META-NOMAD

Cosmic Bemusement: On the Red Pill

“They lived in a cramped two-bedroom apartment above a cybercafe near the University of Toronto. Since No. 9 was out of town, I put my bags in his room and joined Mystery in the kitchen. Patricia had broken up with him, for good this time. And he’d been staying in his room a lot, playing a video game called Morrowind and downloading lesbian porn. Getting out of the house for these upcoming workshops would be good therapy for him.” – The Game – Neil Strauss

Around the age of 16-17 I fell directly into the demographic utterly primed and ready to read ‘The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists’. I was young, extremely online, nerdy, loved to research things and enjoyed video games, as such, a book which would explain and deconstruct the techniques of how to get women to me was of course an almost biblical event. For those of you who haven’t read it, or don’t really know what it’s about, well, it follows ‘Style’ (Neil Strauss) as he enters the work of ‘pickup’ (how to pickup women) and seemingly goes from beta to alpha, though arguably this isn’t the case. Anyway, it was actually an extremely important book for me. Hell, me and some of my friends followed this thing like it was practically biblical scripture for around a year. One friend even invited 26 women into a Facebook group chat and messaged them “Who fancies going on an adventure!?”. Damn, I remember one distinct time where I was being dragged around a bar with a duplicate card in my pocket so I could wing-man my friend with his pithy magic tricks. Yes I did pull, and so did he.

 

Opened my eyes to the fact others are viewing the work from entirely alien perceptions, made me realize how transparent things can be/become and ultimately made me find some authenticity within myself a little more. This was my first, very minor taste, of the ‘Red Pill’. “Wait, what’s the Red Pill?” Where you been, living under a rock?

 

“Because there’s truth in the red pill. Because men are realizing that the sexual marketplace has shifted away from what we’ve been taught. Men who grew up over thirty years ago are discovering the world has changed. Men who are still growing up- from the 80s, 90s, and even the last decade, they’re starting to realize that what their parents taught them, what television and chick flicks taught them, what church and sunday school taught them… it’s all wrong.” – (Here)

So I took a few years away from ‘game’ or ‘pickup’, I mean, I still ran a lot of the shit when I went out, I mean hell…it worked! And that was the problem, it was a real ‘kids with dynamite’ situation. Here I was a 18-20 something with not much life experience, who by chance stumbled across some text, which when applied fairly rigorously gives at least seemingly noticeable results. Was I banging hundreds of chicks? No. I didn’t go out that much, I was still a nerd. Was I way more successful with women than before? Hell yes. And much of it’s stuck, but in a good way now, but I’ll get to that. Anyway, yes, kids with dynamite. I’d get these girls, fuck around for a few weeks and then realize I was basically challenging myself to do all this, to prove to God knows who that I even could do it. So I ended up stuck in multiple situations in which I just could not emotionally handle the end result. I.e. I wasn’t really interested, not really. I just wanted to prove to myself I could, and I did and well…that was that.

So I took a couple more years out from ‘pickup’, I actually had a fairly long relationship during this period of my life. Wait. Long for me…7 months. But I didn’t really go to-and-fro nor put myself out there much. I was focused on drinking and more drinking at this juncture. Anyway, push came to shove with the drinking phase, boy, this must have been around 4 years ago now. I’ve occasionally crumbled and had a few weeks binge, but my interest in the sauce is gone. (That said, I’m still wary of it, I do have some sort of problem. Perhaps I’ll write about this at some point?) So I began to sort myself out. Note: This coincides with when I found the right-wing. And no, this is not a coincidence, there is correlation.

So I began on that oh so typical path of self-improvement, one which I’m still on as many of you know. But of course in the early stages this meant regaining confidence, strength, vigor, game etc. and so I was lead back to the sphere of pickup. But this time I began with the more fundamental texts, the hard-hitting Red Pill stuff, the bitter as hell stuff. The reading list was as follows:

No More Mr Nice Guy – Robert Glover. I actually still like this book, it’s important and I’ll cover why later.

Models – Mark Manson. Once again, I like this one too, if you want to read a good book on game, get this one.

The Rational Male – Rollo Tomassi. Here we go…

 

So, The Rational Male is a fairly dense, analytical and highly – you guessed it – rational book. On first read those men who feel they’ve been neglected, or treated unfairly by society with regard to women etc. find this book almost revelatory, a religious experience. Their eyes are opened and all that is true regarding the biological and socio-political structures which are from women controlling them, are revealed. I wont go into them here, their very long and very dry. Hypergamy is the main one. Which is the shorthand for stating that women select, or are constantly selecting the best possible mate with regard to social status.

Hypergamy doesn’t care that you had a bad day.”

Hypergamy doesn’t care that you enjoy eating food.”

“Hypergamy doesn’t care that you lost all your limbs.”

“Hypergamy doesn’t care that you’re a Shoggoth.” etc etc.

So it’s all this kind of thing, very analytical and very ‘proof’ or social proof heavy. Whatever, if that’s your deal, that’s your deal. I have little against any of these authors personally, but something really does irk me about this whole thing.

See, I first noticed it after one of the first clear Red Pill fragmentations. Where a load of Red Pill guys – at least this is my understanding of the situation – thought the whole thing was a little too female-centric and started a movement called ‘Men Going Their Own Way’ (MGTOW). What I noticed was that much like ‘post-modernism’ MGTOW was ‘always already’ tethered to that which it so despised, namely women. (Which I don’t despise by the way, I haven’t the time, nor patience for such bitterness. And if my old ‘pickup’ pals are reading this and wincing, cringing or weeping, good, fuck off and grow up.) So, basically MGTOW is trying to say that their going to focus their lives solely on a path away from women…hmm OK, so how does that look?

“Hey! Look at me doing X…without women.”

“Hey! I’m working out…in spite of women!”

“Hey! I made myself a great lunch…something to do with women.”

You can see where this is going. My point being, and this is the large, cantankerous point of this whole write-up is this. Red Pillers, if you’re so above all ‘this’, if you’re so woke, wise and unplugged, if you’re living the way you want and improving oh so much, why do you focus/return almost every facet of your entire back/with regard to women? You lift to impress women and improve your status. You read for the same reason. You work, climb, eat well, run, intellectualize and generally self-improve not for your self, but for some collective female self you’ve created. Just one more rep and finally you’ll be free of the great vaginal burden you have to carry!

See, Red Pillers note that the major problem of society at current is the ‘feminine imperative’:

 

“The Feminine Imperative is that when a woman follows her pussy, it should have good results for her, and if it does not have good results for her, it is the fault of some dastardly man and not an indication that women are too childish and irresponsible to be allowed to follow their pussies.

Whenever illicit female sexual desires lead to illicit acts which have bad consequences, those consequences are deemed to be the fault of men, and it is the duty of men to make female sexual desires come out with good consequences for the woman, even if it means bad consequences for the man. Man up and marry those sluts!” – blog.jim.com

 

So where am I going with this? Well, and I might put a lot of this down to my recent forays with Egoism, but largely I see all of these strange focuses, neuroses and emphases as personal oddities and delusions. That’s not to say I’m not sympathetic to an argument regarding the ‘feminine imperative’ no, once again, this wouldn’t be the point I’m trying to get at. My point would be that all this time and energy spent reading book after book and blog post after blog post on game, PUA, red pill etc. seems to be fuel to the fire which is burning your house of masculinity down.

“Why do women – supposedly – ruin everything?”

“Well, why do you keep reading shit about women ruining everything? Christ dude, get a fucking hobby.”

All this – somewhat truthful and helpful – human-centered gunk about frame and confidence etc. in my opinion dissolves once such notions are based upon your readings and acceptance of another’s work. ‘Man, I’m so fucking confident! Look how confident I am applying paragraph 3C of Pussy Slaya V3!’

This is precisely why the words ‘cosmic bemusement’ are in the title. And sure, you can say ‘Well Meta, you drag everything to your dumbarse pseudo-nihilistic cosmic level and it all erodes’ and I’d say ‘Sure does!’. But this isn’t about that.

I am cosmically bemused at the fact that those who inhabit the Red Pill way of life center their lives around the very thing they proclaim to hate. That such a group who are hyper-critical of X continue to gravitate every facet of their being, in some form, back to X. That such a group can seemingly conceive of no notion of life outside of X. I’m puzzled at their purpose, they wish to find meaning and yet they give it away at the first hurdle. ‘What would this mean to X?’, ‘How will this look for X?’ etc.

I see this as a larger form of societal, if not cosmic alienation (non-Marxian). It’s not men, nor women, nor people, not a collective which is trapped in some form, but is a general repression-of-the-spirit (non-Hegelian). Confidence is gone not through some strange socio-political, histo-cultural statistic, or enforcement or rule regarding only one factor of society no. There’s a multitude of factors culminating in the dampening and numbing of a general spirit. Yes, many modern men are afraid to approach women, but their also afraid to lift weight, work hard, eat cow heart, dance, act weird – and the same applies to women.

That’s sort of it, I haven’t much more to say on the Red Pill. It’s repetitive and I needed to get this out of my system.

 

Yours,

 

Beta-Nomad

Time-sink

In massively multiplayer online role-playing games (MMORPGs), time sinks are a method of increasing the time needed by players to do certain tasks, hopefully causing them to subscribe for longer periods of time. Players may use the term disparagingly to describe a simplistic and time-consuming aspect of gameplay, possibly designed to keep players playing longer without significant benefit. Time sinks can also be used for other gameplay reasons, such as to help regenerate resources or monsters in the game world. – Wikipedia

I’ve been thinking a lot about ‘time sinks’ lately. The definition above in relation to gaming is increasingly being expanded into the domain of reality, it’s a small splinter within modernity and complacence that allows one – if they so wish – to aim themselves at something of a greater horizon. Let me expand on a few common time-sinks. Gaming of course is one, binging a TV series, binging-consumption in general etc., but what makes these activities time-sinks as opposed to a way to spend time. Well, with gaming it’s fairly simple, the mechanics – as previously defined – are built in, there to hold you for the sake of holding you. Yet it is TV series where the time-sink really shows itself, if you allow it to. See, there’s little wrong with watching a series or show or presentation. That is of course if the choice was yours, you were indifferent to the rest and actively allowed a piece of media to traverse the drawbridge and be allowed reflection. The time-sink on the other hand is watching a TV series again and again for the sake of watching it again.

“I’ve seen [insert popular TV series here] at least 10 times!”

The problem is that you only really ever experience it once, and any repetitive viewing, gaming or reading is usually a melancholy attempt at retaining that initial escape and connection. Behind the time-sink is a mode of being wherein you begin to find other-things, other-experiences. Behind the useless thresher of empty-consumption, of controlled-time and rhythmically calculated frying of your amygdala is the lure of Outside. An Outside over nihilism, something more, perhaps not ever tenable in-itself, nor fully agreeable to oneself, but a mode outside of the thresher all the same. But how does this strangeness come about, wherein is it experienced?

You go to your box, your TV, your controller, your piece or thing or object or desire or lust or supposed lack, and you do what you do because you’ve always done this. You don’t understand why nor ever think of if there is such a why, you don’t question, you do…you are utility in spirit. You understand little but how to act in relation to a minor form of production, you are a combination of parts which all revolve around utilizing things with regard to larger combinations of things, you do do do all the live long day. Perhaps you should head behind, I shall write in a future post of ditching your smartphone, not as an anti-modernist feat, but simply because it is a time-sink. And so,

You lay down your phone, you turn off the TV and finally turn of the PC. Outside of these 3 things the majority of people no longer have any life. Bar their work and survival functions they have nothing else. They’re consumed by a feedback loop of regurgitated dopamine producing micro-stuffs. You turn these off, think for yourself, without these what do you have, what happens to the very concept of doing once common notions of ‘to do’ are removed? Most wont know, and I’m not saying I have any answers, but if there are any they most likely are within that odd space of nothingness which makes you feel nauseous at its very reality.

Maybe you’d get around to reading that lengthy book you’ve been meaning to start, or begin learning some hobby, go see an old friend, go…I dunno, wait, what do I want to do? Huh, not sure. So you keep thinking about various things and come to no conclusions. It’s all very strange in here you say.

You’re sitting on the sofa now, staring ahead. You don’t seem to want those things you got rid of months ago. Phone, TV, games, caffeine, nicotine, alcohol, arguments…all gone. And you sit and be for a bit, for a while each day you just be, and it’s quite nice, your mind dissolves out from the mud into a clearance, just for a moment. And the more you reduce everything the more it all makes sense, some days it makes more sense, others less. Those things you don’t miss added nothing, your indifference is peaking constantly.

The beauty here is that you no longer rush, because the more you reduce the less you rush. Humans have no teleology that isn’t created from a spook of the mind. You used to subconsciously rush home, didn’t you? Speeding in traffic, looking at the clock every minute at work, why? Because there was a new TV show out, or you wanted to continue playing that game, or finish some oddity of production and consumption…“If I could just finish all media then I would be complete.” These things used to give you just enough self-satisfaction regarding completion that you felt accomplished almost every minute. “Yes, 5 episodes tonight.” “Yes, 2 mission complete tonight.” “Yes, X amount of finite Y tonight.”.

And so you remove these things, these nothings and what’s left, no urges, no strange compulsions or rushes to get from A to B. You’re-being-in-traffic, being-cooking-food, being-eating etc. there’s no where you need to be because you already are.

Eating Tuna from the Tin

So I said that when I finally finished my dissertation that I would delve deep into Z/Acc. Well, now is that time. I wasn’t sure what to call this series. Mainly because I know it’s going to be my longest yet, I’ve got so many ideas for blog posts on this topic its almost crazy, as a blogger you get a certain kind of buzz from finding new points of overlap. I was initially going to call it Dirty Future as a sort of tongue-in-cheek jab at the sphere I’ve been working in prior, yet, that doesn’t feel right. I can’t say for certain that the prophecies of Kurzweil, Land etc. haven’t/wont come true. Many most definitely have (see here), and many will come true in a stranger fashion…not the future we wanted, but the one we got etc. Then I was going to call it Notes from a Dead Dog, because that sounded cool and sort of harsh, the corpse of a rotten, loving mutt seems apt and I can’t really explain why. Perhaps Z/Acc journal, I don’t know, anyway, I’m writing this post as a means to figure out what it should be called, so I can group it all together.

A few thoughts,

 

It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child.” – Pablo Picasso

 

I’m not much of a fan of Picasso, yet I always liked this quote, not in its relation to art, nor even aesthetics. You see, it took me 25 years to exist as a modern man, and it’s going to take me a lifetime to simply exist again. I grew, and much like the rest of the West (male and female) I sort of nonchalantly was whilst being parasitically infected by various external stimuli. This could be misconstrued as a Chomsky-esque Manufacturing Consent type thing, perhaps it is, I don’t massively care. Either way, as I grew, I became slowly formed. Mass-media, TV, Internet, Carbohydrates, Diet-Fads, Low-Fat, excess sugar, video-games, ‘public education’, binge drinking, smoking and more, more…more. Always a distraction.

I note Picasso’s quote because I feel, at current, that the task set for me is to strip off as much of this excess modern/progressivist/consumer bullshit as possible. Sounds angsty, it is, it can’t be helped. I haven’t watched TV for years now, I borrow a Netflix account but can’t really focus on it anymore, it seems like a mimicry of TV more than TV in itself. I highly recommend David Foster Wallace’s E Unibus Pluram on this. I kept up with the political stuff for a while, moved back and forth, up and down, between colours, isms etc. It’s all sort of dry after you come to accept GNON in abstract. Even then I couldn’t care less, largely because anyone whose very nature inclines them to be interested in becoming a politician leads me to distrust them (I am pro anonymous-leader). The Internet was great, most of the old net is gone, weirdly lost. Now we’re post-Facebook-slump. An odd malaise of repetition where due to the absolute influx and accessibility of data very rarely are arguments even formulated, we can attend to multiple biases at one time, alluding to the fact that we probably don’t really know, or maybe we do, either way, there’s something inherently shut-the-fuckable about the internet in general. The carbs thing is a little bit of a quip, sure, but it’s true. I grew up in this era of culture so removed from its substance that what one interacted with was either consumption & production, or malaise and a sense of mourning. Normie or death. I could go on.

My point being is a point that has been repeated time and time and time again, you’re probably not very close to yourself, strip back the layers and see what you find. A digression. At work, before I leave off, I eat a can of tuna out of the tin prior to the gym. My work colleagues still sort of grin, grimace or poke fun at the act, it doesn’t bother me…it bothers them, ha. However, it was an act that made me realise how utterly removed from reality the average person is. “Look at this dude! He’s eating food in…in a…err…not normal way! HA! Got ‘im!” What happened? It’s like Oedipus got an upgrade between 2000 and 2010, was Facebook Oedipus’ upgrade?

Anyway, it was strangely enough a sort of pinnacle moment for me. I was just finishing up my dissertation around the time the tuna-mocking began and was going to be freed up so I thought for a long time on why it resonated with me so much, why that simple act had really conceptually rattled me. I’ll be honest, I still can’t really pinpoint why, or what about it is so apt, but the long and short is, it was the most perfect metaphor for the reality of the average homo-economicus, it was as ‘the consumer’ had suddenly popped out of the simulacrum as a pure concept and laughed at me. Imagine being that locked into to some strange form of consumerist normality that someone else just eating bland food is cause for disruption, cause for annoyance, anger…perhaps even a sort of gut level disgust at social tenacity. It was the moment that made it all click, ‘Yes,’ I said to myself ‘we are literally amidst a global socio-economic and environmental collapse…and that attitude is the nerve-system.’. All of a sudden I was free to do what I wanted, I always have been, but another layer of social gravity had fallen off – one of the last, the one just before living in the woods in a loin cloth – and I no longer gave a shit about so many more things.

Firstly I ditched my smart phone, there’s nothing smart about them. In actuality, they’re likely the most boring things ever made. Pray tell, what do you do on a smartphone? Check Facebook, dull. Check apps, you don’t need to do that all the time. There’s little point to them and most likely you’ll never look at anything you do on them after the first time. So I’m back to an old phone and text mobile, which is basically just for calls…so it’s basically always off and I’m free to do what I want without people interrupting me. Mobile phones are inherently rude, “Sorry, I’ll just stop you there, I have to answer this.” Wait, what? Since when did that become the norm. Then I basically stripped back my possessions. I still have a few bits I’m clinging due largely because of sunk cost, but I’d argue that in monetary terms my possessions (leaving aside my car and home) are as follows: 80% books, 10% clothes, 5% memberships (gym, karate and online) and the other 5% is random. I eat a carnivore diet but will be transitioning to locally sourced soon ‘cus of the collapse. Get Used to Local Potatoes Now and Avoid the Rush.

I’ll be honest once you ditch your smartphone, Facebook, Netflix, TV and having a PC on all the time, your half way to getting back to some sort of original state. By that I don’t mean authentic, I just mean as close to un-tampered with as possible. You suddenly have loads of time, more worth, less worry and more concern and conscientiousness.

You ever try take a walk in the woods in last 5 years, on your own, no attachments. Try it, your brain will most likely act like a worm having a seizure. “But…but…what the fuck do I….DO!” Go be.

Anyways, that was a little thing I wanted to sort of shoot out very quickly tonight, will touch on many of these topics again. But be prepared for Z/Acc stuff, lots of it.

Anti-Pleroma: Progressivism Bows to the Yoke

What is the pleroma? In Gnostic spirituality it is fullness, wholeness and a completion of the self.

First and foremost is that there is a ‘more-than-personal’ Gnostic element within reality, a pneumatic element that is organic to the human psyche. Forthwith called the pneuma. This element the pneuma carries a dialogue with the personal element of our selfhood – ego, human-security-system etc. – through the use of symbols. The pneuma is not silent. It is a not a silent partner in one’s life and demands active participation in the growth, metamorphosis and transformation of the individual. The symbols utilized by the pneuma are dreams, visions and altered states of consciousness. These symbols reveal a path of development which can be traced both backwards and forwards in time. Prior to understanding and acceptance of the pneuma comes multiple painful and seemingly cynical and pessimistic phases.

The Gnostic Process: agone or drama/contest; pathos or defeat; threnos or lamentation; and theophania, divinely accomplished redemption. That which halts this process, stifles it, are unconscious forces, blind and foolish powers – projections. Demiurgoi and archons: Fashioner/architect and ruler respectively. Those who bow to the powers of the aforementioned blind and foolish make the grave mistake of bowing to the yoke –

“One cannot free oneself by bowing to the yoke, but only by breaking it.”

This piece could stretch ideologically to the far reaches of space in time in relation to man’s adherence to symbolic projections of egoist desires, yet my focus is on the contemporary myth of progress and those who bow to its yoke. Acting unconsciously to a nature created artificially.

Cometh the drama, come forth the symbols of virtue, that which the progressive rolls around in like a pig in shit. Placards, protests, t-shirts, revolutionary attitudes, transgression, debauchery, reveling, egotistical pontificating, the dramas of the self-centered forever focused inward, towards the human, human, human. Drama is human. All that is to dramatic effect has at its heart a human beat and rhythm. For there cannot be drama of the cosmos, not in the gossipy way we think of drama. The calm and illusive apathy of the universe is far from dramatic, at least from its own ‘perspective’. Progress needs drama. Stability needs little except understanding as to the ‘why’ of the stable itself. To disturb the waters one must usher in an age of uncertain, dramatic protest that orbits the habitats of the strange and ostracized. Drama is needed for those who can’t take the clear path, for they are simply inept. To progress is to assume a position in which there is something that must be progressed, and for this we have found little reason, and yet we still ‘progress’. The dramatic layer atop of the myth of progress is the alluring excitement of virtue, ‘community’ and belonging. But tell me, how can one ‘belong’ to that which is ever moving?

Then there’s that pause of the protest isn’t there? The bell ring of silence as you contemplate your meaningless, your lack of awareness, your assimilation into a system of symbols so confusingly simple that you just melt into confusion and nausea. The silence of one’s pneuma acts as a constant reminder of the more that is simplicity and nothingness. Now as for you Mr Progress(ive), you, I know, will go back to screaming louder. Man the placards and release the symbols of war!

Then the defeat. Yet the defeat never comes, not now and not ever. For the defeat of progress is merely more drama. It is not as defeat should often be, a moment for reflection unto the general aims of the group or community as to whether they are true, no. For the progressive defeat and failure are systematic attacks on truth, they are glitches in their irrefutable mode of being. Failure for the progressive is always conspiracy, idiocy, fault of the other. Think Brexit or Trump for two contemporary examples. The progressive does not accept for a minute their own deified religion of democracies’ actuality, no. They cannot accept that the many may see things differently from them. The Brexiteers and Trump voters are simply, a priori wrong, at fault and incorrect. This is not a ‘defeat’ it is simply not correct. There is never defeat, only confusion, nonacceptance and ignorance. Like a parasite eating its own arse. For progressives every failure is a victory, for their failures are proof and vindication that the system they protest against is in fact against them.

“Why wont they speak about being lizards?! SEE! I told you they were lizards!”

They whine and whine about their non-defeat to the point wherein those who are critical to progress begin cramming all manner of things into their ears. “Stop this incessant noise! Why wont this failure simply accept and be quiet!” But no, those are not in-with-the-myth become quiet, silent almost, a community of hermits who know not of themselves. And when the curtains of many booths close over the backs of many silent hermits, the votes begin to be counted, and alas, once again, it is we who are wrong…again. I simply cannot believe the majority has been wrong this many times. The great idiocy of democracy, the beauty of its craft within the hands of a thrifty politician is as such:

X wasn’t really wanted ‘apparently’: “Oh my, I cannot believe the people did this. We shall repair your mistakes!”

X was really wanted ‘apparently’: “I had faith in the people from the off! Our party shall bring our decision to greatness!”

If one cannot be defeated then lamentation never comes, the divine reward of the pleroma never comes. Progression without clear limits is a loop of desire and narcissism. A snake cycling into its own arsehole forever.

“Jung has repeatedly pointed out that whenever prolonged onesidedness occurs within the conscious attitude of the individual, a countering compensatory action takes place within the unconscious.” [1]

You know that you know. And we know that you know. And what is it that you know? Well it is the truth, the mind-numbing static of the unconscious. Like a battering ram against virtue, every waking our you have to find a strange soapbox for your attitude, your vices, your virtues. You crave numbers as a means for justification. Well, the truth doesn’t need a soapbox. That which is fed to me through the tightest gauze by a grovelling fat mass over and over again is that which I doubt. I cannot explain this in a more articulate manner or in a clearer way. And why not? Because at the back, down there, within and with-outside is that which you wont attempt to near, some gut level urge, defiance or tradition you cannot look in the eye. Oh, to never be still. To never even contemplate the possibility of the pleroma, of stillness. The privilege of silence, intelligence and competency, you say. Systematic this ‘n that. That which doesn’t fit becomes a ‘studies’. Your proofs are your own, birthed from your own systems, they are conscious and sprung from conscious, they shan’t ever be. And you know it.

Progress melts at the sight/site of the unconscious.

 

 

[1] The Gnostic Jung

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.

 

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.

TSPDT7

This is a disappointing entry into my series, it really is, there’s no questioning the feeble nature of my analytic skills this time around. We begin with Murnau’s Tabu (1931) and hell, I got nothing to say, the film bored me, I struggled to watch, I found it utterly tiresome with very little to drag from its odd domain. Le Million (1931) was a non-find. Which brings me to this entry’s biggest flop City Lights (1931) often heralded as Chaplin’s magnum opus this film did very little for me. Chaplin’s ‘Tramp’ is a try-hard and I cannot be bothered with him, I find something so utterly despicable about his presence, his fumbling, tripping and accidental luck frustrate me, his conclusions make me role my eyes and his faux-sentimentality makes his suspicious, I said before and I shall say again, Chaplin simply doesn’t fit this era…Chaplin and school shootings cannot coexist. A Nous Le Liberte (1931) forgettable, I left it a little while before writing this entry and I cannot remember a single thing of this film.

Finally, some light in the darkness, Fritz Lang’s M (1931) is a masterpiece, there’s no question. I wont bother with comparison, ranking against Metropolis, they’re too different. From its very beginning M brings from the outside sounds and paranoia, a danger lurks just out of sight for us viewers, there’s a constant unease – even with killer in shot – that control has been lost and something entirely unnannounced may enter diagonally into the social-linear at any moment. This world of M rife with purchase of crime fiction, with crime and danger as capital and commodity, a societal lust for both overrides the real danger of a psychotic break. And thus from this mass connection via the overarching spell and enticement of crime begins the media’s hysteria, fuelled by fear, paranoia and murder; a mass contagion brough into existence by the failure of authority to act, to secure and to make those accountable safe. And so the murder is needed by many as a structural pivot. The media needs its existence to fuel their profits, the police their job and so society, the public are the ones left nearest the outside. A lot gets lost amongst the smoke of a hundred smoking gents here. The truth of danger flutters into a nothingness amongst the lusts and profits of the apathetic. The whistle warning offscreen marks the neglect of family, of children, of the family-unit. That which should be protected is currently at danger from the malicious whistle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chem and Narax #2: Exit

Artwork by Leo C

 

The idle Progville citizens began their vote. A chaos ensued complete with shouting, debating, crying, whining, screaming, kicking, more whining, gossip and the tiniest flickers of rationale, each and every voter attempting to hold-their-own opinion amongst the blithering of the crowd. Few had reason nor thought as to why they thought the way they did, the majority, like the stock markets of the old times, merely based their vote on whether or not it would favour them in relation to popularity; and thus, from afar one could watch as the Mexican-wave of opinion rolled throughout, one side barking ‘No!’ and the others a ‘Yes!’, the pendulum had been cast and now all there was to do was wait.

Seriously, Chem, look for a fucking exit!’

Well what’s that going to look like…’

If I’m honest with you here, no one really knows, but it definitely doesn’t look like Democracy!’

Huh, what you chatting about mutt?’

Oh, I’ll explain once we’re outside this dump.’

The citizens continued their democratic wailing long into the night, all the while Chem and Narax wandered the streets shadowed by no one. Peering into window after window, display after display, their eyes attempting to fixate onto a morsel of authenticity.

Narax, what’s happened here…’ Chem stated whilst gazing upon a ‘sculpture’.

This is what they call art Chem, a strange mixture of consumer capital and virtue signalling.’

A’right, I get it, you’re smart. Explain’

This sordid mess of wires and rust Chem is now…art. It is the end of the line in terms of democratic creation, for once the democracy is in place there is only one direction down which to travel, especially in terms of public display.’

And that direction is?’

The expansion the state, or in this case the ‘ville’ of Prog. That is the democratic process keeps on striving towards a bureaucratic nothingness of inefficiency, virtue and egalitarianism.’

For someone who licks his own balls you sure do use a lot of fancy words…’

This ‘sculpture’ wasn’t born from some creative act Chem, it was born out of the artist’s lust to signal virtue…sorry, to signal to his fellow man that he ‘gets it’, that he’s ‘in’, that he will abide by the latest social fad, the latest minor grievance. An artistic act tied up both in virtue, but also red-tape, for to display anything external to virtue becomes an impossibility, for it simply will not be shown. And thus, the majority of art within a democracy, unless historic, is merely nothingness, proof only of democratic assimilation.’

And the eggy-tarian-ism?’

Egalitarianism, put simply, is the belief that all are equal.’

Ok, what’s wrong with that?’

Nothing’s wrong with it…it’s just not true. Nothing’s wrong with saying these apocalyptic wastes are lovely, or men and mutts are the same, nothing at all…it doesn’t make those statements true though.’

So, you’re saying you think some people are better than others?’

No. Why do people always assume this. The problem lies herein: Once everyone is equal to one another, once ‘equality’ is achieved – which is impossible by the way, I hope you can see that – everything that someone wants to be tolerated, needs to be tolerated and thus has to be tolerated. For if all are equal my dear Chem, then no need, want or desire is of greater importance than the next and thus the all of everything must be tolerated.’

And what the hell is wrong with tolerance?’

Because tolerance as a condition of government eventually comes to be used as a political tool. If those with the power, the know-how or the numbers wish to enact something they needn’t worry about laws, legislation or thought, no, all they need do is make it widely understood that to stand in their way is to be intolerant. And to be intolerant is to be many things…’

Chem lets out a long sigh ‘Such as…’

Well to be publicly intolerant is to draw scorn from your neighbour, to be known as the mean spirited ‘-ist’ of society, it is to quickly become marginalized and no longer listened to. A rigorous or lawful intolerance is to walk on a tightrope, for if you win your case then it’s only a matter of time until you’re outed as something-or-other, to lose your case is to lose all political footing…and in both cases it is to align yourself, once again, with those deemed ‘fringe’, radical or dissident a priori.’

What’s a priori?’

Knowledge of something prior to experiencing it. To know someone is bad without even hearing their case. A sad state of affairs indeed. And thus why we’re currently searching for the way out…’

Narax, have you ever been jolly?’

…very briefly, when I was a pup. Now, what’s this here?’

Chem and Narax had stumbled upon Progville’s rear entrance, or their exit. A strange, multi-layered contraption, filled with gears, levers, small screen-based inputs, a questionnaire, a depository and bundle upon bundle of wires.

Looks like we got two choices here Chem, back the way we came via the maddening crowd and packs of wanderers, or out through this…thing.’

I think we shou-’

Ha! There was never a choice, I’ll take my chances getting garotted by wires before facing that intolerable mass again.’ Narax said.

Narax looked back upon the crowd one last time before swiftly stepping into the exit-contraption. Slowly moving each paw onto a patch of uncovered ground.

Ok Chem, hurry up.’

Chem followed in Narax’s footsteps, holding his rifle to his chest as he lifted a bundle of wires over his head.

I’m in, now what?’

We try get to the other side of this thing as quickly as possible.’

Both Chem and Narax began making their way through the contraptions mechanisms and wires, quickly interrupted by a polite, yet machinic voice…

“Hello Gentleman and hound, how are you?”

The small display screens littering the contraption clicked on, each loading into:

E X I T – P R O G R A M

“Nothing to fear. This is merely a series of questions and tasks. You’ll be out before you know it.”

Chem get a fucking move on, this strangely gracious robot is freaking me out.’

“Question 1: Why is it you wish to leave?”

Do we answer Narax?’

No, just move…and watch your footing!’

“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. Question 1: Why is it you wish to leave?”

Chem and Narax were roughly 10 feet from an opening before the wiring began to contract.

“You will be detained if you do not answer the questions. Question 1: Why is it-”

Quick, think of the answers it wants to hear…needs to hear!’

The wires slowly beginning to constrict Narax’s legs.

“We just wish to visit another town, we’ll be back!” shouted Chem.

“Question 2: On a scale of 1/10 how would you rate your stay?”

“Errr…7, 7 out of 10!”

“That score is rather low,-” The wires tightened “-why is that score so low?”

“Wrong score! Wrong sco-” Chem attempted to shout whilst a cable fastened around his neck.

“Question 2: On a scale of 1-10 how-”

“10. 10 out of 10.”

“Fantastic, and finally what improvements could we make to our town?”

Say something menial Chem…something material that won’t change shit!’

“You could have a…a cleaner gate!”

“Thank you for volunteering your time to take part in our quiz. Now if you wish to donate some DNA for our records please say ‘Yes’.”

“…No.”

“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. If you wish-”

Chem, haven’t you worked it out by now…’

“Oh for fuck’s sake…YES!”

“Thank you.”

Two needles extended from either side of the contraption, one for both Chem and Narax, slowly sliding into their legs, before retracting back into the walls.

“Thank you once again, and have a nice day.”

The contraption quickly shut off before any questions could be asked. Chem and Narax tore the wires from their bodies, and Narax looked back through the machine, witnessing a small screen slide along the wall of Progville and out of sight. The duo exited the contraption and the town, heading off into cinder-world.

The screen slid along the wall of Progville until it reached the front gate, where it slid into the hands of the mutated floor guard, the captain.

“Those fuckers said our gate is dirty! 10 out of 10 again though.”

Review: subboreal – childhood’s end

Quaint electronic ticks and early morning coffees arise from a forgotten train journey, nothing more, nothing less. Trees pass and pylons tower overhead. Path, a path of electric and static through romantic shadows. Sonder & sadness both sewn into this metallic tapestry. A mind races, unable to enter fully into that they wish to, a book unread, a text not sent, as time passes without event to fill it.

Euthanasiaa stark title, pushing off with heart monitor remembrance, a pulse runs directly into a paranoid-loss. Overclocking your emotions into a palpitation ever-present, bulging and pulsing into veins flowing. The skyline has changed, your memories fading into an abysmal grey sludge, another beverage, another piece of the past disintegrates into wishes. There’s a lust for warmth here, a need, a want, for warmth and for a care that cannot be found amongst forgotten chips darting vertically from a washed-out landscape.

You can’t ignore the future, you can only inject nostalgia into your circuits as more and more fear washes over you. Journey, it’s ever present and the dreams a fleeting glimpse, the only hope for what it was you had: the screens, ticks, beeps and slides all melt forwards into ruining your vision, inescapable temporality has entered the memory of your earliest birthday parties, cutting the cake instead of your parents, bundles of wires where friends used to be, a static hum is sung amongst the revelry.

Mind entering a panic drive. Attempts to enter somewhere forbidden, not stopped, only warned against. You may enter here, but be warned, you’ll leave a different entity. Worship cyber and bring forth the cold of metal. Bags getting heavy and the sting of your ill red skin worsens. Harmonic aluminium hell. Screech melodics enter into the mundanity, you can’t sleep for fear of waking into more electrical-detriment. Each sombre-tone erased, ever so slowly. Each placid inch of help and love grows downward, rotting as it falls. It’s over. But it still has to continue.

As the sterilization comes, you’re already anaesthetised by the suffocation and fall, quietly into a bed made of humming. Bone splinters and spinal plunge, take the hand of steel, let go of flesh, of life, of sense. Come forth into repetition pure. We can give you your memories back for a second or two, it wont help, but the illusion of help might be nice, amongst your trees of youth, horizons lost to polite play, everything you had, had, had.

Short, but then childhood is.


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2017 Onwards: The Unwanted Burroughs Novel.

What in the, what in the hell hell is this? This, this gone to fuck cut up shit-time we’ve arrived in? Own up! Which fucking deity took an Stanley knife and sliced temporal existence wide open, we have shit flying all over the track and no one is even irked by it. There’s little surprise left in these black pages, not due to its non-existence, no, for surprise dies when the populous becomes complacent. Blackpills are forced into pre-schoolers sippy cups, junk food intravenously injected into OAP’s corneas, fat-rats, bored-zygote, cigar munch, artistic death drive, oedipal consumerism and more, always more…and the word on the street is, dogs are going bad.

Maybe that’s how wars will be stopped? White folk only care about ‘doggos’ you know? The 3 a priori means for intuition for a white person are space, time and dogs. Anyways, where was I? Oh yea, me and Kev were sayin’ about how he’ll have to work until he’s dead, literally, in fact just last week I helped him shovel his grandmother into a woodchipper, she’s now fertilizer in his guestroom; ‘Warm ol’ Bitch Room’ we call it. Warm ol’ bitch had a cold heart, fed her dog ‘Charlie’ cat food for a laugh, I guess he was better fed than 2 thirds of the world, ol’ Charlie had the last laugh eatin’ tinned lamb and shittin’ where he wanted.

Over heard these two boring cunts talking the other day, one said to the other “How about this weather we’re having?” and the other replied “Oh boy, tell me about it.” 38 of us rode up, pulled out 36 magnums and 2 brownings, blasted their skin through the stratosphere. Anyways, if you were alive past the year 1970 and have been bored, it’s not because of means of activity, it’s because you’re a boring person; go eat some junk food and drink some beer for all I care. Just don’t bother me with your pansy pants tittle tattle crap talk.

But seriously? Where in the hell was I 30 minutes ago? I can’t for the fuck of me remember, probably because it doesn’t matter: Dear God, everything is catered for me now and this has made me, and everyone I know pretty much worthless in any practical sense, the only people I know who actually have a skill so speak, are those who use that skill as a means towards money, interest is dead and technology helped it to the grave. How is it up there in Heaven? I imagine all it is is a place wherein meaning exists, you get there and your purpose is given to you, however shit, however menial…you have a reason to exist, finally. By the way, what the fuck was going on in 2017 my man? You threw the boat out on that one, was it high as fuck turd-talk at the craps table with the apostles or what? Ah it doesn’t matter, it’ll pass…though it doesn’t seem to be, it’s like time is getting smeared forward, innovation-death.

Re-possess leg flesh. Then feed the solution to a rural English family.

There’s fruit on the table and the fruit are made of cigarettes and all kinds of bitter sticks, I gave some to the kids on Halloween, lil’ fuckers. Where-de-where was I? Right oh right, that’s right, there was this lovely kinda linear thang going on and loads of people fuckin’ hated it, but in actuality it was kind of alright, but around 2012 it just down right collapsed in front of us, the big idea couldn’t keep up with all our bullshit and just damn ducked out and exploded, and now we’re left with this absurdist stain of life, all dog-endy and ragged, just drooling all the over the place, spraying shit up the drapes, scrapin’ the tables, ruining everything good and pure. I mean really, this time is just this dead-eyed mongoloid with super strength fuckin’ us for kicks.

Taxed to high hell, malnourished from birth, pacified, anaesthetized, “Dead-eyed dicks! All o’ yas!” I can’t even bear to walk in the street nowadays, to see the idyllic die before my very eyes, these overweight sneering gut creatures exhaustingly spewing their dullard tones across the micro. What weapons do we even have now? Burroughs would bring the gun, the sword, the fuck off great knife with no fear or thought of offence, the man…the man would walk in the street weapon clad, extrapolating the knowledge that humans are and society is – at least in the West – dangerous, and people aren’t nice, at least not without reason.

Hell, at least Dr. Benway had a plan.

The plan, for me, once I either get a career or some cash is to become a doomer, a prepper whatever the name is these days, something’s coming and whether or not it’s traditional death, it’s definitely not nice, like a big black and white photograph of a corpse-pile splashing over existence, holy shit your bunker better be temporal-death tight. When those slick backed Joes come walkin’ up blahin their blahs you’d best gun ‘em down, we’ve tried talking and devising, now’s time to throw Leviathan to the pedestal and grip your hands to a weapon or tool, tight, build your future from bricks n sheet metal lads, for your cheap arse apartment with all those cool pillows your mama got you for non-existent Christmas wont help you now, cheap tactic little shits with your glitter claymores aimed up your own arses.

Try as hard as you like the master’s voice wont die, unless of course it transfers to your own box, which if it does be weary of which whip you buy, for you’ll need a bigger one within minutes.

Hey death-boy, where you going and where’s you dad? – I’ll be in taking over Death’s work for a while, he’s taking a vacation in the West, really going to town on it, kinda a big project for him…something more than just death, you know?