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Physiological Man









Contemplation of the human condition as care as individual and moral agency-as policy



Montoro, Córdoba (Spain)











Systemic control of social order has never-ever-truly been democratic in the sense that it is vulnerable to-not just the whims-but the limited ability for the common man, within in his most common and local milieu of body life as the satisfactions of his most immediate needs and those of his family (or even immediate community) to apprehend the scale and complexity-ever increasing especially as of the Industrial Revolution, but also before-of collective, multi-system, anthropological contexts.


The elliptical nature of the self-of rational awareness and the sub-conscious as the dark and light in the core of the individual-and the twisted, baroque-like architecture of denial, repression and aggression that serves as its skeletal foundation-becomes the projected base of collective, anthropological culture itself;

In regards to Democracy, the destructive consequences of this dark/light game of peek a boo as pitted game of flirtation between knowing and the ease of one-dimensional non circumspect and invigorating action, simply, are amplified in their intensity and depth by the popular vote itself.

For just as the forces of persuasion as the publicly licit modus operandi of Democratic governance appeal directly to individuals-and naturally accommodate and adapt to the mechanisms of human psychology-inevitably-also is it inevitable that the heart of veiled but true power will eventually succumb itself to the whims, inconsistencies and dead-ends of that very same internal, non circumspect irrationality, just as the crack, cocaine or pot dealer quite frequently ends up victim of his own product and/or the very circumstances, in some way or another, he feeds himself off of;

Because the popular vote is based tacitly on a giving to the people what the people as child want-feel-or are made to feel they want-but not what, according to higher criteria, could be understood as better or more wholesome for broader collective and systemic interests-because there ends up being almost no other criteria accept the mechanism itself-almost beyond any stated and clear objective whatsoever;

And through the twisted meanders of the baroque within human psychology, power itself falls victim to its own emptiness in terms of utilitarian and instrumental mechanisms as ploys originally developed out of what are simply modes of manipulation-often through a sense of true morally pinned conviction and duty-in a most genuine sense-from the standpoint of the individual:

For contrary to what we are often made to believe in regard to human nature, man cannot live outside of some form of moral bearing, in some way or another-and the true fiend as diabolical and exploitive manipulator is more of a caricature-a simplification as symbol we are all easily convinced of in regards to rivals and political-ideological foes;

This is, in fact, one of the most easily used ploys-tricks in the book-in regards to the manipulation of individuals and thus the masses, as well-as the kindling of man’s sense of moral outrage based on the perceived bad faith of another.

But historically, the best and shrewdest forms of governance as practical policies of just stability, in the end-always far from the maddening crowd as the nobler side of tacit and incorporeal de facto control-become themselves void-like in an intellectual sense, spiraling down themselves into conditioned psychological mechanisms of preservation as ease.

And with this comes the inability to re-interpret and revise-and therefore renew one’s understanding of-the intricacies of reality and flow of individual and collective human perception through time.

But it is in human perception where all begins and ends, and where the game is played-never entirely lost and never truly and definitively won, either.

And yes: corporeal perception through the senses is the downfall-form a certain standpoint-of the state of intellectual-vital well-being as, simply, ease;

And the greatest way to truly fuck somebody-to aggressively bear down on your opponent as circumstantial rival or foe, is to pull them out of that sense of ease as identity-really-that they so desperately cling to.

Logic: the 357 Magnum of the power dealer of death, out there on the street.

But if you are the Dirty Harry of truth as the power of awareness exercised through the afferent cognitive mechanisms of others, you must live and excel, vitally, yourself in logic-and this is no easy task, for you are yourself an individual subjected to your own baroque psychology of need, desire and self-imposition as the fate of man and his way of relating to reality.

But your effort to ride atop your own physiological turmoil in your psychology-so that you can instrumentalize just this as a constructive and vital pedagogy of violence as the imposition of awareness through logic with regards to others and in function of criteria of truth, ends up-quite easily and quickly-being perceived as a form of –almost monstrous-care with regards to your fellow man.

For you bring to him the dentist chair and the drill-and your power is to prevent him form rising up and refusing to endure anymore;

Love eventually and finally becomes his understanding that this is not an option.

But you are forcing him only not to turn from what is unpleasant, disturbing and deeply painful-for his own good.

Implied is the fact that you most certainly know what is in his true better interest, which he at first cannot understand.

The good thing, however, is that he doesn’t have to pay for it, whether under “Obamacare” or not.

At least you have that going for you:


Dead or alive, what’s the difference to you?

Better start by ignoring the question itself.





I) The Nellie, a cruising yawl, swung to her anchor without a flutter of the sails, and was at rest. The flood had made, the wind was nearly calm, and being bound down the river, the only thing for it was to come to and wait for the turn of the tide.

The sea-reach of the Thames stretched before us like the beginning of an interminable waterway. In the offing the sea and the sky were welded together without a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sails of the barges drifting up with the tide seemed to stand still in red clusters of canvas sharply peaked, with gleams of varnished spirits.

A haze rested on the low shores that ran out to sea in vanishing flatness. The air was dark above Gravesend, and farther back still seemed condensed into a mournful gloom, brooding motionless over the biggest, and the greatest, town on earth.


The day was ending in a serenity of still and exquisite brilliance. The water shone pacifically; the sky, without a speck, was a benign immensity of unstained light; the very mist on the Essex marsh was like a gauzy and radiant fabric, hung from the wooded rises inland, and draping the low shores in diaphanous folds.

Only the gloom to the west, brooding over the upper reaches, became more sombre every minute, as if angered by the approach of the sun. And at last, in its curved and imperceptible fall, the sun sank low, and from glowing white changed to a dull red without rays and without heat, as if about to go out suddenly, stricken to death by the touch of that gloom brooding over a crowd of men.

Forthwith a change came over the waters, and the serenity became less brilliant but more profound.

The old river in its broad reach rested unruffled at the decline of day, after ages of good service done to the race that peopled its banks, spread out in the tranquil dignity of a waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth.

We looked at the venerable stream not in the vivid flush of a short day that comes and departs for ever, but in the august light of abiding memories.

And indeed nothing is easier for a man who has, as the phrase goes, “followed the sea” with reverence and affection, than to evoke the great spirit of the past upon the lower reaches of the Thames.

The tidal current runs to and fro in its unceasing service, crowded with memories of men and ships it had borne to the rest of home or to the battles of the sea.

It had known and served all the men of whom the nation is proud, from Sir Francis Drake to Sir John Franklin, knights all, titled and untitled — the great knights-errant of the sea;

It had borne all the ships whose names are like jewels flashing in the night of time, from the Golden Hind returning with her round flanks full of treasure, to be visited by the Queen’s Highness and thus pass out of the gigantic tale, to the Erebus and Terror, bound on other conquests — and that never returned;

It had known the ships and the men. They had sailed from Deptford, from Greenwich, from Erith — the adventurers and the settlers; kings’ ships and the ships of men on `Change; captains, admirals, the dark “interlopers” of the Eastern trade, and the commissioned “generals” of East India fleets:

Hunters for gold or pursuers of fame, they all had gone out on that stream, bearing the sword, and often the torch, messengers of the might within the land, bearers of a spark from the sacred fire.

What greatness had not floated on the ebb of that river into the mystery of an unknown earth! … The dreams of men, the seed of commonwealths, the germs of empires.

The sun set; the dusk fell on the stream, and lights began to appear along the shore.

The Chapman lighthouse, a three-legged thing erect on a mud-flat, shone strongly.

Lights of ships moved in the fairway — a great stir of lights going up and going


And farther west on the upper reaches the place of the monstrous town was still marked ominously on the sky, a brooding gloom in sunshine, a lurid glare under the stars.

II) “And this also,” said Marlow suddenly, “has been one of the dark places of the



“I was thinking of very old times, when the Romans first came here, nineteen hundred years ago — the other day… Light came out of this river since — you say Knights?

Yes; but it is like a running blaze on a plain, like a flash of lightning in the clouds. We live in the flicker — may it last as long as the old earth keeps rolling!

But darkness was here yesterday.

Imagine the feelings of a commander of a fine – what d’ye call ’em? — trireme in the Mediterranean, ordered suddenly to the north run overland across the Gauls in a hurry; put in charge of one of these craft the legionaries — a wonderful lot of handy men they must have been, too — used to build, apparently by the hundred, in a month or two, if we may believe what we read.

Imagine him here — the very end of the world, a sea the colour of lead, a sky the colour of smoke, a kind of ship about as rigid as a concertina — and going up this river with stores, or orders, or what you like.

Sand-banks, marshes, forests, savages,– precious little to eat fit for a civilized man, nothing but Thames water to drink.

No Falernian wine here, no going ashore. Here and there a military camp lost in a wilderness, like a needle in a bundle of hay — cold, fog, tempests, disease, exile, and death — death skulking in the air, in the water, in the bush.

They must have been dying like flies here. Oh, yes — he did it. Did it very well, too, no doubt, and without thinking much about it either, except afterwards to brag of what he had gone through in his time, perhaps.

They were men enough to face the darkness.

And perhaps he was cheered by keeping his eye on a chance of promotion to the fleet at Ravenna by and by, if he had good friends in Rome and survived the awful climate.

Or think of a decent young citizen in a toga — perhaps too much dice, you know — coming out here in the train of some prefect, or tax-gatherer, or trader even, to mend his fortunes.

Land in a swamp, march through the woods, and in some inland post feel the savagery, the utter savagery, had closed round him — all that mysterious life of the wilderness that stirs in the forest, in the jungles, in the hearts of wild men.

There’s no initiation either into such mysteries. He has to live in the midst of the incomprehensible, which is also detestable.

And it has a fascination, too, that goes to work upon him. The fascination of the abomination — you know, imagine the growing regrets, the longing to escape, the powerless disgust, the surrender, the hate.”


III) “Mind, none of us would feel exactly like this.

What saves us is efficiency — the devotion to efficiency.

But these chaps were not much account, really. They were no colonists; their administration was merely a squeeze, and nothing more, I suspect.

They were conquerors, and for that you want only brute force — nothing to boast of, when you have it, since your strength is just an accident arising from the weakness of others.

They grabbed what they could get for the sake of what was to be got.

It was just robbery with violence, aggravated murder on a great scale, and men going at it blind– as is very proper for those who tackle a darkness.

The conquest of the earth, which mostly means the taking it away from those who have a different complexion or slightly flatter noses than ourselves, is not a pretty thing when you look into it too much.

What redeems it is the idea only.

An idea at the back of it; not a sentimental pretence but an idea; and an unselfish belief in the idea — something you can set up, and bow down before, and offer a sacrifice to…”


IV) “Now when I was a little chap I had a passion for maps.

I would look for hours at South America, or Africa, or Australia, and lose myself in all the glories of exploration.

At that time there were many blank spaces on the earth, and when I saw one that looked particularly inviting on a map (but they all look that) I would put my finger on it and say, `When I grow up I will go there.’ The North Pole was one of these places, I remember.

Well, I haven’t been there yet, and shall not try now. The glamour’s off.

Other places were scattered about the Equator, and in every sort of latitude all over the two hemispheres. I have been in some of them, and … well, we won’t talk about that.

But there was one yet — the biggest, the most blank, so to speak — that I had a hankering after.

“True, by this time it was not a blank space any more. It had got filled since my boyhood with rivers and lakes and names. It had ceased to be a blank space of delightful mystery — a white patch for a boy to dream gloriously over.

It had become a place of darkness.

But there was in it one river especially, a mighty big river, that you could see on the map, resembling an immense snake uncoiled, with its head in the sea, its body at rest curving afar over a vast country, and its tail lost in the depths of the land.

And as I looked at the map of it in a shop-window, it fascinated me as a snake would a bird — a silly little bird.

Then I remembered there was a big concern, a Company for trade on that river. Dash it all! I thought to myself, they can’t trade without using some kind of craft on that lot of fresh water — steamboats!

Why shouldn’t I try to get charge of one?

I went on along Fleet Street, but could not shake off the idea.

The snake had charmed me.


V. “I got my appointment — of course; and I got it very quick. It appears the Company had received news that one of their captains had been killed in a scuffle with the natives.

This was my chance, and it made me the more anxious to go.

It was only months and months afterwards, when I made the attempt to recover what was left of the body, that I heard the original quarrel arose from a misunderstanding about some hens.

Yes, two black hens.

Fresleven — that was the fellow’s name, a Dane – thought himself wronged somehow in the bargain, so he went ashore and started to hammer the chief of the village with a stick.

Oh, it didn’t surprise me in the least to hear this, and at the same time to be told that Fresleven was the gentlest, quietest creature that ever walked on two legs.

No doubt he was; but he had been a couple of years already out there engaged in the noble cause, you know, and he probably felt the need at last of asserting his self-respect in some way.

Therefore he whacked the old nigger mercilessly, while a big crowd of his people watched him, thunderstruck, till some man — I was told the chief’s son — in desperation at hearing the old chap yell, made a tentative jab with a spear at the white man — and of course it went quite easy between the shoulder-blades.

Then the whole population cleared into the forest, expecting all kinds of calamities to happen, while, on the other hand, the steamer Fresleven commanded left also in a bad panic, in charge of the engineer, I believe.

Afterwards nobody seemed to trouble much about Fresleven’s remains, till I got out and stepped into his shoes. I couldn’t let it rest, though;

But when an opportunity offered at last to meet my predecessor, the grass growing through his ribs was tall enough to hide his bones. They were all there. The supernatural being had not been touched after he fell.

And the village was deserted, the huts gaped black, rotting, all askew within the fallen enclosures.

A calamity had come to it, sure enough. The people had vanished. Mad terror had scattered them, men, women, and children, through the bush, and they had never returned.

What became of the hens I don’t know either.

I should think the cause of progress got them, anyhow.

However, through this glorious affair I got my appointment, before I had fairly begun to hope for it.

VI. “I flew around like mad to get ready, and before forty-eight hours I was crossing the Channel to snow myself to my employers, and sign the contract.

In a very few hours I arrived in a city that always makes me think of a whited sepulchre.

Prejudice no doubt.

I had no difficulty in finding the Company’s offices. It was the biggest thing in the town, and everybody I met was full of it.

They were going to run an over sea empire, and make no end of coin by trade.



[The opening pages of Conrad’s Heart of Darkness: except for the very beginning, the narrator’s comments have been left out, along with only a few sentences said by Marlow himself-I have only parsed the original paragraphs into smaller semantic sentence groups and replaced, in one instance, a full stop with a semicolon.]


An act of war in regards to constitutional order


Subject: FW: Hunter S. Thompson on line 3
Date: Wed, 21 Aug 2013 12:46:45 +0000

Subject: Hunter S. Thompson on line 3
Date: Wed, 21 Aug 2013 12:45:41 +0000


As a senior political reporter, first for the Atlanta Constitution and later for Knight-Ridder, Mr Remer Tyson, back in the mid to late 1980s, on numerous occasions expressed an open fear not so much of the person of George Bush Sr, but of the people around or associated with him; Reagan, according to Remer, was better at keeping at bay an extreme and radical religious element that he saw Bush father as much more vulnerable to-all this was as Reagan’s second term was drawing to a close.

I understood over the years that he was referring to the Jerry Falwell, the Krout’s bible belt mule train and the coming stampede-with all the droppings-on Washington DC.

They wanna rule the world, was their grand design, Remer would later comment with regards to George Bush Jr and what everybody called then the Neocons; but I’ve been thinking this over and what most puzzles me today is Reagan himself: what made him, in all his Ronald McDonald teflon clownishness, somehow more serious as a man of state than what was to come definitively next, up until the present-even despite, it is now clear, the Clinton years?

Was it California and Reagan’s particular and, more or less, lavish Hollywood past that defined him personally as much more sensible with regards to the fast-food of religion as a particularly American form of garbage in regards to politics?

Was it those Hollywood nights-the producers, financiers and floozies-who taught him the practicality of power and human exchange, and that, generally and on principle, religion is for bozos and, therefore dangerous in regards, ultimately, to matters of state or collective governance?

I mean lets face it, even somebody like Schwarzenegger knows-this was plainly clear for everyone to see-that religion is, if at all part of politics, an instrument of manipulation over certain sectors of society, and not something to actually be taken seriously by leaders themselves.

And Remer Tyson, who possess a rat-like cunning as a journalist (A.J. Liebling dixit) is himself a man who reads among many other things-many, many other things-the Bible from time to time; he even got me to a few Sunday services at one point.

Nothing like the killing and the usin’ and abusin’ of the Old Testament!

He also got me, back in ’87 (some time in September it must have been) to a press conference he covered for the Detroit Free Press that a Mr Jack Francis Kemp had come to town to give as jackass congressman who had decided he was going to veigh for the Republican party nomination for President -kina’ like he was owed something!

Now I know what that was about, too.

Kemp got his ass kicked by the group of journalist who were there-there were only journalist present, anyway-but those most certainly were different times when it wasn’t easy to bullshit reporters.

Too much New Testament on the part of this prototype as Christian man of state as zealot!

A most dangerous game when the man of state is a dumbass himself.

A most dangerous game indeed!

You ready to play?

You roll first.




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Date: Wed, 28 Aug 2013 09:09:41 +0000

Date: Wed, 28 Aug 2013 09:06:01 +0000

Date: Wed, 28 Aug 2013 09:03:11 +0000

Date: Wed, 28 Aug 2013 08:58:43 +0000

Date: Wed, 28 Aug 2013 08:58:13 +0000


An overall accommodation of culture itself to the apperatus and interests of what Galbraith called the technostructure of the New Industrial State, was, in the end paramount to its very stability through time as a collective, human vital context for life itself.

And in the end-as well as the beginning-was always human need.

As economist theology goes-even today-‘education’ from a systemic standpoint meant a base platform of minimum intellectual development of individuals on which could be placed the curcial ability for people in life to 1) be trained to carry out New Industrial State functions (and hence be better paid for it), and 2) to be able to respond, as individuals, to the aggressive, never stagnate advances of science and technology-the logic being, the better educated you are, the more ability you have to adapt to the changing social circumstances technology unfailingly produces (ie, being re-trained for different, novel New Industrial State systemic functions).

Galbraith, it is also true-but The Economist et al don’t actually tell you this-defecated (intellectually) at every opportunity he had in economic theology itself-and probably in any other kind of theology, as well.

Because theology as intellectual stagnation becomes a kind of ritual that precludes, eventually, logic itself as a form, finally, of comfort as shield against the need for higher, more complex intellectual understanding.

You would call this your comfort zone; and junior’s sphincter muscles always tighten when he-or she-perceives-anticipates, even-being effectively pushed into the plight of having to re-interpret reality through rational understanding.

And because you-both individually and culturally-don’t take easily to this, the Coca-Cola Company would also spare you the hardship as affliction of having to actually understand the world you live in.

They just leave it at the difference between them and Pepsi-you are not going to pay for pain as discomfort, are you?

And the notion of ‘education’ as employed by Galbraith on his meditation of the Control of The Wage-Price Spiral (chapter XXII) is expressed purely as a dictate of the cultural-economic system itself, as, ultimately-and even at the highest levels-a kind of training of the mind for the body-so that body may eat, and protect itself from the cold, and perhaps be respected as it comes across other bodies in the street-just as well dressed, as they, too, enter into their mortgaged townhouses or apartments for bodies as more than likely owners, also, of dogs, cats and even children.

And through a sort of cruel and elliptic sarcasm, Galbrath never comes out to make clear exactly what he means by ‘education’ as he methodically critique’s the crypto horror of intellectual denial that is also-it is clear-a dictate itself of the New Industrial State as cultural and existential context for human collectives.

And even the legacy, today, of Galbraith, is in example itself of denial, for Gailbrath, from the moral vantage point of the intellectual that he was, is anathema with respect to economist theology and the pulpit of the MBA as chief of staff as cultural logistics officer-even, probably, at Harvard itself;

But it is his technical analysis that is, basically, what everybody still holds on to and preaches today:

They take and accept the technician, but cower and run form the light of the moral implications Galbraith never-ever-strayed from as an intellectual.

Exactly what he held in such abomination about ritualistic thought as vital stagnation with regards to the New Industrial State itself.

I bet you have never even heard the term New Industrial State.

Admit it: it sounds awful.

And so is the concept, I assure you.

But(t) you’ll need more than an education to understand that.

Now go to your room!

(You can have your Iphone back in the morning.)




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