Papillonnage
Murex sky at dusk pops the east in its greens.
Obamalisk basilisk a chamber of secrets.
Geopolitical kabuki:
For most Americans, Iran is not Iran but “Iran,” which is to say, not a place or a people or a history, but a morbid symptom of their necrotic American fantasy of a long displaced geopolitical order that was–and remains–orientalist and genocidal and that continues insists loudly upon its relevance as well as its reference well after its moment is passed. US strategy does not, has not, will not deal in realities. It deals in correspondences which would force fantasies upon realities, whatever the consequences. It is about bending reality in such a way that it is indistinguishable from fantasy such that the only real reality is in the perception of reality as inherently bent. To encounter the bend in reality is to flirt with the trauma of the real.
The east is a career. And remains one, and it is quite lucrative, as it turns out.
But substitute any country you like and the point is the same, with certain provisos.
Speaking of orientalism: Tulsi Gabbard has a guru. Who is also maybe a PAC.
The New York Times continues to have metaphysical questions about podcasting.
The Praeger U sponsored Freedom Truck is a close cousin of the Mitzvah Tank which is a step brother of the Dunk Tank which will also be at the Great American State Fair.
The uncanny non-eventfulness of the semiquincentennial seems to have made a certain type of well adjusted Gen Xer nostalgic for the Bicentennial and the tall ships and so forth because “that was a time of unity”: a position belied by the fact that the 1976 celebration was effectively an orgy of national forgetting designed to sideline Watergate and the Nixon pardon and the twenty-year war in Vietnam that had just ended in defeat barely a year before. It was the occasion of the birth of neoliberal cynicism, which gains credence in the world by pretending naivete.
The reason Lesley Ann Warren is in the “Janie’s Got a Gun” video is because Miss Scarlett has the revolver at the end of Clue.
Everything’s unbecoming.
The return of the repressed but nobody was there to accept delivery.
In classical Marxism, knee deep in the hoopla is what follows farce.
It’s already too late.
Fifty-one