On this eve of great importance…The eve of the 8th…Fireworks Choose-day…I choose to try and find some sense for my own good.
In this maladroit and ill-edified construct of character assassination consciousness we look for the high ranking meddlers and ball-droppers to be executed for internal and pseudo-inadvertent treason towards our race. The idea of gifted elections is not a lost and improbable one, although hard to prove outright. They are taxed with enough doubt and rumour and scorn that even a semi-astute adult may pull in a swerve to get around the deafening slander and daft self-promotion, effectively accomplishing the task of making people turn it off anyway— the bruising fruit appearance of the planet— lesion pocked humanity always in need of a good War. And in it, the reticent depravity of solace; wanting not to admit, just wanting to be left alone to think.
For the sake of brevity I’m going to only reference Russia and the U.S. in this piece. No sense in dragging out other conflicting Powers and what impact they have. I don’t have the time or the knowledge to make all the connections. I’m an incremental man with a lot on my mind…
I’ve read in a recent edition of The Economist that Russia’s military flex rhetoric is a sign of weakness, not strength. Albeit just one point in the article, but I focused in on it and asked myself, “How idle can those deductions be trusted to believe?” Have you ever felt a growing presence of enemies indoctrinated against you, fearful of combat with them because they are bigger and more powerful, but that you’re proud enough to know you’ll have to be convincingly beaten by them, perhaps put in traction, before bowing? I have. Maybe not in a great sense such as amassing and prepping strike power, or conducting drills so that muscle memory reflex is well ready for defence and action, but I have braced for aggressions before.
It's why I don’t find preparation odd. If I knew ‘Big’ Billy Shmoe was coming over to my house to kick my teeth in, you bet your ass I’d get my baseball bat from the basement. I’d carry around with me, too, if there was a threat possibility outside my stronghold.
It leads me to the question: Can nothing be really trusted more than a launch code??? WWIII is a bit extreme, don't ya think?
For me, I say, don’t bait the hook if you can’t hold the piano-wire line it’s on with bare hands. Remember: Putin’s a Warrior. He’ll let that line run right through his palm, into flesh, wrap around his bones and sever them before he lets go. Tenacity met with Tenacity. Fire with Fire...It’s just too bad that by entering the arena, in any capacity, you agree with the conditions of the tenacious and the fiery. Where's the warning? Where's the perfectly spelled out disclaimer that tells: Don’t become the diplomatricks that get thrown on a johns-list website with a tousled demeanour that scream the perp doesn’t know the difference between dress rehearsal and opening night. It’s all an improv and off-the-top-of-the-head… But don't forget, The Attritionists are reffing this game, (and tonight is not not a night when many penalties are called). There they sit, top heads of state or institution or whatever, delivering any kind of address, and the subsequent fallout, that doesn’t require monitoring of the reaction— it’ll be forgotten soon enough. On to another thing, another battle, another contention....After all, they’ve got the best bomb shelters if things go really south.
And for those Golden Retriever types that want to champion nothing-but-the-truth-so-help-me-god. It must take a masochistic urge on their part to want to be an honest, unfettered politician. Let alone one that can do anything without the hired help of speech writers, PR consultants and assistants numbering in the many. I mean, when it gets down to it, can you really trust aides? It doesn’t take long for one viral case to proliferate into unshakeable pestilence. That's just how loyalty works nowadays-- who-can-do-the-best-for-my-career attitudes that translates into flaky loyalty and shoddy ranks of minions that are absorbing experience and waiting for their time to forge ahead on their own. I'd hate to give attention to such paranoias. It would hurt to sleep with shit like that running around in my head.
I used to not care one bit what was going on in the world of politics. I never voted, so I never bitched (Carlin has a great rebuttal for that). But then, a few years ago, I decided I would start voting. Retain the right to bitch if I wanted to. “Oh well, we’re fucked this way, because of some person doing that…I’m all right though, I voted for the other person…would’ve been our best play but y’all are too such and such and blah and blah…”
I guess I saw myself, from 18 to almost 30, still attuning to my nervous system and peripheral function in that time I’ll round down to a decade, as being in a position of not able to make a difference or well-informed decision. That the system was fucked before I was born, and how can I possibly alter course, set and steady, and keep up in high knots of information’s velocity. It was generation Disenfranchised, and I didn’t care. That was my culture. There were others freedoms and liberties to explore and test. Interaction with a world I wish I understood then as I do now. The cynicism in my system was there, but it wasn’t flowing like a mudslide through my arteries, transported to every fibre and capillary of me until there was no more unconquered territory for the tainted perfusion cycle to campaign for.
Trump states. Clinton states. Red states. Blue states. Arteries and veins (epithelial tissue that had a colour before the colour had a name and distinction in the textbooks).
The end of it doesn’t mean it’s over. Not in this case. Not ever again. We are entering the Epoch of the Disillusionment…Emotional arrest whats perpetuity is kept vital and beating through vicariously oriented programs and devices. Connected without looking someone in the eyes. The rush of the world has not time for a intimacy like that. Pressure runs ya ragged. The hot and interrogative thousand watt bulbs of retina burning sense; don’t look into the Sun, but fear not flying high on shoddy wings and fickle winds, Icarus.
Grainy and pixelated knolls of scrutiny and gatherings of body heat and evidence now nothing but fragments interspersed in documentaries and specials-- words and theory on drying page that will one page fall away as dust. Is there any inherent nerve shared that we can replenish with vitality? Or have I fried my mind and epoxied my gears of Hope— adding to the clutter of dusty synapses I have.
No one is too young to die. But you can definitely become too old to live. Especially if the old have influence and agenda interests. There is no place for some ancient traditions now. They must be left to sink into the depths of our history to rust away like the Titanic.
Propaganda exercise: Distorting the self from subjectivity, leaving the self alone in a search for the objective tight-rope tied between two poorly pronounced points. To shake and cry, revolt and dissent, be peaceful and pacifistic all come upon at once..Too much, maybe…Emotion is not an electrically charged particle, but charged it still gets called. An abundance or a deficit determines the ability of the particles. A class-styled scheme the same. Its tools growing. Fear of A.I. Adaptation and Inference. Financial Malaise tethered to family-comes-first attitudes. Countries and culture not familiar with each other except for what’s approved— at one another’s throats or operating under treaties that reek of acquiescence and that were signed under pressure.
I realize now I have to watch it live, if I can, instead of getting the filtered, excerpted, spliced, modified, out-of-context, circumventing-the-issue statements and analysis after the fact. Spin fucking City. War era psychological tactics of sonic oppression and self-derangement. This is a time of division and stance teetering on Bradburyian book burning, Thompson’s ‘Doomed’ and the employ of Pynchon’s Manuel of War.
The taunt ‘Do something about it’ doesn’t rile the adrenals anymore. It’s a trap for temperament. The politicos know a dangerous warrior is an educated one. And education must suffer to cut down on dangerous warriors. That’s why there is a binary battlefield out there. A Dark web. A Black Market. A Scary Bazar hawking goods that are bad. That’s where the new warriors are these days: embedded in a different kind of place…Wars of Code: the future…
But please, to the youth that don’t recall dial-up: understand the internet is not the brain. It is a construct of the brain. And the brain can be a dark, concealed place with some welded shut doors— tacked spottily in haste, but sealed just the same. An infernal repose and reflection: can it truly be such? Or has the internet that behaves like the brain, its creator, cast the image improperly in a way to make us chase our tails, unable to sift and trawl for the rock bottom truth. Where darkened pupils learn with empty eyes and acquire solipsism from the inability to distinguish traitor from martyr, good guy from bad; all you know is yourself: unsure and weary.
It can’t all just be in my head— the last bastion of sanity I think I can trust.
So tomorrow, the 8th of November, in the year of someone else’s Lord-2016, I will be rooting for some televised spontaneous combustion…I don’t care who or what, let’s just get all the bang we can for what we’re all going to pay for: Implosion.
As a Canadian, I can’t help but feel like this election has nothing to do with me. That I, like I did before deciding to vote, thought the results of no effect on me. That I will continue to live easily and of fortunate circumstance. But no, this election will affect me. It will affect all the World’s living organisms…Or not, and everything stays its good ol’ stalemate status quo self.
The old me would never sit down and watch a cheap circus of just Clowns, an Elephant & a Donkey, but I am going to. At least as much as I can bear. I’m going to keep my eyes peeled for the humans in this debacle. Because so far it’s just a inflated production starring some puppet C-list actors with higher end muppet B-listers as the supporting cast.
For years, lots of us have been saying it's all just a big joke. This election just proves the hypothesis. ©