The bored cling to the facticity of death. The fictitious death is the only one worth striving for.
Tag Archives: death
Rage accepts death as a possible destination–but death is never the goal. “The significance of death is never in question.” In the Acting or in the Doing, there is no meaning; post facto, there is no retribution–though there is still some notion of an “eternity” in which one is damned or saved. The body of Rage may be punished, its accomplishment may be attributed significance, but the Actor and Doer do not Act or Do for posterity. That job is reserved for the journalist who does nothing but spin Acts and twist Deeds into the triviality of news.
PART TWO The Archive and the Record: Memory, Obsession, the Discourse of the Miser and the Dustbin of History
The specter of history haunts the system. Because history has died twice—once in order to establish liberal democracy as the simulacra-hegemony of political life, and once again to establish global capital and the pre-eminence of the speculative market economy as the central driving force of “production”—the ubiquity of the archive ensures that all events (past, current, and future) are always-already in the dustbin of history. There is no Angel of History come to bring salvation and give meaning to experience. There will be no event to cause desire to shift from the co-ordinates they are at presently to a different object. There is no way to salvage the wreckage of history. The dustbin of history is not what is forgotten but, rather, that which has no chance of ever being remembered.
The author dedicates this work to
HR HL (aka like_honey). Because you shewed me the worth of this flesh.
One Thousand Thank You’s,
P.S. THERE IS PARTIAL MALE NUDITY YOU PRUDES
this my body and
that your body too
both are more precious
and more beautiful than
it is tender and
it is fragile that
which we love and
it can betray us
cruelly it can hurt
us more than many
gives us pleasures too
by absence or
or simply dumb
to be felt by any
then we hate the body
would like to break the
body because it
is beautiful and
we value its
hate because it hurts
because it is sick
and sickens us because
it is loved but
or loved but the one
inside that body
whom we love is no
longer there and even
when inside the body
on the outside it
it angers us to
care for our body
or the body of
another when it
is so easy to
neglect and when the
body remains silent
when exalted and
silent too when abused
the body does not
thank us or reproach
us it merely grows
and fades and
will no longer blink
for us will one day
stop breathing for us
it will that day cease
to be the most
beautiful and most
fact of the
In Greece and Thailand we are witnessing an authentic expression of mobilized rage. Still, the violence falls short of what I have referred to as “the Politics of Rage.” Even though the rioters in Greece and the “Red Shirts” in Thailand have mobilized against their respective states, resulting in destruction of property and loss of life, there does not seem to be any kind of agenda behind these acts of violence. I am sure more demonstrations are to come in Europe; Thailand’s predicament has no end in sight …
These events are good starts; they may even be events that will lead to the truth of politics. Right now though, as they stand, they are merely a collectivized form of random violence.
To move from random violence to the politics of rage requires a propagandist; Robespierre and Mao immediately spring to mind. Propaganda, not taken in its normal, vulgar usage is the elaboration of a theory of action: if the Greeks and Thais want a revolution, they will create a program for themselves. Once this program has been outlined, the rage they have already displayed will be their greatest asset in its execution.
If anyone knows of propaganda coming from either of these places, stateside or resistance, let me know.
THE HOUSE-DOG’S GRAVE
(Haig, an English bulldog)
by Robinson Jeffers
I’ve changed my ways a little: I cannot now
Run with you in the evenings along the shore,
Except in a kind of dream: and you, if you dream a moment,
You see me there.
So leave awhile the paw-marks on the front door
Where I used to scratch to go out or in,
And you’d soon open; leave on the kitchen floor
The marks of my drinking-pan.
I cannot lie by your fire as I used to do
On the warm stone,
Not at the foot of your bed: no, all the nights through
I lie alone.
But your kind thought has laid me less than six feet
Outside your window where firelight so often plays,
And where you sit to read – and I fear often grieving for me –
Every night your lamplight lies on my place.
You, man and woman, live so long it is hard
To think of you ever dying.
A little dog would get tired living so long.
I hope that when you are lying
Under the ground like me your lives will appear
As good and joyful as mine.
No, dears, that’s too much hope: you are not so well cared for
As I have been,
And never have known the passionate undivided
Fidelities that I knew.
Your minds are perhaps too active, too many-sided. …
But to me you were true.
You were never masters, but friends. I was your friend.
I loved you well, and was loved. Deep love endures
To the end and far past the end. If this is my end,
I am not lonely. I am not afraid. I am still yours.