Work in Progress

Organisational Management is the form the end will take. The endless end. Bureaucratised. Administered from here to eternity.

 

The delivery of the world over to management. To total organisation.

 

O.M. trapped in itself. Trapped in Organisational Management.

 

Organisational Management doesn’t want any of this, not really.

 

Organisational Management doesn’t want to go on. it doesn’t even want to be Organisational Management.

 

The Organisational Management death drive. It wants its destruction. It wants to go too far.

 

Organisational Management yearns for the end. Organisational Management yearns for judgement.

Will we always be this fallen? Who’s going to lift us up? Who’s going to wake us into another life? Who’s going to show us another life? What’s going to take us there – to our other life? How are we going to cross over to the other life?

 

Why was it given to us to feel these things? Why is it we who know these things?

 

Who were possessed by? Who possessed us?

Why are they doing this to us? Who’s doing this to us? What trial are we in? Why this endless – darkness?

 

At least we know we’re dead. At least we know it. No one else does. They don’t know yet – but they will.

 

Like we’re part of some strange new phase. We’re from the future. From the cancelled future. From the no-future. Like we come from death. Like we come out of death.

 

We’re farther ahead of them in truth. We know what they don’t know yet. We’re prophetic. We’re visionaries.

It's already happened to us. We know that it’s happened. We’re already out there. We’ve already died.

And what will happen then, when they know that they’re dead, too?

If we lay down now, would we sleep? Would we spend the night up here? In the stars, pretty much.

 

We should lie down here, philosopher, and spend the night. And wait to see what the night showed us. And wait to see how deep the night really is. How bright the stars really are. How vast the universe really is, and how empty.

 

And the emptiness. And the hollowness. And the great, great evil. That drifts through the world like smoke.

 

How indifferent it is. How turned from us it is. How it doesn’t care.

All the magnificence. All the cold splendour.

What would we see that we haven’t seen before?

 

We wander through the night, philosopher. We err. We live in untruth.

 

We should lie down here and look upwards. And stare upwards. And what would see there? What would we see up there? What plans does the universe have for us? 

 

Why isn’t there Truth? Why isn’t there Truth in the sky? Why isn’t there light beaming down from Truth? Why can’t it reach us here? Why can’t it touch us here?

Why can’t Goodness speak? Why can’t the universe break to let it through? Why can’t the shell of the sky break? Why can’t the sky shatter? Why can’t we hear the Word of God? What does it say, the Word of God?

 

What does Truth look like? Is it beautiful? I suppose it would have to be.

What does Goodness look like? Is that beautiful, too? What have we been waiting for all along?

When’s the Judgement going to come? It’s going to come, isn’t it? I know it. We should carry it in our hearts, that knowledge. We should keep it there, in our hearts.

 

Are things clear, in your head? Because they’re not clear in mine. Do you think clear things?

I feel confused. I feel mixed up.

When do things become clear? When does the light shine? When is the light separated from the dark, like at the beginning of the Creation?

 

We will weep and it will soothe our eyes. The tears will cool our eyes.

See, we’re the last of a kind. There won’t be many of our kind left. It’s amazing we lasted this long.

We’re past our time. Relics. Coelecanths. No one can  make sense of us. We people out of time. Dregs.

But at least we know it. And we do! We know it!

We’re ghosts. We’re survivors. The last Heideggerian. The last Communist. The last Tinkerbell Anthropologist. The last Furio Jesian. Preserved. In parody. Who’ve outlived their time. Of no use to anyone.

Meaningless. Purposeless. Spare parts. Who no one wanted. Who no one ordered. The last Critical Theorist. The last descendants of Walter Benjamin and Ernst Broch. The last Mitteleuropeans-in-spirit.

The last European philosophers, long after the European Philosophy horse has bolted. After its stable was burnt down …

With irrelevant skills. Useless knowledge. Who’ve read the old books – or think they should have read them Or who’ve at least read some introductory books about the old books.

Who say their prayers to our vanished European gods. What did Hölderlin write about the departing gods? The great Theorists of the yore. The Master Thinkers.

Some survive – but how old are they now? In their 90s … In their 100s. Still doing the European rounds. Still conferencing.

But here in the UK? We’re the last of the kind. the last aardwolfs. The last dodos. We’re Oric-1s. We’re jigsaws with missing pieces.

Don’t they know how precious we are? The last specimens of European-philosophers-in-the-UK. Should be a Preservation Order slapped upon us.

 

We live on.

We haven’t been sacked. We haven’t been shot. We haven’t been poisoned to death (not yet.) No one sent assassins after us – though they probably should have. We were allowed to live on, disgracing ourselves. And the tradition!

Despoiling European philosophy and the memory of European philosophy. If anyone remembered it. And there’s no need to remember it. It never added up to anything. It didn’t amount to anything. Futile, it was all futile. What could it have been but futile?

Haven’t we been in full European mourning for European philosophy? And European philosophy does mourning very, very well. European philosophy mourned itself very decorously.

 

No legacy to it, European Philosophy. It won’t outlive its death. No one will remember, not over here – not in the UKs. It just sinks in the memory. Disappears into the memory-hole.

It shouldn’t have been. And it never was, not really. It never took. It never arrived. It was always useless. It never led anywhere. Too alien. Too remote. Too not-of-this-country.

It stuck in the English craw, European Philosophy. It was spat out. Ejected. It couldn’t survive here. A foreign plantation. Its roots found no sustaining earth. No nutrients in the English soul. So in the end … it blew away. Dispersed on the wind. Carried off into nowhere.  

Alien. Too foreign. Too European. It couldn’t be rendered in calm English prose.

 

But for a while … A time …

Utopianism, in the ‘80s. Fever dreams, still in the ‘90s. And in hand with theory. Dreaming of the transformation of the English thought-scape. That something would sprout from European neologisms. From showboating European prose.

That they could only paraphrase weakly. That we could only imitate. They weren’t equipped to do it. Just as we aren’t … and we’re much less equipped.

 

The last communists, the last psychoanalysts, the last Freudians, the last people who think psychoanalysis has anything to say. The last hermeneuts. The last … deconstructionists. The last Deleuzians. The last readers of Lyotard and Guattari and Negri.

The last revolutionaries. The last critical theorists. The last Habermasians, God knows. The last Levinasian ethicists. The last readers of the Jewish modernists.

What are they going to diagnose it with? What label are they going to give us to explain us away? So that can say, oh it was all x-ism, nothing more. And if it wasn’t for their condition, they’d be just like us …

But we aren’t people like you, fucksters. We were never people like you. And nor will we ever be people like you. There’s nothing wrong with us but philosophy.

Philosophy! Which is what’s right with us. Which is what makes us sane. Our higher sanity. Our greater sanity. A wider sanity – as wide as the sky. Our vista: the sky. Which is philosophy’s sky.

We’re sky-beings, not earth-beings. We’re eternity lovers. We’re drinkers down of the infinite. We get our power from up there. From looking upwards. From giving our gaze to the sky.

We’re up there with the old gods. We’re up there with the great life. With the falling away of the old world. With the dying of our old world. Of all the old things. The death of Old Europe – all the old stuff.

Organisational Management  is deliberately taunting God. Because it wants correction. Because it wants to be told off.

That’s why it’s bringing philosophy close … because it wants philosophical judgment. It wants the judgement of the humanities.

 

Organisational Management is screaming for death. And this is its scream.

 

It’s building Babel – deliberately. Because it knows it will be destroyed. Because it has to be destroyed.

 

It wants death. It wants God to arrive as an angel of death.

Are there actually angels of death?

 

Is that our role? Are we going to bring the angel of death to the Organisational Management campus? Are we going to destroy it all?

 

The delivering death. The death of Organisational Management. The Organisational Management campus is only a calling out for death.

It wants to be an abomination. It wants to be offensive to God.

It wants the Correction. It wants the Extinction.

And our role is to bring its destruction.

That’s all it wants. It’s at the brink of death. That’s what this plaza is: a call for the end. For its utter extinction.

It’s tempting. It’s calling out. Of course – I see it now. Like the fist of God. Like the rage of God. That’s what we’re here for.

 

We’re the fucking angels – do you see that? We’re the ones who will bring the destruction – the liberatory destruction. The happy destruction.

We’re the no to its yes. We’re what it wants. And begs for.

 

It’s desperate, this campus. It’s imploring, this campus. It’s crying out, this campus.

It’s the Abomination. It knows its name. The Abomination of Desolation. It knows what it is.

 

Now I know why we’re here. And what we can do.

We’ll be the smiling assassins. We’ll be the grinning murderers. Knowing that we’re doing something Right. That we’re doing something True. And Beautiful.

That’s what goodness has become: evil (our evil). That’s what truth has become: our falsehood. Our errancy. We’re haters, right? Because we’re lovers. Because we love.

 

See, we have a role. See, we have something. A purpose. We’re assassins, right? This is the time of the assassins. And how are we going to do it – bring it all down? To be agents of the apocalypse, or whatever? We have a mission. We were made for something.

We’re the death-bringers. We’re the stabbers in the night. We’re the haters. We’re the murderers. We’re the liberators. We’re the ones who will destroy it all. We’ll bring it down. Bring it to heel. We’re the Destroyers. In truth, in love, in beauty. We’re the servants of truth and love and beauty. And goodness.

The world is truly fucked if we’re its angels.

 

We know what truth is.

Do we?

We know what goodness is.

Do we?

We know what beauty is.

Do we?

Death is the truth.

Only to us.

But a corrective death. A death to … clear the way. To what? To the Kingdom of God. So are we serving the Kingdom of God?

Is the kingdom of God another name for the humanities?

 

Will we be unsackable? Will we be unreachable, on the other side? What will or philosophy be like? Will we have ideas – idea of our own. Will we be conduits of the great European traditions? Will they flow through us, the great thoughts? Will we speak fluent French, fluent German? Will we read ancient Greek, and biblical Greek. And Latin. And Arabic, for good measure?

Will we be proper scholars. Will we have read everything. Just uploaded into our heads. What will we be called then? Will we have new names? What will they be? How about Hebrew. I’d like to read Hebrew. Averroes. And all the other Arabic stuff.

We’ll read everything, right? No – we will have read them all. We will have known their thoughts. We will have mastered those traditions. Those thoughts will stream through us. As if they were ours. We’ll have a take on it all – our take – the whole tradition. Two and a half millennia. We’ll be able to understand the shifts – the transitions. To see the real patterns behind it all. All of Aquinas, all of Kant.

Not just read, but naturalised in us. Natural to us. Part of us. Part of the way we think. And are. And will be. Part of our gestures. Saturating us. Shown through us. Natural to us. The whole, tradition, reincarnated in us. Revived in us. As if for the first time. And we’ll philosophise from it. Out of it. With it. And that will be our happiness.

 

We’re servants of the eschaton. We’re the bringers of Justice. We bring the Law – in chaos. By unleashing chaos.

How are we going to destroy it?

We’ll know. When the time comes. We’ll work it out.

 

I like being holy. I like being a servant of the holy.

But we’re so inefficacious. Look at us. We’re so weak. We’re not going to defeat an empire.

We’ve been disastered. We’ve been nihilised. We’ve been fucked in the head. We’ve been destroyed.

It was done to us. And so it has to be undone. With wine.

 

The crises are deepening. And there are a lot of crises. It’s omni-crisis. In the omni war.

We’re in their kill box. In their sights. In the firing line. But so’s everyone. It’s so massive, the deception. It’s so complex, the world illusion. They’ve woven the veil so tightly.

 

And our heads are full of microplastics. And barium. And strontium. And all that stuff.

We think with the poison. We think poison with the poison. From the poison, a cure, right? We want to cure ourselves. Get better. But we can’t get better while the world’s not better.

It’s all screaming. Everything is screaming. All things. The atoms themselves. The stars. The nebulae.

Nothing wants to live. Nothing believes the lie of life.

 

Everything was killed, even if it was never alive. Every atom is a cry. Every molecule. Every tiny thing and every vast thing.

All things, crying. All things, dead and falling. Everything falling in this fallen universe.

 

There’s only screaming. Is there anything other than screaming?

It’s crying for help. It’s all crying for help. But who is it crying to?

 

This is the anti universe. The antiverse, calling out to the universe. The antiverse, where something’s wrong. Where everything’s wrong. Twistedness, without anything to twist.

This is what’s revealed. This is what shows itself. This is what we’ve been shown. Tonight. On this campus.

The desperation. The cry. The hatred of all things for themselves. Of being made to be. Hatred – that they are at all.  That anything is anything, and therefore complicit.

 

The universe, going down. Everything going down, sinking. The sinking sky. All down in flames.

Something’s wrong: haven’t you always wanted to say that? Something’s wrong – but what? Something’s wrong – and something vast.

Something’s wrong. Can’t you see it? Don’t you know it? Like a sickness. Like a poisoning. Of the whole Creation. They sought to poison all of Creation.

 

Something’s wrong: whispering. Something … in the heart of things. It’s cosmic, philosopher. I know it.

Something’s wrong. But what is it? What could be wrong? It’s wrong for us. This is not our world. This is the wrong world.

 

Something’s wrong. And it’s very deep. It’s a worm in the heart of the Creation. Something’s wrong with the Creation. With everything. And who’s going to put it right?

 

Something’s rotten in the Creation. Something’s poisoned in the Creation. Something’s corrupted in the Creation. There’s some catastrophe in the Creation.

And there’s something wrong with us. Something’s wrong with the world – this world.

 

Something’s wrong – doesn’t the wind say that? Something’s wrong: doesn’t the air throb with it, the words, Something’s wrong? Something’s wrong: isn’t it whispered in the falling rain?

Something’s wrong, says the whirling snow. Something’s wrong, says the cold. Something’s wrong says the metal cladding. Something’s wrong, says the cold light.

 

Something’s wrong, say our hearts. Something’s wrong, our souls say.

Something’s wrong in the order of things. And in its disorder. Something’s wrong cosmically and microcosmically. Something’s wrong ontologically. Like some universal cancer. Like some absolute cancer. Something’s wrong, and is asking for help.

 

Something’s wrong in the earth. In the concrete. In the paving stones. In the ground beneath our feet. Something’s wrong there. Something echoes wrongly, down there. Something sounds. Something rumbles.

Wrongness passing over wrongness, like tectonic plates.

And evil, moving in the sky, like a murmuration. Evil up there, as well as down there.

This is a world of death. Everyone’s dead, only they haven’t noticed. But we’ve noticed. We know what’s going on. We know what we are: zombies, just like everyone else. But self aware zombies. Zombies with open eyes.

 

All the demons around us. Can you see the demons, Fiver? Can you see them? What are they saying? Are they glad we’re suffering? What about angels? Are there angels, too?

Are there Organisational Management demons? Is Organisational Management evil enough to have actual demons?

 

They want to make us addicts. They want to addict us to this world – this disgusting world. They want us to have need for it: their counter creation. Which has overlain the real creation. Their falsity. Their living lie.

 

Hatred breaks the chains. Which is why hatred is necessary. Hatred distances. Hatred purifies. We believe in the counter God. We believe in the true God, who must appear in this world as the false God.

We believe in the opposite of lies. In the opposite of poison.

 

We will Recover. We will open our eyes. Death itself will die. We close our eyes to this.

 

A counter reading of the world. Where we read it as pointing to its opposite. As signifying its opposite. As calling out to its opposite. Where there is evil, we see a sign of the good. Where there is hideousness, we see a sign of beauty.

Reading the world as inverted. As turned around. As demonic.

In the world’s false eternity, we see the true eternity …

 

Our hearts are not of this world. Our hearts do not beat in this world. We are not from this world.

 

Let them have this realm. Let them have their death. Let them have Destruction. And Perversion.