The Psyop in the Rearview Mirror

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On a long enough timeline, every psyop, every spin of the narrative cycle, just reduces in scope until it becomes a small node connected to many like it, all mapping out the different dimensions of our reality.

Illusion in this hall of mirrors reflects itself, but from slightly different angles, and sometimes flipped horizontally, as well as vertically. Bloated at the belly here and grotesquely emaciated over there.

What narrative are we on? It all depends; who’s asking?

The psyop that brought us together rag-focused on itself and became a point of reference, but in mainstream punk rock circles (oxymoron intended), it only brings out phony sneers. Covid-19? That ol’ thing?

The psyop du jour doesn’t have the taste as the first that woke you from your slumber (and by you, I mean me) but for a short spell there, certain heads stuck out above the fog of war to play the role of heroes. Too bad some of them turned out to be agents of the chaotic kind and now drag us (and by us, I mean you) into a time-wasting, funds-syphoning blood attention-letting, at worst, and irrelevant cul-de-sacs, at best.

The ethos on this platform has changed as well. For some of us, a new routine has set in, and it’s harder to read (let alone, write) articles, but even harder to do so about the subject that brought us to this platform in the first place. Branching out to writing on non-fiction topics that are adjacent but you know nothing about requires diligent research, often relying on prior investigations of other writers. And sheesh, I have a hard enough time recycling bottles IRL. But writing about what you know, be it personal, risks losing readers - hey, it’s not what they (we) signed up for! So, here I am feeling compelled to write; something is prodding me, something is trying to get out, maybe it will make its point out of this free fall writing, but it better hurry because I set the timer to 20 minutes and I still need to pack my bags before my 4a flight to Mexico. For good measure, preventative, still cancer-free, for those that might be wondering if that’s why.

All this gibberish will make sense less tomorrow, but I saw the term “Babelian society’ and figured it was the right place to insert it when writing this here post. When language and logos become failed comms, when the Hegelian pinball is stuck on the bumpers, when definitions of words become mangled up in our sense-making, when we can no longer be sure if we’re communicating with a real person or a program (irony: humans operate under a program as well), perhaps our flaws will be the flex needed to prove our humanity, I mean let’s face it, would AI write such a run-on sentence and end its unholy journey with a rhetorical question mark?

If you answer that, you’re a bot.

I’ve two minutes left - I can’t seem to stop staring out the window, and the bunnies aren’t doing anything more interesting than chasing each other around. Maybe I should notice that no one had to communicate the rules of their game for them to play. Meh. Maybe I should write something more riddled with profundity, but now that my stupid brain invented this stupidly self-imposed task, I know for sure it ain’t happening. Sometimes, it’s just keeping your fingers moving during the last remaining minute of an exercise meant to exorcise the thing that’s trying to come out.

Sometimes I get these divine inspirations where I can write as if I’m possessed, allowing me to simply channel what needs to be said, as if I’m just the antenna that receives the message. I’ve written entire stage productions this way. And I have experienced that feeling under other artistic endeavors as well. How glorious that feeling is!

But now the alarm has set off and it has shattered any hope for a meaningful button to all this.

Fine. A stupid short poll, then. I can’t see who responds individually, so you might as well be truthful.

All images and memes were added after the 20-minute alarm

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