Epistemology is not (just) agrilogistic science
Can we please stop trying to save philosophy guy’s from themselves?
A philosopher dies. Usually we leave them to rest, or let the dead bury their dead. Most of them, at any rate. However, in our time of technocratic delirium (as Dwayne Tunstall decries, in Doing Philosophy Personally) and the urgent demand to Do Something!, which comes to some bastardizing expression effectively equivalent to Play! Or Else! (Hi, Google!), and being there, then, just amounts to every body objectifying themselves for the purposes of misrecognizing classifications such that Goethe’s world-nurse manifests herself, to keep every one in a constantly present-ing state of theory-therapy at play. Wow, that wasn’t even fun to say; and yet it was said. Who am I anyway? Another amateur philosopher pretending they figured Wittgenstein’s Bad Philosophy could be turned on its head into a Beautiful Soul? Hardly.
When did we get here? That’s right. Let’s leave that age-old pandomonic expression behind us. Literally. We all of us have an inkling of the How, it’s something to do with whatever it is Philosopher-Kings are doing. We could blame the politician as yet another bloodsucker in the ecology of metaphors, or the Soldier as another Useful Idiot, or the Boss (now an undecomposable Girlboss) for making us leave all the perks we could never imagine. But why? We’ve realized that Einstein was probably talking out his proverbial ass: neither intelligene nor imagination will save us. And why should they? They’re just yet another technology (of understanding) as well too also persevering in space-time, or time-space; which is it again? I forgot.
Many of us lower-case (p)hilosophers have been ruminating behind the scenes for years. Scoffing at the Generalized Game Show Ethics, given mathematical “rigor” by the likes of Nash, Hayek, Friedman and whomever else. Who cares? We certainly do, since they make our ontological suicides line up with real suicides deliciously situation somewhere just nearby the realest possible world we can spit on. We’re pretty sick of it: yet another game theoretic pretending to pretend its revolutionary because now it’s evolutionary right now? Ontological piss on the ontological mysterious. None of us will ever grow up in this due diligence to charitable parsimonies played out for the strict and sole purposes of cleaning up graveyards of predictable arrests of this or that Form. Whose Form Is It Anyway? I’ve said that before, y’know, in the Beforetimes. What an ontological joke!
Allegedly this philosophical programmatic originated 12,000 years ago. Maybe even earlier. Again: who cares? Number-go-up-ism manifests itself everywhere, and the crowd goes wild. It’s ontics laughing through itself yet another for yet another ontological performance; or so we world-thought. Is it another McExperience to hear the delighted Dennett tell us again that Nature is too stupid to make contradictions worth a pinch of salt? Nature: that stupid of stupids who could dream up a treatise on light if it had all the non-classical cognitive powers available to a room full of Suits theorizing the meeting of all meetings not meetings for themselves. Reality loops; rinses and repeats, and yet we get more stupidity sewing us all together in a contagion soup that induces to, somehow, Resources like ‘you’ and ‘I’. Fancy that: ‘I’ get to be capitalized for no other reason than that a grammar book taught me so. And now, here again, a Philosopher is telling me something, somewhere, somewhen is capital-(S)tupid. Who died and made him Philosopher-King?
That’s right: somebody’s sun. I mean, somebody’s son. It had to be somebody right? Certainly not a Black Mother, having known the artistic science of potlatch for longer than 12,000 years, if anything. Yeah yeah, everybody’s been enslaved at some point or another: thank goodness Mr. Peripatetic decided for us that Nature’s only good at making little slaves, since Hey, what better could a Stupid do, even if they are the stupid of stupids, at-the-end-of-the-day-being-information-of-the-vision-in-one-being-not-nothing-but-other-than-beings-persevering. Or something. See I did it. I threw a pattern at you, and it seemed quite stupid, didn’t it? With all those hyphens. Who even writes in such lines of reasoning? Lines, lines everywhere. Spinoza would be proud that I managed to divide up Something. All Hail Something!
Or maybe we’re to blame Heidegger’s languaging house of being again? To be honestly frank and non-performative (non-standard performative): I don’t wanna. That guy’s boring, generically; wouldn’t fuck. Look at him, something something Nazis. But I misrecognize. Or did he (being) do it ontically first? What an ontological jerk!
Maybe I’m losing symbolic ground, since I’ve been so caught up with yet some other philosopher’s concern for phenomenal founding. Are you still with me? This is an agrilogistic demand that’s got us both trained to a looped real (mind you, one Timothy Morton has identified). Or I should say, Dwayne Tunstall and Morton are “rambling” about the same thing, personally. Somehow they personally found themselves talking to us, we little-(p)hilosophers. Thank goodness ontological revolutions aren’t unheard of, and there are technologists of phenomenal will (not yet another Good Will), like Tim Berners-Lee and Mike Amundsen who could peer through the object-oriention and lead someone, anyone; please God, anyone, to at least some other-orientation beyond Object(s-oriented Ontologies) and Resources, in a practical, albeit so to incurring a demand on us to, perhaps, play seriously. And then there’s François Laruelle: boy, what that parole do? Apparently it’s a professional rite of marks to tell little-(p)hilosophers: you’re not professionalizing! The recursivity is killing me.
Writing this bullshit.
(This article was not proofed and written in a hurried drunken state. Sigh!)