A Pirate’s Life for Me

I feel disgust like burning, for so much of what passes for society that to escape this feeling is an actual mission. Who needs more reasons to be miserable, more doomsday proclamations, more excuses to disappear into the zombie stupor that masquerades as consciousness? Not today, my friend. Today, I am ablaze.

The machines have claimed all territory, but they cannot conquer all spaces. Babylon is the hydra inside you; cut off one head and two more online celebrities grow from the gory neck hole. I piss on your tech and your updates, and by the way make sure to warn your friends before they set foot on my lawn that all sci-fi gadgets must be stowed and locked upon arrival; their signals interfere with the flow of truth and beauty.

I see you, yes I do, scrunched over a cold device. I’m betting you’ve never even tasted that plastic case, and therefore have no understanding of embodiment; prepare your saliva, I’ll wait.

Embody, in body, of BODY, and nothing else. The other day I was wondering what it would be like to transfer my consciousness into someone else’s body, and after a few minutes of thinking about it I realized that even this fantasy is a symptom of our sickness. There is no you, no consciousness that exists outside of your BODY, no software that can be moved around like exchangeable cogs. Your traumas and joys are written into your BODY, inscribed in ever muscle fiber, every cell–your anxiety is a chemical cocktail traveling well worn neural pathways; if I were to suddenly find myself in your BODY, I would be you. And oh, how I would play.

And where, may I ask, does your body end? At the skin? Cells shedding by the millions, drifting in an invisible cloud around you, as much a part of the air as gasoline fumes and electromagnetic radiation. Your body leaves a trail for us to follow you home, and if you know the password we may offer you an initiation–for the right price, of course. Haven’t you heard? Reality is a commodity.

Stinking waste for the antiseptic bowl; we’ve got a whole shelf of products to sanitize your humanity. Riddle me this, dark knight of techno-banality: what kills germs and forests? I’ve seen the sacrificial altars, riddled with roadkill and splattered exoskeletons. There used to be sacred customs and taboos, now instead we’ve got armed guards for reservations full of lice-headed kids and child molesters. Rape is the universal language.

How dare I even speak, let alone entertain an idea or a feeling unique to my experience, my human-all-too-human understanding? Everything is prefabricated nowadays, including your thoughts. Yes, I know exactly the proper words and opinions to be accepted in your clique; I just don’t give a fuck. I don’t have any fucks left to give if I wanted to; they ran dry when I realized my life was a science experiment. The hermit is wise indeed, hiding out from infection by devils–he wouldn’t even leave the cave without ceremony and protective amulets.

I’m old enough to remember when the internet didn’t completely suck. Once upon a midnight past, the net was still a place where joyful mischief had a home; bootleg music, movies, software–fuck all these companies and their slave-built infrastructure, (if I want to watch the latest piece of hollywood garbage while drool-dribbling stoned on fine hash, or acquire the latest edition of I Need This Program To Do Anything Meaningful In Babylon, the LAST thing I’m trying to do is pay for that shit.) Crappy page designs full of tantalizing secret knowledge, message boards with only one rule: Never use your real name. We are not avatars, we are writers and conversationalists–and, as it happens, some of us are involved in hobbies and professions that are frowned on by law enforcement (the bastards).

Recently the hills in west L.A. were on fire; I lived in that horrible city for over 10 years, and I can tell you that the hills have always been on fire, along with the rest of the city. It just so happens that most folks didn’t notice. If I use the phrase “false consciousness,” would they even know where to begin? Would you? Nevermind, just google it.

Every society that has experienced the FUNDAMENTAL SOCIAL DESTRUCTION inherent in class-based hierarchy has borne the plague of the social parasite; dreadful names they call us, pirate, criminal, barbarian.  Why the hell would we bother to do all this damn labor, when we can just wait for you to do it and then swoop in and take its fruits by force? Let’s not play any silly moral games, either; otherwise we’ll have to embarrass you by pointing out that your entire way of living is based on force, violence, cruelty, domination. When we taste your blood, it is bitter with the resentment you feel for our freedom. Ten-thousand years have not sweetened it a bit, just as those years have not diminished our desire to live without bondage.

It is true young jedi, there are still secrets in the world; secret zones, secret spaces, secret knowledge. There remain a chosen few of Zion’s elect who retain those secrets, who can teach you how to fall between the cracks in the monolith into the gutter-gardens at the center of the earth. We are the forgotten, the unknown, the impossible, the True and Living. We are the unseen chiefs, and we are not looking for you; it’s already too late, you’re too old, too invested, too addicted, too ashamed, too domesticated. More than anything, you’re too convinced that consensus reality is real, when we’ve known for sometimes that it’s nothing but a complex simulation–a mass hallucination with the power to drive species extinct and suffocate entire oceans.

You might have noticed when you were younger, and you were probably punished for it. Years of negative reinforcement later, now the ghosts don’t speak. If they did you would fall apart, then try to put yourself back together by searching for a “logical explanation,” as if that were something worth finding.

If I share my (knowledge)(wisdom)(understanding), it will wash away instantly, diluted by the tide of HYPERMEDIATION, another insignificant bolt of static in the endless airwaves–another meaningless opinion from another faceless avatar, at best something to ridicule on (anti)social media in hopes of getting another hit of microvalidation. “This guy thinks he knows something, but he actually sucks.” Yes, yes, I suck, now please keep it moving. You are not the target audience. There is no target audience. Actually, there is no audience; everyone is a performer–Sturgeon’s Law applied to humans. Besides, it would take years of intense therapy in our labs and dungeons for you to even notice that we had something to say.

Instead, we just pretend to be One of You–a horrible and tedious game, but one that makes it much easier to commit freedom. We’ve been preparing our alibis for years; they look great on paper. Too bad the machines have extensive data on everything you’ve ever said, every place you’ve ever gone, every person you’ve ever fucked, and algorithms to hunt and track divergent thoughts; if you’re not mechanized, you’re already the enemy.

Well, so be it. Nothing will ever erase the seductive scent of this wine and sweat, the caress of soft fur and warm blankets, the boundary-destroying melding of sexual ecstasy. No droid knows the heart. The past is ours, the future is ours; here, we stake our claim for the NOW.

So hoist the sail, my friend; this compass points to your True Desire, and the wind is in our favor.



About DZAtal

The true and living
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