“They’re trying to kill me,” Yossarian told him calmly.
“No one’s trying to kill you,” Clevinger cried.
“Then why are they shooting at me?” Yossarian asked.
“They’re shooting at everyone,” Clevinger answered. “They’re trying to kill everyone.”
“And what difference does that make?”
– Catch-22, Joseph Heller
I warn you now, ladies and germs – these words are the ranting of a madman. A loon, a nutcase, a dancer to his own tune, a paranoid, an eccentric, a fruitcake, a psycho, a headbanger, and a basket case. Truly. The person writing this post should have his head transplanted. Soon, severed heads in jars – carried by drones – will be flying across the skies of our cities shitting brain fluid and antisocial thoughts onto the heads of commuters like whirring glass pigeons. Mark my words.
“But how did this jolly chap’s solid and stable sense of self snap like the neck of a little baby sparrow in the jaws of a feral cat?” he asks himself in a jeer that sounds too close to Napoleon XIV for comfort.
He keeps quiet – communicating telepathically to the voices in his head. He answers that he was NOT driven slowly mad by the constant flux and deluge of confusing and contrary information that he allowed to seep – drip by drip – into his life while staring at a screen. No, sirree. That response would be a particularly incorrect, lazy and cowardly answer. The digital asylum’s water hose is the system, the tool of the mental unraveling – not the cause.
That dubious honour goes to the huge amount of stubborn conviction at the way that life is and the lack of so much evident doubt and mystery. All that staid certainty is depressing enough to make you want to steal a plane and fly it into a mountain.
Language – our one hope of expressing all the truly corrupt parts of ourselves before they explode into a more violent outburst – is naturally in a state of flux, buoyed on the ebb and flow of whichever rotten and necessary enemy happens to be proving itself a nuisance, but now, language has been locked away and force fed a prescription of antidepressants and mood enhancers supplied to it by the STRESS INDUSTRY in an attempt to keep its influence on thought “correct“. The lexicon-enforcers have strong-armed linguistics into static positivity. Being a connoisseur of propaganda, I cannot help but be awed by the subtle levels of ideology pouring onto our heads like the waters of a cultural baptism.
For those heretics who find reality to be deeply suspect, others’ certainty of the value behind life is pure madness. In between the cracks of induced confusion a little cultural brain tumour is growing.
It is no wonder the STRESS INDUSTRY is exploiting the delirium and is doing its damnedest to make us all drug addicts by consistently hammering us with the lie that stress is a bad thing (which makes us all get even more stressed that we cannot relax and do not have time to mindfully contemplate our wasted lives), as opposed to stress being a necessity for us to overcome. It is no wonder that kids on a cocktail of pills decide to bring WAR to their schools as a way of making everyone shut up. All this talk of STRESS IS MAKING ME FUCKING STRESSED SO JUST BUTTON IT, YOU BASTARDS. GOING BESERK …
All this certainty flying around – like a mental magpie stealing shiny thoughts – reeks of Utopian thinking at its most pernicious and as all such experiments in history have shown us their end in bloodshed, firing squads and the gulag, once all the antisocial elements have been quietly gotten rid of. Hidden little dropped curtains, of course, because while we may shout our sexual orientation from the highest hilltop and email each other selfies of our aubergine coloured severed genitalia with abandon, death is the one great taboo of our society.
If that look at me, look at me, screaming into the digital void signifies sanity then logic dictates that the only correct response is SILENCE. I do not mean a quietism that equates passivity when faced with the aggression of a communication breakdown – that should be met with action and not words. Sometimes eye for an eye is the difference between safety and a funeral. But the SILENCE that is the death of response. An echo of impending annihilation. That everyday hysteria and folly. A blank email. Comments left unsent. A nod, instead of an answer.
Today’s reality forecast brought to you by STRESS Inc. :
There will be a minor outbreaks of hallucinations over Paris this morning. The world’s financial system may feel an increased wave of stress due to sluggish performance of the rigged markets, and worker bees are going to have to brace themselves for a tempest of suicidal tendencies, so hide those safety scissors. Don’t forget to wear your rubber hats and pack your plastic coated pills, kids!
All I can say is … SHHHHHH …