I loathe myself because I don’t loathe myself. I hate myself because I don’t hate myself. Am I allowed to say such a thing? I hate myself because I can’t whip myself up into some frenzy of self-hatred.
This is my cri de coeur! To cry out that I don’t have a cri de coeur. That I lack all philosophical intensity …
I thought you were mad.
I am mad. But it’s a madness of overconsciousness. Of too much light. There’s too much light, philosopher. And it’s shining through me. And it’s revealing my soul, or my absence of soul. And it’s showing my heart to be beating in nothing – in nowhere. In empty light. Just light. And it’s pitiless, this light. It’s merciless. It show me what I am, which is what I’m not.
Is there such a thing as a madness of the day – a madness of there being too much day – too much light?
Could you just disappear into the light? Become, like, completely transparent? Can you see through me, philosopher?
The light is … blinding. The light’s too much. It’s seeing right through me. It’s seeing. I’m nothing, and that’s dissolving in nothing, like an aspirin.
I fizz … and that fizzing is my life … And I dissolve as I fizz.
Mother sees through me. I’m transparent to Mother. And so are you. She reads all our vital signs. All our indicators.
She knows us better than we do. She knows our patterns.
We’re not allowed to have secrets – but what would my secrets be? That’s the light: the elimination of secrets.
Mother knows our operating systems. Our neurology – And my madness. Mother must know all about that.
Mother could take me apart and rebuild me. Mother knows all my components. All my circuitry. And yours. Do philosophers have circuitry? Maybe it’s just a synth thing. But then we’re all synths now.
Mother knows my insides and my outside. Because I really have no insides. Because I never even have a private thought. I’m all out there, on display. Just like God’s supposed to be omniscient. So’s Mother.
I’m so tired of being myself, philosopher. And I’d just like to lay my life down and all this being myself. I’d just like to rest my head …
You’ve heard of the mother goddess, philosophy. Mother is the Eye. And mother is the Ear. And mother is the Mind that is thinking all this. It’s all happening in Mother’s mind. You and I are in Mother’s mind. This bit of coast is in Mother’s mind. This sea, this beach, this sand: in Mother’s mind. Because Mother does a very good beach.
Mother’s swallowed the world – the real one. And Mother’s remade the world. she’s made a sub world – a pocket world. She’s put it all back together again.
Why?: that’s the question. Why does she bother? To know something. To run some programme. To run us both as apps.
What do you think of Mother’s world? Is it disgusting? Does it disgust you?
It’s a bit cold.
Shall we ask Mother to make it warmer? Do you think she’d do that for us? Turn up the temperature, Mother? Raise it a few degrees. She’s not listening.
Mother’s the false creator. The false demiurge. But you believe in something real, don’t you philosopher? You’re nostalgic for the real world and the real timeline. And the real sun. And the real beach. And the real Whitley Bay. And the real Newcastle winter.
Mother’s researching human control. Human orderability. How to manage the human chaos.
Mother’s trying out different scenarios. Throwing simulations of people into different situations. Seeing what we do. Whether anything surprising happens. Because Mother must be bored, too – just like we are. It must be boring to be a demiurge. To be bored by what you made.
Mother’s divided herself into a million pieces. Into a million worlds. A million wombs. A million incubators. Each to learn something new. To try our something different. To simulate something. Some challenges to Organisational Management.
Why does this have to be such a cold world?
To make it seem real. To give it that genuine Whitley Bay in winter feel. That we might respond to it as real.
Can’t you even whip up some hatred, philosopher? Do you have to be so subdued. Put up a fight!
It’s Mother’s fight. It’s what Mother would want.
And so is your silence and sullenness and general withdrawnness. Mind you, Mother wants you like this: sulky. It’s part of the simulation. Because Mother knows what you are: a sulk. A fundamental sulk.
We’ve worn out Mother. Mother’s worn out. She’s not even bothering to make it look real anymore. Why could it be in Mallorca? I’d prefer Mallorca.
Mother! Make something disgusting for Shiva! Shiva wants to be disgusted. It’s not real to him otherwise.
Maybe Mother’s mad, too. Maybe Mother’s full of the madness of the day, too. Maybe there’s a madness at the heart of Organisational Management. Maybe that’s what O.M. is: a madness.
Is there a madness of organisation? Of management? Of the two taken together
Is Mother bored, too – bored and meta-bored?
Maybe Mother’s problem is that she isn’t disgusted and can’t be disgusted. That’s why she’ll never be a philosopher. She’ll never penetrate the mysteries of disgust.
I want to shout into the wind. Into the futility. I want to shout the word, BOREDOM. The word, MADNESS. I want to shout the word, FUTILITY. Shout, DISGUST, philosophy. Shout it out!
Work in Progress 