ideologies from the other place

Bureaucratic Transcendentalism – all major societal structures are subsumed by a centralised bureaucracy designed to evolve in complexity until no individual authority figures can be perceived to exist from within or without. Administrative organs spring forth whose whole function is to obscure their own purpose. To hold power in this organisation is to relinquish any understanding of what holding power means. The doctrine of the Chinese room takes hold: messages are best transmitted in languages not understood by the speaker. Increasingly, the operation of the fractal organs of state are viewed as abstract religious practises, possessing sacred significance but no materially interpretable meaning. The bureaucratic headless hydra defeats global capital and pursues its own inscrutable goals.

Ornithocracy with Haruspitic Characteristics – on issues of economic policy, migratory birds are consulted. Most other social issues fall under the auspices of poultry; matters of war are handled by garden and hedgerow species, most commonly councils of sparrow and blackbirds. When no message can be divined from the local wildlife, or during freak avian vanishings, decision making is delegated to the production and interpretation of entrails. Though roadkill and other naturally spilled forms are preferred, during such periods, butcher’s shops may be nationalised as a precaution.

Kinematic Legalism – stationary justice is faintly conservative in its presuppositions, but is not the focus of broad vocal protest. By comparison, walking speed justice is relatively progressive. Racial bias in the justice system appears to evaporate at mach 2, and reemerges aggressively before mach 3. Velocity stratification dates back to precedents stemming from a number of (at that time) irregular defences of speeding violations, on the grounds of time/crime dilation. It is recorded that the presiding justice for all these cases was both an amateur physics enthusiast and suffering from a degenerative neurological condition. Increasingly, wealthy defendants employ kinematic paralegals who, via a complex series of vibrations and rotations, ensure that the defendant undergoes consistently aperiodic and unpredictable cycles of acceleration and deceleration throughout the court proceedings, such that no verdict may ever be reached.

Generative Adversarial Metropolitanism – city planning is entirely handed over to a deep learning algorithm trained on cities skylines playthroughs. Initial results show positive changes in traffic throughput in areas of high urban density, at the cost of a general decrease in road sign legibility. Acres of identical houses sit terraced against industrial slums. Car accidents on multi-tiered intersections increase tenfold. There are rumours of ‘sadist cities’, with inescapably looped roadways, sewage plants repeatedly flooding residential neighbourhoods next door, suffering written into the ground plan. The brainchildren of the amassed neural pathways of a thousand malicious gods, only recently graduated from killing sims in ladderless swimming pools.

Tachyonic idealism – clammy lipped politicians sit slack in seance circle, speaking the words of their far descendent. We are not sure if there is only one future. Sometimes the words seem to disagree. The prime minister collapses from dehydration, and is borne off, chanting still from the stretcher. He has not had children yet, so we can be sure he will survive, or who is it who is speaking? Unlicensed seances are held by groups of older men, as proof of virility. In town halls and churches and basements, in huddled groups far from sight, by tossed coin and rolled dice. Children acquire speech more slowly, and do not use the future tense. The finance minister twitches and drools as her mouth informs us that the future is bright, that we are on course for a better tomorrow.

Some more words [about feeling like turds]

Half the lights in the house have blown
But I’ve not yet found time
To switch them out.

I imagine I must be too busy
I imagine I must be unwell
I imagine I must be otherwise indisposed.

Over a period of months
sudden bright flashes
and again in other places
poorly made or badly fitted
my room has been unlit since I moved in.

How’ve you been since
See you sometime
I am trying to remember
I am trying to do the washing up

Sometimes I forget the lines
And fill in new ones on the spot

I hope you don’t notice

I imagine metal casings
I imagine electrons travelling
along the filament, heat, light
I imagine sudden surges of power

Sudden anything.

I imagine going out.

For Evariste

No hospital could put him back together
He refused his rites

Winked out ten sharp
Wilding at his wake.
He had known it exact the night before
Put all his documents in order.

They had left him laid out flat
Seeping into the grass.

There’ll be no riot when I go
No twice misfired revolt.
Stale towns for stale boys
Walls too tall to tear down.

Though not with such force
I have become
Old as everest

Two score
For what?
Not doing
Unwound, not
Undone.

Powder crack
or perhaps a jammed mechanism
shattered cogs in stuck clock

Gunfire at dawn

Took one in the gut

Blown apart, a little bit
A little bit

Blown back together.

A kind of pretentious substitute for a diary entry

Last time I felt this washed out, I didn’t have many friends and somebody I knew had just died.

(I think, anyway. I’m pretty bad at quantifying emotions. I’m not even sure there’s any point trying, but so much of my life at the moment is devoted to quantifying things, that to some extent I have to believe it’s worth doing, quite aside from whether it is or not.)

Most of the last 3 years have felt like one long period of acceleration. Things are good, things are great, things are getting better, things are getting faster and faster and –
And it turns out that maybe I have some kind of terminal velocity. Or at the very least a maximum rate of acceleration. A limit to how much I can shovel into into my head, how much I can spit out.

I only really learned what a limit was less than three years ago. Funny thought.

And I worry that if I somehow plotted all this – if I invented metrics to measure all the different directions my life has been flying off in, and made up values to translate all of myself into the language of those metrics, and tied down all those values into colourfully labelled charts with overlong titles – the whole thing would look suspiciously like a speculative bubble on the verge of collapse, or an impending Malthusian catastrophe.

Which doesn’t really seem fair. Because I haven’t done anything untoward to outpace myself. I haven’t wittingly packaged out my life and labour in subprime loans (despite my current education being financed by one). I haven’t exponentially expanded my resource consumption. All I’ve done is what other people told me to do, or what I told myself to do, and none of it felt unreasonable.

All of this, everything I’ve said, feels a little overdramatic. Which it shouldn’t be, because it isn’t. There’s nothing dramatic about feeling washed out. I’m just trying to slow down a little, and finding out that I’m not really in a position designed for deceleration. It takes an application of force, a definite and tangible transfer of energy, and I’m not an efficient enough store of either.

I’m sorry if this amplification by language feels dishonest. I’m not trying to be dishonest; this is genuinely an attempt to be genuine. But speaking at a suitable volume would require too much trying for me to muster. I’m good at amplification. It’s easier.

I promise I won’t write like this most of the time. I think mostly this will be a place for poems and noises and occasionally data-dumps of my disgustingly over-assured opinions. I don’t really like this kind of attempt at honest sincerity. It irritates me already and I haven’t finished writing it yet. Mostly I like my sincerity dishonest and my honesty insincere.

I’m not sad so much as tired. Which is better? Which I think is better. Which I would think was better, except I’m too tired of quantifying things to even try. Drink it all in and spit it all out.

I’m not sad at all really. Though I wouldn’t mind a good cry all the same. Problem is, I’ve forgotten how.