a Macarbe thing

Perhaps capitalism owes more to Lovecraft that Dickens, Marx wonders.

At its heart it has a body which is composed of for elements.

Firstly this body, the body of capitalism itself - the ever expanding land. Money is that which as it is given splits and changed, that which oozes over a land, corroding it in new places, dissolving what was there, converting every thing into money. it is then the most corrosive of acid goos, and one that know no limit of containment; It bubbles up for God know what well and covers a land.

Secondly within this goo are endless disjointed lives. Individuals are then workers, and as workers they are its organs. That it they are what generates its body, what fashions it. they are what is spinning out the goo. The system therefore only exists as it disjoints then individuals within it; they cease to be people, and become mere gizzards or brain pans:Organs within which and through which it slime is spun.

Thirdly surrounding these workers are the macarb elements of dead labour. work done once and for all, and never to be animated or thought. work finishes and complete. The living flow onto the dead and then hook up with life elsewhere. Who is alive and who is dead in this machine might not be clear. jobs shift and change, have dying elements now dead elements. One process changes and alters is once alive and then dead. the monument of the machine is therefor regarding very unquiet spirits. The labour might be dead, but its death wraps up the land starting it, making it infect the living, and driving backwards and forwards around and around.

Fourthly the body of capital pulsated.It glissens and which it is runs numerous separate individual process as its tendrels. one makes then a product, and so is bound up within a continuity of actions, one going into the other. Other make the same product or elements form it or inputs for it. The entire system flows one into the other, one across the other. As each point thereofore, each organ, each process appears o be a part of a continuity. one us swept along a process. one is this then that then this. But each such continuity only is as it is swept up in a great and ever pulsating whole where processes change and alter, shift, spilt avoid and affirm. The system as a whole continually multiple orders and shifting patterns, even those each local element of it appears so rational and complete.

Finally the pulsating whole has no fixed form. That does without saying. But the oddity its worse then a that. deep within, very deep, there are strange movements, slides and reality, slipping away, or moving odd wards. Rubles in meaning or for. The process, these ever revolution, change the shape of the entire ooze from within - disrupting it, or pulling this way or that, making it other or different. It oozes explosively, and violently, it change is form or texture if always expands, and yet what that explain is, what that expansion captures is never the same.

This is then the old one of capitalism: the glissening truth that some might claim was beyond time and space (and the natural destiny of Man): A lie Marx would like to nail.