[spectre] GLORY, FORCE, OR DESTINY
seamascain at gmail.com
Fri Jan 10 18:00:22 CET 2020
GLORY, FORCE, OR DESTINY
War spurns the temptation to give death a meaning. We cannot make
terms with fate or destiny; destiny is not subject to human corruption.
Therefore, President Trump stubs his feet in blue shadow. In Afghanistan,
in Syria, & in Iraq, the fires of the outposts shine like stars. Yes & in
Iraq, tannin is extracted by tanned leather men. Mrs. Trump coughs. Then
she coughs again & clears her throat. “Are they also some of the dying
men?” she asks. “I only want peace,” Donald Trump says.
War remains the negation inherent in society, in history. President
Trump's cook describes a scene in which Secretary of State Pompeo
overwhelms a social gathering with his rhetoric. Mr. Pompeo expresses his
visions of fear & horror, his military convictions, & his belief in the
extermination they must wage in Iran, however hideous it will seem to the
people of the world.
Thus President Trump, we are told, is merely the product of Western
European civilization, a blend from historical & social circumstances &
ironies, the realization of the private needs & dreams of an age.
Consequently Mr. Trump & his cronies try to demonstrate the workings of
“mediatization,” but are also caught up in them.
President Trump, then, shoves a stag. The sparrows are grappling, &
fall down into pond-water. “The CIA men are destructive, able to claw
their way through concrete!” Mr. Pompeo says. Similarly, the Trumpite Mob
brutally places itself outside human culture, & then endlessly collapses
into a mere duplication of the Establishment it criticizes. The Trumpites
especially continue to operate in a discontinuous & irruptive fashion.
President Trump gives the CIA men their outlet to the sea, the lasting
rich deep vegetable sea. In Iraq, Mrs. Trump says, “trees are cut for the
purpose of tannin.” She laughs. “She is cool in the wind,” Mr. Trump
says, “cool as clay, cool as a lattice-work of reeds.” Mr. Pompeo pleads
with an astrologer to relate his own fabricated prophecy to President &
Mrs. Trump, instead of the true future he can read in the stars. In the
background, women & boys repeatedly open & close their eyes.
President Trump's cook discusses the need for a strong man to lead
America out of its humiliations. Thus “theory” itself is often manipulated
to diminish the significance or even the very possibility of a
multi-dimensional philosophy. The Trumpite Mob does not & cannot stand
apart from the culture of TV. The Trumpites have supported, willy-nilly,
authoritarian cultural systems by generally participating in the structure
of politics & the structures of religion merely as institutions.
It is impossible to comprehend the force or the destiny that reaches
from beyond the clouds to perform unspeakable acts, for which we the people
must bear the guilt. Therefore we see a model of the small Israeli
neighborhood where Benjamin Netanyahu was born; snow, uncharacteristically,
is being strewn over it by the actors; scenes from his life are recalled, &
a simple warning at the end of horror & woe. “Am I corrupt?” Netanyahu
asks. “I just want immunity from prosecution,” he says. War is the last
remembrance of all possibilities forsaken. Yes & politicians of all kinds,
of necessity, do not ask as many questions of war as they seem to answer.
President Trump is speaking to Secretary Pompeo: “I see hoofprints, &
red ribbons wet from the sea. Within the orbits of the moons & planets,
star-stuff depicts the relinquished attributes of religious war, the
expanded significance of apocalypse retained in dust. At either side of a
choir of sheep, daggers in hands, the CIA men prepare to stab a lioness.”
Donald Trump's cook reflects on his time with the president, & on the
private details of his life & events that took place behind the scenes of
official public life. In Iran & Syria & Afghanistan, thin women are buried
with strips of bamboo & sedge. President & Mrs. Trump cudgel the
star-stuff of walnut & birch, as Capitalism becomes the all too ready
compliance with the necessity of pain.
Rainfall, rainfall fills, rainfall fills a convolvulus. Scales lock
into each other like an oriental puzzle. We see a black madonna in a snow
storm, outside a glass cave. The Trumpite Mob, like Capitalism itself, is
as much a desiccated symptom of information's self-consumption as an
analysis of it.
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