Por amor / Mario Di Giacomo

For Love

Those who make love their unyielding dwelling today could be reminded that an inerudite will regarding their own limits allows for an excess without any erudition whatsoever to impose itself. Despite the inerudite Spain from which Goya brings forth that predicament regarding reason's production of monsters, the painter's affirmation nevertheless stubbornly sustains itself.

Regarding the residuals of an overexcited reason, and of the zeal for sovereignty of the subject who represents it, these days are crowded with discourses that create from reason and its monsters the deceased head of Modernity's episteme. The decree comes signed and sealed by the heads of a postmodern Europe that doesn't know what to do besides separating itself from the fundamentalist threats that assail it from within, and is taken up again around these latitudes by other fundamentalists who close ranks around an eros in charge of redeeming the remains an exclusionary reason threw into history. A new subject and a universal harmony that won't end up being merely discursive are being erected; the regime of affections is appealed to; the primary relations in which, loutish and myopic, some don't see frightening relations of power but instead the manifestation of traces of the Kingdom, are exalted; the appearance of the new man, not the one Guevara had in mind, is sponsored so as to transform him, thorugh a resentful alchemy, into the same little henchman who snitches on his neighbors, fellow beings, parents and friends; in other words, that being who gestates the beginnings of a fearful collective: a society of porcupines where all of us are under the law of suspicion.

The consumated revolution, like an unrecognized ouroboros, bites its own tail and reissues the evils it intended to conjure with the arrogant absurdity of its love. Conciliation, as Marx said of Hegel, concludes in a simple imagined conciliation, never real, a conversation of inanities that leads us to the dead point, 1998, from where we took off amidst multitudinary negations. And hopes.

The monsters of reason make things blunt, then, aligned with the monsters of love, and with the puppets that make themselves voices for him, inscribing him within the space of politics. Besides the new man become informer, a snitch who maintains a tribal law, the affective substance keeps a vigil over the miseries the revolution hasn't been able to dissolve, because the poor increase like never before, thus negating the regime's official history. Love and bullshit, bullshit and love, run hand in hand to once again grope those who, excessively deferred, seem like they've learned to disbelieve the sirens' songs. And yet, even within love's core, one ends up asking oneself: Are the State reason and the political assassinations of these years the maximum, the unanimous tribal orgasm, of this love that is finally divorced from that monstrous reason?




{ Mario Di Giacomo, TalCual, 27 October 2006 }