Wistful Thinking

In my last dispatch, I discussed the psychological conundrum of the alienated soul vis a vis the common themes of relentlessly banal, hideously ubiquitous popular music, themes which are alienating enough to reinforce his deep-seated awareness of psychic dislocation, while at the same time somehow retaining enough allure to leave him helpless before his proclivity to succumb to the very wishful (and wistful) thinking which so often leads him to despise himself.

Such a one finds himself exhorted to feel good about himself (recall “Baby, you’re a firework!”) by his rulers, those plastic soulless phantoms who he’s quite aware couldn’t care less about him, even if they did know him from Adam, which of course they don’t. He recognizes that their pretense of compassion is absurd, an insolent slap to his face and a brazen insult to his intelligence, yet finds he cannot help but be sent at times into pangs of delusional delectation at the thought—“Wouldn’t it be nice?”—of being recognized, affirmed, and befriended by the likes of Katy Perry, et al.

What such a one as he finds so vexing is the indomitable insistence of the inherent, ingrained human impulse towards desiring companionship, appreciation, and popularity, a propensity which runs directly counter to his need to preserve and safeguard his dignity and authenticity, in isolation if necessary. Awareness of this repugnant weakness is a particularly devastating blow to the alienated soul, who sets great store in maintaining his sense of pride, regardless of whether or not the world accepts him.

Sadly, stoicism—his favored palliative philosophical approach– isn’t in his genes, and doesn’t appear to run in his blood. No matter how hard he tries, he still finds that he wants to be respected, admired, and loved by those who now only ignore and—at best– condescend to him. He wants not only to be great, but also to be recognized for his ostensible greatness. Indeed, it is with no shortage of horror that he apprehends just how far he truly stands from his ideal self. It is sickening just how much he relies on affirmation from others to give himself a boost. Appalling indeed how a woman’s voice on the radio is all it takes to make him hope and yearn for the impossible, to the detriment of everything he holds dear.

Yes, he knows this much: he is wretched and contemptible. Yet an endlessly escalating cycle of self-loathing can’t be his final destination. Even while in the midst of riding his dolorously shame spiral, he well-enough recognizes that his self-generated anguish represents a dead end, one from which he must eventually rebound. And after all, he has always acknowledged his patheticism, even though it has been wrapped in a kind of pride. If the world sees him as a loser, he likes to think he wears his loserhood as a badge of honor. He can accept rejection; it’s little more than he’s ever known. But can he accept the fact that he still yearns for acceptance from his haughty tormentors, even while enduring the merciless slings and arrows of their scorn? Can he embrace his patheticism, even to the extent of acknowledging his own inescapable folly, in addition to the folly of the world?

Not bloody likely, I’m afraid. For where would that leave him? If he can’t fall back on his rebellion against the world, what does he have? If, beneath it all, he only yearns to be celebrated by the powers-that-be who now ignore him or hold him in contempt, then how can he face himself, much less the world?

Instead, the alienated soul finds himself yearning to “fix” himself. Maybe there is some lever or button that he can flip or push within his soul, which will turn off his desire to be liked and accepted. Perhaps he should do exercises, something like spiritual sit-ups, in order to strengthen his resolve, the better to become self-reliant and at last be freed from the futility of hope and the vanity of vanity.

If his folly is inborn, a part of his nature, he finds himself reasoning, then is it possible to change his nature? If a leopard can’t help being born with his spots, can he nevertheless find a way to peel them off, especially if they prove to be spiritually carcinomic? Our hero’s mind dashes to thoughts of a more radical cure than he’d previously entertained. Perhaps self-slaughter? Perhaps self-emasculation? Surely there is some way to target the root of the infernal problem, whether that root be lodged in the loins, the mind, the heart, or consciousness itself…Anything would be better than to continue in such a grim orbit around ephemeral vacuities, never even approaching his desired destination, stuck in miserable stasis.

The violence he has long felt towards the outside world, while in so sense mitigated in intensity, thus gets redirected inward. The alienated soul finds himself not just alienated from the modern world, but from himself.  Both the interior and the exterior are in need of authoritative alteration, he concludes, but as with some interpretations of Islam, the inner-directed jihad now presents itself as the more essential one. Indeed, he senses the urgency with greater and greater bouts of ferocious delirium: Something must be launched into the very core of his being—a focused attack on that within himself which for so long has festered, working to undermine his resolution.

He thinks of “Panic,” the disarmingly mordant ironic 80s anthem of social upheaval and defiance by The Smiths. In that song, the disaffected speaker (Morrissey, natch) encourages open attack against the media establishment, specifically with reference to the purveyors of popular music. “Burn down the disco!” he commands us, adding that we should “Hang the blessed DJ, ’cuz the music that they constantly play…says nothing to me about my life.”

All of what the great Morrissey speaks of here is true, without a doubt. His critique is perpetually relevant, no less so today than it was thirty years ago. Our rulers hold us at a distance, exploit us unmercifully before shoving us into the grave at a time of their convenience, even as they shamelessly keep us mesmerized in the interim with baubles, bread, and circuses. If we are men, we cannot– must not—tolerate such a state of affairs.

But it is not enough to burn down the (proverbial) disco or to let the (metaphorical) DJ dangle. We must also grapple with what makes us so uniquely vulnerable to such manipulation. Find it, seize upon it, slaughter it mercilessly. Hang the inner DJ, and burn down the disco in our soul.

 

Andy Nowicki, co-editor of Alternative Right, is a Catholic reactionary writer who loathes all modernist dogmas and superstitions. He is the author of five books, including Heart Killer and The Columbine Pilgrim. He occasionally updates his blog (www.andynowicki.blogspot.com ) when the spirit moves him to do so.

“Uh… did I really say you were a firework?”

Source: http://alternativeright.com/blog/category/wistful-thinking