Friday, October 25, 2019

The Aftermath (Sonnet #8)

Susan, never Suzy. It reminded her of her mother. She had the body of a porn star and the scars of a young life well traveled. We met on the psych-ward. She liked the bottle and so did I.

"5 years... 5 fucking years," She said several days later. We'd exchanged numbers and made a mad-dash to the liquor store after we (respectively) got discharged.

"Why did it have to happen to him?" She whispered. "You know, I honestly feel angrier at him then I do at the bitch who was holding the knife."

"Sometimes-" I cracked my neck before finishing my thought. "Sometimes, things just happen. Ever heard of Camus?"

"Heh, fuck no," she said. "One of those philosophers you like to escape reality with?"


I could've spouted off a bunch of academic jargon on existentialism how life is like totally absurd and meaningless  maaaan, and how it's our freedom to create and impose that gives meaning but the older I've gotten, the more I've realized that no ideology out there, no matter how pretty of a package it comes wrapped in, can truly erase pain and grant peace of mind.

Susan's brother had died, stabbed by a crack-whore. The other brother? Dead within 3-weeks... bad dope. That's nothing new to the news headlines but any type of pain like that is new to a body who hasn't weathered it... that's why she'd picked up the bottle... can't say I blame her.

"You know everything that they drilled into our heads at the hospital works right? Like, it's something that's actually helps people. I was at my lowest point when I went in."

"What over some girl?" She paused... "Sorry, I'm not trying to compare shit-storms with ya... there are lot's of girls out there. I just... (the muscles in her face twitch, her eyes twist into shapes apart from themselves what follows next [?] is sobbed through cigarette smoke). "I just miss him so much."

Susan continued sobbing. Her hand reached for mine as we sat on the curb passing our bottle back and forth watching the sun die in a vast-bouquet of color. I wonder if the sun ever thought about Camus? How patently, absurd is it to rise and fall each day? To keep pushing that boulder up the hill... anyway.

I don't know if I'll see Susana gain, she could go the same way as anyone else. But I do know that sitting here scribbling all of this down, Frankenstein-ing it from coffee stained, hospital notebooks (1. Anyone whose ever been to the psych ward has a notebook full of self-loathing shit to prove it), in my not-so-luxurious but warm basement apartment really puts things into perspective.

Sunday, September 29, 2019

The Ghost of Dope-Houses Past

ƚi ɘʞɒƚ ǫᴎiʞɔuᎸ ƚ'ᴎɒƆ I
I̶͇̱̣̾̈́ ̶͚̋̈́͊̽͊̄͐͊͝͠C̵͖̻̫̆͘ä̵̛͚͔̫́̀n̴̛̬͇͈̂'̴̥̲̩́́͗̚͘̚t̶͔̜͙̱̼͚͐̍͛͊́͋ ̶̨̛̩̜͉̋̓͗f̵̡̛̮͔͓͈̅̔̅̋̊̾͜u̸̢̧̮̻͎̿̏͑͂̊c̶̞͇̲̺̄͆̇̊̈͒͆k̷̢̧̦̪̠̫̮̫̑̽͊̀́͠i̶̛̤̹̲̻̞̘̮̫̩̔̐̀͝͠n̴̞̫̤̩̜̪͍͕̩̩̔̉̄͆̈̑͒͐̈̚g̸̞̙̳̹͙͖͛̒̈́̎̽̈́̽ ̶̳̜̣̖̰̝̇͗͑̾̒͘̚t̴͈͇̖͉̠̱̋͐̈̐̃̅͂͝ả̴͙̝̩̣̱̫̞͖͔̽k̷̬̺̹̂͌͌̆̐̉͝e̴̤͛ ̶̯͇͊̉͑́͌͊̓ȋ̷̦͓͕̠̦̝͍͓̯͊̈́͆̏͋̎̿t̵̫͑́̓́̒̏̌͝


It's 1 AM ( “ I AM WHO I AM.” And he said, “Say this to the people of Israel: ‘ I AM has sent me to you.’” )  on a Tuesday. I can't sleep. I haven't slept for some time. Empty 40's decorate the floor. There guts spilled out like a 3rd world massacre (* the last time I slept, I was watching a PBS documentary on child soldiers in Sudan... been on my my mind a a lot ever[y] since/sense). Anyway, I haven't written much in a while, mainly due to drinking. I'm trying to get my shit together. I'm not getting any younger...
When you write (* and as Bukowski said, “There is a time to STOP trying to WRITE, there is a time to kick the whole bloated sensation of ART out on its whore-ass”), you tend to chuck anything you can into the furnace of whatever it is that's moving your (* probably very damaged) psyche at any given time and some days, you just can't. There are only so many stories to tell about love and love lost, about beauty, about pain about some girl whose presence numbs it (one or both, beauty and pain) for you... sometimes a man hits a point where he's lived through all of that and there isn't much more that can be said.


Meth's been abundant. A new city, a new basement apartment that floods like so many before it but somethings never change... As self indulgent and referential as my writing is you'd think I'd have been able to pick out that pattern a long time ago. Right now, there is no maiden archetype. No one to rescue me with sweet nothings. No one to be rescued. No one to exhaust such long, long thoughts on. Just the end of a stem to burn, alone on a sleeping bag in the middle of 4 stone walls.


I NEED OUT!!! Out of this cycle out of this "lifestyle" hell even outside.  I know I've needed some variation of all those things for quite some time. No amount of dope can make that happen. Years spent in therapy wasn't enough for that. Blaze these few crumbs and I'm off to detox...


"Hmm," that was interesting. I closed the journal Jake had given me.

"Yeah, dude had it rough... whoever he was."

"It makes you wonder what drives a person there, or anywhere near it. Suffering, illness. My dad always told me that it was subtle degrees of variation. The differences between people I mean, even if it seems like something - - I paused, pocketed the journal and started making my way towards the exit of the abandoned squat Jake and I had gotten the urge to explore. Its stray pigeon feathers and mildew abound, lingering within the sights and sounds captured by my eyes - 
HUGE... it usually isn't. Anyone could wind up in any situation and it could all come down to the shirt they decided to wear one morning vs any other."

Well, I'm pretty sure the meth played a role in all that, in this guy's case at least. Interesting to think about though."

"Yeah," I chuckled. "Meth will do that... I'll never touch the shit."

"Oh yeah. Me neither."

Famous last words.


Scott closed his journal and sat it down on the floor, he needed a clean-ish flat surface to cut his dope up. He got to work and within a few seconds (* like some time-lapsed decay) had his shards broken down and safely in the spoon. He let whatever unseen forces guide his hands along their path, to the empty Gatorade bottle, to the rig, to the vein to the plunger, 3,2,1...

Scott Snow, 44, died March 1, 2009, in St. Louis, MO

A memorial service was Wednesday at Greenwood Memorial Park in St. Louis, MO.
Scott was born to Charles and Phoebe Smith. Scott's father was a Doctor at Barnes Jewish Hospital. His mother came up from Rochester, MN as a Nurse. A memorial service will be held at Cook Inlet Funeral Home for any friends and family. No living relatives were verified at the time of Scott's passing.

Wednesday, July 3, 2019

Death to Videodrome

Power ain't what it used to be. Its diffused through a new age of 1's and 0's and with each space on the grid it lodged into, mutated into a grotesque myriad of forms and institutions. The evolution from "the sovereign" of feudal aristocracy to a modal society of control has been a long and winding path. One of these comes in the form(s) of art and entertainment.

The commoditization of culture and identity which I've spoken of earlier, also encompasses the commoditization of  transgressive art. The public's blood-lust, (instead of being channeled into direct action) has been assimilated. It seems that we can no longer commit the greatest sin of "killing the sacred" (as Stirner references it). How can we when everything sacrament has been chewed up, shat out and video-taped throughout the whole process? Consumerism penetrates into the substance of all art today, even art with teeth. From /pol memes, to Banksy, to Marquis De Sade (or rather an empty retelling of De Sade, lacking the cultural impact his work had in its time), the consumer is not only desensitized but merged entirely with the product. We collectively embody violence yet we say "turn the other cheek." We execute criminals yet we can't wait to see what they get up to in the next episode of whatever anti-hero driven series we're binging.

This transcendent merging of binary systems is not a great leap forward but more accurately a reflection of the body horror inspiring my words as I'm typing this at 1 in the morning. In David Cronenberg's Videodrome our titular protagonist Max is bored with his life. He has every luxury, power, prestige and all the cheap fucks that money can buy but he isn't happy. His personal life (screaming for meaning) cycles towards more and more extreme forms of affirmation until he  (glossing over some key plot points here) decides that the only way to achieve transcendence is through "a death of the old flesh." This of course could be analogous to Christ but that's a whole other realm to explore in essays to come.  

We like to tout our society for its progress. The technocratic elites are okay because they espouse the same sort of Enlightenment virtue ethics that have been deluded into a mixture for the masses to consume. Humanism,  rationality, equality. These are of course, not undesirable (at least by default) but few on the Left (conservatives have their own civic religion rife with its own problems which isn't worth anyone's time to analyze) take the time to critically engage with the motives and origins of this power. Those who will from time to time give it some consideration are often willing to make concessions to it in order to further realize their own ideological ends. Those who find themselves here are either (best case scenario, willfully) ignorant of the larger implications or engaging in Faustian Bargain with power structures that care not for the livelihood of any individual, group or our species at large.

Of course it's easy enough to attack these concepts, Nietzsche taught us all how to do that. It's striking back at the grimy, festering underbelly of consumerism that proves to be more of a challenge. We must remind ourselves that Art is a weapon. It isn't married to markets or high society. In a world where the product and the consumer are one. Where EVERYTHING is socially acceptable (or can be made to be), any strain of genuine madness found within art that has yet to be bought or sold is a sword worth wielding. 

Friday, June 14, 2019

Neo-liberalism and Controlled Opposition Markets

In a modern free market system, everything is for sale. Any idea that you have, even if it's, a "radical" idea can be marketed. We live in an interesting time, the same kind of economy that allows for private prisons also allows for the private sale and "regulation" of marijuana (the initial prohibition of which (interestingly enough), was one of the major catalysts to the private prison industry...

Hard work, innovation, equality, democracy, even political dissidence (or rather, the phantoms of such things) are what the adds project to us. Reaching out from the netherworld of bits and binaries. What this illusion of choice really does however is (very subtly) co-opt anything dangerous, anything that would really pose a threat to the existence of corporate neo-liberalism. This psychological conditioning and the creation of the controlled opposition within the economic structure is what permits the much more grotesque abuses of neo liberalism, the ravaging third world comes to (Kevin Carson of C4SS does a fine job explaining this here;

Modernity doesn't have a Diogenes. We have no one who is willing embody an act of rebellion, to scoff at the might of kings while living in a dumpster and eating his own shit. We have no one to deface the currency and if we did, it would simply be juxtaposed with a sense of fashionable irony (which is very marketable). Now we just have Che Guevara T-shirts...

A Perfect example of this is the Hungarian film Taxidermia an ambitious piece of transgressive historical fiction, telling the story of a family over three generations. Each one the product of the political conditions of Hungary at any given time. Beginning with its first iteration as a fascist state during World War II. Then as a Soviet satellite. Ending on the Hungary of the present, a liberal democracy (or as some may see it, lite-oligarchy). In these three systems, each member of the family tries to break away from the state and its various modes of power with what is most immediately available as a means for them to do so; their own bodies but even this most intimate act of rebellion ends up being cannibalized (we'll keep this spoiler free) by said cultural and economic institutions and ultimately, made to serve the ends of the state. A body turned against the spirit.

This is the abyss Nietzsche spoke of. This condition of being raises the question of what political rebellion really looks like. Gone are the days of "The Revolution." Both the Modern Left and the Far Right have failed to bring this about. The question of; "can any individual thought or action be meaningful?" lingers. If a God dies and no one is around to hear it, do His death-rattles go unheard?

Nick Land offers and interesting solution to this question;

"Capital is essentially capitals, at war among themselves. It advances only through disintegration. If—not at all unreasonably—the basic vector of capital is identified with a tendency to social abandonment, what it abandons most originally is itself.[8] That is why the left finds itself so commonly locked in a fight to defend what capital is from what it threatens to become. Bitcoin tells us—more clearly than any other innovation—what it is becoming next, by escaping transcendent governance in principle.

[8] Marx is not blind to any of this, although he tends to complacently bracket it as a self-destructive contradiction. The Communist Manifesto is especially stark in this regard. Continuous auto-liquidation of the establishment is modernity’s installed regulative idea. Recent history has only confirmed the insight. Capital revolutionizes harder, deeper, and faster than “the Revolution”. Its lack of attachment to itself exceeds anything the left has been able to consistently match. Capital’s scandalous immortality is derived solely from its inventiveness in ways to kill itself. There is no serious way in which it could die that is not more intensely effectuated as a functional innovation within itself. Revolutionary capital proceeds through disintermediation. It bypasses what it marks for extinction."

We now stand at a precipice; we can either embrace the inevitable descent (through art and vain intellectual pursuits violent extremism, mysticism, or hell even simple escapism. Turn on Netflix and mainline some hard drugs) or hack it in such a way that we harness its power. Capitalism may be able to replace our humanity, that day may have long passed by (spoiler alert, it has). We won't be beating it at what its already set into motion any time soon. The only question remaining is who gets to be in the driver's seat? Flesh and blood or consumer profiles and add revenue?

Tuesday, May 21, 2019


Right now, the architects of global-neoliberalism have (quite efficaciously) weaponized culture and ideology (their last exports) in an effort to perpetuate their self cannibalizing interests. Late-capitalism, pumped with embalming fluid has eaten the priestly caste of old and injected its putrid essence into every fiber of society. The virus is spreading through the mainframe. Soon, the very idea of what it means to be human (collectively and individually) will be consumed by the body horror of "the system." The infamous Doomer meme and the cruel ironicism of post-modernity (as well as its originators, Derrida and the like) are not the disease, merely rogue anti-bodies. I like it all of course. Its morbid take on the state of things. Its rejection of traditional values. Its masturbatory linguistic trickery. Its memes... good God the memes... but what it has in theory and entertainment value, it lacks in solutions. How do we remedy this loss of meaning? More importantly, how do the "normies?" Most average Joe's are bought and sold by the parasitic corporate class described earlier. So steeped in the Sklavenmoral (slave morality/slavery) of the herd that they may as well be commodities themselves (my Nietzschean fangs rearing). Content to eat and fuck and buy and sell until the looming extinction comes crashing down.

Tribalism is natural. People will divide themselves among racial , cultural and idological lines however misguided of an effort it may be. But tribalism reflected in the state? Not so much... Its led to nothing but frivolous wars and the other assorted ego projects of sociopaths.  I firmly believe that streamlining the state through the implementation of a UBI, a strictly regulated (* regulated does not imply exclusive government control. Market forces, citizen boards and direct action initiatives like boycotting are effective regulatory powers once state privilege is stripped from economic activity) tech/industry sector, true meritocracy and free market solutions to social/environmental problems, measures towards a sane, sustainable public policy can remain free from extraneous government regulation and allow people the autonomy to organize at a local level. What we would have is a sort of "post-nationalism." Where the state apparatus provides the substrate for a mycelia of varying groups to pursue their own interests. True freedom of association. Each man chooses his lot in life knowing that he is truly secure in doing so. It may not be the warmth of hearth and home of bygone times but it will provide the same sense of comfort in a very tangible way. Will this be a cure for nihilism? No, (a question that must be raised is the sustainability of said technologies, cultural and otherwise), but it will afford everyone a very high amount of social freedom under the umbrella of a small, stable state

Wednesday, May 15, 2019

The Gasoline Files (First Excerpt)


"I used to be fat. I mean a reeeeaaaallllll FAT! FUCK!" Nathan said, spittle forming at the edges of his mouth.

"And my dad. He was an asshole... a drunk asshole who also happened to be a volunteer figherfighter and he used to tell me son; You know what happens to all that goo when a person goes up in flames? I do. It ain't pretty but there's some sort of twisted beauty in it. Just like with a lot a things that ain't too pretty."

Nathan R Robinson II (better known as lightbringer13 to the more unsavory online message boards he frequented), set aside a cigarette from his well worn pack of Reds, tugged at his greasy hair and let out a sigh before continuing.

"Fire, the chemical catalyst that gives every starving cell in your body what it wants That transcendent liberation that the christfags- important to note here that Jews and Arabs are just as much christfag as the Catholic kiddie-fuckers, but anyway... The christfags would have you believe that you have to die for their God. That the only way to free yourself from this putrid body is through tolerance and obedience. Nah, it isn't. It's through violence. Good. Old. Fashioned. Violence. Whatever is out there...beyond all of this. And you better fuckin believe me that I've seen it. Known it. What I can anyway, that it wants us to scream to it that we exist. So... very shortly from now. I'm going to be screaming."

Nathan, pre-soaked in high octane gasoline courtesy of the Shell station down the street, lit his cigarette. The rest should go without saying.

"My condolences," Ed felt the first tinges of light rain beginning to fall as Nathan's casket was lowered into the ground (a modern homage to ancient times. Rites of blood and passage into an afterlife, far beyond the human substrate it blossomed from).

"Thank you. Nathan was- he was very sick. We both know you did the best you could," Nathan's father (Gerald Smith, and step-father to be exact. The drunken turbulence of his youth replaced with an archetypal father figure... It wasn't enough "I'm not enough Gerald thought to himself but we're getting off track...) held his wife close. Ed had a fleeting thought of her legs, how nice they looked in her slim black dress "a little risque for a wake but what the hell?"

"I'm sorry," he said. Ed's room-temperature, academic way of approaching life providing a shield of detachment from the pain of death, and questioning one's own eventual expiration.

"You know-" Gerald said with some hesitation. "Nate was... he was involved with someone-something rather before he passed away. Whatever those people were on, or up to. It wasn't good. They were mostly online... He spent so much time locked in his rooms taring into that damn computer... I don't know what he told you about any of that, but I can't help but think that it had something to do with...everything. Everything that just happened. It goes deeper than him being troubled. There's something truly evil at the root of it all." 

Yang 2020: A (Left) Libertarian Perspective

When I first heard  about Yang a mere 3-(ish) months ago, I was skeptical. A Silicon Valley technocrat, running on the same empty platitudes and stale rhetoric as his predecessors... great. Then, as Yang started to pop up in the online spaces I navigate, I started to do some investigating. Articles covering his plan to decriminalize opiates, the attention he drew to mental health in the wake of late-capitalism, his pledge to pull big tech out of the shadowy cabal it occupies (and yes, this includes the military technological industry) and mold it into an asset for the people and most famously his proposal for a UBI and VAT tax system. I became all the more intrigued. 

As someone who for all of their adult life, has sought... unorthodox approaches to tackling societal issues, approaches often operating outside the reach of the state, standing up to its monopoly on force with little care for God and government, I've been interested in technology not just as a novelty, or a utility but as a means to meet this end. But it is quite the doubled edged sword. The same technology that could reduce pollution, give people bodily autonomy and lead to a post-scarcity economy is also the same technology that spies on, exploits and murders people (directly and indirectly) at home and all over the globe. Yang seems to recognize this and is proposing bold solutions.

I think the case can be made that not much of what these solutions entail is opposed to libertarian principles. The UBI has been championed by both socialists and the descendants of the Austrian economists (Milton Friedman in particular) as a way to efficaciously meet people's needs and to streamline the cost of services provided by the welfare-state. It would allow for more people to not only become homeowners and small business owners but to pool their collective assets together at the local level to fund all manner of community projects that operate under the umbrella of a new sort of "socialism" (or localism) and can reflect the interests of both the Left and the Right. To quote Taki Magazine's Andrew Yang and the Post-Nationalist Future

"If Yang’s vision were to be successfully implemented, rightists of the future could focus squarely on issues of freedom of speech and association, and peacefully create their own microcommunities and neo-tribes within a globalized, technologized, economic order. Is the way we’ve been thinking about nationalism an obsolete holdover from the 20th century? Should we give up on the idea of seeing our cultural identity reflected in our government? Andrew Yang’s campaign inspires these types of questions."

Yang also recognizes the collapse that we are facing. We live in an age where as Nietzsche proclaimed "God is dead." Moral and meta-physical meta-narratives are all too easily, ripped apart. Rigid cultural lines are no longer drawn in the sand (in an era where everything is appropriated) and as far as the role of technology in this is concerned, it has diffused...everything. Our identities, the most basic tenets of what it means to be a human (specifically a human in the Western world) are now a simulacra. Corporate neo-liberalism (state subsidized capitalism) has opportunistically subverted this change, Yang seeks to take it back.

One book I've been cracking into is Nick Land's Fanged Noumena, a collection of essays with a heavy futurist bent. Since traveling the rails on the #yangtrain I see this collection of work as more relevant now more than ever (all the more impressive considering that most of it was written in the 90's!) especially the following;

The future wants to steal your soul and vaporize it in nanotechnics.

One/zero, light/dark, Neuromancer/Wintermute.

Cybergothic vampirically contaminates and assetstrips the Marxian Critique of political economy, scrambling it with the following theses:

1) Anthropormorphic surplus-value is not analytically extricable from transhuman machineries.

2) Markets, desire and science fiction are all parts of the infrastructure.

3) Virtual Capital-Extinction is immanent to production.

The short-term is already hacked by the long-term.

The medium-term is reefed on schizophrenia.

The long-term is cancelled…

We're at the crossroads of unfathomable change. We need to either suck it up and learn/extract what we can from it or collapse... Yang is just the beginning but he IS what we need in the here and now. #securethebag