This is not the place you hoped it would be.
Was it ever that place? Did it really happen?
Is this even pizza?
What can we hope for when pizza is involved, really?
We seek comfort. We seek company.
We seek the closure of a pie, even a failed one. We fail.
This is not pizza. This is not home.
There are shadows here, burned in by a slow florescent fire.
There was an opening here, once, a passage through.
But this is not your dream architecture. This is not pizza.
You must trace your own maps. You must cut your own pie.
You look at me like I’m the weirdo. Like I’m the asshole.
Look. This is not my pizza. This is not even pizza.
Were you not listening to me?
This was a passage between.
And you are late.

An essay by Jasper Bernes with all references to “The Internet” replaced with “Language.”

In the end, it doesn’t matter whether I’m being a careerist. If you think the distinctions between my position and yours matter, then it only matters whether or not I’m correct.
– Jasper Bernes

Update

In the spirit of spontaneous group discussion, Jasper the Marxist Revolutionary deleted the following comment from his blog:

I’m genuinely curious about how you imagine “the revolutionary seizure of the means of production” would occur without violence. You do advocate “force” (how quaintly passive). You’re railing against the status quo. You’re calling for Action. You even use the traditional Revolutionary’s justification for revolutionary violence (“they’re worse than we are!”)

Well then! Shouldn’t you clearly discuss the violence you’re calling for in unambiguous practical terms? Because I would hope that your ad hominem attack of Stan’s wan cosmetic gradualism is based on your own clear concrete description of a practical alternative. Surely you wouldn’t be advocating Forceful Revolutionary Seizure of the Means of Production as a mere fashion statement? Surely not…

Unless your description of quiet pranks is in fact your full vision of the Force you call for?

Ways this is painfully amazing:

First of all, finding real live academic poets who actually quote the Grundrisse, and then do a little victory dance because they nailed it! “Ba-Bam! I just Quoted tha fuckin Grundrisse at you, bitch! Try not to cry too hard!” Wow…

Also finding a genuine Revolutionary/English grad student who makes a mashup Manifesto combining Society of the Spectacle with some 20 year old Hakim Bey essays, and then declares it a new moment in anti-capitalist resistance. “Hey gang, check it out! Poetic Terrorism!” It’s like watching the kids re-discover Jack Kerouac. So cute! I can’t wait for the Marxist version of Burning Man.

And having a brave culture warrior call for widespread social disruption. Indeed, call for the de-sterilizaton and re-politicization of Language Itself! But then he deletes a mildly taunting question from his blog.

Oh, academic poetry. Is there nothing you can’t make small and petty?

It’s nonsense, it’s nonsense
it’s nonsense, it’s nonsense
it’s nonsense, I dont have
anything
additional
to say.

It’s nonsense, it’s nonsense
it’s nonsense, I don’t have
anything
more
to say.

It’s nonsense
I reject it
categorically.

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“What kinda swords?”

“Epeé? No wait — sabre.”

“Nuh-uh. Rapier.”

“Fine. So you’re swordfighting Scooter. His bejeweled rapier has an evil oily sheen on the blade — one nick means slow death!”

“That fucker.”

“But after a long struggle, you finally get him backed into an ornate grotto in the basement of the Executive Office Building.”

“He can’t maneuver so well cause of his broken foot.”

“Right. You see your opening.”

“Lunge!”

“You lunge! He waves one of his crutches at you — a futile gesture. He is skewered.”

“Scooter kabob.”

“His sword arm is pinned behind him against a life-size marble mermaid. He drops the weapon and falls to his knees. He looks up at you, helpless.”

“As I give the blade a gentle twist.”

“And gasping in pain, he gives you that sorta come closer last words kinda motion. So you lean in to hear what he has to say — ”

“The secret identity of Officer X no doubt…”

” — and he suddenly plunges a tiny dagger towards your neck!”

“What kind?”

“One of those little triangular ones that you can hide in your boot. The kind with the sideways handle and the blade sticking out between your knuckles, so you can conceal it in your hand and then punch someone in the eye with it.”

“That’s my Scooter.”

“So he plunges a tiny dagger towards your neck. You catch the movement out of the corner of your eye, and dodge just enough so that he misses your jugular — ”

“Yes!”

” — but the blade gets buried deep in the meat of your trapezoid.”

“Well fuck… So then what happens?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“Aw, man. That’s bullshit.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh well. Empire was the best Star Wars movie. Maybe I get a robot shoulder.”

Once it spring leaks, it can take a long time for a huge ship to sink. Tilting slowly into the water at a sickly angle, until in begins to dive under, it’s fat metal ass lifting into the air, propeller pointing at the heavens, unholy and doomed.

Until finally — at long last — nothing is left of the entire majestic edifice except a debris-filled froth and a field of floating corpses.