Thoughts on Lukács, Lineages, and Tired Lies

A disfigured hand, calloused in saw mills, held a mass produced receiver connected to one of his dozen offspring – conceived of necessity to keep the farm running. The same coal-stained finger that pulled the kill switch to shut down the line pulled the mass-produced trigger that kept his son reeling.  An interchangeable barrel pressed into a temple encasing an expendable man silenced the conveyor belts’ incessant humming.

Some diesel-scented shirts stretched for a back molded by the seat of a big rig were dropped off each weekend between hauls of generics for unseen consuming. The same back that ached from labors of love branded onto the mind of his boy: Man is a quiet thing: working, providing, but leaving.  An unquestioned loyalty to his employer sowed the inevitable loss of a purpose when loyalty to profit called for right-sizing.

The lineage of conveyor belts, truck lines, and bottom lines shaped this guzzling engine: a machine of desire, connoisseur of the common, in a fog of manufactured longing.  The same passivity that took the cog, the seat, as a Name passively consumes the mass-produced heroes of mass-produced tales.  An interconnected society of disconnected friends craving clicks, giggles, and likes affirms the religious creed: You can have it all, so want it all. Don’t think. Believe.


Currently Reading:

Jeffries, Stuart.  Grand Hotel Abyss: The Lives of the Frankfort School (London: Verso): 67-96.

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