[Mr Wook would wish, he says, to thank both the commentors called 'anon' and his old classmate, Ivy Iverson, for their suggestions in response to the first posting of this essay, just previous; the fruits of their kind attention & advice may be seen, here -- ed]
by Bodwyn Wook
More than twenty years after the pulling down of the wall in Berlin, and the end of both the Cold War and late modernity then, these today are the anachronistic, the petty and pampered, political faces of a done for American past that still haunts the World. They are the old Roman blind masks of death and the after the fact crisis now on us, the final crisis, of the old American late modern order. History like a snail in a garden as always leaves its traces. Now, in the digital clatter of a load of mortgaged electronic junk out of Asia, the players writhe and gaze vacantly out their eye holes on the eve of yet an other “government shutdown”. They can not and they will not compose their differences over the spending of “money” that in fact does not exist. They are soaked and slimed in the infantile political hatreds of a childish and useless generation. Now, like stylish and twittering, sub adult, factions in a bad expensive suburban highschool, they peer and squint in the night and fog of the public spot light, in side of the in sides of our Tee Vee sets, to vilify each other and each other’s criminal parties. They do so with every impression of sincerity and give no sign what ever of knowing that the American game of “governance” does not matter any more. None of this can matter any more. For the players them selves in fact do not matter. They are sightless dummies in a bankrupt department store window with out clothes — and so their ticks and megrims can not matter any more. Not now. And, from now for ward, never again. But with no more real sense of the actual time in the World than a cracked and askew sundial leaning under a cloud, or a digital watch with an exhausted battery, they cling on none the less. Their motives and vague purposes are painfully naked for all to see, and a shame to the whole battered and misused population. They hang on for dear life to their old disputes long since discredited by the un deliberately misled and yet endlessly, tirelessly, and always stupidly, lied to (and yet still, as yet even so, still un dead!) “American people”. The root of the stupid dishonesty in it all lies in the way that, and how that just to go on day by day in that manner of all men more or less alive with out any actual religion, they lie to them selves about their service and dedication. This devout capacity for self deceit makes them deceitful, but they are there for fools (perhaps it is a kind of Sufi teaching plot?) and therefore not actual villains. Only careerish half wits hot after prominence in order there by to know to them selves that they “really” live. It is their results that are Evil, and this is no merit of theirs and, so, any thing at all satanic in it is not particularly to their credit. Their political self service is all vanity, and it is no thing but stale haggling over the dismemberment of a corpse. It has no thing on Earth any more what so ever to do with us. For they rave and hiss like vampires in an old literature, drowning in the ocean and who grasp and feud at a waterlogged coffin stuffed with garlic. They have no more purpose than to keep alive some how the old quarrel. It is all they know. For all they know of any way of life beyond their own, it is all there is. That not stylish out dated party fight — we all can vaguely remember this part it, any way, since they all blindly, and only just to get elected, promised us all “free” money — was about which party would get to drink the public blood of an exhausted budget and gorge on a virtually meaningless “dollar”. Like vampires in that old literature of a sleepless doomed careerism, and all the frenzied sleepless days and pointless stealthy nights invested and hence lost for ever in emptiness, these are the false faces twisted and tanned that show us yet again the traces of History’s (as well as of God’s) left behind ones. It is a kind of ambulatory archaeology of un dead things that have the shapes and make the noises of men with warm blood. It has about it all that semblance of “World” significance so dear globally to worldly none entity. There is in it all an under current livid and rococco, of the paedophiliac viagresque and the grotesque. They are political men with no dignity of self control, and with no other “power” at all in the Earth except in sulks and incooperation, and they are a bad dull sort of closing joke on the end of the constitutional age in History. Mainly they over identify them selves with the passing moodinesses and other hypostases of their distinctly over active and not witting inner womanliness. It is their profound ignorance of any thing what so ever about their own selves beyond what appears in the mirror and passing store windows through gritty limousine plate glass, and in side of the in sides of our Tee Vee sets, that makes them hysterical. They are so many Jane Fondas and Ann Coulters in three piece suits with two pairs of pants. More than any other single thing they are the sad indictment above all of whom ever were so luckless as to have been assigned by the Synarchs of the Institute to try to be their teachers. They have been brought down, as always, by the convergence of foolish egotism and no knowledge what so ever at all of History.
[all rights reserved
[10 April 2011]