Are you buying the election hate? It’s definitely a buyer’s market. I saw a post-election rally/protest in my hometown that was a cornucopia of fresh organic Love Trump’s Hate. These people were beautiful. I knew these people. It was a potluck of faces wading in the flotsam and jetsam of concern and eye drooping. Safety pins and “soul sister” all selling a message urging people to love Trump’s hate. Wait, what? If these people were peaceful, why did it feel angry? If these people were love, why were they asking me to “Love Trump’s Hate?”
As I charted my way through the drowning crowd, I locked eyes with some of the children. They clung like castaways to sunken parental shoulders. Big needy eyes ask me if I could help their mother. I saw the future of our nation weaning on emotional dissonance. Under fascisms brilliant rainbow, on this canvas in four dimensions, curtained by oak trees underneath a purple moon. A symphony of people calling out the slogan “Love Trump’s Hate”.
This was the most attractive village mob I have ever seen.
Emotional fascism (also known as Cultural Marxism) is a doctrine disguised as a feeling dictated through a collective. This doctrine is enforced throughout the hive via virtue signaling and discreet shaming. Those who mimic the doctrine are rewarded with energy from the rest of the group. Those who do not reflect the doctrine are neglected i.e. shamed. Emotional fascism is an invisible agenda of emotions everyone has been auto-subscribed to. This emotional agenda comes from outside the body. It is implanted. There is no self-soothing since the emotion was not created internally.
You find this fascism in safety pin bowls passed around at churches after the election. You see it when a crowd is trapped in the crossfire as a group of actors publicly calls out its patron. Innocent travelers meet this fascism during a protest on a blocked freeway. Self-employed students see it when they find classes cancelled for a “cry” day. This secret handshake of assumed devastation serves as a golden ticket for poor behavior. Emotional fascism is slander for cookies. It centralizes a shame vortex and begins to feed a pseudo hive. People start to ask each other with their eyes “How do I feel now?” All of this implanted from a corporate slogan “Love Trump’s Hate”.
Emotional fascism is slander for cookies.
What if you could see energy in the raw as it is flowing. Would you see a vortex of love and compassion? I am absolutely convinced every single person there was hoping and thinking that was the case. But it wasn’t. Although the event was sold as solidarity, the people came for the posturing. A contest broke out to see who was the proudest victim. I was in a silent parade of wounded cock-strutting.
I heard claims from parents that their kids were so upset they couldn’t go to school. Someone else saw that bet and raise it a “this election put my mom in the hospital!” It was as if a thousand soccer players were calling foul as they sprinted to the ground and moaned for the camera.
Everybody loves a melodrama. But the kids don’t know we are pretending. How do you explain a contra-dance of virtue signaling? A child overhears mom say she is devastated. A child learns this must be what devastation looks like. All they could see was negative energy masquerading as positive energy sucking all the other negative energy pretending to be positive energy. Their parents were tuning forks wrapped in skin. They were vibrating their children’s emotions into a cauldron of drama and darkness. Dipping their torches as they whispered, “it’ll be okay.”
Who could wonder why this country is roaming with hollow people. Twitter conscious zombies are trying their best to mark themselves on the public yardstick of conviction. This is not new. Who has the tallest ten-gallon hat? Who’s got the fattest petticoat? This posturing has gotten tricky. We’ve mingled our estrogen with our testosterone. It’s so confusing being any kind of gender. You can have passion, but not too much passion. The only time women may fart is in yoga class. The only time men may scream is at some primal retreat away from the protected public. We have arrived at an epic vista overlooking a foamy ocean of citizens all scrambling to play king-of-the virtue mountain.
We’ve lost our core. We no longer command our personal boundaries. We ask the community to define them for us. It’s the role of government to provide us a custom booster seat at the table. We’ve convinced ourselves we are selfish. We compete for the privilege to tell each other we’re not worthy. We sip from the sugar found inside the lips of pity. This will never sustain us across life’s big ocean. It gives us just enough to keep hovering in the breeze. We are trapped in a cage of wings. We have reduced ourselves to a nation of vampires. We define everyone’s boundaries but our own.
This happened when we decided we were no longer capable of independence. We’ve decided we’re not to be trusted. We’re too racist, too sexist, too ignorant, too naïve, and too human. We’ve delegated our stewardship to the EPA. We’ve farmed out our compassion to FEMA. We’ve bowed to the 30-foot P.C. Gorilla that kidnapped our precious green lady. We’re afraid of the wall. We’re afraid of not having a wall. Our disgruntled toes keep squishing us deeper in shitty pudding.
We’re going nowhere as fast as we can.
Love trumps nothing. Love has no enemy. Love is not here to convince you you’re the good guy. Love does not call for the obedience of minions. Love is not here to take home the trophy. Love comes when you find yourself broken. You can only know love personally. Internally. Don’t co-opt this precious definition. Don’t tarnish it atop a slogan that closes with the word “hate”.
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