Work in Progress

It’s not enough that they moved us to Organisational Management – they have to rub our faces in it. The forced marriage of Organisational Management and philosophy isn’t sufficient a humiliation; we have celebrate the marriage; we have to pretend the marriage is a good thing.

As if it wasn’t enough of an outrage to plan to move philosophy to Organisational Management! The fact that such decisions could be taken – and without consultation. That such things could be forced. In spite of all common sense! In spite of all precedent! No: they want more. They want to see us squirm.

But why? This can’t be simple vindictiveness, can it? There must be a deeper motivation. Someone, somewhere, believes they’re doing good by this move. They believe they’re doing the right thing. That’s what’s frightening. The delusion! The moralism! That’s what you have to be afraid of.

It’s a logic – the same logic as everywhere. Productivity. Efficiency. Easier management. Rationalisation.

But moving Philosophy to Organisational Management!? That’s not about rationalisation.

It’s some misplaced idea of developing synergies. Of bringing together disparate subject areas. Of, like, interdisciplinarity or multidisciplinarity or whatever … They wanted to effect the becoming Organisational Management of philosophy! The becoming philosophy of Organisational Management!

And now we’re supposed to celebrate the absurdity. Now we’re supposed to sup with the enemy …

I’m not eating anything in front of them. I’m not filling my plate in front of these losers. I’m not going to chat. I’m not going to make small talk. I’m not going to shoot the breeze with those fuckers …

God, if only we had a bomb! Or flamethrowers! If only we were armed! A suicidal last stand! Armed resistance!

Why do you always have to go from 0 to 60 with your lunacy?

Cicero’s gone. And we … we’re not up to the job. Or any job. Or anything. This is just the playing out … of our mediocrity. It begins and ends with our mediocrity. With the fact that we aren’t Cicero …

But Cicero chose us, didn’t she? She practically combed the country for us.

True.

She sought us out.

We probably disappointed her.

I don’t think we did. She used to listen to us lecture ourside the lecture hall. She’d listen in the foyer.

She liked our pathos. Our perspective … The English working class perspective. Real people perspective, she said.

All I remember is Cicero calling us libtards.

That was to train us. To get us used to adversity.

She criticised my shoes. She said they weren’t smart enough.

That was part of the training. She thought you wouldn’t take yourself seriously without proper shoes. Look, you’re wearing them now. Fucking brogues.

 

And she had a special love for you, Shiva. The way she always kept you back for further instruction. You were, like, her chosen successor. Selected for special attention. As the chosen one. As the future leader. To whom everything was going to be entrusted.

*You act like you’re superior. Like you’ve reached some higher level of consciousness. Like you see farther than everyone else. You act all profound.

Someone, at some point, must have taken you very seriously. To let you be like this. And don’t think I’m just teasing you, philosopher. Teasing is a way of giving you attention. Don’t think I’m playing the coquette.

 

I actually watched a detective series last night. Morse. I watched Morse. An old episode of Morse. Does that disturb you? It does, doesn’t it?

You think we should all be improving ourselves. You think it should always be a matter of edification. I watched Morse, philosopher! That’s the kind of person you’re with: someone who watches Morse.

Morse is about people. And it’s very melancholy. And there are murders. And there’s a plot. Plots are for stupid people – I’ll bet that’s what you think. You probably like talky arthouse. No – slow cinema. Where nothing happens, solemnly. And no one laughs. I like to laugh, philosopher.

Our tastes diverge, philosopher. I ever read a Stephen King book. On holiday. That’s right: I took a Stephen King book on holiday. It wasn’t a novel by one of your guys: by Maurice Blanchot. That you have to have, like, a philosophy PhD to read. One of your joyless, plotless books. That’s supposed to give you a sense of distinction and cultural capital. Fuck you! I read Stephen King!

Which is why we really shouldn’t be together, philosopher. You should stick with others of your kind. How many are of there of your kind, up here in the northeast? You should put that in your dating profile.

No one believes in high culture anymore, philosopher. You know that. It’s part of why you feel so irrelevant. You do feel irrelevant, don’t you? Marginalised. Not part of the common culture. Not one with the ordinary person. There’s just a few of you, clinging on. An enclave. And you don’t even know each other. About films and books about which no one else gives a fuck.

… And classical music, philosopher. You actually listen to classical music. God. You’re a dinosaur. Listen to me: the voice of the common person, philosopher!

You actually read the London Review of Books, philosopher. People like you really exist. You’re not just made up. People actually read the London Review of Books – imagine that. An endangered species, nearly hunted to extinction. Just a few of you left on the continental mainland. A few of you, in Eastern Europe, maybe. Where they still actually have education. Where people are still interested in learning things.

Listen to us talking. We’re not talking about essential things, are we? This isn’t important – not to you. All this is a diversion. It’s keeping you from your work – your true work. What you were put on earth to do – isn’t that right? Your purpose …

This isn’t going to last. This isn’t going anywhere. It’s not like you’re paying attention. You’re listening with one ear.  

I like to listen. I like to watch you.

 

All the things we say when we should be talking about Proper Things, she says. What are Proper Things, philosopher? What’s really worthy of our concern? What matters most to you, philosopher? Isn’t that what philosophy’s about: what matters most? So what does matter? This? You and me, sitting here? Something else? What else?

 

I’m here to torment you, philosopher. I take my role seriously.

 

What if you actually succeeded at something, philosopher – what then? It’d be a shock, wouldn’t it? It’d be the world’s greatest surprise.

 

I get very philosophical up here. I ask a lot of questions. Is that the same thing? I’m talking … asking questions. You should write about questioning, philosopher … Am I bothering you with my questions, philosopher?

You’d like a silent, enigmatic mistress, wouldn’t you?

 

You know what: you’re not sharp. You’re inattentive. You don’t notice things. You don’t see the things I notice. You don’t see what I see. All the things of the world. You don’t look at people, do you? You don’t wonder about people.

 

People, philosopher – don’t you think people are interesting? Or are you sick of people?

Actually, I’m the one who should be sick of people. Our dinner guests. The people we go to the pub with.

I thought you were into people.

I’m bored with our people – my husband’s people. They’re all older than me. They’re all in a different phase of their lives. They getting divorced now. They’re bored of each other. Disgusted with each other. They’re splitting up from boredom. It’s a warning, I say to my husband.

And what does he say?

He doesn’t say anything. He thinks he’s safe.

God, could you be anymore intense? Always trying to batter yourself against the sky, or whatever.

 

You mistakenly think there’s grandeur in suicidalism.

 

All philosophy is life denying. Discuss.

 

I think I’m constitutively bored. Transcendentally bored. I’m waiting for the universe to amuse me. Amuse me, universe …

 

I’m not totally intense like you. I’m not life or death to be or not to be every minute of the fucking day. I don’t like live each minute wondering whether or not to kill myself.

 

I just want something bearable to do. Something not unbearable. That doesn’t make me immediately want to kill myself. I don’t actually want to hurl myself out of a window. Quite unlike you guys, with your death wishes. It’s only intensified your death-desires. Only made them more intense.

 

The prose of the world. Does it disappoint you, philosopher? That’s where I live – in the prose of the world. In the ordinary and the everyday.

 

You’re like some arthouse film protagonist, wandering around and having a crisis. A crisis about everything and everything and the world. Looking moodily into the distance.

But you can’t let yourself do that, either – because you’re British. The world just won’t let you be all arthouse, will it? Must be a terrible disappointment. To be continually brought down to earth.

 

You’d like to be all existential. All French.

 

Because you have a more advanced soul than anyone else. Because you’re deeper. More profound. Because you feel things more profoundly. Is that it?

 

You’re not bothered by all the trivial things. You soul soars higher – is that it? You’re altogether better. You’re plain superior to the rest of us.

 

Anyway, the irony is that I might be the Serious one, capital S. That I have all the Serious thoughts. Because I actually read French. And speak German. And have actually been to those places.

See you’ve mystified philosophy. What you call Philosophy isn’t philosophy, lower case ‘p’. Isn’t just some attempt to think about things clearly and logically. You’ve exalted it. You’ve pushed it up into the sky. You’ve turned it into some kind of Transcendence. But it’s not Transcendence. It’s earthly or its nothing. It’s around us, or it’s noting.

Whereas what you think philosophy is just some humdrum bullshit. Some workaday activity like … like plumbing or something.

Listen to you … you’re into Philosophy, capital P, because you can’t be into Religion, capital R. Because you’re religiously disappointed. Because you long for the All and the Everything and the Nothing – that bullshit … You yearn for Philosophy because you yearn in general. Because you’re ardent in general. Because you’re intense in general. And you can’t find anything else to be intense about.

Negativity turned loose. Negativity going wild. Negativity screaming with laughter. With itself.

The power of negation. That shows itself as laughter. That tears it open: the human sky. The sky above us. The sky into which we laugh. We always laugh into the sky.

It's the sky that receives our laughter. The real sky. Not the satellited sky. Not the Skynetted sky. Not the chem-trailed sky. Not the full-of-nanoparticulates sky. Not the all-set-up-for-holograms sky. Not prepared-for-the-fake-Second-Coming sky.

The real sky, which is a tear in the fake sky. Which is the crack in the old sky. The tearing of which is the apocalypse – our apocalypse.

The new sky – always new. Unto which we cry. And from which we’ll be born – reborn. Our second birth. Our real birth. In laughter. A laughter that tears open laughter. That opens it wide. That renders it abyssal.

A burning that is the real sky. A work of destruction that is the real sky. An explosion that is the real sky. A fury that is the real sky, and nothing but the real sky.

 

We have to tear their sky open. We have to destroy their chem-trailed sky. Their full-of-aluminium-and-barium sky. Their poisoned sky. From which poison rains down upon us.

 

The sky is blocked. Nothing we see up there is real.

The false sky hides the true sky. They’ve buried the real sky. They don’t want it. They don’t want to face it. They don’t want it to see them. To see through them. To sear through them. They didn’t want be x-rayed by the real sun. They don’t want their shame to be seen.

The dream of preparing a cadre of apocalyptic youth. Equipped for the horror. Ready to strike. Terrorists, even. Doubters of all things.

Who wouldn’t, like us, compromise all the way. Who wouldn’t, like us, just take a place in the system. Who wouldn’t apologise for the system, essentially.

 

The dream of building a cadre of philosophy shock troops. Sleeper cells, programmed to awoken at some trigger word. Nihilists awake! Thought terrorists, ready to strike …

 

We’ll help them deepen their personal problems. Their mental illnesses. Turn their despair epochal. World-historical. Weaponize their anxiety.

Change our syllabus to train them for world-collapse. Hand to hand fighting. Practical cannibalism. Foraging and raiding. Tips to surviving the new containment camps.

 

Nihilistic youth: that’s who we’ll create. Singing their death songs. Inured to pending doom.

 

We’re here to work on your souls, we’ll explain. Teach them the truth of every conspiracy theory.

 

Everything is backwards. Everything is inverted. Doctors are here to destroy health. Big pharma to make sure we stay sick. Banks are here to destroy the economy. The weapons manufacturers will make sure we stay at war. Science is here to destroy the truth. Psychiatrists to destroy minds. And unis are here to destroy education. That’s what we’ll teach them.

 

Stunned silence. That’s what we want from the class.

We want to break them in some sense. Their optimism. Their sense of privilege. On their three year gap year. We want to reach them. Shock them. Give them a sense of urgency.

 

Aims and objectives: to bring you to the uttermost of world disgust. Intentions: to depress you. To flail you, mentally. To break you down, but never build you back up.

 

PowerPoint: Goya’s Disasters of War. One by one. For starters. To set the tone.

There’s no way out of philosophy through philosophy. Philosophy just means more philosophy.

 

Negative philosophy, like negative theology.

 

Disgustosophy.

They’re switching off the God-gene. They’re CRISPR editing us to zombiedom. They’re shrouding us in brain-fog. They’re frying us from the inside. They’re roasting the brains in our heads.

This is humanity 2.0. This is homo obedient. The new breed of servitor.

 

There are a lot of us to manage.

There’ll be fewer of us soon.

You mean –

Depopulation. Reducing the human stock.

Are they actually doing that?

That’s their motivation, isn’t it? Cull the useless population.

 

They’re patenting new viruses for the new plagues. And new jabs for the new plagues.

They’re readying the bioweapons in biolabs, in non-treaty countries.

 

They’re destroying our capacity for independent thought. Shrouding us in brain-fog. For resisting authority. Don’t you think it’s deliberate?

They’re gene editing us into compliance. Frying us from the inside. Roasting  the brains in our heads. The capacity for philosophy – that’s what they’re targeting. The ability to question.

 

They’re dialing us down. They’re shutting down our faculties. Switching parts of us off. Targeting the part of our brain responsible for belief, for independence.

They want us docile. Ready for orders.

 

They haven’t got the stomach simply to murder us outright – not yet. There are more gentle form of murder. More humane.

 

They’re experimenting with murder – slow murder. With slow soul strangling. Slow brain damage.

There are seven billion types of murder, one for each of us. They have all these new weapons to try. Years of menticide research. They’re trying They have all these new weapons to try. Good and evil mean nothing to them.

 

They’re drunk with power. With the capacity to kill. They’re trying them out – all the slow weapons in the arsenal. All-out stealth assault. On every frontier. Chemical. Biological. Mental. From all directions. From land, from earth, from sea. From space. From every frequency.

 

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 open season. It’s a war against all. Nothing’s off limits. Them against us, on every frontier.

Conscience – what’s that? Ethics – shrug. Legality – you can get round that.

 

Psychopaths recruiting psychopaths. Psychopaths training psychopaths. That’s politics. Psychopaths, increasing psychopathy. Whipping it up anew. Squaring it. Cubing it. Evil isn’t evil enough – not yet.

 

Have they got inside us? Changed our genes? The microflora in our guts? Our PH balance? Have we been infiltrated? Have they already breached our bodies’ defences? Is there a ticking timebomb inside our hearts? Does our bloodstream slip with smartblood?

Our nervous systems – are they still ours? Our thoughts – our brains – are we still in charge? Are we captains of our ship?

 

They’re looking for a total management solution. They’re working on a global solution. On a climate solution. Or a human solution. For a docility solution. For an antisocial behaviour solution. For a total surveillance solution. For a population control 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.

 

You know they can never just leave us alone. They’re refining their techniques. Their love of planning. Their love of making us do stuff.

Do you think they believe it’s for our own good? Do they tell themselves that anymore? Do they actually need a noble lie? An alibi? Or is it just the naked desire for control? Is it China-envy, basically?

What’s their motivation? Are they descendants of certain bloodlines? Heirs? Inheritors? Are they the latest instigators of centuries-old plans, programmes, techniques? Are they working, like their ancestors, in secret? Behind the scenes? Pulling the levers … Making Decisions … Managing?

Do they periodically get together with other bloodline scions? Compare notes. How are you getting on? Coordinating plans … Checking progress …

Are them themselves controlled? Prevented from rebelling? Carefully brainwashed? Brought up to carry on the family business. The bloodline business.

They’ve been bred carefully. With the right people. Trained to internalise the mission. To carry it forward.

And if they step out of line, what then? Are they murdered? Threatened with kompromat?

Perhaps we should feel sorry for them, too. They’re as controlled as we are.

 

How come we don’t know anything about them?

They don’t want fame. Publicity. To see their faces in Hello! To have history books written about them.

What do they get out of it then? What’s their motivation?

Rulership. Control.

But doesn’t it get boring?

They like to watch us. Befriend us now and again. Share some of their secrets, knowing they’ll never be believed.

Do they have pangs of conscience? Isn’t it lonely at the top? How do they keep their secrets?

They murder dissenters. Assassins will come. Boston breaks applied to their car … Look, there are so many people on the payroll … Sworn to secrecy … Secret networks of influence, running through NGOs and governments and corporations … Like the Masons. And, who knows, including the Masons. And the military …