take money out of the equation, and sack all the waiters and return to tribalism, the former statement of non-intellectual socialism, the sort of inherent: in us there is a togetherness, no more service from strangers in the hierarchy of enriching a piece of metal or a wavy rectangle of paper with “necessary” symbolism of authority of the status quo... but that’s not going to happen... the pickpocket picts are no more... the normalising normans glared at the hastings pinnacle and integrated with the saxon women... the saracens became surnames in poland... actually that last one is very true... a branch of my family has the surname saracen.*
so i’m reading this article and i’m hardly debasing myself, it’s not that i’m referring to sartre’s negation of certain things whether animate and essential or inanimate and existential... in that formula: i deny therefore i am... because i can’t deny my existence... and 2000 years down the line i’ll be pitchfork argument in an atheist’s mouth anyway (nothing is certain in the realm of cognition, hence the cartesian invocation of doubt), it's not like i'm referring to inappropriate pronoun usage... so **** a doodle do... twang the strings on the mandolin... i’m referring to this classical reference of the shy literary figure unable to spark conversation with strangers... god, i really love strangers, and talking to them! why? there is no personal history, there’s no past, there are no reference points... it’s just the moment and nothing else, the perfect anonymity project... not the matrix philosophy (easily invoked because it has a flimsy plot-line and loads of images... just what the doctor ordered for the english speaking masses with a very naked orthography - i.e. if it’s on the internet it’s not “real life...” as is this computer i’m using it’s not even here!) of using the deep web to join the rats and etc.; i love talking to strangers, i can forget myself and enter the realm of discretion about how within randomisation of eggshell, yoke and cockroach there’s also the randomisation of the interactants to balance out the need for a theological unit, god... it’s great... it’s like... it’s like... life. defining the genre of biography proper? never backtrack... always sidetrack... i can’t be bothered living a life with cocktail parties and romps and romantic comedies to look forward to once all the animalism becomes domesticated and a gym-session complaints column in a newspaper.