resistance, tension, and authority

March 14, 2015   |   by oemb1905

There are some who say that natural rights are an intellectual fallacy. That their existence is concocted merely as purport; to give those who hold them a self-appointed right to kill their ruler, overthrow their king, and resist the government for trivial fancy. Ignoring, as it were, the court of law, the basis of authority, the giver of giving, and the holder of all that is equitable and right. That by holding the idea that there are non-negotiable rights international in scope, there by necessity exists an artificial polarity between those who hold them and the traditional governors who rule without permission. To be sure, government is not accepted by anyone but the first generation and if there was any fallacy it would be the social contract, as if by growing up raped by society, one was somehow forced to accept it. Would that natural rights were conflated with idiotic behavior merely because they possess the rationale and the power to justify attacks, then there would be a Locke-like fervor abuzz on the calle, and riots would ensue in undular season. Let no one scoff at Oliver Holmes and be it that the common citizen would attack his owner, then no sooner shall the whole world would devolve into trophic ataxia.

Alas for the straw figure because Hobbes was right, and only the most naive classical libertarian would actually propose syndico-anarchism and Chomsky’s brilliance as synonymous. This is the sad tale of why the socially emancipated freedom fighter must side with coercion, and why the dirty little skeleton inside the most free people is a clever skin overlaid on a hegemonic necessity. After all, if there were no need for skin, then there would be no need for anything, for needing skin means that the tension must be balanced. Social liberation is primary, but only if it is bound within some framework for if not, then that same datura would kill its owner. And yet if poison by decree was the basis of rule, and coercion in Hobbsian unrestraint were promoted like a weed, then all natural investigation, choice, and pursuit of meaning would be refined to a bell jar. Tension. A gentle giant once spoke of tension, of tinsel fibers in economics between labor and capital, between safety and inquiry, between creativity and roots. A song of delicate middle way, a dance between poles, and a request to eat at the table of the Buddha. An enlightenment not open to everyone; a trump card of which only the scarce partake.

That it might all be reduced to utility, or that it might all be reduced to power, or that might all be reduced to anarchy are all no different than the converse. That it might all be reduced to random kindness, or that it all be reduced social concern, or a communal pact and mutual contract, are all no different than the initial truth statement. The nexus is the danger of dogma, the opposition of structure, the desire to compartmentalize nature’s aether. Shall that tree of life be tapped? Can it be nicked, or toppled with force, or brought down by acumen? The utility of the Millshire might measure it thinking it could be the standard of worth and direct the social exchange, as if intellect and perceived aggression could be quantified like rice. The Engels walk might divide it in area model justice and assign its tillers the proper tithing, and collectivize its yield with rock-step candor of Georgian steel. The warlock crony capital man would invest on behalf of the shechinah, nurture the ghost, rent it, sell it, but cannot change its edifice. And even if those peasants and inheritors revolt, that nascent-anarcho dance is oblivious to the superstructure. For the tension is eternal. The tension is ousia. Ousia is the Dao, the way is not exclusive to Lao. Let Han-Fei sing to Machiavelli the dance of power that the Duke of Ai exerts on the susceptible. Let the tension be felt like a slide monochrome chord.

So there must exist the synthesis of the symbiotic chromotype into one flavor; a gentle nugget of keen philosophical truth. A tired harp of eternal bard, and a sturdy foundation of sinusoidal rubble that genuflects at the slightest reactionary pulse. A tuber and secondary paisley mandala of intrigue. A tension of extremes with a power point inside; a 475 tow package hauling 35mph up a 60% grade with steady gait. A mule in its vainglorious troll, a saury borracho. This is how the elegant trader traverses the camino real, and this is how Carvajal conquered the western terrain. The tzar and his constable in immune mental stance, with the vigorous ignorance of a day trader. Know not that there is no pole that resolves the conflict. That there can be no monotonic cage for habitus. That silly little Rand thinking she can conflate the abuse and person with symbolic domination itself, as if her method was immune to abuse. And so the reeking of the bell of death resumes it chime in dread, and the people in exquisite fascist cadence approach the call of ethos. The tragedy of logos and the birthright Xiros, and the death of rigidity.

Let it be known these truths are attainable by all as the social space can be entered freely. The nature within the nature is hidden, the matemas and tekne will remain the tool for revealing the basis of the physical space, but the illusory narrative is that one might mistake the layers of learning for whence thinghood. That the why is unattainable is a keen cousin to the distant tension, the transitory perspective within the STEM interface refutes the Steinem every epoch. The healer, the duty warrior, and the reconciler of words, of bringing together the made with the maker, and of wedding the necessity of freedom and the love of nature with the balance of the dictator. Sacrificing that ion of life-force to the hegemony of the man, Confucius reconciling with the Duke of Ai, and the import of compromise. Of intellectuals of different persuasions engaged in a common parlay, a meta-discourse of ages and a Euclidean narrative that defies facile recap. So it is with the tragedy of the liberal, at the expense of the fallacious progressive and with cautious acceptance of only the most primary elements within the Hobbsian, the soldier of virtue ventures off into his or her love of wisdom, balancing Austen with Browning, and a Baudelaire like glee to the Sappho haskalah.

Gentle night. Angry internal clarity withers with Muhammad’s last punch, the sting of dynamos resting. The genteel calibration of a balance, of mass of opinion, and of the beatitude of conflict. An essential dymaxion unfurling of heart wrapper, in scaled proportion, of a-political persuasion guiding the diacrostic. Knowing not the need of the what in star like prophecy, but feeling the law of Moses in how it is discussed, loving his ox, loving his wife and his life. Refraining from the abuse out of respect for the tension, with a tinsel-strength of geodesic scope, and a sublime architectural blueprint in ditto-like parfum. A council of fools; a synedrion comprised of waffles. Beauty incarnate is humility in the quest of creation, not a canon of liturgical insult. So the compromise maintains itself, and the false truth appears most tasteful.

What should one eat? What is his name and where is she? They wonder why they have made it here now. The dual voice, a good boy and girl, a cacophony tension with a Xian-like tragic heroes. A wack-a-mole tableau in infinite planar glory. The quest is how, the fight is what. The medium is the tense spree and the reckless bayous of outback are a serpent for the thirsty sojourner.


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