On the Unwellness of Wellbeing  

Jake Chapman

2025

I want to begin a new kind of art—no longer predisposed to the average appetite, no longer predisposed to the mediocrity of consensus, no longer desperate for en-masse solicitude, an art that is no longer bound by intelligence or discourse, or the arrogance of the obstinately informed, the corrupt and the entitled—to the prejudice of the well-intentioned elite—but a poetics that seeks out the freshness of the new-born—not the mollycoddled underling, but the shrieking, seething bundle of desires that has no given objective in the world, other than to emit only an unrelenting ‘yes’, the bloodcurdling shriek of the originary big bang, a cosmic Me! ME! ME! ME! MEEEEEEEEEEEE!– I demand a new sacred neoliberalithic art to usher in the world-without-us.

My mind is a sanctuary of peace and positivity. My thoughts are mostly vivid and clear, mostly calm, almost always serene—but sometimes my mental meandering requires that I find my way back to reposefulness by more psychically injurious, mean and needlessly circuitous routes. And when I stray from the path of mindful intention, my mindfulness affirmations take a decidedly negative turn, and I am possessed by a monosyllabic vocoid murmur, a negativized, inverse meditation, the sucking, gurgling, droning tones of coenobitic throat singing—I harken to the interconnectedness of all living and non-living systems alike, to the deep interdependence between human consciousness and the indifferent environment. I yell at the top of my wellness voice against the evil that taints me, I am the necrotic vector of late capital’s autoimmune collapse, the corpse of liberalism reanimated as a shambling, hollowed-out, all singing, all dancing, metabolized zombie host—with Capitalism utterly devoured, a parasitised vampiric symbiosis of entropic consumption, extractive production and sumptuous expenditure… Of execration and death…

Namaste.