So the great man is thrown into the heart of the playing out of his thought in time, and no one can see him and he sits in a corner of the room or he paces around in the narrow space at the back between the last row of cheap folding chairs and the back wall, behind which you can already hear the sounds of hard core ex-con bikers tear-assing by on their choppers and the screams of whores being tortured to death by off duty patrolmen who haven't been paid in years because their captain is so fucking corrupt yet he has them all too scared shitless to even ask for their damn pay cause apparently his reputation is that he kills, with the legal impunity of the law, anyone who dares cross him or complain.

Anyway, this great man from history, be it Marx or Christ or Freud or Newton or Olivia Newton-John, has to sit there now and actually watch his words -- which had initially been designed to live forever and guide all mankind for all time because they were so profound and perfect and right and true -- he has to sit there and watch these once great words -- earned and teased out through long years of suffering and tortuous thought -- he has to watch them thoroughly transformed, as though through several rounds of a game of "Telephone," except it's the modern version of the game and now it's called Cell Phone, and instead of just ideas getting garbled and being misunderstood, now whole chunks have been completely dropped out and either replaced by their polar opposite, or by nothing at all, leaving an immense gap in logic that no one seems to acknowledge or mind.

So the great man is hunched over in the back of the room, in the corner, his furrowed forehead face down swiveling back and forth in the palm of his sweaty hands, muttering, "No! No! No!"

Finally he gets up and presses his materializer button that was provided to him just before he'd left the space dome on his way to earth to salvage his meaning.

"Fuck all old school revolution!" he says first, once he can be seen and heard by the room full of people. "In old school revolution -- the physical kind -- scumbags just replace scumbags after a few days of some high-octane partying down."

"Yeah, party down, dude!" some of his tenth generation followers scream out.

"No, no, no," he says, responding not to that comment, but to one that no one has heard but himself, "True revolution takes place deep in the world and without violence or force -- by undermining cognition itself out from under the scumbags who made the world the way it is.

"By undermining all these world scumbags' words and symbols and objects and products and emotions and personalities and places and spaces and activities and motivations and rewards and punishments and causal relations and sciences and arts and musics and dramas and sports and human relations and desires and goals and measurements.

"And then just letting new dimensions of being grow from the ashes..."

There's a pause as he looks around at the faces, everyone eager to get going on whatever -- eager to start with a cell and a rule and see where it goes, and repeat this till someone finds a rule that solves the world.

"But what if," he continues as blank petitions begin circulating like blank checks, "the new dimensions of being that grow out of the ashes of the old dimensions of being are just the same old piece of shit dimensions of being that we have today -- all over again?

"And then what if this whole effort that we begin here today -- what if it becomes just one more line in the proof that there is a predisposition in the ultimate laws of self-organization, evolution, and Cambrian explosions, and that this predisposition is that, regardless of your frame of reference and regardless of its state of motion, everything MUST suck?"

"Then why have even fucking bothered?" someone at the far other side of the room thinks.

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