FEAR and LOATHING of Woke America
Newspeak is ravaging America, not merely disregarding reality, but reducing discourse to a pandemonium of self-loathing ideological blather devoid of meaning. A love letter to fallen language.
The following essay—and its uniquely crafted prose—is inspired by a wonderful soul, a pluviophile sister of a mysterious unknown and her mathematician husband and as such, I daresay, deserves forgiveness.
The Sermon on the Mount represents a change of perspective, a reversal of fortune, and a transcendent epiphany. The snollygosters and wicked reprobates possess the world, but will the meek be truly blessed and inherit it?
Not if the scrumptuous buttery words wither and die on TikTok’s translucent altars of mollycoddling milksoaps that worship weakness and see victimhood as the only way of righteous, revolutionary living;
Not if the meaning of words stopped soaring daringly and end up drowned in meaningless ideological bedlam;
Not if we unbatten the hatches and allow snotty little scions of imaginary woke families, who themselves are breedless, to blather about birthing parents 1 and 2 to rule the world;
Not if we keep allowing—read: voting in—sybaritic, reptilian sleazebags in positions of power from which they’d keep butchering the language and distant lands alike;
Not if we let today’s flood of disconnected incoherence lead to nothing but mental illness and a total societal collapse akin to that of crapping in a NYC subway car.
Otherwise, we can mournfully—with shame that would outlive us—pull on a black armband and lament over the world we let be destroyed by allowing the meaning to be reduced to PR tidbits of the most nauseating garbage imaginable, to morsels of diatribe dung and crumbs of mental manure.
So please, follow me, reader, hear me out, hear the truth. Do you chuckle in disbelief, jaded and cynical? But, whoever told you there’s no such thing in the world as the truth is a triple-damned liar deserving to be publicly quartered, his treacherous remains burned to ashes, his forsaken residues taken to the mouth of the Yangtze River on the East China Sea and spread out. For safety measures, one should drain the mighty river and sow the seeds of oblivion in its riverbed, meant for those who have lost faith and reason for being alive. But you, my beloved reader, will, on those truthful pages, find it—the truth(s) of the world you inhabit.
Down the Woke Rabbit Hole
Now, if you "see something, say something," and run to your designated corner for a prescribed five minutes of hate toward... you fill in the blanks… and go on screaming from the top of your virtuous lungs about how "black lives matter" and how "if you’re not with us, you’re against us." Hop on your high horse and waver your finger pontificating how you plan to bravely "dismantle the white supremacy culture in math classrooms by visibilizing the toxic characteristics of white supremacy culture by creating the Culturally Sustaining Math Space and Ethnomathematics" and tell the world, as loudly and as obnoxiously as you can, how "men can menstruate," how a 4 y.o. “can” “choose” their gender, and tell us that "bleeding persons" are not only women for women... Jeez, I can’t continue listing these hellaciously ferocious neologisms that clogged the wast American swampland and have overtaken our lives with feculent muck poisoning our collective mind. To hell with them.
The poisonous notion that, to paraphrase Riverboat blogger from Huston, rainbow-haired, knuckle-dragging ignorant fanatics are suddenly endowed by Socratic wisdom and we need to bow in front of their grotesque Gretaesque blathering, as they scream at their teachers, or that pants-pinching, underwear-showing, finger-flashing high school cretins on a respite from WalMart looting deserve respect due to their status as poor, oppressed victims, is peddled by administrators and others who should know better.
That ideology is flat-out insane. Their ideological drug is as poisonous as fentanyl.
The REVOLUTION
I myself would prefer pitchforks and a guillotine for the Cabal in power [even more so for their sniveling lickspittle sycophants], or in the immortal words of a poet who spent 12 years in a communist prison—a bullet, a gun, a wall, and a forehead—but this is more of a pensive, metaphysical essay than an incitement to violence in a world where every hobbledehoy mumpsimus can "change" their gender at a whim and scold us—screaming "violence" or even "genocide" in our faces—if we don't comply with their inane daily pronoun changes, lest this be deemed a "crime" in the mental panopticon of wokeness.
So let us see what those smarter than I had to say, alas, in the very vortex of the doula-less swamp that encourages tiptoeing around psychopath crackpots for too long.
“Without a global revolution in the sphere of human consciousness, nothing will change for the better in the sphere of our being as humans, and the catastrophe toward which this world is headed—be it ecological, social, demographic, or a general breakdown of civilization—will be unavoidable.”
Václav Havel, Czech President, (addressing a Joint Session of the U.S. Congress in Washington, D.C. on February 21, 1990)
I subtitled this essay as "Newspeak is ravaging America, not merely disregarding reality, but reducing discourse to a decadent pandemonium of self-loathing ideological blather devoid of meaning"—but we don't have to go that far as Havel suggested and revolt in the sphere of human consciousness.
Instead, we can simply look around as human beings and engage with our fellow passersby, not relying on fucking Google or Apple maps that track you and, even worse, isolate you from genuine human smiles and interactions. We can ask another person for directions and embrace the opportunity to enter a library, one of the many marvels of human dignity and ingenuity found throughout the world.
Just look at those magnificent examples of our collective inheritance.
As for myself, at the tender age of 46, I became homeless overnight. And so, in my first step toward a glorious resurrection that would ultimately lead to another glorious failure, I walked into The Stephen A. Schwarzman Building, the historic New York City landmark situated on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 42nd Street—better known as the New York Public Library. There, I silently sat in awe.
Within those books is not only the vast knowledge of humanity but also the essence of every breath taken by geniuses, every sip of absinthe imbibed by mad poets, every tear shed by a grieving mother, every daring discovery made by medieval alchemists, every discourse engaged in by ancient philosophers, every passionate revolutionary diatribe, every quack’s medieval protection against witches, and every one of those grandiose operas of life, also known as War and Peace, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Crime and Punishment, and so many others. I took Albert Einstein's biography in my hands and almost wept—that man represents the very same humanity I am a part of, and then I read Richard Feynman's one-electron universe hypothesis, postulating that there exists only a single electron in the universe, propagating through space and time in such a way as to appear in many places simultaneously, and laughed. Crazy geniuses made us and our world. I glanced furtively about as I caressed pages of Master and Margarita, for I did not want to appear insane and to be whisked away while I was feeling exuberantly mad amid the greatness.
How meager my newly found misery felt then, how utterly ridiculous woke ideology that wants to impose misery on all of us, seems to me today.
That day wasn’t the first time a pulchritudinous librarian named Caitlin Brennan (she has recurring dreams about a one-eyed swashbuckler fighting saber-toothed tigers, but this is another tale best described in Lorenzo Bladuzzi’s novel Desiderio Robotica) handed me an old alchemical manuscript. This time it was Amphitheater of Eternal Wisdom by Heinrich Khunrath, and the book, dating back to 1595 A.D., made me cry out of pure joy, for I wasn’t a mere destitute bum but, as a human, I belonged to the enchanting world of wonder.
What was left is lingering loneliness and in it a flicker of hope.
Robert Pirosh was an American motion picture and television screenwriter and director, most famous for his letter to Hollywood executives. In this epistolary masterpiece, he wrote in a way that reads like poetry. So, I took the liberty of reproducing it here in all its glory, as one would with a poem:
I like words.
I like fat buttery words, such as ooze, turpitude, glutinous, toady.
I like solemn, angular, creaky words, such as straitlaced, cantankerous, pecunious, valedictory. I like spurious, black-is-white words, such as mortician, liquidate, tonsorial, demi-monde.
I like suave "V" words, such as Svengali, svelte, bravura, verve.
I like crunchy, brittle, crackly words, such as splinter, grapple, jostle, crusty.
I like sullen, crabbed, scowling words, such as skulk, glower, scabby, churl.
I like Oh-Heavens, my-gracious, land's-sake words, such as tricksy, tucker, genteel, horrid.
I like elegant, flowery words, such as estivate, peregrinate, elysium, halcyon.
I like wormy, squirmy, mealy words, such as crawl, blubber, squeal, drip.
I like sniggly, chuckling words, such as cowlick, gurgle, bubble and burp.
Think about it for a moment as you strode briskly to meet your beloved one, as their heart beat wildly and you kissed them lustfully and lovingly. All those words suffused with meaning, impregnated with pain or love—everything lives there in our libraries, in our languages, in the majestic history of our weird species that viciously insults a stranger online but selflessly runs into a burning inferno to save a puppy.
But not only there, all those words, all those sentences, all those books—everything that has ever been written or said—are glorious, splendiferous parts of our joint heritage, of our collective unconsciousness, even.
Look at the joy those kids feel seeing a Biblioburro, the donkey library, built by Luis Soriano, a teacher in the small town of La Gloria, Colombia. The books do not have to be sheathed and safely kept in the magnificent, intimidating setting of stupendous libraries; they come in all shapes and forms.
Be it a library donkey in Colombia or a library camel in Kenya, they bring the words of beauty and love to everyone, everywhere, in a form of that magical object, a book.
Inside those enchanting marvels, you will find the alluring words and spellbound stories that people, not so different from yourself, wrote so that we all may be infinitely enriched on our spiritual journey towards the "Big Unknown." Unlike the FEAR and LOATHING of woke America, which seeks to enslave you with insane ideologies of deception and the mutilation of children, under the false flags of equally false transgender pride (before the fall), forcefully shoved down your throat, pretending, even believing, that they matter more than you.
[For the nice, normal people among you, I must needlessly emphasize that I always talk about ideology, never about individuals and their right to live life as they seem fit. And if they’d ride—I truly say that without a hint of sarcasm—with their heads held high on a rainbow-colored unicorn, I’d be the first to throw some rose petals at them, as long as no one forces me to join the ride.]
In the grand scheme of things, none of us matter, and that’s the beauty of it. The fake and the feeble, the woke and the woeful, the phony victims and the false prophets of vapid wokery and alphabet tyranny matter even less. They can be grunting like a slaughtered pig as they profess everyone’s oppression from their Ivy League-gilded classrooms or hideout offices of BLM theft alike, those Sovietized dungeons of mind where they do not allow an opposing word to be heard as much as they wish. They can pseudo-intellectualize their unnatural high-pitched screams of ideological intensification as an attempt to “de-victimize” everyone among themselves, but they deserve no other than scorn and ridicule or, perhaps understanding and free mental health care from the oppressive society they seem to want to dismantle in a way a syphilitic eunuch would want to burn down a brothel.
I feel that they are on the peak side of insanity, and the pendulum has started to swing back toward normalcy. However, if sane humans do not take responsibility into their own hands and thwart this disastrous course that the soulless woke scoundrels want to take us down, I fear I might be proven wrong. But there, on the sunny side, the opposite of the woke ideological darkness, there is sun. There is love, and there is humanity. That’s worth an effort or two.
Woke ideologues place belongs in the dustbin of history, among the most despicable tyrants and commie-like tools who, in a confederacy of vile dunces, had their fifteen minutes of fame, and their time is up. They've butchered language, and, as hubristic as some little fascist bureaucrat would, and had in the past, tried to forbid us to use words like "mother." The nerve those idiots displayed is truly mind-boggling. They concocted moribund monstrosities like "Latinx" and "birthing people," even "womxn," all of them as stupid, vacuous, and meaningless as their moronic ideology.
They, like a mind virus, crept in and writhed about, poisoning our country, our land, our lives, and our children, but are now destined to crawl back to their parasitic Petri dish from hell of their origin and stay there, like the bacillus of plague, waiting for another chance. I can only hope that we have acquired immunity against the parasitic brain infection of woke ideology during their relentless attack on us from all fronts.
So I can suggest—as delicately as I can muster—to all those mewling quasi-victims and blubbering virtue-signaling dastards, that we cope with them by telling them to shove their ideology in the place where the sun doesn’t shine, so it could fuck off and die there. And as they cowardly slink away, let's give them a kick in the butt on their way out.
We may have some Dostoevsky reading to catch up with.
“I think I could stand anything, any suffering, only to be able to say and to repeat to myself every moment, 'I exist.' In thousands of agonies -- I exist. I'm tormented on the rack -- but I exist! Though I sit alone in a pillar -- I exist! I see the sun, and if I don't see the sun, I know it's there. And there's a whole life in that, in knowing that the sun is there.”
― Fyodor M. Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov
Hall of Fame:
While I don't require subscriptions, essays older than 4 weeks are placed behind a paywall, except for the one labeled "legendary" and "Joe Biden’s Journey into Evil," which will remain freely accessible for as long as this Substack lives.
The Dark Side: Joe Biden's Journey into Evil (most read and most liked)
FEAR & LOATHING of Woke America: love letter to fallen language (legendary)
The Operation Unthinkable: World War III (1) (an overlooked gem).
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Mind Control Series (5) Child Abuse: PURE EVIL (painful, somewhat neglected)
CIA: A Spider Wasp in Our Belly (I’m proud of this one, but it’s most ignored).
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Wokism is a religion, and wokusts are engaged in a moral jihad against objective reality. So I believe the most basic, most essential response to any wokust attack begins with, "Who are you to judge me?"
The rest follows from there.
Trygve. Your words made ME cry. I wish I could hug you, for many reasons. I will try to convey how deeply this essay has touched me and why, but my use of words, and vocabulary, aren't as masterful as yours, only my critique of them. This will be long, and you need a bit of history, but I will get back to you and your writing as the subject matter.
In my former life, I was an editor. I edited them all: books, periodicals, websites, but mostly periodicals. And because of that, I learned how to write *other people's words* more succinctly, and more simply, dumbing it down for the "average" reader of fifth grade material, and shortening it for space. I learned how to correct their mistakes. I learned to LOOK FOR their mistakes. Which can ruin reading for a person. It can ruin reading resplendent writing.
These days, for obvious reasons, I am not reading (or watching) mainstream journalism. You did not touch on their own destruction of their own profession in this essay, but to me it is absolutely implied in your writing. The Wokism they embrace is hurting their own art, talent, and crowning achievements.
And it also hurts me to read many independent "journalists." I appreciate their efforts of investigation, their uncovering of the truth, the time it takes to write about it. But most of them abso-fucking-lutely suck at writing. Their punctuation is atrocious, their/there/they're spelling and grammar pains me deep in my soul. How did we let these people graduate when they don't even know the difference between "your" and "you're?" They serve a great purpose here and now. But they are NOT journalists.
(I do all of my own writing and commenting on a phone. I have typos and accidental autocorrects galore and do not count those against people, but I also don't call myself a professional journo or writer. I absolutely judge people who call for us to not make "judgements" against them when they can't spell that word. There is a place in a mall with a giant sign that says "No Judgement Zone." I cannot stay there because I am judging them immediately.)
And people who have called themselves professional journalists and were educated as such but have bowed to the Wokism you so beautifully outlined here shall not be called journalists anymore in my book. They deny the truth, they deny reality, and they deny their true selves. They no longer investigate Truth and Knowledge. They concoct and lie to dupe us. And we willingly swallow their concoctions.
The fucking AP, Strunk and White, Chicago Style Manuals -- all should be damned to journalism hell, every award stripped from them for changing the definitions of words like mother and woman.
Sadly, I lost this career because I got a disease that now makes me forget simple and common words. I have difficulty retelling stories, communicating verbally. Like a pro ball player losing a leg or an arm, I have lost my ability to dance and play, parry and riposte with words on the tongue. I am "disabled" in that sense, and suffer from what is known as "the suicide disease." But I am hopeful and happy in my new life, as well, creating beauty and art, not destroying it.
When I was a child, I was always in the library reading. I read in the car everywhere we went. I entertained myself reading. I didn't play with dolls, or with many other kids. I read. When I got my driver's license, I got lost in our small town of 400 people because I always had my nose in a book and never really looked outside the vehicle. It was tough to find a pay phone to call my mom and dad, and my parents laughed their asses off.
I worked in the school library when I was in middle and high school, which enabled me to get office jobs while I went to college to be a children's book writer. Never had to do the fast food or other jobs like that because I loved books so damned much.
So, without knowing me at all, you correctly inferred that I am a logophile, and a bibliophile. And I wanted you to know how much of one I have been since the moment I read my first book.
And then, I found you. Or rather, you found me. The dark clouds have parted, the sun shining brilliantly down on you, birds singing, the air crisp and sweet and fresh. You are sitting there, sometimes smiling, sometimes surly, you're the one who saves me from this journalistic hell.
Oh, what a joy to read, absorb and just take it in. To know that I can trust that your spelling, grammar, and punctuation will actually be not just be correct, but an immense pleasure to read! To let my eyes and brain rest upon your words in the knowledge that I will gain more of that, I will learn something new, be entertained, witness and experience your art, challenged and pushed to action and prayer, to have the exhilaration of discovering new words and new ways to string them together. So many other writers attempt to write the way you do, but it is so often forced. Every other word is a new one, heady, and heavy, highfalutin and haughty. But your words do not come across like that at all. It is your clear love of the words and crafting of them that draws me in.
Ahhhhh..... The relief is palpable.
To be able to read such thoughtful and striking commentary about the world today, often mixed with perfectly pertinent passages from previous pontificators, restores my hope for humanity.
Your passage about being homeless such a "tender" age brought me to tears, and they just continued to flow when you expressed your joy at finding solace in the sea of stories, histories, theories, reasonings and the soothing tidal wave of words that is that residence of tomes.
My heart surged and soared even more when you quoted Robert Pirosh, bringing even more tears flowing, for I feel EXACTLY the same. I've never read him, and wish to now.
I had such a strange feeling and thought, that I dare to lay bare here, something I never wished for myself nor anyone else, yet there it is: How I wish to be homeless and not have a care about all the stresses of life and be able to just drown in books! A horrible and wonderful thought.
More eyeball waterfalls with your commentary on our society today mixed with the tears of the other subjects. I fear for our world in many ways, and yes, loathe it as well. So many before us warned that spotting what the evil ones do with language is how we know when we are losing in our society. I'm guessing you could quote dozens, at least.
A couple of weeks ago, I attended a presentation given by another Substack writer, author of dozens of books and movies, Hollywood refugee, Michael Ashley. He told of how he tutors junior and high school kids and teaches them to write. He has expressed the fact that none of them know how. Not anymore. He suggests that we start our own universities to bring back the classic books, and teach people how to write, paint, how to build and make beauty, and learn homesteading skills.
Language is the key to our existence as a society. To be alive today to witness the downfall of it is devastating to those of us who cherish it so.
Thank you for this essay. Thank you for choosing to share your mind, your way with words, with the world. Those of us who have found you, or you, us, are blessed beyond compare. You're one of the best writers I have ever read. In history.
To describe your writing in a word.... I was thinking, "frabjous," but I believe a different one is more appropriate. I've heard it's quite magical.
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
With much love and gratitude and happiness happy to read you, I am
Wyllamizer ❤️