A::[Went to a book club, they talked about some zines that went over history] A::[x...]

A->B::[more::less specifically, Rousseau's random line he said one time about how history "could" be portrayed (innocent egalitarian primitive society -> agriculture "revolution" creating a patriarchy and systems of oppression -> rise of the city-state -> rise of industry)]

B::[f(x_0, ...), x_0 = Good, !x_0 = Bad]

A->C::[An aside (and more::less specifically), the start of eden is paired with the return to it, at the end of time. Telos, faggot. Christians can engage in it (rapture), Lefties can engage in it (communism). The fash will always desire to (retvrn)]

C::[f(x_0, ..., x_n), x_0 = x_n = Good. !Good = Bad]

B->D::[more::less specifically, refuting this misinterpreted conception of the past, with the express aim of dismantling the innocent primitive egalitarian Eden mythos]

D::[f(x_?, ... , x_n)]

D->E::[more::less specifically, presenting a reality bounded less in telos and more in literally-fucking-anything-else]

E::[???] *->F::[less specifically, fuck "The Grand Narratives"] F::[fuck you]

Grand narratives, heroes' journeys, "building blocks" and the prospects of a Bigger Number—Present Day, Present Time: elongated, kneaded and worked, pinned over a garish bed of pig shit (no offense to the shit) by two (copyright) Smiley© faces on either side. Tearing to the effluvium, incorporating it, kneading it into itself, shitting again as it tears, over and over. Don't worry about baking it doll, that'll come later! What do you mean, you don't like the bread? You know how long your daddy spent kneading it? I'll be sure to cut out all the parts with the shit in it after, sweet little thing. Don't worry, it'll turn out just like Gordon Ramsay Iron Chef Fancy Fancy Michelin Stars Stars Starts Gorgeous Texture Paris Highly Consistent Texas. Yep, just like we remember, princess. Now go look at the smiley faces and think about Gordon <3.

Don't worry, just remember
Don't worry, it'll get better
Don't worry
Don't worry

I've been wanting to read more Mark Fisher, the little that I've read has tickled me in ways that I'm rather fond of. He talks about time, and I know time gets brought up a lot in the ("Post-left"? "schizoid left"? "CCRU-ey shit"??? I don't like words, you'll know what I mean of course :3) social circles and rivers of conscious I return to time and time again. I think about "memory" a lot too, with respect to Deleuze-Guattari's attribution of cruelty to the inscribing socius:

It [culture] makes men or their organs into the parts and wheels of the social machine. The sign is a position of desire; but the first signs are the territorial signs that plant their flags in bodies. And if one wants to call this inscription in naked flesh "writing," then it must be said that speech in fact presupposes writing, and that it is this cruel system of inscribed signs that renders man capable of language, and gives him a memory of the spoken word.

AO145:1

Time and Memory, these things occupy my space. There are little bugs (they look exactly like this -> 3(8)(8)[...](8):3) that tell me that the flesh constantly retrospects, always presently looking into pasts to make decisions into futures. present pasts, presently past futures, presently past goods, presently past bads, presently past drones, cakes, money, shit, etc, and so on, and so forth, etc. Simple enough? There's probably a lot more that gets said on this. Is this The Eternal Return?(???) Memories lie in the domain of the production of recording, since it is only Experiences (allegedly) themselves that get the bite of cake, that are the first to fall back upon the body without organs. Your flesh may mnemotechnically call upon the experience again, and you get a second experience, copying the memory of the first—well,,,,, memory#2 smells now, it's decayed, rotting....no, morphed, and places itself in the present again, for just a moment, folding unto itself. And if the flesh desires-remembering, it will find itself marking bodies of itself-as-kin. Explicit memories find themselves rememberable. Marks are not always explicit, I think they're habitual (as David Hume intended), and ingrain themselves in our social production like wives tens of thousands of years ago obfuscating their menstrual patterns in ways that empower themselves against coomer-brained husbands (desiring-sex), birthing healthier children with more grey matter (...and more memories, hell with it all). This is some stuff to do with a response to the initial zine that was talking about, critiquing it for trying to create mythos, and then in turn seemingly creating more mythos, this baking a naturalist feminism.

In any case, you can ignore any implications of the words I say as a means to try to mark a beginning point to memory or fascism or eden-as-egalitarianism or whatever, I only really hope to dig into the process of remembering::explicit memories/forgetting::implicit memories, and why I don't like remembering the same things again and again. Forgive my vitalisms. Back to the implicit marks->

There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told. Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors and looking them piteously in the eyes—die with despair of heart and convulsion of throat, on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed. Now and then, alas, the conscience of man takes up a burthen so heavy in horror that it can be thrown down only into the grave. And thus the essence of all crime is undivulged. The Man of the Crowd, John Poe (maybe)

Habit, "coded flow", "implicit marks", "the subconscious", "untold secrets", a bit obscure but as it goes with words steered by things (◕‿◕✿). I found this text when cruising the wire for commentary on Grand Narratives, specifically invocations of psychoanalytic Great Men and Unruly Crowds, as described by DG when explaining the segregative uses of Oedipus, and the nauseating texts that follow Oedipus (around p102). John Poe I think tugs at this from a cute perspective, in this story wherein the Main Character's (key: subject's) observation of a supposed Great Man walking the streets of London leads him to follow, to learn his truths, his undivulged crimes.

These secrets are at a glance very grounded in the MC's explicit framings. They read the countenances of those in the crowd constantly, create groupings, shared behaviors, whole stories, belongings (segregations), as intuitively as any glorious modernist should. But upon seeing the great man, MC finds him cryptic, MC finds a secret they cannot tell, and lo and behold, it's something that cannot be gathered in the explicit, in the conscious, in the subject.

He follows The man, who spends all time following crowds, getting nervous upon finding himself alone on certain streets, tracing and retracing steps, until night falls and day breaks and he cycles once again.

And, as the shades of the second evening came on, I grew wearied unto death, and, stopping fully in front of the wanderer, gazed at him steadfastly in the face. He noticed me not, but resumed his solemn walk, while I, ceasing to follow, remained absorbed in contemplation. "This old man," I said at length, "is the type and the genius of deep crime. He refuses to be alone. He is the man of the crowd. It will be in vain to follow; for I shall learn no more of him, nor of his deeds. The worst heart of the world is a grosser book than the 'Hortulus Animæ,' and perhaps it is but one of the great mercies of God that 'er lasst sich nicht lesen" The Man of the Crowd, John Poe (maybe)

Is The Man just the crowd? Seemingly, but MC can't frame him, can't make sense of him. But where's the man then? If you were paying attention, these kinds of dualisms that let people dissociate themselves into crowds or men are nauseating psychoanalytic garbage to begin with. The Man's secret is one that cannot be told, because these secrets like many transcend the subject-object, and exist much beyond us.

What's this got to do with memory (asking for a friend)? Well, if memories are "explicit" markings, then we can relate them to the "implicit" markings of habit as discernible secrets, and furthermore a truth of "real" secrets, secrets that do not permit themselves to be told. The "explicit"/"implicit" differentiation of secrets is strictly undecidable in the same way that the whole of Oedipus is strictly undecidable (src: trust me bro), and so in this case, remembering and forgetting are on the same side of the coin.

Does the Man have memories? Explicit::Implicit? We can surely draw a pretty little story about the man's flesh, its movements like rhythms, divide its steps into BPMs, and make a cool Victorian jungle track out of it, but I mostly orbited this story as a means for drawing a few lines that would help me orient myself, and then moving on. I'll forget about this question just a bit later.

What's on the other side of the coin? Well, real secrets that cannot be spoken. Desiring-Production, of course.

And what is an authentic lunatic? He is a man who has preferred to become what is socially understood as mad rather than forfeit a certain superior idea of human honour. In its asylums, society has managed to strangle all those it has wished to rid itself of or to defend itself from, because they refused to make themselves accomplices to various flagrant dishonesties. For a lunatic is also a man whom society has not wished to listen to, and whom it is determined to prevent from uttering unbearable truths.

Van Gogh, the man Suicided by Society, John Artraud

G::[unbearable truths strangled::hideous mysteries undivulged]
G::[ending the process::perpetuating the process indefinitely]
G::[The work of the inscribing socius]

Remembering is just like forgetting, especially when we can look forward or back in that boring in-between from one amnesia to another, and see smiley faces :3

I think this helps reconcile my gripes with how much Present Day, Present Time is full of shit that makes us constantly oscillate between the two. Ames in 2025:

• microplastics which help us forget easier, just so we can remember once again ^-^
• ad-revenue from children incentivizing content that appeals to everyone with money (including those who will have money, in teh futur ofc :3)
• ten billion stimulations that cause no extra brain wrinkles, keeping us smooth and epilated uwu

acceleration = regression

I'm running out of memory for this so I'll leave with this song about dead nurturer-machines, and the suffering in trying to appropriate divine memory, in Present Day, Present Time. Don't get caught up remembering::forgetting when you still experience, lest your soul break like rocks to oars.

Sintiendo la sensación
de estar soñando contigo,
siento tu dulce mirar,
madre querida, al pensar que no es verdad,
y un dolor me rompe el alma,
como en las rocas rompen
las olas del mar.

Tus ojos traen hacia mí
la tristeza y el recuerdo.
Grabado está en mi cantar,
ay, madre mía, y veo que no es verdad,
y un dolor me rompe el alma,
como en las rocas rompen
las olas del mar. \

[Madre querida, Los Olimareños](../static/snd/08-madre querida.mp3)