Yesterday my daughter told me she had a bad dream. She said she dreamt about vampire dogs trying to kill her, and there was a wolfman leading them toward her.
Some day you might find yourself at a party with a bunch of friends and strangers and some of these people will be sniffing white powder and you’ll see how these people just can’t get enough of this powder and that the more of the powder they sniff, the more they talk. You’ll get sick of being at this party because it will eventually turn into a bunch of people with runny noses talking over each other. It will remind you of bad jazz or how when you first learned to play an instrument it made you feel so good that you never wanted to stop and you could get lost in the loop of having an idea and then playing the idea and then hearing the idea. You’ll hear these buffoons talking over each other and wonder what’s getting them high, the powder, or talking.
Maybe you’ll see this a couple times, hopefully not more than that, hopefully not at all. After you’ve seen it enough you’ll start to recognize this pattern of behavior all around you. You’ll start to pick up on the desperate excitement that so much of the world runs on, the bad vibes of people getting ripped on fascist ideas.
It’s silly and dumb to think fascism has to mean a swastika armband or totenkopf or some bald Italian with his face screwed up like a bulldog. You’re probably swimming in it. Every moment of television is a product of fascism, every Best Buy, Wal-Mart, Starbucks, Apple Store, outlet mall, every phone, every phone company, the batteries that power them, the power companies, all of this.
Does a cancer cell have a conscience? Amongst cancer cells, skillful project managers are probably highly lauded. Growth is the most important thing to the cancer community.
Our interactions make us fascist. Our obedience makes us fascist. Our compliance makes us complicit. Our unwillingness to sacrifice our own safety and comfort makes us fascist. We are all getting high on our own ideas, ideas about safety, about peace and virtue, and hate.
But we must know that running the streets deep with white collar blood is just another way of getting high. The Military-Industrial class is getting higher than Eichmanns and Speers, but Pol Pot was also really high on ideas. Jim Jones was really coked out of his gourd on ideas. The Gang of Four was really high too, and I’m saying this as someone who spent a decade of his live dedicated to promoting the ideas of the Gang of Four. I was high as fuck.
All of this loops around and fucks itself. TED organizers are sky high on ideas. So is Dennett. So is Zizek.
Can we ever rid ourselves of ideas? I don’t know, but that’s a goal. Try it, because held long enough, these little monsters ruin us. They ruin everything.
Sometimes I think I became who I am in the bathroom of a catholic school cafeteria. They were small boys, much younger than me, and they could already sense something different about me. Maybe they knew that when Father John said we should love one another I thought he meant it.
They were kicking my balls, they were spitting on me and calling me names. They were so small I couldn’t bring myself to hit them back. I just tried to keep them at arm’s length. Then they got me down and started kicking my face and I lay there, bleeding and suffering these little stomps and taunts, thinking about the viciousness of these little things. I cried not because of what was happening to me, but because of the viciousness of these little boys, because such a thing exists.
Thirty years later I think about them every day. I see the DARPA dogs coming up over the hills, their hive mind fixed on a ten year old me. They chomp at his ass but they don’t take him down. They run him down to a lake and then in past the shore. He drowns there, the water just over his head, flailing. His body floats out into the lake until it rests at the center atop a pile of ten year old me bodies and this goes on until the sun goes cool.