the longer i live the more convinced i am that 'i enjoy [fiction] to escape reality' is like a completely manufactured attitude brought on by a broader global lie that 'escape' is possible at all and/or that escape is synonymous w 'having fun for a period of time'
this has been weighing on my mind recently. games as a delimited space we have control of. we build cities of light and air, and to what end? Gamer Brain reflexively coils in on itself, conflating consumption with praxis and rejecting the oscar winner who was glad to have had instruments put in his hands
we escape into fiction to ameliorate the pain of being--comfort and anesthetization--even as we otherwise shelter in and take advantage of the benefits of the imperial core. setting capital as the log line around which our society orients itself has hollowed out our infrastructure, institutions, and ideas
to what degree do we manufacture the circuses by which (along with bread) the rolling, compounding series of atrocities that is the output of our society is enabled?
what does creative work look like, that undermines the hegemonic project. to what end do we ply our efforts: assimilation or transformation?