Some time ago I said that I was waiting for the tide to turn.
I was lying.
As a matter of fact I’m sick up to the gills with tides, returns and other pendular shenanigans.
A lifetime of left or right, black or white, us or them, good guys or …….. (enter here your designated enemy-du-jour’s name)……., with us or against us, either or moronic Manicheism, has left me with an actual, fierce, physical allergy to these kind of imbecile dynamics which are not dynamic at all. Dialectics that never reach a synthesis, not even a working compromise, let alone an expedient accommodation.
To tell the truth I dream of … I’m not sure what I dream of. Almost anything far, far, far removed from these crappy motions that go nowhere fast except to the bottomless pit of despair and annihilation. But I can tell you one of the things that pisses me right off about these hyper-fragmentary Inquisitions: that they are producing piles and piles and piles of fatuous, narrow, insular little worlds infinitely small and petty and, well, criminally tedious, really.
Yog-Sothoth, come ye amongst us and crunch all this shite in thy mighty maws and let the bugs and the rats and the tardigrades start a new something-or-other. They couldn’t possibly do worse that we have done. (Except for Bach, Goya and Geraldine Chaplin.) Have a sponditious week.