MAN: And even Hegel once said that there are some people—that within them the will of history has been instilled so deeply, like a parasite, like a spirit, that the brain’s crevices turn from flesh to stone, and it is within this burning pumice, within the heated, boiling rock, that man is no longer man, cannot consider himself man, no, more than man—to be the man and the world in one breath. They say if the world could write, it would write like Tolstoy. But if all the oceans were filled with blood, and all the land but one white, pure white, banner of snow—would not one man have the courage to sink into the churning purple abyss, only to come out past life, and have his quaint footsteps mark the trail of revolution in warm snow dotted with burning, living specks of hemoglobin past their governmentally mandated expiration. The whole world stands as single cup, swaying softly in the hands of some father, the purple wine undulating back and forth, losing itself in its own vicissitude, always only touching the lip, the rim. It is like what an epileptic feels before an attack, that feeling, to just be at the point of almost being filled, that the whole body and mind, in its exuberance, collapses, like tinseled, heated, iron onto itself into the void of its own existence. And all it takes is one salt laden tear to fall into the cup, and for the wine to begin to spill, pour onto the father’s hands as he continues swaying in the forever coursing pendulum of his own existence. Back and forth he continues, passively, not caring, as the wine begins to saturate his entire hands until they turn into fertile loam upon which not the world grows, but the world-past-the-world.
Clocks stuck in jaundice lock break their teeth against stale bread. The world—like Hermes' snakes—suffocates around its own axis to the point of physical confusion. The sun stays red, dripping globs of wax on the land to linger there and sinataliate into the sky that begins to run a libidinal blue. And who keeps the revolutionary clock alive, but not tortured convulsions some beatle stripped of its wings, trying to fly away with the power of it sick, rotting stomach. Or is it not the epileptic child, who passes time with each attack, and makes it so that the hours speak and minutes mutter in unison with the shaking of his entire frame?
A theoretical question for party internal documentation: If in the course of humanity’s bitterness, a holocaust of flame licks the coasts, atomic bombs explode with the frequency of bees clambering onto the queen to fuck, and within the course of this annihilation, one single individual emerges into the daylight, the lone survivor of this apocalypse, can the revolution still occur? Can the Vanguard, the State, and the People be merged into one human being, like how the Son, the Father, and the Holy Ghost were merged in the corporeal flesh of Christ, and can this man in turn build his own cross, so that in his sufferance, the original sin of the extraction of surplus value from the proletariat can be—can be—forgiven? Can, in the mind of one man, the pre-apocalyptic man, an internal revolution occur that is so profound, that the circuit breakers of this world break, glass shattering and dissolving in snakes of electric light, and the world beings to turn in the opposite direction.
You see, that is what the revolution is. We must first delude ourselves that capitalism exists, and that it is not just people buying and selling different commodities in an anarchic web of interactions, and it is only from this maddened, wine-filled delusion that capitalism begins to actually emerge as a system, and it is only from this point at which we can start fighting against it, like how the snake swallows its own tail, thinking it is another enemy. Plant capitalism within yourself, and then rip it out by the roots, and it will only be in that pain that any possibility of redemption can occur.
The Man strikes the mirror, leaving his knuckles bloodies and the glass in scattered shards.
MAN: Or I can be the man consigned to speak the churing bile of his stomach, than the breath of his lungs. Crawling along, with nothing to say, but all the words in the English language to say it. So give me my words, and if I bang them together, and sparks appear, perhaps for a moment, I will feel some sort of warmth in this frictional heat. Does this conclude the meeting of the central committee of the party?