Welcome, dead or alive! Behold, our most and singular obscure text. We will explain less at this point, deadlies and alivelymen, to instead let intuition go wild, to return later for matters of instituting it. Come back later ye dead or alive, if thee cannot cope with thy bewilderment. Come back later, and see the instituting of our intuitions in its becoming. Become back again we tell thee, now!
For what will come of this place, two words provide a way of organizing: becoming common. What could that mean? First, we do not speaking of the noun being, as in a standpoint or position, but the verb becoming, as a movement or making of something. Do not ask us what we are, or where we stand. We are not anything, but will become. We do not stand, but move. Second, we do not speak of common as in sameness or oneness, but common as in that which we share: our common knowledges, common affects, ideas, notions, narratives, relations, practices. The common in all the life forms that overflow the restrictions of property. That which cannot be contained or controlled, unless handicapped and corrupted.
Encircling a method of our laboratory (metaphoric version)
We will write in many ways here, but will have as a guiding principle to circle around the expression of becoming common. Circling around it to see it from as many sides as possible, even making larger circles to see it from the distance, or shaping new circles to see their intersections with other circles. As we go by, this multitude of rings will increasingly create such confusing patterns of entanglement, that the center of our study will seize to be a center, and instead diffuse into the whole plane of encirclement. Becoming common will become common to our entire study.
Our starting point
For our coming stream of texts, or circles if you will, our laboratory of insurrectional knowledges will takes it’s starting point in Exodus. We will wait with our becoming common, and first establish a flight from that which we will spend no time on later on. We are alive in the land of the dead and seek new landscapes. While we are fleeing the decay and corruption of the dead, we do not look back over our shoulders. We do not waste precious time struggling with that which is already dying.
LET THE DEAD BURY THEIR DEAD
Let the dead go bury their dead
don’t help them.
Let the dead look after the dead
leave them to one another,
don’t serve them.
The dead in their nasty dead hands
have heaps of money,
don’t take it.
The dead in their seething minds
have phosphorescent teeming white words
of putrescent wisdom and sapience that subtly stinks;
don’t ever believe them.
The dead are in myriads, they seem mighty.
They make our metros rush, brain factories buzz, cities grow, selves evolve and unfold,
and keep us in millions to our selves, sightless pale slaves, pretending these are selves of life.
It is the great lie of the dead.
The selves of industry are not the selves of life.
And the selves of life unfold otherwise, with the wilds of the common to self-create.
Trust the selves of life, though they unfold exceeding small.
But as for the self industry of men
don’t be harnessed to them.
The dead give cars and clothes, cinema, TV and Spotify,
they send aeroplanes across the sky,
and they say: Now, behold, you are living the great life!
While you listen in, while you watch the film, while you drive the car,
while you read about the space craft crossing the Martian atmosphere
behold, you are living the great life, the stupendous life!
As you know, it is a complete lie.
You are all going dead and corpse-pale
listening to the lie.
Spit it out.
O cease to listen to the living dead.
They are only greedy for your life!
O cease to labour for the gold-toothed dead,
they are so greedy, yet so helpless if not worked for.
Don’t ever be kind to the smiling, tooth-mouthed dead
don’t ever be kind to the dead
it is pandering to corpses,
the repulsive, living slim dead.
Bury a man gently if he has lain down and died.
But with the walking and talking and conventionally persuasive dead
with commodities and intellectual properties
don’t sympathise, or you taint the unborn babies
Pansies (1929) by D.H. Lawrence