Come, Sit, Watch With Me Here

Posted on by dyshopia

One cold Alabama afternoon, I walked out into the woods.

No leaves christened the trees and sunlight bleached the withered underbrush with a clinical stare. My nose was chilled and clogged with smoke. Standing atop the peak, against my face and out over a horizon pierced by a million spindly trunks, winter reigns supreme. I begin to climb down the steep, steep slope, cracking twigs as their forebears scrape against the wool. Down, down, down I go, sliding under loose dirt, moist next to the creek, until I find a level stretch of play. From one eye to the other, the field is strewn with rocks set against blustery leaves. Shaped below sunbeams, some of the rocks are as huge as the wind is biting; the boulders beckon and I begin to trounce about them, skipping over the ochre leaves as if they were lava.

Step one.two.three.SWing. foot one.two.three.SWing. step one.two.three.SWing. foot one.two.three.SWi—

But I miss and slide off a tilted stone to come crashing noisily into the raw silence. Breathing hard, arms and hands thrust out gaspasping after frosty breath, I look up—there, transfixing me from an eternity away, a tiny orange face bores through the frosty breath into my gut.

There, framed beside an enamel birch pillar, stands a fox.

Because #notgivingafuck

Posted on by dyshopia

For all the Youtube celebrities that populate our culture, JonLajoie oozes a special amalgam of irony, criticism, and lowbrow brilliance in his virtual corpus. Beginning in June of 2007, as of today (not yesterday, nor the day you read this) his videos have amassed a whopping 453,613,123 views. Wtf, he’s a comedian, not KSI or PewDiePie, and yet there is a popularity to his voice. His work is worth exhibiting. But not the assassination stuff, we just don’t know enough at this juncture #WarrenCommission2.0.

Ah, I haven’t the depth today. In the vein of McLuhan and the utility of art, I find myself always entertained and continuously returning to a single video of his. Satirical and fucking catchy, Please Use This Song exemplifies cultural criticism and creative prowess. In the ever-expanding integration of our culture and quotidian agency with the virtual world, the increased visibility and legitimacy of these mediums enables us to regard JonLajoie as a authentic, authoritative purveyor of images both crafted and critical of an internet origin. Were I to be an archivist of this era or an alien analyzing the relics of a bygone civilization, in both cases would I deem this video relevant for its form and substance.

And damn is it catchy, like the fuckin Fratellis and iPod. Like, omg, how tf did he do that.

Featured Pic found at The Holy Logbook of Our Dear Leader http://kimjongunlookingatthings.com/

House of Cards’ Third Season and a Personal Appeal to Beau Willimon

Posted on by dyshopia

I

Netflix is staring at a great opportunity: House of Cards’ third season is superbly stylized, elegantly fluffy, and one helluva gamble. Sticking stubbornly to the now singular plot, Beau Willimon’s team behind the defining political drama of our present Americana is as slick as any requisitioned by President Underwood or his former corpocratic Chief of Staff, Remy Danton. Subsequently, we have lost a bit of the atmospheric narrativity that initially contributed to HoC’s well-deserved awards. Moreover, as Ian Crouch articulates in The New Yorker, far too much pacing is mired in “…long scenes of brooding and political maneuvers that signify nothing,” a  “tedium of domestic governance.” However, this is simply the best way to set the stage: with a stagnant equilibrium established, I retain a faith that the probing complexities of a fourth season will entertain audiences with an even darker and more fantastical drama.

Fewer texts were sent this season and that is a damn shame. The dubious communiques of previous seasons between Doug and Rachel were inspired innovation, a micro-narrative in between the “From” and “Sent” indicators of a single text—brilliant. Communication as a whole is being massively reformed through the smartphone and social media, topicalities well exemplified through the journalist characters of the previous seasons. Zoe Barnes established a legitimacy of digital communication heretofore reserved for less serious circles; she bridged a generation and experience gap, affirming the ubiquity and quintessential expectation of the ‘texting’ communicative agency of our culture. By everyone, for anyone. This season, not only is the format completely switched to the Windows 8 UI, but doing so reeks of Faustian product-placement. While the same might be said of the initial format, the subsequent change in form and presence throughout the narrative drains the show of worthwhile character. A symbol like Zoe Barnes and contemporary progressivism creates the opportunity for narrative innovation. Season 2 showed us how exactly Frank, who embodies that ideology as well, deals with the choice between dogmatic faithful adherence and personal gain. Yet as it stands, Frank remains only a symbol of ruthless power and aside from legitimizing breaks in the fourth wall—something that we saw far too little this time around—is losing steam as a symbol, but not necessarily as a character. I need to see more from Frank Underwood, his schemes, how they can continue to evolve contemporary narrativity and it constitute genuine literature.

As POTUS, however, one rarely has to take such initiative for engagement; Frank dispatches dilemmas and developments as they are brought to him, with a crisp zeal well-suited to his character. From the Jordan Valley to…goddammit, it’s just so boring. With his America Works legislation/scheme only partially exempt, the pedantic pacing of quotidian governance is fiction that does American politics justice. Unfortunately, the sheer tedium of this representation creates only an aura of insufficiency for the Underwoods; if we are to have faith that their characters simply have yet to recover from the experience of a year in the Oval Office, a fourth season should be drastically different. Even the campaigning and the all-too-predictable enmity with Dunbar portend either more droll entertainment of a homogenous nature or augur a fantastical change in thematic direction for the series.

Viktor Petrov is the sole redeeming addition to the House of Cards pantheon. Yes, America Works is prescient discussion and Heather Dunbar and Jackie Sharp are well-rounded, empathetic and strong women characters; Freddy breaking the truth of being a black man in America to his grandson is also a touching, achingly aware scene that manages to keep our racial status quo within the purview of discussion. Yet despite all these worthwhile facets, not only do they fall far short of doing their controversies justice, but they cannot compare to the flare and presence of a revived rival. With American-Russian relations at a disastrously fascinating post-Cold War low, Lars Mikkelson creates an adversary so immensely powerful and eccentrically plausible that he outshines being Kevin Spacey’s foil into an effulgent, wily booby-trap—shaking hands is simply out of the respect that there exist no other players in their game. The Russian President isn’t merely a ‘bizzaro’ inversion of civility, but a palpable undercurrent of warped humanity that is as much a part of neoliberalism as shame is of plangent nationalism:

“I think she should be gone.”

“Gone in what way? Gone from these negotiations?”

“As ambassador, my final condition.”

“That cannot be on the table.”

“It is, and it’s non-negotiable.”

Frank ensured Claire as ambassador because, ultimately, she is his wife; while politically dubious, few anticipated the move as a vulnerability, not simply for the Underwoods, but potentially for the world as well. Petrov nailed it with mirth, underscoring how interchangeable the presidents’ moralities are with one another: Frank’s shame for making such a misstep and Petrov’s humanity for preserving the requisite ruthlessness of effective governance at the most rarified levels.

Herein resides the singular fault of the third season: it contained a paucity of the depraved humanity that usually charges its characters. The senator, a reporter, a really good cook, the shrewd magnate; Frank, Zoe, Freddy, and Tusk in the first and second seasons built these characters into more than mere representations, exemplars—they commit drastic decisions just like we do, only playing in a field where perversion, duplicity, and cruelty aren’t simply defaults, they are the necessary tools of the trade. Our empathies and idle fantasies are massaged through this entertainment into an escape that magnifies our present lives and indulges desires which we never even knew we, somewhat unnervingly, enjoyed. Season Three left us at the top, a view of the world for which few are eligible and still fewer attain: having torturously taken it all in, quite simply, “the White House is not enough.”

I cannot resign my dedication to this fantastic story simply because of a stagnate conclusion; the ideals of the politician who did that dog a merciful duty are at their end. There is a fork in the path. I do not want to see Frank’s failed general election bid end in proxy control, I do not want him to helm the world’s most powerful corporation, I do not want him to become a lobbyist. I do not want him dead, with Claire finally getting her lead. These and other such possible extensions will end the relevancy of House of Cards amidst its competitors and bid for legacy. We have, however, a solitary, fantastic ploy in the wings: Tom Yates and his propaganda. As he so presciently noted, the book Frank commissioned, while underpinning the impetus behind America Works, is really about the Underwood’s marriage. Which may have just ended. Season Three is needed to remove Francis’ moral compass and wife from the equation. Gamble big. Next February, Frank snaps.

II

One writer’s appeal to Beau Willimon; you gave us this much:

Tom Yates and Kate Baldwin, Chapter 34:

“The ramparts of the fort were still a mile away, but he reached the point of no return. Turning back was no longer an option.

“With the world’s eyes upon him, he continues to ignore precedent, convention, and some would say the law.

“Why did he cross that invisible line? Why risk his life despite the great odds stacked against him?

“Critics have been harsh, and yet most have stopped short of naming Underwood what he truly is, a tyrant.

“What drove Napoleon to keep marching toward Moscow, or Hannibal to cross the alps?

“The warning signs are there, it’s our responsibility to heed them.

“What kept a young Frank Underwood swimming onward, what kept him from drowning?”

Claire kept America safe.

In her absence, in his burgeoning insanity, what can Frank do? What he always does, with twice as much conviction, half the morality, and an infinity of power. He convinces Yates to come back into the fold and continue to write the book in a personal style, something the administration can spin into an inchoate cult of personality. Such blinding dogma is orchestrated by two of the most powerful men steering America, Francis and Doug both having murdered to get there. Now let us suppose, in the face of defeat or irrelevance, they embrace that same demonic willingness. Let us watch the rise of a populist, jingoist ideology centered around the charismatic Frank Underwood, the President who ensured a job for every citizen—the sole nostrum capable of precluding the public from heeding the warning signs. Let us see Meachum appointed as head of a newly omnipotent Secret Service, an organization conjoined with the NSA and National Guard to form a draconian amalgam of fascist policing. An insatiable motor drives our potentate, the same one with which Claire demeaned him as he sat upon his throne, “…you are not enough.” He’s not enough to keep Claire involved, to keep the most powerful partnership in the world together…to shoulder the danger of keeping America at risk through maintaining our outmoded democratic principles. Without Claire as Frank’s moral compass, Doug, the recovering alcoholic, amoral fixer, and Chief of Staff serves to enable and compound their most dangerous instincts. Capote’s In Cold Blood crafts such a friendship: the Clutters wouldn’t have been killed had Dick Hickock attempted to plunder that safe without Perry Smith, without a partner to embody the Devil’s imprecations: “You’ll not find a cent, You’ve lost all hope, You haven’t the balls to exact revenge; You’ll never be a great president, You can’t lead these people, You won’t do what needs to be done.”

Let Francis Underwood stare out over America, AmWorks creating jobs, the propaganda flaming popularity, gazing at Petrov. Let Doug stand beside, if ever so slightly behind, him; let Meachum and Yates revel in their power; let Claire gather herself, and the rebellion, together. In a fourth season, entertain America with the birth of a symbol, a tyrant we’ve never seen: Francis Underwood, the American Emperor.

Featured Image located at http://img4.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20140217231358/house-of-cards/images/a/a8/House_of_Cards_Season_1_Poster.jpg

I’ll have a, uhhhh, ya the McBrand aynndddd….erm ok, ya, and two orders of McLife please

Posted on by dyshopia

Saturated saccharine somnambulists glitter over idealized careers, homes, and futures—we are no longer selling or buying our own decadent lie, we embody it. We eat it. We walk it. We cannot know it.

Featured Image a still from http://cloudatlas.warnerbros.com

The Duty of Killing

Posted on by dyshopia

I have not yet seen our zeitgeist’s propagandistic American Sniper. Now, I do not mean to say that Mr. Eastwood’s film is corralling us to war, despite our commitment to eviscerating an interminable enemy, the rhetorical ‘terrorism’. I do not mean to say that Mr. Cooper’s portrayal of a Navy SEAL isn’t empathetic, authentic, or virtuous. I mean to say that as the “highest-grossing war film in North America” it reshapes how the public regards aggressive conflict, American Exceptionalism, and veterans affairs. America has never been so satisfyingly American.

Humans love war, indulging such destructive affairs in fairly regular cycles; naturally, as much for the sake of plot action as general interest, war stories are quite common and fantastic. American Sniper is no exception and is even proving exceptional in it’s resonance with domestic, let alone global, audiences. It is good that such a distinctly American perspective of the Iraq War is circulating, as our national consciousness lapses into an all-too-frequent casualness, even forgetfulness, of the first major military conflict of the second millennium. Moreover, regardless of one’s political affiliations or convictions about war, common ground can always be found in the compassion and attentiveness returning veterans need; considered treatment is not only implicit for their service to their country and courage in their occupation, but as necessary to assimilate our haggard humans back into a normal, rewarding life. That the film achieved a wider consciousness of these issues, especially in the wake of last year’s VA revelations, this is its sole noble accomplishment.

A pause:

Without Stephen Colbert, the Yellow Ribbon Fund would remain unbeknownst to me; take a moment to understand the difficulties that war veterans face on a daily basis: http://www.yellowribbonfund.org/.

“Art at its most significant is a Distant Early Warning System that can always be relied on to tell the old culture what is beginning to happen to it.” Marshall McLuhan’s conscientious observation aptly encompasses how American Sniper believes it engages with the public discourse on war: look at this hell, this regrettably necessary trauma—let us hope we never have to venture down such a path again. Another point towards the film: a favorite from Camus, “Every great work makes the human face more admirable and richer, and this is its whole secret.” Through Cooper’s character Chris Kyle, a new yet familiar face serves as the pervasive exemplar of what it means to live, suffer, and die as a vaunted hero of the United States Armed Forces. Such accessibility of common stories, shared sufferings, united identity and purpose proffers content that galvanizes a population—our population—towards conviction in a set of beliefs, chief among them honor in the duty of killing.

Such is the danger of American Sniper: the narrative legitimizes our authority of engaging in war, the virtue of our intentions therein, and the necessity of killing. Peter Maass, whose article proffered articulate inspiration, reminds us that part of the cultural consequence of American Sniper’s popularity is the dissemination of a subtle yet explicit political doctrine embedded in amusing entertainment, aiding in the inculcation of such values by inducing a politically unwitting audience. As a distinctly Millennial observer, the preponderance of content across social media directly linked to the cultural presence of American Sniper is fascinating: personal accounts of other snipers gaining traction, polemics purporting political attribution to members of both sides of the aisle, the trail of Kyle’s accused killer Eddie Ray Routh—all a wide swath of opinion that returns to a discussion of war, it’s consequences, and how we move forward. This discussion is necessary and cathartic, but shouldn’t we rather believe and act such that it isn’t a necessity?

Mythology is what cements our conviction in belief; through consumption, discussion, and propagation of images and morals that crystalize with emotional clarity the complicated world we find ourselves enmeshed within, a myth accounts for a waypoint to which we might cling. A face we like to smile with, suffer with, and lift up to show others. A hero who died for our freedoms. American Sniper, Clint Eastwood (with writer Jason Hall), Bradley Cooper and their Chris Kyle have offered themselves as an iconic tether so that we might discover the means to reconcile ourselves and our suffering with the difficulties of our war, our tragedies, our grief, our strident nobility of purpose. An American, imperial purpose; to liberate, to democratize, to civilize and protect. To practice faith in that honor: to marginalize and simplify our victims across the world.

So long as these values remain vaunted above global responsibilities, so long as the myth remains alive, so too will we unwittingly, regrettably, yet nobly and dutifully lapse back into war. As we will indeed venture down that path yet again, the same sides will emerge, the proponents and critics, then the stories will follow, and the moral will still attain: we reserve a duty to kill.

Featured Image found at U.S. News & World Report
http://www.usnews.com/opinion/blogs/world-report/2015/01/12/after-paris-charlie-hebdo-attacks-form-a-global-anti-terror-coalition

Dys-Hope-ia

Posted on by dyshopia

Perhaps it is melodramatic to regard our American, let alone global, status quo as ‘dystopic’. Yes, it seems that violence, enmity, and militarized aggression are reaching quotidian heights unseen since the commencement of the Iraq War. Ukraine threatens to metastasize into a further stage of probing malignancy, President Putin cannot seem to recall the benefits of rapprochement and general sanity, IS dares President Abe to usher in a new era of Japanese militarism, Boko Haram refuses to subside, North Korean political prisoner camps continue to bulge, and of course the perennial Syrian Civil War. Through little more than their mention and concomitant shaping of a dire image, these symptoms of humanity portend little hope for the resurgence of peace in the coming months, even years.

From the origins of Orwell to the imagination of P.D. James and Slajov Žižek, an incarceration of ‘dystopia’ seems apropos if not narrow-minded: take North Korea and it’s dearth of purview for the scale of atrocities—there are most likely many unknown unknowns at this juncture that could redefine the suffering of this period. Even the ongoing experiment of the Eurozone is seeing fractures in the logistics of ideology with the political triumph of Syriza and the consequently unsettling Podemos rally in Spain. Domestically, the Republican congress is a regretful polemic to President Obama’s progressive initiatives, most recently of which his proposed budget plan would curb overseas corporate tax loopholes and seek to bolster infrastructure maintenance. I cannot conceive of why such legislation should not be enacted; then again, thankfully, despite my reflexive hypocrisy, I am no politician.

Hope is a distinctly irrational pathology. To believe in the potential for positive creation and reformation in the face of reactive conservatism borders on the Sisyphean. Herein we must practice faith in Hope because to make sense of the world otherwise lends itself to a zeal compulsive enough to reify the tragic spectrum of reductio ad absurdums: from the nihilistic jingoism of contemporary Russia to the solipsistic brutality of Kim Jong-un’s emaciated North Korea, those with privileged foresight and influence must abandon the king-of-the-hill vanity of egocentrism. If the legacy of Aristotle is worth anything, then somewhere between Russia and North Korea we must endeavor to maintain a Mean of actionable morality: please, now, let us discuss, let her share, let him share, let us uncover consensus. I cannot claim to be an ethicist, in fact I consider myself something of the opposite, an addict: my compulsions necessitate theoretical calisthenics when not encumbered with sweaty, uncut hedonism. However it is from this vantage point, in the nadir of the valley, boulder in front of me, that I choose to practice faith in Hope, to smile as my rocky burden bursts the blisters anew.

Hence our portmanteau. May we pause with Camus: “Happiness and the absurd are two sons of the same earth.” Likewise, the dystopia compounded between nihilism and solipsism is as much a part of our indomitable human spirit as is the hope we can derive from, thank goodness, sources more myriad than whatever our conception of them may be. If we thusly dispose ourselves before our sensory construction of Is, Action, and Reaction—and all the world’s great religions will propagate the following as much—then we must be compelled towards compassion. We must thrive in creation. Because, as our sacrosanct Myth of Sisyphus decrees unto us, “The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”

Two of those prominentIy mired in this struggle I find to be particularly iconic beacons. Jon Stewart begins almost every discussion of contemporary liberalism, won partly through traversing sheer continents worth of unadulterated shit stamped “Fox News” and transmogrifying that content into something watchable; for that feat alone, I believe he knows happiness, however fleeting it may be. And that other great wit, Luz of Charlie Hebdo, I believe he too can find happiness again, hopefully in his cathartic grief, continued work, and the consumption of all the good in the world that is created as a direct result of his very existence. I credit these voices in no small part as to why I very consciously choose to believe in happiness; every moment that I consume some fresh, sanguine suffering of our shared dyshopia I choose to believe. To believe in Hope, in Humanity, and in doing so I find that good works are more likely not only to be created, but to also be encountered. In choosing not to believe, we greatly diminish the potential for positivity, letting malice and sadness rampage unchecked, as they will exist and propagate regardless of our beliefs. Churned about the vicious cycle, belief learns to forgive the Hate side of the coin, the Thanatos side, which, in time and with proper devotion, inverts to reveal Eros, Love. Let some stranger show love to the would-be extremist, who may just yet choose to forego his hate and focus instead on anything, anything else. If you pray for the prey, you must just as sincerely pray for the coyotes. We are all animals, after all.

Dystopia+Hope=dyshopia. It is my hope that this word may inspire some discussion of the Human Question: of how best to move forward with our acute affliction. For even the tiniest hope can nurture any seedling into a Totoro-esque majesty. I am thankful that there is violence, mistrust, and hate because by that same token there exist the opportunities to create peace, trust, and love.

To Be Irresponsible: Luz of Charlie Hebdo Interview

Posted on by dyshopia

Begin with the superlative media from Vice News:

https://news.vice.com/video/exclusive-interview-with-charlie-hebdo-cartoonist-luz

Featured Image found at http://charliehebdo.fr/

—

To the readers of the world, from wanderers to illustrators, from Muslims to Mongols, from, poignantly, extremists to philanthropists, know my compassion. We, as a species, enjoy a prolific particularity of creativity and it is a privilege to witness and regard our mutual beauty, humanity. Such a sentiment, or at least some kin thereof, I find here in Renald ‘Luz’ Luzier; good sir, my most profound condolences. I cannot know your pain, but I listened to your story and I hope these words add a worthwhile voice to the discourse you so admirably represent.

The massacre is a tragedy, a trauma. We must remember, however, that such loss of life and disrupted families are unfortunately ubiquitous the world over. Charlie Hebdo in January of 2015 must be considered as a waypoint of ethical belief, of cultural ethos and the nobility of action through expressive representation. To be honest, I cannot claim to have ever read Charlie Hebdo, yet the picture and history of it’s legacy painted in recent weeks is for me sufficient common understanding so as to constitute public discussion. Work therein published exemplifies the reflex towards processing and understanding “this strange world.” And what a tremendous responsibility that is!

All that many people will see is a cartoon, an odd-looking drawing. Still less will see the character. Some will say the Mohammed of Charlie Hedbo is an outrage; others, a farce; too many, a comic strip to pass over (but perhaps no longer!). Your work exemplifies the responsibility of irresponsibility, of probing taboo, of demanding a discussion that all too often slips through the cracks of over-zealous political correctness. Herein is what you teach, the “right to be irresponsible”: without your voice, your vision, the discussion and the world remain entrenched in a perpetuity of passive capitulation. Why talk about what might be sacred? Why laugh at it? Why prick the wilted balloon? Because, now, during the ascending Information Age, the French cartoonist and the militant extremist occupy and must share the same world. And because there is little curative catharsis commensurate with laughter.

Dyshopia finds itself in this conundrum: for all our violence, for each drawing, amidst the entropy of dueling Thanatos and Eros, what and who is most remembered? If neoliberalism is to shed its own dogma of fascism, those ennobled with the creative drive must be able to stand atop a dystopic world and stare down the barrel of every murderer, staunch in our vertiginous and echoic conviction of Hope: “You cannot kill me!” Renald ‘Luz’ Luzier, for all your suffering, crane your neck high, shudder and shake of uncontrollable sadness, tears consecrating your face and embrace your symbolism. I grew up learning both Spanish and English; I know not if this transgresses any ostensibly sensitive divide, as I cannot claim this as a French translation, however when I saw your moniker, it rang out to me: Light. You beautifully, achingly embody this namesake: you exude Light so that those in despair may have faith in the power of creation. In the supremacy of creation over destruction. Of the immortal service to render communicable the absurdity of the strange world beholden before us.

It is, some may say, strange to extend compassion to the extremist. However, this is the genius of Charlie Hebdo: to forgive is adopt the ultimate power. It is to attempt immortality. It is to say: you are wrong and that is okay because you are human. When in the face of Death—or worse still, protracted and inconceivable suffering and anxiety—one can affirm this intrinsic fallibility of humanity yet deify the Hope of our indomitable continuance, those voices symbolize the best of our efforts through the generations.

January 7th, 2015 made noble martyrs out of many people. It is through this tragedy that we may turn to Luz and believe in the virtue of all that they drew. Never stop creating.

A Voice, Awash in the Din

Posted on by dyshopia

At best, this endeavor is a proof of concept, a toe in the water. I am not sure what is to come nor when, how, or why it will. But it will.

Maybe, just maybe, our Who will emerge.

P.S.

Let the below ads underscore the merit of the freedom to occupy this virtual space. I know not what their content may be nor should any visitor construe their presence as an intention of this author. Their image is a reminder of the cost of free speech on this domain—a fortunate circumstance, a necessary malignity.