“Parrhesia is a criticism, a self-criticism or a criticism directed to others, but always from a situation where the one talking is in a position of inferiority with respect to an interlocutor. Parrhesia comes from below and is directed towards above.” Michel Foucault, Discours et Vérité, p. 84, Librairie Philosophique, VRIN, 2016.
I shan’t complain. I have had a lot of luck. Good fortune even. Or, maybe, it was by merit, just maybe it was a matter of worth. Whose worth? And is it worth it? Who the fuck am I, after all? Over time your self gets heavier. Stuff sticks to it – weighs you down – wears you out. Try flying if your wings are tarred with trying to move on despite pain, despite spite. Strike spite. I don’t hold a grudge. You’re all acquitted except for me because my head is a horse-heavy hole of hatred circulating itself. Heave. Ho.
Maybe that was the big bang. Maybe it’s what the humming in my ear wants to say when it is hissing. Once there was a ‘Who am I?’ asking what-the-fuck who imploded to be done with it and she (why not she?) had no clue that on the other side of implosion was – damn symmetry, damn it to hell (or not because it will bless you right back to heaven it will – an explosion and all of us. Every single one of us. Including me. Free speech like spit spite of me always trying to get on top and stuff clinging to me heavy-ing my head. Ho.
But you’re having fun, no. You are having fun. Well, fuck you, fuck the fit and fuck you well, for this:
Legs heavy, I need to get there. Wear? Tear! Let me hold onto this railing. Oh – my arms feel wobbly as hell. How come everybody moves so swiftly? Why am I thinking in question marks? Keep moving. Do keep moving. It is important somehow although utterly unclear how anything can be. Important. I can’t rest, I would be trampled in dirt. So, move, ass-hole, move, you have two arms two pull you along if necessary. People bump into me – I go too bloody slow. Embarrassing. I’d like to apologize for hindering them. Don’t I know her? She’s nice. It’s time to man up. There, on my feet again. See I can do it. Others flow past me. I am an obstacle in their course. Speed the fuck up! My calves are trailing my thighs. I have to be an odd sight. Don’t scream. You tried. It was just disappointment. Just move on, if you fall maybe they’ll notice. Just make it dramatic. Extend your arms to break your fall. Delete that – breaking your nose will draw more attention. Anyway, your arms are tired already and you might need them again, later. Things are so grey even these words stand out too much. I’m not tired, just feeling unwell. It’ll be all right when I’m there. I can see some red. It might be my imagination.
Damn the fuck. Stairs! They seem endless even if there are only ten of them. Or Continue reading
“What cannot be said shortly, should not be said.”, well sums up our zeitgeist.
The spirit of rudeness is by now well entrenched. A lack of mores has become a wish rather than the woe it once was. Time is of the essence. We cannot afford to beat around the bush so we spin around the bonfire of the vanities vainly hoping to catch a quantum of eternity. There is never enough time so we spend time to buy time. It’s a free market after all.
“Cut to the chase!”, I hear my subconscious shouting. 100 words and close to nothing said. 7 more wasted and less than 500 to go. Reflection takes up space-time. It is a black hole. A singular type of anomaly. I am chasing the capitalism that cuts into our subconscious. It is hopeless of course to catch up with capitalism. We can only cut it off by self-reflection.
Just cut it out, already, like this:
Posted in JoB, Poetry
Tagged basic income, capitalism, cultural optimism, Deleuze, Guattari, Lafargue, Piketty, Rawls, right to be lazy, right to die, Socrates, Un PoCo PoMo, wealth tax
Contemplate that word.
Contemptible word, that word.
Plan. Plan. Bang.
It could have been Christmas, a family event anyway. His father slid the gift to him. They liked sliding, the somewhat slippery floor was one of the main fun factors of their family house. Wrapped in the colors of the American flag the package stopped dead between his lionesque slippers gifted on another such occasion to be worn on occasions like this, one of the first times they were out (and so he felt as well). Looking down at the package – he had raised in anticipation – he felt like he had a choice. It was weird. The screaming colors flashed silently. The environment of all smiles faded away. He felt: this was between him and the package. The package stared him defiantly in the eyes. ‘O-Pin Me.’, it shouted without raising its voice and with a mispronunciation so slight it had to be intentional. It was terrifying. He felt pinned to the ground.
At only sixteen years of age, he knew this was it. Choice. The. Sounded like the name of a band. Continue reading