(Today’s post in which I rant and zeit-rave about why it’s idiotic that as a culture we keep doing the same show and singing the same song over and over without asking why; and why the drones serving the queen are crazier than the ones who ask “WHY?”, and for god’s sake QUIT CLEANING UP YOUR MASTURBA-JIZZ WITH THE GOOD TOWELS!)
Sometimes I feel as if that has been my mantra. Granted, my rebelling has not been all that successful, nor has it been the sort of flag waving, trail-blazing sort of life’s work that has put me in danger of being jailed, nor have I been effective enough to be targeted by the powers-that-be as enemy of the state.
But, it has cost me. And continues to cost me.
I think about this today because there was an interesting article published in Salon called “Living In America Will Drive You Insane” which cites an article from the 2011 New York Review of Books by Marcia Angell about the epidemic of mental illness in this country. Both articles (and the links within) are bursting with rivetingly quotable factoids that conveniently support my zeit-bites sized crack-pot pop-culture theory that the world and most of the people in it are one huge fucked up, delusional population of whack-job jackholes. And more important, that the unrealistic expectations and definitions of success (the un-achievable status quo, the fantastically idiotic American dream) of a consumerist, elitist, classist society gone mad has become so oppressive as to cause stress levels and fears of failure so constant and yet so DENIED – by those brainwashed into thinking that to question them is to somehow indicate they are too weak or not special or gifted enough to achieve the ridiculous standards – that we are a society in crazy downward spiral, like Rome, just waiting to fall or be set on fire by the fiddle-playing leaders (congress – Dick Cheney and his ilk?)
I have been asking “why” forever. Sometimes quietly. Sometimes through the art I tried to make and the teaching I tried to do. Sometimes in a room of my own (devising) with figurative padded walls – and now from this not exactly safe place of solitude and outsider I have tried to make for myself to re-gain or at least maintain what little sanity I have left.
I don’t intend to write 1000 words here about the pathologizing of normal (and rational) sorrow – how, economically and culturally, somehow the world has become an almost impossible place in which to get a foothold, let alone, get ahead, and yet everyone keeps pretending it’s possible and encouraged to believe that they will be the next millionaire (or lottery winner, or American Idol, etc) – or how that almost guaranteed failure has resulted in a buys busy busy overly-techno-connected hive of crazy, droned, worker-bees without individual wills who – when they ask “WHY” – instead of actually EXPLORING the question, drug themselves into submission.
Almost EVERYONE I know is either on psychotropic drugs or has a substance abuse problem (or both) and yet – no one seems to find it ODD that almost 50% of the population REQUIRES medication in order to not want daily to throw themselves off of buildings. WHAT?
And yet, people keep on. People keep saying the same lines and singing the same songs over and over, doing the same shows without even injecting a new point of view or asking why. And the ants in the hive all contribute, working for the queen (or king or whatever) without question, when the queen (and or king) would eat you, sacrifice you, use what you have and then let you drop by the wayside without a second thought. But, you get your little portion of payment, and you imagine somehow you’ll work your way up your own hive some day, and you sell your soul without a thought.
Not me. I just can’t do it. And that’s okay. Especially when I find articles like those cited today which sort of re-fortify the foundation of my beliefs – that we are all being led to believe we are crazy by a huge behemoth of a culture gone wild, feeding on itself, feeding on each other.
I think that the saddest thing about all of it – for me anyway – is that when someone like me says “Wait a minute” – and pulls back, pulls out, pulls away and tries to find purchase in some sort of reasonable picture, outside the game, outside the delusion – so many of the drones and worker-ants (or worker bees, or drugged or drug abusing delusional populates) I once busied myself beside, turn on me, turn away, label me crazy, reject me, eat me alive – metaphorically – either with dismissal or betrayal or just forgetting and ignoring; going on singing the same old songs and saying the same old tired lines over and over without ever a new point of view or actual, honest, soul and heart level consideration of what the fuck it is they are doing, have done, will ever do.
Tragic. But enough. Look at this. A laugh. A loving mother left this for her sons:
Which reminds me that yesterday I neglected to mention (because I did not know until much later in the day) that it was National Orgasm Day. And damn my luck – and my solitude – there was another holiday I ended up having to celebrate alone. Well, only, yeah, I didn’t. I watched Million Dollar Listing:New York and Top Chef Masters and Andy Cohen‘s After Show all on Bravo Network. Then went to bed with two dogs – actual canines – and read until I fell asleep. Woo-hoo! Well, I refuse to be ruled by other people’s determination of when orgasm ought to occur. Who needs a holiday? (Well, actually . . . )