One nice farce is watching the journalistic edifice lumbering in the far after-wake of the ships whose prows churn the edge of culture, misinterpreting and misrepresenting what their trawlers haul out of the water. Slicing off the heads and fins, macerating the flesh, sticking it into a can, and saying that the can is the heart of the matter, that the can is the thing that was swimming.
I call it the unweirding of the fishes. Necessary for stability, I guess? Simplifies the history books.
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Of course, I can be as easily misled as anyone. There's always more webs of delusion to disentangle; no one writes or reads out of total understanding and perfect clarity. These things do not exist.
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Culture! A total fabrication.
--JL
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