Life is not the product of an unmitigated desire for life.
The essence of war is non-reciprocity. Do unto others as you do not want them to do unto you. Do unto them so as to make fucking sure they never do anything to you, ever again.
Of course, it does not always disclose its essence…
My wife has a job. I have gigs. Between these two facts I elaborate an acceptable fantasy of risk—strung from pole to pole like a tightrope. Everything could yet take a fatal tumble. Nothing is altogether secure. And yet—in its springiness—secure enough.
We will very likely within the coming years fight a war with the Eastern Empire, a war notionally in defense—to the extent it takes ideological form—of individual freedom, democracy, etc., against tech-totalitarianism. And yet—to have your ticket scanned at the American Airlines gate, the offer was there for “biometric scanning.” And the cheery, obliging compliance of nearly everyone. All but two—myself and one other—who chose, sheepishly (strange word) and hesitantly, to “opt out.” How much of a relief was it to have at least one other person to share that refusal with. “I’m signed up for Nexus,” the other guy said, “but I just don’t know what company they’re using, what happens to our data.” (“They” being American Airlines.) I, more sheepish, said, “It just seems creepy.” One by one the people went up to have their faces scanned, many smiling, and one by one the crew woman—a beautiful but also somewhat haggard-looking, black woman in her fifties—greeted them by name, in the gentlest of tones, as if she were welcoming them to heaven. I stood waiting my turn—our turn. “Are they just going to put us last,” the other guy said, like me clutching his passport. (He was shorter than me, hippie-ish, Kurt Cobain hair tucked behind his ears under a black baseball cap. Though in fact his presence had steadied me, I relished a sense of superiority to him.) “I guess,” I said. We stood together by the desk while the procession continued. Two women in wheelchairs were especially sheepish, but the black woman at the gate reassured them: they had been captured (“Don’t worry, I got you”). Others, those who persisted in showing their passports, she absolved of this mild faux-pas. This folksiness of hers, this down-home manner, was, of course, coerced; I did not reproach her for that. Indeed, she had first had to recite a brief spiel about it—clearing her throat, raising her voice, securing everyone’s attention—about how “it” (the new scan) was really going to “help” her, how it was really “neat,” and so forth, when of course at least part of its function was to reduce the need for her. Did I not feel a certain sheepishness at the scowl that passed her face when I told her I wasn’t going to do it? I wasn’t going to “help” her, then. Well, whatever, fuck it, I wasn’t going to. Eventually, we had waited around long enough that another member of the team—her manager—took note of us. “Can I help you?” he asked. Sandy haired, pot-bellied; hardware store type. “We’ve opted out of the biometric scan.” “Ah, ok, just one second here.” He held up a hand to pause the line, declaring: “These gentlemen are opting out.” He turned some sort of key, and the machine wound down, with the sort of drooping sound of electronics winding down that hasn’t been heard in fifty years. Still, I hesitated before stepping in front of it, stepping across it; how did I know it was really off? But I did it. And the guy after me did the same. And, as I did, I heard the manager say, “Good choice, boss!” “Good choice, boss”—the words echoed in my ear as I walked down the corridor and took, by strange chance (I had asked for, had paid for, no such thing), my first-class seat.
The hammer and sickle symbol, besides attempting to forge a union between the urban factory workers and rural peasantry, betrays a dissatisfaction with modern technical means. Neither is a modern implement; each is an emblem of the work of the hand. An assertion accompanied by a refusal to countenance.
Bad neighbors are infinitely preferable to good neighbors. What you call bad I simply call politesse. The good neighbors are harder to get rid of—their goodness puts its clutches into you.
He walked through the apartment with shoes on—echoing—reminding him of the first viewing of it, preparing him to leave it.