spsdabe CAPS @e5e5e5e5e5 - Tumblr Blog

Kia ora and hullo!

This is a very strange place.

This blog, so far, is my unfiltered and often unfounded ramblings.

It will stay that way for the middle future.

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My name is Tim, or Eury, or whatever suits you.

I identify as somewhere between cishet and a flaming fairy.

By which I mean, asexual aromantic and holding a molotov.

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If you'd like to know more, please ask or stalk me.

My face and name are on this blog so you can stalk me all you'd like.

I kind of doxxed myself as a social experiment.

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Anyone can interact, but please remember:

I will try and confuse you on purpose in the hope of motivating you.

I don't consider myself a discordian, but I'm close.

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I'm openly Anarchist, Communist, Syndacalist,

Titoist, Vikiist, Andrewist, Georgist, Marxist, Lenininst, Trotskyist, Guevararist, Minhist,

And yes I need to read more POC authors I know that.

Plans:

1. split this blog in to (probably) 5 blogs total

2. use the blogs to divide my thoughts by volume level / triggers

3. learn how to discuss politics and violence at different levels

4. pick an audience and a volume level (s)

5. start properly writing poetry and prose

Cause I love JTHM and MCR but I understand the need for trigger warnings.

Terribly sorry that I've not self-censored so far.

I'm working on it, slowly.

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Checking in with myself.

Back on my depressive bullshit. Love the world, hate the self, distrust anyone who seems to have that backwards.

At least nowadays I retreat from people who mistreat me. Rather than adoring them for it.

The difficulty isn't in the writing.

The tough bit for me is in feeling good about anything I've written.

At my most manic, it's a 10 minute grace period of feeling good about having written something. At best.

At my most depressed I wouldn't get as far as writing the thing before writing it off as pointless.

Either way, I'd never read any of my own words are you kidding me?

That's almost as bad as listening to myself talk.

I envy these word generators everyone has been told to call 'AI'

The chat bots don't have to worry about reading their own words or feeling true to them. There's another chat bot whose job that is.

The chat bots, if they labour under any assumptions or understandings themselves, might have a very skewed and strange perspective on what the purpose of all this talking even is.

You know, like how fascists don't really believe in debating for any reason other than perpetuating the debate.

'the means to no ends' would be such a nice doctrine to write under, if I could learn to love Hitler and his death cult.

Way easier. Writing for a purpose is way tougher.

No, I will not conclude anything cleanly.

I'm not posting cause I feel these are well smithed words, more than I'm sick of holding this bag and had to put it down somewhere.

And I'm in a race to hit post and close my phone before I can hit delete post.

You tell me this art is derivative?

All art is derivative.

Don't stop there.

What works was it derived from and did it stay within the form?

Which changes were intentional?

You tell me this art is pretentious?

All art is pretentious.

Don't stop there.

What presuppositions did it allow in its attempts to reach which conclusions?

Was it aware of its assumptions?

You tell me this art is political?

Everything is political.

Don't stop there.

What threats did the monopoly on violence pose to the creators at that time?

What were they not allowed to say?

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What if it is my purpose in life to be the one who says no

I do not lack executive function. Executive function was taken from me. My contracts did not include the ability to execute functions outside of the laws. I stayed inside the laws except when I didn't. I do not lack executive function, I do not want for risk assessment. Who holds the last bag? When we all end up selling each other empty bags, which one will be last? Who tackles the buck when we've finally ran as far as we all can and the buck hasn't given up yet? Who stayed on the trail longest, who stayed awake the longest, who holds the last bag? Do not ask who hides in the last bastion. Behind which walls the safest people are waiting, or what they are protecting. If you ask that, you must either be the one who breaks in to find out, or you must be inside the bastion already. In either case, build up your own walls and know which side of the door to put the lock on. The last bag? The water, perhaps. Perhaps I hold a small bag of water somewhere. How thirsty are you, really? How long is the trail? How long have we been awake for? How badly do we need to bring this buck down? And if you really are dying of thirst, and you cannot find a bag of water on me, then I guess you could always try looking deeper inside. Teach a man to fish and he will try sell you fish for fresh water, if he gets desperate enough. Give a man economics and he will find a price for water, the price to stay alive. Dig deep enough and you will always find water somewhere. Something worth protecting or selling for it. It takes all kinds, certainly. We cannot all try to run the fastest or throw the biggest spear or burn the fire brightest. At least a few of us must simply walk the trail for the longest. Never stop, never trust anyone else with the last bag of clean water. Hold an ember. Never let anyone know which is really the last bag, or how big it is, or where it is hiding. Not until we give up the buck.

What if executive function when working in a team means either being able to make decisions or follow decisions. To make decisions is to think in the past, to assess the results of our latest circumstances. To follow orders is to think in the future, not stop now to start the assessment over again. When the captain says jump, the quartermaster says how high, then the captain can decide if that's high enough to do it. When the quartermaster asks jump, the captain tells them if they have time to do it.

What if it's simply my job to hold the bag of whatever everyone wants most and say no every time somebody asks. Except now that's not water any more, or even religion or opium or security or privacy. All long since sold down the river for money. And if only we had it we could save the world but only by always saying no when we are asked. And I don't fucking have any. But that's besides the point. The world runs on unpaid invoices, your access to money is only as good as your debt collection. If I had any, the only thing I'd want to spend it on would be some wealth or some executive function. If I exercised any executive function, it'd cost me my money or my wealth.

Wait, how the fuck does anybody retire?

Reach the point where their entire ability to control the world is reduced to a vote every few years and the money they spend?

And be happy about that? Watch this world burn one last time for old times sakes?

Leave behind something worthwhile and have a project they worked on be continued after they die?

Follow the stars that got us the farthest through the biggest deserts and across the tallest mountains?

How did we make it the farthest and back again? How did Ozymandias get that fucking pillar over there?

Who the fuck is out here trying to break in to the last bastion again?

Everybody. It's water. It's gender and sexuality. It's ableism. It's capitalism.

All we've sold and will sell. First, they came for the communists? Don't ask why the poem starts there. Don't ask where it ends. Always be communist.

Til the war ends.

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But, we made it. To the top and the bottom of the world, whichever way you can spin it. The tallest mountains, the deepest oceans, far beyond the skies. We went from throwing our bullets with our hands to building the biggest slingshot and shooting a bullet out of the solar system. We even got a boomerang to the moon and back. So, what's left to ask? What's left to do but claim credit? Congratulations, stand up and be Alexander the Great. You walked through Afghanistan again, and again and back again. What war is there left to fight if not the same one again?

What's left to sell off? I suppose the only questions left to ask are the ones you aren't allowed to. That must mean we are near the last bastions. It's not gunna be my fault that they get broken in to, so I guess that means I'm fortifying right here. Any four walls make a home or a prison.

So, it's turn back now or, what? All our worst nightmares? All the tragedy comes back as comedy, or the comedy back as tragedy? Who will we rhyme with and for how long will that history be remembered? Well, who has the oldest memory?

What history is there left to tell but the one we write? What fiction is there left to tell the kids? Oh, right, the one we write every day. So if the captain must talk in the past tense. Then we must be the quartermaster, and it must be our job to talk in the future tense.

Oh, right, just ask Vietnam. Always be communist. There's, like, books on how to do all of it. It's super straight forward. Apart from those fucking landlords.