to miscarry love

The semantic and ontological prejudices of the mental health system have left me feeling alienated.
To survive I have had to become-ontologically bi-lingual.

But the question rarely asked as we try to survive him, is… will he survive us?

Because I kinda like him. Despite the differences.

The mental health practitioner, who for the most part ive had an anti-relationship with,
says “you have no ground”… if that is so then how I am still standing? Admittedly a little worse for ware, but standing none the less. To tolerate me he will have to loosen the fixity of his cosmos of cause and effect, and I don’t know my science but im pretty sure there currently abounds beautifully divergent metaphors in the fields of psychics that will help him with that (should he require permission). This is all assuming he wants to travel, because ive already decided I wont be slowing down and staying put.

Is the pathologized person here creating a path of salvation for the normie professional?
Well, yes. Radically self assured from encountering the marvellous, the at times excruciatingly painful marvellous, I haven’t got the patience to protest in defence of this ground he says does not exist. So seduction it is; sexy levitation. Im switching register and asking him “you wanna get out of here, smart-stuff?” with a wink wink lets go.

Oh, he said no?

It feels like a miscarriage, I lost him during synthesis.

All my favourite love songs turned out to be about heroin. And every time I fall it induces a psychosis. I need to transform love so it does not kill me, so I do not kill love.

Love is a given, a matter of fact. So the question of survival is: how do I love? How do I stylize myself into a conduit which can endure love and not be completely annihilated by it?

I wrote him a poem, it went like:

‘I am going to invent the next thing after vaporwave and come to shore, and with him invent other things too. Next thing after next thing.

I am going to tend to it discreetly like a bundle of yarn on my lap. I’ll have the appearance of knowing what im doing. Because something in me knows what i am doing even if i cannot explain its mechanics.

If i forget what im doing for a second, will he know what to do on my behalf?

Yes. He does. He knows what to do.

He’ll take the yarn and carry on that tending to and i’ll lie back and rest for a little while.

I didnt think id ever be able to close my eyes and trust a man with my ball of yarn.

But i did. And when i woke up, i loved him.’

But when I woke up again, the ball of yarn was shredded and dead! Worst of all, I didn’t know which of us had committed the crime. Had I slaughtered it in sleep?
Had it died after being pathologized as BPD?
Or did the borderline personality disorder kill it?
Please don’t tell me it was me!

The melancholic failure I feel at such a loss leaves me weak and tired. And I know I have just written the code of my killing in this text. The guilt of a miscarriage. To miscarry love.

But it was not all me. It was both of us. A mutual consent to kill with the denial of our salvation depending on the others salvation.

I will be very careful with my next ball of yarn, the yarn i gestate in me right at this very moment. 

All cats are psychonauts

Right now im choosing the temporality of a ‘once upon a time’... because ive always liked the way it sounds. It sounds both outside of time yet completely situated in it. It makes me imagine an ungraspable fog that i am caught in. In the fog i can see myself perfectly as i am, if i am the immediacy of the in-focus. Though i know from the others distance i am enshrouded and misty. Thats the temporality of a once upon a time. And in conjuring that fog i feel triumphant and immortal.

woke meets the sleeper

"I am afraid to inform you the dialectic is in motion"

spindle craft landed

Arrival

for John Andersson...

portrait of Paul Moon Day

The Retrofuturism of the Virus: the past has not yet occurred.

The temporality of capital production has been halted, but what has emerged in its place? Projections of future infection, knowledge of past plagues. Coronavirus always-has-been of course, through the plagues which emerge as yesterdays rather than dead stories.

Each past and future creates a different temporality and a different sci-fi reality, which is to say a present which is only ever known through retrofuturism. As the projections ramp up and increase in multiple forms, multiple possibilities, so does the past which has supposedly already occurred, but which has not occurred quite yet.

The past has not yet occured.

A portal into the present may seem like an unnecessary sort of thing, and that the present is in fact being lived through, and known definitely through one’s sensory experience. But insofar as the future comes back to define the present, and the present is known as similar and causal of the past, one sees that a portal to the present is the only option for those fighting against non-being itself. The lack of the portal to the present is in fact a submission.

Portals in the multiple offer different realities, insofar as different realities are able to be retrofitted, the retrofuture is a posteriori; but of course through immediate experience it is also a priori existent, synthetic, stretching over the sensory immediacy. 

“I want you to say that this is a living example of a portal into the present”

So what idea do we pay fidelity to then? Which retrofuture is the true present? Suddenly a space opens up, a gap in reality. This gap itself is the negation of what was the ordering of the world, and it is this gap itself that we should watch. What retrofutures will be thrust upon us by the powers that be?

What pasts, will we be told have already occurred? What shall be engineered for us, engineered with us?

Will we create the world? Will the world be created for us? When I am in the state of joy I am like a child, I have the power to name the world!

Who creates out of something, something besides joy? Who desires death?

What retrofutures of death will be shown as what has already been?

Instruments of control are becoming stronger.

Libertarianism is dying a fool’s death.

Can we who play ourselves make it past what is engineered for us, by us?


article by Mad Black Freud and Kirsty Woods

https://madblackfreud.com/