Divert Or Die

At The Crossroads Of Late-Stage Humanity

Claire-Bella Einsamhund

2020-09-10
Contents
Prologue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
Agitation Via Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5
Likeness Against Self . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10
From The Shadow Of Generalities, Towards The Self-Abolition Of Subjectivity . . . . 19
Intermission: To Renounce Humanity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20

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Prologue
In moments leading up to something important to us, before and during each renewal of what
that is, the image appears so clear.
More likely than not, with such weight honed into them, you were realistic with yourself about
what is required to bring your ideals to fruition as best as possible. You stood before what was
in front of you, accepting its consequences and responsibilities for however long.
Just exactly what was so meaningful to us and how we were moved by it has little to do with the
actual tumult; you knew exactly what you felt, and in those feelings, the best foresight, judgment
and deduction you could muster was aimed at, if nothing else, being true to them.
Standing on the fulcrum of our remaining life developments, instinct bound on deeper levels
would prove to move us more profoundly than words. And although deeds and statements would
surely drive whichever point home, they would always come after to reinforce a decision already
made.
Every nervous twitch from a sound or motion since has come from a multitude of these hidden
impacts.
Maybe the content would change, but psychological conditioning remains. We would re-
experience abandonment and total personal failure on innumerable levels that would influence
the shape of entire courses around the damage.
The image was so clear…
The story of how we all became so smart yet so sad is not one of falls from grace. It is one of
entire logical and psychological rides on different lines that were never to last forever, yet equally
to resonate indefinitely. The lines run far and deep, with caution of Endings only whispered but
none listed on the maps provided.
We have since been hallucinating these Endings every day, drowning out the gradual, sustained
conclusion with manic pointing and declaring, ceasing and withdrawing — resuming ad nauseam.
What lesson we take from this story of ourselves has yet to be worked out. While once we
had to step outside of our humanity to examine the problems and step back in with the magic
answer — we now have to step outside our own intellectual transcendentalness to acknowledge
an inkling of our real downfall. We can expect to come face-to-face with a different necessity in
processing these ever-changing consequences. The million maps of failure we read after the fact
are not there to stoke revelation. They are there for record, and only for record. Whatever the
delusions their authors tout regarding the provocation of change by picking a point and merely
demanding ”no more!—” the fulfilling of this task directly sustains the crux of our historical
demise. It is not broken so clearly into one side gaining over other, but a unitary human division
of milquetoast turn-taking and jabbing between the rotting of life on the Earth it has staked
ultimate dominion into.
The resonance which we feel in ourselves is trying to be developed into a digestible chronicle,
a material object to be caressed— and it never can be. Only more logbooks of the institution, the
inmates — living or dead — and the official statements on the brutality.
This is a time of desperate deliberations and manic reassessments. Everyone is clawing at the
fabric of this reality in their own ways. No-names everywhere are grappling with things felt
to be as important as they are difficult to relay. They are bursting them into the public as best
they can relative to their feelings, and this existential free-for-all in the free market of best-effort

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artistic products is of little real benefit to the obvious shared desire for serenity without social
domination.
The weary have spun a personal battle inside the lifelong war. If late-stage capitalism de-
scribes a point where capital assumes the whole of social energy, late-stage humanity should
describe a point where both the definition(s) of ”humanity” and its reactions to the former be-
comes not only superfluous to the question of change, but also instrumental in the distancing of
raw resolve— consequently expanding state/capitalist enclosure of life.
How many inspiring ways can we demand more or less the same thing over and over again?
Why does it feel like we’re thrust to find out before either modest concessions from a new social
order or total annihilation passes over us?
And how many times can we ask how much time we have or could have to think of better
things to say until something decent comes along at the last second? With every person feeling
compelled to dive headfirst into becoming another neighborhood philosopher, eventually people
are going to come upon the same thing.
Subjects of humanity, i.e., those designated ”human” and pushed into the human pool at birth,
are shifted into a state of deep personal turmoil regarding their relations in crisis with fellow
humans, any capacity to save oneself and each other along unitarian lines of ”humanity” and
the very ramifications of adhering to this humanness. After all, how do we really trust anyone
when we all had something to do with each other’s downfall? What should the reply be when
the iconography of the suffering’s source is again refurbished, beckoning to bring us out of it?
Let us entertain diversion for a moment. (This mortal climate deserves what incense it can get.)
Subversives go about our task in coming and going from the different rings of social and po-
litical stalemate. Circling and observing, levying agitation through displays of passion; the mis-
erably tedious struggle only to confer some truth on misunderstood (or totally ignored) factors
in the course of life is the meekest yet brightest battle to fight.
Stalemate renews our strife when its flames are pushed back down into the human cauldron,
reaching for the toes of the highborn aristocracy — then quashed back to the low-dweller status
by the King’s Men. Lament and heroic tragedy are employed to keep a fire going.
What we find so compelling about the ruling idiocy may be related to what kept us from trying
(or trying again) to end our own lives. We have yet to read the words that sufficiently illustrate
what we feel: A dark crevice wherein the stalwart convictions of the powerful, their consequences
and the uncertain gestures by those intimate to us intersect, splitting the strong arm of The Usual
from those wanting something else left totally destitute. An impossibility forms. An invisible
hiccup born from liberalism, its subjects’ altruistic patience, which invades all fractured avenues
of trying to live. From the perspective of a bodily unit within the whole — rather than the same
collective perspective which thinks for everyone — exit becomes imperative.
The cyclical nature of normative psychology perpetuates its society’s travel, while those on
the circuit are driven more to destroy either themselves or the entire society however they will.
When it’s decided to merely say ”no more” no more, the ones chin-deep in letters have interesting
work before them. It is easy to embrace or eject ”The Time For Talk.” It has always been so cheap
yet so piercing.
In diverting from the pawn or lure of any social modus, the roundup into formal sensibility is
evaded entirely. People love attributing subversives as snotty or sordid because they know that
the rules were always bullshit, and they don’t pretend otherwise. In the lead-up to being spotted,

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flagged down and asked, they’re already Gone. They’ve already declined being the subjects of
people they never knew in their lives. The back-and-forth game could never commence.
”Subverting” in this instance means to attain a destination [away] and traverse to it by will.
To divert is to nullify the passage through which the precious cargo of liberalism is carried in the
realm of our passionate endurance. It is the act of committing to reality the phrase ”we suffer it,
we choose to kill it.”
Life is a fragmented collection of interesting bullshit. Don’t forget to take notes where you feel
necessary.
In the course of being a person, if you can stand it, we find that life’s fragmentation and hitherto
human collection are at an odds which is only defused and sat across from each other by the
reigning bullshit. This tension lends itself to the interesting, the highest form of banal morbidity,
maybe. And although it is difficult to make use of something’s quality of “interesting” amid duress
of any sort, I’d like to make an intentionally imperfect case for one such interesting difficulty
that intervenes, collapsing the escape tunnels behind it.
The subjects look upon humanity in its late stage: a mass without division, but equally built
upon division everywhere. A gallery of promises and wilted flowers; old enticers of joy fade into
a surreal stain on the holiest icons.

Agitation Via Art

At this familiar point, we take a drink or light a cigarette. We’re annoyed, vaguely piqued.
Through art we stroll again. We are met with timely creations lined up in a particular series
of struggles illustrating the archivist’s agenda. The essence of the markings on closer inspection
reveal no triumphant, self-evident engineering of progress. Only the same struggle against each
imminent tendril of the existent, against the obstacles standing as dominant there and then as
they do here and now. This struggle, stamped by its time and emerging new rule, is endowed
with greater phantasmal properties by those warping it than those enduring.
We pace this road of images to affirm that our weariness has a place, finding instead a real
lack of the straight line we are traversing on which we must do our logical utmost in its course
leading home. We plant trust and determination into those around us who share our insights,
but understand the path to be turbulent and costly. We reassess strengths and weaknesses, still
plagued by some droning fault in the background of our hearts.
A bookended unit on a time line shimmers with a sense of ”now” glistening in a still capture
from that point. Reaching across, it caresses the troubled hearts of this moment now, the reso-
nance leading them to the wistful uncertainty of creation. A mortal insurance is then taken out;
”let the world know my voice before it knew me at all!”
Great labyrinths of experience are built for all of it to be surrendered. Tapestries of data are
woven to be cast off to the wind, wanting it returned better and brighter: A passphrase tied to
a dove’s ankle— ”when the time is right.” This creation, emphatic for history’s enrichment and
reproduction, lays the enticing stones for hopelessness. The center basin is empty yet beautiful
to its builders. Lacking all promised light, the stones only illuminate the sensibility of the makers,
and they are content to do it over again and again— ”until the time is right.”
Art and history complete a reductive circle around a project of absorption: an accounting of all
”good” and ”bad” so life in its playing-out can be halted, measured and deducted— all necessarily

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under the whims of whoever’s rule. If we must be subjects to this, we would at least want the
judgments to weigh in our favor, perhaps to bolster whichever socially agreed ”truth.” We are
faced instead with all the inertia of power’s consequence, amid the affairs of the society and
by its further encroachments on the land and our souls. Truth, once relegated to Divine Right,
now becomes the central competition for every subject; an open endeavor for a society where
everyone is an entrepreneur of sensibility— always wanting to unify by sharing their ardently
gutless imaginations of unity.
Those not in the fields, not carrying banners or marching with rifles, whom crowd over their
tools and mediums are elevated above the same group of tasks they merely contend with under
guise of rebelling against them and their paradigms entirely. What they would truly rebel against
is not any certain execution or interpretation of any certain concepts, but the conceptual genera-
tion and renewal of any materially unifying idea which is responsible for wholesale submission
amid obvious divergent potential. Although, after all, a psychology of human affirmation and its
desire directs every effort. It is rare for the townsfolk to be capable of rebelling against the king
without only rerouting the feudal system they’ve learned. A contrary skill belongs to the pagans
who never remained in love with a liberal world. Such heretical insights may help.
One pervasive misconception is that, while understood to be archaic, past methodologies in
science and art yielded clearer theories on issues: ”answers” which were as direct as they could
be in their context.
Furthermore, after the difficult shifts in problems and endurance following the the Second
World War, past intellectual rigors seemed nobler at the time of their asking and ”answering.”
This active perspective has all but crippled the gaining of insight: the more fluid and less reduc-
tive ways of thought which offer more than we think. It cannot be neglected that this habit is
found beyond right-wing conservatism. And while such insight would equally nullify the mind-
less obscurity that might plague portions of post-structuralist thought just as it would nullify
monarchist dribble, it has already told us something important: ”Answer” is not a means-to-an-
ends solution which we’re promised it is, but a development made from fleshing out the ephemeral
in accordance with ruling and contending values.
My answer stands apart from mere opposition to this tyranny, that encroachment. Those an-
swering only with the colorful adjectives of their defiance — either in the name of God or in
the name of Communism — are answering with the height given to them by the feeble chairs
they stand on, the beauty they imagine surging through them in coughing up their sermons
onto me. The answer that charges either neutrally or positively with art and history is not mine.
This answer cannot unify, i.e., it cannot bring people together under an admission or compro-
mise. Tradition will tell you to turn back to god and sacrifice your body for him and his nation.
Communism will tell you to rush towards the affirmative political channels which promise to
facilitate well-being through a universal economy. I will tell you to get away from me, that all is
lost— and thus, now more than ever, the world is yours and mine. Firstly, there remains a tangle
of obstacles which need unbinding or tearing.
After so long in our minds, conquering the moon, deploying radio transmitting satellites, har-
nessing every spark and protein around us, wringing the spectrum of value dry, the loyalists
of ”tradition” yearn for a noble regression back to the heart of monarchy, family, god and coun-
try. At the same time, the loyalists of ”progress” yearn for a deeper, wider and more colorful
”revolution—” one which transforms yet obeys existing thresholds.

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 The decision [to try] to live and speak inside this putrid center of constant stalemate with
an eye for propagation is not always itself merely a grab at any transformative task one can,
as caricatures of fervor have made us quick to believe. We who have taken shelter and penned
some unfolding events and reactions have a sordid kind of guilt. Eventually we come to accept
that the myriad paths of the same gist, often shorter, can grant swifter beginnings and ends—
which sometimes yield admittedly more forgettable results. Those toiling with concepts will in-
vest energy where they will, inserting suggestion into the spaces which flourish in many different
people, extending maybe not only through the message, but the very effect of saying anything.
Any decision like this is a step in diverting.
Those moseying along their lives in a fretful nature of thoughtfulness are at least conducting
some contrary force to what is hovering over them. Typically, they can’t be the [immediate]
significant forces they wish they were. Their answers are not conclusions, whether they seek to
become ones notwithstanding. And even if they manage to contribute a single tatter to history,
willing or not, they still evade its whole inclusion of them. Truer pieces of them tend to go unread.
Disconnect like this should benefit us. Stalemate, far from being life’s default condition for us
who create is— if not simply a reminder of specific lack and overcoming— the impotence embold-
ened by the situation. Situations are best abandoned than resolved. What I mean is, a particular
game is imposed on us, let’s say for this instance: political recognition. The potential of those
who take this game to heart is ensnared by appeasing the dynamics necessary to have a game
and a slim chance of ”winning.” Already, people are gaining a sense of this; they know we will
find ourselves in countless situations but fewer than half of them will net any fruit to compensate
us. These games dot the parallels of our stalemate, but only dictate that which we enable. Many
hopes and decisions today are already dumped off at the peak of a new beginning. There should
be a similar callousness which does better for us, a constructive negativity unfolding our desire
for positivity out from a hostile utility.
There is no creativity without negativity: one inspires positivity through fulfilling and sharing
a living substance, a substance totally null and valueless to capital. Lovely music will entice us to
dance, the circumstances around the song will open a flash of glad levity. But the tune and subject
matter only go so far in the need for record sales, the status/image of a creator. A music that exists
outside these paradigms seems like a better medicine than more thoughtful enrichment of this
eternal fucking nightmare which is also arbitrarily agreeable. A poetry that grips at acceptable
sorrow with the intent of conscripting it into the service of refined coping is a poetry for the
monks of the labyrinths.
In creating whatever might be considered artistic, what comes from our hands is trying to
help develop insight for why we’re compelled to do it. We are only possessed into developing the
art of this society. The situations of dialog, progress over tradition/vice versa, national security,
economic stability and social prosperity are all conspiring to herd us back to the center where
we rot quietly in a reductive utility not of our own. Our quietly simmering fury, which animates
the ligaments to crafting the testimonies of our pain and polemics of our rising, is revealing itself
to us as much as we are giving it life.
Tradition and progress offer two paths of the same journey. Whereas progress acts as an an-
tithesis to tradition’s thesis, the synthesis tears itself apart in order to continue staging conflict
between the two. The kernel of this entire effort is to exponentially heighten humanity’s greatest
efforts and renewals into the most inconclusive frenzy the ruling/contending values can sustain. It is
the greatest humanist dialectic endeavor kept on life support. Without it, humanity has little jus-

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tification in the shadow of all it has affected. Here, the whole reflects the reactions of generations
of subjects, blossoming into a woeful garden. Beneath the banality of art’s agitation is where art
is left to a matter of taste.
Art has its message component as a medium applicable to statement and protest, but its modus
remains a market commodity. The division between these two has scarcely been so blurred. A
plea for well-being must still be striking if it should be given any consideration, let alone its
permissibility in its full extent. There has been a subconscious obsession with iteration the entire
time of humanity’s quest, both an economic and existential matter. Ingenuity not only of comfort
and profit but of reason, meaning and purpose. Liberal society gravitates meekly toward ”change,”
but not to the most radical, genuine degree— only to the degree that sophistication may flourish
in the diminishing of creativity beyond humanity.
In the faces of each work along the circuit, their icons dazzle with intention. Something beau-
tiful is spoken in one bold, voiceless image. As industrial societies have mounted their devel-
opment, these images have warped to the changes in their world, each iteration marking the
upward-scaling mission as evident. Oracles sermoning on the impoverishment and bloodshed
relative to these artistic pleas ran stale. That which remains vague is born from the obvious
frenzy, for what is certain in desire becomes vague in the realization. One’s taste for real change
weighs on the image’s quality of ”striking” upon the ushering of a new iteration. Higher and
higher, brighter and brighter. All to tumble so low at such costs.
Our fixation with vagueness pointing at something whole and true has woven something insid-
ious and alien within our manifestation of resolve. The ways which we speak, sing and mourn
into infinity— rather than building practically on whichever address to this or that problem—
pull the entire nothingness closer to our self-torments. The hole, dug downward less, expands
with inhalation to the sides. Vivacious joy and hideous despair converge. Feeling the resonance
from each splice between these two, we are increasingly sobered by ”nothing.” Bitterly incapac-
itated by our intense mental dashes across its inert vacancy, we are desperate to take anything.
Anything not so vague, anything that makes sense to our unease.
The urgent voyage to the root of it all, of meaning itself, is dotted with much sacrifice, much ac-
ceptance of worst case scenarios. The momentous endurance of each new philosopher or creator
is the shared, sickening curiosity about an optimistic promise— of everyone who concludes on
the same thing differently. The catharsis in momentarily accepting the black evacuation of life at
the peak of iterations’ failure and resulting sadness has permeated enough of our conscience as
”humanity” to know where of the two places it will take us. Giving up or getting up, a sigh marks
the familiar point. Smoke, drink. The aggravating sense of a strange, spinning world prevails.
****
So much enthusiastic intrigue in the show-and-tell of our insights. Indeed, their myriad ex-
pressions and further development are now the real passion of everyone on the Internet, in the
conversations relevant to what has generated this sensation in all of us at once. Every possibility
is seemingly ours, and yet each grab negates something effortless to share. Motions relating with
The Battle For Tasteful Agitation drowns this out.
We anticipated truth and justice to break through with our accessible span of information
technologies in the 2000/10s, but we failed to be foresighted in the manner these technologies
would alter our lives in a truly metaphysical sense. How responses to horribly taxing events
sparking need for justice, need for resolve would be atomized, because they have become self-
canceling through their proliferation in all of us. By our vocal capability to rally toward resolve,

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we sink into the sea of agitational content. And because the most grueling effort to rally is now
gone, the documentation of the rallying itself becomes the overarching objective. These cascading
layers of happening and sharing would reduce our divergent audacity to the chatter of mice.
Insights will certainly devour themselves if not honed well enough. As with the monotonous
rituals which bend the surrounding world into a satisfying rationale, insight has to reject all
material demands and invent paths around or through them. Witness ardent subversives whom
relax in the static banner of ”no gods no masters” under the rent and bills: Insight might not
simply explode without second thought, but it is the mortar of a divergent bulwark, and therefore
the persistent starting point for choosing life over humanity.
It seems like a fitting summary could be the following: humans are the most profoundly gifted
drama queens capable of bluntly committing acts of suffering and killing within seconds. To this
same degree, we can— metaphorically speaking, with an artistic viciousness— drop a nuke onto
god’s entire dominion and see everything totally unaffected in the next minute. We can con-
jure storms of disavowal, always counting on the boundaries to guide us through the approved
passage and somewhere on the outskirts of its feeble destination.
Moreover, in bursting through these confines, very little forethought tends to play out with
its necessary kind of brute force. As media constructs the next bits of history from the images
of us enduring our turmoil in real time, the honest words at those moments are sequestered
to the front-facing summaries of atrocity. Like great victories or tragedies, all of the real life
in those people are relegated to the wistful and mystical, of those who had been there; all the
living matter becomes the most inaccessible in order to accommodate the valiant-seeming quips
which are mere indentations in the dust compared to a whole life. We only wish to reproduce the
actions and images of humanity. We can sacrifice all of our time alive to do it so long as humanity
remains immortal somehow.
How upsetting it is to thoroughly know something’s obstruction and fail at overcoming it. Our
need for guidance in surrendering hope, getting a different grip — because I and everyone still
have to do the same — this need is still relatively fresh. We sense an unprecedented growing pain
in our human condition. When fighting beasts of our own making, we can retrace our steps, circle
the perimeter, measure the distance between points A and M. We can deduct things in further
contention with the ruling sciences in our factories of alternatives.
We cannot, however, confuse these for trials mandated by the universe. We are not being
tested in order to transcend infinitely from our present complexity. We are bringing ourselves
back down to the earth from which we came. In our minds, we have drifted some distance away
from the places our lives have happened; our search for answers elsewhere has made it hard to
see plainly. Our pain is not meaningful or beautiful. Our caste is to be broken and burned.
All agitation must shed; its sheddings must be public, without damage control for one’s pride.
Agitation is to become something necessary beyond challenging existing feelings or swaying
the most powerful. Agitation itself will cease to be a demonstration of reasoning in favor of
something. It is to become a notice of divergence from art/history, a final encouragement on the
way out from continued utterances of merely encouraging artistic language.
The fretful thinkers who feel no urge to first establish themselves as artists, philosophers, aca-
demics or activists have more to offer beyond art and brave expressions than any collective
capitalist soul-searching could peddle. Our creations will have to be aimed at discharging self-
righteous situations, ending circuitous nonsense which is armored by brainless goons of tradition
preoccupied with their gang wars with red-flag goons. Creations must plow straight through the

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assessments of subjectivity, the ”best intentions” in even the meekest representation. It is in this
subjective brutality that the entire radius of possibility is really open.
A ”human” language worth utilizing is in motion before describing its would-be directions.
An energy vested in our words regarding deeds has all of its doings up front, chancing upon
the words which jacket their intents with stoic poignancy. Until this contends substantially with
humanism, unless this virulent chagrin rushes and splinters the barricades at the gates of our own,
there can be no sincere engagement with the Arena Of Expression, the sordid ”Marketplace Of
Ideas.” No glorious contention within for any right over beauty, but an ugly, passionate storm
sweeping away the stones of its walls. No desperate interjection into the markets, but a vibrant
defacing of their value.
These beautiful pictures haunt their human makers on their way out of the gallery, animal-
hearted perusers trotting behind. Around the stark, colorless bend, trying to confer all the open
space flooded with ”duty,” ”love,” ”community” and ”purpose—” all hath no promise but sub-strife.

Likeness Against Self

There is a lovely image in a 15th Century etching. Sappho lounges on a stoop by the shore of
the Aegean with her dogs.
I often dream of myself in that same lax condition with seemingly everything and nothing on
my mind. I have related very personally with the implications of that scene which is millennia
older than I, their answers still being developed.
Every beautiful capture of difficult feelings seems to enlighten the viewer’s emotional particu-
lars with the image’s cohesive differentials. The implications leading us on in confirmation bias—
subtracting their presence from their standing effect— the image of looming in thought becomes
the means and ends.
That sweet image I mention is not I, and it never will be. Its impression has merely swayed my
utmost human sympathies; I cannot relate to its properties the way I can with that in front of me,
beyond that motionless rendering. Our most loathsome, treasured sub-strife is not art’s phony
resonance, but the pervasive unification of being and presenting— most regretfully— human.
Art constructs necessary falsehoods to embolden truths in-the-making. The falsehood drives
the likeness of some particular honesty which then succumbs to its vehicle. Upon the breakdown
of its operation, a new image surfaces— either a mosaic from the cascading images above one
another, or the clearing of the ruling cosmic mandala by tragedy, revolution, etc. Schools of
thought spawn and decay as their remains are composted into the next iteration of conceptual
idols, foes and bystanders.
When we step out from artistic construction and into the descending pavement of the in-person,
the personal— especially for such matters that are shared between us but mutually unknown in
our processing/handling— we feel the sting of this deceptive reality’s cold. Perception is fierce;
perception of oneself in accordance with the perception of an idea or a hope is a daily gamble
with every spectrum of value and determination. Our tendency to reference a masterpiece in
order to direct our newfangled intellectual vehicle is atomized into the gradual givings of in-
person affirmations, affirmative contentions.
In the social realm, after the contentions have skirmished long enough, we are left with a
predictable milquetoast consensus for anything. Consensus drives us right back into liberalism;

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consensus is the surrender to a normative stalemate dressed in new finery. Consensus is what
establishes us all firstly as human, and [anything else] comes second. This always occurs after
the onset of a ruler’s boredom in accruing a body count or insisting on a blatant lie. The unease
we all sense from liberalism’s friendly, iterative intention is the passive ceding of agency for the
consensus necessary to reproduce humanity, the beautiful idea we drag on our ankles. On the
tips of all our tongues, we know the examples and origins of civil strife, property destruction,
colorful calls for rebellion in a particular fashion. We consume a daily collaborative develop-
ment of a remarkable point both within and regarding history, somber and Dionysian in perfect
measure. A glowing ring of discord encircles a stale consensus: always under attack, always des-
perate for stability it doesn’t deserve. The attackers: always falling out, always relocating, biding
time, remodeling their capacity for their world’s mounting ecological disincorporation from the
unending circus of leaders, order, purpose.
In the personal realm, the refuge embedded within yet secluded from the social, there arises
a contemplativeness we cannot directly confer. It overwhelms a determination to pull through,
triumphant in no mere artistic sense over this squirming, pulsating bullshit.
Shyness may not be the best possible way to first broach likeness, and yet I do not know of
another way. What I mean is not solely perception’s points of tension, but being perceived. One’s
likeness is one’s permanent color and motion. Perhaps different aspects can be altered, but you
remain something recognizable. Those who have known you longest, for instance, can still pick
out the hints of behavior unique to you. Everything about you changes but a few cornerstones.
A sense of judgment (upon a sort of indirect offense) hushed under every ”meaningful” presence
or participation emboldens one artificial cornerstone: a fixed qualifier of humanity. A conven-
tion of shared blights and wishful interpretations. Your responses to affirmative contentions will
only matter for the duration your face is seen, your convictions measured. They will affect your
standing here or there, reflect your capacity for humanity, weigh on your good-bad ratio.
The personal rigors of piloting a living, breathing summation of your name and presence are
only peripheral to the crux of appearing to be among others doing the same. No one can digest
someone’s feeling the way they can their appearance or impression. The deepest hardship we
nevertheless share is in who we are operating in a suppressed fashion, detached from how we
are discerned in the world thrust on us. Furthermore, that every person is a subject of gradual,
interpersonal deconstruction and subsequent summarization over the course of mingling in the
productive apparatuses of liberal society tells us that our apparent comprehensibility might do
us more harm than good. It seems ”anyone who is anyone” is getting on board the same aging
idea of ”raising awareness,” or the like, making something beautiful for that. Being recognized at
all as a person calcifies on top of the irreducible, unnameable substance of yourself, myself. That
substance which reveals whole paths separate from the same tired journey, the same unified
impotence of not only being artistic, but smiling and joining hands as a human artist, a good
human.
When we stop and meditate on our profoundest frustration, we can set aside each relatively
trivial turmoil to behold the brightest radiating situation: I am spliced into experience and ap-
pearance; the latter is totally recognizable, the former is only sourced for its reproduction of the
latter.
Appearance dictates — we are thus subjects to our human recognition. That anyone is foremost
compelled to make an image of a person as the means of fleshing the vibrant fibers of actually
being one, that anyone is pressured to mend one’s honest form to the mold which disheartens

11
in order to vaguely reiterate – this is the grotesque consequence of our ruling factors. People
can only consider one another in regards to their image before they could know each other in
the flesh. In being the prisoner-operators of our vehicles of comprehension, a lovely journey to
a heartbreaking destination goes on.
What is the actual damage? You will grab me with your concern: ”But what are these im-
ages without the people behind them who set their makings into motion? Do we not indulge in
pictures to ease our lack-induced yearnings? Do we not streamline necessary brevities to make
something accessible?”
You will notice a dreadful rift between utility and the social modus. Utility is the use of something
(or use for something) imminent to you. The social modus is an engine within each subject of the
existing social order. In all our pockets and neurological programming, there is a set of modules
pinging back to the beloved source of our material sorrow: The Long Lineage of our redesigned
static condition, its affect on our utility, the black hole amidst each of our every doings. Our
likenesses are used to prove something special about why this power should encase individuals
into operating their demise eternally. Our persistence— our possessive determination— in using
images to prove our being-alive (or having been alive) is what gradually condenses us to pictures
alone. Pictures do not disrupt suffering. Pictures affect nothing. I ask you: how does your utility in
brevity and accessibility serve ultimately you and not drain back into the modus of this society?
When your likeness pings to yourself and not to the interconnected liberal paradigm, how would
your endorphin rushes of ”I am seen!” defend against the databases closing in on you?
We are only behooved to cooperate with this modus so that our sparse and sporadic utilities,
personal and otherwise, can go on without assault or deprivation for whatever length of time.
This worry keeps humanity together; a political, artistic promise for stability must always su-
persede a raw, direct effort for wellness and joy here and now. It must work seamlessly with
our tired, aching desire to lie in bed with our smartphones a foot from our faces. It must work
within the paradigm of getting shot, beaten or kidnapped at any moment when one affectively
challenges the general modus. It must remain inclusive of state brutality, always dispensable if it
means humanity is secure in its notion and property.
Whereas one may share a flash of her journey to relate its stutter in time to friends, they are not
truly driven to exist in images the way liberalism insists more power in. She does not adorn their
being-alive with best possible captures as the forward momentum of being anything. While the
songs they adore soothe or entice her thoughts, momentarily placing them elsewhere, she knows
that chasing tunes will not make everything outside of song better. Sharing seems to have become
tangled with presenting an image. I at least would wish images could be invitations for sharing
something better than the image, ”sharing your thoughts” on what you have just digested. There
is no real honesty being sought, only the ardent actions of engaging and making. An accessibility
in of itself must serve as a utility to my own affair, but if it is to congeal outside of my consumption
of it, it is most accessible to the humanity which would consume I. My sympathies grab hold of
me, but only long enough to differentiate them from who I am, what I am dealing with.
Our image-desire is taught to be our mission. Our image-being is what so many have sacrificed
themselves to have. It has consistently proved itself to be only a more transcendental masturba-
tion in sync with the bleeding-edge of humanity’s global interconnected society, all of its remade
desires, all of its intricate lovely dramatics, all of its paltry outcomes. Everything you and I en-
tertain in this society is only for an impression of a utility beyond it. Of course, the finite joys
peddled everywhere on the scene ring out the way they do now by design, allegedly tapping

12
into some meaning that one has longed for in this frustrating world. E.g., people who indulge
in psychedelic drugs are now either mortified or overjoyed to find wacky sub-genres with their
eccentricities in mind; the dissecting of amusing antics, sidestepping psychedelics’ unraveling of
industrial facades which the antics are edited for. ”Pandering” seems like a concern of a distant
past. But instead, people today seem to have adjusted rather well to what everything has laid
itself out plainly to be.
Those who seclude within this malignant cultural array at a considerable remove, detesting
their own being-seen, are less like malicious creeps in the purely interpersonal sense and more
like dedicated archivists of depression, of their’s and others’. Their shyness is brought on by a
fundamental centering of likeness before living moments of wider possibility and more direct
consideration. They would rather keep their distance than fight themselves and others to have a
satisfactory presence pertaining to the social modus. I do not even expect those to be the sufficient
words for what they are enduring. But in this broken daily endeavor, I feel strongly that many of
these people whose lives are spent cutting across the meaningful byways are among the wisest,
most insightful individuals to come to terms with themselves and their surroundings however
they might have. There are still far too many ”normal people,” or people desperate to ”be normal,”
who go about their lives like ants to this normative world, reinforcing the minute barricades
around something so utterly direct.
We have paced the shorelines of every exodus from human-old con jobs to come full circle and
do it all over again. We have wept for what was lost, endured— and wept for not being able to
go back. This guttural aching is too tired to bear. For our likenesses to actually be our own, i.e.,
for what we are to shine through, we first need to discern and remove that which has ensnared
us into subjectivity. ****
****
The dualities I have taken up here (likeness/self, or image/being) are only utilized insofar that
the weapons of the general issue aimed at us are more pronounced. The plight of self particularly
entails a necessity in being accounted for as one involuntarily bearing a likeness parsed into a
decision from society: to be, in a rather palpable duality, a potential honorary civil servant— or
a scorned, ”Wanted: dead or alive” fugitive of everything holy to humanity. Likeness is a thing
to get far away from, self is hardly any different.
Self is a human invention. Self is posited by media and popular values as the living reflection of
material momentum, i.e., putting it vice versa, the external material effects of some given momen-
tum (and its modus) build on the living perspective reflected which commences it all. An entropy
of ”inner” and ”outer” is established, an imminent extension with how life and death function in
this same sense. When ”man” first distinguished itself thus, the first storms of contention ensued:
hypnotic schisms around what seemed like the same (yet strikingly unique) reflection pouring
back into a filtered basin of cult-like interpretations. Pythagoreans, Stoics, Epicureans. The mad-
ness of the World Of Man beyond the World Of The Gods in a singular constant of indecision and
heresy. Tribes of The Upright assume opposing colors within the quests for Truth. As Truth in
bloom proved to be hollow, the colors became iterative rather than merely competitive. Descartes
in the 17th Century began what Nietzsche would hope to conclude at the end of the 19th Century
in respects to the subconscious strife in the middle, wherein Freud would also interject, laying
some technical ground for the savants of thought & experience to come. Liquidation of an essen-
tial, unified man made up of disparate selves around the time of Derrida, Deleuze and Baudrillard
would ultimately polish the woodwork of self. The strictly conceptual tradition of individuals as

13
units of a wider formula, rather than disparate formulas themselves, at least held together a basic
groundwork for diversion. Its collapse signaled an urgent opportunity for industrial societies to
adapt, inject its roots deeper. In a gradual, calculated adjustment by academics, psychologists,
social workers, military and police, the components ripe for social reproduction mutate into a
spectrum of possibilities for individual assimilation. ”Accommodation” for the whole possibil-
ity of self marks a desperation for volumes of applicable bodies. This simultaneous tabula rasa
and possessor of fundamental essences malleable to anything would play out as a magnificent
call to battle, as well as an ever-mutating engine of blame and encouragement. Between the fig-
ures named— reduced to likenesses, ”great minds” of the past— the ongoing wars, upheaval and
pompous non-sense in securing the self would only speak in a meta sense: the capabilities versus
the outcomes, the special exceptions for the persistence of these outcomes.
People who now consider themselves philosopher-pundits going on their brave crusades
against deconstruction, relativity, etc., will protest about out about how the self has never
been in greater care; that recent unrest has no conception of one’s potential self-determination
in the existing bounds, that one could easily triumph over some particular aspect of material
suffering — with enough ass-kissing of unwelcome institutions and contracts — and fulfill the
”only realistic” solution to one’s oppression. Self has wrung our selves dry. When approaching
the inner sanctum of this subjugation, self becomes interchangeable with soul. In the midst of
some individual crime against the holiness of human normalcy, a switch flips inside people’s
minds. Any desire for any sort of sovereignty evaporates; there is a special outrage levied against
those who can’t play nice with this mandated stupidity. For most bystander subjects, a personal
injury is assumed from someone challenging the human divinity responsible for the beloved,
cheap sensations of seriousness and meaning. In the way that we understand a still-intact notion
of mortal souls at risk of missing out on everlasting life, The Church Of Self induces a human
piety whose practice is continuing a dialog forever by sharing pieces of oneself. In this, it is
obvious what the human afterlife is intended for, that all selves can forever build on what can
never simply be done. That all are ”re-gifted,” ”renewed” by the ability to produce more likenesses
which are immediately usurped, absorbed into the tautological construct of human purpose
with no conclusion whatsoever. The soul of the self is the ability to be reseeded, replaceable—
because, at least, a likeness could remain as a kind of ”Sorry, thanks” as another life takes it on
again. It is projected as a beautifully mournful inheritance to be a human. A necessary suffering
that nobody should dare think of renouncing.
Humanity confers a ”self,” the word as well, which is different from what I want to present.
A sense of self typically refers to the relations we inhabit revolving around ”my house, my car,
my job,” etc. These are personal responsibilities from the world we were born into. Typically, our
levels of mental/emotional investment in them, or engagement with their logic, are only relative
to our tenacities for self-debasement or self-reliance; some wear humiliating combinations of
the two and think of themselves as ”Masters of The Game.” A self, then, is only a fluid trophy
that consumes itself in order to stagnate the operator. The only goal there is to survive: ”take
care of yourself,” so that things might remain sheltered and normal along your swaggering gait.
After a time of enduring a necessarily insane way of life, of recognizing that this way of life is
insane, this is capable of giving someone a divergent way of processing the things in this world—
but only when a barrier between human-self and own-self is broken. One is the self instilled by
strictly human factors, the other is the self cultivated gradually over the enduring & processing
of human factors. By unraveling the former’s material facade in oneself, the positive-negative

14
paradigm nestled centerfold is laid bare: to promise a renewal of bondage and misery. The latter
then assumes a more palpable conspiracy of living. The ruling modus becomes very interesting for
subversion, a consumption by the own-self which has suffered so long under its boot. Our whole
situation being the coercive assignment of subject at birth, the roots of own-self have always
been taken from us, barred from being accessible or even thinkable.
To develop own-self is the genuine crime against humanity of which there is no ordinance
or statute. It is a striking weak spot for liberalism that our brains are not yet totally captive;
to form any terms or desires at all independent from liberal decree is the real beginning of the
end for all manners of encroaching on your own, on my own. Dialogs can no longer suffice for
the problems felt harshest outside of discussion— the ”actual point” of the notions we tolerate
with muted sneers (god, country, money, leadership, purpose) reveal their emptiness. In turn,
a screaming, unrelenting critical thought is discovered; a grueling understanding of limitless
untamable agency is slowly woven into something unique; a new power is examined cautiously—
abandoned or wielded proudly. As Larry Law describes in a 1975 pamphlet Revolutionary Self-
Theory, ”It is the pleasure of making your mind your own.”
Self is the component of likeness which could not get closer to who we are. Indeed, it puts
the very security of our own at risk. An obscured essence peaks out from a facade’s window
blinking on the screen. It lures us in, that we might decorate it with different, complimentary
[reductions of] empathetic properties. Self cannot live by itself alone, it requires a universality
that insinuates and indicts every possible being. A subjective reality (a reality stemming from the
subject) affects and confers the objective generations of how the next subjects are to fare. Yet the
objective consequences are relegated to a merely ”subjective,” atomized means of making sense
of them, making sense of normative, gradual changes— in the case of the social modus: only
to record that changes were made, or perhaps attempted to some degree. It is then the subject’s
affair on how to be or not to be. Subjective consequences manifest in as many ways as there are
subjects. They are the underlying responses that, e.g., in the social realm, we see under the surface
of ”rioting,” ”protesting,” ”looting,” etc. There is obvious brutality, starvation, destitution, (use
your imagination,) which inspire wrath upon this straitjacket of existence. The glaring reality
of most becomes a choice between quiet deterioration by withstanding the holy normality, or
striking without a word and charging straight into capture.
It is not a difficult thing to conceive of. It is the circular nature of the whole struggle, however,
that is most disquieting.
Combative selves stiffen into a mortal bind as the sense of a passive decision [made for them]
to lean into subjective consequences takes hold, conferred by the resulting likenesses. We stare
straight into the half-living eyes of an objective foe, a self-established GOOD which bluntly
diminishes my life and my loved ones’ lives. But on paper, regardless of its cruelties, it is either
permissible under law or totally negligible. An objective material insanity overwhelms the ability
or the reason to sustain mental composure; the basic sense of ”I just want to enjoy my life”
distinguishes itself more as a completely sovereign struggle from liberal society’s need to account
everything and devise a center at which to reach a consensus.
To overcome our trembling in the invisible reflection of our own, it becomes clear that we
need to pulverize— if not swiftly nullify— the functional, material logic of this world in such a
way that even its retaliations would only build on its own downfall rather than ours. To find the
cracks and crevices wherein either the weapons are hidden or the flowers are growing, we need
a practical distinction between our own intentional struggle and that of liberalism: the project

15
of eternal rule. We do not end our selves by death alone. It is only this malignant insanity that
sometimes makes death synonymous with absolution. The death of the world of self should not
be the death of me or you; fighting the battle at all entails a shifting of effort, a new methodical
prowess employed.
To abolish its function in our thought, our expression, our decisions, our digestion of being
alive— diversion of our human self grasps at the immediate necessities of living absent from
liberalism: it no longer concerns itself with how to resonate after annihilation, how to join the
labyrinth of meaning, because one’s own-self would derive no lived satisfaction from this. It
confers as plainly as possible what cannot be reduced to a beautiful rerun, a phony resonating
concept with nothing alive at the center of it. It fears no disavowal from human leaders, because it
shows plainly how all divergent revelers will be called ”animals” regardless, i.e., ”insubordination
is inhuman.” At the same time, it is not by recognizing these conditions alone that anything has
changed. There are blatant obstructions along this straightforward-seeming path. To only match
brutality will extend another paradigm of damages and ratios. It is not enough to punch harder
because ”fighting is wrong,” but because it is the native language of states employed to protect
the image/self paradigm.
The subversion of this Ouroboros is of course to ”fight differently,” but the total diversion is a
self-abolition of liberal value in the conduct of our own. Only in the unique executions of this
notion, diverting from humanity on a conceptual level, can more information be drawn.
Until this, it follows that we vanquish self in vanquishing the divisions between the most
wordlessly intimate parcels of living in each individual. Our own aspirations are no longer sur-
rendered. Each individual ceases recognizability with mere human suffering: engagements for
revolution or overturning still cannot encapsulate what the content of this more direct struggle
means. ”Life,” as one within whole, is no longer subjected to a rift between endured— enduring— or
inflicting. An existence in accordance with the ground-up of breathing and hydrating envelopes
[all] at once, ceasing the purpose of the daily struggle to Frankenstein together a single soothing,
drawn-out mantra echoing through the infinity of bullshit. We would no longer be creatures of
immense coping abilities, but unbridled propensity for life and creativity.
”Self” then completely dissolves into a concept alone, it no longer points to me, you or anyone.
It only calls out from humanity to join in, amplified by all material prodding. I and you certainly
exist on mutually alien ground, and by this alone we understand how there is no necessary relega-
tion to selfhood. Our various features cease to comprise prescriptive roles in front of our names,
faces and voices; they get behind them, blotted out by what a self-owned life is projecting, out-
lasting. In sermoning the name of Self with all of its humanistic aspects, we may only concur
on our time wasted, our endurance manipulated, our hearts withered, our lives stolen. Nothing
divergent from that is permitted within human subjectivity. We do not need to lean into these
consequences, but we do need to move through them.
Having spent some paragraphs on this subjectivity, we will now endeavor to unbind it. The
foremost question would be how to do diversion— how to divert. Diversion can often simply occur
in a person who happens to embody a living null with any given logic anointed with some par-
ticular divinity. It is in how beings persist in themselves, in their own, that the seed of diversion is
found: divergence is a negating factor introduced by our assigned human essences. Neither diver-
sion nor divergence comes before the other; and yet each tumble in a synchronized withdrawal,
a deviation from the normal.
****

16
 Allow me to share a very personal insight:—
Neurodivergent people, meaning we who have neurodevelopmental disorders (such as Autism
Spectrum Disorders, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Tourette’s Syndrome, Dyslexia,
Developmental Coordination Disorder, to name only a few,) are living manifestations of how
these sacred limitations are failures. We inhabit an outer material existence built on psycholog-
ical systems which never corresponded with our own. Their exterior promises have only been
”centers of being cured” to our families; while to ourselves, they have been sterile, hostile prisons
of judgment and correction. We are immediately set inside a position where our ways of being
are the issue needing the specialist range of retooling and assimilation.
As it is with other disabled individuals, our dissonance with the material operations of this
daily life is a front and center reality. When we manage not to be directly assaulted by neurotyp-
ical behaviors or ingrained designs of society, we are left to rot in how useless and burdensome
we sense ourselves to be to our fellow humans. Those of us who can conform just enough to be
perceived out in this world as ”one of us normal people (maybe with some quirks)” gain a sharper
insight than most could care to think twice about.
Sparing how we are each infantilized by humanists and everyday people as a ”lovable error” of
physical/mental/emotional capacity in each moment we are picked out, we come to understand
how and why the glaring brevities of human intention cannot bend around their quotas for us.
How, instead, they will only integrate some enticingly taboo likeness of our humanity into their
performative thoughtfulness as a company, institution, cause, non-profit, etc. (I ask forgiveness
from neurotypical readers if I can only truly relate to those who have endured such malicious
difficulties— but I also don’t require it.)
We see that even accommodations for us with a humanistic air about them are only ever di-
rected at commencing our utmost engagement with the economy, with the artistic avenues of
impotent praise or disavowal. The core things that matter to this world, having been bound up
in the survival of humanity’s most needy, are thrust still onto those who can least entertain the
insanity of states and capitalists. In our divergence from this too, life suggests itself to be more.
Life, for us, is not merely heightened by more considerate modifications or inclusive representa-
tions on the part of society’s rulers. Life becomes interesting and actually worth it for us when
abuses are razed, dictates are nullified— when we can come to autonomous agreements with
similar individuals interested in overcoming human misery.
Neurodivergence (or ”neurodiversity” as activists push) is a living instance of divergence. It
possesses a real diversion that— while very often mediated by medical and legal institutions—
exceeds the structures which prop up humanity as a concept translated to reality. We differ with
humanity down to a conceptual level: the awkwardness we are perceived to exhibit, even lumped in
with the disparate variables that still make up human beings, is the explicit incongruity between
us and industrial society coming to the front of our livedness. Divergence, in this, is passive—
which does lend itself to society’s mediation. It does not, however, disarm what the whole mem-
ory of psychological hell has given to us. How cruelty has long been systematized with minimal
effort.
Speak not of ”compassion,” human gluttony for animated bodies is slavery!
Those who possess any life force, despite their unknowable trials, are crammed into a human
product so that their positive charge is associated with humanity and not their own. In the case of
us who fail in a few crucial departments of being shaped by public schools, mental hospitals, etc.,

17
our records flow through systems of deduction to aid in conscripting our remaining mental and
physical will in accordance with monetary satisfaction and productive (or correctional) quotas.
Whatever glimmer of familiarity, of relation with a vulnerable humanness they imagine in our
suffering imposed on us by that exact paradigm, they still find a core flaw, invariably discarding
our dignity in the shadow of humanity’s greater purpose. Those who have sadly been coerced
into whichever ”therapy” now have a staunchly physiological human-self methodically grafted
on top of whatever frayed nerves of their own-self might remain.
By no means could I limit my meaning to this one perspective alone. At the vast intersections of
experience, an imminent self-liberation coalesces shyly, and this shyness is to be worked through.
A recognition comes to us: divergence as one’s self can only extend to wider, external things di-
verted when that divergent self indicates open paths for collaborators. At this time, collaboration
for subversion is nearly ubiquitous, and we see the radical standard made from this that attains
many destinations with few manners of traversing to them. Meanwhile, passage remains wide
open for everything useful to liberalism. Our endurance greatly suffers. It will continue to suffer
unless we develop an ownness, unless passage is denied to liberal values, and we then refuse to
enable their abuses.
Deviation from the normal is a snare of likeness as much as it is the crux of divergence. The key
distinction is in how only liberalism’s presentation, language— not its social modus— will divert
from itself in order to lure all possibility back in when one iteration is exhausted. Something
must remain while reforming itself.
We continue developing our own constant as the basic ends of a self-owned objective assumes
many potential means, expressions, applications. The abnormal of our own in conflict with the
normal of liberal continuity, up to and including its desperate self-deviations, is aimed at un-
doing the alleged receptiveness of subjects to governance and existential charge. Our creative
propensity for life must swarm the politically resounding performances of saving humanity.
We— in our human aspects— have been our worst possible abusers. But our self-inflicted ac-
tions were not always entirely our own.
We ask ourselves, crying, ”when does the pain go away?”
And we deserve to answer that for ourselves. We deserve to decide how to end our pain. And
the options need to be widened far beyond: (1) make some pretty art, (2) ask your rulers nicely,
(3) end your life.
Every day woken up to only to go to work for however long and spend the remaining hours
trying to forget about it and get enough sleep to do it over again is a routine psychological
abuse/rape that stiffens the joints of an artificial ”life” and leaps near-suicidal into the conquest
of everything remaining. These things are only ever whitewashed as anything else by the fodder
or directors of a compliant, still normality, cultivated to tell a story but engage nothing.
When the guns are aimed at us, even by our own hands, the source can always be traced back
to the liberal absorption of one’s experience into its game of ”self.” The aperture which devoured
us will halt and resume. In between each shutter, we need to move or accept death.

18
From The Shadow Of Generalities, Towards The Self-Abolition Of
Subjectivity
The only constant resulting from our own should be the Death Of Bullshit. We can overcome
the dormant wistfulness of ”life” itself. We deserve to. This means far too many things to list
off and elaborate, but it condenses down to a gradual divergent recognition: the worst atrocity
committed passively by everyone during the last few centuries has been the wanton docility
while under rule. Rule, having persisted scarcely through force alone, but by its subjects’ docility
lubricating its motions by threat of torture or deprivation, has wrung its own death knell in the
churches it has made. We must heed this chime in the wind and rejoice.
The pitiless flock and the pompous disillusioned have relegated their respective times to some-
day, as if daily life itself was not always the warzone at which every moment is stalemate. As
history shows, no one person can assuredly conclude whether more audacious acts and daring
leaps of the status quo can effectively reduce or remove the longstanding injuries we correct our
lives’ courses around. The paradoxical absurdity bleeds into our considerable alternatives. The
negation of alternative altogether follows:
whether lawfully, godly, creatively or conceptually, the relative lack in the dethroning and
mutilating of authority itself has been the harshest injury dealt by everyone ”given breath” by the
nightmare called ”humanity.” The basic absence of authority’s mutilation is a loud and booming
death for ”individual freedom” wherever it is really concerned. If you, as a singular head, are not
concerned with authority dying in your lifetime, you are not concerned with life at all, and thus
have nothing in common with my own affair.
Our guilt is present, but about as mundane as anything else out of our infantile reach. This
would be of little help anyway. Instead of lashing ourselves, we pick each other up. We offer
insights before going along our way. The desire for captivating adjectives during situations of
absurd origins has stagnated the comprehensive ability to grow past humanity. The existence of
these dramatics are themselves indicative of conceptual lunacy run a muck for what seems like
the entire duration of humanity’s need for meaning and purpose. Everything which would pro-
vide this has been pummeled to death in the name of a higher, divine purpose which is exercised
by all the creative effort of happy liberal subjects. Now, ”meaning” and ”purpose” only point to
waking up the next day and consuming another series of human products. Nothing more.
Blame should go to nobody in particular, but all our behaviors and positions indicate our senses
of importance. Those with authority, those who ”lead,” who prosecute, they cannot abide a sim-
pler contract: that no person should play any part in anyone’s debasement of their own, which
always goes both ways. Existential problems like these feel like public domain endeavors; politi-
cal ones, while they encompass certain domains and contracts, remain a public occurrence with
joint, selective involvement on outcome. And of course, social problems involve each subject of
humanity to the degree that they embolden social phenomena. Yet few people will consciously
scale the existential wall which encloses us in total. Doing so is of utmost criminality to our
shared human condition. But then criminal and courageous begin to sound alike, especially when
anyone expressing this can survive.
”Courage” has nothing to do with our expressions. Expression as a righteous act, or the trade of
a specialist, has solidified the boundary shutting out expression as that which pummels through
its own limitation, leaving itself as a unique mark on earth’s surface. This profound utility is lost

19
either by the author’s limited tools, limited exposure or limited receptive individuals who could
relay the would-be affect to others who are unsure of it. Artistic fervor only seeks to weaponize
the endurance of the subjects. As the subjects shed the yolk of ”self” as a distinction from ”all,”
they wade for the first time in the judgmental air of their own raw consideration, weeping, laugh-
ing hysterically, possessing their own wordlessness that harks on Sappho’s line, ”I am weary of
all your words and soft, strange ways.”
Strife, definitely in regards to polemical engagement, is our share for feeling any distance be-
tween ourselves and humanity. It is not any curse or affliction, but the self-justifying belligerence
of rule itself, that our mournful recognitions are dolled out in mere words. We who are this tired
have caressed the faces of every beautiful anti-thesis of every anti-hope anti-manifesto in light of
each hitherto renewal of global neoliberal economic endeavors. Of experience and conveyance,
wanting to be done while only knowing one way about anything ”being done,” nothing is ever
”done” until you really are.
It is a strength belonging to all. Knowing when and how to divert from a broken path is an
intense breakthrough in becoming one’s own. It is not easy, as it tends to bring the faults of
many other aspects you wished to keep hidden directly to the front of your attention. Normality
is many different things in tandem. Pickup trucks and gasoline, elections and pointless droning
social media jabber. My existence as an autistic faggot who cannot tolerate any of this needs to
divert in order to secure my own. Nothing can promise my well-being but my determination to
outlast every blatant lie and every obtuse gesture of entrapping me.

Intermission: To Renounce Humanity

To renounce humanity is not to renounce the basic well-being of each other. It is to reject
the malicious captivity of unique beings under the unitary label of ”human,” which has its lineage
in the ”meaningful” suffering of ”god’s people,” i.e., ”god’s subjects.”
To renounce humanity is to renounce a pompous humbleness in the face of being something
capable of being ruled. It is to examine the factors plainly, past and present, regarding any being’s
capability for anything, deducing the course which makes sense to one’s own.
To renounce humanity is to renounce the beautiful hopelessness which brings us to smile
morosely at how absurd life has been made, increasingly expanding our acceptability for the
worst shit imaginable.
To renounce humanity is to renounce the fullness of liberalism. Liberalism being that which
secures a framework of ”checks and balances” and a flimsy framework of ”rights” which can eter-
nally be challenged, reinterpreted and loopholed in order to achieve the ultimate desire of indus-
trial capitalism. It is the actual lifeblood of Conservatism, more so than any other side of the same
coin. The degree of ”liberty” that liberalism affords is a negotiable rationale concerning protec-
tions for mutually opposing social forces. All social action under liberalism therefore convenes
back at humanity— either to extend eternally over degrees of egalitarianism and opportunity,
or to lash into humble duty for the according crises. Liberalism, to some dimwits being synony-
mous with ”Communism,” or ”lenient” to communists, completes itself as the human ideology
when some radical camp fails.
(end intermission)
****

20
 How exactly we venture to unplug from being led on this way is a malleable sort of game of our
own to invent, reinvent, use, abuse, annihilate and respawn according to our individual whims
in tandem with mutual endeavor. All I feel like I know in this regard is that in our carnival of
self-deluded fantasies marching towards the slaughter, I must scream, pound my skull in with
a ball-peen hammer, becoming exalted and freed. I must wail and expel in one go. Upon the
shrill, gargling sadness ripping through the children’s laughter and mindless animation, more are
bound to harmonize. Our constructive negativity is what embraces disillusion and acts through
the words everyone knows but dare not speak. In speaking, in the motion of speaking without
a filtered ”resistance—” meaningless word!— we rally anew by ancient channels, by tried and
true ferocity spread out, ripping through our sorrow.
We pivot— divert— from the liberal approval of ”doing” in relation to its unwelcome conse-
quences. If any gains over our subjective subjugation are to be won, transgression of the pattern,
the program, the poem, is necessary. But simultaneously, a specificity whose direct goal is stoic in
its definite, informed obscurity must prevail over artistic surrenders to the universe. A snatching
or manifesting which corresponds to no rigid perfectionism of thought, form or— especially—
feeling, must be self-cultivated in the wretched soil of spent plastic assurances. Our feeling must
overwhelm the universe. We must not lie supplicant to the milky way upon our defeat at the
civilized threshold, but charge joyously and with agency into its womb from which we came.
The human self has taught us to be cunning and inventive in the worst ways; to dodge the
blows of judgment or deprivation while also being quick to dispense them on each other; to
harden our gigs and perform with passion drawn from the desperation to survive. That which
strikes so magnanimous to our human veneers in being is, in consequence, the self-generating
master over our inhuman ferocity and tenacity for becoming.
They will guarantee prosperity, or prudence in the eyes of the divine, but we who still live
know to be guaranteed nothing. We know the summation: there is no life left here. ”Here” might
not mean ”everywhere,” and so that is at least half of the curiosity. I don’t say this because I want
to write a bold and daring statement. I say this because I need the pain which we are accepting
every moment to cease. In terms of sheer quality of existence, the conceptual engines of this so-
called life need to be murdered, or every life who endures it will have sorrier and sorrier lives in front
of them.
Either we as individuals will perish after suffering one by one, or the modus of reproductive
human society— after so long, so very long of hurt and confusion and powerlessness— will finally
and truly be dead. It is only in this total conceptual collapse that we can perhaps take a deeper
breath much different from what we are used to.

21
 The Anarchist Library
Anti-Copyright

Claire-Bella Einsamhund
Divert Or Die
At The Crossroads Of Late-Stage Humanity
2020-09-10

https://otheryeareditions.wordpress.com/2020/09/10/divert-or-die/

theanarchistlibrary.org