Where is Walt Whitman?

I’ve never wanted so much to come back to the US.
that will be all. no angry reaction, no fear, no escape by way of humor. just being part of it, the turba.
Foucault said that war is the essence of civilization in its interstrata relationships. We yesterday hit a nail on the crucifixion of modernity. Not “they”, because this evening was both a triumph, and a crash of democracy – its limits in the face of politics from person to person, of global against personal interest. Geopolitics and humanism 101: how much does a man weigh? We all venerate them as if they were Gods, merely because they encapsulate us in their language, their weltanschauung. Individuality is sacrificed while being evoked. The paradox of the republic is that it orders us as much as it blames us for deciding it. What is it? A troop of invisibles, a cloud of indivisible fear and expectation? We are toys of our own fantasies – and with democracy, we are toys of their own fantasies. Welcome after the end – in an era where time and space don’t exist while being criticized, where religion is needed in the name of being well but not well-being, where the world has become so complicated it’s become careless and flat; where chance has its part depleted. Maybe this “luck” is both hope and “fuck-it”-ness, both a prayer and an abandon. We’ve seen much of both on all sides – even those who refused to vote. I know well enough I’m not entitled to participate in the hurricane of shame and depreciation that is happening right now. But if pride is the first sin, the one to rue them all in Christianity, then self-pity (and count your people in that) is that of social beings – and it’s the first weapon of traitors, snakes, human magnets.
So I don’t want to say or see much besides eyes, today. this obviously doesn’t have anything to do with art, with music, the sempiternal “let’s make music more passionately than ever before”. Politics have now become not only an economic, social, and philosophical field, but now humanitarian. Not only with these refugees flooding, giving birth to both hope and pity, prayer and disdain, but all those souls with a home barely in their heads, in one of their two horizons (for we have two, the past and the future, difficultly discernible), those with two homes (such as me), all those in need of what is to be in their bodily constitution (that one for long has been overshadowed by the dictation of fathers of wealth, however great and guiding lights their minds have indeed been). Inequality is a claudicant balance, a fairless and fearless pendulum. While we may think time has stopped, status quo being the only alternative to the great world-end, hearts should not stop. So far below.

Where is Walt Whitman?

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