A Collection of Spectacles

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03. Nevermind. I don’t want to be alone. Not at all.

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A really underdeveloped attempt to apply theory to practice:

Sources- Das Kapital/Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts

A commodity is any object outside us that satisfies human wants.

As values, all commodities represent definite masses of congealed labour-time, that is, the time deemed socially necessary to produce a product. Thus, if it takes most people one hour to make one handbag, for example, the market price will reflect this socially necessary labour time. The value of a commodity would remain constant if labour time required for its production also remained constant. But, this time changes with every variation made in the productiveness of labour. Such variations can be made by developments in technology, etc.

The constant production of commodities leads to the worker’s alienation. Alienation from his/her own work in abstracted labour is a direct result (i.e. in factory workers it shows itself as workers must perform a few repetitive tasks that do nothing for the general growth of the being) and is found in its highest form as alienation from oneself as a species-being.

The issue constantly faced is in applying these ideas to the current day.

I’ve thought only of one so far. Change should be applied to where our abstractions meet and overlap. For example, the device I am currently using, the computer, can be seen as the source of my alienation at work (as an office assistant, or any other job that requires this device to be used) as well as in my leisure time, away from labor (when I can use the same device for any other unfulfilling end).  Although here, within the latter space, the use can be determined by the individual, so it still commands choice. It’s this aspect that should be targeted.  The idea is to focus on tasks, activities, or any other social, political, or technological structure that leads to our alienation in more than one sphere of life. Attention should be placed towards more examples like this, if there are any.

The computer, coupled with the furthering development of the internet, is a device that could possibly lead to the undoing of the pursuit of capital in its typical form. However, this too is being commodified, although slowly. Anyone that can remember a time in which shows and videos could be seen online without having to sit through a commercial or two can vouch for this.

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02. He, wait, let’s be direct and sincere. You are not here but are fervently distracting me from this paper. Sheets, pillow, covers, at various spots and patches are tinged with images (over here, this position was assumed, over there, this pose was taken).

That’s all I can offer right now. Not in the mood to be in touch with those ideas. Posting sometimes is uncomfortable, like posing naked in front of a large crowd, letting them look at your body, telling you where you can improve. To tighten your stomach (particularly the lower area). To work until your collarbones show through.

It’s good to be separate individuals, self-determinant wholes, who are tied so loosely and yet so deeply that there isn’t a we. Not in the traditional sense. Above all else, I am married to knowledge, to concepts, to finding a space in which it can be applied. I feel almost robotic. There’s no room in this mind for emotion, even feelings are traced back and calculated, analyzed. I figure this is the best I have it in me to care.

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Let’s spill before I’m not tired and not honest. I don’t know what I’m talking about, ever. Things are written in haste and they feel concrete, but it all really comes back to personal wants. To personal expectations about unnecessary needs. Which leads to the feeling of loneliness experienced when surrounded by many, which means it must be in my head.  I want to be wanted unnecessarily, but when that’s achieved, I’m disgusted and force interaction away. I’m at an odd juncture because I don’t know how to act or who to act like, and I’ve never been lesser that what I’ve mentally determined I should be. Without a future goal for the next transformation, who am I? Conflicting inner/outer interests. This is something that’s been important for some time now, and will probably continue to be, always. I’m tired about complaining and examining my own problems. About talking about myself. So broader topics later, to deflect all pointing and looking.

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Speaking and thinking of my collection of somethings and everythings and nothings. Everything is something to me, but far too often now, it lies on the lowest wrung of meaning. What I mean is, if I find that I have to attribute more meaning than is readily presented, then it lies on the base level. It’s the difference between analyzing an event in retrospect and extracting whatever possible lessons learned, and knowing that an event is going to always have an impact on you while it happens in the present.

Everyone that matters is in the room, Siete de Mayo.

This position is always awkward and foreign to me, unwanted. I’ve searched in different faces, different forms, various shapes, but in the end, my body is always contorted in this uncomfortable, abstract pose. One hand is up, raised and extended outward to another while the other is kept close, clutching my own chest, legs in-between being spread and not. I’m suspended, alone dotted with unpredicted periods of comfort which just results in an evolved, bastardized form of lonely. It doesn’t matter who it is, sweet and well-intentioned, they only amplify solitude. People who write aren’t made to experience anything. It’s always weighted.

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Posting a lot  because I’m so tired I can’t stop it all from flowing out.

“All a guy needs is a chance to pull off my clothes and snicker, ‘Try harder.'”

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01. The boundless possibilities of language were forgotten two positions ago. I search for whatever vowels and consonants I can find, tossing them into the dead air, but it’s a useless task; The act of releasing sounds doesn’t lessen the intensity of what runs along my contour, passes over and fills the area between one side of my outline and the other, moves up and down (hitting and at the same time soothing the numerous points in-between) plunges in and runs through, navigates the wires beneath my skin and forces them to rethink every connection they’ve ever made before. Precisely as you touch, sometimes gently, sometimes with a force that can’t be imagined otherwise, everything that is blissful and not is experienced simultaneously, creating a state that language has yet to create the perfect word for. If there was ever a moment that I didn’t spend scrambling, trying to find my place in temporality, if there ever was a space in which everything was found, via a void, it is there (which will be here again, soon) and nowhere else.

Overall, I need to be trusted. Just trust.

I’m losing the fervor with which I write such things, for they always seem short-lived.

I feel like I’ve written that sentence before.

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Separated by subject

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I’m so angered. I spent a majority of my years thinking I was fucking crazy. I committed myself to therapy what seems like a forever ago, and found out I’m anything but. And now. What he said I should continue to address is what’s confronting me right now. Man had good insight, who would’ve thought.

I’m tired of trying to prove to everyone that I’m not [ ] and I don’t think [ ], that I may seem like suchandsuch and whatever, which is true, but also not.

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