Promethean Darkness

Philosophy is the art of building a machine in total darkness.

The thing is that you have to carry the truth of yourself and the truth of everything around with you every day. Everything that anyone says is true. Blackened cows in the night, decrepit deflationism, truth, today.

 

Oracular ambiguities.

To concretely understand what is given us–the absolute conviction that intelligence, which is embedded in language, which is embedded in sociality, is radically capable of confronting the obstacles it faces.

 

Centrality of language (la langue), and its rationality and forms of exchange.

The molten alloy of a digitized, media-sodden real deepens and expands to engulf our social consciousness, and as it does it loses the illusion of the comfort it sought to evoke, we gasp as it rises above our mouths and nostrils, then, after we are immersed head to toe in it, this brittle chrome hardens and shatters, for each of us individually and then for all of us together, leaving us burnished, newly ornamented with the radically open, radically critical, radically self-conscious essence of a being who concerns itself with apparent ephemerality (its environment) only insofar as that concern can give it new tools with which to refine and resolve itself in that environment.

 

Fear, cunning, laughter.

“(T)hrough progressive alienation freedom stacks up in the longest of cons.”*

 

god is lurking.

But Tiamat remembers.

 

And here we find ourselves running together.

But you can dance in your bedroom.

 

Interdiction and excession.

Emergence of the alien authority. Spiders, owls, foxes, goddesses, daemons, death. Portia. She’s not eaten you yet. The transgressions of the blood need to be worth something. Pour montrer que les choses sont prises dans un mouvement… qu’est-ce qu’il fait? Quelqu’un a-t-il déjà été plus sournois?

 

Are ya winning son?

Egress and the scent of defeat. How does modernism taste now? This glittering gloom. How do you identify, explain, and resolve the transformation of concepts into noise? How does the inverse play into things? Rita doesn’t know her name, just the wall of noise.

 

The comfort of an open door.

I rest.

 

 

 

 

 

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