Go directly to the marketplace, to the communication centers, and preach the gospel. That’s the Pauline way. Christian mission was media innovation, media inhabitation, media expansion. Its message and its medium are—as one Catholic media theorist observed—rendered indistinct by a communication center that makes a world in which it’s already too late to distinguish which is the medium and which is the message. The communication centers that screen Katrina likewise screen the Kardashians. And an investment in having an opinion about the distinction of good and bad screens is ultimately an investment in opinion.
The world made by communication owns the leverage that one imagines oneself capable of using against it. What appears as the remainder of the world, and thereby as a possible point of leverage against the world, is already the world. One is not outside the world. Or, better yet, an investment in the distinction between the world and what is outside the world is very world—it is how the world is reproduced. This does not mean one must say yes to the world. On the contrary, it means that one must say no all the more irreparably—all the more pointlessly, according to an essential baselessness.
Paul, considered from a certain vantage, is the name of the world, or at least of its (survivalist) dialectics of downfall and ongoingness.
Is “I” a name or a refusal of name? The equality of I to itself—an empty (or anti-synthetic) claim such as “I am/is I”—seems to refuse the name, even to enact a process of name-dismantling. “And even though I always fuck my life up / Only I can mention me.” The immanence of I to I is enacted as a citability that does not leave itself. Importantly, however, the ability of this citability is enacted precisely through an undoing. In other words, such citability does not proceed from, but instead enacts the ungrounding of, the fucking up of, a support.
It is therefore not a matter of possession, of something possessed by an ontologically distinct I; I appears only as the index of undoing, ungrounding, shattering. The language of possession, of mine—my business, the care for it, the fear of losing half of it—is shattered (or reactively terrified) by the “ability” to accede to shattering. To “See through the veil” is to “forget all your cares,” including the care of the self.
One finds oneself in the neighborhood of Eckhartian detachment. It is exigent, when it comes to cares, to “Throw them / Throw them away.” And prayer, Eckhart claimed, was a process of caring that likewise must be discarded. To pray is to invoke a relation to a thing of the outside, and that outside-thing is not real. God is not the thing outside, nor is God the thing that gives the outside-thing; God is rather the index of an immanent, unthought power of equality.
Is love necessarily care? “Your love is fading / I feel it fade.” A concern for love in terms of its fading is a concern for love as an outside-thing—note that “concern” can be used as a term of business. Love, even when expressed as fading, all the way to evanescence, narrates something for which to care. There is a relation between feeling and the object—even when evanescent—of love; there is something to lose, and hence a narrative to gain.
Yet the track in which this line appears may be understood, sonically, as an atelic loop. A house (or proto-techno) style undermines all this care. Looping is perseverance, but not of the egoic kind. Instead, this an impersonal perseverance, the body moving with a force that is indifferent to the stories of care, a force that does not care about stories. “Oh, the body’s a feeling.” And feeling has no object. The place of feeling is not in relation to something outside. On the contrary, the place of feeling is inside, or according to an inside anterior to inside-outside relation: “Deep inside / Deep deep down inside.”
Dancing, without care, the lover drowns in depths of looping. The space ensconces of smoke, nothing to be seen, a voice: “How can I find you? Who do you turn to? How do I bind you?” This is another lover, but it does not form a pair. It is the voice of the lover of n(o-)one. The impossibility of (its) belonging (to any one) is its hollow, electric sound: an echo without anything organic, anything alive, from which to originate. Lovers, when baseless, are a matter of gnosis rather than being, of freedom failures rather than familial fecundity: “I just wanted you to know / I loved you better than your own kin did.”
Against the kinship of being, the inheritance of names, there is a problem at the essence of communication, of the transmission of news, of any gospel. This is the problem of relation, of finding the path from I to you, of having a base to which one can turn. “How do I bind you?” The force of the problem eviscerates the pretensions of any solution, or of the names of the world.