Dammit Franz Kafka is depressing.
Coming to grips with a Kafka story is a matter of wallowing in the vacuous despair of a harsh society.
Waking up in the mornings will become a significantly more difficult matter to handle if you’ve ever read something like The Metamorphosis. You sit there and analyze those around you with an air of dissatisfaction (you’re absolutely sure they’re doing the same) that only serves to accentuate your dreadful side ache.
On the radio, you find out that Timothy Geithner, OH precious Timothy Geithner, is human afterall. In a month of Blagojevichs, Richardsons, and–now–Geithners, you aren’t sad that these things happen; instead, you get sad because you realize that there’s a cage full of animals ready to pounce on Barack Obama because of a fellow man’s error. Regardless of the fact that Blagojevich is his own fool (not Obama’s), that Bill Richardson nobly stepped down as Secretary of Commerce, and despite the fact that a single; albeit significant, error could undo–in various predatory circles–a worthy career in international finance; with the New York Fed, and derail Timothy Geithner’s significant promise as Treasury Secreatry; Barack Obama’s going to have to live up to his decisions, as well as, inconsequential connections. He’s going to have some explaining to do. It’s nature.
There’s a wealth of opinion, all understandable in their own right, regarding the relative position of our hallowed servants to us below them–whether it’s entertainment, sports, politics, etc. However, rarely do we remind ourselves that we’re all fools on an endless search for saints. It’s not going to happen because we’re all sinners in a cruel world but all we can do is keep a stiff upper lip and fuckin’ handle it.
Right?
Then the cereal is oversaturated with milk, the coffee is cold, there’s things to do, things to get, things to build, things to pay, things that’ve been lost, things to replace, lovers to pay for, lovers to apologize to, precious Timothy Geithner, rain on a running day, the racists at work, hangovers on a Tuesday, What the hell happened last night!?
Shit.
If the world you should find solace in is harsher than the world around you, what’s the damn point?
Dammit Franz Kafka is depressing.
I was gonna post Beat Happening’s Down at the Sea to provide some cheer amidst it all, however, at this point in the piece it doesn’t feel damn right. I’m gonna have to save that one for a more pleasant post but today, my friends, we get Black Flag.
//Vladimir Sorokoskev
