Freedom and Equality. The founding precepts of the Western political state. They are ‘higher’ goals, primary goods towards man’s happy consciousness.
Why then, should these two concepts be interrogated? Why must they be treated with suspicion?
The alarming cacophony of interlocutors marks a territory of bodies in confusion. Everything turns to a paler shade of brown. All things being equal and free, the disciplinary mechanisms seem productive of emales – androgynous beings invested with agenda (identity politicks) – in short, a property. One’s property is a position in a hierarchy but all things being ‘free’ and ‘equal,’ its difficult to evaluate the lines forming that one may be content with.
What’s that you have there under your toga, Phaedrus?
In the continuous moments of distraction (Gap), one is ever susceptible to – even facillitated and ‘improved’ by – the grand architecture of Being, a metaphysique, constructed on the cornerstone of neo-liberalism. Hence the suspicion…
Where is the man on the moon?
Space: what you damn well have to see – belongs to the mute. The moon and the planets and the stars are mute. They do not have mouths. Modern science has formulated their being. They are no longer subjects of mythology (lycanthropy). The true man shows – the man of knowledge, the scientist, the expert wheeled out for the masses – they are inert bodies of matter. There is no need for superstition and belief to rule our solar system. Man is the inventor of himself.
A free cause on which to speak about: equality for the masses. There is no man on the moon. We put a man on the moon who (mis)spoke his script…
One small step for man; one giant step for mankind.
A black hole is a catastrophe of astrological proportions. An absolute rupture in the fabric of time and space. The violent upheaval of a soul flying along tangents off lines of straight motion to the logos of heaven, neon lights flashing. Follow the signs. Clinamen holidaying around the entropic of cancer, may fall into black holes. Invisible dangers, one must read the signs.
I owe Ascelipus a cock. Socrates himself, has been sick a long time. Death is now his physician.
All I am emale. I give myself up to language. Anon.