“Love? Equality? Reconstruction? Acceptance? Those are the excuses of the losers, to persuade themselves that they choose their condition and weren’t beaten down into it.”—Drake, Leviathan
“Ohne Scheiß. Ich brauch ein Geigerzähler.”
“I wonder what the world would be like had they not funneled crack into southern Los Angeles,” me musing, watching a clip from the late seventies of the Soul Train dance line. “Would we not have a Black American president ordering international hits, who’d instead gone forth to remain a uni prof of relative obscurity in a world deprived of some of its more creative gangsta rap straight outta the end of the rock coke supply chain?”
I’m asking me if Ted Bundy had let two of his admitted thirty victims live, would one of them have developed into a loveless marriage contemplating suicide.
When you choose to choose to let somebody else choose because constantly making choices is so painfully tedious that no matter how many bricks of bureaucracy get stacked with each new choice you’d rather not be bothered with details, there’s only one choice when witnessing an assault, and that’s mustering the courage to ask a fellow witness if anyone’s called the cops.
Your conscience would seem to let you off easy but that doesn’t stop seismic radiation from leaking truth through the psychic fissures, shining its glow upon the most unconscious choice of all — which flavor of insanity: the simultaneous denial & acceptance of having malignant narcissists representing your values, or… the sneaking paranoia that you’ll either hide from yourself and/or others, or spend your life in defense of.
The presentation of the dead-ed journalist Gary Webb as a flawed truth seeker who turned out to be completely correct, hounded like a nutter until he blew his brains out because there was something not quite right about him is quite simply the presentation of a tale about an intelligence apparatus in service of peaceful freedom that turned out to be in the wrong, but as if it has something right about it. Any choice that leaves that notion in tact lies in the first form of insanity, is a pact with the bureaucratic brick wall whose solution is to steer the apparatus down the path of least resistance, which, as it turns out, is the resistance of leaving that choice to someone else. Witnessing an assault? Somebody ‘ll call a cop.
Go on and smoke that cigarette. Eat that sausage while you’re at it. I’m not judging. It would be nice if the fatalistic admission were out in the open: that each puff & swallow’s a spin of the roulette wheel, a slow suicide pact the likes of which you can pretend is not a death you’re praying for because everyone else is doing it, or because such a brutal admission wouldn’t be kind to your children, even if what you do now results in a much less than congenial treatment of many others.
There’s this point where there’s so much company in psychic sado-maso misery that the individual members of the group begin to pretend it doesn’t exist, some going so far as to say that one who strays from the aisle of denial is the one who’s sick, and claim this untruthful observation for brutal honesty. The most vicious variety of this is the channeled bleed of that malignant narcissism the electors are so proud of, with their balloons and styrofoam hats.