3r!kξpaίồs

The most beautiful future is one without a face. They/them

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“We are not in the world, we become with the world; we become by contemplating it. Everything is vision, becoming. We become universes.” -Félix Guattari

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Have Another (Revolution, that is)

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Something I made in during a lecture. Most of what I do I wouldn't call art and so I don't share it often, but I recently talked with someone who changed my mind and decided to show off something that I think turned out okay

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On the Secret society

The current Control society which we live under, can be considered a radically open society. It’s an Open society in the sense that there is no way not to be open. Everything is done publicly. The whole of the new ‘creator’ economy can only be done in an open and public setting. The Control society is an Open society not in its inclusivity, but in its lack of exclusivity and hatred of privacy. We’re in a world where it is a sin to be private and a glory to be transparent. A triumph of privatization over privacy. In such a society it is now more important than ever to revive the culture of the ‘Secret society’. A Secret society is not just a gathering of occultists, it is any collective, anti-ocular enunciation. An underground rave, a squatter group, a small internet artist blog etc. Unlike the Control, Discipline or Sovereign society, the Secret society cannot be institutionalized because as soon as it is institutionalized it ceases to be a Secret society. The State cannot be ‘masked’. The Secret society therefore in its anti-ocularity resembles the War machine. It is better to say that a Secret society is a War machine - liberated and given form in a certain coordinate of space-time. Its limited membership, closed off rituals and festivities are just another enunciation of the discipline inherent in the Warriors of the War machine. It is therefore an act of resistance. One must, of course, not misconstrue, it can be just as much an act of reaction. There are as many Acéphale as there are Amur river societies. There are of course more problems with Secret societies than just that they can be reactionary. One aspect of Secret societies is their aristocratic nature. Due to its secrecy and distance from the masses it can easily fall into the cesspit of elitism. The Bolsheviks are a great example of this. Once a Secret society which liberated and co-opted the degrading War machine of the Russian Empire it quickly came to replace the Russian aristocracy(even now many former party members are also members of the oligarchy). This is of course by design. One must only look to the writings of someone like Renzo Novatore to see it clear as day(even Bataille to a certain degree). There is a reason that Deleuze and Guattari called High-society a version of the band structure inherent to the Nomadic War machine. The Secret society, if unchecked, only recreates the Apparatus of Capture. So what can be done? How can we resist, create a Secret society that stays secret even when destroying the State? I don’t know, not yet anyway.

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ALL POWER TO THE IMAGINATION

NEVER WORK

LIVE COMMUNISM

SPREAD ANARCHY

HAVE HOPE

LOVE WILL TRIUMPH

IF NOT IN THIS WORLD THEN IN THE NEXT

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Self-Portrait, 2023

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ALL POWER TO THE IMAGINATION

NEVER WORK

LIVE COMMUNISM

SPREAD ANARCHY

HAVE HOPE

LOVE WILL TRIUMPH

IF NOT IN THIS WORLD THEN IN THE NEXT

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ALL POWER TO THE IMAGINATION

NEVER WORK

LIVE COMMUNISM

SPREAD ANARCHY

HAVE HOPE

LOVE WILL TRIUMPH

IF NOT IN THIS WORLD THEN IN THE NEXT

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On my Jewishness

For some context, I recently decided to start pursuing philosophy academically. This of course led to a host of questions from my friends and relatives. Most common of all: why? I’ve been hearing this non-stop for the past year or so: “Why dedicate your time to something so inane and financially unstable when you can spend your time on the GRIND? Why not something substantial like economics or business, or finances, or whatever else that can help you get money?” Of course most of them put it more indirectly than this. Of course apart from the usual, casual answer of “it interests me” I have an undisclosed answer to such an idiotic question. It is necessary for me. It's not that I expect to uncover the universe's incredible answers by studying it, but rather that it's a necessary endeavor for me in a different way. It is necessary as a creative endeavor. I have to do philosophy because I need to create a concept of identity.

This necessity is in large part hereditary. I’m not alone in this regard. My father(to this day, I have no idea why) has been searching for a group identity everywhere and mostly within religion and nationality. He has been a catholic, a Buddhist, a Quaker and, since my adolescence, a Jew. He has been called a Jew since childhood and it is only in his adulthood, with three children already out in the world, that he decided to become one. For him it was a necessity to find a territory to be at peace.

It is this act that brought a crisis upon me and my brother(our eldest brother had already reached an age of independence at that point) though we only felt it later in life. We experienced a double childhood, one Jewish and the other non(I would hesitate to call it christian as we were never attached to it as a religion). Steeped in Jewish culture and identity, yet always experiencing it from the outside in. A question of nationality came upon us when this contradiction reached its limit. My brother has resolved this already only by finding a new territory steeped in a liberal tradition; he has resolved to call himself “European”. Of course, neither this nor the notion of obeying the Jewish regime of signs, nor the crooked idea of returning to the culture which is only related to me by blood interests me. This is where I find myself, at a point of necessity. A necessity which drives me to create a new mode of subjectivity, one in which I can shed my nationality. By this I don’t mean to renounce my Jewishness, but rather to situate it world-historically and relieve it in a sense. This isn’t a matter of disassociation, but rather of creation. A creative act. An act of resistance. To find a line of flight and follow it thoroughly. I want to call myself a ‘Jew’ only in the same sense Deleuze and Guattari’s schizophrenic calls themself one.

Of course this has gotten me in some hot water in my own Jewish community. Their accusations are quite hilarious: “You only want to distance yourself from Jewishness because you don’t want to be associated with Israel, because you’re pro-Palestinian!” Such a marvelously erroneous claim. Being a Jew has got nothing to do with Israel. If it had something to do with it then there wouldn’t have been so many Jewish students at the various campus occupations in the US and agencies would not strive as diligently to link anti-Zionism with antisemitism as they currently do. In truth the genocide in Gaza has nothing to do with my own personal problems; these two are only interlinked in the sense that I wish, through my creative work, to resist the genocide and to contribute to the effort of making sure that the conditions for such a horrid act to never occur again.

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Glimpses

Watching Stalin start to plummet, Seeing Schmidt laugh like a Muppet, Wishing Hitler would kick the bucket, Stabbing De Gaulle in the gullet.

I peruse through these thoughts in the gallery of my mind. As the show runs the aughts, I'm just unsure of what I'll find.

I return to the so-called "real", my gaze turned downwards to my heel, to the cold pavement and its torturous eye placement, searching for a bit of empathy. I imagine splattering myself on to the wall, wanting to escape my penalty.

To escape this hell that is so chic, where I have to return every week, where the 9-5 becomes a 24/7, where my rating has to be 85/11.

This heaven gives me fucking migraine. Go out to work, return to buy grain. Even then at home I'm only met with deception. I have to work more and more, to pay off the essential debt from my inception. The debt from humanities conception, a sin which grants the state of exception. which marches toward a state of exemption, a judgemental exclusion and ejection.

A burden so heavy even death would not liberate me. So I decide to stay out whilst having nothing to talk about. I see behind a fence a concert. Maybe I'll come in, maybe it's a Mozart. Maybe it's what I was always waiting for, a coming end of my internal core. I head there condemned maybe I'll meet a friend and say:

"I come out here to wait for the great gig in the sky. To smoke and acclimate, It's the thing that makes me spry.

I wouldn't recommend going in… the view is much better from the fence. Just don't forget to hope we'll win, I'm still clinging onto it hence, I'm not leaving just yet. I still haven't finished my cigarette, I still feel my lovers warm silhouette."

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The Great Refusal

The daydream today was much too different, It was what a half-man such as me would call magnificent. Finally somehow in fantasy I don't feel as belligerent, It was about something one could only call a Differend:

A life where I said "no", where I refused. A life where I only cruised and suffused. A life where I became finally disabused. A life where I could become excused.

The battlefields became abandoned, Palaces became only empty land and Factories came to a complete stand-still and The streets filled with poetry with no-one to command and…

The midnight sun wakes me from a deep slumber As I realize my predicament, I move outside in a bored lumber.

In the cold dead of a lonely night, I'm completely bewildered by a sight: I see someone in the rain calling out, I should call to them, no I should shout.

Though not all looks as it seems I look more closely and see, it's the girl from my dreams. I can't believe she's right by the sea.

What was her name again? I seem to have forgotten it again, but I wish to call out to her again! At least like in the dream again!

Oh, I how could I forget, I had to only imagine it. Yes, I think I remember now. It's on the tip of my consciousness. "I refuse" was the only sound my mouth could emit. Ah yes, it's her, the great and terrifying wantonness.

"The Great Refusal" that's her name. The name I keep running back to. Oh, what a fine name for a fine Dame. What a encouraging and beautiful view.

It is her that gives me the tools. It is her that stimulates the fools. It is her that breaks the chains of ghouls. It is her that rids life of its abuse.

I invoke her once again, when all is said and done, to deny the world and embrace our lives, to see what imagination and wonder has begun, to feel my bright blood without the need for knives!

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Neither

The sound of distant voices echo, through the halls of soviet deco, as I slither along the walls like a gecko and with me the coming derecho.

The cold tiles vibrate like firecrackers alerting the distant, selfish hijackers. Afraid of the uranium lacquers, they stand behind like linebackers.

"Why are they here? What do they want?" I wonder as I head toward the avant. "Have they come here to flaunt, Have they maliciously decided to taunt?"

They came here promising liberty, brotherhood, equality. All they have brought is crisis, desperation, poverty. My nurturers have welcomed them, longing for sovereignty, but I had no choice, I'm still stuck longing for novelty.

I thought maybe with them I could demand the impossible, but however their depravity has never been cognoscible. It's clear, they were only searching for what is most optimal, and now they're descending into a state most volatile.

The other side of the seas is not looking good either. Those seem to be stuck in the same mind-numbing fever. Now I seem to be stuck in this terrible procedure. Being ripped apart in a world where I can only say: "Neither".

For now I'll stay stuck in my barricades, refusing to fall down to the level of the crusades. Let's leave in this here moor our spades. Let's not buy into their charades.

Wait to strike the iron when it's hot, for now we'll just dance the fox-trot. When the time is right we'll hit their blind spot. When the time is right we'll blow up their whole lot.

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The Unity of Bodies

As we collide together, As we set and tether, As we cannot decide whether, To marry or to be together.

Our manifold, clashing, autopoietic worlds, they reach a harmony as if a song of birds. Do we want to enclose this explosion to terms? Let it become numb and thrown to the worms?

Should we call it quits, reach the end of our engagement? Should we stay active or relegate ourselves to incagement? For what? A sociopolitical act of nothing, but estrangement? A stratification based on barter, slavery, arrangement?

You stare into my lukewarm eyes, You cannot understand what it implies: My cold honesty with no disguise, My warm fact and how it applies.

My eyes become an anonymous mix of shades. Grey, blue, green, black marching in brigades. This atmosphere reminds me of a serenade. The memories of our abiogenesis in my mind pervades.

We were at a club, we were both escaping classism. You were marveling at me, as if I was a work of Tachism. As I saw you I was gripped by a sense of agrammatism: "I live in constant fear of the western trend toward fascism."

Weird first words, don't you think so too? But you responded, I didn't expect that from you: "There is much pain in the world, but not in this room." I only nodded my head, understanding you could exhume.

I loved you then, I love you now as well. Maybe it is better to say that I am loving you all to hell. It is this event that gives me the ability to rebel. You've become apart of me, I cannot say farewell.

So please let's not see through our promise. We need no vows nor blessings upon us. Let's not submit to the wasteful commerce. Let's find within one another solace.

Heavenly nuptials, multiplicities of multiplicities! I want to depersonalize myself with you, let go of our ethnicities! I only want to affirm our disabilities and eccentricities! To go through our many bodies in each other, discard our subjectivities!

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Original Work was made by Gerard Fromanger

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This is Where We Live

Busted up, old automobile factories, Abandoned cars with no batteries, Decrepit modern art galleries, A set of concrete abnormalities.

Squatting isn't that bad just ask my friends at the Sorbonne. We drink coffee from tables who have no legs to stand on. We grab whatever food and drink we can come upon. Though we look like we're struggling, we have books to con.

My favorite place to sleep is the old cemetery. It fills my mind with thoughts so revelatory. I pass through, talk with the dead as an emissary, though the interest I have is nonhereditary.

I look for new friends, oh this one's Romani and that one's Jewish. Oh this one died because he slipped down a flight of stairs, how foolish. Every night I spend here I begin to become more of a Nihilist, becoming more brutish. Though I quite enjoy what they did to the czar and the others, making them ghoulish.

It helps that the cemetery is right next to a bar. Yes I mean it, truly mean it, it isn't quite far. I know a guy there who plays quite the guitar. It's a place like this where I would meet de Beauvoir.

I participate in the communal poetry of the bathroom stall, inscribing 'No Gods, No Masters' into the wall. It looks good next to the number labeled 'call' and next to the initials and an 'X' crossing it all.

I hear two young lovers cannibalizing each other next door over. At that point I know I'm going to be hungover. I climb out and scale the city's entrails moreover. Like a voyager, avoiding indigestion and closure.

The roads are long and full of history, I can feel the pavement hiding a certain mystery. Sirens echo through the night sky celebrating victory. I can finally understand their wicked trickery.

Concrete towers stalk my solitary journey. I can see why they made music from this truly! Remembering that fact, I start to dance unduly. I'm starting to understand why my mother called me unruly.

While I'm here alone on my walk I can wonder on something in this clime, like on the Passage of a Few Persons Through a Rather Brief Unity of Time. Enthusiasm seeps through me like never before, I can feel I'm in my prime. This feeling may dissipate soon, but nevertheless I feel sublime. I'm only wary of the church bell starting to chime.

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Sacrifice by Fire

Recently it feels as if my heart was given to a pyre, it sinks downwards and dissipates into the fire. My eyes have transformed the Nile into the Sahara, my body has deformed into a repulsive chimera.

The images run through my brain: children without agents of action can never hug their mothers again. A monstrous corpse impaction.

How could it have come to this? Was our own sacrifice not enough? What moral, what point did we miss? Was all the remorse and sadness just a bluff?

I turn to my brother and ask him "Why?" He finally turns his gaze from the sky: "Why? Oh, there's no need to talk about a genocide. They're only insects and we handle the pesticide."

How could we act in such a way, force out a people for simple "living space"? Killing has become nothing, but play. We fell back into the entrapment of race, I fear that is the case.

All this to a people just like us! All this to a people who have not made a fuss. A people who haven't done anything to anyone. A people who do not get the dignity of being called one…

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The Faded Portrait of a Youth

The sun-beams from the skylight land on his face, signaling the alarm to begin the race. He sees before the mirror a rickety figure; he still doesn't know the best way to configure.

He doesn't have the energy to spit on their father anymore. Consuming nutrients has become just another chore. The scars on his knuckles have spread to his wrists like a blight. He puts on a 15 dollar oversized coat and takes flight.

He shuffles and prances through the street. He's not even trying to follow a beat. He tramples through the laying bodies, almost tripping, knowing fully well that that fate is for him beginning.

He goes past the encampments into the train station, and waits for the Myriapod beast to come to his location. He lets himself get swallowed limb to limb then he sits awaiting a familiar hymn.

Soon it's the end of the line and he has to get off. He takes leave from the first circle of hell with a cough. An unfamiliar place, but it's all the same, after all he only came here to forget his name.

Yet to no avail, the billboards eat their way into his brain; a heaven so blissful it can even give you a migraine. Yet he shakes it off and starts to wander in a huff, knowing his life is disappearing like a cigarette puff.

His situation is not so great. Strangely resigned to his fate. Yet he knows fully well that nothing is made for him. All current reforms are rather directed against him.

But he's not alone, he shares with many the same face. You can run into them all over the place. Youths abandoned by society to the wind. For all ills, the blame onto them is pinned.

The youth will come back home, once he is tired of the endless roam. Next morning he will begin again. Waiting to tear off his face then.