Empire’s defined by its geography. But its fundamental drive is the quality of its daily, banal, on the ground management, the rise and fall of empire is dictated by the quality of its programme managers. Not so much the programmes, they’re reasonably arbitrary as long as managed with a real strategy. Strategy, geography, management. These are the three pillars of empire.
I must confess my bias to Empire. Roman, Chinese dynasties, Soviet, Islamic, American, Putin’s Russian, Contemporary Chinese, it doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t: the problem with pretty much any discourse on Empire is the privilege afforded ideology, be it nationalist or economic, be it humanist or religious. If you’ll pardon the somewhat flamboyantly Scientological the phrase, this privilege is an implant of the discourse’s natural historicity. But real people, living real lives do not mean anything to historicity nor does historicity mean anything to them. Real people living real lives are either led to Empire or led to the local by the forces of the time. That is, in order to understand Empire, what Empire really means for the individual, and what is local, separatism, what the separate means for the individual, in order to frame that discourse, we must abandon a historicity’s metaphysical frame and adopt a new, physical phenomenology of motivation.
The poet, spotlighted now, within this blues rock entheogenic British speech. This peculiar mashup, connected and fully realised not too long ago, but now deployed, oh so publically. The band were never to forsook their Eastern Thememite roots. They entered the Abraxas opening during phase 1 after all, so respect.
The detective stood in the stalls. Surveyed the audience, grooving to Lead Singer Desmond Morris, slinking his way across the stage, channeling his demonic in whoops and wails, while all the way the rhythm was kept New Orleans, raw perception of the south, of creole kisses and jambalaya jive indulgence. Image. Image 2, provenance old earth.
Attractive to the kids in the way a Long lost sculpture Hhhhhor minor civil servants mummy might be perceived on a trip to the British museum.
Morris was getting old, his audience 40 somethings. And his new albums were only played in IBC 2. Fuck, it had been 14 years since the Rainbow Connection disbanded and he we went solo. He’d poured his heart and soul into the latest but … seemed like not enough. Not the innovation of his maxim polyphony, the technique behind his most dark and autobiographic lines. Instead they played him by default because The Raibow connection was remembered by lots. Lots of 40 year old former racers.
But rival is a funny thing, It was one generation past his kids”, when he understood his power was actually as a real producer,
“Damn. That track … ”
“Right. Listen. Listen carefully to what you sing, now. Because that was your secret exam
She waited a moment, How did Monya know of her secret, Her knowledge of soul was so,etching they’d have to tear, neuron connection to neuron sympathy, on ev
Practically, it’s very simple, which makes it amenable to the new ethics.
Never do anything without considering everyone around you and appreciating their perception of you and what you might potentially do. Almost a Buddhist exercise of loving kindness spread across the mycholic net of soul 2 soul call response.yet niyat opens both left and right handed prospects. It does, for better or worse, admit power.
Power and niyat are mutually comfortable concepts. But lived out, their comfort often becomes contradiction, conflict: when embodied in the drama of our day to day soul sleeve
Never mind, this makes our maxim even easier to raise within the forum. Because arguably everyone has already aquiested. They’ve build the algorithms, just waiting now for your, only your, fire or not fire.
He was drawn back to … a memory … but somehow not his, one refracted across … still my god she was beautiful, the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen,
The cogito is too weak. Better “I intend such and such to occur, modulo my situation and relationship with my throwness, therefore I am.”
While more awkward, the spectrum of being for itself, of itself, and an ethics of this, is articulated precisely.
The ethics, last standing, is of niyat, of intention. I evaluate the situation, all concerned, each player, and then, with full intention, act. For the group, for me, for another group. I act, with full awareness, niyat, I know what I’m doing.
Is this something we can all say of our current state, of our Monday at work? No, it’s hard to cultivate. But the garden of the Seen will be cultivated, because she like it like that. This is more a resolution, less a revolution, more a revelation, less a conversation. It’s my particular flavor of the cogito.
That’s the best thing about the cogito. Descartes provides a motif, but a basic one, read to be remixed, a session sample for philosophy mix of this our crazy 21sr century future. And each thinker an MC, a rhymer, each Cartesian a hip hop treatise that begins with “I … therefore …”
I drop beats therefore I am
Titular web cam funky less than I jam
Lie a semiotic bionic cybernetic lie sham began
But ah I’m kidding now creator has a master plan
Peace and happiness to every man.
Let me simplify. The philosophy of math is a constructed corollary of the argument for subjecthood’s privilege as a reality. But reality, math, the subject: I situate these linguistically, mathematically, my irony of objective deconstruction.
Mathematics has a linguistic geology, a linguistic situation upon the geology of significations, meanings, regimes of words. Within these cathedrals of code, these dominions of difference, these regimes of vision, mathematics has a dual character: that of the numerologist, a hidden mathematics to be revered for its secrets, and that of the accountant, a visible mathematics to run the city, to drive the practical seen economics of the everyday. What might surprise you is that these characteristics are in dialectic with one another, and could not exist in isolation. Like symbionts, they’ve always been the nature of our mathematical situation, as each cathedral of code, each dominion of difference, each regime of vision draws to a close and gives birth to the next cathedral/dominion/regime, by means of the line of light. And the line will draw, will empower and exploit, it will be funded by means of number, in both its visible and invisible aspects.
At first I was scared. Then I was beyond scared, I lost it, lost my grip. I thought they was a bunch of gangstas, at first. Something to with the Carbon League. Don’t like my kind, seen some of the brethren at the Church even wearing the armbands and making those damn salutes and all but I never gave it a second thought. People be assholes anyway, but still here in Aris City we still keep it civil, you know?
Stomp. Stomp. WHAP! STOMP. I froze. Right behind me, getting louder. STOMP STOMP STOMP. I turned, there was a whole pack of them, all in black armor, LikeBattle, Camo-Urban, all that designer b boy shit.
“Yo fellas, I ain’t a trick. Just walking home from Church, I a Church girl, see … sister.” I called back to them, hiding the nervousness subroutine banging in my head, I emitted an Empathy Radius across the gang. Oh, ya’ll don’t know what an Empathy Radius is? It’s this protective shield we G-Droids have installed? I mean, it’s designed to grant pleasure on an owner but it also kicks in as a defense mechanism. Makes you feel humanity, intense like, humanity in all. Human enough for the league to take me as another carbon.
“Carbon Carrier Clan!” I shouted and gave the disgusting Nazi salute.
The gang did not respond. Instead they upped their pace toward her. STOMPSTOMPSTOMPSTOMP!
That’s when she lost it. And just ran.
He pulled her into an Coms enclave just moments before the troops stormed through the corridor. Mae’s heart was pounding.
“What the fuck was that? And who the fuck are you?”
“They’re imperial agents. Out to get you. I’m your only hope of survival right now, so when I say any other explanations can wait till you’re safe, you probably ought to listen. Come.”
He hacked the console of the enclave like a simple log in. Teletransported them right out of the citidal.
“You just took us out. Out! No one leaves Home.”
“We just did.”
“No,” a different panic took over her body. “No. You don’t understand. I’m a droid. I cannot be outside. They’ll shut me down.”
“Oh really, how they do that?”
“Are you stupid? Take me back, they’ll shut me down.”
“They won’t shut you down, don’t worry Maisy. You’re not a droid. You’re human, as human as me or anyone else.”
The wound. It was bleeding out. She was bleeding. How could she be bleeding? Maisy passed out.
She awoke in what looked like a north counties cottage, the kind of place they made historical vids about, E.M. Foster shit. She removed the knitted shawl and saw her wound had been treated, the skin discolored but the blood gone.
“How – ?”
“How did you bleed? How’d we escape? How’d we get here? Good questions, deserve an answer. You bled because, like the rest of us, you bleed. They’re after you because of a relationship they know you were implicated in — with the Brigider. We escaped because I know how. Because – ”
“Because you’re a Deviant. I know, Metaphysical Law is in my programming.” The best legal theological education, implanted within her: surprisingly useful and also in demand from a Geisha Droid. The way this man carried himself, the speed with. Which he could manipulate the nexus, the Coms, only someone with a real handle on the Coms should be.
“Hey, I like you. You’re smart.” He looked up from his cube and and paused to look her in the eye. “Yes, that’s what I am. Drink.”
He poured her a glass of water.
The water was crisp, pure. From the earth, not the endlessly recycled commodity of the desert realm. Real water, like that of the Arctic Edge. The water turned to wine, as she swallowed.