Can’t get a phone loan

It’s now 40 degrees. Feels like 30. The heat in my house isn’t working. Some part of the furnace needs to be fixed. Landlord is getting another ex husband to fix it but for the next two days I’ll be without heat. Last night I slept in two sweaters, two pairs of socks and a hat. Woke up in the middle of the night with the ice cold, bony grip of death around my neck.

I’m going to burn furniture in my living room. There’s no relief. Bitter, spitting rain and chilling winds outside. Dead, frigid, stale air inside. I live in a vale of anguish, a tomb of strangled dreams. This place is haunted by a thousand ills. Poverty, depression, abuse, addiction, social disintegration and the cruelty of fate.

Trying to write more. Took me two days to get 130 words down. I work at five in the morning so I wake up even earlier to write. Half an hour to an hour. It’s not enough time. I could spend all day writing and it wouldn’t be enough. Wouldn’t be good enough. I rewrite and edit, smash my sentences into a pulp.

I live in an arctic outhouse. My phone dies when I send two texts so yesterday I went to the Verizon store to sell what’s left of my soul to Steve Jobs. Phone stores are sleek, bleak, inhuman places of sterile interfacing and byzantine contracts. Need to buy the phone and then the data plan. Sign your life away. Mortgage your new phone along with everything else you can’t afford.

Another monthly payment. Electric, gas, water, rent, car, food, health insurance and phone. I don’t eat enough but I still spend too much on food. I live in the cheapest home possible but I still spend too much on rent.

The phone store turned me down. My credit is so bad Apple doesn’t trust me with an installment plan. They said I could buy the phone at full price. I left with nothing after an hour of filling out forms. Saved some money. Who needs a new phone. The staff at Verizon was post apocalyptic. When I walked in every soy stuffed phone drone was staring at a screen. They do this all day long, sitting and staring, waiting to induct new members into their techno cult.

I don’t want to live this way. I don’t want it to be easier to disconnect from my surroundings and pretend I’m a wizard while my body and relationships deteriorate. I’ll just get a new MacBook instead.

The platitudes of Abraham Lincoln

You’re divisive, says the feckless retard losing the argument. Division is bad when you’re not anti-white or anti-American. Otherwise it’s an inescapable part of life, a mathematical function, a basic process, a primordial, cellular act.

There’s no unity without division; a collective can’t include everyone. Unless you’re a leftist, you don’t welcome violent criminals and inscrutable aliens into your country, your neighborhood or your home.

So what do the disingenuous liberal weasels and the spineless flatterers and fluffers in the grand old party mean when they say Trump is divisive? What is their idea of unity?

Subservience. Renunciation. Yes, I’ve been a bad internationalist. I’m a member of a particular group,  I belong to some and not others. I’m a reactionary, a racist, a divider. I deserve a good purging. 

Inbred elites want you to submit. Their unity means an ethnically mish-mashed, culturally discordant, religiously impoverished, artistically incompetent, ugly consumerist jumble of juvenile hedonists watching each other’s every move and monitoring each other’s every word.

They believe in bringing everyone together on the platform of hating the culture and history of whites and sneering at healthy heterosexuality. Unity means dissolving organic social bonds while flamboyantly posturing as an enlightened consumer of slave labor gadgets and ethnic cuisine.

The globalists brought out their rusted, obsolete weapons to fight back against the middle American resistance to elite engineered dysfunction. They revived the rotting carcass of John McCain to condemn Nationalism. When that failed to persuade a single person they called on lifelong fuckup George W. Bush to mouth pseudo-religious tripe about the blasphemy of racism and bigotry.

John McCain and George W. Bush, the defeated, shameful, septic vestiges of our fake conservative past, gave their final, impotent performances in service to a godless cabal of cosmopolitan managers, bankers and sodomites and secured their spot in a barbecue pit deep in the bowels of hell.

When John McCain ran for president, liberals hated him. When George W. Bush was the president, liberals hated him. But now that Trump is president, liberals wistfully commemorate the wisdom of a befuddled warmonger. Bush and McCain’s republican party isn’t opposition. They’re in fundamental agreement with elite liberals on the important points: open borders, free trade, less for whites and more for browns, more for them and less for us.

When Bush pushed for war, leftists called him a racist. Bush bombed brown people because he was a White Christian bigot. But now that Trump is president and the American people have rejected neocon imperialism, minority grievance and unlimited immigration, Bush is a measured man, a reasonable voice, a relic of a beautiful, bygone era when conservatives knew their proper role: advancing internationalist causes and losing to liberals.

The left looks back fondly on the days of Bush and McCain because those men took their savage beatings with quiet dignity. They wouldn’t fight for their culture and people but they worked for expansion and consolidation in government and business; they championed costly foreign conflicts, carried out socially disruptive economic policies and oversaw destabilizing population movements. The reverent guardians of civilization always want more; more war, more territory, more immigration, more profit and more spending.

Conservatives cherish the failing and decrepit, repeating what doesn’t work as they destroy everything worth defending. They’re passive, blunted, ineffectual and repetitive. They’ll write foppish op-eds and essays while America burns and they’ll preen for their elitist friends as the middle class evaporates and the lower classes sink deeper into dysfunction.

The grand old republicans serve Israel, worship corporate power and eagerly join leftists mobs to thrash and banish anyone who says anything remotely approaching the truth about race, gender or immigration. They criticize nationalism because they have no allegiance to America. They love their bloodless idea of America and despise its people, history and heritage.

We were a unified America until Trump came along. Just one big happy family of homosexuals, blacks, illiterate invaders and racist whites until one man highlighted the otherwise unnoticed and irreconcilable differences among a mixed population undergoing rapid demographic transformation in the middle of technological disruption and economic upheaval.

Scattered notes on Hollywood

Harvey weinstein isn’t a white man. Harvey weinstein is a jew. This is a reminder to myself and the public.

When a jew wins a pulitzer or makes a scientific discovery, then he’s a jew. And everyone celebrates. The whole world shares the pride of jewish distinction. What piercing intellects they have, what keen insight into reality. Gentiles are lucky to share the earth with such a prodigious and talented tribe.

When a jew rapes a few actresses, then he’s a white man. A plain and simple white man, in the same broad category as your average anglo grocer. An apparently modest man with dark, barely constrained urges, like all white men. Nothing separates weinstein from white men in general, except his fame and power. Since all white men are shadowy rapists on the inside, if you gave your grocer five hundred million dollars and a production studio then he’d be groping actresses too.

So when it comes to the repulsive, illegal things he’s done, don’t think of Weinstein as anything other than a white man. You wouldn’t want to rouse the dark side of jewish supremacy; the most powerless, perennially dispossessed people of all time will be at your throat, threatening to ruin you while pleading for special protection.

What we call systems are recognizable patterns and organic hierarchies that emerge from group and individual behavior. When a sniveling liberal hisses about systemic racism, he imagines an invisible force pushing people to act the way they do, when the invisible force is just the liberal’s skewed interpretation of the behavior patterns of individuals and groups in competition with each other.

When blacks commit crime, the leftist blames a system of oppression. He’ll say white supremacy is the reason blacks shoot each other in the streets. But it’s the other way around. Blacks shooting each other in the streets is the reason there’s white supremacy.

It’s a confusion of cause and effect. Hatred doesn’t cause people to stereotype, people acting like annoying and destructive stereotypes cause hatred.

The behavior is what matters, while the perception is secondary, derivative. Liberals flip this order of importance. They think we don’t like certain people because we’ve been taught to see them as lesser, as underperforming, dysfunctional and dumb. The corruption lay in our vision and not in their disposition. The negro is nothing but potential until the white supremacist gaze turns him into an impulsive, violent lowlife.

Where some see a system, I find an aggregate of acts. These acts follow from decisions and decisions flow from character. Each of these elements reciprocally determines the other.  This is the etched-in-stone dynamic of human life.

You’re the system. The system is its people. Environments aren’t arbitrary containers, with some species stored here and others there in a random distribution. People produce their societies through their actions and beliefs. Their institutions, habits and customs are expressions of what they value and their history is the succession of the choices they’ve made. And underlying everything is biology, the common blood of a community tempered in time, evolving together.

Remember, you aren’t white unless you’re wrong, unless you’re responsible for the plight of the lesser races and genders. There’s no such thing as white male achievement, there’s only white male dominance. Achievement is good and dominance is bad.

White men don’t achieve. Blacks, Asians, women and jews do. Cripples, paraphilics and drifters, international trespassers, globe-squatters, ditch dwellers and landfill sifters succeed against the odds while White men use their unearned advantages to exploit, demean and harass vulnerable minorities.

Harvey weinstein isn’t just a jew, he’s a hollywood jew. A misshapen grab bag of deadly sins, an incarnation of disorder and excess, a cartoon, a two dimensional piece of propaganda come to life. He’s a Nazi fantasy in the flesh. He’s an example, the empirical basis of negative stereotypes.

His characteristics as a hollywood jew have been “whitewashed” so the nation can come together to meditate on and denounce white male sexual abuse. It’s our ritual response to any particular violation by a specific person that could implicate an incorrect group, a “protected” class of people. We shift the burden of responsibility onto a group we’re comfortable condemning.

Gun violence is a white male problem. Blacks don’t kill people with guns, neither do muslims or hispanics. Or gay men. How many gay men own guns? Straight white men shoot everyone. A hollywood jew doesn’t abuse actresses, it’s the white man in him. The white man in us all. That free floating entitlement, that amorphous advantage over everyone and everything. It reared its horrifically ugly head in Harvey weinstein, average white man, and it threatens to overtake all of society.

#Me too is an unwittingly apt hashtag slogan for this moment in feminism. Me too is something a child says. It’s something a child feels. Someone who lacks the courage to speak until they can safely say “me too” is not a mature, responsible agent and shouldn’t be taken seriously as an independent actor in society.

What others call blaming the victim, I call explaining what happened. When something bad happens to you, it’s worthwhile to understand how and why. If you’re interested in preventing more bad things from happening and more people from taking advantage of you, you should evaluate your behavior and adjust your expectations.

It doesn’t mean your victimizer doesn’t bear greater responsibility or that he shouldn’t be punished for his wrongdoing. It doesn’t mean you should endlessly reproach yourself. But knowing what’s likely to happen in a given circumstance gives you preventative power. Some might call it empowering.

There’s a difference between foolishness and evil, between imprudence and malice. The criminal is bad, while the victim of his crime is often unwise. Blaming the victim doesn’t also mean letting the victimizer off the hook. These aren’t mutually exclusive options. We can punish and condemn criminals and at the same time warn inept people against certain habits and tendencies that put them in a vulnerable place where they can be preyed upon.

The Me too movement will include an effusive, ever expanding range of narratives, from the perfectly recounted to the completely fabricated, from brutal, life shattering gang rapes to getting awkwardly asked out by an unattractive friend of a friend. It will mash together and muddle different and unrelated power dynamics, social structures and interactions in wildly divergent environments.

Me too will break down into tedious, hair splitting arguments between feminists over who’s the real victim, who’s a bigger victim and whether or not these stories trigger victims. How dare we even mention rape and abuse because it reopens old wounds. How dare we not mention these events because silence is consent. Every call for inclusion inevitably generates exclusion. The demand for unity inherently generates division. #Me too is just a short step away from #not you.

Society will forget about running the jews out of hollywood and burning california to the ground and instead bemoan the evils of men everywhere in general before turning their TV’s back on and going back to the movies. The result will be dilution, confusion, burn out and indifference. But for a few seconds a few more women will feel empowered as people cheer them on and encourage them to come out with their tales of victimization.

At some point, doing the right thing means making a difficult choice, putting yourself in danger, taking serious risks and actively opposing evil. You can’t passively wait for a better system or a different culture or profit from your debasement while remaining silent. If only the culture wasn’t so misogynist, then I’d have the courage to act. But courage is taking action when you don’t have the social support, when there’s no guarantee. It’s not waiting until the conditions are just right and the system is working for you and your success is assured.

Again, there’s no system, only choices. Men and women in hollywood carried out and covered up abuse, harassment and rape because they benefited from it, victimizers and victims alike. They could have made a different choice at any time, even if it would have cost them their livelihood. They preferred to make lucrative mistakes and reinforce rotten characters.

Opportunists when it meant looking the other way while the jew diddled the starlet and opportunists now when it means exposing and chiding every straying hand, vulgar tongue and wandering eye over the course of a grubbing, amoral career.

And then there’s the democratic party, the great champions of women’s rights. Hillary clinton is the perfect dc counterpart to hollywood corruption, an aspirational automaton, a power starved woman who tolerated the vile behavior of her pig husband to advance her career. Barack Obama and other big name democratic politicians were all too happy to take Weinstein’s rape stained money and use it to fund the campaigns they ran on a woman’s right to murder her unborn child and an el salvadorian’s right to squat in your backyard.

Passive americans give money to jewish rapists and pedophiles who then give that money to democratic politicians who undermine the culture, morality and economy of the nation. Be a good goy and watch these wonderful movies about what a repressive bigot you are, kill your children and give us what little money you make so we can replace you with fertile, low iq laborers and consumers. 

Dispatch from a sleepless dream

So much for sleep. Woke up at 1:30 am. Falling back asleep is a farce. The cat wants food; she won’t stop crying and the house is freezing. I was just complaining about how it was too hot for October and now it’s too cold. Equilibrium is elusive.

I work and then I’m useless. I’m good at my job but then I’m terrible at everything else. Maintaining my home, feeding my cat, cleaning her litter box, keeping up with friends and family. I live to proof pastries at 5 in the morning and smile at people and serve them coffee. There’s a quiet dignity in making people happy with hot caffeinated water and buttered rolls.

They say it’s the best part of their day. A latte and croissant in the morning before they go to work. And I say I’m glad I can be a part of it. But it also makes me sad. What’s going on with the rest of their day? Drudgery, thankless repetition, obscure exertion and gnawing existential dread, just like mine? Only with more obligations and dependents. Bosses, bills, parents, children, relatives, pets, advertisers and strangers constantly needling and beseeching them, burning them down into a spent wick.

I have free time but my soul is a captive of lethargy. When I get off work I’m already thinking about my afternoon nap. Laying down is the peak of my day. I wake up thinking about falling asleep again. Make plans to go to the gym but I can’t leave the house. Don’t want to drive or ride my bike downtown. It’s only a couple of miles but my couch is more comfortable. Don’t want to spend hours performing repetitive movements in front of mirrors while pop music plays.

But I don’t want to lose my body. When I go to a grog house in the early evening to drink beer and eat wings and I see a man five years older than me with a bowling ball gut and drooping posture and listless eyes I want to work out harder and get stronger. It’s not love for the weights, the romance of the iron or good natured desire for improvement, it’s disgust that keeps me fit.

At 31 I should have a family of my own. My kids should be in school now. As a teenager you dream about who you could be. And if you grow up in a safe, stable environment, you’re free to explore the possibilities. Play the guitar, sports, write, read, whatever you want. It’s always out in front of you; real life is still to come and your identity is up for revision. You’ll decide who you are later.

Years go by and you’ve dabbled and played and tried on different roles and occupations. But nothing sticks. It all slides off. Relationships, places, jobs, hobbies, all running water, all vapor. And you realize that your fantasies about who you wanted to be don’t matter.

This is why most people have children if they can. They won’t be leaving anything else behind. No matter how skilled you were as an artist, how cool you were with your quips and cutting remarks, your sense of style or correct political opinions, you will be forgotten the moment you’re gone. Most of us will be forgotten before we’re dead.

Unless you pass a part of yourself down through your children and bring them up to honor what came before them. Even then the living memory of who you were will fade into nothing. But the genetic material that underpinned your ephemeral consciousness will persist. And that’s as good as it gets.

We’ve always known this, unconsciously, in the deepest part of ourselves.  Sex and reproduction constitute the core of who we are and the motives behind our behavior. Rejecting reproduction in favor of self actualization and plastic redefinition of sexuality is a hallmark of social and spiritual dilapidation. We’re buttfucking ourselves into oblivion, choosing the idiotic bliss of the orgasm over the enduring satisfaction of genetic and cultural stewardship.

I’m writing in my café before opening and I could fall asleep in the middle of this sentence. When I was trying to sleep in bed just after midnight I could have beat a Kenyan in a 40 yard dash. I have energy when I need to be tired and I’m tired when I need energy. I didn’t want children when my nutsack was full of fresh seed but after spending a decade wringing the zest out of my dick I now dream of siring healthy offspring. The irony of life is a bitter tonic that keeps me just healthy enough to carry on with a crooked smile.

You have to have a reason

When are we going to do something about our gun laws. When will we finally outlaw violence. Ban all guns, ban knives and forks and spoons. Anything hard or sharp. Pass laws against muscles and balled fists. No one will be allowed to wear shoes or anything they can remove for the purpose of pummeling. No cars either. Or bicycles, tricycles and scooters. Those are weapons too. Also, no lawncare equipment. Forget about trimming your hedges. In the wrong hands those hedge trimmers become semi automatic decapitation machines.

Furniture will be banned unless it’s so heavy it can’t be picked up and hurled at someone. Household cleaning materials are out too, along with beauty and grooming products. Anything you can spray into someone’s eyeballs.  Anything that could cause rashes and sores. Most foods. Dangerous, spicy recipes that cause bloating, cramping and foul odors. Paper is a deadly weapon, pens and pencils are perfect jabbing and stabbing instruments.

We’ll have to do without pipes and tools. Wrenches and screwdrivers. Electrical drills can bore through a cerebellum. Ball peen hammers smash testicles and rusty nails scream to be driven through hands, fingers and feet. The potential for maiming and mutilating our enemies is infinite. But we also have the power to legislate, to prevent violent circumstances and opportunities from dominating a blank slate, innocent and idle humanity.

No one ever dreamed of shattering a spine until someone put a gun in his hands. And no one would rob or cheat or steal if we lived in an egalitarian, color blind, sexless society of happiness and harmony without money or possessions. There are no criminals unless there are laws that criminalize them. Rather than finding fault with people, we should blame their devices, their surroundings and their lack of loving lesbian mothers.

If the clothes make the man, then the gun makes the man a murderer.

How many senseless shootings will it take for us to come together for sane, sensible gun control. Because what we have now is insane. I can’t walk to work in the morning without stepping over a pile of bullet riddled bodies. There are shootouts on every street. Legal, celebrated bloodbaths breaking out at saloons and on courthouse lawns every hour.

Military grade firepower is legal. I can’t buy a liter of cough syrup at the pharmacy but I can walk out of an army surplus store with a brand new hydrogen bomb. I have to pass a background check to buy a pack of lozenges but I can win a howitzer at the county fair without questions. Our gun law loopholes are big enough to drive an m1 abrams tanks through them, the same tanks which are also available for free two day shipping to your door through a membership with amazon prime.

Americans are gun nuts, we’re told. We’re obsessed with our supposed “right” to “bear arms”. The 2nd amendment is a document of its time and doesn’t apply anymore. The founding fathers were only thinking about quaint, pre industrial conflicts between noble soldier farmers and tyrants where armies stood ten feet away from each other in broad daylight with vibrantly colored uniforms and every shot took six hours to prepare and fire.

In those days you couldn’t even kill a man with what passed for a gun. The technology wasn’t advanced enough. They didn’t design bullets to shred organs and perform a pirouette in your intestines. Those little metal balls of the revolutionary era just sank into your shoulder or groin and then you slowly died of gangrene unless they amputated your arm or penis.

But now we have assault rifles and missiles and bombs. Laser guided and heat seeking. Outfitted with infra red scopes and silencers. Anyone anywhere without a moment of military training can effortlessly fire thousands of dead silent rounds into confused crowds whenever the murderous mood strikes. And these machine gun salesman with their relentless, door to door campaigns. A chicken in every pot and a rocket launcher on every mantle. You can’t leave the house without someone trying to sell you a basket of grenades.

We don’t need to protect ourselves with guns anymore. That’s why we have the police. Except when we’re talking about racism. Then the police are the thuggish enforcers of white supremacy and they should be disbanded. But when we’re talking about guns rights the police are noble protectors who render an armed populace unnecessary. When we’re talking about stripping the American people of their defenses then the police are good guys.

It’s almost as if we’re stuck in the rigid habit of turning tragedy into a weapon because making other people look bad by association is our national obsession and we’re all fiends looking for our next fix. Every single one of us has to admit that the moment we hear about another mass murder or terror attack we simultaneously shed tears for the victims and salivate like pavlov’s dog at the prospect of eating our enemies for dinner.

Because it’s always more than an individual exercising their free will and choosing to hurt and kill. It’s the expression of a movement, there’s a group behind it, an ideology, a destructive philosophy or culture radiating with hatred. Whoever fires a gun into a crowd does so for a reason or a set of interlocking reasons, they worked themselves into a frenzy reading extremist literature and that literature is an extreme form of liberalism or conservatism, Christianity or anarchy. We trace mainstream values to the fringes and implicate everyone on the spectrum. Your garden variety liberal supports black nationalists gunning down police. Your average Christian father longs for the good old days of proud, public lynching.

So we can have a system that generates meaningful carnage. The system has made life itself meaningless, but in exchange it has made taking life meaningful. We don’t live for anything but at least our mass murderers tend to be philosophers.

Until now. Stephen Paddock took away our most cherished consolation in the face of butchery and terror: leverage against our political and cultural enemies. We can’t put pressure on anyone, fire anyone or kick anyone off a social media platform. No one can be forced to disavow Paddock because he didn’t kill in the name of anything anyone stands behind.

We wait with baited breath for the investigation to give us the missing information, the crucial cause. There has to be a manifesto, a feverish screed tucked away in a drawer or boot somewhere. A rambling diatribe against the jews, against Christianity or trump supporters, against America or technological society, against country music or mass spectacles. Something, anything we could use against someone else to vindicate ourselves.

The rhetoric of justifying violence leads to people committing horrific acts of real world violence. Except Paddock wasn’t political. He was white but he had no identity. He’s the man without qualities, without a cause. All of the vain speculating and hand wringing over the missing purpose of the shooting and no one has mentioned Camus. The Stranger. Existentialism and the absurdity of the human condition. Our ungrounded freedom to act without a reason, without emotions or history influencing our decisions.

Every single one of us is free to do anything and nothing. We could lie down in the middle of the street or throw a plate through a window at a restaurant or set up a machine gun nest in a hotel balcony and unload thousands of rounds into a crowd of concert goers. Not because the leftists hate America, not because white people hate blacks and immigrants, not because of our rape gun culture or Trump or allah or God. Because we’re free for no reason. Freedom is a gift given by no one, unwanted and unreturnable. The only thing we aren’t free to do is give up this freedom. Though we try.

If this is an age of extremism, of radical thought and ideology, its complement is apathy.

A man lacking a reason to kill can kill for the lack of a reason not to.

In the same way that evil isn’t the absence of good but a substantial force in its own right, not caring about anything is a decision equally open to all of us, a stance we can choose or reject.

Ode to unconscious joy

I live for sleep now. I’d like to live for something else but nothing is as sweet as sleep. Lately I’ve been sleeping a solid 8 hours a night and then getting a nap or two in after work. At other stages of my life I’ve wrestled with restlessness. My first bout of depression followed a two month stretch of insomnia when I was 18.

On the cusp of adulthood, just a few months from graduating from high school and with a girlfriend for the first time, I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t fall back asleep. It was the beginning of a torturous pattern that would plague me consistently for weeks and then intermittently throughout the rest of my twenties. I could be so tired I’d fall asleep instantly at 9 pm. But then I’d wake up three hours later and spend the rest of the night staring at the ceiling.

So now I cherish sleep and seem to be better at it. Smoking weed helps. It’s the only remaining benefit of smoking. In the old days when I’d smoke I’d play guitar or basketball or explore nature. It used to be social. I’d smoke with my friends and we’d talk nonsense but it was fun. It’s no longer social or productive. Now I get high and browse hate forums and watch youtube videos. They’re all the same.

Smoking makes it easier to sleep, so I keep smoking. Because I love sleeping. I dream of sleep when I’m awake and also when I’m sleeping. I don’t want to be dead because then I’d have no memory of sleeping anymore. You have to endure the bone grinding torment of consciousness to enjoy the paradise of nothingness. But being dead will be great too. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not in a hurry though.

Lord of the flies

All I wanted to do was cook a chicken. Put a full bird in a crockpot with a little salt and pepper. Leave it alone. Come back after a hard day of work to a succulent meal.

I wanted to be a normal person who eats home cooked meals and doesn’t subsist on store bought sandwiches and snack cakes. I’ve been eating burger king and croissants from work and getting fat and stupid, so I went to whole foods and bought a whole organic chicken to kick off a new era of wholesome eating.

When I came home from work I entered into a nightmare. Flies were covering the kitchen. Not your typical flies, small and quick, little dots darting around. These flies were massive; they were heavy and slow and the flapping of their wings sounded like a concert of buzzsaws. They didn’t fly. They hovered like helicopters. Almost immobile, hanging in the air.

As if my kitchen were full of rotting corpses. As if I had stumbled into the slaughtershack of an obscure madman. The flies as big as small birds were drawn by the stench of decomposing flesh, severed limbs and strewn viscera. Walking into my kitchen and seeing the unholy swarm and hearing the hellacious buzzing I expected to get an ax to the face, swung overhead by a lurching lunatic.

The flies were getting in the house through the holes in the window with the air conditioner. It hadn’t been a problem until I left the chicken in the pot. Sure, there were cockroaches racing out from under piles of dirty clothes and silverfish squirming on the wall behind my underperforming toilet. I’d accepted sharing my house with a certain number of disgusting insects, living creatures we screen from our lives because they remind us that life has an inherently horrifying, relentless character.

But the flies were a new torment, a fresh plague on my house. I’m a character in the Bible. I’ll wake up tomorrow covered in sores and boils, my cattle will die and my wife will leave me for a Chinese man. God is testing me and proving his arbitrary power. Where was I when he brought the mountains up to meet the sky. Where was I when he filled the oceans deep. I was nothing, less than a speck. We’re at the ever-present mercy of an unfathomable, capricious and eternal being and I’m here to remind everyone. My suffering is expiation for the hubris of humanity.

We think we’re invincible and all powerful despite a consistent history of everyone dying and failing.  The descendants of the dead don’t look forward to their own demise. We stop our vision short of our end and pretend life will go on forever. Each day can be thrown away because another will follow it.  And this is true for life in general. For someone or something there will always be a new day.

For writhing, impersonal, unconscious life, there’s no end. No fatigue or fear. This is the testament of insects and their soulless striving after perpetual existence. You can keep killing them and shooing them away but they will fuck and procreate in logs of dog shit and trash heaps. They don’t desire love or recognition. They live for a few evanescent moments of pulsating, ingesting and excreting and then undergo a violent death.

But they don’t stop. They don’t hold conferences on overpopulation or the ethics of reproduction. They don’t recognize themselves in a pitiless struggle for a meaningless existence. It’s blind persistence, monstrous clockwork. There’s no transcendence, only the unstoppable instinct for squirming in shitpiles until the earth is covered over in unbreakable ice.

I took the air conditioner out so I could close up the window. I couldn’t do it. The lower half of the window wouldn’t fit back into its groove. I stood on my couch trying to jam a panel back into its place to seal up the portal of doom emptying the contents of hell into my living room and kitchen. Flies in my face, the buzzing cutting into my eardrums. I had to thin their numbers out before I could fix the window.

So I grabbed a converse sneaker, lightweight and easy to swing, a piece of lethal, precision footwear. And then the rage overtook me and all I could see, taste and feel was murder. The flies were fat and clumsy, easy targets clustered together in big bunches. They gathered on the windows and the glass panel of my door. I moved automatically, like I’d been trained or programmed. They started dropping like some kind of easily killable, mass quantity pest. The carnage was bracing and my lust for death only grew with every swing of the shoe.

They seemed to reproduce as they died, springing fully formed from spilled blood. I was hacking at the heads of the hydra. A flydra, if you will. I had to put the food away. Get the chicken off the counter. It had been cooking all day and was sitting in a scorching pot full of scalding broth. After lifting the long simmering chicken into a pan and shoving it into the fridge I grabbed the crockpot and opened the door so I could dump out the broth.

The pot was so hot and I was moving so quickly I tripped and spilled the blazing chicken water on my feet as a confused mailman looked on from the comfort and security of his mailtruck. Waves of flame washed over my feet. It hurt so much I almost barfed. Then I dropped the crockpot in the broth soaked, muddy ground and ran inside, slammed the door and unleashed a primal scream. Anyone on the block in that moment would have heard the chilling roar.

More flies gathered to feast and fuck on the mess I’d made. I suppressed the rage and pain roiling inside and was able to get the window back into place, close all the entryways and put all the food away. One by one I crushed the remaining flies. The bodies studded the walls and windows. They were big enough to leave streaks of blood wherever I’d murdered them. It was a stinking, stomach turning scene.

At the point of physical and spiritual exhaustion I looked around and saw that all the flies were dead. I remembered that I’d left the air conditioner outside for a couple of hours. When I went back out it was gone. But the book I’d been using to prop the air conditioner up in the window, which I’d also left out on the ground in broad daylight, was still there.

The toothless jackals who took my air conditioner weren’t enticed by my defenseless copy of Gillian Rose’s study of the thought of Theodor Adorno. The Melancholy Science. Hundreds of pages of heavy academic writing on the heavy writing of an academic. A page turner, if you like to turn your pages at the rate of one a day.

To be fair, this study of Adorno is much more readable than Adorno himself. If you’re a writer and an academic and you need other people to explain what you meant, you failed. If you create a minor industry of marginal people who devote their lives to making your material digestible then you’re not using language correctly.

It’s a long ling of people commenting incomprehensibly on incomprehensible texts. Using undefined terms in idiosyncratic and inconsistent ways. Marx based his bitter ideology on Hegel and Adorno was a Marxist. So to understand Adorno you have to understand Hegel and that means you won’t understand Adorno. But you’ll use the word dialectical like you’re pulling out a foot long penis at a dick measuring contest.

All of these leftist critiques with their hedging and evasive rationalizations for refusing to challenge their own assumptions or reject the bunk notions of their insane forebears. The labor theory of value and commodity fetishism. The dialectic. Class struggle and the culture industry. Surplus value. August terms and phrases that have an entrancing power even though they explain nothing and are dangerously misleading. The style is stratospherically lofty and pretentious while the content amounts to little more than sweeping slander.

People are dupes. An inexplicable power structure or discourse dominates the credulous masses. Everything is suspect and corrupt and a mask of oppression but we still believe in a better world that we can’t articulate or imagine with any real detail.

Every application of Marxism ends in torture, murder, poverty, suppression of speech and artistic stagnation. But we still haven’t interpreted him correctly. Or maybe we can supplement our reading of Marx with a little more Hegel. The perfect society will emerge from a dull, studious lackey reading a resentful maniac.

Somewhere nearby, maybe a few streets down from my house, a domestic disturbance is taking place in a room cooled with my stolen air conditioner.

As of this writing, my house is back to containing the normal amount of insects and parasites.