Mindful of the need to manufacture consent, neoliberal government – itself a professional class from the same collegiate background as postmodern academics – wields culture as a litmus (and loyalty test) of citizen right-thinking. Identity politics, race and gender essentialism, repurposed CRT, cancel culture, a caricature of woke-ism: rooted in legitimate opposition to generational corruption but weaponised by an unholy corporation of postmodern-neoliberal elites not in the service of equality or justice but for the consolidation of power.
Perhaps, as stoics and existentialists suggest, the most sensible “added” purpose of the middle years through to old age is the coding of a safe shutdown tailored to the peculiarities of an individual mind. Let me be human (for once) and say – while I’ve still got energy to say it loud enough – fuck you, fuck you future EOF, fuck you future me. You know I love you, I don’t need caveats, but fuck coding safe shutdown against the deliquesce to the EOF. If for no other reason than simple disagreeable perversity. Feel free to call that hope.
In a flash I understood the Truth that’s been hidden since the first fireside stories were told by our ancestors in a bright little scatter of migrating hope across the howling African night of the Rift Valley savannah. We expect salvation to be a source of something profound and powerful. Peace. Certainty. Sanctuary, maybe? But there was no serenity, no overwhelming bliss or joy in the saviour I saw. This being, whom scripture teaches us to perceive as God, an omnipotence without equal, was the exact opposite of potent. Jesus Christ, Siddhartha Gautama, Jahweh, Allah, Krishna, whichever your chosen form of God: He was alone, vulnerable, and desperately fragile. He was the one needing to be saved; by me.
I suspect the resentment comes from not reconciling the loss of life story with the impersonal truths of maturing conscious existence: that the stories weren’t invented to make a fool of you but got evolved by generations of other human beings as natural coping mechanisms, ways to make sense of shared experience, to steer the majority as best could be managed for the sake of the lineage, from cradle to grave. It’s nobody’s fault there’s nothing beyond the vanity fair. Nothing, that is, but kindness, duty and a daily drift towards terminal irrelevance.