Everyone participates in our Russian politics: engineers, intellectuals, bureaucrats, the homeless, schizophrenics, women, spies, and many other types. It can be said with certainty that there are no representatives of only one class - the workers. Taking Marxist demagoguery on faith, the infuriated perestroika partocrats, for some reason, inculcated a dogma into the mass conscience: workers were the hegemonic class during the entire Soviet period, and now they are supposed to be forced out of politics, forgotten, marginalized. And the Western society, which many Russian politicians are painstakingly trying to copy, has successfuly dealt with the working class by removing it from the political arena. When domination of capital became total and capitalism transformed from its industrial phase into informational, post-industrial society, the base group of the Laborer, the Producer, the Creator of the entire objective reality of human existence was completely erased in front of flickering computer screens and deceitful light of ads.
Workers have disappeared from our life. Vanished from sight, turned into something else. Worker’s labor in the epoch of management and know-how has been devalued.
Dirty, oily, coarse people dressed in uniforms with tools made of pig iron have been dissolved in social nonexistence. But this is nothing more than an optical illusion, a craftily fabricated social mirage. We are made to believe that everything around us has evolved directly from money and its unlimited power, was manufactured by “smart” machines controlled by all-powerful white-collared technocrats.
Nothing like it. As usual, in the depths of plants and factories hundreds of thousands of living organisms potter around, transfiguring rough matter into sensible forms. As before, in the bowels of the earth, idealists with pick hammers are struggling with dense bones of the inertial substance, violating the passive, deathly comfort of stony rocks. Black blood from underground veins is gushing out into the faces of surgeons of oilwells. Square-shouldered giants with brick faces are rolling burning steel.
In reality, the Worker, Laborer, has not gone anywhere. He simply went underground again. Betrayed by degenerated Soviet socialism, crushed by the strangling noose of perfidious capital, whose domination today is not only formal and external, but absolute and internal, he gazes sullenly at the loathsome reality being eagerly built around him by crooks of all types, races, and classes. Turned from slave of a party functionary into slave of a “new Russian,” the Worker is humiliated and overwhelmed as before, more than before. Driven into the dark underground of the socium, poisoned by electronic surrogates of emotions and omnipresent pseudoerotics, he struggles in a narrow cage, turning, with the energy of his agony, a terrible machine with a computer facade, which would collapse like a sand pyramid if it were not for him.
The clean world of “new masters” drives the Titan into an embryonic state, throwing him bits and pieces. “Here’s your half-a-liter of Kremlyovskaya vodka, hegemon!”
But is it really possible that all mystical expectations connected to the emancipation of Labor have disgracefuly tumbled, eaten away by the fat worm of the Soviet experiment? Can it really be that the suspicions of the coincidence of subject and object in the Worker, which are shaking the foundations of being, turned out to be just foolish moralizing metaphors, hiding behind them the prosaic will to power of the next gang of greedy and power-hungry officials?
This cannot be. The pitiful downfall of Sovdep and its foul leaders is just a pause, a syncope in the terrible awakening of the Titan. The working class has not yet fulfilled its historical mission. It has not uttered its last word yet. It has not made its Revolution yet.
Today is the epoch of parasites. Old, new, our own, and alien ones. People using and appropriating that, which they did not create. Centrists are selling out radicals, heads of enterprises - their subordinates, rulers of state - the riches of a great country, the mass media - conscience. In the melee - squealing and puffing, shots from around the corner, and chilling lies.
From the depths of being, the contemporary Russian Worker sullenly glazes at this bustle. Awkward and concrete, tenacious as a machine, and sluggish like a thinker. He does not believe and will never believe the social demagoguery of the “pinks.” Them again? No, enough. For the “capitalists,” the reckoning will also be short. Only the dense, passionately melancholic power of arising nationalism can touch these solid and temperate people. But when there is talk of a “ruling dynasty,” “restoration of privileges to nobility,” gonfalons, cossacks, or “national entrepreneurship,” the patriots face gloomy indifference: “Maskers.” Each morning, with sunrise (nobody except these people has thought of the sun for a long time now) they crawl out of apartment cages from fat and stupid wives and snotty toddlers, move in a measured pace into the concrete womb of Production. So that - toiling without inspiration - persistently, rhythmically, uninterruptedly wage a cosmic battle with matter, so inflexible, raw, rough, so poisonous. Gloomy workers know - evil demon of substance has taken hostage delicate and frail Life, the Sun Maiden. It is the form stolen by a harsh usurper of matter. It can be saved only by heroic deed, a stubborn, terrifying, relentless war against the ground ice of reality.
For many centuries and eons, the Titans are waging a struggle against entropy of the Universe. Working class. Workers’ brotherhood. Workers’ Order.
After swallowing Dionysus, following long eons, they have been saturated with his flesh. That is why they regard with such reverence the holy intoxication of the resurrected Bacchus.
Somewhere above them, unaware of the subterranean drama, naive or dishonest “aristocrats,” intellectuals, merchants cynically use the fruits of the bloody battle. They do not confront Matter, freed from it by the voluntary sacrifice of Knights Templar of the Proletariat. They gobble up and desacralize trophies obtained by subterranean Vikings in a terrible shaft with darkness of the utmost depths.
But torpidity will not last long. Workers are collecting intellectual resolve and spirit. Noone can guarantee longevity to the raving scum of contemporary Russian politics. Of course, the eyes of the proletarian are riveted on the Earth, his eternal rival, eternal enemy.
But sooner or later he will look up and ... deliver his last blow. With a crowbar against the deathly dull eye-socket of the computer, at the glowing window of a bank, at the twisted face of an overseer.
The proletarian will Awaken. Rebel. Murder. Neither the police nor fake socialist parties will be able to hold him back.
His mission in history is not finished. Demiurge still breathes. The Soul of the World still weeps. Her tears raise a dismal howl in the black consciousness of the Creator. It is a call. It is a factory whistle. It is the sounding of Angelic Trumpets.
They - smiths of Tartar - once again yearn for their proletarian Revolution.
Translated by Victor Olevich
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