Race as Spiritual Technology:

Marxism has been fermenting for long enough in the more well-concealed crooks of windows of the cathedral, generally out of eyeshot for all but the tallest, and of absolutely no merit during the putrefactio stage: like so many hermetically-sealed vessels of cheap solipisitic, Kool-Aid-imitative substance, those who attempted to taste the prison hooch before enough time had elapsed, digging up the orchard promptly found themselves catching brewer’s sickness.  Other than those lost their minds, faith, or life if they weren’t lucky enough to come back akathesiac, catatonic-neurotic husks of the men they were to their families, busted road signs to their home towns down so many stretches of politically contested highway, these remnants of the vanguard, finalists in the ceremonial rites of the intoxication olympics, strive to deliver, uninterrupted pieces of time from the outer rim, indivisible in and of themselves and integral only as virtual energy, must like the conservation of the angular velocity of an orbiting electron briefly excited is suddenly apparently replaced (if we’re being crudely mechanical)  In reality, there were three things, the beginning, middle, and end of an indivisible moment: excitation, acceleration, sudden-indelible-intensive-return-transformation.

Hip-hop is, ultimately an undertaking on the order of magnitude of permitting and preventing, affirming and denying holocausts

If the invisible hand (the real one, the grabby junky one that’s not so good with money) can be made to loosen its grip on the central form on the potters wheel.  But know that, as long as the matter is sufficiently fluid, lassitude of grip can only serve to keep (You/The Author/The Artist) utterly from deciding, where this matter will not go.

Only after relapse is prevented, discipline elapses sufficiently; now the moment of inertia of the incipient res can be roughly fixed in the sense of the artist.  Fluid must be fully integrated into the medium for catastrophe to subside.  Operations can not be performed in a state of catastrophe.  Substance can finally learn how to begin to express its new trust to the author, in his essential motivation as the author to catch her as gravity begins to exert an entirely different effect, as the short term collapses into the present and the concrete future stretches into teleovirtual conformity with the attractor eidos.

The intention of this post is twofold: I’ll begin with the end, against the habits of my native German temporal-semantic-binding circuit, and state the meat of my propositions in the following order.

The Ziz’s new cocaine thriller asserts that the line connecting Kant to Hegel is the only one worth following closely, and that it’s a shame philosophy ended with Marx.  His ensuing indebtedness to psychoanalytic, quasi-critical continental and hastily stuttered, pragmatically/assignatively gunshy modes of expression is ultimately repaid by an immense display of pyrotechnics.  One could only imagine that if Zizek had read Evola (Evola’s desire to be Aryan, not Medish directly parallels Zizek’s unconscious desire to be Jewish, not Slavic, all adumbrating the truly tallest figure on the modern stretch of the path of the future-projector, the towering black man, of whose true quest for identity their respective semantically encoded decadences know, or at least can show and tell very little of concrete heroics.

Evola’s struggle was limited to romantic-aristocratic mountaineering, a form of hyper-Kantian navel gazing, replete with amor fati but precisely lacking lack itself.  Ziz needs this indulgent temperament as a radical complement: for all his deep, deep sense of concrete lack, in the wartorn stretches of the caucasian astral waste known as anhedonia, he is yet endowed with a language so much more violent than any actual eventualities of manifestation, however dismal, that seemingly, no light shines through the cracks, the supersensible reduced to a corona or silver lining, every entity a cloud, which “clearly” can be no function of the object at hand.  But boy can he tear up a type writer: “[zizek’s voice] yesh, yesh, I was with Cornell West, famous black professor of liberation, the genius hair, i said to heem- youw knoew, i will of course be, how you say, happy to do it, to write these few lines of introduction to your mahgnm opuss.  In fact, I will, [snick] have it done by the end of the night if you, [heh] how you – you know – …a few more lines maybe.”

If we’re to nonimally follow homeboy‘s train of reason for a brief moment, the inevitable synthesis of Badiou’s “how does the One “become Two” and Zizek’s effctive assertion that, syntactically, the invocation of the One is redundant, which redundancy can be separated from virtuous motivations then distilled to be expressed in properly stylized Zeroes, the only syntactic gesture effectively reminiscent of one. Propositional forms of this field, made of more, it is necessarily surmised, than pure ideology (there is no pure ideology of course, but it is, to use Zzz’s own term, his zero [Archimedian] point).  More simply restated, ideology can only be moved through, and it is made of more kinds of space and time than publically approved sign systems admit to exist.

As an addendum, this, as far as I’m convinced, is the full extent of a solely efficient, barring any nonfalaciously implied meaningful (though I assert never substantial) kavvannot to deaden, control, and crush conviviality.  Modernity is the arch-appearance of a well-kept plot to erase the very hope of meaningful practice: the effectively actual abolition of race, ethics, style in any form whatsoever, all modular concessions of public existence, like hall-passes in the gymnasium of the qlipoth without which no one, of whatever stock is seen fit to traverse the abyssal linoleum fluorescent limelight.

Between holistically hylomorphically distributed, minimally selected Efimov-like ideomorphological field lines, shells), we must employ One-Like operations substituting quantity for/in quality as specially/carefully differentiated, well defined (with authorially/book-like susceptibility to iterative elaboration for future automatic selection) subsets of the null set (indexed 0s, qualified points of suchness) are indeed the intensive self-realization of the formerly incipient autism the Leibnizian monadology offers us, ouroboros‘ initial taste of its own proverbial taint (which we might even concede accurately described an arc of his own wheel turn in a critical slice of noospheric natural history).

To wrap this up, I’d like to be clear that political incorrectness, to these, is nothing more than dandelions eeking out a living in the cracks on the block, and we’re happy to pay attention.  But we have somewhere to be later; we’re concerned with private parties from here on out.  A VIP elitism that those radicals crave so desperately, all the while quickly apace their own tangled walks of modern box-life, is already going on outside the Modern.  And everyone knows that, as the crowd grows at a specially tempered rate, no one seems to notice the smell of smoke.  This can be good and bad.

I’ve read enough Fulcanelli to tell you confidently (though not enough to be able to honestly select sections for my readers) that if you poke around the good ol’ Le Mystere for long enough while listening to Black Star (and engaging chemical supports to contemplation if that’s your thing), a form of interdimensional, spontaneous digital liturgy will happen all over your face, a peek into your own secret reservoir of dark matter.  So, b8:

To cap it all off, I’d like to encourage everyone who’s busy trying to grasp the turn of one wheel, to put on the diamond thunderbolt body and figure out how to keep track of four simultaneously co-occuring cycles giving four directions, two dimensions with a nomino-virtuo-pragmatic height, and leave you my own redemptive take on the infamous opening sentence of La Raza Chilena:

“If we are to read a book, we must first examine its author. If he’s an asshole, we must next figure out if he is lying. If he isn’t, let him DJ. If he is, give him the mic, but don’t believe a word he says until he’s used up all his bars.”

Those of you who missed the opening mouseover NB: I’d like to claim whatever offered reward Dr. Gene Ray has to offer for the “disproving” the timecube, which I can demonstrate further later or at least laud him for his efforts in lieu of a pained explanation revealing redundancy of his albeit consummately conceived, deeply conscientious and thoughtfully expressed theories.