Work in Progress

A world Satanic government. A world Satanic religion. That’s what they want.

The whole of our lives, run by Satanic elites. By the new Satanic order.

It’s a war on God. On the Creation. They’re going after everything’s that’s holy and sacred. They want to wipe out the image of God. This is a metaphysical war.

 

Satan isn’t a creator. He can only twist and deform what God’s created. He can only hijack – take over. But he’s good at that.

This is a war on creation. This is war by possession. Infestation. That’s Satan’s M.O.

 

We have to understand what kind of battle this is, what we’re up against.

The enemy is not human. Realise that.

There is no human solution for this. There are just … layers and layers of evil.

 

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

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.

 

This is the last war. They want to modify every species on the planet. To genetically alter every living thing. To, like, spite God. To spite the Creation.

This is the Luciferian Age. The world is as Satanic temple. These are as the days of Noah. There’s only degradation. Debasement. Our endless fall.

 

Omniscience: that’s what they want. The all seeing eye. The perpetual surveillance state … Fucking Sauron, man.

Nimrod sits at the top of the tower of Babel and can see fucking everything.

 

They’re building a technological body for the Antichrist – that’s the secret.

The Antichrist will be full machine and full human. Both at once.

 

They serve a dead god. They serve a dead world. They serve a prison planet.

They know God’s real, the evil ones. They want to do something so bad that God will do something to punish them. They know that God’s real and they spit in his face. And they do it because they want to be caught.

 

But God is the alpha and the omega. God wins in the end.

We’re soft robots, to the Organisational Management campus. Soft machines. Biologically programmable robots.

They want to enslave us. To experiment on us. The capacity for philosophy – that’s what they’re targeting. The ability to question. Our capacity for independent thought.

They want to shut down our faculties. Switch parts of us off. Target the part of our brain responsible for belief, for independence.

Cognitive decline – that’s what they want to induce. Artificial depression … They want to hijack our hippocampuses. Hijack memory, learning. They want to induce memory loss, emotional disruptions, psychological disorders, general brain fog.

They’re after our brains. Our fontal cortices. They want us stupid – more stupid. They’re attacking the brain with their hydrogels. They’re busting through the blood/brain barrier.

And they want to install their narratives. To supplant our memories with their terrifying narratives. They want us docile, fearful, miserable. Ready for orders. Ready for mind control.

That’s how they’re creating humanity 2.0. Homo obedient. The new breed of servitor.

 

We’ve been infiltrated. They’re changing our genes. They’re editing our genes remotely – in real time. They’re fucking with the genome. Turning us into Frankenhumans.

Directed evolution – that’s what it’s all about. It’s soft robotics. To hybridise us. To give us new synthetic bodies … To transition us from carbon-based to silicon-based life-forms. That’s the plan.

We’re being used as hosts for a new AI system. We’re the infrastructure. They’re using our biology. Humanoid platforms: that’s what we are.

 

Human beings are a natural resource and to be used as a resource. That’s their belief. It’s no longer a human society, it’s a machine resource management system.

We’re stock, that’s all. And some stock will be upgraded, some just dispensed with, according to what they need.

We’re the sheep, and the sheep are always led to the slaughter.

 

They want to integrate us into the global brain system. Into a mind-controlled population under the global superstate.

They want to make humankind into some other thing. A giant Borg hivemind. Without individual personhood. Just a node of the giant web. Part of the fucking matrix.

All of us, integrated into the global brain system. And if you’re not … you’ll be a rogue, a threat. A walking biowarfare agent.

 

A population control grid. That’s what they’re aiming at. A bio-fascist security grid. They’re looking for a total management solution. A total organisational solution.

They’ve studied the great control systems from the past. They’re up on the techniques of Hitler and Mao. The ancient Romans. They’re keen students of tyrannical history.

But they’re going to raise them up a notch. They’re perfecting their digital slavery system. Their behavioural psychology. Their neurolingusitic programming. They’re altering our minds. Tenderizing our minds. They’re ruling by group psychology and fear. By black magic, in other words.

There’ll be only controllers and controlled – that’s all.

 

We’re breathing in their strontium. Their barium. Their aluminium. Their manganese. Their polymer fibres.

The air itself – poisoned. The clouds themselves – poisoned. The dust that falls through the air – poison dust. The earth at our feet – poisoned. The grass – poison grass.

They’re poisoned it all. They’ve saturated it all. It’s omnicide.

What’s amazing is that there’s anything alive.

 

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

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

We want to understand the agendas. The players. All the secret operations. But we’ll never understand them.

 

The mercantile era is coming to an end, we know that.

They’re breaking in the new system. Everything’s lined up – every major logistical element.

They’re decommissioning the old reality, and implementing a new one. And everyone’s going along with it

They’re busy with the clear and hold op. With the wiping up potential pockets of resistance op. Nothing’s too trivial for them. Even a philosophy department – sorry, unit – in the provinces.

Our kind have to go under, for the common good – we know that. It’s our turn now. We have to be crushed. Weeded out. They’ve won the major battles. Now they’re turning their attentions to us.

The Organisational Management campus.

We’re losing ourselves. Forgetting who we were. Forgetting what it was like outside – outside the campus. In the real world.

Becoming vague. Becoming brain-fogged. Is it something in the air? Are they pumping something into the air? Some anti-philosophy gas. Some anti-thinking substance.

They’re probably raining it down from the clouds. From the controlled sky. From the controlled clouds. Raining barium and strontium and God knows what else -ium. Pouring it down …

We have to remember … the people we were. The would-be philosophers that we once we were. Recite the great names of philosophy. Gilles Deleuze. Franz Rosenzweig. Recite quotations. In the original language! Like mantras! Help us out, Helmut!

Helmut, talking almost to himself. Wo aber ist Gefähr, wächst das Rettende auch. Looking at us: But where there is danger, a rescuing element grows, too. Yes Helmut, yes! Exactly, Helmut!

Helmut, quoting: Nie könnte Gott dir näher sein,/Also wo Verzweiflung auch zerbirst:/In Zions selbstversunkenem Licht.

In English, Helmut! What does it mean?

Never is God closer to you/as in the deepest doubt:/in the selfwithdrawn light of Zion.

Thank you, Helmut. You have it, Helmut!

Organisational Management has taken the wheel! The faculty wheel and soon the university wheel.

Its ambition has become epochal. Its wings are spreading. Covering up the sky. There’s even a madness to Organisational Management. It’s quite visible here on their campus.

All of academia, its entire history, will come alive again on the Organisational Management campus. The whole university. All universities! In some great recapitulation.

There’ll be Organisational Management history and Organisational Management physics and Organisational Management art and Organisational Management engineering. All here! That’s its mad ambition, the Organisational Management campus!

They knew they had to eliminate Philosophy first, the organisational managers. They knew they had to wipe us out. We’re a danger. Because their mad plans are the sort of thing that philosophers can discern. We can tell. And they know we can tell.

So why are they moving us to Organisational Management, rather than just shutting us down?

They want a witness, maybe. They want Philosophy to know – that’s the thing. They want Philosophy to see. It’s like those villains in Bond movies, explaining their secret plans. It’s the narcissism of Dr Evil.

Maybe it’s some karmic thing. They have to show their plans to someone … we have to give our tacit permission … that’s what gets them off a kind of karmic debt.

Our hope: a black dawn is rising. The dark sky is opening. The greater sky. The blacker sky. Our hope: the sky of non-meaning is rising. The nihilistic sky.

To be saturated by it: the nihilistic sky. To feel it pass through us, ever pore: the sky of nihilism.

We have to reach perfect hopelessness. We have to complete nihilism. Perfect it.

The perfect nihilist can see that the world lacks nothing. That it’s self-enclosed. Integral. Full as it is. And that’s what the Organisational Management campus is.

It lacks nothing. What it lacks … is what it’s not. And isn’t it only the perfect nihilist who can see what it’s not?

The void of God: that’s what we have to know. The Organisational Management campus as the void of God.

Nothing ever rises to apocalypse. Not even here! On the Organisational Management campus! The world never just bursts spontaneously into flame. The world itself can’t be bothered to end. The universe limps on.

Why can’t the end just come? Why can’t the universe just admit that the game is up? That we’ve turned the last page. Why won’t the universe just click its fingers and destroy itself?

You’re supposed to be able to see Northern Lights tonight.

Fuck the Northern Lights! They’re a mockery, the Northern lights. I hate all that cosmic shit. I hate being made to feel awed and small. Fuck off with your wonder! I’m sick of wonder!

That’s how philosophy begins: wonder.

Bollocks. Philosophy begins with horror – world horror! World sickness! With the uttermost of world disgust. Luckily, some of us still have that.

Discussion. We should kill ourselves! At once! 

No – suicide grants too much power to them. It’s their gesture, not yours. We should just sink down, and wait to die. Sink down, and drink, waiting to die. There’s an honour in that.

But how long would that take?

Cruelty – that’s what we want. A cruel, but quick death. Not torture – we’ve had enough of torture. Every day is fucking torture. Time is torture.

The point is an end of time. The point is the severing. The cutting off the head of time. The great guillotine blade, flashing down. The beauty of starlight on the blade. And time’s head severed from its neck, flying out.

A cauterized wound. A burnt-clean wound. Just a blow – the swordstroke – and the smooth wound. The end at one blow. Death, sudden. Apocalypse, lightning-striking. We don’t want to wait any longer. Waiting itself is torture.

Remembering our old Philosophical Studies Christmas parties. When Cicero was in charge.

Guests from all over the university … Cicero’s guardian angels, she used to all them. Lofty people! Senior people! The great and the good, among the academic staff, like a protective guard, over our unit. Over Philosophy!

And that choral music Cicero used to play. Beautiful. And the way we’d head out on the town. To Jilly’s. Cicero liked to watch us drink. She liked to watch us down pint after pint. She like to find us in the zone – the drunken zone. On the drunken plateau. And maintaining it, our drunkenness, for hour after hour. How she admired it! Our pacing. Our deliberation. Our steadiness. The fact we were out for the long haul.

And back to hers … Out to the coast. Out to Tynemouth. Ascending the stairs to her flat, in the Sir James Knott Memorial building. Falling asleep one by one, Cicero laying soft blankets over us …

Did you ever wonder – really wonder – why we’re here? Why Cicero picked us? When we’re so … pathetic. We’re at a Russell group uni. Do you think that was by chance?

That was just to amuse Cicero. She was perverse like that.

Don’t talk about her in the past tense!

But she’s gone, isn’t she? She’s not in Newcastle anymore.

Cicero’s beyond the uni now. Beyond philosophy, even. Cicero’s undergone a phase change. She’s passed on to another level of life.

Cicero picked us out …

Sure, we’re Cicero’s army. Cicero’s ragtag. Cicero’s band of … what? Cicero’s philosophers … Cicero wanted to recruit a posse. She wanted a gang. So she went out and found us.

And who were we? Doomers. Losers. Off the rails. All of us, teaching part time. Magellan, business ethics at Bangor Uni. Ava, the ethics of chemical engineering at Teeside University. Little Hans and Big Hans, busy with applied ethics at various London universities.

Sven, covering the teaching of sacked lecturers in a university that was closing all its humanities departments. Sven, seeing the last few students as the university reinvented itself around him as a new media hub …

Barbarossa, practically shaking when Cicero found her. Barbarossa, plagued by academic bullying. By concocted charges of something or other. Because she refused the advances of an older academic. Who swore he’d make sure Barbarossa never worked again in academia.

Barbarossa, now with a stammer. A stutter. But Cicero saw beyond that.

Cecil, teaching TEFL somewhere, Cecil, forgetting he ever did a PhD. Forgetting the papers he spun out so effortlessly from his PhD. Forgetting his legendary early promise. But Cecil saw the advert, by chance. Cecil applied …

And there I’d been, busy with pregnancy cover in Hatfield. Hatfield! Living in Hatfield! A nowhere place! A nothing place! The most dead-ended of dead end unis. In the London suburbs. In the nowhere suburbs.

And Cicero, coming to find us. Cicero,  doing the conferences. Cicero, asking questions: Who should she employ? Who are the best? The brightest? And avoiding the most obviously bright. The most obviously best.

Cicero, showing up at obscure symposia at obscure universities, keeping her eye out. Cicero, scouting the conferences for the up and coming – and the right kind of up and coming. The desperate. The spiritually intense. The put-upon. The cornered.

Cicero sought us out: the prospectless. The defeated – spiritually. The lower class. We were low-born: that’s what she like. We saw things from a low point of view. From a rat’s point of view. We looked for corners to hide. For cracks in which to disappear.

The bordering-on-resentful. The embittered. The skint. The all but down and out. Who’d never normally be given a lectureship at a Russell Group university.

We were the desperate – which she knew. Because she thought she could shape something from our desperation. We were the bitter – she knew that, too. Because she thought she could make something of our bitterness.

So Cicero swept us up in her angel’s wings. We were saved, lifted, when we didn’t expect to be. We’d escaped, when we never expected to escape … From certain mental illness! Certain suicide! Certain soul death! Certain life murder! Certain fuck up! Certain doom!  

Cicero swept us up. Cicero scooped up the philosophical undesirables. The philosophical no ones. The seven … what? Seven idiots. Seven mediocres. Seven fuck ups. Seven failures …