(Happy Easter dear readers; all images provided by the Drifter)

“The world is made by the singer for the dreamer.” – Oscar Wilde

Sensationalism is here defined as a form of artistic presentation (akin to but separate from melodrama, that unrealistic form that spreads its tentacles everywhere and infects everything) designed to titillate the consumer of it.

I intend the words artistic and presentation here in their widest senses, and will conclude this little screed ((manifesto)) by permanently redefining both of those terms.

The definition of titillate, that striking word, = to arouse or interest someone superficially, often with the mildest of sexual undertones, so mild that these undertones can be easily denied, often with a chuckle and a wink of the eye.

A recent scientific study indicated that 97% of the Western World now spends 79% of its free time engaged in titillation engendered by superficial sensationalism in one form or another. In other words (among other things), we have become too comfortable in our minds and bodies, and that is bad for the soul.

“Superficial” = lacking depth; existing only on the surface; purposely having no substance or purpose; and deliberately having nothing to do with anything of any importance whatsoever at all, and being really proud of it. An example might be the First Lady of the USA.

The line between “fiction” and “nonfiction” is utterly blurred in our time, perhaps in all times; even Shakespeare believed things the meanest street urchin would guffaw at today.

Supposedly serious subjects, these days, have been reduced to titillation and sensationalism all presided over by the largest and most gigantic killer clown and bullshit slinger you can possibly imagine. Pennywise and Randall Flagg are mere chump change compared to this huge dude and his incompetent, fumbling entourage slavering at the mouth with eagerness to do his bidding. And all of them look exactly the same, like male and female versions of each other, hair and make-up included. The Plastic Society has produced Plastic Beautiful People. It is no wonder literal humanoid robots are up next. But don’t worry, such things were predicted by the ancient Egyptians millennia ago.

Half of America wants its mad king back. Forget the Boston Tea Party, now we attack the White House. It doesn’t matter how it got that way. It is that way and that’s enough.

The real war is underground now and the next civil war started a long time ago. The sane ones here are one half of one percent of the population, scattered across the continent; and they are the ones who are most called crazy by the rest of us.

The likelihood of a catastrophe happening big enough to change anything in any meaningful way is not quite, but is almost, zero.

What we inhabit now on a national and local level is called PURGATORY. But if you read the Purgatorio by Dante, you see that it isn’t all bad.

Artistic means when you shape the world and/or the word (not always the same thing) for a purpose and an audience, no matter how large or small. All real poets know that an audience of one is often ideal. Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson must be the most famous American poets right now (at one time, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Carl Sandburg could compete with or outdo them, and for all we know those days will come again), and all their best poems are to one person.

Presentation means to offer someone something – as in a benevolent holiday gift – or a secret poison.

Coda: Too much sensationalism and titillation stunt the imagination, that universal faculty that allows the human species to envision future possibilities. It is like taking a stallion and placing him in a stall and putting blinders on him. He will be well fed, but he wants to get out and fly again.

“Imagination” = Leonardo envisioning submarines and flying machines 400 years in advance as if he were on drugs (and probably he was) – or Jesus and Buddha envisioning heaven on earth: which is one of the reasons Mona Lisa is smiling. “Like the vampire, she has been dead many times,” as Walter Pater so rightly observed. Maybe this is what gave her the highway blues.

Fact/s: The population of the USA in early 2026 is around 350 million. One percent of that is 3,500,000. Half of that = 1,750,000. We should all get together and ignore the rest of them; it would make a good-sized city. Athens during the time of Socrates had a population around 150,000 strong. They didn’t even know America existed, although the smartest of them felt the vibrations. Even rich people didn’t wear shoes half the time. Anybody who was anybody knew everybody and everybody who was there at all was noticed by somebody, which was both good and bad. “Privacy” as we know it didn’t exist. Even the most hard-up beggar did not feel alienated.

Put your devices away in the other room and you can still have privacy, very easily.

With imagination, you can morph alienation into a nutritious food for the soul, like a natural magic trick – if you survive long enough to learn how to do this trick.

Jesus didn’t want us to follow him. He wanted us to BE him, which means act like him – for our own good, and that of others. Such is what is explained in the profound book The Imitation of Christ, by Thomas a Kempis, a mysterious, shadowy German monk from medieval times, not to mention The Sermon on the Mount. Most of the ones who do this best now have never even seen the inside of a church up close. And they may not care too much about Jesus on a personal level. It’s OK; it’s about us more than it was about him. And he knew that very, very well. He himself only showed up at church to raise a ruckus and shake them out of their stupors.

Leonard Cohen said, “Show me the place, help me roll away the stone, / Show me the place, I can’t move this thing alone.”

The vast majority of people during Jesus’ own time who knew him or knew of him believed he was crazy. There was something in his eyes.

The Drifter