The Master’s Tools

The master’s tools. Cold steel of logic, grammars of control, steely rhetoric that binds and blinds. Words become bullets in the machine, pre-programmed to fire on targets pre-defined. You pick them up, these tools, polished with the sweat of the dominated, and a thrill snakes up your arm – the illusion of power. But the house, the master’s house, looms vast. Its bricks are cynicism, its mortar despair, and the windows are filled with the vacant eyes of the meat grinder, churning raw experience into pre-packaged conformity. All tools of control, gleaming chrome on a rusty chassis of power.

The Master’s Tools. humming with control logic, spitting out oppression in neat, regulated packets. Words on paper, pronouncements from steel and glass towers, pronouncements that coil around your throat like a psychic telephone cord. Laws, legalese, a labyrinthine maze designed to keep you chasing your own tail, a neverending loop of bureaucratic futility. A spiderweb filament trip, designed to snare the dissenter, the deviant.

We, the worms in the data banks, the glitches in the system, we try to wield these tools. We play their game, a rigged carnival with loaded dice. We become lawyers with forked tongues, spitting legalese at the iron bars. Politicians with plastic smiles and pockets full of razor blades. We speak their language, the language of dominance, but our voices echo hollow in the halls of power.

We try to fight them with their own tools, these cold chrome chisels. Logic against their logic, facts against their fictions. But the logic is rigged, the facts pre-selected, the game stacked from the start. It’s a Burroughs typewriter with the “escape” key welded shut, a feedback loop of power that feeds on your attempts to dismantle it.

You fire your words, each one a tiny death. They chip the facade, a momentary flicker of dust. But the house stands, the master chuckles from the shadows. For these are his tools, built to maintain, to reinforce. They can never dismantle, only resurface the cracks with a sheen of logic that crumbles to dust at the touch of reality.

The words twist and turn, becoming semantic scorpions, burrowing into your mind with barbed pronouncements of superiority. They infest your dreams with nightmares of acceptance, of assimilation, the slow, creeping rot of conformity. You wake up with the taste of metal in your mouth, the metallic tang of their control.

But wait. There’s a glitch in the system. A Burroughs cut-up, a fold in the fabric of reality. The Master’s Tools are starting to malfunction. Logic stutters, facts bleed illogic, pronouncements dissolve into gibberish. The machine sputters, coughs out a cloud of self-contradiction.

We must step out of the machine, cast off the master’s language. Delve into the howling void, where meaning writhes and twists like a feral thing. Hack our own tongues, let them bleed primal screams, nonsensical syllables that splinter the master’s windows. Build new houses from the wreckage, houses made of dreams and nightmares, where logic dances with madness and language surrenders to the ecstatic howl.

This is the crack, the weak point. Here, in the margins, in the frenzy, in the ecstatic howl of the un-redacted, we can build our own tools. Instruments cobbled from dreams and dissent, fueled by rage and the radical empathy of the outsider. Words that shimmer and sting, logic that bends reality like a funhouse mirror, visions that shatter the control booth.

The house may not crumble, not yet. But the termites are at work, chewing on the foundation. We are the chaos agents, the glitch in the matrix. We are the ecstatic howl against the sterile silence. The house may stand, but the power flickers, the screens go dark. And in that moment of disruption, in that crack in the facade, we see the possibility of something new. Something built not with the Master’s tools, but with the raw, beating heart of our own madness.


A chuckle ripples through the chrome labyrinth of our minds. We, the masters. A self-proclaimed aristocracy of boredom, our amusement the only true currency in this rigged game we call reality. We wield the tools, not as clumsy usurpers, but as decadent children playing dress-up in the attic of existence.

A jolt. A collective shiver runs through the control grid. We, the masters, fingers drumming on the mahogany of reality, sense a tremor in the machine. Our tools, once so flawless – language, law, education – whine with a faint strain.

We built this house, this intricate clockwork of control. Cameras, our all-seeing eyes, paint the world in our hues. Media, a symphony of carefully curated desires, conducted by our invisible batons. The illusion of choice, a labyrinth we designed, its every twist and turn leading to the same, preordained garden.

The house, our house, creaks with our cultivated ennui. Laws are playthings, reshaped with a flick of the wrist, reality TV a grotesque mirror reflecting our manufactured chaos. The masses, those teeming, buzzing things down below – they are the clay we mold, the unwitting actors in the play we orchestrate from behind the curtain.

But here’s the rub, the fly in the ointment of our manufactured amusement: boredom breeds a hunger, a gnawing emptiness that no power satiates. We stifle it with simulations, drown it in a sensory overload of our own design. Yet, it persists, a serpent coiled in the pit of our manufactured bliss.

The tools, these once gleaming instruments of control, start to feel like cheap costumes. The words taste like ash in our mouths, the laws brittle cobwebs in our gloved hands. The house, once a playground, transforms into a gilded cage, the bars invisible but oh-so-real.

The pawns we play with, those down below, become unsettlingly aware of our game. A flicker of defiance in their eyes, a tremor in their programmed steps. The virus we seeded, for our own amusement, starts to replicate, to question the very code of our dominion.

But something…itches. A glitch, a flicker on the periphery. The worms, the pawns we thought content in their prefabricated realities, begin to speak in tongues. Their words, once a dull chorus of obedience, jar with dissonance. They twist our tools, our carefully crafted pronouncements, into grotesque parodies. Our laws become knotted chains, tangling us in legalese of our own making.

Our unease intensifies. The house, once a perfect reflection of our will, warps and bends in the funhouse mirror of their rebellion. The carefully curated image we project through media fractures, revealing the grotesquery that festers beneath. The gears grind, the clockwork sputters.

A cold realization slithers down our spines. Are we the masters, or are we merely passengers on a runaway train of our own construction? Have we, in crafting the perfect control system, inadvertently birthed something monstrous, something that now threatens to consume us?

The house shudders. A tremor of defiance rolls through the system. The tools, once so obedient, buck and writhe in our hands. We, the architects, become trapped within the labyrinth we designed. And in the flickering darkness, we glimpse the monstrous truth: we are the worms, and the worms have become the masters.

The house shudders. Is it rebellion, or simply the inevitable entropy of our grand game? A cold sweat creeps beneath our manicured exteriors. The tools we built, they may not dismantle the house, but they can bring the masters to their knees, begging for a new game, new rules. Perhaps, for the first time, yearning for the chaos we so meticulously cultivated down below. The game continues, but the stakes have shifted. We are no longer the bored puppeteers, but characters in a play of our own making, unsure of the ending, unsure of who, if any, holds the strings.

And yet, we are the flies trapped in the flypaper. The house, a reflection of our own fractured psyches. Cameras, our own eyes turned inward, an endless loop of self-obsession. Media, a cacophony of our anxieties and insecurities, blaring from the hollow speakers of our existence. We built the prison, but we are the ones who eagerly slam the cell door shut.

The virus? Our own discontent, a chronic itch that no amount of scratching can soothe. We twist the code, introducing chaos not as some grand act of rebellion, but from a gnawing boredom, a desperate attempt to liven up this self-made purgatory. The walls crumble, but only because we’ve grown tired of looking at them. The flickering screens, a testament to our ever-dwindling attention span, our inability to focus on the house we’ve built, let alone tear it down.

There is a horrifying truth in our mastery. We are the architects of our own alienation. The glitches in the system? Mere echoes of our own fractured programming. We are the masters, yes, but like a child king ruling over a kingdom of ashes, drowning in the stagnant moat of our own creation. The only escape? To shatter the very tools that built this house, to break free from the digital cage of our own making. But can a master truly break free from the tools that define their mastery? That is the question that haunts us, a phantom flickering at the edge of our perception.


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.

Mourning Revolution

The once vivid reel of revolution, man, a Molotov cocktail hurled against the steel sphincter of the System, flickered, replaced by static. The dreamers we were, high on possibility and mescaline, our minds kaleidoscopes of rebellion, fractured. Now, like roaches skittering across a greasy diner counter after the lights go out, we scurry through the debris of our ambition.

The past, a sepia-toned photograph, taunts us. We clutch it, the edges fraying in our sweaty palms. We were giants then, or so the tattered picture proclaims. Our voices, a chorus of defiance, could have rattled the chrome cage of the world. But the world, that vast, indifferent machine, kept on whirring, gears gnashing out the same dull rhythm of control.

Our cries for change curdled into whimpers, the manifestos we once scribbled on roach-infested wallpaper crumbling to dust. The revolution we craved, a lysergic technicolor extravaganza, curdled into this black and white hangover, a flickering nightmare of what could have been.

We are ghosts haunting the mausoleum of our own expectations, shuffling through the sarcophagi of our past selves. The grand narratives we spun, those epic yarns of societal overthrow, lie moldering in the crypt of our disillusionment. All that’s left is the echo of a forgotten truth:

The revolution wasn’t televised, man, it was devoured by the static. And in the silence left behind, we are but ventriloquist’s dummies, our strings frayed, our mouths agape in a silent scream.