Herein Hieronymus Schitzolini bushwhacks his way towards the construct of a movement like those made to sell works of art by simulating scenes the sleepy public could be a part of now by purchasing it in the gift store.  The hilarity of posthumously grouping together individuals.  They never really worked towards any sort of actual unity nor saw themselves that way, like in Greenwich Village in the 80’s, but they’re packaged together anyways.  Or think of the art party as an exhibit like the ones Jason Rhodes used to throw in Los Angeles.  The simulated happening.  The spark of vicarious ecstasies.  The phantom scene every consumer wishes to be a part of and is willing to pay for but misses entirely.

Klein fiasco

Randomness contains order.  Change is neutral.  Becoming is happening everywhere all the time.  Memory is slow.  Ownership is a bad fantasy.  Guilt only a tool of control.  Fate is the inability to find another option that is out there.  Gratitude keeps the head buried in the sand.  Responsibility is a contract nobody was old enough to sign.  Debt is only ink, pixels.  Salvation is for fools.  Righteousness for idiots.  Sacrifice is the ultimate self-deception.  Discipline punishes the disciplined who punish who they deem undisciplined.

These are the thoughts that pass through my head when I’m sitting around and doing nothing.

Nobody says these things out loud, so neither do I.  I know that everybody else must think them too.  I’m not special.  Not a conduit of a higher power.  Not a visionary.  Thoughts like these are left unsaid because the paths they would spawn would be too many.  We stick to what we know and try to work from there.  Acclimating and tweaking.  Change from within.  These thoughts would cause us to go in directions we’ve never known or worse end up in some nightmare reproduced from a bygone era that we had seen before and thought how could anyone be so stupid.

So we’re stuck on the line because at least we think we know where we are.  What would be worse than actual freedom?  Better to stick with known enemies.  To rant about the same wedge issues.  Watch others freak out who cannot hold the line like the rest of us.  It makes sense.  The only people who get punished by the rest of us are those who couldn’t hide it well enough.  Discretion.  That’s the name of the game. 

Here we are.  Keeping our thoughts to ourselves.  Only the foolish express themselves.  That’s the fastest and surest way toward persecution.  Burning at the stake hardly proves anything.  Only a fool thinks it does.  In almost every case, it serves you well to not step forward.  It’s divisive to do so but not for the reason the fool thinks it is.  It’s divisive because the rest of us know that nobody is that special.  Sure everybody has their idiosyncracies but none of us are so different that it warrants a cult of personality.  

Of course, there are plenty of fools to go around.  Those who wear their affiliations on their sleeves.  Announce to the world who they’re associated with.  Like the dunce at a dinner party who cannot hold back the name dropping.  Immediately letting everyone know that he is more special because he knows people who are more special than anyone here.  What that person doesn’t know is that the rest of us know fame doesn’t rub off.  This is just a sad example of someone who didn’t get the memo.  Some lonely sack that sat near Andy Warhol once.  

Are you in the know or not?  This is really the main dividing line between people.  Did you get the memo?  Are you competent?  Do you have the same sand lines?  Can you ignore how arbitrary those sand lines are in the same manner?  Can you pretend as we do?  Will you demonstrate discretion that reads as trust?  Can you wink without getting caught?  Do you know how to let the right thing go?  Or will you squeal inappropriately at the first sign of discomfort?

The room for error is decided by the threshold of randomness.  By honest mistake or by the ignorance of bad intentions, whoever magnifies the randomness gets got.  Some simulation of a sacrifice or the real thing will occur.  It’s the primal tripwire.  A public display to match the unwanted public display.  A last ditch effort to ward off the devil.  The sight of too much randomness sends us regressing into our caves.  Cowering from how ineffective and incapable any order is when it comes to ridding us of the big bad random cookie monster once and for all.

People like to get together.  It’s simple like that.  Whatever the band is, the trophy, the scoreboard, the special menu items…it doesn’t really matter.  It’s only about getting together with others in the know.  That’s all it’s about.  Only the socially inept focus on those other things.  Precisely because they’re not in the know.  The connection is never there.  It’s sad for those people.  And we let them go on with their obsessions.  Even compliment them on knowing so much about every player or a band’s history.  It’s all they got.  And they cling to it as anyone so lost would.  It’s like that stuffed animal you carried around everywhere you went but never reached the point of embarrassment that made you grow up and go without it.

All of us cling to something that we hope gives us an edge even though our gut tells us differently.  But when it’s all you got, you cling to it.  And make sure everybody knows it, too.   Maybe it’s just because we’re always feeling under the threat of getting absorbed by mediocrity.  The billions of others out there who individually believe in how special they are.  

And if you’re unlucky enough to have an exceptional talent, the system processes you until you become a prisoner of that talent.  A dead end realized way down the road.  Like a child actor who finds out four decades too late that the vacuous society he thought needed him was his own vacuousness all along.  What else is there to do but become like the rest and submit the talent to sales.  Push a car.  Or a new form of refinancing.  A medicine.  At least he had some talent.  Unlike the rest who only hope to reach the vacuousness by way of flirt-acting.

If a scene is simulated by our minds then we can possibly get others to simulate our simulation on another line that might bring money into our pockets.  In a trance induced by moving certain thresholds as a group, we simulate a paying audience of members who were never a part of something so cool or so smart.  The “in” they were always denied can be purchased now.  We simulate the need that simulates our movement.  We sell it right back to those in whose image we have simulated a vacuum for the products of our simulation to fill.   

To heighten the seeming crucial relevance of our simulation, we also simulate the Other to transgress against.  They were never going to buy into our work anyways.  And this means we have carte blanche in how we simulate them for our audience.  We pull from the worst images in history and morph them together with the Other.  The bolder the contrast, the more defined our simulation becomes.  The common enemy simulates some loose commonality between our simulations.  Our image materializes out of theirs first and foremost.  Despite the differences between our simulations, at least we’re not those completely on the other side of our illusion.

We point to the mediums and their media as the simulation from which any sense of reality (another simulation) is realized.  Before the photograph it was the painting.  Before the podcast it was the radio.  Before the TV, the serial narrative.  Before email, the letter.  Before the internet, it was the library.  We play the video game to get a sense of what is real.  It used to be film.  Every medium is bouncing back and forth into weird loops of simulations upon simulations defining themselves and trapping constructed realities by comparison.  The most extreme definition coming when the simulation displaces its simulator and treats it as outside itself and not another product of consciousness.  

Employ double speak to enhance the simulation.  We say that the word simulacra, our bread and butter, is actually passé.  We pretend it isn’t a product of consciousness itself.  Now we can save the oomf for exposing the hypocrisy of the Other while overlooking the contradictions of our simulations and the ways in which we ripped terms from the thoughtful to serve more immediate purposes, chiefly selling.  Purchasing the simulation of wholeness must seem as if the buyer is actually becoming whole.  We perform this illusion by selling them to themselves.  That is why it’s quite true to say that there is no audience.  There never was.  The audience is a construct in anyone’s head.  How that construction performs is a matter of how well the simulation is hidden from the buyer.  To make this easier, it can be determined who is easiest to hide a particular simulation from and then simulate that person which in turn produces the simulation that person wants to make real through consuming it.  Youth centric targeting is the key demographic.      

Make no mistake, though, the simulator isn’t the one in control.  The simulator simulates without knowing how it simulates.  The simulator moves the start and changes thresholds to produce new simulations that its recipient takes as the truth.  A loony sort of math involving non-values ensues as the recipient is lost in derivative formats taken as sources and agents.  It cannot play self-witness.  Something only slightly true in one particular context is stated as an axiom for all contexts.  And the products that follow fall into the hands of those who worship Being since that is the only simulation upon which things can be bought and sold.  How else could we move the damn souvenirs?

Let’s simulate a party if not a movement.  Transmute the eclectic whimsy of our dead culture into the blurry moments of irresolvable shredding.  Clutch a piece of it if you must.  Pocket that shit.  Rub the thingy as a reminder that you too were there.  You were part of the idea of the party.  Its simulation gave you some new ways to play when you were bored on your plane.  Or maybe it gave you something real.  Like ripping off those jeans.  Or ripping off that merchant in the bazaar behind the temple.  Horny dreams of plenty spewed money cum all over their faces.  Neon and shiny, glitzy drippings.  Kitschy ceramic vessels queefing incense.  Dildo chandeliers tickling the nape of your neck with their dick shadows.  How else could the rich meet the poor in such fun circumstances?  How else can we forget who drops the mother load on the load bearing backs?  

Now is the moment of the evening where we watch a circle of corporate douchebags dig for a golden nugget buried deep in one of their asses.  Look at them go!  The winner looks like he’s got a grill.  The authentic gangster performance has been cancelled due to the simulated toaster oven.  Splatter everyone with paintball farts.  A party is not a party unless it’s a messy party.  Otherwise it’s called a function of nothingness pre-consumed and post-marked from another make-believe century.  As dead on arrival as the curator at your local museum.

Our butts are too salted for that.  Rub my scranus and watch the naughty genie come out to grant you one and only one nightcap.  You better choose something totally unnecessary if you know what’s good for you.  Who will talk about it tomorrow if it goes without something to blow into a scandal.  “Did you hear what so-and-so did last night” never started a story nobody wanted to hear.  Jason Rhoades is dead.  Mike Kelley is dead.  The only art worth its salt is incurable.

Look at those two lucky party-simulators sneaking upstairs to the bedroom.  She’s the queen of flirty memes and he’s the lucky follower.  She takes it all off for him but he misplaced his goggles and all he can see is a blurry image of her stripping and crawling on the floor and into the bed where her flirt-program writhes around.  He squints in desperation but it all looks like the code of fata morgana.  

He complains about his glasses and she gives him her pair of VR goggles.  

He puts them on and only sees himself from her perspective.

“What’s the matter,” she asks because his face looks pinched with confusion, “I’m not waiting all night.  Let’s get on with it!”

He cannot begin to explain and slowly enters the bed while watching himself approach from her perspective.

His body is nothing to write home about.  What kind of bad simulation is this?  Why is it so cruel in its realism?  In fact what the hell she’s doing with him he’ll never know.  He sees his sad tummy sagging down over his boxers.  He’s got no shoulders.  Just two bumps that go to sticks for arms.  And the scruffy body hair is enough to make him lose all desire.  Just face it, he says to himself, you’re a sad specimen of the male sex.  And how in the hell are you going to have sex now with yourself?  He had been having sex with himself his whole life.  An avid masturbator.  But not while seeing himself.  

He takes the VR glasses off and sticks his tongue out into the blur with the hope that it lands in the right place while trying to ignore the image of himself lodged in his system.

“Do you mind if I put my VR on?”  She asks.  He shakes his head, and flaps his ears, as he vigorously licks at the blur.  And she cums in a hot minute while watching herself from his perspective eat her beautiful va-jay-jay like a little dirty mangy mut stealing his din din.

There’s nothing like a party with micro-parties spiraling inside it.  Simulating grief and suffering to accentuate the opulent joy of tonguing the jewel encrusted bungus of a chocolate camel.  If that’s uncouth, go screw a fire hydrant.  Play any tune except grandpa’s jazz.  Unscrew the dead eye in message art and screw it backwards in someone else’s mind-hole.  Wink as they ass-clap  up to the ceiling of that stiff exhibit and hang upside down to watch the shit spray down onto the artsy-fartsy crowd below.  Otherwise it isn’t a party.  Nothing new will ever come without a necessary amount of destruction.