RND// A sketch and a poem for M. Get well soon my friend.
Recent Strange Emotional Weather
i. She never appears on overcast days
And the week draws long without her
Morningshine through her highlights
Feels a sudden waking dream of early Spring
And when we used to stand together
Smiling at naive cat tattoos on her phone
I must admit, my attention would drift
To the soft white curve at the back of her neck
Clouds seal off the sun again – the air bites
We chatter in fragments about publishing
Of class distinctions between town and gown
Of troublesome families and a recent tragedy
She calmly states it’s all a numbers game
(A stranger’s chance encounter perhaps)
I look up, witness vast sky shadows above
Wondering hard about the blinding reality of Now
Of self isolation and loneliness
The delicate hidden meanings
Of those startled green, saffron cloaked eyes
Baudrillard did not see himself as a postmodernist.
Simply consider Hyperreality as ‘more real than real’ – ala Coke’s ‘It’s the real thing’. The model or map is now totally supplanted the territory – an ‘original without a copy’.
Hyperreality / videogames are affectless, rather than have ‘effects’, as such. At best, they express what Baudrillard calls ‘the charm of the real’, a seductive surface gloss romantically harking back to a Real (‘before videogames’) that never existed.
Rather than some hyperreal simulation, consider Doom as already containing and expressing an entire universal Doom aesthetic from the very outset. Simulations have no past or future, but (much like garish neon signs advertising obscure products, they flash in the darkness and are their own and only referent.)
Doom is about as ‘gory’ as He Man was violent. Rather, it’s more akin to Zizek’s notion of decaffination. Gore-lite; a passing gory notion.
‘Ripping and Tearing’ are Doom’s marketing equivalent of the ‘fake’ 90’s style trailer for Strafe – equally without irony or possible ironic distance.
Doom as apparent for ‘REAL’™ (ie. hardcore) Players, except for the fact oldskool Original™ Doom players consider it ‘Nu Metal Doom’ – a dumbed-down (!), consolized, casual, platformy, resource managed Mario power-up filled heresy. And yet these two positions are exactly the same. Doom Lite – a zero calorie apocalypse.
Indeed, Doom is not power (obviously, considering you have to pay an evil megacorp to play it) but a fantasy of the illusion of power.
Note how the Doom Slayer slays doom; constantly slays what is actually or potentially doomful or doomy in Doom. Those desperate creatures he slays without mercy (some of which are actually cute and cuddly) express absolutely no free will and appear entirely unmotived, like clones, or puppets. What to call someone who takes an oversized shotgun to demonic looking store front dummies – except an idiot, acting without reason or meaning. Consider Doomguy perhaps the biggest source of plotless meandering emptiness and synthetic motivation in the entire game. (Heck, at least the Praeleanthor gave up their entire alien civilization to be finally rid of bullshit undead white-nerd-overrated 90’s arcade shooters.)
Perhaps the only thing truly doomful about Doom Eternal is Mick Gordon’s ambient track Exultia.
1. Chances are you’re already infected by The Internet. Demand I.T to self isolate now from human society. Simply unplug that bastard for an extended period, say the rest of your (real) life. Rip out electronic shadow existence from your happy-go-lucky space monkey skull entirely, and instantly being feeling happier, healthier and meaningfully, holistically connected to other, actual people. Like Gwyneth Paltrow.
2. To consider the way in which a substantial portion of the DNA of Covid-19 is digital, Socially Mediated as a distributed network of festering dis-ease. No longer merely the usual disgustingly racist, isolationist lies, anti-scientific denial, egregious dumbfuckery and-or fearmongering-for-profit which pass for modern default online Content™. The Internet, not simply a vector for astoundingly useless fear and wilful ignorance, but the very sickness itself.
3. This should not be remotely surprising, if one simply refuses to romantically mystify the Net, and instead simply views it thus: “Donald Trump’s Global Brain.” A vast, ultra-dense Moron Network. A very stable WiFi genius in the (should-have-been long lost) art of Digital Dipshittery.
4. While the fact mainstream news site shit rags (not even worth wiping your cognitive backside with) have twisted and deformed this public health crisis to suit their own fiscal clickbait agenda is reprehensibly vile, that’s nothing in comparison to which their very existence is *already* deeply viral and contagious. That there’s something already inherently infectious and sick about what they call The News.
5. How impossibly naive does one have to continue to be, to remotely imagine The Internet truly has your best interests at heart? Just how many fucking cat gifs and Covid-19 memes do you have to continue to infinitely scroll to gawp at, hooked up to your social media feeding trough before you realize The Internet is actively trying to kill you with every mouse click and hot take – by wasting your precious time, sucking the limited energy in your tiny shaking life, infecting your very soul with brainless digital bullshit.
6. Exactly like viruses, The Internet as an eternally shuffling undead underground network, continually mushrooming – pulsing and creeping with dim half life. A horrible mechanical parody of actual, human (humane) networks of living relationships. Running blind on automatic, I.T needs naive human hosts in order to parasitically propagate, for zero meaningful reason. In short, go tell The Internet to STFU, and thoroughly wash your hands of its silently spreading nefarious influence.
Bullshit disclaimer: This article didn’t need writing, and you didn’t need to skim read it. A faceless algorithm could have thrown it together for all you know or care. There’s the strong sense that, just by having written this I’ve already contributed to The Problem. That in no way did this large pot of ongoing shit need further stirring from my particular oar. Do not listen to me. I am not an expert. This helps absolutely nobody; a vague, cynical mixture of contemporary issues – say an unprecedented public health crisis – and carelessly casual armchair pseudo-philosophizing. Cosmically Fucking Useless Internet Punditry. A serious risk to human well being, preciously because of its essential (digital) un-seriousness. Welcome to the Malweb.
RND// To consider Slavoj Žižek’s Sex And The Failed Absolute (Bloomsbury Academic 2020) near the top of anyone’s shortlist for the biggest stinking load of old academic charlatan obscurantist bollocks ever pinched off by a major publisher.
While not entirely without merit – there are at least a couple of easily understandable, well thought out and clearly presented ideas and sentences hidden among too often patently batshit Lacanian waffle; Žižek appears to have outdone himself in terms of eye rolling obscurantism in the name of ego-inflating (strictly Academic) cleverness.
To paraphrase: “However, the true enemy of the present book is not new realist visions but what one is tempted to call the fine art of thinking-as-a-parody, an art which more and more pervades our public space: grand (yet embarrassing) academic theatrics in the guise of wisdom intended to fascinate us with their endless depth. They no longer function as synthetic articulated propositions but more like holographic images providing instant cognitive-spiritual satisfaction.”
And now a unedited quote from the book:
“Honoured to be included into Badiou’s list, I nonetheless consider my characterization – “positivism of drives” – inadequate: as it was abundantly developed by me (and, of course, Alenka Zupančič), “death drive” in our work does not refer to any kind of “positivity” but to the grounding gap or crack in positive reality (and that, consequently, also opens up the space for what Badiou calls Event and Truth-procedure). “Death drive” is in our reading Freud’s paradoxical name for its very opposite, for immortality, his name for what the German idealists like Hegel called radical (self-relating) negativity. It is not an (ontic or) ontological category but a category that points towards the fatal limitation of every ontological edifice, towards the impossibility that lies at its foundation, rendering it “non-all,” incomplete (without implying that there is an external limit to it, that something, some transcendent entity, eludes reality. In short, for our standpoint, it is Badiou himself who is, in some basic sense, all too “positivist” in his notion of Truth-Event: for him, the exception to the order of Being can only be a positive (affirmative) Truth, while for us, the space for such an exception is opened up by the void of radical negativity.”
– Slavoj Žižek, Sex And The Failed Absolute
What? Fuck right off with that shit, sunshine. Take your fancy European name dropping and your fellow bullshit academics and their shrinking collection of vain intellectual irrelevances and politely (yet firmly) stuff it. Was that some kind of private academic in-joke? But why does the reader have to be the butt of such obviously time wasting bullshit? Virtually nobody but Fucking Academics™* even talks like that. There’s a good reason for this. They’re under to much pressure from actual (non-academic based) reality to give two obscurantist shits about Bagel, or other radical self-relating negativities. Elvis, talk about a cliquey circle jerk in an ivory tower packed with stuffy, hyper-wordy assholes.
*Name of a forthcoming novel (mind you, sounds like a cheap paperback by that disgusting fascist pig turd Houellebecq.)
Now, don’t get me wrong; I’m writing this under a moral rule articulated by Žižek himself; that while one must be intellectually harsh and strict with one’s enemies, an even more stringent and uncompromising gaze must be applied to our friends and allies. This is to keep them honest. The failure to do so is collaboration with cosmically useless intellectual™ pontification masquerading as innovative knowledge.
Žižek my son, talking shit like that simply does not help anyone except yourself. You’ve got a big brain on you, sure – but you’re blatant, bloated academic ego betrays the shaky philosophical foundations of cognitive vanity. It doesn’t really help humanity get out of it’s own deep shit. It’s a very unsexy look. When it comes to common cultural objects and processes, you regularly bring something exciting to the table – a undoubted fresh take on otherwise invisible public subjects, made invisible through their transparent ubiquity. But this time you appear to have written yourself into a conceptual dead end, where useless old, dusty ideas parade themselves in a shameless public (Communist-era?) display of fancy terms everyone’s secretly both laughing at, and bored by.
Few give a shit about Hegel. Most people shouldn’t have to give a shit about Hegel. Hegel’s just another Dead White Guy. (You don’t want to be an Undead White Guy, do you Zizzy.) Is it important that *someone* (/lurking in the willfully obscure, shaded hinterlands of Academia) gives a flying shit about Hegel? Possibly.
One delicious irony is when Zizek says “The storyline is shamelessly summarized from the Wikipedia entry on The Dark Tower.” Which precisely means; it’s plain bollocks, and I didn’t watch it precisely because I’ve better, actually meaningful things in my life. Likewise, perhaps one need only read a summary of Sex and the Failed Absolute from Wikipedia – equally without shame.
When the snout itself retroactively gives birth to the mollusk of the Real
‘Eschew obfuscation, espouse elucidation’ arrives with a lot of unexamined ideological baggage; it’s easy to be a perfectly ludic dipshit. D-for-disingenuous Kermit impersonator and all round Your-Asshole-Dad(dy-Figure) Simulator Jordan B. Peterson writes and speaks perfectly clearly, except he willingly obfuscates his naked reactionary right wing hated with a lot of ‘plain speaking’. Except it’s overwhelmingly just plain wrong. Žižek on the other hand seems pathologically amused with huffing the academic stink of his own hopelessly, bizarrely convoluted Lacanian farts. Theory for him seems like a nervous tick you just can’t stop.