Work in Progress

I don’t want this world. I don’t want to compromise. I don’t want to change the world. I want to leave it to its disaster. I don’t want to perpetuate the existing structure. This system. And I don’t want to replace it. Because what would we replace it with? More of the same. The same fucking horror.

 

We can’t rebel against the established order of the world is to ask for more order. It’s the usual cycle. The usual renewal of mastery and submission.

There’s a way of living that’s … unassimilable to the world. That doesn’t enter into relation with the world. That’s not part of the administration of all things. That’s just … inexplicable and unaccountable. That’s miraculous – why not use that word? That’s a fucking miracle …

 

We’re victims of the lower powers. Of the fucking Archons. We’re waiting for some … gnosis. Some Knowledge. That can’t be taught, can’t be learned. That you can’t approach directly. That you can’t even think about. Something … unthinkable.

 

You can’t overthrow the world, everyone knows that. All you get is more world. Kill the Master and you’ll get a new Master. The world’s not going to change.

 

Tired of the endless administration of the world. Its ceaseless management. The coordinates we’re given. The social coordinates. The governmental coordinates. The biopolitical coordinates. The philosophical coordinates.  

 

To empty out the fucking mind. Evacuate the fucking world. To achieve some new … subjectivation. Which you have to wait for. Which you can’t just bring about by yourself. And then … and then the question is how to live it. How to stay with it, loyal to it.

 

There’s a way of living in disgust – pure disgust. A way of living in hatred – pure hatred. Purifying hated. That is even a kind of joy in its purity.

 

There’s an ethics of … this. There’s a … transcendental experience that’s still possible. A point of leverage. There are encounters. Where you’re not engulfed by the worldly. Where it’s about the void – holding yourself out into the Nothing. When it’s about a new way of living. A way of life …

 

You have to hold on to the decision to depart. To purify yourself from the world. Without duplicity. Without hesitation. You have to find a true heading. A true destination.

 

No more philosophy, even. Because philosophy is always about reconciling us with the world. Or with some projected future reconciliation, when everything’s going to be fine. No more philosophy …

 

It’s a matter of an anti-life. An anti-biography. A personal … revolution. That breaks with what’s gone before.

 

Absolute revolt. As absolute as a saint … A total rejection of the world. Like those early ascetics. Driving themselves out of all comfort. Of all assurance. Wagering themselves. Struggle alone in the wilderness. Heroically, like, anonymous. 

 

Pure refusal. Pure retreat. Pure withdrawal. Just … subtraction from this world.

 

You can’t do anything about the horror. No redemptive promises. No theodicies, or versions of theodicies, when everything terrible that’s happened can be justified. Nothing that would posit an intelligibility to history, capital H. Because history is only exile. Alienation.

 

It’s not about what we think. It’s not about our own thinking. It’s not about being the subject or author of our own thought. The void thinks – in our place.

 

A negative philosophy. A hyperphilosophy … or a hypertheology.

 

We can say nothing positive about the void. There’s no affirmative proposition we can attach to it.

 

We have to resist social reality. Social power. We have to fall out of the socially constituted word.

 

A negative philosophy. A negative theology. A negative politics. An anti-politics.

 

A pure end. Absolved of any means through which it might be realised. Of any obstacle that stands in its way.

 

Faith in faith. Faith as a spiritual discipline. That has nothing to do with a religion, a politics. A faith that looks beyond this world, and its dependence on this world.

The temerity to write! That we’re allowed to write, at our desks. On our computers. No: that we would even try to write. That we would even attempt to write, and not our suicide notes. Not lengthy apology letters. Not resignation letters.

That we turn on our computers at all. Open a document. That we should presume that we have something to say. That we have something to write. Which isn’t just an apology – and a lengthy apology. That isn’t just a listing of our sins and even our original sin: that we exist at all.

What excuse do we have? As if we were perfectly innocent … As if we didn’t know that what we wrote yesterday was a complete disaster and could only have been disastrous … And the same for what we wrote the day before! And what we wrote the day before that!

That we have not learnt: our ultimate sin. That we’ve learnt nothing. That experience teaches us nothing. That we persist. That we go on. In what optimism? With what hopes? How deeply we’re deceived!

We know our shortcomings, but we don’t know our shortcomings. We know how we fall short, but we don’t know how we fall short. We know our catastrophe, but we don’t know our catastrophe. We know our errancy, but we don’t know our errancy. We know our idiocy, yet we don’t know our idiocy. We know what we cannot do, but we do not know what we cannot do. Because we haven’t yet destroyed ourselves. Because we haven’t actually killed ourselves.

Alive! Still alive! The embarrassment. We’re sheepish about it. Embarrassed. It wasn’t supposed to end like this – i.e., never ending. It wasn’t supposed to be endless. We weren’t supposed to just live on forever.

The long afternoon of life. The forever afternoon. Continuation – day after day. Week after week. It amazes us. To find ourselves still awake, still alive. Going on – somehow. Surviving – somehow. Still at it – somehow.

And a whole university, supporting us in our delusion. The whole of academia, allowing us our fantasies. Driving us on. Not minding us. Tolerating us. Ignoring us, so long as we do the right administrative things. So long as we’re able to recruit. Our ship of fools. Our febrile band. Somehow, in the midst of all this, we’ve been allowed to get away with it.

We haven’t been closed down – not yet. We haven’t been ejected from the university – but how? We haven’t been forcibly expelled – why not? We haven’t been tarred and feathered and banished from the campus. We haven’t been excommunicated. We’ve been allowed to … be what we want to be. Do what we want to do. Within parameters, of course. Within a certain framework, true. But we’ve escaped scrutiny – until now.

We haven’t been any trouble. We’ve recruited. We’ve filled our lecture rooms. There’s a bumper crop of philosophy students graduates every year. With the highest grade! Perfectly happy with their degree! With their studies! Making no complaints! Raising no fuss!

We balance our budgets. We even make profit – a little. We haven’t been noticed, not really. We’ve ruffled no one’s feathers. We haven’t even been noticed, not really. We don’t speak at meetings. We create no fuss. We’re unobtrusive. We know the best thing is to keep quiet. Not to draw attention to ourselves. To simply get on with the job. And to be allowed to do what we do, without interference. Without scrutiny.

The auditors are happy with us. The quality assurance people. The internal audit people. And that’s what matters! And that’s what should matter to us!

My God, we were looking for jobs for years, and now we’ve found them. We were looking to be able to earn a living for years, and now we do. We want to Dream. We want to Drift. We want to Explore. To close our office doors and Imagine. To Contemplate where we’ve been and what we’ve done and what the future holds for us.

To ponder how we got here. To wonder at the turn our lives have taken. Here we are, in a city we don’t know. In a region unfamiliar to us. A part of England. The northeast! Infinitely mysterious. Who are we here? Who will we be? What turns will our life take? Where will we go? What will we do?

We’ve been given this chance – how not to squander this chance? To use this time. Not to get lost. Not to go off course. To make something of ourselves. To launch ourselves as thinkers. Because we have no excuse anymore.

Open ended contracts. The support of the uni. Hadn’t we always dreamed of this? Isn’t this what we always wanted? And what will we do with it? What will me make of ourselves? Will we be able to think for ourselves? With our own thoughts? With what we are? With who’ve we’ve been?

Our thinking … thoughts peculiar to us. Individual. That reflects the accidents of our lives. The contingencies. That we’ll lift up into Necessity.

Think of all the other poor fuckers out there without jobs. Think of them, scrabbling away, trying to make a living, surviving on benefits, handouts, couch-surfing, moving back in with their parents, trying to live from part time contract to part time contract, picking up teaching here and there. Wherever.

Taking on anything – any teaching job that pays. Brownnosing. Ingratiating themselves. Working themselves into this department or that. Making themselves indispensable. In the hope … in the hope that … what?

They’ll just hire some big name instead of you. They’ll just bring in someone with a proper education, instead of you. Who studied at Leuven, or something. Who’s like properly foreign, properly European, and is cultured like a proper European. Who has the manners of a proper European. Who dresses like a proper European. Who possesses wit like a proper European. Who reads everything in the original, like a proper European. Who can really carry off European thought, like a proper European.

But we got hired. We made it. We’re inside. And maybe inside forever. We better be inside forever. Because the last thing we’d ever want to be now is outside, scrabbling. Whoring for work. We’ve done our time. We’ve served our … apprenticeships …

Which is why we want to rest for awhile. Why we want to be quiet for a while. We want to be left alone for a while. We don’t want to have to sell ourselves for a while. We’re inside. We walk the corridors. We feel glad in the corridors. We’re happy as we cross the threshold into our building. As we walk up the steps towards our building.

We belong somewhere. We’re thirty-somethings, and now we can begin our lives. Now we can write things and publish things and partner up and reproduce. Now we’re eligible. Now we’re players. Now we’re not no ones. But things will be Expected of us. We’ll have to Deliver …

But not quite yet. Not now. Not for the moment. We can crawl under the figurative bedsheets for a while. To be left alone … Not to feel a threat existentially. Not to feel under fire. Not to feel a target on your back.

No more dole office. No more signing on. No more having to apply for seven jobs a week. No more back to work interviews. No more housing benefit applications. No more Explaining Ourselves. To peers. To parents. No longer having to make a case for ourselves.

We can catch up with our contemporaries. Buy somewhere. It’s cheap in the northeast. We’ll thrive in the northeast. Round out our lives. Learn to cook, or something. Go out into the countryside, or something. Join the ramblers, or something. Meet people from outside the bubble, or something. Meet people who are non academics, or something. Meet people who’d look up to us, or something.

Our lives can expand, but gently, gently. Life – ordinary life. We remember that. We have an idea of that. We won’t have to live in squalor. In rented rooms. We won’t have to live on discounted sandwiches. On bargain crap.

Relief – is that what we feel? Relief … a second life. Another go at life. Reborn, remade. Coming to ourselves. We might be able to become full human beings, at last.

We’re not just lost. We’re not just stranded. We’re not just forgotten. We’re not just out here forever. We’re not one of the Lost Boys and girls and non-binary people. We’re not leftovers. We’re not spares.

We’ve been Vindicated. It’s all Paid Off. It’s Led Somewhere. The Plan Worked. Was there a plan? Only the plan to escape the world. Only the plan to worm our way in. We’ve done it. Relief.

And who are we to be? Who will we be? Poor idiot lecturers, going from this enthusiasm to that. Publishing here and then there. Secondary stuff. Critical Guides to this or that. Editors of collections. Special editions. In some half arsed way. With no oeuvre in view. No row of books bearing your name. No Trajectory. No Denkweg. No path of reflection. Nothing carrying you forward. No build up. No thick book from Oxford University Press, or Stanford University Press.

These are the days. On the sixth floor, looking out. High over St Thomas Church. Over the war memorial. Over Barras Bridge. Over Haymarket. And the sky. We’re close to the sky. We can come and go as you please. Stay late. Stay all night. Sleep in your cupboard. Are we going to get lost in all this time? Think of Blumenberg and his card file of notes. Or was that Luhmann? Or was it both of them? Think of the massive oeuvre of Jacques Ellul.

Do we have anything to Say? Will we discover something to Say? Topics to explore. That are ours, only ours. A new Pressure. A gathering Pressure. What we will have to be. How we’ll lift ourselves up. How we’ll find Momentum. How we’ll be led from article to article and book to book. How we’ll write and sail away on an ocean current of writing.

Will we surprise ourselves. Will we surprise everyone. Now that we’ve been Given a Chance? We don’t know who’ll we’ll be. Is that our hope? Are those the grounds for our hope? Is that what our hope is?

Our transcendental awfulness. Our transcendental stupidity. Out transcendental witlessness. Our transcendental idiocy. The way we compound our idiocy with meta-idiocy. Transcendental idiocy. The way we double up our stupidity. Triple it up. With transcendental idiocy and transcendental transcendental idiocy.

An infinite spiralling of idiocy. Great feedback loops of stupidity. Squealings. Howls. Roars. Shakings. Howlings. It’s deafening.

Proof that there is no God. Proof that there never was an intelligent design. Proof that it’s all just random. Chaotic. Control-less. Proof that it was never about survival of the fittest.

Proof of what? That the universe mocks itself. Life laughs at itself. That time is going on just for laughs. That life exists for laughs. That’s all going on in farce and deeper farce. We can only make sense of our lives as ongoing sacrifices. As exercises in futility and worse. Exercises in destruction.

 

We repent! Of course we do! But do we repent deeply enough? Are we our own scourges? Are we sincere in our penitence? Do we really mean it?

Self -loathing: is that it? Or is it a loathing of the conditions that produced us? Is it a transcendental hatred? For the transcendental conditions of our idiocy?

A loathing of what allowed us to exist …

 

But perhaps we have a redemptive power. A messianic role. That all is not quite lost, after all. By dint of how greatly we are lost, we are not lost. Because of the destructiveness of our presence, things might not be destroyed, after all.

 We should never have been: that’s our Original Sin. We should never have been born! But we were born! We grew up … And now we’re here … Here – where we should not be. On the face of the earth! Shameless! Right here! Right now! Full of sin! Sinning at every moment! At every instant! We rise in sin, go to bed in sin. We live out our whole lives in deep, deep sin.

Our original sin. The sin we carry with us. And sin’s worse when there’s no God. When there’s no one to absolve your sin. When there’s no way to be forgiven. Because we shouldn’t be forgiven, for what we did by being born. For being born at all …

Our original sin. Our original fault. That we can’t do anything about, it’s true. That we can’t solve, admittedly. A debt we can’t settle. That we carry with us, every day.

Isn’t the solution just to kill ourselves at once? To excise ourselves from the record! To change our birth certificates – to tear them up! All our records, destroyed. Disappearing from every photograph. From every online archive. Google searches of our name, turning up nothing. Memory-holed so thoroughly that our friends can’t recall us. That our own parents have forgotten our names …

And the world’s burden, lightened. The world’s load, lifted. The world, breathing a little more lightly. The sky a little higher. Its blue a little bluer. An unburdening. A lightening. A lifting. A release. A singing – why not? The song of a world released! The bliss of a world unburdened! Doves rising into the sky! A flock of birds, rising up! The souls of all, lifted higher.

And the world would never know what it’s been liberated from – that’s the thing. The world will have forgotten us – and hence the conditions of its liberation. The world will not remember why it feels lighter, happier, breezier. Why the sky seems deeper, bluer. Why the sun burns brighter. Why more birds sing. Why leaves push higher. Why flowers open wider.

The magnificence of the world without us! Without our presence! Without our shadows! Exaltation everywhere, and no one quite knowing why. A debt paid back. A burden lifted. An encumbrance. A lightening.

To think: we have it in our power to liberate the world. To lighten it. To loosen it. To lift it higher. We’d just have to … eliminate ourselves. Remove ourselves from the equation, and from all equations. Discreetly. Quietly. Without drawing attention to ourselves. Without making any kind of fuss.

We have it in our gift … That’s what we could bestow … That could be our generosity. Our blessing. That’s what we could give back. That’s how we could solve the problem. Solve our problem. Undo everything we’ve done. The terrible mess we’ve made. All the knots we’ve tied. That’s what we could do for the world. For everyone!

But what about the mess we’d leave? Who would have to clear up our bodies? Who would need to tidy up our affairs? The terrible jobs we’d leave others. Our bodies – hasn’t that been the problem all along? And what would we leave behind but our bodies?

Throw ourselves on the Tyne, and we’d wash up somewhere. Throw ourselves in the North sea, and we’d wash up somewhere. Throw ourselves off Claremont tower, and someone would have to find our battered bodies. Gas ourselves in our own flats, and someone would have to cart us off for cremation. Electrocute ourselves – same problem. There’d have to be an autopsy.

Always something left over. Always something. Our lifeless bodies. Our suicided bodies. If only there was a way just to be vaporised. Just to be blasted out of existence. Isn’t that possible? To be exploded. Every molecule dispersed. Every atom. An entire – eradication. A complete – wipeout.

Better to rewind the whole universe to the time before we were born. Before we had a chance to make trouble. Before our parodic existence, before our parody. Before our mockery. Before our absurdity – the absurdity of our existence.

Better to destroy the universe as such, because of the chance that beings like us could appear. Better to wipe out everything that exists, because things can go so terribly wrong. The original sin of existence. The original sin that there is anything at all …

Could we really eradicate all our effects? All the trouble we caused? All the terrible things we set in motion? Do we overestimate our significance? Do we make out ourselves as too important? Do we get the degree of our influence wrong? Our malevolence? Our evil-doing? The infestation that we spread? That spreads from us like a cloud?

The pain we’ve transmitted … The sadness we’ve passed on … We’ve made people shake their heads. Purse their lips. Tut quietly. Pity us. Feel sorry – desperately sorry – not just for us, but for the whole of humankind. For the whole human predicament. For the human ruin. For general human nest soiling. For general human auto destruction.

Reaching out. Spreading everywhere. For the curse of the human. And of the animal. And, we dare say it, of the planet. And – why not – for the whole of existence. Isn’t that what we’ve taught people? Shown them? Introduced them to?

The error of existence – of human existence, animal existence. Vegetable existence. And existence as such! And the existence of anything! Haven’t we made people doubt themselves. Doubt everything. Their right to exist. Their right to go on. In the face of … us.

Haven’t others wanted to kill themselves from shame – from shame for us? From being of the same species as us? For being human like us. For being animate like us. For being alive – just that?

What we’ve done … The pain we’ve caused … The misery we’ve spread. The great curse. The great, spreading horror. The sprawl of terror. Isn’t that what we’ve shown, to those who’ve known us. To those who’ve seen us at work. Who’ve read our papers. Who’ve heard us give talks. Who’ve been taught by us – God knows!

Shameless – our shame. Shameless – our shamelessness. The fact that we do not feel ashamed – or not ashamed enough. Not self-destructive enough. Not desirous of death enough. That we didn’t kill ourselves months ago – years ago. Isn’t that our shame? That any suicidal impulse we’ve felt has come too late – years late! Decades late!

That we’ve gone on regardless. That we haven’t at least tried to remove ourselves. To hide ourselves away. To shut ourselves up, so that we can’t be seen. To live a life as quiet as possible! Disturbing no one! Barely letting ourselves be seen! Thought about! Not just untouchable, but unthinkable. Unconceivable!

That we’ve actually published, and will publish more. That we actually write. That we actually give talks – academic papers. That we actually talk at conferences. That we actually share our thoughts. That we presume to spread our gospel.

When all that we’ve said or written has the same essential message: Stop us now. Kill us now. Strangle us now – right away.

Our capering. Our aping around. Our levity. Our joy – even our joy! We’re even joyful! We’ve even happy sometimes. Well, jubilant. Well, drunken!

That we should have any other thought than destruction – self-destruction. That we should have other plans other than extinction – auto-extinction. That we should we should write about anything other than the need to prevent us from writing. Than the urgent need or censorship and self-censorship.

That we assume to submit our learned essays to academic journals. That we presume to send our papers of our thoughts to this journal or that one. That we notwithstanding it all continue our academic careers. Continue to teach! Continue to write! Continue to come into our offices! Continue to walk the corridors! Continue to climb the stairs! Continue to step into the lift! Continue to sit in our swivel chairs! Continue to turn our computers on! Open Word for Windows! Begin to type!

How can that be? You’d think there’d be some rebellion of things against us. Some refusal of stuff. So that the computer wouldn’t switch on. Word wouldn’t open. Computers would just … explode internally. Computer viruses spontaneously appear.

People would turn their faces away from us. Birds would fall silent. Plants would just … wither. The earth itself would groan as we stepped across it. A rebellion of all things against us.

A world-flinching. The universe flinching. The universe recoiling in horror. The universe, horrified. Fearful. Of what it had created. At what had been made. At the terrible crime of our existence.

The very ground should quake. The very air should suck itself out of our lungs. The sun should turn its face from us. Sunlight shouldn’t reach us. We should live in perpetual shadow. In silence and darkness. Shunned. Cast out.

We’d be willing scapegoats. Sacrificial lambs. Send us out! Into the wilderness! We want the wilderness! At least we’d be doing something useful! Carrying away the sins of humanity! Of everything! Yes! Yes! Nothing better! And our own sins.

But we’re too late – always. The moment to kill ourselves lay long in the past.

X: How can you work it up, your world-despair? How do you come to it? Does it hit you first thing in the morning? Do you, like, wake up to it? Are you full of world-despair as you crawl out of bed? What about natural joys? Birds singing … Looking forward to a hearty breakfast … Or does it encroach upon you during the day? Is it the result of some process of reasoning? Do you argue yourself into it? Is it, like, a conclusion? Do you think it could be just a bad attitude? Do you think you need some therapy, or something?

I mean, look at you. You’re pasty. You need a bit of fresh air and exercise. Have you ever tried exercise? Go to the gym. Do some 5K runs. Take cold showers.

Have you guys ever thought of drinking less? Do you think that might be an idea?

Just … get a better mindset. Let’s google it. How to change your frame of mind. Let’s look it up …

Y: So moderate! So reasonable! So many good ideas! So commonsensical! So sensible!

If only we’d found you earlier. If only we’d listened to you all along. If only we’d had you to guide us. To save us from ourselves. Because that’s what we need, isn’t it: saving from ourselves. From our own excesses.

We get it wrong! We go off course! We need a corrective! We need a guiding star! A guiding light! A cox, bellowing orders through a megaphone! A personal trainer! A life coach – why not? You should advertise your services. More generally, I mean. As a service to humanity …

Why didn’t we think of those things ourselves? These … life hacks. Brilliant! Nothing better! All along, it was just a question of … bucking up. Fucking genius. What would we be without you?

X: You guys are incorrigible.

Incorrigible! That’s just it! that’s just the word! Perfect! We’re incorrigible. Get out the thesaurus. We’re recalcitrant! Stubborn! Defiantly so! We’re pig-headed! Obstinate! And we even take pride in what we are! In our degradation! In the whole andmoreagain! It’s not going to get any better, is it?

We really do need saving from ourselves. And you’re just the person to save us. Imagine – our very own motivational speaker! Our own private well being cheerleader! We ought to fall our fucking knees! In gratitude!

X: Now you’re doing it again. Like, attack the organisational manager. It’s open season on business studies. I was only trying to help.

Y: Sure you were! Only trying to help! You meant well! You mean well! You want the best for us! We appreciate it! It’s good to have someone looking out for us! On our side! Wanting to bring out our best selves! Allowing us to put our best feet forward! Willing to meet us where we are and then bring us along.

And we appreciate your tact. Your gentleness. The way you’ve gone about it. Ah, we need help – we’re the first to admit it. We need guidance. A pilot light. Our ship needs righting. Left to ourselves, what would we become? If we followed our worst tendencies … If we gave them head … Let them dominate us …

No, we don’t take this for granted. It isn’t easy giving out advice. It isn’t always appreciated. We know that. We can imagine we’re rather a fearsome crowd.

But we’re willing to learn! We’re all ears! We’re eager to improve. To do better! We don’t take this for granted! We’re willing to learn! We even want to learn! To improve ourselves! To do better! Why not?

There are some essential life skills that we’re missing – no doubt! There are some useful life hacks we could learn – of course! We need to be open to things – we realise that. Maybe we’re not stubborn. We’re not stick in the muds. We don’t want to remain where we are. We want to change. We’re willing to entertain … new ideas. New ways of doing things.

We don’t want to go on as we are: that’s clear, isn’t it? Wouldn’t it be unbearable: to just go on as we are? We’re more than this: we’ve always known that. We’re better than this. This isn’t just who we are.

Where would we be headed, without you? Nowhere good! On the downward spiral! Into the abyss – further into the abyss! Left to ourselves, we’d only be ruined by ourselves. Destroyed by ourselves.

Our instincts are wrong. Our instincts … where would they take us? Nowhere good. Downwards. Spiralling. In some death-spiral.

We need … lifting up. We need our aspirations raised. Our flight-plans course corrected. We need a negativity audit. We need a course correct. We need to set our sights higher.

We need to someone to tell us off, essentially. Show us where we’re going wrong – no, before that: that we’re going wrong. A loud, No! A certain, Stop! That would bring us up short. Make us ashamed. Stop us in our tracks. Call a halt to our march. Head things off. Stop things going too far … although they’re already too far. Before they go any further.

Because we know we’ve done wrong. We know we’ve gone a little too far. We know we should have done more to curb our excesses … That we should have stopped ourselves from going too far … But we have no internal brake. Our judgement is flawed. We lack common sense. The appropriate instincts. To reign ourselves in. To hold ourselves back …

Hopelessness is an op. Don’t give into it.

 

This is mind control. Entrainment. It’s games of divide and conquer.

 

The secret government system is killing us.

 

A central bank for the whole planet, a central governance structure for the whole planet. Come on, you cans see it.

 

The middle class are debt trapped. Now and forever.

 

Our governments are being blackmailed. They can’t do anything. If they don’t play ball …

 

This is an occupied country. Every system has been hijacked.

 

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

 

As in the days of fucking Noah.

 

Despair feeds them – the controllers. Their despair, our despair.

 

They want to destroy our immune systems. Obvs.

 

They’ll rewire our brains. Create new neural networks

 

They want to hijack the hippocampus. Hijack memory, learning.

 

They’ve got directed energy weapons that target the physiology of the brain – grey matter. You get a headache, have a stroke – that’s it.

 

It’s literally a war on hearts and minds. It’s a heart attack and stroke war. They’ll fucking cook us while we sleep.

 

The creation of a totally mind-controlled population. That’s their technocratic goal.

 

It’s psycho-neuro-spiritual captivity.

 

Nothing but degradation rituals.

 

They’re pumping out biochemical brainfog agents.

 

They’re inducing madness on a mass scale. They’re deliberately trying to make us mad.

 

They’re going to magnify every tension in the world. Set us against each other.

 

They have to keep the world unstable. Make sure there’s fear.

 

The psychopaths, the paedophiles, the lunatics are in charge.

 

They’re gutting everything. It’s slash and burn.

 

We’ll just become humanoid platforms. Kept happy with drugs and computer games. Useless humans – a fucking new class.

 

We’re just bags of molecules to them. Fucking meat sacks.

 

They want us to see ugly things so they know we’re imprisoned. They want to show us where we are.

 

The new world order is the old world order: idolatry, paganism and child sacrifice.

 

It’s the same war – the ancient war. On a different battlefield.

 

The secret state. The government of occupation. Ruling by group psychology and fear. By the endless rolling over of emergency powers.

 

There’s no bigger industry on the planet than the control system. It’s a huge operation, right? Vastly expensive. Imagine running the planet on a centralised basis with total secrecy …

 

They’re not taking slow graded incremental steps towards the goal anymore. They’re fast-tracking to the endgame. They’re hitting warp speed.

 

Monopoly capitalism – that’s the model. Like the old company town. You work for the company, live on company property and buy stuff from the company store.

 

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.

 

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

 

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

You know how it is: they’re downsizing the population to reduce management headaches. Lowering life expectancy is the only way they can get the books to balance. The only way to get out of all the debt is to engineer some … global genocide. They’re implementing a depopulation plan to balance the books.

 

Democide – death by government.

 

There are multiple kill vectors. So many battle fronts. Medical. Water. Food. Geoengineering. The financial. The legal.

 

Each one of us is a target. Each one of us. For, like, survelliance tech. Entrainment tech. Turning-you -into-a-battery tech.

 

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. It’s a fake world.

 

A mass casualty event. That’s what they’re busy with.

 

Separating and isolating and intimidating us all.

 

Planning the destruction of each area of society from within.

 

We’ve never seen this happening at a global level. There’s nowhere to escape.

 

Imagine the coordinated effort it takes to do all this. Imagine the organisation …

 

This is a war, that’s all. On the domestic population. Using everything they learnt in their wars overseas.

 

They want the economy to destroy itself. They want the idiot mases clamouring for new system that the predators have designed.

 

They want us all in the new giant welfare system. They want us to become wards of the corporate state.

 

Total biometric control – that’s what they want.

 

The world as giant rat cage. For the predators to experiment. To harvest more data.

 

It’s psycho-cyber warfare.

 

They’ve mastered the fear tactics. On a mass scale.

 

Everyone being worn down into a state of slavery.

 

You’ve read Foundation. Like, a front religion. An elite of scientists. An AI government, tracking everyone. A total technocratic brain system.

 

This is the most pivotal time in all human history.

 

Do we want to stay human or not? That’s the question.

 

There is no human solution for this. There are just … layers and layers of evil. Only through God are we saved. Remember that.

 

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

 

God’s given us a window of time – that’s all.

 

They’re moving all the assets into secret control. That’s the goal.

 

Half the economy’s secret – you know that. The drugs trade. The arms trade. All that stuff.

 

We’re dealing with powerful interdimensional forces.

 

It’s synthetic biology. They’re transitioning us from carbon-based to silicon-based life-forms. That’s the plan.

 

We’re just biologically programmed robots – that’s how they see us. Mind control is just reprogramming a computer.

 

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 – everyone knows that.

 

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

 

It’s possession – the anti-incarnation.

 

Infestation. Evil in an environment. In animals.

In an institution?

Maybe.

 

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

 

It’s like weeding the garden for them.

They’re altering our minds. Tenderizing our minds. They’re ruling by group psychology and fear.

 

It’s permanent psychological war. Permanent applied behavioural science war. It’s permanent victim / abuser relationship with government.

 

They want to fuck up our hyppocampuses. Like, the deep brain. Induce memory loss, emotional disruptions, psychological disorders, general brain fog. Dementia, basically.

 

They want to rebuild the neural structures in our brains. They want to enslave us. To experiment on us. To exterminate us.

 

Cognitive decline – that’s what they want to induce. Artificial depression.

 

They’re going to wipe out most of humanity and tame the rest through mind-control.

 

Our whole environment. Our food. Our water. The skies. Everything will be full of this … nano-shit.

 

And this nanotech is nearly indestructible. It’s intelligent. Aggressive.

 

The secret governance system. They want direct control over each of us. Chipping us. Putting AI software and algorithims in charge.

 

Chipped like livestock. Mind controlled.

 

The digital slavery system.

 

Everything coated in nanotech. Everything synched with AI. The whole sky a criss-cross of chem trails, dissolving into haze.

 

This is a frequency war. We’re being irradiated. Constantly.

 

They’ve unleashed their neuroweapons of mass destruction.

 

There are only controllers and controlled – that’s all.

 

We’re being used as hosts for a new AI system. We’re the infrastructure. They’re using our biology.

 

They’re hijacking our nervous systems. Our brains.

They’re trying to get stuff into our bodies that won’t be rejected as artificial.

 

Keep us all stupid, poisoned, intoxicated, distracted, debased.

 

They’re degrading us. Debasing education. It’s deliberate. It’s the long term plan. They want to drive us to suicide.

 

They’re, like, collapsing our morals.

 

They’re using psychotronic weaponry.

 

People who need to die: that’s how they view us. On the slow kill model.

 

It’s all about nanobioelectronics. The direct cortical interface. Neural fucking lace.

There’ll be nanowires in your eyelids, in your throat, in your veins. They’ll know what you see. What you taste. They’ll microharvest your biodynamic data …

 

The psychopathic control grid.

 

The behavioural psychologists are at work. The mindspacers. The nudge units. It’s government by propaganda. It’s neuro-lingusitic programming. Black magic, in other words.

 

Just installing the bio-fascist security grid.

 

They’ve developed these intelligent parasites. That can, like, move about. That are adaptable. Multi-responsive. That are part biological, part … AI. They can process things. Perceive things. They get their instructions via the network. 5G.

 

It’s a new AI species … These parasitical machines …

 

We’re going to be full of these self-spreading, self-replicating parasites.

 

They’re hijacking our cells. Reprogramming them.

 

They’re editing our genes remotely – in real time.

 

There’s … energetic hacking going on. Our electromagnetic bodies are to be harvested and controlled.

 

There are fast kill programmes and slow kill ones.

 

They’re cooking us with microwaves.

They’re dropping nanobots from the sky. They’re crop-dusting smartdust.

 

They’re taking totalitarian control to the cellular level. To the genetic level. 

 

Misprogrammed machines that either have to be reprogrammed or destroyed. That’s what we are for them.

 

They want us to lose our free will, our individuality. Our fucking souls …

 

The enemy is not human. Realise that.

 

This is a war on creation. This is a metaphysical war.

 

They’re not creating anything. They’re hijacking – they’re hijacking life. It’s got Satan’s MO written all over it.

 

Demons are dead. They can’t create.

 

Satan isn’t a creator. He can only twist and deform what God’s created.

 

The Luciferian Age. The world as a Satanic temple.

 

A Satanic aristocracy. With a slave population.

 

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.

 

Full spectrum dominance for the fucking Satanists.

 

They’re going after everything’s that’s holy and sacred. They want to wipe out the image of God in man.

 

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.

 

A gene modification system – that’s what this is about. It’s frequency based. They want to deliver gene-editing tech into the human body.

 

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

The total ownership of humans. The digitalisation of everything that can be traded or used as a medium of exchange.

 

A mind-controlled population under a Satanic technocratic superstate. That’s the plan.

 

The world as farm. As zoo. As fucking lab.

 

They want the ultimate form of control. That of the human species at the most basic level.

 

Complete global enslavement: that’s the aim.

 

We’re a resource to be optimised within the system, that’s all. It’s livestock management.

 

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

 

A population control grid. That’s what they’re aiming at.

 

They’ve got a whole world government system waiting in the wings. It’s oven fucking ready.

 

The world turned into a for-profit prison.

 

An all-planetary system of control. Managed by AI.

 

Total digital colonialism.

Fucking in the afternoon. As a way to ward away the afternoon. As a way to use the afternoon. For ourselves. Not to, like, fear the dissipation. To fuck and then … lie here … sleep, maybe.

 

Openness. Drifting. And looking upwards, through your skylight at … the air. The light. The sky. The clouds … All these fucking things.

 

It’s a secret romance. A secret just between the two of us. That no one will know but us.

This. Us. The affirmation of us. That’s our secret. That only we could know. Only we could know how we are with one another.

This stuff. How we talk together. How we are together. Our … gestures, or whatever. The way we fuck, even. All this stuff …

 

The world isn’t as it was. It’s changed. The world’s cracked open.

Something’s revealed. A vista. An expanse. Another way of living. Of speaking. Of seeing.

 

It just chugs along. Does its own thing. It likes us to be together. It brings us together. It makes us … kiss. And fuck. And hang out.

It: who’s that? What’s that? Lust? Love? The coast?

Maybe it’s God. The God of romance. Cupid. Eros. I don’t know.

 

We want to be left alone, right. Left alone by the world. Unnoticed by the world.

We want to suspend the world. Deactivate the world – the logic of the world.

 

Suspending the law of the world: is that it?

What law? What world? What anything?

 

It’s about a world we’ve created together. A you-and-I world. Our own world. With our own rules. Our own way of being together. Our own way of being together. Of talking about stuff.

 

Just a little bit of excitement, that’s what I wanted. A bit of fun. Because there’s no fun in the world anymore.

I don’t believe you.

What do you think I was looking for?

 

Look, maybe I was just greedy. Maybe I was just bored, and ready and indolent and willing to throw everything away for some excitement. Pathetic, isn’t it?

 

All these books. These old books. They’re from a different time and about a different time, only you haven’t understood that yet. They’re outdated, just as you’re outdated. Do you think you can live like that – like those old-time thinkers, in old-time jobs, in old-style unis?

 

You’re playing at being a philosopher and I’m playing at having an affair with a philosopher.

 

You’re following your blind alley, as I’m no doubt following mine.

What’s your blind alley?

I don’t know. Romance, maybe. This romance.

 

We’re having an affair just like everyone who’s ever had affairs. It’s been done. We’re completely average.

 

Let’s keep God between us. Let’s keep the between between us. Keep the light between us. Keep the air between us. Keep the coast between us.

 

Are all philosophers like you?

Are all organisational management-ers like you?

 

See, we meet in the middle. Where our disciplines intersect.

Laughter.

 

Wouldn’t you rather be with a philosopher? A thinker? Or is there only room for one thinker in our relationship?

 

You wanted an adventure.

Sure, an adventure. Because life without adventures is … boring.

You wanted to make things happen. To prove that you could. To relish your powers of attraction.

 

You’re a luxuriator. A cat, purring. This is an idyll in life for you. It’s a grove. It’s a vista. But it’ll pass. It’s a treat. It’s an indulgence. But your real life is elsewhere.

 

It’s like you’re playing with me. You can play at romance with me. Your real relationship is elsewhere. So all this is a … toying. A playing. Some idle distraction.

Oh, it’s a bit more than that.

Come on, it’s just Something to Do. It’s a Diversion. It’s a little escape.

 

You’re on the trail of my Seriousness. For you, I have to be Serious. That’s what it’s All About. Everyone has to have a Secret Seriousness … But maybe I don’t. Are you disappointed?

 

You want to be some European throwback. A throwback to some culture you weren’t even part of. What’s it got to do with you, anyway?

What’s anything got to do with anyone, these days?

 

All your youth and young manhood tethered to this. About this. Philosophy … Something you’d like to be good at, but are never really sure you’re good at.

What are you going to have to show for your life? The ruins of your magnum opus. And some bad imitation French prose poem philosophy. It’s not much, is it?

You’ll get bored of it, age forty or so. Get married. Reproduce. That’ll distract you for a few years. And all your European philosophy books will just stand there unread. If your living room. Then you’ll move them into your office. And there they’ll sit, completely inert, completely unread …

 

I’ve seen your future, philosopher. How long can the magnum opus dream sustain you, do you think? Until, like, middle age. Until you get fat, or whatever. Until your testosterone dies down. Until you lose your drive. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, since it’s own driven you to … idiocies …

And what about you – what’ll happen in your middle age? When you lose your power to seduce. When no one wants to fuck you. You’d better have a family by then. Something to … keep you occupied.

 

Philosophers have been wrong about everything, haven’t they? What haven’t philosophers been wrong about?

 

Maybe I should leave him. Move in here. Don’t make that face. Do you think we’d get on? Do you think we could make a life together – me, you and your magnum opus?

Actually, I don’t know if I could live here. It’s a bit cramped. I couldn’t fit in my stuff. I’ve got a lot of stuff …

 

What’s your philosophy about, anyway? Explain it in a layperson’s terms. In a organisational management-ers terms.

 

Philosophy is bullshit anyway. But so is organisational management. So are all the subjects. Well, that’s how it seems to me today.

 

You seem very complicated, philosopher. I suppose I should want to work you out. I’m not sure I do, though. Maybe I need to become a little complicated so I can appreciate your complications.

 

You need to be distracted, philosopher. From your magnum opus, or whatever. Or your dreams of a magnum opus. Which you’ll never write.

 

So you write every day? Every – single – day? So you have that much to write?

I write anyway.

You must believe in yourself, in some fundamental way. To believe you have something worth saying. Someone in your life must have thought an awful lot of you. Your mother? I think it’s all about your mother.

 

You put a lot into this. Too much, maybe. Isn’t it a bit laboured? I mean, what are you trying to do? Who are you trying to be?

You should write something that’s closer to the way you speak. You don’t speak like this, do you? Just capture some of our tos and fros, for example. Everyday talk.

Do you take advice, philosopher? Do you like it? Do you welcome feedback? Are you receptive to the thoughts of lesser philosophical mortals?

 

Sharing our nothings. Our insignificances. None of this adds up anything. Frittering our lives away.

 

All this life to waste, to burn up. To offer up … to who? To what? Why – the great why.

 

Here we are, walking on the beach. Doing romance. Are we good at doing romance, do you think? At being a loved up couple? Does this suit us? Do we cheer up the people we walk by? Do we confirm their belief in love and romance?

 

This bedroom … where it happens. Where it doesn’t happen. Where everything is lost. And found again. And lost again.

 

God, hasn’t there always been enough of us? Too much of us? Aren’t we tired of who we are? Of all we have been? Isn’t this peak ‘us’?

 

Maybe I’m bored of our so-called love. Maybe I’m bored of being a lover.

 

Fuck what are you turning me into? You and your philosophy! You’ve infected me with philosophy. You’ve made it okay to talk like this – as no one should be allowed talk. No one should be allowed to say these fucking things …

 

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

 

You’re not even handsome.

You’re not even beautiful.

That’s not what you said the first night.

 

You should write me a love letter. Not high falutin’ literary-philosophical stuff. Something a humble organisational manager like me could understand.

 

All our chatter. All this chatting. Do you object to it? Do you think I talk too much? Maybe I should be mysterious and silent.

 

Lovers tease one another – you do know that, don’t you?

 

What a way to pass the afternoon!

 

Are you going to become a man of letters? Like in the old days? Do you want your name to be known?

 

I miss you even when I’m with you. You’re not really here, are you? You’re not … listening.

 

I don’t even loathe myself very interestingly, not like you philosophers. You’re very good at that. You’re virtuosos.

 

All this time and space and peace. I wouldn’t know what to do. It’ so still, philosopher. It’s so suspended. Nothing’s happening. But that’s, like, a positive state. Is this conducive to work? Have you got a lot done? I think I’d like to watch you work. But it’d be too boring.

 

What books have you read today? What are you reading? Something very, very hard.

 

God, what did I fall into? What am I doing with my life? Aren’t I doing the most stupid thing possible with my life?

 

If you met me at a dinner party, would you like me? Do you go to dinner parties?

 

Sometimes I have utter, complete contempt for … everyone alive. Including me. Most of all me.

 

Our farce. Our comedy. Is it a comedy? Is this a comedy? Who’s laughing? Where’s the laugh track?

 

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.

 

Who else talks like this? About life and death and everything? Is this how you talk in philosophy? Imagine, I could be a philosopher, too.

 

Nothing happens here except the clouds change. The clouds move. There are different kinds of clouds.

 

Not a cloud in the sky. The lids off. The day’s open.

 

I swear time’s slowing down. It’s supposed to go quickly when you’ve having fun. 

 

Just falling through the afternoon. Falling to where, I don’t know.

 

Meanwhile, there’s your skylight. Meanwhile, there’s your non-view. Meanwhile … We’re wearing the day away. The day’s wearing us away.

 

I swear you can see through the world. I swear it’s getting thin in places.

 

What are we going to talk about now? What haven’t we talked about yet?

 

Fucking in the void. Can you fuck the void away, do you think? Can you fuck your way out of obscurity?

 

The day’s going on without us. The day’s doing its day thing. And we’re doing our you and I thing. Whatever that is. What is it, anyway? Who are we, anyway?

So you’re the philosophers of the coast.

We’re the anti-philosophers of the coast.

Anti-philosophers. Cool.

 

I think we’re here to attend to something. To watch for something. To be alert. On the watch.

What for, a miracle?

An anti-miracle, maybe. An anti-miracle of the Antichrist. That only an anti-philosophy could detect.

 

We have to be ready for, like, the ultimate theophany. That’s, like, unparalleled in its depths.

Only it could be an … anti-theophany.

 

The apocalyptic fire of divine love. A great fire, that will burn up the world. And will be called justice.

Either God or the world, right?

 

To destroy everything and just allow a sacred void to remain, from which everything could begin anew.

 

Anti-philosophers: that’s who we have to be now. The time of philosophy is over.

Was there actually a time of philosophy? Did I miss something?

 

So you’re the philosophers of the coast.

We’re the anti-philosophers of the coast.