The rest of this benighted year will feature countless where do we go from here? thinkpieces, again none of which will explore the possibility that many people might not want to "return" to what was, that it didn't work for perhaps a majority of people, and that maybe concentrating massive volumes of wealth in the hands of a few indifferent sociopaths might not be the best way to run a railroad.
On the one hand, it is not unreasonable for people living in less densely populated areas to want to get back to work, especially since the government has told them to go fuck themselves, that they are on their own, that we only bail out billionaires and cruise lines and hoteliers now. Life is a series of calculated risks, some more than others. The people who govern this hollowed-out oligarchy have made it abundantly and repeatedly clear who can count on assistance and protection in times of crisis.
On the other hand, when some of those folks show up at their state capitol buildings in militia cosplay gear, weapons at the ready, screaming at law enforcement and threatening elected representatives, many messages become clearer:
Hillary Clinton famously used the pejorative "basket of deplorables" to refer to these chuckle-headed mutants. She was far too kind, it turns out -- these people are losers, straight up, as in people who have lost at the business of life, people who have no serious prospects for the future, who regard the entire world merely as a vague extension of what they can see right in front of them at any given moment. The failures they do acknowledge are always someone else's fault, never their own.
Seen from that perspective, a narcissistic sociopath is the perfect avatar for their deepest resentments, as well as the logical culmination of fifty years of Republican sociopathy and stupid games, the grand project of undermining the republic coming to fruition. Not only do they openly despise the notion of compassion or caring or helping anyone else, they would even sacrifice themselves and their loved ones, as long as it granted them the opportunity to fuck over some caricature plastered on whatever Fox News shithead they prefer to watch.
They hate their countrymen more than they love their country. This is crucial to keep in mind, every bit as crucial as the fact that Kim Don Un literally does not care how many people die from coronavirus, he only cares that he and his inner circle get to wet their beaks.
People keep searching for reasons and details, trying to ascribe this or that utterance or lie or contradiction as evidence either of sheer incompetence or baroque conspiracy. The answer is both and neither -- there is a coordinated effort and he is a fucking moron, and yet the simple truth of it is that the entire sum of his adult life is his unshakable fixation on self-enrichment. Other peoples' money, other peoples' praise and adoration -- these are the currencies that he trades in. He will do anything to generate more of both. There is nothing more to it than that.
There is no point in debating the details or what is to be "fixed" in preparing for the inevitable summer wave, or the third wave during the regular flu season this fall and winter. From the standpoints of Trump and Kushner, and the people still willing to stand on stage with them and grant them legitimacy, it's already fixed. It is doing what it's supposed to do.
This is not an accident, or happenstance. This is by design. Never forget that. This was all preventable, all of it, the death, the economic devastation and fallout, the continued destruction of whatever value this scab of a nation, with all its self-serving hustles and lies, still manages to hang on to. They chose not to prevent it. They are deliberately continuing with the logical outcomes of that choice.
Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.
As we hit the 100k body count, two Vietnam wars or one World War One or whatever metric one chooses to use to illustrate the quick carnage, it is important to keep in mind at all times -- they don't give a fuck. Not even a little bit. No matter what the number ends up being, it doesn't matter to them at all.
In the most literal sense of the phrase, this country is being run by a death cult. Everyone who still works for them, pushes and amplifies their lies, supports them, is part of the cult, and need to be observed and treated as such. No, that doesn't mean you need to call your goofball Facebook uncle a serial killer the next time you see him, but if you haven't shunned and ignored him already, what the hell are you waiting for? There is simply no debate or engagement worth having with any of these people. They have always operated in bad faith, but now the stakes are higher. We're not bickering over what nuances of tax policy are more or less "capitalist" or "democratic socialist" or whatever.
People are dying (and sometimes being incapacitated even when they survive the virus), losing their jobs and businesses, and the monsters running the country see only opportunities for disaster oligarchism (as this is no longer a true capitalist society, in any realistic Adam Smith definition of the word), and the mediots can only veer between whatever meaningless gaffe Joe Biden had, or venturing into a crowd of these DURR MUH HAIRCUT rubes, and whining about being heckled and verbally abused.
When the historical coroners perform the autopsy on the USA, they might identify a single factor that finished it off, but mostly they will find a convergence of things, each of which were harmful, but collectively left the patient massively -- and unnecessarily -- vulnerable to that final bit. No matter how bad it gets -- and it's going to get worse, count on it -- keep in mind at all times: none of it had to happen. It could have all been prevented. But the people who own and operate this popsicle stand would rather poison the worm-ridden brains of neo-confederates and motivate them to violence, than see so much as a dime of their precious fucking money get spent on someone they deem undeserving.
It's a death cult. Treat its members and acolytes accordingly.
The sound of the water stayed faint, even as he slipped along the forest trail, stepping over outgrown roots here, ducking under low branches there. Pine and birch trees were more prevalent, the duff covering the forest floor thicker and more pungent. Sunlight still brightly penetrated the high canopy in spots, but fewer and farther between as he progressed.
And yet the sound of the water remained the same, neither closer not farther away.
Now the trees became larger, denser, covered with moss and vines. The tops were higher, blocking out more and more sunlight. It was darker, but he could still see. More animal chittering, perhaps a small troop of monkeys, off in the distance, but once again it was difficult to tell how distant.
A group of trees off to the right side all appeared to be bleeding a milky fluid, dripping slowly down the trunks. One huge tree to the left, massive in breadth and height, loomed over the trail. He looked up and could not see the top of the tree, and it had to be at least a hundred feet around its trunk, which was not round, but more like a giant star, with huge "arms" buttressed out from the central structure of the trunk.
The dense undergrowth of vines and shrubs surrounding this tree seemed almost to be moving of their own volition, as there was faint motion but barely a breeze. He could see large thorns on some of the vines, and was glad the trail managed to stay clear of this collection of plant life, which suddenly seemed terrifyingly sentient.
He passed by the tree cautiously, catching himself making an effort to be quiet, as if the thorny vines or the tree itself might hear him. He kept looking over his shoulder at it, subconsciously thinking this thing might follow him somehow, might curl its thorny tendrils around his ankles and pull him, screaming, inexorably into some hidden, gaping maw.
Turning forward again to concentrate better on the path ahead, he could see through the impossibly high weave of deep green leaves, out into the bright light from an invisible sun. Peeking up over that aperture was what appeared to be a white cube, set atop a larger cube. Then the perspective changed and all he could see was the leaves again.
The sound of the water was suddenly closer, more urgent, the jungle foliage denser, more pungent, more alive. His left hand slipped back, again mostly on instinct, then not seeing a threat, slid forward a few inches to the hip flask of reposado. He popped the cap and took a swig, more deeply than the initial taste when he first found the flask on this belt he had never seen before, with clothes he had never worn before. He swirled the tequila around for a second, felt it on his tongue, and swallowed, all while monitoring this microcosm in front of him, this miniature universe of alien life forms.
He stepped around a small group of miniature palms that surrounded a mangrove tree, again stepping over roots while watching for low branches. A green snake, easily six feet in length, slithered up the trunk of the mangrove. Several sets of small, glowing eyes peered out from burrows dug into the soil in front of the tree.
Coming around the tree he finally saw the small creek bisecting the trail. It wasn't especially deep nor wide, nor flowing fast, so he could ford it without too much trouble. The water looked clear and cool, the rocks at the bottom burnished smooth and clean, no moss or fish or motes that he could see.
He knelt and reached into the water with his right hand, again sliding his left hand back toward the knife without being conscious of the motion. The water felt as cool and refreshing as it looked. He splashed his forehead with his hand and felt rejuvenated almost instantly, even though despite all this time (what time?) and distance (how far?) he wasn't tired or hungry or thirsty.
Still, the water felt good and right. He scooped his hand into the stream and took a tentative sip. It tasted clean and refreshing, as if it had come from a high mountain stream, rather than the floor of a fertile jungle.
You're not thirsty now, but you might be later. You should fill up the empty hip flask.
The thought came into his head, but it was as if he had heard someone else saying it to him in his head, instead of out in the open, instead of the thought being his own. The voice was deeper than his own, with perhaps a menacing tone beneath it.
He looked up and saw the giant cat, directly across the stream from him.
On the one hand, it is not unreasonable for people living in less densely populated areas to want to get back to work, especially since the government has told them to go fuck themselves, that they are on their own, that we only bail out billionaires and cruise lines and hoteliers now. Life is a series of calculated risks, some more than others. The people who govern this hollowed-out oligarchy have made it abundantly and repeatedly clear who can count on assistance and protection in times of crisis.
On the other hand, when some of those folks show up at their state capitol buildings in militia cosplay gear, weapons at the ready, screaming at law enforcement and threatening elected representatives, many messages become clearer:
- Only white people can get away with this shit.
- There are no consequences for behaving like domestic terrorists.
- There are a surprising number of people who not only don't care about anyone else, they don't even care about themselves.
Hillary Clinton famously used the pejorative "basket of deplorables" to refer to these chuckle-headed mutants. She was far too kind, it turns out -- these people are losers, straight up, as in people who have lost at the business of life, people who have no serious prospects for the future, who regard the entire world merely as a vague extension of what they can see right in front of them at any given moment. The failures they do acknowledge are always someone else's fault, never their own.Seen from that perspective, a narcissistic sociopath is the perfect avatar for their deepest resentments, as well as the logical culmination of fifty years of Republican sociopathy and stupid games, the grand project of undermining the republic coming to fruition. Not only do they openly despise the notion of compassion or caring or helping anyone else, they would even sacrifice themselves and their loved ones, as long as it granted them the opportunity to fuck over some caricature plastered on whatever Fox News shithead they prefer to watch.
They hate their countrymen more than they love their country. This is crucial to keep in mind, every bit as crucial as the fact that Kim Don Un literally does not care how many people die from coronavirus, he only cares that he and his inner circle get to wet their beaks.
People keep searching for reasons and details, trying to ascribe this or that utterance or lie or contradiction as evidence either of sheer incompetence or baroque conspiracy. The answer is both and neither -- there is a coordinated effort and he is a fucking moron, and yet the simple truth of it is that the entire sum of his adult life is his unshakable fixation on self-enrichment. Other peoples' money, other peoples' praise and adoration -- these are the currencies that he trades in. He will do anything to generate more of both. There is nothing more to it than that.
There is no point in debating the details or what is to be "fixed" in preparing for the inevitable summer wave, or the third wave during the regular flu season this fall and winter. From the standpoints of Trump and Kushner, and the people still willing to stand on stage with them and grant them legitimacy, it's already fixed. It is doing what it's supposed to do.
This is not an accident, or happenstance. This is by design. Never forget that. This was all preventable, all of it, the death, the economic devastation and fallout, the continued destruction of whatever value this scab of a nation, with all its self-serving hustles and lies, still manages to hang on to. They chose not to prevent it. They are deliberately continuing with the logical outcomes of that choice.
Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.
As we hit the 100k body count, two Vietnam wars or one World War One or whatever metric one chooses to use to illustrate the quick carnage, it is important to keep in mind at all times -- they don't give a fuck. Not even a little bit. No matter what the number ends up being, it doesn't matter to them at all.
In the most literal sense of the phrase, this country is being run by a death cult. Everyone who still works for them, pushes and amplifies their lies, supports them, is part of the cult, and need to be observed and treated as such. No, that doesn't mean you need to call your goofball Facebook uncle a serial killer the next time you see him, but if you haven't shunned and ignored him already, what the hell are you waiting for? There is simply no debate or engagement worth having with any of these people. They have always operated in bad faith, but now the stakes are higher. We're not bickering over what nuances of tax policy are more or less "capitalist" or "democratic socialist" or whatever.
People are dying (and sometimes being incapacitated even when they survive the virus), losing their jobs and businesses, and the monsters running the country see only opportunities for disaster oligarchism (as this is no longer a true capitalist society, in any realistic Adam Smith definition of the word), and the mediots can only veer between whatever meaningless gaffe Joe Biden had, or venturing into a crowd of these DURR MUH HAIRCUT rubes, and whining about being heckled and verbally abused.
When the historical coroners perform the autopsy on the USA, they might identify a single factor that finished it off, but mostly they will find a convergence of things, each of which were harmful, but collectively left the patient massively -- and unnecessarily -- vulnerable to that final bit. No matter how bad it gets -- and it's going to get worse, count on it -- keep in mind at all times: none of it had to happen. It could have all been prevented. But the people who own and operate this popsicle stand would rather poison the worm-ridden brains of neo-confederates and motivate them to violence, than see so much as a dime of their precious fucking money get spent on someone they deem undeserving.
It's a death cult. Treat its members and acolytes accordingly.
The sound of the water stayed faint, even as he slipped along the forest trail, stepping over outgrown roots here, ducking under low branches there. Pine and birch trees were more prevalent, the duff covering the forest floor thicker and more pungent. Sunlight still brightly penetrated the high canopy in spots, but fewer and farther between as he progressed.
And yet the sound of the water remained the same, neither closer not farther away.
Now the trees became larger, denser, covered with moss and vines. The tops were higher, blocking out more and more sunlight. It was darker, but he could still see. More animal chittering, perhaps a small troop of monkeys, off in the distance, but once again it was difficult to tell how distant.
A group of trees off to the right side all appeared to be bleeding a milky fluid, dripping slowly down the trunks. One huge tree to the left, massive in breadth and height, loomed over the trail. He looked up and could not see the top of the tree, and it had to be at least a hundred feet around its trunk, which was not round, but more like a giant star, with huge "arms" buttressed out from the central structure of the trunk.
The dense undergrowth of vines and shrubs surrounding this tree seemed almost to be moving of their own volition, as there was faint motion but barely a breeze. He could see large thorns on some of the vines, and was glad the trail managed to stay clear of this collection of plant life, which suddenly seemed terrifyingly sentient.
He passed by the tree cautiously, catching himself making an effort to be quiet, as if the thorny vines or the tree itself might hear him. He kept looking over his shoulder at it, subconsciously thinking this thing might follow him somehow, might curl its thorny tendrils around his ankles and pull him, screaming, inexorably into some hidden, gaping maw.
Turning forward again to concentrate better on the path ahead, he could see through the impossibly high weave of deep green leaves, out into the bright light from an invisible sun. Peeking up over that aperture was what appeared to be a white cube, set atop a larger cube. Then the perspective changed and all he could see was the leaves again.
The sound of the water was suddenly closer, more urgent, the jungle foliage denser, more pungent, more alive. His left hand slipped back, again mostly on instinct, then not seeing a threat, slid forward a few inches to the hip flask of reposado. He popped the cap and took a swig, more deeply than the initial taste when he first found the flask on this belt he had never seen before, with clothes he had never worn before. He swirled the tequila around for a second, felt it on his tongue, and swallowed, all while monitoring this microcosm in front of him, this miniature universe of alien life forms.
He stepped around a small group of miniature palms that surrounded a mangrove tree, again stepping over roots while watching for low branches. A green snake, easily six feet in length, slithered up the trunk of the mangrove. Several sets of small, glowing eyes peered out from burrows dug into the soil in front of the tree.
Coming around the tree he finally saw the small creek bisecting the trail. It wasn't especially deep nor wide, nor flowing fast, so he could ford it without too much trouble. The water looked clear and cool, the rocks at the bottom burnished smooth and clean, no moss or fish or motes that he could see.
He knelt and reached into the water with his right hand, again sliding his left hand back toward the knife without being conscious of the motion. The water felt as cool and refreshing as it looked. He splashed his forehead with his hand and felt rejuvenated almost instantly, even though despite all this time (what time?) and distance (how far?) he wasn't tired or hungry or thirsty.
Still, the water felt good and right. He scooped his hand into the stream and took a tentative sip. It tasted clean and refreshing, as if it had come from a high mountain stream, rather than the floor of a fertile jungle.
You're not thirsty now, but you might be later. You should fill up the empty hip flask.
The thought came into his head, but it was as if he had heard someone else saying it to him in his head, instead of out in the open, instead of the thought being his own. The voice was deeper than his own, with perhaps a menacing tone beneath it.
He looked up and saw the giant cat, directly across the stream from him.
It would just break my heart if you said that picture was photo-shopped.
ReplyDeleteGrateful for sharing thiis
ReplyDelete