We have the past before us as all the measurements for truth and justice we may ever need, a fount existing for no other reason but that we learn from it. There is no emptiness which art might fill that the universe cannot, its natural order of cause and effect or the history it endlessly replays for our bemusement, our befuddlement. It is childish arrogance to think you or your most flattering thought-leaders know or have experienced more than had those who built our cities and cultures, who first conceived of politics and theologies and who mapped all five corners to the world through the thick of it. Who could feed themselves successfully without a microwave. And all without the aid of a preprogrammed search engine or the DIY segregation of online social media or freaking sex-bots, Without self-help bestsellers in the airport bookstore where instead of time-zones you really change space-zones. Our modern gated communities both physical and ideological are far from pushing any boundaries. They are the boundaries.
Life in this world does not need to be so complicated. Learn real pleasures beyond that which subcultures dictate as best to keep up with the Joneses while ultimately racing the downward spiral out the well-fingered ass of the mother goddess with all the rest of creation’s shit. Or be too tired from legal slavery to put up a fight, certainly not when the gaming platform hot that year beckons and the Irish girl said she’d be on the headset tonight. Are Bezos and Musk paying for my groceries yet, contributing to my crowd-funder for a new lung? The public agrees to disagree on what is worst to them, belief in the system or belief in god the almighty vs belief in your own prospects for managing to survive the believers. Your life-altering decisions should not be settled by the most selfish outsiders, strangers who do not know you. An exhaustion denying your ego for the sake of others is how they might come to know kindness. An orgasm enlivening your ego at the expense of others is how one gets banned from a startling array of social outings. I take what is needed by me, not what is wanted by me; and I give what is needed by others, not what is wanted by others. This is the opposite of celebrity, the maintenance of peoples, rather than spit-shining one another. The best anyone might strive for is to author their own lifetime, but nobody should ever wield means to rewrite the life of anybody else, unless to convey a kindness. Let their own words and actions define themselves, not your rationalizations of their mishaps. Real culture is supposed to be shared, not bought and not sold. And living is to be experienced, not obstructed by others, not narrated by others or carjacked by others. At the very least ghostwriters and speechwriters should feel ashamed. Even their jargon is flattery going from nowhere to setting the standard for frequent flyer miles, forgetting the adage of loose lips sinking ships. The test discerning which human interactions prolong beyond fleeting is whether or not the mouth gives good comfort.
The emergency state of the union, following 5 weeks of nationwide demonstrations over the pricey electoral college and the cheap supreme court deciding on December the 15th that in spite of reality Trump actually won and approximately 9 days away from the re-inauguration: Framed closeup of Trump seated in the titular set-piece from game of thrones relocated to the oval office as he assures the American people that in his next administration he will finally have the opportunities to end windmills, to rethink the water pressure of toilets everywhere and to nuke a hurricane back up the ass of science. Also, emails will be made illegal and Aryans will now get half off at participating McDonald’s and the fourth of every month will now be independence day. Except for March, which will be renamed independence month, with daily marching in parades in every town of every state mandated for all legal US citizens to commemorate those who gave their lives in the Bowling Green massacre. Gradually, while mispronouncing and meandering his words the POV pulls back, so that at this point it becomes painfully self-evident that Ivanka is down on her knees before her father, her made in China evening gown smeared in chocolate fingerprints and dried vomit, his small hands holding and grinding her skull into his face-fucking crotch violently with the blonde ambition audibly gagging for breath betwixt mad thrustings of the commander in chief’s inedible mushroom of a bellend. Donald J Trump closes his eyes in shivering release, head back with a grin bigger than Texas, as he then dies by heart-attack live on the air before the American public, leaving his pride and joy to look clumsily to the side off-camera, barely able to hold her head up straight under the weight of being drenched in sweat and running mascara tears, still gasping, drooling the slobbery seed of the President whose dead fingers still tangle the crops of her matted hair.
And for once in our lifetimes social media will have nothing to say.