On Fre*d, pt. 01

The polemic is not affective garnish but a diagnostic instrument. When a position immunizes itself against reasons, politeness becomes a candid form of complicity. ~ Reza Negarestani.

For decades, not to say all my conscious life as a convicted dreamer, I am haunted by the ghost of history. Dressed up in the latest civic fashion, he intrusively bangs at my front door and demands to "buy" his unique bible nihil. As expected, I am always taken by surprise, but not persuaded by the callousness of this opportunistic daytime sleeper, yet, the tumultuous moment of astonishment produces a pragmatic fit of reactionary mannerism, which is laid out in the brief, human attraction to the sensual madness of "How to approach the stint of a madman?". But not long and a tenacity of life contracts with the strength of all its senses, pulling cogito beyond psychology and in sanity, which all the same seals a farewell with the subconscious parting will on the condition of a lasting big hug and the package "What is psychoanalysis?". And lo, what is it that allows my mind occupied and my body blocked with all that repetitive garbage?

A ghost in broad daylight within the age of reason is a form of dilemma, and in particular remarkable as the uninvited apparition introduces himself as a proxy of science to substantiate his status of a lawful, authoritarian figure in the uncanny valley. The role of the father empowers to publicly claim of having objectively observed the pleasure principle[1] and in doing so, he feeds malnourished bird brains with what they want and blindly subjects to the indifference of a Darwinian god, who is always right in his external "natural selection". Favourites are undigested, sensational findings of real meat, that are infused with generational trauma and coated in the glamour of gastric acid to serve the death drive as extremely palatable and unremittingly circulate from one dark gullet to another in a minimising negative feedback loop of phylogenetic learning.

The product is a more than happy, sated flock of birds, as shared likes in mucus of kitsch are laid out ready on display for easy-peasy regurgiate and swallow, which reinforces a severe addiction to poisonous junk food and ensures that genuine offerings of long-lasting meaning is henceforth refused. Too fantastic and great is the toughened up rat, that is spiced with problematic unease and even sticks in the craw of the roc,[2] hence, what more could the oviparous animal will other than redeeming death, which nevertheless 'thinks' itself safe within its unhistorical mindset and caught up in ruminating historical fragments of wrongdoings. In accelerating, mindless circular motion it hurtles into the future and idolises the stale air of its own ChatGPT excrements, in which any positive impulse of imagination is rapidly befouled and dismissed. The pathological system of commercial livestock farming operates by a historical hardened, nested mechanism and nonetheless contains all that modern bird wants, so why bother making efforts towards radical reengineering, once blockades are simply sprayed with the hazardous chemicals of General Purpose Technology.

In longing for the woods, a little orphaned blackbird can only hop from one toe to the other, as it does not believe in the blunt Darwinian survival strategy of pretence, which requires to wear a mass-produced death mask from early age, that is not suited for any bespoken, sanguine character. It deals with (1)fruitless communication with base, the (2)impatience of a fledgling writer, but (3) no idea about the transcendental knowledge of flight, as all familiar shapes are Nesthocker. Compelled by threat of suffocation, the wild animal is voicing frustration and scorn with that average consensus world through the grieving body, until nothing remains to be done but to mimic egotistic birds, who successfully feign to master the pleasure principle, and to identify with the worst. Still, the annoying inhuman blackbird is possessed by the un-German soul of poets and thinkers, that spun its world of delicate, dynamic threads, which are easily tangled up in promiscuity and thus has the gall to constantly scrutinise the stability of compliant cocks, who with lack of discrimination thrive prosperous in heile Welt. Tidied of cumbersome cogito and shat with riches, the quantitative misogynist simulation manifested at the expense of quality, and the weird weakling is more than grateful for a homogenous mass, which bully it out of that nest and risks a historical break with history[3] to embrace fate and escape the preprogrammed destiny of handicapped flit. And without any shame,[4] makes a confident landing as many damage caused originates in learnt disability.

I am developing a new game - or rather a play -, what seems like a glitch is caused by the blackbird not being a whole entity, therefore the bat probes its past several times.

Notes

References