A Rusty Spring

It is as though every Sunday night some unrepentant fiend winds up the vast mechanical and rusty spring of my working week and then, yet again, I must endure the tedious unfurling of this coil through until the welcome arrival and cathartic release of Friday evening. Working life probably only seems to be the wasted time that it appears in direct proportion to the proliferating media fantasies and phantasms of instant gratification that we are constantly bombarded with across multiple channels, platforms and networks of information and communication; responsibility-free pleasure and selfish attainment being the core axioms of the superficial and transient experiences we are culturally entrained to invest with so much interest and obsession.

That other life and receding horizon of possibility, that semiotic vector of desire always directs us towards an impossibly distant perspectival vanishing-point that even upon attainment would surely only proceed to metamorphose into some other distant shore. The psychological self defines itself in relationship to the difference and distance between itself and its object; in orbit around that object of desire (of attachment), forever and ultimately unattainable because capturing this fantasy upon which self, other and world is founded fatally invalidates and collapses the difference and distance through which the ego defines and generates itself in contradistinction to other, to world; commercial culture merely enshrines this mutual interdependence in a specific shared value system. Satisfaction in such an economy of perennial aspiration becomes a logical impossibility. Being satisfied with dissatisfaction and the ultimate emptiness of meaning/value returned by the algorithms and functions of our participatory consciousness and shared cultural and social space – this is in the end all we have.

Once we acknowledge the impossibility of attaining the fantasy and illusion of perfection and completeness in external objects, in the external world and all of our misattributed emotional investment in it – then it becomes clear that, of necessity, neither can we capture, define or confine ourselves in any concrete way. We live in, and through, this shared cultural and symbolic world which in so many ways represents a vibrating, oscillating, spiral or symmetrical field definable perhaps only as that activity between these two voids, the dichotomous emptiness of self and world (or other).

Iron oxide possesses quite a pleasant ochre hue, once you become accustomed to it…

2 replies on “A Rusty Spring”

Thanks Ted. 🙂 I am aware of Zizek but have never read anything serious yet. I may just obtain this after I have finished my current hardcopy text. 🙂 Cheers.


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