mutualhighmaintenancemachin-blog

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Let’s start this off without any words-got so high, scratched til i bled

Fell asleep with a fentanyl patch in my mouth. Still alive, somehow. 

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The memoir of a doctor traveling to the cook islands who inherits an intestinal parasite. For a while the memoir is still about the doctor, but eventually its more or less about an intestinal parasite who incidentally happens to have really come into his own in such a way that even the doctor is forced to concede that he’s no longer the star of the show.

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I need a fix cus I'm going down

Made the mistake of appraising myself sufficiently healthy to attend a bonfire with normal decent tax-payer type folks. Stood up too fast in my chair and blacked out completely, hit my head on concrete. When I came to i had no earthly fucking memory of having driven to the bonfire, nor could i really recall the names of the three concerned hipsters perched over my limp doughy abscessed jaundiced shit heap of a body. Told them it was a problem with blood sugar, i had forgotten to imbibe my afternoon orange juice! Translation-haven’t slept in four days, taking in roughly two hundred calories a day all in ginger ale. Meth heads opt to sustain themselves on a diet of paranoid resentment in lieu of proteins and grains. The cook gets super spun and lectures us like we’re babes about the dark leftist forces presently waging war on the masculinity of the white man-for one thing, he's convinced that jews run the porn industry and that fucking pornhub is riddled with overtures both overt and subliminal intended to brainwash white guys into identifying as weak and feminine and to associate men of color with heroism and strength. He also believes that soy causes gender dysphoria. All of these batshit crazy delusions act like stars in the broad constellation of the cooks worst dystopian fears-a workforce with no room left for traditionally male-centered leadership characteristics dominated from top-down by a host of future ladies who make their trade in creative collaboration, rather than fear and theft of other peoples ideas. Without a need for a provider, our nazi-bespectacled methamphetamine cook envisions a new sexual economy in which women will jettison their attachments to the family structure in favor of like, industrialism, i guess, and men will have no other resort but a desperate turn to cross-dressing and dick-taking and i guess maybe stitching scarves. It was at this point that i was really tempted to tell the cook something he needs to hear-if you really believe that large shadow societies are orchestrating history just cus they want to make you some dudes boyfriend, its probably cus part of you wants to be. I get that, sucking dick is a blast. if you’re terrified that you can’t compete in a post-modern job market, it might just be because you aren’t. There’s no place left for cowboys or outlaws or methcooks cus those professions only make sense in the context of an insanely violent frontier. You feel obsolete and useless because you are, but make no mistake, that hurt has nothing to do with the world everything to do with your soul being severely malnourished. I know cus mine is too! Real moral christian courage is showing up to your crucifixion with a smile on your face ready to graciously thank the romans for every nail they put through your wrist. You feel empty because your a paranoid fascist meth cook, i feel bad cus I'm a junkie. We are bad. The nazi pilots who blitzed france in two sleepless, speed-fueled nights probably felt fucking fantastic, as if they were aloft on the trade winds of history itself and their momentum across europe must have seemed like proof enough of the moral righteousness of the german cause. But then the morning comes and the meth wears off and your skin smells like piss and your back aches and you can’t stop grinding your jaw and the first wave of survivors begin to trickle out from the camps and presumably in that moment a few nazis had the epiphany-that the very same starved beaten traumatized jewish women and men and children they had aspired to extinguish from human memory were now going to tell the story of what had happened. Power loses, grace is its own kingdom, etc etc. Furthermore those german officers who managed to transition back to civilian life and start families must have experienced a very strange new parental dynamic-can you imagine a family at a dinner table and the proud head of household instructs his small son to finish his vegetables and after pausing to mull it over for a few moments his son turns to him and says Father having thought about it a great deal i don’t think ill be following your instructions-after all you were only following instructions yourself when you helped to engineer the greatest cruelty in human history! To which ostensibly the father mumbles to clear his throat and asks his wife to pass the potato salad. Not even to invoke the possibility that the Fuhrer himself Mr. Adolph Hitler probably died surrounded by a swarm of shadow people, fucking hilarious just the thought, him yelling in that distinctive manic patois of his that he’s the leader and the abeyance of his will is sacrosanct blah blah blah while the little invisible mites under his pale skin shift and swell and scratch and the shadow people dancing around his peripheral vision taunting and cajoling and ridiculing him and the absurdity of his final solution and because he didn’t know speed the way we now know speed he probably didn’t know anything about the shadow people at all from his perspective they might just as well have been the ghosts of his victims come to taunt and ridicule him in his lowest hour pointing and laughing and daring him to pull the trigger!   

The same entitlement motivates the mass shooter who imagines a world full of seven billion perfect strangers as an attack on his rightful pursuit of happiness. No one will sleep with him and he can’t make sense of his place in a world built on fucking so he begins to indulge in fantasies of coercion, revenging himself on the very public space he so craved Now if our hypothetical douchebag had any pretense of self-awareness he might have looked into the possibility of adopting several dogs, and in turn coming to see his life as a story about caring unconditionally for animals. That’s a helluva life-Saint Francis got into the catholic hall of fame for doing not a whole lot more. Or perhaps he could adjust his expectations of intimacy in consideration of the countless plain-to middling-to ugly folks who are forced to come to terms with the truth early on that all of our bodies are grotesque and hideously deformed billboard advertisements for our big beautiful impossibly dense souls-come see a kernel of divine inspiration made self-aware, shimmering in the glory of creation,  just two exits past the tits and chin and ankles and all the rest of our faulty parts. 

Now a discerning reader(however unlikely you’d be to find one in an audience consisting of absolutely fucking nobody lol) might have already begun to detect a certain heady strain of hypocrisy in this authors conclusion. Because while I'm not much of anything the one thing i certainly am is a self-destructive drug addict. So maybe its one thing for me to make fun of the cook for his wrath-filled flu-stricken infants tantrum of a way of viewing the world, assigning to his solipsism a generation-hopping solidarity with his nazi forefathers who came before and identifying in his politics the germinal seed of fascisms future, a politics so personal and self-contained that every divorce will be debated as if it were a stand in for larger cultural decay, every morning hangover a portent of spiritual decline, the vitals of the stock market remeasured and reassessed each time someone finds on the sidewalk a loose dollar bill. Political assemblies with real largesse exclusively devoted to trolling the instagram of a nebraskan man named doug’s now ex-wife  for pictures of her maui vacation with husband number two drinking mojitos on a beach with sand bleached white as bone and both of them grinning with surgical precision an opulent almost confrontational kind of public grinning Doug couldn't recall that bitch ever having felt for him and the kids off playing in the surf and well how could any concerned and conscientious citizen fail to see the basic threat to democracy that whole scene represents? Donald Trump is probably the loneliest man in the world. He’s never met another person. He spends his time wandering the halls of his head checking for reoccurrences of his own reflection, a lifetime spent pathologically re-telling the same story about how he came to be the most powerful person in the world, so that by the time he really became who he had always pretended to be, the most influential figure in the free world, he had long-since bought into his own fraud to such a great extent that even the real thing couldn’t compare. Only a selfishness and self-centeredness as grandiloquent as his could explain the mindset of the modern mass shooter and the micro-politics informing him. He confuses his head for the world and then becomes enraged when it won’t do as he wishes, cursing the rain for its cold lash against his shoulder where he’d rather there have rested warm summer glow, furious at the thought of all the people he would never meet in far-off places he would never see who never paid him any attention whatsoever. Playing peek-a-boo a little bit of cheating peer through chubby fingers arrayed like a geisha’s fan and for the first time see that objects don’t disappear without our gaze to ontologically anchor them to earth. What a hurt. Now it might be technically correct that my addiction does to my loving family what the selfishness of the mass shooter does to public space. It intrudes like an alien thing and turns the air chilly in our childhood home and it transforms the medicine cabinet into a contested territory in need of defensive fortification and now that Cassies marriage has crashed on the rocks of addiction nobody could blame her if she never allowed another addict to darken her doorstep again and there was the sight of Jan opening my trucks passenger side door and a few rigs fell out onto the floor and all the spoons in the house have one side burnt-and-bruised like a black-eye you say you got from falling down a flight of stairs despite body language that says something entirely else why is it we don’t have a single spoon in the house what ghost spends all night punching the walls full of holes 

recently went to an Alanon meeting to sneak a glimpse of how the other half lives...this lady said my addiction is to loving my addict. Bawled rivers out from red raw-rubbed rubber eyes and said my addiction is to my addict Not her person or qualifier or partner but her addict. Syntax almost seeming to suggest that something about the existential plight of the addict gets her intoxicated dizzy on pain. It’s quaint though cus that sort of sentiment is for fucking rookies-guarantee you no ones crying over me like a romantic. Not anymore. My thing these days is of a distinctly more shakespearian strand of tragedy, with wittgenstein and derrida’s influences also undeniable. I’m sick now in a way where people stop crying and praying you’ll find God and change and decide instead it’d be easier to just cross the street. Schizophrenics lost in a chorus meant only just for them, apocalyptic street preachers who stand on soap boxes while reeking of shit and give voice to visions of an America not our own, an alternate dimension where european arrival at the shores of the new world stalled out somewhere halfway across the pacific ocean on a wave so tall it scraped the heavens and America grew up a nation of nomads who set their watches to the rumbling migration of herds of buffalo and not even the highest priest could dream of a more beautiful idea than that of motion, movement without cease, the only acceptable fixed still frozen property being the burial mounds where the dead went after all their motion had gone-if they could view us on the other side of the looking glass stolen away in our own personal homes they would almost certainly come to the conclusion that this place where we live is just the land of the dead, a negative photograph of everything vital and good. Who would i be to disagree though, right? 

The point is anyway that some alchemical reaction of A. Mental illness and B. Amphetamine abuse has more or less stranded me in words. Verbs and nouns and adjectives and adverbs in place of sky and grass. What Fredric Jameson called the prison house of language. Where derrida’s difference goes to play for eternity, never quite meaning what it had meant to say. What shook wittgenstein speechless. The president’s rhetoric so hollow that you can almost see him suffering a kind of dementia or spiritual torpor that results from the badness of his faith. Chewing and chomping consonants and sounds till they all are made to mush and shearing syllable after syllable off the network of signification until all that’s left is one satellite pinging a distress call hello is anyone there off of its own side. It’s own side like Adam plucked Eve from his rib and said put on this dress-after they ate the fruit and God cast him/her out to walk the world alone reportedly God said have fun all alone you worthless slut. Imagine trumps final state of the union-i am very sick, i have been alone for as long as I can remember, i wish i hadn’t lied so often, i wish i had occasionally told the truth, i would trade all of it to have known just one person. 

Anyways, barring that miracle of political theater, the body gets sick and dissolves while the spirit is lost in words. I’d like to die in a bathroom stall in haughville with a rig stuck in my arm and the words I'm sorry stuck at the tip of my tongue and God decides to show some compassion and makes me a deal says you were never much good to people didn’t believe in a thing but you sure could do some impressive vomiting up of nonsense words and so what ill do is your soul will dissolve and turn into ink and for the rest of eternity you’ll be a naughty joke or a half-scribbled doggerel scrawled on the wall of a piss-soaked bathroom stall in the ghetto or you could say call this number here for a good time and don’t forget to ask for large marge and nobody’d ever suspect you were trapped in there or maybe a joke like this favorite of mine about my son it goes something like Jesus Christ was a God-awful carpenter, couldn’t pull a nail to save his own life. Christ was a God-awful, couldn’t pull a nail to save his own life. Couldn't pull a nail. Christ was God-awful. Couldn’t nail his own couldn’t save a carpenter terrible couldn’t pull god-awful a terrible carpenter he couldn’t pull a nail to save his own life. I can’t pull this nail to save my own life. It’s right there sticking out of my wrist, but for whatever reason I just can’t find the right words to pull it out he was a carpenter who couldn’t pull a nail even if his life depended on it couldn't save his own life he couldn't-

For a good time call this number 1-555-555-5555 and don’t forget to ask for-

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The Downward Spiral

There’s a forum on reddit for loved ones of people who have borderline personality disorder. No fewer than three separate post entries invited the question “Do people with BPD deserve to be euthanized?” I really wish I could disagree with the premise, but at some level it just makes too much sense. Everyone has to believe they are the hero of their own story. Psychologists commonly employ a metaphor which suggests that sufferers of BPD have the emotional equivalent of third degree burns-all of our feelings are impossibly loud, and our ability to regulate is thusly crippled from the time we’re little. How did Elliott Smith manage to stab himself to death, jesus christ. Past the time for ineffectual gestures like half a bottle of tylenol, too fucking incompetent to tie a noose. It’s the parking garage or bust. All of the people I thought I loved, I actually love-bombed, i guess. Hard not to feel as if this entire life has been an especially hopeless, despair-ridden, violent daydream, from which I will wake up any moment now to find the prospect of a full healthy life, complete with loved ones rather than hostages, waiting for me as if it were my right. Nevertheless, nobody gets pushed out from their mothers womb with an instruction manual for how to live this life gripped between their little fingers. At times I did my best, occasionally my actions were unconscionable. But I always questioned the whole thing, hoped for something else, prayed and begged paced and chewed my nails down to the quick...at least i was never content with my moral failings, a claim not even the sitting president of these united states can presently make. No one can tell me I was anything but fully human, no more, no less. As for what comes next, I’ve made my peace, may God  have mercy on my soul.

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Go!

Awake for three days straight, hallucinating as of the last 12 hours or so, skin smells acrid and rancid, hairline is greasy and matted, dogs can't understand why no sleep, no food. In the car with Ash we recreated the Britt murphy scene from Spun-taking bumps of shard and listing all the places our addiction won't take us, knowing full well they will. Lost kids, tricking, shacking up with middle aged men with swastika face tattoos who spend eight hours a day masturbating. Shadow people leer at me from the next room over. Heart beat is so fast and hurts. I look scary. Gaunt face, dark circles, dirty clothes, out of control amish beard. I only leave the house to cop, then come back and shoot up for days, listen to the downward spiral on repeat. Used to be easy to tell myself i was different from other junkies-i was precocious, well-read, mannered, out-going. Not anymore. Dead on the inside, eyes averted low to avoid the gaze of strangers. Want to die so badly. Hate the needle, hate myself. Doing the same shit i was at 12. What have i become, so on so forth.

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Scattered Thoughts on Writer’s Block

I am accustomed to treating writer’s block as a frilly psychic plaything for neurotic creatives overburdened by the incredible toll of their own talents, forever staring off into the inky depths of themselves while working up the courage to ask the question “Now where do I begin?”.There is an entire cottage industry of self-help books devoted to training aspiring writers how to go about working through block. After having read about a dozen or so of these texts, however, I still have yet to come upon a satisfying causal explanation for writer’s block; it’s almost as if the authors all independently came to the conclusion that that courting any diagnostic description of the problem whatsoever would only serve to actively harm the reader in their pursuit of a prescriptive solution, i.e. that maybe part of the nefarious and debilitating mechanism of writer’s block involves consuming a writer’s attention span entirely with questions and concerns about the nature of writers block so that they have no energy left to spend on doing any actual writing.

My actual experience of writer’s block has felt like something more akin to religious dread. Staring at the crisp white boundless blank page, I must feel the same anxiety as Michael Angelo kneeling at the foot of an unblemished block of solid marble, sculpting knife gripped between trembling fingers, searching for imperfections that aren’t there. Every letter typed, every word, functions like a cut that severs the possibility of all the other words you could have chosen, but didn’t. Every other story you could have chosen to write, but didn’t. The genocide of an infinite well of character and experience. The creative act is by definition an aborted attempt to play at performing the miracle of creation.

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Boy Perpetual Motion Machine turned 3 today!

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Minneapolis, by way of Indianapolis, By way of Phoenix, By way of Bloomington.

1. Car Seat Headrest- Teens of Denial (specifically Drunk Drivers/Killer Whales, and The Battle of the Costa Concordia)

2. J Cole- GET OFF MY DICK

3. Desiigner- Panda. Brandon Drake’s brother Boogie rapped his ass over this beat at the talent show.

4 The fucking Soft Boys!!!!! 

FUCK, COME BACK TO THIS POST AND TALK ABOUT HUNTER AND JOE!!! TO BE CONTINUED.

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They kicked Crispy out. Out as in to prison. They would tell you otherwise, but I suspect his fledgling forays into same-sex attraction spurred the decision.

A week later I was full on manic, and trust me, i didn’t fucking forget what happened to Crispy and Trey. Fuck you, fuckers. Fuck House Manager Tim, you homophobic fuck. Fuck Arizona and Donald Trump.

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Crispy and Trey fell in love during treatment.

Trey is from Portland, Indiana. Around age sixteen he began turning tricks to support his burgeoning dope habit. His favorite sayings are “YAAAAS QUEEN” and “M’EXCUSE ME, BETCH?”. He also loves Kung Fu Panda Cereal.

Crispy is a little hood rat wanna-be mexican from the most dangerous part of Mesa. He never suspected he might be gay until he met Trey. Crispy screams “AHHHH HELL YEAH PLAYA” in the middle of meetings. He speaks fluent spanish and is fond of Kevin Gates and Future.

This post has to be continued at some point...I never want to forget these two, how they fell in love in the absolute STRANGEST of circumstances. God man, some of my favorite kids ever. Total Jared Lafever status. 

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ROSIE THE QUEEN TARANTULAAAAA!!! we sawed off the top of a gatorade bottle and we caught her, dammit! Jack bought a terrarium the very next day and we kept her in the apartment. I’ve always considered myself scared of spiders. Not Rosie, though. She became our mascot. God save the Queen Tarantula, people of Prescott!!!

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I waited until all of our house managers had dozed off to sleep and I snuck out into the desert. I stumbled across this beauty. She rattled to let me know her intentions. I could have stepped on her and died and no one would have called it a suicide. i’m a coward. Not because I didn’t, but because I don’t have the courage to admit that I don’t want to die. I just can’t face life, even when it shows me its cosmic prudence...all tree of knowledge debacles aside, this girl was a fucking beauty.

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This is Mesa, but provincial pedantry aside, lets call it South Phoenix. This is where Crispy(my room mate) grew up. A big black van full of Paisa’s pulls up to the curb. A paisa is a non-english speaking member of the Cartel who sneaks across the border to distribute black tar heroin in the metropolitan Phoenix area. They reach out through the poor Mexican Barrios and enlist kids, aged thirteen or fourteen usually, who speak a little bit of english, to move dope. If you fuck over one of this kids, the Paisas come for you. This isn’t like some low rate hustlers from Haughville. When the Paisas come, they come with machetes, and they cut your mothers head off in front of you. Do not cross paths with the Cartel, if you can avoid. Every addict I met in Arizona speaks of the Paisas, with their black vans and machine guns, with a sort of hushed, nearly religious, dread. God help the junkies of Mesa.

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It doesn’t have to be like this, Killer Whales, Killer Whales

My beautiful Nephew, Darby, with his prematurely stark Nordic features betraying no sign of baby fat, he of the eyes blue like his home states famed a thousand lakes, with his smile a photogenic ideal projected against plato’s baby gap ad; this nephew, one of our little twin lights to the frozen north, is experiencing a full-fledged nervous breakdown at the age of six years old. Johnson family children are rarely happy amateurs. We spring forth from the void neurotic and disenchanted, eternally reoccurring backwards through death-do-you-parts and organic brain senescence of crisp fall, balding middled aged golf course atrophy and custody wars on two-fronts; falling down the corporate ladder back to obsolete decades, retiring to paycheck to paycheck dinners in crowded rooms; four semesters spent shedding student debt along with a liberal arts education…all the way back to that first crucial moment; the prepubescent Johnson collapse.

Darby has been biting himself to relieve anxiety. From what I’m told, the wounds are gruesome, and Cassi is at a loss as to how to explain the injuries to his teachers. Other children do not like him, and he is painfully aware of this fact. He is six fucking years old and he is lonely, and he is capable of articulating it. He told Jan that he knows something is wrong with him, his brain, and that he wishes there was a key that could unlatch his head so he could just be fixed. He says his weekly two hour session with the “talk doctor” isn’t helping. He told her that he doesn’t want to live, but that it’s not that he doesn’t wanna live, actually...he just doesn’t want to be Darby. He is feeling everything I’ve been feeling lately, at six fucking years old. Goddamn this for happening. When Jan told me I wept for an hour.

                                                     ...

Two months ago I was looping around the city of Indianapolis, Indiana, knees against the wheel with a crack pipe between my burnt lips. I could barely keep my eyes open. I told my passenger I was going to drive the truck off the freeway and sail through a billboard for an insurance company, killing us both. I pulled over and I wept and I drove back to Vincennes. I scored a bottle of Xanax from my neighbor and loaded up another shot. I woke up three days later with the rig in my arm. No one had called to see if I was still alive. I drove home and contacted a man named Brandon Drake. Brandon is an intervention by trade. Sends kids off to the Arizona low desert to sweat out the dope and the selfishness in one hundred degree heat. The night before I left I overdosed again. Jan hit me with Narcan. When I came to she was looming overhead with a well-aged horror etched into her features; you coulda hung that expression in a gallery of fine art. I boarded the plane the next morning.

                                                     ...

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Re-thinking my Vote

Listen to me...re-thinking my vote? Am i not, if anything, an anarcho-communist, vehemently opposed to state power, the faux leftism of the democratic party, neo-liberalism in its every manifestation, and disenchanted in the hangover of my youthful Obama starry-idealism ? So what is there left to consider? Would not the appropriate anarchist reaction to a landmark presidential election be...staying at home, avoiding complicity in the farce? Let’s examine every potential reason I might show up at the polls. Once we have a premise, i’ll determine where it might be appropriate to channel any one-off reformist energy.

Doubling The Drunk Uncle- In his famous and much lauded prosaic foray into political journalism, “Up Simba!”, David Foster Wallace noted that by embracing political exhaustion and staying home on election day we not only fail to fulfill some naive perceived patriotic civic obligation...we also tacitly double the vote of some right-wingnut. Which is  to say that I’m not just abstaining from the vote, but in reality I am there at the ballot booth, doubling the vote of of my dumb-ass, racist, and woman hating relatives. So lets forget the fact, just for a moment, that my vote is unlikely to have any impact on Indiana’s electoral college votes, all of which undoubtedly belong to the eventual republican nominee. 

So the question is, how can i in good conscience stay at home with Ted Cruz, a fundamentalist sexist, racist, transphobic you name it sociopath, and Donald Trump, a nascent fascist at the helm of a new, fervent populism with its boot hovering tentative over a patchwork Other?

Or, as a radical, would it be in my best interests to vote FOR Trump? Is it possible that when faced with a genuine fascist administration the conditions might finally be met so to foment a genuinely anti-capitalist American leftism? The answer is undoubtedly no...how can I justify ushering in a president Trump who may genuinely seek to inflict real political violence on Muslims, Mexicans, Women,...goddamit, everyone who faces oppression at the hands of the majority! Imagine the hubris and grotesquery of my privilege; “ I’m sorry that you’ve lost your reproductive rights, ma'am, I only voted for President Trump in the hopes that you might get hurt and thusly become radicalized!’

Now, on the question of reform...and to clarify our terms, I’m using the word reform to mean voting in a state election despite harboring radical convictions incompatible with that very state. On one hand, I believe it to be intellectually disingenuous to suggest that all statists are the same. I’m not terribly fond of the democratic party, but they are indisputably preferable to the republicans.

Is it possible that my preference for casting a reform vote is a smokescreen all of the action i’m not taking in my own life to fight against capitalism and stand in solidarity with the oppressed? After all, I’m the farthest thing from an activist. I’ve participated only marginally in the ongoing activism of the I.R.A....my radical record is spotless in so far as it nearly nonexistent. Is not the heart of anarchism a dedication to volunteering and local struggle? 

Well, this much is true. I need to do more to put my labor where my mouth is, so to speak. With that being said, I haven’t even been clean for a year yet! I’d like to think that as I become more self-sufficient and capable of taking care of myself, i will be in a better position to help people.

Now that a reasonable standard of full disclosure has been had, I’d note that my dedication to anarchism is rooted in a post-structuralist intersectionality, cohering in a nexus of psychology, religious study, economic analysis and literary theory. Which brings me to my methodology

                                         On a vote for a shift in Culture

What would it look like to vote for strictly cultural reasons? If the Obama administration taught me anything, its that the election of a president is not a guarantee of commensurate, ideologically pure pay of...After all, Guantanamo Bay remains open, our perpetual war in the middle-east persists, Wall-Street continues to flourish in the wastes of its excess. The affordable care act, a piece patchwork monstrosity stitched together from single-payer wishes, finds the pockets of the insurance companies flush for all its minor victories...So do I believe that the election of yet another Democratic candidate will somehow yield policy windfalls?

No. Whether the final victor is secretary of state Clinton or or Senator Sanders, Its seems unlikely that an obstructionist congress and a pursuant, inevitable 2018 lash-back mandate can be overcome. I am however confident that our two respective candidates represent two stark, separate shifts in culture, and consequently in the production of American meanings. Much like the historic election of our first black president, Sanders and Clinton both stand to manifest a dialectic played out in the shifting ideological consciousness of a nation.

                                                  So, what precisely stands to Bern?

Simply put, the advent of Socialism in the American Lexicon. Clintonista’s criticize Sanders for a myopia of policy that warps his vision into a tunnel forever funneling back toward the mecca from where all ideological evil emanates soft for Senator Sanders: Wall-Street. A Sanders presidency is four to eight year term where our national conversation is narrowed to the question of ethical equity...every thanksgiving dinner, every christmas eve, every night spent with the political pundit class; we will spend every waking moment critiquing capitalism. 

Occupy, Reincarnate. The more nuanced aspect of Sanders politik is his call for a sort of soft revolution. Though barely fleshed out, it seems to me that the essence of his plea requires the following 

1. An energetic, grass-roots base unites to run Sanders campaign(much like the Obama structure that defeated the Clinton machine in ‘08). This is already falling into place. 

2. Sanders wins a historic election.

Heres’ where things get tricky....Bernie needs his supporters to evolve from a campaign structure to political agitators. He needs Occupy Reborn, traveling across the country, protesting, demonstrating solidarity with groups like Black lives matter, combatting the ambient hum of the establishment with with a nationwide sound and fury.

3. 2018, a New Left.  Now Occupy transforms into the Tea Party. Streaking across the political landscape on the fervor of two tumultuous years, a mid-terms worth of socialist-flirting progressives beat out party democrats in the mid-terms, forever shifting the democratic party a few shades further left on the dial. 

Is the birth of A New, properly anti-capitalist left likely to foment?...No. Sadly, nothing in the recent history of U.S. political economy indicates that the most ideal outcome of a Bernie Sanders presidency is possible.

Against the Patriarchy, Darkly- Voting for a countenancing of the misogynist that lives in me

                                                         ( to be continued)...