Trapped in the Symbolic Order:
They peddle their ideologies like used cars on a Martian lot – left wing, right wing, all rusted-out Lacaninan signifiers with a Symbolic Order malfunction. Stuck in their pre-Imaginary world, these Euclidean politicians can’t grasp the writhing, pulsating Real of realpolitik. They see the world as a goddamn line graph, a straight shot from the Name-of-the-Father to a future forever out of reach, blissfully unaware of the jouissance, the non-Euclidean desires that lurk just beyond their field of vision.
Desiring-Machines and the Rhizome:
They try to shove everything into their neat little boxes, these politicians. Left, right, up, down. A phallic stage mentality for a reality that’s gone Deleuzian. Like trying to navigate the body without a body map. A flatland mentality for a reality that’s gone nova. Like trying to navigate the Interzone with a compass from Sears. The real issues are writhing serpents, man. Issues with fangs and forked tongues, slithering through dimensions your pea-brained pundits can’t even conceive. The real issues are desiring-machines, man. Issues with a thousand intensities and becomings, slithering through the social networks your pea-brained pundits can’t even conceive. The economy? A tangled assemblage of flows and deterritorializations, a virus burrowing into the desiring-production of the system. War? A schizophrenic assemblage of power plays, fueled by the death drive and fueled by profit, all projected onto a smooth space in your living room.
The Fantasy of the Neutral:
These Euclidean suits, they drone on about “compromise,” the sweet melody of the Imaginary. Imaginary middle ground of what, citizen-subject? The middle ground of a Möbius strip? You step one way, you end up where you started, only seeing the world a little more reified. A grey mush, a neutering of all that’s vital and desiring. They sand down the jagged edges of the Real, leaving us with bland, featureless superego ideals that wouldn’t choke a maggot.
Power:
Power, they say, is a straight line, a binary between two opposing forces. But power is a desiring-machine, my friends, a rhizomatic web of control apparatuses, assemblages, and viral memes. It flows through the cracks, infects subjectivities, deterritorializes realities. You can’t hold it in your meaty little fists, can’t pin it down with your Euclidean logic.
Beyond the Binary:
They shove these binary buttons down your throat, Red or Blue, Left or Right. Flatland politics, a Symbolic Order nightmare where everything’s measured in straight lines and empty signifiers. Politicians, slick snakes in ill-fitting suits, slithering across the body without organs of power, promising a one-size-fits-all future.
The Third Mind of the Electorate
The Third Mind of the electorate, buzzing with revolutionary potential, can’t be captured in a two-party system. It craves a Deleuzian rhizomatic approach, a politics twisted and warped like a desiring-machine assemblage.
Power’s a Junkie’s Fix:
Power, they crave. Power’s a junkie’s fix, man. A hit of control, a rush of domination. But power in this nova landscape? It’s a desiring-machine, a word with a thousand meanings depending on which assemblage you’re plugged into. The media, the corporations, the military-industrial complex – these are the real desiring-machines, their rhizomes reaching out, shaping the game from the shadows.
Hacking the System:
So what’s a citizen-subject to do? Forget the damn voting booths, those sterile little cubicles where you choose the flavor of the symbolic order. We need to break free from the grid, man. We need to cultivate our own psychic antennae, a desiring-machine to navigate the chaos. Hack the system from the inside, plant seeds of subversion in the feedback loops. Disrupt the script, flood the airwaves with word salad and cut-up manifestos. Maybe then, just maybe, we can start to see the Real, the one hidden behind the static of Euclidean politics.
The Interzone and the Body Without Organs:
The real action happens down in the Interzone, in the murky soup of desire and fear. Here, the grey men in black suits whisper promises of control, while shadowy figures scrawl graffiti on the social fabric itself. Here, ideologies mutate faster than a body without organs in a nuclear wasteland.
Forget the Pills, Embrace the Chaos:
Forget your left and right, your red and blue pills. We need a whole new pharmacy, a mind-bending cocktail of chaotic logic and non-linear solutions. We need politicians who can navigate the Mobius strip of reality. We gotta exploit the contradictions, weaponize the absurdity, turn their own doublespeak into a weapon against them.