2020




Friday May 29


Is nature sociopathic?

There is the underlying indifference, fundamental to nature's workings and frequently given expression by humans.  To keep from descending into sheer boredom, and in the absence of those pleasures to be had via the practice of virtues (which do not in nature exist, though sometimes certain patterns of behavior which show where the notion of virtue began do), recourse to cruelty in order to find stimulation may occur.  Or, if relapsing back into a state of indifference, the cruelty may be casual, barely registering beyond an excitement of the senses.

Nature – nature writ large, nature in the abstract – is without conscience, without sympathy, and cruelly fascinated with cruelty.




Monday June 1


Watching Anatomy of a Murder (Preminger film):  Sentimentality v. Amorality.  With Stewart of course operating as the pivot point.


Work is going alright so far, business is okay but not great; most people comply with the store's insistence that all customers wear masks to prevent spread of the virus, though occassionally someone defiantly tries to go without.  It still seems weird to me, that I should be living in a time when wearing a mask and being wary of my fellow citizens has become normalized, because the usual way that viruses act upon our lives is changed, has grown more deadly.  People don't like wearing masks; they're stuffy, and one gets tired of smelling one's own breath.  Currently I'm wearing a variety of cloth ones my mother sewed up, as well as paper disposables.  People want to know what the morbidity rate of the virus is, what's its timeline will be, how long all this will last.  Some people think we've opened up too soon, that we should have stayed on lockdown longer.  Others disagree.  No one knows.

And Trump, of course, endlessly crows.




Monday June 8


I feel just a tangle of bodies, flopping around and against each other, an anonymous one on one.  Not sexual, not pleasurable, just a tangling of bodies as they roll limply, flaccidly, down the short slope of a hill.  Not corpses but inert, becoming yet more inert at the bottom.  That's how I feel inside.  That's how tired I am.

Oh how I miss the silence of the shutdown.


He's made the country so much meaner, Trump has.  Yes, also his government helpers, and his citizen-supporters, and the systemic corruption that allowed someone like Trump to come to power in the first place.  But at this moment, it's Trump.  Trump who lies, Trump who corrupts, Trump who makes us confuse reality with perceptions of truth, who makes us doubt the validity of democracy because we have borne witness to its corruption.  Trump the narcissist, Trump the coward, whose only real genius lies in his forcing us to constantly place him at the center of our attention, which he accomplishes by keeping the country in a state of constant chaos.  The petty grandiosity he embodies, now writ large by the magnitude of his political power, has made him a madman.  The only value he brings is the possibility that we will attend to and clear away all the poisonous muck he's dredged up once he's gone (assuming he goes soon enough).  If this were any other period of history, I would think this only one dark moment we could, with will and luck, survive.  But out on the edge of everything lies the ominous beginnings of the havoc climate change will bring.  Its threat grows worse with every passing year, and nothing is done; unimpeded, it comes speeding towards us with all the inevitability of a Judgment Day.



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