The “secular excommunication” that describes slavery for Patterson (1982: 5) is more precisely understood as the radical exclusion from a political order, which is tantamount, in Arendt’s formulation, with something on the order of a radical relegation to the social. The problem with slavery, for Patterson, is that it is political death, not social death; the problem is that slavery confers the paradoxically stateless status of the merely, barely living; it delineates the inhuman as unaccommodated bios. At stake is the transvaluation or, better yet, the invaluation or antivaluation, the extraction from the sciences of value (and from the very possibility of that necessarily fictional, but materially brutal, standpoint that Wagner [2009: 1] calls “being a party to exchange”). Such extraction will, in turn, be the very mark and inscription (rather than absence or eradication) of the sociality of a life, given in common, instantiated in exchange. What I am trying to get to, by way of this terminological slide in Patterson, is the consideration of a radical disjunction between sociality and the state-sanctioned, state-sponsored terror of power-laden intersubjectivity, which is, or would be, the structural foundation of Patterson’s epiphenomenology of spirit. To have honor, which is, of necessity, to be a man of honor, for Patterson, is to become a combatant in transcendental subjectivity’s perpetual civil war. To refuse the induction that Patterson desires is to enact or perform the recognition of the constitution of civil society as enmity, hostility, and civil butchery. It is, moreover, to consider that the unspoken violence of political friendship constitutes a capacity for alignment and coalition that is enhanced by the unspeakable violence that is done to what and whom the political excludes. This is to say that, yes, I am in total agreement with the Afro-pessimistic understanding of blackness as exterior to civil society and, moreover, as unmappable within the cosmological grid of the transcendental subject. However, I understand civil society and the coordinates of the transcendental aesthetic—cognate as they are not with the failed but rather with the successful state and its abstract, equivalent citizens—to be the fundamentally and essentially an antisocial nursery for a necessarily necropolitical imitation of life. So that if Afro-pessimists say that social life is not the condition of black life but is, rather, the political field that would surround it, then that’s a formulation with which I would agree. Social death is not imposed upon blackness by or from the standpoint or positionality of the political; rather, it is the field of the political, from which blackness is relegated to the supposedly undifferentiated mass or blob of the social, which is, in any case, where and what blackness chooses to stay.

Fred Moten

 https://cpb-us-w2.wpmucdn.com/campuspress.yale.edu/dist/1/2391/files/2018/03/Moten-In-the-Break-11j1uox.pdf

"The history of blackness is testament to the fact that objects can and do resist.1 Blackness—the extended movement of a specific upheaval, an ongoing irruption that anarranges every line—is a strain that pressures the assumption of the equivalence of personhood and subjectivity. While subjectivity is defined by the subject’s possession of itself and its objects, it is troubled by a dispossessive force objects exert such that the subject seems to be possessed—infused, deformed—by the object it possesses. I’m interested in what happens when we consider the phonic materiality of such propriative exertion. Or, to invoke and diverge from Saidiya Hartman’s fundamental work and phrasing, I’m interested in the convergence of blackness and the irreducible sound of necessarily visual performance at the scene of objection. Between looking and being looked at, spectacle and spectatorship, enjoyment and being enjoyed, lies and moves the economy of what Hartman calls hypervisibility. She allows and demands an investigation of this hypervisibility in its relation to a certain musical obscurity and opens us to the problematics of everyday ritual, the stagedness of the violently (and sometimes amelioratively) quotidian, the essential drama of black life, as Zora Neale Hurston might say. Hartman shows how narrative always echoes and redoubles the dramatic interenactment of “contentment and abjection,” and she explores the massive discourse of the cut, of rememberment and redress, that we always hear in narratives where blackness marks simultaneously both the performance of the object and the performance of humanity. She allows us to ask: what have objectification and humanization, both of which we can think in relation to a certain notion of subjection, to do with the essential historicity, the quintessential modernity, of black performance? Whatever runs off us, a certain offense runs through us. This is a double ambivalence that requires analyses of looking and being looked at; such game requires, above all, some thinking about the opposition of spectacle and routine, violence and pleasure. This thinking is Hartman’s domain. A critique of the subject animates Hartman’s work. It bears the trace, therefore, of a movement exempliWed by an aspect of Judith Butler’s massive theoretical contribution wherein the call to subjectivity is understood also as a call to subjection and subjugation and appeals for redress or protection to the state or to the structure or idea of citizenship—as well as modes of radical performativity or subversive impersonation—are always already embedded in the structure they would escape.2 But if Hartman moves in this world she also moves in another tradition that forces another kind of questioning. Consulting Frederick Douglass on all of this is mandatory and the best place to consult him is in the moments when he describes and reproduces black performance. But this is to move in the tradition of a mode of reading Douglass that conflates his story (and its graphic and emblematic primal scene) with the story of slavery and freedom; this is to risk an uncritical covering of the assertion of Douglass’s originarity; this is to approach the natal occasion that our musico-political tradition must evade. In order to sidestep this problematic, Hartman has both to avoid and to arrive at Douglass, must both repress and return to him.''

Fred Moten

 "So likewise it is right that the substance which is to be fitted to receive frequently over its whole extent the copies of all things intelligible and eternal should itself, of its own nature, be void of all the forms. Wherefore, let us not speak of her that is the Mother and Receptacle of this generated world, which is perceptible by sight and all the senses, by the name of earth or air or fire or water, or any aggregates or constituents thereof: rather, if we describe her as a Kind invisible and unshaped, all-receptive, and in some most perplexing and most baffling way partaking of the intelligible, we shall describe her truly."

Plato, Timaeus, 51a

"Whitehead cautions that “routine is the god of every social system.” Our complex civilization is the result of many an intelligent insight, but once the insights are translated into some adequate routine, “the intelligence vanishes and the system is maintained by a coordination of conditioned reflexes.”^[11] In other words, we do not necessarily know the purposes of all the routinized activities involved in supporting our day to day survival. It is a grave illusion to imagine we might burn it all down and redesign society from the ground up on rational principles alone''. 

Segall

Linkola

How many thousandfold more echoes are in that liturgy which hums and splatters all the time around us, the liturgy of prophets and their flock praising economic growth, competitiveness, efficiency, and "competence."

 Pentti Linkola

"In Karelia, I see, more clearly than ever, through the hypocritical illusion that man and nature could flourish simultaneously. They are always the opposites of each other, either - or. But in Karelia, I see a man, who ACCEPTS and RELI NQUISHES. It is an awesome experience. At last I understand why I live in constant horror in my own country, to which I'm bonded: why I have the feeling that I was being punched in the face all the time. It is not purely caused because forests have been ravaged and shores degraded on the demands of the market; it doesn't arise from the vast number of paved and concrete surfaces itself, or the excessive garish shine of cars wherever you lay your eyes. It is because everything in this country is raw, smooth, obvious, polished, perfect. The most horrendous thing is that this country is in the grip of order, here everything is in order. The brush saw is the most dreadful of tools. Every grain of sand has been stamped with the additional sign of ownership by man. There is nothing mysterious in Finland, nothing gentle, no faint shimmer anywhere. 6 For a moment, hope flashes in the groves of Vuoksi. Maybe sometime my Finland too, my Tavastia, will look like this, and will be revived. The grip of the tormentors loosens. My homeshores, my homeforests, are green and lush again. But it is only a flash. That won't happen. The opposite will''. 

 Pentti Linkola