Enjoy what you can on this meaningless holy day, as it reifies a mythologized resistance movement led by proletarianizing brothels away from the transcendent refusal to sell labor.
Pied-pipered to follow an alien (because alienated-self) force. Manufacturing and maintaining a haunting world of ghosts, monsters, parasites, psychopathocrats, deities, and footnote-fetishizing experts.
We fill our absense to the brim with our inverted potential, with dreams inverted into nightmares.
And what we get is what we are. We and the world exchange'what could have been' for and into 'what is'. Shall I celebrate celibation?
Ha! A "day off" just means more to do on Tuesday, if you 'suffer to survive', and less if you 'suffer from survival' even more. The choice is choiceless. The price of admission is celebrated exitlessness.
Let's see.... to me, Labor Day is a laborious rite of re-surrendering, a pretentiousness pretending of victory in an unconscious series of acts maintaining recurrent loss. It is a hallowed salivation to hollowness.
I sound a bit depressing, but I'm not depressed, nor intending to be depressing.
It's my dreams talking through the nightmare.
That makes them sound a bit confusing... as their waking happiness attempts to penetrate -- by refusing the pseudo-reality of 'the binary' and the role of the pseudo-object legally-enforced by colonized-and-colonizing tools and luring-and-lurid language.
They are ever-hatched from our well-nourished nightmare's effect, a Gamowian shadow-upon-shadow wherein the flat 2D shadow sums and layers into a 3D presence — snaring and flaring with [r]evolving recuperation — via rehearsed volley from its agents of spectacle and spectacularized anti-spectacle.
In such a boisterous and bloated swirl, unmediated-and-unmediating communication confronts diffusion — reciped of our atomized-and-collected, sorted-and-sordidized selves — ever-rationally dumped into the inversion "mixing" process....
The baked and half-baked are feverishly and conspicuously "consumed" by the very-consumed themselves, by that self-devouring process, which is everywhere... frenzily feeding upon everything, and especially its severed self.
Today, especially, and as always, is a day against daze, a 'labor of love' against the selflessly-endured and selflessly-made nightmare hoisted by us above us all as abstractified Love of Labor.
And in the distance I hear the passed by nuns and monks clenching to dogma, whilst nearer in sacrificed time, I hear everywhere, the sound of blender-managing Leninists — once foreign but now fully-absorbed rationalists of the subject:object ratio. And as usual, there is the rigid and contorting feign accompanying their state-masked ownership of universal orgasm.
[Note: Do NOT use Twitter or Facebook, as the toxic bait below suggests....]
Pied-pipered to follow an alien (because alienated-self) force. Manufacturing and maintaining a haunting world of ghosts, monsters, parasites, psychopathocrats, deities, and footnote-fetishizing experts.
We fill our absense to the brim with our inverted potential, with dreams inverted into nightmares.
And what we get is what we are. We and the world exchange'what could have been' for and into 'what is'. Shall I celebrate celibation?
Ha! A "day off" just means more to do on Tuesday, if you 'suffer to survive', and less if you 'suffer from survival' even more. The choice is choiceless. The price of admission is celebrated exitlessness.
Let's see.... to me, Labor Day is a laborious rite of re-surrendering, a pretentiousness pretending of victory in an unconscious series of acts maintaining recurrent loss. It is a hallowed salivation to hollowness.
I sound a bit depressing, but I'm not depressed, nor intending to be depressing.
It's my dreams talking through the nightmare.
That makes them sound a bit confusing... as their waking happiness attempts to penetrate -- by refusing the pseudo-reality of 'the binary' and the role of the pseudo-object legally-enforced by colonized-and-colonizing tools and luring-and-lurid language.
They are ever-hatched from our well-nourished nightmare's effect, a Gamowian shadow-upon-shadow wherein the flat 2D shadow sums and layers into a 3D presence — snaring and flaring with [r]evolving recuperation — via rehearsed volley from its agents of spectacle and spectacularized anti-spectacle.
In such a boisterous and bloated swirl, unmediated-and-unmediating communication confronts diffusion — reciped of our atomized-and-collected, sorted-and-sordidized selves — ever-rationally dumped into the inversion "mixing" process....
The baked and half-baked are feverishly and conspicuously "consumed" by the very-consumed themselves, by that self-devouring process, which is everywhere... frenzily feeding upon everything, and especially its severed self.
Today, especially, and as always, is a day against daze, a 'labor of love' against the selflessly-endured and selflessly-made nightmare hoisted by us above us all as abstractified Love of Labor.
And in the distance I hear the passed by nuns and monks clenching to dogma, whilst nearer in sacrificed time, I hear everywhere, the sound of blender-managing Leninists — once foreign but now fully-absorbed rationalists of the subject:object ratio. And as usual, there is the rigid and contorting feign accompanying their state-masked ownership of universal orgasm.
[Note: Do NOT use Twitter or Facebook, as the toxic bait below suggests....]
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