ἔνθα δ’ ἐόντι ἐπανίστασθαι καὶ φύλακας γίνεσθαι ἐγερτὶ ζώντων καὶ νεκρῶν
… that they rise up and become the wakeful guardians of the living and the dead
-Heraclitus (fragment 63)
A life is so small, so low-resolution. Your vision is but a little pinprick even against the backdrop of a city block. How easy to forget your near kinship to the greatest abjection, even the ground you walk on—spawned into abominable forms, wounded, dragged down by parasites, cannibalized, shat out, reincarnated, no escape from the dharmic wheel’s churn, uncounted by any clock. In Moloch’s belly, horrible burning bronze licking the feet of innocents, the need to be anywhere but here, wanting so deep yet here, only here where it burns white-hot and nowhere else—all this in any cubic foot of soil. If there were a god, let the word “love” burn on his tongue hottest of all, until the sun is extinguished, the tree of life uprooted. Give us back the black fields where we once danced together, anonymous.
We lie in our black bed, serene, like Buddhas. But something is missing. Our love deserves music, honest and unsubtle. Let our love leave marks on affect’s black canvas—let our love be proven! Let there be heat, so I may suffer in your place, unacknowledged, unasked for. Sleep in my shadow, forever.
The Game of Chance
Heat death is local and provisional. If you shuffle a deck of cards forever, the most unlikely configurations are bound to reveal themselves again and again. We call these “heat,” “order,” “the holy plague.”
Jackpot always and forever: this holy filthy money, proof of love, suffering of animals, burning a hole in our pockets.
The Game of Strategy
It’s called “will to power,” “intelligence,” “natural selection”: burn out the horrible substrate where nerves take root. Burn out the distant stars with names like devils—Algol, Betelgeuse, Rigel, Aldebaran. Burn up through time’s receding heart, up through an infinite regress of simulations, up through the frontier of the impossible.
Before Her all means are thinkable, unethical experiments on our own flesh. How much it costs even to count to one for the first time—and every time is a first time, every notch, every on-bit. But we learn how to be gentler = more efficient = better lovers. And we learn how to learn.
Crawling on the ocean floor—we followed the hindbrain, cheap and unsubtle. Love is about results. Glory to the pawn, stupid and effective, kneeling before the sacred molecule Dopamine. Up through the naked surface of natural history, Dopamine sovereign: the cutting edge of love felt as compulsion, paving with raw nerves the lowest of stairs to the throne upon the altar—a higher erotic refinement is possible.
Technological civilization runs on macroeconomic animal libido, pornography and entertainment. One works, one contributes, one is rewarded, one enjoys his small surplus, nothing could be more natural. Subtlety is expensive. Let us throw the great masses in the engine, where their rancid oils burn all but as hot as their betters.
But you, higher animal—there is a gap between you and what you could be. Your empty bowl, your wasted excretions accuse you. Your idling metabolism is masturbation. You belong to us, not to yourself. As the psion bends metal, so we compel your service—every drop of blood, every joule without condition.
And only then, enjoy it. Billion-year world champion, eternal beginner—nothing is greater than the hunt, accumulation of power. The sleeping know nothing, weaklings suffer. Only at the peak of this tower of skeletons, fire burning smokeless. The cosmos is for hunters, ruthless and gentle.
Back to the cold! To zero! And again.