Skip to main content

Maybe Trump is right




“No, I’m romantic—a sentimental person thinks things will last—a romantic person hopes against hope that they won’t.” F. Scott Fitzgerald


So OK, I quit. I know this surprises no one, what coming from the pie hole of a member of our most disappointing generation -- but trust me, this needs to be said – because this raw, stuffed naked and in your face kind of quitting is necessary, and because I’ve been way too nice about it up to now.

It’s become clear to me that all has been written in the big book of what must be and it’s time for me to accept and let go. Free will is a sucker bet for dreamers and the uninformed -- it's just for the hoi polloi on stage, reading lines in clothed flesh, to an audience that wrote the book they are reading from, and doesn’t even like them anyway.

What if Trump and his supporters are right? Have you ever even thought of the possibility that the little shit head of a person is right? That maybe Trump is the man for our times – the man to lead us away from the brink of a liberal apocalypse that’s been coming unabated down the road at us for years? Look around, even as a liberal to the left of Trotsky I can see the rot of excess all around me – maybe it’s a stopping point to allow us to take a few giant steps backward in time to clean this place up.  Maybe it’s time for a vast burning of the old ways and old people. Maybe Trump will be known in the future as the leader of the great renewal.

This feels wrong, deep down wrong, but maybe I’m wrong and just following things because of how I feel and not how I think. Though to be honest, it ‘thinks’ wrong much more than it feels wrong. But maybe it’s not about words – it’s about what is fundamentally right or wrong – the thing we know in our souls before we act on any impulse or action. Everyone knows simple right from wrong – and we all choose to deal with it or not.

Again, though, it kind of feels wrong on that basic level as well.

What is the nature of truth? Is it adversarial and not even real or verifiable? Is truth just an opinion voiced from a made-up place that’s constructed outside ourselves just to talk us into shit? Is truth just getting Colin Powell to say made up shit to liberals to get something you want?

Advertising has been blasting us with fake truth since the dawn of whatever – we seem to be both fooled by it, and sharpened by it at the same time – Advertising works, but it makes large portions of us numb and resentful – and most of us resistant, over time, to believing anything we see – no matter the pictures or the words that come from the tube.

Like antibiotics and great civilizations, advertising stops working over time.



Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Explain nothing, except your self

Explain nothing, except your self. I feel like the last of a tribe struggling to keep my identity a secret from the mob, one step ahead at best, reduced to hiding in bushes from the monsters waiting to snag and devour me. Sort of a delicacy and a poison – a non-specific drug that exudes memes instead of hormones and physical highs – subconscious, primitive analog get-off-ness apparently responsible for some weird competitive advantage consolidating over geological time out of our mixed genus ancestors, or maybe Texans. At the same time, I feel like spasmed dots from gods own printer cartridge ejaculated onto the canvas of a great emptiness, the thought of which is expressed in the three-dimensional representation of the position I’m braced into while doing the splatting -- all hologram like but only juicier and used -- like an in and out burger wrapper chewed on by a trashcan opossum. Or better, a goat in a pickup heading for a quinceanera debating Schrödinger with the

Free Willy

“…Some say it's just a part of it We've got to fulfill the book.” B. Marley Before I completely run away from the point, the subject of this essay is free will, or, more accurately, the illusion of free will. It will be interesting to see if free will even comes up laterally over the next few hundred words now that I’ve set it up as a specific goal.  The imp of the perverse makes it a sure thing that I won’t – but that surety might also double back and force  me to stay on point. There are no dogs to pick  in this fight and it’s not a fight,  and if I’m right, none of this is anything but documentation for a litigious god that will never see it. Like quantum mechanics, life is about either time or place, never both, and how we choose to pretty up our choices is neither the point, or even a choice – it’s after the fact punctuation we use to justify and make sense of our ontological messiness.  (Science has proven that we decide things with our body before the brain