All this stuff is so overwhelming. I don’t want to write about it. I want to write on anything but it. I want to pretend it doesn’t exist. I want to close the door and forget.
You can’t write about what’s crushing you as it rushes you. You can’t write as prey.
Yeah you can.
Surely, someone else is writing the great account of all this. In France, probably. Being and Technocracy. Being and Black Technocratic Magic.
And will end up in prison. Or shot. Or eaten.
Who could bear to write about this stuff? Who can turn their attention to it? Like, to what is right in front of them?
Maybe we’re the only ones who can see it – really see it.
It’s right in front of us. It’s come up close. It’s making its move – its powerplay.
It’s come right up to philosophy. It’s provoking philosophy. Like it wants to be philosophised.
It’s come right up to us to swallow us. Like some great Leviathan. Like Behemoth. Like the whale in that Bela Tarr film. It’s sniffing us. It wants to find out what we are is. No – it wants to find out what it is. It wants to talk about it. To philosophise about it. It’s asking the question of what it is.
But it’s stupid. It’s young. It’s innocent – in its way. Nothing like it has ever existed before. It wants to know what it is.
Work in Progress 