No Fun in the New World

It's been hard to find the thread of a thesis this year.

Without trying much the fascists have overloaded the entirety of discourse in a matter of weeks. Of course, lackeys have helped in this immensely. It's difficult even for the most incisive of conscience to determine what fights are or were worth their weight: Milo is currently dying a public death, and the best of critiques admit that the basis of his folly is nothing compared to what got him on TV in the first place; and in fact is really nothing at all. Meanwhile police have become so emboldened that an off-duty officer can now shoot at children with impunity. Blue brotherhood masquerading their inability to divide by even numbers. The Oscar is certainly going to La La Land, right?

There was once a man named Oofty Goofty: the Wild Man of Borneo. He was a white man dressed in tar and old hair, put on display while he grunted. This permanently darkened his skin, with some nasty scars to boot. A man stripped of his race by his own oafish ne'er-do-well circumstances, he truly was without a country. Least of all Borneo. He ended up wandering the streets offering to take punches for quarters. One day he let someone hit him with a bat for $10. It caused such trauma that he could never stand to see a hand raised before him again. This was my hope for Richard Spencer: that it would become a badge of pride to punch his soft head and slowly traumatize his perfectly smooth brain until he had the adult equivilant of shaken baby syndrome (I can demonstrate if you have a jar and an egg) and wandered the streets terrified of the next boney fist smashing into his now-softened skull.

I would very much like to be a person who writes regularly and publishes consistently. It is not something that I have found much of a rhythm for.

I've been complaining about politics a lot to my therapist. Mostly about un-publishable and narrow criticisms of specific events. Bill Maher endeavoring to prove, repeatedly, that he is the enemy of any left-thinking person. Repeated police action. The DNC's determination to prove they are useless fucking morons. These complaints collectively can't be formulated into a true thesis per se. My comments on the election and how it's cast us into a universe of unending parody only serve to feed the world of irony and pain we now find ourselves in.

I've heard that the left is open more and more to critiques of identity politics. This is as exciting as it is disappointing that it didn't happen sooner. That form of rule-making is boxing with broken wrists. 

Blonde presciently encapsulates how we should shore ourselves for hard times. Ocean managed to capture a zeitgeist of wistful need for nostalgic connection to better days months before we all really, really needed it. Enough has been written about nostalgia but in blindingly cynical times the need for un-ironic love is invaluable. That very need is not escaped from the irony vortex: in the most reactionary times we're forced to opine the loss of our biggest problems. The horrific expansion of American imperialism was a tangible but unstoppable threat to so many lives, opposing it in horror made life worth living. Our best hope was to maintain a political reality that couldn't be more deplorable. All is lost, nothing is found. We live in a time of endless confusion, diffuse from even the tangibility of where to begin.

It hasn't escaped me that we're struggling with beginning because we might be an end. This is probably it for the western world. We had a good run: we conquered the world a couple times, killed a lot of people, invented some neat gadgets, and revolutionized the economy in ways that closely mirror how Cenobites might design global resource trade. "This way, they won't even be sure why they hurt so much so often."