Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.


Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.

He wakes up. He is inside a horrendous political commercial full of loss and hate and barely disguised threats of rape and murder and corruption. He is a plate on the wall of the commercial watching the actors perform their lines. There is sport in forgetting the horrors. We are born in violence in the crucible of the powerful. The dead and the dying are the mulch for all tomorrows parties. The…

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Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.


Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.

He wakes up. He is inside a horrendous political commercial full of loss and hate and barely disguised threats of rape and murder and corruption. He is a plate on the wall of the commercial watching the actors perform their lines. There is sport in forgetting the horrors. We are born in violence in the crucible of the powerful. The dead and the dying are the mulch for all tomorrows parties. The…

View On WordPress

Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.


He wakes up. He is inside a horrendous political commercial full of loss and hate and barely disguised threats of rape and murder and corruption. He is a plate on the wall of the commercial watching the actors perform their lines. There is sport in forgetting the horrors. We are born in violence in the crucible of the powerful. The dead and the dying are the mulch for all tomorrows parties. The stars of sport jackhammer their fists into the faces of their lovers. A woman commits suicide by climbing into a crocodile pit. She takes off her shoes first. She loved her shoes and did not want them to be ruined by the prehistoric beasts. Who will get to keep the shoes afterwards. Will her relatives keep them in a box, uncleaned, perhaps a grass scuff on one corner from where she slipped them off on the wet ground. He reads about the Criminals of Wall Street and their desperate and ultimately successful attempts to save their kingdoms but not without first sacrificing some of their own. These perfidious knights see themselves as heroes even as the world is sickened by their villainy. He eats fried rice. He drinks coffee. He watches a talk that took place the day before the large climate change walk in New York. The speakers are Chris Hedges, Naomi Klein, Bill McKibben, Brian Lehrer, Kshama Sawant and Bernie Sanders. As Senator Bernard speaks protesters put up a cloth decrying Saunders voting for the bombing of Gaza. There is awkward murmuring. The audience is mostly white. He is happy when a bearded man stands up at the end and says he is sad that there are not more brothers and sisters of colour. The leader of the movement Bill Mckibben does not acknowledge this but deflects it as he tells the questioner to look outside tomorrow and to look at those at the frontline of the climate debate but he does not engage with the truth of the questioner at that particular moment.  America and secret allies start bombing Syria around 830 eastern time. This is half an hour in to The Voice. Someone is singing their heart out as enormous missiles smash into buildings as incredibly powerful ordnance cremates numberless human beings. The new acts are pretty good. Everyone trusts that no civilians are targeted. He feels sick. There is no criticism, no questioning. The Forever War. The Endless War. The Neverending War. Whatever it is called it is a hydra. Each war begetting a new war. Each murder creating two new murderers. And on and on and on. He watches Elementary. He eats food. He enjoys The Blacklist. It is utterly ridiculous. He snuggles. Obama is the War President. That Nobel Prize for peace must be in the attic of the White House slowly decaying into a puddle of shame. He goes to sleep.

Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.


He wakes up. He is refreshed. He showers. He eats toast with honey on it and he eats toast with jam on it and he walks to the bus and on the way he sees the carcass of a deer that he walked past the night before but now it’s belly is open and exposed it’s guts glistening with every passing car rigid with it’s eyes open. He walked past it last night and it’s eyes this morning are as glazed as they were the night before and as glazed as they were when it was alive no doubt and being slashed open by the front of a large car. He plays with blocks and he walks to the train station and he eats a sandwich and he feels the muscles of his bones sharp and tight and bunching in happiness in knots around his body as he stretches and remembers the joy of the weekend. He sees that Russel Brand is still being critiqued in ways that are unsurprising. Chris Hedges is still angry and impassioned. Each little echo chamber takes the information that funnels into it and listens to the pretty sounds as it bounces around inside off the shiny walls just like this little echo chamber. Then he reads about the rising popularity of blackface this halloween and wonders if it is more popular this year or if he is just noticeing it more this year. So much ignorance – the global hobby. One he practises with regularity and, when it is exposed as it always is, embarassment redress and enlightenment – until the next time. He eats a sandwich. He watches the television and the decadence sickens him not only because he is thinking of the poor who are sacrificed on it’s altar but also because he has tasted that decadence and he is jealous and that sickens him too. He discovers his werewolf name is Rogue Warrior through an online game and thinks this is a shit name. He passes uninterrupted through the rest of the day and then he goes to bed.


In America, when you are poor, you can instantly disappear like this into the subterranean rabbit holes of our vast jail and prison complex. You crawl out weeks, months or years later. You try to pick up where you left off. You avoid the cops. You look for work. There is no work. It is a constant cat-and-mouse game the state plays with the poor. The hunters. The hunted. The poor, no matter what they do, are always potential prey, minnows in a sea of sharks. It is not only the masses in the Middle East and the jihadists who despise us for our purported “values.” The vast, persecuted underclass, the human refuse callously cast aside by our corporate state, the legions of poor our bankrupt media have rendered invisible, the young, violent street toughs with no education, no jobs, no prospects also see through the empty rhetoric of the power elite when it speaks about our freedoms and democracy.

Chris Hedges (via azspot)

Chris Hedges is a raw wound of truth.

It hurts to read.


In America, when you are poor, you can instantly disappear like this into the subterranean rabbit holes of our vast jail and prison complex. You crawl out weeks, months or years later. You try to pick up where you left off. You avoid the cops. You look for work. There is no work. It is a constant cat-and-mouse game the state plays with the poor. The hunters. The hunted. The poor, no matter what they do, are always potential prey, minnows in a sea of sharks. It is not only the masses in the Middle East and the jihadists who despise us for our purported “values.” The vast, persecuted underclass, the human refuse callously cast aside by our corporate state, the legions of poor our bankrupt media have rendered invisible, the young, violent street toughs with no education, no jobs, no prospects also see through the empty rhetoric of the power elite when it speaks about our freedoms and democracy.

Chris Hedges (via azspot)

Chris Hedges is a raw wound of truth.

It hurts to read.

We Are All Aboard the Pequod: Chris Hedges


Moby Dick is a beautiful novel. Part naval manual, part moral fairytale. Here Chris Hedges makes the case that it is nothing less than a metaphor for modern America and where it is heading.

We Are All Aboard the Pequod: Chris Hedges

We Are All Aboard the Pequod: Chris Hedges


Moby Dick is a beautiful novel. Part naval manual, part moral fairytale. Here Chris Hedges makes the case that it is nothing less than a metaphor for modern America and where it is heading.

We Are All Aboard the Pequod: Chris Hedges