Purity

Déjà vu (buen fin)

La inseparabilidad de la potencia de producir del cuerpo viviente contribuye a explicar también aquel misterio ignominioso que es el salario (verdadero ápice de la biopolítica, por cierto). Lo que retiene al salario como un tema de los sindicalistas pero no de los filósofos es para replicar que, en base a tal criterio, Heidegger fue incluido entre los peritos químicos, por haberse ocupado insistentemente de la técnica. Pero vayamos al punto. Dando el salario, el capitalista pretende comprar la fuerza de trabajo, o el "trabajo como subjetividad", no el cuerpo viviente. A diferencia de la vida del esclavo, la del obrero no posee ningún precio: "Como esclavo, el trabajador tiene un valor de cambio, tiene un valor; como trabajador libre, por el contrario, no tiene ningún valor; solamente la disposición al trabajo, producida por el intercambio con él, tiene valor". Potencia y vida son consustanciales, pero no idénticas: tanto es así que la apreciación de la primera procede junto a la devaluación de la segunda. ¿Pero cómo se fija el valor de cambio de la potencia? ¿En base a qué parametros se determina el salario?

El recuerdo del presente: ensayo sobre el tiempo histórico. Paolo Virno.

Encore

The Schroedinger's Cat Trilogy (fragment)

He was never attracted to women of his own stature­ -that was almost incestuous, and, besides, they simply did not turn him on. He adored the giantesses of the hateful oversized majority. He adored them, lusted after them, and was also terrified of them. He knew from sad experience, oft-­repeated, that they regarded him as cute and even cuddly, and one of them had gone so far as to say adorable but absolutely ridiculous as a sex partner, damn and blast them all to hell.

He had tried building his courage with booze. They thought he was disgusting and chauvinistic and not even cute anymore.

He tried weed. They thought he was cute again, and even hilarious, but even more absurd as a possible lover.

He tried est. The trainers spent the first day tearing him down­telling him he was a no­-good shit and everybody knew he was a no­-good shit and things like that, which he had always suspected. The second day they built him up and convinced him he could control his space as well as any other mammal. He was flying when he came out.

He went at once to a singles bar and sidled up to the most attractive blonde in the place. "Hi," he said boldly, swaggering a bit. "What would you say to a friendly little fuck?"

She gazed down at him from what suddenly seemed an enormous height. "Hello, friendly little fuck," she drawled with magnificent boredom.

When Chaney slunk back to his YMCA room and his pornographic Tarot, he vowed more vehemently than ever that he would be the meanest fuck on the planet. Nobody would ever call him a friendly little fuck again.

He still adored the giantesses and feared them, but now he hated them too; in short, he was really stuck on them.

Their cunts -­those hairy, moist, hot, adorable, inaccessible, rejecting, terrible, divine, frightening Schwartzchild Radiuses of the dimension of Manhood-­ were the Holy Grail to him.

He knew their cunts were hairy and hot and moist, etc., despite his virginity, because he had read a lot of pornographic novels.*

*Galactic Archives: Pornographic novels were novels about the things primates enjoy most, namely sexual acrobatics. They were taught to feel ashamed of these natural primate impulses so that they would be guilty­furtive­submissive types and easy for the alpha males to manipulate. Those caught reading such novels were called no­-good shits, of course.