PSA: Quarantine and Other Qualms
1 July 2020 · Karl Finch · Permalink
Something, something, virus. Unprecedented, or whatever other superlative we happened to pull out a drawer to use and abuse today for the sake of the news cycle. We live in interesting times, et cetera, so on and so forth—
—but let’s just skip straight past the dime-a-dozen, faux-journalistic hodgepodge, shall we?
There will come a point at which we can explore the foolishness of the notion that some newfound abundance of time directly equates to ripe opportunity for all manner of exponentially self-improving endeavours, that paradigm shifts intrinsically, automatically result in the betterment of all things.
No: that is a fruit, crisp on the surface but rotten on the inside, growing on the tree of the socio-economic imperative du jour sponsored by every corporate entity large enough to systematically rob its drones of any autonomy they once possessed as complete human beings.
Just as these sentences run on, so does the driverless train shuttling us unavoidably to a future of certifiable progress, if only because the appropriate marketing department declared this to be the case.
We have the culture of Work Is Happiness to thank for this. Perhaps once an aphorism long since kidnapped, anaesthetised and harvested for organs by the profit motive, the words now constitute the toxic product of a mind-polluting parasite on the soul.
Its hosts, we can only hope, will one day wake up as if characters in The Matrix, realising that (a) this is all patent Kafkaesque ridiculousness, and (b) there are far greater horizons beyond that proscribed by those granted status via systems incapable of much more than introducing further chaos to the world.
For all its virtues, work alone is not enough—and neither is time in the absence of anything else.
I digress, just as I’ve done figuratively in life this past eternity since the Event happened. The purpose of this trudging text, somewhere in among the eruptions of nonsense bordering meaning, was to announce retroactively and for no more than posterity’s sake that Leftfield has been on ice.
In spite of this—or even precisely because of it—I continue to find myself unwilling, or unable, to give the pages before you now the dignified death they perhaps deserve. Resisting this fate, a new season of TLC awaits, working to timescales even I cannot begin to express in puerile, sardonic terms. That said, if you thought lockdown was too long for liking, you haven’t seen anything yet. Purple season starts now—or, y’know, thereabouts.
Other projects paw at me for equally elastic time investments, none more so than the real-world responsibilities permitting such absurd adventures in the abstract without resulting in an existence of perpetual squalor. It’s only what the algorithms, the false prophets of our day, have ordained.
I fear the eldritch wrath of the Muses, not to mention my own capacity for failure, more than the innumerable ways in which the natural world can deprive me of life in blatant disregard for modern medicine. I hold such fears with a great deal more frequency and passion.
Maybe you should, too. Though, being but another vomitus of zero-cost internet content, you’re as well to dismiss whatever you haven’t already skimmed of this, forget you were ever even here, then return to whatever normality now resembles for you.