BOILING DOWN TO COLDNESS
Being serious about the anorexic synchronicity of boredom and what it does to a human being today for the entirety of this discourse (wasted).
PROLOGUE: 'All lively in miasmic fatigue’
“So let us exercise our bodies! Without them we would not think; they are the machines on which we weave the threads of our thoughts.”
- Johann Christoph Friedrich GutsMuths, 1793
The tropes and nuances of expressions like ‘hope’ and ‘belief’ have been glaringly abused since people began thinking in prose. In the same log, Sophists and lifestyle evangelists have progressively despoiled any creed that helms someone through boredom, a thin air that circumscribes the bearer. Life is alienated in a dysfunctional time that maneuverers with slurping some Darjeeling tea and a wee bit of muffins, inclusively the high-heeled society pets by calling it ‘leisure’. The segregated resort of opulence in their ‘London season’ and the great mass entertainment for diverse audiences urbanizing aloofly, sold to them in cultural relapses is an escapist acceleration towards a newer kind of debauchery and a way out from the combative dialectical stages while aging in real-time. Further ado the red brick of concern engages the lost anthropocentric symmetry, no one’s breathing heat of their hearts, no one’s nuanced enough. Letting off the huckle all clear-headed wankers online, what appears to be goofy-comfy boredom is actually a modern façade that liniments any hardcore dictatorial desire to administer the greater oblivious. To a sparse degree, it appears to be a crème de la crème middle-aged conspiracy, such as any truth in today’s magnanimous world of representations. Søren Kierkegaard, with his cultured Danish housewife energy rants upon the ills of boredom in his ‘Rotation method’, he writes: “It is very curious that boredom, which itself has such a calm and sedate nature, can have such a capacity to initiate motion. The effect that boredom brings about is absolutely magical, but this effect is one not of attraction but of repulsion.” To rotate from one thing to another procured by sinewy hands of ‘limitation’ (The more a person limits himself, the more resourceful he becomes) will be equivalent to toil in paradise. Contrarily, a third-eyed look propounds the lamb to be slaughtered, there is not any spider on the desert roof to amuse this myopic existentialist, fulfilment is canceled on axed cedars for man is that obnoxious creature. For Guy Debord, this dispossession in an estranged time and space enables “The alienation of the spectator, which reinforces the contemplated objects that result from his own unconscious activity, works like this: The more he contemplates, the less he lives; the more he identifies with the dominant images of need, the less he understands his own life and his own desires.” As much as Wei-Wei orbit disbands on the face of the modern imagery of facade, any real consequence is flushed down in the bare minimum ghetto of lifeless patting by a cat-eared schoolgirl. In the midst of personalities, the starkly perved at Dostoevsky's underground man claims that “everything’s stemmed from boredom” which is an exaggeration you Schizos will love to put faith in. Ascend the panoramic vantage and witness my good Sirs and madams, we’ve become pharmaceutical chickens in the modern marriage of an Americana and deep-faked commodity experience. Prompting further thoughts are live-streamed on Reddit by one-punch Coomers punched in balls by primary school bullies. This breeding dichotomy of the dominant economic system seeding a fungal elitist open society of cushioned-ass philosophy conceits an intermediate class of people who're either bored by themselves or boring to others in the ever-passing present. Everything heavier and meager than life in this society protrudes Kierkegaard's 'Symparanekromenoi', a Greek-speak translated as “Society of buried alive”. ‘A god-fearing man forlorn any Seraphim romance and gushes upon housing prices laying on a 'personalization' themed couch’ is the most detailed picture of this generational form of leisure. It’s a cornered economy as a whole. Kierkegaard observes in his work ‘Fear and Trembling’ that “It is only lower natures who have the law for their actions in someone else, the premises for their actions outside themselves.”
Capitalism embezzled politics by mainstreaming debased appearances and worming them into a seductive commodity experience that surely programs individuals vulnerable to a thoughtfully cited 'decentralized' shamanism. The conscience of Proles is not delayed or undecided, it is grotesquely worn out, not like a pair of jeans but like a fetid puss flesh, by doldrums circling a castrated universal morality. "The masses have never thirsted after truth," writes Gustave Lebon in 'The Crowd: A Study of the Popular Mind (1895)', "They turn aside from evidence that is not to their liking, preferring to deify error, if error seduces them. Whoever can supply them with illusions is easily their master; whoever attempts to destroy their illusions is always their victim." This is to be discussed here, the serendipitous inactivity that is supposed to ignite the water-colored nature of today's zeal. Men today fake tunnel productivity more than stone-faced impressions of a mentally ill loner. Lost in the rainbowed gamut of screen-less projections, I see a random violated fuckface so often that it inspired me to summon some Bengali (also South-Asia for a few western asses) intellects and write this voluble piece, guess I got porn-casted in another economic exchange. On a footnote, I close-called in dubbing this write-up for ‘How a cringe virgin Nietzschean nearly honked his pecker to Amy Schumer because he was bored’ but I guess that excuses for an equally unfunny self-appeasing take.
Not that the world is tiresome in itself:
We know what boredom is: it is a dull
Impatience or a fierce velleity,
A champing wish, stalled by our lassitude,
To make or do.
- Richard Wilbur in his poem "Lying”
INTERLOGUE: ‘What has stranded humans in such low-life horizons? (Added Explicit fury-fiction)’
Prime Materia states that there has been a volume of sorrow and sediments of delinquency in boredom though it has been excused from the justiciable books of societal facts. The zealous carpenter hewed barn woods from the ancestral tree of life just because it outlived him and hurried upwards towards a familiar god, is it the aesthete passion of a faithful son or one of the pantheons of wiles in the serfdom of boredom? By the means of the demonic, we form the post-industrial coldness by the agreements of socio-economic speculations for global risks, inveigled to be in evaporative cooling chambers that defoliates any commune with timeless history and Greek Daimons thus promoting paraphilic buoyancy of consumer gratification. Anxious to quit steadfastly but live dedicatedly, people drink themselves to mental oscillations and work for sacrosanct wages that they spend whenever reality is teased. Here, no enlightenment shit-post or meditative bullshit’s going to help, reason comes to man as natural as planetary motion, people need urbane shotguns. An archetypical echo says God’s to arrange for impotent idiots, it says he needs to escalate things. The strength of a gun is more deterministic; the strength of God is absurd.
How this anamnesis impaction is solicited, given a material world of fake interfaces of no real confrontations? What has left us so tired that we’re as grounded as an unskilful lover? These are the few lullabies to blame.
1) Ghosts of mantles and genomes:
The aged truths about cryptic archetypes that inherit this world got buried passing generations of cluelessly unreliable fuckers burgeoned out of mother's gothic bush. Funny in this is that a historical lesson makes sense only if you can recall that part of history at any moment of recall and not just re-read it. But this manual is worthless because today men rule by cliches and are run by algorithms. Any cultural advances conducive to going beyond the compensated unconscious harnessed by a Proximus history of an ancestry defined by fiat security and morbid affairs are hemmed by the rational thinking exhibited by civilization. As taxidermic Kantians with their post-enlightenment foreheads(huge) vaunt emasculated cries like “If the truth shall kill them, let them die.” Yes, the context died, and everything that was true in itself. Such a catharsis in different cultures and their ineradicable motivational drives regarding the chasm into what was natural is now manufactured has timely established boredom as a very acceptable fatality. When disenfranchised idleness is capitalized everywhere, directly or indirectly, the propriety of this selective unproductiveness has been excused. Things are always better unexplained, forgotten ambiguities burn down villages. Remember, Idleness avenges itself in a ‘failure’ state that is complete detachment from one's true occupation. The boomers know it, the mantle was lost in the debilitated Animus Mundi, the marketing campaigns that pitches this functioning world order to us simply aiming to avoid apathetic anarchy and independent young ones that do not require a guardian sylph for their dreams. Today, when ‘will’ is hoisted by OD-ed kids living in conventional shallowness of subtle disciplines, a pilgrimage onto the discovery of the self is a universally held-over taboo, self-discovery content produced by media boot camps serves the necessary eunuchized equanimity of that shit-posting with Viking energy. I wonder what my neanderthal brothers would think of this. I say this has to be the generation of children of puppets, not puppets themselves. Even the aesthete suffering from the precision set loose in art never had its shot at the respiratory boredom that is very characteristic of the fuel of the parentage feudal system, scientific progress. Being so worthless duplicating oneself day and night, parents shrivel a layer of skin of their genitalia to borne a worthy inheritor, a kamikaze gimmick from the ‘irresponsible’ boomers.
“Ante-apocalyptic specter is pressing against me mate, you hear me (sips gelatine mix). My balls are moistened from sweating in horror, not even unregulated banking or coerced stooping on dormitory beds got me this bad. I'm an old rug, Perseus of third-degree streets, brave and a little bit dishonest. I wish my mother dead for siding with my brute father. I wish for violence against any material that falters into a hymn of infernal tides. Abide with me, I’m numb! In the landscape of cavernous life, I’m unbeknownst to living and pale blue corpse length to death. O’ salient Anons, now I wish boredom till sunrise and then sunset” set forth Fury(I) foul playing a general audience of petite mongers possessed by the unromantic zeitgeist of mercantile Europe.
Founding rock bottoms for ever-growing tastelessness, I’m sure our adjacent elders had one or two strikes to swing across, hammer into lost loves that seduced them, or display chivalric grit and bones against some banker that didn’t cremate their gold conspired by an Egyptian God complex or library accesses and this isn’t even my peak hyperreality dismissiveness. More to that isn't a possibility, a secret borne out of a fight against boredom was lost in generations dichotomized by wars, economic crises, imperialistic foreplays, and plagues that made it to the news. Greater grand exponential guerrillas preparatory montaged by gurus ridiculed degenerate capturing of time in capsuled experience, instead, their life was time-lined into an unfathomable journey of becoming, bearing, and being simultaneously bodying hundred-year-old indecisiveness. Your disease-ridden body felt blessed because you just prayed, they ferried supremely because they knock-knocked every diety.
2) All trouble on the rack and roll day [10 October 2022]:
Trouble is real, it renders itself to be absolute relative to the temperate convenience of a situation but that doesn't make it wholesome. Misoneism always dubstep villainy albeit not all novel is fearful. New and stupid or new and bold readily excites sweet children but is conveniently forgotten with time. But the new and greater is congruently a code of renaissance. Commodity simulation of irreversible time spoils nothing when every moment that vituperates inaction seems like a day off from a Chinese shoe factory when it’s at a trade war with Japan. Thereby this experience isn't the drug that aids salaciousness, it’s the caffeine pill that inspirits the lurking asexual embrace of time. Only nuns don’t work on Sundays, the rest of us lapdogs extrapolate trouble by obsessing over everything that’s recorded. Students who were once characterized for their diverse interests and actions conjure up a Diogenesian attitude of lassitude's expenditures, worshiping cheap tricks to blitzkrieg their bowels. The only currents afloat in the youth today are stimulus responses and weaponized silences. Upon post-disciplinary framework and internal policy in educational institutions, Mark Fisher writes about the lack of self-motivation in students: “Ask students to read for more than a couple of sentences and many - and these are A-level students mind you - will protest that they can't do it. The most frequent complaint teachers hear is that it's boring. It is not so much the content of the written material that is at issue here; it is the act of reading itself that is deemed to be 'boring'. A post-literate 'New Flesh' that is 'too wired to concentrate’ and the confining, concentrational logics of decaying disciplinary systems.” You’ll see young people lost in supposedly literal Cartesian planes bandwagon donating to their faction's fortune-tellers on twitch. Global MO targeting universities, media, and parental figures are snow manning away a school of thought: Myopic nihilism compounded with redemptive activism against any victorious enterprise that gives out a humane self-awareness beguiling arrival of momentous pursuits. Self-pity and aesthetics of purgatory and vermin is virtue and pass-time among literates tattooed a LEGO PFP. Whereas, boredom is arguably a Promethean boon when it supervenes an ideated inspiration, for an immature mind it’s largely a crippling result, cordially the only ablution time being is a return to one's fundamental axioms.
If then you're looking for trouble, drop by that apish Gomorrah's man of men hankering for that one snowball for a ribald in the light of levity. I’m explicitly messing around unless butt schemes conjure you into role-dressing a Monica Bellucci from ‘Irreversible (2002)’. A leap beyond the languish point in embracing the trouble would be to weigh in burdened responsibilities like fortune totems of purposeful pursuit, unalike fitful plot-fillers.
“Though human affairs are not worthy of great seriousness, it is yet necessary to be serious. God alone is worthy of supreme seriousness, but man is God’s plaything. What then is the right way of living? Life must be lived as play, playing certain games, making sacrifices, singing and dancing, and then a man will be able to propitiate the gods, and defend himself against his enemies, and win in the contest.”
- Johan Huizinga
3) Curses do not talk back wiggling propaganda:
Fried kids spring out their grandma’s cutlery as he Creampies a cunt more radioactive than Curies', is he the sophisticated one? Misunderstandings and understatements own relationships today like a Versace spinster colonizing multi-colored nuts. And in this nebula of epileptic communications, cursing is sterilized and asunder violating finishes that could have run off puffy-eyed ‘Damsel in recess’. In this hotspot of intimate prostitution where we trade moribund motor functions to the goblins of mesne profits and marketing research, the hand-jobbing soft power of corporate and governmental designates, perverting slurs (violating the energy of an entire room) is a lost cause. In one case, a kid in an abusive household recapitulates with rattling mania that he would never abuse his children differing from his father. But he never curses his father, this very moment he commits to a butthurt pervert art instead of a raw rebellion. A spoken curse with vibrant hellish forces configures the jaws of the other person in a way that he, in cryostat cynicism, dictates the curse once to himself. This anti-flagged purging material is never effective when the supper is over, mic came out of the cut but the win against ganged-up propagandist worldviews appears sacrosanct in nerdy chains. Maybe curtain call moment is not owned because it isn’t as flashy as those beheading customs nor as probing as zodiacal killed North Indians, an easily adaptable movie plot. A triggering comeback is ideally enchanted by a brilliant sense of humor that hexes lethal focused violence on sociopathic monitoring foxes. People are purposely or unconsciously unfunnier or are they the ones in my town? Comedy is reduced to torrents of mollified dramas. Directed victimhood against aforementioned so-called vulgarism and profanity continues to conceal reactionary callouts of desperate times.
The ruling class, historically, only addresses less intense crowds intoxicated by specialized goals that tail off integrity. When an economic ministry of pixies lodging in twixt monumental academic support groups and fact-checkers cannot account for why, for example, it is that market patronizes raw vegetables, beans, and lentils, pushes marches of empathetic outcries, and then sells you raw meat. To create a multitude of drawers in the Walmart cart for a nuclear family of obedient customers exercising their own independent decisions. But the factions formed out of such stuffed choices redirect tribal statures in the vocabulary of disciplinary societies, capitalists, and spells bounded by the planning of Napoleonic state bureaucrats. Therapeutic measures have desensitized receptive discourses busked by personal and contextual abuses that were miles better than any SNL sketches at a time when both didn’t exist. I enjoy fantasizing that there is an inner body split in us (might overlap Jungian thought): a) one elemental substratum cognizes the gravitas of modern sharking spectacle and, b) a virginal part, like Cranach's cascade of innocence, or an assimilating Buddhist dream, in a chronic fugue state (not psychic but proportionate to the spirit). Dreams we refute. In lies we believe, in a lie is the universal belief. What would the Slavish self-help surrogate Machiavellian do?
4) LIFTMEN:
The one that tops the Babylonian tower with you, like a priest commanding suspicious minds filled with truffles and sugar towards higher away days of worship. Reach for the odd God-given hunger to identify these liftmen and sample their vitiating thirst for action even if this hayride gets you to bomb the chopper of your favorite member of the assembly. How will you identify this magic hand in amnesia’s playhouses called echo chambers? Well, you can always measure a penis by the density of air it vacuums in space, a Euclidean says so. Liftmen are sought in the most primitive way possible, dreams, symbols, and graffiti might trigger you to look in the filmiest fescues; lurk for this bleached prey in grey plumes of Sundarbans interiors. No this was overplayed, do not clobber that neighborhood sweetheart pardoning any grandiose romanticism that usually escapes you, imbeciles. Form comraderies, discuss unions, deconsecrate girl-bossification of your women (while they come for you), and then a liftman will upheave like a knight that beacons the terra of Gnosticism in this murk lavatory of life. Liftmen is just a lazy expression, most often there are women with Macbethian complexes or hinterland girl scouts being the heroines (fuck chemists' ball-playing poppies for corrupting this absolutely placating word that either woman take offense at or they offer you some) against boredom. Liftmen evince their incredulity in rhetoric though they’ve figured out all work handy, fixing cars, building houses, or magnetic poze of loving others very much cringed at by the syllabus of market allowances. So Ons and so Forths of the phenomena of double-think idolatry catfishing antipathetically, let these saviors (in the literal context of rejuvenating underdog ‘hero of the masses’) drain the exhaust of conspiracies and distrusts of those individuals penalized in Kafkaesque jungle of office hours or capitalism’s futuristic hope packaged in exponents of Rupee and ninety-nine. Liftmen are real, as real as decency found among competitive crowds of singulars in the vicinity of their Dharma. And favor this motion, good people. Materialize the restorative leisure that dreams avowed in the collective unconscious and weaponize the red scare. Harness your mid-witted pegging to fight this forced alienation instead of milking the quad-breasted white horse of Putin, CCP, radicalized Redditors, or your girl's hottest best friend trading cat piss. Sure, we can be at odds between my opinion(correct) and yours(juvenile).
In the surf of punch-drunk patience with no foretaste of future animations, liftmen metal gear an encapsulated minimal life of product identities and market crusades, pouring chthonic spit like beer foam in bogus chalices for the incognito divinity to be realized, before cancer spreads in that throat or frolicsome elegiac is chambered. “What does it mean to be a sailor at the moment with his feelings” questioned a sight-seeing liftman “when all the wharves of immediate feelings are stalled?” And soon boredom’s bosoms are fondled with for this benevolent comfort was craved, all emotions and impulses were learned from spectacular knowledge, the penultimate capitalistic entity of pre-schooling. Stories we tell ourselves are therapies at lower altitudes that help us just float by. To disjointedly reconquer our design and violate our personal space with overwhelming emotional energy is the casual aim liftmen propose.
“Where is the Life we have lost in living?
Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge?
Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?”
- T.S. Eliot (Choruses from ‘The Rock’, 1984)
EPILOGUE: ‘BUFFER BODIES BUFFER’
The epistemic approach of myriad schools of thought stows biological as well as spiritual privation in the satchel of acquittal for formerly discussed desire-lessness to go after the one deed. As obnoxious and trivial as it could get, laziness has made its appearances as soft porn or comedic cliches in mass media. A makeshift behavioral therapy for miserable teenagers and maladroit adults, commodity infatuation advances in its aim to effectuate the age of decadence, Kali Yuga from the puranic yuga cycle. When does anything that wholesome vehiculates a civilization into the cesspool of Asura? Obviously, this motif longs for Freudian complexities or conceptual soliciting in poetry, cinema, or writing (very few artistic misbehaving's in this matter). Preceding this is a facetious illusion of collectivism, indigenous to historical consciousness, in simply being dubious towards this solitary struggle against idleness that individuals censure for self-welp. Liquid water is cooled down to form crystals asymmetric in all directions, that order we foresee in coldness imitates completeness deceivingly and unveils its absurd multipolarity. The logos of the overarching fixation on unproductiveness in the personal sphere keeps reappearing in thought in a very unencrypted manner that one's bedridden cat could smell. It is maintained by a self-propelling tyrannical force so obsessed with its pervasiveness that it seeks to go beyond what is matter in the state. As Rollo May alludes in Man’s search for himself, “Authoritarianism in religion and science, let alone in politics, is becoming increasingly accepted, not particularly because so many people explicitly believe in it but because they themselves feel individually powerless and anxious.” But this is all very Frankensteinian in what is being said here. Conjured up dregs from an elixir of written works and said things. But it is a tragedy for so many of us to reflect upon something that’s not problematized by any group-think whereas its finitude is realized when we’re by ourselves trying to do something so individualistic it disintegrates a threadless strangling springtime youthfulness. In a time when transhumanists monopolize synthetic antidotes to overcome such shortcomings, meditative human effort doesn’t help. In contrast with modern buffer bodies, CS Lewis ruminates over the description of a knight as, “A man of blood and iron; he is also a gentle, modest, unobtrusive man. He is not a compromise or a happy mean between ferocity and meekness; he is fierce to the nth and meek to the nth.” [The Necessity of Chivalry, 1940]. Also, forwardly on physical occupation, Laodamas, the son of Alcinous from ‘The Odyssey’ says: “Nothing can be more glorious for a man, in a whole lifetime, than what he achieves with his hands and feet.”
What’s important is that the naturalization of leisure is not used to keep people in check, a common assumption inspired by dystopia where surveillance is mostly highlighted as one of the pioneer measures. It is to install a platonic habit among people, not exclusive to the working populous, to leave things unchecked benefiting those demiurges bedeviled by their internet-savvy clairvoyance (backed by junkies who share the same jeweled butt plug), who never own up to their bankrupt designs. Of all immutable demon slaying finishes still static in shared memory, an average soy boy (also spelled ‘Alpha’) avenges secret powers by murdering them in trolley problems purely for a wishy-washy philosophical attitude.
Mistakes in the shadow of clumsiness are truly irreparable but destructive consequences like homicides, school shootings, and suicide bombings come from much more complex troughs resulting from all the hours someone spends his vomit-walled sick mind in a day. So they are televised. The contextual treatment of ‘boredom’ and related terminology is so bad that it beats Joe Rogan's responses to alleged knowledge by seven inches. No, you’re not bored by that Wes Anderson movie, it’s just an irreconcilable event. Look at enthusiasts of breaking bad, they’re certainly never bored of scarlet White. See what colors contemplative leisure engaging an artist adds to his art. This is a mandate from heaven I warn you, boredom with a temper goes miles out of the way of revitalizing leisure to paralyze its proprietor. As the French philosopher and mystic, Simone Weil observes, “Monotony is the most beautiful or the most atrocious thing. The most beautiful if it is a reflection of eternity-the most atrocious if it is the sign of unvarying perpetuity. It is time surpassed or time sterilized.”
What do I have that can set this conundrum right? Well, my brother in a correspondent Cultural Suicide, I wonder that too and surprisingly I'm not bored wondering. Believe in today’s certainty and evening’s eternity. Participate in traditionally rich subcultures shrouded in the race for economic advancement. Invest to influence and get influenced by divinity, comedy, books, art and you know what's. Be a jerk to the hospitality that you attract as a consumer even in the stages of this pursuit, especially on the internet which won’t bore you fuckers. Also, there are books that changed people totally and there are some that prevent bedsheets to change. Pompous figurines read these books to symbolically baptize their boredom for the label of intellect where snow never settles. I suggest you not walk down that path fashionably chosen. Or maybe we could just radically change our diets or avoid nutting on the face of this earth. The spaced-out chasm between feeling and experiencing, instinctual and institutional has to be filled by an individual drip-checked by faith and memetic virtues.
