Our Man In Hiatus – Issue 30

There are snowmen outside our minds that want to melt our way of life. Like we know what the threat actually is. To be fully aware we’d need to think more and consider what’s a steak, sorry, what’s at stake. At least now we feel very safe and scared witless, in an oxymoronic, electronically charged  bliss, that the world will end mid-sentence and that last deeply philosophical communication about the possibility of peace and goodwill to all men (sorry but this is merely a linguistic cypher for all of us as human beings and not misogynistic and patriarchal in intent) will be lost forever. Another cluster of snow particles changing into another form, a form we need and die for. Speculation will only bastardise the treatise and any reputation could be blasted out of proportion by total strangers with absolutely no knowledge of the living world, instead choosing, up to the point of no return, to embrace death and the promise of a life somewhere over the reign of terror.

If this is a new cold war then how come the planet is warming by at least two degrees, as agreed on by the movers and shakers of the world as they know it. But how do we know it? Reportage and the limitations of subjectivity atomised by nurturing a sense of self that fulfils Sartre’s absurdist exhortation that other people are Hell. Beautiful pictures from and of space only tell us that we are incongruous to any cosmic project, so where does that leave us? Building snowmen that visually represent our own mortality in a world where we are getting colder while the climate is getting warmer. We are living in a Baked Alaska era: being spiritually stationary in an environment that is causing us to become sleepy; somnambulists in a numismatist dream, where we have an economy of humanist thought. We cannot buy in to the notion that we could and should be better Earth-dwellers. We invest too much effort and thought in cutting back on philosophy and culture to the detriment and atrophy of effort, thought, philosophy and culture. Yet we still observe, from not as afar as time past, snowmen dying for want of carrots and melted snow, sometimes referred to as water.

Apparently tears are too salty to drink, so once shed are lost forever, a bit like life itself, unless we aim at constructing a process of purification.

Wouldn’t it be heavenly if…

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