Western Doublespeak

As an underbelly American I sometimes struggle to understand how much American culture infests the world, whether West or East. Embeds itself, whether in catch phrasing or political discussions. Fervent foaming. We could chat about whether these exported medias are the true culture or that America is the vehicle of convenient faceless corporate structures, nevertheless I have a front row seat. It’s a front row seat, not a personal identification (how bashful!): I cannot help but participate in the propagated viruses so potently destroying and remolding those abroad, around.

If you travel international sometimes in clubs you’ll hear music of a ten year ago radio-fugue making the rounds, as though new, most expectedly hip, and thus as I take a step through each province I feel myself the vagabond from Ground Zero, watching The Curious make sense of our radioactive schismic artifacts. Ideas, ideals… fictional made facts and isms.

Seeing as I am from the origin, and my antibodies built themselves up birth onward, so I always must confess another struggle to understand: those farther away from our cultural blast zone can’t hear its duplicitous call.

One may say they care for Freedom, for Human Rights, for The Good and there’s nothing wrong with that, do as you like! but drenched in these bird calls I know the undertones.

To say yes, but mean no, and no, perhaps but possibly yes or not too, maybe. To be supported, but supported toward your destruction. And withheld, redirected, even encouraged to denounce one’s baselines til ash and a most expedient worker til disposal.

The underclass of America gets readily caught up in these hypnotic talking points, perhaps half of them a cause they’re sympathetic. To truly believe they mean something. And yet even within these rituals, amongst every class, so often one gets up from the gas and laughs about it, perhaps. Maybe not! Some are hollowed out.

But who are we to say! Keep working! Isolate yourself! Work hard on that rugged individualism so loved!

Please, please, come to our lands, make a new version of yourself! Do not look at the deserted, the broken — no no, we are the land of opportunity! We’re not vampires! Look away! We’re not laughing!

A psychological war and you can talk to the casualties, but do they hear the Geiger counter as one approaches? If I make sure to cover my Lichtenberg mental fissures we can enjoy the stimulants together. Perhaps sticking out a tongue would reveal a pure grey matter inner mass, of a body already diffused and integrated into our modern warzone smiling with cotton candy flossing.

Not to say I am indicative of anyone else from the blast zone. Maybe some are hypnotically a troop til death! Or I’m programmed for an adjacent war, but this isn’t meant to make sense.

The backdrop of all of these good-feel values and love abound, flashing lights and promises, you must understand: one’s face remains cold.

A concrete jungle, a free-roam economic zone. Devour or be devoured.