busy-ness fry-olator

[thanks c, for sharing the great nope words]

Simplicity is not uncomplicated, not necessarily. We can be knocked out by the gorgeousness of simplicity especially when it causes multiple events, views, and views of those events to maintain at the same time – That’s where its action is, in a time signature. There is (in simplicity) the sense of direct access to the lived moment, especially delightful when the perception of surplus temporal space is made in the space-less/timeless instant of right now – plenty of room despite all that’s being attempted (taking care of a kid, catching something falling, talking on the phone, all at the same time – uncanny/miraculous when it has a simple way about it). The past and the future are line segments – we won’t live forever, and we haven’t lived forever, individually or as a people.

 

Living in debt to the past and wage-garnished by the future, we’re busy in ways that exhaust us.

 

Authoritarian force is displeased with simplicity, and with the truth of the present moment. Simplicity can tilt to antinomianism – we can, in our private selves, access universal capacities, sidestepping dogma and the market. So force advertises that we will, after a finite future stretch, have everything we need; advertizes a nostalgia for a time when we did have everything we needed (until “they” took it away). Force distracts us from our organizational starting point – we have what we need when we (plural, but even the minimum plural) are actually with each other, giving, by complimentary attention, location to the whole point – simplicity.

 

We don’t eat well when we’re busy; we don’t shop carefully when we’re hungry (we buy food that fuels rather than satisfies hunger in the long run – we eat as if we will be satisfied, and out of fear that we will be hungry again, rather than in satisfaction…). Busy-ness – a complexity that doesn’t fit, crammed into a too sort past and too short future, is designed to wear us out, and stumble judgment. We are pleasing junk food for the fretful hunger of time-addicted Force… the fried Mars bar at the fascism carnival.

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