I came to adulthood possessed by a disposition toward being. A preliminary faith, a preliminary ontology. An intellectual argument entangled with an underlying affect. Prepare to meet my Marxist “ontopolitical assemblage,” to use a phrase favored by certain jokers out in Theoryland. The thing is, that disposition has changed in the last few years, a conversion process triggered through encounters with psychedelics. Hence my desire to rally ’round phrases like “Acid Communism” and “Psychedelic Marxism.” Along the way, though, I should probably read more Deleuze and Guattari, as well as William E. Connolly. In the meantime, I sit beside a road in town listening to locust symphonies and the wave-like comings and goings of my countrymen. Setting morphs into a monster-themed arcade bar. Friends unburden themselves of unhappy workplace narratives. Poorly executed send-off parties for retiring comrades. Anchor points for the evening include Youth Code’s “Keep Falling” and the late-70s American sitcom Welcome Back, Kotter, the latter cropping up repeatedly throughout the evening.
Friends assign each other nicknames. “Gentleman Nihilist.” “The Don King of Predagogy.” The consensus among everyone I know is that this week sucked. Don’t all of us suffer the abuse of some private, local dotard? We all still fear getting called down to the workplace equivalent of the vice principal’s office for referring to our fuzzy boar cocks or for wearing our “I Am The Pol Pot of Pussy” t-shirts. Fuzzy boar cock: yes, that’s a thing. Isolated musicians play to the accompaniment of looped and sampled backing bands. Eventually we call it a night.