I am buried up to my neck in
Contradictionary flies
I take pride as the king of illiterature
I'm very ape and very nice
—Nirvana, Very Ape
Is life a dream? Theater? A joke?
Affairs have reached a level of ridiculousness that refuses apathy. The escape hatch is a tombstone because dissent means communal exorcism. Then, crucifixion. Even if you think everything is great and you break under the clownish weight, too bad. You’re damned all the same.
The masks are off now, the pretenses naked, but the show goes on. It must. It does. With impunity. Even as we are witness to the non compos mentis, the corruption and corrosion, the present and eminent dangers—we make our excuses, our deals, our beds. Bow our heads.
This is how the strange becomes stranger.
What else can we do? This is the cognitive math of the rational, the practical. It’s life or death when it comes to food and shelter. Sorry, the essentials are not for free. Why would they be? Yes, this is the land of the free, home to the champions of the free world, but the necessities of living can never be for free, silly.
Yeah, sometimes a bit is given away grudgingly. Especially when conditions get so ugly it’s institutionally embarrassing. But never unconditionally. It’s a burden, you see. Our unparalleled greatness is limited in both what it can deliver, and carry. Ask the local gentry, and they will say it’s elementary.
Besides, it’s dangerous to let your imagination stray. Capitalism is the way.
So as the dissonance roars and the consequences soar, to cope we engage in a bonanza of superficial wars. The logic is flimsy, but it’s easier than changing minds, easier than surrendering the precious part of the madness that we worked so hard to make our own. We need villains for our bitches and moans.
Pick a side. Draw a line. Make it about freedom and liberty. Make it about the economy. Make it about order. Make it about the Lord. The poor. The rich. Meritocracy. Men. Women. History. Nature. Whatever. Ideology, pedagogy, ignorance, cowardice…it doesn’t matter what it’s anchored to, only that you fight.
It’s the reason and the season. A street fighter’s Eden.
It’s shameful to be seen as willfully wrong, let alone unconsciously blind. We’re advanced life. Chosen. Civilized. We eat with forks and knives! Our inherent destiny proceeds as scholastically advertised. Its meteoric rise, televised. Are our feats not valorized? Why should we apologize?
We just need to take care of the troublemakers. Over there. And here. Preemptively invade their lives. Establish acceptance of ubiquitous surveillance in their hearts and minds. Declare and enforce a feast of apartheids. Pronounce new measures of austerity.
They sound just like they are spelled: S-U-P-R-E-M-A-C-Y.
If it’s to truth you aspire, be prepared for scorching hellfire when it crosses the thresholds of power’s desire. It’s not personal, just business. Instead, help save the world by gifting a Kardashian nipple bra for Christmas. Isn’t it more productive and noble to build fiefdoms in miniature and call it success?
And what if events are not going our way? Remember, bullshit saves the day. Because when profits are on the line, if popularity is in decline, when power is ripe on the vine, when the pea is dry and with nowhere left to hide, if the cognitive bargaining is losing its shine…
It’s time to lie.
Hustle. Hype. Morning, noon, and night. Effective Altruism. Free speech absolutism. Crisis actors, carbon capture, do your part to facilitate the Rapture. Breaching 2°C above preindustrial levels is just nature. It’s fine. Marketing is Goebbels’ propaganda turned legit science. Wield it with extreme prejudice.
Ignore context, feedback, warnings, consequences. Make your own reality. It’s a mindset. The Secret. Manifest that destiny, baby. You can be a true believer but it’s not a requirement. No need for clever refinement. Fame, infamy, rabid-hole conspiracy, blatant stupidity, obvious criminality…
When the dominant reality is in death throes, anything goes.
Turn on my VCR
Same one I've had for years
James Brown on the T.A.M.I. show
Same tape I've had for years
I sit in my old car
Same one I've had for years
Old battery's runnin' down
It ran for years and years
Turn on the radio
The static hurts my ears
Tell me where would I go?
I ain't been out in years
—The Police, When the World is Running Down
My, you have the rant paid.