What I find interesting about this whole controversy with Gina Carano is that nothing she stated was inaccurate. Tribalism and othering are one of the hugest flaws in Human design that I can even imagine. It kept us safe in the beginning because we would band together in the face of adversity and increase our survival, but on a global scale, all it means is that we aren’t really happy unless we have an enemy.
How often I think about all the things I want to do. The tasks I want to complete, one by one. The games I want to finish. The software I want to install on my web server and VM host. The Anime I want to catch up on. My Cayman, sitting neglected in the garage in need of having its bumper cover restored, among other bits and bobs. Even the time I want to set aside for meditation is just another thing on the list to fit into a day where there simply isn’t enough time.
“Power is in tearing human minds to pieces and putting them together again in new shapes of your own choosing.” ― George Orwell, 1984 America is burning around us. Much of the justification is flawed, and many of the instigators are being sheltered from criticism by a litany of voices and spurious reasoning. And our institutions which are supposed to protect us from misinformation leading to this, are merely fanning the flames.
People are so blind to their own flaws. Through certainly no bastion of saintliness, I try to at least remember to listen. It’s better to be wrong and learn, than remain steadfast in my ignorance. And there is always so much left to learn. May there be so many mistakes yet to come. On the cusp of my 41st birthday, it’s inevitable that a certain amount of melancholy or nostalgic regret seizes my attention.
In the lonely hint of darkness, for there are nor wit nor wail. It matters not how things began, for all is doomed to fail. In despondence, it occurs that few things persist so well as uncertainty. That constant, maddening drip, penultimate and voracious through and through. The criss and cross, flaying and barreling forward, draining into yawning steel or simpering infinity. It’s there. And so, these times that conspire to wrest recollection from failing and questionable histories, that ascribe nostalgia to a litany of inconsistent but unfailing missteps, revenge is both meticulous and triumphant.