Suspicious Minds: Homeopathy As Subversion, Cures It All
Suspicious Minds: Homeopathy As Subversion, Cures It All
The End
(As intent, as warning and disclaimer)
Perhaps, the meaning of texts, of any text, lies exactly within the space
not occupied by the black ink. In a strange similitude with matter, where
as it appears theory explains that there is more emptiness than anything
else, meaning is the white empty space. However, this white space
requires of ink’s black matter in order to acquire a shape, in order to be
given an appearance.
The following lines are, by no means, guides and yet, the attempt is not to
conceal any possible routes. As we already know, any intent on pinning
down, on bringing light to any certainty, always ends up instead, with
ourselves holding a little vanity mirror or some crumb, some trace of a
past and extinguished fire. Therefore, tangents must be drawn since they
might actually produce some other surface, even, some other space to be
traversed.
This paper deals with illusions and dilutions. Also delusions. Its interest
lies in the paradox that arises from my position as a producer with the will
to erode production. It stems out from the knowledge that even if all
aesthetic promises appear to have been by now surpassed and dead,
there is something, always out of our reach, but nonetheless enticing and
present that we instinctively know can alter and modify. But let’s not fool
ourselves: we are all double agents too aware of the consequences and
difficulties of not complying with the order and its forces. Otherwise this
ink would not be consumed to produce these lines.
At this point in time, we must be clear about our own collusion and we
must be precise about our own position. So, lets us suppose that these
lines try to spell nothing more than what they read and perhaps then, they
might even change a thing or two from their place above in some dark
shelf.
✽
Dear ■■■■■,
The papers are all in order. ■■■■■■, our daughter, is along with me.
We seem as natural and as odd as everybody else: Two bags, two
passports, two visas, two boarding passes and two persons. The dog is
already checked–in and treated as special baggage. The line at the
airport security check–point moves at the same pace than it usually does
though this time I am aware of its rhythm (what a word, only consonants
and that one semi–vowel, and still it makes a heart beat. Some claim that
the letter “h” is also a semi–vowel, but I am not convinced, it lacks a
beat), I feel stress.
People seem anxious and bleary, shoeless and preparing their bags and
souls to be screened. Should I take out my wallet and put it through the X-
ray machine or should I keep it in my back pocket? How naked I am
standing inside that cylinder? Is what I am about to do really illegal? And
if so, how sever are consequences? What would be the extent of the
punishment? To this moment I am still not sure, but the humming of the
little well–trained guard inside my head grows louder. In any case this is a
point of no return, only of surrender, we are waiting already in line.
And surrender I did, long before today I guess (surrender, that is a word
to think about: ideology at work). The officers, the guns, the National
Security and the all–seeing electronic devices are no illusion, no
abstraction, and yet they do not disclose all of what they mean. While
waiting there in line, I know I am both, abiding and breaking. By now, I am
aware that plunging deep into the theories of power and oppression, will
never suffice to drown the unreasonable surface of law and order. It can
be claimed that the positions of the prisoner and the guard are
indistinguishable and might be alternated, however today, at this moment,
the positions are clearly established and my role is not the one with the
power to enforce any law.
My brain is pondering over quite a few things, all at the same time. I am
having a conversation with ■■■■■■, a prepared response for the
authorities, a prepared explanation for you (although it would be
nonsensical: how could I ever explain jeopardizing my own kid for the
sake of a subversive experiment?). There is also an increasing
awareness of the twitching in my right eyelid, the sweating and the rising
temperature of my body. This moment actualizes a plan: it is potential and
future but all impending as catastrophe or windfall. It is a moment where
the whole scene is a view from above, detached.
It is a point of view, that without a doubt is mine, isn’t it? It is nothing but
stress that makes me feel removed from the ripples of my own actions.
Although, this view quite resembles the one that the officers behind the
screens, monitoring all the surveillance cameras in some darkened room,
might have. Is it perhaps the very same sight? It is a view that with
anonymous nearness follows us around waiting for that glitch that reveals
a gap within an otherwise everyday compliance.
As we are about to take our turn, the officers decide to open a new lane
for families and people with kids (In the end the flow cannot be stopped,
that would be an assault on the nature of this system itself). This is
unforeseen, though it might play in my favor. In any case, it is unexpected
and makes me all the more nervous, now it is our turn. Two bags with five
electronic devices, plus shoes, coat and belt... All of a sudden we are
making use of more than half dozen bins into which I am throwing my
wallet and ring: mistake (Mistake? Compliance we might agree). For
more than twenty minutes I considered between whether keeping the
wallet in my back pocket or strategically placing it into the bin. In my mind
the decision had been clear: to keep the wallet with me, at all times no
doubt.
Kids go only through the regular metal detector device, and get to keep
the shoes on. Adults are screened in an all–revealing scanner. I step into
it, I get scanned and a few seconds later (Let me out!), I am released. I
rush to where the bins are being spit out form the X–ray machine.
■■■■■■, is already there waiting and smiling (“You looked so silly
inside the thing, with your arms up. What do they think you are doing?”). It
is clear that my daughter is relieved as well. By now she knows,
instinctively, a thing or two about violence and control. Her pocket–sized
anxiety might be on the right track, I know she can sense that.
We hurry up and pick up all our stuff, I leave the area with an unbuckled
belt and flapping shoes, the wallet is back in its place and we rush away.
Then it hits me: I left my ring in one of the bins. I must go back and
retrieve it: I succeed.
But maybe next time, in the near future, they will catch me because none
of the five devices we are carrying has an updated version of its
Operative System. After that, they will find all of those files in the
computer and that thing on my wallet. However not today, today we are
bound to meet you in a few hours.
Love,
r.
✽
If you inhale the PEA, you will get a sudden rush of compassion for
others, a rush of empathy and perhaps even love, which will last for about
an hour. You get high on humanness. The thing is: is it possible to get
high on with this emotions at an art fair? Or rather, what are the
implications of our ability, our possibility and our desire to be in a rush of
love and compassion for others? What does it mean for this possibility to
exist as a commodity at an art fair?
I cannot think of a more paradoxical and yet appropriate setting for this
work. Some might say the moral compass is broken, others that it has
finally been found.
It could be said that this work makes it clear that we have reached a
point, a certain degree of complexity as society, where anyone (that is, if
they hold the appropriate role on the theater (or reality show) of
democratic hierarchies) can enjoy the essence of love without the drag of
social intercourse. Or maybe, Love Drug could be taken as proof of the
artists’ ability to actually modify reality, the ultimate quest for more than
one this professionals: to actually transform the viewer and hence the
world, if only for a moment (or an hour).
Yet another take on Love Drug could be perhaps the idea that there is no
such a substance. Or better yet, that there is no such a substance as long
as it remains in the vial as a collectible object. The user/owner must give
in, participate and use it, if she actually wants to experience the delight
her money is worth. In that way, the art object is lost and the user must
embody it. There is in fact no Love substance; no essence then, there is
only the encounter within our own body and psyches of a contingency, of
a rush. As a smart customer, you can experience unadulterated emotions
for a little more than a few minutes.
After all these seasons of making myths and experiencing Love, life after
life, language after language, shouldn’t we be Masters in its Arts by now?
However, Love Drug (PEA) can always be stored in a wooden container
at a warehouse, waiting for the value of the shares of Mr. Höller to go up,
seize the moment and make a kill in the secondary market. Because in
the end, it seems that everything is subject to be standing–in reserve.
Everything is subject to experience a marginal utility, the last fragment of
need not satisfied.
✽
The last time I used the substance known as LSD (Lysergic Acid
Diethylamide) was a few years ago. It happened during the year that I got
a production grant from the National Council of the Arts in my home
country. A few obligations come with the grant, of which the most time–
consuming happens when all of the grantees must meet for a three days
boot camp in Guadalajara, far away from home. After the long days that
go by in meetings and critical discussion of our peers’ work, the nights
belong to some other kind of social interaction.
After all of our meetings were finished, when everything was done and the
only commitment left in the program was the opening ceremony of a
group show the next day, a celebration was in order. It was a night with a
few stops at different bars and cantinas. One of these was extremely
traditional and had, instead of a jukebox or a DJ, a small scenario which
intermittently one of the drunken patrons would occupy in order to sing a
couple of mariachi–style love songs. At that point Guadalajara seemed
just like an old movie: it seemed very real, an almost perfect description of
itself.
In order to get to the next gathering spot, our little group walked a few
blocks through the city streets and squares. During the walk, we came
across one of our Program’s mentors. A man dressed up as a clown and
wielding a knife had mugged him just a minute before. There was no trace
of the clown, who had already disappeared in the dark streets. Since our
mentor was all right and no harm had really been done, we couldn’t do
anything better but burst out laughing. A clown? How was he able to get
away with a robbery? Wearing those funny shoes.
Dawn. Even though I hadn’t slept, my body was not feeling at all tired and
my mind was somehow clear. I am sure I had quite a few drinks, enough
as to not go to bed all night but still I didn’t feel drunk. At that point,
■■■■■■■ and myself decided to go away, it was about time. As we
were leaving, we opened the shutters: the sun came pouring in, the
guests were taken by surprise. As they turned out not to be vampires no
one evaporated, and the party went on.
We left the place, jumped into the car and drive off to pick up ■■■■■,
■■■■■■’s good friend. We arrived at her place, woke her up and all in
good spirits left in search of a big breakfast. Tortas Ahogadas (something
like Ertränkendoppelbrot or Drowned Sandwich), the local delight. Pork
and bread soaked in hot chili sauce. “I’ll take that pig, though make it
super lean, pristine.”
Minutes later after the first sip the curvy road in front of us was unwinding
itself, effortless, sweetly. The plants and flowers at the edge of the road
were shimmering. The sensation was that of a fine tingly vibration coming
from my brain all the way to my eyes and ears: flow out, pulsate, breath
in. A fine–tuning of the volume, contrast, tint, treble and bass was taking
place. The lengthy drive turned into a rather calm stream of micro–shifts.
Everything fell into place, both in its depth and its absurdity.
We arrived at Chapala. Out of the car and merrily lay on the lawn. Our
conversation continued, we laughed, we got along beautifully. A tight knit
group of almost total strangers. After a while it was obvious that the LSD
was not, in this case, an enhancer, it was an elixir, a remedy. Not so
much as to feel, but as to be: To be lighter within our beings. For hours
we remained under the tree looking up at the branches, talking and
laughing, looking closely at the blades of grass in all of its details,
listening.
The sauna was just great. It was time for us to go back to the city to arrive
in time for the opening. As we made our way back, a sudden stop to
avoid a pothole on the road made us realize that we had sipped only once
from the bottle with the acid. After the first round of sips, the bottle got
mixed up and was left underneath the passenger for the rest of the
evening. We never made it to the opening. We started sipping again.
After encountering your work, I felt compelled to write you about this odd
little anecdote.
Not too long ago, during the so–called Cold War, the United States
intelligence agencies were involved in multiple operations aimed to
research upon the effects of different drugs in a quest for either mind
control, memory loss or more effective methods of torture. Regardless of
their true intentions (perhaps even of its veracity), the aim of these
operations made clear that individual perception of reality and the
possible malleability of it, were acknowledge not anymore only as a field
of ethics, where allegiance, loyalty or submission were only to be trusted
or suspected. Rather, perception’s ductility was understood as just
another theater of operations, another “ultimate weapon”, as another
battleground to operate on.
What is extremely interesting is the fact that LSD Hall achieves this arena
(that of resistance) without doing anything out of the ordinary, without any
outcry for revolt. Public Fountain is nothing but suggesting a space for the
ghosts of other possibilities to appear. It is a proposal that puts in motion
the potential to redirect our perception, and hence relation, with others,
while using only proven conventions of social behavior and official
certification standards. Perhaps the idea of a swerve, (of a slight detour in
the usual current of relations and behavior), might become useful to think
of in order to comprehend some of the significations of your work.
But, oh! The idea, the idea that a certified homeopathic substance is
dissolved into the water and as if it was brilliant quicksilver, would
instantly make mad-hatters of all of us; or even worse, might help the
participants find a lucidity for self–organization.
The funny thing is that according to more than one scientist (specially
those interested in debunking the claims of Homeopathic orthodoxy), the
reality of Public Fountain would be one of complete illusion, something
not short of a, literally, unsubstantial claim. According to them, and by
following Avogadro’s law, Public Fountain LSD Hall is in fact nothing more
than an empty wish: A lost molecule somewhere in the solar system.
Is interesting the role of official certification that LSD Hall puts forward: If
the German Homeopathic Society certifies the LSD dilution to be used in
this work is obtained through the most rigorous Homeopathic standards, it
implies, conversely, that the sanitation authorities in Dresden would have
been equally able to certify that in fact there are no LSD traces to be
found in the water fountain. Even as both theses could strengthen each
other (since Homeopathy and Science produce mirror images of their
respective logics), only one can come out triumphant, isn’t it? But still, it
would appear that in this case a reasonable triumph of reason is not
reason enough to deem your proposal as harmless and ergo viable.
And yet, I Public Fountain wishes not to topple, it is not a work where
subversion is aimed towards the ignition of a public outrage and
resistance. Its direction is not one of head on collision against the state
(of things). As a proposal LSD Hall reclaims a different kind of space,
following Sun Tzu’s Way of the Warrior advice, the Fountain will not
engage in battle since the outcome is already known. Therefore, a
different theater must be established, one where the enemy’s armies are
disarmed by their position within the battle–field alone. Does an army
remain an army if it rather not to fight?
However, every time that I explain this work to myself and feel completely
convinced of its subversive potential, I end up thinking that Public
Fountain is perhaps nothing but art. And art has long ago left the building,
just as homeopathy, its real substance is far from being accounted for
(although it might still take sway, someday, somewhere). I cannot help
but smile and think that in the end, just as a Magritte painting/writing, your
proposal could read as a subtitle: ceci n’est pas une œuvre d’ art.
Because in the end, it could be claimed that things have never been
better. So much so that my little petit bourgeois radical fears the revolt
and my own fascistic guard tells me: beware. But I rather not listen and
just go outside, enjoy the weather, do as I please, walk my dog and listen.
Perhaps in one of those walks I will find a Public Fountain and will help
myself not a sip but a cup.
Best wishes,
r.
✱
Proposal 20130704,
(ongoing)
For the past seven months I have been carrying in my wallet, at all times,
an envelope containing a small amount of Papaver Somniferum (opium
poppy) seeds. Whenever the occasion arises the seeds get set into the
ground in order to produce, weather permitting, small patches of poppy
plants. After each episode the envelope and seeds are replaced with a
new one waiting, while in transit, their turn to meet the soil and deploy
their possibility.
■■■■■■ and I arrived at the Mexico City airport after a whole night of
being suspended in the air inside a tin box propelled close to the speed of
sound. To be suspended in the air. What an accomplishment, fulfillment
of humanity. The machine’s (in)efficiency making clear, that more often
than not, movement is a voracious drive and thirst.
The captain remains not to be seen during flight. Any flight attendant who
might remind me of my grandmother (although that is another story, since
I am doubtful about any remembrance of those who remain unknown to
me) is authority, seriously. For the time being, during the
flight/suspension, she is in charge of you and your fleeting neighbors, just
a few would dare to challenge her smiling policing role that is to remain
concealed as that of a vendor or a server.
The food packaged in little trays along with the pressurized air reminds
me that outside this metalized rubbery order we would freeze to death,
that for the time being, this is it, there is no chance on checking out any
other menu, any other table for dinner. The complete rituals of sitting up
straight and behave like humans do... all those years at school paying off:
civilization and manners, surrender and submission.
In mid air, everything is impending. Every part must play accordingly. Any
event out of the ordinary may lead into catastrophe... However, that
possibility is already taken into account, no surprises only insurances and
instantaneous speculation. You can bet on that, just as the financial
markets do. In mid–air there is nothing but movement for movement sake,
even if it opposes the entropic desire of Physics; nothing but Capital and
its poetical politics of endless accumulation and expansion.
As we leave the airport behind, dawn is rising and things are just as
normal as can be. The city expels its daily stench and cars are already
jamming the avenues. People throw themselves into a new day. I had
forgotten for sometime of that which I was carrying in my wallet. The kid,
the dog, the suitcases, the sleepless night, the passports on my third
hand, my compliance and my resistance sort of got whatever was left of
me.
✱
The King met later with the president, gave him a Colt .45 pistol along
with other presents. A bizarre photo–op. Eventually, Elvis Presley was
presented with a badge and an ID from the Department of Justice’s
Bureau of Narcotics Dangerous Drugs and a Thank you note signed by
the President. The King of the Jailhouse rock, while under the influence of
an amazing multitude of prescription drugs, was made a Federal Agent
and Special Advisor on matters of controlled substances, ironically
appropriate.
Years later, after the King dropped dead alone in his bathroom, a trial was
set in motion against his doctor. Blame and guilt are always to find a
father whenever we feel at lost. Law and order declares who that is, and
in this case Dr. George “Nick” Nichopoulous seemed to a large extent as
the (ir)responsible one. The Tennessee doctor had been Elvis’ doctor in
Memphis since 1965. Over the years, innumerable prescriptions
amounting to thousands of doses had been made by Dr. Nick to satisfy
Mr. Presley’s needs. Ease the pain and keep the pelvis rocking. In 1977
alone, Dr. Nick issued more than 200 prescriptions with over 10,000
doses of powerful pills for Elvis.
More over than the reason which moved Mr. Nixon and his advisors to
accept the petition, (which could lead to endless speculation upon Mr.
Nixon’s and his advisor own psychic states and political positions) the
documents remaining from this affair reveal the perception that a real and
dangerous subversion was indeed taking place. And the need for a
different kind of weapon, of counter–measure was transparent, since it
was not only happening at home but also, it could be said, was happening
a little out of the box.
And Elvis became a counter measure. One of the icons of counter culture
reversed: he made clear that he wished to turn into a poet of law and
order. But he would only able to do so, given that the seditious forces
would never perceive him as such a poet. His force and ability to infiltrate
lay precisely in the fact that The King was one of their own agents. His
argued position as a dissenter, as an anti–establishment agent was
already determined long before (Jail-House Rock double attitude:
submissive towards the law/homo–erotic towards fellow inmates: an
unfulfilled, though pleasurable, rhythmic revolt). Elvis played a double–
game that relied at the same time, in the deception and the re–assurance
of a rebellious identity. His pelvic movement might have even been once
censored from the TV screens; but his heart (and allegiance) was always
in place (despite what one could think).
One is left to wonder how lost was he in this game or, if perhaps he was
just granting himself the suspension of any legal, social and metaphysical
restraints left for him. And here, I am not only thinking about Elvis, since
the very same thing can be debated about President Nixon.
Publicly, Death presented itself on both characters with very different, but
equally interesting and distinctive demeanors. May we agree on the
certainty of an uncertain death as a signature? For in Nixon’s case, we
could assert that death effectively took place as he waved good–bye with
the victory sign (or was it the peace sign?) and the helicopter took off the
White House, roughly twenty years before he actually died. As for the
King, he was just seen leaving some building not too long ago, and he
was still fighting crime. That lonely death in a bathroom was not his.
✱
Dear ■■■■■■■:
I hadn’t had a dream in Spanish for a long time. There was rain, furious
rain that appeared to be falling from each tree, only from the trees. After
the rain stopped, the sun shined over a river of mud carrying people
away. And I was worried about you: I know I had seen you before, prior to
the rain. Your hair was different and so was your name. It took a long time
for me to find you. Just as long as it took me to understand that, by now,
(Power) is so big, so unrepentant and full of confidence, that there is no
doubt about the need to erode it in each and every direction possible.
Not in the dream but in your writing (and it should be clear how to tell the
difference between the two), you were describing Gravity. Not about
Newton and Physics. You were talking about Gravity and the way it could
be understood regarding a Moral time–space dynamic. I must confess I
was skeptical, too idealistic and ordered of an approach for me. But then
it kind of hit me.
At this point in time, it seems that it really does not matter anymore how
you fight the power, (as Rosie Perez did in the during the opening credits
of that old Spike Lee movie). For as long as it is done, it might well be
done even in a dream. Or would that approach just leave the door open to
the free reign by the poets of economic law and the voracious?
Contrary to its original purpose, this kind of monuments might bring hope:
yes, of course they are signifiers of the current power structures, but by
the same token, they are a reminder that once the city (the polis, the
order) was not what it is and further more, the monuments have the
implicit promise of toppling and effacement. The weight will ruin them,
and it might just so happen that this end might just come sooner if we
lean into it.
At one given point the Golden Winged Victory will grow weary of her nest
atop the column and will scream out to be released. Hopefully, concerned
passers–by will grant her wish. If only to begin again, since the nest, the
origin of things and of our own explanation cannot be left empty. Those
same passers–by shall look and find some other creature to remain
frozen against its will.
A city that refuses monuments and reminders is not more democratic. Far
from it, this refusal only reassures and conceals the ideological
inclinations that gave rise to it and pretends to naturalize the city and its
transactions as if it were a landscape: the city will always be here, no
doubt, as it has always been. There is nothing but progression. Utopia is
not the outcome of a process to be reached it is a place ready to be
leased. There is nothing but and endless road movie and our car has a
tank full of gas, no matter what.
Love,
r.
✽
What is Left
(As departure)
At first, the desire was to build up a theory that could provide the strategy
for subverting any given power structure from within, in a diluted and
almost imperceptible measure. Homeopathic remedies and their
mysterious unsubstantial ways of working would provide the model. The
proposal was to set a simple method where the malady, the symptom,
would be replicated in order to counter the affection. To turn the struggle,
the counter attack invisible, while remaining as a producer in plain sight,
within a system.
Ricardo Alzati
March 2014
Twenty-four Notes
(Why these and not something else?)
So, it can be said that Jean Baudrillard was a bit over the edge, with
claims that leave no room for wiggling around or feeling good; we are set
against a backdrop of deep hopelessness. And perhaps that is where a
critique to his approach could be done: Baudrillard’s insistence on his
ability to have an all–encompassing gaze, the one who noticed (how did
he managed?) that Everything is but a simulacra. However, he was not all
that wrong.
5. The only question is: How can such a machine continue to operate in
the midst of critical disillusion and commercial frenzy? And if it does, how
long will this conjuring act last? One hundred? Two hundred years? Will
art have the right to a second interminable existence, like the secret
services that, as we know, haven’t had any secrets to steal or exchange
for some time but who still continue to flourish in the utter superstition of
their usefulness, perpetuating their own myth.
(Ibid., 29)
6. It is impossible to destroy the system by a contradiction–based logic or
by reversing the balance of forces –in short, by a direct, dialectical
revolution affecting the economic or political infrastructure. Everything that
produces contradiction or a balance of forces or energy in general merely
feeds back into the system and drives it on... the worst error, the one
committed by all our revolutionary strategists, is to think they can out an
end to the system in the real plane: that is... the imaginary the system
imposes on them, a system that lives and survives only to be getting
those who attack it to fight in the terrain of reality, a ground that is always
its own. Realism is no kind of radicalism at all: the only solution is “to
challenge the system with a gift to which it cannot reply –except by its
own death and collapse”.,
Baudrillard, Jean. 1988, America, trans. by Chris Turner, intro. by Geoff Dyer, New
York: Verso
(Baudrillard, 1998. 28)
11. Thus the freeways do not de-nature the city or the landscape; they
simply pass through it and unravel it without altering the desert character
of this particular metropolis. And they are ideally suited to the only truly
profound pleasure, that of keeping on the move.
(Ibid., 55)
I was told of a cricket plague that appears every few years in Nevada.
The gigantic insect cloud moves and devours everything in the path. Their
gargantuan number makes the roads dangerous, slippery by the amount
of squashed protein, as you try to drive through. It seems as if a common
knowledge among the insect colony would guide the pace (in peace), but
that is not the case.
The matter of fact, that which keeps the engine of the insect–organism on
the move, is simply that the guides in the front must move on, otherwise
they are to be devoured by their fellow followers.
You must keep moving with the flow. Remember that driving too slow is
as dangerous as driving too fast. Though you should always keep a tank
full of gas.
Baudrillard, Jean. 1981. Simulacra & Simulation, trans. by Sheila Faria Glaser, Ann
Arbor: The Michigan University Press
(Baudrillard 1981, 19)
The attempt to bring back the revolution is thus doomed to failed since it
would only give the power-to-be-toppled a breath of fresh air, an attack
that would only brings it to a reason of being again.
13. Disneyland exists in order to hide that it is the “real” country, all of
“real” America that is Disneyland (a bit like the prisons are there to hide
that it is the social in its entirety, in its banal omnipresence, that is
carceral). Disneyland is presented as imaginary in order to make us
believe that the rest is real, whereas all of Los Angeles and the America
that surrounds it are no longer real, but belong to the hyperreal order and
to the order of simulation. It is no longer a question of a false
representation of reality (ideology) but of concealing the fact that the real
is no longer real, and thus of saving the reality principle.
(Ibid., 12-13)
15. Cfr. Chapter 1, Two Poets at Saffron Park, where Gabriel Syme, The
poet of law and order, discusses with Lucien Gregory, the anarchist poet,
the differences of poetry as total chaos or as total order.
“It is things going right,” he (Syme) cried, “that is poetical! Our digestions,
for instance, going sacredly and silently right, that is the foundation of all
poetry. Yes, the most poetical thing, more poetical than the flowers, more
poetical than the stars –the most poetical thing in the world is not being
sick.”
Chesterton, Gilbert Keith. 1908. The Man Who Was Thursday, A Nightmare,
London: Penguin Books
(Chesterton 1908, 7)
16. "The work of the philosophical policeman," replied the man in blue, "is
at once bolder and more subtle than that of the ordinary detective. The
ordinary detective goes to pothouses to arrest thieves; we go to artistic
tea parties to detect pessimists. The ordinary detective discovers from a
ledger or a diary that a crime has been committed. We discover from a
book of sonnets that a crime will be committed. We have to trace the
origin of those dreadful thoughts that drive men on at last to intellectual
fanaticism and intellectual crime. We were only just in time to prevent the
assassination at Hartlepool, and that was entirely due to the fact that our
Mr. Wilks (a smart young fellow) thoroughly understood a triolet."
(Ibid., 43)
17. Alain Badiou: I would like to finish with a pedagogical question: if you
were to deliver a seminar on what we have here alluded to as
Psychology, how would you face that challenge?
–End of interview–
(Translation my own)
19. The closer we come to the danger, the more brightly do the ways into
the (saving) power begin to shine and the more the questioning we
become. (For questioning is the piety of thought).
(Ibid., 341)
Parenthesis mine.
As if things were all transparent and oddly resembling to a simulation that
reveals itself, the event of coming close to the danger, just might as well
devour us (in which case we only consume ourselves) or it might as well
just push us out, leaving us in the dark. Although, I do not know about
questioning as piety in regards to thought, or for that matter, I do not
know about salvation, either.
20. In the Western world, visionaries and mystics are a good deal less
common than they used to be. There are two principal reasons for this
state of affairs –a philosophical reason and a chemical reason. In the
currently fashionable picture of the universe there is no place for the
transcendental experience. Consequently those who had what they
regard as valid transcendental experiences are looked upon with
suspicion as being either lunatics or swindlers. To be a mystic or a
visionary is no longer credible.
(But it is not only our mental climate that is unfavorable to the visionary
and the mystic; it is also our chemical environment –an environment
profoundly different from that in which our forefathers passed their lives).
Huxley, Aldous. 1954–1956. The Doors of Perception & Heaven and Hell, New
York: Harper Collins Publishers
(Huxley1954–1956., 149)
Parenthesis mine
Again, the question arises, what is it about Public Fountain LSD Hall that
becomes the threatening specter? The common fate of the citizens in
past cities where the water supply was a shared fate, versus the
individuality standards of most contemporary metropolis where even the
worst drought in centuries is not to be perceived? Or is it truly the specter
of the unknown that which overwhelm us? It is perhaps the idea that out
there, outside Polis, the standards and certifications hold no ground?
Mandel, Ernest, 1962. The Marginalist Theory of Value and Neo–classical Political
Economy, in Marxists.org http://www.marxists.org/archive/mandel/works/marxist-
economic-theory/marginalists.htm, last accessed April 2, 2014.
Is it not the case that, perhaps this is the way in which both, the (oddly)
speculative economic value and its (“metaphysical”) value of any given
artwork are set? In any case, this economic speculation –the last
fragment of need not satisfied– does deliver an economical poetic effect.
Musil, Robert. 1906, Young Torless, trans. Eithene Wilkins and Ernst Kaiser. New
York: The Noonday Press
(Musil 1906. IX)
Noir Désir, Le Vent Nous Portera, from the album des Visages des Figures, music
and lyrics by Noir Désir, (2001) http://lyricstranslate.com/en/Le-Vent-Nous-
Portera-Le-Vent-Nous-Portera.html#ixzz2xtaAuccq. Last accessed: April 2, 2014.
(Excerpt)
What would explain the fact that whenever I look for this song, Youtube
advertise a travel to Jerusalem and the Holy Land? What is it that the
Servers know about me that I ignore? What is the link? If I go there, will I
find out?
Zizek, Slavoj, 2005. Interrogating The Real, Edited by Rex Butler and Scott
Stephens, New York: Continuum
(Zizek 2005. 231-232)