The bad news is we have been deluged with bad, even mortifying, news, and for such an extended duration of time, the mind reels in confusion as the suggestion sinks. Despair seems an good response to events one can't reconcile, of resources of which one can't advantage viewpoint nor control.
“The only sadnesses that are dangerous and diseased are the ones that we lift around in open in sequence to drown them out with the noise; like diseases that are treated outwardly and foolishly, they just repel and after a brief interlude mangle out again all the some-more terribly; and accumulate inside us and are life, are life that is unlived, rejected, lost, life that we can die of.” —
Rainer Maria Rilke, mention from Letters to a Young Poet
Depression can be a saving response to the inherently manic inlet of entrepreneur prevalence of every aspect of life in late modernity. The distress knocks you on your donkey and keeps you there until the essence can find a better means of using the group of libido, which, under the working corporate/consumer/surveillance state panopticon has been usurped.
Under the system’s mercantile domination and attendant anomie and alienation, one’s longings, some-more mostly than not, do not lead to the joining eros of a life-
enhancing goal or deepening interpersonal encounters but only as a car that hijacks one’s life into the service of a soul-crushing system, unconditionally designed to feat every moment of this passing life for the advantage of an overclass of parasites, a klavern of vampires and ghouls.
Depression is the soul’s way of saying, to counterfeit the Vietnam-era antiwar chant, “Hell no, we won’t go.”
Alienation is an good response to negotiating a soulless landscape. Where is the eros in Big Box/strip-mall encounters? The ad hoc design of the consumer culture, which manages to be both practical and garish, renders the heart dry as dirt and grinds the mind to spittle. The essence is in consistent communion with
its outdoor surroundings.
Thus, what comes to pass if what is working is a nadascape of dull commercialization, designed to broach the shoal sensations consequent to consumerism but lacking a joining eros to both numinous middle realities and contracting human encounters? A penance occurs. Some people are driven to lash out in anger, even in acts of mass murder. The ire stays immature so is displayed in acts of highway rage… in cloudy loathing of outsiders and minorities and the unfamiliar other.
The propagandists of sovereignty are arcane to the fact. Hence, so many are convinced, so easily, that North Korea and Iran are hazard to the homeland; that Russiagate is a thing; that the U.S. military and the nation’s supposed comprehension agencies are a force for good and act as agents of insurance against a antagonistic world.
But with some, their essence isn’t shopping it. Depression pulls one low into oneself; therefore, manic remuneration and banishment is not possible. They have opted out of the common madness. Depression’s skirmish into the self becomes the option to surface turn tropes of distraction. Compulsions tumble divided like autumn leaves, the corrupt of life is clearly frozen, the winds of the universe scream by dull branches of one’s middle forest — to wit, an accurate capture of the sound of promotion and its aspersion to mind and soul.
Yet: All too many can't visualize the undoubted dangers of the age: ecocide and their threatened annihilation of the human species; pale coral reefs, scoured of life; failing oceans, gagging in plastic particulates; the sky burning, the remains of charred forests stippling the wind. Shooting sprees. As American as preference store hotdogs, mass bonds and drone murder.
Las Vegas, the pretentious and waste U.S. landscape on stilts and steroids, retails in dull sensation. Dominion of night where coruscating lights have scoured divided the stars. Perpetual, gaudy come-ons. City of towering, schlock temples wherein what the U.S. binds dedicated is worshipped: authorised larceny, the aggrandisement of dull sensation, and the transubstantiation of all it touches, strength and material, into provender for exploitation. Kitsch über Alles. A 24/7 neon Pentecost of Mammon.
A forest of the common mind utterance with inspired ghosts. Vengeful spirits … swamp the air of the U.S. cult of death. The imprecatory prayers of millions of slaughtered Indians float the western winds and are funneled into the blank of vapidity that is Las Vegas.
A man, eaten vale by alienation, his essence acerbic with replaced rage, stands at a hotel window. The heft of his firearm is the only thing that feels discernible in his zero and amid the easy glaze of the design of the city below.
The life of an Iraqi, Libyan, Yemeni, Syrian, Palestinian et. al. translates into zero in the U.S. American complement of value. “The only thing those people know is brutality. When we rain down death … that is the predestine they demand.”
The shooter’s mind roils. He acts as he has been conditioned to act. Now, he has achieved the energy and control he has been denied. He is a military sovereignty of one. His legacy as a U.S. American has been fulfilled. God magnify the USA. Selling Death
After mass shootings in the U.S., the sale of firearms rises. The materialisation is very much like the greeting of alcoholics whose solution to the stress-inducing trouble, pain and chaos that their obsession inflicts on their lives is to try to pill the conditions by careening into another celebration binge. U.S. Americans are captivated to guns in the same demeanour drunks are in adore with their selected killer.
They are seeking refuge from fear. All too many perspective the universe as a antagonistic place, and the remedy, U.S. enlightenment has educated them, is to dispatch the hazard by means of violence. These worried souls trust they will be supposing reserve on a weapons-bristling bulwark built on a towering of corpses. (Floridians had to be suggested that it would be a reduction than prosperous act to fire weaponry into the ire of Hurricane Irma.)
Thus discussions of “gun control” will only intensify some-more fear, will means gun sales to rise, and will boost the physique count. The good tacit is: U.S. Americans fear the wrong things. The enlightenment roils in a miasma of confused apprehensions and replaced responses. The hazard U.S. Americans are attempting to sentinel off is comprised by an function of ghosts, the spook of story that stalks the precincts of their own minds.
If the robe of community rendezvous is forsaken, the heart atrophies from a miss of practice. The appearance of others, even the duds of life itself, is misapprehended as ominous … Others are viewed as malevolent, evil – as phantoms, abandoned of face, heart and blood.
Empathy is cultivated by appearance mystique. Denied of the experience, the heart is at risk of being rendered a cold bulwark of angst and paranoia. Without empathy’s agency, passion can't be transmuted into compassion. Sans the sublimation of the heart’s hearth, psychical fires bluster to turn a distracted wildfire of common madness:
“Putin’s neo-Cossack hacker squads have invaded my tough drive; Iran craves nukes; North Korea is a coiled, nuclear rattlesnake of working crazy. Or the stupidity is done perceptible as sharpened sprees whereby the mass murderer attempts to cut down with barrages of semiautomatic arms fire inner phantoms that torture him from within .” – Paranoid thoughts such as those can be review as, a confused soul’s dim fantasies of recover from ego-ossified subjugation nonetheless by means of the group of death.
Moreover, we have beheld that mostly the loyal state of mind crouched underneath paranoia is envy. Envy… unconsciously evinced as, others are holding up your space in the universe and are plotting to say the arrangement by your undoing. There is a solution: Go take a consult of the universe over your self- unerring operation and insist on your apportionment of life — your apportionment of fate. Yes, of march all too many situations in this life are rigged, e.g., the entrepreneur state. But life itself is too vast, too perplexing to be entirely controlled; the universe is too big to rig.
First recover yourself from the stultifying capture attendant to self- inflicted bondage. Then ensue into the midst of life and show your face to the
Storms will pass, the landscape glistens with renewing rain…
Set barriers and barricades flaming … their abandon toy the future.
Phil Rockstroh is a poet, lyricist and philosopher minstrel living, now, in Munich, Germany. He may be contacted: firstname.lastname@example.org And at FaceBook: http://www.facebook.com/phil.rockstroh