Sunday, October 28, 2001

the death of everything

Welcome the wasteland, losers. Just when you thought you had gotten over the death of god, you're now confronted with the death of Reason. Welcome to the age in which nothing makes sense and all of the Truths and norms that you cling to like the tit of a mother boar shrink and decay right before your eyes. Sartre's existential "choice" has been reduced to complete absurdity as it begins to dawn on us that we never had the decision to make in the first place. It was all a big fucking joke. Society constructs who we are. You're not "special" or "unique." Every time you try to define yourself as "different," you're just reacting to more covert social control. Who the fuck cares if I wear all black and dye my hair? It's just a denial, another symptom of the fundamental Lack wherebye I have to define myself through absence. We have no freedom to make "autonomous" choices.

There's the real joke. It's just feel-good, self-help section of the bookstore, Oprah show propaganda to make you fit in better with the other pieces of garbage, the other tools needed to let the machine operate more efficiently. Every time you act, every time you breathe, it just gets stronger. Try and resist, but it always fails because your move is just another totalizing regression (yes, I do see the irony here, it only proves that I'm trapped in the same circular, discursive black-hole as everyone else. You get a cookie for pointing that out, btw).

Once you fall off the cliff of rationalism, you're in the abyss of infinite meaning. Who's right? Who's wrong? Who cares? Just pass me more of that rum and it'll all feel better... at least until you have to wake up tomorrow for another pointless day at work. Or until the play of violence comes to your house and decides to take your life. Keep clutching your favorite volume of Descartes to your chest and pray to the gods of reason that tomorrow's not your day, but when Bush pushes the button, your idiotic introspection about the "meaning of existence" will become meaningless in the hot flash that will evaporate your blood, bones and flesh. And what about anthrax? You never see it coming. One day you're writing essays in English and you get sick and then... After the explosion or the infection, there is no more "symbolic logic." No more math. No more epistemology. No more metaphysics. Just nothingness. I can't even comprehend what that means, because it just doesn't mean anything. Feels good, huh?

Academic Debate (an activity I participate in) is just another game, a nation-wide 500 per minute speed-reading circle-jerk for privelaged kids who want to make sense of the world. You can win every tournament of the year, snort as much coke as you can on all night research binges, fuck as many debaters as you can, and always have the newest goddamn updates at the Kentucky Round Robin, but you'll never get beyond the fact that it's all a big, sugar-coated sham. The evidence is a huge lie. The shit that passes for warrants is simply absurd. Deep in the recesses of their minds, the debaters know that they have NO IDEA what's going to happen if Bush passes an Indigenous policy tomorrow. And that's fucking terrifying. If you embrace the State, shit gets fucked up. If you reject it, other shit gets fucked up. And while you're pausing to reflect on your own futile bourgeois positionality, some jackass in the back of the room is aways screaming, "What's the alternative???? WE GOTTA' ACT NOW!!! PEOPLE ARE DYING!" What do you do? Are you even capable of making that decision? What gives *you* the right to make life and death choices for anyone else in the world?

Don't give me your bullshit about rhetorical "liberation. You're not transforming anyone. You're just leading us down the same liberal path of white-washing complacency that got us here. This is Baudrillard's ultimate crime. The Real is extinct and there's nothing you can do about it. Mommy is gone (dead after a soma-crack-Love Boat Marathon-vacation) and she's not coming back. Daddy cries in the living room when you're not looking and doesn't know what to do either.

The final stanza of TS Eliot's "The Hollow Men [sic]" is appropriate:

Here we go round the prickley pear
Prickley pear prickley pear
Here we go round the prickley pear
At five o'clock in the morning.
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow

Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.


I have no more heroes. You killed them all.

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