A Chain of Sexual Angles

It was raining and for some reason I thought of the Anubis, that decadent ship in wartime Europe and its bizarre suspension of reality that is but a small snapshot in Pynchon’s sprawling novel.

Suspension of reality.

Is that why war is so appealing to the human organism? An opportunity to abandon all thought of tomorrow, to descend fully into the present in a break down of convention, where the finesse of society is reduced to blunt edges and laws are delegated into distant memory. Murder is the about worst thing a person can do to another, and since murder is acceptable, encouraged in war, it is logical that all other laws are irrelevant as well. Leave the killing to the soldiers and we’ll do everything else! With the collective eye fragmented (Big Brother is embodied in us all. Social pressures regulate our behavior. It’s always 1984, baby), secret acts of defiance are now acted out openly. Have Molotov cocktails for lunch and spend the evening out painting the town red. Pick up chicks down at Rubble Alley and take them to bed whether they want to or not, drag them by their stumps. This amnesia of reality soon stalls as Time does its thing and people walk out of their houses, blinking, mildly (but secretly not) surprised that the apocalypse has passed, like just another small tropical storm. Thus cathartic, peace may once more resume. Perhaps war is an integral component of the human experience. I for one believe overpopulation is one direct cause of war; stupidity is another.

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