Work in Progress

Walking and talking. Let’s never stop. I don’t want to stop. I want to live a whole life with you, tonight, walking and talking. Walking everywhere, and talking about everything.

Like in Lost in Translation. A special time. That we’re not supposed to have. In suspended time. The usual rules don’t apply. It’s a state of exception, philosopher.

 

Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else. Something intimate.

 

We’re allowed to do whatever we like, tonight. An exception has been made. We’re off piste. We’re not where we’re supposed to be, doing what we’re supposed to be. Do you feel free? I do.

 

Do you think it’d be possible to live a whole life like this? Just being like this? Talking and walking and talking?

 

We’ve walked and talked ourselves into eternity. Did you know that could happen? We walked and talked ourselves out of the regular universe. And I was very tired of the regular universe.

Have you escaped too, philosopher – or is it just me? Am I the only one who got out? Who escaped? This is probably how you live all the time.

 

We found a way out, philosopher. We escaped. But how long will we escape for?

Just a night, maybe.

 

We found a trajectory. A line of flight. We got out. In, like, Organisational Management central. Out. It’s grounds for hope, philosopher. They haven’t actually taken over the world.

You mean you haven’t taken over the world.

 

Walking and talking. Is it that simple? We’ve cast a spell, philosopher. Or someone’s cast a spell. We’ve found the key. Turned it in the lock. Got out.

You can leave the world from within the world – that's what we've learnt. There’s a way outside even if you’re inside.

 

We’ve walked and talked the world away. We’ve disappeared it, the world. We’ve destroyed the world.

Have we? It’s still there.

We’ve destroyed it for us, in us. We’ve fled the world … we were inflight from the world.

 

It’s like this is what we’ve been doing for our entire lives. Like this is what we’ve been doing forever.

We can just talk about stuff, can’t we? You’re probably used to it. But there’s a gratifying ease to this, for me. It’s simple. It’s easy, saying these things. And not being thought mad, or anything. Not being thought of as an idiot.

 

There’ll be a before and there’ll be an after. Because of this night. This night is the pivot. This is the hub. It all turns around this. Around us. There’s something fateful about tonight, don’t you think?

Like there’s something hovering at the heart of the night. This night. The secret’s here. The secret’s tonight – it’s in this night. It’s hidden here. it’s showing itself here. At the heart oft his.

What do you want from tonight? What do you want to happen?

I want the destiny of the world to change tonight. I want everything fundamentally altered. I want the world to change. I want everything to change.

A big hope.

 

I want you to notice me, philosopher… I’d like some attention. Me. Here. Now. Look at me. Look me in the eyes.

You don’t like looking at people in the eyes, do you? You’d rather walk and talk. Just walk along and talk …

 

I’d like to see you again.

Like this? Nights like this don’t happen very often. It’s like Lost in Translation. Did you ever see that? They shared a night. They were both married. It was a fleeting thing. Happened once and that was it. And then pfft – it disappears.

 

It’s like The Breakfast Club. Those guys spend the day together, get all teary and confessional and then what? They never met again. That’s what this is.

Will we never meet again?

We can nod hello in meetings, and that’ll be it. Does it make you sad? You should enjoy what we had. What we have right now. Everything is precarious, philosopher. Nothing lasts. Except for marriage, apparently. And my career. There are strong bonds, philosopher. And there are weak bonds.

 

One more night before the end of the world. One night snatched back. For ourselves. Isn’t it enough: nights like this. Nights that are ours. Our whole lives should be ours.

The world as we know it is over, philosopher. The world …

Why did you say that?

I don’t know. I just wanted to. I wanted to see the effect …

 

We picked the wrong time to get born, clearly.

 

What kind of life did you expect to live, philosopher? How did you think it was going to go?

 

What are you going to remember of any of this? Are you going to write it down? Do you keep a diary? A blog? Do you write things about life?

 

See into me, philosopher. X-ray me with your mind. What do you see, that no one else has? How do you read me, philosopher? What kind of person am I, to a philosopher? To someone philosophically qualified?

 

I’ll bet we’re being watched by a hundred cameras.

Sure we’re being watched. But no one’s actually watching. It’s all algorithms. It’s algorithms watching.

What are they watching out for?

Unusual behaviour. Suspicious behaviour.

 

How do we know we aren’t being watched?

Of course we’re being watched. The question is, is my husband watching us?

Well, is he?

Of course not. Is God watching us, philosopher? Do you believe in God?

I don’t know.

There’s a God higher than all things, that’s what I believe. The most fucking high.

Higher than … technocracy?

 

Are you able to forget yourself, philosopher? Are you able to lose yourself? It’s a gift.

 

Is there a rehab you go to if you have philosophical problems, not drug problems? Philosophical issues?

 

I wish there were an earthquake, or something. That can happen.

How? Are we on a fault line? We’re far from a faultline.

There’s the bore.

Sure, the bore.

Maybe it’ll make the buildings fall over.

 

Have you ever seen flat rainbows? I saw one the other day. Actually, I saw a bunch of them: flattened rainbows. Must be the stuff they’re spraying us with.

 

Dare me.

Dare you what?

 

Why is your heart beating so fast, philosopher?

 

Are you highly strung, philosopher? Do you have an up and down thing? Do you go wildly up and wildly down?

 

So are you a brainiac?

No. Are you?

But I’ll bet you’re cultured. Deeply so. I’ll bet you’ve read things. European things.

Not as much as I should.

Have you read … I don’t know … Sophocles? Tolstoy?

Yes.

I haven’t. Too late now. It’s not a literary culture anymore.

 

Were you a gifted child? I could imagine you being a prodigy.

Far from it.

What are your principal intellectual gifts? Where do your intellectual strengths lie? I want to work out where you’ll fit on the team.

There’s a team?

The Organisational Management team.

Oh God.

They’ve stolen all the catastrophes now. Made them their catastrophes – that only they can deal with, in their way.

They’re trying to appropriate the apocalypse. Plant their flag in it. Like they’re apocalyptic-solutions people. Like they’ll be diagnosers and solvers of all crises.

They want the apocalypse monopoly. Only they can diagnose them. Propose to solve them.

They want to own every crisis. Even the spiritual crisis. Pretend that they have the solutions. Like they have a monopoly on solutions. That’s governance now: solution management.

 

What apocalypse do you want? They’ve got so many of them. We’re teeming with apocalypses. With crisis narratives.

We do nothing but stare at the horror. We can’t unsee it, the horror. We think of nothing else: the horror. We’ll never wake up for it, the horror.

 

And our dreams are nightmares. Our sleep’s full of nightmares. We’re at the bottom of the world. Cursed by the world. All around us: terrible visions. Nightmares. Fumes. From the poison. From the great Corruption.

 

Why can’t we stop ourselves hearing the screams? Why do they reach us, the screams?

 

Are we holy innocents? Holy fools? Perhaps that’s it.

 

Why haven’t we grown out of it? Why haven’t we grown up? Why haven’t we left behind our perpetually appalled adolescence?

 

How did we Know? What power of Discernment did we have? How could we Tell? What gift were we given? What curse cursed us? 

Something’s wrong with our intelligence. Or something’s right with our intelligence. It’s bent in the wrong direction. It’s grown wrong – or grown right.

If you don’t kill yourself, you’re compromised. If you haven’t suicided long ago, you’re complicit. The world has only grown steadily more disgusting. We stink with it, the world. We reek with world. We’re rotting, with the great rotting of the world.

 

A single shot to the head. A single blow, let it fall, let it fall. A guillotine strike. A blade falling down from the air. Dividing the air. Severing head from neck. Do it quickly! Do it at once! Before we’d even notice!

Living on, instead. Our guilt deepening, instead. Our lying getting worse. And more and more poisoned. More deeply poisoned. Our blood running with nothing but poison.

 

Always a day after the last day. And a day after that. The end is a lie. Armageddon is a lie. There are no end times. There is no reckoning. There’ll be no Last Judgement.

The roll will not be called. Justice will never be done. The truth won’t out.

No one will hang. No one will stand trial. Things will just go one as they’ve always done. And more and more will drop dead. Die suddenly. Cause unknown …

 

Set free the truth and nothing happens. The light won’t reach the darkest corners. The secrets will not be exposed. The victims will not be given their due. The murdered will stay murdered. And poison will run in all our veins. And lies will sound from all our mouths.

That’s what intelligence does: sniff the air. Work out the latest lies it’s supposed to be believe. Work out what’s hot and what’s not. It’s animal cunning. Staying ahead of all curves.

 

Intelligence, discerning what’s acceptable and not acceptable today. What you can and can’t say. The fresh thing to virtue signal. The right flag to wave.

 

Give us the stupid instead. Give us the idiots who can’t adapt. Give us the stubborn. The taciturn. The fucked up. Give us the maladjusted.

 

They’re working on smooth integration. On new ways to make us say yes. Intelligence is their asset.

 

Intelligence dragooned. Intelligence, held hostage. Intelligence, press-ganged into service. Intelligence: nothing but servility. Agreeing to everything. Critical of nothing.

 

Intelligence, adapting itself to the worst. Going along, willingly, with the worst. With the world system. With the death system. With the greatest of crimes.

 

Intelligence, compromised. All the smartest people. All the doctors. All the lawyers. No one said a word. All the academics – and didn’t Cicero especially despise the academics?

 

Intelligence, greasing the wheels. Greasing its wheels. Intelligence, opportunistic. Making sure it survives.

Intelligence … the power of demonic discernment. Of working out which demon to follow. Signing away its soul.

There’ll be no resurrection. There’ll be no justice. The antichrist rules, that’s all.

 

Intelligence, justifying itself. Intelligence, pleased with itself. With the world. And with its ability to adapt to the world.

Intelligence, happy with its conniving. With its strategizing. With its capacity to manage itself. And organise itself.

Intelligence, pleased with its ability to survive. Smug about itself. Pleased with itself.

Intelligence, participating in the lies! Holding up the lies! Reinforcing the lies! Telling more lies about the lies!

 

Intelligence, lying for the liars. Intelligence, knowing out what lies to tell. And what lies need to be told. Intelligence, doing the liars’ work. Furthering the liars’ work. Intelligence, giving itself all the excuses.

Intelligence, letting itself off. Intelligence, pragmatic. Opportunistic. Intelligence, working out what’s best to say. And what’s best not to say. Intelligence, knowing implicitly what’s acceptable and non-acceptable.

They’re robbing them of their gloom in Eastern Europe, that’s the rumour. They’re turning them into us.

It’s the gig economy. It’s neoliberal wickedness. It’s the reign of positivity. The whole yes I can thing.

The great despair pipe, running direct from Eastern Europe to us is drying up.

 

They used to mine despair where Cicero lived, for export to the West. Open cast anxiety mining. Essential Eastern European raw materials.

 

She made up her Eastern European stories. Her Eastern European poets – who we’ve never even heard of here. Who’ve never been translated.

I just want to die, to die, to die. And float upwards into the sky. Is that what happens when you die? It should do, shouldn’t it? Your soul leaves your body …

You believe in the soul?

Oh I know I’m not supposed to. I’m sure no one sensible believes in the soul.

Did you ever Cicero hear talk of love?

In her flat, in the latest hours of all. As dawn broke over the Tyne. Over the mouth of the Tyne. Over the North Sea. Over the north and south piers. That was when Cicero would talk of love.

The messianic hour, that’s what she called it. As the sun started to rise. Following the hours of the dog and wolf. That’s when she’d speak of love.

 

Love … love … the most unexpected word from Cicero lips. When she spoke of the love that goes from one to the other. The love that passes from neighbour to neighbour. She talked about the tree of life. About escaping the Egypt of nature. About loosening the nomos of the earth. Of leaving the house of fucking bondage. Through love!

She spoke about the sparks of Shechinah. About the scattered light of the original Creation. About epiphanic moments – images – in their powerless beauty.

She spoke about the Umkehr, the turn, the conversion, the revelation. She spoke about the palace of blessed life. She spoke of the remnant of singularities. She spoke about all things receiving their proper names.

Radiating centres of life – that’s what we’ll be, those of us who survive, she said.

Survive what? we asked. But she’d just smile.

What’s this meeting about, anyway?

We need a plan of action.

What for – the resistance?

To prepare for the transition.

 

What about you, Fiver? What have you heard through the admin channels?

Fiver shrugs.

So we’re waiting for them to make our move.

 

Have Organisational Management given us any instructions? What are we supposed to be doing?

We’re supposed to be reflecting on interdisciplinarity. Modules we can offer both to philosophy students and Organisational Management ones.

And make sure our module descriptors are accessible to all. That Organisational Manage students can understand what they’ll be studying.

Don’t use long words like ontology or metaphysics. If we can make our modules business relevant, then that’s a bonus.

Business relevant. Those words are like a knife in the heart.

 

We’re supposed to come up with at least five action points.

Action points – what are they?

Like resolutions. Things we’re going to do.

What are we going to do?

 

I think we should go for passive resistance. Drunken resistance. Mead resistance.

 

What would Ghandi do? He wouldn’t drink mead. He’d put on a dhoti. It would be dhoti power. Get your dhoti on, Shiva.

 

Just don’t do what they say.

They’ll sack us!

So paranoid. Be like water. Make concessions. Bend a little.

Once their students are on our modules, we have to please them. Make our customers happy. Which means we’ll have to entirely change the modules.

Which means we don’t want them on our modules. We have to repel them. Subtly. We just have to make them unappealing. Word the descriptors in such a way that the students don’t choose them.

Cunning.

 

They talked of a bunch of our students doing an Organisational Management module. As a trial.

It’ll destroy their minds! It's not exactly what they signed up for, is it? How cruel.

 

Philosophy has to go underground – deeply so. It has to disguise itself as business studies if it’s going to survive.

 

They’ll be sitting in the lectures, monitoring us. It’ll be like Heidegger’s Nietzsche lectures in the midst of the war. The SS sitting on the classes. Taking notes. Making sure Heidegger was Nazi enough.

Which is why Heidegger was writing in his notebooks – all that secret stuff. SS are wankers, basically.

About how Jews were rootless cosmopolitans, not to be trusted.

That and other things.

 

I think we should expose them to the worst. Don’t fucking compromise. Go down in flames. Just let ourselves be destroyed.

 

We’re on a war footing – this is the war against philosophy. We can’t let them win. We have to go clear eyed into the disaster. Without compromise. Today’s a good day to die, an so on.

 

We’re extinguishing the European philosophical torch. Dropping the fucking baton.

 

Do we really want to get sacked? End up out there again. Teaching part time.

 

If we just compromise … Give a little … We don’t have to think of it as a defeat. It’s not the end of all things. The end isn’t actually nigh.

Isn’t it?

Worse things happen at sea, and all that. Look, we don’t have to take ourselves so seriously. Any of this. I mean, it isn’t a disaster if we end up with a few O.M. students taking our modules. And if a few of our students do some of their modules …

Yes it is! The honour of philosophy – doesn’t that mean anything to you?

Not really.

We’re so atomised. So individualistic.

 

Look, the disaster’s happened. Nothing matters anymore. Everything is so fucked, it doesn’t matter if things get just a little more fucked. It’s not actually the end of the world.

But it is.

 

How do we resist the darkness? What will we say to our children?

They won’t ask us. They won’t be born. We’re sterile, idiot. Or if we’re not sterile now, we will be. And if they are born, they’ll be poisoned, just like us.

Famine will have got us long before then. And war. And general … euthanasia. And the great culling. And the deliberate depopulation.

 

The world ended some time ago: isn’t that clear? So what happens now … doesn’t matter.

 

It’s like forcing the messiah, succumbing to this. Becoming apostates in order to make things worse.

 

We’ll show the farce for what it is. We’ll bathe in the farce. Laughing.

But it will send us mad.

So what! Let’s go mad, like Hoelderlin. Famine will have got us long before then. And war. And general … euthanasia. And the great culling. And the deliberate depopulation.

What style?

We’re just servants of the apocalypse. Of the destruction of meaning.

 

We’ll bring the lightning – Cicero’s lightning. We’d actually make it happen. The skies would open.

It’s about increasing the tension. In the university. In our own hearts! Deepening the contradiction. Living it. The charge will increase. Lightning will strike …

 

What was so great about lightning, anyway? Cicero had some idea it could be transformed into love.

Into love?

Neighbourly love. That’s what we she said.

 

A new love will be born … somehow. Love will spread. Go from one to the other. A secular miracle.

How? Will we love the organisational managers?

I don’t know.

Some new epoch will open.

 

Is that what they drank in Braveheart? Probably.

 

You’ve heard of fundamental moods – this is fundamental mead.

Fuck off.

 

Crack open the mead. Let’s see what it does. Let’s channel the Anglo-Saxons, or whatever. When Newcastle was the capital of Mircea. And it was all about monks.

 

It’s business as usual, for the time being.  But I don’t want it to be business as usual. The whole world is business as usual.