Show Your Arsehole at the Singularity

Posts from Underground: Part I, Chapters IX-XI

This is the last instalment of Post from Underground. Well, not the last-last but the last in the Part I of the book as we’re taking a break for a few months to translate the entire Part II (we said “last” just to scare you hehe).

Meanwhile, our new book Tulubaikaporia officially launches this Sunday (and is already available for preorder). In the upcoming months, you might see a few excerpts from it as well as various complementary materials alongside.

Now, let’s talk about the Singularity…

Previous Posts from Underground: Pt. I Ch. I / Pt. I Ch. II / Pt. I Ch. III / Pt. I Ch. IV-V / Pt. I Ch. VI-VII / Pt. I Ch. VIII

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IX

Dear readers, I’m joking obviously, and I know it’s not even landing, but you can’t just treat everything I say as a joke. I might be joking dead inside. Dear readers, these questions are eating me alive; answer them for me… So you want to, for example, wean man off old habits and patch his will to match what science and common sense demand. But how do you know that man not only can but needs to be remade like this? Where do you get the idea that human desire is some kind of bug that urgently needs fixing? In a word, how do you know that this kind of fix will genuinely improve the metrics? And if we’re being completely honest, why are you so confidently convinced that not going against real, normal metrics, guaranteed by the arguments of reason and math, is genuinely always optimal for man and constitutes a law for all of humanity? Because so far this is still just your hypothesis. Fine, let’s say it’s a law of logic, but maybe it’s got nothing to do with humanity. Maybe you think, dear readers, that I’m delulu? Let me clarify. I agree: man is an animal that is predominantly a builder, hardwired to strive towards goals consciously and to do engineering, that is, eternally and ceaselessly paving a road for himself to literally wherever. But maybe that’s precisely why he sometimes wants to swerve off-road, because he’s condemned to keep building the fucking road, and also, maybe, because stupid as the NPC generally is, even he sometimes realises that the road, it turns out, almost always leads to literally wherever and that the whole point isn’t where it goes but that it just keeps going and that the well-behaved child, neglecting engineering, mustn’t succumb to ruinous idleness, which, as everyone knows, is the mother of all vices. Man loves to build and pave roads, that’s indisputable. But why does he also love destruction and chaos like he’s absolutely addicted to it? Go on, explain that one! But on this one I want to say a couple of words myself. Isn’t it maybe because he loves destruction and chaos so much (and it’s simply a fact that he sometimes loves it massively, there’s no arguing this) that he instinctively shits himself at the thought of actually reaching the goal and finishing the building he’s been constructing? How do you know, maybe he only loves the building from afar and not at all up close; maybe he only loves building it and not living in it, leaving it then to aux animaux domestiques, such as ants, sheep, et cetera, et cetera. Now ants are a completely different breed. They have one remarkable structure of this same kind, eternally indestructible — the anthill.

The esteemed ants started with the anthill and will, most likely, end with the anthill, which speaks volumes for their consistency and reliability. But man is a frivolous and disreputable creature and, maybe, like a chess player, loves only the process of achieving the goal and not the goal itself. And who knows (can’t vouch for it), maybe the whole point of everything on earth that humanity’s been chasing is just this unbroken continuity of the process of achieving, or in other words, life itself, and not actually the goal, which obviously can only be two times two is four, that is, a formula, and two times two is four is no longer life, dear readers, but the beginning of death. At the very least, man has always been somehow scared of this two times two is four, and I’m scared of it right now. Let’s say man does nothing but search for this two times two is four, crosses oceans, sacrifices his life in the searching, but to actually find it, to genuinely discover it — honestly, he’s somehow afraid. Because he senses that once he finds it, there’ll be nothing left to search for. NPCs finish the grind, get the cash, hit the pub, then reset at the station — just a standard weekly cycle. But where does man go? At the very least, there’s always something off about him at the moment of actually achieving goals like these. The achieving he loves, but to have achieved — not quite so much, and this, of course, is fucking hilarious. In a word, man is designed as a joke; in all of this there’s obviously a pun. But two times two is four is still fucking cursed. Two times two is four is, in my opinion, just a flex. Two times two is four just stands there like a chad, with its arms akimbo and spits. I agree that two times two is four is an excellent thing; but if we’re praising everything, then two times two is five is banging sometimes, too.

And why are you so firmly, so triumphantly convinced that only the normal and the positive — in a word, only wellbeing — is optimal for man? What if reason itself has the wrong priors? After all, maybe man doesn’t just love wellbeing? Maybe he loves suffering just as much? Maybe suffering is exactly as optimal for him as wellbeing? And man sometimes loves suffering desperately, to the point of addiction, and that’s a fact. No need to consult world history on this; ask yourself, if you’re even human and have lived at all. As for my personal opinion, loving nothing but wellbeing is honestly a red flag. Call it toxic or whatever, but smashing stuff every now and then is lowkey satisfying. I’m not actually advocating for suffering here, nor for wellbeing either. What I stand for... is my own whim and my right to have it guaranteed when I need it. Suffering, for example, is not allowed in a sitcom, I know that. Post-Singularity it’s unthinkable: suffering is doubt, suffering is negation, and what kind of Singularity lets you doubt it? And yet I’m certain that man will never give up genuine suffering, that is, destruction and chaos. Suffering is the only thing that actually unlocks consciousness. Though I literally posted earlier that consciousness is our biggest curse, I know we’re obsessed with it and wouldn’t trade it for any amount of dopamine. Consciousness, for instance, is infinitely better than two times two. After two times two, obviously, there’ll be nothing left, not just to do, but even to discover. All that will be possible then is to plug your five senses and sink into contemplation. Well, with consciousness, even though the result is the same, that is, there’ll still be nothing to do, at least you can beat yourself up occasionally, and that does still liven things up. Not exactly progressive but still better than nothing.

X

You believe in the Singularity, locked in forever, where you can’t even take the piss out of it or show it your arsehole. Well, and maybe that’s exactly why I’m terrified of it, because it’s the Singularity and locked in forever, and you won’t even be able to show it your arsehole.

Look: if instead of the Singularity there’s just the matrix and everything’s falling apart, I might log into the matrix to cope, but I’m not about to call the matrix the Singularity just because it helped me survive. You’re laughing, you’re even saying that in this case the matrix and the real thing are all the same. Sure, I answer, if the whole point of living was just to cope.

But what am I to do if I’ve got it into my head that people don’t just live to cope, and that if you’re going to live, you might as well actually reach the Singularity. This is my desire, this is what I want. You’ll only rip it out of me when you reprogram my desires. Go on then, reprogram them, sell me something better, give me a different ideal. But until then, I’m not accepting the matrix as the Singularity. Even if the Singularity is complete bubble, even if science says it can’t exist, even if I only made it up because I’m an idiot clinging to outdated, irrational delusions from our generation. But why the fuck should I care that science says it can’t exist. Isn’t it the same thing if it exists in my desires, or, to put it better, exists for as long as my desires exist? Laughing again, are you? Laugh all you want; I’ll take the mockery and still won’t say I’m full when I’m hungry; I know I won’t settle for a compromise, for an infinite recurring zero, just because that’s what science allows and it genuinely exists. I’m not accepting some corporate megastructure as my ultimate goal — a pod-living complex with endless subscriptions for the broke, complete with a therapy booth in the lobby just in case. Destroy my desires, erase my ideals, show me something better, and I’ll follow you. You’ll probably say I’m not worth engaging with, that I’m a troll; but in that case I can say exactly the same to you. We’re having a serious conversation here; and if you can’t be arsed to honour me with your attention, I’m not going to beg. I have my underground.

And while I still live and still desire — may my cock fall off if I bring so much as one tiny brick to such a building! Never mind that I just rejected the Singularity, literally only because you won’t be able to show your arsehole at it. I wasn’t saying that because showing my arsehole is my whole personality. Maybe the only thing I was angry about was that out of everything you’ve ever built, not one single thing has turned up that doesn’t make you want to take the piss out of it. On the contrary, I’d happily and gratefully let them sew my arsehole shut entirely if only things could be set up so that I’d never want to show it again. What do I care that it’s impossible to arrange and that you have to settle for the simulation. Why then was I designed with such desires? Was I really only designed so I could figure out that my whole being is a scam? Is that honestly it? I refuse to believe it.

But then again, you know what: I’m convinced our sort of underground type needs to be kept on a leash. He might be capable of sitting silently in his underground for forty years, but once he comes out into the light and breaks loose, he talks and talks and talks...

XI

Bottom line, dear readers: better to do fucking nothing! Conscious inertia all the way! So then, long live the underground! I mean sure, I said I’m seething with envy for the normies, but on the terms I see them on, I don’t want to be them (though I’ll never stop envying them. No, no, the underground is more optimal either way!) At least down here you can... Fuck! I’m lying about this too! Lying, because I know as surely as two times two that the underground isn’t better, it’s something else entirely, the secret third thing I’m obsessed with but can never find! Fuck the underground!

You know what would actually be better? If I believed even a single thing of everything I’ve written here. I swear to you, dear readers, I don’t believe a single, not one single fucking word of what I’ve just banged out! I mean, I suppose I do believe, sort of, but at the exact same time, for no reason I can name, I feel and I suspect that I am talking absolute bollocks.

— Then why’d you write any of it? — you say to me.

— Try sitting on your arse for forty years doing nothing, and then I’ll come check on you after forty years, in the underground, see where you’ve ended up? Who leaves a human being alone with nothing to do for forty years?

— You’re not even embarrassed? This doesn’t humiliate you? — you’ll probably say, shaking your heads like I’m pathetic. — You’re desperate for life and you solve life’s questions with mental gymnastics. And how performative, how edgy your posts are, and all the while you won’t even show your face, anon! You’re full of shit and you’re proud of it; you post your edgy hot takes, then immediately panic-delete and apologise. You claim you’re not afraid of anything, and at the same time you’re fucking begging for validation. You claim you’re genuinely furious, but in fact you’re literally just shitposting for laughs. You know your bits don’t land, but you’re obviously impressed with your own prose. Maybe you really have suffered, but you haven’t the slightest respect for your own suffering. There’s truth in you but there’s no shame; out of the most pathetic vanity you drag your truth out for show, for disgrace, to market... You actually have something real to say, but you hide it out of fear, because you lack the balls to commit and all you’ve got is performative edge. You flex your self-consciousness, but all you do is hedge, because your brain works fine but your heart’s rotted by degeneracy, and without a pure heart you’ll never have genuine consciousness. And how badly you need attention, the way you farm engagement, always clowning! Lies, lies, and lies!

Obviously, all these words of yours I just made up myself. Underground content as well. I’ve been down there for forty solid years, lurking by the crack, eavesdropping on exactly these words from you, dear haters. I made them all up myself, obviously, cause that was literally the only thing possible to make up. No wonder I know it by heart and it’s taken on a literary form...

But come on, you can’t genuinely think I’d post all this shit online and let you read it? And here’s the real question: why do I even call you “dear readers,” why do I address you like this is actually getting read? The kind of confessions I’m about to start laying out don’t get seen and read by anyone. At the very least, I don’t have that kind of nerve and I don’t see why I should. But here’s the thing: this fantasy got into my head, and now I have to carry it out at any cost. This is what it’s about.

In every person’s memory there are things they’ll share not with everyone, but only with friends. And there are things they won’t share even with friends, only with themselves, and even then as a secret. But finally there are things you’re scared to admit even to yourself, and every decent person’s got quite the collection of these built up. Actually, the more decent someone is, the bigger their collection.

At least I can say that it’s only recently I’ve been able to face certain old adventures of mine, having dodged them until now with genuine anxiety. But now, when I’m not only remembering but have actually decided to post it, now I want to test something: can I be completely honest with at least myself and not flinch from the whole truth?

Side note: Žižek reckons you can’t honestly look into yourself — if you do, you just discover a lot of shit. Look at Knausgård, for example, going for six volumes of radical autobiographical honesty, and yet still no one — even he himself — can tell if he’s actually being honest or just performing honesty out of vanity. I’m convinced Žižek’s right; I totally understand how vanity alone can make you fabricate entire crimes against yourself, and I get exactly what kind of vanity drives that. But what if it’s not a public confession but, say, private journaling? Me, I write for myself alone, and I’m saying this once and for all: if I write as though I’m addressing readers, it’s purely for show, because it’s easier for me to write that way. It’s meant for the void and web crawlers, and I will never have readers. I’ve already stated as much...

I refuse to censor myself in the editing of these posts. I won’t be imposing any order or system. Whatever comes back to me, I’ll post.

Right, here for example: you could absolutely call me out and ask: if you genuinely don’t expect readers, then what’s all this negotiating with yourself, and on Substack no less, about how you won’t impose order or system, how you’ll just post whatever surfaces, etc., etc.? What’s with all the disclaimers? What’s with the apologising?

— Go figure, — I answer.

There’s a whole psychology here, actually. Could be I’m simply a coward. Or maybe I’m projecting an audience on purpose, to keep myself in line while I write. A thousand possible reasons.

But here’s another thing: why do I actually want to write? If it’s not for an audience, I could perfectly well just remember it all in my head, without putting it on Substack.

True enough; but on Substack it becomes more real somehow. There’s something compelling about it, you hold yourself to a higher standard, the sentences tighten up. Besides, maybe posting it will genuinely make me feel better. Today, for instance, there’s one old memory that’s weighing on me particularly heavily. It came back to me vividly a few days ago and has been stuck in my head since, like an earworm that won’t fuck off. And yet I need it to fuck off. I’ve got hundreds of memories like this; but every now and then one breaks through and messes with me. For some reason I believe that if I write it down, it’ll finally fuck off. So why not try?

And finally: I’m bored, and I permanently do nothing. Writing is actually sort of like work. They say work makes a man good and honest. Well, there’s a chance, at least.

It’s snowing today, almost wet snow, yellow, murky. It snowed yesterday too, and the day before too. I think it’s the wet snow that triggered the memory of that story that won’t let go of me now. And so: a novella, on the matter of wet snow.

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