039 B - Stiff upper lip can-do fluff-o-thon

Here’s a hi res file (24-bit/44.1Khz) of today’s sound — 039B-a-piano-a-lute-a-snap-copyright-2020-austin-meyers-no-rights-reserved-no-attribution-required.wav

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I feel like the new empirial groove is coming and it's just a spit-shine on the dead husk of empire.

If I understand the fashion critics correctly the early eighties (1981 to be more precise) will be the retro-nod (subtle or not) in the coming year's fashion. I do hope we all get to wear what we were wearing when the wall fell because this time it's our turn. Because the classification was downgraded on all the various macros of power, we know that fashion's is: 

Hype * ( (Now - 40 Years) (Now) / 2 ) >> Repeat Forever

The Cure's "A forest" is also forty. I love that song, and this 2020-ambient-blade-runner-ass cover made me happy. 

If the truth is bad, make despicable people yell about it, everyone else will do the opposite. If you don't have a loud mass of despicable people, make one. What the state has done to the various conspiracy theory followers is unforgivable. The state is manufacturing redneck Philip K Dick’s. Disaffected enough to believe a completely fabricated reality, large enough in number to be self-sustaining, loyal and small enough to represent no threat other than to reason and all voices of empathy and pity. An anti-reality weapon deployed by a fascist group made of individuals trying to cope with the unaddressable contradictions in their own life. Tedious, bleak, desperate but ultimately weak.

If you side with the state you have nothing to fear other than temporary discomfort (and maybe death but that's to be expected fellow patriot). Everyone else, given a long enough timeline will be crushed by the state or by nature. Until then, capitalism continues, but this time without data or correlation to reality. 

Personal responsibility is how everything came to pass. The carceral state (like everything else) is a collective action problem brought about by the propensity of American females to grease their tits with sweet crude before suckling their otherwise healthy babies. In their words, to "make him hunt". Always seeking the sweet firm tit while fleeing the burn of millions of years of reduced-death effluecing back to the site of the sweet.

The macro-reality sheers ever more radically away from my lived micro-reality. Divergent and adversarial narratives variously maintaining and abandoning this or that set of humans, infrastructure, ritual. 

The rulers wipe the black tears from their lips, step into the light and method act trauma they have not felt to mobilize us to another bout of exuberance, standing in for material improvements. But they know what we know, that when the cops come around to slaughter a homeless to feed the dogs, they will first help us be exuberant. Half will attempt to comply but only a quarter will be needed and three-quarters will be blamed for not hustling until the cops start yawning and the sport is boring and dogs start eating the wounded and they all leave when they finish. As they leave, they tip a homeless man to make him seem like a snitch, but also to tell him he better snitch or he's next for the dogs.

The elites will continue the stiff upper lip can-do fluff-o-thon as long as the cameras are on. When they are off, the elites sputter and become inanimate, standing forever where they were. An intern will bring a plant light and shine it on the elite's head and they will come back to life, the intern will then follow them until bed time. The intern has no choices and will always be near the elite until of course, the intern is fed to the police dogs. The cops will toss the elite a quarter as they leave.

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