A reflection/question/direction on Baudrillard’s escape from objectivity

Beyond Duality
are we
for it
>/< ? !

“Perhaps it is to escape this terrifying objectivity of the world that we are currently derealizing it; perhaps it is to escape the ultimatum of a real world that we are currently rendering it virtual. For though it lends force to existence and happiness, the concept of reality even more surely lends force of reality evil and misery. In a real world, death too becomes real, and secretes a commensurate horror. Whereas in a virtual world we dispense with death and birth, as we dispense with a responsibility so diffuse and overwhelming that it becomes impossible to bear. We are doubtless ready to pay this price so as no longer to have perpetually to perform the overwhelming task of distinguishing between true and false, good and evil, etc. The species is, perhaps, collectively ready to reject the moral and metaphysical anguish which ensues from this and has eventually built up into a neurosis, as well as to reject the privilege of critical consciousness, and accept instead a liquidation of differences, categories and values. Perhaps it is ready to abandon transcendence and metaphor for metonymic sequences. No more polarity, otherness, antagonism, but, instead, a superconductivity, a static electricity of communication. Perhaps by paying this price we shall pass death by, in the transparent shroud of a made-to-measure immortality.”

Jean Baudrillard, The Perfect Crime, p.39


Hocus Focus

What is my focus?

Why am I here,

and not there

or nowhere?


Am I qualified to answer such questions,

as a shadow blind to its own existence?

Who exists?

I, or the guy

casting characters

with empty hands

traipsing in solitary confinement

by the backlit parted door?


Forget this self-

abnegation to a muttering fool

that dictates my every move

in obtuse turns and stops.

He listens to the trees and the breeze,

yet he turns his back on me

like I’m a painful past

he runs from on a treadmill.


What is my focus?

And why am I stuck in the room

with this dysphoric mess

deaf, dumb, and blind to me?

Sure, I may lose myself in shades

or creep obliquely behind his back,

even split into a menagerie of actors

bored, without direction or a script,

improvising to pass

the blanching corrosion of time.


For better or worse,

till death do we part,

I am a part of you

like you are a part of me

so don’t pretend you and I

can live this story separately,

as a shadow puppet without a master

and a master without an illusion.


What is my focus?

the confluence of light, dark

and the body in motion between

wandering wondering

what the peculiar shadows

could be whispering.

Contrast contradiction

bloodlet and boredom

image and ground grounded in

the digital paradoxy of

reality revealed

in a hi-def cacophony


creative non-

fictions unfolding in time

measured in clicks by the ghosts

tricking you into immersion with

unseen reflection resurrecting

ashes of fallen sons

and fullest moons rising

around a

perpetual horizon

bowing gracefully before

gravity’s pull

Robert Anton Wilson’s ‘Right Where You Are Sitting Now’- in 500 words

I’m only an ordinary machine to bring you a thunderbolt…


     The job here is to put you in the head space where an ouija board predicts the future; where you are living in a foreign country and it all begins to seem normal to you, so that a visitor from your home country suddenly looks alien and strange; where a new scientific theory begins to make sense; where a work of art that had seemed a hoax or a barbarism abruptly becomes beautiful and full of meaning; where you are first waking up and can’t remember who you are or where you are… Verbal chains guide us through our daily reality-labyrinth.

“Hairy metaphors for a potential Nazi you,” said Simon.

“Gentlepersons,” said Clem Cotex, “I think we are living in a novel.”

     If the control buttons are outside you, should not your principal concern be with recapturing the Reality Studio and taking charge of your own script? For that matter, the Psychologist could not help wondering how much surgery in our own society is a similar form of dramatized placebo. Every conspiracy collapses eventually, because of Washington’s Law (“no permanent allies, only permanent interests”), and also because of the psychological likelihood that those who are superlatively clever at deceiving others become equally clever at deceiving themselves. Disinformation (politics by normal means) eats those who create it.

The ship appears Futuristic. Skeletons in Naval uniforms stand about aimlessly exploring Mexico, the sea and sexuality… a unique experience in living alternatives–educational, emotional, and sexual!”

     Evidently, we have always sought our deepest yearnings, though consciously only daring to express them as myths or fantasies, while pretending to ourselves that we were accepting the grim, pessimistic, hard-nosed view of the hurt-child aspect of ourselves. Under the present brutal and primitive conditions on this planet, every person you meet should be regarded as one of the walking wounded. We have never seen a man or woman not slightly deranged by either anxiety or grief. We have never seen a totally sane human being.
     There is the Copenhagen Interpretation, of Niels Bohr, which says in effect that the whole problem is emic– created by the symbols (mathematics) which physicists use to communicate with each other.

     We encounter the same dismal and depressing experiences because they are repeating tape loops in the central programmer of our brains. We can encounter ecstasy over and over by learning the neurosciences that orchestrate all incoming signals into ecstatic tape loops. The contact has already happened right where you are sitting now. Whether it is tuned-in or not-tuned-in depends on your skill as metaprogrammer.

     A new “you” and a new “external world” appear in the process. Many an artist has decidedly fused into the glorious nude female models he paints. AMERICAN LIFE BOMB WENT AUTHORITARIAN IN FRONTAL ATTACK ON AN ENGLISH WRITER. AM I THAT? AM I?