Scully and Mulder were back this week,

And so was back nostalgia as SuperBowl halftime shows, and halftime puppys, and halftime anti-apartheid insurgents as latex, and i was still torn, at the time of writing, whether it was all guerrilla marketing for an un-red-lined middle class, or guerrilla marketing for the Nets’ repatriation movement in Brooklyn, so Jay-Z, the pretend Prokhorov, could finally have a chance of not sliding checks past the internally displaced, or a revival of the celebrity as activist, or the celebrity as revolution. But then, i thought, whether it mattered if the hand that feeds you, also removes your lungs, block by studio, timbre by timbre, sonorous LP by sonorous LP. Infirmaries built atop billboards. Soup kitchens built atop Prison abolition. Isn’t that what the Black Panthers were about?

Endogenous depression
I never enjoyed how scully was presented as the party-popper corporeal, as if not delving into conspiracies about FEMA death camps was anti-humanist. and then what? And as if Mozambique was liberated by the age of reason, and not the carnation. And someone at the av club pointed out that “my struggle” should have been named “our struggle” or at the least “my struggle against your struggle, against it.” But, we are supposed to identify with mulder, however crazy his theories, were, however, ultimately, unfalsifiable and full of hope, for a world that would fashion hope in nylon strings, and mail it back to you, as hallmark card, sweated in polyester.
Depression from immanence, from consistency,

Not,

From car crash,

From brick window,

From clubbing to the temple,

From expulsion from matriculation,

Or Ralph’s death,

Or mother’s anniversary.

That was the kind, Scully was talking about.

So, we had to entertain Mulder; against pulling the curtains on a world which had no monsters-of-the-week. Because, and she never said this, the monsters were never under the bed; they were in mother’s room, they were, the whistle underneath the librarians desk, the creases in pant-suits, free jazz in a faraday cage, parliamentarians bailing-out the parliament from self-aggrandized bonfires, frats eulogizing cult of personalities with assemblages of “disco sucks,” kids parkouring up pick-ups for documentarian lens-flares. Blinding watchdog binoculars, locked in on fluoride cabals, third world agency infiltrations.

Indiscriminate. even you. Mr. You follow the drugs, you get drug-addicts and drug-dealers, you follow the money, you follow the money.

 

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