Manifestos are generally an embarrassing way to get one's ideas across. They all have that same histrionic tone that affects youthful energy but which is usually an indication of a libido in decline or immensely stifled.
At least that's what I'm inclined to say as an ontology-less millenial. We get our takes from Freud, whom we haven't read. If we're lucky we can glean some epistemology from some dissident sphere thinkers who themselves lack coherent ontology and this is how we spend our days on the internet talking about things that ultimately don't make much difference.
The Kind of Blog Toned Self Description That 2021 Long Left Behind
I'd say I'm a Marxist who doesn't actually think capitalism exists or is really a thing and who doesn't think socialism is really a thing either.
I'm a Hegelian who doesn't really think history actually started yet.
I'm a Nietzschean who thinks God is asleep and we have bored him.
I'm a Hericlitean Futurist who thinks you cannot step into the same river of everlasting life twice.
One Time At a Coffee Shop
This perhaps 30 year old black man was sitting next to my then girlfriend on the right at the bar of the café. He was on his laptop scrolling through pictures of panthers in the wild.
'They're such beautiful animals aren't they?' he said to her. 'So much more beautiful than we are.'
A few minutes later, I saw he had his hand in his sweats and was gently masturbating to them.
The scene horrified me on the one hand, but on the other I was moved in a weird way I can't describe and don't fully understand to this day.
EVERYONE'S A LITTLE AUTISTIC
It's cliches that bind us.
Cliches that drive us.
Cliches that unite us.
Cliches that put us to sleep at night.
Freedom From Anarchism
A delinquent strand of her red hair drifted behind her in the breeze. He couldn't help but take in the patchy pallor of the winter desert redolent of sage even as she suggested that friends was all she wanted to be.
Her teal scarf brought out her green eyes and he couldn't help but wonder if female beauty was not completely dead to him in that moment.
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Pinch an Irishman on Bloomsday
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An Irish drinking song, to be sung only with Irish whiskey in hand.
Tullimore cup
Tullimore cup
Everybody drinks from a Tullimore cup
Drink. It. Up.
Drink. It. Up.
Can fit a lot of whiskey in a Tullimore cup
As I was down a country road
I saw an apple orchard
And I shot my load
It settled to the ground below
sprouted me a son without no clothes
Tullimore cup
Tullimore cup
Everybody drinks from a Tullimore cup
Drink. It. Up.
Drink. It. Up.
Can fit a lot of whiskey in a Tullimore cup
The reader is invited to add verses which loosely fit this rhythm and rhyme scheme in the comment section below, with the assumption that the chorus will repeat between each verse (you don’t have to write the chorus but then you don't have to do anything). There will be no prize save, perhaps, adulation.
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Itching for an ideology, I neg all of them and never get invited to the dance.
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You forgot to tell the outgroup you were pro abortion.
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You wanna raise Kundalini? You wanna coax that mufucker all the way up to the ole acorn patch on your pineal? You ready to read Chomsky and courtesy laugh at Bill Hicks? Grow some mushrooms for those MMA meatheads shilling fungal coffee? You ready to make a lingum out of spam and put it on Tik Tok and make shocked faces at it like an over-the-top zoomer bitch? You ready to rhizome it up with some fuckin theoried out eDeleuzians?
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So I have this idea for a series of books which will largely be collections of fragmentary writings and small essays. They'll be called things like A Recent Book or A Book About Things. I like the idea of super banal, generic titles. Balances out my crazy ass titles like God Hates You.
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It's easy to think you're miserable in the present and think back to a recent past in which you were happy. At least that's how it is for me. (But let's not be coy. I know for a fact everyone does this because it's the human condition). But if you place yourself in the past and truly remember what you felt while you were there, you realize you were miserable then too.
The common denominator is you. You bring misery with you wherever you go.
So, how I've been learning to deal with this is to discursively exhaust every resource that I thought ever could make me happy and realize everything will disappoint me. This isn't simply pessimism: it legitimately gives me peace to realize that I can't get out of things and people more than they're able to give so I should stop making these infinite demands which are really just projections of my own emptiness.
The emptiness can then be embraced as a source of novel creation rather than a hole that needs to be filled.
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Freedom is all I care about anymore.
Ideologies and movements are all worthless.
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Freedom isn't political. As soon as it is, it isn't.
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Sound lame and libertarian? Good. Libertarians are communists.
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Communists are liberals.
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Plato's public sounds fun if you got the right people. How about Zeno's republic? It sounds like an antifa commune.
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I actually say things of substance sometimes but wouldn't have dared to do so in the anti-manifesto anti-manifesto.
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I guess one of the things I really hate are the big European art manifestos, like the surrealist one, the dada one, Whyndam Lewis's awful Vorticest garbage, everything the Situationists got up to say. It's so transparently unrevolutionary. These people just suck and then they die. And they usually write this stuff in their late 20s/early 30s, emulating the youthful posture they now fundamentally lack. It's pathetic.
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Is there anything more pathetic than some old punk or anyone who was part of a movement? Yuck. Reminiscing about how they were there when the world changed.
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Okay folks that's really about all I got. I'd love to start an ideology or movement but I just don't got it in me. I'm really just trying to get by and maybe experience some non-boring but pleasant things for now.
I don't even really subscribe to some of this already. Go figure.
Stay safe as the normies say!