Yes, the fake as fake… the parody of a parody! Even the swan isn’t taken in by the staging of such a monstrous infamy, a nostalgia for phantasmatic realities that are neither hyperreal nor surreal, but rather Para-real manifestations of a suborned thought, a tyranny of the mind so great it absorbs even the dreams of children. Only puppets dream of such realms as these, a feudalistic memorix remix that splices imagebytes of dark days, gathers the pain of serfdom into a pure world emptied of its ancient blood and sacrifice. The terrors of this dream and nostalgia are those of the inanimate movement of time circling its own inner necessity, a death march sustaining only the power of its own secret corruptions.
This is Capitalism’s ultra dream of happiness: the joys of stone, water, and sky purified for human want and needs, a desire for a desire so fake it will never fulfill one’s expectations except as phantasm: a capture machine for the mind’s last powers of reasoning. A Magician’s trick. A Joker’s laborious laughter in the Night of Night’s. The merciless power of money transforming earth into a prison world for the labors of pleasure’s last insidious festival. One imagines a world such as this without humans, a realm where only the parody of life continues, a life devoid of warmth and jouissance; rather, a realm where light itself is pain manifest, and the drift of time slices thought into its last vestiges of hope caged in a dream without outlet. A nightmare land built for childhood memories that offers nostalgia as a hope without hope, a perfect realm for the mindless gathering of lost souls.
A realm for Bankers and Lawyers, Hollywood Moghuls, Wall-Street Traders and Politicos – Senator’s and Congressmen whose cronyism supported the profiteering ways of such elicit nightmares; a realm where oil-rich men, corrupt leaders of nations, shock-bandits and crime-lords, capitalists of underworld empires dare to live out their secret infamies like children of a devilish therapy. Here the torture laden carnival of cartoons enters a new nostalgia: the laughter of hollow gods tearing truth from falsehood, revealing the underbelly of a system of capital that for far too long stacked skulls to the roof – to the sky for a gambling crowd of fools and scoundrels. Yes, this is the last realm of that bitter miracle of nostalgia’s singular destiny for those who sought to escape fate’s claws – the wolf’s cry in the night for the long awaited Feast at the End of the World: Gotterdammerung! Loki’s laughter at the final apocalypse of Capital’s defeat… when the Gods of Money shall enter the infernal paradise and pay eternal tribute to Mammon their God and King in the fires of a bursting thought of nostalgia… this Castle of Destiny!
As I wrote the above I began once again to know what Fernando Pessoa must’ve felt at the hands of his heteronyms: an overpowering knowledge that one is a multiplicity, one’s life a heteronymic exploration and experiment in living a fractured existence among timebound earthlings; a haunted and haunting adventure not so much in being as in the pulsation of communication. Channeling so many heteronyms is in itself both an impossible desire and a possible truth. Knowing that one is only an observer to the dispotifs of these various enunciations is to know exile; and, yet, it is also to know the power of creation in the movement of excess, a temporal unfolding and explication of desire folding, unfolding, and refolding itself in creation(s).
(I wrote this after seeing this old image
of Diane Arbus posted on Facebook: