Every book, novel, play, movie enacts, subconsiously, that thirsty desire/anxiety for transformations — and why shouldn’t it? We were once munchkins after all (cf. theory that the reason we cannot remember our extreme youth is because of size differences, in that we can no longer remember what it was like to be so small.)
Change-Anxiety. While poisoned by purple mushrooms, I would often lay in bed, writhing around and dwelling on which words of the English language were particularly strange and scary, and I would always come back to this one change, change, a) it sounds weird, it has a dynamic mutable sound to it, beginning in one place and ending in another, a sloppy living slickness to it, and b) when one considers, with the mad-mad focus that only hallucinogens can bring to bear on a subject, the actual meaning, that which is signified by this signifier, and we realize it describes a living breathing process — a strange process that does not make sense a priori, that is in fact a strange weird empirical facet of the world that is contingent and not necessary — we realize we are staring straight at one of the fundamental underlying features of this strange universe we perpetually find ourselves in — and this change is constant, unpredictable, unceasing, barrels on with no concern for our preferences and feelings, and will one day crush us, kill us, and leave us by the road. Life begins. Life begins again. Time — time is, but change change transformations kill —
And yet the plus-side sits there too, for somehow, for whatever reason or no reason, we are endowed with minds and wills and thoughts and memories and with these four ichors we can spin together our vanguards and our barriers and by force of these endowments pull ourselves above the tide of time and riding it become the masters of our transformations — the will to power — to choose where life will take us.
We are given a certain number of days and a certain number of faculties, and a natural freedom to make what we will of them, given the social and biological constraints within which we are free to act and choose. So act, choose. How will we choose? What are our choices? We make them. We make this world.
We latter-born children, provided with the full-functioning late capital commodity machine, do not make things, and hence are powerless. Still, the junk is the junk, and the life is the life, and it remains to us to make our lives. Make your own life. Make it. Transform yourself. Recirculate and return to where you began (look homeward, angel) — stand at the end of the city at the end of time and sing joyously into the winds blowing from the last event horizon — look straight up into the heart of the galaxy and count the numberless stars — look into your mother’s eyes — hold tightly to your father’s hand — sleep sleep sleep next to your lover who cradles you and takes you back —
And the changes come and the changes will come and some we ride and some push us under but they come they come unceasingly they come