Where It’s Spent

“That’s inhuman!” a colleague of mine exclaimed last week. I’m consistently waking around 5.30am, which is abhorrent to most people. Further down the spiral – it skips, morning to morning, between 5.23 and 5.25. An unnerving recurrence; a triumph of chaos theory over mundanity.

I like having more of the day to play with. Early breakfast, cup of tea, washed with clean teeth before the paper arrives. Ready for a productive day, beginning with at least two hours of Warframe. Youtube on in the background, playing old episodes of Mock the Week and Have I Got News for You. My wellspring of political thought.

When I’m not killing Grineer, I’d like to be doing this. Typing. Hopefully something worth reading, by myself and by others. Activism is becoming a significant part of my Me, but a consistent failing, as my untrained eye can observe, is when one occupies a single issue, denying the prismatic facets of simply being here.

So being here. 11.53am. Awake for 6 hours, 28 minutes. Waking and reaching for Marina Keegan’s wondrous The Opposite of Loneliness: Essays and Stories. Statistically not my thing, but the quality of her writing, the vibrancy of her personality and intellect shine through. Mournfully, so does the significance of her frustrated promise.

I finished Emma Forrest’s Your Voice in my Head. A memoir of mental illness and recovery which doesn’t entrench itself in the minutiae of mental illness and recovery. Love and sex and family and animals and opportunity and self harm and suicide. The tapestry. Take a tapestry and focus upon several threads. If you’ve lived the way I have these past 30 years, you’ll know how well this works.

Read, write, repeat. I need, I want, to fall in love with words again. Actually this is deceitful – I want to love the words of others, which is why (at the start of 4.0) these authors are wellsprings of optimism.

30 years. 6.5 hours. What’s inhuman is not the time you’ve lost. There’s no inherent glory in any time you might have gained. Just don’t frustrate the promise of every second you collapse into.

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Until now I’ve been fortunate enough to remain ignorant about the existence of the Anti-Pickup-Artist Movement. Now the blanket coverage of Elliot Rodger’s spree killing is going to contribute to his “iconic” status, and throw searing white light onto the misogynistic subculture he slithered out of.

I’m not going to post any links to his videos or collected writings, including his interminable 141 page magnum opus “My Twisted World”. Every drain is clogged up with this; testaments to a ‘…sophisticated gentleman’ cheated by a universe in which women have minds and a mouth isn’t just another hole to fuck them in.

Friday’s brutal events have thrown Rodger into sharp relief. Nothing in his posts is particularly original – common garden self-pity, misdirected rage and blame, desperate attempts at self-aggrandisement. Finding like minds isn’t the quest it used to be, and PuaHate seems to have established quite the circle-jerk.

Its worth noting that their URL has gone 404. Pulling down the blinds – online that’s some hard shit to swallow, especially in a Rule 34 universe where one can probably find an analogous, pornographic rendition of Rodger’s spree. There’s far too much darkness clinging to this, and hopefully the oncoming debates and discussions and campaigns will offer pause to those within the seduction community, who’s language and discourse offered context for Rodger’s warped perception of the world.

The blame game always comes up short. The pick up artists didn’t kill those people. Rodger did. Some stories want to make hay of Rodger’s Asperger’s. Inevitably, mental illness has risen in the mix. Any explanation for how the moneyed son of a successful film-maker, living it up Santa Barbara way comes to murdering six people and injuring 13 more. Something you can wrap up nice and tight, something distinct. But given that Rodger’s own words barely manage a superficial insight into his motivations, any wait remains in vain.

Defaulting to cynicism and misanthropy can be counterproductive and foolish. Still, people can and will surprise you in some truly awful ways. Tragically, you’re sometimes not surprised at all.