Author: Lars Iyer

Love is all that’s left, right? Or our tawdry affair …

Love – is this love? The mockery of love … A kind of parasite upon love. Are we serving the forces of good or the forces of evil, do you think?

 

Love: that’s what’s been thrown to us. That’s what we think of as freedom now that everything else has been essentially shut down.

Love: that’s the sop. That’s the bone on which we’re supposed to gnaw …

 

Life out there is meaningless – we know that. So we take refuge in private life. In romance. In affairs. As if that was where the true life was …

Romance is the only thing left. And philosophy … Philosophy!

Laughter.

 

What’s missing from the world that we find here, between us? Everything. Everything’s missing in the world. That’s the answer. So is that we find here: everything?

 

Love. This is how we’re exercising our freedom in the new police state. Love … this is where we’re supposed to find fulfilment – the last fulfilment.

But we’re too tainted by the world out there. We’re too corrupt. Too visionless. Don’t know think we’re visionless, philosopher?

 

Love’s still allowed us. For the moment. It hasn’t yet been declared a crime.

Love … we’re free to love. And that’s about all. We’re free for affairs … for tawdriness. To thrust and pump and then to lie in a disgusting heap …

 

Public life is meaningless – we know that. Public life is shit. The world out there is shit. So we take refuge in private life. In romance. In affairs. That’s where we think the true life is. Love is all that’s left …

 

We want to share secrets. Truths about ourselves. We want not to lie. Because we can say nothing true about ourselves out there. This is where all the truth is to be found. Are you speaking truths, philosopher? Am I?

Laughter.

 

Seeking salvation in intimacy … in love … Because this is the only thing that feels real. We want to be ourselves. Ha! We want to be what’s leftover after the world. Only there’s nothing leftover. We’re part of the world.

We’re soft robots, to them. Soft machines.

 

It’s a war on God. On the Creation.

 

They’ve loaded us up with nanotech.

 

Face it, we’re chattels of the Man.

 

They’re tagging us, tracking us, coding us, rating us, measuring us, restricting us, manipulating us.

 

They’re beaming the new reality directly into our heads.

 

Lucifer orchestrates everything – we know that. Revelations laid it out. The four horsemen are marching across the world stage. Satanism is moving into the fucking open.

 

Extermination – that’s their game. Genocide.

 

The overthrow of everything we’ve ever known.

 

This is the great tribulation. We’re an extinct species – already.

 

We’re in the time of the fulfilment of scripture.

 

Everything’s in motion. Everything’s in play. It’s all happening.

 

People are just going to commit suicide en masse. When they realise.  

 

We stagger through their world. We careen through their world. Through their streets. Through their shops. We navigate their websites.

 

What do we have that others do not? We see. We have eyes to see. We hear. We have ears to hear.

 

It’s a zombie world. Their world.

We live in their reality. Their delusion. Their inverted universe.

 

We go to their meetings. We do their jobs. We read their books. Watch their TV. Walk through their corridors. Eat their food. Drink their water. Breathe their air.

 

Under their skies. The chem trail skies.

 

With their spyware in our bodies. Their biosensors in our bodies. Their backdoors into our minds.

 

Undergoing their lobotomies. Their neurodegenerative stuff.

 

Breathing in their strontium. Their barium. Their aluminium. Their manganese. Their polymer fibres

 

Their war on creation. Their electroceuticals. Their parasitical machines within us.

 

Their robot morality. Their technofascist bullshit.

 

Our controllers. Our harvesters. Our dominators.

 

Who’s really in charge of the world? What’s really going on? It’s head spinning. It’s confusing.

The WEF? The Davos crowd? The central banks? Is there a FED fightback? A commercial bank fight back?

 

It’s going on around us. They’re reshaping reality.

 

They’re accelerating agendas. Bringing things forward.

 

It’s all happening at once. It’s, like, a thousand apocalypses now …

 

There’s some vast war … a battle between the giants in the clouds … and we don’t understand any of it.

 

It’s all happening above our heads. The real battle. The real war for civilisation.

 

There’s a battle in the clouds. The giants are at war, and we’re trying to understand the war.

 

Vast events. Sublime events. Coasting trillions of dollars. Who are the agents? Who are the players? What do they want from it all?

 

We want to understand the agendas. The players. All the secret operations.

 

The rulers of the world … are fighting amongst themselves. Struggling with each other.

 

The war’s being fought over our heads. And what will happen to us?

 

A bland evil. A technocratic evil. Bureaucratic. That operates through middle management.

 

They’re materialists. They’re physicalists. They have no comprehension of the heart. They think everything is reducible to matter, to base things.

 

Something saves us. Our anti-authoritarianism. Our limitless suspicion. Our ultra-sensitivity to condescension. We have instincts. We’re not totally bereft. There are resources we can draw upon.

 

They’re Satanists. Child traffickers, too, probably. Adrenochrome harvesters.

 

They’re fucking with the genome. Turning us into Frankenhumans.

 

They don’t just want to own us, they want us to be evil like them. They want to take us to hell, like them.

This world is demonic. This system. And they want to make us demonic, too.

 

The world as farm, as zoo, as lab. As a giant rat cage for the tech science elite to experiment.

To transition us from a carbon based to a silicon based life form. The enforced next stage of evolution. To integrate us into the global brain system. Into a mind-controlled population under the superstate.

 

The control of all life – the control of biology.

 

They’re building a technological body for the Evil One. To the Antichrist that is fully machine, fully human. To an AI god we will worship.

 

The System. The grid. Their dream since Babylon, basically.

 

Evil wants to propagate evil. Evil wants there to be more evil.

 

The contagion’s spreading from human to fucking human like some zombie movie.

 

Look at all these fuckers, going along with it.

Going along with what? We don’t even know what it is.

 

Look at them all. They’re making the shift. They’ve made the adjustment. It’s beautiful, in a way.

Like a flock of birds making a sudden shift. A shoal of fish. Suddenly, suddenly, turning in a new direction. As if all at once.

 

Who set the trap. Who devised it?

 

It all works together for the Bad. It all works together for the Man. For Satan. For demonic evil.

 

Great wheels rolling over us. Great wheels, crushing us. Driving over us. Incomprehensible pain. 

It’s noon. We can drink at noon, can’t we?

 

There’s nothing in our lives.

 

Do you think we’re a good influence on each other?

 

Are we depressive?

I think we’re slowly sinking into depression.

I think depressing is rising up to meet us. Claim us. I think we’ll drown in it. I think our lungs will fill with it.

 

I don’t even want to be an alcoholic. I don’t even think I like alcohol.

 

The world is disgusting.

We know that.

More than usually disgusting.

Maybe so.

 

Trying to find the exact point between drink and sober. And staying that way.

 

We’re not not alcoholics.

 

We can’t actually afford to drink.

Let’s drink to forget that.

 

Let’s really ruin our lives. We can’t even do that.

 

Do one of your dances. Musical movement’s very important.

 

I think I’m fundamentally a low level drunk.

 

I’ve made the deliberate decision to drink myself to death. Starting now.

 

This is the prime of our lives! This is us at our potential best!

 

Where everybody knows you name. And hates it.

 

We’re over-educated and under … what?

Sexed.

 

These are my people. Conspiracy people.

 

I’ve lost my sense of humour.

 

Drink and just crash. Drink until I pass out.

 

We’re disgusting. God hates us.

 

Your dancing. I love your dancing.

 

Put some disco on. I want to hear disco. DISCO, Godammit!

 

Play some classical music. I wanna hear some harp. I wanna hear some fucking Mozart.

 

Put something on we can dance to.

 

Drunk by lunchtime. The day stretching ahead.

 

I love brown light. I don’t want to go out into daylight … I hate daylight … I come in here to escape the daylight.

 

This is our life. My God!

This is our death. This Is who we are. This is our apocalypse.

 

Smoke with pride. Smoke bravely. Don’t feel guilt. Don’t let it depress you.

 

We’re the last drunkards. They aren’t going to allow our kind anymore.

 

We need people in the world’s night. We need friends.

 

Do you know what friendship is? Everyone doing shots together. Even the barman.

 

You’re an asshole. But you’re my asshole.

I’ve always wanted to be your asshole.

 

Afternoon drinking. It makes such sense.

 

X taking his trousers off. I like being in a pub that let you do that.

 

X and Y, singing a duet.

 

Am I losing my magnificent torso, do you think?

 

What does your tat read?

 

Playing Roy Orbison’s Crying. We’re all crying.

 

Pub wisdom. I’m writing all this shit down.

 

This is my barstool. This is where I sit. No one else could sit here.

 

I’m fucked up. I love being fucked up. I’ll always get fucked up. My life is getting fucked up.

 

X is taking all his clothes off again.

 

How much drinking are we going to do?

 

Every time we meet, it’s some kind of triumph over necessity.

 

No one listens to us.

 

This is the truest I’ve ever been. This is my place.

 

We’re the people the fuckers want to destroy. To depopulate.

 

See, we care about each other. Even as no one else cares about us.

 

He’s in love with everyone. With a lot of people.

 

This is the most beautiful place in the world.

 

I’ve got to sort myself out. I’ve got to write things.

 

This is the best night of my life, like every night here.

 

Tucking X up to sleep on a sofa.

 

What is this song – it’s so fucking beautiful.

 

This is better than any church.

 

Religion – that’s what I’m thinking about. A beautiful fucking religious drunkenness. Where it means the fucking world.

 

You just fell asleep. You can’t sleep here.

 

I’m 32, look like I’m 50.

 

You’ve got to stop drinking here. Can’t come here every night. Take it from me. Like, what do you actually do? Who are you?

I just come to the bar.

I’ll tell you who you’ll be: a guy who used to do stuff who doesn’t do stuff anymore, because he’s in the pub. Promise me you won’t be that guy.

 

We’re going to die in prison. That’s the only outcome. They’re going to get rid of the likes of us. And pubs. Pubs won’t survive. The kind of places people come to actually talk.

 

A man crying and crying on the sofa.

 

What’s the religious meaning of our drunkenness?

We’re here to bring ourselves back from the dead. Here to make ourselves feel alive through chemical means.

 

We’re here to bring ourselves back from the brink or take ourselves to the brink, one of the two.

 

Drink is the question. Drink is the answer. Both at once.

 

Drinking makes me feel witty.

You’ve never been witty, only puerile.

 

Remember who you are.

Who am I?

A child of shit. A creature of the ruins. The last kind, the most revolting kind. Some kind of human worm. Or slug.

 

Let’s drink to that. Let’s drink to everything. I’m feeling very expansive, with my drinking.

Let’s drink for every living being on this planet. Every sentience. And the rocks, too, if you believe in panpsychism.

To hope that everyone can be drunk. That we all participate in world-drunkenness. In world reeling. In world ecstasy.

 

Drink is the answer, probably. Or is it the question?

Stop being so clever. I despise clever.

 

Our heads are expanding. The world’s expanding. We’re in expansive mode. We’re in world liberation mode. We’re in taking our heads off mode.

 

Let’s never be sober again!

 

He’s dying of, like, penile cancer. She’s dying of vaginal cancer. Can you die of that? Cancer of the cock? Cancer of the cunt?

 

The night, cresting. The night, roaring around us.

 

Happy drunks. Everyone drinking, and involved each other’s drinking. Everyone up. Everyone happy. And supportive of each other’s drinking. Nurturing each other’s drinking.

<Back here after finishing edits of My Weil. Going through old notebooks – nothing new for the time being.>

This is some indulgent existence. Who has the right to live like this? We do, apparently.

We’re luxuriants. We’re self-indulgers. We’re emptying the chocolate box of life.

Surely all this is bad for us. Surely it’s ruining us in some way or another. We’re going to be punished, I know it. You don’t get a free pass for this. You can’t just live like this. You can’t just abandon everything. There are consequences, I’m sure of it.

It must be doing something to our souls. Do we have souls? You tell me, philosopher. You’re the expert.

 

How come we deserve this? Why can it be our thing? This isn’t a normal life. We shouldn’t be living like this, so carelessly. Like we don’t care about anything.

 

This deception. How come I believe I deserve this? That I should get away with it? Am I just greedy? Probably.

 

It’s not like I have an excuse. I wasn’t brought up really savagely. There was no major trauma in my life. I wasn’t, like, abused or anything.

 

What sort of person am I? The sort of person who doesn’t care what sort of person I am – that’s clear. Who doesn’t have a conscience. No, who doesn’t act on her conscience.

 

I’m not even mean. I’m not even calculating. I just helped yourself to this. I wanted an affair, and I got to have an affair and that was it. Simple. No qualms. No inner objections. No wrackings of conscience. No anxiety. No: who am I if I do this? No: what kind of person does these things? No: who am I becoming?

 

I must be … two dimensional or something. I must have no depth. No soul.

 

What if we actually lived together? What if we actually got married? What would we do then?

You’d have to find a lover.

And so would you.

 

This is some indulgent existence. Who has the right to live like this?

We do, apparently. We do.

Why? How come we deserve this?

Because we alone could appreciate it for what it is.

What is it, philosopher?

 

We are pleasing ourselves, aren’t we? I’m pleasing you, aren’t I? I'm pleasing me at least.

 

Love … makes you feel exalted, doesn’t it? It makes you high. It makes you feel like some secret aristocrat. If only the world felt what we felt: that’s what you think.  It makes you smug.

 

All the world loves lovers. And lovers are always in love with themselves. With their love. With their being in love. It’s a recipe for smugness.

 

Do you think we look like we’re in love? Do we charm people? Do we lovebirds remind them of the possibility of romance?

It’s like we’re elevated above everything. Like this is the most important thing in the world. Do you feel it, too? Are we in love, in love, in love?

 

There’s an absolute divide between us, and them. Because we’re in love. We’re, like, a loving elite. Who feel their love more intensely than anyone else. Who live more intensely.

 

We’re despisers. We despise all those who live lower than our love.

I think I despise us.

 

Us against the world. The world against us. That's how it is. 

 

Lovers staring at each other. Pleased with themselves. With their love. Pleased with themselves in love.

 

I want to thank nature personally. Thanks, nature. Thanks hormones. Thanks, desire. Thanks, lust.

 

We’re exalted. We’ve exalted ourselves. Lifted ourselves out of the common run.

 

Even I think I look pretty good. I’m peaking, right? This is as good as it’s going to get. It’s all decline from here. God!

And what then, will you just stick with your husband forever?

Maybe I’ll have to.

 

I’m at my peak and believe I deserve something.

Because of your beauty.

Sure, because of my supposed beauty.

 

You’re getting hotter. You’re peaking. This might be the height of your beauty.

And why do you deserve my so-called beauty, philosopher? Why do you get to have it? You tell me …

Because I appreciate it. Because I’m a connoisseur.

The connoisseur of me. I like that idea.

 

God, it’s all very animal, isn’t it? It’s all very … primitive.

 

You’re insatiable. You want too much.

You made me insatiable. You’re the cause.

 

This is like a holiday romance. It’s like we’re on holiday, and it won’t last once the spell is broken. Once we have to go back to reality.

 

This is our sentimental education. Do you realise that?

What are we supposed to be learning? What’s the curriculum?

 

Maybe there’s no such thing as Love capital L. All of this is a way to cover up the void. The void of our lives. The void of everything.

I think we should get drunk and talk about God.

 

I’m glad I’m drunk. I’m glad I’m finally drunk with you. I’m glad I don’t have to drive off. Disappear.

 

I get metaphysical when I drink … do you find it delightful? Do you think of me as a delight? Am I delightfully philosophical?

 

Talking into the night. Talking at the coast. Talking into nowhere. Into the void.

 

Am I being profound … or just drunk?

 

Can God hear us here? Coo-ee, God!

 

What’s your theory of the universe, philosopher? Do you have one? What’s the use of philosophy if it doesn’t give you a theory of the universe?

 

Don’t say you’re an atheist – I’m bored of atheists. Atheism is so dull a position, especially if you are an atheist.

You should always be interesting about God.

 

We haven’t talked about God yet.

interesting things happen when you start talking about God.

 

I want some beautiful God stuff. I meant a beautiful God. A God of all the beauty. God as a name for all the beautiful things. 

God, god, god as a word everyone’s forgotten. That I’m going to reclaim … That can be mine now …

 

We’re not dead yet.

Do you think?

We’re still alive.

Are we?

And it’s all so beautiful.

Is it?

 

What does meaning mean, anyway?

What is this mood, anyway? What do you call it?

I’d call it … ennui. Except it’s a happy ennui. A state of vagueness, like a state of grace. Where you accept the indetermination of everything.

 

This is what I’m like when I’m drunk. Wistful … do you like me wistful? Am I good company, wistful?

 

This … high class ennui. This happy ennui. This disengagement. Like we’re drifting out of focus.

 

You have to be calmer at the coast. You can’t be all manic. It’s a different kind of place. You have to attune yourself. No: you have to let yourself be attuned. You have to let the coast show itself through your moods. Which are really its moods.

 

I don’t think there is a coast. At least, I can’t see it. All I can see is fog. Where’s, like the sea?

It’s out there somewhere. I can hear it. The waves, crashing.

 

Where’s the sand? Where’s anything? This is actually the void, isn’t it?

 

There isn’t actually a coast: that’s the secret of the coast, isn’t it?

 

A … fuzziness. A blurry halo around all things. Where nothing’s quite in focus. Where things just fade off …

 

Something’s happening. It’s happening. Our it. But it’s as if it never actually happens. That nothing actually begins.

 

A cul-de-sac. A byway. A detour. That’s all this is. A little wander off the path of our lives. That we probably won’t even remember in twenty years’ time.

 

You want it to add up to something. To be something. When it’s just … what it is. Or isn’t.

 

When this ends, will we ever see each other again? Will it matter that whether we see each other again?

 

It all feels so unreal. So … disembodied. Like nothing could ever be decided here. Nothing resolved. It’s just … suspension. It’s not part of the world.

 

Is this what it’s like to be a philosopher? Never involved. Never real. Never physical.

 

You philosophers of the void. You practitioners of the void. You void-people. Hollowing out everything …

 

There’s nothing real about us. We’re not real. We’re ghosts. Copies without originals. Everything we say is, like, in quotes.

 

Everything’s, like, dragging behind itself. And the sound is different. It’s muffled. Echoey.

Aural déjà vu: is that a thing? Like you’ve heard it all before, somewhere else. Like everything you hear, you’re just hearing again …

 

That’s our it: a hovering, a suspension. That doesn’t even begin. That we’re always standing beside …

 

I want to descend. Let’s go out. Let’s walk the streets. Let’s go to the beach. I don’t care who sees us. I don’t care anymore. About anything.

 

If this were a film, it’d be a mood piece, really low on plot.

The hatred of air for air. The sky’s hatred of the sky. The earth’s self-hatred. Existence’s shame. Existence’s guilt. The sin of all things, before God.

 

Transcendental sin. Absolute sin. That things were at all! That things were and immediately fell! That the Fall was the beginning, pretty much. That things could only even fall, near-immediately and at once.

 

Self-hatred in all things. Which is also a prayer. A prayer not to be what they are.

 

All of creation longs for restitution, according to the Kabbalists – to the mending that only humans can perform. All of creation longings for destruction, according to Cicero. To be put out of its misery.

What in us wants us to live? Some life-instinct. Even in our disgustingness. Even in our patheticness.

Redoubled grotesquerie: that we should continue in our grotesquerie. That we don’t immediately kill ourselves, because of our grotesquerie.

 

The andmoreagain of life. Of succession. There are still more moments. Still more to happen. The story isn’t over yet.

We crawl on. We stagger on. We stumble on. My God. Isn’t it over yet?

 

Our show. Our dance of death.

We go on. it’s prolonged. It’s continued. We continue to live on this earth. Despite everything. Despite all we know.

 

I question our sincerity. The way we talk. We don’t really mean it – any of this.

Feeling we should be ashamed isn’t the same as feeling ashamed – that’s the thing. Feeling that we should hate ourselves isn’t the same as actually hating ourselves.

Because if we sincerely felt these things, we’d kill ourselves at once. If we truly felt these things, we wouldn’t wait any longer.

But we don’t kill ourselves, do we? We go on, don’t we? We’re alive … we continue … Our lives go on …

Why should that be? Why don’t we correct the problem? Why don’t we do the right thing? Because we would rather this. We’d rather do the wrong thing. We’d rather be alive.

 

Someone put a stop to this. Someone put a stop to us.

We bore ourselves. We tire ourselves. We wear ourselves out. Can’t someone just put us to sleep, like an animal? And just dispose of our bodies discreetly …

 

Not only the desire not to live, but the desire never to have lived. Never to have been alive. Never to have existed.

 

Shame. We don’t have the resolution to kill ourselves. We don’t have the will.

 

The dynamics of self-hatred. The life of self-hatred. The life of the desire to die. My God, we’re making a whole lifestyle of it. Of our thrashings. Of our convulsions. Of our twistings.

 

Our twistings: that is our life. Our thrashing: that is our living. This is what we do.

 

Our sport of self-destruction. Our sport of world-disgust. Our sport of self-disgust. Our sport of self-horror. Our sport of self-strangulation. Our sport of self-torment. Our sport of self-mutilation. Our sport of auto-destruction.

 

Our scholarly expertise: self-ruin. Our area of specialism: self-destruction. Our area of research: self-hatred.

 

An auto-immune response. We’re allergic to ourselves. We’re horrified by ourselves. But we love our horror. That’s the engine that powers us.