We are only ever permitted to experience the communal inasmuch as it emptily gestures to an articulable, exceptional, community. And this community is merely the space of a double articulation that appears and reappears.
We find ourselves rendered at two registers:
the flesh and the figure.
The flesh, because we are always learning that the control society is still a punitive one. The strictures that direct our movements and our experience of time hand to us a fluid but stable subject function for us to slip into and slip out of.
The figure, because what we are at our most particular—our kinetics, purchases, secretions, consumptions—does not only individualize us in relation to a norm, but immediately places us upon a new plane of administration.
We do not pass from one register to the other. We are suspended in both. They correspond in an ever-shared administrative congruence. To see a dialectic within their respectively unified operations is to miss the actual strategy. But perhaps the reactionary soothers would like to make such a fold tolerable, to play one against the other in hopes that one day they can direct the machine and choose which blood to spill.
Those in search of a pathology of our condition will find themselves standing atop the ruins with nothing to say – but with cures to administer as they mimic joining vanquishers. But they are truly with us, among the vanquished.
I am split in the unity that the violent emptiness of power
attests to.
At this focused and refocused schism, I am what I am.
And I am perfect and pure in my knowability,
so long as they render me.
I see myself through my eyes
gazing into that lens,
then I bounce back.
The liars see in this some truth that makes our agonies just.
They cope with their pleas
for continuity, in hope of a
rigid finality where they can beautifully weep
from their sovereign thrones…
We know better.
RevoltingBodies 