Thursday, October 27, 2016

Elements of a Longer Game

In turbulent times of upheaval or transition low characters always come to the front everywhere. I am not speaking now of the so-called "advanced" people who are always in a hurry to be in advance of every one else (their absorbing anxiety) and who always have some more or less definite, though often very stupid, aim. No, I am speaking only of the riff-raff. In every period of transition this riff-raff, which exists in every society, rises to the surface, and is not only without any aim but has not even a symptom of an idea, and merely does its utmost to give expression to uneasiness and impatience. Moreover, this riff-raff almost always falls unconsciously under the control of the little group of "advanced people" who do act with a definite aim, and this little group can direct all this rabble as it pleases...
~Dostoevsky

From Tolstoy, the true successor of Peter, and from him only, proceeds Bolshevism...
~Spengler.

Levantine...investments...
~Taleb.

"Our" "resistance" has a "problem," air-quoted in the sense that it is not ours, it is not resistance, and it is actually a feature. And in this contradiction, we see the inherent flaw in the design of this material world, namely the shoddy outshining the supreme, something in which Yaldabaoth reveled and which Christ rejected.

The African is better attuned to Terra; he expects results in the forms of heads on pikes and gold in his pocket right now, and so however he may harm himself, his activism is always successful, never a lie, for it always produces tangible results. Even if those results quickly dissipate into future failures, like so many hypothetical careers dashed by incarceration, there are always real, recognizable, tangible rewards, in the form of social triumph, physical pleasure, or momentary validation. The African may be tricked out of his future, but not out of his present; he demands his marshmallow now, and is not, ergo, vulnerable to the horizon. If nothing else, a successful body count produces thousands of small rewards, thousands of vindications, which only look petty to the retrospective outsider, and which, like seeds in spring, produce a harvest of later small rewards. Vulgar triumph becomes communal mourning becomes welfare becomes vulgar triumph. There is no stealing that moment of satisfaction; no removing the African's immemorial Now, in which enemies are shamed and pleasures reveled.

If you think the African is a failure, you are wrong; he is so only inasmuch as you conceive of an alternately superior present for him in which he is robbed of his bacchanalian birthright, and which idle, speculatory nowness would have to be sacrificed to produce the hypothetical futureness that enchants you, but not him. You can't understand rap, and your belief that you now understand rock or jazz has already made them something else; they were already gone before you tried. Your fond hopes for and memories of them now are of different children from a different picture album. If you disagree, if you think you do understand, then you're right inasmuch as you admit that you are a conquistador and that merciless, authoritarian colonialism is good.

By contrast, the European, ever enchantable by whispers of the future, lives always at least some part in that very impossible notness, spared what is to him the terror of living only in Yaldabaoth's creation, yet bereft of the freedom to enjoy the successes designed into the apparent system of this material. The caveman who practices smashing things with the club will always steal the oxen from the caveman who spends his time tending oxen, even if the latter can foresee a future made easier by husbandry; the latter's vision can always be acquired after the generating skull has been smashed, ergo the cruel competition of this retarded creation was rejected by Christ, who promised success to those who meekly saw something beyond.

Our astounding stupidity in choice of demagogues--for example, MPC's collective fellatio of assorted mongrel-lords who exalt finance over sinew and blame Tolstoy for Marx--is a vulnerability integral to our futureness; our ability is of a vulner sort, for to be attuned to possibility to any degree is always at least a tiny percentile of inefficiency, proving fatal inside a merchant's dark dream of the arena that must revere it.

No comments:

Post a Comment