Unreported Comments on the State of the Police Commentary:

(from Imbalance)

Despite the abundance of raisins and even edible dough in the position represented above from the peanut galleries, and recalling that exclusion itself is not the morally offensive thing (morality is) as so much bigotry probably should be excluded from the commentary on the comments, there is always a decision as to what feels toxic and what is nutritious, and bigotry (dripping down the nose at "those kind of people") is always shit and always unsuitable for digestion. There is as well some wiping to be done if only to remove an unsightly stain. No exclusive club is inclusive as members come and go, expelled on moral grounds – the outside and every thing around is what's excluded – a field or bank upon which to deposit vast sums of excrement.

The first bit of wiping I would do is "Western" off from "civilisation". In this day and age, even east is west, and concerning civilisation in general, and irregardless of topographic calenders, it may have been so from the beginning. The toxic shit is part of civilisation itself, and one would have to rub so intently and for so long, the entire bathtub would empty in the process with no babies forthcoming, being left standing only with a naked, cardboard toilet paper tube and not a fig leaf in site.

Which leads me to the second bit of off-tasting material stuck between my teeth. Belonging. There are many entendres of this word, but most point to the same plot of property. For them everything is a plot (especially cemeteries), not always because of any paranoia, but there is so much plotting one must do just to survive in the tub we call civilisation. Hell is the moment just prior to the collapse of life, the universe and everything, a moment extending into eternity. I would say we neither belong to the earth nor does it belong to us, except in the sense that ones hair is one's beloning and so are the fleas, in the same relationship as your head is to them. What is most often thought when "belong" comes to mind is possession and property, and must be held tight else confront a close shave. This calls for militancy and vigilance.

What is the ontological alternative? A natural articulation consisting of the space or pause between mutually associated absubjects. Metaphysically, there may be four or five basic elements, but objectively speaking, subjective spirits and other ideas may juxtapose anyway they want and for as long as they want without any necessary thought toward patriotism, and although not exclusive of materials, matter moves a bit more like a tortoise and is limited in the kinds of association it can form, like up and following a goose chasing the moon.

In lieu of imagination which has been cut off by education, sometimes linguistic thinking will paint a picture as a friendly mediation and not so much intended alienation. And who says critique has to conform to to the intention of the original performer? I should think that would be too strong an edict and a stickling for intellectual property. So on the topic of fig leaves, I am reminded of the philosopher of pragmatism, John Stuart Mill may have been his name.

I wouldn't think use value a good substitute for labour value. Any value divorced from interest or esteem pretty much still defines property and who is eligible, not to mention duty as material as well as moral imperative. Mill's philosophy (at least the more nutritious bits of it, if indeed it was his at all) makes no such suggestion. The pragmatic perspective has no necessary association with the moral in making excuses or other sorts of explanation. Hence, back to the fig leaf:

Why should that simple covering have any kinfolk by the name of Shame, when it may have crawled out of the same hole with the dog and boat and sea-loving mariners once thought restricted to the ground in the form of menstrual pad mimicked by the boys as it came in handy to both hide or exaggerate a natural peninsular appendage and its not-altogether under-controlled motivations? For jocks, the strap is said to keep the balls from bouncing on your leg. Is that of more or less import than preventing warm and sticky bloody ooze from running down it? I'm sure we're all familiar with that feeling. For the boys there may have been priorities like bringing down a hog without distraction! This may have occurred a score or two millennia before the species called Morality even considered it'd be nifty to evolve. Admittedly it's different than mere cover-up to exclude the cold, but we still call them clothes and why should one excuse have par excellent preeminence over all the others which may be here or there by them and those?

Before Nietzsche, Lamarck himself suggested something like from chaos as indeterminacy comes order and that stimulation causes and effectively responds as simultaneity: it's improper to say a thing but that they cause and effect each other. In all seriousness, it's all just a Pete and Repeat joke.

But I especially like the idea that strife is what is meddled with to produce a fleeting balance, but I wouldn't call it that – sounds too much like struggle. Who but a wobbly or a protestant would envision Eutopia as eternal, universal and foremost, voluntary toil? The preferential word for me is chaos, a life without triangles (not to mention squares) ever holding up a plank or unfolding one's bandanna for extracting some fig-leafs at the bank. It's the only resource we have for building beauty or nutritious art as landmarks or perturbations 'round which to commune or navigate.

How could no rule of law creating falling bodies underneath regimented pressure or not sleeping through a boring lecture be thought so gol durn awful bad? I think the law of balance only means we've all been had. Morality, economy and civil polity make a fulcrum that only balances flights of wingless corpses thinking high is mighty just above a living hell and unlike gravity everything that's needed down below (like health) trickles up, and lightening seems to thunder down but that's all just the illusion of the metaphor. The theory of games which establishes verticality for some, vertigo for others, is just a sort of misguided art criticism or literary interpretation coming from the location on a balance beam thinking it's where it's at while everyone in proud coherent fashion calls for more not less such harmony or re-arrangement. Balance by it's very nature can't be in an of itself, it's always just another eye of the beholder sort of thing.

It's all the same to criticize or desecrate a temple or the priests of church or state or the academy: police force only steps away from guarding stolen property (your life, it's just a living) when folks around begin to lose their faith and stop their giving – the ins and outs of heresy have always been the ends of lead or rubber bullets as a means when news or written histories, like ridicule are insufficient, especially when the upper space begins to be diminished (state and space are only words describing the conditions). Progress? Ha! We're all still living in the Spanish Inquisition.

The Painful Truth

A nihilist might say "There is no truth but everything is real" and not be jabbed for inconsistency. It sounds accepting of possibilities others call 'futility' and therefore kinder than we usually witness in pessimistic or romantic idealists (every thing's illusion or it was god's and My idea) and the experts who actually own reality (the priestly class, clerics of clarity, safely sipping claret from clerestories in ivory-tower sanctuaries) but have never seen it up close or personal (or if they did, escaped, having read their Hobbes & Plato). More objective than the rest, they admit to no ideas, only facts – they're often authors of our dictionaries or build machines to not only think for us (not unlike the old-time school teacher who invented the precursor to the electric drill: "Repeat after me!") but experience life so we can stay safe in our exclusion. That's the nature of democracy – it's always for the greater good and that entails a certain sacrifice from every neighborhood and no one ever hears words like slavery and the settled-in confuse the youthly 'angst' and boredom with the show for 'apathy' and need for tightened leash so they will go as slow.

There's no doubt everything is real (even a dumb idea or error – someone surely makes a wrong turn now and then somewhere) and even science, when not inclined to make machines to cover up the inconvenient, admit they're only out to disprove everything in pursuit of what is left and that must surely lead to truth. Unfortunately, all such roads go on for ever into outer space or circle back on the home-bound and kick you in the ass with a boot called déjà vu – weren't we here already? It's the nature of a wheel to spin in circles – everything else seems to wobbble and then peter out.

But there is a kind of truth which happens all about. It is always painful and so imp-active to our senses (it inaugurates ego defences), it must be excluded from any view. It's the sort of truth that makes us stupid and to cling to it would lead to actions most consider sanguinolently suicidal. To explore them without replacing the man-hole cover (it's invisibility cloak) or have a kindly accomplice hold you by the heel is to get a free ticket to the local facility for mental health or jail if you are young enough.

More than merely inconvenient, which suggests an eventual work-around or final solution, the painful truth is exposed whenever exploration steps off the map and gets immersed in the territory. They used to point out places on maps with the admonition: "There be dragons". We know they're true because they can't be known or tabulated – they're fenced off, they're excluded. To even find them requires an advanced degree in spontaneity. To mix a little Tao with dialectics, we find pleasure and pain as choices but more an excuse to go nowhere expecting one to come without the other – this way one could wait forever.

A really good adventure, literally "against the wind" or "through a rip or rupture", might just illustrate in Timbuktu there's way more fun than torture. To simultaneously stay on guard while getting carried away some used to say "all things in moderation" just to play it safe. But that excludes all peak experience. To have your cake and eat it too needs practice in altering states of consciousness. That is adaptation and avoids committees set about for your committal. All institutions, if not just shared patterns of habit in a circle of interests some call a habitat, require a commitment and that's the end of flexibility – it's the place of rigid truth, and that's more grave than dangerous morality.

Skeptical or spectacle?

Spectacle¹, Spectrum², sceptre³ and spectre⁴: Incorporeal materiality. A nonlinear continuum or the moth-holes in the fabric of euclidean reality from which emerges randomly associated reactionary tendencies transcending the subliminal chaotic matrix in a possibly scary adventure into ostensibly ordered superficial arrangements.

Everything is different, that's academic. What piques our interest, when not in search of justification for war or grounds for disassociation, is the common something shared within a crew which seems to persist with the enduring association, whether speaking of atoms in ionic dance coalescing from a drying solution or affinity groups or traveling troupes who's members come and go but very often return like homing pigeons and salmon & mourning when they don't – waking from a bed that's empty – it's as if someone's dead so find a mirror or pinch your skin just to make sure it wasn't you. Did you only lose a life-long habit?

All culture is conceptual art once euclidean bindings are ruptured or aristotelean boxes are crushed by an incendiary boot on the top uppermost face forever (down but not out)! It's all about the vortex created in a pepper-mill and the coming solidarity of its bestrewed barley-corn excremental derangement like chicken scratch. There is no void as radiation bounces back into itself with the snap of a rubber-band or impact with a sudden field of density like three feet of black lead or just dissipates in all directions upon the mere encounter with a rain-drop, forgetting its first intentions 'cause there's just no more coherence or prodding prompt for any sort of reinforced remembrance. And vacuums are nonsensically gibberish without a simultaneous gravitational pull seducing their suck – when the pulling force is cast round the lower appendage, its vacuous proprietor will fall, but even that's uncertain and not always funny.

A monopoly of appearances may be as simple as a cloak of invisibility around everything outside the carpet-bag of medicinal elixirs smelling of snake oil. Answers are only implied by the absence of questions. Like, what else is there? Without the posited, sub-real and shifty "center of gravity" around which elliptically inclined objects fall for each other without an antagonistic collision [like binary star systems] are figuratively tethered in a judo-like oscillating dance or undulating wobble or the almost telepathic tip of an atom's electron responding to a tap from its dance partner on the other side of the galaxy, the missing third must be ethereally electric love or it's a universal accident disguised as nothing.

Like 'economics', quantum force is merely a meaningless word-game resembling corpse-like vomitus just to avoid the accusation of "romantic" when trying to explain the inexplicable attraction and mutual reciprocity (sans exchange medium as well as debt and insurance premium with moral currency to bind the transaction) seen emerging on the cosmic dance floor because gravity and motion account for only two-thirds of physicists' theoretical observations and the long distance attractive force between distant wall flowers. If a transaction can be voided by a mere club, it was probably missing from the start. Such is the nature of true fiction and false fact.

It may just be that Mr. Grey, that fatty tissue in the cranium called chief executive is only there to help us track, to read the signs so we can navigate when the target of interest is moving and lies beyond our perceptual horizon and we must follow cues or clues and then remember just in case of a distraction and we have to start all over again. Just because the limbic is nearby (we may need to hurry) is no excuse to say the head's the master or in control of anything but disaster when it's certainty that steers the boat instead of an experimental suggestion. There's no controlling chance no matter how preplanned the itinerary: one goes with the current flow, capsizes or navigates around it because in nature, there are no short cuts. A natural articulation is the zone of free association, any way you slice it.

see – The Psychopathology Of Work by Penelope Rosemont