Notes on IDLES Joy as an Act of Resistance


El Cuchillo de Macbeth

G     R     E     A     T


The World is the totality of facts Memes, not of things.

Its radical articulation of seconds: forced perspective for the Masses. They wonder what’s

gonna happen next!

Now repeat until this condition is false.

Just a bunch of songs about the potholes on The Road. Swerving, swerving, etc. New Punk,

Art Punk, Post Punk. Rearrange the words under the bottle caps: pick one and lose your


Seems that our dealings in The Age of Information are hefty with BULLSHIT Knowledge.

Cauldron of stale POP. Current Standards? Let me give you a feel for it: tired of pushing the

rope of Masculinity & Politics & Identity & whatever Kool-Aid.

Ladies and gentlemen: Mental Illness is just a Language Ailment: Culture its Petri dish [gasps].

Yo where is the quote?

My credit score is drenched in mystifications of ideological distortions. Would you like to keep

this sorted by Capital? Low to High? High to Low? New In?

The D The A The N The N The Y

I had a friend that would always talk about how working jobs was this Illusion. Whoring the

sands of your body; perpetuating the repugnant cyclic redundancies of indescribables riches.


All of that extra language shit is mine, he had it as a natural instinct, the disdain; a mammal gut

feeling (hardly prehistoric I’d say) that made his hands into claws when keyboard prompted.

ctrl+c ctrl+c ctrl+c ctrl+c ctrl+c ctrl+c ctrl+c ctrl+c ctrl+c ctrl+c ctrl+c ctrl+c ctrl+c ctrl+c ctrl+c

Yet I failed to help him realize this idea will consume you in a maligned chemical-corrosive way,

much like that of suspecting a deadly illness.

- Such a radical POV! [slams desk]. Just let me play this Father John Misty while you describe

it some more.

You might think you’ve figure it out. You’re not the First that TrumanShowd Culture & Capital

into a set of levers and gears, who recited: Thank you for calling Customer Service when we go

the extra mile to make you smile [wink].

Soon you’ll be speaking in Memes, combinations of ideas one-hit-wonders. So deep in the

Meta that write a Reply Comment takes like a month worth of thoughts.

If you ever arrest your ass and resist and then abuse your own power to brutalize yourself just

remember that now Joy, must be an act of resistance. A CD that has been playing for centuries

in cliched cyberpunk Walkmans.

Stopped beating The Dead Horse once, frozen quiet and thought about life. Drafted a sentence

on my temple. Listen, I’ve been since trying to escape those words, to scrub it from this glasstopped

table, but they might as well be chiseled in stone.



or the direct trip to the starting point.


Пауль Ф.

A beard let grown for a couple of days. Tall guy. Green eyes. Long blond hair. A surfing magazine cover. Of course he played also the guitar absolutely well. He smoked cigarettes in his old room too. His life was very poor (or very rich, I do not know that anymore) and his sad eyes reflected a supernatural energy. He used to write texts (a poetry yet not known by human literature/nature), without enough syntax to be understood. They were like coming from some future where the protocolar communication circumstances were unnecessary.  Only a desire for confidence in instinct would be capable of decoding his mind. One day he began to turn in the yard that someone sent to wax. His concentration was absolute. He was turning so fast that I thought I saw him rise from the ground (maybe he did). The next few minutes he spent cackling like a rooster, walking on his haunches. He must be about twenty years old when he began with fluctuations between intense lucidity and dark austerity. He used to speak with demons and angels of the wind (or was the wind their language?), and he traveled in time. His favorite habitat were the mountains of his same neighborhood "el Dorado" (and its endless cave galleries). From there he looked at the entire capital. It was his Olympus. The very center of a dimension with no need of spectrums. He tied a joint while in his eyes the movements of a tiny world full of lights and colors and shapes and catastrophes were distinguished. Magnificent sharpness. Where life begins when you die. Where life don't need to begin. His presence was the infallible machinery of infinity. He trained himself daily in his mind for the crossings. Thus he accumulated the necessary experience to bid farewell to the race. He crossed the border of the known and understandable. That dimension filled with everything he used to call ...


The moments in which only his body was present in this world were turning into months. The months into years. With an intergalactic rubber and wool hat (that he configured himself), I managed to recognize him outside the great coliseum. I remember that he told me: "I am  already exempt from violence. Death to the Legion that never let you watch the stars"

A week later he would be beaten to death by the local police. Some of his notes that I found later in his room, could maybe describe the strategy of his last trip. 

Peace to your soul, God of the Gods of the unknown.

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