menticide (n): the systematic effort to undermine and destroy a person’s values and beliefs, as by the use of prolonged interrogation, drugs, torture, etc., and to induce radically different ideas.
Yesterday I wandered in the weeds. I added a spare paragraph to a perfectly adequate post. I don’t know why I added it. We already know it’s true. Why bother to state the obvious?
…Unless you’re Amish, you don’t have a society free of propaganda in which to take refuge. You’ll be surrounded by people in the thrall of electronic “media” and they’re hooked deeply. They’re junkies. They can’t quit.
The addiction merits attention. It must be addressed. It cannot be endured or ignored. Because our world is awash in propaganda, we need to attend to our mental health. It’s vital we withdraw from the avalanche of lies to the extent we can; at a minimum one must periodically come up for air and become reacquainted with reality. Few know such an option exists. Even fewer try it. Compared to just a few years ago, possibly even compared to Soviet Russia, propaganda has reached vast proportions.
Z-Man fleshed out the concept better than I have:
Whether by design or by accident, mass media is a form of menticide, a systematic destruction of the conscious mind of the people. Instead of the quiet predictability of familiar routines, the modern mind is a riot of chaos, doubt, and outrage. The natural human desire to live a peaceful life is drowned out by a riot in the head, triggered by the constant stream of insanity from the mass media.
Menticide. Precisely.
One thing menticide robs from us is connection. I’m as much a loner as anyone and yet even I seek connection with my fellow human. This is almost impossible now. Two people cannot connect unless both are free of the spell.
When you talk to a person steeped in mass media you are not connecting with that person at all. Whatever unique personality might have been there is submerged. Layers of training defend it against true interaction. If they’re a lefty, they’ll quote from the many media sources that instruct them on what to say. If they’re the opposite, they’ll still tell you a narrative. It’ll be what they heard on Gab or a meme they liked or some scrap from whatever slivers of media the censored Deplorables can unearth.
When I try to mention some thought I had that doesn’t come from “approved sources”, it’s literally unintelligible. Perhaps an idea is digested from my imperfect reading of history, or arrived at from personal experience, or even through some revelatory thought while hunting grouse. If it didn’t originate on a screen, it goes nowhere. My idea might be dumb or wise, but it’s not evaluated. Because it’s unique, it won’t be considered. It can’t be considered. The programmed follow a pattern. An idea that breaks the pattern doesn’t exist.
When a nerd like me says “you know, Marcus Aurelius had some ideas about…” or “when I was hunting I thought…” or “this one time in band camp I did this thing…” it’s doomed. Ideas from the media are evaluated in light of the media by avatars of the media. I might as well talk to my woodsplitter.
Most concepts cannot be communicated in any depth greater than Crimethink.
What to do? Z-Man offers the same prescription I offer:
…those who seek to survive it will need to find a way to silence the riot of the modern mind. Ironically, that means going back to where it started and taking a page from the cultural radicals. To quiet the mind, to break free of the narcotic of media menticide, it means you must turn off, tune out, and drop out.
This doesn’t mean you’ve got to go Amish and spend your days plowing potato hills behind a Percheron. But it does acknowledge that’s one way to go. The Amish, who live in close proximity to madness, have not themselves gone mad. (If they’d open a sanatorium for us overwrought English I’d gladly pay.)
A personal note: My temporary salve in 2021 was camping (sometimes with my little motorcycle parked next to my tent and sometimes with a homemade sailboat beached nearby). It was good clean fun. I basked in the timeless simple joy of it all.
I hadn’t realized it, but I’ve become dependent. As 2020 (now entering it’s 23rd month) lumbered forward, each new week brings more manufactured chaos into my world. My banked and stored “chill” is dangerously depleted. In a world gone mad, I crave nights lying in a sleeping bag, listening to owls and voices on the wind, with a thirst bordering on desperation.
I shouldn’t have painted myself into a corner. It’s better to have many outlets instead of one. But it happened and the next step is up to me. Logistics is now an enemy. Winter is nigh and camping in winter is less fun than it once was. (I used to love winter camping. I would love to do it again. However, sleeping on the ground in a snowdrift is from a time I have passed. Age is not a curse, but it will not be denied.)
I was idly pondering the acquisition of a hot tent. I hadn’t made the buy. I failed to act with proper dispatch. While I considered an expensive “luxury”, President Potato yanked the rug out from under me. He decided to actively undercut my income; because of course no life is too remote or unimportant to evade the Governmental edict. The Eye of Sauron sees all and have opinions on everything. Captain Droolcup has put my job on the chopping block of his Utopian world of mandatory medicine. He may succeed or he may not. I’m too chicken to risk unnecessary expense until I know.
The snow is not deep. I think I’ll try a week of day hikes and low key hunting. I may lack a suitable tent but I have boots. We’ll see if that calms the soul.
In the meantime, take care of yourself. Keep the media at bay. Do it for your own health. Don’t give up. 2020 isn’t done with us but there’s hope. Recreational panic is wearing thin in the zeitgeist. In the long run, we may emerge sane.