Nobody knows nothin.  Talk talk talk.   Fictions grow and then recede and then grow again.  Enter the universal interpreters who tell us the world is as it is supposed to be and the track of things only frays around the edges.  Scare tactics and violent tactics and dead certainties know that the general narrative of our lives changes only slowly and in simple ways reflecting only the lack of product or energy or means of existence.

Small things these, that matter not to the core tides of history.  The core tides of history, the dead certainties of identity and narrative and home and country fit all of the regular patterns of a world in molasses.  War and peace, threat and disintegration… the primitive’s preserve.  They are, the primitives, the exotic who come in from the stone age…. at what price…. corruption, moral corruption, general blindness, wishful thinking, ….the befits of instability and diffusion of organized power. Better than Christmas and Valentines Day.  The gifts of false purpose.

Corruption of motive is long a certain thing.  The blindness of interpretation is a keeper.  Hell for losers.  Tis tough enough to win.  The lost lost losers need their own narratives.  Trust in the kindness of others.  Go in many pretty circles.  Wait for good publicity.

Central American drugs.

The Economist

Terrorism and us

Peter Beinart The Daily Beast

The dumb …… the honored creed. The rancid bastards …… the true.


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