Language can be used to change reality; however, this is frequently misunderstood—not least in politics. The left is keen on the idea that language can change reality; since left-wing ideas are mostly based on lies to stir up the mob, language distortion is integral to the left’s very nature. The left covers up, as we can see with the latest supply-chain crisis or the Rotherham sex abuse scandal several years ago. This leads the right to be suspicious as regards language; the right only trusts more consistent languages—logic, mathematics, programming languages—that feature fewer ambiguities. However, language, even ordinary language, can change reality; and it does so when it cuts reality at the joints; all that is required to change reality is to describe, to describe is to uncover—and this does not even have to be in the political sense, as when a politician’s cover-up is revealed.
Heidegger said that there is a mode of existence, the “they” mode, that is characterised by inauthenticity; this is the world composed from media and trivia. Netflix facilitates the “they” mode; it provides the trivial gossip in an office: “Did you see that new show?”; “They say it’s very hard to film in 360 that way.”; “Did you see Samantha Yarnold said she’s non-binary?” The communication itself, in its very nature, covers up; there is no conscious conspiracy to keep certain things concealed—it is just that to live at this level inherently conceals. This is the world inhabited by the Non-Playable Character and Soyjack; smug, self-satisfied, and “well-informed”—well-informed about trivia, such as how a 360-degree camera shot is made.
Ironically, the “they” mode, in contemporary times, would also include people who put “they” in their online biographies. “Why did you do it?” “Because it’s a thing now,” they say, and roll their eyes at you. How did it come to be “a thing”? The question is excluded by the mode in which the communication takes place. The communication serves to protect an image; for the alternative is revelation and revelation is either horrific or joyous.
A birth combines both facets; the way a baby exits a woman is horrific—it uncovers itself in an uncanny way, it looks like a horror film. Yet the completed event is also joyous; although the “they” quickly works to cover it over—perhaps with a Facebook snapshot with the infant dressed as Baby Yoda. Normality restored.
You go to a cabin in the woods. You pause for a few moments before a trapdoor in the floor; the windows are smeared with dust—motes hang in the air. You really should not do it, but you pull the ring in the trapdoor and that is when it emerges; it has been there for centuries, and now it will chase you to the Earth’s ends. Revelation is horrific and uncanny; just as with joy, it annihilates the everyday and it annihilates you; “they” fear annihilation—it is both too horrific and too wonderful, better turn down the heat. “Not the heckin’ realerino!” Better: “Plodding along, plodding along.”
So there is a cover-up at the meta-level, before we get to conscious attempts to conceal, and it derives from a wish to avoid annihilation; to bob along in what seems to be a safe and predictable world where nothing mysterious happens—since this world is facilitated by technology this leads to the view that science is straightforward, not weird; hence it is trustable, as with the latest vaccine update from Bloomberg. It is as if a section at the seafront has been protected by a string of buoys and has come to be regarded as “the sea”; apparently, it is a safe and placid place—actually, nothing much happens there (life is so boring in the West, no?). A whole ocean waits to impinge, perhaps as a storm—and beneath an ancient beast waits to irrupt into the pond. The real intrudes when the first swimmer is tugged down by the leg.