Suffering as self-enjoyment - Kolozova

Enjoyment and suffering no longer establish opposition. They are both instances of the lived, of the sheer experience that takes place as “suffering,” in the etymological sense of the Latin word passio.
One is subjected to a sensation, be it pleasure or pain, which takes place in the defenseless body through the instance of pure exposure and vulnerability. Similarly, Laruelle’s “the lived” is called le joui, regardless of whether it is the product of the infliction of pain or pleasure. “It is the undivided (of) pain—yet not determined by it—as the undivided lived of joy, but never their synthesis, not even immanent.” (Laruelle, Theorie des Etrangers, 225)   The unilateral, mute instance of the lived in Marx’s text is called suffering, regardless of whether it is the result of violence or a sensation of pleasure. 

[...] the object is the manifestation of the human reality, [...] it is human activity and human suffering, for suffering, humanly considered, is a kind of self-enjoyment of man. [Marx, “Third Manuscript,” in Marx, Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts of 1844.]

Suffering is self-enjoyment, not because of some vague masochistic inclination, but because it represents a surpassed alienation. Pain situates us in the real of ourselves. The real is the instance one inhabits prior to any “making sense out of it”—in anteriority vis-à-vis language—it precedes any possibility of abstraction (including that of “abstract activity and a belly”).  Laruelle’s “joui sans jouissance” is one of the “first names” of the real that we all are in the last instance. [Laruelle, Théorie des Etrangers, 222] It is the enjoyed, without the idea of “enjoyment,” without conceptualization or a philosophy of enjoyment, without attaching it any sort of value.

From Katerina Kolozova's Toward A Radical Metaphysics of Socialism, p 15-16.

THE BODY OF CON ED (by Kathy Acker)

it is holy. It gives us the telephone, the TV, electric utility bills with our bright names typed on them & short breath. It supplies us with all these plugs to suck on. If only there were pills I could take while looking down at the city all aglow with Con Edison light. I’m so thankful.  If only there were such a thing as guilt pills

At work I rub the customers’ backs with chloroform & slap their sagging stomachs with my palms. To everyone but me it sounds like applause, but to me it sounds like somebody’s teeth flapping in the wind. Or for lunch we take LSD & eat the crumbling company Fritos. Nickels taped to our eyeballs so we won’t envy the fellow next to us & count the # of corn chips in his bag. A man cant be expected to sweat his life away for three bags of corn chips a day. We go on strike

I want a new name. I also

want a new set of gimmicks or a getaway. Anything but this blood-flavored gum. Uh, as we approach NYC from the turnpike gears of this sweetness jam my face

with the milk of human kindness. The left eyebrow of Zeus knits furiously

All this furor incorporated by the

state of

it is holy. It gives us the telephone, the TV, electric blue light we work our sheepish looks over. Polo shirts & sunglasses are the most useful combination. Grow a weak heart & somebody will make you famous. When that sand rubs against your eyeball it is all you can do. It sounds like I’m using a ventriloquist again. I saw you on TV, Mr. Levenson

The novel has killed the point of view.  Tonnage of the stock exchange stuck deep to your bowels. I hand you my shirt as evidence, it cracks you up as horrible food so often does. At work, I subscribe

Who? You walk in the room, pose in front of the mirror. Tiny mirrors on your pocket book too. Beautiful streamers of someone’s hair flow out of your sides. Fantastic vibraphone solo by Karl Berger. 2631 Garfield Street   Still no one suspects

At work, I subscribe to a new game. Them that make us do sit-ups (timed) & apply for dress regulations. Otherwise you’re fired & not enough time in for unemployment. I had some pimples so I couldn’t fuck. Couldnt keep it up for the blood-tests. Confidential information. We just show the psychologist & then throw the results away. Sure I’m reading Downbeat Magazine, what do I care

My name is Robert Jordan & invented the sit-up. Is another poem, no, senor?  I eye the alphabet on your tits. Sonny Sharrock on the guitar

Dave said.

Disguised as a great man, I could fool millions.

Richard said.

I used to think my life was headed nowhere. Now I know it was there all the time

you were great, Mr. Levenson

He slurped some saliva back…   tried to pick up this wo-

into his face                  man at the bar, saying

how life-like she was. Silicon pellets in his fist of authority

As I sit here writing I sit here with a glass of dead beer stumped on my face. Stump. In my head French sounds like Chinese. That is because I’m on the other side of the earth. I fell through this hole one day. Oil slick leakage out of my pores. It has been a major influence on my life. As you have, you fucker, ashes on my breastplate & miles to go before that scum of memory on the eyes clears up like an old case of acne. Toad, you wear such vague pants. Your head punctures one cloud of pain only to take on another. While the small people grow pimples at the supermarket

That stab in the bathroom

should be called “Max’s Famous Spittle”. A twinge in your heart when we go to the bar & you try jerking me off under the table. A gasp when he tore out his stomach. Then I roll around in some corn flakes & try selling myself to a museum as an artifact

But you spelled yogurt wrong & you play all that lousy music. That’s why I didn’t accept your suicide note. I wadded up several dollar bills & stuffed them in my palms. All my fucking friends I said. The editor said. Today there are men squawking against the lurid sky. It was on the Ed Sullivan Show

Tie back your hair, lady

you’re dead. Your skin came

off in a bath these humans

call love. Worth five cereal

boxtops. Oh, Hollywood, you

suck! I cant remember a past

this dismal

I had a couple of beers & started to undo my voice, but the zipper got stuck. The stomach in the ice-bucket. Throbbtt. You fucked up on this one rather badly. I think you do better to go to an operation somewhere. Shoot up. Roll the tongue around in a bit of mucus. Clang, clang goes the napkin holder against his head             ,  is holy

the lights of Con Ed go out     we crosst our chests

      

                      Nor

                          do

                             I.

[Note: from unsigned mimeographed mss circa mid-70s; not found or referenced in her on line archives]

Physical apparatus

"In the first place we must distinguish life from mentality. Mentality involves conceptual experience, and is only one variable ingredient in life."   -Whitehead

A vegetable is a democracy

To the slaughterhouse with rest of you

I took the hinge right off the door

Facing imminent doom

& fell out of bed

Brute force speaks only one language

More ducks to rabbits

More noise to order

Lessons before jumping

Lies, cheating and so forth

Human adaptation yes

Interlineation no

If the body is a laggard

The heart bleets

Poetry's triumph
for its internet of things