← @inspectorEquine

[sincerely trying to write a compelling, dare I say meaningful, story about the nature of sin and redemption. It’s certainly a possibility. Perhaps this whole project is some Freudian mechanism I’m using to work though the complex issues tucked away deep in the neglected, cobwebby corners of my troubled teenage psyche. Or a Jungian mechanism. Or a Janetian one. Jasperian? (Christ, what is it with European psychotherapists and J names?) Sorry, I’m a bit rusty on my late-nineteenth-early-twentieth century analytic psychology and the various mechanisms thereof. It’s like psychology is Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, and I’m Charlie fucking Buckett out here, looking through the gate, my little sooty pauper nose poking through the bars, wondering what could possibly be inside. O what saccharine phantasies! O what levulose reveries! O the vagaries of gumdrops and licorices and taffies. (But no tootsie rolls. Because fuck those disgusting things, am I right?) But then I find one of the five golden copies of On the Interpretation of Dreams, and I get to actually explore this mysterious Wonka wünder-palace, where events unfold as predictably and phallocentrically as would be expected from an such adventure through the psyche of an aging candy tycoon who’s the type of guy that invites nubile youths to his factory to inspect his fantastic contraptions. Okay, fuck, I got way off track here. My attempt to assure you that I wasn’t going to succumb to the allure faux-philosophical meta-commentary turned into just that. (And then it turned into a lengthy fantasy about Willy Wonka, I guess??) Needless to say, the whole digression was/is ironic. But it’s the type of irony that has actually become sincere by virtue of its utterly failed approximation of sincerity. You know I’d never unironically write something like those first few paragraphs, and I know you know. So the fact that I did is a de facto breach of an unstated contract of communicational transparency between us. That I would betray said contract then becomes the actual meaning of the gesture: why would I do such a thing if not to emphasize the degree of my sincerity? The form of the message becomes its content, and the original content and the meaning thereof is jettisoned off to god knows where. Eventually, we both become so concerned about whether (or to what degree) I’m being ironic that we lose track of what it is that I’m being or not being ironic about. And, of course, in the above paragraph (as well as this one), the pretense of shedding my irony to address you directly about my (failed?) use of irony elsewhere is another level of overarching irony, further masking/enhancing the sincerity of said address, as well as the original content, if it’s even accessible anymore. Sincerity has become just another pharmakon: the supposed “cure” to my irony, yet one which effaces the original message just as much as the poisonous irony that obscured it in the first place. Either way, meaning is lost. It’s complicated, is what I’m trying to say. Layers. Pharmakon. I’ll explain it to you someday.] #DetectivePony https://i.imgur.com/1CZQmBU.png

Kult: +10
Total: 10