It’s difficult to place one’s knowledge on a position to any degree of measure in the void of postmodern culture surrounding it. Any elaboration is just an exposition of subjective experience, the objective being cultish formations of ever more aggressive displays of passivity.
A coolness surrounds every thing that is dead.
The corpse of modern culture allows few alternatives, especially when the stakes are so high, and professional artistry is a commonplace activity. It seems like most unemployed or otherwise dejected people are crafting their own lifelines – or fashioning them from the deep corridors of social media feeds.
Marketing is everything, and consumerism is the goal of worship in our nihilistic religion. Public policy has become an anathema globally, while any forlorn schizoid can communicate the most complex power plays of economic and spiritual terrorists alike. Like breathing dust into a corpse’s mouth, we seek health in what is no longer living. Unnatural resources are quarried for post-post-production projects of potential prime importance.
The creative act is a largely posturing by reckless youth with a carpe diem attitude and a bad drug habit. It’s something that’s forgivable, but the poison that they consume is rendered even more meaningless when they are through with it. No careful consideration is being made to the planning of our cultural assets or values. Traditionalism is being thrown out with Republicanism (certainly the infant of this metaphor); which is a cannibalizing heap of withering slobs who’re addicted to the enema they receive from corporate fascism being erected in America.
When the jokers finally jerk a playful tease, the lifeless body of genders decoupled will erratically call the hand. It’s a bet that’s sure to lose; as the deck is stacked, and the dealer owns the house.