Jun. 25th, 2016

The Learned are ever critical of their times. Thus, I am ever suspicious of critique that reeks too much of fashion, and find myself willfully tumbling down the rabbit hole of post modern critiques of critiques.(for what am I, if I must be "honest" with you, dear reader, but a passing fashion? A standing wave of cliche stapled to history with bits of ego? A product of my times, eh, Herr Doctor?) Suspicion, I told myself. If anything could be gleaned from this filthy quagmire, from this cemetery precipice, from this post enlightenment pre apocalypse intersection, suspicion! Doubt! There is something to rely on. There is your answer. Unsatisfying, maybe. Difficult! Obtuse! And all the more compelling, all the more convincing for its nihilist flavor.

"Chaos, as I am sure you have heard, is a ladder, but so too is evolution. Lifted up from the dregs of biology into cultural evolution we came to see what nothing else could see. Some foolishly believed this was a gift."

Bleak Theory

But there is nothing satisfying in suspicion. Oh, oh, don't misunderstand. One could project a certain persona based on certain philosophical conclusions, adopt a certain stylistic manner, and, say, have a lot of sex. Dominate certain social interactions. Exchange many a significant glance with the in-group, and make a general profit in the rarefied currency of craft beer sipping wannabe misfits. But if that were enough it wouldn't be enough.


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