Seize the Means of Community

Neoliberalism thrives on idiotism—the enclosure of the self, severing people from collective life. Historically, “idiot” meant disengagement, but under capitalism, it became an insult. Leftist language must resist this by rooting itself in real communities of practice, rebuilding speech communities, and reclaiming political meaning from ideological enclosure.

The term idiotism is not widely used in contemporary political discourse, but it should be. As the current series of articles undertakes an exploration of how leftist vocabulary has been enclosed, diluted, and detached from lived communal structures, idiotism provides a crucial conceptual tool to explain how this process occurs—not just in language but in subjectivity itself.

Derived from the Greek idiōtēs, meaning a private person disengaged from public life, idiotism describes a condition in which individuals are severed from collective participation and locked into isolated, self-referential modes of thought and action. Historically, this was understood as a lack of civic engagement, a retreat from the responsibilities of the polis. Today, under neoliberalism, it is a structural condition, cultivated through market ideology, digital enclosures, and the fragmentation of public discourse.

This article explores the etymology and historical transformations of idiotism, its relevance to contemporary hegemonic individualism, and how it manifests in leftist discourse—particularly in the weakening of communal language and action. By reconnecting idiotism to broader discussions of possessive individualism, capitalist enclosure, and schmooze-level social reality, we can begin to chart a way forward.

1. Idiotism and Its Classical Roots

The modern word idiot traces back to the Greek idiōtēs (ἰδιώτης), which referred to someone who was not engaged in public affairs. Unlike the politēs (πολίτης), the active citizen who took part in collective decision-making, the idiōtēs lived in a privatized sphere, disconnected from the deliberative structures of the community. The term was not initially an insult but described a condition of civic disconnection.

This meaning shifted over time. In Latin and later medieval vernaculars, idiota came to mean an uneducated or ignorant person. By the time it entered English, idiot was fully synonymous with stupidity, losing its original political meaning. What was once a critique of disengagement became a medicalized and moralized insult.

This semantic drift was not accidental. As capitalist social orders developed, the political meaning of idiocy was lost precisely because capitalist hegemony required a population more preoccupied with private affairs than with collective governance. The transition from idiōtēs to “idiot” mirrors the rise of possessive individualism, in which self-interest replaces social obligation as the organizing principle of society.

2. Neal Curtis’ Idiotism: The Neoliberal Subject as Enclosed Self

Neal Curtis’ book Idiotism: Capitalism and the Privatisation of Life (n.b.: open access, free download) resurrects the term to describe how neoliberalism systematically cultivates self-enclosure. According to Curtis, capitalism not only dismantles communal infrastructures but actively reshapes subjectivity to make social alienation appear natural. Under neoliberalism, the ideal subject is an idiot—not in the sense of stupidity, but as someone locked into self-referential survival, disengaged from collective transformation.

Curtis argues that idiotism is not just an ideology but a structural condition, reinforced by:

  • The destruction of public goods and common spaces.
  • The ideological promotion of market competition over cooperation.
  • The internalization of economic precarity, leading to a mindset of individualized struggle.
  • The collapse of deliberative structures, making civic engagement feel futile or meaningless.

In this sense, idiotism is capitalism’s epistemic enclosure of the self, preventing people from recognizing their embeddedness in communal life. This process mirrors the semantic enclosure of leftist language—turning concepts like mutual aid into acts of charity rather than reciprocal obligation, or solidarity into an abstract virtue rather than an active structure of collective power.

3. Idiotism and the Limits of Leftist Language

Leftist language itself is not immune to idiotism. If neoliberalism produces enclosed selves, it also shapes the way political movements articulate their demands. Some key ways this manifests include:

  • The Performance of Engagement Without Engagement – Leftist discourse is often performative, with radical rhetoric substituting for real structures of communal obligation. If language does not connect to real communities of practice, it remains self-referential, a form of idiotism in itself.
  • The Fragmentation of Speech Communities – Digital spaces encourage ideological filtering, where leftist language becomes an in-group dialect rather than a tool of broad political engagement. Idiotism thrives where language ceases to be generative and instead reinforces static moral positioning.
  • The Weakening of Collective Identity – In a world dominated by neoliberal atomization, even leftist movements struggle to construct enduring communal structures. Language that once mobilized collective agency now often serves as a personal branding tool—politics as aesthetic rather than as practice.

This diagnosis is not meant to be fatalistic. Recognizing idiotism within leftist discourse allows us to counteract it. The solution is not simply more rhetoric but a reconnection of language to lived, reciprocal relationships within real communities of practice.

4. Reclaiming Language, Rebuilding Collective Consciousness

If idiotism describes a condition of enclosure, the counter to it must be a deliberate reinvestment in communal structures of speech and action. Some key ways forward include:

  • Embedding Language in Speech Communities – Leftist vocabulary must emerge from and be sustained by active communities, rather than functioning as a floating signifier in online discourse.
  • Developing Communal Practices Alongside Communal Language – Political terminology should be grounded in real, material relationships—worker cooperatives, mutual aid networks, neighborhood assemblies—where meaning is not just asserted but enacted.
  • Resisting the Enclosure of Radical Terms – Just as mutual aid must be reclaimed from its depoliticization into charity, other terms must be defended from ideological dilution and misappropriation.
  • Expanding the Schmooze-Level Social Reality of Politics – A truly collective politics must restore dialogic interaction as a foundation for meaning-making, countering the passive consumption of political content.

Conclusion: Beyond Idiotism

Neoliberalism thrives on idiotism—the enclosure of the self, the collapse of communal meaning, and the severing of language from lived social reality. If leftist discourse is to remain viable, it must resist both semantic drift and social fragmentation, restoring political language to a living practice within interconnected communities.

The question is not merely how we critique idiotism, but how we cultivate its opposite: a world where no one is an idiōtēs because all are engaged in the ongoing, reciprocal construction of communal life. The first step is to ensure that our words, like our actions, move us toward this reality.

#LanguageOfTheLeft

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The Left’s key terms—solidarity, mutual aid, liberation—often fail to mobilize because they have been enclosed, ritualized, and detached from lived practice. While leftist organizations sustain these terms internally, they must help build outward-facing communities that integrate language into real, systemic change. This and future posts will explore how to reclaim a vocabulary of communal power.

This is not merely a problem of rhetoric. It is a symptom of deeper fractures in the Left’s capacity to create and sustain communal life. Our language has been subject to enclosures—sometimes imposed by hegemonic forces, sometimes self-inflicted through hyper-politicized subcultural discourse. The result is a set of terms that often mean less to those who use them than to those excluded from their use. This article is the beginning of a broader inquiry: How has the language of the Left been enclosed, hollowed out, or ritualized in ways that undermine its purpose? And what might it mean to reclaim a political vocabulary that moves us—one that generates real communal structures rather than merely naming them?

The Problem: When Words Cease to Build Worlds

Political language does not simply describe reality; it constructs it. Language is infrastructure—it enables coordination, orientation, and the reproduction of meaning across time and space. For a movement to be effective, its vocabulary must be alive—capable of evolving, spreading, and embedding itself in the daily experiences of those it seeks to mobilize.

Yet, many of the Left’s key terms have undergone a transformation that renders them less actionable, less felt, and less real:

  • They have become detached from practice – Terms like solidarity and mutual aid are now more often used as performative declarations than as embedded social relations. Solidarity becomes a gesture rather than a structure of obligation; mutual aid becomes a hashtag rather than a durable system of care.
  • They have become hyper-moralized and exclusionary – Instead of inviting participation, certain words now function as boundary markers, distinguishing the ideologically pure from the insufficiently committed. This leads to paralysis rather than expansion—instead of asking, “How can we bring more people into shared struggle?” the emphasis shifts to, “Who is using the right words in the right way?”
  • They have been absorbed into bureaucratic and academic discourse – Many of the Left’s most vital concepts have been NGO-ified and academicized, stripped of their disruptive energy. Words like organizing and resistance become grant-friendly, professionalized terms, more suited for white papers than for lived, communal struggle.
  • They are overused but underdefined – Some of the most frequently invoked words have lost any clear meaning. What does it mean to “center care”? What does it mean to be “radical” when that word is applied equally to lifestyle choices and revolutionary movements? When everything is called “liberation,” what distinguishes real, substantive transformations from aesthetic rebellion?

The result: a language that no longer moves us because it no longer connects to felt experience. A language that feels more like a moral scaffolding for individual positioning than a set of tools for collective world-building.

The Hegemonic Trap: Outrage, Containment, and Semantic Drift

Hegemonic forces do not simply repress leftist language; they capture, redirect, and exhaust it. This happens in multiple ways:

  • The commodification of radical language – Terms like resistance and liberation are now frequently deployed by corporate brands, drained of any structural critique. The language of social change is absorbed into the market, where it can be used to sell sneakers and streaming services.
  • The exploitation of moral outrage cycles – The Left is often caught in a reactive posture, responding to right-wing attacks or crises rather than setting its own agenda. This leads to the circulation of language within high-intensity but low-sustainability outrage cycles.
  • The dilution of meaning through institutionalization – Once-radical ideas become incorporated into the logic of liberal reformism, where they can exist as terms without consequences. Concepts like diversity and inclusion can be operationalized in ways that leave power structures untouched.
  • Algorithmic reinforcement of in-group jargon – Social media accelerates the transformation of political language into coded subcultural currency. Instead of words spreading outward to create shared meaning, they are often reinforced within ideological enclaves, making broad coalition-building harder.

The Limits of Walled Communities and the Fragmentation of Struggle

It is important to recognize that certain leftist organizations, such as the Democratic Socialists of America (DSA), have managed to create communities in which these terms do function with greater coherence. Within their walls, words like solidarity and mutual aid are more susceptible to genuine contestation and more effective at mobilization. However, these organizations often operate as walled communities, which, although open to anyone, exact the fee of ideological commitment—becoming sites of refuge rather than engines of broad democratic world-building.

Leftist organizations like DSA must be in the business of enabling the people they want to help to build their own speech communities and communities of practice. They must be in a position to teach people how to achieve what they, to some degree, have achieved. They must do work that plants the seeds of thousands of new outward-facing cosmopolitan communities, dedicated to certain broadly common principles but each pursuing them in their unique ways and forging distinct communal identities.

Outside of these spaces, leftist efforts tend to be piecemeal rather than integrative, localized rather than systemic. They promise particular improvements rather than articulating a broadly re-conceived way of living. This leaves leftist politics fragmented, unable to present a holistic alternative to the systems it critiques. If political language is to regain its vitality, it must escape these enclosures and serve as the connective tissue of a living, communal structure rather than a subcultural dialect.

Conclusion: Toward a Vocabulary of Communal Power

Future posts will examine key leftist terms through the lens of speech communities and communities of practice, exploring how they can be reclaimed to build a real, living infrastructure of communal meaning-making. Because if the Left is to move again, it must first find words that move us.

#LanguageOfTheLeft

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What do an ancient Egyptian pharaoh and a modern American president have in common?

More than you might think.

Nearly 3,500 years ago, Pharaoh Akhenaten undertook one of the most radical reforms in Egyptian history: a sweeping religious revolution that centered worship on a single god—Aten, the sun disc—and declared that all other gods were false or obsolete. Akhenaten didn’t just change the official religion; he tried to redefine reality itself, dismantling the symbolic and institutional structures that had organized Egyptian life for centuries.

Fast forward to the 21st century, and we find ourselves watching a figure like Donald Trump attempt something uncannily similar—not in theology, but in media, institutions, and the symbolic life of a democracy. His political project has been less about changing policy than about monopolizing interpretation. Truth itself, in this new regime, is increasingly framed as something only he can deliver. Anything outside that channel? “Fake news.”

This isn’t just about power in the usual sense. It’s about enclosure.

What Is Enclosure?

In the history of land and law, enclosure refers to the fencing-off of common land, taking something that once belonged to many and making it the property of a few. But enclosure isn’t just something you do to land—it can also be done to meaning, to ritual, to language, even to reality itself.

In a broader framework we’re exploring (the Symbiotic Intelligence Framework, or SIF), we treat interpretation—the ability to make sense of the world—as something that is socially distributed. Meaning isn’t manufactured in the brain alone; it’s shaped in relationships, rituals, institutions, stories, and habits. Power, in this sense, isn’t just about force or law—it’s also about who gets to say what things mean.

Akhenaten: Enclosing the Divine

Before Akhenaten, Egypt had a sprawling pantheon of gods: Amun, Osiris, Hathor, Ptah, and many others. These gods had temples, priesthoods, regional festivals, and mythic roles embedded in everyday life. Religion was not centralized—it was participatory, layered, and locally embedded.

Akhenaten tried to change all that.

He abolished the old gods, built a new capital city, and declared that Aten was the only true god. More dramatically, only he—Akhenaten himself—could interpret or access Aten. The priesthoods were sidelined. The symbols of old belief systems were scrubbed from monuments. A new iconography appeared: rays of sunlight ending in hands, blessing the royal family.

This was not just a religious reform. It was an epistemic coup—a top-down redefinition of what counted as sacred, real, and true.

And yet… the god Bes—a squat, cheerful deity of childbirth, music, and household protection—never really went away. Even under official suppression, Egyptians still kept amulets of Bes, whispered his prayers, and painted his grin on the walls of their homes.

Trump: Enclosing the Real

In a very different setting, Trump has built his power not by offering a coherent ideology or governing vision, but by waging war on shared reality. Institutions that once offered multiple interpretive frameworks—science, journalism, law, education—have been systematically attacked or delegitimized. Loyalty is prized not for competence but for alignment with a singular interpretive frame.

In this view: – Only Trump can declare what’s real. – All others—journalists, experts, even courts—are liars or traitors. – Truth becomes person-bound, not process-bound.

He doesn’t need to suppress every opposing voice. He just needs to enclose belief—to narrow the trusted zone to a single source.

And yet, here too, there are limits. The household gods of modern life—meme culture, satire, community organizing, independent media, neighborly conversations—persist. Like Bes, they whisper from the corners. They can’t be fully stamped out.

Why This Matters

Akhenaten’s reforms didn’t last. After his death, Egypt erased his name, restored the old gods, and reopened the symbolic commons. His attempt at enclosure was dramatic—but ultimately reversible.

What happens in our own time remains uncertain. But the stakes are eerily similar.

When we lose the ability to share in meaning-making, we lose something more than civility—we lose reality as a commons. And when one figure or faction claims exclusive rights to define the real, we’re not just facing political conflict. We’re facing epistemic enclosure.

Which is why the survival of Bes still matters.

And maybe why your neighbor’s stubborn attachment to shared truth, humor, or old-fashioned decency matters too.

Not everything can be enclosed.

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The Communitarium Project is an effort to create shared spaces—both online and (eventually) offline—where people can collaborate, deliberate, and take action to challenge the status quo. It is an evolving experiment in building a digital commons for meaningful engagement, exploring alternative models of collective ownership and governance.

The Communitarium Project is an attempt to create online and real-world spaces where people can come together not just to talk, but to think, plan, and act in ways that challenge the status quo and explore alternative futures. It is not another social media network, nor is it simply a forum for discussion. Rather, it is an experiment in constructing a shared infrastructure for collective learning, deliberation, and action—a digital commons that could serve as a base for both ad hoc and ongoing efforts to engage with the world and work toward meaningful change.

Why Now?

We are living through a period of deepening fragmentation and enclosure—not just in the realm of politics and economics, but in how we think, communicate, and organize. Social media platforms, designed to extract attention and data rather than foster genuine collaboration, have further atomized discourse and reduced political action to fleeting moments of engagement. At the same time, the forces of technofeudalism have transformed much of the digital sphere into a landscape of walled gardens, where participation is structured around the logic of consumption rather than shared ownership.

The Communitarium Project is an attempt to address this predicament. It seeks to explore alternative models—ones in which participants are not consumers but co-creators, owners, and maintainers of the spaces in which they operate. It envisions networked commons rather than isolated platforms, where deliberation is oriented toward meaningful engagement with the world rather than endless self-promotion or reactive outrage.

Core Principles of the Communitarium Project

  1. Deliberation with Purpose – Unlike social media, which rewards rapid, emotionally charged engagement, the Communitarium fosters structured, thoughtful deliberation. It is a space for long-form discussions, collaborative research, and careful planning for real-world action.
  2. A Commons, Not a Market – Participation is not about amassing followers or crafting personal brands but about contributing to a shared project. Information, ideas, and tools are meant to be developed collectively and made accessible to those who need them.
  3. Action-Oriented Collaboration – The goal is not just to talk about the world but to change it. The Communitarium aims to provide tools and structures for coordinating efforts—whether that means organizing local initiatives, developing counter-institutions, or strategizing long-term projects.
  4. Mutual Accountability – Members of a Communitarium instance are not isolated individuals but part of a collective. Anything published from within this space carries the reputation of the community, and participants are answerable to that community for their contributions.
  5. Networked but Grounded – The Communitarium does not seek to exist purely as an online phenomenon. Its purpose is to enable real-world connections and material action, using digital infrastructure to facilitate meaningful offline engagement rather than replace it.

Exploring Platforms: Hubzilla and Beyond

Hubzilla had been considered as a possible foundation for Communitarium-oriented online spaces because it is one of the few federated platforms that allows for true autonomy, flexibility, and self-governance. Its unique features—including nomadic identity, federated access control, integrated knowledge-sharing tools, and group-oriented functionality—making it an intriguing candidate for fostering the kind of community-driven, action-oriented spaces the Communitarium Project seeks to explore.

But Hubzilla proved difficult to administer, leading to problems in the initial installation that have been difficult to fix. Hubzilla, it seems, will require a higher level of expertise than is currently available to this project.

So we are next turning to the streams repository, a descendant of the Hubzilla project designed to be simpler, more streamlined...and mostly public domain.

The streams repository is such an unusual project that it is worth quoting from its README at length:

The streams repository is a fediverse server with a long history. It began in 2010 as a decentralised Facebook alternative called Mistpark. It has gone through a number of twists and turns in its long journey of providing federated communications. The fediverse servers Friendica and Hubzilla are early branches of this repository.

The first thing to be aware of when discussing the streams repository is that it has no brand or brand identity. None. The name is the name of a code repository. Hence “the streams repository”. It isn't a product. It's just a collection of code which implements a fediverse server that does some really cool stuff. There is no flagship instance. There is no mascot. In fact all brand information has been removed. You are free to release it under your own brand. Whatever you decide to call your instance of the software is the only brand you'll see. The software is in the public domain to the extent permissible by law. There is no license.

If you look for the streams repository in a list of popular fediverse servers, you won't find it. We're not big on tracking and other spyware. Nobody knows how many instances there are or how many Monthly Active Users there are. These things are probably important to corporations considering takeover targets. They aren't so important to people sharing things with friends and family.

Due to its origins as a Facebook alternative, the software has a completely different focus than those fediverse projects modelled after Twitter/X. Everything is built around the use of permissions and the resulting online safety that permissions-based systems provide. Comment controls are built-in. Uploaded media and document libraries are built-in and media access can be restricted with fine-grained permissions – as can your posts. Groups are built-in. “Circles” are built-in. Events are built-in. Search and search permissions? Yup. Built-in also. It's based on Opensearch. You can even search from your browser and find anything you have permission to search for. Spam is practically non-existent. Online harrassment and abuse are likewise almost non-existent. Moderation is a built-in capability. If you're not sure about a new contact, set them to moderated, and you'll have a chance to approve all of their comments to your posts before those comments are shared with your true friends and family. For many fediverse projects, the only way to control this kind of abusive behaviour is through blocking individuals or entire websites. The streams repository offers this ability as well. You'll just find that you hardly ever need to use it.

Because federated social media is a different model of communications based on decentralisation, cross-domain single sign-on is also built-in. All of the streams instances interact cooperatively to provide what looks like one huge instance to anybody using it – even though it consists of hundreds of instances of all sizes.

Nomadic identity is built-in. You can clone your identity to another instance and we will keep them in sync to the best of our ability. If one server goes down, no big deal. Use the other. If it comes back up again, you can go back. If it stays down forever, no big deal. All of your friends and all your content are available on any of your cloned instances. So are your photos and videos, and so are your permission settings. If you made a video of the kids to share with grandma (and nobody else), grandma can still see the video no matter what instance she accesses it from. Nobody else can.

Link your scattered fediverse accounts and their separate logins, with one channel and one identity to share them all.

Choose from our library of custom filters and algorithms if you need better control of the stuff that lands in your stream. By default, your conversations are restricted to your friends and are not public. You can change this if you want, but this is the most sensible default for a safe online experience.

There are no inherent limits to the length of posts or the number of photos/videos you can attach or really any limits at all. You can just share stuff without concerning yourself with any of these arbitrary limitations.

Need an app? Just visit a website running the streams repository code and install it from your browser.

Nobody is trying to sell you this software or aggressively convince you to use it. What we're trying to do is show you through our own actions and example that there are more sensible ways to create federated social networks than what you've probably experienced.

This approach seems even more in line with the goals of the Communitarium Project than did Hubzilla's, albeit at the price (currently) of offering fewer of the CMS features. These, however, can be provided by companion federated platforms under the same umbrella, as the need for them arises. In the longer term it can be hoped that the project becomes successful enought that it can attract developers and designers skilled enough to build new affordances from the materials provided by the streams repository.

What Comes Next?

The first step is building and testing potential Communitarium instances, ensuring that they are structured to facilitate meaningful collaboration rather than mimic the patterns of traditional social media. From there, the work begins to refine these spaces, create necessary tools, and connect people who are looking for something beyond the isolated, reactive nature of contemporary online engagement.

The Communitarium Project is not a ready-made solution—it is an invitation to co-create, experiment, and adapt. I (and, hopefully soon, we) will be working on building the facilities which will allow interested individuals to join this effort, the first step is to join this effort and begin thinking about how we can use these spaces to coordinate, create, and engage with the world in new ways.

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An Open Invitation to Explore the Symbiotic Intelligence Framework and the Ideas Behind the Communitarium Project

I’ve created a public-facing GPT—a conversational partner you can engage with online—that’s been trained to reflect and respond to the ideas behind the Communitarium Project, schmooze-level social reality, and a still-evolving theoretical lens we’re calling the Symbiotic Intelligence Framework (SIF) and the General Theory of Interpretive Systems (GTIS).

You can try it out here:
👉 Symbiotic Intelligence Framework GPT

Why You Might Want to Give This a Spin

If you’ve been following the Communitarium posts, you’ll know they’re concerned with building alternatives to the isolated, commodified, and algorithmically sorted modes of life that surround us. You’ll have encountered terms like enclosure, idiotism, and schmooze-level reality—and a call to rebuild the relational spaces where meaning, trust, and deliberation can once again thrive.

But beneath these proposals lies a quieter, more general effort:
To understand how interpretation works—across contexts, across systems, and across scales of life.

That’s what the SIF and GTIS aim to address. Most readers won’t be familiar with those names, and that’s fine. This GPT is a way to get introduced, not tested. You don’t need any background to begin asking questions.

Try thinking of it as: – A conversational orientation to a different way of seeing the world. – A lightly experimental tool for exploring how meaning gets made (and unmade). – A sketchy but sincere attempt to think differently, and maybe more collaboratively, about intelligence, communication, and power.

A Gentle Caveat

This is very much a first iteration. The GPT isn’t flawless, omniscient, or immune to going off the rails. But it often does a remarkable job staying within the spirit of the project. It can: – Unpack complex or unfamiliar ideas from the framework. – Analyze a situation or passage in terms of interpretive dynamics. – Explore questions of sociality, community, knowledge, and power. – Occasionally surprise you with insight.

It can also misfire—especially if prompted in bad faith. Please don’t approach it as something to defeat. Try, instead, to think with it.

A Note on Access

To use the GPT, you’ll need to be signed in to ChatGPT. If you don’t already have an account, you’ll be prompted to create one—it’s free. If you’d rather not, that’s completely understandable. You’re still warmly invited to engage with the broader conversation in other ways.

Where to Share Thoughts

If you do give it a try, I’d love to hear how it went. There’s now a dedicated Matrix room for discussion, feedback, and general exploratory chat:
👉 Join the Matrix room

Joining Matrix requires setting up a free account (on a Matrix server of your choice). That account will also allow you to participate in encrypted conversations across a worldwide network of federated rooms—so it’s not just a one-off.

What You Can Do

  • Ask the GPT about terms like “idiotism,” “schmooze-level reality,” or “symbiotic intelligence.”
  • See how it analyzes a situation or passage you’re grappling with.
  • Use it as a prompt-reflector while working out your own ideas.
  • Then head over to the Matrix room and share how it went.

The Larger Horizon

This is just one small effort to open up space for new conversations—ones less dependent on inherited binaries, fractured identities, or algorithmic incentives.

The goal is to make some of the deeper structures of social meaning and intelligence more visible—and to reclaim some part of the commons in the process.

If any of that resonates with you, this is an invitation to step a little further in.

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In the digital age, censorship no longer needs fire. It only needs a server farm, a contract clause, and a friendly chat with a platform lord.

In March 2024, reporting revealed that the Trump administration may have tried to pressure Amazon to remove books it found ideologically threatening. If so, there was no public decree, no courtroom drama, no great bonfire in the town square—only a quiet maneuver in the shadowy space where state power meets platform compliance. If it proves not to have been true in this case it nevertheless bears thinking about, if only because it is so plausible, given what this administration has proven itself capable of.

Digital book removal is, of course, a far more efficient course of action than burning books.

Welcome to technofeudalism, where power is not seized by controlling factories or armies, but by managing the informational terrain on which contemporary life unfolds—DNS records, app store policies, recommendation engines, fulfillment networks, and above all, the cloud.

This is not capitalism in its classical form. This is something new, or at least newly visible. In this regime, cloud capital—the infrastructure of storage, access, and algorithmic gatekeeping—supplants the industrial ownership of yesteryear. You don’t need to destroy ideas. You only need to remove them from the searchable index, to revoke access to the files, to suspend the account that shares them. No spectacle, no martyrdom—just a broken link.

And here's the rub: the mechanisms that make this possible aren't just authoritarian impulses. They're also deeply woven into the fabric of intellectual property law.

IP as an Arm of Cloud Power

The digital economy has long depended on IP to justify ownership not just of content, but of access. Platforms don't just “host” books, videos, or music. They license them, track them, and revoke them at will.

Even physical books are increasingly treated as rights-managed objects. When a title is removed from Amazon’s store or from Kindle’s backend, it’s not confiscation—it’s “compliance with licensing terms.” In the logic of IP, no one ever owns knowledge. They merely rent it. And landlords can evict.

What this means in practice is that all public memory is becoming contingent. Contingent on contracts, on terms of service, on whether a corporation finds it profitable—or a government finds it tolerable—for that memory to exist.

And because IP is enforced not only by law but by code and infrastructure, it allows both corporations and states to act without public deliberation, without visibility, and without accountability.

From Burning Books to Blackholing Meaning

In an earlier era, censorship required visibility. A banned book became a cause célèbre. Burning books sparked resistance. But technofeudal suppression is deniable. No one sees the fire. You only notice the silence. A title you once saw is gone. The author is de-platformed. The link goes dead. And you're not sure if it's a glitch, a decision, or your own faulty memory.

This is not just about state overreach. It is about the total enclosure of public memory by private infrastructure, governed by a tangle of IP restrictions, market logics, and shadow negotiations. It is about the slow suffocation of schmooze-level social reality—those informal, face-to-face, improvisational exchanges that once sustained communal knowledge—beneath a regime of algorithmic silence.

Reclaiming the Means of Cultural Continuity

The Left has not yet risen to the challenge. Too often, we respond to censorship in terms of content, not infrastructure. We protest the banning of a book without questioning why it is Amazon’s choice to make. We decry a de-platforming but do not ask why every platform is a privately-owned fiefdom.

The Communitarium Project begins here: with the recognition that meaning is infrastructural, and that power over memory is the power to shape reality. We must stop treating digital access as a convenience, and start treating it as a terrain of struggle. The IP regime must be contested—not only for its corporate excesses, but for its role in handing our cultural bloodstream to a handful of cloud barons.

We do not yet know the full list of books removed under Trump’s pressure. But we do know this: the next generation of censors will not burn the books. They will simply revoke the license.

And no one will know they were ever there.

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I was born into a settler-colonial hallucination with no opt-out menu and would like to lodge a formal complaint.

As the current iteration of American political reality unfolds—chaotic, punitive, and seemingly designed for maximal psychic dissonance—I find myself gripped by a strange frustration: I was never consulted. Not about the place, the time, or the terms of my arrival.

There was no pre-natal advisory session.

No orientation packet.

No checkbox for “non-authoritarian polity with breathable air, plausible public discourse, and functioning democratic mechanisms.”

And yet, here I am—grafted into a national mythology that never asked for my participation, only my compliance.

Even now, I'm still trying to parse the fine print of this assignment. But from what I can gather, I was born into a settler-colonial enterprise built atop a stolen continent, rationalized by something called the Doctrine of Discovery—a medieval real estate theory in which European flags had magic land-claiming powers, and the inhabitants of entire continents were deemed “non-Christian” enough to disappear.

The economic engine of this nation? Slavery. Not incidental, not regrettable-but-external—but constitutive. Built-in. An unpaid labor platform that allowed freedom to bloom for a few by chaining it to the backs of the many.

The ideological software? White supremacy. Not a bug, not a leftover glitch—but the operating system. Still running in background processes today.

And the ecological footprint? More like a bootprint. Forests razed, rivers poisoned, species erased—all for extraction and expansion. Capitalism’s version of manifest destiny, playing out across biomes, watersheds, and planetary boundaries.

So forgive me for asking—but:

Can I speak to someone more senior?

Because I don’t recall signing up for a nation that treats Indigenous sovereignty like a historical inconvenience, that exports democracy the way it used to export sugar and slaves, that wraps empire in the language of freedom and sells it back to itself on cable news.

I don’t recall agreeing to a system where billionaires build bunkers, Black children get body-searched, and the rest of us are told to vote harder.

I don’t recall clicking “Accept All Cookies” on the collective hallucination that this is the best we can do.

Look—I get that this might be above your pay grade. I get that maybe the whole Pre-Natal Assignment Desk was underfunded, outsourced, or AI-optimized to maximize narrative conflict. But still: if there’s someone I can talk to—a supervisor, a mid-level seraph, a demiurge with jurisdiction—I’d appreciate a conversation.

Preferably with someone who remembers how to spell “society.”

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The Communitarium Project begins with the insight that all interpretation is social—and ends, perhaps, in communities that build and inhabit media platforms designed not for performance, but for shared life.

The Communitarium Project doesn’t exist. Not yet. It will come into being only when ensembles of people recognize themselves as instances of it—claiming, shaping, and living into the form together.

At the heart of the Communitarium Project lies a simple question: what might it mean to build platforms—not for content, not for branding, not for personal performance—but for living together?

This question has been gestating in a private corner of the internet, incubated by a person (me) who, for all the reading and writing, cannot will a community into being. That’s the nature of the social—it’s never singular. And that’s the paradox at the project’s core: no Communitarium can exist unless it is forged in common.

Aspirations Without Instantiation

It’s worth saying clearly: when I’ve spoken about what the Communitarium is, I’ve been speaking aspirationally. No such thing exists in the world today. I can sketch outlines, build software scaffolds, write posts like this one—but the project will only be real when multiple people choose to live inside its frame, inhabit its spirit, and collaborate in shaping its trajectory.

I’ve tried, tentatively, to get things rolling—setting up servers, tools, a blog—but those have been instructive false starts. Or at least solo starts, which may amount to the same thing in this case. A Communitarium of one is no Communitarium at all. Worse, it courts the dangers of gurufication, of mistaking charisma or authorship for shared authorship, of imagining gospel where there should be symphony.

The premise of the project is precisely anti-proprietary. Not just in terms of code or content—but in spirit. No one should own the project. No one should be able to declare it finished. It must remain permanently available for remix, for reinvention, for collective divergence.

Not the First to Care—But Differently Positioned

It’s worth acknowledging: the Communitarium Project is not the first attempt to build platforms “for living together.” Others have tried—often with sincerity and even beauty—to design digital spaces oriented toward empathy, mutual understanding, or the common good.

Many of these efforts have taken shape within what’s sometimes called conscience capitalism: a tweaked, humanized version of platform capitalism that tries to rein in its worst tendencies. Projects framed around ethical design, platform cooperativism, or stakeholder alignment have emerged with the promise of kinder algorithms, friction-reducing affordances, and communities of care.

But as we’ve argued elsewhere, such efforts, for all their merit, operate within the same gravitational field that shaped the very social media platforms they seek to reform. They offer thoughtful resistance—but from within the enclosure. They attempt to reorient platforms without rethinking the deeper forces of monetization, individuation, and the algorithmic capture of sociality.

The Communitarium Project, by contrast, aims to begin from a different premise: that interpretation itself is social, and that any infrastructure for meaning-making must be grounded in collective possession, mutual responsibility, and enduring re-negotiation. If capitalism—however conscience-laced—remains the unexamined backdrop, it will reassert its logic through monetization, gamification, and extractive metrics. And then we’re back where we started.

Online First, but Not Online Forever

That said, if a thing is to begin anywhere in the 2020s, it may have to begin online. That’s not an aesthetic choice, nor even an ideological one. It’s a matter of reach, of cost, of flexibility. You can fail more cheaply online, and iterate more quickly. You can bring strangers into a circle, and see if they stay. You can scaffold a fragile “we” across time zones and social strata.

But the Communitarium must not be an online-only phenomenon. That way lies abstraction, ephemerality, detachment. The digital beginning must already bear the seeds of the real—be oriented toward the body, toward land, toward meals and tools and music and eye contact. We begin online because we must, but we do so with the goal of outgrowing it.

Reclaiming the Social—and Redefining It

What is “the social,” anyway?

Not, in this framing, merely something that happens between humans. Not just culture, or conversation, or custom. What I’ve been working toward—underlying the whole Communitarium project—is a rethinking of the social as an ontological category. A mode of coherence. A way of sustaining difference-in-relation. A generative tension between individuation and mutuality. A force as basic as gravity, but one we’ve failed to honor.

If that sounds metaphysical, so be it. But it also has practical consequences. Because if the social is real in this more foundational sense, then the task of sustaining it, of extending and deepening it, becomes not just political but civilizational.

That, to me, is the meaning of socialism—not a party line or economic formula, but an ongoing labor to preserve the social from its enclosures: by markets, by hierarchies, by algorithms, by loneliness.

The Engine of Parasocial Virality

If today’s social media have become anti-social, it’s not just due to design flaws or economic incentives. It’s because they’ve harnessed and industrialized something far older and more primal: parasociality.

Human beings are wired to recognize, interpret, and respond to other people as intentional beings. But when mediated through asymmetrical, attention-driven platforms, that responsiveness becomes exploitable. Parasociality—our capacity to form one-sided relationships with mediated figures—has always existed. But in the age of likes, livestreams, and influencer culture, it has been commodified at scale.

What began as an incidental byproduct of media has become the central mechanism of engagement. Platforms reward those who can best simulate intimacy at scale, while stripping audiences of the tools for reciprocal recognition or collective agency. “Authenticity” becomes a performance. “Community” becomes a fanbase. And the social becomes a theater of individualized longing.

Layered atop this is virality, another form of social distortion. Not connection, but transmission. Not deliberation, but frictionless propagation. Viral content bypasses the interpretive and deliberative circuits that make actual collectivity possible. It privileges shareability over sense-making, spectacle over depth.

Together, parasociality and virality constitute the extractive logic of social media. They transform our social instincts into marketable data flows. They short-circuit the potential for mutuality by replacing it with engagement metrics. They rewire “togetherness” into a set of transactions—of visibility, of aspiration, of simulation.

A socialist media platform, then, cannot simply tweak these dynamics. It must refuse their primacy. It must de-center parasociality, resist virality, and create space for slower, reciprocal forms of visibility and understanding. This will likely feel awkward at first—less exciting, less instantly legible. But it is the awkwardness of a different kind of social metabolism taking shape.

Toward Socialist Media

By this redefinition, the Communitarium Project is socialist—not in the traditional, doctrinaire sense, but as a platform for the social to be enacted, extended, and honored. And insofar as its early life plays out online, we might as well call what we’re trying to build socialist media platforms.

Not “social media platforms”—that phrase has become a ghost of itself. Today’s social media are isolative, agonistic, distraction-driven, individually tailored and collectively corrosive. They turn connection into signal, and signal into surveillance.

By contrast, socialist media platforms would be: – Oriented toward collective presence, not individual performance
– Designed to foster deliberation, not dopamine
– Tuned for shared meaning, not personalized noise
– Built to enact a “we”, not to monetize the “me”

We are nowhere near this yet. But perhaps we can begin—cautiously, messily, hopefully. And not alone.

If anything in this resonates, let it resonate outward. We need not all agree. But we might still find ways to listen, to build, to schmooze, and to imagine.

👉 Join the conversation!

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What if we stopped calling them “social media”?

Because whatever they once were, today’s platforms isolate more than they connect. They feed outrage, reward performance, flatten dialogue, and turn our most human capacities—curiosity, empathy, belonging—into revenue streams.

But here’s the thing: the problem isn’t just what these platforms do. It’s what they’re for.

They’re designed to extract attention, to harvest data, to maximize engagement—not to help us understand one another, not to help us coordinate, and definitely not to help us build a shared world.

That’s where socialist media platforms come in.

We’re not talking about just replacing one billionaire’s app with another—this time open-source, or nonprofit. We’re talking about a complete rethinking of what media platforms are for.

Socialist media platforms are designed not to exploit the social, but to nurture it.
They don’t monetize parasociality—they slow it down, open it up, turn it toward mutual recognition.
They don’t chase virality—they build trust, rhythm, and shared deliberation.
They’re not about performance—they’re about participation.
Not clicks—commitments.
Not followers—fellows.

They’re built on the idea that meaning is made together, that interpretation is a social act, and that we become more capable—more free—when we learn how to listen, build, and decide together.

Socialist media platforms aren’t just a better version of what we have. They’re infrastructure for the world we don’t have yet—the one we need if we’re going to survive this century with dignity.

They begin online, sure. But they point outward: toward co-ops and collectives, toward shared kitchens and codebases, toward unions of labor and care and meaning.

Because in the end, they’re not just media platforms.
They’re social scaffolds.
Places to rehearse the future, and then bring it into being.

👉 So… want to help build one? Join the conversation!

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In the wake of 2008, two responses emerged: one to soften capitalism's image through ethics and purpose, and one to move beyond it by reimagining individuality and community from the ground up. The Communitarium Project rejects capitalist assumptions, to build shared life beyond enclosure and accumulation.

In the wake of the 2008 financial crisis, many asked: Can capitalism be saved from itself? For some, the answer lay in reforming its spirit—humanizing markets, re-centering values, and emphasizing purpose over profit. For others, the crisis revealed something deeper: that capitalism’s very logic had become incompatible with human flourishing.

These two paths—the capitalist conscience movement and the Communitarium Project—represent divergent responses to the same moment of rupture. They share surface similarities—both speak of cooperation, transparency, and shared values—but their underlying orientations could not be more different.

What is the Capitalist Conscience Movement?

The capitalist conscience movement refers to a constellation of initiatives that emerged or gained traction in the 2010s. Its central aim: to soften capitalism’s sharpest edges without fundamentally altering its structure.

The most prominent expression of this tendency is the rise of conscious business, described here, and popularized through frameworks such as:

Across these efforts, a familiar refrain emerges: capitalism can work for everyone—if it remembers its soul.

The Trouble with Good Intentions

While often well-meaning, this movement tends to leave the structure of capitalism intact. It refrains from questioning the core mechanisms of:

  • Accumulation: the relentless pressure to turn every relation into profit
  • Enclosure: the privatization of commons, attention, knowledge, and care
  • Market mediation: the idea that access to life’s essentials must pass through money and markets

In doing so, the conscience movement risks becoming capitalism’s repair shop—not a source of liberation, but a method of stabilization.

By injecting values like purpose, empathy, or stakeholder accountability, it offers capitalism a moral facelift while leaving the deeper mechanisms of exploitation and alienation unexamined.

The Communitarium Project: A Deeper Response to 2008

The Communitarium Project was born from a different reading of the same historical moment. Rather than seeing 2008 as a hiccup, it interprets the crisis as a revelation—a moment when the fragility, fiction, and enclosure of social life under capitalism became visible.

Its founding premise is not that capitalism needs a conscience, but that we need to relearn how to live, think, and act beyond it.

And crucially, it also takes into account two powerful forces that most conscience-capitalist efforts ignore:

1. The Rise—and Fall—of the Internet’s Democratic Promise

The early internet hinted at radical possibility: decentralized communication, open knowledge, bottom-up coordination. But what emerged instead was the platformization of life: a technofeudal regime where data is extracted, attention is commodified, and every interaction becomes surveillance.

2. The Birth of Technofeudalism

We now live under a system where platforms, not markets, dominate allocation. Ownership and control are increasingly exercised through opaque algorithms, not price signals. It’s not capitalism 2.0—it’s something more dangerous: a fusion of enclosure and computation, more totalizing than either.

What the Communitarium Project Aims to Build

Rather than patching up capitalism, the Communitarium Project begins by refusing its most foundational assumptions—especially the liberal conception of the individual as a self-contained, rational chooser navigating a field of market opportunities and social preferences.

Where the capitalist conscience movement leaves intact the hegemonic fiction of individualism—what we’ve elsewhere termed idiotism—the Communitarium Project rejects it outright. It understands the self not as a bounded unit but as a participant in ongoing, co-constructed fields of meaning, formed and re-formed through shared activity, care, and communication.

In place of the alienated subject of late capitalism—resigned to navigating platformed life through scrolling, reacting, consuming—the Communitarium Project centers the relational subject, whose capacity for action arises from enrollment in living, schmooze-level social ensembles.

And this extends to its understanding of community. “Community,” in the capitalist conscience movement, often refers to thin aggregates—brand followers, customer bases, stakeholder groups. The Communitarium reclaims the word for something richer: environments of collective attention and mutual constitution, where deliberation, caregiving, storytelling, coordination, and disagreement are embedded in material and symbolic mutuality.

It aims to:

  • Rebuild the microstructures of shared reality that capitalism dissolves
  • Foster environments of meaning, not just environments of purpose
  • Recover community as a site of generative contradiction, not merely of shared interests
  • Reimagine individuality as something fluid and relational, not fixed and possessive

Conclusion: Soften It, or Supersede It?

This is the deeper divergence.

The capitalist conscience movement asks: How can capitalism grow a heart?
The Communitarium Project asks: What kind of social world grows the kinds of people we need?

The former operates within the dominant logic of liberal individualism.
The latter seeks to undo that logic, and to recompose human sociality itself—not through abstract ideals, but through the construction of environments that make shared life possible again.

The good news? We still have the tools. We still have each other.

And we still have time—but not much.

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