[1170] Chew Chew

I don’t actually trust, The United States in particular, but humanity broadly, to protect what got us this far. Few things highlight this distrust more than the Surrounded “debates” where online flame-wars get personal representatives. If Crossfire signaled a precipitous decline in how we conceived of meaningfully disagreeing, Surrounded seems to have found extra gasoline for the fire.

Let’s start broad, and try to grasp what it means to “share reality.” This is an ongoing foundational fight where we invoke the consequences of information silos from the internet, the language of academics versus “real America,” and where you exist on a dispositional spectrum from staunchly authoritarian conservative to adventurous brain-fell-out level of open-minded liberal. In a world that flirted with making sense, you could make the reasonable argument for both types working in concert in their respective lanes. But that no longer exists.

Surrounded presumes the same folly of the rest of our conversational landscape. It presupposes that everything can or should just “simply be debated.” It presumes a degree of good faith, capacity, and understanding. If 30 seconds into an hour-long series of increasingly incoherent exchanges you’re already dialed up to 11 and “I know you are, but what am I” or “Why won’t you answer the question?!” You’ve chipped that much more away from establishing a shared broader reality that isn’t the endless errant bickering and self-destruction.

I don’t trust us to protect what’s important because I’ve been in social work and regularly watch people commit self-righteous suicidal acts. Your body can absolutely become dependent on a substance, but I promise you what unites all addicts has nothing to do with their drug of choice. People who huff Trump are doing the exact same thing as those who downplay their meth use. Incidentally, so are the people who refuse to parse the word “genocide.” So are the people who refuse to act morally without consignment from their sky-daddy. So are the people who use smarmy pride to indefinitely avoid. If you read this last paragraph and felt yourself uncontrollably react…guess what.

When you kill your capacity to choose, opting instead to obfuscate, scapegoat, destroy, or ignore, first you kill yourself, then you kill the rest of us. This simple recipe can be enjoyed thousands of times a day. Every inflammatory picture that whizzes past your eyes. Every disconcerting interaction with someone not on your level. Every detail of the story about your victimization. You will have a permanent shit-eating grin massaged into your face, a dumbfounded brow, and a tone dripping in ravenous excuses.

Every high-minded concept like “democracy” and “rights” will be perpetually humbled by the human animal. It’s why your sky-daddies magically conform to the norms of a given era. Ramy Yousef gets to say in a stand-up special he doesn’t care if you’re a Jew…today. Jesus gets turned into a white guy. We’re gonna always default. I think those of us who can stay aware of this should find a kind of reassurance and simply build it into our models for trying to survive, if that in fact remains the goal.

Do I need democracy and rights if I can meet my needs other ways? This is at the heart of every rich person’s attitude and calculus when they’re co-opting a “populous” message. Bear in mind, you’re as “rich” as you are imaginative about your options. Can you make it to Colorado to have an abortion? Most people I know, sure. So, how important is bodily autonomy really? Do I live in a flood prone area? No? So, do I give a fuck if Florida drowns?

People are reluctant to say these kinds of calculations out loud, but again, they’re making them 1000 times a day, landing, roughly, and what they feel in any given moment. In a population that’s perpetually aggrieved, feeling victimized, angry, and proud of how stupid they are, you’re always going to land somewhere close to “Fuck them, I got mine.” What you have, more than anything, is a personal narrative of how correct and righteous you are. The hostility you’d adopt against that analysis? Perfect hostility, absolutely required. The only thing more perfect was Trump’s phone call looking for votes.

We genuinely have lost the distinction between what makes a plane fly and what gets your heart racing. I don’t think a species incapable of separating those two things will survive. I just don’t. I don’t think it is foundationally trustworthy, anymore than I trust my animals to stay out of the trash.

Our ship sailed when we lost the distinction between “expert” and “I saw it on facebook.” We jumped right over the cliff when we ignored the power brokers for the narratives they literally served us. We dug an inescapable hole when we refused to defend even basics of civility, accountability, and common sense. The game has been over for so, so long. I can’t count the amount of posts bragging that they voted for the first time this cycle after such and such pretend-reason.

I hate to say it, but I’m feeling more or less content to let it die. We’re built on a skewed-enough narrative about what America really stands for, and we’ve only invited an infinite sea of incoherence to continue bathing in. It’s just reaction against reaction against reaction against reaction until it all falls down. We don’t believe in anything. Those who do believe in something do so on no evidence besides feels and vibes. They feel like they want the power. They feel correct. They feel justified. Back and forth.

You’re not thinking. You’re not even trying to think. You’re not on a team or part of a coalition. You can’t name the game. You do not, fundamentally, at all accept the nature of life and death. It’s all a series of personally gratifying abstract concepts that fuel your self-conception. You do not actually give a fuck about anything else but you. That’s why Trump is your president. You will not, under any circumstance, concede and sacrifice what you must to wield the kind of power that de-fangs excuse-ridden authoritarian behavior. Now, again, you get to experience how it makes you pay.

[1169] Chugga Chugga

I don’t know if I’ll ever feel satiated in reflecting on the dumpster fire that is my country, but in the meantime, the thoughts continue to flow.

I see a lot of parallels in my daily life map onto the broader culture. I’m someone who pursued his dreams. I did so while engaged in conversations with people who never intended to, but said otherwise. When my friend group got drunk together in college and talked about trying to build off grid or how we would respond to an economy that was not hiring nor paying adequately, I saved the money to buy the land. I didn’t know how much I was taking for granted, for years, as I entertained the idea of a future where we would work together, stay close, and certainly drink less, but keep the good times rolling.

The first thing I took for granted was that people meant what they said. I’ve often maintained something of an outsider status, usually as an outgrowth of my “blunt” assessments, comments, or expressively shared perspective. I genuinely thought I had a tribe for the first time in my life. I thought, “Oh, this is how normal people get together and accomplish things or support each other.” I thought what made us friends initially, kept us partying together each weekend, or what ensured it was cool to wander between our houses or apartments without knocking was robust and reliable.

I don’t know that there was any way to really grasp how far down a “words don’t mean anything” rabbit hole we existed at culturally during that time. My cohort discovered and was bored by 4chan by sophomore year. There’s no way to measure the amount of insincere detached irony that I suspect must have glazed everything. Sophomore year was the first year we were introduced to Sarah Palin, who I’ve always considered a harbinger of doom and too-telling about the nature of the country.

As relationships got strained, and the frequency with which you had to prevent yourself from gagging when someone said “adulting” increased, it became easier to feel how things were breaking down. Each event or invitation was either sparsely attended or turned down. “Secret” conversations and resentments built up. “Real life” was kicking in, I guess, and all of the workshopping and noticing during college resulted in unnecessary suffering of the ongoing consequences. Most people found under-skilled roles, rented overpriced places, used pets as surrogate children, and stopped even pretending to care about what you were up to.

I’ve listened to my dad talk about his sense of community growing up in the harbor and East Chicago. Neighbors helped each other and talked all the time. My grandparents supported single mothers, sent the kids to do chores, and bonded through the church. I’ll listen to older comedians and actors allude to their upbringings that ring similar bells of community, consistency, and support. It seems that anyone who’s gotten somewhere appreciable had a village.

Almost everyone my age that I knew had divorced parents. Almost everyone was tens of thousands in debt in order to go to school. Almost everyone waited until their 30s to have kids.

Let’s not skimp on parallels. There’s a reticence to actually solve problems. When you have an issue with someone, gossip, don’t bring it to them. Don’t weigh evidence. Go to the extremes of your emotion, assume, and carry on in self-righteous indignation for the bogeyman you’ve built.

I witness a “silent majority” all the time. It’s a majority of people who are too afraid to unionize. It’s a majority who throw up their arms and say “it is what it is.” It’s a majority who are literally silent upon every invitation to share their actual truth about how someone or something is hurting them. The majority believes in the performance. The majority wants to “help,” by virtue of saying, no, seriously, just how much they really really do. We are fundamentally not accountable, dishonest, and in denial about how much we hate and aren’t helping - at all.

I’ve talked endlessly about how many things I hate. I don’t do it blindly. I pick hate for things I think are worthy of hate. “Hate” is an approximate word and sensibility that combines a lot of negativity towards things that destroy my sense of self, ownership, potential, and dignity. I hate getting paid so little. I hate when people who profess to be friendly or truthful disappear or tear me down and take advantage. I hate excuses. I hate people who will, always and forever without irony, use demonstrably untrue and ignorant examples in their dance to justify their own hatred. That is, I don’t need to pretend or make anything up about the things I would point to to hate.

I live in one of the shittiest states, Indiana. I’ve watched them close schools and healthcare options. I’ve watched hundreds of clients who need life-saving care get neglected and saddled with impossible scenario after impossible scenario year after year. There’s “jokes” about how polluted The White River is. Our “senator” was part of the fascist coup and just became governor. We have incredibly shitty roads, almost no public transportation, were the poster-children for meth (although, so many states compete for that title), we’re a right-to-work state, we have the attorney general who wanted to criminally pursue the doctor who helped abort for the raped little girl who came from Ohio.

I submit that any and all horror stories going forward are blips in the sea of the poisoned ocean of our cultural zeitgeist. We don’t get better until we actually get better, or enough of us die that something new can grow. The ambivalence is also a symptom. The fact that you can say, proudly, always so proudly, that your vote doesn’t matter, that you don’t care, or that it doesn’t concern you tells someone like me that the game was over long ago. There is no “persuadable” battle because you’ve converted into a religious hopeless ideologue. You preach a certain gospel of complicit absurdity.

Every for-profit healthcare and addiction counseling company does not care about you. They care about keeping your insurance tied to their automatic billing. Thousands and thousands of people will tell you otherwise. You, desperate, lonely, addicted, exhausted, will burst through the doors and testify to how a company like Groups Recover Together “saved your life” by teaching you how to depend on them and Suboxone instead of heroin. You’ll be alive, but will you? You’ll say the things you’re supposed to say, but will they mean anything? How do you “reduce harm” for someone actively on fire where a discussion of water doesn’t exist?

This is the failing of government. Mitch McConnell, Newt Gingrich, NAFTA, Citizen’s United, The Supreme Court capture. The actual solutions to these things have only been flirted with by Bernie Sanders, Elizabeth Warren, and a few members of “The Squad” when they’re not busy apologizing for religious zealotry. You don’t combat the proud seizing of power by “debate” and “negotiation.” The Nazis and the Japanese needed to be bombed into oblivion at the time. You are currently up next to suffer similarly if you refuse to understand why.

When you’re “fighting for $15” when the wage should be $25, you’re a fucking moron. When you’re wallowing in despair, instead you should be organizing a learn-party who tries to grasp what it means to be at the mercy of religious conviction that would march for 50 years until it could overturn Roe v. Wade. When you feel yourself getting smug and dismissive, it’s your first clue you’re missing a piece of the perspective puzzle that will unlock a way to meaningfully change something in a better direction.

I’m as annoyed by If Books Could Kill’s treatment of Sam Harris and Steven Pinker as I am Peter Boghossian of caricatured leftists. I think Bill Maher cozying up to hateful ignorance has the same downstream effect as Tony Hinchcliffe and Andrew Schulz normalizing the facade of “we’re all friends here” and “both sides.” We all pretend we’re as rich and famous as these people who will, in no way, suffer the reality of the decisions. You think the vast majority of celebrities and “intellectuals” weren’t the first ones out of Europe as war loomed?

We’re not all friends. It’s not what we should be normalizing. We don’t all have the same standards, or any standard at all. You’re not speaking to who you think and they don’t understand what it takes to preserve and protect and celebrate. The disconnect is as real and wide as it could possibly get. We’re in a sea of fanatics with their own isolationist infantile grasp of the playing field. Even if they’ll never choose to accept or understand that, they’re all smug. They’re all proud. They’re all hyperbolic in their language. You can adopt the heuristic that remains extremely skeptical and on guard when you meet people who are performing that act.

I don’t know how much has to die. It certainly feels like so much, but perhaps it’s not too much. Perhaps it’s just a necessary conclusion on the road of infinite revolutions. Maybe the water needs to be so poisoned the only ones who live will be those who choose an AI-generated inoculator. Maybe a third of the population needs to grow up in their parent’s basement, sexless, tiki-torched and decked out in camo before you’ll discover how to fire back. Maybe your best friend or sister has to die during perfectly preventable pregnancy complications. I don’t think any of it will work to clue you in, because it’s not about any given perfectly foreseeable atrocity. It’s about you, and you’re perfect just the way you are.

[1168] All Aboard

I'm really struggling to believe in anything. This is a fairly longstanding tradition, but it manifests as anxious butterflies during what I perceive to be key inflection points. I’m familiar with being constantly, chronically, fucked with. I am intimately aware of what it feels like to feel absolutely helpless indefinitely. It taught me how to become a bully. It showed me I can functionally black out and numb all pain during a violent reaction. It rendered everything worthwhile and good about me as something to pick at, ridicule, or resent. I’ve teetered on the edge of ending up in prison or hospital before I figured out how to put words to what was happening in me.

None of us can predict the future. I don’t think anything is predetermined, nor do I believe in fate or karma. I might invoke them jokingly or colloquially, but I think at bottom, so much of the best and worst things that happen to any of us are a direct result of choices. They might be choices made under duress. They’re almost certainly choices made with so little information it’s hard to conceive how it’s appropriate to invoke “choice” at all. A choice, by definition, is going to be a binary proposition. You affirm, or you deny. You bring into your awareness, or you eschew further contextualizing. Our brain automatically shortcuts most information in service to this process.

I can tell an extremely damming and deliberate story about how I’m in a decadent 2024. I can point to instances from history that kicked off the degradation of “the middle class,” our education systems, our sense of civic duty, etc. I can point the finger at the internet and the technologies we can’t wrap our ape brains around. I can cite heart-wrenching story after story of the consequences of being intellectually lazy, personally indignant, and in denial about the depth of hatred and fear. I can blame. I can explain away. I can hedge. I can intellectualize and attempt to stomach how all of the stuff “out there” isn’t really what we are or who I am.

And it would all be a lie. It would be a lie that others around me would be eager to celebrate and expand upon. It would be the kind of lie that would keep me divorced from the nature of how I utilize my hatred and my exhaustion in service to taking less accountability than I could. Because my shock and horror are too intense or morally righteous, when I condemn, when I seek to destroy, it would be okay. This is the mind of a fascist.

It’s 12:30 AM on Wednesday after election day. Again, millions of people have sat out. Millions of people have celebrated rape, racism, greed, pride, indefinite 4chan-esc detached irony, and the wholesale lack of accountability. It’s the rot everywhere. It’s the one thing that truly unifies us all. We’re all correct. We’re all entitled to our tears, our hatred, our means of acquiring whatever we want in whatever way we discover. Steal? Why not, I’m just smarter. Kill? Negligently ignoring something is soooo many syllables.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the women who have already died from the abortion rollback. It’s peak insanity. It’s peak Christo-fascist power and control. The smartest, most empathetic and best-equipped people and healthcare tools sit idle as those in power threaten prison and fines for helping. It doesn’t get worse. It just gets more frequent. That’s something I don’t think really sets in for people who wish to point at any individual tale of woe or absurdity. It’s already, right now, as bad as it can get mentally, in how we talk about it, and how we aren’t approaching fixing it.

I remind myself regularly to not be a reactionary. I don’t want to just sit in my fear and pain and speculation. That’s what was happening as I watched the country maps turn red. As I watch the numbers in support of detached yet vigorously hateful and spiteful ignorance march its way forward once again. Pride comes before the fall, and I can think of no one more proud than the people who apologize for belief systems and representatives that mask and hide the broader reality of consequences.

Van Jones famously said Trump was a “white lash.” I think he was dead wrong. The whole country was denying the story of how their needs weren’t being met, denying themselves a chance to own their complicity, laziness, hatred, and insecurities. You’ll hear often about “the extremes” of “either side.” I would put to you that you exist as an extreme of what those people put into action. You can be extremely lazy and feeling intellectually inferior. You can be extremely entitled to your “small town” views that don’t concern themselves with anyone but you and yours. You can be extremely angry and indignant that something didn’t go your way. The story of how your extremes manifest are as individual as it gets.

If we need a heuristic, you can look at voting. I’m the kind of person that can literally never justify endorsing Trump. Him as a person is antithetical to everything I try to be. I don’t want to be “rich” like him, slap my name on everything, sexually abuse women, fuck my family, lie with every breath, provoke and incite violence, pretend to be ambiguous about my relationship to explicit hate groups, cozy up to dictators, find myself getting supported by people like Ben Shapiro or any sycophant building their brand on the right. The “reasons” people use to vote for him are overwhelmingly incoherent lies. He is their representative.

I mention Shapiro because he’s the fanciest dancer claiming to support Trump’s policy independent of everything he’s ever said or done otherwise. This, again, is how fascists, apologists, extremists pretend to think. Provided there’s something “bigger” or “practical” or “the real goal,” everything, your death and ruin included, gets sublimated in service to it. Why protect the planet when Jesus is on his way back? Why quibble over poor people having rape babies or women controlling their bodies when we’re gonna return to the ways of God? Why trust the science of vaccines when I have a right to kill you when I’m in power? This is the conclusion, the unyielding ambivalence in service to selfishness.

We get Trump because we deserve Trump. We’ve been trying to have a mythical future that refuses to directly combat the forces that broke our government. We’re suffering the fissures of recycled propaganda. We don’t teach in compelling ways. We don’t hold people accountable. We don’t model behavior. We don’t reign in our worst impulses. It’s all wish-fulfillment. What was Kamala going to do with a broken Senate and wholly corrupt Supreme Court? Trump faced no consequences for encouraging people to kill people. What do you think is really and actually going on in your country? You haven’t conceded what’s really been lost anymore than Trump did the last election.

Hope is fickle. Change is arbitrary. We’ve only demanded the performances of each other, not the work. We’re all addicts at the group meeting carrying on like its fun and games and our lives are going so smooth since we found each other. 5 seconds after we leave we’re screaming at the people in our lives, crying over our circumstances, and building more chronic conditions for which to seek an addictive fix.

You hate as deeply as any fascist Trump supporter, as any “Christian,” as any “religious” nut job talking a million miles an hour like Shapiro constantly justifying justifying justifying because the fact of their limited, scared, irrational beast at the heart of their behavior can’t be contended with. They don’t own it anymore than you do, it’s just their time to be attaching language to the nature of the self-destruction. What did the Left do? Reacted with DEI, defund the police, and trigger warnings. They didn’t figure out how to get Bernie in charge, they looked for the next coolest victim narrative to attach their identity to.

It’s hard not to feel like we deserve it. We deserve to keep dying for no reason. We deserve to keep talking in circles with fanatics. We deserve to eat the scraps of oligarchs and submit to wage slavery. We are addicted to the grind, consumption, excuses. We want to hear the same story every day and feel proud and confident in each recitation and share. We want the awkward, evil, rich bullies to win, because those are our gods. That is who we wish to be in a world that’s treated us so unfairly by asking for anything accountable.

I’m not giving myself to the fear, ignorance, and hatred no matter how often it’s on offer. I own the hatred I have for fascists of any stripe and era. I will never be okay with the patterns of thought and behavior, so, so smug, and confident that bring nothing but shame and embarrassment and death. I’m not going to pretend I don’t understand or feel like they do. I’m going to take what I feel, and choose to operate like someone knows his power and responsibility, even in the maddest of worlds. Maybe in a generation or two, if I last that long, my example will mean enough to be of better consequences than the ones I’m suffering.

[1167] Players Gonna Play

I’ve been wanting to write about my experience temping for the Taylor Swift concert at Lucas Oil Stadium since the moment I arrived. It’s Monday, after 3 days of walking the perimeter and collapsing lines in the world’s worst shoes. It’s a little after 5 PM, and I can honestly say for all of the thoughts I wanted to explore about class, privilege, and the specific conversations and interactions I had, the loudest thought right now is still, “I’m tired.”

My first job was in a movie theater. This role brought me back there. Crowd control is the same, as well as the clothing requirements. The, extremely soft until a cop shows up, power to move people around. The ones I worked with ranged from groups of, what appeared to be high-school, but maybe college, athletes to people with the kind of standing aggression and swagger of growing up in lower-income neighborhoods. There’s the grungy white guy with dreads, varieties of neck tattoos, and snap-to-attitude when a moment highlights the nature of their underclass status.

The first day, it was chaos. You enter the stadium area via escalators at the end of a large hallway and convention center. Another long hallway connects to a staging room where just beyond you either enter the grounds, or go up into the main lobbies. There were over a hundred people milling about, either temping through different agencies, or part of the previously mentioned athletic groups. There were regulars who were scouted and picked out of the crowd to join teams with supervisors who liked them. One younger gentleman got called out by the fattest and looked-most-in-charge guy who aggressively said, “You got white shoes man, those ain’t gonna work!” He was subsequently still hired on for the day.

The Insta-work app portrays the role as being from 2:30 PM until 2:00 AM. You’re expected to show up early so you can clock in on time. I learned our particular temp agency was the lowest status step-child. This means everyone in that room got checked in, their credentials, shirt, and walked to their positions before we were allowed to. This meant if I got there at 1:45 the first day, I stood in place until almost 3, or just after, each day, before I was officially clocked in. These kinds of things are the first cuts in death by a thousand.

The “attitude” of the space stuck out to me. I’ve been decently white-collar for the last few years. There’s an, often enough disingenuous, light touch and politeness that I’ve come to take for granted in those spaces. I noticed my “pleases” and “thank yous” and “yes ma’am or sirs” existed in isolation and felt mildly “wrong.” When I smiled and softly said to teary-eyed scammed hangers-on that they needed to leave from meandering about the gate, behind me was my supervisor, literally yelling, “Get up, keep moving, get off the premises!” Often, they were moving and readily compliant, and still met with his approach. The generalized complacent exhaustion of people consigned to their roles in life blanketed every moment.

Leaving aside the quasi-self-imposed pain of the wrong shoes. the job is extremely easy. You’re either standing scanning in tickets, or saying the same handful of things over and over about where something is located. At first, no one told me where anything was located, so I misdirected people as to where the floor seats entry was, along with a large portion of the other staff. Before we ever got started, we were expected to just literally stand around and hang out, in total for about 2 hours before we had any kind of task to carry out, lending itself to the story of why they wouldn’t bother to clock us in on time.

Now, I’ve heard as much as anyone about Taylor Swift and her concerts. Beyond perhaps a larger portion of people willing to dress up, in general it felt very normal. I got some bracelets. The people were mostly in good spirits. But, there is a dark side underbelly that weaves its way through the sea of synchronized claps and “There’s a lot going on right now” T-shirts.

Dozens of people got scammed. The stories all involved tickets that were sold twice, obtained fraudulently, or bought from “Stubhub, or, not Stubhub, but facebook Stubhub,” which, of course, isn’t a thing. I heard the bemoaning of lost dollar amounts from $2,000 to $9,000. Girls pretending to flirt with me. People offered cash for my jacket. A couple wanted to get loud and fight and “see the policy” that said they had to move from lingering outside. One girl broke down, fell to the ground, and had a seizure when it was clear they were scammed and not getting in.

Incidentally, as I was walking to my first shift, one of the loading pages for When We Were Young festival said I was in. Two years ago, I had 7 browsers open that took 2 hours or more for one to allow me onto the page to buy a ticket. I planned to do the same thing this year before I took the shifts. So, because obviously, right as I’m about to go in, I have to navigate what is often a stressful, time-sensitive, and buggy-as-fuck process from my phone. I fail 3 times to pay for the tickets, and think I’m fucked until they announce day 2. I manage to still select the 4th tier, more exploitatively priced, tickets, and throw them on layaway. The show isn’t until October of next year.

Taylor might almost be more popular than every band that will be at that festival combined, if only because they all get 2 days, she got 3 just in one city. These people are such big fans and willing to be desperately crying and wandering the premises that they haven’t looked for a ticket or discovered the fraud until now? The nature of Ticketmaster and reselling hasn’t made it’s way into the broader culture knowledge bin yet?

I think it’s incredibly important to set the stage of both I, and every Taylor Swift concert-goer’s environment. We’re, extremely, decadent and privileged. I’m working a temp job, but I still feel well within my rights and capacity to spend a few hundred dollars on a trip, and capable of paying off debt. These people paid $1500 minimum for each ticket to fill up a football stadium. The ones who looked for and found tickets up to 2 or 3 hours into the show, paid anywhere from $2000 to $6000 for a half hour or hour from the worst spot on the floor or random nosebleed. Does anyone have that much sympathy for anyone willing or capable of throwing that kind of money around like that? They certainly don’t project it towards me and my debt or indulgences.

I can only speculate what it’s like to live a life like that. I’d be drawing on my experience of yelling, “You can go to any line, even if you have a bag, disregard the sign” directly into someone’s face, and they, after having locked eyes and nodded along respond without hesitation, “But what if I have a bag?”

I feel like you must have that, I want to use the word “impossible,” lack of self-awareness and attention in order to operate at the level that doesn’t think twice about spending thousands for a ticket, that you never tried to get well in advance, hundreds more on merch, alcohol, and maybe a limo ride to the stadium, and when presented with clear loud instruction…what? What is it you’re doing besides responding like a barking dog with no grasp as to what’s happening around you? But the sign! BUT THE SIIIIIIGN!

Many people laughed and responded quicker when I eventually discovered saying, “The sign is a lie!”

It only took until the end of the first day for the people in charge to recognize what I bring to any role I take. I was assured I would work the next two days regardless of my “technically” “paid backup” status. A supervisor picked me out of the crowd on day 3. The importance of what I take for granted as “the basics” get highlighted in those environments. Are you basically decent in your disposition? Did you follow the, albeit woefully incomplete and slightly changing or contradictory instructions as you were given them? Could you be trusted to not look painfully bored and distracted even when there wasn’t that much to do?

Taylor concerts are long. As someone who’s been to 170-something in the last 3 years, I had a lot of them to compare the crowds to as they were leaving or leaving early. This quasi-religious event mostly seemed to exhaust people. It doesn’t mean they didn’t have fun, but it does mean I felt myself feeling suspicious about the motives and headspace of the many fans. Broadly, you wouldn’t necessarily think someone who’s way too into a band or artist is particularly mentally well. But Taylor has a culture built around her that reminded me of The Dead. It’s gross to dance barefoot in unidentified moisture, and makes me uncomfortable when everyone around you carries on like it’s cool or normal.

There’s a lot of normalized pathological behavior and attitudes that come with wealth or just too much money for you as an individual to know how to utilize it effectively. That’s baked in to the “joke” written on the T-shirts about how much dad had to spend for tickets. I started saying that you’re either living in a way too comfortable place, or way too darker than we wish to imagine place in being part of that crowd.

I say this as someone who has spent, at his peak, $1800 for 4 days of “Owner’s Club” at Rockville last year. Back then with my job, that was about 1 paycheck, and I don’t have kids or more than $5000 a year in must-pay bills, so I understand how enough people can arrive at a place where the high cost still makes a certain kind of sense in their life. It’s harder to understand if you have rent, a mortgage, or “keep up with the Jones’s” kind of life. I’ve never had a crazy-high end paying job, so I’m sure there’s plenty wiping their ass with thousands I could barely imagine.

You just kinda realize that it’s not about her? These people didn’t look or sound any happier or “better” than the people I’ve been around at $15 shows. It’s generic to say that people want to belong to something, and even trying to frame it in terms of “people” doesn’t distinguish seizure-girl from out-of-touch mom from 20-something daddy’s-girl who clearly doesn’t appreciate where the money was coming from. If the tickets were 1/3rd of the price, and that money went to paying everyone on the grounds double, and people who were fans who could never afford one currently were as prevalent as hedge-fund children, like, wouldn’t “the world” be better off? Why do we have to swallow Ticketmaster monopolies, subsidized and greedy sports-stadium practices, exploitative temp agencies, and the general aggressive resentment yet ambivalence that comes with knowing, deep in your soul, and with practical penalties, you don’t belong in the bowl.

I envisioned poor kids sneaking in and peering through cracks at a coliseum while I was there. You never see, at least in movies, someone coming over and throwing the kids off the wall. Today’s kids might be a touch more dangerous, but I think there’s something to the notion of music and an alleged community built around it doing as much as it can to foster and expand. I know in Seattle she set up a whole system so people could watch from the parking lot who didn’t have tickets. I know she gave her whole crew major bonuses. How do we get more of that from everyone everywhere who has the power and money? If we’ll never be able to matter-of-fact expect them, when will we get around to compelling?

[1166] Bye The Numbers

When I was a kid, my mom was shopping around for a church. For a few weeks, we’d try different ones, some we literally couldn’t stop laughing and making fun of as we sat in the pews, one that felt like a YMCA with the different activity rooms and mega-church-wanna-be vibes. I wandered into what was a kids playroom and those vegetable cartoons were playing on the TV. “We are the pirates, that don’t do anything.” I’m 36 years old, and that line still bugs the fuck out of me. It feels like a summary of the several books I’d need to write explaining my problems with “religious” thinking.

Whatever one wants to accept in regarding the modern era as having a “meaning crisis,” I think words still mean things. I think pirate means something. A pirate was my school mascot. Pirates of the Caribbean is a franchise so popular it can be bled for attention and money indefinitely. You can get a grounded and historical view of pirates and how Thomas Jefferson handled them. What pirates aren’t, are shitty lyric-singing entities that “don’t do anything.”

Religion is a process that is designed to turn Truth, into truth. It gives you a personal truth. It let’s you invert words. It lets you empower your feelings and create substructures of reality that do the heavy lifting where you’re unwilling or unable to find the personal responsibility. A pirate is a rapist, murdering, thief who has no business in being associated with children. The caricature and theft of the word “pirate,” can go anywhere at any time for any reason, like becoming my school mascot.

Now, I’m someone who understands and does not have some kind of visceral emotive reaction every time a concept is seemingly misappropriated. I don’t care in some kind of aggrieved nerd way about protecting IP or cannon when it comes to cultural expression broadly. I care about the ability to recognize what’s happening when you do so as a matter of habit across different contexts. I care when you get stuck in a “religious mindset” about something, oh, I don’t know, like one that wants to obliterate the word “genocide.” Or one that habitually downplays the spirit and nature of fascism.

I’ve heard a lot recently, from debates between Richard Dawkins and Jordan Peterson to discussions with Peter Boghossian and what sounded like a brilliant and articulate scholar and yet horrifying Christian apologist Wael Taji Miller. It’s the notion that we’re “all Christian,” in the broadest sense of Western values. You’ll get soundbites of someone like Dawkins “agreeing” even as he’s trying, hopelessly, to keep the conversation grounded in “yes” or “no” answers to things like “Was Jesus born of a virgin?” No one should have trouble answering that question, yet, in the obfuscating equating substructure of religious apologetics, “was” “Jesus” “born” “of” “a” and “virgin” all mean something so convoluted and contradictory to match the mores of his individual sense of self, Jordan has to pause, answer with a another question, belabor the mythology, etc.

This is something I think is most damaging and painful to think about when it’s literal scientists who practice the same behavior. You won’t find a better explainer for some highly complicated topic like gene expression or chemical bonds, and then they’ll wedge some sentiment about god in there for …antagonistic effect?

There’s a lot of problems when it comes to how you market and teach information. They don’t get easier when your motivating principle is the one like social media has adopted of “engagement.” How you engage, for how long, what content, what it’s doing to you, none of that matters. Religious thinking was our first attempt at creating a social media company. *Have you heard the good news? Now you can connect with anyone, anywhere, and be united forever if you just sign up and follow these rules that violate your autonomy, privacy, and capacity to think freely beyond emotional manipulation.

I think, literally, you can’t even recognize what I’m talking about unless you’re someone hyper-concerned about things like “rhetoric” and “apologetics. For your average person, I don’t think those are words they’ve ever used, let alone can define. Unless I’d fallen down the “new atheist” rabbit hole as a teenager, I doubt I’d have many occasions to use them in spite of my academically-inclined disposition. You don’t go to church to hear about the “reasoning” behind “love thy neighbor,” it’s just more or less demanded of you, in spite of your actual, practical, ability to do so.

And here’s the most confusing and insidious layer, because actual, practical, abilities of money, group-think, and cultural influence manifest explicitly for people. When “the church” helps you rebuilt after a fire, you give zero fucks how many little boys they want to rape when you’re back in your bed and so thankful. When “the church” runs the food bank, it may as well be Jesus personally stuffing the nearly-expired food down your family’s throats. The cultural zeitgeist and landscape, therefore, gets considered “Christian.” You’d think we were the only species to share food.

I think everything good and contributing to our survival is derived from evolutionary, reactive, processes, and as our intelligence grew to protect us from deadly consequences, we’ve let narrative arcs supplant harsher forms of natural selection. You want a girl basically pledged to you since birth? Stay in your religion. “Women’s rights” aren’t really a thing, because “rights” aren’t a thing, because “your right” is whatever “you are right about” within the confines of irrational-yet-(co-opted concept)rational religious behavior.

Religious thinking always wants it both ways. They want the excuse, but to claim the responsibility. They want the reason, but the infinite sea of irrationality that justifies. They want the power while claiming victimhood. They want to be of consequences at all costs while maintaining they’re just following the rules.

“With or without religion, good people can behave well and bad people can do evil; but for good people to do evil - that takes religion.”
― Steven Weinberg

The section below I wrote a week or so ago and never completed. It was what was bubbling for me to arrive at the above.

If there’s one thing I wish “we” as a “culture” would learn how to do, it’s quantify.

I think about how much gets lost in the weeds of rhetoric and emotional appeals. Why, ever, in a modern environment would we be so compelled by a “strong man” or any narrative that is explicitly disinterested in context? Personally, I’m so rarely moved by emotion just as a probably-autistic person that I’ve watched my entire life situations compound and explode utterly baffled by why no one was willing to even nod in the direction of the greater reality or circumstances.

I do think this is an outgrowth of the psychological apologetics we engage in to protect religious thinking. When your faith claims come in the form of “absolute truth” instead of “practical necessity,” to my mind, literally anything goes. Up means down, wrong means right, just like an animal reacting in any instinctive way to circumstances it doesn’t understand. I see nothing more reliably consistent than this across environments. “Smart” people do it. “Rich” people circle their wagons. Any time you get two people together who desire to feed off the other’s excuse-making energy, we default to our basest animal that justifies compounding deadly sin.

This is where things that aren’t complicated get to be played at indefinitely as though they are complicated.

I’m not a thought or word police person. I do think, fundamentally, comedians like Tony Hinchcliffe get to say bad jokes as often as their career can handle. I don’t think jokes, in and of themselves, and especially coming from professional comedians, are the thing that “pollutes” the public discourse or “harms” and “endangers” people. That’s not what a joke is nor the function of a comedian.

The massive, under-stated and under-appreciated problem, is when you adopt fascism. Fascism is religious fervor played out in more directly and practically implicated ways against a particular group. Fascism empowers an individual to double down on deadly sinful behavior. When you “just do you” next to or in service to fascism, you’re no longer what you were the moment before you made that choice. Every one of a fascist’s generals were otherwise “normal” people with held-harmless jobs and lives until they started playing into and normalizing the depravity. The ones that survived immediately tried to return to that normalcy, some being tried at The Hague decades after because…you don’t get to.

We entertain an endless stream of disingenuous and completely vacuous conversation around what is or isn’t “dangerous” and “harmful” that doesn’t count things. We even pretend to count! In forming a narrative around our particular oppression, when in context, tells the exactly opposite story. We just don’t count the money and what it does. We don’t count the people getting directly negatively affected by a policy. We don’t count the time it does or does not take to engage someone and persuade or inform them. We don’t break it down into a cold and useful calculation like an assembly line does for man-hours-to-parts anticipated.

I don’t think we even barely grasp the conditions from which we’re starting, and we have no idea where we want to go, so we don’t even entertain the idea there’s something to be counted or approached in a more deliberate and methodical way.

The broader view that can approximate how many people are dispositionally fascist is about as close as we can get. The one that shows us how often we’d rather disengage and isolate is on full display with the amount of people who don’t vote. The long-term impacts of legislation and cultural narratives get hijacked to every end and supplant the graphs that depict republicans bankrupting institutions and enriching friends in spite of children. Before we had any data, we had what used to be compelling stories about the nature of greed, gluttony, and pride.

In fact, we don’t need religious dogma to witness “sinful” behavior in nature, but you’d think it was all invented wholesale by religion. A series of chronic inescapable conditions for which we all must be constantly redeemed. That’s convenient.

[1165] Bottom Feeding

Whether it's a book, or a YouTube series, there's something about argumentative patterns I'd really like to explore. I've noticed, for as long as I can remember, these habits we get into when we're trying to sound reasonable. We presume it's "the following list of reasons" we offer that "make sense" or "justify" where we're coming from. From what I can see, it's the exact same internally emotional places using language in a very particular way.

My sensibility was kicked into overdrive when I listened to a Bari Weiss podcast where she's interviewing 3 people who switched from voting democrat to Trump. They were all deeply political types who march, volunteer, run for things, etc. These aren't the arbitrary "undecideds" who can't spout a book-length answer to questions. If you have the patience to strip down the extremely feverish rhetoric, it's hard not to see that they're each just hurt or confused emotionally, and there's choice phrases and redundancies that clue me in.

And here's where I get to be disappointing because I don't want to re-listen to the podcast right now and pull them all out.

What I can do is provide the process and mechanism that people use to justify breaking their capacity to reason.

One has to assume they are coming from a "first principles" place when they make a declarative or moral statement. Something, at bottom, has to be "true" or practically assumed for anything else to follow. Whether that something is coherent or consistent is an extremely open question.

It doesn't matter what the issue is. That's the key thing to keep in mind. You can't understand how the mechanism breaks if you listen to someone's line of reasoning down the track they take alone. If someone tells you "I don't like her answer on foreign policy!" That's not the operative information. What matters is that they feel a certain level of fear, despair, exasperation, and/or other things that emotionally persuade them to start carrying water for what was previously unacceptable about the opposition.

It then becomes exceptionally easy to write-off literally anything you need to. You also get stuck to a handful of reasonable-sounding reiterations.

I've learned that it doesn't matter how "smart" you are, or how quickly you speak, or how many references you can make, you are at the mercy of your feelings until you choose not to be. A "first principle" that is conjured by your feelings is neither first, nor a principle. It's the needy, hopeless, ridiculous child of insecure instinct and ego that is constantly begging to be appeased.

You can see a snapshot of this articulated brilliantly with Ben Shapiro as a person in general, but especially when he's talking to(at) people at The Oxford Union. The clash of alleged first principles is on display explicitly from the people arguing against him. They operate under the working assumption that Israel doesn't have a right to exist in the first place. Ben, to his credit and seemingly only in this area of life, manages to ensure this is brought to the forefront of the "debate" they're trying to have over history or who's "more genocidal."

As to the "true impact" of religion? That's going to antagonize Ben's internal irrational animal, and he'll speed-run his mountain of apologetics that are perfectly unpersuadable. I don't believe he, or anyone, needs magic sky daddies to come up with moral frameworks or good reasons to tow certain lines because I have a first principle about the nature of pain and consequences. If I can see something coming or don't want to get fucked up, the universe "magically" shows me the way to keep my hand out of the fire.

You know when a comedy show goes into a crowd of radicals and starts on-the-spot questioning? The loops people go into. The honest ones will betray their emotions and state explicitly they don't know something they're allegedly angry about. The rowdiest ones will return to their catchphrases or megaphones. Well, "intellectual" people will do that too, but they'll use a particular interview or quote from someone with the right letters and credentials. Both demonstrate that, what's at bottom, is how they feel, and literally nothing that comes out of their mouth is the kind of truth they wish it to be.

To develop a first principle you have to believe certain things about what it is to exist altogether. You have to ask yourself, constantly, what your individual responsibility is to that existence. If you don't develop that belief system, or don't defer to a falsifiable metric in your attempt, nothing really matters. It, in fact, can't matter, because it's not rooted or defined. It's a constant abstraction of your feelings, dressed up in so many words or justifications. This is why we're so hungry to "just accept" religious doctrines, and celebrate "faith" because they pretend to do the work of that first principle formation for us.

This is where you'll find every level of equivocation, precisely without irony. When someone exists as anything they need to to get away with anything they desire, without even realizing it, they will offer you the format of technical and philosophical "bullshit." It's an attempt to persuade, without regard to the truth. The target of persuasion? The person touting the bullshit themselves. They're searching, infinitely, for the words to match their emotional truth. Emotional solidarity and polite looking the other way becomes the only currency.

Of course, they're never going to define their emotional truth as an irrational screaming child suffering a sense of betrayal and disorientation. That would clash dramatically against their self-conception as a Harvard graduate or community organizer delegate, or serious person who memorizes pivotal historical dates like a preacher does bible verses. But, the truth, as far as I can tell, is they are, like most of us, screaming, scared, irrational animals first.

I think mental murder is achieved when you pretend like "all politicians" anything. You have not even the remotest first principle about the definition, importance, history, or purpose of "organizing" as a concept. Why would you? It's not taught in school. Your day to day life is provided. Your road to "serious person" with appropriate title was laid out clear as day. When you pretend to care about what a politician "lies" about, you're not literally counting lies and saying, "By the numbers, I'm going with the democrats because Trump lied 30,573 times over 4 years." That would be too dispassionate and grounded.

When you pretend to care about lies, you're elevating your token issue. When someone is "incomplete" about how they'll "support the Jews," they will exist in that state indefinitely until you've gotten your emotional revenge. One way you can be extra sure this is where someone is psychologically is when they can't stop repeating some hateful label about what you are or what your beliefs mean. When challenged, they'll just repeat themselves and say something like, "Why would I talk to an (x) altogether?" Tried and true strategy in maintaining a stupid bubble.

A first principle around communication with the "other side" would be capable of developing a tool for discerning a troll versus partner in conversation. It would concede more alikeness than difference if only because you're human or sharing a language in spite of its many connotative conceits. It would remain sensitive and qualifying when it moved to make a caricature or assumption about where someone was coming from. There's a soft pedantry for the sake of clarity. You're not trying to "gotcha" when a colloquialism or fair-enough sentiment betrays a dictionary.

If I could ever get paid to do like "take down" videos parsing out conversations and podcasts, that'd be fun. I appreciate those with like advanced degrees who refute, with deep technical prowess, morons. I know there are plenty of logical fallacies and psychological terms related to everything I'm talking about, and I think it's a lot harder to see just how quickly and fluidly they manifest in what otherwise presents like a reasonable adult or professional conversation.

I get the jarring experience of listening back-to-back Left and Center-right podcasts/people which helps inform how I see the pattern too. The dismissive quips offered by the If Books Could Kill and 5-to-4 crowd feel irksome when they're doing exactly what they'd accuse a Bari Weiss of with regard to a given author or "deeply personal" subject matter like Gaza or trans activism. It's funny to see how earnestly Anthony Scaramucci prioritizes a piece of Tim Walz on the debate stage versus how the Pod Save America guys do. The "secret" value statements of their class and character pop out.

To my mind, I've listened to them all sound not-batshit and agreeing on what I would consider my first principles, but their emotions don't allow them to say so. I've heard both If Books Could Kill and Bari Weiss podcasts say, for example, that the science around trans stuff is incredibly sparse, and there are meaningful reasons to be skeptical about the DSM and implementation of diagnostic criterion. Why not start there and have a conversation? Why, ever, introduce the language of "mutilated children," like the increasingly myopic hyperbolic rabbit holes of Peter Boghossian's universe where he "can't find anyone on the other side" to talk to." Coleman Hughes manages to, somehow. Neither side wants to mutilate children. Neither side agrees on the number who have been. Those seem foundational for coherence.

Like me, I think people who vehemently argue for anything are implicitly trying to synthesize. It's very disorienting to be fielding a constant stream of information and never feeling like you land somewhere. It doesn't feel right to be rooted in dispassionate skepticism. It doesn't feel right to use your emotions as one, relatively small, informer of your overall viewpoint. It doesn't feel right to find common cause with something "disgusting" or "hateful" or hellbent on "erasing your identity." It's nearly impossible for most people to accept that that's precisely what they are and where they're speaking from. It's nearly impossible to accept because emotionally defaulting to black and white thinking, either/or, in-crowd out-crowd, is the default.

I'm disgusting, hateful, and trying to erase self-conceptions all the time. That's not something I "admit," it's just a true series of things. Devoid of context, the hundred other things I can say about myself, they'd carry all they needed to for anyone disinterested in understanding me. More to my point, they won't understand themselves. Then, hours and hours, and often lifetimes, will be spent trying to fill something that was never a wholly conceived capable-of-being-filled "thing" in the first place.

[1164] Buzz

I feel like the last few times I've gone to write, the essence of the "randomness" in my head is not breaking through. I feel like I'm only taking quarter or half shits. There's a dozen lines or insights from the things I'm listening to that never make their way in. There's moods and observations skipped right over. I really want to rectify this. As I type, if you feel yourself understanding, you might be having a stroke.

Hasan Minhaj speaking to Mike Birbiglia talked about being all-in when it comes to comedy. As you're coming up, you differentiate the people who happen to take to the stage sometimes, and those who put their whole ass into this being the path and lifestyle.

This is a familiar feeling I get when I observe people. This distance between me and whomever I'm looking at who has clearly chosen some path. It doesn't have to be something particularly showy or grandios. I'm somewhat flabbergasted by the plumber just as much as I am the known performer. I've never wanted anything to the degree that I would put my whole life and sense of direction or intention behind it.

We can look at the things I've done the longest. Writing is the far and away winner there. It's the one thing save basic survival behavior I've done for 21-ish years now? And it's more of a "have to" kind of thing because I don't want to hurt myself or others. I've heard comedians discuss their careers in those terms. School comes in second, which again was more or less compulsory. I was in a relationship for 5 years, but depending on how in the weeds you want to get there, you might only count 2 or 3 of them. The longest job I've had was my first, at the theater, for 2 years and 8 months. DCS was second at a week shy of 2 years. Aside from growing up, where I live currently is the longest I've stayed in one place, about 7 years.

The gentleman training me at the factory job I quit today had been there for 22 years. Before that, he was at KFC for 25. Talk about whole-assing.

Him, and the other people on the lines at the factory, I have to stress to remind myself, are all people. They don't look, feel, or sound like people as they're silently repeating actions on plastic car parts for 10 to 12 hours a day. But they're people. They're people who are getting exploited, even if their circumstances have been greatly improved working there compared perhaps to where they are from. I found it fascinating that way more than you'd think couldn't speak basically any English. The "excitement" of stupid-fascism snapped into focus in that environment.

I would put money on the fact that none of those people are the types to come home, write a big reflection on their experience of their job, dig into the politics of the moment, and play with the spreadsheet of their wages. It's not to knock them. It's to discuss, fucking dramatic, differences in types of people. I already stick out amongst the ones you'd think would be more my ilk, but holy shit. Put your head down, repeat, stay as long as we tell you, take what we say is fair in pay, do it for years? If you can wrap your head around that, you've got something I don't.

There's this chasm in talking about things trying to match the feeling language with the "reality." You might clock perfectly well that there's something rotten about the existential circumstance that cobbles hundreds of vulnerable people together to hock Subarus. You definitely clock being hungry, or the worries and obligations towards your family. At that juncture, I, hopefully not too hastily and cuntily wonder, are you really living?

I worry about this question constantly. I'm not under the impression an afterlife is waiting for me. I'm not super keen on martyrdom, slave-value-esc sacrifices, and choking shit down because "one day" it "gets better." No the fuck it doesn't. It just stays "like this." Every day. Every single fucking day is exactly like this, and sometimes you'll snap your fucking truck mirror off trying to be polite to let your neighbor pass on your country ass road, and sometimes you'll be gifted a vehicle that helps you escape many dire circumstances both real and self-imposed. I had tape in the truck, so, like most things in my life, it functions, but it'll never be pretty.

I've been writing music. I've got a song that I started out not liking for all the stuff I would have done better, then each time I listen to it, probably past 100 by now, I like it more and more, even though it's still definitely fucked up and could be re-recorded, but why? There's this interesting thing that happens where all of the most melodramatic and ridiculous feelings get almost mocked in their condensed form to make a song structure. As someone who has written out so much of his complicated series of swirling bullshit thoughts, when I can just be like "maybe I should just die" in a disquieting upbeat tone set against a dissonant background, it does so much of the same work in a different way. I'm both a better and worse singer, piano player, and drummer than I ever thought I could be.

That's one of the things I got to do today not going into the factory. I had a few lyrics hit me as I was helping my friend pick up a water tank. You can't use your phone on the shop floor, or have to disappear to the bathroom. I think any amount of words put to music are more important than a Subaru fender. You can disagree or decry apples vs oranges, and I'll call you a cunt, and we'll depart not as friends.

I felt such relief Door Dashing today. It's a weird thing to think about. All of those "side-hustle" companies have just as many issues as any other. But you know what? I was listening to podcasts. I signed off and on when I wanted. I made enough money to let it sink in that it's a viable way to hit my floor so I don't have to stress as badly. I don't have to think about driving 4 hours directly to Chicago to catch my next show, Whitney Cummings, from the factory because I couldn't come up earlier.

I've become, still incredibly mildly, invested in this phone videogame Last War. I have a team that genuinely tries to beat other people. I don't think I would like or get along with nearly any of them in real life and most of their chats upset me. It's just incredibly awkward 30 to 40-something women in the leadership positions who have all alluded to their upper-class lives and basic-bitch tastes. It's the closest I can come to embodying "factory-type person." I click all the bubbles, calculate rewards, and do my little schoolyard version of Starcraft building and strategizing. When I first entered the alliance, I was dismissive and condescending to one of the leaders saying I did not intend to treat the game like a job. This, in response to her awkward ass energy having a whole ass conversation by herself, like 15 texts, after I blocked her. I discovered said texts weeks later after a cooldown period and unblocking that helps bring coherence to the group chat.

It's getting colder, and it's another winter in which I've neglected building a wood-burning stove. Every year I pretty desperately need it for a good portion of time, and every year I spend money on literally anything else. The overall desire to build out/on my land has dwindled dramatically. I spend most of my time right here, just as I did when I was in apartments and other houses. I'm either in front of my computer, asleep, or not home the vast majority of my time. Every extra room is something new to clean, fix when I inevitably build it wrong, or act as a drain on my already massively inflated electric bills.

I'm gonna stop for a while because my eyes hurt.

It's a few days later. The Whitney Cummings show was alright. I got to spend most of the weekend with my friend. We watched another Marvel movie and got wine drunk. I (she pays me) cleaned her house, car, and garage. I was unable to Door Dash because the gifted car immediately broke down, but I've learned this morning it's back up and running. After my session with a new client tonight, I'll go and pick it up and dash a few hours.

I listened to a couple books while I was cleaning. The Elephant in the Brain discussed the performative games humanity plays to fit in and signal all the right things. It wasn't anything new information wise, but it's nice to know other autistic-adjacent people like Coleman Hughes and the author are resonating with the same themes of my experience. In the book, a discussion of this bird who spends all of its energy creating a human-sized display struck me. Is that not my whole existence out here? Except the momma birds in that species don't expect dad to raise the kids.

When I go to Chicago, I fantasize a lot about owning one of the apartments across the street or right above the venues I go to. I have to drive 4 hours, get parking, be awake and sober enough to get back home. Or I have to be on time and directionally aware if I take the train at least into the city. When I look up how much it would cost to live across from The Chicago Theatre, it's minimum $1500 a month, more likely $2000 to $2500. I'm assuming this leaves out utilities, garbage, or anything else the city or an HOA inevitably tacks on. My property taxes, electric, and internet for the year still don't go above $5,000.

It makes it easy to "kill the fantasy" when I consider how much I would have to work to keep my little box with all of its rules, noises, and neighbors so I could "conveniently" walk to and from a show. It also wouldn't be mine, like my land is. I also, never, have someone coming up to me asking for cigarettes or change, and I keep off weight not having the world's best food around every corner. But, I love Chicago, and were I rich, I would get an apartment there and try to immerse myself in it deeper.

I think about my ex-friend's uncle who killed himself. The last time we talked was at Christmas a few years ago, and he talked about how he has so much money, time, and he's never been more sad in his whole life. My counsel at the time was to focus his energy on a problem worthy of his status. If you have money and time, what are you working on that matters? Matters to you, at least? If you don't set and reset goals in an ongoing way, you get stuck reflecting on all the stuff you've surrounded yourself by that has transformed in meaning. It's not the thing you're striving for anymore. It's not a reason to get out of bed. It's not to alleviate a pain. It's just there, mocking you. My home, like Chicago, like every individual life, is a complicated series of thousands of decisions and circumstantial happenings that require constant attendance and reorganizing.

It's why I'm never done writing. I'm seeking a peaceful-enough platform to continue engaging in decisions that never feel that correct. I can build confidence into them, but I'm staking an existential claim with each one. This is what I want. This is who I am. I can intellectually accept that I am constantly changing and any kind of static statement is illusory. But shaking a persistent feeling? I still feel, in some ways, like I did as a child. If nothing is really permanent, what do you make of that? Perhaps it can never be accurately articulated, but it's a force, impression, hint, echo, something that I don't think can or should be ignored.

I've been thinking more about stealing. I mean in the context of music or creating things with my woodshop. I think way too damn hard about what to do with my time or days, and it leaves me feeling lazy and paralyzed no matter how much I actually get done. I can knock out every errand, help a friend, build something, retrieve a car, work, and get home like "You fucking cunt, 3 hours went by, and all you did was more TV?" I worry about the costs of experimenting with some new side-quest that I hope makes me money. I hit certain, pretty foreseeable roadblocks, when I jump into one of my dozen land projects. I get bored before I begin to even bother grinding through the next videogame.

But I like the idea of like, learning how to craft or make little trinkets in tribute to the things I already like. Can I make a fun wall decoration of the hand grenade heart? Can I resurrect split-up bands or celebrate my favorite songs with things I could churn out from scrap wood, but still make look cool? I've thought about crafting something I could give my favorite comedians, especially the ones coming up. Even talking about it like gives me a sense of vigor and excitement.

I can feel the order of operations in my head at all times. I need to secure (x) amount of dollars first, which entails maybe door dashing for 2 to 5 days morning to night. Then it's make peace with locking myself down and not wasting money on gas. I gotta make sure to get all my laundry and food shopping done while I'm out. I need to submit more applications and job search. I need to plan for what I'll need to do more projects for my friend in rehabbing her house. Then, I might "have the time" or secure the headspace to spend a few hours learning how best to go about making little gifts for the people who make me laugh. If I don't do it like that, I'll undermine my ability to get any piece of that train done.

I understand this is the nature of my irrational compelling feelings. I can refute it. I can choose differently. But it will take a lot of energy and constant redirection. I don't know if exerting my energy that way is necessary. I do know that this is the exact nature of how or why people do or don't change with regard to literally anything in their life. There's an order of operations, almost never articulated, that steers the ship independent of the reality of any given moment. I can watch a woodworking video right now, but it's not where my head "feels" is "correct. " I can change that feeling.

I've been setting myself up for failure looking for the same kind of desperate rush and hyper-focus of my past. Nothing is going to invigorate me like the naive story I was riding about my potential and future. I've lived too long, met too many people, worked on too many things to "believe" anything. I see the structure. I recognize the luck. I understand the need for having something you can sustainably do constantly that crashes into enough people until you can properly plug in. I recognize the road to fame and the road to business owner. I don't have an adequate daily practice, and that's informed by years of daily practices being aggressively undermined, ignored, or exploited.

What do you practice when the nature of practice turns suspect? I think my instinct about giving things I create to people who give me what they're creating provides an answer of gratitude or appreciation. I never stop practicing writing. I never stop practicing learning, from how to record music now to what small woodworking things I've done recently. I think you practice flexibility, from me doing squats to mental flexibility in thinking about what I might have to do to escape stupid-fascism and entrenched enshittified moral calculators.

I don't need a religion, but I do need to belong. I don't, in so many ways. I do, kinda, sometimes, here and there, when I'm up for the performance. Whether it's fair to the people I'm closest with or not, I can't shake the sense that I'm one day going to fuck it all up or see it destroyed? It could be an ongoing childhood trauma response or just a reflection on how pressed up against my chaotic nature I really am. If fundamentalists of any stripe are even fractionally afraid of that sensibility, it makes sense the amount of shit they would swallow and holler about in order to maintain the faux sense of order.

In 30 minutes I'll hold a session with my new client. I need to eat. I need to find the will to dash. I also think I'm going to utilize my white board to try and draw out a big mind-map of the different little tasks I want to explore for making money. I genuinely feel like this entirely different kind of existence is just around the corner. I have so, so much, potential, so poorly organized. You could not ask for more tools, time, or things to constantly learn about and experiment with. What's the nature of the challenge worthy of that/me? Do I exercise the discipline, or pretend I need to roam around the woods until I find it? I think I'd prefer to belong in the cage I build myself than the ones I find myself trapped in.

[1163] Boo Collar

It's official, I can say I've "worked in manufacturing," even if it's been barely. I found myself on a shop floor moving things from one bin to another and one said of the room to another, tailing an older gentleman who had been working there for 22 years. 90% of the job I learned in the first hour. I have a solid-enough instinct for staying out of the way from racing forklifts. I made 3 small errors that took less than a minute to rectify.

I was there because i've cornered myself into absolutely needing "a job." A temp agency placed me there. It's a touch more than half of what I'd make in my field. They've already made an issue out of "overtime," essentially keeping it secret what that would precisely entail until you're on the floor. The shift is, technically, 6:30 AM to 3 PM. You get a $2/hr "bonus" if you have "perfect attendance" which can be undermined by showing up 5 minutes late any day. With overtime, they expect you to stay until 5 PM. 

 What this means is essentially a 13 hour day, 5 days a week, at what is grinding, mind-numbing work. I have to try to force myself to sleep early, which never works, wake up at 5:30ish, get to work early enough to not threaten my "bonus," and then get home 6ish. Invariably thinking about how fucked my life has become. I know, even as my best self, I cannot sustain that. It's not labor intensive. It's not too quick paced. I'm not going to complain about my aching back and hands from walking around and pushing things on wheels. 

What struck me most was the people. You could see the deadened resolve of "these are my circumstances." No one was really talking to each other. Very few people even feigned smiling or head-nodding as you walked by. You are made into a machine, and you perform your function at or better than the pace indicated overhead. The gentleman I got temp-hired on with worked there previously for a couple years, then explained how bad it got and why he had to leave. He complained that similar jobs were on offer in or near his home up the road in Brazil for $18-$22 an hour, and he's just biding his time until one of them calls him back. 

 I'm desperate enough that I think I can shut my brain off for a couple weeks. I also immediately applied to every remotely open, regardless of how poorly rated, addiction counseling company, located anywhere, I could. Certain experiences have a way of clarifying why you’re no longer willing to be picky or high-minded about what impact you might have. Watching souls actively leaving dozens of bodies is one of those experiences.

It also got me thinking about the fervor and entitlement in the voice of the guy who hired on too. It brought me back to Steak N Shake, where the drug-addled children spoke so highly of themselves and how screwed the place would be if they quit. Everyone has this story about their place and vital position in these massive corporations who literally wouldn’t notice if you died 30 seconds after your shift and just outside the parking lot.

It’s with that blind and naive pride that you get people defending their low pay, exploitative overtime hours, and weird gamification for $1,000 drawings if you download the company app and spend too much at the company over-priced mini-mart. It’s one, insanely huge thing, to negotiate with yourself to handle financial business by entertaining a place like that just long enough. It’s entirely another to be born and bred from that culture, baked into it like it’s normal or human to be set on repeat, insofar as we are pattern-seeking animals, but goddamn.

It’s one more instance I get to bear witness to as far as “chronic conditioning” is concerned. You might be fooled into thinking it’s more a Tetris-like zen going through the set of motions related to your very specific lane. But it’s so much darker than that. And, to be sure, I begrudge no one who enjoys their work or provides for themselves or their family. I just find it excruciating to think about how the baseline conception of a conscious human is so far removed, it’s less hard to imagine why we’re always teetering on a meltdown.

[1162] Mad Man

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on the idea of me being “angry all the time.” It’s one of the most true and consistent things about me. I’m ready, pretty much at any moment, to make something of a show out of how much pent-up feelings I have about something. I’m not precisely looking for an excuse to blow, but I am secretly daring the universe to test me. Based on my size and history, I have every reason to believe I could be some dramatic display of consequences that fly in the face of my otherwise training, practice, and outward display 99.9% of the time.

I forget where I read it, but this is apparently a well-documented and categorized personality already. That took some of the oomph out of my enthusiasm for my potential years ago. If you’re reading the right books, you’ll reduce yourself to someone’s particular field’s cliche with every chapter eventually. At the same time, being capable of an explosive episode is different from a standing anger.

The circumstances that provoke the anger are going to be often obscure or counter-intuitive. I don’t get intimidated or scared and adrenaline-rushed by other dudes macho-manning or doing the weird almost-kiss chest bump thing. I didn’t get angry when my SNAP card info was skimmed and food money was stolen. I don’t get angry at the weather, even though I deeply hate snow. I don’t get angry at animals for doing animal things until it’s a reflection of the ambivalence of their owners.

Here we start to breach into the base of the anger. I want to believe people have more control than they care to acknowledge. There are many standing mysteries regarding life, agency, “free will,” and spooky probabilistic means of describing existence. As a person, as a conscious agent, I think there is as clear and obvious difference between making a choice and doing something like this writing, and throwing my hands up to suffer and proclaim the inevitability of my victimhood.

There’s dozens of ways to describe this. When my cat jumps on the table and thinks he’s going to eat my food, I can bop him on the nose or ass. I can do it every single time until he arrives at the place he is today, looking onward from 3 to 5 feet away, not even trying. It might take months or years, but the reality for him has no less been molded by me and clearly set in for him. The less-conscious agent I’ve taken the responsibility over to both be kept alive and turned into less of an annoying cunt.

I don’t find this controversial, hard to understand, immoral, or anything less than necessary in order to function in my home where I would like to eat in peace. I’m not punching, bruising, or breaking the cat. I’m speaking a universal language that gets me where I want us to go. It’s right here I will say exactly one line about the fucking idiots who would never harm an animal as though we’re in Narnia and a deal could be cut with his instincts, or that it’s somehow noble to live at the mercy of the ambivalent destruction of nature.

I don’t blame the cat. I blame people who would construct a fantasy around what a cat is and let that pollute how you might better engage and orient one. It works the other way too. My, extremely shy and scared female cat? I’ve turned her into an annoying lap cat. I don’t yell at her for crawling into my lap. I’ve spent years constantly training her to normalize and not flinch at pets. Now, she doesn’t even move sometimes as I go to step over her. My will be done, sometimes overdone. I was lucky enough to grow up with collies and know very well how much you can get a dog to do if you care and try and mold.

I find myself most often in conversations that betray what I know to be true, not just about myself and the nature of control, but about pets, health, government, or really any single interpersonal interaction. This is probably the heart of my anger.

A few days ago, as it’s now time to vote in Indiana, as I sent out a couple texts encouraging people in my life to do so, I had a friend respond that she wasn’t going to. She offered the cliches; they’re all corrupt, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t mean anything to her, she’s not informed enough, yada yada. A day later, I sent her another text saying, “I’m not trying to persuade you, but I’m curious, what would it take you to vote?” She responded, “Money.” So I asked, “How much?”

This then kicked off an anger-inducing exchange where, all of a sudden, she’s behaving as though her vote matters to her, and when I earnestly say I would buy it from her, she’s got paragraphs of excuses and explanations I have less than 0 interest in fielding. I don’t need her to explain. I don’t need her to contextualize. I do not care if she doesn’t care, provided I can carry on with my agenda.

But, that’s exactly what she said. She’s talking out of both sides of her mouth. She’s carrying on as though her life as it’s currently being conducted is “just hers” bestowed upon her as an inevitable perfect manifestation that suits her preferences. The kicker? She’s an addiction counselor. It’s her job to help people wake up to their patterns that keep them under the threat of dying or destroying everything they care about.

I understand, at some level, the societal need for performance, ritual, polite pleasantries, and the facade of basic civility. There is something practically and inextricably “corrupt” about the ways in which we communicate and navigate shared spaces. I’ve already explained my latest understanding of lying, and I don’t think the majority of how we engage with each other in those veins are the dangerous corrosive kinds of lies.

Yet, there’s what appears to be a spillover effect where we treat ourselves as superficially, and that’s where the disingenuous danger appears.

Of course your decisions, awareness, and actions matter. That you have a choice to perform one thing over another matters. It’s, to me, literally the only thing that can truly matter if you’re going to distinguish yourself as a moral person and not some arbitrary collection of atoms. I feel like, to deny this, you’d have to be perfectly okay being force-fed any type of food, merely kept alive. Surely, you have food preferences, right? You'd like it to enter your body through your mouth and not a tube cut into your stomach?

When I think about a cultural narrative that either sees us colonizing space or ending up wiped out via nuclear holocaust, it’s the distance between responsible personal agency, and forlorn ambivalent conclusions.

At many levels, we are stuck. We don’t know what we don’t know. We can’t perfectly predict the weather, but we can evacuate. To deny yourself the use of your legs, vehicles, or eyes and ears taking in the news is inhuman. I don’t think you get fascism unless a major plurality of people are not just subverting and excusing and denying their humanity, but an even larger portion of people are letting them get away with it.

It’s an everyday kind of exercise. Every day you have to find your power, choices, and orient yourself against, or in concert, with the way the wind is blowing. It’s work. It’s hard. It’s most often unfair. It’s the operative difference between being human, or just an animal. Are you a perpetually justified at-the-mercy-of-instinct being? I’m not, and we’re made of the same stuff. It makes me incredibly angry when you sacrifice yourself, and in turn me, to your base animal. I actually want to live, and live in a particular kind of way. I can’t achieve my goals pretending, like you, that I don’t have them.

We normalize complacent, complicit, hopelessness constantly. “It is what it is.” That’s my go-to catch-all summary. You, in all your majesty and wisdom, know what it is more than anyone else, and you think it’s time to give up, ride it out, and die. Thanks, dick bag. “They’re all corrupt!” That’s not just simply not true, it’s not true-enough to matter for the issue at hand. Identify and vote for someone who is not corrupt, or barring that, less corrupt. Are you corrupt? If so, how much corruption are you willing to stand from your representative so you can keep functioning as you please?

I can kick the shit out of most people. I can snap into verbally and emotionally abusive language in a split-second. I’m the meanest person I know, and I go through zero emotional withdrawal when I shift into those demonstrations of my character. I’m as petty, small, volatile, ignorant, hateful, spiteful, judgemental, and ridiculous as anyone you’ve ever met. That doesn’t mean I don’t have a choice. That doesn’t mean I get to deny the compounding nature of my better habits. That doesn’t mean I get to let my vitriol excuse my responsibility to myself or others.

I don’t know how much of it is a consequence of the internet, or of the general wealth and decadence of modernity, or of the targeted plots of nefarious power-hungry actors, but we seem to have forgotten how to feel meaningful shame. We should be ashamed of our laziness and pride. We should be ashamed of empowering those who fuel our anger and resentments. We should be ashamed of emboldening our indignant self-righteous pretensions because we’re afraid of the patience and humility it takes to be a proper person.

Every single one of us contributes to this pot, and I feel like I’m never not floating in shit. We keep choosing to look away and lie. We keep choosing to lay down and give up. We keep reducing what would be a preferred direction or sense of stability into a tit-for-tat ironically hyperbolic performance. The only thing more powerful than my anger is the exhaustion.

[1161] Blind And Silence

This might be easier to read and follow than my instinct suggested as I began.

I've been thinking about "having my back against a wall" versus "having a goal."

As I've scrambled to take (nearly) any job that will higher quickly, I'm feeling the familiar waves of panic, motivation, relief, dread, and comfort - all tentative - and on rotation over the course of each day. It's not unfair to say that for most of my adult life, I've had something of a plan, contingencies, and emergency pull-switches for ensuring I could keep a certain standard and platform for my life. The plan is always lacking, but has been acutely felt recently.

Back when I had considerably less perspective, I took it for granted things would be about as easy for me in life , as it pertained to jobs or professional obligations, as it had been for me in school. I was lucky enough to be born with a big enough brain that allows a solid amount of what life asks of you to come pretty easy. It is exceptionally rare that I'm at a job for even 3 months before being ask-told to learn the next thing, take on more, or become a supervisor or manager. That is, provided I'm not trying to cross into an upper-class environment.

Here, thoughts about "showing versus telling" come up. I can get pretty dramatic in how I describe my feelings or what I think the "inevitable consequences" will be of a course of action. It's not that I don't feel intensely. It's not that I'm talking purely irrationally and just routinely predict incorrectly. It's that when I pull back and look at my behavior and pair it against my most ridiculous or hyperbolic writing, or most compelling and exhausting stomach-dropping, headaches, and jaw-clenching, I almost without-fail do the things necessary to appropriately and accountably respond to the moment.

The first of which is writing. I'm exceptionally rarely going to actually scream, hit something, or drive a little too fast a little too buzzed around a blind corner. I don't oblige people to "handle me at my worst," nor do I take some kind of secret undue pride in the amount of chaos I can embody. This is showing, to myself first, that I'm thinking more carefully, deliberately, and acknowledging each wave of feeling or choice word as it hits me. The words aren't hot, sharp, heavy, or dangerous. At bottom, they don't inherently mean anything, except to me, and except if they can be construed in a way that I calm down, pick a direction, or make a certain amount of peace with my antagonized moment.

I think it's important to point out that it's never "fixed" or "settled." I'm, forever, processing. I'm weighing the last thing I demonstrate against the next thing I feel, and am constantly balancing.

It's the first day of early voting in Indiana. My two closest friends in the area pay next to no attention, if not actively avoid politics. They aren't fascists, but they could easily "forget" to vote. I'm incredibly sympathetic to their feelings, and wholly angered by their ambivalence. I can't trust they would vote without my intervention. Whether or not they "believe" in the consequences of participating in the maintenance of the country, their actions, and the reason we're friends, suggest they don't want to sleepwalk into fascism. Materializing the consequences of ambivalence for someone is nearly impossible.

So it goes for all of us about the infinite list of things we aren't paying attention to. You don't pay that close attention to the words you choose or friends you keep? I've watched that turn into chronic addiction attempting to cope with instantiated abuses and excuses. You don't pay attention to how much time you spend at work? I've watched that balloon family and child problems because a narrative about "taking care of your family" doesn't include the time to foment emotional well-being after being reduced to a desperately-sought dollar amount. A dollar amount often explicitly not even budgeted for, so people will work over-time or several jobs and not register they are making sometimes less than if they worked less after gas, taxes, and other opportunity costs.

Here we can bring it back to an examination of class. Rich people, significantly more often than they'll ever admit, work less and earn more. There are plenty of hyper-focused talented and particularly-skilled people who deserve every penny of every minute they spend exercising there worth. For every one of those people, there are tens of thousands more who simply own everything. They indefinitely benefit from their family history, adjacency to privileged places, or other circumstances invariably downplayed in their autobiography/self-help book.

It would be foolish, for example, for me to pretend I'm not, as measured by many tests, "generally intelligent." It doesn't mean I'm wise. It doesn't mean I'm likeable. It doesn't mean I'm suitable for your team or can figure anything out I please. It just means I'll be able to describe and execute how to navigate all of those deficiencies in a way most won't. Whether I find the will, capitalize on an opportunity, or manifest the luck that sees my circumstances improved remain indefinitely open questions. General intelligence, in and of itself, doesn't mean shit if people don't like you, trust you, or recognize and respect what you're showing them.

I can show myself the work to remain "sane" or "stable," but that doesn't mean it translates. I can work myself to death accomplishing tasks at a job, but it doesn't mean I'm emanating pride in my work that anyone looking at won't simply resent or seek to undermine. I thought, incorrectly, if I showed you could move to cousin-fuck Indiana, build something from limited resources, and then carry on describing the math and timelines for more indulgences and opportunities, people would join or follow. I've described every beat of how I've gotten to now. It is perpetually unpersuasive and uncompelling.

What is it people want to see? Themselves? Maybe, sometimes. Maybe at an instinctual basic animal level. We do pack together. Girls with about the same levels of attractiveness or similar body types certainly do. Frat bros flock like migratory birds. I feel like I can smell most pictures from a gaming conference or Comic-Con. I'm suspicious people can see at all. I think in order to be able to see, you have to have an idea of what you're looking at. We spend most of our time having the idea of what we're looking at filled in by other people.

I didn't discover I was smart. I was told it, constantly, growing up. I didn't know I was cute. I certainly didn't feel I was cute, and therefore didn't carry myself with the confidence or attitude of someone "worthy" of engaging attraction games. I was told I was cute, didn't believe it. I cut off my hair. I dug at my skin. I bemoaned not having abs. I refused to smile in pictures. What was I looking at? The caricatured, resented, and made-fun-of target of my mother who turned her weight issues and low self-esteem into lessons on how to emotionally abuse. I was looking at the opposite of the kids wearing Abercrombie and playing sports. This, in perfectly unrealized contradictory irony, as I also played sports and wore a bit of Abercrombie.

I think it's easier to conceptualize "not having an identity" or "not knowing what you're looking at" in the context of kids or childhood. We start practically feral and are at the mercy of our circumstances, genes included. So many of my clients at the prison started using things like meth or heroin when they were in their teens after being introduced to drugs while being in the single digits. Many had no idea what it even meant to be an "adult man" because they severely got their brains fucked with before they ever had the chance to learn what that could mean.

The class you're born into comes with it a certain narrative. Maybe it jives with your sensibilities, maybe not. Maybe it compliments your inherent capacity, or maybe it stands as a constant source of antagonism. Maybe you don't have the industriousness and high-achieving capacity of your parent who immigrated. Maybe you don't have the emotional intelligence to surround yourself with people who compliment and redirect your negative self-regard. Maybe you don't have the capacity for ambivalence and pretext to play politics in elite circles. If you don't know you're born into a certain vein and are described by an existing, evolving and diffuse story, you can't figure out how, or why you'd even bother, to change it.

Neither of my parents are dumb. My mom is insane, my dad is Tim Walzian. It's a reactive distinction I've felt emotionally my whole life, and took years to understand intellectually. My dad has been an iron-worker almost my entire life. When his parents immigrated, you could raise four kids, put them all through college, and retire working at the steel mill. If, like so many families in our middle-class existence, you wanted to keep repeating the pattern of my grandparents, we've watched how the systems have declined and devolved into nascent fascism. We fundamentally can't conceive of the magnitude of what we're embedded in and looking at, so a reactionary posture foments.

Back we return to having your back against a wall versus having a goal. Here is the reason so much feels like life is binary instead of probabilistic. The binary exists, but it's at the level of choosing altogether. It's not "Trump vs. Harris." It's asking what probably happens when you enable and support one version of existence over another. Do you compound the pain and absurdity? Do you make it harder to see and believe in things getting better? We can equivocate literal dumb fascism with perhaps a valid laundry list of complaints and criticisms about any other form of democratic politicking. Why?

We don't know what we want. We don't know how to articulate it. We don't practice the patience to deeply appreciate when we've gotten it. We look at our work and feel exhausted because we've been exploited and punished for trying, trusting, and caring. Our backs are against the wall, so anything we do or say as the bullets barrel towards us is justified. We're linguistically and psychologically trapped. Our concept is so distorted that the work of how to make things better is unrecognizable and takes too long to be realized emotionally. Or, worse, we've crippled our capacity to train a positive feedback loop at all, introducing proverbial meth into the system too early to fully repair.

Your voice is the most powerful thing in finding a prayer for dealing with "everything." It's the first fucking amendment for a reason. Those who had something to say were violently and perpetually silenced. I believe you have something to say, and are violently and perpetually silenced. But your goal hasn't been articulated like theirs was. Their imprecise, imperfect, ever-evolving goal was written down and given a place to start informing whatever beautiful or damning thing you wish to say about our place and country today. You hear the goals of the craziest and most vitriolic people every day. The "corrupt" part of that system is you pretending not to hear them. It's you pretending not to have feelings about them. It's you pretending you're not baked into the cake with them.

My life doesn't get better the more I hate something. I might need to describe my ongoing hatred and accompanying feelings, but ultimately my behavior has to look like hope. It has to look like I'm reasonably trying to fix the big abstract bad feelings with day-to-day exercises patching all the holes life pokes through my sense of agency and well-being. I will never not be an angry ape, raging and afraid. That will never excuse my decisions to reward instead of correct for how that manifests. I can acknowledge the infinite list of things cornering me, trying to shut me up, or attempting to hijack my attention. The consequences aren't "more true" than what probably happens in how I do or don't respond.