I have awakened in a placental mush, reified, but into what. This all happened without my consent, against my better judgement, without my being aware. Perhaps I have been dematerialized into a Marxist commodity; I am the product of the production, the production of the product. I have Zizek to blame for this; his dialectical Lacanism forced fed on Marxism and tomfoolery, the ideological template beneath which he claims to explain everything, even himself. Has he forgotten what Lacan said, we never say what we mean, or is he just playing with commodities, replacing the production with the product, the signifier with the signified? I am disinterested in his disinterestedness, twice removed from the point of entry, a potato beggar in a burlap sac itchy with placental oatmeal, a hominy of time which is never my own, an noncoporeal timelessness gone sour, corpsegas.
