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T. A. Z. The Temporary Autonomous Zone, Ontological Anarchy, Poetic Terrorism
Bey Hakim
http://www.hermetic.com/bey/taz_cont.html
1985
CHAOS: THE BROADSHEETS OF ONTOLOGICAL ANARCHISM
(Dedicated to Ustad Mahmud Ali Abd al-Khabir)
Chaos
CHAOS NEVER DIED. Primordial uncarved block, sole worshipful monster, inert & spontaneous, more ultraviolet than any
mythology (like the shadows before Babylon), the original undifferentiated oneness-of-being still radiates serene as
the black pennants of Assassins, random & perpetually intoxicated.
Chaos comes before all principles of order & entropy, it's
neither a god nor a maggot, its idiotic desires encompass &
define every possible choreography, all meaningless aethers
& phlogistons: its masks are crystallizations of its own
facelessness, like clouds.
Everything in nature is perfectly real including
consciousness, there's absolutely nothing to worry about.
Not only have the chains of the Law been broken, they never
existed; demons never guarded the stars, the Empire never
got started, Eros never grew a beard.
No, listen, what happened was this: they lied to you, sold
you ideas of good & evil, gave you distrust of your body &
shame for your prophethood of chaos, invented words of
disgust for your molecular love, mesmerized you with
inattention, bored you with civilization & all its usurious
emotions.
There is no becoming, no revolution, no struggle, no path;
already you're the monarch of your own skin--your inviolable
freedom waits to be completed only by the love of other
monarchs: a politics of dream, urgent as the blueness of
sky.
To shed all the illusory rights & hesitations of history
demands the economy of some legendary Stone Age--shamans not
priests, bards not lords, hunters not police, gatherers of
paleolithic laziness, gentle as blood, going naked for a
sign or painted as birds, poised on the wave of explicit
presence, the clockless nowever.
Agents of chaos cast burning glances at anything or anyone
capable of bearing witness to their condition, their fever
of lux et voluptas. I am awake only in what I love &
desire to the point of terror--everything else is just
shrouded furniture, quotidian anaesthesia, shit-for-brains,
sub-reptilian ennui of totalitarian regimes, banal
censorship & useless pain.
Avatars of chaos act as spies, saboteurs, criminals of amour
fou, neither selfless nor selfish, accessible as children,
mannered as barbarians, chafed with obsessions, unemployed,
sensually deranged, wolfangels, mirrors for contemplation,
eyes like flowers, pirates of all signs & meanings.
Here we are crawling the cracks between walls of church
state school & factory, all the paranoid monoliths. Cut off
from the tribe by feral nostalgia we tunnel after lost
words, imaginary bombs.
The last possible deed is that which defines perception
itself, an invisible golden cord that connects us: illegal
dancing in the courthouse corridors. If I were to kiss you
here they'd call it an act of terrorism--so let's take our
pistols to bed & wake up the city at midnight like drunken
bandits celebrating with a fusillade, the message of the
taste of chaos.
Poetic Terrorism
WEIRD DANCING IN ALL-NIGHT computer-banking lobbies.
Unauthorized pyrotechnic displays. Land-art, earth-works as
bizarre alien artifacts strewn in State Parks. Burglarize
houses but instead of stealing, leave Poetic-Terrorist
objects. Kidnap someone & make them happy.
Pick someone at random & convince them they're the heir to
an enormous, useless & amazing fortune--say 5000 square
miles of Antarctica, or an aging circus elephant, or an
orphanage in Bombay, or a collection of alchemical mss.
Later they will come to realize that for a few moments they
believed in something extraordinary, & will perhaps be
driven as a result to seek out some more intense mode of
existence.
lingua:
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