A Mak'rorevolution Reappraisal 
Goustave Courbet,
L'Origine du Monde, 1866
At a moment when the transposed urgency of lines and limits moved from the political to the professional to the personal, endangering my humor, I here run the risk of columnism. Yet, a day after I heard, being not far from Sherwood forest, the proselytising mantra of our geographically generated, moustache-supported navel-position, a moment or two before my Christopher Hitchens kitchen sink moment - mix, dear reader, terrorism, definitions and Islam and you got yourself one anytime- I came across a prospective stead of these dire desires of single-hair orbital fantasies, unwillingly announced as a term of the recent agreed projections between Jimmy and the ex Minister of Education and Culture (attach pseudo wherever you feel like it). I am referring of course to the fluid gap left as reported in the press, the fluid gap of definitions and definers, geographical or otherwise, vis-a-vis the content and the naming of the future steading, off which we graze,as here, in irregular intervals.
Pitsillia has its fair share of silicon changing hands and nibbling mouths but either due to halloumi-like delay or mere neo-imperialist plots, it aint no Silicon Valley. For that it's finest hour, exemplified by the Cleridean persona, can't even approach the ingenious appropriation of
The Seasted Institute. It is, undoubtedly however, a project indebted to the mode of existence of Cyprus, arterially connected of the democratic debt to (an) Athens - post-nationalist pigs, rejoice!- and one which has already hinted at its inability to exist without our most valuable contribution, being in blessed posession of a flag of convenience all our own. The Seychelles-wed couple's relative's obsession came to mind - with the Seychelles wedding bit a Lacanian analysis in waiting- to tickle beards as well as shaved double chins. Were, the question runs, while the
relationships of
The Seastead Institute unfold, the Makarian politics of governance, politics that creep to dinner table talk in the Agia Napa outpost I have only one reason for visiting, an exergue and a prologue to the libertarian project par excellence, which
tourist industry is mockingly exploiting? Was Makarios a declarational architect before the 1974 invasion of the discourse by
Henri Lefebvre? Are the bristles on his Beatitude face, the porcupine in
this Yale PhD student's project? Is the persistence of the cynical reception of the patoised West Coast by mainlanders and other carnivalesque shore-side residents not a proof of the pioneering federalist spirit of this micronation father, lately disputed - in content and form- by the ethnarchic continuum ? The awe-inspiring tunnel, a border and a bridge to bring together all the island's states at the same time as granting them sovereignty isn't it the vertical cultural and political power-plant The Seastead Institute is having wet dreams about? Omphalic in all its roundness its belated construction a focus and a mid-point worthy of the mimetic, maeutic dispersal of
land rapport poles. The overtly exposed Nicosia sewage infrastructure and our frothy originary, two more cultural alliances solidifying mushy, wet projections.
Yet, shitty enough, the modern model amongst all these libertarian facial-hair aficionados is not the navel of our navel of our navel (ad infinitum) but a 40 year old other
terra nullius, other former British military base, other offshore heaven, other 1975 proclaimed state given the
blimey treatment - need I go on reciting similarities?
Sealand - which you can serve and which can serve you, not least, at
"the best table in restaurants", for 19.99 (RRP 29.99)- figures prominently within the archipelago of island (micro-)nations, The Seastead Institue is but a furthering. Where are we and our due credit? Again sidelined by the law of your average Henry for whom liberty is at equilibrium with the amount of death required? Ignored due to erratic internet connections? Snubbed as if we are some kind of political party membership card carrying journalist turned political analyst? Still not liked internationally?
A-ha! Trust a disaster to save us (again). A 2006 fire's devastating effects on Sealand are been structurally and aesthetically rebuked by a company calling themselves
Church and East. Now, you don't need a priest to tell you, do you?
It hereby becomes evident that I was wrong. I am no Christopher Hitchens. I would love to have a house of bookshelves and an annex for alcohol but I despise Rothmans. Vehemently. The rally of stubs from ancestoral lips to KEO Brandy blue tin ashtrays, has made it impossible to adopt them as a sign of chimerian launching of sea-changes in any case. And 1977, 1978, 1979 are qualifiably different from 1997, 1998, 1999 when the first border-less islands of smoke were burning away in close allegiance with my middle finger. With the summer approaching, I look a bit further up from the belly button. What I see holds me hostage. Steady now. But of course! While L Cohen was scribbling down lines about his Suzie n' oranges thing, others were pulling out of the orange trade for a penetrative
suzerainty of fishing villages. Everything is lying right in front of me. One look would convince even me. The networked array of silicon islands bobbing around have expanded the libertarian project far further than any Institute, any Porcupine or any Royal ambition could have. Ever. Amphibian seasteads, networked communities, armoured behind a lethal arsenal, probably protected by secret combinations too, despite their open-book looks, gated only briefly and with porous, often diaphanous structures, do not gather upon oceanic platforms or concrete islands. No. They return to the daddy of it all.
From here
the origin of the world is once again not far. From here the umbilical cord is once more untwined. Everything in its right place. Credit's due where it's due. All debts settled. A Marxist maxim a useful aphorism for all those Anglo-Saxon neo-colonialists of the sea and the beds sudenly all up for a disengaged engagement:
History repeats itself, the first time as tragedy, the second time as farce.
