Robert Hayes Kee,
Department of Polite Aesthetic Praxis
It is difficult to believe that the summer has come and is nearly gone. The days of bright sun, estuarial aquatics, madras and the campestrine have all but lapsed for another year. The coming wind is a cold breeze carrying us back to our obligations. I, for one, have returned to the university with some immediate longing for another season of release from its walls. My many intrepid journeys this summer did not sate my wanderlust. Only stoking it further, my own feelings are like a bed of coals left to burn out by sleeping alpinists. In this time of pivoting into urbanity, I have the consolation of my books. The fruitful reading of these past weeks has been a source of renewal and fascination. I hope you too, dear readers, have found some pleasure in your reintegration with the concrete world.
Robert Hayes Kee
Many of my esthetic conflagrations do not occur during the postprandial hours typical of bourgeois socialiy. Indeed, many commence in the early morning of the following day. Is the timing of these events needlessly exclusionary? Should I be concerned about complaints of those whose avocation requires earlier, more customary hours?
While we are at an irrevocable remove from it in our contemporary art world, there is nonetheless a certain nobility and second-hand nostalgia for the world of the avant-garde modernist. Part of this picture, painted with the rose-color of a Dresden street, is its embrace of the nighttime, and of nocturnal living. Even the innocuousness forced upon the man suicided by society does not diminish this aspect of his praxis.
I, therefore, am quite sympathetic to this desire of yours for an absinthe haze to call your own. It is however, much more radical to induce this haze in the light of day. Nothing breeds genuine fear into the bourgeoisie you scorn like powerful absurdity exorcised in the noonday sun. Do not leave the art of the daylight to the museum, that mausoleum with white walls, and the silver-painted park performer. Unleash your praxis, not in the small rooms and scintillation of the stars, but in the bright light of the Sol Invictus. Only then, do you have the power to redirect that burning light into the eyes of the philistines you despise.
I reside in a verdant, even bucolic, residential area. It is a common practice for other residents of my area to proselytize for their chosen sects at the ostiarial posts of their compatriots. I find this practice disruptive to the extreme. Do I owe these forceful interlocutors the politeness of my other interactions?
The uninvited guest is a figure at the paragon of impoliteness. Whether a stowaway, party crasher, or fence jumper, this behavior is scorned by most of etiquette’s referees. I see this position as lacking subtlety. A great deal of nuance is call for when questions of class and politeness arise together. It has been correctly stated that the call for civility is the call of an oppressor for the polite subjugation of their interlocutors. This observation should not be overlooked, despite its dubious source and disgraced ideology, utilitarianism.
Having given these considerations to your situation, dear reader, I have little compunction in advising you that little of your customary politeness will be required here. A beloved secondary school teacher of mine in your predicament once answered the door, absent-mindedly, holding a firearm that he was cleaning. He did not intend to use this as a method of intimidation, but it worked tremendously well in that regard. Perhaps, you have not invested sufficient time into similar pursuits. The falx makes a lovely item of décor, but only when polished.
I was recently fired from an incumbency I held for some months. My superiors critiqued my work, saying that I was insufficiently productive, but I got a great deal of work done! I wrote a novel and two symphonies while in this employment. Am I right to feel aggrieved by this termination? Is it not my right to produce my esthetic work in the office of an employer, especially when it is of the caliber of the output of my praxis?
There could be almost nothing with which to generate greater empathy from, dear reader, than this query. This addresses my love of petulance and distaste for capitalism. It is, unfortunately, not a tremendously realistic plan. At barest minimum, you must extract enough surplus value from one of these positions to obviate the need for another. Otherwise, you must find some art in employment itself if you need to continue sustain yourself under its auspices, a very difficult proposition, indeed.
I am a pedestrian in an dense urban area. I am nonetheless often at a loss for how and when I should address fellow pedestrians. Should I do so when the streets are sparsely-filled or any time I am likely to make contact with another denizen of the metropolis?
The late Nietzsche criticized his early works by saying they spoke when they should have sang and merely moved when they should have danced. He also spoke of the irreplaceable value of walking for his creative praxis. You must look at this seeming contradiction and overcome it, dear reader.
The dullest members of our society advocate a dullness of manner to avoid the interest of our potential interlocutors. This pose should only be adopted when one is actively committing a crime. Go in the opposite direction, begin perambulating not by walking, but with elaborate choreography. The focus needed for your exacting movements should prevent you from having the ability to make any ocular connection outside yourself.