I am a big fan of Hakim Bey. Here is one of his essays.

[ZombieHorde]

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.

http://www.left-bank.org/bey/default2.htm

He has a spoken word album named T.A.Z. The background music is wonderful.

[Silent3]

1. Freon

Freon


Flipping through the book backward, I wondered how the story
would begin. Clearly it was coming from somewhere, and somehow
indelicately, the evening had lifted from my eyes, leaving

some pages unseen. Held up before an ordinary candle flame one
sees the anticipation drain slowly from our faces, lost like lost mail:
Overdue bills, love letters, apologies from forgotten uncles for forgotten
birthdays. Dearest occupant! These offers will not be repeated -
a small trade-off known to us instinctively since birth, known

to children born before deadlines. We all feel the staccato
rhythms tickle beneath our fingertips and, in time, Chapter One
indeed arrives with a squeaky fanfare, in triumph. One of us

will remember on that day how to say "I love you," and the other
will know when. There will be, naturally, other characters to invent
things, to toil underground, to feed us when we are hungry. Even
more, someone to ask "Why?". We will be able to go on like that
for decades, piecing together information, posing for each other's

photographs. Now, don't be alarmed - that is what we shall live for,
what ultimately we may die for - happiness, and its related beatific
transformations. It's not the obstacle course it appears to be. Stumble

all you like! Our faces and our persons radiate from the center -
the rest can be peeled back like a charred crust. You might be correct
to point out there could be something worth reading buried
in the blackened remains, like tea leaves, or like eviction notices.
But rather you pray, in the self beneath the self that watches

the news and worries about the weather, pray that each dark omen
will slip by with a blessed evasiveness, that you might awake, cool
and rested, without the sheets tangled and knotted about your feet.

"Let's turn this sordid mess into some kind of linear narrative!" one thinks
for a moment, as if our story were meant to be told in concrete dividers
marching down the highway. But we'd miss the rolling blankness between
our houses, the gossip from just over the hill. Yes, if only one starts
with the proper approach, the whole resplendent mystery can be conquered,

tucked snugly into a back pocket. But too soon, one way or another,
while mending the air, while shaping ourselves from the sand,
we dissipate our own intrigue when we only meant to be having fun.




Something I wrote, back in 1997. They essay you posted made me think of this.

[ZombieHorde]

2. Very good. I like it. nt