Dommarco

Walpurgis?, nein, Hexennacht

“In what distant deeps or skies burnt the fire of thine eyes? What the hand dare seize the fire?”: whosoever did, criminal had to be, to give love in dirty drugs and life in cyanide treats.

Sweets will be hard to swallow.

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0 - 🃟 Le Follis the Windbag, ☿ with index finger upon his lips and Typhoon 𓃫 at his feet, witness to the profound gaze of the abysses over which he has spanned his bridges, the grain of truth in its joke: there are always a pair of Jokers in the pack. Succession did not always pass through the firstborn male heir but flowed matrilineally through the daughter; there was no innate privilege, and the King reigned not by inheritance, but by right of physical conquest and psychological and emotional alliance. The King was a stranger, an ambitious outsider, often a troubadour, nearly always disguised, frequently in repulsive or terrifying forms; Beauty and the Beast is but a typical tale whitewashed by the passage of time before the glorification of the rogue knight devolved into the mere figure of the gangster as a reaction against Victorianism, later buried by the horror of the fattened herd before the sight of the open shutter. The connection between madness and holiness is tradition, and it is not in mockery that the most witless and cretinous of the village were the most consecrated to the Church.

At some point in history, the father King equipped his son with his own secret cards, diluting the Royal Blood within the succession tradition, from which it follows that the old game of politics was already ancient in primitive times.

Arachne moved on from weaving wools and silks to spinning cobwebs, while Prometheus, on the other hand, was never co-opted by Olympus, given the dangers his appetites entailed.

These days, no God breathes life into Pygmalion's work, and Prometheus's guts aren't just for the carrion birds anymore. Beside the rock, there's liver and offal enough to nourish every opportunist, and Dactyls and Cyclopes, stuck in their state of mental neoteny, for whom the very purpose of forging Zeus's thunderbolt, Poseidon's trident, or Achilles' weapons is the sole reason for their existence. There is nothing left to challenge. They are inherently tethered to the techno-industrial system; they don't operate outside the framework of the system that employs them. Their purpose is to serve the ends of the corporate Olympus.

There is no intrinsic value in their success, no tragic dimension to their failure. There is no autonomous purpose, no failed rebellion. They are the paid invisible serfdom. They know nothing of the freedom to create outside the designs of their Hephaestus; servitude is their natural and permanent state, and their functional submission, their only destiny.

Values hitherto reveal its final consequences. No sane way to choose where the only serious question is whether there is anything to take seriously.

Narcissus, Arachne's tapestry is no longer innocently beautiful nor insolently superb, but conveniently pleasant; it is no longer an exquisite representation of the shameful and miserable Olympic decrepitude of the gods. Arachne changed from an artist into a spider, but a spider with the appearance of an artist. Now Athena controls all of Arachne's purpose and internal logic, who was not destroyed, merely put to work, preying with silk nets on human beings like insects attracted by the bait of the latest piece of shit, insects for whom their ecosystem is reduced to a work of art perverted into a trap where the products of attention capital are not of a blind will, are not of a biological instinct; no, their purpose is not neutral, it is a sophisticated and intelligent design that instrumentalizes genius for devouring ends.