Never underestimate the first cup of coffee in the morning. Never underestimate the profundity of the mundane.
This self-portrait of mine, which I use as a logo of sorts, is not some ridiculous attempt to present myself as some enlightened being, third eye wide open, capable of seeing the meaning of life, the universe and everything. Nope.
I’m afraid not. I can’t even figure out what to have for dinner.
It is far more mundane than that.
It is made to illustrate the joy of the mundane. That is: the joy of that first cup, that first jolt of caffeine in the morning. Caffeine, of course, being the best drug known to man and God’s greatest gift to humanity. As I have stated before, and will repeat here with smug self-satisfaction at such a great fucking line: the eternal quest for God begins and ends with that first cup of coffee in the morning. That is happiness. That is fulfilment. That is completion. The first cup of coffee. The absolutely mundane.
There is a lot to say about the mundane, the dull and the boring aspects of life. Everyday stuff that seem so frightfully dull – like that cup of coffee – can not possibly be wholly unremarkable. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be done in such a ritualistic manner. Over and over and over again.
To be clear: this might just be me pining for rediscovering rituals of sorts, seeing as rituals are something we have more or less forgotten in our over-civilized way of life, where people are far too busy bitching and moaning on Twitter to have anything to do with such old and archaic stuff as rituals. Or ascribing actual meaning to things, for that matter. Which, as I understand it, is what rituals are at their core – a way of ascribing meaning to certain things… like coming of age.
People are floating, untethered, from one thing to the next, from one outrage to the next… constantly seeking that social validation, that dopamine fix, that elusive dragon of superficial moral posturing, instead of grabbing hold of something substantial. And what is substantial? The first cup of coffee, a walk in the woods, a hug from your partner or your child, petting your dog. Things like that.
There is little rhyme or little reason to anything, and what was presented as both rhyme and reason in one moment is forgotten in the next moment when some new rhyme and some new reason is brought to the shattered forefront of our collective hysteria and permanently perpetuated psychosis. And this is followed by people suddenly caring about something else entirely, forgetting and disregarding the last in honour of the latest. The latest, of course, being amplified by social media takes precedence and becomes prioritized where once the last was.
In the end, after much noise… after all the sturm und drang, all the roaring and the screaming and the rioting, pillaging, looting… after all the posturing and grandstanding, the propaganda and the pointless speeches and calls to action… nothing is resolved and nothing is changed. And then it all repeats. And repeats. And repeats.
You can not soothe a rabid beast, and you can not soothe a mob of people who have not understood that life is nothing and has no meaning were it not for the mundane; that life, for the most part, is made up of the boring stuff. Which, ultimately, is the good stuff. Because it is the safe, the known, the stable stuff. Things don’t need to happen all the time for life to be exciting. Once you accept this, you realise that it is damned fucking hard to be bored.
These social justice types; the feminist types, the slacktivists and the activists and the permanently sneering and offended… it seems like such an angry, hollow, pointless existence. Never any manner of satisfaction. Merely a constant state of dissatisfaction, egged on by mass media, amped up by social media, by lies and slander and nonsense and fear and terror and dread. All manufactured, all built and maintained. A constant quest for validation, for likes, for attention, for fifteen minutes of fame, shame or, failing that, infamy. Truth is pointless, facts are meaningless, thoughts are inconsiderate, words are violence.
Feelings, on the other hand, are immediate and thus the only thing of any substance in a world that has become nothing but immediate, celebrating nothing but the immediate and the insubstantial. A world in which nothing matters more than a catchy slogan; where cancellation of those not conforming to whatever moral panic and chastity crusade is currently in vogue is the greatest thing since sliced head. Once cancelled, one does not have to contend with the fact that people do not agree with the oh-so-delicious feeling of immediate outrage.
And all this being as substantial (and as immediate) as a dry, prolonged fart.
It does not do to spread information through 24 hour news cycles, when people – including the fraudsters and charlatans presenting the fucking news – are so caught up in the immediacy of their emotional reaction to whatever “news” is presented that they neither think nor consider whatever is presented.
Shit; the news said something. Better go out and burn something. There’s no point in waiting for further information.
That one kid smirked at an indigenous man gently and soothingly beating a fucking drum in his god-damned face. Oh, the horror of the white bigotry! And a male to boot! And, ye gods, is that a MAGA cap I spy with my little, shuttered, beady eye? Oh, no, oh woe. Lets dox him, threaten him, call for violence to be enacted upon him for the crime of smiling whilst white and male.
All with the blessings of the mass-psychotic media. And all this to present themselves as fools when more facts were revealed. And then double down on the insistence of the wrong done by the kid, of course. Because no-one really cares about what actually happened. They cared about the outrage, about the sense of moral superiority, about hollow, vacuous and pointless immediate moral grandstanding. And the eternally blessed outrage. The sensation of being in the right, despite being in the wrong. The left-hand path is a weird path. But so is the right-hand path. Because life is a weird and strange journey, you see. It is a decent joke with a terrible punchline.
People are too busy being outraged to notice the follow up. Or the follow up that came after that. Or the one after that. ‘cause they got themselves all riled up. You can not stand between hysterics and their target. They are still riled up, because that is where these people want to stay. It’s just some new rile-up, some new outrage, some new opportunity to show the whole wide world wide web how freaking fantastic they are, how good, honourable, noble and so-and-such people they are. Same shit, different day. Same noise, different outrage. Same outcome, different happening.
These people are such self-centred arseholes that they can not admit to having done wrong, thought wrong, reacted or acted wrong. It bloody well is someone else’s fault, god-damnit. Because it always is. What is presented as altruism appears to me to be egotism; a chance to show how good they are. When it comes to celebrities, it becomes doubly that. A great PR opportunity, a fantastic and phenomenal way to cash in on the wave of woke. No values. Except the immediacy of the wave rushing over the world.
Stop choking yourself.
They are like spoiled children in that aspect. Immature. Caught in a prolonged adolescence where consequences are something that happen to other people. Where boredom is a constant if something does not constantly happen. Preferably if it gives them some attention from somewhere. Does not matter if the attention is negative or not.
That anger and that outrage at the boredom and the lack of purpose, the lack of self, the lack of whatever, gotta go somewhere. I stand convinced that a lot of this outrage-culture, a lot of this permanent offence, is driven in no small way by a lack of purpose and a lack of values. A lack of purpose in the sense that most of their base needs are met. The fight for survival is long over. Petty shit can now be amped up and must now be battled. Like the size of Iphones being too big. Luxury is a problem. You never see blue collared people, ordinary working class people, subscribing to the church of woke. The day-to-day existence does not give people time for that. But, you know, as is the case with the Covington kid: he was – and still is – a white privileged dude, and so he must be guilty of something since he is the chosen enemy of this particular era of human stupidity. For fuck sake. And for the sake of all the fucks that came before. And after.
This nonsense… it happens all the damned time. And has happened all the damned time. Nothing ever changes. Just the chosen enemy of the day. It comes in waves and it comes in great gusts of wind. Hard times create strong men. Strong men create good times. Good times create weak men. Weak men create hard times. And so the circle goes.
People are so eager in their wish to fight for something, to be perceived as moral, their longing for a purpose to fill that gaping hole in their soul, that they will grasp at straws in order to stay afloat… that they will throw themselves head first into whatever the latest outrage is so that they appear to care about anything but themselves… all for the social validation of their peers. And everyone and everything else. Hell; if everyone else is doing it, it must be right and true and pure and proper and noble and whatever, right?
The witch offends me. Burn the witch.
My right eye offends me. Pluck it out.
Lord, help me, I think I may be coveting my own wife! This can’t be good. Off with my balls!
And so forth and so on.
The world forgot about the mundane. About every day heroes. The small joys. Or joy at all, for that matter. It does not matter any more. Despite being what should matter most in ones life. The chase is on, the game is on, the madness has festered and true hysteria let loose. No-one shall be celebrated but the victim.
That is now profound; the fight to be perceived as a victim. It is the new hip and trendy thing. The profundity of self-imposed weakness.
The new hero is the victim; the new king the one who kneels, who throws himself prostrate at the feet of the victim. To beg forgiveness for something which he does not do, that he never did do, but have been told that he does and always have done. And so he must have done it, even if he is certain he has not.
Doesn’t matter. People must like and accept him, and so he goes with it. Into the vapid void, faceplanting magnificently, thinking “Now, they’ll accept me!”, only to realise that it only ever gets worse from there. Here’s an inch. Would you rather have a mile? The king is king no longer. He is now, and will always be, a tyrant no matter how flat he lies in the dust for people to walk all over him. The cardinal rule is to never apologize to these people. A lesser rule, which I believe is of incredible importance, is to not give them any attention. Not to speak to them, not to debate with them, but to meet and greet them with a wall of silence, to let them wallow in the misery brought by not being granted any attention.
The noise is a constant. Abhorrent madness. Uninformed and immediate. Overstimulated and senseless. Stressed out, freaking out, roaring and raging and carrying on. Today, they said this and so it must be true and I must be pissed off. The next day, they said something contradictory which is also true, but I must still be pissed off about the first thing. And the second thing.
What is really going on? Death. Chaos. Destruction. War. Famine. Pestilence.
We are being beat down and broken up into smaller and smaller tribes. The chasm is widening, the gulf opening, the wound opened and opened again. To sow the seeds of discontent.
Women versus men.
Black versus white.
Tribe versus tribe.
As it once was, so it shall be.
Forever and ever.
One can never be content when something new is constantly manufactured to sow the seeds of discontent.
Doesn’t matter if it is true. What matters is the outrage, what matters is that it may cause this and that to change. Engineered change. To put the one above the other, the other below the one. Forcing the personal to become political; allowing the state to peek into the homes of everyone. Governing all in minute detail.
Can’t say that, can’t read that, can’t watch that, can’t think that.
We’re monitoring your internet, storing your data. All for your safety. You’ve got to understand. Don’t worry, we’re only here to protect you from those horrible others. And from yourself. Your safety is our top concern. That’s why we are watching your every step and banning you from saying certain things.
Someone might get offended, and that would make you unsafe. And no-one should feel unsafe.
And no-one should feel offended. Except you, of course. You can not be offended for reasons of superficial privilege, or something. Hell, I don’t know – we’re just making this shit up as we go along.
There is nothing of substance here, nothing but a fart and a farce. A grim dance of death and a funeral march carried on by people who don’t necessarily know or even realize that this is what they are doing.
I didn’t go for many walks in the woods last year. For reasons of severe sleep deprivation and illness, I was more or less confined to my sofa, lacking the energy to do much of anything but write, ramble, rant and rave.
Being riddled with so much pain – probably due to sleep deprivation (it is a vicious circle) – that any activity was a difficult activity. Fatigue and pain does not make for good companions in bed. No matter how small of an activity, it was draining.
Now – some days were better than others, and so I was capable of getting out and moving about a bit. This year is better in that regard, as I have been on many a walk in the woods. I aim for two walks in the woods a day. Preferably an hour each, though this is not a strict rule.
Have you ever just gone for a walk in the woods? Left your phone at home and forgot about it? It is well worth it. Good way to collect your thoughts. Good way to think at all, really. Just the movement, the silence, the smells. It is phenomenal. I highly recommend it to anyone. Preferably alone, as solitude is a necessity for thinking things through. And men especially need their solitude. No hassle, no noise, no constant yap-yap-yap from anyone or anything. Just you and your thoughts. And the eventual release of stress.
Never underestimate a simple walk in the woods. Never underestimate the power of the mundane.
- Moiret Allegiere, 27.06.2020
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Howling at a Slutwalk Moon, a collection of previous blog posts:
Vol 1 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/107571074X
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Vol 2 Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075714184
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Vol 1 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075717094
Vol 2 Illustrated Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1075723078