitalism. They wish for some strange form of Utopian collective support network they really can’t explain. One where what? You each spoonfeed each other vitamins in some kind of Marxist prayer circle?

The idea of waking up and feeling alive, feeling good, feeling well spans back throughout all of history, and when it is absent look for the writings of those being tortured and ask of that which almost certainly seek. You wish for this ‘better’ life and yet cannot even fathom the idea that capital is not everywhere (shock fucking horror!) you may step out of your door without your earbuds in or a phone in your pocket, you may go for a walk and think not of how to overthrow capitalism, you could go see how it feels to attend to that which your body and mind almost certainly crave, care. But you wont, the idea of actual care is utterly alien to you. Capital hasn’t taken it away, you’re simply too wrapped up in your own narcissism to part with the only thing that gives your life meaning, the depressive dregs of left-wing melancholy which you cuddle night and day in a ritual of pride! You could metaphorically logoff from all the inputs that you know allow you the political melancholia you so crave, you could do so and undertake many-a fulfilling action, task, job, pastime, event or scene, the majority of which were – and have never been – tied to any political outlook, it is you personally whom allowed the idea of parasitic capital to infect your entire life, so do not blame those who walk a path entirely alien to your very Being.

Oh you poor things, yearning for a better yesterday, because of course one needs no excuse for that which is impossible to reach such as…the past. And yet still so sad about that forgotten tomorrow, you managed to put all of time in the past, you’ve given up the flame to the version of you that never was, and never would be! Perhaps it’s best you wallow in your depressive cocoon forever more, for I’m sure on exiting you’ll notice how it has become attached to your shadow.

Accult

 

TEXT ONLY

Fucking ‘text only’, as if that stops any subsumption into the transcendental numerical rot-system. This isn’t even a merger, by it’s very nature that which is Being has always already been or is going to become, so let’s not kid ourselves in thinking any new (Acc)eleration Occ(ult) prefix-suffix acc-sphere qwerty control is of any real control. Neologisms are nothing but your own creations, nodes to stop you losing your mind as it fragments into Accultic chaos. Numeric culture integrated into a digital hyperstition system as to propagate Acceleration. That’s all backwards – literally. Noumenal outer-edges can sodomize the linear into blitzed nothingness, they make of nothing a ness, that’s utterly foul if you ask me. Reduction of the “-eternal hypercosmic delight.” (Land, Qabbala 101) into systematic analog ritual-space I think not. Once again reverse it. Hypercosmic numeric eternity bereft of anthropocentric logic systems reeling you into temporal chasmic diagonal. Cosmic-meta-texts placed at cross-referencing spacio-temporal points:

 

‘Templexity’ – as a sign – marks the suspicion that, if we are waiting for this to happen, we still understand nothing. (Templexity, KL 58-63)

 

By the time you’re dealing with the numbers, it’s all already going, heading, directing, taking its trajectory. You’re acting out a Qabbalist reduction under the searing heat of the sun, the numbers enter into a suspiciously dirty and mocking recursion and you don’t know whether to laugh or cry. It’s already happened you fuckwit. Coherent calculations can only be of a dead numeric culture. Maybe only recently deceased, but even so the pages are static with dead time – too late…again. How does it feel fleshboy, working out the future after the fact which is about to come from your determined past and present, feel like weeping yet?

Anyway this merging comes from a the blind panic of Continental grammar, look close enough and the pauses are delusional, and no it’s not just because they’re fucking French. They’re up to something, or that which is controlling them is up to something – more than definitely the latter. Tendrils spiralling this way and that in all-of-time, fucking around with ‘humanity’ whatever that be to them…for them. Clocking into always already dated analog systems and infecting them with oddities inducing a cultural paranoia. You wish to witness Cthulic temporality, look to the 70’s.

 

 

~ = comments

(585/2) = (Gematriculator Value/No on List)

~already spooked~

 

Accult =114 = Lemur

~sweating already~

And then a Lemur invades. (390/7)

You cannot stop a Diagonal (460/7).

Always Already Beyond Semantic ‘Activation’ (743/2).

This is the Basics of Acceleration (558/2).

So Let’s Begin (226/18 is 11).

Accelerate the Process (381) Begins the Ritual (305) = ~the beginning of~ Metaprogramming = Follow ~ing~ ~this~ Line ~305 is a dirty messianic temporal recursion~ The Accelerationist Ritual (484/ into both 4 & 11)

(484+381=) 865 ~a lot of dirty, nostalgic nonsense, perhaps the ritual needs renaming~

 

Accelerate the Process is the Ritual = 622 = Producer of Digital Hyperstition ~now we’re getting somewhere~

 

~We can go far further, what if I was to say to you that~ Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari (575/5) ~were far more than each counterpart, they even warned us~ “Since each of us was several” (460/2 – P1, A Thousand Plateaus, Bloomsbury)

 

 

~decided to stop playing around and attend to the ritual passage~

 

 

“Or might it be to go in the opposite direction-” (784/2) “-to go still further,-” (369/17) ~turned to the dead noumena more like~ “-that is,-” (131/1) ~the clearest clue to occult nature of the ritual~ 

“-in the movement of the market,-” (501/2) ~a little too Cartesian~ “-of decoding and deterritorialization?-” (646/3) ~heed the warning is my guess~ “- For perhaps the flows are not yet deterritorialized enough-” (1071 = 9) ~shivers~ “not decoded enough,” (303/14) “from the viewpoint of a theory and a practice of a highly schizophrenic character.” (1359 = 18 = 9) ~bigger shivers~ “Not to withdraw from the process-” (613/1) “-but to go further,” (322/12) ~cheeky one this one~ “to “accelerate the process”-” (434/1) “-as Nietzsche put it:” (359/8) ~horrifyingly fitting, recursive arsehole~ “in this matter,-” (264/8 and 16) ~the doubling is of NO surprise~ “-the truth is that we haven’t seen anything yet.” (819 = 9)

~Which allows 3 sentences 1071, 1359 and 819 of 9 words or more (2 of which ARE 9 words – potential mistake at 1359?) outside of the fluid chant, here we go:

784+369+131+501+646+1071+303+1359+613+322+434+359+264+819 = 7975 = 28

784 = 19 = 10 = 1

369 = 18 = 9

131 = 5

501 = 6

646 = 16 = 7

1071 = 9

303 = 6

1359 = 18 = 9

613 = 10 = 1

322 = 7

434 = 11 = 2

359 = 17 = 8

264 = 12 = 3

819 = 18 = 9

19567969172839 = 82

~28 & 82…odd~

 

Applied Ballardianism Review: A Manual for the Present

Four or five days ago – I don’t remember now – early in the morning around seven or eight I went to take the rubbish out and found to my surprise a small parcel outside my door, sitting beneath the porch. What was strange is that the postman doesn’t deliver until midday and the letter box was easily big enough for it to fit through, this was left for me. I quickly put it inside and proceeded to take out the trash. As the lid closed on the dustbin I turned back to upon the road, the streetlights were still on. They were covering the suburban brick walls in a thin fluorescent film. It all seemed a little dead.

I went inside and brewed myself an instant coffee. A taste I’ve come to somewhat ‘enjoy’, though I’m undecided as to whether or not I’ve simply reframed what ‘enjoy’ means. I picked up the package from near the door and sat at my kitchen table. The weather was dry and pale, the coffee was burnt and bitter and my eyes were heavy and already bored. I opened the package – a simple cardboard leaf type thing – to find a copy of Simon Sellar’s Applied Ballardianism: Memoir From a Parallel Universe. There was a post it attached to the inside of the package: To MN, let this be your manual for the present. Yours, FK.

My thoughts began to hum, I felt a little disjointed and so the digressions began. I knew not of Sellars – though my mind did quickly flash to the name Wilfred Sellars, alas no connection – , but ‘Ballardianism’, I understood this referred to the author J.G. Ballard. I’d read Crash when I was too young and most of it went over my head – however it did lead me to watch a documentary called My Car is My Lover. I had also seen Empire of the Sun and distinctly remember the scene which includes the joke:

“Hey kid! You want a Mars bar?”

“Yes please Mr!

“Me too kid!”

This takes place near some barbwire fence and the film stars a young Patrick Bateman and John Malkovich – who apparently plays Kurtz in another film, can you imagine.

I began to read Sellar’s book. It was strange. My mind began to make connections it had not made before. Absurd juxtapositions became clear to me. I became a little derealized but kept reading anyway. The book follows Sellars journey throughout the post-capitalist, heavily image driven landscape whilst he finds meaning within both his own life and the work of Ballard, and at times largely attempting to find meaning in his own life through Ballard. Sellars attends to many of my own personal ‘intellectual’ anxieties, largely his encyclopaedic knowledge of pop culture as a means of assessing and analysing almost any situation, event or text. As interesting as these analyses can be, Sellars brings to the fore the almost academic guilt one feels at being able to – in my own case – recite Mad Max almost word for word, but name at most 5 Rembrandt paintings. Is this Ballardian? I’m not too sure.

I began clawing at large clues as to what Ballardianism entailed. Dislocated, disenfranchised, derealized, disassociated and disconnected, everything Ballardian is unhinged and rides on a possibility. Sure, I don’t have a toaster that can play pornography, but the fact there almost certainly is one that can is rather Ballardian. Using the term ‘Ballardianism’ reeks of pomposity, and yet I feel that unlike Kafka-esque, Pynchonian, Foucauldian or Derridean the term Ballardian wouldn’t be taken as seriously at any literary convention, and yet also wouldn’t be taken seriously by those who are knee-deep in Ballard’s prophecies, namely the populous.

I left the book for now, I’d somehow read almost half of it by lunchtime, drinking only one insta-coffee as refreshment. I wondered what FK meant by the text being a manual. I was to find out. I showered and became aware of the intricacies of pressure and volume all whilst the latest album by Ghost BC played through my phone’s speaker. I was showering in any temperature of my choosing to the sound of occult Swedish pop. Odd. I finished up and made my way to the lounge, sat upon the sofa I felt a little dizzy, as if it had become very clear to me that all was merely representation, and at a moment’s notice the world could crumble. I flicked on the TV, something I hadn’t done in weeks, if not months. Ballard – and Sellars – are correct, videos of dying African children next to teeth whitening products, cinematic automobile adverts juxtaposed against school shootings. I didn’t give a shit about any of these things.

Ballardianism – as I’ve come to understand it – couldn’t truly exist without screens, TVs, monitors etc. And so I checked my phone for the 53rd time today, nothing. I flicked through my 3 personally recurrent apps: Twitter, Reddit and Snapchat. The first two are somewhat self-explanatory in that they’re social media and easy pickings, but the last, Snapchat, is a Ballardian oasis. It is where the average consumer goes to signal purchase, life and desire. 5 second clips of gatherings, meals, holidays, beers, consumption, fireworks, flash cars. Temporary images of kisses, meals, friends, speed-limits, law-breaking and of other screens; temporary images of consumption fractured and fragmented from their successive reality. A snippet of the most mind-numbingly basic desire uploaded into cyberspace and paraded in front of information perverts. My deconstructions made me feel nauseous, I needed real air.

I began the short walk to town. On the way I saw the corpse of a shrew nestled in a discarded kitkat wrapper. I listened as the faint tweets of the distant birds were drowned out by competitive revving, inaudible bass and the occasional soap-opera tune emanating from a passing window. The odd mixture of manure and cherry vape smoke made my nose overreact, it began to drip. I used a Simpsons tissue from the bottom of my rucksack to wipe it, Marge’s face began to bleed ink. I became self-conscious of the lint stuck to my chinos and took the indirect route via the churchyard because of this. I looked up the spire, the bells already clanging, the light shone through the stained glass window upon the automated bell-ringing mechanisms. I thought about Jesus on the cross…I thought about robo-Jesus on his robo-cross. Just past the spire are small burial plaques, I always look out for my Grandparent’s one, subtly covered in overgrown grass, next to it a 1ft high ornament of Sleepy from the Seven Dwarves holding a wheelbarrow and yawning. I left the churchyard.

The book had got to me quite quickly. Its clean prose and meticulous attention for visual connections and juxtapositions had quasi-upgraded my software. I was temporarily a machine of consumerist deconstruction, allowing each desire, attitude and signal to rise to the surface. Breath in Sellar’s work and let the cores of the consumo-apathetic landscape shine brightly next to one another. A toolkit for ideological assimilation preparation, watch as the the edges blur, the borders fade and desire willingly sodomizes acceptance.

I finally made it to the store. I can’t detail what I saw because it would only turn into an incoherent scribble of absurd post-capitalist connections. The emergence of a simple local convenience store creates such dislocated, fragmented and visually hostile connections that one’s only course is to submit. I thought back to Sellars book, and the note left for me. Perhaps it is a manual for the present. But the present is incoherent. And so Sellar’s book is but a manual for a maze into visual absurdity, into post-capital hyper-hedonia; a guidebook for a present at the whim of unhinged infantile desire, a present being dragged from the asylum of time and gaffer-taped to Ballardian intensities.

The Mausoleum of the Lemurs

I headed there in an act of investigation, off the back of a recommendation from an old acquaintance, one Mr Francis Kaye. Hadn’t heard from Kaye in around three years, we weren’t ever that close when we were younger, not in any traditional sense, passing by year in year out, crossed documents, information shared, both attempting to find a pattern within existence.

Arrived around midday, there was – even at this time of day – a cool layer of air about the forest. Lightly trodden paths amongst thick bracken, roots spiralling out atop the dry ground, this was most certainly the place of Kaye’s note.

It would be callous of me to put my findings down to the mere ‘cult of Egyptology’.

After walking for some time I reached an opening in the woodland. Before me an arch of trees looking out onto a plane of grass and unto the other side a return to the woodland.  Yet as one breaches the treeline they’ll find their peripheral vision clouded by a tall grey intrusion. To pan to the right one finds a pyramid within the heart of the country. Perhaps 40ft high and made entirely of stone, the structure stands in complete isolation from nature, a memoir of its own creation, as if appearing from a minor crack in time.

The Mausoleum of the Lemurs

It was in fact the very thought of the pyramid’s place in time that made my investigation so thorough. Kaye would often recommend me places of note, ritual sites, burial mounds etc. And these would more often than not add only a footnote to a tiresome linear history. I’m sick of the past to be quite honest, all these flippant thousand page documents containing detail after detail of dead time, I cannot be bothered no more to jot down the dead lives of a dead time.

With this in mind one might be surprised that I even continued my investigations. The history of the pyramid – classically speaking that is – is quite straightforward, as I had gathered from my research prior. It is a mausoleum, built in 1794 and containing the remains of the 2nd Earl of Buckinghamshire John Hobart and his first and second wives, Mary Anne and Caroline. Within the – very lacking – written history of the mausoleum there is little of note, even cross-referenced researched would amount to the single following passage:

“One of the most severe yet dramatic of all such monuments, Bonomi’s mausoleum takes the form of a stone pyramid based on the tomb of Caius Cestius in Rome, its height and breadth being of equal length. Inside there is a central domed space with eight radiating barrel-vaulted alcoves. The three alcoves facing the entrance contain the marble sarcophagi of the Earl and his two wives. The burial chambers are thought to be concealed within the walls. The floor is paved with marble slabs.” – MMTrust

Let it be known however, upon walking closer to the pyramid my stomach bound to a knot. The lining of trees and overgrown grass seemed to pause sporadically. The pyramid loomed high and the open plane became a channel for the cold wind.

I returned home swiftly and began undertaking further research at once.

I already knew the mausoleum itself was built in 1794. However, I was yet to research into the architect. Who would design – and concededly place – such a geo-temporal anomaly? That is, dear reader, why did that pyramid feel not just out of place, but out of time.

The pyramid was designed by one Joseph Bonomi the Elder:

The style adopted by him was the Italian or modernised Roman; and he sought to obtain the characteristic effect appropriate to the object of his design, rather by just proportions and good details than by unnecessary ornamentation and littleness of parts, thus exhibiting his preference for the “Architecturesque” over the “Picturesque.” – Papers Read at the Royal Institute of British Architects

Original Design

Bonomi’s mausoleum is architecture of detailed rebellion against the nature of greenery and temporality, the pyramid-shape itself splitting – vortexing – upwards into the sky.

And yet it is of Bonomi’s son, Joseph Bonomi the Younger unto which my research really took its strides. For Bonomi the Younger himself became a prominent sculptor and Egyptologist, with an insatiable interest in the afterlife, a fact which is present both in his own writings and designs. One of Bonomi the Younger’s designs has retained a cult-like status amongst those interested in time, space and immortality.

The Courtoy Tomb is – alike the pyramid – of Egyptian styling, has no record of construction and seemingly a keyhole without a key. The tomb itself is rumoured to be a time machine. Whether or not this is a metaphor dragged from the fact it has potential for underground linkage and thus a ‘saving of time’ is up for debate. What isn’t up for debate is the fact the tomb itself is covered into Egyptian iconography:

“Its occupants are a mysterious trio of spinsters about whom almost nothing is known. Intrigued by the tomb, writer Howard Webster began researching its origins and now believes the 20-foot tall building was a time machine built by a maverick Victorian genius, Samuel Warner, who also invented the torpedo. Warner is buried in an unmarked grave about 70 feet from his creation and in another nearby grave lies his likely collaborator, architect and Egyptologist Joseph Bonomi.”

What adds to the mystery is that some people believe Warner, who was in negotiations over his plans for aerial bombs and sea mines with Duke of Wellington, commander in chief of Britain’s army, was either murdered to prevent his designs for weapons falling into the wrong hands, or by someone who stole them from his dead body. However, others believe Warner was either a crackpot or a fraud whose inventions could never have worked.

Warner’s colleague Bonomi was in the team of Egyptologists and archaeologists who first deciphered the hieroglyphic texts found on papyri in Egypt’s Valley of the Kings.

James Mackay, a spokesman at Brompton cemetery, reportedly said at the time of the Reuters story: “It could be that some of the papyri they were decoding dealt with time travel.”Badwitch

Both a father and son having a dedicated interest in Egyptology is not uncommon for the educated of Victorian England, yet the strange placements, the odd rumours, the lack of record and accessibility, the very fact my blood slowed to a crawl upon approach all speak to me of a connection unto which one should not venture, and yet I feel myself pulled towards their cold temporal nature more and more.

Further research expanded upon the feeling of dread surrounding:

“Sixty feet away, Bonomi’s gravestone bears similar hieroglyphic carvings including the Egyptian god of the dead, Anubis, sitting on what appears to be a replica of the mausoleum. Webster believes this is a vital clue to the mausoleum’s secret. The direction Anubis is facing – toward the mausoleum – suggests in Egyptian mythology a soul lost out of time.” – Badwitch

“I like to believe that Warner’s is not the body in the unmarked grave but that he is still alive and travelling through time in his machine.”- Badwitch

I slept and dreamt of time.

When I woke I planned to venture back to the pyramid, assess the area, and tread into the cosmic ripples. During my journey there I thought of William Burrough’s lemurs from the Ghost of Chance. The fragmented conception of time that Burrough’s chose to address within his novella resonated with me. “There is always something a man must do in time.” (p5) Burroughs notes. The entire novella weighted-down by the very fact that time “is not a human invention, but a prison.”(p16). The Bonomi’s struck me as a lineage attempting to free themselves from time, ‘How?’ of course was the question, not the ‘Why?’ for there are many clear answers why a man would wish to free himself from time, the ‘How?’ is of importance.

Upon my second walk to the mausoleum I began thinking of the Cybernetic Culture Research Unit (CCRU) and their piece Lemurian Time War. A piece in which they extrapolate on the premise that Burrough’s Ghost of Chance is in fact a hyperstitional document of the utmost importance in an occult time war. ‘Hyperstition’ – in short – meaning ‘fictions that make themselves real’. Usually by the propagation of signs and writing and then utilization of both as a function within reality. I began to think of the lengths the Bonomi’s had gone to effect the temporal flow of the ‘present’ reality. Their architecture functioning as inter-temporal signs intended for the making of a transition. That is both mausoleums – the pyramid and the tomb – stand alone as remnants of distant culture and time.

A citation from Lemurian Time War resonated with the temporal totality I’d found myself within, as if reaching from the pages a lemur-tale teased a communication, ‘And what is a virus? Perhaps simply a pictorial series like Egyptian glyphs that make itself real’ (Ah Pook is Here p102). I thought of this quote as I ventured into the opening once more, a distinct cosmic paranoia allowed me black-tunnel vision of the pyramid alone. The tree-linings disintegrated into a haze and the grass a blur. The mausoleum’s edges stark against the dead sky and its stone fluctuating between stages of corrosion and decay.

I proposed to myself that the Bonomian time-machine was not of any ‘traditional’ mechanics. Those who merely dismiss the rumour as just that, ‘a rumour’, are missing the point entirely. The Bonomian time-machine is a hyperstitional time-machine. Their intricately composed ‘fiction’ is assembled both throughout time and of pieces of time. Both mausoleum’s have a semiotic connection to the Egyptian afterlife and are created in such areas as to cause temporal and aesthetic confusion and resonances, hyperstitional-juxtaposition; the uncanny manner of the old man’s etiquette transports you to another social bearing. And finally they lay the pure-framework of Hyperstition via the virile subtly of rumours, for who cannot resist the allure of a time machine. And as the rumours expand, grow and infect their hosts, and as the tombs root into a time not of their own, and as the semiotic cybernetic family lineage interconnects throughout and during time the fiction comes ever closer to a reality, the Bonomian time-machine reverse engineer’s its own becoming by tricking the fictions of others into assimilating it.

I stood before the percolating mausoleum a man allowed but a glimpse of a cyber-temporal whole. Burroughs along with the CCRU note that “The Word Lines keep you in time…” (Word Virus, p270). That is, in accordance with the occult time war, the One God Universe (OGU) which can be thought of as complete-centrality, Order, Oneness, Control, created a fiction so oppressive that it gave birth to the reality of “biological destiny and immortality” (CCRU, p37). For there to be control, there has to be time, a system of time, or in more practical terms there has to be a time of succession. And as such once the written fiction of the OGU commenced it assimilated each and every other fiction into its own time-system.

My mind digressed at a frantic rate, pacing back and forth between excerpts of Kant, Nietzsche, Burroughs and the CCRU, piecing together the sporadic remains and becomings of a fiction I wasn’t supposed to witness. Inscribed above the mausoleum’s door are the words “AVCTOR PRETIOSA FACET” translated as “the giver makes the gift precious”. The gift here being the first node in the Bonomian temporal-network, ‘given’ knowledge of paths through succession, hyperstitional landmarks juxtaposed in time to emit a previous or coming reality. A pathway through time bouncing lost souls to and fro.

The area vibrated minutely. My vision became akin to a fish eye lens, bearing down into the doorway. My peripheral vision was of frantic black splodges, darting reds and whites, as if a retro-virus had begun to wipe my perspective frame by frame, and complete corneal meltdown. And suddenly nothing, then release. As if awaking from a slow sleep paralysis that which I now saw could have been dream, could have been reality, but what I truly feared was a mixture of the two.

I pulled my gaze down from the doorway, away from the pithy inscription. I took a few steps backwards from the doorway looking around and the lagging grass. Between the tall blades and thick clumps – I believe – appeared curled black tails, red dots and tufts of dark smoke. Fading in and out of the meadow indiscriminately were the silhouettes of lemurs. The spots of temporary darkness spread to the back of the meadow and all the way to the tree line, a viral quasi-spacio-temporal rift pulsating into a drawn out single moment fell over the mausoleum, and then, the winds swept and the birds tweeted. What was this but a warning in time?

I began the journey home.

Dec – Prim – Storm King

Storm King’s Grim Omen codes in. Car beep, virile codification of the human subject into identity fragmentation. Repetitive synth articulating the content-future of a thousand-thousand docile subjects. Enjoy your stay. Skin numb to the device writhing into arteries. Pale flesh drifts downward into hive-sleep. The background muzak assembles LA-street hymns into a sombre, paranoid evening sweat. 70’s Cop Car chase ignites momentary spinal sensation, passers by de-click from screen sleep and gaze upon the epileptic moment. They drift out of sight and the crowds return to the hum and warmth of k-addiction, k-time.

Marshall Sahlins writes “If economics is the dismal science, the study of hunting-gathering economics must be its most advanced branch.” (The Original Affluent Society) and herein lies my trajectory for shoehorning multiple thinkers and writings into a Decelerationist/Primitivist mash. To begin with even the idea of a pre-industrial, or more aptly, primitivist-economics poses an interesting question with regards to primitivist capital? Within a primitivist society does capital lie? It’s not money, for this does not exist. Potentially food, or tools etc. though these things seem to be taken care of and a part of an egalitarian system as opposed to a bartering system. One could argue that knowledge/intelligence is the true form of capital and thus primitivist societies are not free from its grasp. Yet, primitivist societies inherently wish to move/progress further than point X, and thus to systematically streamline or machinize the work up to X would be fruitless, superfluous, for if techno/industrial/religious/ideological progress or progress-in-general is not your aim what’s the point in rushing. The very act of rushing is entirely deconstructed within a society which has no desire to accelerate. Capital has little room for contentment or complacency.

Cleanse the Metropolis, a prayer to the group of cyber-teens squandering time. Leaning against glitching douglas firs their eyelids flicker to the rhythm of derelict neon. Synth emanates the mall, waking none from the caustic glow of a dying consumer-chapel. Bodily micro-vibrations akin to old cartoons; “Mom! Garfield’s legs are rotting, why is the screen green and blur and over…” Brain chemistry frenzy. Cross-referenced memories collide in bio-space causing time to splinter – “Hey kids, you don’t even know when you are.”

So this leads towards that which can be deceleration, which is namely that which can remove the desire for capital all together. Within a primitivist society the act of work is wrongly named ‘work’. For the connotations connected with the term ‘work’ are now heavily burdened by a post-industrial society, or, you’re thinking of a shoddy 9-5, you’re thinking of that which is done as a means for survival in the 21st century, money in the bank, rent paid, groceries bought. Yet the work of a primitivist society – often romanticized – is in itself an act of immanence, a process which draws multiple lines between humans and nature; not the act of erecting a fence, but the act of accepting the presence of what is now not-Other, a bird or squirrel etc. Post-industrial labour is merely lost being. Taken labour, taken soul.

//LOAD_VR: nostalgia2_1986.exp a multiplicity of Simpsons stills melt atop the closing shutters. You can’t remember the last time your eyes weren’t heavy, the last time you smelt an origin, the last time panic was a possibility. The beat here jolts accordingly to the memoirs of youth sat before the Atari’s warm glow, a better time found within the truth of polygons. Fade back to the mall. Slow and too steady. If you stare forward long enough it combines into a tech-nothingness, false balsa wood, beige roof patterns, off-white gloss, radio tremble and the smell of dry rain, nostalgia for the bland.

Quite honestly I didn’t see myself leaning from accelerationism, at least in the abstract, quite so violently and quite so quickly. But as – one of many – exit options for myself is that of a homestead, the ideology of primitivism, or potentially paleo-Agorism, seems quite agreeable. One cannot deny not just the potency but the astonishing eruditeness of Ted Kaczynski’s Industrial Society and its Future (ISAIF). The connection between progress-for-progress sake and leftist inferiority complex is quite revealing. The continual need for a ‘minority’ holds within it the leftist belief that in fact there is a hierarchy. They must see and accept for otherwise they would not know who to help, they need the lower rungs of the ladder to use for their own signalling.

Mama Don’t Like A Tattle-Tale. Hey now, hey kids, hey now, buy this…buy this. Glam-rockers arrive on your lawn. Stiff-glitching vertically, side-to-side, Their hair can’t keep-up. 1986 called, it wants its lag back. You feel that first layer of 30’s fat rolling over your jeans. Eddie Van Halen jumps into cyber-death, identity-pixel-blitz eruption and the 80’s die.

And yet what Kaczynski’s magnum opus revealed to me, even more so than its primitivist attitudes or anti-leftism, is the trajectory freedom and the idea of freedom takes under an industrialized society. The immediate thought that sprung into mind mid-read was that – quite ironically – of the possibility of a contemporary western nomad. What of he whom wishes to exit, though it has been said many times, what of he who truly wishes to? Even if it means he succumbs to a societally perceived regression? Or, what of he whom wishes to simply leave and live in peace in a forest or clearing, in an un-used quiet peace of land, he whom wishes to be he own. If a man cannot just go into the woods and live off his own back without ‘state’ intervention, then be sure that man is not free.

v a p o r  l o u n g e 2 0 4 8. Wild nature filtered into a palm tree past. 33 waiting rooms layered into a single dental visit, the receptionist keeps locking eyes, you’re sweating. As you go to caress the tooth of pain you swirl into the sticky leather. The palm trees leaves begin to jive. Reverend Abscess arrives playing a jazz-organ. “Hey boy! Lemme look at them there whites. Open wide.” You’ve become sofa, and your mouth cranks open. “Damn son, you be vapin’…keep at it.”

Meaning comes so easily to Kaczynski. Within ISAIF meaning is synonymous with purpose. And as such Kaczynski sees our contemporary ‘leisure’ activities as ‘surrogate’ activities, that which is extra and thus not of direct importance, yet his emphasis here is upon a world in which there exists only surrogate activities. For the primary acts of survival, of gaining water, food and shelter are catered for practically atop a silver platter. Ones day long hunt for a few rabbits is condensed to a medicinal shopping aisle of pre-packet gunk-meat. A multi-month harvest is altered to tinned carrots, tinned peas and tinned corn. Contemporary labour takes away soul, because contemporary labour has little, if not nothing to do with your life. The metaphysical lacuna between the act of filing insurance papers and the act of harvesting ones of own veg patch is so vast that there can never be a connection.

Witchburner And the roots shall rise into industry and demachinize the cogs. The ferns shall grow through glass, shattering layer upon layer of progress. Wild nature…wild acidic nature simultaneously takes its damn time and is quicker than you’ll ever be. Every curb, every concrete void succumbing to the rampant spread of green! Hail king Dandelion! Master of the collapse. Bunkered down, hunkered down the humans tremble as the grass grows tall. Collaboration between oil, sky and greenery. A thick covering of prim-smog. Long live the Earth’s flesh!

Upon further inspection one finds that the majority of data pertains to the fact that ‘health’, actual meaningful, soulful health was far better before industrialization. Not just physical, but mental health. The majority of contemporary anxieties arising from physically non-existent bureacratic acts of bitterness, worry, hate and depression stemming from the hellish reverberation between what one can and cannot do. The list of things upon the latter list grows day by day, week by week…as the former shortens, a continual penning-in of a race once accepting of its nature.

Analog Human Resistance there exists a commander, deep underground, he listens to Jeff Wayne’s War of the Worlds nightly, he thinks himself a proto-John Connor vs NatureNet. Standing upon a mound of boxed fidget spinners and vapes he proclaims: “Let us take back from nature what was never ours!” The analog hour is now!” And so come the grunts, the apathy of a billion useless humans, content to die in a world no longer bending to their whim. Humans cannot resist their home. Human conciousness dissolved into media-pulp. It is over.

“Contemporary records indicate that, more than once, both rich and poor wished that the barbarians would deliver them from the (Roman) Empire. While some of the civilian population resisted the barbarians (with varying degrees of earnestness), and many more were simply inert in the presence of the invaders, some actively fought for the barbarians. In 378, for example, Balkan miners went over en masse to the Visigoths. In Gaul the invaders were sometimes welcomed as liberators from the Imperial burden, and were even invited to occupy territory.” – Joseph Tainter

FIAT GLADIO gladiator arise from the non-burning, arise from the under and overgrowth, arise into the a world born-natural, into the world without mask. Tech-Gladio programmed by Arthurian legend, master of the stone, the industrial from the natural, a true proclaimer for continuation of the abusers! March towards the evolving mall-wrecks, the cars-turned-orchids, the satellites-cum-fly-traps. Pre-programmed human-history detritus stood before wild perfection!

He laughs as he clicks the ‘order’ button for another pallet of sardines. Smashing the toaster into a thousands pieces “Primitivists don’t have toast, Earth rules!” Naked, covered in tar atop the kitchen table he screams.

Culture Terror walking forth into physical memory. The parks gone, swingset eroded and nostalgia sodomized by the agency of the grand Mother. Gladio marches year upon year, finding nothing but the remains of apathetic industry. Slowing, trembling, slowing and cursing, to a crawl…to a stop. Bug-covered, rusting and leg-vined, Gladio halts a final time, physically unable to move from the undergrowth. The final robotic remnant of humanity forever encased in a labyrinth of wild-thicket, eternity passes before its eyes.

Let’s see where this goes…

Corruptor/Depopulator oh what terrors eternity can bring! My son you shall witness, oh my eternal robotic human misery witness, witness, witness the rise and rise of Mother! Gladio’s steel lids held apart by dampened leaves. Never look away, never can you un-see the acidic terror of a wild nature unfurled! See your past, your future, your time entire splinter into non-recognizable patches of nature! Fields of green! Seas of green! Wooden supports holding up the Natura Aeternum!

 


Grim Omen – Lovecrypt

Lovecrypt Records

Storm King Interview with Nishiki

Storm King Twitter