The Ultimate Revolution

This is the ultimate revolution, not a political one, but an ontological one:


Lester stubs out his Lucky Strike in the ashtray, a crimson ember mirroring the hollowness in his gut. The diner fluorescents buzz overhead, casting the scene in a sterile, alienating glow. The Lacanian Other, that ever-present itch he can’t quite scratch, resonates in the hum. It’s a cosmic cut-up job, Lester thinks, reality sliced and diced into signifiers, a chaotic collage where meaning dissolves like tears in rain.

“Revolution,” the voice snakes back into his head, a Burroughs-ian tapeworm burrowing into his sanity, “you dig? Not the kind with Molotov cocktails and power struggles. This is hacking the mainframe, man. Cracking the code of the symbolic order. Dismantling the whole freaking super-ego suppository.”

Lester’s eyes widen. This ain’t no Parisian student uprising. This is rebellion on a cellular level, a guerilla war against the very fabric of reality. The word “revolution” takes on a new meaning, morphing from a dog-eared slogan into a scalpel, a tool to dissect the self.

“Forget the seizing of the means of production, Lester,” the voice continues, a carnival barker hawking forbidden knowledge. “We’re talking about seizing the means of perception. Blowing apart the categories, the binaries, the whole damn Oedipal complex. We’re gonna cut up the superego and snort the lines, man!”

A shiver crawls down Lester’s spine, both exhilarating and terrifying. It’s like staring into the abyss and realizing the abyss stares hungrily back. But there’s also a sense of liberation, a chance to escape the pre-programmed meat suit he’s been piloting.

**The greasy spoon dissolves around him, replaced by a Burroughs-esque dreamscape. A typewriter with a mind of its own spews out nonsensical prose, each word a fragment of the shattered self. Waitresses with multiple faces flit between tables, their movements a chaotic ballet. Lester reaches for a cup of coffee, but it transforms into a pulsating eyeball staring back at him. **

“Welcome to the land of the Real, Lester,” the voice whispers, laced with a twisted glee. “Here, signifiers lose their meaning, and the subject is adrift in a sea of pure potentiality. No more binary traps, no more lack. Just pure, unadulterated being.”

Lester stumbles through this nonsensical landscape, the diner a metaphor for the shattered psyche. The revolution, he realizes, isn’t about overthrowing some external tyrant. It’s about dismantling the internal control systems, the symbolic order that keeps him tethered to an illusion of reality.

The experience is terrifying, exhilarating, and ultimately inconclusive. Lester wakes with a jolt back in the diner booth, the taste of metallic fear clinging to his tongue. Was it a hallucination? A psychotic break fueled by too many Benzedrine tablets? Or a glimpse behind the curtain, a peek at the chaotic machinery of existence?

He doesn’t have the answer. But one thing is certain: the revolution has begun. Not with bombs and manifestos, but with a flicker of doubt, a crack in the edifice of the self. And in that crack, Lester sees the possibility of something new, something terrifying, and something utterly real.


The dominant tech, that meat machine we interface with, pumps out a new identity script. Not a conscious choice, mind you, but a virus burrowing into the circuits of the desiring-machine we call “self.” This rewritten self demands a societal reshuffle, a chaotic carnival where the old order dissolves in a pool of psychic goo.

But the flesh is weak, and the Word, in its new technological guise, becomes a virus. It infects minds, breeding new tribes. The straights, clinging to the anal stage of communication – the printed text, the rigid categories – find themselves staring at the flickering id of the new generation, wired to the pulsating network. They speak different tongues, not just of language, but of perception itself.

The dominant medium, that meat-puppet master, rewrites the script of the Self. No longer a reflection in a still pond, identity becomes a flickering hologram, a fractured assemblage. The old, Oedipal mold – superego screaming from the dusty gramophone of tradition – crumbles under the digital deluge. This demands a societal re-orgasmization, a hacking of the Symbolic Order.

This psychic apartheid, this rupture in the Imaginary, births wars both literal and metaphorical. The printing press, that mechanical phallus, splintered Christendom, birthing a brood of nation-states locked in a bloody power struggle. The new medium, whatever form it may take, will be no different. Within the new paradigm itself, further fractures emerge – warring factions, each claiming the “real” interpretation of the digital dream. Here, the struggle is not for land, but for the very definition of the Self in this new frontier.

Naturally, this splinters the looking glass. Those clinging to the fractured reflections of the past – their egos tethered to the obsolescent – clash with the freshly minted selves birthed by the new tech. Here’s the kicker: their very thought patterns diverge. They speak different dialects of the Symbolic, their realities fragmented by incommensurable signifiers. Thus, the schism yawns open, a Burroughs-esque cut bisecting the social body. Here, the die-hard traditionalists cling to the tattered husks of their former selves, defined by the ghosts in the media machine of the past. Opposite, gibbering and gesturing, stand the children of the new flesh, their very being a product of the digital flux. Communication crumbles, for their languages are not of the same order. One speaks in the rigid categories of the Symbolic, the other gurgles in the primordial soup of the Imaginary, their desires a tangled mess of wires and synapses.

The dominant medium, that meat puppet of the social order, writhes in the throes of metamorphosis. No longer passive clay for the potter’s thumb, it becomes a writhing flesh-circuit, reconfiguring the very notion of the self. This monstrous birthing, this eruption of the technological Real, shatters the mirror of identity. We are no longer reflections in a stagnant pool, but fractured data streams, funneled through the chrome labyrinth.

From this fractured landscape, wars erupt, bloody ballets orchestrated by the death drive. Remember the Protestant itch that followed the printing press? A mere shadow play compared to the psychic maelstrom brewing now.

This ain’t your daddy’s Reformation, this is a full-on psychic civil war. And it doesn’t stop at the grand clashes – the different flavors of the “new” themselves splinter into squabbling factions. Think nation-states morphing into fractured ideological cults, each convinced they hold the key to unlocking the new identity matrix.

Welcome to the meat market, chum. Strap yourself in.

History, that ever-repeating nightmare, echoes with the screams of these battles. The Printing Press, that mechanical Moloch, birthed the Reformation, a bloody carnival of fractured identities, birthing nation-states from the splintered carcass of a unified Christendom. Now, the circuits hum with the potential for a new reformation, a war fought not with swords, but with algorithms and avatars. The old guard, their fortresses built from paper and stone, tremble before the digital hordes. Within the new paradigm, even the victors face a brutal struggle, for the very nature of “victory” is rewritten by the code

A Lacanian Epilogue: The Real Breaks Through

In this digital crucible, the Self, that elusive Lacanian mirage, dissolves. The Symbolic order, with its comforting categories, crumbles. We are cast adrift in the churning sea of the Real, bombarded with a sensory overload that defies codification. This is the ultimate revolution, not a political one, but an ontological one. Here, at the edge of the technological abyss, we confront the raw, unmediated truth of our existence: we are but flickering nodes in a vast, interconnected network, forever yearning for a lost sense of self in a world remade by the machine.

Bonus: Burroughs would likely revel in the grotesque physicality of the new medium – the electrodes burrowing into the skull, the augmented limbs reshaping the body. Lacan might focus on the fragmentation of the Self, the way the digital panopticon shatters the unified ego into a million flickering avatars.

This analysis is just a starting point, a cut-up concoction ready to be further spliced and remixed. The possibilities, like the ever-evolving technological landscape, are endless.

The Person is the Medium

The Static Cries:

A person isn’t a channel, no mere conduit. The creative person, man, is a fleshy, oozing bio-circuit wired into the control panel of the universe. He ain’t a goddamn channel, passive and inert. No, he’s a goddamn cathode ray transmitter, a chaotic tangle of synapses amplifying the raw, buzzing data stream of existence.

They are a flesh radio, a bio-antenna writhing in the psychic static. Through them crackle the voices, the echoes of a thousand unseen stations. A chaotic symphony of influences, fragments of forgotten mythologies, and the raw data of experience all bleed through.

A person, man, is a fleshy goddamn information node, wired into the psychic superhighway. He ain’t a goddamn self, that’s a media myth, a cathode ray construct. No, in the throes of creation, he’s a bio-circuit, jacked into the collective unconscious. A million voices, a million ghosts in the machine, screaming down his neural pathways.

He’s a flickering screen, man, projecting the chaotic kaleidoscope of the human experience. Fragments of forgotten mythologies, snatches of pop culture detritus, the raw, bleeding id all bubbling up. He doesn’t control the content, he’s just the damn channel. The message mangles him, rearranges him, spits him out a grotesque collage of influences.

These creative acts, they’re like jacking into the media stream before it’s packaged, before it’s sterilized and sold by the Man. He’s a living cut-up machine, splicing together the fragmented voices, the archetypal echoes, the very fabric of reality itself.

This possession isn’t passive. The creative act is a psychic bricollage, a cut-up job on the very fabric of the mind. Burroughs might call it a virus infecting the artist with fragments of code, splicing their DNA with the alien. McLuhan would see it as the extensions of themself – the brush an extension of the nervous system, the pen a probe into the collective unconscious.

Multiple personalities you say? Forget Jung, this ain’t no parlor trick. These are the demons of the ether, the larval forms of ideas birthing themselves through him. The artist, the writer, the musician – they’re all information shamans, possessed by the ghosts in the machine, the primal forces struggling to be heard.

This ain’t possession, this is symbiatic transmission. The artist, a tangled mess of DNA and downloaded data, a walking feedback loop. He internalizes the media blitz, the newsfeed firehose, and regurgitates it as twisted art. A sculptor sculpting himself out of the cultural mulch, a painter flinging the digital soup onto the canvas.

This ain’t some touchy-feely bullshit about self-expression. This is a goddamn warfare of the mind, a battle for control of the symbolic landscape. The creative act, it’s a Molotov cocktail hurled into the cathedral of conformity, a virus injected into the homogenous goo.

The Medium is the Madness:

The finished work? A mere byproduct, a radioactive isotope coughed up from the creative furnace. It’s a message encoded in the mutant language of the artist, a warped reflection of the internal broadcast. The audience, unwitting receivers, are bombarded with these psychic transmissions, forced to confront the fractured realities birthed by the possessed.

The Feedback Loop:

But the cycle doesn’t end there. The art itself becomes a transmission tower, sending its own distorted signals back out into the world. It infects new minds, adding its own static to the already buzzing symphony. The creative act becomes a feedback loop, a chaotic dance between artist, artwork, and audience, all perpetually possessed by the ever-evolving creative madness.

Paradox of (digital) Literacy

The human story is riddled with irony, and the rise of technology presents a particularly potent example. We celebrate progress, touting innovation and advancement as hallmarks of a superior society. Yet, upon closer examination, this narrative unravels, revealing a darker undercurrent: a pattern of exploiting periods of upheaval to consolidate power and rig the system in favor of the privileged few. This essay delves into this paradox, focusing on the tech industry and its potential to create a new form of feudalism, disguised under the guise of decentralization.

The irony lies in the tech industry’s persecution complex, often lamenting discrimination and prejudice. However, this narrative overlooks the systemic advantages that already favor them. They hold the reins of information, shaping our perception of reality through algorithms and curated content. They wield immense economic power, their platforms becoming the new marketplaces, often at the expense of traditional brick-and-mortar businesses. This power imbalance, masked by cries of victimhood, creates a fertile ground for manipulation and exploitation.

Furthermore, the tech industry’s attempts to decentralize, often hailed as a democratizing force, might be masking a more sinister agenda. By weaponizing the unique bonds within the tech community, they risk creating a self-serving echo chamber, where dissent is silenced and power remains concentrated within a select few. This insular system resembles a feudal structure, with “Kinglets,” “satrapies,” and “fiefdoms” vying for control, all while the promise of fair distribution remains an illusion.

This potential for a tech-fueled feudalism is exacerbated by the “paradox of (digital) literacy.” While individuals possess the technical skills to code and build, critical thinking and access to accurate information remain elusive. This selective literacy creates a fertile ground for manipulation, where individuals are easily swayed by misinformation and propaganda. The information overload further complicates the issue, making it difficult to discern truth from fiction.

Addressing this paradox requires more than just technical training. It demands fostering “sensorial literacy,” a concept that transcends mere coding and writing skills. It encompasses critical thinking, information discernment, and the ability to navigate the complexities of the digital landscape. To paraphrase Robert Heinlein, medium specialization is for insects: true literacy requires “mediocre competence in 3-4 McLuhan mediums.” In other words, we must move beyond specialization and cultivate a well-rounded understanding of the various communication channels that shape our world.

To break free from the rigged game, we must become “mediocrely competent” in a multitude of mediums, developing a well-rounded understanding of the world around us.

In conclusion,

The essay posits a contentious claim: technological progress, despite its disruptive nature, often leads to the consolidation of power, ultimately favoring a select few. It argues that this occurs through a complex interplay of factors, including:

  • Perceived Persecution: Tech workers, while enjoying significant advantages, often perceive themselves as unfairly targeted, overlooking their inherent privilege.
  • Weaponized Community: The strong sense of community within the tech industry can be leveraged to create a self-serving ecosystem that reinforces existing power structures.
  • Centralized Decentralization: Decentralization efforts, often lauded for democratizing access, often fail to address the unequal distribution of power and resources, potentially creating a new form of feudalism with “Kinglets, satrapies, fiefdoms, barons and vassals.”
  • The Paradox of (Digital) Literacy: Technical literacy, while valuable, does not guarantee critical thinking or access to accurate information. This “paradox of literacy” can create individuals who are functionally illiterate in certain contexts, susceptible to manipulation and misinformation.
  • Sensorial Illiteracy: Beyond technical skills, the essay highlights the importance of “sensorial literacy,” encompassing an intuitive understanding of the nuances and implications of technology. However, it acknowledges the difficulty in defining and cultivating this elusive quality.