Back in October of 2021, I read a story on DailyBeast titled, “Oath Keepers Panicked That The Left Would ‘Decapitate’ Them After Failed Capitol Putsch,” and saw something I’d failed to recognize before. First of all, the story followed the devolving world of Yale Law School graduate Stuart Rhodes, the founder of Oath Keepers, a far-right paramilitary group. According to the article, following the January 6th, 2021 insurrection attempt on the Capitol, “Elmer” (Stuart Rhodes’s legal first name) told his followers that “the Biden White House was about to “conduct a ‘night of the long knives’ decapitation strike” on Oath Keepers under the guise of a massive power outage.”

So, who are the followers of the Oath Keepers, and what role has QAnon played in this? Beyond those two entities, what is the mindset that pulls adherents into the conspiracies that fuel groups that feed on this stuff and sustain the engine of producing more conspiracies? A blog post on Stanford University Press (SUP) by Sophia Moskalenko about the book “Pastels and Pedophiles” by Mia Bloom and Sophia Moskalenko shares the following:

Research on radicalization has consistently found that the subjective matters more than the objective when predicting violent trajectories. Relative deprivation is more predictive of anger and resentment than objective deprivation. Their bank accounts may not have been in distress, but that didn’t help the psychological distress of changing culture and eroding social norms. Highly subjective “life meaning” is a better predictor of overall well-being than objective economic measures.

One of the predictors of meaning in life is awe, the experience of “perceptually vast stimuli that transcend one’s ordinary reference frame”––like the “Whoa” moment QAnon followers experience when, escaping their relative deprivation, they connect the dots into a pattern. Their pain and anger transcend ordinary reference frames, filling their lives with meaning.

To those searching for meaning in the devastated sociocultural landscape, QAnon promises to make everything better. Personally discovering “the Truth,” followers experience awe, and their lives become more fulfilling as a result.

This brings me to what I failed to recognize prior to today, and that is the similarities between groups such as the Oath Keepers and the 1970s People’s Temple cult that ended in a mass suicide at Jonestown in Guyana.

When life has little meaning, and we are unable to find that thing that inspires us, isolation, loneliness, self-medication, various pharmaceuticals, and a society that doesn’t care how crazy the individual creates an environment ripe for the likes of a Reverend Jim Jones who feed the imaginations of those who need greater meaning and end up finding it in the rant of madness. In 1978, we learned that the majority of the 911 people who ended up dead were persuaded to voluntarily end their children’s and their own lives in a grueling poisoning that unfolded among nearly a thousand people driven into mass hysteria.

Today, the internet delivers voices such as QAnon in the role of Jim Jones to drive a disenfranchised large segment of our population into the madness of a conspiracy that offers them a truth of perception that alleviates the pain of uncertainty and loss. On television and in movies, there’s always a resolution to the unknowns, and the bad or evil side that is causing pain for others is clearly defined, but in real life, we ourselves are most often the culprits causing our own pain and suffering. The need to find that external cause is of greater concern than looking within to learn what we are harboring or lacking.

Someone whom a plurality of people considers potentially bad or evil can become an easy victim upon which to pin nonsensical stories. Take black Americans: throughout history, they have been lynched or imprisoned because the common bias against black men created “probable cause” and pronounced them guilty, if not for the charge at hand, then something in their past, so they “had it coming.” A large part of our population hated President Barack Obama, but our culture made it sine qua non to not voice racism in absolute terms else you would suffer ostracisation. When Obama’s last term in office neared its end, the pent-up rage from “suffering” a black president unleashed the propagandistic dogs of war, making Hillary Clinton the scapegoat while that segment of our population foisted a populist into power who held the promise of turning back the clock.

Returning to a “greater time” in the past is a contrivance of folly as only the circumstances leading into an age produce the conditions experienced as culture; we cannot manifest this by desire or any amount of hard work. This would be akin to the 30-year-old willing themselves back to being the 10-year-old, not just mentally but physically too.

The cult leader (or now the “Cult of Internet Conspiracy”) promises those anguished by being “born in the wrong decade” that the life they desire is just over the horizon. This megalomaniac offers definitive proof of who is at fault for why they feel out of sorts and lost in a society that has apparently abandoned them. Someone other than yourself is to blame, and only I can see and relate to your pain; follow me.

This devil’s bargain is a path to ruin and always has been. What good has come from following the likes of Hitler, Manson, Stalin, Koresh, Jim Jones, or Donald Trump? The most devout always sacrifice their freedom and often their lives, too. If you claim that Donald Trump improved the economic situation of Americans, the exact same was said of Adolf Hitler from 1933 to 1939, the six years before Germany invaded Poland, leading to over 50 million deaths during the following six years. All of these leaders promise to bring their adherents to some mythical promised land which apparently is code for the graveyard.

The point of this post, though, is not to argue about my biases held against those that bring ruin to their followers or if any of those named were really ever as I perceive them but to notice how the internet has brought about the power of a deranged cult leader in the form of clues, hints, videos, and forum posts that allow the congregation to meet up behind the scenes and to anonymously foment their personal revolution among the like-minded. Dispersed and unable to be contained in a neighborhood, city, or country, they are cancer living among the healthy cells, spreading their disease by reinforcing bad mental health. How can anything be orchestrated to contain madness unless it’s imposed by something operating outside of its operating field?

Just as a segment of society worries about the rule over their body and mind by a malignant artificial intelligence, disinformation, and conspiracy will be the first digital disease arising out of fear to cause widespread damage to the body of society, requiring drastic remediation to purge the illness from our population. I mention those afraid of AI as though they abhor the idea of being obedient to a nefarious AI, yet they are busy infecting themselves with a disease that has only previously been fought by means of armed conflict, either from policing or actual war.

The blank page is an awful thing to witness; it is devoid of substance and lacks meaning, and the interpretation of it is not much more than seeing a blank slate. For the sheet of white to garner the reader’s interest, one must commit to filling it with something that pulls the reader’s eyes forward to explore the thoughts of the person who left the breadcrumbs. Due to the limitations of language, there will be long sequences of machinations that may or may not reveal things of interest. So, why do the streams of words that flow from some fingers carry travelers to new and interesting places while someone else expending an equal effort fails to engage the reader’s curiosity in quite the same way?

Words create images painted in colors and characters that satisfy the dreams not yet imagined in hungry minds yearning for meaning. But, meaning is an abstraction of current conditioning that allows the person to navigate those things at the margin of perception. We cannot write about hobbits, gnomes, sprites, and fairies without the folklore that allows us to consider their presence. Dinosaurs, monsters, aliens, and the like are possible because we’ve seen their artistic renditions and, in some instances, proof of their existence due to their fossilized skeletons.

So, when the storyteller wants to bring others on a journey into the unknown, it is their responsibility to architect the structures that render the invisible horizon into sequences of moments painted in language. As the musician borrows from the palette of tones to create melodies, the writer will borrow letters and words that must sing while simultaneously offering images and landscapes that are meaningful enough to become a working narrative or even new folklore in our memory while certain passages take on musical-like qualities and play as a soundtrack giving meaning to our gathering experiences.

As I go forward creating an ocean to contain this unseen universe, I must remain aware of the need for symbiosis in which disparate parts relate well to one another, just as fish don’t fly to the moon. Cadence should dictate that time is linear, but when it does jump around, it will serve the story to complete a grounding in the subject being familiarized to the reader, who I hope is adopting the story into their own lore. This has me circling back around, wondering what it is precisely about any yarn being spun that takes possession of the brain cells such that it is retained for a lifetime. The answer can only be that readers have found some small or large part of themselves within the pages with wishes that they were part of the story or fortunate that they avoided the situation. Does this imply that what’s written is either fantasy or a lesson?

How could it be anything else? Well, the easy answer there is that it can be both, although the reader may not yet have enough knowledge to glean where the learning is, or might they be so learned that they understand that there is no fantasy but only potentialities? — Written October 2021

Do not look for that thing we believe will be found in love before you have learned something about who you are, and don’t believe that sense of knowing can be had before you start to approach your mid-20s. Learning and experience must be accumulated just as language or artistic skills must grow over time. We are not born with fully developed skills for using words or paint brushes; we cultivate them gradually and take influence from the many interactions that must occur before we are able to share competency. The same holds true as we begin the journey of exploring our emergent adult selves. We cannot commit to a person early if we are to reach our complex potential that must grow and evolve. Who are we, what are we capable of, and what do we want to know that we don’t know yet? Those answers must be found as we traverse the space within us; they are only rarely delivered by someone else. Just because you watch a story about a fairy princess, you do not magically become one, and just because you want love, there’s no guarantee that what someone tells you is love will be, in fact, love.

There are people who desire to please others, hoping for love in return, and there are those who only take from others as they themselves never learned to give. It is only through giving that we begin to flirt with love. Do not fool yourself by giving your all that the recipient will be enlightened by your efforts if you’ve known them to be takers. People who only take do not love themselves or anyone else; they are exploring self-hate that cynically has them telling and showing others exactly what they want to hear or see so the taker can get what they think they want. The problem is that the taker has no real idea what they want as they are lost, blinded by an inability to feel for others.

Our investment in discovering ourselves requires traveling a path that only rarely do we have the opportunity to share with a kindred spirit. Often alone, the journey into discovery demands we peel the onion of life and suffer the tears of anguish, which brings forth the cliched maxim of “What does not kill me makes me stronger.”

Do not look for affirmation from others; you will not find validation from them that only comes from within.

As we transition to our teenage years there are those of us who experience for the first time ideas of loneliness; we are no longer nestled tightly within our family. We start to identify who we wish to be. Narcissists never grow up and accept this loneliness or isolation, and so they clamor to keep people around and dependent upon them so that they never need to feel alone or by themselves.

One might think I know enough about myself by now, considering I’m 59 years old and that most of my habits would be fixed; well, it turns out that I’m still learning. On our recent trip up the central coast of California, Caroline bought me a nice little notebook as she liked the motif of snail and flowers on the cover. From the 1980s through the early 2000s, on the rare occasion I did write, it was on paper. When I started blogging, I enjoyed having spell-checking at my fingertips, along with the added convenience of not having to transcribe my handwriting. In 2010, on a whitewater rafting trip down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon, I picked up a half-dozen Moleskine-ruled notebooks as there was no possibility of having a computer with us on that epic journey.

Over the course of 19 days, disconnected from the grid, I filled those notebooks, and when I got home, I bypassed transcribing them onto the computer and instead wrote what amounted to a first draft of what would become a book on yet more paper. While parked at a number of coffee shops, I tried to flesh out what I’d jotted down in the canyon as the impressions were still flowing through me. Only after that did I transfer those handwritten pages to the computer. I failed to see any connection between the original note taking with what I ended up with: a book instead of a series of blog posts. I attributed what came out of that exercise to the monumental scope of the truly overwhelming environment.

In the intervening years, I’ve turned to writing on paper during other whitewater adventures that took us up into the Yukon, into the Balkans, or just for the convenience of having a paper notebook stuffed in Caroline’s purse while we walked for miles through some corner of Europe. Each time I practiced this craft of using pen and paper, I was blinded by the magnitude of the environmental intrusion of the place we were visiting. Until this last long holiday weekend.

Heading out the next morning after Caroline’s gift, I gave in to the idea that I’d leave my computer in the hotel room and take my new notebook instead. Keep in mind, when I sling my computer over my shoulder, I’m doing so with consideration that we’ll sit down somewhere with wifi or at least a table so I can start writing to capture the events of the day. How was it not glaringly obvious that I was limiting when I’d be able to write? With a borrowed pen from the Red House Cafe, where we had breakfast, I started writing even before we were seated. Waiting in line, I got busy. Once the cafe opened and we placed our orders, I continued to write without having to clear space for my computer. When later we arrived at the aquarium, I didn’t care about going to find a place to set things up, I asked Caroline for the notebook and the “borrowed” pen, and I just started writing when and where inspiration struck.

Why have I allowed myself to lose countless opportunities to write when the thoughts strike me? Sure, I’ve sent myself plenty of dictated emails while driving or asked Caroline to text me a message as I spoke my ideas and thoughts to her but the notebook offers me a different experience. There, on paper, standing next to the sea at sunrise, looking at my wife, I can write to my heart’s content instead of hoping to remember the moment so at breakfast; I can break out the computer trying to remember what was in my heart and mind.

This brief post should act as a reminder to me to let go of the computer and always count on pen and paper. Due to taking so many photos, I’ve grown too comfortable having the computer nearby to make a backup, even though I’ve not had a memory card fail in more than a decade. The computer, in some ways, has become a boat anchor and a habit that needs some reworking. I need to remember the adage regarding the power of the pen. In any case, I do love the action of putting pen to paper and concentrating my thoughts and inspirations at the moment they are occurring. So remember to always have a notebook at the ready with a couple of extra pens.

As William Makepeace Thackeray once said, “There are a thousand thoughts lying within a man that he does not know till he takes up a pen to write.”

I think I am starting to understand Derrida’s idea of erasure. Could he mean that once we’ve seen a sign, image, or word, we’ve learned what it means? On subsequent encounters with the sign or the word, we erase the previous one in a sense, allowing it to be replaced by a new context.

The written word is a dangerous sign that pries open areas of the psyche that are a threat to external control structures. The spoken word is a distinctly different organ/tool from the written word: the emoting tonality of the speaker triggers a temporary euphoria or understanding that arrives with the perceived intentionality of the person talking. Compare this to writing/reading when we decipher on intimate terms, using traces of other writers that weave between ideas of signifier and signified.

This mechanism of attention/deconstruction is not available to the listener, which for controllers is a good thing as the spoken words flow in ways that don’t allow traces to enter the stream as long as the orator keeps their foot on the pedal of delivering a relative barrage.

This was the method employed by Hitler, Trump, Putin, Charles Manson, Shoko Asahara of the Japanese doomsday cult known as Aum Shinrikyo, and many religious zealots, simply keep drilling the message using an authoritative voice that takes the listener on a ride and overwhelms their analytical mind, rendering them unable to find their own internal voice using threads/traces of what they might have otherwise considered, had they been reading the written words.

For example, I’m currently reading Gayatri’s preface to Derrida’s Of Grammatology, and if I’m comprehending it correctly, it is almost irrelevant as I find my own traces/threads through the meaning of things that produce thoughts and ideas I would consider my own, although I know that what I’m translating into my own discourse is a continuation of words and ideas harvested from everyone, including WSB, Nietzsche, Bukowski, Russel, Baudrillard, E.O. Wilson, and now Derrida via Freud, Heidegger, Foucault, and Lacan.

If I weren’t reading, I couldn’t find the space between words to activate my own thoughts, and I’d have to wait until the speech was finished and an extended silence opened before I could insert my own words. This is a danger of being a listener only as much is lost when waiting for a break. While reading and writing, I have only the tension of my excitement to reach the next word, and should I take a pause, I know I can return to exactly the same point, highlight it if need be, and continue pursuing inspiration if that’s what I’m exploring.

But this is all a palimpsest as I write over the erased text of what I thought I read because my understanding is of no consequence. My interpretation is that of a poor critic afraid to admit deficiencies in comprehension.

I suppose one thing I have learned is that when I reach the actual words of Derrida, I will have to examine the spaces between the words, lines, margins, and the vast empty spaces left as voids in Derrida’s writing in order for me to erase the missing meaning so I might insert my own meaninglessness that should also require erasure.

My job is not to bring closure (answers) to knowledge but to make the abyss larger and more confounding so as to grow the mystery of what still lies ahead. We hope to inspire others to fill the gaps we left behind to peer into the darkness between stars. This is the metaphor for understanding the infinite horizon of potentiality and that we are lightyears away from grasping the limits of our mind and language so we can endure the exploration of all that we’ve never imagined.

We attempt to destroy ambiguity as that is the frontier of freedom where discovery is the propellant, and to that end, all thinkers that risk convention by opening cans of experimental thought taunt the powers that be that their luxuries wrought from control could be put at risk.

Life itself is encoded in written form and must be read using the evolving strings of DNA that are forever altering the story of life on Earth. When we write, we are crafting the future. When we wave in the wind, we are but trees on the surface of a complex structure that lacks meaning; we are the meaning. Should we devolve further and abdicate our responsibility to craft signs, we will become nothing, unable to perceive the abyss of joy.

The letter and the word are signs equivalent to those used in any of the sciences. They represent a formula unfolding like a string of mathematic equations that will find their answer or allusion to further investigation after the totality is consumed, though it’s possible that the problem will not prove solvable or fully intelligible.

The author of anything is not the creator; they are handing the trace of thoughts and ideas through their pages or speech using archaic elements that have greater meaning than can ever be conveyed by any writer trying to say something unique. We filter and allude to directions that paint unknowable pictures in others’ minds whose interpretation we don’t get to control nor how the thread will be continued. Everything is flowing through us, and the more of that everything we can grasp, the bigger the picture grows, while conversely, the less we know, the lesser a human we devolve into.

The creator joins the lineage of gods, shaping the image of history yet to happen as the contribution of interpretation and alteration dislodges convention and tears us from our moorings.

As Foetus once said, “I can do any goddamn thing I want, anything.” That was back in 1985 with the release of his album Nail, and today, it comes to mind once again. Thirty-seven years ago, I snatched that release up after wearing the groove out of Hole, his album from the prior year. Oh, Foetus was not the full name of the project should you be interested in looking it up, it was Scraping Foetus Off The Wheel.

So why is this being mentioned today? Well, that’s not complicated, but it’s complicated. You see, this guy I know is in a pickle of sorts and is lamenting the stupidity of the situation, all of it really, and I was thinking about his need to make a difficult decision and the fact that Caroline and I are traveling tomorrow. While he and I were at coffee this morning, we were talking about Susan Jacoby, and as one thing leads to another because that’s where those things lead, I was thinking of the lyric from that song I referenced that says, “There must be some kinda romance in bein’ dumb.” As for Susan, she’s the author of books dealing with American anti-intellectualism, see the connection?

From there, but later at home, I was in the bathroom scrubbing the toilet. The wife won’t touch that thing until I become a “Sitzpinkler” (look it up), and I find myself thinking about our trip tomorrow, hence why I’m even cleaning the toilet. To be clear, we DO NOT go on a trip without our place being spic and span, so upon our return, we are not confronted with the chaos we are accustomed to on a day-to-day basis.

I’m hovering over our piss-stained toilet, thinking how good it feels to have the majority of chores out of the way and how, during the past weeks, I posted 11 missives that were only possible because we skipped a trip that was supposed to happen over the weekend of the 24th of June, but we opted to not. This option to not then triggered another part of the lyric from Foetus’s Anything (Viva!) which is the first quote up at the top of this post.

You see, we could skip out on a weekend trip because we’d already indulged on 11 previous trips this year (hmmm, this is the second reference to 11 in one post; there might be some kind of magick arising out of the occult or maybe I shouldn’t be listening to Death in June’s Nada album?)

Do you see what’s going on here? I think about one record from 1985, and all of a sudden, the nostalgia of my edgelord years rears its gloomy dark head, and I’m catapulted off the trebuchet of cheesy 80s music. Not the shitty 80’s music the rest of you listened to like Simple Minds, Tears for Fears, or Duran Duran, I was knee-deep in Current 93, Psychic TV, Einstürzende Neubauten, Mark Stewart, and Cabaret Voltaire, and though I should not admit it, I was that guy jamming on Whitehouse. Yer thinking, NOBODY jammed on Whitehouse? Well, maybe you never listened to I’m Coming Up Your Ass, loudly!

I don’t know what you were doing nearly 40 years ago, but I was not standing still. Sure, I had to stand at parade rest because I was in the U.S. Army (how they had me, I’ll never really know), but in the moments where I was opting to not, I was eating döner kebab, canvassing the red light districts of whatever European city I was in looking for hot whores, reading transgressive shit that was poisoning my mind, spending nights in underground clubs, collecting videos from various artists that I couldn’t share with “normals,” and generally exploring my own narrative.

Countless lifetimes of experience later, I sit in a Starbucks sipping my $4 grande iced tea, looking at assholes who require that I pound my 34db of noise-canceling, in-ear-monitors into my left and right head holes, turning the volume up to block all hints of the insipid soundtrack and equally insipid conversation of those who opted to be those who are not. And while it’s true I’m listening to Douglas P. sing about Klaus Barbie from the C’est Un Rêve track (again on the aforementioned neo-folk Death in June album), I’m pretty chill, haven’t done me a prostitute in more years than I can recollect, don’t seek out those edgelord experiences anymore, and have to be in a seriously different kind of mood to tune in William Bennet and Peter Sotos go on about My Cock’s On Fire or wailing about A Cunt Like You.

Well, well, well, it turns out that Whitehouse has a place in the repertoire of afternoon easy listening, and for the first time ever, I looked up the lyrics to that last song I mentioned and find that the line, “Pull yourself together, you fucking stereotype,” still has resonance with me. I opt to not.