by Max Barry

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by The Schizophrenic Acid Rhizomes of Wuchu. . 535 reads.


aesthetic nomad
50 Following        7256 Followers

> Joined: 26 April 2101
> Date of Birth: 19 August 2075

> Height: ~190 cm
> Weight: ~74 kg
> Blood type: B+
> Haplogroup: N1c

The Fascist within demands I explain myself. They often do that, don't they? They come up with fabulous tales of conspiracy, how the Other is omnipotent, yet dualistically inferior and weak - how does that work? On one end, it's the scum of the Earth, the lowest and most degenerative, uncreative, uninspiring filth, straight from God's vomit bucket after a night of partying with Lucifer. Yet these Slaves have so easily dominated the Masters? They have completely, utterly manipulated all of humanity, throughout all of history, specifically to oppress their natural Masters. Why? I don't know. Seems like a lot of effort to go through.

Where I stand right now - not that you can see this, unless you're much cleverer with these things than I am - there used to stand monuments of progress. Like ant mounds, they used to dot the landscape, peppered wherever the grass looked greener, wherever the night sky looked most beautiful; but grass became pavement, and the night sky was engulfed with the Void. I'm repeating myself.

One memory stubbornly remains. We were travelling South, and it was dark. I don't remember the time, but it must have been long past our bedtimes.

"Go to sleep," said he.

"I can't," I told him. "I'm writing." That was that.

Back in those days writing was a different experience for me. I needed it, but not in the ways I needed food, or shelter, or a warm jacket. I didn't write because I was good - I remain not good, although I think I am less not good than I was then, and will likely remain not good until the grave.

Writing allowed me to cleave time into small little digestibles. It had allowed me to turn the now into the past. I still try to manipulate time, and my tools have sharpened with use.

    "We must imagine Sisyphus happy."

    "No, we don't."

As a child, I used to build sandcastles whenever we visited the oceanside. I constructed elaborate walls, tucked behind a moat, and within these walls I would create a pseudo-township, with small houses for imaginary people, small guilds, shops, theatres, jails, schools, joined together with paths and roads. After hours in the Sun, I proclaimed my creation to be good, and saw that it was good. Then, I destroyed it.

Destruction gets a bad wrap, I feel. Sure, creating is nice and all, but it's an exhaustive activity; destruction is, ironically, restorative. Commitment to pure negation manifests as joyful creativity within an infinite. It is an ecstatic energy, esoteric, even. It's an escape from identity, law, signifiers and sacraments. It is jouissance; uncivility sets us free from death. It is the energy that fuels resistance against tyranny; the joy of refusing to bow one's head.

For many in Wuchu, jouissance is the essence. Without any expectations about the World to Come, without deference to authorities or codes, jouissance is the only ends we strive for. In jouissance we find the life hidden by the Symbolic Order. Neither victory nor defeat is important to me; the flame will feed tonight. Leave space for victories, of course, but see the trees through the forest.

Don't let my dogmas drag you down. Whatever jouissance is used for, however strategic, programmed, ambitious or optimistic your goals are, jouissance will still be experienced and enjoyed. Even when we run out of fairy tales, we can still orient jouissance to fight. Cornered, jouissance will fight.

    Spoke to God a lot this year. He never answers, of course. Sometimes it makes me wonder what the point is if he never answers, but I suppose what is important is that you care about whatever you asked for enough to talk to someone who may not even be listening. For an atheist like myself at least, the most important thing about prayer is that you found yourself wanting enough to pray at all.

Eventually, I wrote my first story. It was of course poorly written, but it was my first, and I thought it was the greatest. Funny how that works.

In the story, there was a city called Ur. The city was ruled by a big, burly king, called Mogai. Mogai wanted his city to grow, so he ordered his slaves, called Morps, to construct him a great dam, so that the river would flood the desert and create arable land. The Morps dug channels, tunnels, canals, and Mogai returned to his castle, satisfied.

One day, the dam breaks. Mogai orders his Morps to rebuild them. The Morps fix the channels, tunnels, canals, and Mogai, again, returned to his castle. This happens once or twice again, and each time, Mogai orders his Morps to rebuild his waterworks. Finally, the waterworks break so badly, that the chief Morp tells the Mogai that the waterworks cannot be fixed. This infuriates Mogai. He consults his prophets, the Elders, and they tell him that it was the fault of the Puka people from a rival city.

The enraged Mogai orders his people to march to Puka and destroy them. The youths of Ur destroy their neighbour's walls, homes, and farms, and in their frenzy, chase many of the Puka into the desert. When the tired Puka beg for mercy, the Mogai demands that the Puka send them a tribute of food and weapons every year, or else they should fear his army again. The Puka, defeated, agree to these humiliating conditions.

The city of Ur grew.

I didn't write my second story for years.

    "Believe it or not, Communism is post-apocalyptic."

    "Elaborate on that."


You're right to believe you will die. It sustains you. If you didn't believe in it, could you bear the life you have?

The Subjective is something that's hard to understand, right? By definition, it is something that has already taken place, or, more often, something we tell ourselves beforehand. Very rarely, impossibly so, do we ever attempt to understand and think about something of the present. The Subjective, then, is the most radical nihilism, an absolute emptiness; subjectivity is a wanting that is identified by desire and as desire itself.

In this way, we never really know what we want. Not because we don't wish to - pretty much all of human history has been dedicated to finding out what it bloody is we want - but because it is structurally impossible to know so. We are always either one step ahead or behind, never marching in line. Desire and lack is the foundation of subjectivity, because it is the foundation of nothingness. When we try to understand the Subjective, we're trying to grasp at the nothing - a very primordial nothingness. Objet petit a.

It is through this contradiction that we do not know what we want, but also, when we finally do get something, we realise not only that we wanted it, but also, that we absolutely do not want it anymore, and perhaps, never wanted it in the first place.

The Death Drive is something I've considered a lot recently. This impulse to attain nothing, to go nowhere, to be nothing, is the movement towards jouissance. In desire to know ourselves, we will our own nothingness. We will be our final nullification, and so, we will undo our own subjectivity.

Our lives are sustained only by our desire for our own destruction, hoping that in the same movement we attain that which we desire, not knowing that to fulfil desire is also to void the very reason of our being. You're right to believe you will die. How else would you bear the life you have?

About as clear as Heidegger.

    This is not a place of honour. No highly esteemed deed is commemorated here. Nothing valued is here.

One is what one does, don't you think? To think that there is a Subject behind these deeds, a Subject which is separate from those deeds, is what allows Slaves to flourish - to let themselves deny what they do in favour of who they are. The Slave can't allow himself to take responsibility for what he makes, for what he creates is miserable - indeed, that is why he takes the responsibility for actions of others, namely, the actions of Masters. The Slave is not a servant unto the Master - the Master doesn't want subjects, to be served, but to affirm himself as his own man - the Slave is a slave to himself.

The Master is not a master because he abides by a moral code, a set of ethics, or because he swore an oath for duty - if you point at a moral code, at any set of ethics, or proclaim that to take the oath is to be a master, then you will become the Slave.

The Master is a master because he wills no one but himself.

The second one begins looking to another, one enslaves themselves to them; you accept the lack of the human heart, and worship it. The Master never accepts this, and indeed, dedicates his life to negating it entirely - the Will to Power.

  • For: "Me", "Myself", "I", "a", /nightwalks/

  • Against: Nihilism, Fascism, Rationalists, Bedtimes, Democracy, Leviathan, History, "You", Politics, Money, Gods, Kings, Democracy, Primitivism, Transhumanism, Optimism, Capitalism, Ideology, sXe, Thinking science will solve philosophical problems, Fanged Noumena, (m)Other, Jungists, Nightcore, Roads

I'm not political.

What does it mean, to say that, to you? Do you see me as failing to fulfil some sacred duty? Am I simply apathetic? What does it mean to reject politics?

If you consider it, you have to accept that, we, as the non-royal, non-noble, peasant class have historically been very far away from politics. Marxists like to point to this as a form of oppression, and certainly, to some level, that would be the case. I'd argue that it was simply irrelevant to people. The court politics of some king 50 kilometres away from you do not matter, as long as you toil the lands and survive the winters, or at least provide a kid to do it for you once you do die.

But following the French Revolution, even the dumbest peasant in the village became a politician. The French Revolution is particularly important, because it is where the whole idea of Left-Right became developed; during debates, the politicians supporting the King sat on the right side of the chamber, while the Revolutionaries sat on the left side. Arguably, this was the last time that the left-right concept even made sense. But, no matter - in the end, it became popular for the everyday man to identify with either one or the other. The French Revolution made the mainstream political in nature. A lot of people felt compelled to even be political, to identify with a certain camp, or work towards a political cause. Early social media, I tell you.

But the nature of the mainstream is that it tends to absorb everything within and without. So, once the mainstream became political, being political became the norm. Man stopped being man. Man could either be political, or he could be not-political; there could no longer be a man who did politics in some way as a side-interest, or in ways that the mainstream did not see as political. He's either political, or ignorant, lazy, failing to do what he should. Any way you put it, we've become tethered to something without our say.

I'm not political, but that does not mean I don't care about politics. Quite the contrary, even. When a group becomes political, it instantly loses my interest. Why does helping people have to be political? I'm helping somebody because they need help, and I am able to provide it. Viewing this through a political filter turns this act into a self-congratulating, hippy-esque contest of Who's A Commie Anyway?

Politics will happen no matter what. I'm not arguing that not supporting any candidate will not affect me; of course, it will, but these are like trees falling during a storm. It will happen no matter what I do, no matter how much I agitate. I have better things to do than to pick up trees from the road, though.

It is not a question of not caring about politics, because, when we actively not care, we paradoxically care. It's the way right-wing pundits used to scream about having black lesbian women in their video games; they call it trivial, and spend years complaining about how trivial it is. The point is to detach yourself from it all. Leave the political bazaar.

To critique is to consume critique. To denounce is to pronounce. You don't need to do this. Just cut the tether.

    "Heavy is the head that wore the crown,

    but heavier is the blade that cut it."

Some would say, allegedly, that supposedly, rumours have it, in some way, I am a writer.

When you're unoccupied, that's when you're most vulnerable to the wrong thing: thinking about your lack of self-worth; that nationalism is a legitimate ideology; wearing plaid; socks with sandals. When you're out and about, doing things, with other people, you're not susceptible to this virus that is the errant thought. Idle hands are the devil's playground, as they say.

I sat in front of a blank page and there was nothing. If I were a sculptor, I would be sitting in front of some clay, or maybe marble, or a little stick of wood, and just not know what to do. But, since, as some would believe, theoretically, I am a writer, there's just nothing; pure nothingness. There's no material for me to transform, but only the void that one encounters before birth and right after death and during other sublime events.

I thought that this is one way for me to avoid the errant thought. To not think at all, rather than just thinking about what Iím doing.

Right now, I'm writing a story of a man trapped inside a room with a body. I'm on 6,000 words now. I showed it to my friend, and she said it was 'okay,' which means it most certainly is not okay, because things which are okay are never called 'okay'; they're called 'good'. This is one thing a writer, such as [maybe] myself, has to learn; words do not mean what they mean.

You can only ever read between the lines, accept the secondary meaning. Meaning just doesn't work, and writing is exploiting that fact. Writers know that meaning is broken, vague, non-existent, defective, and that's why they can make things say exactly what they want them to; they know that 'good' means okay; that 'okay' means not-okay; that 'sorry' means I love you; that 'Have you read Heidegger?' means you should leave the room.

I am, allegedly, a writer, and allegedly, I know how these things work, but I read those 6,000 words and they're 'not good'; 'not good' means nobody loves me.

I'm often tired of the, well, everythingness of everything, so maybe it's good that there's nothingness whenever I hover over a page, fingers turned into claws. Something palpable, so that I can grasp it, wrap it, put it in the fridge, and cut it up so that there is enough for everyone.

Have you read Heidegger?

    Did you know that the Spartans grew brave and strong only because they were outnumbered by their slaves, and always feared the day the slaves would demand their freedom by recognising their chains?

    So it has always been: Masters are only as strong as their fear of their slaves.