Wednesday, August 6

You listen to the radio. It tells you: The world is burning. You drift through the internet. It tells you: The world is burning, and you are at best a minor kind of accomplice. You occupy the web of consumer-economy transactions, and this vast network in which you are an incidental node, it transports the fuel and fans the flames.

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Ok, bad start. Lemme try that over again.

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There is a new Weezer song on the radio. I expect to hate it in the quiet, sad way that you hate trite bullshit produced by once-great artists, but in fact there’s something genuinely endearing about it and its direct, pseudo-bombastic, cheeseball narrative. It’s Weezer with none of the imagistic, free-association near-nonsense that reached such an elevated pitch in the years surrounding Nirvana, and the guitars are more like some kind of abstracted signifier pointing at the idea of bighearted pop rock music than they are like the things we used to sing along to. Still, somehow, I can imagine knowing the words to this at the kind of arena rock show I haven’t attended regularly in a decade, though I know it might well be terrible.

I don’t know what the hell happened to Weezer, but in parallel I also don’t know what the hell happened to me. My life is weirder than I imagined it being, and in the light of this knowledge I find that it was always weird.

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Elsewhere in the world: Ebola, civil/sectarian war, coordinated violence which can reasonably be called genocidal in purpose, ramifying environmental calamity. Does the recital of horror deepen with time, or is this only an illusion brought on by slowly deepening memory? Am I gaining just enough perspective to be crippled by it?

Regardless: I’m tired of the apocalyptic consciousness that used to fascinate me.