PSA: Quarantine and Other Qualms

1 July 2020 · Karl Finch · Permalink

Three months of isolation, and this is all there is to show for it?
Three months of isolation, and this is all there is to show for it?

Something, something, virus. Unprecedented, or whatever other superlative descriptor we pulled out of a drawer to use and abuse today for the sake of the news cycle. What a time to be alive, 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 necessarily equals ripe opportunity for all manner of exponentially self-improving endeavours, that paradigm shifts by default result in the betterment of all.

No: that is a fruit, crisp on the surface but rotting on the inside, growing on the tree of the socio-economic imperative du jour, sponsored by every corporate entity large enough to systemically rob its drones of any autonomy they once possessed as complete human beings—albeit so impotently, despite the input of every AI still treading water awkwardly in the troughs of the uncanny valley.

We have the culture of Work Is Happiness to thank for this. Perhaps once an aphorism since kidnapped by the profit motive, these words now form the toxic product of a mind-polluting parasite on the soul. Its hosts, we can only hope, will one day wake up as if minor characters in The Matrix to realise that (a) this is all patent Kafkaesque ridiculousness, and (b) there are far greater horizons than what is proscribed by those granted status by systems incapable of much more than introducing further chaos to the world.

I digress, just as I’ve done figuratively in life this past eternity since the Event happened. In among a three-in-the-morning eruption of nonsense bordering meaning, I announce retroactively that Leftfield has been on ice long before more mundane situations dictated such frivolities be put on hold.

In spite of it all, I continue to find myself unwilling, or unable, to give the pages in front of you now the dignified death they maybe deserve. Resisting this destined fate, a new season of TLC awaits, on timescales even I cannot manage 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 thereabouts.

Other, more personal, projects paw at me for time investment, none more so than the tangible responsibilities permitting such absurd adventures in the abstract without a resulting simultaneous life in squalor. It’s only what the algorithms, the false prophets of our day, have ordained.

I fear the eldritch wrath of the muses and my own vast capacity for failure more than the innumerable ways in which the natural world can yet deprive me of life in blatant disregard for the age of modern medicine. I hold this fear with a great deal more frequency and passion, in fact.

Perhaps you should, too. Though, this being just another vomitus of zero-cost internet content, you’re just as well to dismiss any part of this you didn’t skim in the first place, forget you were ever here, then return to whatever normality now resembles.