This time I felt the necessity—not the urgency—to jot this down. I’m not so air-headed to not realize that the novelty people had found in this glorified live journal [this paragraph is a joyous foreword tange-rant] was largely aided by the fact that people straight up had 90% less activity options a year ago, and so the more people either got jaded towards civil duty or were legally able to do a higher percentage of things, the draw towards intro-retrospection was left to dust up again. Anyway like I care; I do this for me, not “you” and I ran out of things to consistently-enough publish about and this has just been one other branch of multimedia experimentation. Doesn’t mean exercising social networking isn’t a painful practice I couldn’t wait to largely peace out of. For the sake of generalization, I don’t know how you gen Z-ers do it and not feel dead inside. I’ve critically approached the theory of existentially cataclysmic difference between being born at the tail of gen Y to someone born like 2 years later. I mean it gets murky and a vast swath of my categorical peers are as good as the most gen Zombiezers but I don’t know if it’s cause I still cherish the manual labor required to rewind a VHS and fully appreciate a 4:3’d down-res movie or that there’s a toy near the bottom of the cereal box or that my day-to-day tech is largely self-ceilinged to a 2011 slide-phone, mid-2012 macbook unibody, and that if I have to search something on the internet, I have to look forward to when I re-enter my home and load the computer. I’m sure this connects somehow.
On the self-aware giver—
There’s a place and time for actualizing intro-retrospection onto writing/speech. There’s another place and time to just do the thing you wanna give. Too much of the former and you’re a productiveless pseudo-philosopher; too much of the latter and you’re another popularity competitor using busyness to avoid facing oneself.
Speaking humbly, the last 1.5ish year—admittedly for those who’ve had the newly light-shone privilege to even pause and process individual + collective trauma—has—well finishing this sentence would be platitudinous especially if you’re any combo-category of being a colored person, visible minority, from an unprivileged socioeconomical class, again platitudinous if you haven’t been living in a forest.
A civilizational catastrophe-buffet of this multi-magnitude isn’t so much a “hey that all really sucked” passé composé saga and rather more of a segue to “how much will we have actually learned?”
I’m grateful for the things that are getting better. I’m grateful there are cracks in the cave to the other side, at least for those fortunate enough to be in the tunnels that won’t cave in. But since I was the guy at the house party who’d switch the background music to Radiohead + out of everyone I’ve in-person known, I’m the Zack Snyder superfan, I accept the ethical duty to be the call-out downer. Come on pheromones, you get to be useful here.
Come on possibly spam-flavored pheromones
If the last 1.5ish year coincided simultaneously with the worst 1.5ish year of my life 4.5ish years ago, I’d in all likeliness be dead. I was already might-as-well-be-dead at the time. But it didn’t, which is good, too bad for some of you but somewhat good for me. Following that 1.5ish-year meteor shower was then the best 1.5ish year 3ish years ago. I guess there’s some poetic deconstruction to reconstruction to deconstruction subjectivity to take away.
I wouldn’t count on patterns to benefit me, so a plane could easily land on me early into the next 1.5 year. Though if even this last 1.5 year has failed to break me then I might’ve done enough soul-searching to welcome the next fight. But I ask—how much will we have actually learned?
Fights—those leaving lasting scars and traumas or plain-butt death—are best suited as metaphors in fiction. And fiction—at least the works with self-integrity—conclude.
Amongst the worst outcomes I could imagine from this multi-issue-post-apocalypse is if enough of us forcibly forget, morbidly move on, deformedly dismiss. If this is simply the real-life metaphorical equivalent of the Frieza saga, and if DBZ [the darkest DB] as paralleled to our excuse for a civilization never ends, then so long as there are any humans left they will never break this cycle of self-destruction, let alone collateral damage to the world.
This is the part where I’m grateful that I’m not one for this world at its best. By that I mean the world of market capitalism, of political/social power/influence, of idealized fulfilling bonds, of post-modern romanticism—these aren’t liberal-artsy words but all actual things that enough people made up so to trample each other over. The few-over-most illusion of modern success, whether material/financial, relational, or popularity competitive, and the fact that even the most seemingly down-to-earth of us would ultimately prioritize it—just reflects the fact that everyone is a complete asshole and has no idea what they’re doing.
How do I get to say all this without acting holier-than-thou?
For one, I have none of those things I just described, so by all accounts you’d think I was a total loser anyhow so how could I offend you; and also cause the stock market would crash if everyone actualized themselves the way I do, but that’s also cause the stock market invests in money and not brooding art. And that’s also conveniently a segue into why I don’t feel like a loser despite what I don’t have and what anyone may think.
If you’re even at all as minutely existential as I am, then there’s a chance you’re cautiously looking forward to what’s next in this life but weary about whether enough good people will show up on the way. We don’t necessarily need others but people affect each other way more than most would wanna admit. To the self-righteous: go ahead and argue yourself as lonely, but good luck arguing that it’s cause no one wants or needs* you. I write that not bitterly but with the utmost bias, cause as far as I’m concerned, I am the only person I actively know who doesn’t know what that’s like. So rather than diminish the loneliness felt by people not actually alone—at least in the post-modern romanticized way [this is actually a thing, I’m not using post-modern like a hipster debate-killer]—I don’t know any sort of loneliness outside that of being alone at best around others, not needed by them.
Or maybe despite my constructive self-awareness, I’m in my own league of a-hole with zero idea what I’m saying. But that’s one of the fleeting pros of engaging with art; I could argue something enough until enough people show up to convince me I’m onto something.
I don’t know when’s the last time I actually took a stop-shot-of-burnout break but I’ve spent it writing this checkpoint edgelord piece cause intro-retrospection matters. Now it’s come time to for real close out the thing I’d given myself the right to keep existing so to do. Catharsis by documented phonetics will likely be channeled through vegetable cocktail blood showers. Yet again, if you’ve read this far then it’s minutely likely enough this was left for you as well. The legit outsider—whoever you actually are.
WOOOO YEAH GO HABS GO!!!!!!!!!!!!!