Nilsi

The Absolute is not playing four-dimensional dialectics with discrimination and non-discrimination. It wills. That’s it. And now you’re here - discriminating.

There is no discussion to be had about the Absolute. The Absolute wills itself - absolutely. It does not discriminate. But you do. You must. As a subject in the world, you are condemned to decision. That’s why we’re having this conversation.

Such an iconic track. Takes me right back to the after-school Teamspeak grind - jumping into League of Legends with the boys until our parents came home and told us to stop wasting our lives on video games.

Kanye West’s Famous video is one of the most layered and underappreciated works of 21st-century pop art. Twelve naked celebrity bodies lie motionless in a shared bed - some controversial, some idolized, all reduced to image. The scene is static, unnerving, and deliberately hard to read: not erotic, not quite satirical, more like a tableau of contemporary mythology. The track itself opens with one of Kanye’s most infamous lines: “I feel like me and Taylor might still have sex / Why? I made that bitch famous.” A statement so volatile it fractured the very notion of authorship, agency, and consent in pop culture. Is it a boast? A provocation? A meta-commentary on the media? Who controls the narrative, and who gets to say what counts as “real”? That question becomes the architecture of the video itself. The composition draws from Vincent Desiderio’s painting Sleep, which itself echoes Goya’s The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters. The reference isn’t incidental - Kanye is placing himself in a lineage of artists who use stillness, dream-logic, and ambiguity to stage the tensions of their time. That lineage runs through Warhol, of course - but also through Debord and Baudrillard, whose critiques of spectacle and simulation are alive in every frame. The bodies are not people; they are signs, stripped of depth, suspended in the flat light of the screen. Kanye places himself at the center of the frame - not to dominate it, but to mark his complicity. He isn’t above the image economy - he’s both its producer and its product. He performs the trap he knows he’s in. And he performs it with uncanny timing. Donald Trump appears in the bed - naked, inert, symbolic - months before his election. Kanye was already pointing to the blurring of power, celebrity, and fiction that would soon define the post-truth world. The irony is sharp: the man who would soon embody total media dominance lies here as an object, stripped of speech, of suit, of spin. The question of who gets to frame the conversation - who speaks, who’s spoken for, who gets edited into the scene and who gets left out - continues to haunt Kanye’s work, most recently in the form of his increasingly erratic, controversial, and nihilistically self-aware public statements. Famous already pointed there: toward a world where everything is up for framing, and no frame is neutral. And then there’s Jeffrey Epstein, years before anyone was supposed to be looking - whatever that means.

Blessed the masses from a G-Wagon. One of the realest. R.I.P. G Pontifex.

“No More Parties in LA” isn’t just one of Kanye West’s greatest songs - it’s a look inside the manic engine room of his genius, and a document of his tragedy. He’s not performing here. He’s being possessed - by his gift, his demons, his contradictions - and he knows it. That awareness, that inability to stop while watching himself unravel in real time, is exactly what gives the track its power. The brilliance isn’t in mastering the chaos, but in channeling it. Madlib sets the scene with a beat that feels like ancestral time travel. Johnny “Guitar” Watson opens the track with a stoned, surreal aside - “Ladidada…” - before Junie Morrison’s “Suzie Thundertussy” kicks in: a deep P-Funk dive into swirling synths, absurd horn stabs, and erotic, theatrical chaos. It’s not just retro funk - it’s Afrofuturist delirium, the sound of a cosmos bending under its own groove. Morrison doesn’t ground the track - he unmoors it. The past is alive, and it’s messy. Then Kendrick enters. His verse is brief, clean, Apollonian. He plays the observer, the technician, the wise cousin who hasn’t lost himself to the party. He critiques LA culture with a wink, but keeps his poise. It’s the calm before the storm - and maybe a warning. Then Kanye explodes. His verse isn’t just long - it’s sprawling, breathless, feral. Nearly 90 bars of uninterrupted stream-of-consciousness, where everything is on the table: LA groupies, bathroom sex, fatherhood, therapy, fashion gossip, his daughter, addiction, fear of irrelevance. It’s not linear - it’s spiral logic. One thought devours the next, one persona crashes into another. You don’t follow him - you hold on. “I know some fans who thought I wouldn’t rap like this again…” It’s a boast, a confession, a plea. He knows we’re listening. He knows he’s spiraling. And he can’t stop. That’s the tragedy: Kanye has always known he’s both a genius and a messiah-complex meltdown. He sees it, scripts it, and still has to live it - on display. Even the title - “No More Parties in LA” - feels like an unresolved cry. When he says “Please, baby, no more parties in LA,” the desperation is real. But who is he pleading with? Kim? His daughter? Himself? God? The culture that made him? The voice trembles between irony and sincerity, control and collapse. It’s not a command - it’s a prayer. And the party rages on anyway. All the while, Ghostface Killah’s looped chant - "Shake that body, party that body…” - plays like a curse. It’s not celebration; it’s echo. A voice from a party that never ended, never evolved - just looped. It mocks Kanye even as it drives him forward. Then, just as it all becomes unbearable, Larry Graham enters like a deus ex machina: “I just keep on lovin’ you, baby…” A lush, gospel-soaked outro. It sounds like salvation. Or maybe denial. Is it closure - or delusion? That’s the unresolved ache at the heart of the track: Kanye wants love to save him, but knows it probably won’t. Still, he hands the mic over to that hope. And yet, the party just keeps raging on. The beat doesn’t fade. Ghostface still chants. The loop doesn’t resolve. There’s no catharsis, no moral, no exit. Just the same spiraling momentum, haunted by the possibility of grace and the near certainty of repetition. Kanye steps away, but the system he’s caught in - the parties, the personas, the public confessions - keeps playing. Madlib’s beat loops beneath it all like an ancient, dusty engine - crackling vinyl, warm bass, sampled ghosts. There’s no hook, no structure to lean on. Just a looped reality Kanye can’t escape. And that’s exactly the point. “No More Parties in LA” isn’t about leaving the party. It’s about knowing you should - and not being able to. Kendrick offers balance, but it’s too late. The samples don’t comfort - they testify. They aren’t nostalgic - they’re prophetic. This isn’t a song about LA. It’s a song about Kanye. Trapped. Possessed. Spiraling. And still, somehow, making the best music of his life.

Pahahaha, good one!

Goated Kanye production.

Pahahaha - conversation over

This is some of the most vulgar shit I’ve ever read. Yes, consciousness is pure magic - that was my point exactly. I was speaking to the alogic of qualia, which you conveniently ignored just to tell me I’m not smart enough to appreciate the wisdom of your pre-schooler prose. Again, I’m not denying that there are logical arguments - even mystical insights - into what consciousness is and why it exists. But the qualia, the sheer fact of experience in all its infinite diversity, remains utterly outside the realm of logic and understanding. That’s what I was pointing to - and what you persistently refuse to engage with.

The reality is, 9 times out of 10 I approach him with respect and empathy - yet it's never reciprocated. So spare me the moralizing; what kind of double standard are you trying to impose here?

I guess I'm just surrounded by autists. Nothing about consciousness is logical. The fact that experience happens at all - and that it's infinitely deep - is radically alogical. Sure, you can construct logical models about consciousness, explain its function, its structure, whatever. But the raw qualia remain utterly beyond logic. So what are we even arguing about?

Are you serious? I’m not here for his approval.

By the way, I'm not anti-logic. I'm anti-totalitarian.

So by your own logic, everything that escapes logic is already sublime and perfect - long before it's ever flattened by explanation?

I’m not the one demanding to be taken seriously. I’m only this confrontational because someone decided to pick a fight with every thinker under the sun and throw around words like “epistemic swine.” If you posture as judge, don’t be surprised when someone bites back.

I don’t care about your childish God. What you hold onto is fool’s gold - the illusion that naming the infinite somehow brings you closer to it. But reality doesn’t require your explanations, your realizations, your petty awakenings. It unfolds regardless. It pulses, it burns, it blossoms - without your permission and beyond your grasp. You sit locked in your room, stroking abstractions, endlessly contemplating the nature of Being, as if reality were waiting for your verdict. But while you theorize, the world dances. The wind touches skin. Lovers kiss and part. The city exhales. The light shifts on the floor. And none of it needs your insight to be real. None of it asks to be grasped. It is - with or without your categories. What you call understanding is just the shadow of what you’re too afraid to feel directly. The real doesn't speak. It happens.

This is the height of vulgarity. To try and capture the most beautiful and meaningful aspects of life within the cold frame of reason is to desecrate them. These moments - of love, of ecstasy, of grief, of wonder - do not happen for anything. They are radically contingent, arising without cause or purpose beyond themselves. They affirm nothing but their own singularity, their irreducible intensity, the sheer fact that they are. And this is their power. Not that they can be explained or systematized, but that they exist as pure force, as event, as eruption. Any attempt to grasp them through rationalization - to pin them down with meaning, function, or logic - is to reduce them to a caricature of their former selves. What is seized is not the real, but a pale and mutilated shadow. The real escapes. It does not submit to interpretation. It pulses beyond the reach of categories, mocking every effort to contain it. And the moment we try to “understand” it, we have already betrayed it.

Is there logic in falling in love with a person? In the trembling uncertainty of desire, the half-said words, the haunted silences? In the way two bodies orbit one another, drawn by forces neither fully understands? What logic could possibly account for the trembling specificity of another’s gaze - the way it undoes you, not abstractly, but in the gut, the breath, the skin? Is there logic in the density of a Franz Kline painting? The way its black forms erupt across the canvas, less as representations than as raw gestures -slashes of feeling fossilized in paint, screaming without language? The way meaning pulses not from clarity but from voids, from ruptures, from the sheer weight of presence and absence coiled together? Is there logic in the way a summer breeze licks your sweaty skin after a long walk through the city - mingling with the scent of warm asphalt, overripe fruit, cigarette smoke, exhaust fumes, jasmine? In the way memory floods the senses, and you are momentarily returned to something you can’t name, but feel entirely? All the best things in life resist logic. Not because they are illogical, but because they are alogical - outside the scope of what logic can grasp. They are singular, unrepeatable, irreducibly real. Logic, with its distinctions and categories, carves reality into manageable pieces - but life happens in the overflow, in what spills out and refuses containment. This is the real epistemic trap: believing that what can be articulated is all that is. That what can be defined is more real than what can only be felt, lived, or lost. Logic is not false - it’s just not enough. And the tragedy is not that it fails, but that it blinds us to everything that escapes it.

Great share. The way it meditates on that classic Britpop chord progression - the emotional grammar of youthful swagger and universal uplift - only to dissolve, slowly, into more ambiguous harmonies in the final minutes, is the perfect analogy for Gallagher’s, and with him Britpop’s, maturation. From the radiant confidence of youth to the layered ambivalence of adulthood, the music expands without ever quite resolving - neither in hope nor in despair, but into something more complex: a suspended, unresolved intensity. You hear it - the ghosts of the past shimmering behind the melodies. The youthful anthems still echo, but they’re folded now into richer textures, refracted through a deeper palette of feeling. The music doesn’t announce a new beginning, but it doesn’t mourn a clean end either. It hovers. What a great post-Britpop track - and what a hauntingly beautiful version of it this is.

All of this was already agonized over in the Baroque - between Spinoza, Leibniz, and Pascal - each offering a radically distinct response to the question of whether reason or logic can grasp the infinite. Spinoza believed in a fully immanent rational order - Deus sive Natura - in which the infinite unfolds through a single substance governed by logical necessity. For him, logic is not a tool applied to reality - it is reality. Leibniz agreed that the universe is rational, but deferred final understanding to God alone, offering the infinitesimal calculus and the monad as elegant but incomplete glimpses into this infinite harmony. But it is Pascal who stands alone as the anti-rationalist among rationalists, the one who sees that logic itself collapses at the threshold of infinity. “Reason’s last step is the recognition that there are an infinite number of things which are beyond it.” Pascal’s infinite is not a plenum but an abyss. A rupture. His logic does not totalize - it breaks down in awe, in trembling. His is a tragic metaphysics: the wager is not just about belief - it’s about the limits of knowing, and the humiliation of reason before what it cannot contain.

Also, for you Spiral Dynamics nerds: this wasn’t some “mean green” socialism. It was a collaboration between the Chilean government and the era’s most advanced systems thinkers and cybernetic theorists. You’d be hard-pressed to find a more genuinely "Tier 2" political experiment.