At exactly 11:51 Today

At exactly 11:51 AM today, in the midst of a meeting, which was set in the middle of the soul of the suffering about Los Angeles, we were discussing administrative decisions: the need to hire some college senior to monitor a place we were working from. Transportation was alright, we were thinking of handing out bus tokens. And why not with the cost of gas, and so on! Aflak™ was failing to cover business needs. Everything about the American dream was failing. Good news: one of the white boys finally figured out that the power line is the color line is the poverty line. Well that's good, but, like the war is almost over with man, I mean Darth fucking Vader won man! Meanwhile George Bush sends out America's not so best and brightest out there to the front line to get shot at, maimed, or killed.

The thing about the not-so-best-and-brightest is that there will still lie the quirk and creative spark. The best and brightest all got snapped up by West Point. They will maintain decent military careers. Meanwhile the not so "best and brightest" goes out to maim, kill or be killed by unknown slanty-eyed terrorists carrying bombs strapped to their bellies: It's absurd to say the least! It's pathetic, I mean I've had smaller dreams but, this one sure has some negative messages in it.

"Put it there pal!"

Isn't that the American motto? It's a step-back for your country! Another anglo voice is heard, well it's angry, even if it isn't Anglo anyway. There we have Aguirre Zorn Gottes rolling down the river: it's an anglo, alright! A blond haired Cherub or 43 years of age screaming: "It's all mine! It's all mine!" (Mine and the King of the Spainiards, that is).

"Put it there pal!"

I believe that Oppermann will like this. He likes crying, part screaming: "Put it there!" And I have a hard time controlling my own laughter as he points out that we have all been betrayed by those who have asked us to put it there!

Put it there? Well I am just about half a mind in me to just put the whole damn thing away for a while! You can put it there, you can put it here, we are still only doing the Pawnee Ghost Dance on our web-logs, desperately searching, intoxicated, for an answer through dancing in the fucking dust!

And all our technical ability... all our web logs, might still only wind us up alone, intolerably alone, one day in a giant city that has been hinged on the eternal destruction of everything all round it. Is this all we belong to? A city that keeps building and pretending it is a city, meanwhile the world continues to go on decaying and decaying outside. There is the outside, and then there is the inside. All that is simple enough, but then there is an inside to the inside. What happened was that there was a need for shelter (from the storm)(because it was "too fucking cold" outside) then we had tents and bivouacs and caves. And then we had an inside. We have an interior, and this interiority is called "consciousness," the thing is that we discovered a cave back behind that: where consciousness behind that nice neat geometric opening is a vast and amorphous black labyrinth, a cave that is 13.5 billion years old and we are looking for the entrance of this cave because we are bored with our fucking banal reality already.

It was exactly at this moment, of exactly this insight that Ayres wrote in a Walserian and impish fashion:

"First there was the unknown, however it is irrelevant, forget this! Then there was the known, only it was dreadfully boring, and everyone knew what that was about already. Trapped between the irrelevance of the unknown and the assumptions of the known, humanity was threatened by death by suffocation. In such a moment can we see the voluptuousness of indecision is essential."

Ayres may be quite right in this one, this one thought. Here we are, traveling at the very edge of boredom, after all it is boredom that pursues us so viciously right to the very limits of language where it meets a certain excess.... or where it meets a sharing, or a singing.

I was going to write today about one of my favorite and unwritten themes: the personification of nature. I absolutely stand for the personification, the wind blushed with a certain rosy certainty, but I do not think the clouds, nor the starry heavens, have ever bowed to me, they are too silent and too eternal. Why not personify? If you discover in this that we never were what we had set out to be in the beginning: we were never what we had set out to be! Why not personify the wind and the bushes! Why not personify the night wind and the darkness.

Author's note: Compare Personification to the work of Xenophanes criticizing the personification of the Greek gods, to Calvino who spoke of the criticism of personification in his "Uses of Literature," and to James Hillman's "Re-visioning Psychotherapy." I think that in "Re-visioning" Hillman somehow objects to "presonification" or "humanization" of the field of experience: take away from the anthropocentric qualities of therapy and so forth. But if you look at the thing from the psychoid level, then there is nothing better than the personification of the opposites: just look at the Rosarium pictures, they trump Hillman any day.
This is the personification of the opposites. This is getting into the bloody bathtub of all the fucking images. The problem with getting into the bathtub is that you dissolve in there. I can only hope that this web-log of Oppermann and Ayres somehow finds a means for us to dissolve in a manner that is kind. Well we can either dissolve on a web-log or death will find us and dissolve us certainly. I would rather keep clicking out keys, trying my odds against the horrible prospects of fate: we all die, the roulette ball always falls.

Oh, well, we'll dissolve anyway, we will cease to remember, we will forget. We will putrify, the whole thing will begin to rot away, memory will cease, there will be no blinding white flash of light saying, "this is memory," instead there will be blackness and dust. I mean for crying out loud! For Pete's sake! (And I am referring to St. Peter at the bloody pearly gates: blood on the pearly gates! Now there is an image to revive 2400 years of a vision of heaven, but what is 2400 years in the scheme of things? What is 2400 years in the scheme of 13-billion! Nothing! Absolutely nothing, a minute fleck! But what shall we make of this? -Time is infinitely divisable, meaning that an infinite number of universes can come and cease to be in a single instant (we just don't notice them). The point is that this thing is just continuously coming and going: what we will have to do is come up with a conjecture of space (spheres).

Ah well, Sloterdijk, OK: spheres, "The world is round: and not only is it round, it is enclosed in all directions: there is no plane to it that can be given priority. We can give priority to time, given that the world is round, hence finite: we can actually encompass the world in consciousness to a certain degree. OK now web-logging. Possibly all that is left of thinking or philosophy after the end of history, of us considering ourselves as historical beings and all that particular epoch: is a kind of space-man joke: either we are spelunkers in the cavern of 13.5 billion years (digging the pit of Babel) or we are space men, and that's not quite comforting either, since I do not want to just be stuck wearing some kind of fucking helmet to go off and look at the milky way. Put me on a sphere where I can breathe the air, and i don't have to wear some kind of a fucking helmet, and just for a moment I can look up to the heavens and suspend my disbelief that I have to wear some kind of a fucking helmet. I can breathe the fresh night air, and stand at the edge of a lake, taking in the abundance of the Milky Way.

We have various architectures and economies of space: we have city-states and we have the throbbing metropolis: pumping belly and bowels of some great throbbing monster with immense glass lit towers, sucking the magic and the energy from the world around it. We have empires: those petty forms of space that somehow carve up the empty space of the sphere into a land mass, a river, a territory. There is nothing wrong about territories if they are used in a kind of "will to power as art" kind of self-destructive flame of brilliant art (everything works out in the end notes the Aristotelian rhythmatist). But Aristotle is a man of state: he marks out the territories of the world conquered by Alexander: the first visionary of the world state. At this time the world state runs from an antinomy between Russia and the United States: Russia is a deformed post-marx-via-Lennin world, where the conception of forcing the revolution and deciding the moment for the change of consciousness fell into human hands: millions dead. Millions and millions dead. That is all that Russian communism fed us. On the other hand we have George Bush and Cheney and their cronies on the one hand, and the French are a bunch of faggits on the other side. George Bush and Cheney were in this thing to get rich quick, and to slap the backs of a number of good-ol-boys. That is all they were about doing. They are fucking losers in the biggest degree. Fucking losers.

Over in Russia we have Putin armed to the fucking teeth with blades. On all sides of him he has men in black coats, big and heavy men, Russian Mafia. He is extremely powerful. He enjoys bating Bush. They evidently have a very cordial social life together: Bush drinks to getting rich with his oil buddies. Putin drinks to getting rich out of packaging and selling Siberian cold. I mean fucking cold. I mean selling us all into the fucking cold... these fellas are selling us into the fucking cold. So we are back again searching for shelter: as these personified divinities make men who are fucking cold.