MANIFESTO DE LA JEUNESSE BOURGEOISE CONTRE LE DARWINISME PARENTAL

Ours is a world swarming with technological mediations that interlace our daily lives with their abstraction, virtuality and complexity, which nevertheless remains afloat inside a ray-traced walnut of chronic stasis.



Fig. 1: Ours is a world that blinks and tumbles in the vertigo of ceaseless creative evolution, every day, every minute, every split second of our cells in time hurling us closer to the future wisdoms and the vigours we were generated to inherit with our bodies, hearts, minds, and finely-tuned affects.

The ejectamenta of our parents’ biological mingling, we’ve been extruded into this eager world to wield a plethora of tools, of peacock feathers, of apps, of telescopes, of eggs, reproductive organs, bank accounts, diplomas, a marbled skin, toned muscles, tuned organs, health and beauty and wealth, to slay our rivals, to trample and outmanoeuvre our betters, to succeed, to prove our willingness to overtake, to be the best pulled pork in the pot at the feast of the gods.

To our parents, we owe fishy feelings of sadness and melancholy, and for having instilled in us our predominant affect, mistrust, and keeping us alive when we already weren’t able to,


Fig. 2.: Our discomfort and silence will not be instrumentalized for the purpose of social performance.

We want neither clean hands nor gracious skirts, nor glowing report cards, we don’t want to oil ourselves in an essential way, neither do we intend to butter our chests with virtue nor with terror. We want superior forms of play-doh.

This will be our first and last statement. We won’t waste our breath inflating the dreadful intellectual balloon, nobody ever needed to do it and we refuse to take it on. We won’t be fracking any more gas to pump up the nasty cultural zeppelin, and we won’t catalogue our scoria for the repulsive space invaders of objective spirit. We won’t donate our cahiers full of doodled genitals to the big scrofulous library of the cultural margins and we certainly won’t be scraping our pointiest verses together and e-mailing them off with our resumés to the huge shitty poetry competition. We definitely won’t take any more photos of us posing with our cousins should they happen to visit again, no, and we won’t do any more residencies, we won’t be turning any abandoned buildings into vibrant cultural nodes or keeping track of the subtle shifts, we won’t be standing up, we’ll remain horizontal much of the time. We’ll be quite busy already, contacting our potplants, getting in touch with the potplants inside us, like the potplants we are.
Potplants.
We’re potplants. Dangly ferns vegetating above the washing machine, hanging around from a plastic hook that smells like someone needs to change the hand-towel.
We were never meant to inflate the nasty balloon and we refuse it. Thinking is a dog that always goes to piss in the same old corners, thinking is a rat that eats styrofoam, we’re not going to stuff any more of our peanut butter in the trap, we don’t have any.
GLadLY.
We won’t write back
what came first
the chicken
or the dromedary.

strategies:

suicide
jihad
constant preparedness to be eaten by a bigger predator
a cleaner at your parents' office
turning yourself into a transgenic cow
ardently contracting diseases
surgically removing any symbolically beneficial inherited physical traits, e.g., high cheekbones, jawline, hips
synthetically induce baldness
coitus with ape or snake
langeweile

Note 1 : These are strategies of failure.
Note 1’ : These are pure (non-hybrid) strategies
to hand back your upper or lower mandible.

How to “achieve” a vegetable state.

The “aoutat” strategy

You
parasites
are headed straight for the red swelling
digging folds and tunnels /
sous la peau du microbiote tyrannique


from red swelling to red swelling
and then, after the fall of
our little paws
we will get back to our
original vegetable states.
BUT
to the soup that we've been served daily
in tiny little silver spoons
we say
“NO, we won't be"

2. Vegetable states

Six paws--
on your microbiotic skin




Note 1’’ : These are fucked-up strategies :

Note 1’’’ : endnotes.
profuse endnotes -

narrating childhood traumas

we will forever be screwing up “Jesus Bleibet Meine Freude” at the school recital

awwww, we will be rubbing ourselves on dolls forever

profuse endnotes recounting what we were not allowed to do

profuse endotes telling what we actually DO
NO THING NO THING NO THING
(No ballet classes)

***evolved and failed KW 42
24-26 Oktober
with Marion***