To The Creative Classes (first letter)


I’ve been writing this half asleep – probably not a good idea.  You can judge for yourselves.  Isn’t that what we’re all good at?
Am I writing to myself?  Maybe I don’t have to send this somewhere.
I think you should say goodbye.  You should look back in anger for the last time.  This culture is not your friend.  It’s a landfill.  It’s an obscenely hurtful private estate.
What is civilization?  Is it billions of people, led by the least amongst us, competing to possess what socially passes for happiness, processing memes that insult us, that use and abuse us, that deny what we might be without them?   Is our agency, our becoming, usurped by a desire for recognition, for affirmation, that is ultimately not our own?
Are you creating or refining? We’ve heard the rumours from ground control. Each and every pop tone stays in us undead.  This culture is not our friend.  It’s never been for the taking or making.
We’ve been managing our own sublimation.