For a man driven to cast stones from within a glass house, One should not question the truth of the moon landing, but post-truth has made conspiracy theorists out of us all. Now everyone is a lobby unto themselves, everyone an advertiser, publisher and so on. Driving consensus from day to day is now deferred to data where reason still holds and to “any means necessary” where it doesn’t.
Jimmy’s essence is a peeping tom, a mind that leaps across boundaries man-made and otherwise, hence the clearly visible (but not for long) parallax because it is difficult to betray your true nature towards the end. Everyone in the village knows this, about the loose brick in the collapsing barn wall, but they’re terrified of jimmy as he is a psycho. One wanted to call this book “faggot nation” but better senses prevailed. Euphemisisms and scruples is perhaps how one lived or rather survived. Psychiatrists are in agreement about the impossibility of any treatment, whereas they would not bat an eyelid before administering electroconvulsive therapy to anyone who so much as steps out of line.
In the abject poverty of science, sorry “STEM”, lurk the currents and countercurrents of randomness but these people seem insulated inside a jelly bean looking at the world from whichever color’s jelly covers their vision. In truth, there is no such thing as true randomness of the sky falling, everything is gradual, procedural, emergent, unrolling from the edge of history downstream to the teeming millions. The reality is that the oligarchy that has come to stand in lieu of the so called constitution is a very centralised and chaotic, especially vis-a-vis similar superstructures like the CCP, which makes our guys look like a mexican cartel at best.
But why do I write about the loser? Perhaps only a loser is worth writing about, perhaps a teary-eyed sendoff is earned. More certainly however, I write about a loser because I’m playing one. To an extent my manifesto was that of the underachiever’s unlike Jimmy’s, but their actions begged for a criticism, if not (the final) judgement.
Jimmy ails from more mental disease per capita than any other country, as someone on reddit said, “put gun in bag, then go to school”. One wonders, what purpose does sitting alone in a barn, armed to the teeth mumbling inanities in tongues on a moonless night serve? Not that Jimmy has lost the plot, he didn’t have one to begin with!
But if that was just the case, one would have relaxed and sipped a mojito except the matrix is far more involved like when Rammstein sang “we’re all living in america”, and one was filled with so much hate one could write this entirely in song lyrics or epithtets as if an extension of solomon’s song.
If evolving backwards was a sport, Jimmy would win olympic gold. The only place a peeping tom would never look is within, that kind of soul-searching is too new age for jimmy, just give him a pill. Indeed, why would you look within if all you ever known yourself to be is a peeping tom on oxycontin? “To thine own self be true” requires a handle on truth and self, two structures marked only by absense in jimmy’s psyche calling into question the very identity he purports for in the lack of self, nothing is determined. America is deconstruction, and what better definition of deconstruction can there be if not deep sleep? such that if Rammstein had instead sung “we’re all fast asleep”, it would have meant the same thing.
Sleep is thin veil from the burning truth which like the sun will come through if only to be slipstreamed-in from under the door, but there are ways around the sun in jimmy’s plans.
The mind that sees eye to eye is an eternal exodus, but his eye is a mind that is blinded and his mind is an exhausted eye tired of just - staring, or for those in the know, peeping. Besides that, Jimmy has done little other than lying, lying there, and eating lice. With a lot of empathy one sees the packaging, ah, this cardboard box says “Lockheed Martin”.
Race is gatekept so severely - just ask any aspiring IITian dreaming of a white wife - because race is all they ever had to sell, not only back to Europe but also to the rest of the world. Race and packaging are kind of the same thing, what makes one human is not at all packaging.
Meanwhile Jimmy’s monsters get closer each step he takes towards them, blaming them inside a solipsistic, ironic, and narcissistic stance for some sort of superpower they hold over him to commandeer him this way but just like in real life, the 99% of them sleep deeper than the 1% so the blame is unjust. “Eat the rich”, he keeps repeating but it is his inherent poverty singing; soon there won’t be enough rich, even to eat.
This entire country and each of its natives is a cancer that has metastasised upon the earth and both the individual and society are celebrated under the phrase “cancel culture”, which nobody has a tattoo of because it won’t translate to sanskrit or kanji. Soon it would be preferable to trust a machine connected to a global computer than to live with an american or one is not a modern Solzhenitsyn in a ghettoised, cyber-gulag.
Jimmy’s humanity stood discounted even in Europe, the “sweepings of europe” epithet is no medal of honor, hance the lack of any plot, the search for one, and the coming undone of one dream inside another.
The religious zealotry with which begot the hedonism ends in a spectacle of Jimmy’s own creation, but not of his liking. Indeed Jimmy would have preferred “bombs bursting in air”, instead the end begot was more like a ghost town in the bible belt, in other words, just air.