Election 2020: Julian Assange, Donald Trump, and Joe Biden

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Eighteen long and laden months have passed since the Ecuadorian government, in synchrony with the British government, and under the instruction of the American government, transferred Julian Assange from one informal jail to an official gaol, and through this single act of relocation repealed the First Amendment of the Constitution of the United States. This event, one which the historians of the present are determined to forget, did not commence, nor did it conclude, my own process of political disillusionment, but still, it would be difficult to exaggerate its importance, not just in my own life, but in the chronicle of American civilization. It has immeasurably broadened my political perspective by narrowing my focus to a single point: the measures that can be taken to free Assange before the machinery of the state ends his life. Needless to say, it was this imperative that drew me to Tulsi Gabbard’s ill-fated presidential campaign, repelled me from Bernie Sanders’s masquerade, alienated me from the Democratic Party, reinvigorated my contempt for the Republican Party, and muddled every one of my opinions of Donald Trump.

“Assange or nothing,” I have occasionally tweeted. No other political consideration will seriously guide me in five days’ time, when I enter a narrow, unstable booth and cast a meaningless ballot. It is meaningless, not just politically, but also practically, as President Trump is trailing Joe Biden in New Hampshire by eight points or more, according to the most recent bit of polling. Never have I been inclined to vote for Biden, who once compared Assange to a “high-tech terrorist” and who, last year, penned a prolix malediction of Assange for the New York Times, thereby answering the question I was prevented from asking him on the campaign trail. After all, it is Biden’s Democratic Party that has inexorably propagated the political fiction that is Russiagate, a dizzying conspiracy theory that, for all its flimsy incoherence, has besmirched Assange’s reputation among the liberals who halfheartedly defended him before the Trumpish Age. They have unknowingly partnered with the neoconservatives who, in their more outspokenly cynical support for the tyrannical function of the American Empire, have always been unsympathetic to Assange.

We are bereft of proof, even the most tenuous of circumstantial evidence, that Biden and his Party have any true affinity with Assange. Only by the disorienting impact of propagandistic admass are the people convinced that the Democrats believe in freedom of information, transparency of state, and the other principles for which Assange and Wikileaks advocate—such principles with which the Democrats take umbrage. If they truly championed such causes, then they would acknowledge the veracity of Wikileaks’s most troubling revelations and take meaningful action to improve their own Party. Instead, they have dismissed the work of this publisher as the malicious (although not necessarily fallacious) activity of a “hostile foreign government” and blamed it for their failings at the ballot box.

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Hunter Biden and the Demonization of Conspiracy Theories

The pundits in the corporate media speak with indignant contempt of the conspiratorial culture in the United States, evidently ignorant of their own indispensable role in producing this atmosphere of paranoia. For as long as any living person can recall, the corporate media has served the ruling class by disseminating its mendacious messaging, by deliberately misinforming the peasantry. The arrangement has been supremely lucrative, and therefore agreeable, to the so-called journalists and editors of the mainstream press. Alas, like most of the devious schemes practiced to perfection by the neo-capitalists of the twentieth century, the marriage of media and state has begotten monstrous offspring, including a benighted electorate that seeks impractical solutions to problems that it does not understand. Continuously abused by the political establishment and the media that defends it, the electorate rejects the official narrative, promising to create, or accept, another.

The conspiracy theory is the electorate’s first attempt to free itself from the cerebral fetters that the corporate press has forced it within. Taught to assess and to reason incorrectly, the electorate now tries to teach itself wisdom. Predictably, it will make countless mistakes, some of them comically primitive, before it obtains understanding. The establishment searches obsessively for these errors and, once it has discovered them, accentuates them, and repeatedly reminds the other peasants of them, as if they were unconscionable crimes born of the most unforgivable sins. We are taught that the pursuit of intellectual freedom, irrespective of the pursuant’s intent, inevitably ends only in the crassest form of stupidity—and therefore, in the unerring wisdom of the establishment, to pursue is to be stupid.

In other words, to defy the establishment is to be stupid. The consequence of such a perspective is the discrediting, a priori, of quite literally all criticism of the establishment. Clearly, this outcome would be perfectly agreeable to the establishment, but it betrays, in its marked departure from the establishment’s purported principles pertaining to the freedom of expression, an insecurity on the part of the ruling class. Why does the ruling class suddenly believe it is necessary to use its many resources to stigmatize every criticism of its policies and to informally prohibit the establishment media from voicing that criticism, except to condemn it unambiguously? Such a procrustean policy suggests a bourgeoning concern that this criticism—or the skepticism that engenders it, at least—is spreading too rapidly. For decades, the establishment has labored to convince the peasants that the mainstream opinion invariably reflects the common opinion, but the intellectual intolerance of “the mainstream” raises uncomfortable questions about the definition, and the validity, of that most institutional term.

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Amy Coney Barrett and the Feminist Contradiction

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I was on an airplane somewhere between Des Moines and Manchester when the Americans learned of Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s demise. They had expected her death for the past two years, at least, and many of them privately hoped for it; certainly, the right-wing conservatives who voted for Donald Trump in the wake of Antonin Scalia’s death wanted to see the president put one of their preferred ideologues on the Supreme Court, but we ought not to forget the pessimists and nihilists who were looking forward to the political turmoil that would follow the news that Ginsburg was dead. They must be disappointed with the reaction hitherto, as we haven’t heard any of the caterwauling, nor have we witnessed any of the scuffling, that defined Brett Kavanaugh’s infamous appointment to the Court. On the contrary, the confirmation hearings for Amy Coney Barrett have been downright dull, laden in their sense of inevitability. Even the Democrat Senators, whose mawkish gestures in the Kavanaugh affair almost equaled the plangency of the protesters, seem to be struggling to stay awake as they ask Barrett the same pointless questions again and again.

Perhaps they exhausted themselves in their relentless attack on Kavanaugh, an assault that did not appeal to the public nearly as much as the corporate media would like us to believe. Joe Manchin, a Democrat Senator representing West Virginia, received permission from his party bosses to vote for Kavanaugh, as this was expected to benefit him in his re-election campaign—and so it did, as he defeated his opponent by the thinnest of margins. In other words, the political operatives in the Democratic Party believed, correctly, that voting for Kavanaugh was the “moderate” position, that the “moderate” or “centrist” position rejected the Democrats’ mass of allegations that Kavanaugh had raped dozens, if not hundreds, of women. That is a remarkable discordance for a political party that has claimed the exclusive right of representation, as well as the only right to speak, for every American woman.

The deliberate conflation of American women and the Democratic Party has been an effort several years in the making and accelerated quite conspicuously in the Trumpish Age. It failed to win the Democrats the presidency in 2016, and it did not prevent Kavanaugh from reaching the bench, but it did propel several congressional races in 2018, and it looks as though it will push Joe Biden into the White House in just a few weeks. Such should be enough—more than enough, really—to make us forget the surreal sight of women in the Democratic Party castigating Barrett for her refusal to adhere to “the feminist standard”. They have reached this conclusion because Barrett will support some future overturning of Roe v. Wade and thereby jeopardize the legality of elective abortion in the United States. Undeniably, this is blasphemous to modern feminists, but here we must pause, for we have ceased to speak of women and have begun to speak of feminism—and the distinction is as critical as the distinction between women and the Democratic Party.

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Traitors of Journalism: Suzie Dawson and the Market of Victimhood

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The inherent flaw of any presidential campaign lies in its conception of the prerequisites of human liberation. Invariably, these campaigns attempt to build from the top, to furnish an image, however crude, of the apex of human achievement. The elected president shall manifest this virtuous ideal, one to which the lowly remainder of humanity will humbly seek to adhere. The powerless peasants and commoners are to bask in the leader’s moral radiance and hope, through osmosis, to someday evolve . . . although, in every democratic society with which I am conversant, this day of graduation is perpetually postponed. We cannot trust “the people” with such immense responsibilities, we are told—and so we tell ourselves, overlooking the grotesque servility of our own relationship to our government. Such submission ironically facilitates a self-fulfilling prophecy whereby demagogues command the attention of the masses, manipulate them, exploit them, and drive them to disastrous ends. Until the people learn to trust themselves with knowledge, until they learn to arm themselves, until they agree to build an autarky of their own design—in short, until they learn to overcome the suicidal philosophy of their masters—they will continue to allow the tyrants to displace them.

Regrettably, this elitist strain of psychopathy pervades even those who purport to combat it. I have recently encountered a pitiable example in Suzie Dawson, a mendacious storyteller masquerading as a journalist, and a bully who has spent the last several years of her unhappy existence attempting to create a hierarchal system of political activism. One would think that the paradoxical nature of such a structure—a pecking order for those who are working to dismantle the concept of a pecking order—would have discouraged her from the onset, but just as the pharaohs could not foresee their own destruction, Dawson is ignorant of the instability of her own pyramid. She has developed an elaborate, arbitrary echelon for all who identify as activists, a rigid ranking at the top of which she has, quite predictably, placed herself. The inflamed jealousy with which she protects her castle in the sand is eclipsed only by her astonishing blindness to how foolish it is—but before we venture any further in a psychological portrait of this unfortunate creature, perhaps the reader, who likely does not know who she is, would appreciate a formal introduction.

Suzie Dawson is a former YouTube commentator (a washed-up never-was, to borrow my preferred description of Alyssa Milano) who specialized in commentary on the work of Julian Assange and Edward Snowden. A native of New Zealand, she has lived in Moscow for some time now, hiding in plain sight from “western intelligence agents” who, she alleges, attempted to assassinate her—multiple times— by running her car off the road. Why these “western intelligence agents” selected such an impractical method of murder for a visibly unhealthy, over-the-hill bourgeois is beyond my ability to imagine, and even further beyond her ability to explain, never mind her ability to prove. For that matter, she cannot explain why the nefarious “western intelligence agents” despised her so passionately in the first place, save for her public defense of Assange and Snowden and, previously, her involvement in the Occupy Movement. In any event, she has been loafing around in Russia for a goodly while yet, beseeching the public to pay her bills while she petitions the government for asylum.

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“The Social Network” Ten Years Later

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Today is the tenth anniversary of the theatrical release of The Social Network, a movie that reflects the hubris, evanescence, and existential futility of the 2010s, perhaps more vividly and clearly than any other film produced in its wake. Such is not to say that the film articulates or even comprehends this singularly postmodern condition, and it may be anachronistic to suggest that it does: how could any person, even the most prescient intellectual, have foreseen the impending fragmentation of the American psyche in its particulars? Aaron Sorkin, who wrote the screenplay after spending several years producing propaganda for the Democratic Party, certainly understands the relationship of the media and the mind, but even he couldn’t have composed such an immaculate forecast, could he? As a sociological statement, is the movie only a beautiful error, or am I reluctant to acknowledge a more sinister, convoluted purpose?

Perhaps we are getting ahead of ourselves. We should try to remember, as best as we can in these amnesiac times, the atmosphere, mentality, and mood of the autumn of 2010. In that season, I was a recent high school graduate, possessed of a relentless dream of becoming a filmmaker, though I could not find or even imagine the means to realize this ambition. We might politely describe this condition as optimism, which the Americans of those days possessed in abundance: we, the liberal bourgeoisie, were still basking in the dull afterglow of the election of President Obama. We were grateful to have survived George W. Bush, and although we hadn’t been especially afraid of John McCain, we all believed we had dodged some kind of bullet in the elections of 2008. Admittedly, the transition to the nebulous greatness that Obama envisioned was taking longer than we expected, and in our listlessness, we might have developed minor anxiety, but for the most part, we were in good spirits, completely incognizant, if not exactly ignorant, of the impending calamity.

This is neither the time nor the place to attempt a comprehensive interpretation of the Obama years as a desperate exercise in staving off the inevitable collapse of the American Empire, but a palpable sense of insecurity is present in the cultural artifacts of that epoch. While not a fatalistic film, and while even less of a political film, The Social Network perceives the vacuity and hollow core of an immobile American society. Filming almost exclusively in the regal halls of Harvard or the pristine conference suites of law firms, the camera gazes about the set, expansive yet oddly claustrophobic, almost as if to ask: “What’s the point? What does it mean?” The American capitalists have pacified entire generations with the broken promise of ineffable wealth, but the millennials, like Nietzsche’s madman who declared “God is dead”, have weighed the offer and scoffed, “Gold is overrated.” It seems that the violent vacillations of neo-capitalism have inspired a conceptual skepticism of the principles of capitalism itself, a spiritual as well as a substantive critique.

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