Suicide and Philosophy: A post-tribute to Mark Fisher (1968 – 2017)

Its been a long time when I’ve spammed here. This website is basically my everyday diary or should I say for my nonsensical rants which rooted from my bastardized life.

I mean, happiness today is like turning into a diamond. You need to be molded with minerals, exposed to certain amount of heat for million years to be produced. Well, this moment I am contemplating about my life’s dependence on critical theories and such.

Suicide and philosophy. Are these two kindred? Maybe.

Remember Mark Fisher aka k-punk recently died. And it was one of the most tragic moments to philosophy-fans and his followers. It was a huge loss to the anti-capitalist groups that share the same thoughts as k-punk has to offer.

His death is similar to Guy Debord, the connoisseur of the Situationist International who happened to be the leading personalities in the historical May 1968 movement in France. depression and hopelessness. Debord died same as what Mark Fisher did. Suicide.

Again, are suicide and philosophy share the same manner of defining life?

One cannot tell.

The works of Debord and k-punk must be read by this generation.

I don’t want to be preachy. These persons took their lives for battling the modern capitalist humanoids and capitalism itself.

Not all warriors carry arms. And of course they’re more than heroes I can say. They are now one with the millions and millions of revolutionaries that envisaged a better world for the generation that doesn’t want to agree.

you can still access k-punk’s archival blogs here: http://k-punk.abstractdynamics.org/

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[p o s t m o r t e m #1]: an update from yesterday’s hypocritical journey

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In the end we people who strive and do some bullshit adaptation to the system always fail. It always ostracize our privileges and mask them with show business. Debord was right. The spectacle has evolved. Bigger, badder and more panoramic than ever.

I think, I am being watched. Well, we all do.

To get to the right track of this rant, yes, I didn’t get what my mom needed. We’re screwed from the very last drop of sweat, who traveled miles from my home to a place which is confusing with two names according to the community.

Buendia o Gil Puyat? Bullshit.

I have arrived to the place where we could have “hope” according to the esoteric government fuckheads. There is a line of people. Some shared stories with other dependents to this vice president. But in the end, another lonely story is added to their book of despair. I’m not the only one. When the guards told us that we should wait next month, some have wept. Imagine. it’s already hard for me, who’s based in Manila. How about them who traveled really from a far? I know i’m redundant. This is a fucking rant. No one can bowdlerize my words.

This is not the end but, I’m really fed up…

Not.

Tomorrow’s Hypocritical Journey: Seeking help from the System

I have scheduled myself for tomorrow’s errand which will going to the Office of the Vice President of the Philippines.

Hoping that they will grant us some financial and medical assistance for my mother’s dialysis sessions and for the fate of her disease. It is hard. So hard. The problem is my tears have washed. No more wet supplies in my eyes. The last time I cried was years ago. It was my father’s death. I did not cry because of him though. I cried for myself. It is a justification that from then I am now the breadwinner.

Years later, my mom was diagnosed with lupus. Eventually because she was stubborn in nature, she didn’t follow our advice: to stay out of stress. As expected her creatinine levels went high and the doctors have already recommended her to undergo dialysis sessions. See. It is already proven stress is the number one killer of human species. You can look it up to google if you want to.

Now you know how I got this “task” to go inside the system. The system I hated. The system I despise. The system that caused my father’s death and my mom’s disease. If opportunity is just as fair as they said, then there wouldn’t be casualties around the corners and weepers on the side of the cliff. There wouldn’t be wars. There wouldn’t be bad things. The problem is, the system is bad, but it wants us to be good. I’m good though….. good to be its worst enemy.

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undesirable machine

this time and for the future, i am experiencing my life as a proletariat or petty-bourgeoisie with a job. people lives inside of machines. simulating my empirical ideas, i start to contemplate about death and this abyss of demons with fire. i am not afraid though. we are already experiencing it. this world of humans is tumultuous as fuck. can’t tell if somebody is telling you the truth or he or she is just screwing you up to the bone. anyways, this is just the beginning they say. and beginnings are unforgettable. they are difficult to erase. unlike endings, it molds your unconscious and definitely will hit your enjoyment until you define yourself as that moment. too much drama I say. we can relate this tumblr-ish aphorism to the conditions of those who are still belligerent, failures and revolutionaries.

if you can’t finish the progress, then welcome to hell.

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yorozuya lifestyle#1 – love, pain and comedy.

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Everyday I eat sweets. Yeah. Typically those that can be bought for 1 pesos, produced and manufactured by our local candy makers located in somewhere in Metro Manila. It helps me to stimulate my self-control and my mortal body. As the same time it makes me calm, stress-free and lowers my anger issues (If ever I do have. This is a self-diagnosis.)

There is always a time where I check my books in my two small shelves in our small house. I have this masochistic habits that I am pleasured to be frustrated if I can’t read the book I skimmed because of appointments, academic requirements or to the reason I still have a book to finish. I even tend to doubt myself, if I do understand what the book’s essence. and this will lead me lie down in our 60 year mini couch. Look up in the wooden ceiling with a space before the roof itself. this space are inhabited by rats. you can hear them running around if you’re in our turf.

I always check my phone. Of course. In our everyday life on post-consumerist/capitalist society, you can’t live without a phone (especially without a data to browse Facebook). But in my case, my love one loves me so much that she texts me everyday. The feeling is fucking mutual. I love her a lot. Maybe we are the only couple in the world that still depends on prepaid load balances to communicate with each other in the universe of LTE. can’t live without her.

And of course, in a week i spend time on watching adult cartoons, well not the XXX ones though. I am talking about Simpsons and Bob’s Burgers. Those two are my fucking favorite. Generally, I enjoy comedy. I am a fan of Rowan Atkinson’s Mr. Bean, Workaholics and some Filipino comedy movies. I can see depression to the eyes of humor. And it is beautiful. To think of it maybe, life is a joke and humanity is its clowns.

 

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I haven’t composed anything productive this year. I’m on the midst of conditioning my individuality inside of a culture-industry oriented agency. Yes it is a government-run agency. My principles are on the line. Left and right nonsensical BS are flowing the flux on our office. It is scrutinizing. I can feel hypocrisy flowing in my veins. At the same time a masochistic tendency is controlling my brain to comfort myself and to tend to be ok. In reality, I am in the opposite side of the mirror. I want to smash it with full blast until I bleed my fists, and shred it to the bone. Hahaha. Maybe I’m becoming one of the “bodies without organs” as Deleuze and Guattari pertain. Shit. I don’t know. What to do? What to do? Its ok to be a schizo. It is the revolutionary man that will get my desire. Desire to have a fucking revolution. Maybe or not maybe. Hence its time to put this body to the test. Since I am already expose to this social machinery linked to the Oedipus.

synopsis of everyday life

dear you,

you wish to have this successful life in order to survive this chaotic world of unhappiness is disintegrating into pieces one by one is now feeling the effect of overworking and numbness. succumbed under the volatile thinking and aphorisms from various Marxists who are now underneath the ground, which is technically, the soil used to plant and plow by the farmers who are shot for no bearable reasons. blood and sweat are dripping from me. me whose already confused and in midst of being a pseudo-acumen of everyday life. me who is beyond the imagery of a madman or an ubermensch by both known philosophers who are, in the end, are lifeless forms of society, used by the capitalist academicians to perpetrate the revolution of the great workers that are more in depth with pain than I.

this is just the fucked up beginning. that’s it.

sincerely,

I.