“The world’s fastest growing emerging financial market . . .” Pardon my hilarity. Places that no one had heard of twenty or thirty years ago now have high powered marketing on all of the major networks, acting like they have something to be proud of besides prize falcons. What has happened?
I know what year it is, I’m not actually delusional, but when I watch TV I wonder, by what mechanism has everything that I thought that I knew gone irrevocably away?
From time to time I try to anchor myself by reading old journal entries. I don’t have the best memory, so it’s all new to me, déjà vu all over again. Here’s one I came across today:
September 6, 2007
What’s the disconnect here? Am I riding another self-piloted self-immolation here? Another emotional Kamikaze attack on myself?
Why am I even discussing any of this? To be, or not to be, that’s the question. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to undergo the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to sleep, to sleep perchance to dream. “Aye, there’s the rub,” said the great man.
But this is the Twenty First of the centuries of the great Augustus, another new age, an age that has conquered God and ripped fate from the grasp of chance, an age that has left irony far behind, an age that has slaughtered innocence in its bed, an ass-over-head world where knowing anything is considered stupid, an age of gum-clicking non-entities advertising their stupidity to an adoring world, a new, vomitous age, where honesty is un-ethical and poverty is a capitol crime.
Satan, that piker, managed for centuries to haunt the dreams of the pious, who flattered themselves to think that they possessed something that Satan wanted: a soul. Now the only thing of value in the world is money, and Satan was swept away with God in the same garbage pail and replaced by an army of Satans who suck, suck, suck anything of value out of the world and then view it privately for purposes of self-aggrandizement, touch it, lick it, lick the hoods of their collections of fine automobiles, talentlessly play Jimi’s strats, fondle the baseballs hit out of various stadia by the Babe, all in the privacy of their own vaults, like Scrooge McDuck, but without the jokes.
(The rest is way too frighteningly dark to recall with any comfort, so I’ll stop here. I wish that I had stopped reading. But it’s good to know, as though I could forget, that I didn’t just get depressed yesterday.)