Work in Progress

The Organisational Management campus

We’re being exposed to the worst. To see if we can take it. To see if we can resist. To see if we’re still human by the end of it.

We know what they want. Total fucking mind control. This whole evening – this whole event is an exercise in black magic. In hypnosis. Can we take it? Can we survive with our hippocampuses intact?

They and their kind have been controlling us for thousands of years. They’re smart. They have the oldest techniques. They’ve been Organisational Managing since the year dot, that’s what we have to remember. They’ve been doing this since, like, forever.

Look, if we can’t resist, then we’re done as a fucking species. We’re the last best hope for humanity …

Are we?

If they can do it to us, they can do it to anyone.

 

We’ve come to the dragon’s lair.

We’ve been made to come.

They’re going to try to fuck with our heads. To do things to us.

We’ve resisted up to now, haven’t we?

But this is their place. Their zone. Where they’re at their strongest. They’re relocating us here. For a reason.

We should be sober – ultra sober. Free from all … vices. Our blood should run clean.

No, we should be drunk. Desperately drunk. That’s the only way …

But how can we stand up to this? These towers? This show of power.

But we’re not about power. That’s our strength. Our crapness. Our inability. Our failure. The fact that we have no stake in all this. That we don’t want to get on …

 

Come, disaster. Come tonight. Wipe this campus off the face of the earth, like God did Sodom and Gomorrah.

And let it destroy us, too. We volunteer. We want to be destroyed.

We’re all down our separate rabbit holes. We’re too used to supposing that nothing’s real. Driss is all but convinced the world is flat, for fuck’s sake. That the moon landings were faked. That we’re just floating about in a dream, or whatever.

If you think everything’s a psy-op, then nothing might as well be a psy-op. If you’re convinced by nothing, you might as well be convinced by everything.

 

They own the counter-culture. They set up the fucking counterculture. That’s how they get us. They want us lost down mad rabbit holes. Debating whether the world is flat, or whatever. About whether we really landed on the moon. About whether the Khazarians are in charge of everything.

They want our heads spinning. They want us half deranged. They want us afloat. Blown hither and yon by this wind and that.

Which means that we have to philosophy-up. We have a responsibility to our ancient subject area. We have to use our philosophical heads. Our philosophical training. We have to drawn on great books that we’ve read, or half read. Those oeuvres we know, if only through superior secondary literature.

You, Barbarossa are our Heidegger man. You, Furio, our Schelling exepert. You, Driss, speak for Arendt and the origins of totalitarianism. You, Fiver. all the Deleuzain stuff. Vitalism. Bergson in general. Kitten, of course, is Jewish modernism. And you, Shiva, all that foggy philosophy of literature stuff, which is of no use to anyone.

 

We need someone with expertise in economics, of course.

The philosophy of economics?

Just economics. Alternative economics. The history of economics, maybe.

We need a historian. Someone who knows the history of corporatism. Its links with fascism. The history of technocracy. Someone who understands the old feudalism, best to recognise the coming feudalism into being.

We really need a psychologist. An expert on control mechanisms. On behavioural psychology. Nudge units. Someone who understands the coercion cascades. How they reach down.

We need legal experts. Who can tell us how they prepared for tyranny. How they worked on it for years.

We could do with a scientist. Who understands the lies. A scientist who hasn’t ben fooled. Hasn’t been bought off. Where do we find someone like that?

Not in the university.

Face it: we’re thrown back on ourselves. On our own resources.

 

We should develop a Centre for Research into the New World Order.

A secret Centre.

We need to raise money. Bid for funding … 

They'll love that. 

It just takes too long to freeze to death. And it’s too cold.

Hey, postgraduates – do you want to die? Is it time to die? It’s a blessing. Life doesn’t hold out much hope for you.

Come on, they might actually get jobs. Lectureships. They’re Russell Group PhD students, after all. They’re not coming from the same place as we are. They’re not crawlers out of the primordial slime. They’re not creatures from the lower league table universities.

Yeah – they’re not twisted like us. Noting’s gone fundamentally wrong with the heads.

Which means they won’t write our mutant philosophy. Our fuck up philosophy –

– Which we don’t even write.

 

Our postgraduates aren’t as fucked up as we are. They don’t have our deep problems.

Maybe not. That means they’re temptable! Biddable!

Unlike us! Unlike our kind! The hysterical kind!

They’re calmer. Better, probably.

I mean, look at us: we’re not even philosophers. My God, how wretched we are.

And they don’t find their wretchedness funny: that’s a big thing. They’re not amused by their plight, as we are at our plight. We actually find ourselves funny. We actually entertain ourselves.

Destroy us, Organisational Management Campus! We’re consuming precious resources! We’re polluting the campus! The planet!

We’re useless eaters. This is our useless eaters revue. This is the surplus population show.

We volunteer ourselves for depopulation! We’re volunteering for the cull! Take us, we’re yours, motherfuckers!

 

We’re doing no good. Only eating up resources. Lock us up! Lock us down!

Turn on your sirens. Let the spotlights find us. Send in the guard dogs. Or the killer drones. Or the flying monkeys. We’re braced. We’ve lived enough! We’ve gone on too long!

 

You’re new normal isn’t for us, Organisational Management Campus. Your brave new world. We’re not and never will be good technocratic subjects. We haven’t got the temperament. We’re the wrong types.

We’re spreaders of disinformation. Of mal-information, probably. We’re not the sort you want around. We’re not going to be good global citizens. Your nudges aren’t work on us.

We’re immune to behavioural psychology. To mass formation. We’re not going to be obedient. It’s not even defiance. We can’t help it. We’re not drones. We’re not non-player characters. We’re not the type to kiss the ring.

So take our lives. What does it take to get executed around here? Zap us from the sky! Rain it down!

I wish you’d just stop this bullshit.

Oh, Kitten, always so critical.

Can’t you see how hungover we are? We’ve earnt the right to talk like this. We actually had an adventure, while you were writing your magnum opus. A misadventure. We descended. We went down. To the abject. To abjection.

And dejection.

We were fucking destroyed. By our own hands. Our own drinking hands.

You’ve been together too much. You’re finishing each other’s sentences. The way you guys live. It’s sick. You’re sick. This isn’t how you’re supposed to live. This isn’t what you’re supposed to do.

Sure, tell us Kitten. Instruct us. We need to know. How should we be living.

Not like this, anyway. The way you wallow in your so-called despair. Which isn’t despair at all.

So what is it then?

You’re mediocre and you suffer from your mediocrity.

Devastating, Kitten. But you’re so right, Kitten – we’re mediocre. MEDIOCRE.

We accept your judgement, Kitten, Your judgement is correct. No one knows it better than us. We disappoint ourselves. We’ve never stopped disappointing ourselves. This is our state, we accept it. After all, what can we do.

We’re not like you, writing your magnum opus.

And stop talking about my magnum opus.

 

We don’t drink enough, that’s our problem. It hasn’t become a way of life. We’re not alcoholics. Not yet.

Aspirant alcoholics. Maybe that’s what we are.

There’s a kind of self-cruelty we’ve yet to muster. So we’re outsourcing it to you. Be cruel, Kitten. We’re ready. Our chests are bare. Slip the knife in.

 

You’re a do-gooder – so do some good, Kitten. You know what’s best. Tell us: we’re ready to listen.

We’ve had enough! God knows!

 

Maybe there’s still hope for us. Our lives aren’t in a state of total collapse. We aren’t in total freefall. We’re not destitute. We’re not even alcoholics – not yet, at least. Our heart’s not even in drinking.

So where are our hearts?

It’s a mystery. What do we want? What can we do?

To write something, maybe. To think something. Are we any good at that? A single thought. A single idea. To write a single line that isn’t … secondary commentary. An idea of our own! God knows!

We could settle for drinking ourselves to death.

I’m bored of drinking.

Let’s bore ourselves to death.

We’re trying, aren’t we?

 

They’re keeping us alive – face it. We’re alive because they want us alive.. They could just wipe us out, if they chose to. They want to see what we’ll do. We’re entertaining someone, if not ourselves.

KILL US, FUCKERS! GET US WHILE WE’RE HOT!

 

Waiting for space lasers to zap down. Waiting to destroyed from the air.

BRING ON THE FIRECT ENERGY WEAPONS! FRY US, MOTHERFUCKERS!

Are you wearing anything blue. Take off your blue hat. What colour do lasers most like?

 

Ganymede, dancing. Ganymede, gyrating.

Is that your death dance, Gan? Is this your death disco? I think they’re actually enjoying it, your dance.

We haven’t accepted it yet – our defeat. There’s life in us yet.

What life!

Life – disgusts me.

Not enough.

Not enough for what?

This endless doom spiralling. This game of one-down-one’s-ship. This war on life – on our lives.

Yeah, but it’s our defeat – not theirs. We’ll destroy ourselves. In our own way. In our own time. With our own style. We do it with panache. And humour. This is actually amusing for us …

Why aren’t they just killing us?: that’s what I don’t understand. WHY AREN’T YOU JUST KILLING US, FUCKERS? WHY DON’T DESTROY US? WE’RE HERE, RIGHT HERE, MOTHERFUCKERS!

Maybe they want to break us. To see what will happen. It’s an experiment. They’re trying things out on us. It’s, like, total demoralisation.

I’d rather they’d just finish the job.

The trick is to get us to kill ourselves. To save them the bother. Us, and people like us. The anomalies. The unmanageable.

So why don’t we? Why don’t we just do their work for them. Come on, they’ll get us in the end.

I want to see what happens. I want to see how bad it gets.

HOW BAD’S IT GOING TO GET, MOTHERFUCKERS!?

When you wish upon a star …

What star? There are only satellites.

When you wish upon a campus.

What are we going to wish for?

The destruction of the campus. With us inside it. Like a wicker man.

Fucking A.

Why do we have to die too?

Because we’re compromised. Hopelessly so. We’re tainted.

Already?

It gets to work pretty quickly. It’s like being bitten by a zombie.

Damn – so we’re zombies.

Sure we are – we’re zombie organisational managers, pretty much.

Could be handy. It’ll make us very good at university admin.

So when do we actually turn – into zombie organisational managers, I mean?

It’s happening. It’s in process.

Maybe we can drink it out of us.

Do you think? Is that a known antidote for zombie organisational managers?

Well, drink doesn’t make you more organised, does it? Or more managerial?

 

The real zombies are out there, beyond the stony wastes. That’s what they’re afraid of.

What, the working class?

Worse: the non-working class. The uncontrollable ones. The maniacs. Who can’t be organised, or managed.

So why is the campus open to them? You can walk right through it.

They haven’t turned on the forcefields yet.

Forcefields?

Sure. Emergency forcefields. The campus defences. They’ll lock us in and lock them out.

Wow.

They’re driving us all into Hell – the whole world. Deliberately. They’re deliberately destroying it. As some blood sacrifice to the devil. To their strange fucking gods.

 

They’re destroying everything, They’re making a pyre out of the whole of civilization. When all else fails, they take us to war, right?

 

Death fodder: that’s what they want. They want to pile up the bodies of the young. Let us die in great heaps and mass graves, flies buzzing round us.

 

We can’t stop this. No one’s stopping this. It has its own momentum. It just continues.

It’s civilizational … it’s a culmination …