Author: bajin580

It’s Yell At Ghosts Day…yay.

Jonathan Glazer’s Oscar speech — one of those “felt something break inside” moments looking at the Zionist blowback: as if it’s now definitive that we’re in a superstructural fight where works are nakedly utilized as blunt ideological weapons, regardless of their content or artistry. Taste, critical thinking, historical and cultural literacy — these are not only no longer assets but will get in the way of having a by-line: philistinism in the service of necrotic partisan politics, assuming there will even be jobs left.

Marx, Capital Volume 1, Chapter 15: “Capitalist production, therefore, develops technology, and the combining together of various processes into a social whole, only by sapping the original sources of all wealth — the soil and the labourer.” It’s been reported that the earth may run out of farming soil in 60 years if the capitalistic character of mechanized agriculture is to continue.

Leibnitz the most beautiful thinker: time is measured in perceptive experience, not days. The shimmering in the water pouring over coffee.

Reading Ragtime by Doctorow on the L to Brooklyn, and a schizo guy walks down the train toward me; a hawking sound, and fluid smacking the floor ; I look up; a hawking sound, and a gob of mucus lands on my face. BIOHAZARD.

At least we’re getting cats soon.

Reading Capital Volume 2 all Saturday long, industrial capital, circulation, the three circuits, including circulation, money-capital, productive-capital, commodity-capital…production time mediates circulation time and vice versa…labor-power and means of production…here the class relation is laid bare: it’s only ’cause workers have nothing to do but sell their labor-power, ’cause they don’t own the means of production, and the owners, who do not labor, buy labor-power as the commodity that gets soaked up by their means of production to make surplus-value.

The blue light filled the library room that evening.

And the morning sunlight avoids the cafe on Livingston…light as protagonist in the otherwise empty environment.

My parents and I are driving on the interstate toward Seattle. Dad rotates his driver’s seat 180 degrees, holding his phone sideways instead the steering wheel, his thumbs tapping away at a videogame. We’re flanked by cars and semitrucks on either lane. “Don’t worry, I’m still driving,” Dad says.

But I’m worrying about the demon cat hiding in the bedroom. And the classmate who saw my presentation about the history imperialist expansionism, and started ugly crying in the corner.

A strange device comes in the mail. Out of its packaging it looks like an old timey walkman cassette player, white in color with orange accents, and I understand it is for a certain conference that I’d signed on to but forgotten.