January 31, 2013

If numbers can cheat, creating significance where there is none;

If dispositives and economies can cheat, producing undeserved obeisance and unnecessary haste;

If deadlines and morals and messages can cheat on me, cheat in me and through me;

Then I can cheat too.

To think both that you will never die, and you could die any minute? On the surface once, burrowed deep now.

Apocalypse of St John The Dragon with the Seven Heads Dürer

To thus put everything off until some illusory time, while every moment is harried and judged? Fuck that shit of a brainworm.

6-apocalypse J B Wright

I will die. One day later. So I will work out how to live now.


They should have taught me about the world not ending.


December 12, 2012

Why do I keep marking these days? To prove I can find meaning in inanity? Or at least alliteration and pattern? Our tripled twelve is the number of tribes and apostles, of constellations and signs, of hours and months, of gates to the body. It is code for police and eavesdroppers. Though it transcends binary, it signifies governmental perfection—indicating perhaps that our overlords will be not machinic but angelic. It is the number of completion.

The world will go on, astronomers reassure us, oblivious that this is in fact a time of great personal upheaval, of interstate returns, of memory digitisation, of career crossroads, of crises and crunches, of cycle completions. NASA knows nothing of subjective apocalypse.

And the waters prevailed

November 23, 2011

Shit’s been turned up to 11 for a while now.

Wonder what happens at 12.

“an acceleration of the conflict with the world, these are the results. How can a human being, within his restricted life-span, cope with the fact that the world is expanding beyond historic time and beyond the temporality of nature into a virtual infinity, with the discrepancy between the potentiality of an individual life and the general time limits of the world at large becoming intolerable?”

— Christoph Wulf

Rapport à soi, age six

October 11, 2011

“When I was putting my socks on I said to myself, ‘Welcome to your new life.’”

Serendipitous diagnosis

August 11, 2011

“the compulsive neurotic wastes his time by endless procrastination and suddenly becomes stingy with it”

— Henri F. Ellenberger

Fucker of a juncture

July 1, 2011

Entropy has gleefully waylaid me.


May 17, 2011

More Estonian graffiti. This one opportunely matched the theme of the post-conference convention, which opportunely matched my recent outlook. Nearing an interval, between jobs, projects, routines, possibly homes, the tone of my life is well captured by that green spray-painted word and its angular arrows. Now is a perfect time for nostalgia and counterfactualism. This is not how it had to be, and yet it is. There’s a pessimism and an activism and an overriding sense of multiple, overlapping, disrupted temporalities. I am haunted and impelled by the expectations of the past, its prolific illusions. So much is unfulfilled, yet it’s a miracle that anything got done at all. But I now get to do things I only ever thought would happen in the distant future. Yet this future that I live in is decidedly unlike the one I imagined at the end of last millennium. And still I return to old haunts, hang out with friends, family, fen, and the past blasts on. Everything is as if from a retro poster advertising another world. I don’t know which I’ll live in, beyond these next few months, this last interlude when I imagine and ask for possible worlds, and wait to see what becomes given.

… on this late, overtired Estonian work night.

1. The lingering piles of snow outside that, smuggled into my hotel bathroom sink, keeps my Bio Orange Soda cold in lieu of a fridge.

2. The doublekick from 2:42 of Baroness’s “Red Sky.” Fuck yeah.

3. That I can attend the impending launch of my man Paul Haines’s latest collection.

4. The continued forbearance of various editors, administrators and supervisors. (I know this is a repulsive sentiment.)

5. The heater that slowly dries the clothes I washed in the aforementioned sink.

6. The loyalty of a legend. (And/or the suckiness of Sowfastraya.)

7. The unrelenting existence of home, and in it family and friends and the technology that allows them to send me periodic odd messages.

Among other things.


January 11, 2011

solitary one

lost an age in binary

double double flanked

An Untimely Meditation

January 1, 2011

Nietzsche’s essay on the value of history is a sermon preached directly to my heart. I gorge on its sixty pages with a desperate hunger for ascesis. The scholarship of this reading becomes a spiritual exercise that indicts me and my hypertrophied virtues of so-called scholarship. Perhaps through this knowledge of how my life relates to the search for knowledge, I can upset the scales once again in favour of life.

I am a model of the prematurely grey-bearded youth, made soft and pliable by appreciating and doubting every point of view, hating little, loving less, overdosed on self-aware irony, homeless, melancholic, passive, stunted, withered by immersion in work, paralysed by an excess of historicality. I am detached from tradition and community, religious or familial or artistic or intentional, set apart and privileged yet dangerously unsettled by my cosmopolitan wandering. Life and action have become subordinated to a search for knowledge of otherness, “the repulsive spectacle of a blind rage for collecting, a restless raking together of everything that has ever existed.” Given the depth of my appetite and the infinitude of the archive, this quest has produced a disorganised mound of texts and notes and lists, a muddle of ink and pixels peppered with my decaying leavings. Now a nauseated husk loiters over a laptop and flits between documents. How dismal, to be bewildered by my own array of projects. To collapse under the weight of unfinished library excursions. How I hate those rows of unread books. How I hate my weakness before their glare. How I loathe this fucking brain parasite and the degenerate creature it has made of me.

This single-minded pursuit has strengthened only the most self-serving of instincts. It has overpowered what is true in my life, blindly mutilated it to the brink of irreversible destruction. It has produced a detachment akin to sociopathy. I am too often captivated, too easily paralysed, too far disconnected. I have nothing of my own, only the scraps I have picked up from the past yet don’t dare to claim or arrange. I lack a signature.

I must reinstate the priority of life. I must take this leech and use it for medicine. I must reassert myself upon my objects of study. My work must instruct and invigorate. I must reground my desire and will, reorient my activity, restore the coherence and vitality of my own experiences. I must reconnect inside and outside. I must accept forgetting, even seek to forget, to know how and when, what to keep and lose, how to scab and heal. I must confront my inheritance. I must draw a horizon and inhabit it fully, learn to accept its limits, its groundedness and continuity, to treasure the world it demarcates. I must recognise and choose those I love and act in their favour. I must implant new habits and instincts. I must relearn proportion and measure. I must reforge myself, intensify my plastic power. I must engender life.

“this is what we should do with our brain. To refuse to be flexible individuals who combine a permanent control of the self with a capacity to self-modify at the whim of fluxes, transfers, and exchanges, for fear of explosion.

“To cancel the fluxes, to lower our self-controlling guard, to accept exploding from time to time: this is what we should do with our brain.” (Catherine Malabou, What Should We Do with Our Brain? pp. 78-9.)

To decline the standing invitation to loudly denounce something; to halt parallel attention and relearn serial mentation; to parent assuredly not reactively; to decelerate and exterpellate; to rupture captivation by spectacle; to recognise singular place smells; to forgive my stupidest gaffes; to concentrate during stimuli lulls; to embrace time’s passage at 1745, and remember it at 0815; to mourn unread books and redeem buried schemes; to subtract life from prioritisation: these are some things that I’m trying to do with my brain.

Pierre Klossowski remarked seventy years ago that “individuals have become incapable of opposing to the multiple solicitations of modern life the resistance that is necessary for a conclusive orientation of character and existence.”

Amen. And yet we try.

And fail.

And want for help to compel our freedom.

Is procrastination a mode of resistance to neoliberal demands for productive self-government? If so, then there’s been some terrible delay in the production of busts and t-shirts memorialising my revolutionary mein. You may think yourself a level 20 wizard in Task Avoidance, but I’m both the Lenin and the Che Guevara of that shit.  Forget solitaire and minesweeper. Forget chatrooms and forums. If you only knew the measures I’ve taken to dodge a duty. The amount of shit I’ve got done! Anything I’ve ever happened to complete has been the result of evading some other, scarier demand. One day, this monumental history will be told.

So it was nice to have some authoritative confirmation that the perpetual deferral of my own thesis on Foucault has in fact been the ultimate counter-conduct. Yay for me! Through my unintentional lack of accomplishment, I have recaptured some self-determination from this cursed society of success.

Sure, I have an Australian Business Number as an individual, by which the state recognises and interpellates me as an entrepreneurial subject. Sure, I have taken occasional measures to improve and market my own saleable human capital. But has it worked? God no! My greatest expertise is in time-wasting. My high school Digger high score proves my subversive cred. I ain’t no sucker for this regime of self-advancement and (the bestest word ever) responsibilisation. It’s time for “recovering the capacity for inaction, irresponsibility and the refusal to seek out opportunity.” (76) The less we do, the more the capitalist machine groans and halts.

Who’s with me?

Oh, I see you’re already at it. Good! Continue!

That was easy

March 20, 2010

Apparently, the internet has no interest in censoring my self-expression. If anything, it encourages it! It even provides me with this outlet for perpetual disclosure.

But fuck, what to do with it?