Ouroboros

Whither nihilism?

This question comes up all the time in indie movies; it practically defines the genre: A twenty-something, usually male, looking at the confusion and noise of our civilization, seeks meaning with all his might. Finds none, but along the way at least finds some solace in sexual love. Might smash up some things in the process, including himself, and he might confront the absurd powers that be. Sometimes he finds some peace in friendships or his notion of place. Quiet and meaningless as rats' feet over broken glass, but at least he’s somewhat comfortable.

As I recall somewhere Nietzsche said that it was necessary for us to destroy. Didn't he say later we could rebuild? For the last century or so thinkers in the West have been busy with the destroying part: God is killed by high-pitched thinking. The rational, centralized self is exposed as a charade, as ludicrous as the nation state. Perception is shelled into a soft, malleable sponge. Reality is destroyed ~ bonsoir! And with it, truth. Is that true? Love, of course, has its many assassins. So much is damaged or destroyed: The family. Gender. Standards of art and morality. Republicans.

What's left to kill? The body? When will the snake choke on it's tail?

No wonder the young poets are so jittery. Post-structuralism isn’t cozy. It is adverse to completeness. Always on the verge, always a bridesmaid: once you say something then the truth in it dies. How would you like all your poems to come out DOA?

By not finishing this post, I'm finishing it, and making a protest-in-kind. I'm biting the hand that doesn't feed.